Checkmate

The Overlord leaned back in his throne. “I believe you have a bit of stolen property that belongs to these people. A scroll, I believe?”

Serin looked down from the riser and chuckled softly, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

“Well, shit.” Wynne folded her arms.

“No,” the Professor said, folding his arms.

“We know you have the scroll. Are you denying that you stole it from your mentor?”

“My mentor is dead. Therefore, it now belongs to me.”

“But he stole it from these people.”

“I cannot be held accountable for the actions of my mentor.”

“Nevertheless, I think it would be appropriate for you to return it.”

The Professor frowned. “Why would someone like yourself be concerned with this? Surely you have other things to worry about? Why care?”

Footsteps echoed off the marble floor. A figure, dressed in a heavy black cloak and hood, approached from the same doorway Serin had come from. The figure spoke. “Because his majesty is going to fund the building of the Creation Forge.” He pulled his hood back slowly, revealing an elderly man, thinning gray hair, but with a friendly, smiling face. “I am Sardis. The Black Moon have taken to calling me ‘Wise Man’. His majesty has the capital and the labor to build it. In exchange for the plans, we will have use of the Forge. So will the Overlord.”

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Planning a Murder

“So, Landis, is it?” Serson, brother of the corrupt Duke of Warwik, looked the young man up and down. “You’ve done well for me so far. I have a new assignment for you. You are to go to the Frosty Troll and meet a group there. There is a paladin named Darius, beard and mustache, somewhat dark skinned, a female dwarf cleric of Odin, a female human wearing skin tight red leather armor, and… someone short, likely in disguise. You are to accompany them and help out any way you can. They are going to eliminate Garsen. Any questions?”

“No, my lord.”

“Good. Once they dismiss you, return to me for further instructions.”

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History Lesson

Kuro-hi strained against her manacles, but to no avail. Again she spewed a stream of curses at Darius, who could now understand them all too well. Darius acted as a translator between the cat-like humanoid and the rest of the group.

“That’s not very nice language for a lady,” the Professor scolded. “After we saved your life and all. Why are you after us, anyway? I mean, I know you want the scroll, but…”

“We want the scroll. You don’t even know what to do with it,” Kuro-hi hissed.

“Why is it so important? Why do you want it so bad?”

“So the Masters can retake their proper place as the rulers of our world.”

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What’s That Smell?

How anyone slept with the horrendous odor from the otyugh pit covering everyone but the gnome, was uncertain. But they did. It was impossible to tell how long they slept, underground in the abandoned drow tunnels that once housed the Octagon slaver group. But it didn’t seem all that long before the Professor was awake and heading for the supply room. He climbed the stack of crates to take another look at the stone globes that gave off the unearthly purple glow. The gnome decided they must be illuminated by a spell. He wondered where the nearest dark elf was that he could ask.

Eventually, the other members of the group stirred. “By the gods, that’s quite the smell,” Wynne said. “I don’t care who’s after us or where they are. We need baths, right now. There’s a bathhouse not too far away.”

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Divine Assistance

The way he was breathing, it seemed possible that Grond Odinson had run all the way from the Skandik settlement to the thieves’ safe house in the Priests Quarter. “Ingrid, are you all right? What’s wrong?” he asked, gasping for air.

Darius explained to the priest about the attack by the anti-paladin and his black skeleton cohorts, and of the group’s attempt to get help from the main temple of Odin. Grond understood. “Just like Federac, probably didn’t want to get blood on his floor. Well, I’m glad you’re safe, and that you got Tiberius to help. Ingrid, you look pale, what’s wrong?”

“I feel weak, it was those skeletons,” she replied. Grond called upon the power of Odin to restore her strength.

“You should be fine now. I must be getting back to the temple. Good luck to you all.” Grond shook everyone’s hand, then left.

“What are we going to do with this body?” Darius asked, pointing at the headless man on the floor.

“We’ll have to dump it somewhere. I think there’s a sewer entrance around here,” Wynne offered.

Later, the group decided that they should seek out the Octagon, the group of slavers operating out of the drow tunnels beneath the Thieves Quarter. They made their way across town.

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A Call to Action

As soon as Ingrid had a day off from her duties at the temple of Odin, she made plans to visit her friend and mentor, Grond Odinson. She made her way south through the Merchants District in Warwik, to the great tunnel underneath the hill on which the palace of the Duke was built.

The early morning traffic consisted mostly of goods being brought into the city along the Saddlebow Path and from the market in nearby Zerthstone down the coast. Ingrid kept to one side of the tunnel, allowing the carts and wagons ample room. She admired the stonework of the tunnel – not quite up to Dwarven standards, but passable. Lanterns spaced out along the walls created alternating pools of yellow light and inky shadows.

Once out of the tunnel, she could immediately smell the dozens of cooking fires from the Skandik settlement. Wooden longhouses alternated with tents and crude log cabins. Everywhere were tall, muscular men and women with braided blonde and red hair. The men sported braided beards and sung Skandik work songs as they performed their daily chores.

At the village’s center was a small market. Surrounding the market were the most important buildings of the village: the longhouse of the Jarl, the hut of the shaman, the barracks of the militia, and the grandest of all, a brightly painted longhouse with a carved eight-legged horse at its peak, and two carved ravens forming the crest of the roof. This was the Skandik temple of Odin. It was here that Ingrid’s friend led the faithful in worship. She hurried inside.

The two priests of the All-Father sat at a rough-hewn table and drank warm mead and Ingrid told her friend the stories of her adventures that had swept her up in their fury after answering the call to meet Aterus in the abandoned warehouse.

Grond slammed his mug down on the table. “Very good! You make me proud. Does that slave driver Federac still have you tending the sick and cleaning altars?”

“Yes, but I don’t mind,” she replied.

Grond continued, his voice thundering. “You’re going to waste there! You could do so much more. Wait a minute.” He went into another room and brought out pen, parchment, and ink. He began to write. When he had finished, he handed the parchment to Ingrid. “Take this to that old fart, and tell him he needs to make you a Priest Errant. You’ll choose your own path, your own way to serve Odin, through his will, not that of men.” Grond sealed the ink bottle. “Now, come outside, I have something else for you.”

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A Fire in the Sky

Breakfast at the Sleeping Ogre consisted of eggs, bacon, hard bread and bacon gravy. No one slept the night before, having destroyed the necromancer Ahriman just before dawn at the Sanctuary. No words were exchanged, no recounting of the battle, no discussion on the group being used as pawns in a dangerous game. They were just too tired.

The Professor, Wynne, Darius, and Ingrid agreed to meet back at the inn by noon, after everyone had a chance to get some much-needed sleep. None knew what had happened across town in the Priests Quarter.

Shortly after everyone arrived or came down to the bar area from their rooms, a group of people gathered out in front of the inn, pointing east. Darius stepped out the front door to see what everyone was looking at. Across town, somewhere in the Priests Quarter, a black column of smoke rose into the overcast sky. “Where’s the Professor?” Darius immediately thought, but the red-haired gnome was right beside him, astride his riding dog, Admiral.

“We should check it out,” chirped the Professor. “Might have been a concoction gone wrong! Or a new formula I could copy!”

Ingrid and Wynne stepped up beside them. “I don’t know if that’s the temple of Odin or what,” Ingrid said, furrowing her brow. “I at least need to go.”

“Might as well go together,” Darius said. So they set off towards the source of the smoke.

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Across the Winedark Sea

It was cool in the shade. Lachlainn was grateful for that. While always profitable, the leader of the Warwik gang, the Shore Wolves, did not enjoy his visits to the city-state of Tarantis. Not in this heat.

“Gentlemen, I have one other item to show you.” A slick Gishmesh trader, Ossian, set a leather satchel on the table, moving the carafe of wine to the side. “Go ahead, my friends, look inside.”

Lachlainn was not a fan of theatrics. He flipped open the flap of the satchel and reached inside. He withdrew a pack of scroll cases, each carved from bone. They were tied with a golden cord. “Tell me these are magical, and that you’re not wasting my time with some dusty writings about desert plants or something.” He let the scroll cases fall on the table.

Ossian looked at Essam, Lachlainn’s contact for stolen goods in Tarantis, and gave him an evil grin. “Perhaps you would like to tell him, sayyid?”

Essam leaned forward, almost whispering. “My friend, these are the Scrolls of Ahriman. Lost for a thousand years, they may hold great power for someone with the knowledge and skill to interpret their secrets. Secrets of life and death, secrets of immortality. They are priceless. This is why I bring you here, sayyid.”

Lachlainn drained the last of his wine cup. “If they are priceless, why me? Surely you have sages and wizards aplenty here that would pay for them?”

Ossian spread his hands and sighed. “You must understand, sayyid, that this is not the west. Many people are superstitious of things from the lost empire of Kemed. They say that the scrolls must be cursed by Anubis, the ancient god that Ahriman defied a thousand years ago. But the learned men of the west do not share these simple superstitions, no?”

“Cursed?” Lachlainn held up his hands in front of him, warding off evil. “How do I know they really aren’t cursed? What are you trying to sell me?”

Ossian smiled. “Sayyid, I assure you, there is no curse on these scrolls. I have had them for weeks, and my luck has been anything but bad. My hair hasn’t fallen out, my skin is not covered in sores, and my wife is still happy with me in the bedroom. But priceless does not interest me, my friend. Gold interests me. Pay what I ask, take these scrolls back to your city in the west, and some doddering old sage will pay you handsomely for them. Everyone wins.”

Lachlainn looked at Essam, a question in his eyes. Essam nodded, grinning. He’d never steered Lachlainn wrong before. And 200 gold for the possibility of thousands? He would, perhaps, make in a few days what the smugglers in Warwik paid his gang in a year. “Very well. But if this Anubis kills me, you’ll be the first one I haunt.” He shook Ossian’s hand. “Done.”

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