Letter 20—Justice Sits Not Easy

We decided to explore upstairs before opening the bronze doors at the heart of the complex. There we found an octagonal chamber under a 20 foot tall dome made of slabs of opaque white crystal glowing like pale moonlight, knitted together as if it were a giant inverted eye. The walls were covered with arcane symbols, stylized line art, and images of cyclopes. A 20 foot circle was incised into the stone of the floor directly below the eye's focus.

“It’s a trap,” I said, stating the obvious.

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“It could be a teleportation circle,” Lev speculated.

“Which usually means someone is going to kill you and they don’t want to mess up the room,” Cane added.

Lev said there was overwhelming conjuration and divination magic here but with no obvious clues and unwilling to unleash whatever the room was representing, we moved on to the massive bronze doors where yet another giant eyeball was graved. A trough of water leading to the basin ran beneath it.

The doors parted with a loud squeak, the channel of sulfurous water continuing down the center of the chamber. With a prayer to all that is good in the world, I cast light into the room. As I’d feared, we were met with a grisly sight—a small stone shrine bearing several heads, blood freshly clotted around their necks. Farther along the channel, now tinged with red, reached a pool, twin to the one where we’d fought the water elemental. In it knelt several headless men before a hideous charnel throne made from the victims of the one seated there—Vordakai.

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“Justice!” I whispered in awe.

He watched us for a moment unconcerned by our presence, as if dumb beasts had wandered in off the prairie. His one jeweled eye crinkling with amusement, or maybe greed. Then he stood regally, towering above us like the god he was pretending to be, ancient abomination, thrice-cursed lich.

As you know from your studies, “a lich is a necromancer who has chosen to become undead as a method of cheating death. The process involves the extraction of his life-force and its imprisonment in a specially prepared phylactery. As long as his phylactery remains intact he can ignore the passage of time.”

“We’re not prepared for this guy,” Trask gulped.

“I’m not prepared for undead at all,” Lev added with a worried voice.

“I’m a little prepared,” Cane shrugged, setting Sizzles down with care. “She’s snoring,” he added affectionately, giving her one last caress.

I considered casting hide from undead but Trask shook his head, counseling that a lich was too sharp to fall for that one. Then Vlad created a diversion with a blast of searing light as Lev teleported me beside the monster.

Trask riddled the lich with blunt, flaming arrows but his true battle was with Vordakai's assault on his will, leaving him unsure, cursing the day he had met us, threatening to walk away and leave us to our fate.

I saw Cane stop in mid-movement, like one of those mimes Little Billee mocks at the fair. A few seconds later he reanimated, as if nothing had happened, looking about himself with a  puzzled expression. Then he froze again—succumbing to what must have been to Vordakai's fowl curse.

Vlad used his last spell of searing light while Lev gave us a hearty pep talk: “The bigger they are, the harder they fall!” he enthused, running to assist Cane. Trask shot another flurry of bludgeoning arrows, scoring four times. Vordakai stopped laughing as I lashed out, barely nicking him but my backswing took off a pallid chunk from his desiccated haunch.

He disappeared.

“He’s invisible, teleported, or gone through a dimension door,” Trask growled.

“And healing!”

While we waited tensely for his inevitable return I set up my spiritual weapon, then had second thoughts and cast flames of the faithful on my sword instead. With just the sound of running water in the background, incongruous yet threatening as a dog’s growl, we carefully searched the rest of his chambers. On one side we discovered an ancient library behind a bookcase of heavy leather-cased tomes, separating it from the central chamber.

The respite allowed Lev to temporarily suppress Vordakai’s curse upon Cane, who looked up from the floor blinking, angry.

Meanwhile, Vlad began removing the bodies from the pool, hoping this might lessen Vordakai’s power. Trask disappeared, fading into darkness to catch Vordakai unaware. The rest of us looked warily around the room.

“He’s over here!” Trask shouted from behind the bookcase.

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I was standing right in front of him, thanks to Lev’s teleportation, as two of Trask’s arrows whipped past my ear to strike home. I thrust my sword into his medsection and was rewarded with the zombie’s grunt, whither of pain or remonstrance, I know not but I was immediately flooded with remorse—'What was I, pitiful man, trying to accomplish by challenging this powerful creature? He will consume me as he has all the others!' I nearly threw down my weapon in despair when I remembered that I was not just any pitiful man but sent by Old Deadeye, true to the mark.

“Justice!” I cried, raising my sword.

“You don’t question the Inquisitor’s will!” I heard Trask bellow as I returned to the fray, “He burns people!” Which isn’t entirely true—I didn’t burn Lily Tesketin.

Cane, Lev, and Trask used the distraction to hurt Vordakai further as he turned from one of us to the other in frustrated rage. Even so, he seemed to be gaining strength while ours dwindled away until he suddenly collapsed into a pile of foul smelling dust, jewel eye rolling to a stop by my feet. In the background I heard Cane sobbing about his greatest fear (whether a male direwolf or a human female I never learned).

It was Vlad that turned the trick, as much surprised as we were.

“He was that close to smoking us,”  Trask said with wonder, holding his fingers about half an inch apart. Later Bert Askew ecstatically informed us that by his estimate Vordakai had been in the tomb so long he had atrophied to less than half his strength. “You boys don’t deserve that kind of luck,” he crowed.

He’s right for once, praise Erastil for His protection.

Lev wrote this haiku:

Heart fiercely pounding

Comrades’ breathing; the trickle

of bloodied water.

We found:

• +3 cloak of resistance
• headband of mental prowess
• +2 ring of protection
• soul jar
• Phylactery worth 3500 gold pieces as an art object

There was an ancient mound behind the throne, apparently where Vordakai threw the worldly wealth of his victims:

• 1140 platinum pieces
• 13,000 gold
• 103,000 silver
• art objects worth19,500 gold
• ring of friend shield (matching the one we found in Varnhold)
• +2 ring of protection
• +1 cloak of resistance
• gloves of swimming and climbing
• pouch holding 3 packets of dust of dryness
• +1 cold iron magical beast bane flail

In the library were:

• dozens of stone tablets weighing nearly 1000 pounds in all worth 10,000 gold to the appropriate scholar
• Enough pages of spells to form a spellbook of every spell Vordakai had prepared in addition to 6 spells of each level up through 9—priceless

The last chamber was much like the others, a domed room filled with niches holding abominations—forty-two strangely shaped glass jars. Each one, about a foot tall and stopped with a clot of black wax, contained a swirling plume of glowing white smoke.

“Let’s take them back to the cathedral, release the good ones. . . .”

“And sell the evil ones,” Cane agreed, before stopping to stare listlessly at nothing in particular, the curse having returned.

“You can’t tell their alignments from the outside,” Trask lectured, sounding more like Kelm every day. How does he know so much about soul switching unless he and Kelm . . . no, in that way madness lies. I’m just glad they’re on my side.

“You can only research the jar, not the individual inside the jar,” he continued.

“Can’t a bad guy be in a good jar?” I asked.

“Look,” Lev flailed his arms, “The soul is still there, it’s been imprisoned!”

“It’s in a jar!” Trask countered brusquely.

“If a guy is in a jail cell, he can still freakin’! . . .” Lev stopped, for once at a loss. “You can touch them and talk to them, can’t you?” he said, reaching for one of the jars.

“Nooooo!” Don’t touch that,” Trask cried. “If you touch the jar it switches souls!”

“Are you sure?” Lev hesitated.

“Pretty sure. Don’t touch the jars.”

We carefully wrapped cloth around each one before packing it away with the rest of our luggage. Lev picked up the gem of Vordakai using mage hand and immediately tried to claw his own eye out. Fortunately Trask grabbed him first.

“Jeez, Lev wouldn’t pick up a soul jar but he grappled Vordakai!” Trask said while using a rear naked choke to put Lev down until the gem rolled from his grasp. We tied the dangerous thing in a cloth before putting it away for Kelm to study.

(In the City rumor has it of the strange things that occur in Kelm’s mage tower. I don’t want you to believe them, Pino, but unfortunately they’re true. That's why I think we should establish a community on Vordakai's island and encourage Kelm to rule here. He would enjoy sitting in this foul sulfuric chamber—although the blood staining the pools would be his own—performing dangerous experiments across the planes of existence instead of in a tower a couple blocks from my house.)

Cane wanted to carry Sizzles out but his condition was such that we ended up shoving them both inside the bag of holding. "Don't touch anything!" I told him while tying it closed.

Leaving Vordakai's Island

“Hey, guys, we just killed us an ancient cyclops lich—that’s pretty badass!” Trask crowed as we emerged into the sweet air. We continued to puzzle over Vordakai’s mystery while crossing the river, mounting our horses, and making our way back to civilization. For instance, the jade bracelet we’d found was likely a ring from Vordakai’s finger—we saw him wearing another. Maybe when Willis Gunderson found this place he removed this ring, waking the lich, and arousing his hunger.

“That wraith was Gunderson!” Lev suddenly realized of the elven body we’d found.

Once we reached Ilsegrad we gathered at the cathedral and prepared, with holy sanctity, to deal with anything we released from the jars be they demon, beast, or man. The ceremony began with an hymn sung by Trask and Cane (although Cane could only manage every other line, more or less, due to the curse).

Soul Jar*
Coming to you on a dusty road
Good loving, I got a cart load
And when you get it, you got something
So don't worry, 'cause I'm coming

I'm a soul jar
I'm a soul jar
I'm a soul jar
I'm a soul jar
And that ain't all

Got what I got the hard way
And I'll make better each and every day
So honey, don't you fret
'Cause you ain't seen nothing yet

I'm a soul jar, oh
I'm a soul jar, play it Steve
I'm a soul jar, ha
I'm a soul jar

Grab the rope and I'll pull you in
Give you hope and be your only boyfriend
Yeah (yeah) yeah (yeah)

I'm a soul jar
I'm a soul jar
I'm a soul jar
I'm a soul jar

Rebirth

Removing the black wax, we stood aside, the priest muttering prayers, while white smoke emerged, roiling intensely, forming a silvery gel where white bone appeared, then dark nerve, muscle, and vein. Organs slowly congealed and the heart began pumping crimson blood as lungs filled to capacity before erupting in the frightful scream of agony of the reborn. Finally, skin grew to swaddle them as the man, woman. or child—for it was the unlucky citizens of Varnhold that emerged—slid unconscious to the floor.

We met with them later that week at a feast in their honor at the town hall. We came unprepared for their lack of gratitude and the sheer anger they greeted us with, including Maestro Ervil Penrod, who wanted his books returned immediately, “That you stole from my room!” Apparently they had received a message borne by raven sent by a certain “B.A.” telling them of the ransacking of their town.

“Well you can’t have them!” I could imagine Kelm calling down from his tower.

The villagers crowded around us, more concerned about the state of their property than thankful for their lives. “What’s up with our town?”

“Welcome to the People’s Republic of the River Kingdoms,” Lev replied coolly, if inaccurately. “You’ve been assimilated.”

“Where’s our homes?” they demanded.

“If your homes have been integrated into . . . the  . . . uh . . . we’ll build you new homes. . . .” Lev said, voice trailing off as the citizenry erupted in fury.

I was incredulous. “After we released you from the soul jars?”

“Yeah,” Cane said, backing me up, “We saved your lives.”

“And while we were out you went and took our town, is that what you’re saying?” a villager spat, quivering like a rat terrier.

“While you were out?” Cane laughed. “Did you guys go out and eat dinner? You were dead!”

“I think I’m going to have to go out and tell some people,” Ervil pouted, like Bert Askew does when the Inn is out of his favorite flavor of ice cream. “I’m going to Tuskland to tell all about what you guys did to Varnhold.”

“How we freed you?” Lev sneered.

“Yeah, and then took our village.”

“We saved it from spriggans!”

“Thanks for waiting,” he replied with bitter contempt. “Thanks for believing that we were still alive.”

Well, we calmed them the best we could promising this deal:

1. We build them new homes or
2. They take their old home back and we build a new home twice that size for the citizens they displace

I"m overjoyed to report that the brewer of Cheerful Delver Stout had been among the refuges. We had a long discussion and he promised to visit Tuskland soon to open a brewery there. I offered to partner him and think it might be just the place to apprentice Little Billee the next time he drops out of school.

Once we’d settled the Varnholders back in Varnville we encountered the centaur princess Xamanthe on the outskirts of town at the head of twenty centaur warriors. She greeted us warmly, looking much refreshed, although her wounds had yet to completely heal. She led us to a circle near by a small creek where we watered and fed our horses. Then we joined them around a large fire as dusk settled the land to pass around the “peace” pipe.

“Look you guys, we got off on the wrong foot,” she said. “I talked to my mom and as long as we have our autonomy I think we can get along.”

They wanted us to guarantee that we will not clam their area east of the mountains.

“What will we get in return?” Cane asked.

“You don’t get war with us.”

We laughed nervously and took another puff from the pipe.

“Seriously, what have you got to trade?”

Parlay

“We carry what we need on our backs," she replied exhaling smoke through her nostrils. "We feed our bellies and then we move on.”

“We make really good rope out of zong fiber,” another giggled.

“Fertilizer,” I suggested as a trade good to raucous laughter. I had to laugh, too. In fact everything seemed funny.

“We will guarantee your independence,” Chairman Lev proclaimed to gales of laughter. Then he pulled out our map of the region to pass around, broad black x’s covering a wide space east of the mountains, and the laughter died.

“Is that it?” Xamanthe said with a look of outrage. “That’s all I get?”

“That’s all from the territory we own,” Trask shrugged.

“We can help you take other territory,” Cane offered unhelpfully.

This did little to placate her. “It seems to me someone is trying to steal everything we own. I won’t let these farmers of yours,” she sneered, “disrupt my Nomen’s ancestral grounds!”

“We won’t touch your lands and as long as you don’t disturb ours . . .”

“We’ll pass through if we want to,” she sniffed.

“Exactly,” he agreed. “You won’t have problems with us.”

“We’re neighbors and that’s how neighbors are,” Cane added, for once forgetting how much he loathes neighbors.

“Until someone puts up fences, man,” Trask whispered fretfully. “I tell you, this is not going to end well!”

We negotiated for hours as she continued passing around her pipe while expertly wheedling every possible concession from us. “We have sacred lands up here where we find sacred mushrooms and so forth,” she said, eyes half closed, a smile playing on her lips. “We go on vision quests.”

“All right, all right,” we conceded in resignation. Always remember this, dear Pino, “Good neighbors make good fences.”

Statue of Vordakai in Tuskland

Afterward we opened Zzamas’s chest—remember the giant phase spider lady from the ethereal plane?—where we found:

• wand of dimension door with 22 charges
• spellbook worth 2475 gold

Finally, it was our great joy to return to Tuskland where we were greeted by Bert Askew, who laughed with joy when one of his messenger birds saluted me with a streak of off-white droppings across my broad black hat. His smile quickly faded, though, as he read the contents of the letter, which arrived from our neighbors to the west. It was the mayor of Tatzylford, Loy Rezbin, beseeching our help against “armies of bandits.” So once again I leave my bed unrumpled as I ride to defend our land and the dreams of your father.

With regrets at not seeing you,
Uncle Marquand

* Expected apologies to David Porter, Sam Moore, and Isaac Hayes (not to mention Booker T. & the M.G.’s). 

Letter Nineteen—Bird is the Word

The next morning, after a hearty breakfast of roc-sausage, groats, and centaur milk we kissed Xamanthe goodbye and hurried back to the island to the long, dark tunnel where I’d poked my head in the day earlier. After about 100 yards we came to a closed door where the room was empty except for shelves and a few bits of pottery—a burial ground.

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We were immediately set upon by two soul eaters, attacking Sizzles and myself. As you know from your studies a soul eater has, “Two elongated and deathly pallid arms protruding from its smoky body as it slithers silently through the air. The soul eater prowls and hunts, constantly seeking living souls upon which to gorge itself.”

I remembered Bert Askew cackling as he told us about the abilities of the soul eater during one of his interminable lectures. “When they’ve deprived you of all your wisdom,” he leered, “that’s when they suck up your soul!”

And that’s what they were doing to me, I felt myself grow woozy, my thoughts unravel. But whatever my problems were, they were far worse for Sizzles who, with a low moan, fell unconscious to the floor. Knowing that the best way to protect her was to kill the creatures before they could drain her life force, Cane and I softened them up for Trask to kill.

Being unable to revive the unconscious Sizzles and unwilling to leave her behind, Cane carried her around his neck like a big fur collar. Perhaps I only imagined that I could hear her purring.

We had three doors to search, Cane checking for traps as we entered the first one. There was a shoulder-height stone bench against the far wall. Apparently, this chamber was used to prepare the dead for internment, littered with stone vases and bronze funerary tools. A man-sized statue of a swayback humanoid, hand clamped over his single eye, stood morosely against the north wall. Cane set Sizzles down gently.

“A brain-poker,” Trask said cheerfully, picking a device with a sharp round prod at one end. (“Worth about 350 gold,” I imagined Bert Askew saying, rubbing his hands with glee.)

Behind a secret door we found another empty room, walls patterned with large staring eyes, all honing onto one spot on the north wall where a carving of a giant stylized eye loomed, the pupil an intricately engraved relief about the size of the palm of my hand.

We studied it for some time, even dangling the bracelet in front of it. We could tell that strong conjuration magic was emanating from there but we eventually admitted defeat, reluctantly leaving it for a later time.

Public Domain*

The next room’s walls were covered in lime-plaster frescos, colors vibrant, of swayback cyclopes when they ruled these lands.

We returned to the larger room, searching its alcoves carefully in growing frustration. “Vordakai come out!” Lev shouted, voice echoing unanswered in the darkness

Behind yet another door we found a tunnel rank with the stench of sulfur and tar, leading to a fetid lake of burning black tar. In the gloom I could see milky water bubbling from the rock walls of the far side where a stony shelf emerged beneath a door swollen in its frame. The broken stumps of two support posts protruded where a wooden bridge once spanned the morass.

On the ledge an ancient zombie wizard stood—human, its flesh foul and blackened by the room’s vapors, standing motionless, wearing tatters of robes, jaw slack, holding in its fist a curved knife.

“I don’t suppose you could lower a cage for us, sir?” Cane called, setting Sizzles down. He and Trask unlimbered their longbows, raining a terrible storm of arrows upon the hapless creature. Shredded like Opparan beef, it toppled headlong into the tarpit.

Thanks to his ring of freedom of movement Cane was able to ignore the clinging effect of the boiling tar—if not its burning—to quickly retrieve the zombie’s corpse, returning with it to the ledge where it had stood for so long. It carried:

• +1 silver dagger
• +2 ring of protection
• book in tar-stained pouch

With a howl of glee Trask loped to the edge of the tar and flung himself across, landing atop the zombie and causing its intestines to squirt like snot out of Little Billee’s nose. Cane then carried the rest of us across, including his beloved wolf, still unconscious.

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As Vlad healed a miserable and scorched Cane we forced our way through the tightly jammed door onto a rock fall, then followed a corridor leading to a stairwell. We continued like this until reaching one more set of doors.

Behind them was a large chamber where shadows vied for attention with a scene of carnage so gruesome that, dear Pino, I pause here to remind myself that it is my duty to inform you of the horror that inhabits our world, so that you may be better prepared for life in this world when I'm no longer here to protect you.

A great stone table occupied the center of the room, seated around it were nearly three dozen men, women, and children slumped in their death throes, mouths agape in terror, heads broken open and their brains removed, all that’s left of the poor citizenry of Varnhold, their rigor jaws screaming one word:

"Justice!"

At the head of the table was a regally dressed gentleman, heavy gouts of dried blood staining his jacket and pieces of his brain, one eye looking bemused, as if he was about to ask a question, the other hanging forlornly from his head. On his hand an ornate ring with an emblem that I recognized as the state seal of Varnhold. He was the honorable Maegar Varn. Who, or what, brought them here? Does Xamanthe know?

That’s when we noticed there were zombies in the house.

Vlad quickly blessed us as we moved to confront them. I shot one but by then he was at me, chopping away with his honking big great-axe. If it’d had lips it would have smacked them with anticipation. I could hear Lev telling us how wonderful we were from the alcove. “Believe in yourselves,” he called just as a second cyclops closed in on me, growling through rotted vocal cords. “I’ll be able to do more soon,” Lev added helpfully.

Trask filled one of them with arrows and Cane finished him. Vlad cast holy smite, blinding a couple of them.

“Poppa poppa oom mow mow poppa oom mow mow mow!” Trask yelled with excitement. "Bird bird bird, bird is the word!" he continued inexplicably. “I have heard that the bird is the word!”

I hit the one who had wounded me while moving under cover from the other at my colleagues’ urging. Three more of the creatures lurched toward Cane who was badly injured, reeling from his wounds.

I killed one, his flesh soft, putrid, in my grasp, immediately piercing another one with an arrow. Cane fought back furiously as Trask’s arrows severed one cyclops zombie's medulla oblongata neatly, horizontally and vertically. “That’s why they call me the black bisector,” he bragged while his eyes searched the room for other targets.

The tide of the battle quickly turned in our favor and soon the room was dead quiet again except for the sound of Vlad’s healing prayers. I reflected on the nature of a being that could direct such carnage. Oh Pino, I have fought many dangerous and powerful creatures, both human and otherwise, and I've walked in the land of the dead with the queen of Korvosa, but for once I can honestly say: I am afraid.

Cane must feel the same way because I saw him tense as his skin turned rough and bark-like, like a cat fluffs its tail. I've never seen him do that except when Sizzles needs a scratching post when molting.

We entered a crypt next, floor strewn with rubble and the offal of open graves. On the floor was a corpse of a middle-aged blond-haired ulfen man, dead nearly two weeks. But his spirit remained as an angry dark spectre that charged us in fury. We sent him to his ancestors.

Thanks to Paizo

At the back end of the room stairs ascended to a landing where we found another secret door. Behind it a bubbling fountain stinking of sulfur disappeared into a sluice cut in the stone of the floor where it flowed beneath bronze double doors.

“Bleeargh!” A water elemental erupted from its depths, flinging itself at us like the proverbial surfin’ bird. Fire and searing light quickly tamed its roiling waves and soon we were immersed in warm steam. There we paused.

Vordakai, I promise you one thing only—Justice!

Sleep peacefully sweet princess,
Uncle Marquand

*The Cyclops Polyphemus—Annibale Carracci

Letter Eighteen—Xamanthe Silverfire

Dear Pino,
We returned to action with another long argument over how far Cane can swim underwater. But when Cane actually swam down the steps he quickly found the way back out, steps leading up into a large room.

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There was pottery everywhere, many graven with black and white images of flowers, cities, and one-eyed cyclopes engaged in worship, fighting, and athletic contests. Surprisingly, considering the rascals cyclopes are, none of the images involved making love. Instead there were depicted vicious confrontations between cyclopes and centaurs. We recognized the design (thanks to one of Bert Askew’s lectures) as belonging to the ancient Casmaron empire. Lev and Trask quickly stacked them into our bag of holding next to the roc eggs.

Cane and Trask led the way to a set of bronze double doors, opening them with a noisy rasp. Inside, we passed two shallow alcoves, each harboring the painted statue of a fierce cyclops warrior, before reaching a room crowded with sixteen more. At least a dozen had been vandalized. That's when one of them lurched angrily to life.

“Rawlargh! Rawlaaaargh!” it cried, hitting Sizzles with a stroke of its battleaxe, slamming her to the ground, and then taking a big bite out of the wolf, who whined, fighting back desperately.

Trask quickly shot a flurry of arrows into the cyclops’s head until it looked like a walking pincushion, its head as soft as an overripe cheese.

Lev told us what a great job we were doing and that with a little more effort we’d send this creature to the ancient gods where it belonged and, sure enough, with my next shot I finished it off.

Cane watched anxiously as Vlad ministered to his grievously injured wolf and, before long,  Sizzles was limping gamely along behind us. A secret door hid a portcullis blocking our way. That’s when we noticed the  large shuttered gates in the ceiling.

“Uh oh,” someone muttered as they ratcheted open, the river rushing through. Worse, the deluge was accompanied by an enraged moray eel that fell right on top of my head. Fortunately, the torrent rushing through the ceiling swept me away from its snapping jaws. As the water filled the room to waist level I struggled to reach Cane, trying to lift the portcullis, but slipped and fell underneath. Meanwhile, Trask was using the eel for target practice as Cane just managed to lift the gate open. That's when another dread zombie cyclops emerged from the room behind us.

“Yuck, if we kill them all the room will be filled with dead zombie juice,” Cane complained unhappily, coughing out a mouthful of water.

Lev made a quick speech encouraging us to follow him under the portcullis. Trask followed, taking a hit from the zombie. The second zombie attacked Vlad as he swam gratefully under the portcullis. I slashed at it but missed as I ducked behind Vlad. Finally, Sizzles and Cane emerged as the trap slid back into place. We could hear the zombies grunting as they tried to lift it.

Steps, hewed from "living" stone led up to a shrine where softly colored slate tiled the floor and pillars were carved in the likeness of leering fiends. Friezes on opposite walls depicted processions of animal-headed creatures marching along a black river’s bank. As the pilgrims reached the far corners of the shrine they approached a shadowy creature awaiting them in his sinister longboat. An altar stood beneath each twin and between them was a bronze double door. The doors were decorated with a mosaic of a winding river crafted with obsidian tiles. We were in a shrine dedicated to Charon, one of the Horsemen of Death. The smoke of the shrine lamps symbolize the rising spirits of the dead as they approach the river Styx.

“That’s nice,” Cane said approvingly.

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A third altar stood near where we’d entered. On it was another basin and unlit lamp. I remembered Bert Askew telling us, "In some temples lamps such as these are magic keys used to help seal doorways." just then we heard the portcullis roll up and soon we were fighting zombies again. Sizzles took his revenge on the nearer one as Cane ignited his flaming sword and, with Lev and Vlad’s help, finished them off. Blocked from the battle by combatants, Trask and I ducked through the farther door where a long tunnel disappeared into darkness.

When we returned we found Cane bleeding profusely into a ceramic drinking cup, at one of the altars. They'd found the cup there, recently used to collect blood for a sacrifice. As Vlad lit the lantern Cane offered himself. He was about to drink his own blood when we stopped him.

"Dude, that's messed up," Trask said, objecting. But after trying every way of offering bloody sacrifice we could think of we gave up and let him pollute himself further. Quaffing his life's blood like a light ale, he watched smugly as the doors opened with a rusty squeak.

One way led to a dead end but from the other a hideous monster emerged out of the darkness. It was part lobster, part octopus, and part human—a piscodaemon’s caress is not a loving one. To quote your picture book, Tintin and the Throne of Flies: “Blistering blue barnacles, these aquatic daemons roam the lower planes sowing misery and blight, threatening enemies with powerful claws and writhing tentacles! They delight in drawn-out deaths, poisoning creatures or dismembering victims to watch them slowly bleed out!”

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“He’s going to taste nice with a little bit of butter,” Cane said, smacking his lips.

That’s when Trask heard a voice speaking to him from inside his head. “In whose name do you dare intrude upon the inner sanctum of the horseman of death?” it snarled.

“The one true god, Aroden,” Trask thought in return, which is a shame because the right answer was Vordakai. Puzzled, we watched Trask strut around in silence as he debated the piscodaemon in his head, “Aroden’s dead, son! He’s the dead god!—his death heralded the end of prophecy! What do you say about that?”

“You shall die,” it answered succinctly.

“We shall use you for a soup base,” Cane told it when he heard the news.

I didn’t help our cause by missing my first thrust, although Trask found his target. “Ha hah ha hah ha!” he crowed before it swept forward, embracing him in its poisonous tentacles. Cane stabbed it but I completely missed my next two strokes, like a boy with his stick. Lev somehow called a fire elemental into being but, having no use for it, he blasted a sonic honk at the piscodaemon. With Trask's encouragement it left our plane of existence with a loud pop.

The next room was circular, held up with masonry columns grouped to form shallow alcoves. In the center one immense pillar held up the flat ceiling of the chamber. Manacles hung in each alcove and ancient bloodstains in most. Across the room a young female centaur stared vacantly at us. Manacled, she had been beaten an humiliated, bewilderment dazed her eyes.

Thinking she was under a spell I cast dispel magic over her but it didn’t help. Lev suggested using one of our scrolls of remove paralysis instead.

“Let’s tie her up first,” Cane blurted. “As soon as we let her go she’s going to go psycho!”

“We’re here to help her!” Trask objected, horrified.

“We’ll let her go if she’s sensible.”

“I have a freaking!" Lev started, waving his arms frantically. "I can calm people relatively well!” he finally said. He then turned to her. “I free you from your shackles in the name of Milani!”

She was bewildered at first but quickly assessed her situation.

“Who are you guys?”

“We were sent by your mamma,” Cane replied.

“Aecora Silverfire,” Trask reminded him. “And you’re Xamanthe.”

“Are we still in the . . . tomb?”

 “Yes.”

“How did you get stuck here?” Cane asked.

She sighed. “I underestimated that frickin’ dread zombie cyclops! Other than that . . . in and out memories. A nearly skeleton cyclops would come and visit me. It was a giant thing. A glowing gem wedged in its eye socket.

"It told me, ‘You should be honored to be a guest of Vordakai, beast woman.” She pondered us with a tear stained look. “He promised to return when, ‘Your fear and dread drive all semblance of will from your mind at which time you will thank me for these gifts of pain!’” she wailed. “Then he would laugh.”

“Probably shouldn’t look at the eye,” Lev speculated.

"That was Vordakai—an ancient enemy of my tribe!” She said, disbelieving her own eyes.

“Um, hmm.”

“An ancestral boogieman, if this truly was that. Pshaw!” she spat. “I can’t believe those old tales.”

“The good news is that you’re free to go,” Trask said graciously. We wasted several minutes arguing about the best way out without wading through floating zombie guts or tipping off Vordakai. Finally, Lev said with some exasperation, “I need to rest!”

I guess we all did. We returned the way we came in, wading through the rotting water and lifting the portcullis. Having no more trouble with zombies, we emerged into the golden late-afternoon sun, the air smelling of early summer flowers. At our camp, we fed and watered Xamanthe, before stabling her for the night. In the morning we’ll bid her goodbye and safe journey before finishing this business with Vordakai.

Eat your vegetables,
Uncle Marquand

Letter 17—An Eye for an Eye

Dear Pino,
We made camp away from the island in a quiet spot that offered cover and good line of sight.

Cane, unusually loquacious, shared the nature of his love for Sizzles as the rest of us prepared to bed down. It sounds very similar to something Little Billee tried with his cat, and you saw what came of that—they almost didn’t get the bleeding to stop. At least the cat is safe, although we won’t know if Billee’s the same until adolescence.

Cane volunteered to take the first watch, prowling the perimeter of our camp like the wolf he holds so dear. All was quiet once Lev and Trask stopped arguing about the names our new towns would bear (Ilsagrad and Varnville). the next thing I knew I awoke to Cane’s sunrod blazing forth. At first I thought I was dreaming because I couldn't make sense of what I was seeing. It looked like Cane was wrestling with shadows—shadows with claws! It was a soul eater from Beyond.

Soul Eater

Quoting from the school textbook: “Summoned forth from the inky swamps of Abaddon, a soul eater is an extraplanar entity devoid of emotion or reason and possessing a hunger that may only be sated by devouring the souls of the living. They are often conjured by vile spellcasters pursuing morbid agendas. Even when not seeing to the heinous commands of a sinister magic user, the soul eater prowls and hunts, constantly seeking living souls upon which to gorge itself.”

“Good thing I’m soulless,” Cane laughed, returning to the battle with a loud and nasty thunderstrike. He stared at the creature in dismay as it cackled maniacally, “Hee hee haha ahhaw heh heh ehe ehe heh ha ha hah ha ha ha!” while raking him savagely.

Trask hit it with three arrows to little avail as Lev began spouting his familiar “You guys are great,” speech and we all felt a little better about ourselves. I stepped up, took a couple of licks from the monster, and returned its affections with strong slashes from my sword.

Suddenly a burst of noise erupted from Vlad buffeting the creature. Trask followed with a single shot but deadly aim. Sizzles then ripped into the soul eater ferociously as it flew into shreds about her head like chicken feathers from a slain hen.

It was still dark so we tried to resting until dawn came glimmering from the east. I found myself gazing at the north star and wondering what you were dreaming. Ever since the owlbear rampaged through Tuskland I’ve seen how little my protection is worth when I'm away. Gods bless Bert Askew, but I doubt if his noodle arms could fight anything larger than a housecat.

With a start, I realized that it was morning, awakening to the sound of Sizzles whining piteously. “She had a bad dream,” Cane said, rubbing the back of her neck. “It was a Cyclops, old as the hills with a glowing red eye.”

“And he probably chased his tail!” Trask scowled as I hastily folded my blankets. “Are you really trying to relate to us what Sizzles saw in a dream?” he scoffed.

“Yes, I am,” Cane replied, taken aback. “And Sizzles is a she.”

I sat by the fire as they bickered, drinking a hot cup of coffee. A half moon was waning at the edge of the sky. Then we packed our camp and saddled up, Lev and Cane in the lead.

Copyright Paizo

Before long, over the distant scrub, we could see a tower jutting up. We came to a rushing river where we saw an island—a large rock, really—at the tower’s base. It was Vordakai's Tomb, the place from where no one returns. A hundred feet of water separated us. Tethering the horses we unfolded our boat, making for the island. At the foot of the cliff, where the beach was rimmed by a limestone scarp, there was a dark opening in the stone, partially obscured by creepers. Cane noticed tracks in the mud. Three creatures had passed this way over the previous three weeks: the first was human, the second was something very large, and, most recently, unshod horse hooves—a centaur. 

“This makes me angry,” Cane muttered.

Lev led the way in. It was very dark and I walked careful of debris on the ground. Lev reported that there were arches overhead, stopping us before we crossed their plane. He said runes were writ there—a magic ward. Lev and Trask moved ahead while I cast light and the rest of us explored the alcoves. We found human tracks, going into and then returning from the tunnel ahead. The huge footprints emerged while the centaur’s entered.

Farther along we found an amphora that had been broken open, spilling 689 ancient gold pieces. Each was stamped on one side with the image of an all-seeing eye, a clenched fist dominated the other. Buried in the coins was a jade bracelet—the one described by Master Pendrod!

“Worth 200 gold on eFey,” Cane joked.

Rubble lay strewn on the ground. As we collected the coins our colleagues went ahead, peering around a bend in the tunnel. Lev noted that the entire structure of the tomb was imbued with preserving magic.

That’s when they spied a large creature shambling unaware towards us, a zombie cyclops!

With Lev whispering encouragement in his ear Trask let fly with a flaming arrow.

“Querrowlowlowl!” we heard it howl as the arrow hit true.

Through the wall there was a muffled “Querrowlowlowl!” in answer.

Cane quickly followed up the attack, cutting a large bloodless hunk from its pale flesh. I cast hide from undead and moved forward but the fight was quickly over when Vlad blew it away using a spell of searing light.

The muffled growling became more distinct as stones tumbled from the wall and another zombie cyclops broke through.

This time Vlad’s searing light failed miserably—perhaps his powder wasn’t dry. Trask calmly filled it with arrows as Cane’s sword fell so heavily that its blue spine went spiraling through the air all by itself.

We collected their masterwork battleaxes and moved through a door into a large cavern with stalactites dripping from the roof. A wide pool filled the chamber except for a narrow shelf hugging the wall at the level of the river outside. We saw no tracks. Lev noticed that there were stairs in the river going down. Cane stripped to his trunks, much less shy now that Piea has left our group. He had hardly disappeared down the steps when we saw the water begin to roil.

“I like watching the failure of others,” Trask smirked, “especially if it was my action that sent them to their doom.”

What Cane had encountered was an Elasmosaurus. I’ll leave it to you to research the creature but, needless to say, it was large and vicious. Bleeding badly, Cane cried, “Look at my side! I’ve got a chunk out of it! That was a bad idea.”

Elasmosaurus--Public Domain

“We’ve got to kill it because there’s stuff down there,” Trask grumbled.

“Well, I’m not going to be bait for it!” Cane said hotly.

“Let’s stop being little girls about this and let’s go get this done, buttercups,” Trask growled, frowning with his one good eye.

I cast spiritual weapon and gingerly placed it under the water. The creature sat unperturbed as it popped away at him. Cane, healed somewhat by Vlad, swaggered back into the water after the creature, getting bitten once again. I heard Vlad screech in pain, realizing that he had cast friend shield, taking half of Cane’s damage.

Trask shot an arrow into the water, nicking it. I tried, too, but hit Cane instead. I heard a curse bubble from the water

“Ha ha ha ha,” Trask shouted. “How delicious! Friends make the best enemies!”

Sizzles entered the fray but the creature matched him bite for bite. Then it turned to lash at Cane again but this time he was ready. With the flash of his blade the fight was over.

We found that it had been protecting a pouch containing a silver raven figurine of wondrous power and a ring of freedom of movement. We quickly rolled dice for possession of the ring and, for once, the gods smiled on Cane.

The firelight is getting dim and I must get some rest before I go on watch. I’ll continue this story next time.

Always true,
Uncle Marquand

Letter 16—It Meant Goodbye to Me When You Said Hello to Him

Dear Pino,
Ah, Tuskland, I’m always amazed at the sturdy pride of our little town. The streets are clean and most of the citizens are in bed by midnight. They worship the gods of their choice unless it involves bloodletting, soul-slaving, or the undead. Most of all they respect Erastil’s bounty.

Then again, there are the disaffected few, the ones who were disappointed that we’d returned emptyhanded from the quests we’d been given. We let them talk with Sizzles first, that usually settled their hash. Only the Stumble Inn’s chef seemed bemused at the fuss, offering us another quest, this time to find him a roc’s egg for a giant omelet he’s planning for Founding Day.

We'd also left the construction material we'd found behind. Lev was unconcerned, “Que sara sara,” he sang briefly before catching himself. “What will be will be.”

The night of the first full moon after we'd returned we met at the Stumble Inn, a strange brooding in the air. Kelm looked a whiter shade of pale, declaring loudly that there was an “omen a-portending” and running off to his tower. I felt a headache, a migraine less painful than disorienting. There was a bright white flash and then it was morning and I was lying on the floor. Most of us escaped with only bruises and scrapes (except for a cook who had fallen into a tub of boiling lard), but Lev was affected in a different way.

“I’m finally free to me myself!” he exalted, springing to his feet. He gave a speech explaining how things had suddenly changed for the better. We were all at a loss of what to say when a stranger emerged from the back, a man as ugly as a turn down a blind alley. Powerfully built, carrying a bow, he strode forward confidently. One eye was covered with a patch and his skin shone the gray-green of the half-orc. “I’m Trask of the Hundred Arrows,” he said in a voice like sandpaper on a rough board.

Trask

Lev seemed offended. “How can you shoot accurately with only one eye?” he scoffed.

“The arrow knows the way!” Trask replied smugly as he bellied up to the bar despite the early hour. He was a “zen archer,” he said, meaning that he is one with his weapon—Erastil’s weapon.

Piea had disappeared as soon as we reached town and we never saw her again. Adventuring with us lost its charm when she met Arven. Rumor has it that she’s also taken up with a pretty minstrel boy passing through town and, with Arven slung over her broad shoulder, head poking out of his sack curiously, has left town with him for parts unknown. Don’t be hurt that she didn’t stop to wish you goodbye, Pino. Many will pass through your life like the scent of lilacs on a balmy day. Wish her the best of luck, dear girl, and say a prayer for her men, too.

Kelm refused to leave his tower. “I’ve got to think about things,” he said as he shut the door. A lock clicked in place. Then another. And a third.

“We’ve lost two people here,” Lev groused, deciding to approach the ugly bowman we’d met earlier. “How good are you with that thing?” he asked pointing at the bow.

The man surveyed him carefully, noting his youth, the wisp of beard on his face, the scars earned in battle. “I’m the fastest you’ve seen but I’m not as good as those who come before,” he replied modestly.

“Show me.”

Before Lev could take a breath five arrows pinned a serving boy to the wall by his clothing, without giving him a single scratch. “I spent my youth in a cloister in Magnimar,” Trask rasped by way of explanation, “and I’m looking for work.”

“You are a very good bowman,” Lev cooed, inviting him to our table.

There were some dirty looks from some of our neighbors but Trask seemed unconcerned. “It’s okay, I’ve lived with this my entire life,” he said. “People are racists.”

Well, that got Lev worked up so he gave a speech before suddenly breaking into song, “about the Blackjack Davy,” and soon had the crowd holding hands and singing along with him.

“Guantanamera . . . Guajira Guantanamera
G-u-a-n-t-a-n-a-m-e-r-a
Guajira G-u-a-n-t-a-n-a-m-e-r-a”

People soon lost interest in Trask anyway, finding it far more entertaining to gossip about the change that's occurred in Lev since the full moon. To many, his coming out was shocking. “Yes,” Lev stated humbly, “I’m a Bard! I always was at heart.”

The gossips claim Lev changed as the result of jealousy over the attention Skot Skevins gets from the ladies, especially his lady, Ilse, who has often been observed in the company of Skevins while Lev is out adventuring with us. Still others attribute the “Curse of Gyronna.” Whose to say? At least Gyronna’s eyeball is safely locked in the mage's tower with Kelm.

Curious that the bowman might be a devotee of Erastil I ask him about his belief. “Let me tell you something about the gods,” he answered lightly. “They’re just here to make your life miserable.”

Don’t be alarmed at this answer, Pino. Many scorn the gods even as they bend to their will.

Lev surprised us further by revealing that he is also an accomplished tattoo artist, offering all of us magical tattoos. You can imagine my amazement as he’s given no hint of this talent before. It's like learning that your cat can read!

We filled Trask in on the shenanigans we’d uncovered in Varnhold. I wanted to talk about all the loose ends we’d left dangling but Lev was having none of it. We argued about the eventual border of Tuskland on the east and whether or not we wanted to incorporate Varnhold. I think it is an accursed place that no one will want to inhabit, the others see it as a resource, or at the very least a border town.

“It seems like we’re spending a long time on the destination when we could be on the journey,” Trask grumbled with some justification.

So once again we headed for the Tors of the Levenies, this time with a taciturn monk instead of a voluble fighter and self-absorbed oracle. Along the way we asked about a large black bird that has been terrorizing the countryside. We were told that it nested atop a place called Talon Peak—not because of the bird living there but because of the jagged ruins atop it, like a claw extended.

Talon Peak

“We’ll try and do it sneakylike and if we can’t we’ll do it sneakylike we’ll do it violentlike,” Lev said as we observed the roc’s aerie.

“In other words, we’re probably going to get violent,” Cane replied, “because we’re not very sneaky.”

“I know not what you speak of,” Trask objected. “I am very quiet.”

“I hope so, because I hate your voice,” Cane growled in reply.

Trask eyed him evenly. “Why don’t you come over and do something, buttercup?” he asked quietly.

Cane just laughed.

We observed the nest for a full day while awaiting the roc’s return. Its tower was an ancient thing of elven design seemingly here as long as the mountains. Trask volunteered to go up first but Lev reasoned that since he was the best archer he should stay below and watch for the roc’s return. Lev then asked Cane to try but he failed to scale its steep side. I did a little spelunking as a lad so I was the next up. Finding a rope in my backpack I tied Lev’s hook to it.

Meanwhile, my colleagues continued their stealthy ways by arguing over whether or not Trask could jump all the way to the top. He bounced past me several times before I was finally safely above him and soon I was at the alone.

I found that the nest had four eggs, each one weighing nearly 200 pounds. Laying our bag of holding on its side I was just able to muscle in two of the eggs where there were held weightless in extra-dimensional space. I wanted to crawl in after them when I heard a shout from below and realized that the roc was returning, honing in on me like Little Billee on a corndog. Hurriedly, I tossed the bag over the side, flinging myself after, hitting bottom with a painful thud. “Nice of you to join the fray,” Cane laughed softly at the sound of my groans.

Paizo Publishing

The boys peppered the roc as it squawked above us, retreating behind the crumbled tower wall but, before I could join them the roc descended upon me with vengeance in its eye, biting and grasping with its talons, carrying me aloft to drop on the rocks below. Suddenly, with a thump, I was back with my colleagues on the ground thanks to Lev’s new spell, dimensional hop. The only drawback was that my ears were assaulted with Lev’s singing, “To inspire courage,” he trilled.

I immediately cast searing light at the roc as it beat its wings furiously to escape overhead. Soon it was gyring high into the sky.

“We should probably kill it so it doesn’t attack one of our cities,” Trask stated drily, suddenly devoid of his growly voice and sounding remarkably like Kelm. “By the way, everybody knows about the owlbear that attacked some podunk village in the south,” he taunted us like a schoolyard bully. “Everybody’s laughing about it up in Restov. Was he that big, really?”

“Go see for yourself,” I protested. “We mounted it in Tuskland!”

“Everybody thinks that thing is stuffed,” he replied, aiming his bow at the giant creature above us, so far awya that it looked no larger than a rook. Lev directed his song toward him in support as Trask released his arrows. We endured his smug self-high-five as the roc quickly spiraled back to earth, crashing bitterly nearby. Even a roc loves its children, Pino.

We climbed back up to the nest to retrieve the last two eggs and search for things left by its victims. Meanwhile, Lev and Trask hiked over to the dying bird. “We need to take him back,” Trask insisted, “because he’s the People’s Roc!”

As in Varnhold I got the feeling that we were being observed.

“It could be the fey,” Trask shrugged. “It could be the centaurs, it could be ‘the area,’ or you could be crazy.” He jumped casually off the side of the tower intending to feather fall below. I could hear the sound of the air whistling through the fletching of his arrows, receding until a distant bang was heard.

“Ouch!” echoed satisfyingly to our ears.

We camped near the tower that night, seeing a mountain goat and a shooting star. “I will go and meditate on this,” Trask said, taking his leave. Spring is well along, even in the mountains, although it was still good to have a campfire’s warmth. We retired for the evening while our zen monk watched over us from afar. Lev and Vlad, who are like brothers—even two halves of the same mind—shared a bunk by an old oak tree. Cane has his Sizzles to spoon with, her fur so warm he doffs his clothing before grooming her. I settled into a nook near the fire where I write you this letter while waiting for sleep to come.

It’s a hard life but I do it without complaint because I believe in the vision your father shared with me when he first told me about his dream of settling the Stolen Lands. At first, of course, I was incredulous, but later, as I reflected on my life as a functionary in a corrupt system, settling disputes amicable between rapacious lords while hanging their servants for the same crimes, I began to envy him, daring to think that Erastil might find a use for me as well.

The next day we returned to Varnhold but finding that nothing had changed except the yards were now overgrown and the stink of the dead had resided. We then skirted the mountains to the south before ending in a valley where a stream rushed down from the mountains. The way was littered with boulders and other signs of ancient glaciation. As we passed one formation we heard a strange, buzzing voice calling out, “You . . . you’ll help me, yes?”

“Who are you, yes?” Lev asked as we peered into the shadow of an outcropping.

Paizo Publishing

A dark shape moved hesitatingly forward. “Help me, yes?” It said, this time in Aklo. “I have . . . problems . . . stay back, you probably wouldn’t like the looks of me. Step back and we can talk.”

Leading our horses away from the creature we waited for the creature to slowly emerge from the shadow—one, two, four, eight spindly legs with an immense spider’s body and the head of a human.

“Is she pretty?” Cane asked, struggling to see.

“You do know that spiders eat their mates?”

“My name is Zzamas,” she said quietly. “Near here is a point where the boundary between the ethereal plane and the material plane is thin. I have become trapped here by a group of xill who seek to capture me. If you will help me I will give you a fancy chest.”

Zzamas is what is known as a “phase spider,” which means she moves from the ethereal plane to ours, usually to hunt. Phase spiders hate the xill the way little Billee hates soap and water. As you’ve learned from school, the xill are not only evil, but righteous about it, which is far worse.

“You help me, yessss?” she asked again, waving two legs rhythmically like a conductor.

“We seek a tower,” Trask interrupted, using his new city accent.

“The ghost stone,” she continued faintly, voice nearly overwhelmed by rushing water. “There is a monolith near here where the xill are encamped.”

“Um-hmm-hmm-hmm!” Lev hummed like a tuning fork with anticipation.

“There are six of them.”

“And you’re going to help us fight them?”

“Yesss!”

“I think we can trust her,” Lev cautioned as we readied to horses to ride, “but be ready just in case.”

Zzamas led us back out of the valley and around the mountains to the east. “The xill and phase spiders are long-time enemies,” she lisped breathlessly the few times we could coax the horses near enough to hear her speak. “It’s territorial. You wouldn't understand. Ghost stone. You wouldn’t understand. You know nothing.”

Toward late afternoon we came upon a stone gray monolith. The spire was fifteen feet high, its weathered  sides decorated with archaic elven runes. The xill were camped nearby, no doubt cheating at cards and waiting for Zzamas's return to grab her. "Watch out for their bite," she whispered, "it paralyzes."

Paizo

We caught them daydreaming—Cane, Trask, and myself poring arrows into their position like hail. Then I pulled out my sword and charged. They fought back desperately, first Lev and then Vlad succumbing to their bites. But Zzamas’s bite proved much worse—instant, painful death.

Trask was the deciding factor, firing a constant rain of arrows over our remaining foes as first Cane, then Sizzles succumbed to rigid paralysis. I fought with desperation, but thanks to Zzamas and Trask, we finally overwhelmed our xillish foe.

After we’d made sure our paralyzed colleagues were still breathing, Zzamas gave us the chest she’d promised then turned to the ghost stone and disappeared without another word.

On the dead critters we found:

• 5 heavy shields
• 10 short swords
• 10 longbows
• 200 arrows

The chest was worth 5000 gold pieces and is the focus of some sort of spell that we can’t unlock. I tried, as Cane cringed expecting me to be brutally ensorcled but, fortunately, there was no trap.

As the shadows grew long I once again had the feeling that we were being watched and this time Trask told me that he had seen a raven lurking nearby. We discussed whether to return to town with the chest hoping Kelm could find a way to open it, finally deciding to leave this place behind before dark because the ghost stone beginning to glow and we didn't want to spend the night nearby.

The next day we traveled southeast, skirting the plains until we came to a wide valley. Posts tied with bones and skulls stood like sentinels every 50 or 60 feet—a warning from the Nomen. As the foothills grew into mountains so did our sense of foreboding. A mile past the bone totems the first of a vast number of badly weathered gravestones appeared. They bore ancient cyclopean runes.

“Dude,” Trask said, “This is messed up—cyclopean gravestones?”

The valley narrowed as the Levenese towered above us. At its very nape a fifteen foot wide stone staircase ascended as far as the eye could see. Trask took the point as we ascended upward, then down—one mile, two miles, three, four, five. Up ahead a dark shape moved. It’s dead single eye staring at us malevolently.

“Bleargh,” it cried.

Lev the Bard began singing:

Paizo

No cyclops, no cry
No cyclops, no cry
No cyclops, no cry
No cyclops, no cry
Said said
Said I remember when we used to sit
In the government yard in Restov
Oba, ob-serving the hypocrites
As they would mingle with the good people we meet
Good friends we have had, oh good friends we've lost along the way
In this bright future you can't forget your past
So dry your tears I say

No cyclops, no cry
No cyclops, no cry

Oh my Little sister, don't shed no tears
No cyclops, no cry

Said, said, said I remember when we used to sit
In the government yard in Restov
And then Georgie would make the fire light
Log wood burnin' through the night
Then we would cook corn meal porridge
Of which I'll share with you

My feet is my only carriage
So I've got to push on through
But while I'm gone . . .

Everything's gonna be alright
Everything's gonna be alright
Everything's gonna be alright
Everything's gonna be alright
Everything's gonna be alright
Everything's gonna be alright
Everything's gonna be alright
Everything's gonna be alright

No cyclops no cry, no cyclops no cry
No cyclops no cry, no cyclops no cry

Oh my Little darlin', don't shed no tears
No cyclops no cry
Little sister, don't shed no tears
No cyclops no cry

* Many, many, many apologies to the ghosts of Vincent Ford and Bob Marley.

“All right,” said Cane. “An undead cyclops.”

With a shout of poetry Lev staggered it briefly, but then it charged again as Trask spilled its intestines to the ground. Nothing could stop it until it simply stopped.

We garnered:

• Masterwork batttleaxe

We trudged three more miles along the staircase until coming to a place where a jagged limestone cliff ended with a mighty waterfall rushing into a wide black pool. In the center of that pool stood a massive 100 foot plinth of weathered stone—the last lonely sentinel marking where the cliff’s edge once stood. Plumes of water vapor wafted into the sky, 600 feet across.

We decided to rest. Unfortunately, we were spotted by wyverns and attacked from the sky.

Lev started singing:

Wyvern, you won’t do your sister’s will
Wyvern, you won’t do your sister’s will
You went out and harried
But I love you still

**Double sorry, Little Richard

We teamed up to kill them and later Trask showed us how to take out the poison vein. No matter what they say, wyverns are good eatin'.

Which reminds me, be sure to brush your teeth,
Uncle Marquand

Letter Fifteen—Nomen's an Island

In the morning our prayers were answered when Piea rode in with the morning sun. Her sleek skin was well-fed and well-oiled. The life of a married woman seems to be agreeing with her.

“That’s damn good timing,” Kelm said, peering at her nearsightedly through his thick spectacles.

On the back of her horse she was carrying a large burlap sack. Every once in a while the sack would move and a low moan would escape. “Just a bag ’o wildcats,” she said. “Pay it no mind.” When we continued to stare, she shrugged, “Mama said to always keep an eye on your man.”

Arven?

“Arven?”

She glanced back at the sack. “Oh, I let him out once in awhile to play.”

Let this be a lesson to you, Pino:

1. There are all kinds of love.
2. Never let a man put you in a sack.

After breaking our fast with groats we searched the stockade, finding:

• type 2 bag of holding with:
• 6000 gold pieces
• assorted coins and jewelry
• payroll coffer with 500 gp
• gems worth 3500 gp
• +2 defending longsword with the crest of House Varn
• wand of spectral hand with 17 charges
• ring of friend shield
• darkwood and ivory +2 thundering composite longbow (The workmanship consonant with the several of the centaur tribes of Iobaria.)
• building supplies

The longbow is an exquisitely made weapon and I took it gratefully. The bow was heavy and the grip well worn with use. It took all my strength to draw back the string and the power of its strike shook the leaves from the trees and blew up a whirlwind of debris. Lev accepted the ring and Kelm the longsword.

The quarters of the Master Dispatch had been destroyed with all his belongings. It seems spriggans are more interested in destroying than acquiring. We found a few scraps of communication with Restov mentioning conflicts with a tribe of nomadic centaurs known as the Nomen, but no hint at what may have befallen the village.

“Is it possible someone is setting the Nomens up?” Kelm speculated.

That’s when we spied a structure we’d previously overlooked—a sod house sunk into the base of a hill, its heavy oaken door hanging askew. Piea went in cautiously, but found no one there. It had been looted but, typically for the spriggans, they’d overlooked a small wooden box about the size of a wizard’s spellbook containing a healthy wad of zong and a pipe. Lying nearby was a book torn in half along its spine. The writing was in Skald, a language I studied at Academy for its poetry.

It was the journal of Willis Gunderson, a ranger in the company of Maegar Varn. It logged several skirmishes with the Nomen centaurs. The last entry was two weeks before our arrival concerning a minor incident at Varnhold Pass. Six weeks before an entry read: “Found bracelet by the river!” Someone had tried to rip the tough parchment page and failed. The next page was of a single large rune inscribed with charcoal—an arcane elven symbol warding off bad luck.

We headed east onto the plain, finding nothing and no one. After hours riding in the midday sun we suddenly realized that we were riding through a vast tract of large burrows, as if the land had been invaded by a giant race of moles. That’s when the ground began vibrating ominously. With shouts of dismay we dismounted as, with a shriek and a huge spray of dirt, a ferocious, snarling bulette surfaced.

Bullete by Ben Wootten

Bulettes are compared most often to an armored shark, but at least with a shark you can stay in the boat. With the ferocious bulette you generally find a rocky outcropping or die.

Or you fight, which is what we did, and so quickly did my colleagues dispatch the beast that I barely had time to set up my spiritual weapon before it was dead.

Since there was unlikely to be another of the predators within many miles we set up camp for the night and had a good steak dinner. By next morning's light we headed south until happening upon eight centaur warriors. They were not friendly, either, pawing the earth with their front hooves urgently, hands clenching their spears and bows with white-knuckled fury, as if willfully holding them back.

“No tread. Your presence here is dread, mon,” the first one said, shaking her big clumpy spikes of hair.

“It’s Jar-Jar!” someone from the back cried derisively.

“Where did you get that?” another demanded angrily, this time speaking in common, pointing at my new bow.

“We found it in the ruins of Varnhold.”

Loudly, they demanded I return it.

“Take us to your leader and we’ll negotiate,” Lev replied reasonably enough. They bristled nonetheless.

“That’s our Skybolt!" they screamed. "It’s sacred!”

“Please allow us the honor of returning it to your chief,” calmly, Kelm answered them.

Courtesy Paizo

They agreed, grudgingly taking us to their camp, another hour’s ride through a sea of grass. It sat on a low hill. A large bonfire crackled in the center, although they must have traveled dozens of miles to get the wood.  Around it, the tribe’s females sat in a circle, humming. Younger warriors stood outside the circle, cleaning armor, sharpening swords. They took us up to the circle and one of the women, red of hair, approached. She introduced herself as their leader, Aecora Silverfire.

Lev explained that we were investigating the atrocities that had occurred at Varnhold but she only had eyes for the bow. “Where did you get that?” she demanded.

“We found it in the stronghold,” I said. “Some spriggans had it.”

Her voice became as chill as the wind off the lake of Mists and Veils in mid-winter. “There are about 200 warriors here in this camp,” she said in a deep growl. “You need to give me the bow!”

I’m not used to giving in to threats but I also had the desire to see justice done and, obviously, this bow had been obtained by someone through foul play. “I'm honored to return this beautiful weapon to its people,” I said gravely, handing it to her with careful ceremony.

She gazed at it closely before handing it off to another. I could read love there, and fear. “What brings you?” she said, turning back to us.

“We were looking for the Nomen who were responsible for the cleansing of Varnhold,” Kelm replied carefully.

“I know that place. We’ve had our issues with Varnhold.”

“Everyone there has vanished.”

“Why ask me?” After a moment’s pause, “Have you tracked down the Culcheck spriggans? They were probably involved.”

“There were some spriggans there,” Kelm answered. “They were pretty inept. They could not have caused an entire town to disappear.”

“I’m afraid that I can’t help you,” she coldly dismissed us. She's telling the truth, of that I have no doubt.

 We tried to parlay further. I even tried to entice her with a description of PURK’s bountiful zong harvest. Centaurs do love their herb, don’t ask me why, but it might explain their suspicious natures. We made her a present of the box we’d found and its contents.

“Where’d you get that?” she said suspiciously.

“Varnhold,” we spoke as one.

“It belonged to my brother . . . he disappeared about three weeks ago. Did you see any centaurs in Varnhold?”

“There were several skins,” Lev blithely volunteered. A shiver ran up my spine at the look on her face. She said something in a dialect I did not understand but her tone was clear.

Smoke was coming out of Kelm’s ears as he turned toward Lev. “You don’t—what—you don’t—You say, ‘We found some remains that were properly disposed of with all ceremonial rights.’ You don’t say, ‘Yo! We saw some skins!” They continued arguing until suddenly Silverfire spat noisily on the ground.

Piea was about to spit back but we grabbed her in time to avert certain tragedy, or your uncle would not be writing these lines.

“You realize that there are 200 of them surrounding us,” Cane said from the side of his mouth.

“Phaa! That’s what my great-axe is for!” Piea sniffed.

Kelm tried again with the centaur leader. “To show our friendship we returned to you the things that belong to you,” he said, trying to establish a quid pro quo with her, but she was having none of it. “We’re looking for information about Varnhold,” he pleaded, “and what happened to its citizens.”

“I don’t know and I think we should stop talking to each other,” she replied brusquely.

After a short pause Lev decided to push our luck a little further. “We’ll leave you in peace with one final question.”

“Yes?”

“We’re looking for a jade bracelet . . .”

“I don’t know anything about a bracelet.” She turned, walking quickly away as several of her lieutenants closed ranks, scowling down at us.

“Drop by Tuskland sometime,” Lev called after her. “We’d love to see you. . . .”

We gave up with that. Either she cared a great deal, or she cared not at all, either way defeats our purpose. We were given an escort, less for our security than to ensure we didn’t wander back.

Our conclusion was that someone was trying to frame the Nomen for this crime. But whom? What have we missed? Who murdered the spriggans? And why would such an inept bunch then wait around for us to show up and kill them?

We went west next. On one sleepy afternoon we saw some crows by the roadside near a dead mother cat, still protecting her kittens. Piea took one as a pet, stuffing it in the bag with Arven, and I got one for you, too, dear Pino. I’m calling her Sizzles, Jr., but you can call her anything you want.

We returned to Varnhold in hope of finding more clues, but it all came to naught, later earning a scolding from Bert Askew for wasting time. Even so, I had the distinct feeling of being watched while we were there. Where was Maegar Varn? What has the bracelet got to do with things? Who's this Vordakai? We studied the clues we’d been given but drew a blank, like little Billee at show-and-tell. With Lev yawning from boredom we decided to head back the Tuskland.

Studying a map Kelm saw that we could easily take our folding boat down the river to Tuskland.

“That’s smart!” Lev said in astonishment.

“You said that like you were surprised,” Cane replied and we all had a good laugh.

Later, we came back to the mountains at the headwaters of the Shrike River. There we discovered a large, recently vacated cave. Everything inside was smashed.

After following alongside the waters while they raced down a deep ravine to the plain below, we finally found a quiet spot we could unfold our boat to place in the water. It was quite comfy, with room for our horses, men’s and women’s privies, a mess, lounge, rumpus room, and servants' quarters. In a short cove we discovered a smashed rowboat that had recently been unearthed by storm or earthquake. Inside, covered with moss and dirt, grinned a pock-marked skeleton. A gold locket suggested he had died nearly 200 years ago, when this land was Erastil’s.

The water of Lake Silverstep is as clear as winter’s morning, the air as fresh as a bite from a lemon. So it surprised us to see a three mile swath of the northern lakeshore bubbling with sulfurous mud. As much as we wanted to investigate we could not stop, having important business in Tuskland that could not wait.

Nymeria

Ah, it was wonderful to finally be home, sharing dinner with you, Pirna, and Bert. I introduced you to your new little friend, whom you immediately named Nymeria. While you two were getting acquainted I met Bert’s son, little Ernie Askew, who has been living with his aunt in Brunderton until his daddy could send for him. I hope you become great friends.

Later, I went to the tavern to meet with Old Beldame, who promised to tell us what she knew about the centaurs if we stood her for beer—she’s a stout old dame. I saw her give Kelm the eye while she told us about Nomen belief. Apparently, they’re the guardians of an ancient valley in the Dunsward. Concerned, Kelm sent Aecora Silverfire a message by bird feather token asking her to explain this legend. Then he went home with the Old Beldame. Let this be a lesson to you, Pino, never underestimate adversaries or friends.

“According to Nomen tradition,” Bert Askew lectured us in the Common Room two days later after receiving her reply. “Vordekai is a slumbering warlord in the time of the Mother tribes, an ancient power figure,” he said she’d written.

But there was this little bit more. “There is an evil place in her tradition that her tribe is supposed to watch the valley to the west and south against disturbance, a place they call Olah-Kakanket—the Valley of the Dead! Taboo to the Nomen.

“‘Recently one of my scouts,’” he read excitedly, “‘claims that she saw a large lumbering shape amid the stone of the Olah-Kakanket—I can only wonder that maybe your friends from Varnhold awoke this entity.

“‘The scout that saw the shape was my own daughter, Samantha. She has since disappeared and I fear the worst—that she has defied tradition and entered Olah-Kakanket.’”

“Good Lord!”

“And that’s all the information they have. They’ve lost much of their archives in the years following their battles with the Taldorian army.”

Bert tossed the letter into the air. “And this sainted woman is the one you slandered as standoffish!”

“Time to go back,” Kelm and Lev said as one.

“‘I would warn you against going into the valley of the dead’” Bert snatched the letter back from the floor, “‘but if you do and you find clues of my daughter’s disappearance I’ll be very much appreciative.’”

At Kelm’s suggestion we sent her a message thanking her for the information. “When we enter the Valley of the Dead I will make certain to look for your daughter as our paths take us into that dreadful place,” he wrote.

“Are we really going to go back?” Cane asked.

“We have to,” Lev replied. “We have to.”