Rebirth: Campaign Chronicle

Campaign summaries from the Rebirth campaign are now being posted on the wiki page! The page will be updated approximately daily (for real this time) until they are all posted. You can read them here or click the new link in the sidebar. Enjoy!

The Black Sword, Chapter 6: A Small Injustice

The sun was sinking in the western sky as Ghaleon, Soirse, and Malcolm strode down the dusty street leading into town, the sounds and smells of The Tumblin' Dice fading behind them. As the daylight faded into the orange hues of dusk, Ghaleon led his companions on a twisting course through alleys and side-streets in order to reach the smiths' row.

"Why do we all have to stay at my house again?" Malcolm asked, annoyed.

"I already told you," Ghaleon replied smoothly, showing only a hint of frustration, "my manor is too far out of our way, and we have to get to the old man as fast as possible tomorrow morning. I don't feel like getting eaten alive by parasites today. It's almost been a week."

"And we don't know what Siobhan's going to need to make the cure," added Soirse.

Malcolm made no reply, and the three continued to wind their way through the back passages of Altair. Suddenly, Soirse reached forward and brushed Ghaleon's arm. He stopped immediately. Malcolm took two more steps and stopped as well. Another moment passed, and the warrior and warlock heard the approaching commotion.

Laughing and jeering drifted down the alleyway, followed by the silhouettes of three large men, the largest of whom seemed to be carrying something that writhed, squirmed and whined. Ghaleon stood in the center of the alley, ready to spring into a fighting stance as the men came into view. Night had fallen, and dim light flickered from the windows high above the alley. The faint glow that illuminated the men's faces revealed them to be as ugly as the words that drifted along before them. The wriggling bundle borne by the largest of them was revealed to be a very displeased young halfling.

"Out of the way, stranger," a gravelly voice called from the man holding the halfling, "You don't want no trouble here."

"Please help me!" cried the halfling, wrenching his body up and biting his captor's hand. The thug yelped and the halfling scrambled back behind Ghaleon. The large men began to pace menacingly and deliberately toward the warrior, grinding their knuckles into their fists and assuming other confrontational postures. Malcolm and Soirse emerged from the shadows on either side of Ghaleon.

"Best step aside," the ruffian on the left sneered, "This little peck was caught stealing bread from Bertram here," he motioned to the man on the right. "He knows what happens to his kind when they steal from normal folks."

Ghaleon bent his knees slightly, shifting his weight to his back leg, "You three should know better than to talk to me like that," he returned, maintaining eye contact with the largest thug.

"Ghaleon, we don't want any trouble," Soirse whispered to the fighter, "attention would not be good right now."

Grudgingly, he nodded, holding his gaze on the leader. "Just walk away. Turn around, leave this fellow alone, and go."

"You defending that little pile of scum?" the gravelly voice mocked, "What are you, some kind of peck lover?"

"Might be I am," Ghaleon replied sternly, "But if you're smart, you won't test me on it."

Emitting an angered growl, the leader took three long, clumsy strides directly toward Ghaleon, swinging a gnarled and calloused fist as he came. In an instant, the fighter ducked the blow, loosed his sword, and barreled into the thug's stomach, leading with his shoulder. The mountain of a man collapsed with an audible thud, breath all fled from his lungs, gasping as he felt steel pressed to his cheek. He looked up, seething but powerless, and Ghaleon nodded. The thug rose slowly, backing away until he was out of reach of the warrior's sword. He and his friends turned and ran.

"Thank you, sir," the quivering halfling squeaked. He could not have been more than ten years old, "I thought I was done and gone."

"Run along," Ghaleon growled, "I'm no friend to your kind."

"But you saved me," he trembled, "And I want to thank you. My name's Nebin. See, my family and I don't --"

"I said run along," the warrior interrupted, angrily, "I don't give a rat's ass about your family."

Nebin's eyes started to water as he backed away. Soirse stepped forward and knelt, eyes level with the halfling's, and touched the place where his shoulder and his neck met, muttering some magic words. The blue-black bruise that covered the skin seemed to evaporate as she finished the brief incantation.

"Run along, Nebin," Soirse whispered, "You're welcome."

Cyrus's Speech before the Ice Fortress

Brothers and sisters of Altair, the time to march on our enemy has come! Our ancestors have fought and died defending our beloved city. Now that honor is ours. We go to face the greatest enemy our city has yet known.

Many of you remember the lash of the Fire Legion. Many of you remember its tyranny and oppression of our people. But the foe before us seeks not to conquer or enslave, but to destroy. We must succeed, or there will be no tomorrow.

But fear not, the sun will rise again! We are strong, we are brave, and we will not perish from this land. Let us defend what is rightfully ours! Altair!

-Cyrus

The Black Sword, Chapter 5: Rivals

Ghaleon staggered back as a burly fist slammed into his stomach, hitting his breastplate and tilting it into his abdomen. Torvald did not even seem to notice that his fist had struck steel as he took up a fighting stance. Amidst his attempts to regain his footing, Ghaleon drew a small hand crossbow strapped to his pack. He recovered with a flourish, loosing a bolt at his adversary. Torvald dodged to the right just in time as the bolt grazed his left bicep, digging a shallow channel in his skin as it passed.

Torvald was upon him before he could even cast away his crossbow. Growling, he launched another huge fist directly at Ghaleon's face. The blow found purchase, and Ghaleon's became a world of red and green starbursts. As the warrior dropped to his knees in the dust, Torvald gloated, "There. Had enough?"

The sound of metal scraping against metal rang out as Ghaleon leaped to his feet with a rabid fury burning in his eyes. His sword drew a wide arc in front of him, and Torvald backpedaled just quickly enough to avoid the strike. With a lunge, he caught Ghaleon's hand as the swipe neared its end, twisting it until it released and the blade clattered to the ground. With one fluid motion, pulling the arm around behind the warrior's back and pressing his foot to the back of the legs, Torvald forced Ghaleon back on his knees.

A thick, muscled arm whipped under Ghaleon's chin and closed around his neck. A knee in his back pushed him prone in the dust with Torvald's crushing weight forcing the breath from his lungs. Ghaleon kicked his legs furiously and tried to pull with his arms, but Torvald had taken a position that allowed him to evade these blows. Each breath required greater strain. Sputtering in the dust, Ghaleon began to drift into a blurry haze. The world seemed to darken and drift away, then nothing.

***

Ghaleon awoke with a start as Soirse completed a minor spell of healing. He sat bolt-upright, eyes darting every way in an attempt to find Torvald, but his childhood rival had moved on. He struggled to his feet, picking up his sword with his dirt-caked hand. Silently, he sheathed the blade and turned away, walking toward the bridge.

No one spoke on the rest of the journey to Ollidar Fallone's manor. Ghaleon huffed and fumed, furious and impotent. Soirse struggled to stifle laughter over Ghaleon's plight while still feeling a pang of empathy. Malcolm just walked. The mansion was a picture of faded opulence. Immense and heavily ornamented, the splendor it still displayed served only to accent that which it had lost. The grounds were slightly overgrown; the gilding around the doorway was mildly tarnished. The three travelers approached the door. Ghaleon knocked.

After a few moments of silence, the door opened. In its place stood an average-sized man, trim but not slight, dressed in older, but still exquisite clothing. His brown hair hung like laurels around his otherwise bald head; his brow furrowed with stress.

"May I help you folks?" the man sighed.

"Ollidar Fallone?" Ghaleon asked politely.

"I am he," the man responded.

"You owe my associate some money," Ghaleon said, growling out the word "money" as his rage from his previous humiliation came surging back.

"I am sure I don't know what you are talking about," Fallone replied coyly.

"I don't have time for this," Ghaleon threatened, gripping his sword hilt as he stepped forward, "Jagg needs his gold." At the mention of Jagg Mitchum, Ollidar Fallone's face showed recognition. The merchant fidgeted nervously.

"I... ah... do recall some dealings with the esteemed Mister Mitchum, long ago, vaguely," Fallone stammered, "though I was quite certain I... ah... fulfilled all my obligations."

"Not according to Mister Mitchum," Ghaleon replied, loosening the sword in its sheath, "seems you owe him some three hundred gold pieces."

Ollidar Fallone's face could not hide his nervousness, and recognition of the sum played across his face. "I suppose my accountant, yes, my accountant could have made some error. I'll have a word with him."

"I'll have a sack of gold in my hand." The blade slid an inch in the sheath.

The merchant coughed and scuffed his feet. A bead of sweat formed on the side of his nose as he sniffed uncomfortably. "My good sir," he said, "I'm afraid I am a bit... ah... deficient in funds at the present time." The sword slid out an inch further. "But," Fallone interjected, "I have an armorsmith in my employ, one William Welles." Ghaleon remained stoic, while Malcolm's expression dimmed at the mention of the armorsmith. "He's working on a rather lucrative contract, you see, yes and once he finishes I should be able to pay in full. I'm afraid that's all I can promise right now," Ollidar stammered hastily.

Ghaleon considered the offer for a moment, then replied, "It'll have to do. I'll be back for the gold." He turned and walked away, sword rattling in its sheath, without even waiting for the door to close. Soirse and Malcolm paused for a moment, then turned to follow.

***

"Where are we going?" Malcolm asked as Ghaleon, walking briskly since the trio departed from Ollidar Fallone's manor, turned down the smith's row, where the dwarf had his armor shop.

"To get Jagg his money," was his equally brisk answer.

"What?" Malcolm inquired, "I thought Fallone didn't have it."

"You're an armorsmith right?" Ghaleon asked, then without waiting for Malcolm's response added, "Getting rid of some competition."

The warrior came to a halt in front of a small brick and stone shop with a well-made but plain sign hanging out front that read "Welles' Armor." He loosed his pack, dropped it at his feet, and extracted a large, worn burlap robe. Slipping it over his armor, he turned to meet Malcolm and Soirse's confused looks.

"It's Brother Ghaleon, for the moment. Wait here."

The others complied, and Ghaleon pulled the hood of the monk's robe over his head as he entered the shop.

Moments later, he emerged carrying a well-made, unadorned breastplate in his hands. "Go get your cart," he said curtly to Malcolm in a tone that brooked no argument. That night, the taverns buzzed with talk of a monk pushing a cart filled with armor down the smith's row.

The Black Sword, Chapter 4: The Tumblin' Dice

Soirse and Siobhan worked tirelessly through the night, slaving away over the long table of flasks and jars. Around an hour before sunrise, she finally mastered the formula. When Ghaleon and Malcolm awoke, Soirse greeted them, bleary-eyed but proud, holding three full vials of suppressant antidote in her hands. Ghaleon rubbed his eyes, reached out, and took a vial.

"Guess you and the old man are good for something after all," he mumbled through his morning haze. Malcolm ambled over and took a vial as well.

"Thanks. We should get going soon, though," he said.

Soirse sighed, fatigued but triumphant, and nodded. Siobhan had begun emptying and packing his alchemical equipment.

"I'll be leaving in two days. Ghaleon, make sure you have everything arranged by then. With all your help, I'm certain we can all finally free ourselves from the Shadow Veil's grip. Godspeed," the old man said, waving the adventurers out. The three left the house when it was still early in the morning.

"What do we do now?" Malcolm asked.

"I know somebody who might be able to help," Ghaleon replied, "Let's pay him a visit."

***

The adventurers approached a dingy, two-story wooden building. The sign over the door was engraved with the image of two dice being cast, captioned with the words "Tumblin' Dice." The pub was nearly empty this early in the morning save the man behind the bar. It was suitably grimy for a pub, and it sported several round, pock-marked wooden tables. Pottery mugs lined the shelves behind the bar and the wooden barrels in the corners of the room stank of their payloads from the previous night. Though the bar was empty, years of smoke-reek emanated from every plank therein.

The barkeep grumbled. Without looking up, he said, "Ghaleon Ebonheart. Drinking this early?"

"Ale, dark, but this is a business visit," the warrior replied.


The bartender looked up at Soirse and Malcolm and smiled wryly. He wore stringy brown hair and a scraggly beard born of a few days' neglect. His eyes turned down toward Fenrir. "No dogs."

"If he goes, I go," Soirse replied sternly.

"Fine then. Have a nice day."

"You two can argue later," Ghaleon interposed, "For now, we've got business to take care of. Jagg, these are Malcolm and Soirse," gesturing, "my associates." Gesturing back toward the bar, "Associates, Jagg Mitchum." The barkeep bowed mockingly.

"What did you have in mind," his features lost their jovial air.

"Need to get a guy out of town unnoticed."

"A kidnapping, eh? You know I don't do murder though, right?"

"No, he wants to go. Just make sure no one knows he's going."

"Hm. Nothing I can't handle, for the right price."

"See, that's the thing, Jagg," Ghaleon mumbled, "I'm a little short on the coin right now."

"The honorable noble is broke," Jagg teased, "What a shame."

"Maybe we could work off the cost," Malcolm spoke up.

Jagg ran his hands through his hair, catching his fingers on a tangle and scratching his scalp where his fingers stopped. "I do have one job you could do. Suppose I could take care of your friend if you do it for me."

"What's the task?" Ghaleon inquired.

"Oh nothing hard, just need you to collect a little money from a man who owes me a debt. His name's Ollidar Fallone, a merchant who lives in the Figaro District. You bring me the three hundred gold he owes me, and I'll make sure your friend gets out of town safe."

Ghaleon pondered for a moment, feigned disappointment at the offer, and, attempting to sound put-out, said, "Hm. Alright, it's a deal." The bartender shook his hand, cunning smile still traced across his face.

***

The sun shone high in the sky as Soirse, Ghaleon, and Malcolm emerged into the town square of Altair. The air was dry and the packed-dirt ground swirled with dust. Years of heavy foot traffic had worn away the grass, but oak trees still lined the wide square. On the far side of this gathering ground ran the Nareth-Lene River, crossed by stone and mortar bridge. A group of townsfolk crested the bridge's slight arch and strode towards the square.

The man leading this group was squat but muscular; short cropped blond hair framed his square face as his jaw tensed with anger. He was young, healthy, and flanked by a group of five or six friends. "Ghaleon!" he called out.

Ghaleon's expression sunk, eyes rolling in disgust. "Torvald," he called back calmly.

"Day off from digging in the dirt on the farm, peasant?"

"Got business to conduct. I don't have time to deal with you right now, Torvald."

"Friend of yours?" Soirse asked.

"Hardly. Torvald Oberian has been a pain in my ass since I was young. He's always been big, and he's a member of one of the Five Families on top of that."

"What's the matter? Can't stand up like a man? I owe you a severe beating for what you did to my sister," the brawny adversary taunted.

"What did you do to his sister," Malcolm asked under his breath.

"'With his sister' would be a more accurate description," the fighter replied.

"Fight me, coward," came another call, "Let me teach you some honor." Torvald's friends barked insults and catcalls to back him up, forming an arc encircling the three. "Or you could walk away, and everyone will know you're a pathetic coward."

Ghaleon turned to keep his back to Torvald and began walking toward the bridge.

"Just like your father."

No sooner had he heard those words than Ghaleon was inches from the young noble. At the end of his stride, he raised a tightly clenched fist into the air and brought it down at Torvald's face. The noble ducked to the side at the last moment and the blow hit him in the shoulder.

"That was a bad mistake."

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.