Monthly Archives: February 2015

The Iron Knight, Part I – Raiders of the Lost City

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It took only a few hours for the Hand to gather all the equipment and supplies they would need, including two mules to carry enough food for a tenday. They also filled up a large number of water skins, although Korwin assured the group that he could conjure up water whenever they needed it… a valuable back-up, but Erol in particular had no desire to bet his life on it.

It was decided that the logistics of carrying enough food and water for their new Gyantari friend were too difficult, and he was left to explore the city in the care of Jeb and Cris.

In the Gate Room of Kar Landsar Master Vetaris arrived shortly after they had gathered, and himself opened the Gate for them. Stepping through, the Hand found themselves in a dry, grassy landscape of soft mounds of crumbled stonework interspersed with scattered copses of oak and scrub brush. The noonday sun sparkled on the blue ribbon of the Imperial Canal half a kilometer to the north, the brilliant white sails of several ships visible – ships that would never dock in the ruins of dead Xaranda, if they could avoid it. Sailors tended to avoid even looking at the ruins, wishing only to reach the Silvari Locks, ten kilometers to the west.

A few broken towers stood above the wreckage of the city’s lesser buildings, vine-covered and empty-eyed, and the land was quiet save for the soughing of the wind and the cry of a lone hawk circling high above. Several kilometers to the south and west faint smudges of smoke showed where lay the scattered dwellings of the few sheepherders that were the only human occupants of the region.

But it was the much larger, blacker smear of smoke to the east that quickly caught the group’s eye – far more than one would expect from the few hearths of the tiny hamlet that lay near the Shrine. From Master Vetaris’ briefing, they knew where they had to go, and headed off with little discussion.

It took them about half an hour to make their way through the uneven, overgrown streets of the former city, cautious and wary, weapons out, to arrive at the hamlet of Helathor. This consisted of five daub-and-wattle cottages, various outbuildings, and a pen that once held pigs. Now it held only their hacked and burned corpses, and the buildings were mostly burned to the ground.

Nothing but smoke moved in the charred ruins, and the bloody remains of both livestock and humans were scattered about the central area. Once they were sure no enemies remained, it took only a few minutes to determine that all eighteen inhabitants of the hamlet were dead, either hacked apart by sword or axe, or burned in their homes – men, women and children alike.

But they had apparently not died without a fight – peppered among the remains of the peasants were the corpses of five human barbarians, almost certainly from one of the tribes of the Savage Mountains. And, shockingly, two gül-Hovgavui, by their gear and weapons apparently allied with the tribesmen!

A few score meters beyond the remains of the hamlet lay the Shrine itself, a small stone structure with a slate roof, with a low wooden building nearby, obviously the living quarters for the resident monks. The latter was now a smoking ruin, although the Shrine itself seemed untouched. Both structures stood in the shadow of the ruins of what must have once been the city wall.

Around the Shrine they quickly discovered more bodies – three who were obviously monks, albeit well-armed monks, and two more mountain barbarians along with another gül-Hovgavui.

Devrik and Erol cautiously led the way to the arched opening that gave into the dim interior of the Shrine. Inside they found two more dead monks amidst blood-spattered wreckage. But their eyes were quickly drawn to the simple alter against the far wall – stones had been ripped out of its front, exposing a now-empty space about a meter square.

“Damn! We’re too late, they must have taken the Heart of Metal,” Erol cursed.

Devrik moved past him to stare up at the wall above the alter, where a shiny battlesword hung. Clearly the focus of this small holy site, it was obviously the Sword of St. Helathor. He frowned at it, but refrained from taking it down, or even touching it – he had been much moved by the story of the heroic, doomed blacksmith.

“I wonder why they didn’t take the Sword?” he mused, turning back to his friends. “Perhaps it truly is a holy relic of –”

He was cut off as Mariala, couched over one of the fallen monks, cried out in sudden consternation. “This one is still alive!”

They all crowded around, and Vulk knelt down on the other side of the still, bloody form, seeking a pulse. Indeed, there was one, if slow, weak and thready. The man had been slashed and pierced in at least a dozen places, and the amount of blood he’d lost… Vulk sent a wave of his healing energy into the monk even as he reached for his satchel.

He pulled one of the vials of unattuned Baylorium  from it, and poured half the contents into the bloody mouth. As he rubbed and poured the other half in to worst of the man’s wounds, he prayed to Kasira to lend her blessing to his healing efforts.

In about five minutes, the wounds began to slowly close, the rent flesh beginning to knit itself back together, and in ten minutes the monk groaned and began to regain conciousness. He looked wildly around him, struggling to sit up, but failing. As he collapsed back to the floor, Mariala’s hand beneath his head, he managed to gasp out “who are you?”

“Friend’s,” Vulk assured him calmly, laying a hand on his chest as he strove again to rise. “We are agents of the Star Council, sent in answer to the mystic alarm triggered this morning. Can you tell us what happened?”

Vetaris had told them the monks were all agents of the Council, but would the wounded man believe them? The monk’s eyes narrowed, and he fumbled at a ring on his left hand. They all felt the tingle on their own ring fingers that indicated the presence of a Council artifact. He lay back suddenly and sighed in relief.

“Praise the Lady,” he said weakly. “Well met, comrades. I only pray you have arrived in time…”

“I fear we have not, Brother,” Devrik said gravely. “It seems your assailants discovered the secret compartment in the alter, and have taken the Heart of Metal.”

With Mariala and Vulk’s help the monk now succeeded in sitting up, looking frantically toward the ruined alter. But he seemed immediately relaxed, apparently unconcerned at what he saw. Instead his attention was quickly diverted to the body of his fellow monk, collapsed at the alter’s foot.

“Ah, Tevrak, my old friend,” he whispered softly, shaking his head. He closed his eyes for a moment, then slowly opened them to look at his deliverers. “Are there any other survivors?”

“I’m afraid not,” Mariala replied gently, as Korwin and Toran, who had reentered the shrine in time to hear the question shook their heads. They had immediately went out to check on just that question as soon she’d discovered the surviving monk.

The man shook his head sadly, then made to rise to his feet.

“Whoa!” cried Vulk. “Slow down! You were on the brink of death 15 minutes ago, Brother, and while my healing and the Baylorium have brought you back, you’ve lost a tremendous amount of blood! It’s going to be a few days before –”

“No, my friend,” the monk replied, with a grim smile. “Only a matter of hours. I don’t know what was in that elixer – Baylorium you call it? But it has worked miracles, giving my own healing abilities a boost, so that they are even now speeding my body to full recovery.

“Ah, by your expressions, I see you are dubious. But the fact is I, like my fellow “monks” are not Umantari as most of you are. I am Telnori, and a Druid of the Lady Drina. True, my wounds were fatal, quite beyond my ability to heal… although I was able to slow my metabolism enough to keep me alive for awhile. But with your aid, I am now well enough to complete the healing on my own. By this time tomorrow it will be as if I had never been wounded. Mostly.

“But there is no time to waste, and no time to coddle my injuries. For you have indeed arrived in time, despite the appearance of things. Our enemies have not succeeded in stealing the Heart of Metal, though they do not yet know that. Unfortunately, they are intent on a larger goal, one they must not be allowed to achieve!”

Over the next half hour he grew steadily stronger as he explained to his rescuers what had happened and what he knew of the force they must move against.

His name was Farendol Wintereyes and had been the senior “monk” tending the shrine for over 500 years. He and his fellow Druids had been awakened before dawn that morning by shouts from the nearby cluster of Umantari homes, when a group of barbarians, Tharkian mercenaries and gül-Hovgavui had appeared apparently from nowhere.

There were at least twenty of them, he thought, although he couldn’t be entirely sure. He and his fellows had made ready to aid the villagers, but had themselves been set upon by a portion of the marauders, led by a tall woman in a dark hooded cloak.

From the Hand’s description of the evidence in the village, he surmised that the reason the villagers had made as good a showing as they did was primarily thanks to “Little Yon” Geftor, the blacksmith and a former soldier. He must have been already up, as he often was with his sons, preparing to begin work on another replica of Helathor’s Sword, which the villagers sold to the rare pilgrims who visited the Shrine.

Geftor would have raised the alarm and attacked the invaders, but in the end, like their patron saint, the villagers had been overwhelmed. The monks were similarly outmatched, not by numbers per se, but because the band’s leader was a mage of considerable power – of the Vularu convocation, by the air elemental she commanded. Only Farendol had lived, if barely, to see her cast back her hood and reveal a cold, beautiful face framed in thick blond hair. She had used a talisman of some sort to point her henchmen to the alter, which they had instantly ripped apart.

In great satisfaction, she had lifted the Heart of Metal from its hiding place, and stowed it in a leather pack one of her güls carried. Her remaining troops had then looted what little treasures there were in the shrine (although strangely no one seemed willing to touch the holy sword), and the whole party set out south into the Blasted March. But not before the druid heard the mage chuckle to herself that “now the Corruptor’s new body will have power enough and more!”

But they had NOT taken the actual Heart of Metal – only a replica, carefully crafted long centuries ago and magically imbued to give off the correct aural signature expected of such an artifact. The real Heart of Metal still lay in a lead-lined chamber beneath the Shrine.

“But despite her failure here, it is possible that this madwoman may still free the Corruptor from its long imprisonment. For years I have sensed that the four Outer Seals have been… leaking… and I fear the Great Beasts may have been themselves infected by the Corruptor’s evil. Discussions have been on-going within the Council on how to address this matter, but nothing has yet been undertaken. Now… if she obtains the Sword…”

“But is not the Sword right here?” Devrik asked, gesturing toward the shining weapon on the wall.

“What? That?” Farendol shook his head and smiled faintly. “No, I refer to the Great Sword of Taharazod, within which lays half the soul of my noble King – the only artifact that can break the Wards which imprison the demon Khanaribus beyond our world.

“The Tomb of Taharazod must be our first stop! Halting her there is our safest course of action.”

“So the Sword of St. Helathor is not really… holy?” Devrik frowned at the shining blade in faint disapointment.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Farendol replied thoughtlfully. “I do know there is some indefinable power about it, and it certainly had remained untouched by time… I have often wondered…” he trailed of, lost in thought for a moment before continuing.

“Well, I have no proof. But many Umantari have sworn its virtues have aided them upon touching the hilt – and its creator, Helathor, died at almost the same time as King Taharazod was imbuing the Great Sword with his own soul… possibly at the very same instant…

“But even if it were so, they were over a hundred kilometers apart, and I know of no connection between a great Telnori king and a common Umantari weapon smith; nor the mechanism by which the one could effect the other. And yet…”

Devrik eyed the sword more respectfully. “May I…?”

“Hmmm?” Farendol pulled his mind back to the present. “Oh, yes, feel free. Indeed, you make take it with you. It is an excellent weapon, holy or not, and we will need all the help we can get in the coming battle. I am loath to leave it here unguarded, in any case.”

With gentle hands Devrik reached up and lifted down the Sword of St. Helathor. He removed his own battle sword from its sheath on his back and slid the holy relic into it instead. As his hand gripped the hilt he felt a thrill of energy… or was that just his imagination? He stowed his old sword on one of the mules as the group prepared to move out.

Farendol was able to supply the group with both face and head coverings, to filter the fine, dead dust of the Blasted March from their noses and mouths. He also provided goggles for their eyes, beautifully crafted of leather, brass and crystal. He added more food supplies to their own, and water as well. By mid-afternoon the group was ready to depart, which the Druid insisted they do, despite his obvious weakness.

“They already have more than half a day’s head start, we cannot afford to give them more! I will continue to heal as we go, fear not – not as quickly as if I were at rest, but quickly enough.”

They started out into the sere grasslands that lay beyond the ruined city, the barren-but-still-living margin of the Blasted March.

♦ ♦ ♦

By the time the sun was nearing the western horizon behind them, they had reached the very edge of the dead lands, and Farendol agreed that they must stop for the night – although the greater moon was nearing full, the lesser moon was only at half, and neither would be in the sky until after midnight.

As they sat around the campfire that night, the night sky a glowing black tapestry of a million shining diamonds, the Druid told them of how he had been a young man, just past his first century, when the Demon Khanaribas had attacked Serviana. How, as squire to King Taharazod, he was present during the momentous events of that dark time, and how, in the aftermath, he had devoted himself and his life to protecting Taharazod’s legacy, to assure that the Corruptor would never again be free to destroy.

After the final battle that saw the trap sprung, the demon imprisoned, and the souls of Taharazod and the Great Beasts sacrificed to lock the trap, he himself had taken the Heart of Metal from the now-empty form of the Iron Knight. For years, even after beginning the process of becoming a Druid, he was its guardian on the Isle of Iria.

When the Star Council was formed after the Great War, it was decided to keep the Heart closer to the Iron Knight and Great Sword, in case both should one day again be needed to contain the Corruptor. The dead city of Xaranda was selected as the best site, and Farendol comfirmed as its guardian. The fortuitous founding of a shrine to a minor saint in the ruins had seemed a godsend.

Farendol had joined the lone hermit who had founded the shrine, a half-cracked young man obsessed with the memory of the man who had saved him as a child, and proved himself a worthy disciple. Other Telnori had soon followed, and they helped the man build the current shrine, replacing the crude wooden lean-to he had first built over the holy sword. This allowed the true hiding place for the Heart of Metal to be built, although it did reside for several years in the false compartment in the alter, leaving a faint aural residue of itself behind.

Eventually the hermit had grown old, as Umantari so quickly do, and had died. Farendol became the new “head monk” of the shrine. The small hamlet grew up slowly around them, comprised of people who had come to the shrine, been healed or otherwise helped by Saint Helathor, and had stayed to be near his holy relic.

Over the centuries, with the human settlement so close, Faredol and the other Telnori Druids who had joined him were forced to develop a pattern to keep the illusion of being themselves human. When enough time had past, the “master monk” would die peacefully in his sleep, and a younger man would take his place. For an Umantari generation he would guide and guard the Shrine, until everyone who had known the old Master had themselves died. Then Farendol would return, to once again become the Master when the current one “died.”

Thus did they cycle all the druid-monks through the Shrine, staggered over the years… one generation on, one generation off. For 500 years the same ten men guarded the precious artifact containing the piece of King Taharazod’s soul, in case it should ever be needed to again power the Iron Knight.

“And I have spent my years studying the powers of Life, seeking some way to destroy the Corruption forever, not just imprison it, should it ever rise again,” Farendol concluded his tale. He stared out across the wastes that had once been his home, the land of his birth. “I’ll take the first watch.”

♦ ♦ ♦

They started again just before dawn, finally experiencing the desolate horror or a land wholly dead. The sands of the Blasted March were cold and very fine, difficult to walk on, and even without a breeze got into everything. They were all grateful for the goggles and face guards the Druid had provided.

Four hours of slogging found them, by Farendol’s reckoning, more than halfway to the Tomb. They paused to eat and drink, and it was Erol who first noticed the small dark shape moving quickly toward them from the crest of a low hill to their south. Even as he called out in alarm to his companions and reached for his trident it resolved itself into a winged half-woman-half snake, alternating between gliding and slithering over the hissing sands. Its – her – skin and scales were black and oily, her hair a dark purple, and her leathery wings a translucent purple. Great black eyes stared from a face twisted into a mask of rage, or perhaps insanity.

“It’s Shaluzira, the Great Beast of Water,” cried Farendol in horror. “They’ve broken the First Seal! And as I feared, her body has been Corrupted!”

Before he had finished speaking everyone in the Hand with a missile weapon had it out and aimed at the fast approaching Beast. Arrows and cross-bow bolts darted out – and missed, as the lithe creature never even slowed its serpentine rush, twisting and dodging.

In its turn the Beast raised its clawed hands and a great spout of black water burst forth, striking the ground at their feet like a battering ram and sending them all scattering. Korwin began to prepare a spell, Tagik’s Drink, intending to turn the creatures water into alcohol and then set it alight, while Vulk invoked a Curse on the thing.

Devrik leapt forward, drawing the Sword of St. Helathor as he did, only to be sent flying by a blow from the Beast’s savage tail. He crumpled to the ground twenty feet away, unconcious, the sword falling from his grip. Uttering a decidedly unholy curse, Vulk dashed after him.

Toran ratcheted up another cross-bow bolt, as Mariala prepared her Fire Nerves spell, and Erol hurled a javelin. The bolt missed, the spell seemed ineffective… but the javelin struck! With a shriek of pain and rage, the Beast turned in a flash to attack Erol with another blast of black water. He narrowly the dodged attack, while Korwin prepared another casting of Tagik’s Drink, needing more alcohol volume for his plan to work…

As Vulk unleashed his healing powers on Devrik, Erol took a new tack, and drew his special Tritani net from his belt, charging it with a word and flinging it at the maniacal monster bearing down on him. It hit and entangled the creature’s wings and left arm, sending off a shower of blue sparks and bolts of electricity that grounded themselves in the dead dust. With an agonized shriek Shaluzira convulsed and collapsed to a quivering pile, at least momentarily unconcious.

“Quickly,” Farendol cried, rushing foward, “we must dispatch her and capture her soul – If it has been corrupted as well, we… well, we must know…”

Devrik staggered up at this point, still supported by Vulk, and at Farendol’s urgent insistence raised the Sword of St. Helathor. Erol pulled his net off the stunned Great Beast, and Devrik brought his blade down in a swift strike that severed the head cleanly. Gouts of stinking black liquid gushed from the stump, then the body began to blacken, shrink, crack and crumble into dust. In seconds there was nothing left but a pile of dust indistinguishable from that of the Blasted March.

Everyone stood transfixed as, for just a moment, an image flickered translucently before their eyes – it shifted and pulsed, alternating between a tall, regal woman of great beauty and the Great Beast as it had once been, beautiful with shimmering blue-green scales, pale blue skin and foam-white wings.

Farendol stepped forward raising his hands and chanting in a melodious language none of them recognized. As he fell silent the image faded and a blue-white ball of energy appeared to float between his hands.

“Praise the Lady, her soul remains pure. But I have no way to prevent her from moving on, and we may need still need her power. Will one of you accept her within you, act as her earthly vessel for a time?”

“Possession?” Mariala asked doubtfully. “I don’t think that’s –”

“No, not possession,” the Druid gasped, his hands beginning to shake. “Not a controller, merely a passenger, and only for awhile… I can’t keep this up much longer… still too weak…”

Korwin stepped  forward. “I’ll do it. Since she represents the elemental force of water, I would seem the most logical choice in any case.”

Farendol nodded gratefully, and raised his hands, the glowing ball pulsing between them, to the water mage’s head. He uttered a single word. The ball vanished and Korwin staggered back, looking suddenly dazed and blank-faced.

After a moment he shook his head and seemed to come back to himself, glancing sheepishly around at the concerned faces ringing him. “How… odd. I can feel her mind in my own…”

Once it was clear that Kowrin was in no immediate danger of dangerous side effects, the group prepared to resume their journey with new urgency.

“They have reached the City already,” Farendol muttered, half to himself. “Did they skip the Tomb, then, go straight to Yalura? No, they must be moving quickly. I fear what we will find…”

His fears appeared justified when they arrived three hours later, at the Tomb of Taharazod, a small, low structure almost buried beneath the sand/dust. It’s great stone doors stood open and the dead earth around it was scuffed as if by many feet.

“I had hoped the wards, traps and pitfalls designed to protect m’lord’s mortal form would have delayed them,” he sighed as he led them toward the dark opening. “Perhaps even long enough for us to have taken them by surprise.”

“Speaking of surprise,” Vulk called out, not following. “Don’t you think we should keep watch out here so no one does the same to us?”

Farendol waved a hand absently in his direction, focused on what he might find in the tomb. “As you wish, cantor.”

Steps led downward, and with a word and a gesture Farendol caused lights to glow along the walls. He was enraged to see the wanton damage done to the carvings in the long hall, and pointed out where various traps and snares had been triggered or disabled. Not all disabled, though, as drying blood on the floor and walls indicated. He smiled grimly.

Inside of the burial chamber the damage was even more extensive, but he breathed a relieved sigh when he saw that the crystal sarcophagus protecting the unchanging body of his late King remained undamaged. The group gathered around to peer down at the apparently uncorrupted body of the legendary Telnori ruler, tall, dark haired and beautiful even in death.

“A spell of incorruptibility was placed on his body when he split his soul in two,” the Druid explained quietly. “In the probably forlorn hope that the two halves might one day be rejoined and so be able to reanimate his earthly vessel.

“But the half of his soul that he placed within the Great Sword poured out of it when the trap was sprung, and it now powers the Great Seal that keeps the demon locked beyond the world. The other half powers the core that can animate the Iron Knight, and so, unless we can discover some way to destroy the Corruption, not just imprison it, it is an unrealistic hope.”

He turned to the high stone wall behind the sarcophagus, empty and blank. “And they have the Sword.”

At that moment they all became aware of a high pitched whine that quickly dopplered into a full throated scream as it approached them from the tomb’s entrance.

“Another one!” Vulk screamed as he barreled into the chamber and dove for cover behind a pillar along the north wall. Right behind him lumbered another of the Great Beasts, a behemoth of black oak sinews binding together muscles of black stone, with oily black leaves for hair and steel-like vines for fingers.

“Ghoratok, the Great Beast of Earth!” Farendol cried out as Toran sent a crossbow bolt toward it. Like Erol’s flung javelin, it missed, pinging off a pillar, and he began to re-cock the weapon. Devrik attempted to summon Gortan’s Brand, but was unable to achieve a proper form.

Great gouts of stone and earth erupted from the Beast’s claws, sending the Hand reeling back. Vulk’s holy armor came up just in time to save him from serious damage. As the Beast moved forward Korwin gestured and cast Damikiran’s Freeze, causing a sheen of ice to spread out from him in a circle, coating the chamber’s stones.

“Blunt force,” cried out Farendol from behind the crystal sarcophagus. “Points and edges will do little to stop it, use blunt force!”

His advice seemed good, as Toran’s continued cross-bow bolts, Erol’s javelins and Mariala’s Fire Nerves all seemed equally ineffectual. Toran tossed the useless cross-bow aside and drew his great battle axe, turning it to use the blunt, hammer-like end.

As the lumbering Beast stepped forward onto Korwin’s ice, its feet shot suddenly out from under it, and with a crash it landed on its stone-and-wood ass, slipping and sliding in a frantic effort to get back up. The Khundari leapt forward, immune to the ice himself thanks to Korwin’s passing touch, and began smashing at the creature. Chips of wood and stone flew, and Ghoratok tried to batter this small tormetor, but a final blow to the head sent it into unconciousness.

With no need for prompting from Farendol, Devrik strode forward and quickly beheaded the corrupted Great Beast. Once again the shifting vision of the Telnori soul and the pure Beast form flickered before their eyes – a  short, solid-looking man with dark hair and laughing eyes, alternating with a humanoid shape of brown wood, gray stone and green leaves and vines, festooned with colorful flowers in its many cracks and crevices.

It was Vulk, this time, that the Druid insisted should carry the fallen elemental’s soul, and he stood forward to accept his passenger. Like Korwin, it took him a few minutes to adjust, but he seemed little the worse for wear.

“How do they keep finding us,” Erol demanded of Farendol as they exited the Tomb, and the Druid made to reseal the stone doors. “I mean, in the thousands of square kilometers of the March, what are the odds of these things stumbling across us?”

“Actually, I suspect the odds are about 1-to-1,” Farendol sighed. “They sense the soul energy of the Heart of Metal – for centuries they have been spiritually bound to the other half of this soul, in the mesh of the five Great Seals, and they seek it out now like a parched man, dying in the desert, seeks water. And they must not find it! They would consume it, destroying Taharazod forever!”

Before he could go on Faredol suddenly cried out and clutch his head, staggering. Erol reached out to support him, frowning in concern.

“Someone has broken the Spell of Grounding that I myself placed on the Iron Knght 500 years ago, to prevent its being moved,” the Druid ground out between clenched teeth. “Whoever did this is either a very strong mage or has access to a powerful artifact. Perhaps both…”

Prepared now, knowing that as the Vortex mage broke the seals on the Lesser Wards and freed each corrupted Great Beast that they would make a beeline for them, the Hand kept a constant watch. They were thus not caught by surprise when late that night, as they took a few hours rest out of neccessity,  Zhezekar, the Great Beast of Fire came upon them.

With a blackened body, wreathed in red flames, and great bat wings streaked in blue flame, she made a frightening sight in the pre-dawn darkness. This time Toran’s cross-bow bolts were more effective, knocking the creature from the air as it blasted gouts of flame at them. Mariala’s casting of her Mote spell seemed to confuse the Beast, but it still managed a direct hit on Devrik, who attempted to divert the flames with his natural pyrokinetic abilities. This was only partially succcessful, but enough so that he was merely lightly singed and not charred to a briquet.

Once the monster was on the ground Toran took to it with his battle axe, this time wielding the sharp side. He managed to take a great gout from its side, which oozed flaming ichor onto the dead sands. Erol failed to hit it, but dodged its next flame attack, leaving an opening for Devrik to step in and part its head from its body, freeing the pure soul from the corrupted physical form.

This spirit form was golden skinned, wreathed in yellow flames with feathered wings of white flame, alternating with a young woman with golden eyes and tawny hair. There was little doubt about the proper host for the fire elemental, and Devrik stepped forward to receive the soul.

“But let’s not mention this to Raven,” he said when he had recovered. “I don’t want to know what she’d say about my sharing my body with a beautiful woman – other than her!”

It was late afternoon when they finally reached the outskirts of the once-great Telnori capital of Yalura, and it was there, at the spot just before the Ebony Bridge where the Iron Knight should have stood, that they met the last of the four Great Beasts.

Asakora, the Great Beast of Air, possessed the lower body of a horse, the wings of an eagle, and the upper body of a man. Its skin was blackened and cracking, swirling off its body and forming a shifting cloud around it. The wings were gray and black, and razor-edged. It instantly attacked, and with a tremendous blast of air sent Toran flying. But thanks to his training the Dwarf landed and rolled easily, taking little damage.

In the next ten minutes the Hand threw everything they had at the great Beast, but axe, trident, Frostblade, Fire Nerves, Breath of Arandu, Orb of Vorol, and even Kasira’s Smile seemed to have no effect. On the other hand, although buffeted, sand blasted and tossed around, the Hand didn’t suffer any major damage either. Farendol spent the battle dodging and trying to keep the Heart of Metal away from Asakora’s grasp.

Finally Vulk managed to Curse the damn thing, and this allowed Erol to get in and do some damage with his trident. Toran weighed in with his battleaxe, only to have it ripped from his grasp and hurled almost into the river. But this provided the opening Erol needed, and he pinned the Beast to the ground with his trident. Devrik leaped in with a decapitating swing, and the once again a soul was freed.

Alternating between a winged centaur with chestnut brown fur, white hair, and razor-edged feathers of silver and a tall, lithe man with silver hair and blue eyes, the spirit form faded as Farendol placed it within the mind of a reluctant Erol.

As they all collapsed and began tending to their injuries, minor as they were, Farendol walked onto the broad black stone bridged that spanned the rushing river, gazing across to the crumbling ruins of his old home.

“This is where it gets difficult,” he said grimly.

Aftermath of the Onyx Throne Scam

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The stone mason’s cart, though now empty, limited the pace of the Hand of Fortune as they made their leisurely way back to stately Elidar Manor. The pace suited everyone’s mood, spared the horses, and allowed Ergaboreth to keep a comfortable walk, as they enjoyed the high summer days. They celebrated Maita Lai, the summer solstice, quietly on the road. The turmoil of Bremkin and the handover of the Onyx Throne behind them, everyone seemed to appreciate a breather, and were content to enjoy their new companion’s tales of his homeland and people.

Erol alone paid little attention to the giant’s tales, seeming sunk in thought, and at each inn they stopped at he spent much of his evening alone, scribbling away at a letter. When asked about it he shrugged and changed the subject; he also had little to say about the meeting with his father, and his friends declined to pry.

The most excitement the Hand faced was in the villages they passed through, and most especially the ones they overnighted in, where their giant companion created quite a stir. Whatever fears his appearance might have evoked were quickly overcome by his gentle and curious demeanor – and Devrik’s darkly eyeing potential trouble makers and fingering the hilt of his sword didn’t hurt either.

On arriving back at Elidar Manor, Vulk’s young cousins and their friends were again quite taken with “Uncle Vulk’s giant,” a situation which Devrik claimed was just fine with him, since they usually swarmed him, and who needed that. Nonetheless, Mariala thought he looked a little wistfully as the rug rats climbed all over Ergaboreth. She wisely said nothing.

After several days of relaxing in the countryside, and following several hints from Vulk’s aunt that, charming as he was, feeding a giant was beginning to take its toll on her stores, the Hand decamped, setting out for the port town of Devok. Their ship Fortune’s Favor was due in port in just a few days, and they had decided to “commandeer” it for the journey back to Shalara.

It was pleasant to catch up with old friends in the town, where they were remembered fondly for past heroic efforts. Their former landlord, Helkam Grennan, was thrilled to rent them their old rooms at the Cloven Shield, plus a couple more for the expanded roster. And he hardy blinked at all at the challenge of putting up Ergaboreth… in the stables, as it turned out.

The most emotional moment of their visit to Devok, however, came on the second evening in town, when the town’s butcher, Marik Baysiron, showed up in the common room with his wife Elana and their now 12-year-old son Borin. They seemed very pleased to see the people who had saved their son, despite their failure to also save the boy’s younger sister. If the Hand had been in any doubt, it was removed when Elana unwrapped the bundle she carried to reveal the face of a month-old baby girl.

“We named her Mariala,” Elena said shyly. “In honor of both Mirala and you, Lady Mariala. Would you like to hold her?”

Too overcome for words, Mariala just smiled and took the infant in her arms. While she cooed at the baby and showed her off to her companions, Marik drew Vulk aside for a brief word.

“Master Vetaris spoke to me shortly after you and your friends left town last year,” he said quietly. “Borin was having nightmares, and we didn’t know what to do… I was surprised to see such an important man take an interest in such as us, but… well, after he told us what really happened that terrible night, or at least some of it, I understood.

“He spoke to Borin for a long time, and whatever he said seemed to calm the boy. The nightmares never came again, thank Mara, and he still has no memory of the horror… the horror that…” He had to stop for a moment to regain his composure.

“I know I’m just a butcher, Cantor Vulk, but if there’s ever anything I or my family can do for you and your friends, I hope you will let me know. We are forever in your debt, and will never forget it!”

“Thank you Marik,” Vulk replied, clapping the shorter man on the shoulder. “I only wish we had been able to… do more… But whatever you feel you owe us, you can best repay by helping anyone you find in their own dire straits – pay it forward my friend! But that said, a nice cut of beef…”

♦ ♦ ♦

When Captain Levtor was presented with his employers’ request to take them all to Shalara, he reacted with his usual graceful aplomb, agreeing that he could alter his planned trading route with little trouble. He was less sanguine when he was presented with sight of Ergaboreth.

“But – I – we can’t –”

The others grinned at the sight of the usually unflappable and very urbane trader-captain flummoxed and at a loss for words. Of course he regained his balance fairly quickly, and after consulting with his first mate, agreed that they could make accommodations for the Gyantari guest. While the crew went about the business of getting the ship ready to sail with a giant aboard, Levtor, Vulk and Mariala repaired to the Safe Harbour for lunch and to go over the books for the last trading voyage to the Sydoran League.

The others strolled around the docks, enjoying Ergaboreth’s fascination with the sea, something he had never seen before. He was rather nervous about the idea of going out on all that vast expanse of water on such a tiny boat. Toran’s own discomfort with large bodies of water didn’t help matters, especially as the two had become rather close on the road, staying up long into the night talking of the mountains and of metalcraft.

Devrik and Erol both tried to assure Ergaboreth that it would be fine, and even offered to teach him how to swim, if that would reassure him. Toran, too, but the Khundari was adamant. “I don’t float, I just sink,” was all he would say, shaking his head firmly.

“You know, most sailors never bother to learn how to swim,” Korwin interjected. “They genrally feel they’d rather dro-” Devrik’s elbow in his ribs shut his mouth, and a glare from Erol kept it that way. He shrugged and took a sudden interest in the seagulls flying over the harbour.

The swimming lesson was of marginal success, at best. Although the Gyantari didn’t sink like a stone, as his Khundari friend claimed to do, he wasn’t exactly buoyant either. He also seemed to have a hard time coordinating his strokes and his breathing.

After an hour of flailing about in the water, generally having fun but making little progress, while Toran and Korwin watched from the rocky beach, they finally gave it up.

“Look, just don’t fall in, OK?” Erol suggested. Toran muttered darkly under his breath, but no one asked for a clarification.

A crowd had begun to gather, despite their seeking out a secluded cove, and there was a gasp and some wide eyes when the giant emerged from the water with his trews clinging wetly to… well, everything.

Despite the mixed results of his lesson, Ergaboreth seemed strangely cheered by the exercise. After Devrik had shooed off the gawkers and they had dried off , as they began walking back to town, Toran asked the giant why he was so damn cheerful.

“Well,” he replied with a grin, “if I can’t swim very well, I suppose I can just walk along the bottom!”

It was true, the water in the cove had only come up to his chest, but when Korwin started to explain that the sea was very much deeper Devrik just shook his head and muttered “Let it be, water-boy, let it be.” Korwin shrugged and started whistling a sea chanty he knew particularly irked the fire mage…

♦ ♦ ♦

The voyage back to Shalara was uneventful, and while Ergaboreth quickly relaxed and began to enjoy the wind and the motion, Toran spent most of his time below deck. Except when he would come up to hurl his last meal back into the sea, of course. After a day of this, Korwin offered to cast a small cantrip he knew, and thereafter Toran’s sea sickness abated, although it did nothing to improve his dark mood.

The Fortunes Favor sailed into the harbor of Shalara in the morning of 11 Emblio, a gloriously beautiful day, which even Toran grudgingly had to agree with, especially once his feet were on the solid stone of the docks. The group made their way through the city towards their homes in the New District, the center of a constantly buzzing bubble of excitement at the sight of an actual Gyantari.

Actually, the South River Gate guards had had a momentary fit of panic at the sight of Ergaboreth, but the captain, at least knew who the Hand was. When Lady Mariala haughtily assured him she would take full responsibility, he relievedly bowed them into the city.

After some debate, it was agreed that the Gyantari would stay with Toran, both because of their budding friendship and because, paradoxically, Khundari House had the highest ceilings of any of their homes. Ergaboreth would only have to slouch a little, and then only in some of the smaller rooms. When the others seemed surprised at this, he shrugged and grinned.

“What can I say, my people build on a grand scale!”

As they parted company, each to their own home, Vulk muttered something to Mariala about “overcompensating,” which, perhaps fortunately, Toran missed.

Early the in the morning of the day after their arrival home, a page from Kar Landsar appeared on their collective doorstep, summoning the Hand of Fortune to attend on the King’s Council at the Third Turning of the Wolf’s Watch. This was not unexpected, of course, and the six friends gathered at the Green Tower an hour before noon. While they made their way to the Royal District, Jeb and Cris were left to entertain (and keep an eye on) Ergaboreth.

When they were announced into the Royal Council Chamber, they were all shocked at the appearance of King Maldan. The large, robust man they were used to seemed shrunken and wan, slouched in his chair at the head of the table, his usually sharp eyes dull and half-lidded, sunk in dark pits. His flesh seemed to hang loosely on his large frame.

At his right hand sat his daughter, Crown Princess Miralda, now officially the heir despite the misgivings of some of the realm’s nobles. She nodded and gave the group a tight smile before turning her attention back to her father. He patted her hand and sat up a little straighter in his chair, nodding for Master Vetaris to speak.

The group’s mentor stood at the Kings left hand, a fact which both Mariala and Vulk, at least, sensed was annoying to the Lord Chancellor, Ser Tarkin Urhano. And more than annoying to Sera Derwen Verdeth, Mistress of Esoterica. If Vetaris was aware of the ire of the councilors he seemed to have superseded in the King’s counsels, he showed no sign of it and greeted the Hand gravely.

“We have heard some report of what has gone on in the west,” he began, “but His Majesty and His councilors would like now to hear first hand from those involved. Ser Cantor Vulk, if you would care to summarize, and then the Council will have questions.”

Taking a deep breath, Vulk plunged into the tale of their embassy to Arushal, the attack at sea of a kraken and their subsequent rescue by and alliance with the Tritani, the fight with, and death of, Grandmaster Yoridar in the ruins of Nirokilon, including the freeing of a spider-demon and the discovery of the long-lost Onyx Throne, Erol’s scouting mission to Bremkin and capture by his old nemesis, and the Hand’s mostly successful rescue attempt, followed by their own capture by General Satirnus’ legions and his blackmailing them into handing over the Onyx Throne to him, the recruiting of Ergaboreth to their cause, and finally the thwarting of Satirnus’ plan by the very public return of the long-lost Kildoran relic.

Master Vetaris, of course, knew most of this already, and had a hand in bringing much of it about – a fact which Vulk and his companions did their best to downplay during the subsequent questioning by the Council. The King said little, but most of the councilors were fairly impressed with what the Hand had achieved, and the questions soon turned into a debate about how these events would effect the current war effort.

It seemed to be the general consensus that, with Grandmaster Yoridar dead and the Iron Claw in disarray, and the Republic happy with both the return of Bremkin and the discovery of the lost Throne (and especially as the latter was accomplished by Arushali and Nolkiori agents at the behest of their respective monarchs), King Dorikon would now be able to honor the just-signed treaty and move troops east to bolster Nolkior’s forces.

At this point the conversation turned to matters of internal politics and the conduct of war against the Tharkian invaders and the “rebel” Earl of Yorma, and the Hand was dismissed, with thanks. Master Vetaris stepped out with them to have a private word. He seemed tired himself, and lacking some of his usual energy…

“It’s all this Gate travel,” he replied with a small smile at Mariala’s noting this. “I’ve had to be in five places at once, or so it seems, and keeping all these balls in the air can wear even a Gray Mage down.”

“What of the King?” Vulk asked. “He seems worse now than when we last saw him, shortly after he was wounded.”

“Yes, he continues to slowly decline,” Vetaris acknowledged grimly. “And not any of his physicians, archaists or cantors can figure out why. Even I am stumped. I have come to conclude that it is more a malady of the spirit than of the body, especially after Ser Draik sent some of his amazing Baylorium – though it seemed to raise the King’s energy levels and his spirits, the effect was only temporary… which reminds me, Draik sent along a new shipment of vials for you. I’ll have my man fetch them from my rooms before you leave.

“And now I must return to the Council, before the Chancellor suggests some new impracticality. We will talk again soon… and please tell your new Gyantari friend that the King regrets that the needs of war prevent Him from formally receiving such a rare and distinguished visitor to His realm as he deserves, but hopes that he might be presented soon, in a more informal setting.”

The Hand returned to the New District both gratified at the reception received from the King and his Council and worried about His Majesty’s health and the course of the war. But for the next two days they were able to set aside those worries and enjoy the many and varied reactions of Ergaboreth to the largest city he had yet seen.

Mariala received a staggering number of social invitations from her new peers in the nobility, all of them requesting that she bring her “marvelous new friend” along. After discussing it with Ergaboreth and the others, she accepted only two, from nobles who had treated her elevation to the peerage without the sniff of “old blood” snobbery she faced from so many others.

On the third day, however, the Hand were awoken just after dawn by a pounding on their doors – a messenger from Master Vetaris, with an urgent summon to the castle at once. Fearing that it had something to do with King Maldan’s health, they hurriedly threw on clothes and made their way through the still dark and silent streets of the city to Kar Landsar.

But it was not the King’s health that had the Magister upset and pacing the floor of his study in the suite of rooms given over to him. He gestured them to seats around the room and immediately launched into the problem.

“Not an hour ago I received… well, word is not correct, let us say ‘news’… of an attack of some sort on a location that the Star Council deems of top importance. In itself, this alarm would be cause for concern, but the chain of reasoning that this news has set off in my mind – I’m still processing it all, but I fear we face a potential disaster of fearful proportions.

“The Shrine of St. Helathor, an obscure holy site of an even more obscure saint, in the ruins of Xaranda, seems to have been attacked just before dawn. Obviously, this place is more than it seems, for the Star Council to have set up powerful wards to alert us instantly of such an event.

“You are all familiar, I assume, with the tragic story of the Desolation of Serviana?” Everyone nodded, even Korwin, for that was one of the greatest of the many tragedies that resulted from the Great War and the Necromancer’s mad bid to free the Chained God.

“You may know less of the details of the story of the Iron Knight, however. It’s Heart of Metal, the power core that gave life and animation to that massive golem, imbued with a portion of the great soul of the Telnori King Taharazod, has lain hidden in this obscure little shrine for 500 years. Guarded by Telnori Druid-Warriors, it has remained secret and safe, until now.

“Now it seems that someone has breached the defenses, and in doing so, it has made me recall the legend of the Demon Khanaribas the Corruptor. The Necromancer created the body of the Corruptor, and placed within it a greater demon, and this monstrosity had a hideous power. Everything it touched became infected with the Corruption, a dark, life- and energy-draining force that killed everything it touched, including the very earth itself.

“No one knows how Pürshok Vindu created this effect, although Talorin Silvereye believed he had acquired a sliver of the Shadow and had distilled some essence from it, and this essence was the Corruption. How he controlled this powerful minion we don’t know, but we do know the Vortex has been seeking out and studying old texts from a number of would-be mage rulers, including the Mad Astrologer and the Necromancer.

“If they have discovered how Vindu controlled the demon Khanaribus, and the Corruption itself, they may want to free the old horror to use in this war they’ve started… and now the seemingly insane attack of Tharkia into eastern Nolkior begins to make sense! The confusion and chaos of that invasion, and their control, however brief it may prove to be, of the region, gives their agents perfect cover to steal the Heart of Metal and to cross the Blasted March to the Corruptor’s prison. The Heart and the Sword together could break the Seal that holds that horror at bay…

“Furthermore, if they have discovered old texts of the Necromancer’s, they may have been experimenting with the Shadow, as he did, trying to recreate the Corruption themselves – and while they apparently haven’t succeeded (or we would certainly know it), perhaps the malady that infects the King is what they have achieved. Certainly the symptoms support the possiblity, at least.

“I need you all to go, as fast as is humanly possible, to the Shrine of St. Helathor, discover what has befallen, and stop whoever has done this before they can awaken the Corruptor, if in fact that is their goal. This matter is of such import, that I would accompany you myself this time, but I dare not leave with Maldan so fragile – time is of the essence in both matters, but only I can hope to cure the King, if what I now theorize is true. So once again, the Star Council calls on you, if you will take up this burden.”

There was no hesitation, as six voices assented as one. Vetaris smiled, for a moment his old dry humor peeking through his exhaustion.

“I had no doubts of you , my friends. Now go, prepare, and whatever you need you may requisition from the Royal Stores. I will operate the Gate myself, so you arrive fully refreshed and ready for whatever awaits you. And remember, if this journey takes you into the Blasted March, it is one of the most inhospitable places in the world. Nothing grows there, the very land itself is dead and the water foul and dangerous to drink, even if you can find it. Only the great River Asamira remains relatively untainted, though I would not drink even from it except in great need.”

With those words the hand rose and began to confer about what they would need, drawing up hasty lists and dispatching Vetaris’ pages on various errands…

Kingdom Map-Serviar

The Desolation of Serviana

by

1

In the year 2508 SR, the fourth year of the Great War, the Necromancer sent forth a great army against the Telnori/Umantari kingdom of Serviana. Sweeping down from the Savage Mountains, this horde of barbarians and Gülvini, bolstered by cadres of trolls, flights of dragons and a multitude of other fell beasts, poured over the lowlands like a wave.

It was a stroke long planned, and thanks to the work of his agents over the years – lies well placed, innuendo carefully wielded, doubt fanned into open mistrust – he felt confident the rift he had created between the Telnori of Serviana and the Khundari Princes of Karac would mean no help from the southern mountains for his current victims. Although the Dwarves turn would come, soon enough, as his plans came to full fruition.

Although they were numerous and fierce and without mercy, what made the advance of the Necromancer’s army seemingly unstoppable, despite the readiness of the realm for the war they knew was coming, was the commander of the horde, Khanaribas the Corruptor. This was a demon, captured by the Necromancer and placed into a great body of his own creation, a body that exuded an Aura of corruption that withered all life that it touched.

Little is known of how Pürshok Vindu created his Demon General, or of how he managed to control such a force of chaos, but many scholars today believe he somehow acquired a fragment of the Shadow of Torzhalo, the nothingness made solid that exists at the core of the Demon King Naventhül, and distilled an essence from it that created the Corruption.

Certainly Khanaribas did not possess the Shadow itself, since it showed no symptoms of being undead and it’s touch was never known to create any undead. But prior to being harnessed by the Necromancer the demon must have possessed at least one brilliant military mind, perhaps more, for it managed to guide an army of chaos to victory after victory, despite being a creature of chaos itself.

Within a month the demon’s army had reached as far south as the Imperial Canal connecting the Silvari River with Lake Benil. The Servian army had planned to hold them there, casting down the bridges and preparing emplacements of trebuchet and fire and stone casters on the far side of the Canal. But the Khanaribas’s power had grown with each kilometer south, and by the time it reached the Canal its Aura of Corruption spread around it for over a kilometer.

The stone of the Canal crumbled to dust, the water steamed and sank into the fissuring ground, and the Demon general advanced into the fire from the Umantari and Telnori ranged weapons. Wood rotted to pulp before it could touch him, stone turned to dust, flames to smoke and metal rusted to drifting flakes. When Khanaribas reached the emplacements the great weapons rotted away in seconds, the ground shriveled and cracked, plants withered and men turned black with the Corruption. These did not die instantly, but went mad with the pain and the horror, spreading the Corruption to all they touched until they themselves crumbled to nothing.

Behind the Demon General its hordes swarm across the Canal and soon routed what remained of the Servian forces. They then invested the scholarly city of Xaranda, a great center of Telnori learning and the home of numerous arcane schools. The survivors of the Battle of the Canal retreated behind her walls, and it was here that Khanaribas faced its first check.

The mages of Xaranda, with a month to prepare, had not wasted their time. The Wards they raised about the city walls were able to hold off both the Necromancer’s more mundane forces as well as the power of his Demon General. But they also used that time to created four Great Beasts, using long forbidden and ancient powers to grow and sculpt flesh into any shape, and imbued each Beast with an elemental power – Earth, Water, Fire and Air.

It has long been rumored that they did this because they had received word from the Necromancer himself that his General was only vulnerable to the combined powers of the elements. Many doubt this story, but it is possible that Vindu had become fearful of his own creation, not expecting its Corruption aura to grow as it had, and would welcome its demise at his enemies’ hands… after it had wrecked considerable destruction upon them, of course.

Whatever the motivation, four elemental Great Beasts were created, and the four most powerful mages of the city sent forth their own souls from their bodies to animate the constructs and imbue them with sentience. And it seemed to work, for when they came out of the city and attacked Khanaribas in unison, he was staggered and badly wounded.

It might be that the Corruptor’s threat could have ended there that day, but for the four dragons in the demon’s entourage. Seemingly unaffected by their master’s aura, they swooped in to attack the Great Beasts with flame and frost, tooth and claw. The Beasts held their own, but the Demon General escaped, and they dared not pursue – their presence within sight of the city was required to help maintain the Great Wards that protected her walls from the still besieging army. Without them, the lesser mages could not long maintain the protections, and the city would all too soon be overrun.

So, while they were able to hold off the horde from their walls, they were unable to stop the advance of the lager part of the army into the fertile heartland of Serviana. And the Demon General again seemed unstoppable. Wherever it strode, the earth around it died, the very life energy sucked from it, feeding its voracious appetite. Plants withered and died, but animals took the Corruption into themselves, and spread it even further as they ran, until they were themselves consumed and crumbled to dust.

As Khanaribas moved through the land, the bulk of its army trailing a safe distance behind, it grew in power, the radius of its life-draining aura growing with each kilometer. By the time it neared the great Telnori capital of Yalura the now 7-meter tall demon’s aura covered a circle of land 15 kilometers in diameter.

The eldritch wards of the Telnori mages of Yalura stopped the beast and its army 20 kilometers from the city, but this baulking only infuriated the creature, and it began a rampage through the hinterlands, circling wide around the city, killing the land as it went. And where it didn’t pass, the dragons flew, and their breaths of fire and ice wrought their own devastation on the groaning land.

As the land died, the power of the Yaluran mages began to fade, and they knew it was only a matter of time until their Wards failed. They had heard of the partial success of the Great Beasts created by their brothers and sisters in Xaranda. Lacking the artifacts for biological creation, they constructed instead a great golem of iron, in the shape of an armored knight, and a great sword for it to wield. And they would imbue this Iron Knight with the powers of all six elements.

But time was not on their side, and while the Iron Knight was forged, and the Sword as well, the Great Wards began to fail before all the elemental essences could be forged within the golem’s shell. The mages of Xaranda, knowing this, and realizing the only hope of all their people, and perhaps the world, lay in defeating the demon for good, decided to send the elemental Great Beasts to their king in Yalura. This meant leaving their own city open to the Necromancer’s army, but if Khanaribas was not stopped, where would his growing power end?

Within three days of the departure of the Beasts the city did indeed fall, and while many escaped down the river to the southwest, many more died in the fiery looting and rapine of the triumphant Gülvini, mountain tribesmen and things even less savory. The burned and shattered ruins of the city, though long overgrown and softened by the passing centuries, can still be seen where the Imperial Canal and the Silvari River meet, a silent monument to courage and sacrifice.

Arriving in Yalura, the four Great Beasts were hailed as heroes, and King Taharazod shared with them his plan. Knowing there was now no going back, their mortal bodies having been left in Xaranda, they agreed to the plan. A Greater Ward of Sealing was etched into the stone of the city’s central square, and four Elemental Wards of Sealing were placed at the four cardinal compass points around it.

The Great Beasts took their places within the Circles, and then their elemental-infused spirits flowed out of them and into the waiting crystal receptacles within the Iron Knight. The Knight stood at the center of the Greater Ward, 14 meters tall, hands clasped on the hilt of the mighty Sword, its tip planted between its feet.

Then Taharazod, not only the King but a great mage in his own right, split his own immortal soul in two, and imbued the Great Sword with half and the Metal Heart of the Iron Knight with the other. The Heart was the power core of the golem, using the purest part of the great king’s spirit to create an eternal link to the infinite power of the T’ara, while the Sword contained his strength and indomitable will.

For the final step in the ritual, the greatest Umantari warrior-mage of Serviana, Kelohir the Gray, and the great Khundari warrior-mage Zhedorum of Storm Peak (the only one of his kindred to reject the lies of the Necromancer, and answer when the Telnori called for help) let their own spirits be transferred into the crystal chambers of the head and torso of the golem, to lend it their battle prowess and fortitude, and infusing the golem with the elemental powers of Spirit and Metal.

And when all this was done, the seven-souled construct prepared to face the Demon of Corruption, even as the wards around the city finally failed. As the evil hordes rushed for the Ebony Bridge in eager anticipation, their jubilation turned to sudden terror as a towering apparition, 14 meters of living metal wielding a 5 meter long sword glowing with the white light of Taharazod’s pure soul, confronted them at the center of the span.

The mighty figure spoke no word, but even as the horde hesitated, the Iron Knight waded into them, slaying twenty or more with a single blow and sending another hundred flying through the air. Thousands died, and many more fled, before the demon Khanaribas, sensing the sudden disappearance of the great city’s shields, returned.

He was heralded by the arrival of his four dragons, who swooped on the Iron Knight breathing fire and ice. But the Sword of Taharazod deflected the blasts, turning each on the other, and thus did Belazur and Grendavol, the greatest fire and ice dragons of their age, destroy one another.

Their lesser brethren, enraged but learning the lesson, eschewed their breath weapons and went in for the kill with tooth, claw and barbed tail. But they did not understand the power and the speed of the Iron Knight and the Sword, and they too quickly died, headless bodies collapsing in pools of black blood.

Creature of chaos that it was, Khanaribas was not without intelligence and cunning. Seeing the fate of its greatest servants, it approached the Iron Knight with caution, seeking to destroy it from afar. Now itself almost 10 meters tall, it hurled rocks from the dying land, attempted to drown the Knight in black, corrupted water from the poisoned aquifer and river, summoned magma from even deeper within the earth, and caused tornadoes to buffet the mighty figure.

The Iron Knight withstood them all, the elemental spirits of the Great Beasts blocking or dissipating each attack, while the souls of Keohir and Zhedorum guided the golem’s own counter-attacks. The battle raged for hours, moving through the great city as her people fled into the barren lands that had once supported them. Buildings crumbled to dust as the demon touched them, the Asamira River steamed and boiled away, and every tree in the once-green city withered and turned black.

The Iron Knight scored three hits on the demon, wounding it badly each time, even slicing off three clawed fingers of its left hand. But each time the monstrous thing absorbed more energy from the land and life around it, and healed itself… although it seemed unable to grow the fingers back. Bit by bit, however, it was lured and driven where the Telnori mages wanted it to go, into the carefully hidden Ward Circle at the heart of the city.

And it was there that the Iron Knight put forth its full power, and the soul of Taharazod shone out like a beacon from the Sword. Khanaribas was taken by sudden fear, and faltered for just a moment… and so was lost. Guided by the battle-honed reflexes of two of the greatest warriors of the age, powered by the soul of a great and pure King, the Sword plunged plunged down and cleaved the corrupted form in two.

As the spirit form of the great demon poured like smoke from its corporeal remains, in great pain, panicked and confused, the Iron Knight took a mighty leap backward out of the Circle. At the same instant the light of the Sword died as the portion of Taharazod’s soul within it left the weapon and energized the great trap – within the Warding Circle a portal opened, sucking the shrieking demon spirit into a pocket dimension no bigger that the sphere defined by the circumference of the Circle itself.

The demon seemed to shrink as though it were falling a vast distance in an instant, and as it vanished in a tiny flash of light, the second part of the trap was energized – a Great Seal was set in place over the portal, that it might never be opened again, and the elemental-infused souls of the four Telnori mages flowed from the Iron Knight back into the bodies of their Great Beasts. As they did, each one empowered another seal between Khanaribas’ prison and the world, and each body seemed to turn to stone, to stand as eternal sentinels against the Corruptor’s return.

Although the victory was achieved, it was a Pyrrhic one – much of the heartland of Serviana was now a desolate wasteland, two of her greatest cities  razed and their people killed or scattered, the King sacrificed to seal the danger away forever. The corruption eventually faded from the land, but it remained dead, and to this day no living thing will grow in the soil of the Blasted March.

The souls of Kelohir and Zhedorum returned to their bodies, and after the Iron Knight was placed at the foot of the Ebony Bridge over the Asamira River as a warning for all to stay out of the dead city, and the Sword was placed in Taharazod’s hidden tomb, the two warriors turned north with fire in their eyes and vengeance in their hearts. For, although one army was destroyed, the Necromancer had many more, and the Great War was far from over… and so they strode forth into legend. What happened to the Heart of Metal, containing the remaining portion of King Taharazod’s soul, has never been revealed, although many speculate it is kept safe by the Telnori in case the Iron knight should ever be needed again.

The surviving Umantari of Serviana found refuge in various settlements to the north, in the still fertile lands untouched by the Corruptor, especially the great port city of Lirilar (where tragedy would soon stalk them again), while the Telnori retreated to the fastness of the island of Iria. From the shining city of Tir-Iria Taharazod’s son Kelabin still rules the land known today as Serviar, and none are allowed within the desolation of the Blasted March without his permission. Regular patrols are kept to ensure that no looters disturb the lost cities, and that no adventurer ever seeks to break the seals and release the Corruptor once more into the world…