Hyboria! S4E9 Corinthian Conundrum: The Jade Apples, Part Two

Final plans

A few days passed, and Morath completed his transaction. Nine fragile sachets of yellow lotus were now added to the arsenal. Their work of the previous week, and lesser rebel jabs at places of authority, had successfully drawn much more attention in the form of heightened patrols and more searches. Most of the conspirators stayed hidden, meeting in ones and twos as Capella’s elite mercenaries and devil-dogs combed the town for rebels.

Hirst the forester-cum-prospector however squired Bailey Zaid on the evenings she slipped away into the lower city for some vicious entertainment. Following Bardic’s advice, he suggested to Bailey it would be great fun if she brought him to the solstice ball a few days hence. And there, he explained, he would take her to heaven behind the King’s throne. Bailey was all in favor of such a plan and they arranged their tryst. She insisted on celebrating the plan with another loud outdoor knee-trembler, of course.

Hirst explained all this – minus the rogering – to his fellow conspirators two nights before the ball, in Drosht’s secret armory. The smith was putting the finishing touches to Bardic’s chain corselet, again.

“There. It’s not quite as good as new, but it’ll do. The original’s fine work, by Mitra! Though you can buy better, down in Koth” – Drosht

“Aye, I was on my way there when all this happened. My thanks Drosht” – Bardic

Drosht wandered away to see to his inventory – the rebel’s armory was large and well-stocked – while the lads fell to desultory planning as to how best to create a distraction. And in good time, Cass arrived. Wearing male guise, Cass seemed all business, sparing Bardic only a brief smile. She had been busy learning how to disable traps, and had also acquired a few extra pieces of intelligence.

“I have a better map of the wall defenses and an idea for the distraction. As I suspected, an escape tunnel leads from the treasury under the donjon, to a barbican guarding the lake approach where the slope would otherwise allow people to climb the wall. Exactly how we get from the barbican to the plaza depends on what we find and how much rope we have” – Cass

“I’ve been wearing silk rope around my waist, and Bailey thinks I’m a little stout” – Hirst

“Good, so the plan to get you inside the ball is proceeding? I’ll enter by myself, dressed as a courtesan. Some nobles bring their mistress or favored courtesan to these occasions. I’ll help you tie the rope. Oh, and do you have gloves?” – Cass

“Uh, no” – Hirst

“I thought not. I brought these for you – not made to measure but they fit a small man, so should be tight enough on you. They’re impregnated with waxes, so poison won’t get through them. What else? Climbing gear?” – Cass

“I plan to have some, but I’m not sure where to hide it” – Hirst

“There’s a limit to what we can hide. We’ll practice that but may need to do without. How about light? What have you got?” – Cass

“I always try to carry at least one candle stub in my bag of tricks” – Hirst

“That may have to do though I can bring a taper as well. What next? Guards? Morath – have you got the stuff?” – Cass

“Yes, nine Yellow Lotus bulbs.”

“So, can I have it please?” – Cass

“Err… I was thinking of disabling guards with them” – Morath

“Well, how many do you think you can spare?” – Cass

“I suppose if I need more than two we are in such trouble more won’t matter. Have seven” – Morath

“Great! I’ll bring those… Vorel, you can carve… you know, whittle?” – Cass

“I hand-carved my Bossonian Longbow, and made one for Celo” – Vorel

“You mean Hirst, I believe. Can you make me a sort of large pipe, such as some harlots use for smoking yellow lotus resin? I’ll show you how I need the bulb to work. It has to detach and become a mouthpiece” – Cass

“Ah: a blowpipe. I think I’ve seen the sort of thing” – Vorel

“Yes, the master-thief Taurus recently used one over in Arenjun. He blew yellow lotus dust onto lions, I hear. Then he and a Cimmerian scaled the unclimbed Tower of the Elephant, and brought it down in ruins” – Cass

“Taurus, I think I’ve heard of him” – Bardic

“Yes, he died there, but apparently the Cimmerian lives” – Cass

After a pause to digest this news, the planning returned to the distraction. Given the position of the escape route, an attack on the other side, where the path led to the temple, and where two bastions warded the path, was agreed.

“You’ll be under fire from crossbowmen on the walls the whole way” – Cass

“Well that brings back some ugly memories. The path is too long to just sprint. What can we use to get by?” – Bardic

Heavy armor was discussed. The talk seemed to be getting nowhere. Cass borrowed a pestle and mortar and crushed Hirst’s yellow lotus pellets (souvenirs of Shadizar) into a paste. Cass and Hirst had excused themselves and were discussing their side of the business. Drosht wandered over to look at the map. They explained their difficulty.

“Sounds like what you need is a mantlet” – Drosht

“Mantlet? Like a door on wheels, right?” – Bardic

“Aye, though most don’t have wheels. Let’s see…. [wandering back through his armory] ah, down here. Yes, a fine piece. Solid oak, faced with metal.”

The massive rectangle, a fine piece of Corinthian siege-craft, featured a small visor so that those behind it could peer out, and a folding leg so it could be propped up. It weighed around 300 pounds.

“I’m strong, you’re strong. We can carry it with us from the lower fort to the upper and be safe from crossbows” – Vorel

“You’d be under fire once you draw level with the main wall-tower guarding the path to the outer ward. It overlaps the upper bastion, I seem to recall, and they will be able to fire behind the mantlet” – Drosht

“Well, that’s still a whole lot better than before. Next we need a good length of rope for the wall” – Bardic

“And a grapnel. I’ll fasten a bracket on the mantlet so you can carry the two together” – Drosht

“Make sure the rope is knotted. We’ll be climbing in armor and carrying weapons” – Bardic

With the addition of a footman’s battleax to smash stubborn doors in, and a team of rebel volunteers to bring the mantlet up once the lower bastion was seized, the planning was as finished as it could be. As Bardic put it:

“We have a half-assed plan. Which is at least a quarter-ass more than usual” – Bardic

Into the dungeons

The solstice ball progressed merrily, few troubling themselves with thoughts of what the common folk thought of city affairs. Outside in the middle ward, servants and house guards made merry as their masters and mistresses danced and flirted in the great hall, or found an alcove to indulge their passion. Courtesans mingled with nobles, for a good discreet courtesan finds favor with many a nobleman.

One such courtesan had arrayed her hair in an extravagant bouffant, with silver wire bound through and delicate yellow bulbs laced onto the wire. She swayed extravagantly; her glossy lips parted in a faraway smile, and smoked a large pipe of yellow lotus.

Bailey Zaid, dressed gorgeously in the latest fashion, giggled as she dragged her lover Hirst behind an arras near the head of the room. Having ditched her companion, she couldn’t wait longer to indulge herself. As she ran her hands eagerly over Hirst’s chest, an arm snaked around her shoulders and a cloth was clamped over her face.

Cass lowered the unconscious girl to the floor. She ran a finger over her lips and then traced Bailey’s upper lip with it. She nodded to Hirst.

“She’ll dream dreams, and wake none the worse. She’ll probably even imagine loving you” – Cass

Having explained where he should get to, Cass drifted back out into the throng and Hirst crept unseen to the rendezvous. It was a short sequence of stairs down from the hall and under the donjon.

“This is the door. Once beyond, I have only a rough notion of what to look for. The treasury will be down amongst dungeon rooms and trapped passages. There may even be devil-dogs. So let’s work as a team, and do our best” – Cass

Hirst opened the locked door while Cass watched and listened, and then the two entered the dungeons.

The lower bastion

It was late, but the upper city was lightly awake, for some nobles, not caring to sleep in pavilions erected in the citadel middle ward, might return to their own mansions for further entertainment or rest, and their households had to remain ready. Guards were minimal, for most had accompanied their masters up to the citadel. A delivery wagon attracted no attention, and Bardic Vorel and Morath readied themselves as it neared the path up to the citadel. Bardic bore an arming sword as well as his great-sword; Morath a pair of short-swords as well as his daggers and throw-knives; and Vorel bore his Nemedian broadsword and short-sword at his belt and had arranged his Hyrkanian bow and quiver across his back so it could be drawn quickly.

As the “delivery men” unloaded the mantlet, the three commandoes leaped lightly down from the wagon and ran up the relatively short stretch of road between the last mansion and the lower bastion and up the short flight of steps to the door. Being fastest Bardic reached the door even as the guards did. He caromed off it and joined them inside the gate-chamber, cutting one down swiftly. The second reeled back from Bardic’s follow-on attack, then Morath joined the fight and the guard was cut down. Vorel trotted through into the first guard-chamber. As Morath joined Vorel, he caught the sounds of men descending the stairwell, and warned the Bossonian to make the killing quick.

Hearing this, Bardic pulled back outside, and clambered nimbly up the rear of the bastion. In spite of his great-sword, arming sword, hatchet, poniard and chain corselet, he scaled it swiftly and gained the roof to find it empty. A heavy trap led down to the upper chamber. Judging from the height of the bastion Bardic considered it would be only two levels.

Heaving up the trapdoor, Bardic clambered down, and was immediately shot by two crossbowmen. Another raised his spear. An NCO behind the three encouraged their efforts.

Not waiting for more pain, Bardic leaped down the remaining few feet and amidst his foes. His arming-sword smashed two down, and he plowed into the spearman before he could get “set.” Cutting through the man’s defenses with no more than a light scratch, the Cimmerian turned to the NCO and the duel began.

Below, Vorel held the foot of the steep stairwell. He knew that any advance up the stair would be difficult. Morath rushed past him and in a dazzling display of acrobatic skills, danced over the three men holding the stairwell, and kicked the topmost man back down, where he caused his mates below to stumble. After that the three were easy prey!

Vorel hurried to the top, to find that Bardic had not had the fight all his own way. The NCO had cut through Bardic’s corselet and blood was now running down his flank. Vorel flanked the man and they cut him down without further ado.

By that time, Morath had finished off all of the guards, and the trio could now encourage the rebels back further on the road to bring up the mantlet. There was no point waiting to see what the guards in the upper bastion or on the citadel walls had made of the assault. The next attack had to be carried out without delay!

Assault on the upper bastion

Morath trotted as close behind and between Vorel and Bardic as he could, as the mantlet was carried before them. Bolts hailed onto the metal fronting and as the range shortened, a few even punched through, to be stopped by the oak body. Peering through the visor, Bardic could navigate, and once he could see they were very close to the upper bastion he called a halt. They stood the mantlet upright on its prop, a few feet back from the low step up to the door.

Unlike the lower bastion, which merely guarded the road, the upper bastion straddled the road. From long usage, doors normally stood open and there were no steep steps. Now, the outer door was closed. As Drosht had predicted, it was not made of material that could be casually knocked through. Dropping the ax, Vorel helped Bardic pay out the grappling rope. As they readied for a throw, Morath cursed: a flanking shot from the citadel tower on their left had found its mark on him.

Bardic tossed the rope over and Vorel and he heaved on it so that the roof-top guards could not simply flip it back down. The grapnel bit deep.

“Wait till someone’s on it – then cut the rope” – NCO atop bastion

Hearing the instruction, Bardic ran to the side of the bastion, and climbed up the stonework as fast as he could. Vorel began shooting, using the mantlet as cover against the crossbows. Morath hugged the inside of the mantlet, feeling vulnerable. Then he heard a snarling and scraping and the door open. Warning Vorel, Morath ran to the rope and climbed up its knotted length rapidly.

Bardic ducked instinctively as a crossbow’s shot caromed off a crenel near him, and rolled over the battlement onto the roof. His great-sword sang as he raked it down from its over-the-shoulder position. Two arrows shot by him, one either side, to strike the two guards nearest. They drew back, alarmed, unable to contest the parapet. But their NCO rallied them, and they hefted their spears even as another arrow struck one. Three men faced Bardic: two with spears and an NCO behind them at the apex of the rough triangle they had formed. They were seasoned troops and were ready to support one another. He attacked!

A close call

Morath swung his heels up high and the first demon-dog missed its jump. He continued his climb, and rolled over the battlement. Bardic was to his left, cutting at one of two spearmen. A heavily-armored man wearing NCO’s insignia charged at him: Morath danced aside, flicking the man’s heel up as he careered towards the battlements. Unable to stop, he crashed over and down with a scream, abruptly cut off.

In spite of the warning Vorel was still surprised when two demon dogs burst out of the doorway and skidded round to leap at him. But his agility and strength prevented them from taking him off his feet, and he gave ground, sending shaft after shaft into them then dropping his bow and dealing damage with his broadsword and short-sword. The dogs’ handler, seeing his charges in trouble, threw his own weight and sword into the fray but he too was cut down, leaving Vorel gasping with the effort but relatively unscathed.

He was aware that something had smashed down upon the mantlet during his fight. Pacing over to the armored body, he saw that it was no-one he knew. The fall onto the mantlet’s upper edge had killed the man. Turning his attention to the door, Vorel saw that it was still open. He turned to retrieve his Hyrkanian bow, saw it lying under one of the dog’s muzzle, seized it up and cursed: in its death-throes the beast had snapped the bowstring. Shoving it glumly back into its scabbard, Vorel drew his short-sword again and ventured up into the bastion.

Above, Morath and Bardic had finished the two soldiers. Seeing that the trapdoor down was open, and not caring to be shot to pieces by the many crossbowmen lining the walls of the citadel looming above, Bardic threw caution to the winds and leaped down into the top chamber, great blade dripping. Morath followed at a slightly more cautious pace.

The remaining two guards were ready, and sold their lives dearly. Morath at least was unwilling to offer quarter. He paid for it! With the last thrust of the battle, a wounded soldier rammed his war-spear through the rogue and Morath joined him in death.

Bardic finished the soldier off, pushed back his visor and and looked about. Vorel had joined him, so that meant there were no enemies below. With a grunt, Bardic dropped his sword, stepped over to his fallen comrade and dragged the spear carefully out. Pressing a rag over the gaping wound front and back, the Cimmerian bent close to the Zamorian’s face.

“He’s alive, by Crom!”

Ripping the flagon of wine off his belt, he lifted Morath’s chin and poured the draft in full measure down the fallen man’s throat. With a splutter Morath came to his senses and looked about with a venomous gaze.

“You didn’t leave me a single one, did you?” – Morath

Hyboria! S4E8 Corinthian Conundrum: The Jade Apples, Part One

Plans

Morath summed the plans up. Phase one, the “misdirection” phase, would involve violent incidents in the lower city, near the walls. These included assaulting the old keep tower where their saddle-gear was stored, assassinating Lord Luiras, and perhaps an attack on one of the demon-dog kennels by the gates. Phase two, the “miracle” phase, involved Cass burgling the Jade Apples and spiriting them away to the temple where a miraculous reappearance would be proclaimed.

“Celo, how good are you at opening locks?” – Cass

“Pretty good. I can get a really nasty one open with enough time” – Celo

“Well, that leaves traps. How good are you at disabling them?” – Cass

“Mehh…” – Celo, waggling his hand in a 50-50 indication

“I think I know what we should do then. When you first suggested teaming up, I was thinking of a particular way of getting in. But if you can follow up with this Bailey Zaid and use her, we should both lift the goods.”

“I’m not sure I follow this ‘use Bailey Zaid’ plan” – Celo

“Duplicity. Here we have a noble girl that has access to the citadel, and likes a bit of rough. Charm her, get her to love you, and we have a way in that doesn’t involve swimming and squeezing through tiny gaps” – Cass, bluntly

Encouraged by the guffaws and rude japes of his comrades, Celo blushed but agreed to try. He put off the day when all this had to be explained to his lover Sasha, who had picked up the name Bailey Zaid but had not followed their plans, which had been discussed mainly in Cimmerian.

Captain Rodos meets the Striking Cobra

For the next six days, the lads went deeper under cover. Morath was installed in a butchery, where his knives would not draw attention. Bardic was happy to be a baker’s boy, though he did try to keep his “baker’s staff” by him at all times. Celo dressed as a prospector, so that he kept a bag of useful little tools with him. He even came up with a new identity, ready for his wooing of Bailey Zaid: he would be known as Hirst. Vorel turned his hand to the stock-pens around the carters’ yards, as he could deal with most livestock. Cass, dressed as a man for any public meeting, continued to spread her intelligence-gathering contacts deeper into the city.

On the seventh day, the chief conspirators, save for Reballah, met in the back of Morath’s employer’s butchery. Cass laid out a map of the old keep. As they discussed tower height – 40’ up for the lowest – proximity of other buildings – there weren’t any – and means of distracting the guards, Sasha spoke up.

“I know that tower. It’s inside a sort of triangle shape quadrant, along with the old mint” – Sasha

“What’s the old mint used for?” – Bardic

“Money, mostly. It turns out, when you try to make coins inside a citadel you run out of space. So most money changing and wage functions are still down there” – Sasha

She crudely sketched the walls around the map. Now ideas began to blossom. The chiefs agreed that a mob protesting Luiras’ outrages could be whipped up – with Reballah’s backing – and led to demonstrate around the mint. That would have most of the guards headed over there, or at least distracted.

“How about an effigy of the Luiras character to burn? The mob could be screaming ‘kill Luiras’ and burn it” – Bardic, helpfully

“I’m not sure that would work” – Sasha, coldly

“Uhrm, yes, protest is one thing, burning nobles another” – Celo, wisely backing Sasha up

At that moment the conspirators were interrupted. A harsh voice could be heard from the outer shop, or servery.

“Why you did not see me is because you’re sloppy and stupid. Now put the sword down and your hands out. Let’s see how you do as a prisoner” – Captain Rodos

The butcher rushed through to the conspirators, red-faced with fear.

“The Watch is in the shop! It’s all up with us!” – rebel Butcher

Morath stood, checked his knives, and stepped around his erstwhile master and out to the butchery. Bardic swept up the map and tucked it away. Celo cast his eye about, and signaled Vorel to help him with a couple of casks that had been standing in for a table. He’d spotted what looked like a trapdoor under them, and he was right. It wasn’t large, but he easily slipped through and gestured for Sasha to follow.

Morath put on a scared look and trusted his butcher’s smock would be sufficient disguise. Beyond the butchery itself, an open arch led to the servery. There, a heavily armored Watch officer, armed with a massive two-hand mace, was menacing the rebel guard. Two Watch soldiers, armed with unwieldy war-spears, watched. Morath hurried up to the rebel’s flank, edging closer to the officer as he spoke in feigned panic.

“Quintus, what’s going on? Master don’t tell me nothing!” – Morath, bluffing mightily

His bluff carried him close enough to the officer for his plan to work. Knives flashed into his hands. Four men began with weapons in their hands and within seconds, only one walked away, his knives dripping red.

Returning swiftly to the store-room Morath found Drosht squeezing his bulk through a trapdoor, with difficulty. The butcher was still wheezing with fear, which did not fade when he realized what Morath had done. Cass was the only remaining conspirator. The noises of guards levering open the rear doors could already be heard. Morath made to follow Drosht, but the butcher stopped him.

“Knock me on the head before you go! Otherwise I’m a dead man!” – butcher

Morath wasted no time. Reversing his dagger he delivered a smashing blow behind the butcher’s ear. The man slumped. Morath wiped his blades on the man’s smock, slid through the trap, and Cass closed it after him.

Market price

The night following the near-capture, Cass announced that the meeting Morath requested had been laid on. Morath followed her through cramped, squalid streets to where a large, pointy-headed, slope-shouldered thug drifted out to meet her. By the way he carried himself Morath judged him to be the local street-lord but noticed his respectful bearing towards Cass. He wondered briefly if Cass had first met him wearing female attire, or in the male guise she now wore. The trio passed along the thug’s turf, and into a cramped, noisome house where a large collection of cutthroats, foot-pads and second-story men were seated, all putting on a show of strength for the renowned and feared Zamorian.

From there they descended into a concealed temple of Bel, where waited Palena’s Fortunate of Bel. The temple layout was familiar to Morath: a small shrine to the laughing-eyed god of thieves and a pragmatic array of assaying and divvying apparatus. The light was minimal and the corners were shadowed, and Morath kept every sense alert as he greeted the Fortunate and placed a token of respect – a dozen or so gold coins – at the shrine.

The Fortunate agreed he could arrange a supply of the Yellow Lotus powder, but the price he asked was very high – equivalent to deadlier poisons. He remained adamant, explaining that to get the powder, in the breakable glassine bulbs that Cass had stipulated, was not a cheap matter. Morath agreed on a supply of nine of them and the two arranged how word and payment were to be made.

“I know you’re good for it, Morath. I’ll arrange nine to be ready” – Bel’s Fortunate in Palena

Robbery at the tower

The attack on the store tower was now a pressing need.  Bardic, muffin-tray laden, took the chance to tour the area himself. His soldier’s eye picked up the main flaws in the sketch plan. No wagon could get near the tower itself, as it was on a small but steep-sloped mound. A well inside the grassy, triangular ward seemed to offer a plausible excuse to get near the tower. He completed his scheme and explained it to the others: a rush assault from the back of a wagon, up the slope then up the steps, using the protest as a distraction. Reballah assembled her chief conspirators. In stirring, deep tones, she called on the downtrodden among the carters, drovers and tinsmiths – all found in the streets around the old Mint – to rally in protest on the agreed day. Ulysz, the oldster who had been recuperating from the severe wounds he took fighting alongside Bardic, volunteered to drive a wagon carrying the assault team. It would be hand-to-hand fighting so all aboard would have their hand weapons.

“Add a couple of shields – Ulysz can set them at his back for cover while he turns the cart” – Vorel

“And an effigy. The mob needs to know who it wants hanged” – Bardic

So it was that on the following early evening, Ulysz drove a two-mule wagon into the old ward just as a large and angry mob, egged on by would-be rebels and a few of Cass’ agitators, came rampaging down from the tinsmiths’ street, howling around the old Mint and crying for vengeance for daughters outraged and slain. In the back of the cart, a crude bundle of straw had been erected:  upon it a hat-like contrivance, supposed to suggest a noble’s headgear. Bardic was well-pleased. From his concealed bed under it, he could see a few armed guards hustling over to the old Mint, and a number of steel helms glinting in the evening light atop the watch-tower of the keep. There was no way to know if the keep was now mostly empty or the doors shut. Ulysz called to the mules to ‘giddup’ and cracked his lash: they halted.

Wasting no more time on what-ifs, Bardic launched his powerful frame up, over the cart’s side, and to the mound. His legs were already burning with the unaccustomed exertion as he hit the steps, twisted left, then hard-right at the corner. His shoes skidded slightly on the worn stone, but he kept his sprint going. The outer door was straight ahead: and it was closing!

Ramming his whole weight against the door, Bardic smashed the pair of guards backward before they could get it closed and the bar down! Vorel, coming in quickly behind him, piled over him and cut left and right. Celo dodged and leapt past all four of them and turned, stabbing them. Morath came in last, tumbled through all five, and the job of killing was done.

That left the inner door, reached by a sharp right turn. Lifting himself out from under the welter of bodies, Bardic launched himself around and through the open door into a largish assembly chamber. Stairs from here would lead up and down to various towers and stores, but Bardic only had eyes for the five men, in various states of arming themselves, scattered around it. Picking three standing near each other, the Cimmerian bellowed his war-cry, and leapt upon them. The great blade swept down and across, and all three men were down, silently bleeding out or thrashing in agony.

The remaining two, white-faced, threw down their weapons. Vorel had but to walk in and accept their surrender.

“Where’s the stores?” – Vorel

One mutely pointed to a side-room.

“Where’s the good stuff?” – Bardic

“Upstairs, guarded by a full squad of heavily armed men and devil-dogs” – mercenary

Even Bardic could tell the man was exaggerating. A moment of vacillation ensued. Should they try to get some valuable loot, or just do what they came for? In the end, prudence won out and they sorted through the stores to hand, identified the saddles and bags they wanted – already beginning to mildew – and loaded up.

“You men have your lives. You can throw in with us if you want?” – Bardic

“I’m with you!” – Calyx, mercenary of easy loyalties

Not much later the same evening, over a celebratory drink, Calyx added a little more to their knowledge of the enemy’s preparedness. There had indeed been a few devil-dogs upstairs in the tower, for example. And the descriptions the Watch had of all the chief conspirators were up to date and accurate.

“We had good descriptions and names for all of you. Especially you, Celo” – Calyx

“I’m Hirst, a forester and prospector” – Celo

“Uh-huh, sure, if ya say so” – Calyx

“Who was who knew us so well, do you know?” – Bardic

“A man named uh, Bosos, or Boson, something like that” – Calyx

After some head-scratching the four gave up guessing which of their many grudge-holding enemies might be this elusive Boson. Calyx joined the rebels, where he could be put to good use teaching commoners to use weapons, though Bardic made sure to mention to Drosht that someone who changed sides so easily should be watched at all times.

Cass and the lads now had to scrape together 450 gold worth of coin. Morath still had a hundred, Bardic 150 as he had had no need to buy new horses, and with her saddle now back in her possession, Cass was able to contribute 50 gold. Vorel confessed himself near-broke. Celo, or Hirst as he now called himself, had bought only a decent horse and contributed the remaining 150. All were now relatively poor, and were relying on the citadel robbery to replenish their funds. Though privately Bardic was beginning to think Cass might become a queen of crime in her own right.

Luiras must die

Cass bade farewell for the time being: she would be out of touch for six days. By that time, she hoped to have a better plan of the citadel, including an escape route; be trained in disabling traps; and Morath would have acquired the Yellow Lotus. If “Hirst” could gain Bailey Zaid’s favors within that time, the first nobles’ ball to mark the onset of winter would be the best occasion to penetrate the citadel.

In the meantime, the plan to draw chamberlain Martain’s attention down into the lower city must continue. The time was judged ripe for Lord Luiras to die. Cass had previously provided plenty of detail as to times and opportunities. Bardic decided on a daytime assassination, as the lordling and his friends and guards returned from a horse-ride. Using his military experience, he picked a street where a couple of alleys could be used to conceal carts, with a drop-off on the down-slope side sufficient to prevent easy escape, and a tall house on the up-slope where archers could sweep the street below.

The household was overpowered and tied up, and an exit knocked through the back wall of the house. Rebels readied two carts. Luiras’ party passed the first alley and drew level with the house, and the signal was given.

Both carts rolled into place without a hitch, and Celo and Vorel opened up on the male nobles. There were four that could possibly be Luiras, two in particular. As the arrow-storm hailed down, one went down under his horse, the other slid nimbly off his dying horse. A bravo riding front and rear of the nobles dismounted and drew swords and readied shields. Even so, Vorel’s vantage allowed him to wound one of them.

Bardic and Morath burst from the front door. Bardic swept past the lone female aristo, and cleaved through two of the males. That brought him to face the rear Bravo. Morath finished off the trapped noble, but was hurled off the street by the charge of the lead Bravo. The Zamorian performed a nimble tuck and roll and landed without hurting himself, and the Bravo crashed down beside him – the man’s heavy armor had caused him to over-balance after the body-slam. Morath drove his short-sword between gorget and helm, blood gouted out, and that was the end of that fight.

Bardic took a raking cut across the ribs, the chain links of his corselet parting, but instead of continuing the fight, the Bravo ducked away around his horse, and into the house.

“He’s in the house!” – Bardic

Celo, who was positioned above Bardic, heard the call, and made sure Vorel knew to get clear. Vorel followed him hastily, down and out the escape route, but still regretting the plan had not included the theft of one of the horses. Bardic hurried over to the edge of the street. Peering down over the drop he was reassured to find Morath perfectly fine and the other Bravo dead. He signaled the retreat and the four departed, splitting up to avoid pursuit. So far the devil-dogs had not been able to sniff them out, but precautions always had to be taken.

Introducing Lady Bailey Zaid

Hirst the prospector pushed his way into the seedy, no-name tavern, the door sticking a little as though to discourage any but the hardiest. It was very late, and only a few souls were awake and upright, scattered between a scarred and dirty bar-top and benches around the room. Only one table graced the tavern room and it was occupied by a drunken girl, dancing and yelling. As Hirst paused, she tugged her leather skirts up above her calves, shrieking with laughter as a couple of the watching men tossed coppers onto the table and yelled for more.

This was Bailey Zaid, the aristocrat, a girl with a penchant for the rougher parts of town. Hirst thought his chances of wooing her low, and to give himself time to muster up some courage, he chested up to the bar and asked for a drink. The barkeep, a diminutive little man, took the few coppers it cost and passed over a small leathern jack of cheap wine, then turned to snarl at a yellowed, trembling, beggarly man over on the nearest bench.

“No money, no more wine, Yellow-jack! Ya knows that!”

Hirst hoped this was worth the effort. Bailey seemed quite the scrubber. Sasha had been of great help to him but had taken this plan badly. He had had to explain his exact role in gaining Bailey Zaid’s help. Tears and recriminations followed, in which he was no match for Sasha, and beat a retreat. And now here he was, hoping to win the favor of someone who danced drunk on a table for coppers.

A bull-necked rough missing a hand pressed up to the table, reaching up his jack in encouragement.

“Another jug for ya girlie” – One-hand

“Jugs! Woohooo!” – Bailey, cupping her fun-bags

Overcome by the moment, One-hand reached for her. But this was not a swain to her liking, it seemed. She snapped a kick to his jaw, and he went down like a poleaxed steer!

The man leaning at the bar beside Hirst detached himself from his drink, and made his way over to One-hand’s body, and began rifling it. Nor was this to Bailey’s liking: sweeping up a coin from her table she threw it, hard, and it bounced off the man’s head.

“Avast, lubber, stow the jibs’l!” – Bailey, apparently all at sea

A rangy, bearded man rose from the corner where he had been puffing something resinous in a pipe, and strode over with long strides. His eyes shone with the dreamy look of the lotus-user. Whether he was about to say something profound or coarse will never be known. The beaned man decided to blame him rather than Bailey, and swung a punch. Strider swung back at Bean, and the two began fighting in earnest. Bailey screamed her approval and sank back on the table, squirming with pleasure.

Taking advantage of the disturbance, Yellow-jack blind-sided the barkeep, lifting him and slamming his head on a barrel. The little man passed out. Yellow-jack gleefully began helping himself to the drinks on the bar. Hirst spared this not a thought, for by this time he had crept up behind Strider, who stood panting above Bean’s prostrate form. Cold-cocking the man, Hirst delivered a stunning blow and laid him out with a one-two follow-up.

Bailey was his by right of conquest, and insisted on sealing the tryst in the nearest alley, up against the wall, where she screamed her ecstasy in loud caterwauls to the Palena night sky.

A grievance remembered

The longer, colder days coming to Palena were keeping men cooped up in taverns longer and each night saw a few heads broken by the Watch. Rumors of rebels, and the so-called Liberator, made the Watch less tolerant of any misbehavior, especially by armed men.

The corner of Corn and Buckle boasted a nameless but fair-size tavern. Late on this cold night, it was still half-full of armed men: mainly mercenaries but also a few wandering sell-swords and guards. Most of them had been drinking for hours.

“Bartender! More wine!”

“You’ve had enough, by Mitra. Settle your slate and be off to barracks!”

“Mitra is it? Haw! Serve us wine or by Set I’ll ram a foot of good Stygian steel down your gullet!”

The taverner reluctantly brought another jug over. The speaker sloshed the cheap coarse vintage into his mates’ jacks and continued his drunken tirade. It seemed he had had his fill of searching for so-called rebel agitators.

“A’right, I say sure, pick a woolly-ass black-haired barbarian, the Bardic fellow, outta th’ crowd. But no sign. Long gone! An’ maybe these others with ‘im. Whose ta say? Ya know th’ descriptions we got, right? Right?”

All those drinking with him agreed with solemn nods they knew the descriptions, but the speaker was not one to halt with the bit between his teeth.

“A’right, Bossonian. Burly, or rangy. Goes by the name Vorel. Old, or mid-20s. Bald, or silver-haired, or woolly-haired. Distinguishing feature: a Hyrkanian bow. A bow! I aks yer!

“So next, some scrawny-ass Zamorian name of Morath. Lots of knives, which figures. Do they think he’s stoopid enough ta wander round with knives?

“An’ next, some joker from Aquilonia. Young, well set-up, goes by the name Celo. May or may not use a Longbow. Well whaddawe s’posed ta do with that?”

The ranting, or perhaps one of the names, had gained the attention of other patrons. A couple of rangy, burly-shouldered types nursing their drinks in a corner exchanged glances.

“There’s a name I didn’t think to hear down here,” muttered one.

“You’re not thinking of doing anything about it are you?” asked the other doubtfully.

“Mitra, why not? That pup! I should have strangled him when he was just a nipper. But it would be a good joke to watch him dance on the gibbet, ‘specially if my face was the last thing he saw! I think I’ll have a word to the Watch. Right after this drink. Well, first thing tomorrow.”

Hyboria! S4E7 Corinthian Conundrum: Surprised by Liberty, Part Two

Chase scenes

The five fugitives followed their ten rescuers down the steep flights of steps from their exposed position into what was clearly part of the wagon-yards of the city. Carts, wagons, wheels, and stalls of beasts of burden sprawled up the slope and ahead, as far as they could see. Pairs of rescuers gestured each to follow in a different direction, some of them calling in poor Brythunian. Their maturely ravishing leader called instructions in accented tones:

“Follow those you have been assigned! They will guide you to safety!” – Sasha

She took charge of Celo and, followed by a leanly-competent looking second named Legalszo, raced away through the wagon-yards and up into steep-walled streets and alleys. Even as they lost sight of the others Celo could see one of the devil-beasts scrabbling its way over the high wall, and squads of armored soldiery fanning out across the wagon-yards. Above, Palena rose, tier by tier, up to a shimmering waterfall, tumbling from the uppermost fastness, where a mighty-walled citadel squatted.

Vorel found himself in the charge of a fat, sweating man named Ollos and the red-head of the pair of lads among the rescuers. Neither seemed to be capable of making the kind of speed they would need to escape devil beasts. Vorel looked around for inspiration as he ran, and his gaze lit on a line of mules, still with blankets on their backs.

“I can ride anything with four hooves – as long as it’s not a donkey. Or an ox” – Vorel

Swiftly, he untied three mules, and assisted his guides up onto the back of two. Vaulting up onto the third, he kicked it into motion enthusiastically. The mules brayed in protest. Steadying his cased Hyrkanian bow and arrows, and swapping the leads to that hand, Vorel seized a dray-pole as he rode past a wagon-yard. He used it to belabor the three beasts and keep them to a good pace, outdistancing the devil-beasts… for the time being.

Morath followed a sweaty-pated, burly oldster named Drosht and a young squirt – this one waving a wooden sword – up a steep, stepped alley. It was blocked by a cart laden with night-soil. This did not seem to worry his guides.

“You climb from here, Gordy will guide you the rest of the way. Don’t bother about me” – Drosht

As Morath scrambled up onto one of the flat-roofed houses he saw Drosht kicking the blocks away from the cart’s wheels, and pushing it downhill. Gordy raced ahead, jumped with all his might, and landed in a sprawling roll on the other side, losing his grip on his sword. A useful-looking long knife also dropped from his belt. Bleeding from a skinned knee, Gordy gestured Morath to jump as well, and began picking himself and his weapons up. Taking a run and leaping as high and long as he could, the Zamorian rogue cleared the gap easily. From the vantage point he could see back down into the wagon-yards, where Cass was in trouble.

Cass had misjudged the situation, or her guides had lost their nerve. A hue and cry had arisen, and instead of being able to slip away through the wagon-yards, they found themselves being driven back. Two devil-beasts, each with a handler, were quartering the area, scenting. Morath could see that they would be cut off and trapped in less than a minute!

Not bothering to explain to young Gordy, the Zamorian sprinted back down a zig-zag of alleys and into the wagon-yards. As a crowd of angry stall-holders ran past he yelled loudly:

“They went that way!” – Morath, bluffing mightily

The mob disappeared into the maze of alleys he’d come from. That left the devil-beasts. Morath could hear their snarling, and after a few more twists and turns ran into a yard where both teams were fast closing in on Cass and her guides. To their credit, the guides were putting their bodies between Cass and the fangs of the beasts. Timing his run easily, Morath rammed his sword down the back of one of the handler’s breastplate just as he sicced his beast onto a guide. The man collapsed with a hoarse scream. His beast, unleashed, ripped into the luckless local, snapping a leg and jumping on the downed man to tear into his gut.

Cass tumbled past the beast and handler, and something weighted whizzed round her head and connected with the handler’s helm with a thud. His knees folded. That beast too took a piece of the guide’s leg, but the man, in an impressive display of guts, tore free and hopped away.

“I lead them away! You go North Market, Silk Row, back of Shawl! They lead you safe! – Heroic red-shirt

Blood on the road

Meanwhile Celo had been led by Sasha and her second to what was obviously a pied-a-terre for some other, larger, woman who used male disguise from time to time. Fetching a variety of clothes out of closets, Sasha persuaded Celo to undress down to his breeks while Legalszo stood guard outside. He could not help noticing that she took a very hands-on attitude to this process. As he finished dressing, Celo heard Legalszo mutter what seemed like bad news to Sasha. She tensed and invoked the names of several deities.

“We must not linger! The chase is close – some of our people have been slain!” – Sasha

Within a short time the couple, arms linked, walked back through the alleys and markets of lower Palena. A variety of lookouts, all normal citizens to Celo’s eye, passed back word. They mounted to a road and heard the tramp of booted feet. Then: the ring of sword of armor and the screams of dying men!

A short time previous, Bardic realized he would have to do something rash. His guides, an oldster named Ulysz and a powerfully-built young man named Callipsos, had guided him with the minimum of fuss through a number of alleys, and then doubled back, rising higher. The last stretch, apparently meant to fool the devil-beasts, was an easy climb along a wall overlooking a broad road, probably the city’s main artery. But they would need to move quietly along the wall, because of the squads and half-squads of soldiers passing nearby.

A slight chink of chain or scrape of gear, and one of the soldiers looked up. The squad was a full one – half a dozen heavily armored spearmen, with two sub-officers or NCOs. Bardic looked down upon them and thought them not too many: with a furious roar he leapt into their midst!

Bardic’s descent knocked one to the ground and his great-sword cut through two more. To his surprise his two guides jumped as well. But after the initial shock, the spearmen fanned out and thrust home their spears. Ulysz fell bleeding to the ground. With the wall at his back and a half-circle of foes before him, Bardic leaped out, swiped another down, and leaped back. He was speared again! So too was Callipsos, who fell trying to club one of the NCOs.

Then with a gallop of hooves, Vorel arrived! Using his dray-pole as a makeshift lance, Vorel knocked one of the NCOs hard, and was past them before they could react. Using his awesome riding ability he reined the mule around and galloped back, drubbing another guard with the pole.

Celo and Sasha arrived on the scene. Calling in Cimmerian to let Bardic know help was on its way, Celo sprinted in behind the wounded NCO. Bardic cut the man down and Celo and he dropped the next. The two surviving guards backed away, spears leveled against any charge. Sasha stooped to check her fallen warriors. Ulysz still had breath, and between the four of them they carried him to safety before further squads could arrive.

Explanations

Within a couple of hours and several safe-houses later, the five fugitives were assembled and ready for explanations. Their hosts were unprepared for theirs.

“So… you are not the holy man Emaber?” – Sasha, to Vorel

In reply Vorel grunted in annoyance, grabbed out his Hyrkanian bow and spanned it. His comrades pulled his arms down before he decided to send an arrow through her.

“It’s so strange: we had a description: aging, silver hair balding, burly, carries a staff. You fit all those. And you all speak Brythunian” – Sasha

“We speak other tongue too, some better. You try me Nemedian, speak good” – Celo

A week of hiding and resting passed, and Bardic, now fully mended, joined the others in meeting “Reballah Irongut” the woman whose strong will had knit together the disparate elements in the liberation movement. She had been pitched into the movement when her husband, a humble butcher, had been killed by soldiers. Strapping on an iron skillet for protection, and seizing a cleaver, Reballah had waded in, slaying a soldier. The rest was history. Her followers ranged from the fiery noble idealist Sasha, through sturdy artisans like Drosht the smith, and down to brats like young Gordy. Drosht had proven an excellent quartermaster and had amassed a secret armory, ready for the revolution. Gordy and his fellow boys supplied keen lookouts, and Sasha gave some limited entrée to the world of the nobles.

Reballah explained the politics. Palena’s weak-willed king was under the control of Chamberlain Martain Capella. Capella had raised taxes and hired best-class mercenaries owing to an eastern threat – a satrap named Munthassem who had become a crazed tyrant. Then had forced the temple of St Grisiel to hand over the Jade Apples. They were now in the Citadel stronghold. More recently, devil-beasts had been brought up from Koth. Thanking her for the sketch, the comrades responded.

“We’ve roughed out a plan. We all have our reasons for helping, not least because they killed our horses” – Celo

“They’ve made me very angry. All I ask in payment is one silver piece in advance, another on completion” – Morath, to Reballah

“Some of us may have been cursed, and we hear that the Jade Apples can remove such things. Of course we’re not sure of that, we don’t have our priest friend Edric with us” – Celo

“Don’t trust any priest, save for the priestess of the shrine itself. She is said to be a seer and can say what is real and not real” – Reballah

“Can we meet her? That will help us plan” – Celo

“Of course, dear one. I will arrange it” – Sasha

Celo’s life had become a little more complicated of late. Sasha had taken him as a lover. While this offered a lifestyle that was a hundred times better than his recent bouts in various dungeons, she did tend to take a controlling hand in decisions. She believed that once the Apples were restored to the shrine, the people would rise up and force the king to throw out the chamberlain.

Others were less sanguine.

“What we need to do is kill this Capella mug. Then his whole organization is ours” – Morath

The priestess of St Grisiel – the patron saint of the shrine – was a serene and very old woman. She assured them that the Jade Apples had the power to restore anything, no matter the curse. Without going into detail, the comrades left her with a strong word of hope for the future.

Information

Another week passed. Cass had been weaving her “magic” inside the city and had begun receiving reports from various contacts. The nobles, almost to a man, supported Capella, and provided most of the officers for the soldiery. One or two stood out. On the side of evil there was Lord Luiras, a sadistic lordling who took pleasure in seizing commoners, torturing and killing them. He led a coterie of like-minded and was protected by his family. On the side of somewhat good was Lady Bailey Zaid, a young devil-may-care noble who might be susceptible to a handsome face and who might bring that handsome someone with her to a noble ball.

Soldiers were by no means all corrupt. Guard captain Rodus, one of the few common-born officers, was aggressive but loyal to the city. Soldiers patrolled in full patrols of about six, led by one or two NCOs, or stood guard at key points in half-sections of three and one NCO. Less-skilled crossbowmen were drawn from the citizen militia and were static guards at the gate and lesser gates or strongpoints. Overall, numbers of strength might be 200? But the proportion of skilled mercenaries to crossbowmen was uncertain, at this point.

The devil-beasts were obtained from Koth, and had Kothic handlers. As to which magician might have summoned them, possibilities included Lil’endras and Pelias, but were uncertain. They were caged in the city, but also patrolled up into the citadel wards. Only two or three had been killed, so as many as ten might remain.

The Yoko factor

With this information, Cass added a further element.

“I also found where they stored our saddles and gear from the horses. And I really want my saddle back” – Cass

The others noted that she moved comfortably into the crook of the Cimmerian’s mighty arm and whispered a private explanation to him. At some point over the last few weeks, Bardic had helped Cass break through her shackling grief and in the tear-stained aftermath she had given him her body. They were about to find out that this made a difference to her opinions. She dug her heels in, and made the saddles’ recovery a precondition to her help in the citadel.

Speaking mainly in Cimmerian so that Sasha and other rebels could not offer opinions, the five fugitives worked over possible plans. The citadel was unapproachable from the temple side: its blank walls towered 60’ above the concourse or plaza where until recently the Apples were displayed on special holy days. The remainder of the circuit could only be reached across the artificial lake, either by swimming or through a barbican and outer ward. There were three drawbridges that could be raised in times of trouble.

Other than a risky swim or an insanely risky climb, duplicity seemed the best way in. There, the susceptibility of Bailey Zaid might play a role. For a lark, she might well let at least Celo in, if he could win her over.

Once inside, guards could be dealt with, especially if the right ingredients could be found.

“Can you get me an introduction to someone that can supply us with Lotus dust?” – Morath

“I was going to ask if you wanted tools of that kind. Does any of you have alchemical skills? No? Then my knowledge of poisons may have to do” – Cass

“I have a rough plan. A diversion may be needed. The inside team steals the Jade Apples and smuggles them off to the temple. Once they appear, the priestess can claim it’s a miracle. So there can’t be evidence of the theft” – Bardic

“I could help inside” – Celo

“How good are your trap-disabling skills?” – Cass

“Mmm. Not great” – Celo

“Well, I may need to lift the Apples myself” – Cass

“What about killing Capella? You’ll need us inside for that” – Morath

“But Bardic’s plan is for stealth. And once the people rebel the king will remove Capella. There’s no need for killing” – Cass

“Cass is right. This is not a revolt against the king; it’s a revolt against a corrupt advisor. No blood need be spilled inside the stronghold” – Vorel

“Well it sounds like you expect us to be spilling our blood outside in this diversion” – Morath

“That’s up to you. I like Bardic’s plan. We slip inside, and slip away with the Apples, leaving no evidence of how it was done. No killing!” – Cass

Hyboria! S4E6 Corinthian Conundrum: Surprised by Liberty, Part One

Palena of the Jade Apples

Corinthia is Hyborian, but its Hyborian culture is a canopy spreading over much more ancient roots. Some say the great old gods, which hark back to Acheron and perhaps beyond, are still worshiped in secret conclave here and there. Some say that the Jade Apples of Palena are the gift of one of the great old gods. Others say that the jade apples are simply the work of a renowned sculptor of ancient times, whose artistry cannot be matched by modern hands.

Palena lies in the north-eastern region of Corinthia, not enormously far from the Zamoran border, nor from the Brythunian border. It is one of a number of cities on the easternmost pilgrim trail of Mitran faithful, well away from the Road of Kings but reached from that artery by comfortable roads through relatively peaceful cities, though all rival one another in the timeless dance of jealousy and mercantile competition. A Corinthian City that is not set on a hill and surrounded by at least one wall is a city that has a powerful and widely-feared sorcerer. Palena sits on a steep hill, and has a strong wall around it.

Before Palena

The hot sun beat down on the pair of prisoners sitting in stocks at the main gate. Heat-lengthened shapes emerged in the distance, distorted into monstrous form, then resolving themselves into five riders and a number of spare mounts. Sun glinted here and there from a lance-tip or armor not muffled by a robe or cloak. The prisoners squinted, trying to make out whether these were simple mercenaries or something more. The riders seemed in no hurry. One sidled his horse over to the stocks and leaned over. He spoke, though not in a tongue either understood.

“Help us, kind sir! Water, for the love of Ishtar!” – 1^st prisoner

Then seeing his words meant nothing, the rider tried again, in a number of languages.

“What is your crime?” – Bardic, speaking Brythunian

“We uh… we oppressed. Big oppressed” – 2^nd prisoner, speaking Brythunian badly

Somehow they know about us

The group of newcomers numbered five, with eight horses: Vorel, riding a fine horse and leading a mettlesome warhorse with lance at the boot; Celo and Morath, each riding a decent riding horse; Cass, riding a very ordinary riding horse; and Bardic, riding a good horse and leading a very fine gelding and a pack horse. The gate of Palena was open, but the watch wary. One of the well-armored guards raised a hand to bar their way.

“We’re wandering mercenaries” – Vorel, trying Brythunian

“Just look for work huh” – Gate watch

“That’s right. Just drifting through, looking for work” – Vorel

The eight steeds with their riders proceeded through a barbican style gate and out under a portcullis into an inner ward. It sloped up to the inner portcullis and inner gate. On the left side of the ward a sturdy sally-port permitted passage to the intervallum section of the defenses. It stood slightly open. Bardic’s keen sense of smell picked up a strange, rank, unfamiliar scent from that direction. The horses tossed their heads nervously. Suddenly Cass, riding at the rear, and Celo, riding at the van, cried in alarm: both portculli were descending!

“We have just got here! Why would they want to attack us?!?” – Bardic

Crossbowmen appeared atop the ward walls, in a scene horribly familiar to the survivors of Baron Amuran’s trap back in Gunderland. Vorel wasted no time debating the point with Bardic. He kicked his feet out of the stirrups, vaulted into the saddle of his warhorse, seized the lance up and leveled it at the sally-port while kicking the steed into a gallop!

Much of Vorel’s recently-acquired gold had been spent on the mount. It proved its worth, hitting a gallop within a few paces. Vorel’s lance smashed the port back through its hinges and away! Strakes of broken gate lay across it as obstacles, but a way clear had opened!

Devil beasts

Vorel’s riding horse pulled back on its lead as Vorel leaped his mount over the few odd strakes and gate-beams that might injure it. He drew up with a sharp exclamation, Bardic and Celo close behind. The intervallum was not a clear path or circuit. Instead, it too was walled off, forming a courtyard. Half a dozen immense four-footed, huge-fanged beasts, all spikes and red-scaled skin, were ranged around the courtyard, preparing to pounce! Each was as big as a small pony. A well-armored man at the far end slammed down his visor and called them to the attack!

Morath and Cass scurried and dodged around the horses – which, jostling to pull back, were blocking the gate – as Celo vaulted off his horse and ran alongside Vorel, who was still mounted and cutting about with his arming sword. Off to Celo’s left Bardic, also dismounted, cut savagely into a massive beast as it lunged for him. The great blade smashed rather than cut through the horny hide, but went deep: black ichor gouted and the thing roared with fury. The five other beasts leaped atop horses or hamstrung them. Pandemonium reined. Then Celo caught a hail from the far end, where a knotted rope had been lowered.

“Up here! We’ll save you!” – Voice from far end, in Brythunian

The butchery being done to the horses were distracting the things from human prey. Morath ran along the courtyard under the outer wall, to see Vorel, now dismounted, duck under the handler’s pike-thrust and shoulder-charge him into the wall. Leaping to the man’s flank Morath rammed his short sword up under the man’s brigandine. An inner layer of mail failed to stop the shrewd thrust and the armored figure toppled with a groan. Morath and Vorel could now gain purchase on the rope and wasted no time!

Celo was already up: to his surprise the rescue party seemed to be led by a woman! Her drab outer clothing did not fully disguise expensive silks underneath, and though older than he, her exquisite looks took his breath away.

Bardic and Cass made the corner together. Bardic stretched his mighty brand out as a barrier should any devil-beast try to get past him. Cass flicked her noose-line around one of her own feet, and tossed the other end up so that it looped around a merlon, and started to climb, glancing at Bardic to check that he understood. In seconds she was over the crenellation and in cover from the crossbowmen at the far end opposite. Bardic swarmed up even faster, Cass bundled the line and the pair ran after their comrades and rescuers. Into the city! Behind them, the screaming of horses continued. Bardic cursed: that superb gelding had been his companion for years, and represented a vast sum besides. Someone would pay for this, by Crom!

Hyboria! S4E5 Zamoran Dust: Pulled Back In, Part Two

Determination

With death relaxing his bony grip on them, Celo Morath and Vorel limped further into the “money pit” to observe it more closely and decide on their next step. Arming themselves with ten more vials of antidote, and some small pellets of Yellow Lotus, they tried to decide what best to do. Retreat again? Surely Nistarin would doubly fortify his lair and the criminal gangs would not fall for any diversion a second time.

Resistance, or at least alarm, was growing. From what they could hear and see – for there was a gaming room beyond, and alarmed punters were fleeing from it – the Pillager gang had tumbled to the diversion and knew the fate of their comrades below. A few fools dashed in to try to bring their foes down with poison darts but were cut down as they tried. The four invaders used tables and stools to barricade the passage to the gaming room, and turned their attention to their line of retreat.

Celo and Morath checked for survivors back in the square passage around what all guessed to be a strong-room, and dispatched the last couple. Morath and Bardic then broke the legs off one of the tables and maneuvered it over the pit. From that secure platform, Celo checked the excellent and massive lock against Gruddart’s keys, and after some false tries, found one that worked.

To Bardic’s disappointment the strong-room had no other exit – or at least none they could see. Six massive chests had Celo’s eyes a-gleam. Discovering that most were trapped and locked, he opted for safety and fell to looting the only safe one, tipping it out and rapidly sorting gold from silver from trinkets. As he sorted and stashed gold into the longbow’s quiver on his back, Celo felt a warm glow, his usual concern for payment to match risk melting away!

Token Trap

Agreeing to press on down to find Nistarin’s Lair by the only path they were sure of, the looters finished tucking away what gold they could, and retraced their steps through Gruddart’s armory. The bloody footprints Vorel had left on the ladder and floor, now dried sinister deep ochre, were a reminder of the grisly corpse that lay above.

Callously unconcerned, the four found a working and adjustable lantern, agreed on the order of descent, and clambered down the increasingly-stinking escape tunnel to the sewer. Morath led off, and Vorel took post well to the rear.

Much cautious navigation – and a messy encounter with rats – later, Morath reported that he could see, ahead of them on the left wall, a skull, lit from within by some arcane means. This without doubt marked the sewer entrance to the Lair of the Prince of Darkness, otherwise known as Avron Nistarin, he who – for reasons known only to himself – sought Morath’s life.

Morath investigated the area cautiously. He reported four further facts. One, there was a second skull, some 6’ distant from the first, at the same height. Two, each skull was lit by a candle or similar, not some mystical device. Three, the smell of naphtha could be detected. Four, crude symbols for something like “right token enter” were painted on each skull’s brow.

“I would guess a coin is the “right” token for this bunch of jokers” – Celo

Tipping a gold coin out of his quiver, the Tauranian passed it over to the Zamorian who inserted it into the nearest skull’s mouth. It fell into the recess that held the skull. Nothing happened. Morath eased past the skull and towards the next. Then threw himself back! A massive fireball engulfed the sewer tunnel around the skulls and as more naphtha misted down from the tunnel roof, continued to burn for some minutes. Bardic could hear faint voices through the bricks at his left elbow: guards were alert!

Clearing the Way

The fire burned out at length: all that could be scented was soot. Inserting a second coin into the “right” skull triggered a system of weights within the wall. A recess appeared between the skulls and a passage was revealed as bricks slid back. Voices, shouting in alarm, could be heard. Morath dodged across it: a crossbow bolt slammed into the tunnel wall opposite. He dodged back across: a second bolt!

Taking a calculated risk, Bardic launched himself past Morath, twisted in midair and plunged into a sprint down the passage, sword ready for mayhem! A short sprint – a leap into the midst of some five guards – the great-sword flashed and blood sprayed the walls of a guardroom as four of the five went down and the fifth ran for his life, babbling in terror, Bardic at his heels!

Morath called the Cimmerian back from where he had cut the man down, far down a torch-lit passage.

“I heard the guards’ commander – perhaps one of the Peers we were warned about – say he’d go get Nistarin or Shanklin. Can you track the man?” – Morath

Bardic retraced his steps, scanning the passage floor closely with the aid of a lantern. Once past the pool of blood that had spread around his most recent victim, he was sure.

“Only one man has run past here – up those stairs this fellow was heading for” – Bardic

“Stairs up… makes sense… I heard him say ‘up’ when he was heading off” – Morath

First Trial

Vorel carried the original lantern, Bardic his fresh-acquired one, rear and van respectively, as they made their way up a long flight of stairs to what appeared to be an open tunnel or passage. A mist boiled out around them, and for a moment, the cold chill of insanity filled their minds: but they shook it off! A door slammed shut above them: the passage was closed!

It was a very solid-looking door. The well-remembered chanting of a summoning could be heard! Turning to the others Bardic indicated with a movement of his head what he planned. He laid down his lantern, fired the strength of the raging barbarian within himself, and leaped up the last few steps at the door!

The Necromancer’s Summoning

His titanic effort was not wasted: the door sundered and sagged in, and Bardic was carried by his charge into a pillared underground temple, sword at the ready! Four crossbow bolts slammed into him, and he staggered, but shook off the pain and took in the scene:

They were looking down what might once have been the nave of a temple, to an ancient altar. Thick stone pillars ran down the hall in parallel, four each side. Rogues in typical armor and cloaks of the Pillagers lurked in pairs and trios either side of the nave: some carried heavy crossbows. A summoning circle of elaborate design had been painted or tiled onto the temple floor before the altar, and a dark-clad necromancer was completing his summoning: dark viscous mist was boiling out of the circle!

Celo rushed the nearest-left group, who tried to shoot him and use the nearby pillar as cover, but he was joined by Morath, and the fight at the pillar was short and bloody. Trying to keep in cover from other foes, the pair turned back to see what Bardic had achieved.

Knowing from experience that if he could down the necromancer the summoning would cease to matter, Bardic charged the length of the nave and bisected the dark-robed fool who dared stand against them! Or should have – but the great brand cleaved only air! Shanklin bared a hand and clamped it onto Bardic’s wrist – and icy pain drove through the Cimmerian! As he reeled from the pain he saw a tall, gaunt figure arise from the viscous mist, a figure that could only belong to a demon of the outer dark! Pillagers closest to the scene retreated in terror, some to the corners, as the blasphemy materialized. Taller than any but the tallest man it loomed, and dark fire burned within its eye-sockets. It stretched out its bony claws as though groping through blinding fog.

“There is your enemy! Kill him!” – Shanklin, retiring a safe distance

The demon locked its grip around Bardic’s neck, whose strength, though far beyond that of civilized man, was as nothing in its grip. Dropping his great-sword the Cimmerian groped for his poniard…

Pillar to post

Meanwhile, what of Vorel? Remaining outside the temple, the Bossonian had taken aim over the last few steps and let fly at the necromancer, only to see the arrow curve away at the last instant. Realizing the man had some charm or other against such missiles, Vorel ran to Celo and Morath’s post.

Crossbow bolts nicked into the pillar, and Vorel began a missile duel with rogues across the other side of the temple. Celo and Morath risked a charge along to the next pillar, and dealt with the trio of rogues there. Morath eyed a crossbow one had let drop, and began loading it.

Trapped and frustrated by the debilitating effect that the poison had wrought, Vorel groped among his antidotes. Something caught his eye. Each vial or jar had a design painted on, intended to show the use. All of them but one was of a plant of some kind, over a skull, with a single mark added. But the remaining jar’s design was more that of a bear, not a skull. Hoping his inspiration was more than wild guesswork, Vorel swigged it. Immediately, he felt a surge of wellbeing. He bent his bow to its fullest extent and fired rapidly, his accurate shafts rattling home amidst the rogues across the nave, to their dismay!

Celo felled the last rogue that had not fled, and glanced around the pillar to see if Bardic was still alive. A noise, as it might be of a disturbance, came to his ears from the far end. Was that another passage? Why did he feel the disturbance might be above? But Bardic’s plight arrested his gaze: The Cimmerian had managed to fumble out a poniard, but could do little with it.

An Error of Necromancy

The icy death of the outer abyss beckoned Bardic as the demon’s gaze locked on his. He felt as though he had been wandering the tundra for days. It would be so easy to lay down to rest in the snow… then it seemed as though the scolding voice of his mother came to him from far away:

“Get up boy! No true Cimmerian would let a bit of cold worry him!” – Bardic’s mum

With a last titanic effort Bardic tore himself away from the creature’s grip, and staggered back by a pillar, massaging his neck and catching his breath. His sword had fallen where he dropped it, some yards away at the edge of the summoning circle. Then a strange twist of fate occurred.

Shanklin, seeing the Cimmerian break free, urged the monster to renew the attack. It wheeled back to the circle where Shanklin had retreated. Its posture changed, from blindly groping to stalking, as it paced towards Shanklin. Again and again the necromancer commanded it, with foul oath and imprecation: it sprang on him, and in one motion snapped his neck like a rotten twig! Shanklin’s corpse fell flopping to the floor, the creature disappeared, and sanity returned to the faces of the rogues cowering behind the altar and pillars nearby. Two engaged Bardic face to face, but he was far too wary to be caught off guard. He slew one with his poniard and swept up the man’s short sword. The other retreated.

Enter the Prince of Darkness

Movement off in the corner of the temple beyond the retreating man caught Bardic’s eye. A mist was emerging from a passage, and issuing out into the temple as though commanded or directed. A chill swept through Bardic. Two burning eyes seemed to grow in the mist, and his will, already tested to its limits by his life-and-death struggle, crumbled.

“Kill your comrades!”

Bardic turned to do the bidding of the Prince of Darkness, but even at the first step he knew he, Bardic in his innermost being, would never do such a thing. Wheeling back around he drove the short sword below the eyes at the place a neck should be, but the blow merely cut the mist. Not waiting for a riposte, Bardic took to his heels and sprinted diagonally across the temple, sweeping up his great-sword as he ran to shelter midway along by Celo and Morath. Then even his iron endurance gave out and he slumped, panting, sucking in air.

A welcome distraction

Celo glanced around, grinned mirthlessly at Bardic, and tried to work out the significance of the disturbance beyond. The noise had risen. It sounded like an angry mob. He tried to calculate how long it had been since the start of the demonstration Cass had laid on, and gave up.

“Some have fled, but there are still around six opposite us, and a couple hiding behind the altar. Any ideas?” – Celo

“Kill the Vampire by shooting it with a bolt in the heart, or cut its head off. His minions will flee” – Morath

“Morath! What took you so long? I’ve waited so long for this! Now I kill you and you serve me forever! How does that sound? Mwah hah ha hahhh!” Avron Nistarin

Morath readied his borrowed heavy crossbow. Nistarin was behind a pillar. As soon as the Vampire stepped out he would see how it dealt with a foot of sturdy crossbow bolt. The snap and thrum of bow and crossbow continued as Vorel, Celo and four of the Pillagers exchanged shots. But the pillagers were getting the worst of it, by far. With their dread master’s eye on them they were leaping out of cover to get a shot, and being picked off by Vorel’s Hyrkanian bow or Celo’s Bossonian longbow. The two at the altar were looking to edge away: they had no long-range weapon and the darts they had were laughable at that distance.

Then out of the far passage into the light of the temple interior appeared an angry mob of city-folk, Rish at their head, looking very surprised! Clutching the symbol of his patron deity or demon, the priest made his way towards the altar. Among the crowd behind him, some “professional agitators” appeared to be working. Children hoping for the fun of seeing a necromancer strung up, women relishing the chance to get away from their usual chores, and crones urging on mischief all joined in egging the men among them on to ‘hang the evil one!’ It seemed even a few of the harlots had joined in, for at least one slimly curvaceous beauty could be glimpsed among the mob.

Death and Absolution

Robed in black and bearing an envenomed short sword, the Prince of Darkness rushed across the temple at an uncanny pace! Morath loosed as soon as he saw his target, and scuttled backwards. The bolt flew true, but missed the heart – the Vampire barely noticed it. The monster’s path took him past the pillar where Bardic was resting. Perhaps the priest’s somewhat annoying presence distracted from the danger – who can say? Whatever the case, as it drew level with Bardic, the Vampire seemed to trip, just briefly.

It was enough: Bardic swept up his sword and kneeling, sliced up at the Vampire’s neck. Not swift enough! The creature flung up its envenomed short sword in a desperate parry, even while hopping with both ankles bound and trying to regain its balance: the short sword shivered and the blow went wild. Bardic, rising for a second attempt, became aware that on the other side of the pillar, Cass was braced, body arched back from the horizontal until her hair swept the floor, straining every muscle in her lithe body to hold the amazingly strong thin line she had snared the vampire’s ankles with. (Morath too, saw this, and the scales fell from his eyes. Such snare-lines were, so Shadizar lore said, woven of the hair of strangled harlots and steeped with the juice of the Upas tree: wielded by the deadliest of assassins.)

Celo dived over Bardic, bearing the creature down as it staggered. The great sword rose and fell: the Vampire’s head rolled clear!

“I had to come back. I couldn’t leave you. You said you would teach me a new life, and that’s what you must do” – Cass

“Cass – what’s past is past. That’s forgotten. The future is up to you” – Morath

Farewell to Shadizar

Exhaustion and reaction threatened to unman them, but with Cass’s shoulders supporting him, Bardic rallied his own spirits and tried to rally the others. Dressed as they were in the same guise as the Pillagers, the other three were in danger of being lynched, but Cass’ own agitators and bullies amongst the mob directed it towards safer paths. A lone child was liberated from the vampire’s lair. Much rejoicing began, and loud praises of Rish, the unwary saint.

“We must away” – Bardic

“The horses are ready” – Cass

“Before we leave… there’s a locked and wedged door between the strong-room and the gambling hell, and I’m thinking we can make it there before it gets liberated. There were sacks in the money pit, and the day’s not over. Let’s bring some gold with us when we leave Shadi-fucken-zar” – Bardic

Hyboria! S4E4 Zamoran Dust: The Pillagers, Part Three

Laying Low

With the Baroness’ parting warning ringing in their ears, and her rough outline of Avron Nistarin’s lair imprinted on their hearts, the five fugitives worked their way down-sewer to a wider, more disgusting sewer, which proved to be the river that took Shadizar’s wastes out. A set of massive iron bars, thick-crusted with the cystic rot of ages of filth, barred the exit.

Bardic probed the bars. He discovered that the lower bars, lying under the sewer level, had rotted away completely.

“I’ll try to bend them – better to scrape through than go dunking myself under the filth of an entire city” – Bardic

With a burst of barbaric fury his thick-corded arms and shoulders bunched and strained, and a bar was pulled aside, leaving enough of a gap for even his mailed deep chest to squeeze through. The others followed. There was a certain amount of passing and supporting as Celo was weakened to the point he needed a shoulder under him, and Vorel was carrying a small mountain of weaponry: Two bows, two swords, and about six quivers and bow-cases. Still, they all safely passed through and out into a stinking swamp of an open river.

Only just in time! Bardic swung about, dropping Celo and drawing his sword, as the skittering of many large paws alerted him to fresh danger! Morath grabbed Celo before he sank into the effluvium, and Vorel watched helplessly, arms full of gear he dare not drop, as Bardic was engulfed by a horde of immense rats!

Shaking off as much of the gore – mostly the rats, but some of it his – as he could, Bardic rejoined them. He could feel the tiredness in his bones, and he was the least weary. Celo looked worse: pale, and shivering now. Dawn had passed to day, but a bleak day: few healthy plants grew alongside the sloughs, and a scattering of ruinous dwellings downstream offered the only shelter. A small community of rag- and corpse-pickers, the people there were not pleased to see living, and poor, and armed, newcomers.

A shabby beggar, seemingly diseased and shaking, crawled near Morath as they waded up onto drier land. It was Temar: the lone loyal fortunate of Bel remaining to the Zamorian rogue. Morath was not sure just why Temar had remained loyal. Perhaps because he was originally a Zuagir, or perhaps because he was gambling on Morath eventually coming out on top. Either way his help was welcome.

Bardic counted over the silver in Gruddart’s purse, and passed one to Temar, who arranged clean water to be brought. While the priest tended Celo the others began laying plans.

“No matter how much strength we regain, I don’t think we have anything that can defeat a Vampire. Unless Temar has some help that Bel can afford us?”- Morath

“Vampire?!? Morath, that’s just a fable, a scary story told to entertain the marks!” – Temar

“These” – grabbing Celo’s head roughly and dragging it round to expose his neck – “no stories? Real!” Vorel, angrily and speaking Zamoran badly

“Stiletto wounds? You’re not helping with his recovery, foreigner” – Temar

Morath assured Temar that the threat was real, and offered belated introductions. Bardic now commandeered the water and gave Cass the bowl and sponge. The pair talked quietly about horses – apparently Cass was worried about leaving their mounts without stable fees – and Bardic handed her three silver pieces for clothing, and three more for stable fees.

In a village that lived by corpse-picking, clothes of all sorts were to be found and by the time a reasonable plan had been agreed, Cass had resumed her disguise as a young man and was ready to set off again for Shadizar. The others also bought clothes with Bardic’s money, and rested up. Celo struggled against the fever all day, tended carefully by Temar, but by nightfall, when Cass returned, he was awake and feeling more alert. He found the others were anxious to move him.

“It’s not just that this is a filthy place, Celo. The hairs at the back of my neck are lifting – I think that Necromancer is scrying us” – Vorel

Using Temar’s knowledge of local geography, the six moved clockwise around Shadizar, out to the nearest caravanserai west of the south-west gate. The place was a cheerful, noisy hubbub: dozens of traders of all shapes and nationalities crowded the serai itself, and dozens of pack animals crowded the yard. The six bargained for a shelter out in the yard, and clean food and water. Plans were laid again. Cass would need to pay for another day of stabling, at least, but this time the mission was to be extended.

“Cass, I think we are going to need as much information as you can get inside the city. This necromancer…” – Bardic

“Shanklin” – Morath

“…must have his lair somewhere. Is it alongside the Vampire? What kind of weaknesses? You know the sort of thing. And maybe that honest priest has some power against evil that has kept him safe?” – Bardic

“We’ll be moving again, I guess. We need some kind of message system to let Cass know where we go. Cass, let me show you some field signs I learned back when I used to take, uh, liberties with hunting preserves back in the Tauran” – Celo

Plans

Over the next five days, a series of curious rumors grew up in Shadizar. Daring adventurers sought the life of an evil necromancer named Shanklin! One day, rumor would put the group in the north, another in the east. Authorities were not inclined to act, but as gossip flew from street-market to walled villa, armed squads of city watch were detailed off to arrest trouble-makers and investigate the activities around Cutthroat’s Alley. Oblivious to all this commotion, Rish, the priest of the obscure temple in Cutthroat’s Alley, happily continued to look after children in the area. When questioned by city watch or casual idler, Rish had no secrets to tell them.  Nor did the watch find aught amiss in the other buildings of Cutthroat’s Alley, though whether they looked hard is another question.

Cass was able to say more when she returned, once more in male guise. All of Cutthroat’s Alley was one big syndicate. The Taverner, the Baker, the Locksmith – all part of the same organization, the Pillagers. Shanklin the necromancer led a cult associated with it, though it seemed that even he was subordinate to the Prince of Darkness. It was rumored that this cult sacrificed a child once a month, in a secret crypt under Rish’s temple. Not everyone was complicit: the everyday working lads and lasses within the Tavern, Bakery, and Brothel probably knew little; and Rish himself was a dupe.

The four men of vengeance considered their options. Intent on not tackling his nemesis, Morath emphasized the advantage that bringing down Shanklin would have. The others agreed. The obvious places to attack Shanklin were either the temple, or the sewer lair, so they opted for the Brothel-Locksmith complex. Possibly the fairly good information that Cass provided, that the secure vault of the gambling hell was in that area, had something to do with that decision. The idea of using the sewer to assault the Lair – where the Prince of Darkness would be most powerful – and where their weapons might be ruined – and where disease and rats lurked – was discussed but dismissed.

A rooftop assault, and downward breach, was decided, owing to the difficulty barred windows presented. Cass was to arrange tools and a distraction. So, with the last of Bardic’s coin, Cass set off once more.

Rooftop to Locksmith’s

A noisy demonstration – a mob baying for the blood of Shanklin, killer of babies – and the four decrepit traders, pulling and pushing on their hand-wagon, and guarded by one barbarian, drew no eyes as they pulled their cart up alongside the rear of the bakery. A convenient knotted rope dangled from the warehouse and they swarmed up, passing up weapons and tools from the wagon.

Bardic raced along the roof, keeping on the slope away from the alleys and demonstration. Celo and Vorel were not far behind. Cass paused, looked back, and signaled with a low whistle: Morath was slipping on the tiles. Embarrassed, the Zamorian caught up, sparing Cass an evil glance as he passed.

Vorel and Bardic unlimbered their crow-bars and soon ripped away tile and roof-lathe to the attic near the corner of the Locksmith-Brothel complex. Celo slid through, balanced on ceiling lathes he could feel flexing under him, and began quietly drilling a spy-hole down.

“A stairwell. I can hear faint voices, but no-one’s about” – Celo

“Sounds about perfect! Let’s be down then” – Bardic

Celo cut away more of the lathes and dropped nimbly down, using a rafter to change his momentum and land on the top landing of the stairwell. Light came from a south-facing window, in what appeared to be a reasonably well-furnished drawing room. A cabinet, possibly for drinks, and a table, possibly for casual guests, could be seen, as well as a closed door.

“A nice room… a drinks cabinet” – Celo, waiting to let someone else investigate

“That drinks cabinet sounds useful…” Morath, not investigating

The faint sounds of street protest could still be heard below the muffled scraping on the roof: then were drowned out as with a tremendous scraping crash, Bardic hurtled through the ceiling and bounced and rolled down the stairs. His helmet shot off as he did so, landing with a steely clang. A shout of indignant surprise came from below.

Vorel looked around to check their rooftop position. Cass leapt up from her lookout position and sped along the tiles on the balls of her feet, dived head-first down the hole and was lost to view. Morath, left clutching the rafters after Bardic went through the ceiling, dropped down, leaving only Vorel. Shrugging, the Bossonian clutched all of his weaponry and the bow-case he had brought, and jumped. Blackness engulfed him and he landed – hard – on someone. Rolling to his feet, he was in time to catch a faint movement ahead – barely visibly outlined in what must be an exit from the storeroom, as it appeared. Then a steel dart took him in the chest, and Vorel screamed in agony as poison seared through his veins! He rushed the man and struck out – and his sword connected!

Bardic dizzily rose and staggered into the action, aware that Morath and Celo had now descended. By the time he reached the Locksmith, the man was down, and Cass had caught up with him. The pair followed the other three into the Locksmith’s workshop, where a candle-stub was being used to light proper lamps over the well-appointed work-bench. Cass leaned in and murmured:

“What are we doing with the Locksmith?” – Cass

“He’s dead isn’t he?” – Bardic

“No, not quite” – Cass

Vorel writhed in pain again as the poison continued to course through his veins. The injustice of someone he had broken in on intending to kill actually trying to kill him made his blood boil! He noticed Bardic dragging the Locksmith, Gruddart, in.

“Ah, he’s not dead then?” – Morath, finishing selecting thief’s tools

“He’s about to be!” – Vorel

Sweeping his sword out the Bossonian sheared the man’s head from his shoulders. Cass turned pale as blood gouted out, washing over the room.

“We could have learned something from him – like where the antidote is kept!” – Celo

Pausing only to swipe the Locksmith’s keys – left in the workshop – and bar the doors, the rogues pulled clear the secret shelf and opened the trapdoor leading to Gruddart’s armory. Morath checked for traps carefully and descended, followed by the others.

Lighting more lamps and searching, the three unarmored men were delighted to find enough armor of excellent quality to supply them. Vorel squeezed into a reinforced hide jerkin and supplemented it with a steel cap. Celo, who had selected simple leather, was already dressed and searching the walls. If the Pillagers had come at them through the armory, then there had to be a concealed passage.

Bardic realized that Cass had not joined in the search. He found her crouched up against the ladder, pale and shaking, muttering to herself. It sounded like “we weren’t to kill anyone.”

“Cass! You should leave! Head back out to our stables, and ready our mounts so that we can slip away. If I don’t find you, I’m dead. Then you can set out on a life of your own” – Bardic

“But you were to tell me what to do” – Cass

“Damn. I’ll try to get back to you. That’s all I can promise” – Bardic

Locksmith’s to Hell

Morath collected Vorel and Bardic, and although noting Cass’ absence had no time for explanations. He took the lead: the concealed exit revealed a locked door. Having dealt with this, he eased it open. A passage, left to right.

“Take the left” – Bardic

Morath’s own sense of direction told him it made no difference so he paced right, then right again, then along some fifteen paces more to where he could see, in the light Celo held behind him, another right turn. Edging along further, he peered round, and could see doors, set not quite opposite one another, right and left. Conversation could be faintly heard through the left or “outer” door. Morath padded softly along, close to the right-hand or “inner” door: the floor gave way under him and he threw himself back, sprawling away from the black pit: still clutching his sword and ready for trouble!

The slam of the pit trap had alerted those beyond the “outer” door: it was flung open!

“It’s them! Kill them all!” – Pillager

Celo pulled the light back hastily from where he had held it to light Morath’s path. Fooled by the sudden change of light, the first two Pillagers charged into the pit! The third checked and flung a dart at Morath: it struck home and he felt the deep bite of poison! He scrambled and rolled back into cover behind the corner.

An uneasy hush fell: both sides sought to gain some advantage: the Pillagers by encircling, the intruders by waiting at either corner. Vorel swayed on his feet: the big Bossonian was near-dead from the poison. He readied his powerful Hyrkanian bow. He’d take someone with him, by Mitra!

A flurry: an exchange of stabs: Celo, kneeling stabbed up at the Pillager trying to strike him, and sent him back reeling: but he too felt the bite of poison!

At the other corner, Bardic allowed his blood to heat white-hot and leapt forward, struck down one, and leapt back. There were three: the second rolled past the Cimmerian and flung a dart at Vorel, while the third targeted Bardic. The latter was hit again but shrugged off the poison effects, and laid about him with his great brand, leveling the pair. He heard more arriving and raced forward into the darkness, roaring his berserk challenge! Vorel, eager to do more, paced to the corner and strained every muscle in a telling shot: it sank to the fletching in Bardic’s back!

At the first corner, Celo, assisted by Morath, finally laid low the last Pillager. The defenders had left the “outer” door open behind them. The two rogues leapt over the short gap and studied what appeared to be a large office or counting-house room. Many desks stood about, piled with numerous bags, jars, slates, styluses, wax tablets, parchment sheets and other apparatus. This must be the gambling hell’s counting-house, and perhaps also where drugs were prepared for the harlots and customers of the brothel above.

Bardic limped around the next corner: he too had dealt with his last opponent. Vorel, apologetic, stumbled after him, white as a sheet and wheezing. Bardic approached the nearest desk. He was no more illiterate than anyone, he mused. There might be some clue as to what each jar did! And there was! An illustration of a skull, a flower and a mark suggested recovery to him. He proffered it.

“Only one way to find out – and I’m dead without it” – Morath

Sure enough the cordial in the jar proved an antidote. Although three of the four were gravely injured, their next move would not automatically be into the grave!