45: Portal

[Start from the beginning]

The fireball had had the desired effect, sowing confusion among the cloaked figures conducting the ceremony. Calleslyn had, at least for the moment, saved the intended victim from her fate, but that hardly meant that the danger was over. As she had said to Dolrim just moments before, there were too many of them, and it was likely that at least some were capable of fighting back. Valmor certainly would be, and it was unlikely he was alone.

She had had no choice but to attack when she did, but she and Dolrim were heavily outnumbered. She just had to hope that the sudden explosion and magical assault had evened up the odds a little.

"I'm going to try and protect her," she told the dwarf. After all, the conspirators were surely still desperate to complete their ritual, and that would mean taking their sacrifice back. The woman was a nun, helpless against them at the best of times. Even if she tried running, the building was surrounded by a ring of undead, and that wouldn't end well. So Calleslyn had to do something.

44: Ceremony

[Start from the beginning]
Lady Tarissa bit back the angry words she had been planning when she saw the desperate look on Almandar's face. She had specifically told him to be quick when he went to talk to the bard, Yarai, and yet he had, in fact, been some hours, leaving her on her own back at the villa waiting for him. She could guess what he had been doing; she wasn't that naïve. Yet it looked as if something really had him worried, and her recriminations could wait. No matter his peccadilloes, he was an experienced adventurer, and he wouldn't look quite so rushed without good reason.

"What is it?" she asked curtly, instead of delivering her rebuke.

"It's tonight!" said the magician, somewhat breathlessly, "and the sun is almost set now! That's when they're starting it!"

"Explain," she snapped, "what have you learned?"

He visibly steadied himself, clearly flushed from having run most of the way here from… well half-way across town, presumably. "There's a ceremony that somebody has to conduct to summon this thing called 'the Presence'… I'm still not clear what it is, but it's something very powerful and demonic. It's been here since before the city even existed, and tonight, somebody is planning to summon it. It will give them power over demons, or something… Hell on Earth quite literally, or something much like it."

"Where is this ceremony? Who's behind it?"

43: Throndar

[Start from the beginning]
Throndar raised his hand to shield his eyes from the sun. The land he was travelling through was dry and dusty, and he had not seen a cloud for days. The occasional hardy bush or thorn tree broke the monotony, but this was not a good place for living.

Not that he minded, for Throndar was a barbarian, born and raised in lands not much less harsh than this, skills and reflexes honed in a dangerous environment, to become one of the greatest warriors in his tribe. That tribe was gone now, slain by evil sorcery, and Throndar wandered the world alone, a freebooter and mercenary in search of plunder and riches.

He was a tall man, standing six feet and four inches in height, but powerfully built, with broad shoulders and bulging biceps. Like all the people of his former tribe, he wore little, especially in the warm climate of this land, with leather boots, a wide belt about his waist, a loincloth of thick fur and naught else but his sword belt and a small bag of provisions. The hot sun glistened on his bare chest, his powerful muscles well defined beneath the lightly tanned skin.

"So, when is this set, exactly? I mean, when did it happen?"

"Hush. It'll all become clear."

42: Yarai

[Start from the beginning]

It hadn't taken Almandar long to find her. If you asked those who liked their music, and knew the local entertainers, she was distinctive enough that it really took very little effort indeed to learn where she was performing tonight. He was lucky that she had been in the city at all, of course, because she often travelled elsewhere, as bards were wont to, but once he knew that she was, it had been easy enough to find the right tavern.

He heard her even before he entered the room, her clear voice floating out onto the street. The patrons were quiet, enraptured; there was no hubbub of conversation while she performed. And there she was, as he walked in to stand at the back, near the bar. A flicker of recognition, of surprise, crossed her face, but it was momentary, and her performance did not halter for a second. It was unlikely anyone else would even have noticed, such was her professionalism.

He hadn't seen her for years, for all that they had so much in common. In a way, perhaps, he had more in common with Yarai than anyone else in the city, yet he had been avoiding her. He wasn't sure how she would react to seeing him now, after all this time, and the brief flicker across her face as he had walked in was not enough to give him a clue. Perhaps she would be the one who would avoid him. He hoped not, because that would make things awkward… well, more awkward than they were going to be anyway.

He should have sought her out before, really. But instead, he had taken the obvious course, looking for records in the College library, trying to find some explanation for what had happened in the distant past, and for why it might be happening again now. Yarai knew all the old legends; she would have made an excellent source. But he had pushed the possibility to the back of his mind, putting off the inevitable encounter.

41: Sceptre

[Start from the beginning]
Zarenis sat on the bed in her tiny apartment room, thick curtains drawn against the morning light outside. She had handed over the censer to Lady Amloth – or at least, to her manservant, for she felt reluctant to meet the drow herself now. She had been invited in, which indicated that she was expected, but had declined the offer. She had fulfilled her mission, and was now rid of the infernal artefact that she had been hired to collect. In return, she had a large payment of gold coins, enough to keep her in relative comfort for a while.

So it should all have been over. That was it, mission accomplished, her part in Lady Amloth's schemes completed. Except, of course, that it wasn't.

She looked at the sceptre she held in her hands. It was made of a bluish-black metal, either crafted with some sort of pigment worked into it, or perhaps made of a substance she could not identify. Its tip bore a set of three sharp spikes, arching around a clear crystal with a slight tinge of yellow. Those spikes had proved deadly when she had used the thing as a weapon, making it almost as much a spear as a sceptre, although it was a little cumbersome to be used as a true weapon of war. The shaft was hexagonal, engraved with writing in what she could only assume was an infernal script unknown to her.

The sceptre had much the same effect on her as the censer, or perhaps the latter's effect had not faded. Either way, while she had the transformation under control, it took an effort of will to maintain her normal form, keeping herself from being more noticeable among normal humans than she already was. In that form, she looked even more demonic than her father had, and the tainted blood had run stronger in his veins than it did in hers. She wasn't comfortable with it, preferring to vanish into the background… but the problem was, the sceptre spoke to her.

40: Kara

[Start from the beginning]

The raid on Sashjant's lair had been a far shorter venture than any of their great expeditions into the wilderness, plundering ancient tombs or forgotten labyrinths. Yet it felt just as satisfying, producing the same thrill that escaping from near-death in an underground catacomb did. Or so Almandar felt, and he got the impression that the others did, too. Admittedly, in his case, the manner of his escape had been somewhat unorthodox, if far from unpleasant.

Presumably, for the others, the experience had been rather more conventional, but what really mattered was that they had saved five women from a terrible fate at the hands of a wicked demon. It was clear, now that they were free of his mental influence, how they regretted what they had done in his name, and, for some, at least, he suspected it would take a long time for their emotional scars to heal. Which meant that he currently felt as if he was walking on egg-shells when he was around them.

The former members of the harem were currently gathered in the main room of the adventurers' villa. Calleslyn had left to give Ornejirhs the good news, and Dolrim had left them alone, unaccountably bashful – perhaps he was overwhelmed by the emotion of the event, since dwarves were known for their taciturnity. That left Almandar with Tarissa and Vardala, talking to the rescued women.

39: Villains

"…and with that," Yelvann was saying, "the temple of Pardror will be crippled until it is far too late for them to interfere with our plans. By the time any of them are able to look around, the ceremony will already have been completed, and the Presence will reign supreme."

The skinny necromancer stepped back, into the ring of hooded conspirators, the Presence's chosen disciples and future rulers of Haredil. Eristacia found her suggestion, involving as it did a horde of undead, rather distasteful, but it was all a means to an end. The most important end of all, the Presence was whispering in her mind, worth whatever it takes. The Presence did not speak to her directly, not in words, the way it apparently did to Lady Amloth, but she could feel its urgings, expressed in emotions and concepts, always at the back of her mind, pushing her forward. Right now, it was telling her that everything was assured, that its triumph – and hers – were close at hand.

Eristacia turned to face the drow, standing not far from her in the ring, her jet black face and keen amber eyes peering out from the hood of her long cloak. As always at these meetings, she wore the same black hooded robes over her regular clothing as did all the other conspirators, although she added a silver chain around her shoulders, and, somehow, her robes always seemed more figure-hugging than anyone else's.

"Thank you, Yelvann," said Lady Amloth. "Now that that is in place, we are fully prepared. In two days time, my agent will deliver the censer from its safe-keeping, and Domand," she nodded in the direction of the priest, "will deliver the sacrifice. The night after tomorrow, we will all gather in the agreed upon place, except for Yelvann, of course, who will be directing the attack."