Shadows & Sorcery #203
Goodness gracious it seems we’re back already! How did everyone fare with last week’s cursed edition? I hope your quest to lift the maledictions wasn’t too arduous. But the ride never ends on this freakshow, because we’re taking a hard detour into three of our major settings this week. Brace for some worldbuilding—in this edition I challenged myself to expand the lore for these worlds and explore some bits I felt needed exploring.
This week would have been the next chapter of The Path of Poison (my serial adventure for those newcomers to S&S), but as I said back in #201, I’m going to play looser with chapter releases, to give them more time to brew. Never fear, we’ll be delving back into the underbelly of Farhaven soon enough.
If you enjoyed what you read here, let me know! A comment, share, or even just a like helps out S&S.
This week, we encounter dwellers of the Desert of Undead, the dungeon gang descend for a dangerous gig into the War Crypts, and the fearsome sorcerer Alzared seeks knowledge in the Temple Ruins…
Desert of Undead
It rose from the verdant country like the crown of giant’s head emerging from the earth, and at any second, one might expect eyes to peer over the treeline of the lush forests which surrounded it. Beyond those trees was the palace-temple, incongruous in its opulence, so sparse was man’s presence in the country, and so rare were intrusions from the Great Beast, khanalfar, or much of anything else. The dome was the head of the temple within, surrounded by spacious living quarters for the personally crafted priesthood of the incumbent Regic legate, as well, of course, as his own pleasure chambers and quarters. It was all of Vedian architecture, with square, alcove-studded pillars topped by ridged half-domes or fearsome beings at the corners of walls themselves studded with alcoves bearing wooden idols.
Spread about this temple, though, were sprawling gardens filled with the heady scent of virulent, pungent flowers with fleshy leaves and veined stalks in a score of shades themselves a score of colours, these spans broken up by clusters of thin pillars which dwelt beside or even on little overgrown ponds and streams. Slaves wandered to and fro, tending to the greenery as per the vague and cryptic instructions of their master’s whims and fancies.
The tread of grey, withered limbs through this arcadian paradise might have deemed horrific by any who saw it, and to the slaves who scrambled before the silent, towering forms which glowered from within sunken sockets under heavy, mournful brows, it was a living nightmare.
The priests who manned this temple in far greater than reasonable numbers were as warriors, not professional, and barely trained, but made sport of sacrifices in mock recreations of battles, and so made to imbibe their concoctions and lay into their assailants that the great sounding horns warned them of. But the flesh of the ancient dead, hardened in tombs of spices for a millennium while their ancestors still struck flints, did not yield to blades like the plump muscle of the living did. As if striking fire-hardened wood, their weapons simply gave dull thunks and made shallow gouges against limb and torso, and rebounded upon the decorative yet hefty golden plates and bands the corpses wore, and the priesthood was, in a matter of some twenty minutes, cut down by the dull patina of Anur-Anakh bronze given back one flash of its primeval lividity by the splash of hot crimson.
In the stepped ritual chamber, hung with a dozen heavily smoking censers, the legate, a ruddy-skinned Regic man in blue Vedian dress, with a cord-muscled Vedian guard, met the silent, vengeful gazes of the undead in short, brutal combat. Undead spears with wicked points wound easily through the tight woven strand-shields of the Vedians, normally prized for their rigidity and light weight, to drink in the steaming red beyond. A few Vedian axes, however, found their marks, and shot forth clouds of dust from the cloven chests of Anakhish warriors, sending them sprawling to the ground as the living warriors called out for divine favour, knowing they had barely held their ground as it was.
But among the unspeaking titans was one figure who strode forth, short, broad-bladed sword tapering sharply to a needle tip, and to meet this solemn shadow of the past came the legate, diamond-headed blade and roundshield held at the ready.
“This fellow must be their leader,” thought the legate, “their chief or high priest of long ago, perhaps.” He took in the face—among the undead were drawn, sunken, and fleshless visages terrible to behold, but something of the strong, fine features remained in this one, even though they be bent to so sombre an expression of ancient death. Could this corpsewalker be seeking to parlay, knowing their party had expended their energies in the initial assault? So be it. The legate lowered his weapon. The undead merely sprung forward and thrust its sword hilt deep in and up through the legate’s belly, piercing as many innards as it could. A shuddering gasp and trailing rattle escaped the legate as he dropped his sword and clawed at the primordial corpse, which merely pulled free its blade, sending the legate falling onto his back and smacking his head against a shrine step in the process. The remaining Vedian guard watched the oncoming mob of grey bodies, threw down their axes, and fled, some few minutes later surprised to discover they had not been pursed.
Out into the sunlit garden of the Vedian palace-temple did the desolate procession go, carrying between them the chest of war relics around which the entire complex had been focused. A slave cowered as they passed, afraid to run, afraid to remain, so merely shielded her eyes and prayed between choking sobs. She almost screamed as she beheld a gnarled, thin hand reach down, and hold between its knobbed fingers the clay mark of a deity which hung loose around her neck. She followed the hand up the arm, past the golden bangles, to the silk-shrouded shoulder, and to the lifeless face and its shadowy pits. What was there to say? She felt all heat leave her flesh as she awaited the worst. The gaunt figure merely snapped the image from her neck, and a sound was made in its throat as it cast it to the ground. She swore then, and would swear forever afterwards, it looked at her for a few seconds, before it rejoined its kindred, and left for their primordial desert realm that it seemed even the gods themselves were loathe to touch.
War Crypts
That the fellow was an adventurer, those professionals a cut above the contracted tomb-and-ruiners, was evident by his gear. But gear could be pillaged. Often was. So that wasn’t too strange. But other details about this gig stuck out to Verrus and Sutch. If it really was a gang leader hit, for one thing, what’s a gang doing setting up in the war crypts? For another thing, what were these two doing here, hired as bodyguards? This adventurer was an able fighter, it seemed, quick on his feet, and had skill as an evoker, too. Better two extra sets of eyes than one, they supposed. But if this was so urgent, as they had been told—and that was itself weird, that they been approached by a medium and not a slip on a notice board—why grab two people who, while they had solid reputations, were nothing more than cleaning crew for the ruins under the city and not personal, dependable contacts? Disposable bodies, was what Verrus had muttered, and Sutch was inclined to agree. That the adventurer hadn’t asked Nettie a thing when she showed up, to Verrus’ silent disapproval, and simply accepted her lockpicking expertise, was also odd. Urgent it must have been. Or perhaps he needed discretion.
The war crypts were never quiet. One could hear the echo of clashing steel from a league under the earth. Theories abounded as to what it was all about. Sutch himself, an academic, subscribed to the belief, based on fragmentary but compelling evidence, that they were the remains of an ancient game. Human bodies turned into pieces to fight for amusement. What’s more, these game pieces needn’t ever be replaced. Indeed, they had long outlived the players, fighting their final commands over and over again into eternity, thanks to the fact they were completely and utterly unkillable. Hack off a limb, pierce the body a dozen times over, burn it to cinders, didn’t matter, it came back from some unguessed depth later on every single time. Evidently there was something either within them or in the crypts, which in truth were more of a quarantine zone, which kept resurrecting the bodies with just enough of their minds intact to keep fighting effectively.
Now, if that was the case, then who was sealing these doors that Nettie had to pry open? Certainly not these raging, shambling corpses barking orders in a mangled, dead language, the locked portal clearly an affront to their intended movements. Nettie was on one knee by the lock—a new lock, she had made sure to note—fiddling with multiple instruments inside the cogs while Verrus and the adventurer, who called himself Skerren, held off the advancing undead warriors. Sutch was on standby for his evocations, though Skerren was holding them off pretty well himself. He’d come prepared, for all this was so urgent a matter. He scattered blackened lumps of charcoal from which he called gouts of flame, bottlenecking the corpses for Verrus to smite with his blade or the side of his shield. Flame seemed to be a universal fear for the undead. It was the one thing you could count on to give you an edge. But it wasn’t always enough. Spearmen came forth, with shields, knocking aside any lump of charcoal before the flames could be evoked, and absorbing completely the rather impressive trick of evoking the strike of a hammer upon several large nails the second they were thrown, thus propelling them forward. Verrus called for Sutch to do something. Sutch looked to Nettie. She looked to the lock, the sweat visible on her forehead. She was good, but she was as yet an apprentice. Every clash of steel against steel, or stone, or wooden shield made her jump, and they kept getting closer.
“Move,” said Sutch through gritted teeth as he knelt down and nudged her aside.
“Hey, what are yo-” she stopped as she saw what he was doing.
On Sutch’s left hand he wore a ring. A dull metal with a reddish insert. It looked lightly decorated. He held it up, and had raised his other hand in the manner evokers do when focusing themselves, hand out, two fingers up. Where there had been light clicks before from Nettie’s instruments, there came now a series of heavy metallic clunks, and the door swung open. Skerren heard it, and looked around, just in time to see the academic before he stood up, who then saw the adventurer. There was a beat before Skerren bellowed “through the door!”
There were usually signs of gang activity. A gang needed to make its presence known. Even when it was pertinent to hide in the shadows, something of their mark was visible wherever they were hiding out, for the sake of their fellows, or to warn potential trespassers. There was no ganger alive or dead or otherwise who was this meticulous in keeping clean a lair that existed inside an active war zone. Where were the supplies? Weapons? Beds? A midden for waste? Were such things not usually heavily fortified? They hadn’t been here long, apparently. That they could believe. That did make them wonder, however, where such intelligence came from. In cases like this, usually from another gang. None of them particularly relished the idea they were helping carve out a new lair.
Turned out, they wouldn’t have to worry about that for long. Three people had stood within a corpse-strewn chamber far under the crypts, at the end of which was a stepped dais cloaked in shadow. Two of the figures were soaked in ancient, rotten blood. One was taking hesitant steps towards the dais. The sounds of rushing feet had been getting closer when they spun around to meet something else—Verrus, Nettie, Sutch, and the adventurer, Skerren, the latter of whom wasted no second in flicking out a small, wrist-mounted crossbow and firing a screeching bolt directly into the throat of the supposed gang leader. The other figures rushed in low and swift, heavy curved cleavers at the ready. Sutch swore as Nettie fell back behind him, and held up his ring again. A ball of white hot flame screamed forth, dropping one of the attackers who clawed at their face and shook once before their limbs went slack, while Verrus dropped into a defensive stance, taking the other cleaver upon his shield and thrust out with his sword into the attacker’s side. Skerren finished that one with a dagger across the throat.
“You didn’t tell me,” said the adventurer, “this one was a mage.”
Sutch went still. “The ring recalls the fire of its forging, what do you dare intimate about me?”
“Come on, I’ve seen you do more than spit sparks, invoker.” That final word was lathered in scorn.
Nettie’s head turned to the academic. The realization she had been not merely present but right beside an invocation to some nameless outer being bound by unspeakable pact, which had reached down right there and then, didn’t leave her for three full days afterwards.
Verrus had, meanwhile, strode over to the body the adventurer had slain with his bolt. He turned, and his eyes were, at the end of the shadowed hall, almost like points of flame. “A gang leader,” he said with derision. He took a few steps forward. “We didn’t sign up for a hit on a guilder.” Nettie and Sutch shot a look to each other, and then to Verrus, and then to Skerren. “Lets go.” The smith thundered past his comrades, fist tight around the hilt of his sword.
“Go ahead and run,” said Skerren, “but you’ll be watched.”
Verrus stopped, but he didn’t turn. He waited for a beat, sniffed, and asked “Any reason you picked us?” He was trying to sound calm. None of them bought it.
“No. But listen, you’re too far in. You were the second you agreed. I think you can guess who my clients are, so they know you know, and to boot, you’ve been harbouring an invoker—none of this can go in your favour. Just play along, and-”
Verrus flew at the man, driving the fist around his sword into the man’s nose, and swiping quickly out, raking deep gouges across the adventurer’s treated leather plates.
“For gods’ sakes he’s right, you old fool!” Sutch yelled as he tried to step in, but Verrus had already sent his shield’s edge upwards, crashing directly into Skerren’s shoulder as he tried ducking away amidst the sudden blinding shock of a shattered nose. There was an audible crack. Verrus was gasping for air, from the rush here, from the initial fight, and from the red haze that was all that was driving his limbs now. His sword, which hadn’t gone still, was up now, and the adventurer barely blocked the blow with this own blade. Verrus’ was out to the side now, far faster than Skerren had expected, even after seeing the old smith fight. But the blow never came.
“You—don’t you touch with me that!” he roared. His limbs were locked, straining to pull free from hands that weren’t there. Sutch’s hands, however, were out, and had invoked something to hold the smith.
“Verrus, he’s right,” Sutch said, emphasizing every word.
“You don’t think there’ll be a reckoning? You heard the bastard! They know!”
Skerren had stood up, blood still seeping his nose, one arm held limp, and spoke “Listen to your friend. I’ll forget this,” he said and spat a glob of blood out, “because I needed you in there.”
“Can’t trust him,” Verrus growled, “guilder scumstain bastard...”
“What,” Nettie suddenly spoke up, “was he looking for?” She nodded to the dais.
“You don’t need to know that,” said Skerren.
Sutch groaned under his breath. “No, I think we would like to know why you’re risking our lives. Come now. Dig us in deeper, or my dog may come off his leash. And I have many more dogs besides this one.”
Skerren glanced sideways at the mage, then at Verrus who hadn’t gone still, but had tensed himself like a coil ready to snap. He bet the girl was capable of something sneaky, too.
“You think they tell me all their plans? I’m a sellsword.”
“You basically told us you know,” said Nettie.
Skerren rolled his eyes. “Doesn’t matter. Something to do with what brings these bodies back, that’s the extent of my knowledge. Which, might I add-”
“Typical,” spat Verrus, the invoker’s hold easing up on him, “immortality is it? They promise you something?”
“Which,” the adventurer said, “might I add, will be back any moment. And no, blacksmith, they promised me a fat sack of coin, and a dead guilder whose hands aren’t on some old relic of rebirth is good news for everyone.”
Nettie thought to herself, sure, she could do a little hard swearing before a court or committee if she needed. They didn’t need to know anything. And she had the cogsmithing academy to hide in. Sutch had his academy. Verrus, though...
“In any case, don’t worry,” he said as he stopped beside smith who’d just been freed, “you’re not the first to do this. And you won’t be the last.” He patted him on the arm, and disappeared into the tunnel they’d arrived in. “Now, I’d like to go see a healer before more undead turn up.”
Temple Ruins
Just as the Great Grey Ones had their arts, which had been passed to their heirs, the greyfolk, the Dragons had their arts, which had been in part passed to their heirs, the draconians. To mankind went naught but their flesh and spirit of clay, which could be moulded only in mimicry of the powers of their grey allies, and their ancient dragon overlords. And yet, despite having silverworkers and steelsmiths to hand, who were more than willing to teach as best they could the arts inherent to their blood, humankind was ever drawn to the forces from which they had been liberated.
Dragonmagick was, at its heart, a battle of wills between magician and dragonblood through the medium of an art-wrought instrument, be it of human or greyfolk make. Alone, the blood of a dragon or of its derivative, lesser spawn never lost its potency or desire for domination. It could, and did, express its powers without flesh to hold and direct it. Even the most virtuous souls weren’t safe from the serpentine mutagenic effects of its mere presence, and might bear shameful scales, or forked tongues, or slit eyes, or even claws. Sometimes more. It was perhaps a blessing that human arts could only express a fraction of even a dragonspawn’s power, and so it was that a human warrior might bear a ring or bracer of wyrm’s might for a lifetime and never really suffer any of its effects.
For the sorcerer Alzared, though, he bore not only a masterwork sceptre of silverfolk make, it held at the head an orb of purest dragonblood. He must never give the blood an inch. The sceptre had done much to contain and channel it as he desired. But it was alive, and aware. Every moment was a battle, and it was a battle he revelled in. Most magicians would keep their sources of magick behind layers of instruments, but Alzared believed the finest instrument was in his head. He feared not the blood. So on this day, he sought instead to se what else it was the blood could do.
The winds of the ice belt gnawed at his bronzed flesh—aye, it was harsh winds such as these which made it so, for these grim peaks were his homeland of old, and they continued to call to him no matter where in the world he found himself. Erected in an age long ago by the grey giants who though mightier than the dragons had not their numbers nor tenacity, it cut off the fearsome vastness of the underworld from the homes of men and greyfolk above. These sombre summits were all that kept the world from being engulfed in fire and the shadows of wings they cast forth. And yet, Bulwark they may have been, but deep below, things remained, things of elden times. This he knew from the tales of his grandsires, who remembered what the ancestors of their disparate tribe remembered, and warned of. It was exactly what he was looking for.
When the ice rose up, it brought with it primordial stone, and within that, some of the land which had known the first rays of the sun. These places, the kind of which Alzared sought, never truly died, they only slept, awaiting new masters. And it was his belief, bolstered by the thrumming of the dragonblood in his sceptre of silver, that a master had its residence here. There was about the earth a clammy mist, and drops fell with the songs of chimes from the cracked cavern rooftop through which stray beams of pale, ice-shrouded sunlight were delivered. Yet for all this ice, the air, the mist, the water—all of it was as sweltering and cloying, for it dwelt amidst a span of virulent deep jungle transplanted and cultivated by the dragon which made this place its lair.
Alzared had no doubt the temple he came upon was of human make, despite the state of its ruination making sections of it indistinguishable from the sodden loam. It was, he felt, both of him, and not of him. Could be that an ancestor of his reared some of these stones. But they were not reared for humans, they had been piled one atop the other under the blearing sun by human hands bent to dragon minds. Aye, they loved to return to the scenes of their conquests of old.
It was a small, slender specimen, almost graceful with its long, curling neck, and in the fluid movements of its wings which unfurled to reveal thin membranes and long, hooked phalanges. But there was something dreadful about it, too. Was it the lustrous, jet black scales, each of which shone like an eye? Was it the lipless maw of curved fangs, bared and laughing as it lapped tongues of flame? Or was it the great cauldron of blood before which it had stood, strands of which were still trailing from its wicked claws? Every true dragon, regardless of size or stature, had within it the potential a boundless and terrible power, and the desire to express it.
Fire met fire in the air and screamed, sending out scores of streaks across the dripping jungle cavern. Each combatant fell back. Alzared guessed this sage of dragons would be able to meet every spell of raw power he might bring forth. Good, he thought. The blood agreed. He could feel it—had it a heart to beat through, its pulse would be racing. Time to show me what you can really do, thought the sorcerer. Dragonmagick was a mental discipline in tandem with the intricacy and quality of the instrument through which the blood’s power was let loose. In short, it was not the magician that learned draconic powers, as some erroneously believed, but rather, new powers were awakened and released from the blood. There was no more dangerous a pursuit, for one never knew if the instrument they wielded could channel the powers dragons could command—or if it could even control it. Countless grimoires discoursed upon the construction tools for dragonmagick. Alzared, however, had never been one to dwell in the depths of a dusty library for weeks at a time, poring over the frayed, yellowed parchment of some mouldering old tome of cramped, difficult script. The only way to know was to do it.
He let the dragon take the lead. He could react. He could defend. The blood wanted to win more than anything right now. It was like releasing reins on a furious beast as the dragonblood sent forth a wave of pure force, and the enemy reacted, drawing its wings around itself to absorb the blow, if but barely. A claw was shot out, and though it missed its mark, it still sent Alzared sliding back through the mud—on his feet, but open for another attack. Come on, he thought, you’ve done this before. Fire and force, is that all you have? Is that why I so easily tamed you? Cunning in the extreme were dragons, but their pride was easy to goad. Even if they be nothing but blood. He felt, then, something like a dozen feelers reach out to the side, and just as the black dragon came in, jaws wide and slavering, several large rocks were pulled from the crumbling walls and from out of the earth—Alzared understood, and thrust out the sceptre, each and every stone colliding with the attacker, sending it sprawling. Don’t wait, he thought, or the blood thought, but he had to, he was here to learn. The black dragon rose, and it was as if each scale, gleaming still like an eye in the darkness, glowered. Alzared knew the dragon’s eye glint, a look of supreme concentrated rage and hatred that could kill if glances connected, something they did to intimidate their minions and their foes. He didn’t need intimidating, though it would surely destroy him swiftly. He scrambled to think of a defence beyond averting his eyes, and he couldn’t risk that either. The dragon had aught else in mind, though. He felt the sceptre in his hand suddenly grow warm, then hot—then it was nearly out of his hand with the sudden searing pain. He saw parts of it begin to glow red hot. He swore and ducked down, thrusting the pommel of it into the loam.
The black dragon took to the air. Not a wise choice in here, thought the sorcerer. But it covered space easily. He couldn’t meet this without the sceptre in his hand. It knew. So, in a flash that would have astonished him to laughter in different circumstances, he raised his hands. His hand was not upon it, they were not connected through flesh and through art, but they knew each other’s minds and wills. Show me a shadow. An echo. And if not for me, for this one whom you would crush. Go on, before I take back my sceptre. The dragon was nearly upon him when something rose between them. It was only a flash, but the shape of it lingered in the air, and it had form, the form, Alzared saw, of a great dragon made of flame, wings outspread to fly up and down into its diminutive foe. There was a roar of agony and a great billowing of smoke, and from behind its veil, came a word in the tongue of the dragons—a rare and terrible thing for them to do, and it was followed by a great orb of flame. Alzared wasn’t quick enough. It rushed right over him, and he choked in the pain as he was engulfed. But that hadn’t been everything, for another word came, and another wall of fire followed. He threw himself forward and closed his hands over his sceptre. The fire raked across his back and he spat with the scalding. He gripped the sceptre as the third word came. Your blood will belong to it if you don’t do something, he didn’t think, but merely felt without words. As he rose, pulling the sceptre from the earth, there was a sensation across his entire frame, and as the next attack hit, the fire hissed away into harmless tendrils of steam. He saw through bleared eyes an effect across his form. It was, in a way, similar to the kingsmail, a spectral armour made by and for humans, an art in imitation of the greyfolk even they considered a masterwork. Only this was not armour, these were scales, iridescent and shimmering. They dissipated after a moment, as the sorcerer stood. But just long enough for the black dragon to see them.
Alzared’s robes had been burnt to cinders. The leather girdle barely survived. He didn’t care right now. He tore the ragged fragments from his frame and stood as he truly was: bronze flesh, mane of black hair and bristling beard, burning blue eyes now narrowed to draconic slits, and a mantle of dark, greenish scales about his shoulders, back, chest, and legs. Humans sometimes believed such marks as these on magicians was a curse for their meddling with dark powers. Alzared did not consider himself a particularly righteous soul, and neither did he traffick much with what he considered the pompous chivalry of Castlegrand knights, but he was no villain. He bore his valor, and his humanity, with pride. There were better magicians than he almost devolved into serpents. And right now, he had a mind to let the black dragon and would-be mastermind know this.
He slid his sceptre in his hand to just above the pommel, and said aloud:
“You’re in the hands of a human. Act like it.”
Had it a maw to laugh, it would have. From the end of the sceptre there shimmered into existence the head of a mace, cruciform, with four tall, broad faces, floating yet connected as solidly as if it had been forged in the Steel Summits. Alzared bounded forth, the breath in his lungs burning from the noisome jungle air, the smoke, and the heat. The black dragon shot out its wings and lunged low through the air, seeking, with jaws open and claws spread, to ensnare the sorcerer. Don’t like me wearing your scales, do you? Want to pick them from my flesh, don’t you? He was betting on it. And he was right. Had his weapon any meaningful physical weight, he wouldn’t have made the strike, but for all that it was conjured by dragonmagick, it fell upon the black dragon’s skull like a thunderbolt. The dragon crashed into the mud and careened across the ground, a dozen sounds trying to escape its throat at once. Alzared watched it come to a stop, unmoving. Without a second thought, he strode over to the cauldron of blood the beast had been brewing, and sceptre aimed at it, brought forth in his moment of exultant victory, a great serpent of fire, and had it fall upon the dragon’s corpse in a blazing torrent, burning it to a scattering of ash.
Far above, the winds of the ice belt bit at his flesh, but he felt it not: every pelting shard of slate sizzled into steam as the sorcerer, in bound wraps of jungle vegetation, made for the home of a tribe in a frosted valley he knew as friend.