The great ranges of the Shadow
Mountains stood tall and proud like a sentinel, casting its shadow over the
trading city of Metier. Running for nearly nine hundred miles in a north-south
direction, an uncountable number of trails and pathways had been carved into the
mountainside long ago to ease travel through this region. Of all of these, the
largest and most well known was the trail called Ogre Pass. The Pass was a wide
crevasse that cleaved the mountains nearly in two. Whether man-made or created
by nature, Ogre Pass was indeed a modern marvel. Almost completely devoid of
any vegetation larger than a sapling, the makeshift road was wide and provided
little cover for bandits and brigands. Although there were many caves and
abandoned mines, they were checked constantly by travelers and gave bandits
little reason to risk being caught in them.
It was on a high rocky
outcropping just above the edge of Ogre Pass that the barbarian Cyrus Redblade
knelt, deep in thought, his eyes admiring the view. With the early coming of
spring, most of the snow at this altitude had begun to melt, creating slick,
icy trails down the dark side of the mountain.
Cyrus let out a long sigh and
let his mind wander. As he and his companions headed back to his home in Eöl
Anwar, it felt as if all he had worked so hard to accomplish was finally
complete. For the last three years, he and his friends had pursued the dark
mage Malkar in an effort to end his reign of terror throughout the realm. They
had followed the vile sorcerer and his Brotherhood of Darkness all the way to
the coastal city of Lockenwood. There they thwarted an attempt to kill the High
Priestess of Lockenwood, Amerynn Thanis. The evil mage had paid for the attempt
with his own life, killed by a spell of his own creation. In an effort to rid
himself of his pursuers, he underestimated his power and vaporized himself and
a good portion of the Brotherhood with a fireball. With the mage finally dead,
the time of healing could finally begin.
Over the last three months, the companions had stayed in
Lockenwood rehabilitating surviving cult and helping the general populace
recover from the emotional scars Malkar's visit inflicted. Avengard the
Even-Handed had taken a near fatal sword thrust during the fighting that had
been meant for Cyrus, saving the warrior’s life in doing so. He too had needed
time to recover from his wounds. With Lockenwood returning to normal and
Avengard's wound nearly healed it was time to take the long road to Eöl Anwar
for some much needed relaxation. For four days they traveled through the great
forests to reach the pass through the Shadow Mountains. The trip had been a
long and, thankfully, uneventful one. Later today, they were to secure supplies
in Metier and reunite with the Talisman called Balifore, who had traveled alone
to the southern stronghold of Coram Keep on personal business. Then it was off
to Eöl Anwar.
It had been almost seven years
since the warrior had seen the small clan village he called home. He longed to
walk the great woods outside of his cabin, as well as to visit the friends he
had left behind so long ago. The people of Eöl Anwar and its neighbors in
Forge's Den always welcomed travelers with open arms, and it was this kindness
that Cyrus most loved about them. It was at the training grounds in Forge's Den
where his adoptive father, the reigning Regent Forge Redblade, had trained him
and his brother in the warrior arts of the clan. Although Cyrus wasn’t a true
blood of the clan like his brother, he trained harder than the other students
in hopes of someday becoming an Aspect Sentinel to help protect his people.
The big warrior smiled as he remembered the one person in Eöl
Anwar who had been brave enough to ask him about the Aspect Sentinels; a young
lad of ten years named Droug. The boy had wandered into Cyrus' cabin, his
curiosity over its owner overpowering him. Although slightly frightened at
first, he had stayed until after nightfall as Cyrus had told him one adventure
after another. It didn't seem so strange that of all the people in the village,
he missed Droug the most. The warrior was sad he had not been there to see
Droug growing to a young man. He hoped the lad would still like to hear a whole
new series of adventures once they got back home.
Cyrus brushed his windswept
locks of jet-black hair away from the ominous black patch that covered his left
eye. His hair hung loosely around his shoulders as the southern wind whipped
through it, blowing the silver-tipped strands playfully across his face. He
scratched at the tattoo on his right forearm, the image of the black griffon of
his adoptive clan. Since the death of his brother, Darius, the tattoo had
become very irritated and slightly swollen. Cyrus saw it as a sign of the
revered beast's sadness at the loss of so remarkable a warrior. The big man
only wished his brother could have been with him to enjoy this spectacular
view. Clearing his mind of the painful memories, he straightened himself and
quickly wiped an escaping tear from his eye. It was nearly time to leave.
Cyrus carefully walked back
down the steep ridge to the campsite he and his companions had chosen for this
night; a shallow cave carved into the high stone wall. Surrounded by sparse
brush, the mouth of the cave was wide enough to offer a nearly complete view of
the trail from both directions. Cyrus stopped as the path leveled out and, once
again, took in his surroundings. This part of the country was beautiful during
the winter season. The smells of damp earth and deciduous trees invaded his
senses. He had built his cabin in a region similar to this and now his heart
ached with homesickness. How he longed to hunt in the woods around his home!
Talric Iriv’Teshai, a longtime friend and traveling companion, had stopped by
his cabin often, teaching Cyrus of the greatness of the wildlife around him.
They had hunted together often, always bringing back a grand meal for the two
to enjoy while Cyrus enjoyed stories of Talric’s numerous exploits. Now the
meal would have to be bigger to accommodate the appetites of his newest
traveling companions. He could taste the fresh kill now, turning lazily on a
spit over the fire, perfectly seasoned, laughing at a joke the strange cleric
McGowan would quote from his vast library. His face wrinkled in confusion as he
caught the smell of bacon in the air. Cyrus quickly realized he had let his
mind wander and focused himself back to the present, an awareness that brought
with it a tinge of disappointment. With a shrug he started towards the fire
where McGowan was cooking the morning's breakfast.
Cyrus' companions were gathered
around a small open fire making preparations for the last leg of their trip to
Metier. McGowan, Cyrus' closest friend, was working on a quick breakfast of
bacon and travelbread. The cleric had a knack for cooking on the road so he was
quick to volunteer himself. Thordex was putting up some of the additional
supplies. The halfling rogue usually found something else to do when it came
time to pack things up, but this time around he was doing his part. Cyrus could
hear Avengard donning his armor from within the shallow recesses of the cave.
Although Cyrus had had dealings with the paladins of the Peacekeeper forces,
Avengard seemed more noble than most. It suddenly occurred to the big man that
something didn't feel right. It wasn't that something was wrong, but that
something felt missing.
As Cyrus walked towards the
cooking fire, a blurring white missile of snow and ice slapped him just below
the chin. The big man shivered slightly as the cold water dribbled beneath his chainmail
shirt and down his chest. Following the direction of the snowball's travel, he
wasn't a bit surprised to see Veronica the mage laughing at him from behind a
large oak tree, one of the few large trees found along the pass. With a smirk
on his face, the warrior scooped up a handful of snow and threw a snowball of
his own. Veronica disappeared again around the tree as the missile slapped the
trunk and disintegrated. Laughing as she peered around the aged oak, Cyrus
noticed her fingers weaving the intricate threads of magic. In the span of a
few seconds, the clansman saw a patch of snow rise above the ground, form
itself into a ball and fly towards him. Thinking quickly, he attempted to leap
out of the path of the flying snow only to be hit hard just below the belt.
Veronica gasped as she witnessed the impact. Hastily she ran to where Cyrus had
hit the ground, a thousand apologies pouring from her lips. She grabbed him by
the elbow lightly to help him up.
“I didn't mean to hit you so
low. You shouldn't have jumped.” She scolded playfully. “Were you going to sit
up there all day staring at the scenery or did you want to join us for the trip
down?”
Cyrus, trying to ignore the
numbness in his lower extremities, gazed up at her and smiled. Veronica's light
touch always seemed to cause a lump to form in Cyrus' throat. Her bright blue
eyes melted the chill from his bones; the silver hair cascading down her
shoulders like a waterfall made Cyrus' heart skip a beat. Her new white robe
had intricate designs woven into them rippling in two rows straight down the
front of her body. She quickly leaned against her staff, resting her delicate
chin on her forearm. The golden carving of a dragon's head smiling at him
mockingly as it stared at him through the rubies that were its eyes. Of all of
his companions, with the exception of her twin brother McGowan, he had traveled
the realm with her on the most occasions.
Thordex peered up from his
bedroll. “If you ask me, I think he's just trying to get out of doing a little
work.” He howled loudly.
Cyrus, brushing the snow from
his chain mail, looked at Thordex and smiled. “That's a change, squirt. Usually
you're the one running from the work.”
Taking a step towards the
halfling, he bent down and whispered, “Are you going to change that awful
smelling tunic, or do we have to avoid you all the way to Metier?”
Snickering, he slapped Thordex
on the shoulder and approached his roan, checking the buckles to be sure the
saddle was fitted properly. Thordex quickly removed one of his boots and threw
it at the big man, smacking him soundly on the back of the head. Cyrus' whipped
around and glared at the rogue. With a sly grin, he pinched his nose and waved
his free hand in front of his face, as if trying to remove a particularly awful
smell. Thordex, pouting and mumbling under his breath, went back to his
bedroll. The halfling was the only one who had refused a new change of clothes
before leaving for Metier, claiming what he wore gave him a measure of luck.
His tunic hung loosely about his shoulders now, stained patches of dried blood
and several tears and holes scattered over its whole. The tunic seemed to beg
its wearer to burn it, releasing it from its torment. His wool boots were,
remarkably, spotless. The magic in the footwear changed his footprints to match
those of a chicken with a mere thought. Because of Thordex's constant use of
the boot's magic, his friends had given him the nickname Chicken Feet. The
halfling ran his stubby fingers through his short, curly brown hair. He knew he
smelled like an old ogre, but he was an extremely superstitious halfling and
didn't want to part with clothes that had so far kept him alive. He wished now
that he had changed his clothing when he had the chance. Well, the journey was
nearly over now. With the gold he had stuffed away in his pouch, he was sure to
find some more appropriate, and luckier, clothing for their next traveling
experience. With reluctance, the stout rogue unstrapped his leather armor and
dropped it to the ground. Sighing, he removed his old lucky tunic and sadly
tossed it in the fire. Putting on one of Cyrus' way-too-big shirts, Thordex
picked up his armor and strapped it back on, tucking the shirt where it bulged
the most. He was not surprised when he realized he no longer stank. As the battered
shirt began to smolder, the halfling couldn't help laughing as McGowan choked
on the noxious smoke that drifted towards him.
A soft clinking sound to his
right made him tense as he turned around. Avengard was coming from the back of
the cave, arms full with supplies and bedrolls. Thordex dropped his guard as he
watched Avengard strap the supplies to the pack horse then turn to walk towards
Cyrus. He cursed his paranoia and continued his own preparations.
“I would be honored, Cyrus, to
pack your horse if you are not up to the task.” Avengard said, bowing briskly.
“That's okay, Avengard. I think
I can manage.” Cyrus stated. Looking at his newest companion, Cyrus couldn't
help but feel pity for the knight. He remembered the battle in the forest
outside Lockenwood; the attack by the orcs that had brutally butchered the
knight’s family still painfully etched in his memory. The fair-haired man’s
battle-worn visage appeared to droop more and more each day as if the pain of
losing his wife and son were too much to overcome. Cyrus would trade everything
he owned to bring back the knight's family. He knew that kind of suffering and
hated to see it affect his friend as it did.
“Where is Talric at this
morning?” McGowan asked as he peered around the area curiously, trying to wipe
the sting of the noxious smoke out of his eyes. His blue cassock was opened at
the throat, his iron mace hanging from a loop on his belt. His clothing gave
him the appearance of being lanky and weak, but that was just what McGowan was
looking for when he had chosen them. His body was lean and muscular, his
delicate hands seeming out of place on his muscular form. His hair, once a rich
honey color, was now stark white, the result of a glancing touch by an undead
beast. He had cut it near to the scalp hoping someday that it would grow back
with its original color.
“He said something about riding
into the forest to look up on an old friend. He left just as the sun was coming
up.” Cyrus explained as he scratched the tattoo again.
“Is there any forest in the
blessed realm where he doesn't have friends?” Thordex interrupted running his
fingers habitually through his hair. He went back to his packing, not even
waiting for an answer.
Cyrus eyed him, but continued,
“This friend of his was once a soldier. From what Talric said, he was among the
troops that stormed the keep in the battle of Yannone.”
McGowan nodded. “I remember
that battle. It’s hard to believe that was almost three years ago. We’ve come a
long way since then.”
“Yes, we have.” The warrior's
mind wandered as he rubbed his bearded chin, a week's growth of facial hair
tickling his fingers. It was in Yannone he had first learned of Malkar and his
Brotherhood of Darkness. The Brotherhood had overrun and slaughtered nearly
every priest at the Temple of Bor’maar, imprisoning many others for future
sacrifices. It was at this battle that
Malkar's plan to conjure the demon Blaspherion had been revealed. It was also here that Cyrus first met
McGowan and Veronica, near the end of campaign that united several feuding
cities in a common goal to stop the evil Brotherhood. Cyrus and his two new
companions had chased the evil mage through a maze of underground tunnels, only
to realize they had taken a wrong turn and ended up nearly falling into a bottomless
pit called The Endless Sleep. After the battle, the siblings decided to help
Cyrus hunt down the escaped mage and have been together ever since.
“Many lives were needlessly
taken.” He murmured to himself. “I lost many friends that day.” He shook the memory
from his head. “Anyway, this friend of his was a soldier from Greenfield, and
quite a bold swordsman if the stories I hear are true. He retired from his
duties last winter and moved into these woods where he leads a secluded life.”
“Why would he live so far out
into these woods? Doesn't he get lonely living here by himself?” Veronica
asked, peering hungrily at the bacon her brother was cooking.
Cyrus shook his head. “I don't
know. I didn't get all of the details from Iriv’Teshai before he left.”
They ate their breakfast
slowly, taking the time to enjoy it. They knew they were close to Metier, but
they were in no hurry. They had traveled so hard these last few months that
rushing was the furthest from their thought.
McGowan was stirring the coals
of the dying fire to coax back the flame extinguished by Thordex's filthy shirt
when they heard the faint hoof beats of a galloping horse coming from the woods
to the west. Moments later, Talric Iriv’Teshai emerged from a tight circle of
fir trees, his green shirt and vest rendering him nearly invisible in the
wooded background. The elf's blonde hair hung around his face, tangled by the
wind that was blowing down the side of the great mountain. Slowing to a trot he
approached his friends, but did not dismount. His great bow was, as always,
slung over his shoulder. He had a grave look on his face that indicated to
Cyrus that something was wrong.
“You looked troubled, Talric.
What’s happened?”
Talric's face contorted in
rage. “Killean Goldmantle has been murdered. His body was left to rot outside
of his cottage at the base of the mountains.” he spat. “Someone had broken or
overturned every piece of furniture in his home. Whoever killed him was looking
for something.”
Veronica gasped, her hands
going to her mouth. “I'm so sorry to hear that Talric. I sympathize with you on
the loss of your friend.”
He regarded her, his expression
softening a bit. “Thank you, Veronica. I knew him only a short time, but he was
a dear friend none the less.”
Cyrus reached up and grasped
his friend's forearm in a clan's show of sympathy. “How long ago?”
“Two, maybe three days. The
body had been half-buried under the snow until very recently. The corpse was
being feasted upon by a pack of wolves when I arrived. Those wolves shall feast
no more.” He whipped open a tied blanket, a severed wolf's head bounding on the
hard ground before rolling to a stop. It was then that Cyrus noticed the smears
of blood on the hilt and scabbard of Talric's sword. Knowing the extent of
Talric’s anger, he could only imagine what the rest of this wolf’s body looked
like.
Talric's face blanched as he
reached into his hip pouch. “I also found the body of another. The wolves had
torn it to shreds and I couldn't identify him, but I did find this on the poor
fool’s half-eaten hand.” He tossed a gold ring to Cyrus, who looked it over
curiously. His eyes suddenly bulged, gasping in recognition at the crest on the
ring, a fiery black skull on a green background.
“This can't be possible!” Cyrus
exclaimed with shock in his voice. “This is a Brotherhood ring! I thought the
cultists had all been identified and found before we left Lockenwood!”
Thordex, peering at the ring,
shook his head. “This isn't just from a Brotherhood member, Cyrus. That green background
designates the person it was taken from as a high priest in Malkar's
Brotherhood. These guys were advisors to Malkar himself. They pledged their
life to him in return for wealth and power.”
A chill cut through Cyrus'
bones. The horrors of Malkar began flooding his thoughts. He had been helpless
to stop the madman as his brother's heart had been ritualistically cut out of
his chest; his limp body left to rot on a foul bone altar. Following the trail
of death left by Malkar and the Brotherhood of Darkness, Cyrus vowed he would
kill the mage. He had hoped the rampage of the Brotherhood would stop when
Malkar was burned to ash in Lockenwood, now it seemed they had created a martyr
for others to follow. The Brotherhood would keep on killing and growing unless
every last seed was destroyed.
“If the Brotherhood is making a
comeback, it is up to us to stop them at all cost.” Talric said. “After burying
Killean, I found a foot trail just outside of the clearing where Killean’s
cottage sat. The trail was small, but I found the signs of recent use. Whoever
did this came from Ogre Pass, but they left the cottage heading towards Metier.
If these men are still following Malkar's master plan, Lord Garr in Mulembar
will be the next to die.”
Thordex chuckled sarcastically.
“I'd like to see them try that. Even with an army on their side it would be
very difficult. That man is tough!”
McGowan shrugged, “Maybe they
attacked your friend after they fled Lockenwood. It's highly possible that this
was a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“It wouldn't matter.” Talric
fumed through gritted teeth. “I will not allow those evil bastards to get away
with this. If I must hunt them alone, I will.”
“Wait.” Cyrus interrupted as he
turned to Thordex, a thought suddenly occurring to him. “You said the high
priests pledged their lives to protect Malkar. The few that we found in
Lockenwood had all taken their own lives when they found out that Malkar was
dead. As much as I hate to say it, we have to remember something: we never
found even a trace of Malkar’s body after the explosion.” Cyrus turned to
McGowan, then to Avengard grimly. “We have to accept the fact that maybe we
never finished the job.”
Thordex grumbled as the same
thought passed through the minds of all those present. Falling to the ground on
his rump, he gulped as he voiced those thoughts.
“Malkar is still alive!”
