A Fish Fry With Thine Enemies
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An hour has passed. Savra Skullmaster, Death Mistress of Nergal, is at work in the lodge's kitchen alongside Kreg, the half-orc who goes by 'The Sawsword'. The priestess' other thugs have unloaded Matthias' wagons and already made inroads into the sizeable array of alcoholic beverages — and this has gone quite some way toward improving their attitude toward Lord Ember and Revole Ting.
The halfling is helping some in the kitchen, whipping up a large cake for later.
Now that the unloading is done, Grok and Kaden are drinking and tossing dice, and the halfling, the woman cleric, and the smaller of the two half-orcs busy themselves preparing a meal. Matthias — a.k.a. 'Lord Ember' — stands outside at the rear of the third wagon.
The warlock has lit a candle and it sits in a brass stand inside the covered wagon, where its small flame is protected from the wind by the wagon's canvas. Lord Ember passes a hand over the flame and intones a short phrase in the language of the Far Ancients.
After a few moments a shimmering image appears above the flame. It is Magen Eisenthrast. Behind him can be seen the spartanly appointed room he keeps in the Chapterhouse's second level. "Matthias? I wasn't expecting to hear from you till you reached Caldamis. You can't possibly be there, yet."
"We aren't there, correct," Matthias replies. "There's been an unfortunate development. We were attacked by gnolls. The caravan barely emerged triumphant, but its guards were slain, and ..."
"And?" prompts the magus.
"Aury was killed." Lord Ember's voice has thickened with emotion. "It was the fault of the Silver Standard. They've been getting greedy, cutting corners, not paying out for a full complement of caravan guards. There should have been nine; there were only four."
"Oh, Mattie, son, I— I don't know what to say. I am so sorry. You and Aury were like—"
"Brothers, yes indeed," Lord Ember says, voice hoarse with grief and anger. "I will see Aury buried, and we will continue onward to Caldamis."
"Son, turn back! Surely Fornost can leverage brotherhood funds for a Spirit Recall. At the very least Auriochos should be interred in the Chapterhouse's crypts and—"
"No. Aury had found another god, and real faith. He would not want that. But I will see him avenged. All responsible will answer to me!"
"What are you saying, boy? What have you done? What are you planning?"
"It is best you don't know, magus. But I need something. There is a lambskin scroll in my quarters, sealed with purple wax and tied with a purple ribbon. You must burn it. Incinerate it completely — but do not open it! Will you do it?"
Magen hesitates. "Mattie, we should really let Fornost know what has transpired. A contingent of Seekers can be dispatched and reach you in a day, two at most. Allow me to —"
"I thank you for your friendship and personal loyalty, Magen. You are within your rights to do as you say, but I ask that you delay the report. I am committed to a course of action, and must see it through. And now, I must go. Only burn the scroll for me at once. Will you at least do that?"
"Yes, of course, Mattie, of course. Update me as soon as you can?"
"Count on it," Lord Ember replies, and with a syllable he snuffs out the candle, pats one of Aury's booted feet, and promises his dead friend, "Rest easy. I will see vengeance done, brother."
◦◦◦
Matthias knows the moment that the stolen lambskin scroll begins to burn, for he collapses onto the cold ground at the back of the third wagon, with uncontrollable seizures. Perhaps I was hasty in pursuing this course of action...
The scroll, miles and miles away in his private quarters in the Seekers' Chapterhouse, was a theft of which Matthias is obscenely proud. This relic of the pre-Cumerian age had lain well-guarded in the deepest vault, but not so well-guarded that Matthias — with help from a drow named Nezznar and a half-orc posing as a cleric of St. Ygg couldn't contrive a way to steal it.
Matthias' seizures end and he lies helpless, waiting for coherence and bodily command to return to him. Such scrolls were supposed to be preserved at all costs, eventually to be smuggled to dark overlords in the depths of the Lowerdark. But Matthias, ever ambitious, couldn't resist temptation after learning that each such rare scroll held eldritch power derived via foul sorcery through the stealing of the wits, will, and lifeforce of countless victims.
For months the scroll had lain in a deep vault in the Chapterhouse. "They didn't even realize what they had," he chokes out, laughing a bit maniacally in the mud. The young Seeker had made good on his promises, securing Othar the unheard-of honor of a clericship among the civilized races of the Surface and aiding Nezznar is the capture of several dozen magically gifted individuals in 202 and 203 PR.
That had been a real gamble — working with a dark elf. Indeed, it had seemed at one point likely that Nezznar would double-cross him. But apparently the Dark Father was, even then, watching over young Matthias. And now?
Matthias' body spasms, arcing his back off the ground, grinding his teeth madly, his countenance a rictus of pain. Seconds, or perhaps minutes, later, he has recovered sufficiently to drag himself into a sitting position, back against a rear wagon wheel.
Great rivers of power flow through his body. His mind soars with arcane potential, raw soul energy! And he realizes that indeed the Dark Father had been right: this incredible eldritch infusion has made him into a different sort of creature.
He stands, exulting in his balance, the strength of his legs, the realization that, with merely an act of will, he could right now take to the skies like a wyvern or drake. A distant part of him regrets the death of Magen Eisenthrast, for truly the old man had always been good to him.
Lord Ember sighs. "Well, after all, the magus was near the end of his life — and frankly, his usefulness — his immolation would have been much quicker than that of the scroll." He probably died before he even felt any pain...
With but a cantrip afterthought he cleans his clothing. The singing euphoria in his skull has modulated a bit but remains as strong as ocean currents. He feels the new level of connection with his patron, a constant state approaching that made possible by the communion spell.
The warlock assesses himself physically and mentally. The deific arch-devil is now truly with him, and able to see and hear through Matthias' eyes and ears even as he benefits this mortal with insight, cunning, and strength.
Matthias realizes that in his exultation he has inadvertently levitated a foot off the ground. He returns to his earthbound condition and carefully reigns in this eldritch euphoria. "Compose thyself, Lord Ember. We've a fish fry to attend!"
◦◦◦
"Let me be certain I understand," Savra says. The fish-fry had commenced an hour earlier, and lo — there has been much imbibing of alcoholic beverages, and more than a few bouts of laughter in response to jests and recapitulations by various diners of their wilder historical moments.
The death mistress takes another long drink of hasiko, then returns the tangsin cigarette to her full, sensuous lips and inhales, letting her head cock back so that she's gazing at one of the hanging lanterns. She removes the cigarette, exhales bluish smoke, smiles.
"You're telling us that you know where the Blackblade Gnolls secret lair is located, that it is full of months of loot from their banditry — and you're proposing that we join forces, slay them all, and take it all."
"Yes, that's an excellent summation," concedes Lord Ember.
"What proof can you give that you actually know the location of their hideout — or, that if you do, you aren't in league with them?" asks Krelg.
Revole Ting maintains his silence as the warlock, Lord Ember, turns his palms up, extending his hands to either side of him. "It is an audacious plan, and I don't blame you for being incredulous, doubtful."
"But ...?" Savra interjects.
"But..." Ember adds, grinning, "why would I bring you several thousand royals worth of both staples and luxury goods, when I could have either kept them for my own use, or sold them for profit? Why make such a gesture if I intend to mislead you?"
"To put us off our guard, of course," says Grok Goldentooth.
Ember lowers his hands. "Has it occurred to you to ask yourselves how this young man knew you were lodging here, when clearly local authorities do not know? Given that, is it so hard to believe I have access to various other ... interesting facts?"
"All right," Savra says, "say I believe you? How large a force of gnolls are we talking about here?"
"I've only scried them twice, and both times within the past full day. But my initial estimate is one hundred and fifty gnolls, and perhaps a dozen ogres they've somehow convinced to work with them."
Grok snots derisively, dismissively, and rolls his eyes for good measure, but Savra continues, "Say your estimate is a bit heavy. That still leaves them outnumbering us twenty-five to one. Gnolls are fierce combatants, and ogres more deadly still. What factors mitigate against such an attack being a suicide by combat?"
"Even my assistant can speak to these doubts. Revole, would you expound for our hosts?"
Revole Ting, formerly Earnest Thromb, halfling caravan master and merchant, clears his throat. "Certainly, my lord," he answers, noting a red tinge coloring his vision. "For one, I am a masterful thief and scout. I will reconnoiter the tribe's hideout, discover details of their defense and vulnerabilities.
"Two: I myself can handle any pair of ogres, or any five gnolls." At this, Grok laughs uproariously, drunkenly, until one of Savra's uplifted fingers cuts him off.
"Three, spells and magic items will help swing the odds back in our favor. Four, we won't have to fight them all at one time. The gnolls are never all there at the same time. Large groups of them go raiding, or hunting, and are sometimes gone from their den for days at a time."
Kaden Worst grunts doubtfully at this, but is silenced by a look from Savra.
Lord Ember, leans forward. "Thank you, Revole." The young warlock turns to lock eyes with each bandit in turn. "Finally, we will weaken them by setting a trap. We use our three wagons as bait. A band of them will attack it — it's what these gnolls do: they prey upon caravans and travelers."
"I'll concede that point," Savra agrees. But we don't know how many might attack."
"We can't know for certain," concedes the warlock. However, we ourselves were attacked earlier this week. Twenty gnolls engaged our caravan. And I've researched these attacks. Based on reports by survivors, the majority of such attacks over the past two years on the main East-West Road have involved twenty to thirty gnolls, some with and sometimes without a pair of ogres, or three."
Kaden drains the last of the hasiko, then clanks the decanter down, none too softly. "I dare say the six of us could easily handle a band that size," he rumbles meditatively, then picks up a gallon cask of Padoar Stout and sets to work tapping it.
Savra seems, if not completely convinced, then at least intrigued. What's more, it has been more than a ten-day since her group's last action, and she knows that inaction and boredom breed discontent. She stands, stubs out her cigarette. "I'm turning in. Enjoy yourselves. Tomorrow, sober up, for the next day we will bait these Blackblades."
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