The mountain breeze was cold, bringing with it a hint of snow from the north. Split-Fang lifted his nose to the heavy grey clouds and sniffed softly; the air was perfect for his morning's work. Ice-crusted snow, fallen three suns ago, crunched loudly under his steps as he made his way slowly upward toward the high peak ahead of him.
Split-Fang was old, ancient even, for a gnoll, and his appearance was testament to that fact. His right eye was milky white, a twisted scar running through it from just above his right ear to the corner of his jaw. His ears were ragged and torn from countless fights, the once tawny fur that covered his head and body mostly grey now. Despite his age, his step was sure and strong. His gnarled feet, wrapped in rags to protect against the cold, seemed to find the path on their own. Split-Fang paused to catch his breath and his paw went reflexively to the rough leather pouch suspended from his waist. Cold as the morning air was, the pouch was colder. Frost formed on its surface even as he brushed it off. Feeling the reassuring heft of the pouch against his aching hip, he sighed and sank to his haunches for a short rest. The trip would be arduous for the old gnoll and he knew it. The day's work had been a year in preparation, and now that day was upon him, he was almost hesitant to continue his climb.
To a few of the human population of Chandreskahr Barony, gnolls were the stuff of legends, villains from old stories rising from the time when the Manni ruled the inlands and humans still huddled in tiny villages along the coastlines. To most they were an all too real part of life on the frontier. Of course humans had always been present on the continent of Klondathera, but for millenia their presence had been limited to nomadic barbarian tribes, scratching out a scant hunter/gatherer existence. Then the overlord had created the gods, the arctic climate had gradually changed to temperate, and the Manni had dwindled, losing their power until they became a rustic cave folk and finally disappearing altogether. Humans meanwhile, had flourished. Elves and Dwarves (once allied with the Manni and ultimately betrayed by them), drew their scattered folk into well organized kingdoms and prepared for the emergence of the human race as the dominant sentient power. Chandreskahr Barony had been the last settled, and was still wild frontier to a great extent. The humanoid tribes of goblins, hobgoblins, orcs, gnolls, and bugbears had been driven back to their mountain strongholds, but Edric Chandreskahr was still forced to maintain a large standing army, not to mention a militia levy, to keep them at bay.
The city of Chandreskahr was the only truly civilized place of human refuge in the barony. One of the older cities on Klondathera, it was a center of the arts and various religions, attracting visitors from all over the world. Chandreskahr was a curious mixture of ancient architecture and new modern design and beliefs. The undercity was reputed to lead to ancient Manni ruins, though no true evidence had ever been found to support the rumors. The northern border of the barony ran for many miles along the Highfork Mountains, the stronghold of the savage tribes of humanoids.
It was in these mountains that the Blackspear Tribe, of which Split-Fang was the shaman, eked out a living. The tribe was nomadic, moving north to the central highlands during the summers and south to the edge of the civilized lands during the winter. The tribe had been on the edge of extinction for a year. Many had fallen ill and died, victims of a strange curse. Pups were born sick and many had not survived. To make things worse, the gnolls had been attacked and driven away from their traditional summer hunting grounds by a tribe of hobgoblins. The disease and the ensuing war had reduced the Blackspear tribe to less than 40 gnolls, with only about 20 able bodied warriors. What would happen today could not have come at a better time.
The tribe's autumn camp was in a high valley less than two day's walk from the human settlement of Highfork Village. Highfork sat at the northern edge of Chandreskahr Barony on the rich soil between the Great Black River and the Highfork mountain range. Split Fang was indifferent to humans; he'd had some dealings with them throughout his life and found them to be strange and complex beings. He owed the contents of the pouch at his side to a group of humans. He grunted when the memory of those events came to him, his muzzle wrinkling in amusement.
First had come the one who called himself Gan, a wiry blond human with scorn in his eyes and greed in his heart. Gan spoke the gnoll's language. He presented gifts to the Blackspear chieftan, Ulfwan, and made promises to improve the tribe's fortunes. In return, Gan had merely wanted Highfork Village burned to the ground and it's inhabitants killed or sold to the humanoids in the mountains as slaves or worse. Ulfwan, young but shrewd, had listened to Split Fang's counsel to be wary of deceit, and had refused Gan's offer. Gan had cursed the gnolls, and the sickness began.
Ulfwan sent a few of the tribes warriors to capture or kill the human, but to no avail. Finally he had been spotted outside a farmhouse in Highfork. Five gnoll warriors had slipped into position outside the village under cover of darkness, and attacked the farmhouse. Gan was no longer there but the gnolls had fired the house in retaliation and slipped away into the night.
Split-Fang's reverie was interrupted by the crunch of icy snow from a small thicket ahead of him. He tensed, lifting his nose to the breeze. A wolf emerged from the undergrowth and stopped, eying him warily. The animal was old, the fur on its muzzle almost snow white. Its ears were ragged and it moved stiffly, limping a little. Split-Fang chuckled. "Yes Cana," he growled, calling the wolf brother in the tradition of his people, "We are both hunting something this morning, both glad to be alive, both wary of the other. Move on your way, old one, and let the spirit of Keena guide you to a good hunt and a fresh kill." At the sound of his harsh voice, the wolf seemed to relax. It lifted its nose and sniffed the air once, whined, and trotted away down the mountain.
An hour later Split-Fang stopped again and squatted beside a small trickle of water that ran out of a cleft between two rocks and flowed into a pool below. He drank deeply of the cold, clear water, then looked back down the way he had come. The last several feet had been steep, his path winding between boulders and stunted evergreen trees. He was approaching the top of the mountain now; on the other side of the crest his climb would be downhill, but over treacherous rocks which were sure to be crusted with ice and snow.
The humans had come to the gnoll camp only a few suns after the burning of the farmhouse in Highfork. They were seeking the culprits with vengeance on the forefront of their thoughts. Ulfwan’s scouts had seen them leaving the village and kept a watch on them all the way to the village. There were six of them; Split-Fang knew his tribe’s warriors would have little trouble killing them if it came to that, but he was more curious than anything. Did they know the human, Gan? Why were they only six in number, and not a mob? How could he use them, turn the situation to the gnolls’ advantage? So he waited, instructing the scouts the guide them to the camp and take up defensive positions. The humans came on, straight into the camp and to Ulfwan’s shelter. Ulfwan met them as a chief should, no fear in his eyes. One of them had owned the house the gnolls had burned, and demanded retribution. Split-Fang asserted that an enemy of the gnolls had been there, and anyone who was the friend of their enemy was also their enemy. They were looking for Gan as well, to capture or kill him.
An idea took root in Split-Fang’s mind. He offered no apology for the attack on the village, but did give them something he had stolen from Gan; a smooth iron cube, half the size of his palm. He also told them that he had seen Gan poking around an ancient ruin not far from the gnoll camp. They took the bait and set off for the ruin. Split-Fang knew more about the ruin than he had let them believe. He had tried to gain access to it before after finding a bone tube containing an ancient scroll. The scroll had fallen to pieces as he handled it, but he had still managed to read it with magic granted him by Keena.
It hinted at an artifact that lay inside the ruin (a deep multi-level basement/dungeon of what had once been an opulent castle). The castle was long gone, but access to the basement could be gained by clearing away rubble from a twisted stair that stuck out of the ground like a broken tusk. The scroll also told him where the artifact (the true treasure in the ruin) could be found. Split-Fang planned to enter it after the humans emerged and take the artifact for himself. If they somehow stumbled across it, he planned to kill them as they made their way back to their village and take it from them. He had managed to attune one of his spells to the artifact from its description on the scroll, and could vaguely sense its presence if he was near it.
From over the crest of the ridge ahead of him he heard a rough voice barking a command, followed closely by the stamp of an iron-shod boot on a stony surface. Split-Fang froze, his straining his nose for a scent, then turned and sprinted a few yards back down the slope to a huge boulder that lay half buried in the ground. He closed his eyes and mumbled a prayer to his god, clenching his fist around one of the carved and polished bones hanging around his neck, then laid his other hand gently on the surface of the boulder. After a long few seconds he felt its hard resistance soften and he pushed his way into it. The stone seemed to take on the consistency of soft mud but in reality he knew his body and belongings were becoming one with the boulder. He uttered another quick prayer, this time asking Keena to make the artifact in the pouch at his side travel into the stone with him. There was a short moment of disorientation after while his entire body was being absorbed, and nausea threatened to make him lose control of his gut. It passed quickly and he felt his nerves lose sensation gradually. After a few minutes he slowly gained sensation back, this time the surface of the boulder acting as his skin. It was unnerving to feel like a boulder, with no arms or legs, and any feeling of locomotion gone. He had used this spell only a few times in his life and he hated it as much now as he had the first time he had cast it. After what felt like an eternity he heard the voice again and the footsteps grew louder. They were hobgoblins by the language they were using; Split Fang knew enough of it to recognize it for what it was. It rankled him that he had to hide from the hobgoblins, but he was also wise enough to know that his mission this day was more important than his pride. The footsteps slowed, stopped, then began to mill around. It sounded like there were ten to twelve hobgoblins in the warband, and Split-Fang cursed silently when he realized they planned to stop for a rest. His spell would only last perhaps an hour and a half, two hours at most. If he were still inside the boulder when it ran out he would be forcibly expelled. He cursed even more when his new ‘skin’ felt several of the hobgoblins sit on the boulder. The old shaman wasn’t a regular bather, but this was one of the few times in his life when he’d felt dirty. Finally he sighed and resigned himself to the ordeal.
The humans had taken the bait Split-Fang dangled in front of them and gone to explore the ruin. He’d followed them at a distance, using his magic to escape detection. They had performed admirably; he’d had to wait only two suns after they’d gone underground using the broken stair. They were in high spirits when they’d returned. Although filthy and obviously rife with injuries, the group had laughed and joked and brandished their booty. They were full of bravado and the satisfaction of a successful expedition, and hadn’t noticed Split-Fang’s presence. He’d waited for several hours after they were out of sight, then ventured cautiously into the ancient basement. The humans had performed admirably, slaughtering everything living and undead they encountered. He could see it had not been easy; some of the battles had been brutal, and he could not help but admire their courage and perseverance. He had ventured through the three levels of the basement until he was in a natural cavern. Undoubtedly the builders of old had encountered the cave system and decided to use it to their advantage. The ancient crypt of the castle’s lord lay broken and scorched by magic in front of him. He passed it without a second glance until he stood at the edge of an undergound lake. The water was black and still, yet freshened by the underground streams that fed it. Somewhere the lake fed into a stream that flowed down to the Big Black river, but Split-Fang spared it not a second thought. He stood with his feet in the cold water and called upon the power of his god. Long moments passed, until finally a faint blue glow lit up the water. Under three fathoms of icy water lay the object of his quest. He prayed to Keena once agan, and dove. By the time he resurfaced his arms and legs were numb and he felt the grip of deathly sleep closing about him, but he bore with him a small iron chest. He lay for a while on the smooth stone floor of the cavern until he regained his strength. Without a glance backward he carried the chest back to the gnoll encampment and into his shelter. By the time he arrived the rest of the gnolls were asleep and he had managed to slip past the sentries. By the light of a small fire built from spruce knots he broke open the chest and studied its contents. He hadn’t left his shelter for a tenday, enthralled as he was by the stone he had taken from the chest. After many trials and bone-chilling work, he had unlocked its secret.
Split-Fang suddenly became aware that he was alone. His stony sanctuary had served its purpose; the hobgoblins were gone. Perhaps they were planning to attack his tribe. Split-Fang suppressed the urge to run back to his village to warn them, reminding himself that his purpose on the mountain was more important than the lives of a few of his pack mates. He waited the space of another 200 breaths, then climbed stiffly out of the boulder. He stretched and felt his spine crack and pop, breathed deeply of the cool mountain air, and continued along the path up the side of the ridge.
He walked until the sun was at it zenith. When he stopped he was standing ankle deep in cold, murky water. The stench of decay filled his sensitive nostrils as he inhaled deeply, panting slightly from exertion. To anyone else, what lay before him was a bog; snow covered the trunks of dead trees, their roots submerged in foul icy water. To Split-Fang, he saw opportunity and power. This was a battleground; hundreds of combatants had died here years ago in a war between the savage mountain humanoids and the civilized folk of Chandreskahr Barony. He waited to catch his breath, almost uncertain of the path he had chosen, then steeled himself for what was to come. Reaching slowly into the pouch at his side he retrieved the dull red stone. It’s uncut sides were cracked and misshapen, but deep in its depths he could see a faint red glow. It froze his fingers at the touch but he stood still and held it at chest level. He prayed to Keena, his god, and felt his body begin to swell with dark power. Suddenly the stone flashed, temporarily blinding him as it sent beams of energy into the dark waters around him. Suddenly it went dark again; Split-Fang opened his eyes and waited. After a breathless few minutes the water began to stir. Ripples broke from its surface as the foul things in its depths began to rise. Silently, with only the dripping sound of the water running from their bones, they stood. Humans, elves, dwarves, and humanoids alike formed rank and file in front of him, some wearing the remnants of ancient, rusted armor, all bearing some form of weapon. Split-Fang marveled at their appearance, suddenly aware that they were acting upon his very thoughts. He knew that he had only to think and order and this army would carry it out. They were tireless, needed no food nor rest, and their loyalty was limitless. They would obey his bidding, the hundreds of undead creatures that now stood before him, to their total destruction. Split-Fang breathed deeply, reverently replaced the stone in its pouch, and issued his first order as general of this unholy army. He silently thanked his god and those humans who had made this possible, then turned an began up the slope. The hobgoblins would be the first to feel his wrath; Split-Fang, the shaman, would make his name known to all who stood in his way.
