The Black Sword, Chapter 3: Lifting the Veil

"If you value your life, you'll drop the sword," the old man screeched, thrusting the staff closer to Ghaleon's face. His arthritic hands held the other end, gripping it tightly. Everything about the man looked weak. The corners of his eyes were latticed with wrinkles, circumscribed with shadows of insomnia. His white hair and beard were long but thinning, and it seemed he was held up by spindly legs under his faded red robe. Still, the wild fear in his clear blue eyes made Ghaleon's grip gradually loosen until his longsword clattered against the floor.

Malcolm had slid into his spread-legged fighting stance. Soirse stood stock-still, afraid to reach for her scimitar for the risk of spooking the old magician. Ghaleon, for once, was speechless. The three remained in a stalemate with the old man for what seemed like an hour.

Malcolm muttered under his breath, "He's an initiate?"

The man thrust his staff toward Ghaleon again and it sizzled, infused with power. "So you are here to kill me," he said.

"Well we --," Malcolm was interrupted.

"We only wanted to rob you," Ghaleon lied, "We didn't want a fight. I just had my sword out in case, well, this happened." Soirse nodded vigorously. The staff held its place, quivering in the old man's grip. "We're sorry," Ghaleon added hastily.

"Don't underestimate me. The Veil's poisons make the body look older than it is," came the man's reply. His blue eyes, far more alert than the rest of his body, darted from each adventurer to another, then widened in surprise. "They..." he stammered, "They got you too didn't they."

Ghaleon's head dropped, breaking from the man's gaze. "Yes, yes they did."

The crackling around the end of the staff ceased, heat-like waves shimmering away into nothing. The old man lowered it from its threatening position. His expression shifted from anger to sympathy. "I can help you," he offered.

The three moved into his bedroom, sitting on the bed as he motioned toward it. "I couldn't deprive an old man of his seat," Soirse said, gesuturing.

"Nonsense. You were intruders a moment ago, but now you're guests. Sit," he replied. Soirse sat, Fenrir taking his place at the end of the straw-packed mattress. "As you probably already know, my name is Siobhan. The first thing I can tell you is that you aren't poisioned." Soirse, Ghaleon and Malcolm's brows furrowed in puzzlement, then relaxed in relief. "What's happened to you, and me, is much, much worse." The hope drained out of their expressions. "You've fallen in with a group that calls themselves the 'Shadow Veil,'" Siobhan explained. "I was only with them for two months, but in that time they taught me much and hurt me more. They are a cult that worships creatures from beyond the stars, horrible beings from the Far Realms."

"They told us they could help with our problems," Malcolm said.

"Theirs is no help that you want," Siobhan answered, "You'll pay for it with your sanity, or maybe even your life. I'm not sure which is worse." The faint wet glistening around his eyes betrayed the pain of his memories. "The poisons they claimed to give you are actually the tiny eggs of an aberrant creature."

Shock washed over each of the companions' faces at about the same time. "So they're eating us alive?" Soirse cried, "But what about the antidote they've been giving us?" She produced one of the glass vials from her satchel. Siobhan leaned over, examining it intently in Soirse's hand.

"That's a suppressor. It keeps the eggs from hatching, but it won't kill them. They'll keep giving it to you until you're no longer useful, then the creatures will hatch and devour your mind, turning you into drooling thralls to their blasphemous overlords," Siobhan said.

The shock in their faces turned to despair and horror. Disgusted by the horrible creatures inside him, Ghaleon started to wobble on his seat, fighting off nausea.

"But there's hope!" Siobhan exclaimed in a sudden burst of enthusiasm; the adventurers jumped at the startling remark.

"What do you mean?" asked Ghaleon, wavering.

"I know how to make the suppressor," Siobhan replied, "and what's more, I think I can make an antidote."

"So you're not infected?" Malcolm asked.

"No, I am. I know how to make the cure, but I can't get its ingredients," the old man said, "and that's where you three come in. You do want to get cured, don't you?"

A chorus of nods answered the wizard. "Until you can get me what I need, you'll have to settle for more suppressor. I doubt the Veil will be so willing to give it to you once they find out I'm not dead."

"Old man, you may be wise, but you're not thinking," Ghaleon replied, "We'll take you up on the offer, but they won't know you're not dead. We'll bring them your staff as proof." Soirse felt a brief twinge of indignation at the warrior's audacity, speaking for her and Malcolm, but she suppressed it, realizing the wisdom in his plan.

"Hm," Siobhan pondered, "That is devious. It may buy us some time, but sooner or later they'll know I'm around."

"Then hide," Malcolm answered.

"Yes, I suppose I'm no longer safe here. But without my equipment I cannot prepare the cure, and I'm unlikely to escape the eyes of the Veil pulling a cartful of alchemical implements out of town."

"Leave that to me," Ghaleon replied smugly, "I've got some connections around here. Imagine I could pull a few strings and get you out nice and quiet."

"And I have some alchemical training," Soirse added, "so if you'll teach me, I could make the suppressor for us until you can brew up a cure."

Smiling at the sudden enthusiasm of his new allies, Siobhan replied, "Then we have a plan. I will teach you, the druid..."

"Soirse."

"Yes, Soirse. I will teach Soirse to make the suppressor while you..."

"Ghaleon."

"While Ghaleon arranges my passage out of town. I know a place just north of Hanrahan, an old abandoned barrow where I can hide. It's not comfortable, but it's safe."

"And while you go out there, we'll tell the Shadow Veil we killed you," Malcolm blurted eagerly.

"Exactly," Siobhan and Ghaleon replied, in unison but with very different inflections. Ghaleon cut his eyes at the ruddy dwarf; he did not approve of others taking credit for his ideas. Siobhan handed his staff to Malcolm. "Meet me at the barrow in one week's time. I will leave the city in two days. That should give Ghaleon plenty of time to arrange everything. The way is confusing, so listen carefully." He described in great detail the various twists and turns leading to the barrow, taking care to point out all the naturally-occurring landmarks along the trail. "Now, get some rest. We have a long week ahead."

The Black Sword, Chapter 2: The Deserter

The abomination never seemed to tire. The bars on its cage were thick iron, dinged and scratched by its constant attempts to break free. As the cart rattled down the packed dirt road, pulled by a nervous-looking mule, the creature would periodically lift two of its bone-tipped legs and strike at the bars over and over. When it tired of that tactic, it would spring up against the roof of the cage, causing it to bounce slightly, and spin with its blades extended, producing a cacophony of clangs and scrapes. The adventurers got little sleep on the two-day journey back to the rendezvous.

It was twilight when the three began their unsubtle approach to the designated point between the hills. The orange of the setting sun seemed to emerge in fractured shards from the Lene as it flowed south. It had been only six days, but Malcolm's skin had paled from its usual ruddy brown to a peaked gray and his eyes were sunken in his skull.

"I thought your kind could handle this kind of thing," Ghaleon jeered as they approached the first hill. "I'd hate to see you with a couple of ales in you."

Malcolm murmured an incoherent response, staggering alongside the cart as the cloaked man came into view. When the adventurers were close enough, he stirred from his statue-trance.

"I knew I was right to tap you," he said in his low, resonant voice. "I see you delivered the creature as we agreed."

"And the antidote?" Soirse demanded. Tacitly, the man tossed three more vials of viscous fluid to the travelers. Soirse held hers up to her face, examining its contents. Malcolm's vial hit him in the forehead, sending him stumbling weakly backward. When he regained his composure, the dwarf shuffled over to his vial and drank its contents greedily. The color immediately began to return to his face.

"This is the same thing you gave us last time," Soirse said accusingly, "We did what you asked, so give us the antidote."

"I'm afraid my associates and I require a bit more from you," the cloaked man intoned. "You see, we --"

"The deal was creature for antidote," Ghaleon interrupted. Gesturing back to the cage, whose inhabitant had become oddly placid, he said, "Creature." Stepping forward and holding out his left hand while clutching his sword hilt with his right, "Antidote."

The cloaked man seemed to smile, not that it was evident on his hidden face. "Mister Ebonheart, I thought we established that your current course of action was unwise. Kill me, and you'll die in days." Ghaleon retracted his hand and loosed his grip on the hilt. "Now," the man continued, "as I was saying. My associates and I have located one of our own who abandoned us. He was but an initiate, but he knew too much of our ways. We need you to silence him."

"I am no assassin," Soirse stated in protest.

"You will be," replied the man. A breeze off the river caused his cloak to flutter. "Now, the deserter's name is Siobhan, an old man who lives in the city. He has a house on the border between the Gro-Bannor and Kaldorn districts. You'll want to be careful. He was only an initiate, but he has still gleaned some of the skills of my order. You'll need to surprse him."

Soirse fumed silently. Fenrir growled. Ghaleon's eyes showed a slight glimmer of excitement, while Malcolm listened intently, willing to go to any lengths to prevent a return to his afflicted condition. The cloaked man approached the travelers, staying in the shadows to conceal his face. He extended a hand holding a small pouch and a golden pendant. Ghaleon approached cautiously and accepted the items.

"This should help," the man said, "It is a magical amulet that will guide one single blow unerringly to its target. Use it wisely."

"And the money?" Ghaleon asked, jangling the pouch of coins.

"You are not slaves. We will pay you for your work." As the cloaked man said that, three slender men emerged from the bushes surrounding the hill behind the adventurers. They wore black studded leather armor and inscrutable black face-masks. As they approached the cart, the creature remained docile. Each man wrapped his hands around two bars, and together they carried the cage past the cloaked man and into the thicket behind him. "The antidote lasts for seven days. You should begin your task immediately." He disappeared into the thicket.

***

Soirse and Malcolm stood off the side of the road, watching Ghaleon talk to the passersby. He transitioned seamlessly from one to the next, putting each at ease. Old human women, brash young dwarves, everyone Ghaleon talked to seemed genuinely pleased to have had the experience. After about fifteen minutes of talking, he strode proudly over to his companions.

"Alright, I found the house."

"That fast?" asked Malcolm, incredulous.

"Of course that fast. I'm a nobleman after all. People respect me."

Almost imperceptibly, Soirse rolled her eyes. "Well?"

"Apparently he almost never goes out, so we can be fairly certain he'll be home. We should go at night though. Get him while he's asleep."

"Tonight then?" Malcolm inquired.

"Tonight."

***

The new moon meant the night was exceptionally dark. Siobhan's house was at the end of an alley in the Kaldorn district. It was strikingly ordinary. Two floors, built of wood and plaster, the house was almost a perfect square. A larger front door was visible as the three approached, but as they spread out to examine the building, Malcolm discovered a back entrance as well.

"We need to do this fast," said Ghaleon, golden pendant dangling from his neck. "I've got the amulet, so I'll make the killing blow."

"Fine with me," Soirse answered, Fenrir seated at her side.

"We need to find out where he is. I don't want to spend any more time searching than we must," Ghaleon began, "Malcolm, what's that weird-ass climbing thing you do?" The dwarf smiled at the acknowledgment. He traced a few simple arcane gestures and uttered a few simple arcane words. A purple glow flickered around him for a moment.

"Right," Ghaleon said dully, "Anyway climb up and look in the windows." Malcolm obeyed. Limbs bending unnaturally, he scurried up the plastered wall and peeked in each window around the perimeter of the house. Scuttling back around a corner, he motioned for the others to join him. The window was shuttered; Malcolm jabbed a stubby finger at the wide openings between the slats, mouthing "in there."

"We can't risk the noise of getting the shutters open," Ghaleon said as Malcolm dropped to the ground. "Let's take the back door."

Malcolm tried the handle, but the door stood fast. "Locked," he said, frustrated.

Soirse stood, looking on contemplatively, but Ghaleon stepped forward, rummaging through his bag. "I dabble a little in this stuff," he said, extracting a small leather wallet filled with oddly twisted metal tools. Bending over, he fiddled with tool after tool until the lock slid open with a click. He pushed past the door and stepped inside.

The interior of the home seemed more spacious than its exterior indicated. The furnishings were utilitarian but plentiful. Wooden bins housed various foodstuffs, while a simple wood-stove occupied the far corner of the room. An open doorway led into a second room, outfitted with a squat table and four chairs. A wooden stairway along the right wall led upstairs, while the left wall was shrouded in darkness.

"There's something over there," Malcolm whispered. Fenrir was alert, staring intently at the dark corner. As Soirse and Ghaleon turned to look, it leaped from its hiding-place. A canine form constructed of scores of iron tubes landed in front of the three, producing a thousand grinding sounds as it moved. Fenrir growled, and the artificial dog prepared to strike.

As it lunged forward, Malcolm said something. The word was nigh-unpronounceable, and it seemed somehow wrong when Soirse heard it. Her attention was diverted from the dog for only a moment as she turned to see Malcolm standing with his feet wide apart, hands pointed toward their assailant.

A chorus of twangs and pops emanated from the creation's whirring metal heart. It followed through with its lunge, falling apart as it struck out toward Fenrir. Its muzzle thudded on the floor inches in front of the startled wolf as the entire automaton collapsed into a collection of gears and wires.

"What did you do?" Soirse asked, surprised.

"Just another of my tricks," Malcolm smirked.

"Good work, but we're wasting time here," Ghaleon commanded in a harsh whisper, "We have an old man to kill."

They tried to ascend the stairs as quietly as they could, but the old wooden steps creaked under the adventurers' collective weight. The home's upstairs consisted of a narrow corridor with three doors, one on each wall and one at the end. Skulking down the hallway, Ghaleon quietly nudged the left door open, revealing a darkened laboratory. Strangely shaped bottles and flasks were strewn across a long wooden table, some filled with pungent and colorful liquids. A desk in the corner held several dog-eared codices open on top of one another.

"Not here," Ghaleon whispered, motioning for the door at the far end of the hall.

Soirse drew her scimitar and Ghaleon unsheathed his sword. Focusing for a moment on the pendant, he felt it vibrating against his chest. Ghaleon flipped the blade, held it aloft, and kicked the door. It swung open freely.

A staff, crackling with arcane energy, was pointed directly at Ghaleon's face.

The Black Sword, Chapter 1: The Eldritch Cave

Soirse was the last to arrive at the rendezvous point. A few yawning deciduous trees dotted the area between the two hills where the meeting was to take place. The river flowed calmly down from the north, making its way about twenty yards west of the lone cloaked figure who stood stark-still, waiting for everyone to arrive. The waxing moon showed little white ripples in Fenrir's fur as he jogged along at Soirse's side. They descended the hill.

As she passed, Soirse caught something in the corner of her eye. A young elf in dark leather armor hid still and silent behind one of the oaks. She grimaced, her anxiety toward the coming meeting exacerbated by his presence. Two others stood a cautious distance away from the cloaked man, a brown-skinned dwarf in gray robes and a tall, broad-shouldered man with long black hair and a thick tunic that clearly concealed some armor underneath.

Soirse took her place at Ghaleon's side and Fenrir at hers. The deathly still cloaked man raised his head, his face still shrouded by the shadow cast from his hood.

"You've all arrived," he began, "good. Malcolm, Ghaleon, Soirse -- you look surprised. I suppose you were unaware that yours were not the only letters." The three nodded in agreement. "I have need of all your services," he continued in a calm, flowing voice.

"Where can I find the sword? You said you could help, so help," Ghaleon growled, stepping forward and reaching for his weapon. The figure raised a hand.

"Stay your blade, Ghaleon. That is not a wise decision," he said, unrattled. "As I was saying, I have need of your services and you have need of my antidote."

"What would you have us do?" Malcolm inquired.

"My associates have lost track of some creatures, but they believe they've tracked them to a cave near the source of the Nerath, north of Rivermeet. You will be retrieving one for them, alive." The man sidestepped gracefully, a small metal cage behind him, "They rather resemble giant spiders, but with one twitching eye and bladed legs. You would do well to be careful of those." Malcolm shifted nervously. Soirse stared intently, trying to catch a glimpse of the man's hidden visage. Fenrir rumbled with a low growl. "Bring one back in this cage, alive, in one week."

"And where's..." Ghaleon began.

"Your antidote?" The man finished. He made a throwing motion, his cloak-sleeve trailing behind his hand. The parcel split into three in mid-flight, each part caught by one of the listeners. Soirse looked at the slender glass vial filled with viscous, clear fluid. "This should last you for about one week. If you bring the creature back, I'll give you the rest."

Ghaleon seethed, taking a step forward. He blinked, and when his eyes reopened, the man was gone. "I guess we're working together. Come on out, Tobias." The elf Soirse spotted earlier emerged from his hiding-place. "I'm Ghaleon, of Ebonheart manor, and this is my man Tobias Regai. Owes me a favor."

"Name's Malcolm. I'm looking to find my father -- never met him before, so it's just Malcolm for now."

"Soirse," Soirse answered, softly, "and this is Fenrir. He'll warm up to you once he gets to know you." Fenrir growled at the two men. "Anyway, seems we all have problems, so let's get this done so we can get back to solving them."

"Fine by me," Ghaleon answered with a smirk. "I've got everything we'll need in town. Let's go - Rivermeet's at least a day's journey."

***

Ghaleon hadn't much nobility left, but he still had land. His estate held sufficient provisions to supply the new company with a mule-cart and food for their excursion. Tobias, however, elected to remain behind, promising to accompany Ghaleon to their next meeting with the mysterious figure. By evening of the next day they had ridden past Rivermeet, declining to stop in the interest of time. Mid afternoon of the day after found them following a rustic trail through a patch of hills along the Nerath, now scarcely more than a stream.

"I think that's it," Soirse whispered, peering past a small thicket to a shallow indention on the near side of a tree-capped hill. Ghaleon nodded, steering the cart into the thicket.

"Dammit," he spat, a little too loudly, "kobolds." The three travelers huddled behind the cart near the far edge of the thicket. Ghaleon had the foresight to tie the mule to a tree several yards further back. "I knew this was going to be harder than it sounded."

A troop of diminutive, greenish creatures milled about the narrow cave entrance at the base of the indentation. They wore leather tunics, but little else covered their gnarly, scaled skin. They had elongated snouts with beady eyes set deep in their heads. Most wielded small spears or crossbows, but few had them readied. An older-looking kobold dressed in a mass of red robes gestured wildly, arranging his followers facing the cave entrance. He gibbered in some language unknown to the new adventurers.

"We need to hit them fast, before they realize we're here. What can you two do?" Ghaleon took charge.

"Druid initiate," Soirse said, "Fenrir's my muscle."

"Good, you can cover us and keep us healthy. Make sure your mutt doesn't bite me in the ass." Soirse glared at Ghaleon for the remark.

"I don't know how to explain it," Malcolm said, "so I'll do my own thing."

"Fine. Soirse, send in the dog. We'll take the archers first. Malcolm, do whatever the hell you want. Let's go." On that word, Ghaleon drew his longsword and whipped around the side of the cart. Soirse rose and directed Fenrir forward. A few quick gestures with his stubby fingers, and Malcolm shimmered with a faint purple glow for a moment. Then, with an uncanny agility, his short limbs flailed out, clinging to a tree and pulling him up like a spider.

The kobolds quickly diverted their attention to their sudden assailants. Crossbow bolts launched in haste missed the charging warrior, and he closed on the left-flank bowmen rapidly. He swung his blade, but his short target ducked as the steel passed overhead. His compatriot was not so lucky, and a gash through the shoulder left him incapacitated. The spearmen charged the oncoming wolf, brandishing their weapons in an attempt to scare the fearless animal. Though his teeth found flesh as he dragged one of the kobolds to the ground, Fenrir was quickly surrounded.

Ghaleon weaved and parried as the crossbowmen dropped their bows and began to stab wildly with daggers. His longer, stronger sword easily deflected their blows, and though his foes were quick he was able to land the occasional cut. The older kobold shifted from shouting his incomprehensible language to chanting it. Extending a claw toward Ghaleon, he struck the final syllable as a thin black ray streaked from his finger toward the warrior. The beam hit when Ghaleon was in mid-swing, and at the moment it did, he felt all strength leave him. The sword nearly flew from his hand, and he struggled to lift it while dodging the kobold daggers thrust in his direction.

Fenrir had managed to bring down another kobold, but his right side was red from two telling spear wounds. Soirse began to encant a spell of her own from behind the cart. The grass under the spearmen's feet began to thicken and writhe, twisting into strong vines that rose and bound the attackers. Darting backward, the wolf was able to avoid a similar fate.

Three blasts of purplish-gray energy streaked from the treetops to the chests of the dagger-wielding bowmen plaguing Ghaleon, sending them tumbling to the ground. Malcolm clung to the branch by one hand, producing arcane gestures with the other. Ghaleon grasped his sword, grunted, and with what strength remained in him he charged the robed kobold, running him through with his steel. Fenrir easily subdued the vine-bound spearmen, and those that escaped the spell fell back into the cave at a run. The adventurers had won the day.

When the sorcerer fell, Ghaleon felt his strength return, "I hate magic," he growled as he wiped his blade.

"It saved your life," Malcolm jabbed, approaching from the grove.

Soirse ignored the others, running to tend to Fenrir's wounds. She knelt at the beast's side, whispering a few magical words and covering the punctures with her glowing hand. When she removed it, the wounds were gone. Her hand moved up to scratch her faithful companion behind his ears.

"I could use a little of that too, you know," Ghaleon called out. Soirse just shook her head, smiling, and joined the group. "What we're looking for is inside," he added. The three paused at the narrow entry for only a moment, then walked into the cave.

Inside, the light quickly faded and the air grew stale. Ghaleon retrieved a torch from his pack and lit it, only to see Malcolm clambering along the low ceiling. "Out of harm's way," the dwarf whispered. The adventurers each did his best to stay quiet, eyes darting, searching for motion as far as the torch would illuminate. Malcolm gazed further, eyes unhindered by the dark. A loud clang resounded throughout the cave as Ghaleon stumbled back, foot narrowly missed by a rusted steel bear trap.

"So much for quiet," he said, "but this could come in handy." He picked up the expended trap and stuffed it into his pack. The reverberations should have stopped after a moment, but sound continued to stir deep in the hole. Soirse's eyes widened. Something was coming.

The creatures seemed to come from everywhere at once, bone-blades cutting gashes across the adventurers' arms, legs, anything they could hit. Ghaleon and Soirse were forced back to back as the spider-beasts danced eerily around them. "We have to force through," Ghaleon groaned, surging forward and swinging his blade, chopping down one of the creatures. Soirse and Fenrir followed his momentum, running deeper into the cave.

Malcolm's bolts splashed against the cave wall, each illuminating for a moment as a slasher dodged out of its way. Their blades clicked against the floor as they came within the torchlight, wet, sideways eyes blinking arhythmicly. They skittered forward, popping up into the air and spinning with blades extended, slashing through the adventurers as they flew. A pair of them popped up toward Malcolm, cutting him across the back. With the second wave of attacks, Ghaleon was ready. As the first slasher flew toward him, he swung his blade, and it fell in two halves on the other side of him. Fenrir caught one by the leg as it began to leap, dragging it down and ripping it open. Malcolm's bolts finally hit home, felling another beast.

"Don't forget, we need one alive," Soirse cried.

"No trouble," Ghaleon responded, shifting his sword in preparation for the next onslaught. As another bug spun toward him, he brought down the flat of his blade with great force, sending the creature tumbling into a limp heap of blades on the cave floor. The chittering stopped. The clicking stopped. The attack was over.

"Great, we got what we came for," Malcolm sighed, dropping from the roof. "I -- ugh!" he cried, spying the bodies of two eviscerated kobolds just outside of the torchlight. "Let's just take the beast and go, before things get worse here." As the words left his mouth, a gurgling snarl left the deeper parts of the cave. A faint reddish light danced in that direction, becoming brighter by the second. Malcolm shuddered as rapid padding sounds became audible.

Ghaleon was more canny. Sidling forward, he pulled the bear trap from his pack and set it out with a huff. His smirk betrayed a hint of fear, "This should work."

The light arrived moments later. An imposing figure, half again as tall as Ghaleon snarled and drooled. Its body was covered in a lumpy, gray-green skin and its arms each terminated in two large, black claws. Its most disturbing feature, however, was its one red glowing eye. The black slit pupil was ringed by an undulating iris, ever changing into nauseating patterns.

Readying her scimitar, Soirse met its gaze. For a moment, she fixated on the iris. Her stomach turned, her grip loosened, and she vomited violently, dazed. The beast galloped forward on all four of its limbs, swatting Fenrir aside as it slashed at the druid with its jagged claws. Rolling with the blow, Soirse suffered only superifcial scratches. Growling at the monster, Fenrir charged forward but slunk away scared when the abomination turned to face him.

Malcolm loosed his blasts, grazing the creature's massive arms, but he too fell victim to its nauseating eye when he accidentally met its gaze. Meanwhile, Ghaleon charged forward but was buffeted back by an offhand claw slash. Battered and exhausted, the adventurers tried to regroup. Slowly backing away from the beast and averting their eyes, they hoped not to provoke it. It padded slowly toward them, keeping pace. Then it sunk back, tensed its muscles, and bounded forward after the group. As it began to leap, claws extended, the creature stopped in mid-air as a clank resounded throughout the cave. It fell flat on the ground and Ghaleon rushed up to plunge his sword through its head. It lay dead, its foot snared by his bear trap.

Prying it off the disgusting aberration's foot, Ghaleon returned the bear trap to his pack. Ever curious, Malcolm cut out its strange eye for further study.

Groaning as she clutched her many wounds, Soirse walked over and clubbed the subdued spider-beast, just to be safe. "Let's lock this thing up and move on." In no condition to argue, Malcolm and Ghaleon followed her out of the cave.

Vivec Saga Part I: The Black Sword, Prologue

Soirse's day began much as each previous one had since she arrived in Altair. Her attunement to nature felt dull and gray. She could scarcely appreciate the new sun streaming through the canopies of the surrounding forests because she knew her search was unlikely to be any more fruitful than any other since she came to the city. No one seemed to know or care about the life being sapped from the land near her home near Westerwale. Nonetheless, she readied herself for the day. Strapping on her scimitar, she called to Fenrir, her gray wolf companion, who came trotting to her side with far more enthusiasm than she felt. Soirse managed a smile, same as she had every day since her arrival.

Some motion showed on the horizon. The indistinct disturbance became a shadowy figure and then a young boy, dressed in a messenger's vest. Soirse raised an eyebrow, never having received a message before. "Are you Soirse, ma'am?," the boy asked. She nodded. He extended the thin wooden tube toward her and she reached out to take it. The boy bowed and ran back toward the city.

Soirse popped the cap off the wooden tube, dropping it to the ground, and slid the small rolled paper from it. "I may be able to solve your problem..."

***

Sparks flew away as the hammer struck the flat, white hot metal, bending it into a more subtle curve. The hammer fell again and again. Malcolm hadn't noticed the passage from night into morning. His craggy hand reached up to wipe the sweat from his brow when he saw the sun glinting in through the one window in his workshop. Finishing the last few strokes, he doused the unformed breastplate he was making and covered the furnace. He would require more metal to finish the day's work.

Passing into the morning air of Altair briefly and then into his modest home, he splashed his face to wash the soot away, though his clean skin looked little different than when it was dirty. He counted a few gold pieces into a sack, hooked it to his belt, and stepped outside. The stout, brown dwarf grabbed the handle to his wagon and began to pull it to market. The Kaldorn traders had their ingots for sale today.

Struggling despite his sturdy build, Malcolm stopped with the steel-laden cart in front of his shop. A wooden messenger tube was tied to the door-handle. He puffed his chest as he strutted to retrieve it. From the looks of the tube, this could be a big order. Popping open the cap, removing the paper, his small, coal-black eyes narrowed.

"I may be able to solve your problem... "

***

Ghaleon awoke with a start, as he had every day for the last twenty-six years. His eyes fixed themselves on the nervous, sunken-faced servant in his room, placing a wooden tray laden with food on the bed table. "I told you not to disturb me!" he barked, causing no reaction in the servant.

In a tremulous voice, the servant replied "My apologies, Master Ghaleon." The man was capable only of resigned nervousness after years of berating.

"Forget it, Schnibbins," Ghaleon grumbled, "Fetch my tunic." He bit into a lean fig from the tray. In moments, Schnibbins returned, and Ghaleon left his breakfast unfinished as he dressed and stepped out into the morning air. He surveyed his fields, most of which lay fallow, though the one in front of the decrepit serfs' huts showed small buds emerging from its soil. He failed to notice the clack, clack of wood against his farmhouse door.

"Why isn't that lazy dog out working?" he seethed to no one in particular, eyeing the sole intact hut. Schnibbins approached from behind.

"Archie is tending to Nat; she's not feeling well, Milord."

"He's feeling fine. Let him work."

"Yes, Lord," Schnibbins sighed, shuffling off toward the cabin.

Turning to enter his house, Ghaleon spied the tube he had missed before. Curiously, he opened it.

The small slip of paper read,
"I may be able to solve your problem. Meet me on the east bank of the River Lene at one hour to midnight. Come alone.

In case you were considering ignoring this invitation, you should know that this letter is covered in contact poison. I have the antidote.

-V"