Post by stephena on May 20, 2023 10:36:08 GMT
Sorrel leaned against the wall in the shadows of a narrow alley, her cloak flipped inside out for the dark stone lining, and watched Markas glide across Portal Plaza. The half elf’s grey robes and hair gave him the feeling of many mighty years gone by, but his face was almost that of a schoolboy.
It was her third day on his tail, and she knew a great deal about him – not least his name, which had been harder to discover than she expected. He’d caught her eye when she was finishing a light breakfast at a tavern she’d been frequenting recently since Sylvia… well, since Sylvia had disappeared.
She still found that hard to hold in her heart. She hadn’t seen the strange, beautiful woman who trapped her love for many weeks now. At first she’d slept in their bed, waiting for the sound of her key in the door. As the days passed she’d set up a rough shake down in their small weapons store – a camp bed and a few clothes, easily dismantled if she returned.
But she did not return. And now the kitchen, Sylvia’s empire, felt like a wasteland. So, Sorrel had come to know the inns and butteries of Daring Heights, and this was one of her favourites. She was particularly fond of its soft cheese and spiced sausage and took her time to savour each bite as the bread was always still warm from the oven.
But when Markas walked in with an armoury strapped to his back – swords, axes, maces, mauls, scimitars, daggers, the odd flail, a couple of whips and even a halberd – she felt as if he was wearing a style designed for her. “I love that look,” she nodded. “He should be on the team facing the Beetle.”
--
Sorrel breathed in the scent of a tavern in full evening bloom. The Three Dragons was pulsing with the complex rhythms of what sounded like a small orchestra but looked like Felix, the scrappy bard who had boarded Gadenthor with her, Kelne, Laurel, Grimes and Celina, taking Xeron to the city control centre before the Gith destroyed Fort Ettin. If Sorrel remembered rightly he was a useful lad in a tight corner. She regarded him thoughtfully as she slipped through the hard drinking crowd and settled in a chair facing the grey clad half elf.
“Markas,” she broke into his thoughts. “Sorrel Darkfire, at your service and your family’s. Have you ever heard of the moon?”
Markas sat back in his chair and Sorrel noticed what appeared to be a giant plate strapped to his chest. They both stared at each other non-plussed. Markas spoke first.
“Well, yes. Big round thing. In the sky.”
“Perfect,” Sorrel beamed. “Come with me.”
Markas stood, looked her in the eyes and said “… what?”
Sorrel paused. “It’s a long story. Probably violent death. Perhaps ours. Nightmare evil creature. Saving the world. The usual. Money, probably not so much.”
“Well, OK, I guess I’m in…” Markas sounded both puzzled and belligerent. “Sorrel who?”
Sorrel turned to hear Felix’s tune trickle into her heart. She decided.
“Felix,” she hollered. “You ever heard of the moon?”
“Sorrel?” Felix squinted. “Sure. Big round thing. In the sky.”
“Then let’s go!”
--
The Temple of Selûne was busy with the moonrise chorus. Sorrel lead Markas and Felix through the crowds towards Velania’s room when Markas stopped suddenly as Mel, the high priestess strode towards him, her faced pinched and pale.
“Markas?” she sounded pained. “Where have you been?”
Markas shrugged. “Here and there. I’m fine. Just travelling around.”
Sorrel briefly thought Mel would faint, the pain that shook her frame was so great, but she held herself firm and nodded. “It’s good to see you again. Drop by.”
“I will, I just have this thing…” Markas pointed at Sorrel who saw Mel’s eyes roll.
--
Velania, Kavel and Derthaad were packing supplies into backpacks on an old wooden table in a plain vestments room that still had hooks and mirrors on the wall. Sorrel stopped on the threshold and took them in – Velania’s soft eyes and infinite wisdom, Derthaad’s honourable and finely tuned mind and her brother’s strength and courage.
In the House the first lesson you learned before deploying is that you are only as good as your comrades. With these three Sorrel felt invincible.
Most had worked with Felix before but she introduced Markas. As she did the rounds, she caught a glimpse in one of the mirrors. A dark shape clinging to a rafter. A very recognisable dark shape. Aries.
Sorrel sighed inwardly. If she gave any sign she had recognised her sister, there would be sulking, stropping, scowling and similar sullen sneers. She wondered how to handle the situation, then realised the room had fallen silent and everyone was staring at her.
“… what?”
“Sorrel, we don’t know what we’re supposed to be doing,” Velania said gently. “We need to protect your sisters, but what is this escapade.”
“And, more generally, what the fuck is going on?” Markas added.
Sorrel cleared her throat. “Well in short…” she paused. “No, it’s more like…” she trailed off again.
“OK, so I was given to a cult of assassins by my parents when I was sixteen as part of a deal to protect three elf sisters, now my sisters, who are star born of Selûne because their enemy was so powerful they needed protecting so I trained to be a hired killer – good times – and then my true love was killed and I went on a rampage – had its moments – came here, my mother dies or something and trades me again to look after the sisters who come here being chased by this killer Beetle.”
There was another silence.
“Beetle…?” Markas ventured.
“A metaphorical beetle. I’m a wolf in the same prophecy. It’s… weird.”
“And today?” Velania added.
“So today the Beetle arrives on a ship at Breakers Point. I’m fairly certain the use of the ship confirms it’s not an actual beetle, although I have been hallucinating them recently.”
“Breakers Point is pirate country,” Derthaad narrowed his eyes.
“Last time I was there I joined a pirate company,” Kavel nodded. “I haven’t been for a year. It could get awkward.”
“So do you think the Beetle is going there deliberately to link up with the pirates?” Sorrell looked worried.
“I don’t know – it seems too much of a coincidence. I don’t know what they will think if I go back. I was not cursed by them.”
“These don’t sound like normal pirates,” Markas sounded thoughtful.
“Anyway, this is the best team,” Sorrel said. “Piece of cake. I would have liked Sylvia but… anyway, what are we packing to eat?”
As Sorrel said Sylvia’s name the door opened and Lyra, her dreamy, visionary sister ran up and threw her arms around Sorrel.
“This is Lyra,” she smiled weakly at Markas and Felix, then briefly looked up, caught Aries eye and raised her eyebrow in a clear ‘could you please come down because this is a complex sister moment’ gesture.
Aries dropped from the ceiling staring at Markas’ chest.
“And this is Aries,” Sorrel began. “She…
“Why do you have a plate?” Aries was looking hard at the plate.
“Why don’t you have a plate?” the plate spoke with equal hauteur.
“Plates are good for street performing,” Felix boomed cheerfully.
“This is Hoop, my travelling companion,” Markas touched his chest. “As far as I know Hoop has never been a street performer.”
“How come it talks?” Kavel boomed.
“I don’t know,” Markas admitted.
“That’s concerning,” Ariel’s eyes flashed.
Sorrel felt they were somewhat drifting from the matter in hand.
Lyra whispered something. Sorrel couldn’t make it out, by Aries stepped towards the sisters and said carelessly “There’s a dog. He is not ours. He is the dawn dog.”
Sorrel sighed. “Yeah, I know the dog. Lathander. Arsehole.”
Lyra whispered again.
“You must talk to him when you can,” Aries looked bored.
“But now we have to go,” Sorrel put her hand on Aries shoulder. “Can you keep them safe?”
“I thought that was your job.”
“I have to face the Beetle.”
There was a pause as Lyra struggled with her thoughts. “Don’t die,” she said eventually.
“I will do my best. And the same to you, my sister. You are the last line of defence.”
--
Jasathriel’s sword was still firmly buried in the teleport circle platform in Portal Plaza. Velania gazed at its pommel, her eyes misty.
“Here are some pamphlets on the sword,” Kazuo, the firbolg attendant tried to hand them folded paper leaflets.
“Fine looking weapon,” Markas nodded.
As one, they all cried “don’t touch it!”
Markas touched it.
As his body crashed to the ground on the other side of the square, Kavel tapped Kazuo on the shoulder. “Comrade, I think adventurers need bigger pamphlets.”
“We tried that,” Kazuo sighed. “Tried one with pictures. Different colours. We even tried interpretive dance. Didn’t work.”
Velania reached out and rested her hands on the sword. Sorrel grasped Kavel’s arm as memories of the day they were hurtled to Hell washed over her. These times of trial are the moments you live for, she thought. War itself was horror but serving with comrades, their courage and sacrifice… that was the glory and devotion. That was the trumpet’s call.
--
Breakers Point turned out to be a small hamlet on the edge of a beach.
The party stood on a low hill at the edge of the forest looking down a gentle slope to the wide, silent shore.
Old ships decayed on the sand, their might spent, and their strong wooden hulls torn to pieces. Recently built raiders floated just offshore, their masts tall and imposing, whilst others were berthed against a wooden dock. But all seemed silent this late at night.
The low wooden buildings were roughly hewn but sturdy and slumbered in darkness as the stars gleamed high above. Just one, a tavern, right in the centre of the cluster of stockaded dwellings, glowed with light.
“The Beetle knows you,” Velania said. “He will find you.”
“But what will the pirates do?” Sorrel wondered.
“Try asking the pirates,” a soft voice suggested.
They turned. There were pirates. Or, as Sorrel was fluent in pirate, there be pirates.
“Leave this to me,” she told the others confidently then faced the crossbow wielding leader of the pirate sentries. “Yo ho ho me hearty, you old salt, there’s no need to hang the jib.”
The pirate sighed. “Would you like to say splice the mainbrace too? This crew is lampin’ Big Willie-style. Check the chip-toothed smile, plus I profile wild.”
Sorrel mumbled “I’m not a tourist,” and looked at her feet.
“We’re here… looking at the beaches,” Derthaad gestured towards the hamlet. “Fine sandy… er… beach you have.”
“Don’t lie to me,” the pirate hissed. “Goddamn beach’s banging like a Benzie. If I was jiggy, you’d be popped like McKenzie. My man Tricky Otto'll fuck you up in a minute. With a right-left, right-left, ya toothless, then you say goddam they ruthless. Everywhere we go, they say, damn. Badass pirates fucking up the program. Walk. To the inn.”
“Shiver me timbers,” Sorrel grunted. “My pirate slang needs a little work.”
Along the way, she whispered to Kavel in giant. “In the people of the pirate, is the known of the doings brother?” Sorrel whispered to Kavel.
The goliath looked puzzled. “We may have to brush up on your giant as well,” he whispered back. “But now I think about it, it may have been Breakers Bay. I don’t know these pirates at all.”
--
As they walked, Derthaad whispered his research on Tricky Otto. “They have a moral code – it’s a, um, tricky one. It’s basically, you left it lying around I’m going to take it. And you left it lying around on your ship which I’ve just boarded with extreme prejudice. But they’re not in the stealing people business. We may have a chance to plead our case.”
Although, as they walked into the pub, the merciless drone of a malign and ill-tuned brain bleeding squawk box made thinking tough, let alone talking. Towards the back of the room, a scruffy halfling was slowly murdering a giant accordion with something close to the worst playing of any tune by any sentient life form in this or any other plane of existence.
Sorrel glanced around the room and was quietly relieved to see the pirates were equally tormented by the sound.
“I play musical instruments,” Felix cried. “Let me help.”
He leapt onto a nearby table, kicking aside the glasses, muttered a brief incantation and summoned a ghostly orchestra which accompanied his powerfully moving take on a sea shanty.
Sorrel noted the dramatic change in the inn’s clientele. Some wept openly. Others danced. Still others gazed at the floor, their hearts so full they could not find the words.
Nice tune.
Their sobbing captor lead them over to a halfling, with their legs up on the table and a tricorn hat pulled low. The figure held up its finger, waiting until the end of Felix’s song.
“Impressive,” they said eventually, as the last notes caressed every ear in the place. “Now then, who the fuck are you?”
As they pushed back their hat, Sorrel saw, with a jolt, that she knew this halfling. “Tricky Otto… you were in the MacAdam warehouse on the fight night. You battled my half orc friend Varga, tried to fuck my cleric friend Kelne and got absolutely shitfaced until dawn with us.”
Tricky Otto shrugged. “Standard Saturday night, son, you don’t seem familiar to me. I repeat – who the fuck are you?”
“Sorrel Darkfire, at your service and your family’s. I am formerly of the House, if you know of it?”
The blood drained from Tricky Otto’s face. “I don’t want the House in my business…” she sounded like she was pleading.
“I am no longer with them, but we are to face an enemy too strong for the House to defeat.”
Tricky Otto raised an eyebrow. “Why here?”
“It’s landing here…” Sorrel shrugged. “I realise it’s not ideal.”
“It's so very fucking far from ideal I don’t know how to express how far from ideal it is without killing someone.”
“It is our problem – but we wanted to know if, when we faced it, we would have pirates attacking from behind. That’s all we wanted to know.”
“I am not risking my ships or my crew for this,” Tricky Otto spat. “My men have never been people to shy away from a fight. You can ask them. In return for our neutrality, we will loot your body in payment. Fair?”
And Otto was gone.
Sorrel saw some of the drunken pirates were staring at Kavel, eyeing up her brothers frankly outrageous muscles as if they fancied their chances.
“We could recruit them?” Felix offered, leaping back onto the table and striking a rousing chord or two. “Come on lads, there’s fighting to be done.”
By the time the last chorus faded they had 24 bladdered buccaneers on their team and as they stepped into the night they saw Tricky Otto waiting for them bathed in moonlight.
“Two miles north of here. Landfall in an hour,” she nodded. “They’re good men, you’ve recruited. But the key thing is that nothing comes this way.”
“We will retreat north,” Sorrel promised.
“That’s what I wanted to hear.”
--
As they moved north, Sorrel outlined the House as briefly as she could for Markas and Felix’s benefit. The 12 Colleges in the unnamed valley, the Palace of Love with its high steel ramparts holding well stocked barracks and libraries for the 600 serving professionals: the Wise – mages, clerics and sorcerers; the Protectors - eldritch knights, samurai, monks and barbarians; the Investigators – spies, rogues, alchemists, and the Specialists – rangers, bards, vengeance paladins. And the 13th College. The seat of dissent.
“It was the best training I could have received,” she smiled softly, then she heard a soft call from Derthaad. He had spotted a small, fast, stealth craft speeding into the bay ahead. It bore no colours and carried no weapons. Sorrel felt it was familiar in some way.
Two figures waded ashore, one vanishing instantly into the Angelbark and the other carving arcane patterns in the night, letting sable smoke tumble from their hands. The party ran forward, 24 pissed pirates thundering after them, as both targets were lost between the midnight trees.
--
The Angelbarks branches whipped Sorrel’s face as she ran, noting with some pride how fast the trained adventurers were powering through the forest, and hearing the cursing of the corsairs some way to their rear.
But the sting of branches was shaper and harder than ever before, and she realised this was not thorn or twig but beetles dropping from branches and searing her face with chittering mandibles.
She swallowed. These were the creatures from her imaginings. Perhaps this was another hallucination… and then she heard Lyra’s voice in her heart. “They are real, sister, run for your life.”
Suddenly she could see them, thousands of them, covering the forest floor, clambering over each other in a seething mass of chitin. Then they started falling from the trees, foul infestation beyond number and belief. And they were growing and changing, tentacles winding from their jaws, sharp teeth, savage claws, the things of nightmare a million strong. With a screech, one winged monstrosity the size of her fist flew at her, a barbed sting dripping poison aimed at her throat.
She could see Kavel crushing and punching them away, Markas crashing weapons and fist in sweeping flurries and Felix pounding with his lyre.
She reached into the fey spirits that lingered in her blood and called on them in her hour of need.
“Sister what ails thee?” she felt the question in her soul. “Which Hell has opened its maw and spawned such abominations?”
“It is sorcery, a summoning, an evil twisting of nature,” Sorrel reached out with her mind. “They are unnatural and unbearable. Help me sister, for the love of our blood.”
“This perversion will not be tolerated,” the fey voice was sharp and cold. “We are with you sister. Run now and look to the stars.”
Suddenly the sky seemed filled with vast, slow-moving shapes that blotted out the constellations as they spiralled down towards her. Then she saw them – mighty owls, five times the size of any she had seen on her long nights in the wild. They flared their wings as they reached the forest floor, extended sharp talons and scooped up the beetles, devouring them in great gulps of rage and hunger. Full 16 of her fey sisters had taken this form, and they tore into the infested floor like charging knights, scattering poorly armed peasant infantry before them.
And yet still they came.
Then a holy light tore the shadow from beneath the trees and behold! It was Velania, revealed in her glory, her wings spread wide and divine radiance searing from her in bolts of heavenly retribution. Angelic spirits flitted about her form and Sorrel gasped, for there, amongst the symbols of her majesty, were two symbols overlaid – the moons of Shar and Selûne, the harmony of An'Ahkrim and her holy guide. This bespoke something beyond words, she could feel it, but still the beetles came, and she turned away to draw her sword and slice these foetid carapaces into a thousand pieces.
Her armour was torn, her brother was injured – indeed, all of the party were bleeding profusely as they staggered into a clearing and the endless woods faded away.
Above them, on a low stone shelf, stood a hood figure, a dark red glow boiling up from his hands.
Before Sorrel could raise her bow, a shadow darted from the trees and tore one of Callimar’s bracers from her right hand. Sorrel stepped sharply, into her stance with the speed of a true assassin and sent three arrows into the figure, each one driving home.
“Give me back my fucking bracer,” she howled.
The figure tumbled over in a move Sorrel recognised somehow, and rose under her guard, flinging three daggers in clumsy succession then plucking the second bracer.
Suddenly the figure stumbled as Markas drove his fists home, then arched its back as two bolts of energy flew from Derthaad’s hands, slicing into both assailants and leaving the bracer thief dead on the forest floor. The spell caster turned and fled.
Sorrel reached for the bracers and almost stopped in shock. The girl could not have been more than 17.
Before she let her mind drift, she focused, stepped through the fragile atoms of existence and stood on the abandoned slab. Kavel had already blocked the flight of their conjurer, but Sorrel could see one arm was hanging loose, clearly dislocated. She took careful aim and sent three arrows into the caster’s throat, noting him fall before returning to the dead girl.
She traced the patterns in her armour and the inception tattoo on her shoulder. This girl was of the House. Maybe one year into her training.
She sprinted towards the magician and found he was House trained, barely two years out of the College of Wisdom.
She stood up, her face grim, and turned to face the others. “This is not the Beetle,” her eyes met each of the party in turn. “The Beetle has been a threat since before I was born. This man can’t be more than 24.”
“What are you saying?” Velania settled to the ground.
“They were not fully trained,” Sorrel said slowly, remembering her vision of the giant beetle sending out an infestation across the map of Kantas, many thousands of tiny scuttling creatures, whilst it remained many miles away.
And suddenly Sorrel’s mind started clattering with violent ideas shouldering each other aside as each new one kicked open her doors of perception. All this time she had taken her mother’s letter literally – that the House was not able to defend her sisters, so the threat must have been from outside. But what if she meant the House was not to be trusted? That the threat was from within?
Someone was taking young, barely trained would-be specialists – in the case of the girl, still raw with no field experience – and sending them to die. Whilst the power of the mage’s beetles had been potent, these two had died quickly. Fodder for Kantas steel. But why?
Derthaad called her over and showed her a mangled scrap of paper. She could see the seals of his magical repair, but it was still impossible to read anything on the pulpy mess – except one thing… the seal of the College of Discovery, the bleak, cold tower with vast underground chambers and sealed off rooms that dealt in deception and the alchemists arts. It was one of the four senior colleges – less potent that Callimar’s College of Persuasion but a power in itself.
And suddenly she wondered about her cocky assumptions in the weeks stretching behind her. Callimar. She had taken his bracers as a symbol of his presence and his failure to arrive when she called for him as just another betrayal in a life of disappointing mentors and parents. But what if he was not told she had asked for him – or what if he could not come?
And suddenly it was as if she were far above the world at foot of a mighty throne, ancient but strong, a seat of judgement and mercy. Beneath her, she could see the intricate patterns of plans unspooling and struggles unfolding over years beyond counting as foes manoeuvred and plotted and deployed and withdrew.
She could see her sisters, glowing like the dreams of children, and gentle Seraphina, searching, always searching. She saw a great darkness covering the house and turmoil and confusion all around, with black tentacles of corruption tunnelling deep into the heart of the earth. Her eyes searched for Callimar and the Jackal but her sight grew dim and she was on the forest floor with her friends, a tiny player in an infinite game.
Something was rotten in the House. She could feel it.
And she had no idea what it was.
Just then, 24 pirates came panting into the clearing at a half run.
"Did we miss it...?"
It was her third day on his tail, and she knew a great deal about him – not least his name, which had been harder to discover than she expected. He’d caught her eye when she was finishing a light breakfast at a tavern she’d been frequenting recently since Sylvia… well, since Sylvia had disappeared.
She still found that hard to hold in her heart. She hadn’t seen the strange, beautiful woman who trapped her love for many weeks now. At first she’d slept in their bed, waiting for the sound of her key in the door. As the days passed she’d set up a rough shake down in their small weapons store – a camp bed and a few clothes, easily dismantled if she returned.
But she did not return. And now the kitchen, Sylvia’s empire, felt like a wasteland. So, Sorrel had come to know the inns and butteries of Daring Heights, and this was one of her favourites. She was particularly fond of its soft cheese and spiced sausage and took her time to savour each bite as the bread was always still warm from the oven.
But when Markas walked in with an armoury strapped to his back – swords, axes, maces, mauls, scimitars, daggers, the odd flail, a couple of whips and even a halberd – she felt as if he was wearing a style designed for her. “I love that look,” she nodded. “He should be on the team facing the Beetle.”
--
Sorrel breathed in the scent of a tavern in full evening bloom. The Three Dragons was pulsing with the complex rhythms of what sounded like a small orchestra but looked like Felix, the scrappy bard who had boarded Gadenthor with her, Kelne, Laurel, Grimes and Celina, taking Xeron to the city control centre before the Gith destroyed Fort Ettin. If Sorrel remembered rightly he was a useful lad in a tight corner. She regarded him thoughtfully as she slipped through the hard drinking crowd and settled in a chair facing the grey clad half elf.
“Markas,” she broke into his thoughts. “Sorrel Darkfire, at your service and your family’s. Have you ever heard of the moon?”
Markas sat back in his chair and Sorrel noticed what appeared to be a giant plate strapped to his chest. They both stared at each other non-plussed. Markas spoke first.
“Well, yes. Big round thing. In the sky.”
“Perfect,” Sorrel beamed. “Come with me.”
Markas stood, looked her in the eyes and said “… what?”
Sorrel paused. “It’s a long story. Probably violent death. Perhaps ours. Nightmare evil creature. Saving the world. The usual. Money, probably not so much.”
“Well, OK, I guess I’m in…” Markas sounded both puzzled and belligerent. “Sorrel who?”
Sorrel turned to hear Felix’s tune trickle into her heart. She decided.
“Felix,” she hollered. “You ever heard of the moon?”
“Sorrel?” Felix squinted. “Sure. Big round thing. In the sky.”
“Then let’s go!”
--
The Temple of Selûne was busy with the moonrise chorus. Sorrel lead Markas and Felix through the crowds towards Velania’s room when Markas stopped suddenly as Mel, the high priestess strode towards him, her faced pinched and pale.
“Markas?” she sounded pained. “Where have you been?”
Markas shrugged. “Here and there. I’m fine. Just travelling around.”
Sorrel briefly thought Mel would faint, the pain that shook her frame was so great, but she held herself firm and nodded. “It’s good to see you again. Drop by.”
“I will, I just have this thing…” Markas pointed at Sorrel who saw Mel’s eyes roll.
--
Velania, Kavel and Derthaad were packing supplies into backpacks on an old wooden table in a plain vestments room that still had hooks and mirrors on the wall. Sorrel stopped on the threshold and took them in – Velania’s soft eyes and infinite wisdom, Derthaad’s honourable and finely tuned mind and her brother’s strength and courage.
In the House the first lesson you learned before deploying is that you are only as good as your comrades. With these three Sorrel felt invincible.
Most had worked with Felix before but she introduced Markas. As she did the rounds, she caught a glimpse in one of the mirrors. A dark shape clinging to a rafter. A very recognisable dark shape. Aries.
Sorrel sighed inwardly. If she gave any sign she had recognised her sister, there would be sulking, stropping, scowling and similar sullen sneers. She wondered how to handle the situation, then realised the room had fallen silent and everyone was staring at her.
“… what?”
“Sorrel, we don’t know what we’re supposed to be doing,” Velania said gently. “We need to protect your sisters, but what is this escapade.”
“And, more generally, what the fuck is going on?” Markas added.
Sorrel cleared her throat. “Well in short…” she paused. “No, it’s more like…” she trailed off again.
“OK, so I was given to a cult of assassins by my parents when I was sixteen as part of a deal to protect three elf sisters, now my sisters, who are star born of Selûne because their enemy was so powerful they needed protecting so I trained to be a hired killer – good times – and then my true love was killed and I went on a rampage – had its moments – came here, my mother dies or something and trades me again to look after the sisters who come here being chased by this killer Beetle.”
There was another silence.
“Beetle…?” Markas ventured.
“A metaphorical beetle. I’m a wolf in the same prophecy. It’s… weird.”
“And today?” Velania added.
“So today the Beetle arrives on a ship at Breakers Point. I’m fairly certain the use of the ship confirms it’s not an actual beetle, although I have been hallucinating them recently.”
“Breakers Point is pirate country,” Derthaad narrowed his eyes.
“Last time I was there I joined a pirate company,” Kavel nodded. “I haven’t been for a year. It could get awkward.”
“So do you think the Beetle is going there deliberately to link up with the pirates?” Sorrell looked worried.
“I don’t know – it seems too much of a coincidence. I don’t know what they will think if I go back. I was not cursed by them.”
“These don’t sound like normal pirates,” Markas sounded thoughtful.
“Anyway, this is the best team,” Sorrel said. “Piece of cake. I would have liked Sylvia but… anyway, what are we packing to eat?”
As Sorrel said Sylvia’s name the door opened and Lyra, her dreamy, visionary sister ran up and threw her arms around Sorrel.
“This is Lyra,” she smiled weakly at Markas and Felix, then briefly looked up, caught Aries eye and raised her eyebrow in a clear ‘could you please come down because this is a complex sister moment’ gesture.
Aries dropped from the ceiling staring at Markas’ chest.
“And this is Aries,” Sorrel began. “She…
“Why do you have a plate?” Aries was looking hard at the plate.
“Why don’t you have a plate?” the plate spoke with equal hauteur.
“Plates are good for street performing,” Felix boomed cheerfully.
“This is Hoop, my travelling companion,” Markas touched his chest. “As far as I know Hoop has never been a street performer.”
“How come it talks?” Kavel boomed.
“I don’t know,” Markas admitted.
“That’s concerning,” Ariel’s eyes flashed.
Sorrel felt they were somewhat drifting from the matter in hand.
Lyra whispered something. Sorrel couldn’t make it out, by Aries stepped towards the sisters and said carelessly “There’s a dog. He is not ours. He is the dawn dog.”
Sorrel sighed. “Yeah, I know the dog. Lathander. Arsehole.”
Lyra whispered again.
“You must talk to him when you can,” Aries looked bored.
“But now we have to go,” Sorrel put her hand on Aries shoulder. “Can you keep them safe?”
“I thought that was your job.”
“I have to face the Beetle.”
There was a pause as Lyra struggled with her thoughts. “Don’t die,” she said eventually.
“I will do my best. And the same to you, my sister. You are the last line of defence.”
--
Jasathriel’s sword was still firmly buried in the teleport circle platform in Portal Plaza. Velania gazed at its pommel, her eyes misty.
“Here are some pamphlets on the sword,” Kazuo, the firbolg attendant tried to hand them folded paper leaflets.
“Fine looking weapon,” Markas nodded.
As one, they all cried “don’t touch it!”
Markas touched it.
As his body crashed to the ground on the other side of the square, Kavel tapped Kazuo on the shoulder. “Comrade, I think adventurers need bigger pamphlets.”
“We tried that,” Kazuo sighed. “Tried one with pictures. Different colours. We even tried interpretive dance. Didn’t work.”
Velania reached out and rested her hands on the sword. Sorrel grasped Kavel’s arm as memories of the day they were hurtled to Hell washed over her. These times of trial are the moments you live for, she thought. War itself was horror but serving with comrades, their courage and sacrifice… that was the glory and devotion. That was the trumpet’s call.
--
Breakers Point turned out to be a small hamlet on the edge of a beach.
The party stood on a low hill at the edge of the forest looking down a gentle slope to the wide, silent shore.
Old ships decayed on the sand, their might spent, and their strong wooden hulls torn to pieces. Recently built raiders floated just offshore, their masts tall and imposing, whilst others were berthed against a wooden dock. But all seemed silent this late at night.
The low wooden buildings were roughly hewn but sturdy and slumbered in darkness as the stars gleamed high above. Just one, a tavern, right in the centre of the cluster of stockaded dwellings, glowed with light.
“The Beetle knows you,” Velania said. “He will find you.”
“But what will the pirates do?” Sorrel wondered.
“Try asking the pirates,” a soft voice suggested.
They turned. There were pirates. Or, as Sorrel was fluent in pirate, there be pirates.
“Leave this to me,” she told the others confidently then faced the crossbow wielding leader of the pirate sentries. “Yo ho ho me hearty, you old salt, there’s no need to hang the jib.”
The pirate sighed. “Would you like to say splice the mainbrace too? This crew is lampin’ Big Willie-style. Check the chip-toothed smile, plus I profile wild.”
Sorrel mumbled “I’m not a tourist,” and looked at her feet.
“We’re here… looking at the beaches,” Derthaad gestured towards the hamlet. “Fine sandy… er… beach you have.”
“Don’t lie to me,” the pirate hissed. “Goddamn beach’s banging like a Benzie. If I was jiggy, you’d be popped like McKenzie. My man Tricky Otto'll fuck you up in a minute. With a right-left, right-left, ya toothless, then you say goddam they ruthless. Everywhere we go, they say, damn. Badass pirates fucking up the program. Walk. To the inn.”
“Shiver me timbers,” Sorrel grunted. “My pirate slang needs a little work.”
Along the way, she whispered to Kavel in giant. “In the people of the pirate, is the known of the doings brother?” Sorrel whispered to Kavel.
The goliath looked puzzled. “We may have to brush up on your giant as well,” he whispered back. “But now I think about it, it may have been Breakers Bay. I don’t know these pirates at all.”
--
As they walked, Derthaad whispered his research on Tricky Otto. “They have a moral code – it’s a, um, tricky one. It’s basically, you left it lying around I’m going to take it. And you left it lying around on your ship which I’ve just boarded with extreme prejudice. But they’re not in the stealing people business. We may have a chance to plead our case.”
Although, as they walked into the pub, the merciless drone of a malign and ill-tuned brain bleeding squawk box made thinking tough, let alone talking. Towards the back of the room, a scruffy halfling was slowly murdering a giant accordion with something close to the worst playing of any tune by any sentient life form in this or any other plane of existence.
Sorrel glanced around the room and was quietly relieved to see the pirates were equally tormented by the sound.
“I play musical instruments,” Felix cried. “Let me help.”
He leapt onto a nearby table, kicking aside the glasses, muttered a brief incantation and summoned a ghostly orchestra which accompanied his powerfully moving take on a sea shanty.
Sorrel noted the dramatic change in the inn’s clientele. Some wept openly. Others danced. Still others gazed at the floor, their hearts so full they could not find the words.
Nice tune.
Their sobbing captor lead them over to a halfling, with their legs up on the table and a tricorn hat pulled low. The figure held up its finger, waiting until the end of Felix’s song.
“Impressive,” they said eventually, as the last notes caressed every ear in the place. “Now then, who the fuck are you?”
As they pushed back their hat, Sorrel saw, with a jolt, that she knew this halfling. “Tricky Otto… you were in the MacAdam warehouse on the fight night. You battled my half orc friend Varga, tried to fuck my cleric friend Kelne and got absolutely shitfaced until dawn with us.”
Tricky Otto shrugged. “Standard Saturday night, son, you don’t seem familiar to me. I repeat – who the fuck are you?”
“Sorrel Darkfire, at your service and your family’s. I am formerly of the House, if you know of it?”
The blood drained from Tricky Otto’s face. “I don’t want the House in my business…” she sounded like she was pleading.
“I am no longer with them, but we are to face an enemy too strong for the House to defeat.”
Tricky Otto raised an eyebrow. “Why here?”
“It’s landing here…” Sorrel shrugged. “I realise it’s not ideal.”
“It's so very fucking far from ideal I don’t know how to express how far from ideal it is without killing someone.”
“It is our problem – but we wanted to know if, when we faced it, we would have pirates attacking from behind. That’s all we wanted to know.”
“I am not risking my ships or my crew for this,” Tricky Otto spat. “My men have never been people to shy away from a fight. You can ask them. In return for our neutrality, we will loot your body in payment. Fair?”
And Otto was gone.
Sorrel saw some of the drunken pirates were staring at Kavel, eyeing up her brothers frankly outrageous muscles as if they fancied their chances.
“We could recruit them?” Felix offered, leaping back onto the table and striking a rousing chord or two. “Come on lads, there’s fighting to be done.”
By the time the last chorus faded they had 24 bladdered buccaneers on their team and as they stepped into the night they saw Tricky Otto waiting for them bathed in moonlight.
“Two miles north of here. Landfall in an hour,” she nodded. “They’re good men, you’ve recruited. But the key thing is that nothing comes this way.”
“We will retreat north,” Sorrel promised.
“That’s what I wanted to hear.”
--
As they moved north, Sorrel outlined the House as briefly as she could for Markas and Felix’s benefit. The 12 Colleges in the unnamed valley, the Palace of Love with its high steel ramparts holding well stocked barracks and libraries for the 600 serving professionals: the Wise – mages, clerics and sorcerers; the Protectors - eldritch knights, samurai, monks and barbarians; the Investigators – spies, rogues, alchemists, and the Specialists – rangers, bards, vengeance paladins. And the 13th College. The seat of dissent.
“It was the best training I could have received,” she smiled softly, then she heard a soft call from Derthaad. He had spotted a small, fast, stealth craft speeding into the bay ahead. It bore no colours and carried no weapons. Sorrel felt it was familiar in some way.
Two figures waded ashore, one vanishing instantly into the Angelbark and the other carving arcane patterns in the night, letting sable smoke tumble from their hands. The party ran forward, 24 pissed pirates thundering after them, as both targets were lost between the midnight trees.
--
The Angelbarks branches whipped Sorrel’s face as she ran, noting with some pride how fast the trained adventurers were powering through the forest, and hearing the cursing of the corsairs some way to their rear.
But the sting of branches was shaper and harder than ever before, and she realised this was not thorn or twig but beetles dropping from branches and searing her face with chittering mandibles.
She swallowed. These were the creatures from her imaginings. Perhaps this was another hallucination… and then she heard Lyra’s voice in her heart. “They are real, sister, run for your life.”
Suddenly she could see them, thousands of them, covering the forest floor, clambering over each other in a seething mass of chitin. Then they started falling from the trees, foul infestation beyond number and belief. And they were growing and changing, tentacles winding from their jaws, sharp teeth, savage claws, the things of nightmare a million strong. With a screech, one winged monstrosity the size of her fist flew at her, a barbed sting dripping poison aimed at her throat.
She could see Kavel crushing and punching them away, Markas crashing weapons and fist in sweeping flurries and Felix pounding with his lyre.
She reached into the fey spirits that lingered in her blood and called on them in her hour of need.
“Sister what ails thee?” she felt the question in her soul. “Which Hell has opened its maw and spawned such abominations?”
“It is sorcery, a summoning, an evil twisting of nature,” Sorrel reached out with her mind. “They are unnatural and unbearable. Help me sister, for the love of our blood.”
“This perversion will not be tolerated,” the fey voice was sharp and cold. “We are with you sister. Run now and look to the stars.”
Suddenly the sky seemed filled with vast, slow-moving shapes that blotted out the constellations as they spiralled down towards her. Then she saw them – mighty owls, five times the size of any she had seen on her long nights in the wild. They flared their wings as they reached the forest floor, extended sharp talons and scooped up the beetles, devouring them in great gulps of rage and hunger. Full 16 of her fey sisters had taken this form, and they tore into the infested floor like charging knights, scattering poorly armed peasant infantry before them.
And yet still they came.
Then a holy light tore the shadow from beneath the trees and behold! It was Velania, revealed in her glory, her wings spread wide and divine radiance searing from her in bolts of heavenly retribution. Angelic spirits flitted about her form and Sorrel gasped, for there, amongst the symbols of her majesty, were two symbols overlaid – the moons of Shar and Selûne, the harmony of An'Ahkrim and her holy guide. This bespoke something beyond words, she could feel it, but still the beetles came, and she turned away to draw her sword and slice these foetid carapaces into a thousand pieces.
Her armour was torn, her brother was injured – indeed, all of the party were bleeding profusely as they staggered into a clearing and the endless woods faded away.
Above them, on a low stone shelf, stood a hood figure, a dark red glow boiling up from his hands.
Before Sorrel could raise her bow, a shadow darted from the trees and tore one of Callimar’s bracers from her right hand. Sorrel stepped sharply, into her stance with the speed of a true assassin and sent three arrows into the figure, each one driving home.
“Give me back my fucking bracer,” she howled.
The figure tumbled over in a move Sorrel recognised somehow, and rose under her guard, flinging three daggers in clumsy succession then plucking the second bracer.
Suddenly the figure stumbled as Markas drove his fists home, then arched its back as two bolts of energy flew from Derthaad’s hands, slicing into both assailants and leaving the bracer thief dead on the forest floor. The spell caster turned and fled.
Sorrel reached for the bracers and almost stopped in shock. The girl could not have been more than 17.
Before she let her mind drift, she focused, stepped through the fragile atoms of existence and stood on the abandoned slab. Kavel had already blocked the flight of their conjurer, but Sorrel could see one arm was hanging loose, clearly dislocated. She took careful aim and sent three arrows into the caster’s throat, noting him fall before returning to the dead girl.
She traced the patterns in her armour and the inception tattoo on her shoulder. This girl was of the House. Maybe one year into her training.
She sprinted towards the magician and found he was House trained, barely two years out of the College of Wisdom.
She stood up, her face grim, and turned to face the others. “This is not the Beetle,” her eyes met each of the party in turn. “The Beetle has been a threat since before I was born. This man can’t be more than 24.”
“What are you saying?” Velania settled to the ground.
“They were not fully trained,” Sorrel said slowly, remembering her vision of the giant beetle sending out an infestation across the map of Kantas, many thousands of tiny scuttling creatures, whilst it remained many miles away.
And suddenly Sorrel’s mind started clattering with violent ideas shouldering each other aside as each new one kicked open her doors of perception. All this time she had taken her mother’s letter literally – that the House was not able to defend her sisters, so the threat must have been from outside. But what if she meant the House was not to be trusted? That the threat was from within?
Someone was taking young, barely trained would-be specialists – in the case of the girl, still raw with no field experience – and sending them to die. Whilst the power of the mage’s beetles had been potent, these two had died quickly. Fodder for Kantas steel. But why?
Derthaad called her over and showed her a mangled scrap of paper. She could see the seals of his magical repair, but it was still impossible to read anything on the pulpy mess – except one thing… the seal of the College of Discovery, the bleak, cold tower with vast underground chambers and sealed off rooms that dealt in deception and the alchemists arts. It was one of the four senior colleges – less potent that Callimar’s College of Persuasion but a power in itself.
And suddenly she wondered about her cocky assumptions in the weeks stretching behind her. Callimar. She had taken his bracers as a symbol of his presence and his failure to arrive when she called for him as just another betrayal in a life of disappointing mentors and parents. But what if he was not told she had asked for him – or what if he could not come?
And suddenly it was as if she were far above the world at foot of a mighty throne, ancient but strong, a seat of judgement and mercy. Beneath her, she could see the intricate patterns of plans unspooling and struggles unfolding over years beyond counting as foes manoeuvred and plotted and deployed and withdrew.
She could see her sisters, glowing like the dreams of children, and gentle Seraphina, searching, always searching. She saw a great darkness covering the house and turmoil and confusion all around, with black tentacles of corruption tunnelling deep into the heart of the earth. Her eyes searched for Callimar and the Jackal but her sight grew dim and she was on the forest floor with her friends, a tiny player in an infinite game.
Something was rotten in the House. She could feel it.
And she had no idea what it was.
Just then, 24 pirates came panting into the clearing at a half run.
"Did we miss it...?"