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"Do we really have time for this detour?" Revole, a.k.a. Earnest Thromb, sighs at the delay. It's truly surprising how quickly he has lapsed back into the role he's held most of his life — that of a merchant and caravan master.
"Really, Mr. Ting, your parochialism is quite endearing," says Matthias, the Warlock. "Complete this caravan run, then hurry and get back to Isabel and the kiddos." He glances over at the halfling sitting next to him on the driver's seat of the lead wagon. "We're making time for this because we need a crew. A caravan of this size with only two people? It doesn't make sense, and therefore draws unwanted attention."
"True enough, but this place has a bad reputation," the halfling complains.
"You've indentured yourself to the Lord of Hell and to a lifetime of servitude to me, and you're worried about a few ruffians at Kellen Rock?" the warlock asks, presumably rhetorically, for Revole doesn't answer.
"You will address me from here onward as 'Lord Ember.' Not 'Matthias', certainly not 'Mr. d'Slaytonthorpe' — just 'Lord Ember.' And I don't mean just up ahead at Kellen Rock. I mean from now on, whether we are alone or among others. And you will do everything in your power to dissuade people from any interest of investigation into what has become of the two young Seekers of Helix."
"I will obey," says Revole Ting, and for a moment the warlock's eyes flash in anger, until he realizes that the halfling isn't being mocking. Rather, he is beguiled. The warlock smiles inwardly. I'm getting stronger, it would seem...
The wagons creak along up a winding trail toward the lodge at the apex of a hill. Revole carefully guides the horses along the stony course, and Lord Ember cranes his neck to glance at the top of the now not-distant mesa. "When I was a boy, I wintered here several times. My uncle Deor would come to Helix late every Fall, and I would return with him here with the first snows of Winter."
"Really? I never knew that about you, my bo— Lord Ember." The halfling thinks for a moment. "But wait; your father is Magen Eisenthrast of the Helix Seekers. I didn't realize he had a brother," Revole muses.
"That's the preferred fiction, aye. It's a heartwarming conceit perpetrated by the Father Abbot. Supposedly the magen, old even before I was born, sired me on a promising young girl from Threshold training in the Chapterhouse as chrono-archaeologist at the time."
"You're saying he isn't your father, then?"
Matthias is silent for so long that the halfling almost asks his question a second time. But then, "My father is over 400,000 years old. But that isn't a story for your ears, Revole. Now, prepare yourself. The Lodge has become a base for a group of bandits in the past three years. We'll be challenged, in all likelihood attacked."
"Well then, won't we be badly outnumbered? Shouldn't w—"
"Silence! I don't speak so that you may question my decisions!" Lord Ember breathes heavily, incensed. Finally, after a long pause: "Focus on my instructions, not your pathetic uncertainty. Don't use your wand. We want to intimidate and cow, not destroy these malcontents. They will become our muscle, the caravan's guards, and will leave my uncle's lodge empty to await whatever use I find for it."
Revole nods in understanding. "Your will be accomplished, Lord Ember."
Matthias scrutinizes the halfling's expression, decides he's being serious, not sarcastic. "Better. Now, should combat erupt, you shall discover that my will is made known to you without words. A red haze will color all that you see while I am exerting my willpower to guide you. Simply act on that guidance. You will find questions unnecessary."
The halfling nods. "My ... changed arm aches." It isn't a complaint so much as a statement of fact.
"Indeed," acknowledges Lord Ember. "It feels the machinations of Asmodeus tumbling towards his desired ending for one of his thousands of agendas."
"Hmm," the halfling considers, scratch at that arm through the thick long-sleeved canvas jacket. "It feels more like it wants to smash and kill."
"Just as I said," confirms Lord Ember.
◦◦◦
As the caravan pulls up to the sprawling lodge compound, a cold late October wind scours the hill and raises goosebumps on the arms of both Lord Ember and those standing in a broad, cobblestoned courtyard to greet the approaching caravan train. Interestingly, Revole Ting feels no such sensation, shows no such weakness.
"That's close enough," rumbles a mountain of a man. He must weigh at least eighteen stone and stand nearly seven feet tall. His enormous chest is harnessed in thick leather, and incredibly muscled forearms are wrapped in leather cords. Held casually in his right hand is a massive sword, an engraved rune near its hilt waxing and waning with eldritch light. The sword undoubtedly weighs a full three stones. "We aren't an inn, tavern, supply depot, or temple, so state your business and you'll need to make it particularly convincing."
Lord Ember sits on the driver's seat of the lead wagon, eyes closed, yet moving rapidly behind their lids. Just when Revole is becoming concerned that his master has inexplicably dozed off, the warlock's eyes open and he speaks. "Well, aren't you're just a peach? Tell your leader that Lord Ember is here, and brings much-needed supplies and a proposal on how the lodge's current occupants may enrich themselves further."
The warlock smiles winningly, perhaps mockingly, and notices that the guard's hands aren't human. Rather, they have three oversized, taloned digits, each as big around as Matthias' wrists. The sound of the man's creature's laughter is a deep bass resonance that is rich and pleasant, yet with a menacing undertone. "And what makes you so certain that I myself do not rule here, little man?"
"Well, you're too ugly and stupid for leadership, so it stands to reason you are working for someone else." The warlock's voice is light and lilting, but with a core of steel.
"Oh, I like you already," says the behemoth, chuckling. He turns his head on a neck like a tree trunk and bellows for someone outside the warlock and halfling's line of sight. "Tell Savra we have guests!"
A half-orc steps into view and draws up alongside his comrade. When the leather-harnessed miscreant gives the newcomer a questioning look, he growls, "Relax, Krelg's talking to her now." This newest thug is a foot shorter than his compatriot — only a hair over six feet in height — yet probably every bit as heavy — a half-orc with a barrel chest and big belly, though no doubt slabs of muscle beneath.
"These ruffians may be more formidable than I had anticipated," Lord Ember says quietly, only loud enough for Revole to hear. "So far, it appears there may be four of them, at least, outnumbering us two to one. How many charges does your wand have remaining?"
"Four," Revole answers, wisely not adding but you told me not to use it against these cut-throats.
"I see. Well, we may need it after all, but wait for me to make a comment about the hubris of the Helix Seekers. That'll be your signal. The woman is probably a caster, so she should be your target until she's out of commission."
A woman comes walking out into the courtyard to join her cronies, accompanied by a fourth bandit you're just seeing for the first time — another half-orc, this one carrying a wickedly serrated sword.
The woman and her companion saunter up to stand with the others. She is a striking redheaded human, decked out in fine plate and mail and carrying a shield that is embossed with a white skull. "Well, well, who have we here, Kaden?" she asks the first bandit.
"This one gives himself a title of lordship and names himself Ember. The ... boy has wisely said nothing, Death Mistress." Revole Ting doesn't rise to this bait, but fingers the dagger at his belt as if making it a silent promise.
"Lord Ember, I presume?" the redhead says in a throaty voice. The wickedly flanged mace she carries emits faint wisps of black smoke or shadow. "You have taken quite a detour from the road to come here. Perhaps intentionally, perhaps not. I must assume the former. What do you have to say to Savra Skullmaster before I take your wagons and horses and decide whether or not to let you continue living?" She rests the head of her wicked mace on her right shoulder and adopts an insouciant pose.
"Such spunk! And confidence — I greatly admire confidence!" The warlock's voice is bemused. "But please, why threaten to take what is freely offered? These wagons are loaded with useful goods: flour, salt, bails of wool, strong drink, arrows, crossbow bolts, rope, oil, coal, torches, salted fish, and various other amenities. However well-stocked you may already be, extra never hurts, yes?"
Savra jerks a hand and the two half-orcs hasten to the wagons to verify Lord Ember's claim. "And why do you make such an offer? Not out of philanthropic zeal, I'm quite sure."
"Indeed not," returns the warlock. "It is my hope that this gesture will make you amenable to a proposal, one that may well enrich us all. Perhaps, we could discuss it tonight over a feast of fish, fried potatoes, honey-bread from Eastdale, ale from Kirkilston, and half a dozen brandies and whiskeys from Dartscale and Mimsy, mmh?"
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