In the days following their dispatching of the self-made litch and serial killer Torgoth Kemptor, the Hand basked in the adulation of their New District neighbors. Rumors of their involvement in a number of royal events had long been circulating, of course, but as facts were sparse and the heroes reticent, little fuss was made as they went about their daily lives. But the fear that had been aroused by the seeming return of the terror from a generation earlier had brought tensions in the district to a fever pitch – and the relief at the very public rescuing of several of Kemptor’s victims, and the monster’s final demise, was explosive. All the survivors had witnessed the battle between the demonic canary trainer and the Hand, as well as his decapitation and immolation, and they were not reticent about sharing the tale with everyone they knew.
The Green Tower, already a draw for visitors from out of town, quickly became popular with the locals as well. People gathered in the streets around it hoping to catch a glimpse of the heroes coming or going, and repeating all the tales, rumors and garbled history of the Hand of Fortune in breathless admiration. For a tenday vendors insisted on extending bargain prices to all the members of the Hand when they refused outright gifts, folks on the street and in the taverns regarded them with exaggerated respect, and invitations to the homes and social events of the gentle and noble classes increased seven-fold. Alligator skin accessories were a boom business as enterprising entrepreneurs offered belts, shoes and bags allegedly made from the skin of Kemptor’s pets.
Eventually the excitement began to die down, but the perception of the Hand of Fortune as the New District’s own “hometown” band of heroes was firmly established. Through it all, the various members of the Hand dealt with this wave of adulation in their various ways: Mariala was embarrassed but gracious; Vulk was modest and self-depracating (but took every opportunity to bed his new admirers, who were abundant); Devrik was stoic and even more tight-lipped than usual (although Raven and Blackhawk both encouraged him to enjoy the well-earned praise); Erol was gracious and a bit smug (taking it as only the respect due him and his companions); Korwin was smug and aggressively entrepreneurial (he had thought his plans for Canary Killer Ale were as dead as Torgoth Kemptor’s victims, but maybe not…); and Toran was gratified and proud (the neighbors had always been glad to see a Dwarf back in Khundari House, but now they were downright friendly).
But outside the glare of public attention, behind the scenes, the immediate aftermath of the Kemptor Affair had been a scramble to assure that the demon which had given the mad canary trainer his evil half-life would never possess another host, human of otherwise. With the creature trapped within Barsol’s Bowl, it was temporarily helpless… but how long that might last was uncertain.
The very night of their return from the sewers Mariala and Vulk took the Bowl to High Cantor Verdun Rhay at the Great Temple. He had been preparing the rituals necessary to banish the demon back into the Void from whence it came, in anticipation of the Hand’s succeeding in destroying the host body and capturing its essence. While Mariala watched, Vulk took his place within the circle of clerics to chant the blessings of his goddess while the High Cantor began the Ritual of Banishment. It was a long, exhausting night, fraught with danger for all involved, but just as the first hint of dawn began to lighten the eastern sky Verdun Rhay held aloft the Bowl. In a flash of anti-light the demon was torn from the ancient artifact and sent hurtling back into the Void. Mariala, nearly as exhausted as the clerics from the tension of the night, almost thought she heard a faint, receding wail…
The High Cantor collapsed almost immediately, to be caught by several of his cantors and lowered to a nearby couch. In his swoon he clutched Barsol’s Bowl tightly to his breast, and even after he recovered somewhat, and was able to sit up and speak, he seemed reluctant to give up the artifact.
“This is truly a powerful and holy relic,” he said wanly to Vulk and Mariala. “It could do great good in the hands of the Church…”
“That may be, your Eminence,” Vulk said quickly, forestalling Mariala’s sharper retort. “But the Bowl belongs to the Margrave of Green Tower, and both she and we, the rest of her companions, need it in our line of work. As you well know, and acknowledged when she lent you the device, sir.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Rhay replied with a weary sigh. His face was gray with fatigue and strain. “But still, I could wish…” Reluctantly he handed the Bowl back to Mariala, who took it graciously… but quickly tucked it into the folds of her gown.
“Should you ever decide you no longer have a need for the Bowl, m’lady,” the High Cantor added as his acolytes helped him up and prepared to lead him to bed, “please think of the good the Church could do with it, and send it back to us.”
“Should that day come, your Eminence, I will certainly think first of the Church,” Mariala said with an ambiguous smile. The cleric smiled wanly in return and turned away on the arms of his supporters. Vulk and Mariala turned in the opposite direction and their own beds.
♦ ♦ ♦
By the time the furor and excitement over the Kemptor Affair had begun to die down, and life started to return to normal for the Hand, or as normal as it ever got, the news of the war with Tharkia and the Vortex seemed good. Kar Urkonis had fallen to the Queen and King’s assault within two days, thanks in no small part to the mission the Hand had undertaken at royal request, and since then the military operations in east-central Ukalis had mainly been mopping up scattered pockets of reisitence. Most of that came from mercenary companies in the employ, directly or indirectly, of the Vortex, and caught between the pincers of the royal army in the south and the army of the Earl of Kinen in the north, they were overcome relatively quickly. But Tharkia still held the city of Tyendus, and the war was far from over…
On the morning of 30 Turniki, the latest of a string of cold, wet autumn days that had followed the gray, wet summer of the troubled year, Toran arrived at the Green Tower with a message for his comrades. Jeb was sent to get the others, and when all were settled in around Mariala’s great dining table (which had become their customary gathering place for Hand business) he began.
“The official Legate from my Prince arrived awhile back, as you all know.” The others nodded; the relationship had gotten off to a rocky start, but seemed to be settling down to a workable arrangement between the legation staff and the agent of the Shadow Warriors.
“This morning the Legate informed that he has received an urgent communique from his Highness, and requests that the, how did he put it –‘the company of the Hand of Fortune‘ – should meet with him at Khundari House at their earliest convenience. And by that, I take him to mean now, today.”
“What does he want?” Devrik rumbled. “Why such urgency?”
“I don’t know,” Toran answered with a resigned sigh. “I suggested it might help speed things along, if the matter were so urgent, if he would brief me first. But Undayar Goldfinger is a stickler for protocol, and the Princes’ orders were apparently to present the matter to the entire group, so there’s an end to it.
“Actually, he’s turned out to be not such an ass as I’d first thought,” he added in an aside. “We’ve developed a decent working relationship when we have to interact, and his staff seems finally to have figured out they’re more guests in my home than the other way around. But his wife remains a frigid old biddy. She dislikes me, which is fine since I return the sentiment heartily, but I swear if she makes one more cutting remark to poor Ergaboreth…”
“Anyway, the matter of Prince Rhoghûn’s communique does seem urgent… I’ve never seen Goldfinger look so distracted before, distracted and worried. So if you are all agreeable, I suggest we return to Khundari House now.”
The group agreed readily enough, but when Vulk suggested they take the tunnel to avoid the constant drizzle falling outside, Toran was compelled to object. “Sorry Vulk, but you’ll just have to risk frizzled hair… none of the legation knows about the tunnels connecting our homes, and I’d like to keep it that way. Which would be difficult if you all showed up, dry and unmuddied, in the basement of Khundari House.”
A short time later the Hand found themselves seated in the study of the Legate of Dürkon, sipping mulled wine. The ambassador was short even for a Khundari, his usual dark hair liberally streaked with white and his beard almost entirely gray, still dark only around his mouth. His clothes were extremely rich, and his fingers bedecked with rings of gold and silver, many set with rubies, emeralds and sapphires, and his chest adorned with a glittering array of gold chains.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” he began once the servants had distributed the drinks and left the room, closing the heavy brass-bound door behind them. “As young Toran will have told you, I have received an urgent communiqué from my liege, on a matter of grave importance. His Highness requests your help in this matter, and while only his own Shadow Warrior is honor-bound to obey, he hopes that the bonds of trust and friendship that have grown between you and the people of Dürkon will cause you to lend your aid as well.
“Before I get to the specifics, let me first give you some history, a lesson most germane to the matter at hand, I assure you. As you know, Dürkon is the last surviving city of the ancient Khundari Great Realm of Akazdarön. That kingdom once ran from the northernmost peaks of the Sarajis Mountains to the southernmost, from Mount Tesharün to Mount Kurbik, and ruled over both Khundari and Umantari peoples with wisdom and justice.
“But in the great Mage Wars that ultimately brought the Age of Chaos to an end, Akazdarön was shattered and its glory brought to ruin by the deeds of others. For while the Dwarven kingdom took no part in the wars of the Wizard-Kings of Thardol and Vorkin, it suffered just the same in the Great Cataclysm they unleashed. The northern portions of the realm were destroyed as whole lands sank beneath the waves, mountains erupted in flame and earthquakes rent the continent.
“The southern portion of the realm was not destroyed, although it suffered greatly in that time, as did all the lands of northern Ysgareth. Eventually our people rebuilt, and the new kingdom of Akaztamyr arose from the ashes. For almost 15 centuries the new kingdom survived, pursuing in general a policy of isolation from the Umantari and Telnori kingdoms around it. Until the coming of the Necromancer.
“With his foul armies of the hated deathspawn, he overran the North. We fought, long and hard, but the numbers were overwhelming…”
Here the Legate paused, overcome with emotion for a moment, his hand covering his eyes as he gestured to his listeners for patience. Toran’s face was grim and fierce as well, following this recitation of a history he knew well, a history kept close in the hearts of all his people.
“Forgive me,” the Legate finally went on, regaining control. “The centuries between have not served to dull the memory of the Rape of Akaztamyr, nor of the Carnage of Zakiruth, in the souls of my people, nor dim our everlasting hatred of the Necromancer and all his foul works – the gülvini most of all!
“But those two great cities were not the only ones to fall… many smaller cities, mining colonies and outposts fell in the year after the twin cities died. One of these was the mining colony of Fächnor, a great source of silver, iron and, in the last century before the fall, gemstones. With the surviving Khundari settlements of the North desperately trying to avoid a similar fate, and sending our armies to fight with the Umantari and Telnori allies to defeat the Necromancer, it seemed a lesser matter, if still a grief.
“No attempt was made to recover the colony in those tumultuous years, nor could such an attempt have succeeded then. It was not until two years after the defeat of the Necromancer at the Battle of Harkathir that our thoughts turned again to our lost colonies, and to Fächnor in particular. For you see, it lies less than 50 kilometers from Dürkon itself, the largest and nearest of the gülvini hives that to this day infest the Sarajis Mountains. The Prince of that day took thought for the safety of his people, as well as for the riches still entombed in the mines, and determined to retake Fächnor.
“But the army he sent was defeated, the survivors returning home demoralized and ashamed. Over the next 400 years the princes of Dürkon made six further attempts to recover Fächnor and drive out the gül-Bogabai who infest it. But all were failures, in various degrees… we successfully destroyed some of the lesser off-shoots from the Fächnor hive, but have never been able to retake the colony itself.
“In the last century our late Prince was content to keep a close watch on the gülvini hive; but his son, Rhoghûn, our current Prince, has long desired to make another attmept to retake it. He has increased the watch on Fächnor, and to good effect. His spies now report signs of both increased organization under the new, and very young, “king” who took power earlier this year, and a population spurt of such extent that a swarm seems likely very soon.
“Normally such an event would be welcome, if it led to civil war, rather than swarming – with as much as three-queaters of the gülvini dead, it would be a perfect time for an attack. But the signs of organization are disturbing, and rather than just a swarm, which would be bad enough, we may be facing an actual coordinated attack. Plus there is the matter of… well, it has long been asserted that the gül of Fächnor have some sort of supernatural aid. In going through the archives and reading the written accounts of each past battle, the Prince’s scholars have found that a horn was heard at the height of fighting… and always afterward our warriors were filled with dread and hopelessness, but the Bogabai seemed energized and even more vicious.
“Prince Rhoghûn has determined that we must strike soon, before whatever plan this new “king” of Fächnor is hatching can come to fruition. Not least because until this threat is removed, he dares not send more than a token force to the aid of your new kingdom, alliance or no. But if the beastmen do, indeed, have some supernatural aid, then it is likely we will face defeat once again, no matter how many men we send, and that we can ill afford.
“And so we come to the heart of the matter – Prince Rhoghûn requests that the Hand of Fortune return to Dürkon at once, there to meet with him and his advisors before going to Fächnor yourselves. There he would ask that you use your own arcane and martial skills to scout out the interior of the old colony, assassinate as much of the leadership as you can and, most vitally, discover and either capture, destroy or otherwise neutralize whatever arcane help they might use against us.
“A dangerous task, there can be no question, but both the Prince and Lekorm Darkeye have faith in your ability to pull it off. For our army will be hidden as close as possible, without risking discovery, and will await your signal to attack. Then, mayhap, Fächnor may ounce again come back into the possession of we who first built it.
“Will you undertake this charge from the Prince of Dürkon, gentlemen, lady?”
♦ ♦ ♦
The Hand would agree only to think deeply on the matter for the moment, but promised an answer within 25 hours. They returned to the Green Tower to discuss the difficulties and possibilities of such an undertaking, but were surprised to find Master Vetaris seated at the big table, sipping a cup of hot chocolate. He smiled up at their bemused faces, and motioned them to sit.
“Your lovely lady-in-waiting let me in,” he explained to Mariala. “She’s upstairs taking a bit of a nap right now, however, as what I have to say is not for anyones ears but your own.”
Once everyone was seated and had poured their own cups of chocolate from the pot in the center of the table the old man jumped straight to the point.
“I know where you have just been, and the nature of your meeting with the Legate of Dürkon. I also know what it is his Prince has asked of you, and I imagine, but do not know for sure, that you have not yet given an answer… yes?”
“As usual, your information is correct, sir,” Mariala replied with an arched eyebrow. “Although I suspect your claim of not knowing what we said to Legate Goldfinger is a mere fig leaf to preserve the idea of our autonomy.”
“Not at all my dear,” Vetaris said mildly. “I don’t deny that I keep various eyes on you all, as on all agents of the Council; but not to the extent of spying on you, truly.”
“Well, it’s pleasant to think so,” Devrik replied drily. “But what is it about this current proposal that brings you to us so promptly on our meeting? Do you wish us to refuse it?”
“On the contrary, I wish you to accept it, dangerous as it surely is.”
“The Star Council believes there is something involving the Vortex going on then?” Vulk inquired, leaning forward intently. “Do you think they are behind this sudden organization within the Fächnor hive?”
“Certainly they head the list of any possible authors to this trouble, if authors there really are, or indeed any real trouble. It is possible this is simply the work of an exceptional young ruler – it does happen, even amongst the gülvini.” Vetaris smiled and took another sip before continuing.
“But the Vortex, while taking up so much of our attention these days, is not the only possible author of trouble and chaos in this world. Our agents throughout the southern Sarajis are reporting increased organization, and growing populations, in a number of gülvini colonies. I won’t bore you with the details, but a pattern is emerging, and it seems likely that someone is attempting to organize all the tribes of the region into a single horde.
“If it is the Vortex and “Captain Chaos” as you have so colorfully dubbed him, then it can only be to set them onto the civilized kingdoms of the region to further destabilize them. But if it is some other would-be Pürshok, they results are likely to be the same – gülvini hordes descending on civilized lands, bringing death and destruction with them. In either case, they must be stopped, whoever they are.
“To that end, we feel Prince Rhoghûn’s actions are in the best interests of us all, and that you should help him in every way possible. And after your mission to Fächnor–”
“Assuming, of course, that we survive it,” Korwin interjected.
“Yes, assuming you survive it,” Vetaris agreed equably, “then we would like you to investigate several other key areas: Rekorgo, the largest and oldest gülvini settlement in the Sarajis Mountains, Jha-Kusk, the most remote, and Wabaft. I think you should plan to be away for two months or more, if you undertake this assignment.”
♦ ♦ ♦
And so it came to pass that the Hand of Fortune Gated through to Dürkon on the evening of 1 Vento, having taken the day to plan and organize what they would need. Korwin spent the early hours silently meditating to celebrate the holy day of Tyvos, the Bounty of the Deeps. They met that night with Prince Rhoghûn and Lekorm Darkeye to get the latest intelligence on the lay of things around Fächnor, and what little they knew of the interior. Lekorm presented them with a copy of an ancient map, some 600 years old, of the layout of the mining colony.
“I wouldn’t rely on it too much,” he sighed. “In five centuries I’m sure the cursed gül have made a few changes…”
The next morning they set out on sturdy Dwarven ponies, in the van of the Khundari army, northwards to the slopes of Mt. Gelim… and 1,200 savage gül-Bagobai warriors.