Down these mean dungeons a Paladin must go, who is not himself mean but hopefully rolls some 20's!: Book VIII

Chronicle of Cadan Dalmas, Knight

BOOK VIII

The Lost Mine of Phandelver

The Forge of Lazair Glas beckoned. After two weary months the end to our quest lay before us, but first we would return to Phandalin town for fresh supplies. This detour should merely take a few hours and only fools face perils wilfully unprepared. We had used all our lamp oil in forcing Venomfang from his lair and even with the cultists’ abandoned rations we only had provisions for another week. Ranger Samuel was keen to stock his capacious magic quiver and I wanted more javelins and a mace or warhammer to wield against any animated skeletons deep in the abandoned mine. (*)

Before our journey began Buddynock Rubyrubb took time to confirm the good health of my patient mule. No matter how many times I watch, it is always fascinating to see our Druid or Dain Rocksmiter conversing with voiceless beasts; a medley of sounds and snuffling, but also subtle movements of ears and eyes, accompanied by careful hand gestures to mimic paws, hooves or a twitching tail. It truly is a wonder to behold. Today, once Buddynock began talking with poor Sisyphos it was a good while before my aggrieved mule finally stopped complaining about Venomfang the Green flying past “close enough to kick me sideways.”

“See. See! It’s not just me over-reacting. Despite what some say!” Our Gnome’s voice rang with happy vindication, his brass goggles foggy with emotion. “Great scaly bugger! All right, all right, I’m coming. I need to be sure this owlbear egg is safe in my pack. Look if Celmar the Fiery can bring a baby sloth on adventures, I’m taking my little friend too. Anyway, he’s company for Wilson.” (**)

I carefully avoided Dain’s eye. Our little party only seemed to grow more eccentric. At least I had learnt that, whether awake or dozing, young sloths cling to a loaded pack like limpets. I also discovered Megan insists on ten hours sleep every day. We marched to the sound of her gentle snoring. I would not be sorry if we never saw ruined Thundertree again.

The journey would take three days and we managed to forage for fresh food as we travelled. Our pace was brisk but we moved with all due caution all the same. Even so, that almost did not save us. It was a little before noon on the second day. The track was increasingly overgrown but still led south to Phandalin. We had made good progress, but the path curved out of sight around the flank of a wooded hill, to our right, the earth was waterlogged, not quite marsh but close. “Good place for an ambush,” said our Ranger and no one in our party disagreed.

(*) We took no chances of falling ill, casting my purification spell over the captured rations seemed wise

(**) Buddynock Rubyrubb is a wise and erudite member of our company.

He is a wise and erudite member of our company.

He is. He is. He is.

2

“Best if I take a casual shufti,” Buddynock grinned. “Saves your fancy magic for later.” A moment later and our Gnomish Druid transformed into a Red Squirrel, long ear tufts twitching, his bushy tail lifted in salute to the sun. (*)

“Some would have chosen a rabbit,” said Shupatra. “As in grey and inconspicuous.”

“A good double bluff though,” smiled Celmar, turning her head so Megan could see her fellow creature of the trees. The young three-toed sloth stared with good natured curiosity. “Eeee!”

Celmar and I were leading our column, next came Ranger Samuel, his bow levelled to cover the flank and Gundren Stonefoot with our mule. Shupatra and Dain Rocksmiter, turned about, both ready for any danger from our rear. We had faced enough perils already; no words were needed anymore.

There was movement ahead. Buddynock scampered back, leaping to my shoulder and chittering an alarm. We had no time for questions, for the giant was already in sight and lumbering down the trail towards us. Ungainly, but it covered the ground with worrying speed. Nine feet high and thin as famine, with long, gangling arms, a skin of fine green scales and a flattened face with deep set, death-black eyes, framed by lank hair reeking of the marsh. It sniffed the air and we all saw the slow smile. Our path was blocked. The giant chopped one huge hand into the other: “Toll! Toll!

This giant proved even less friendly than it looked. Maybe ‘toll’ was not quite the word.

(**) ‘Shufti’ another Gnomish word new to me. It seems more polite than many of our Druid’s favourite expressions.

3

“Any ideas anyone?” whispered Dain, from somewhere behind me.

“Depends how much it wants?” said Shupatra.

The giant pointed at each of us in turn then held its claws aloft. The creature showed no fear, nor hesitation, the giant was barely a lance thrust away now.

“Fifty?” Dain Rocksmiter turned pale. “Fifty each?”

“Silver?” I asked hopefully, as I pulled my helm down hard. My breath rasped in my ears; my world was now a mere metal slit. Once again, I cursed my injured eye.

“Don’t think so,” said our Ranger. “We’ll give you ten gold pieces, ten for each of us.”

“What’s happening?” hissed Dain; our Cleric held his ground with grim determination but it takes a rare courage to stand facing away from a foe.

“He’s not listening to us,” said Celmar. She raised her hands in friendly greeting, her smile fit to charm birds from the trees. “I’m quite sure none of us want any argument, do we? We can surely keep this pleasant and friendly.”

“If I strike up a tune maybe Buddynock can charm it with the wonder of interpretative dance,” muttered Shupatra. Was our Bard joking? I am never very sure.

The giant spat contemptuously. “Toll Toll! Toll now!” It peered closer. A dark tongue darted like a striking snake. “Elf too and squirrel! Now! NOW! NOW !!!”

“Bugger that for a game of happy kobolds,” Buddynock reverted to Forest Gnome form with decided speed.

Our Ranger’s longbow was trained on the slope above us. I struggled to hear much through my heavy helm, but my comrades had clearly detected movement on the flank. Suddenly a small orc stepped casually from the bushes. It bore no weapon or shield just a short smooth stick in both filthy hands. (*)

Ranger Samuel repeated our offer but the orc simply nodded up at the giant. Shupatra was singing a ballad to inspire feats of valour. I heard Dain Rocksmiter’s deep voice casting a blessing and I followed his lead entrusting my closest two comrades to Pallas Athene’s care. The attack came only moments later.

(*) It is never a good sign when orcs are smiling. We were already looking at his small wooden stick and thinking ‘wand?’

4

Seven screaming orcs surged down the slope to our left, heedless of any briars slashing their bare legs. Barbed spears fell among us. One sprang back from my mail but sent me staggering, even as Celmar’s glass Staff of Defence proved its worth again, our elven sorceress gleamed with shimmering light as two spears rebounded from her magic shield. Dark shadows scythed through the air; three orcs were flinging nets! First Shupatra, then Dain sank helpless to the ground, enveloped in those heavy folds, only nimble Buddynock Rubyrubb was able to dodge the weighted cords.

Bellowing with fury the marsh giant rushed towards me, closing the short distance with terrifying speed. I braced my shield, held my long blade ready, only to hear that small orc holding the stick mutter a command; without warning the wood expanded into a ten-foot pole, hitting me in the chest and knocking me backwards into the swamp. I smelt fetid breath in my face; rank talons clawed at my armour but by the grace of good Athene my mail was sound. I have rarely felt so frightened but my sinking feet struck solid ground, I was wedged knee deep in the muddy water but my sword was still in my hand. (*)

Orcs are always most dangerous when they are charging. In those first few moments I really thought we were being overrun. Celmar loosed magic missiles, our Ranger sped two hasty arrows, as agile Shupatra scrambled free of her net. Gundren Stonefoot was barely pausing to aim his crossbow but killed two orcs with two successive shots, a warrior’s feat indeed!

Only Dain Rocksmiter was still trapped. Praise be to the watching grace of Marthammor Duin our comrade was lying on his back, his shield still partially covering him. Dain tore at the clinging net to no avail, for sharpened hooks latched tight to his armour. Two orcs above him stabbed down with manic glee, not even a dwarven hauberk could turn the points and we heard Dain bellowing in rage and pain. Our foe with the magic stick knocked Gundren Stonefoot senseless but Celmar’s sleep spell overpowered the two orcs attacking her. Unable to cast Thunderwave or Moonbeam without injuring his comrades, Buddynock Rubyrubb resorted to his handy sling. Megan the Sloth hissed in outrage as she swung her arms at the enemy, Sisyphos the mule proved very capable of kicking his hind hooves sideways. (**)

The giant towered over me. Huge claws ripped around my shield, but my sword slashed his right flank down to the bone, even as Ranger Samuel’s arrow sank home to the feathers. We both wounded the creature, I saw the blood, I felt my blade grating against the giant’s ribs, yet, to our amazement, the deep cut simply closed over. The injury had vanished; the regrown skin was fresh, unsullied. The giant hissed in angry triumph, a moment later and that arrow wound healed itself too. I almost dropped my sword in stark surprise. What was this beast of the marsh?

(*) If the water had been deeper, I would have drowned. I would simply be dead, without fuss without drama, my last sign of life a few frantic gasps of air rising to the surface. I pushed the thought away, I kept pushing the thought away, but the fear still lurked in my dreams like a yawning shark. I dread dark waters and drowned mens’ faces.

(**) Megan the Three Toed Sloth appeared to regret waking up at the wrong moment.

An angry sloth may be somewhat slow at hand to paw combat but their hissing is alarming all the same.

5

Dain was badly wounded but still trying to claw free from that weighted mesh. At least Buddynock could buy him some time; our Gnomish Druid slew one orc in close combat, but the second swung a great axe with lethal skill. Anyone else would surely have been beheaded, yet Buddynock Rubyrubb’s incredible luck held true, the axe stroke shaved his very shadow, but our Druid ducked under the blow and brought down the orc with one swift slash of his scimitar. Was the tide finally turning in our favour?

At long last I staggered clear of the marsh, pond weed and flotsam poking from my mail. I had drawn the giant’s ire, stopped him from savaging the rest of my party, but his long claws and fangs had torn home too many times; without swift help from my friends I could not hold my ground for very much longer. Celmar’s calm voice seemed so distant, her careful words a dream: “Yes I am your friend. Yes, I really am in danger, can’t you see? Please help me, please!” A charmed orc turned and stabbed home with shortened spear, the green skinned giant grunted with surprise then tore the orc in half with a single bite.

Shupatra slew her own opponent, sheathed her sword and reached for her silver dulcimer to weave an enchantment. Bellowing curses, Dain Rocksmiter finally rose to his feet; our Cleric was bleeding badly, but Dain barely paused to breathe before seizing his holy symbol. His Guiding Bolt spell sped through the air, bursting in shining glory at point-blank range. The gaunt marsh horror staggered back two paces, his wastrel form outlined stark as death by that burst of divine light, yet a moment later and our monstrous enemy lurched forward once again, his long claws grasping for our throats.

Each time he was hurt our terrible foe began to heal. Each time, every time. The battle had become a nightmare, I could taste blood in my mouth, my arms were aching with effort, every wound we inflicted closed over, grew faint and disappeared. Our Druid took the form of a Brown Bear and grappled the giant to the ground, for a moment the monster lay helpless but a heartbeat later and our hulking adversary threw Buddynock aside and rose again. Ranger Samuel unleashed his Hail of Thorns, Celmar tried her Sleep spell to no avail. Gasping for breath, I managed to recall the holy words, my Wrathful Smite struck home and our enemy staggered back in fear, only for an instant, but the giant gave ground all the same!

And then as we struggled for our lives, notes of shining beauty filled the air. As her silver dulcimer chimed, Shupatra caught this marsh beast with her Hideous Laughter spell, as our enemy howled with imbecilic mirth, we had the short respite we sorely needed. Dain Rocksmiter cast his powerful Prayer of Healing; his divine magic closed many of my wounds, Gundren Stonefoot staggered back to his feet and our Dwarven Cleric breathed in relief as the spear cuts inflicted by the orcs faded from view. We could not run, we could not retreat, we only had one choice. Our party turned on the marsh giant all together, Buddynock still in bear form snarling in fury.

I held the giant at bay as my comrades unleashed volleys of missiles and incantations. Time and again our attacks drew blood, but our enemy still fought on. Celmar was trying spell after spell, hoping some variant of her battle magic might prove effective. Even her Magic Missiles left no lasting damage, but her Fire Bolt cantrip hit home in a shower of sparks. Then we saw it! Then we knew our first glimmer of hope; the burnt green flesh was recovering far slower. Oh, by the grey eyes of Athene we now lamented our lack of oil! I felt Celmar’s mystic powers shape around me, an instant later and our Elven sorceress struck again with her deadly Burning Hands spell. Without her magic shield the eldritch flames would have charred my skin to the bone; our monstrous foe had no such protection and we heard the marsh creature scream with despairing rage.

“It’s the fire, make fire,” cried our Ranger, picking frantically at the strands of his silken rope, “give me something flammable for my arrows!”

“Shave the bear!” shouted Shupatra. “No stand still Buddynock, stand still!!”

The giant’s wounds were still closing before our eyes, but we pressed our attacks so fiercely our monstrous foe could not recover fast enough, especially with Celmar’s Fire Bolts blistering its scales. Yet even now the creature roared defiance, it fought undaunted to the very end, falling to the bloodstained earth like a siege tower collapsing. We paused weapons raised, we did not dare to hope, but the giant was dead, the giant was finally dead. We stared down at the stiffening corpse and at last put a name to our adversary.

Dain Rocksmiter spoke for us all: “I never knew trolls could regenerate.”

Shupatra nodded: “A lot of people don’t really know trolls. One account says they have three hearts and are as savage as three lions.”

Buddynock Rubyrubb took his own form again and stared ruefully at the two holes torn in his beard. Our Bard had the grace to look sheepish even as she dropped the unused fur behind her. Next, we roused the two sleeping orcs, who proved only too eager to please us. Once they revealed their treasures and the command words of the Pole of Collapsing, we allowed them to flee. The orcs kept their knives, the other weapons we threw into the marsh. How far they would get I could not say, but this was more chance than they would have ever given us. What could we do? Kill them out of hand? They were no longer any danger to us. To slay in battle is one matter, to casually murder prisoners quite another. There are stark times when cruel actions are the only option, but when warriors slay wantonly, they grow as monstrous as any evil they face. (*)

(*) Sildenafil’ makes the tiny pole ten feet long. Argaiv makes this erection retract.

Why is our Halfling Bard helpless with laughter?

(**) The hooked nets we burnt. I could have used them I suppose, but never in front of Dain Rocksmiter.

The stars will fall before our Cleric forgets lying snared in those tangled folds.

Judging by the iridescent scales and lingering smell, those orcs had also been using their weighted meshes to trawl

for small swamp creatures fit for the pot. I never expected to see a grizzled dwarven warrior clad in fish nets.

6

We had eight small agate gems to share between us. Dain took the magic collapsing pole. A Torque of Cognosco we gave to our Sorceress, for only a user of arcane magic could unlock its potential. “A means to identify items of magic?” Celmar smiled with satisfaction as she placed the twisted gold necklace around her dainty neck. “That’s certainly better than guesswork.”

“Or hopeful test runs with eyes closed and fingers crossed,” grinned Buddynock.

The skirmish had delayed us but we still reached the outskirts of Phandalin town as dusk was falling. I remain grateful that adventurers’ mules are trained not to bray; I remain very grateful for the cautious woodcraft of my companions. Our Druid and Ranger scouted the approach to Phandalin as we waited a quarter mile down the trail. Powerful interests were ranged against us and after so many betrayals we wished to be sure. There was too much at stake to simply wander into a trap.

Our Druid’s animal messengers again proved their worth. Few people ever glance twice at a songbird and we found Sister Garele was waiting as arranged, carefully hidden as we hoped. Her report was hardly welcome, but very much needed. Matters were worse, much worse than we had feared. “Baron Ulv had word; from whom I cannot say. Phandalin is occupied, two full companies at least, billmen and crossbows; mounted lancers and bowmen patrol the roads. Sildar Hallwinter is dead, Townmaster Wester is dead, Baron Ulv would not believe they did not know how to reach the mine.” Sister Garele swallowed hard, she would not meet our eye. “Neither died quickly.”

A good man Sildar Hallwinter. Neither he nor Harbin Wester deserved this. No one does.

“Our supplies-” Ranger Samuel began.

“You have small chance of entering Phandalin undetected and no chance of leaving once you are seen.” Elves have keen hearing and Sister Garele kept pausing to listen as she spoke. Shupatra and Celmar exchanged glances. At a pinch they could cast Invisibility spells and try to collect provisions but the risks remained significant and we could not afford to lose either of them.

“But the map,” said Dain. “It shows a narrow ventilation shaft not the main entrance. We will have to climb down and-”

“Give me your mule, I will tend to him,” Garele was so scared she kept interrupting. “This is Gundren Stonefoot? He should come with me too. I can find a safe hiding place.”

“Forsake my brethren?” Gundren’s face was thunderous. “Who do you think I am?”

“You are ill, you are not fit to trudge the tunnels of Phandelver,” Dain spoke without a flicker of hesitation. Had our careful Cleric been practicing this argument? “You know this, we know this. There is more chance of finding Tharden and Nundro if we can move quickly.”

“But they are my brothers, my younger brothers!”

“You don’t know Phandelver, you cannot guide us.” Dain Rocksmiter spoke firmly but we heard the kindly pity in his voice. “It is better you stay Gundren, better by far. If we do not return you can carry word to both our clansmen. See? You still have a role and a vital one.”

Sister Garele took charge of the emerald necklace we had recovered from ruined Thundertree. Whether we survived Phandever or not, at least Mirna Dendrar and her children would have their lost heirloom again. Assuming Baron Ulv’s inquisitors did not put them to the question. Sister Garele also bore away the mail hauberk, sword and crossbow of poor Sildar Hallwinter. We would be carrying everything on our own backs now, we were burdened already without needless weight. My javelins were lost, but we had half quivers and food for five more days. I could have wished for more rations in our packs but we were not yet on short commons, or rationing water.

The map guided us truly, a mere two hours march eastward led us to an ancient grove of oak trees hung with ivy. Without the parchment we never would have found the opening but after casting around in a dense thicket of brambles we saw a dark opening half blocked by twisting roots. We gripped Ranger Samuels’ legs as he lowered his head into the hole. The dank air was as cold as a winter grave. We heard no sound, no breath of life. We pushed a pebble into space, we listened hard.

“Sixty feet deep at least,” said Ranger Samuel, “but firm ground not water. I’d say two anchored ropes running parallel, we descend in pairs with two more guide ropes for safety.”

There was an expectant pause.

“You see any greenery down there?” asked Buddynock, “any trees or flowers or even a shrub? Any rabbits or playful foxes? A blackbird singing, a slow worm basking in the sun?”

“Err no,” I replied.

“Exactly! It’s out of my area. You go first!”

“There’s some lichen on those stones,” observed Shupatra.

“Don’t care! You go first this time,” Buddynock Rubyrubb’s goggles were gleaming again.

“There were Gnomes as well as Dwarves working the old Phandelver Mine,” I said. “As well as those wizards.”

“Still don’t care!” Buddynock Rubyrubb peered up at us with dogged determination. “I’m a Forest Gnome. They were Hill Gnomes. That automatically means they were a bit weird, if technically adept, friendly and mechanically gifted.”

“There’s no way I can say this without sounding doom laden but,” I looked steadfastly at my comrades. “We can expect trouble down there. Many died when the mines were over run. The orcs had mercenary wizards supporting their attack. The fighting was savage; no quarter offered or given. No miners survived, no wizards either, only a handful of orcs ever saw daylight again. Many died down there and many may still be walking.”

“Thanks for making that sound so cheerful then,” sighed Celmar. She turned her head to check on little Megan. Her sloth companion sat comfortably in her back pack, eyes blissfully closed and snoring like six shipwrights sawing lumber.

“I always wondered why there was both a Cleric and a Paladin in our party,” muttered Shupatra. “So how do we work this?” (*)

Dain Rocksmiter stepped forward, kite shield and Grom slung across his back; our Cleric spat on his gnarled hands and took a firm grip on the left rope even as I took my place on the right. I caught his glance, nodded and kicked off into space.

(*) There are many Orders of Paladins for any and all can be called to serve.

Men and Women lock shields side by side in some Orders, but other Brethren follow a path of segregation.

The Order of Thackray permits only women within their ranks. Their reputation for valour and honour is unsurpassed despite the lingering iniquities of scandalous Sister Josephine, not to mention the infamous Sister Isobel who has now been absolved from ever mounting guard on any memorial, statue or civic monument.

7

We slowly descended, hand over careful hand, boots pressed into the wet moss coating the stone. Rivulets of water trickled past, freezing drops splashed into my face. Glancing upward, I could just make out my anxious comrades peering over the edge of the shaft and the full moon riding high. My shoulders dislodged a small stone. The narrow chimney suddenly rang with echoes, we heard the small avalanche crash to the ground far beneath. Silence returned, Dain and I hung in space, straining our ears, but we heard no movement, no shouts of alarm. For a moment I thought there was something else, I held my breath, I listened again, but no, I could not be sure. We had no choice; we resumed our descent.

Our dangling feet were suddenly brought up short. The last few feet of rope coiled on the ground around my boots. A moment later and short Dain landed beside me. At last, after so many days, we had entered the long- lost Mine of Phandelver.

The darkness was almost absolute, the cold incredible. My numb fingers fumbled with tinder and flint. Dain Rocksmiter grinned and whispered his Druid cantrip instead. As planned, we lowered the lantern to the stones and instantly stepped into the shadows alongside, shields up, weapons drawn. Celmar and Ranger Samuel followed us down, moving as fast as possible while never compromising their holds. We saw the same worry on their faces but there was no time for talking just now. A slithering thud and the two guide ropes fell down at our feet; agile Shupatra and nimble Buddynock could make the descent with less need for lifelines.

“If anyone plays fancy buggers with my rope and a dagger you just watch me!” Buddynock had told us back at the top. “I’ll be in squirrel form faster than you can get me to a free bar! I might not be able to fly just yet, but I can sure as Pan’s left nut glide like a champion when I have to!”

Our Bard and Druid joined us without incident and we swiftly coiled the two recovered ropes. The ventilation shaft led down to a large cavern, supported by a natural pillar of rock. We had found the Stonefoot brothers’ camp, three bedrolls and a heap of supplies; sacks of flour, casks of salted meat, pickaxes, shovels and other miners' gear. The site had been ransacked, the provisions spoiled, broken equipment strewn about the floor. Half hidden beneath the slashed sacks we saw a dwarven boot. Buddynock Rubyrubb was the first to investigate and our kindly gnome was grieved by his discovery. The dwarf had been dead maybe a week, stabbed in the back with savage strength. There was worse to see when we turned the body over; the killer had taken time to despoil the helpless corpse. Dain Rocksmiter’s face was a study in silent rage.

“From the miner’s clothes this is probably either Tharden or Nundro Stonefoot,” Buddynock said softly, his bright eyes looked even larger than usual. (*)

Dain could only nod curtly in response.

(*) Buddynock Rubyrubb has never forgotten losing poor Hrove and Espida to that first savage Grimlock attack on the darkened road. Barely two months ago, but it already seems years in the past.

8

Alas, time does not always permit contemplation and grief. We had other concerns even more urgent. Now we knew our ears were not playing us false. Now we all heard a long, slow, rumble of air, inward, outward, without pause, without variation, the same steady rhythm every two minutes, like pounding surf breaking on a beach. A rolling echo booming through the winding corridors and galleries of long dead Phandelver.

Something breathing? A small creature nearby? Nothing was visible.

A large creature lurking somewhere deep in the mine, a creature so immense it’s breathing rumbles through all these winding tunnels and galleries? A creature so sublimely confident it sleeps carelessly among all the unknown terrors of Phandelver? (*)

I slowly turned in a circle, covering all points of the compass. The breathing noise sounded strongest from the north-east. Every moment we stayed in Phandelver, we heard this same steady rhythm, every step we took northward the sound grew louder. We stopped, we stared at each other. Everyone was suddenly whispering all at once.

“What by … is that?” Celmar was checking her Staff of Defence with decided care.

“Do you want the honest answer?” I replied.

“That would make a nice change!” growled Shupatra. “Not again! Have you lied again?”

“I want a comforting answer?” Buddynock looked up at me, his bright eyes wide.

“I don’t know.” That was all I could say. “I don’t know. Nobody told me of anything.”

“What!” Shupatra stared in stark disbelief. “And you want us to go down there!”

“What in hell could it be?” Ranger Samuel peered into the darkness like a hunting dog.

“Something massive,” Dain spoke with slow care. “Something that sounds asleep.”

“Asleep?” Buddynock, almost forget to whisper. “Is that supposed to be a comfort! Does anyone need reminding of the biggest creature we’ve already met in these here parts?”

I tried to sound more optimistic than I felt. “We will surely meet dragons again but in the future.”

“The future has a habit of arriving sooner than you think!” hissed Buddynock.

(*) As renowned Father Eadbhárd once remarked: “these are small, but the one's out there are far away.”

9

“How big do dragon’s grow?” said Celmar. Our Sorceress was trying to remain calm but I could still hear the edge to her soft voice.

Shupatra is often our voice of knowledge. “Venomfang was thirty feet long, only a youngster. The biggest ancient dragons oh several hundred feet …” Our Bard’s voice tailed away.

“An ancient dragon in their lair?” said Ranger Samuel. “Down here?”

“Kipping?” asked our Druid.

“For the moment,” said Dain Rocksmiter.

“And presumably hungry at some point,” said Celmar. ’Her expression could best be described as ‘thoughtful’.

“We don’t know who little Venomfang’s parents are do we?” said Buddynock.

I shook my head.

“But we killed their offspring?”

“Err yes.” What else could I say?

“Which is not going to make them very happy?” Buddynock was now smiling in a carefree way.

“Err no.”

“And we are going down there towards what might be these presumably pissed off parents which are presumably far bigger and more deadly than ‘little ’Venomfang?”

“Yes, but Venomfang was a Green Dragon.” (This I was sure of). “Green Dragons are creatures of the forest, not a dank mine or cave.”

“Has someone told his possible parent’s that?” asked Shupatra.

“Look you are hardly going to find a Green Dragon in an abandoned mine!” I said with some feeling. It was more than time to stiffen the resolve of our party.

“Just like you are hardly going to find a Green Dragon suddenly looking down as you step out of a ruined castle!” Buddynock hissed.

“Green Dragons live in forests,” I said with careful emphasis: “Red Dragons are more likely to live in an abandoned mine.” (*)

“Oh. Thank you so much for clearing that up.” Celmar shook her head in disbelief. “And Red Dragons are …”

Too late I saw my peril. “Yes, even bigger and more deadly. They breathe fire not poisoned vapours.”

“Ah,” said Dain Rocksmiter, “So my magic and my resilience to Venomfang’s chloral breath won’t help me against a Red Dragon?”

“Err no.”

“And so, there’s a better than even chance I could get my beard … how shall I say … singed”, said Dain.

“Err yes.”

“Why are we going down here again!” Celmar and Shupatra said together.

I could only look bashful and pull down my helm.

“Most of the tunnels are at least ten-foot wide,” Dain observed. “Hewn stone, no need for many props and hopefully still in good condition. I reckon we march two abreast. If I take the vanguard, I can inspect our route as we go. If Cadan brings up the rear we can turn any Undead wherever they may approach from.”

“What about from above?” said Buddynock.

“Or below?” said Celmar.

“Or from the flanks?” said Shupatra.

“Enough!” Dain sighed. “Enough. Now listen. If I say ‘stand still’, we stop. Immediately! If I say ‘get back’ we move and move fast! No discussion, no debate. This is an old mine, very old. I will be listening to the stones as well as watching the way ahead. Trust me on this, I’m a dwarf. Remember, we have a task to complete. We search for the Forge of Lazair Glas.”

(*) In avoiding one pit fall we can so easily blunder into the next nearby trap along the trail.

10

“Well said Cleric Rocksmiter,” I looked around our party. “We follow your expertise underground just as we acknowledge the wilderness skills of our Druid and Ranger. Something else to bear in mind. Old Phandelver was renowned for magic items. Some may still be here but they will not be obvious, we will have to search. That means being patient while Dain completes his detection ritual, being patient and staying watchful for attacks. Are we all clear on this? Good, then best foot forward.”

Searching the ransacked camp was a melancholy task. We found the remains of a cask of oil, enough to give each of us three full flasks. Ranger Samuel claimed a miner’s pick still in good condition; the food could have been saved by my purification spell but I did not have it prepared for casting. We stood in silence while Dain performed funeral rites, laying a pick and shovel next to the dead miner; this dwarf would not meet his ancestors or enemies empty handed.

Dain Rocksmiter and Buddynock Rubyrubb led us forward, next came Shupatra bearing a bullseye lantern and Ranger Samuel with an arrow nocked and ready; merry Celmar and I brought up the rear. Shadows flickered on the stone work, we heard the steady drip drip of falling water somewhere to the east. We trudged through dust and fallen rubble, over the scattered bones of long dead miners and their foes; our flickering light and that rhythmic breathing noise our constant companions. We moved steadfastly to the north; the unearthly sound slowly but constantly grew louder.

After testing its strength, we made use of a fixed hemp rope to descend twenty feet to the mining galleries. There had been heavy fighting here five centuries ago, for the bones were strewn even more thickly, dwarves, gnomes and their enemies all clad in scraps of rusting armour and rotted leather. Those long dead miners of Phandelver had made a truly valiant last defence.

Other corpses were more recent. Three Uruk-hai, maybe more for it was difficult to tell, the bodies had been partially dissolved. Metal fragments seemed intact but both flesh and bones had been devoured, along with their leather boots and belts. We looked to erudite Celmar; our Sorceress silently shook her head. As we continued north a chill breeze now blew in our faces.

We entered a larger, natural cavern, once a busy clearing station for spoil and ore; now a pool of darkness, chill and abandoned. The sudden attack surprised us all. Fluttering wings beat about our faces, there was a shrill cry of pain from our Gnomish Druid. A dozen hungry stirges dived down from the cavern roof. Celmar warded two away with her Staff of Defence, Dain, Ranger Samuel and I were all injured but we managed to knock the creatures free before they had any chance to feed. Buddynock Rubyrubb was less fortunate, he was pierced by a bony proboscis and the stirge was sucking blood. I managed to dislodge the creature, but a second was already stabbing home. We quickly slew nine stirges between us, the few survivors disappeared into the darkness over our heads.

We turned northward once again, following the mining galleries. Our lamp needed replenishing; our explorations had lasted almost four hours. Buddynock Rubyrubb thought he could hear a slithering noise. We listened hard, holding our breath for as long as possible but no one now could distinguish anything over the surge and fall of that surging noise to the north.

Our winding gallery emerged into another large cavern almost 100 feet long. A pool of water lay before us, black and still and stretching into the darkness. Our lantern light flickered on the surface revealing nothing but a thin layer of broken shells along the shore. A narrow passage led north and a set of stone steps turned to the east. There was no movement, no sign of life, Shupatra slowly turned the beam of our lantern, playing the light along the furthest cavern wall. A sluggish stream led northward under a canopy of rock. That was all. Celmar cautiously probed the water with her quarterstaff; there was no bottom at six feet.

As planned Dain cast his Detect Magic spell; the ritual took longer than anyone liked but our Cleric could repeat this rite as many times as he cared to. If we wanted to recover the lost magic items of Phandelver we must search in the hidden places. A green flame flickered under the water; Dain’s eyes gleamed with delight.

Buddynock sighed, bowed his head with brief concentration and took the form of a giant octopus. I was not the only person stepping back suddenly in astonishment and alarm! Our familiar friend now loomed ten feet high, a mass of fearsome tentacles coiling at our feet. It was the eyes that shocked me most, cold, black as midnight and gleaming with watching malice, far removed from the kindly expression of Buddynock Rubyrubb. (*)

(*) Our reaction was a new born baby’s smile compared to Megan the Sloth’s feelings. She had just awoken, her dark eyes shone with horror, she turned her head and buried her face against Celmar’s neck: “Eeee! Eeee! Eeee!”

11

The octopus slipped without a sound into that freezing water, ripples lapped against the far cavern wall but the pool swallowed up Buddynock without a murmur. Time stood still, no one dared speak we had no means of following him should our friend run into danger. The octopus had taken on a dark hue for better camouflage, suddenly a dark tentacle broke the surface a short wand gripped in its tip. Two feet of polished adamantine, with fluted discs along the shaft crowned with a frozen turquoise flame. Buddynock dropped the wand at our feet then dived again, heading for the slow-moving stream at the far end of the cavern.

A wand to summon missiles of magical power

Celmar was marking off the minutes by piling pebbles at our feet. She passed this task to Ranger Samuel before using her magic torque to examine Buddynock’s discovery. “A Wand of Magic Missiles! Our first catch of the day.”

“I’ll just be happy when we land our Forest Druid again,” muttered Dain. “However, many arms he currently owns.”

A half hour passed and two gleaming eyes reared out of the water. Buddynock Rubyrubb, Moon Druid returned to make his report. “The pool is about twenty feet deep, with a skeleton at the bottom. Human, a wizard I think, with three orc arrows in his ribs and that wand clenched in what was left of his left hand. Oh yes and these too.” Our honest Druid handed over two platinum rings.

“Did you recover the arrows as well,” asked Ranger Samuel.

“There was nothing worth left of them,” said Buddynock. “I explored the rest of the pool and let’s just say I’m damn glad an octopus does not feel cold! I found some cave fish, small, blind things. I thought they might make us a fresh dinner but I suppose I’m still not really used to having eight arms, every fish escaped me I’m afraid. Yes, yes, I’m getting to the important stuff! Really, some people sit on the side-lines and then get impatient with their daring, thoughtful and delightfully unorthodox explorer! As I was saying, Ranger, I squeezed into the tight tunnel following that little stream. After sixty feet it opens into a shallow channel, barely five feet deep, cutting across the floor of a really big cavern. And no, I did not explore any further, there were at least half a dozen uruk hai milling about. Even daring, some would say ‘dashing’ Forest Gnome Druid cephalopod spelunkers know their limits! And I thought you might be missing me too.”

“Bravely done Buddynock, bravely done.” I clapped my small friend on the shoulder to show my appreciation, now that he had shoulders once again. “I’m just not sure about one thing.”

Our Gnomish Druid tried to look innocent.

“You told us you can only take the shape of creatures you have seen once before. At the moment, only creatures which can walk, climb or swim. When by the Spear of Athene did you ever see a giant octopus? It was horrible!”

“Oh, that’s easy,” grinned Buddynock.

“Easy?”

“Dain you remember the week we both spent with that old Wizard? Blue hair, plaited beard, smelt of carrots?” Buddynock’s smile could have charmed a starving Gnoll.

“I remember he still owes me for that last meal,” muttered Dain. “He wasn’t as daft as he liked folk to think. Even for a human.” Our comrade paused. “Present company excepted of course.”

“Well remember his familiar? He was a Saltmarsh wizard after all.”

“Now you mention it,” nodded Dain, “of course. But his octopus was tiny.”

“Mr. Ticklethumbs may have been on the skimpy side but you agree he was an octopus and you agree that I saw him?”

Dain nodded dubiously.

“So, I just imagined him bigger and there I was! With ten-foot tentacles and eyes big enough to outstare a Balrog!”

“Is that how Druid shapeshifting really works?” Shupatra looked up from her new wand. “Strictly?”

“Well … I … sort of … interpreted the arcane guidelines, tried my luck and well,” Buddynock Rubyrubb tried to look modest. “You saw the results!”

Celmar raised a quizzical eyebrow: “But please don’t inform your Druidic Brethren?”

“Err, yes. Please don’t ever, ever, inform my Druidic Brethren,” Buddynock winked. “Right then, just need to check my owlbear egg.”

“There’s a door opposite the top of these stairs,” said Ranger Samuel.

We slowly inched closer. One end of the junction was blocked by fallen rock; the north passage led to another flight of stairs climbing upward. Opposite the lower stairs was a heavy stone door, six feet high, four feet wide, set with heavy iron hinges and handles. We listened hard, ears pressed against the stone, we heard savage uruk hai grumbling.

The door looked far too strong to force but Buddynock Rubyrubb knows the goblin tongue and our Druid trusted to his uncanny luck and Shupatra’s song of inspiration. Speaking with gruff ferocity, Buddynock called to the hidden occupants, I understood enough to realise he was claiming to be a survivor of a lost patrol needing refuge. There was muttering inside the room, then the sound of timber being dragged and then the grating of moving stone as the door swung back. Six uruk hai were staring at us in surprise. We tried to negotiate; we did try but the uruks suddenly scrambled for their weapons.

Buddynock and Dain held the doorway, both loosed missiles point blank into the small room. Ranger Samuel unleased his Hail of Thorns, one injured uruk hai fell dead, a second succumbed to Celmar’s sleep spell, after Shupatra tried her Wand of Magic Missiles for the first time.

One uruk bolted for a door in the far wall while his three comrades held us back. He could not escape, we had to stop him! Dain and Buddynock shot again at our fleeing enemy. Buddynock still swung his bucket in one hand, but Dain faced our foes’ spears without any shield. He was wounded twice, dropped his crossbow and swung Grom with defiant skill. I was guarding our rear; I could not help my comrades but they brought down that running uruk with a barrage of deadly missiles. The last two uruk hai dropped their weapons.

We moved inside the guardroom at speed, checking the tunnel behind us and the corridor beyond the far door. All was still, the only sign of life was that ever present rumble from the far northern reaches of Phandelver. We had bluffed our way into a former barrack block, old stone bunks lined the walls and a glowing iron brazier in the middle of the room cast flickering shadows. Both doors were reinforced by crude timber barricades; without the broken table bracing the far door that fleeing uruk hai would have escaped to raise the alarm.

Our foes may loathe both Clerics and Paladins but at least they know our word of honour can be trusted. Even so, we kept our prisoners in separate corners while we questioned them. The three surviving uruks slowly revealed their expedition had proved a disaster, lost Phandelver was rife with roaming undead, many uruks had been slain, some had simply disappeared and their “lack-brained, dainty-wrist” leader could not get through to this “fetid green flame and get us home!”

These prisoners showed no love for their leader, accusing the “deep-down buurz pushdug albai” of not knowing what he was doing and skulking safe in the temple out of sight. Promised reinforcements had never arrived, rations were running low, this was a disaster.

“Deep-down buurz pushdug albai?” I asked.

“Buurz means dark, pushdug is stinking,” said Buddynock, “I don’t know the last word but I can guess.”

“So, can I,” Celmar’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Remember the form that doppleganger took at Cragmaw, remember those letters with the spider seal? We’re dealing with a Drow, we must be.” Our Sorceress shuddered with revulsion. “A Dark Elf.”

Time passed; a deal was struck. The uruk hai would be spared in return for a rough map of all the mine they knew and the shortest route to this temple. They left at speed down the tunnel back to the entrance; their knives drawn; their shields held before them. We did not return their spears. In the doorway one uruk turned and grinned with savage loathing, mumbling words in the common tongue: “Walking dead don’t know fear. They like meat! Fresh or rotting. They touch and you stand still. You stand still as they eat you! Beware the walking dead. And the slime!”

One uruk tried to secrete a stoppered potion as they left, but sharp eyed Celmar saw and stopped him. We had already used the Torque of Cognesco, we would have to wait until tomorrow before we could learn the nature of this potion, but we stored it safely for later use. The liquid within the vial was a deep crimson colour and seemed to pulse with dull light as steady as a heartbeat.

Our council of war was brief and unanimous. It was a risk but also an opportunity. A direct attack on the temple, could decapitate our foe in one fell swoop. Yes, it was a risk but we needed to strike home while our enemies were still unaware. Delay too long and they would be moving against us, with a strength we did not know, and powers we could only guess. We moved as quietly as we could but I still cursed the soft ringing of Dain’s mail when he stumbled. We darted around a corner one by one, these corridors were lined with stone flags, the walls adorned with a long frieze of dwarven warriors. We also saw lit torches. This was no forgotten tunnel. It was not a time to take chances, a flight of steps led down to that large cavern of uruks already discovered by Buddynock. No one spoke, we placed our feet with care; Dain Rocksmiter was tapping the floor ahead of us with his wooden pole.

Two ornate bronze panelled doors stood before us; a snow crowned, three-peaked mountain covered the panels, the bronze was green with age, dirty and dented yet still of exquisite beauty. “Five hundred years old and still magnificent,” Dain Rocksmiter said with pride. “The runes around the rim are very clear. Behold the Temple of Dumathoin, Lord of the Underdeep, Guardian of Miners, Protector of the Dead. We walk on holy ground. It may be dishonoured and desecrated, but please remember this is holy ground all the same.”

There was still no noise or movement from the cavern to the east. Our weapons were drawn, our magic prepared, the moment had come. We all knew this bluff would be far harder and Buddynock cast enhance ability on himself, choosing Eagle’s Splendour to increase his likelihood of a successful deception. Shupatra barely touched the strings of her silver dulcimer but she struck up a second enchanted lay to inspire our Druid and Ranger Samuel.

Buddynock Rubyrubb swallowed hard, shot us a wan smile, stepped forward and pounded on the door. Our Druid again made his voice as gruff as possible, speaking in goblin he claimed to be an uruk hai guard leading prisoners. There was no response, Buddynock called again. We heard scuffling feet, a wary word of command. The two bronze doors swung back. (*)

Three cracked marble pillars lined both sides of this long hall, at the far north end stood a nine-foot statue of a dwarf seated on an ornate throne, a mighty stone maul before him. Large emeralds gleamed in the statue’s eyes: Dumathoin, Lord of the Underdeep. The accumulated dust and debris covering the floor was brushed to one side and a makeshift campsite sprawled in front of the statue. A dozen bedrolls and packs were stacked around a rough built fire pit, but we only took in most of the details much later.

(*) It was only later we realised one crucial reason for our successes. These weary Uruk hai never expected their enemies to talk. I give thanks for any crumbs of good fortune thrown by the Fates.

12

Six fully armed uruk hai stood by a long wooden table, littered with written notes, maps and trophies taken from the mine. In their midst, a slight, elegant figure clad in black armour and a dark purple cloak; his hair white as winter, his skin grey as death, holding an ebony staff with a carved spider at the tip. Nezznar, the Dark Elf, the Great Enemy, he who planned and plotted against us. Nezznar the Corrupter, Nezznar of the Long Reach.

Buddynock Rubyrubb was casting his Moonbeam before the heavy doors had even stopped swinging. A column of silvery light transfixed Nezznar the Drow and our enemy convulsed and screamed. Dain and I were charging forward weapons raised, Ranger Samuel sent Hail of Thorns into three of the uruks, Celmar and Shupatra both loosed deadly magic missiles into the heart of our foes, we were all inside the ruined temple now.

Wounded Nezznar cast an invisibility spell and disappeared before our eyes, the uruks sped a volley of spears then drew jagged scimitars and met our headlong attack, just as four giant spiders dropped down from the columns on our flanks. Their bulbous red abdomens pulsated. Funnels of thick webbing shot towards us, I dodged, Celmar dodged but Dain was ensnared in the sticky folds.

Buddynock stood in the doorway concentrating frantically on his spell, when Nezznar vanished. Our Druid instantly moved his moonbeam to block the only other exit, a stone passage in the long east wall. I slew one uruk hai with a wrathful smite spell, and wounded another. Fangs bared; two giant spiders darted towards Celmar. Our Elven sorceress had space to cast Burning Hands and flames leapt from her fingers. Both spiders were singed but both scuttled clear, Celmar summoned her power a second time and both giant monsters shrivelled and burnt.

Allies of the Drow

Shupatra the Bard slew a spider with her magic wand, Ranger Samuel claimed an uruk hai with his arrows. The wounded Dark Elf suddenly materialised next to Buddynock casting a shocking grasp. Our little Druid stood shaking and helpless, his hair and beard standing upright with the eldritch charge. Nezznar prepared to push past and run, he raised his staff for a farewell blow, when Shupatra overpowered our wounded foe with her hideous laughter spell. For all his cunning our foe was left rolling on the floor, writhing with helpless merriment. Our Halfling Bard calmly drew her short sword Bywen, pressing its point to Nezzar’s throat. The laughter spell was broken, but now Nezznar simply lay still, arms flat against his sides. User of magic he might be this Drow could not simply vanish again.

Dain cut himself clear of the choking web and rolled to his feet only to be snared by a third spider. The loathsome beast squatted over him but by the watchful grace of Marthomir Duin, our Cleric’s dwarf mail proved proof against spider bites. Ranger Samuel’s aim proved deadly; I killed a second uruk with my sword. Our last foes were overcome, we had our victory and our prisoner. There was no sound of movement from either door.

We were most of us battle worn and injured, but all still on our feet and fighting. Ranger Samuel covered the side passage, we pulled the main doors to and barred them. Celmar took charge of the Spider Staff, we did not know how to work its magic but it would be safest in the hands of our sorceress. On Nezznar we found a potion of healing and a small bronze key with a head shaped like an anvil. Among the objects on the long table was a black leather bag holding 190 electrum pieces, 130 gold, 15 platinum, nine small gemstones, and a dwarven ale mug of hammered electrum worth 100 gold.

I glanced at Celmar. She was standing silent in the shadows, she stroked Megan’s head for comfort. The look in her eyes haunts me still, loathing and fear combined. All people fear the Drow, their Elven cousins most of all. Celmar did not trust herself to speak to our captive and we had no earthly reason to make her.

The dead bodies we dragged into a corner, for who could say when we might need clear fighting room again. That was the easy task, for we had other matters to manage now. Despite the pain of his wounds and sudden captivity the Drow showed no fear or even confusion. Nezznar the Dark Elf simply stared at us with contempt. He did not brag, he did not plead, Nezznar spoke with the calm disdain of someone who has no doubt what the future holds: “By great Lolth, Queen of Spiders, by revered Lolth, Queen of the Demonweb Pits, by Holy Lolth, High Goddess of all the Dark Seldarine, your souls shall be forfeit for this deed, whether this day or the next.”

“And you have my sword point touching your throat,” Shupatra said evenly.

“And you have my pity,” Nezznar the Drow replied. “Almost.”

“Tie his hands tight,” I said, “Yes, use your spare bowstring. At the wrists and also the fingers and thumbs. We don’t want any more magic. If you speak out of turn Nezznar you will be gagged. Immediately. You understand me?”

The Drow simply smiled. “Let me do you a small favour. I suggest your Gnome leaves those green gewgaws in the eyes of that Dwarven idol, they are only glass, not emerald and the roof will collapse on all of us if they are pulled free.”

Buddynock Rubyrubb stepped back sheepishly into the centre of the temple. Dain Rocksmiter glared with disbelief but cast his Detect Magic ritual once again. “Abjuration charm on both eyes. Yes, they are only cut glass and yes, something would have happened if they were touched. Filthy iconoclasts! Despoiling the image of Lord Dumathoin!”

Nezznar the Dark Elf smiled like a crack in midwinter ice. “You see how I help you Dwarf.”

“You help yourself too,” spat Ranger Samuel.

Our Drow prisoner shrugged. “I help preserve you for something more painful.” Nezznar bared his teeth. “And humiliating.”

“We could execute you now Drow,” I said. “Your crimes are many.”

“Really? Don’t I simply work to the interests of my people just as you work for yours?”

“You kill, you corrupt, you think no laws can hold you.” I was getting angry; I was foolish but could not help myself.

Nezznar looked on me with sad contempt: “So we fail to abide by your moral strictures? Or yours, Dwarven filth, or the dubious ethics of that Elfish drab skulking by the door. We work for our own ends, as do you. We take the actions we deem fit, as do you, we kill when we choose, as do you.”

“We don’t slay without mercy,” I began, “we don’t butcher for the joy of blood, we don’t serve a spider demon of the dark, we-” Wise Dain laid a friendly hand on my shoulder. He shook his head.

“No point laddie, no point, you simply waste your breath. Let’s just be thankful we caught him, eh?”

“But will you face your deaths with my courage, pretty little paladin, will any of you?” smiled Nezznar the Drow. “If my plans have failed, your schemes are still a long way from success. Oh! Did you think the rest would be easy? If I Beloved of Lolth the Terrible have not succeeded in my endeavours do you truly imagine sun-kissed filth like you have any hope of survival? Fools! Animal fools!”

Celmar looked up for the first time, she walked across the blood streaked temple floor with all the elegance of a soaring hawk. “If you speak like that again in my presence, I will end you and when you are lying still at my feet, I shall not think of you again. Ever.”

“You have been searching for the Forge of Lazair Glas, “Dain said calmly. “So, what has stopped you? We have asked some of your ‘loyal’ underlings already. A few Undead in the way? More than a ‘brave and wise Dark Elf can handle?”

For the first time our prisoner looked away. “Yes, more than you can deal with,” nodded Dain. “Undead which cannot be charmed or poisoned. Undead which cannot be corrupted, bribed or threatened. Your reinforcements died on the march didn’t they Drow? Your far-flung plans have unravelled, haven’t they Drow? Your web of fear is breaking, isn’t it Drow? And all you have left now is the power to taunt and belittle to bolster your own waning courage at the end. You have failed Nezznar and your Spider Bitch does not tolerate failure, kindly does she?”

Dain’s voice only grew deeper and there was a gleam in his eyes which made me want to step back. “Back down the tunnels there is a dead dwarf lying hewed and despoiled. There is another dwarf still unaccounted for. If you want to live even a few more hours you will tell us what you know and tell it honestly. Otherwise …”

Moments later and we were unlocking a small ante room with the anvil headed key, pushing Nezznar ahead of us to make sure. In a small chamber lay a dishevelled dwarf, half naked, chained and barely conscious, his body badly marked. The fear in his face was horrible, he grasped Dain’s hands like a drowning man in deep waters.

“We come from Gundren, we come from your brother,” said Dain.

“They killed Tharden without warning; they cut him when he was dead.”

“Nundro Stonefoot? You are Nundro?”

The injured dwarf nodded. Then he saw Nezznar the Drow. Then he screamed with fury.

“It would be justice to hand you over to him,” said Dain in the same flattened voice, “but not now, for the moment we need you but listen Drow, if you play us false, I will pass you to Nundro Stonefoot and walk away.”

Our prisoner simply snorted with derision but we all noticed Nezzar the Drow was careful not to reply.

It was time to take stock of our position. We had done well, far better than I ever expected but we were yet to find the Forge of Lazair Glas and enemies unknown were all around us. Only fools relax before their final victory. Yes, we needed to rest, but we could not afford to give our foes time to regroup. When Nezznar’s minions learnt of his capture what would they do? Even if those uruks were dispirited other henchmen might prove far more loyal. Only time would tell if the Fates would prove kind.

Understandably poor Nundro Stonefoot knew nothing of Phandelver, he had been dragged unconscious from his campsite. I hope he took some comfort in learning that dead Tharden had been given decent dwarven honours and his eldest brother Gundren was safe and well. (*) We would soon bear eastward, following the tunnels still unexplored and that large cavern Buddynock had discovered. We would march on but one thought was uppermost in our minds. That regular surge and fall of air was even louder now, we were drawing ever closer to the mystery.

(*) Assuming neither Gundren or Sister Garele had been captured and put to the question by Baron Ulv.

13

When we asked Nezznar the Drow he merely smiled. No threat we could make persuaded him.

“Do you think he knows?” said wide eyed Buddynock Rubyrubb. “Do Dark Elves like Red Dragons then? Are they allies?”

Celmar shook her head. She looked too sick to speak. “No. The Drow have many allies and dupes, but never creatures mightier than themselves.”

“So, does he actually know what the noise is?” our Druid insisted.

“How can I say!” Celmar the Fiery sometimes lives up to her name. “Your guess is as good as mine. Stop asking useless questions please.”

“But you are both elves and- “Buddynock began. I had my hand clapped over his mouth with the speed of a charging unicorn.

“Never for the love of all you ever hold holy, compare High Elves to Drow from the Underdeep! Never. Never. Please!”

Our Druid struggled free. Celmar stepped away to check our supplies once again.

“But Celmar’s a friendly soul,” Buddynock said innocently.

“Whether High Elf or Wood Elf, all elves loathe and fear the Drow. They renounced the light of the sun; they lurk in the depths of the earth. They worship a spider demon; they are without mercy and they are renowned for their scheming.”

“Ah a family feud,” nodded Buddynock. “Like when our Wobblesprocket cousins borrowed Granny’s second-best teapot without asking?” (*)

Dain sighed. “Err … yes … Buddynock … yes. Something like that.”

“Cos that was serious! It was three summer solstice festivals before Granny shared her fruit cake with them again. Three years!”

“Just never remind any Elf the Drow are related. Is that clear Buddynock?”

“Crystal! I would never upset dear Celmar.”

(*) As I said very clearly before. Buddynock Rubyrubb is a Gnome of much erudition and kindly wisdom.

Even if he does not always show it.

14

It takes time to scout two rooms, rescue a captive and interrogate a prisoner even briefly. We rested the remainder of the hour without incident but there was no more time to lose. Nundro Stonefoot was able to walk slowly, Dain Rocksmiter shared some spare clothes and a throwing axe. while Celmar sacrificed a charge from her Staff of Defence to equip Nundro in shimmering Mage Armour. The young dwarf took charge of our lantern and slung the least battered Uruk shield on his back. Nundro nodded, we were ready to march. One way or another we would learn the secret of Phandelver; one way or another I would end my sacred quest.

At least that was what I thought. Someone else apparently had his own mission. It was now that Dain Rocksmiter asked for our attention. It was now our Dwarven Cleric chose to unroll a much-creased parchment and read a letter of directions from his Order. Dain had the moment of silence he wanted but the next moments proved somewhat louder, startled and confused! Celmar winced, Ranger Samuel shook his head in disbelief and Buddynock absently patted the worn handle of his bucket

The ensuing comments were pungent and pointed. Perhaps sceptical Shupatra said it best. “Bloody Clerics and Paladins, walking around all self-righteous, ‘knowing best,’ ‘knowing everything’ and sacrificing everyone else to their cold choking morality! Damn duty when it endangers others!” (*)

Nundro Stonefoot, freed, healed and ready for vengeance.

We were pleased he could carry our lantern but were careful not to leave Nundro too close to our prisoner.

Nezznar the Drow had many questions to answer, when we had more time to ask them.

(*) I must learn from this. I am also guilty of concealing information from my comrades.

Yes, I must follow my orders but yes, I must also consider and accept the effect on my long-suffering party

15

I glanced again at Nezznar the Drow. I knew he was helpless; I knew he could not escape but I my stomach was still taut as tuned lyre strings. Though I said nothing to my comrades, I needed to keep satisfying myself our prisoner was still secure. As I turned my head, I saw the expression in Nezznar’s cold eyes. Even when bound and helpless his stark contempt for us was very plain but now I saw more, now I saw true fear. Did he know what lay ahead? How far down those winding tunnels had his doomed expedition wandered? What had he discovered in desolate Phandelver when his hopes died along with his companions?

Even the simplest sound can grow terrifying. I do not mean that unearthly, unceasing steady rumble of air, a far softer noise in dark Phandelver was making me swallow hard and stare into the shadows. It came from ahead, from behind, from all around us, cascading drops of water dripping from the stones. Such a cold rain deep within this unforgiving earth, an empty melody of loss, abandonment and decay. When keeping busy I did not notice, but each time I forgot myself, every moment I stood still listening, I felt already buried in my grave.

There had been hundreds of lives down here once, resolute hopes and dreams, brave deeds and ardent striving. Yet all were lost, all ruined, many had died in the darkness and received no honours over their bones. Some had fallen in battle fighting to the end, others had been hunted through these winding galleries, hunted and hacked apart as they screamed. Many had died down here and maybe we would be joining them. Our foes were many, we were few and our deaths could be waiting within the next chamber. Who of us would be first, which of us would be last? The next chamber? We could be slain around the very next turn of the tunnel.

These were no fit thoughts for a Knight of Pallas Athene! I had my quest, I had comrades relying on me; whether dark Phandelver claimed me or no, I must trust to my faith and march forward. Had any of my friends noticed my hesitation? Maybe I feared that more than any horror waiting in the dark. I could not be sure, I could not say, I only knew I would give ten years of my life just to see the bright sun again.

Stalwart Dain led us forward once again, his magic pole quietly tapping the tunnel before us. The paved flags soon gave way to a rough cavern floor, we climbed a short flight of stairs and Buddynock nodded. Ahead was the large chamber he discovered earlier; a cave with busy Uruk hai working away. A single lantern glowed in the shadows. A slim figure stood forty foot away, a drow we thought, facing away from us and peering down at the ground.

Shupatra whispered the words of her Invisibility spell. Our Halfling Bard suddenly vanished before our eyes and we did not hear a sound as our stealthy comrade crept forward, short sword drawn and ready. Ranger Samuel levelled his longbow, Dain Rocksmiter had his Guiding Bolt spell prepared. A moment later and Shupatra shimmered into life standing on tiptoe, her magic blade pressed against the Dark Elf’s heart. Our Bard beckoned and we picked our way forward with care.

Muttering voices came from beneath our feet. We heard the ring of picks against stone, the scraping of a shovel. A wide rift yawned before us, cleaving the entire cavern. “Natural?” I mouthed and Dain nodded. Two ropes were secured to iron stakes along the near edge, six grumbling Uruks were searching the jumbled confusion of stones far below. A sluggish stream of water seeped from a crevice in the western wall, barely a trickle now, but from the rounded stones at our feet, this water had been far more plentiful and faster in the past. We also saw a channel cut into the cavern floor, five-foot deep at least and heading eastward under the far cavern wall. This was definitely excavated on purpose. Were stream and channel once linked? “They certainly seemed so,” whispered Dain.

Our latest Drow prisoner was wise enough not to move, but we saw Nezznar roll his eyes in despair. Our plan was simple and satisfying. Encouraged by jabs of Shupatra’s sword the Dark Elf calmly ordered the six Uruk hai to ascend the ropes again. As each appeared, each was captured and none with time to let out a sound. “I do like wins without all the pushing and shoving!” beamed Buddynock Rubyrubb.

Like our former Uruk captives, these surly creatures soon proved willing to talk. Most of their comrades were dead or vanished, taken by the terrors of Phandelver. These Uruks had no love for their leader; it was only the fear of Drow wizardry that still kept them searching the lost mine.

“What tunnels had your friends explored?” I asked the Uruk hai.

One spat, two only shrugged but when I asked again the answer was clear. They could not say, they did not know. Patrols had been ordered out; patrols had disappeared without a trace. Once screams and clashing swords were heard, but when more Uruks had arrived in support all they found were riven shields, broken spears and blood. These half dozen Uruk hai before us were the last of a full company, they were the last and they did not expect to be living for much longer

“Searching for what?” Celmar asked with studied innocence.

“Just keep asking questions,” said Dain as he stood to one side to begin his ritual. Our Cleric cast his detection spell, covering each quadrant of the cavern in turn. We were watching the tunnels around us and guarding our gaggle of prisoners, but Dain refused be rushed despite the urgency of our position. At last our Cleric’s patience was rewarded; we all saw the bright eldritch aura from the far end of the rift and we all heard Nezznar the Drow’s hiss of disgust. It took Dain only a few moments and the loan of my crowbar to unearth his prize.

Even after five centuries the bronze and steel gauntlets still gleamed. I am no smith but any knight can appreciate the exquisite skill of a master armourer. Dain Rocksmiter was simply lost for words, his dark eyes round with delight as he turned the heavy gauntlets in his hands. “My magic torque still needs time to function again,” warned Celmar, “We don’t know what they do, are you quite sure you want to take a chance?”

Dain Rocksmiter simply smiled. “For these? Oh, most definitely,” and slipped first his left, then his right hand inside. We saw his grin widen; we saw his eyes shine.

“By the grace of Marthamoir Duin, Gauntlets of Ogre Power!” The artificers of Old Phandelver crafted a good many of these and for good reason.” Dain picked a sliver of wood from the floor, casually tightened his grasp and saw the oak board shatter in his grasp. “When our next foes appear, I simply ask for space to swing Grom.”

“Just be sure to take them off when you go around the corner for a tinkle!” said our Druid.

Celmar winced. “Quite! Otherwise just one careless twitch and you …”

“Are singing pastoral odes with the Pixies?” beamed our Bard.

“And wishing for a healing spell on standby” added Ranger Samuel. “Or you could …” (*)

“Och yer all just jealous of good Dwarf craftsmanship,” laughed Dain, as he turned his new gauntlets to catch the light, admiring the segmented finger guards and the embossed faces snarling from the steel cuffs.

“Yes, but seriously, how do you use them safely? said Celmar. “If you lay them down even for a moment an enemy could snatch them.”

“Maybe hang them on a string up your arms and round your neck,” said Shupatra.

Our Dwawrven Cleric could still only smile with delight.

(*) Jokes about Paladins 'laying on their hands!' Why are there always jokes about Paladins 'laying on their hands!'

16

We had found our second treasure but none of the answers we sorely needed. Which way now? Where was the Forge of Lazair Glas? At first, we appeared to have struck a dead end. Dain Rocksmiter and Nundro Stonefoot checked for secret passages and hidden doors but even their dwarven expertise revealed nothing. Should we retrace our steps? Our other option was to negotiate the deep channel cut into the floor. The dry stream bed led us north and towards that fearsome breathing noise, the excavated channel headed back into the heart of the mine. Should we take it? If we turned eastward, surely, we turned towards the fabled magic Forge.

The two drows remained bound; the six Uruks heard our proposition. Not exactly an alliance, more an agreement of convenience. They were already living on time lent by the Fates; they had no other means of escape and they were willing to link shields against our common enemy. I cannot say any of us liked this arrangement but it seemed good sense all the same. How long our pact would last I could not say but for the moment it was holding. Time to worry about betrayal once we had overcome the dark forces of Phandelver.

No flowing water filled the stone channel now, we lowered ourselves down and crept forward as quietly as our heavy mail hauberks permitted. The six Uruk hai moved ahead in close formation, their weapons drawn, their yellow eyes wary. Dain led our party as before, Nundro Stonefoot still bore our lantern and I guarded the rear. Celmar’s Staff of Defence was nearly exhausted and by common consent she remained in our midst for better protection. That steady rumble of air still sounded in our ears, backwards and forwards, louder now, much closer, and always still somewhere to the north. Well, we were in no hurry to meet this creature, whatever it might be, my objective was the Forge nothing else, and we had all the rest of Phandelver to explore. (*)

This channel was almost ten feet wide and over five deep. Cutting so far into the bedrock had been no small task, but those long dead miners had taken great pains to carve a smooth surface; they clearly wanted nothing to hinder the flow of water. Unless they cast disintegrate spells,” murmured Celmar. “Look how even the stones are. That would be very serious magic, no hedge wizards here.”

Most of our party were comfortably concealed, but Ranger Samuel and I moved at an awkward half crouch to keep our heads safely out of sight. We dipped beneath a curtain of rock, a short tunnel where we had to crawl on hands and knees and for a moment, I was acutely conscious of the whole weight of earth and rock pressing down above. Then the channel opened into a new chamber, even colder and larger, an immense high cavern littered with mining carts, mineral spoil and the debris of battle, a score of withered corpses lay sprawled across the floor; dead dwarves, and orcs, two slain ogres too.

(*)   I had to trust my comrades. I had to! Surely no one would betray me now?
And yet ... how much did I know them, how well did I judge their motives?
Would our Ranger and Bard seize the chance for riches by seizing the Forge?

Would our Elven Sorceress suddenly refuse to let me destroy such natural 'living' magic as the Flame of Lazair Glas?
What powers was Celmar keeping in reserve to suit her plans?

And Dain, our obedient Cleric, did he have other instructions when the moment came?

We all have to sleep; we all have moments when we trust our friends with our lives.
There was Buddynock Rubyrubb, always Buddynock Rubyrubb, surely I could always count on him?

17

We peered up over the edge to gauge our surroundings. The channel cut diagonally across this great chamber. Shrouded by shadows stood a corroded steel furnace almost 20 feet high, cold and dark, the remains of massive leather bellows still in place. Broken linkage, chains, cogs and gears lay rusting on the ground amid heaps of clinker and slag, but little was left of them after five centuries. The channel’s purpose was plain as field plate, for we crouched next to a huge water wheel and a sluice gate to regulate the flow. Our channel continued through the chamber disappearing under the eastern wall perhaps the stream had ended somewhere close. Was this the moment we climbed out into the open? The six Uruk hai stood in a tight cluster, suspicious of their surroundings and wary of us.

“Elm wood paddles on this wheel,” Buddynock’s green hood shook as he nodded approval. “Very wise. Trust gnomes to know the right tree to use. Elm is very resistant to water.”

“The smelting room,” said Dain Rocksmiter with warm approval. “In case you had not guessed. Here is where the dwarves melted down their ore. Ingots of silver and gold, maybe even adamantine and mithril! A place of noise and fire in its day.”

“Yes, but Hill Gnomes did the fiddly bits,” Buddynock whispered, torn between Druidic distaste for mechanical industry and natural pride in his ancestral cousins’ ancient skill.

“Not that I want to spoil the industrial archaeology lesson,” said our Ranger,” but does anyone else see that distant green glow?”

“That unearthly grave glow of green eldritch horror?” said Shupatra. “That one?”

“That green flaming skull flying around the ceiling?” said Celmar. “Up there, high around the ceiling. Megan certainly does not like him, do you? “

“Eee!”

Dain sighed loudly, licked his lips and muttered a prayer. His left hand brushed his cylindrical scroll case, but our comrade did not need to open it. Trust an obedient Dwarven cleric to memorise his instructions conscientiously.

Our Gnomish Druid had climbed onto the water wheel to snatch a glimpse; something he quickly regretted. “And people complain about a simple Owlbear egg!” muttered Buddynock Rubyrubb. “Just normal fur and claws people. Just normal fur and claws and some people complain!”

“So how do we approach?” said our Ranger. “Rig ropes and grapples?”

“Climb the water wheel?” said Celmar “It looks locked solid with rust.”

“Those wooden paddles look a bit iffy,” said Buddynock. “Maybe they used dodgy elm.”

“Mending cantrip time,” said Dain. “Just give me a few moments.”

We slowly climbed to the smelting room, the party, our two Drow prisoners and the six uruks, the shutter of our lantern closed to a tiny aperture. (*) Five-feet is a short distance but not when you are straining heart and sinew to be silent. The flying skull darted like a mayfly high above, there was no change to its movements we could see. At last we were all in the chamber. We crept forward, as best we could, crouching behind the massive cog wheels, and upturned mining carts, weapons levelled, spells prepared.

Looking back, I wonder when that flaming skull actually first saw us. It certainly let us come out into the open before it attacked. An unearthly scream pierced the air and the skull swooped down with the speed of a striking hawk; its grinning jaw gaping wide. The empty eye sockets glowed with malign delight and a blazing fireball sped towards us, aimed where our group was tightest packed. The six uruks screamed and died in a sudden surge of magic fire, I was scorched but still standing as the Flameskull soared low over our heads and a dozen of those withered corpses pulled themselves to their feet and stumbled forward.

(*) I gave silent thanks for the night vision of my friends.

Without their guidance, Ranger Samuel and myself could not have climbed in such darkness.

18

A party attacking hopefully has a plan, a party suddenly attacked is prone to panic. Fearing a second fireball our party started to scatter, seeing those dozen approaching zombies, we wanted to lock shields and stand firm.

It was now Dain called upon the sacred majesty of Marthomir Duin, his deep voice echoing through the cavern, the holy symbol on his shield held defiantly towards our undead foes. Half of the zombies turned and fled and to our incredulous delight even the Flameskull too, flew from the chamber in terror.

Now was the moment, now was our chance. The six remaining zombies were almost on us, but we had time to take position between two spoil heaps. These creatures are easy to injure but hard to destroy, their mindless urge to kill keeps driving them forward even when ripped with wounds and arrows. There was no need for concealment now. We stood firm, weapons ready, concentrating our attacks to destroy each zombie in turn rather than simply wounding the foul creatures without halting their remorseless advance. Our Ranger’s arrows were deadly, Celmar used her Firebolts with affect, Buddynock resorted once more to his handy sling. I held the creatures at bay with my shield, rocking them backwards and cutting deep with my trusty sword Talon. Dain swung his rune axe Grom with lethal skill, his magic gauntlets gleaming in the lantern light as he felled zombie after zombie.

We had seen half a dozen but not the last, this zombie slipped around our defences, rotting arms flailing. Celmar screamed in pain as a heavy fist, more bone than flesh, slammed home against her leg. Our graceful elven sorceress fell to the floor unable to move, we finished the zombie quickly but still too late. Her leg was not broken, not quite but Celmar was struggling to stand and could barely hobble.

The six uruks were beyond any help from anyone. “At least it was quick,” said Shupatra, who glanced once then hastily looked away.

“Some comfort!” Celmar spoke through gritted teeth, as she made certain little Megan was unharmed.

Buddynock Rubyrubb peered down the dark passage to our south. I saw his mouth gape with dismay. “Err can everyone see that distant green glow far off down the corridor?”

“That green eldritch glow rapidly growing less distant,” said Shupatra.

“Yes, that green glow,” said Buddynock. “The one closing the range at impressive speed.”

“And presumably with half a dozen more zombie friends close behind,” said Ranger Samuel as he hastily salvaged as many of his arrows still able to fly.

“Reasonable to assume so yes,” said Buddynock.

“Any ideas anyone? I just like to know that, just in case.” Celmar winced in pain but our valiant elf struggled back to her feet.

“Your mysterious adversary Dain?” I asked.

“You think?” said our weary cleric

How should we stand, how could we face this creature? Another fireball would be our doom. I could also try to turn the Flameskull but how could that help when the creature would simply return and follow and find us. Was this why Nezzar’s careful scheming came to nothing? I turned to our prisoners, desperate for any answers, but the Dark Elves simply stood with stoic resolve and shook their heads.

“Leave it to me,” Buddynock suddenly smiled. “I have a plan!”

“Yes, we but we have to perform the ritual,” Dain raised his voice in desperation. “We have to help save- “

“We have to kill it,” I shouted, “I am sorry Dain, but it is the skull or us.” Ranger Samuel was nodding too, even little Shupatra.

“We have to try,” said Dain with desperate insistence. We could see the fear in our brave Cleric’s face, but we all heard determination fierce as dragon pride in his voice. “We have to try, at least I must try. In in the end there is faith there is only faith. I must make the attempt.”

“We could do with staying alive,” said wounded Celmar. Even a precious healing potion could not repair the damage to her leg. She carefully laid aside her pack to leave Megan the Sloth in a place of safety. Her young companion’s eyes seemed even rounder than usual.

The malignant abomination was almost upon us. We could also hear the tread of those returning zombies in the distance. How should we stand, how should we face this creature? I sorely lamented drinking my potion of flying even though we had no choice in the battle against Venomfang the Green.

“Time to shine,” Buddynock Rubyrubb’s teeth were gleaming: “If Mr Cranium up there once hurt little gnomes, that bony git is due some payback. Sparkly tricks or no.”

We entered in the south western corner and moved north.

We trudged through Phandelver circling round like the hands of a clock, doubling back to the water cave in the north-east then finally retracing our steps to the ventilation shaft where we first entered.

Our Druid is a curious fellow. A gentle, playful soul with a great love of life and living, a friend to all animals and plants, a humble spirit who savours merry company and good times. Our Gnomish Druid has no need to bolster his pride with visible acts of valour, indeed, he is quick to see danger and reluctant to begin any battle, our Gnomish Druid sensibly seeks peaceful solutions wherever possible. And yet our friend still steps forward time and again, scouting the land ahead, risking his own life for his friends. Our Gnomish Druid slipped through Cragmaw Castle alone to rescue a tormented animal; he swam the dark waters of Phandelver to help his comrades. The valiant are never simply clad in shining armour, brave deeds are not always signalled by ringing trumpets.

Our Gnome stood defiant in the mouth of the passage as the vengeful Flameskull swept towards us, glowing jaws screaming with insane laughter. Too high to reach apart from archers and mage casters, oh I cursed my lack of javelins now all I had left to throw was my dagger. We stood apart, limiting the damage from any further fiery magic but ready to close in fast when chance permitted. The Flameskull suddenly blurred before our eyes, dark magic it must be, the undead abomination seemed to dart before our eyes in crazy fashion, aiming my knife was near hopeless, for even Ranger Samuel was struggling to level his great bow,

It was now injured Celmar attacked with lunatic bravery, casting Misty Step she materialised in mid-air behind the skull, swinging her staff in both hands she tried to knock the Flameskull down to the ground. She swung, she missed but the effort was valiant indeed. The Misty Step faded and Celmar fell fifteen feet to the ground, hitting a spoil heap with a shrill scream of pain as she rolled helplessly to the floor. We had to time to help her; we simply had no time.

Yet dodging Celmar’s staff forced the Flameskull lower and our dauntless Gnome Druid finally had space to cast his Thunderwave. A fine and most apposite choice, this spell of short range but devastating effect. Anything within its path is dashed backwards; the Flameskull had blurred its image but clever Buddynock barely needed to aim. I think our Druid even surprised himself for we never once saw his spell so effective before. The shrieking Flameskull was smashed against the rock ceiling as a booming thunderclap rolled and echoed through Phandelver. (*)

Our shrieking foe replied immediately, a bright ball of bale-fire shot back at Buddynock, but thanks to his uncanny luck our comrade dived aside before it burst. My dagger missed and clattered uselessly to the floor, but Dain Rocksmiter’s guiding bolt spell burst in divine radiance. Now our aim was easier! Shupatra cast magic missiles from her wand and our Ranger let his arrows fly. The Flameskull suddenly dimmed and fell to the cavern floor, eyes still faintly glowing but the flickering green flames dimmed and died.

(*) We have all witnessed our Druid cast Thunderwave before, we have all heard his spoken commands and seen his mystic gestures. Today, I am almost convinced he added a flicker with his mid finger at the end, a movement I am not certain his Archdruid mentors would necessarily approve of. (**)

(**) Buddynock Rubyrubb is very fond of Celmar

19

Tall shadows loomed in the passage. The six last zombies were upon us. Dead eyes in dead faces, arms outstretched, their moaning, a chill dread fit to poison sleep. Wincing with pain, wounded Celmar was crawling towards us, Megan the Sloth was crying with alarm. Our two prisoners were still secure but the attacks were falling without pause, far faster than we expected. Once again, we found a choke point to withstand their assault, they attacked as before without thought or plan, a simple blind rush and a blind urge to destroy us. Once again, we limited their frontage and concentrated our fire; zombies die hard, ripped with wounds, riddled with missiles but they die all the same given time.

Only Dain stood apart from the battle, for our Cleric seized his moment before we had any chance to object. It is easier to argue a boulder into rolling uphill than persuade a stubborn dwarf to change his mind; faithful Dain would fulfil his holy quest or die trying. We were fighting hard, we could only snatch stolen glances but we still glimpsed Dain Rocksmiter kneeling over the flickering skull, wreathed in green fire as he performed the cleansing ritual. We saw flames licking at his bare hands and arms, we heard his deep voice, heedless of the pain, declaiming the funeral rites with steady determination. (*)

The last zombie finally lay still and we closed our ranks again with wounded Celmar safe between us. Weary as death and with an agony of effort, Dain Rocksmiter rose to his feet. We all smelt his singed beard and winced at the livid burns along his arms, maybe even our silent Drow prisoners were moved. Light flickered and died in the empty eye sockets of the Flameskull, the foul green halo faded, and radiance bright as summer filled the air. An image resplendent floated before us. It almost hurt my eye to see such sudden splendour, a dwarven warrior, his armour old and dented, his axe notched, yet he smiled, we saw him smiling, we saw peace in his tired eyes, peace after long long years of pain and torment. The spirt of Järn Jordguld beamed down upon us, raising one hand in grateful salute, the mouth opened, we heard no words but saw the image fade slowly before us. The old hero was at last at rest. For a moment we almost forgot where we were.

None of us spoke, no one could bear to, we simply stood heads bowed as the image slowly faded. And Dain Rocksmiter knelt once more in simple modesty, as he gave humble thanks to the divine majesty of Marthomir Duin and this chance to honour the fallen.

We dressed Dain’s burnt arms as best we might, but we heard the pain in his voice as our comrade eased his hands back inside those magic gauntlets. This Quest was costing us dearly. Brave Celmar was certainly more shaken than she would admit for this was the first time our Elven Sorceress had ever been injured. Her leg was not broken, not quite, but Celmar could barely hobble all the same.

(*) “I also smelt singed dwarf,” said Buddynock Rubyrubb, when we next had a moment to ourselves.

“Piquant isn’t it?” said Shupatra. Trust a Bard to have a voluminous vocabulary.

“That’s one word for it,” said our Druid, “Put me right off my oatcakes and raisins it did.”

“Well finishing my geas gave me a warm feeling,” Dain Rocksmiter was smiling in humble relief at his success.

“Yeah we all saw you being toasted!” said our Druid.

20

Nundro Stonefoot poured a fresh flash of oil into our lantern. The day was almost done, it would soon be time to rest. Unless we found a safer place within the next hour, we would fall back to that first Uruk guard room, or maybe that small chamber where poor Nundro had been imprisoned; any room we could secure and hold safely and sleep. We would try to rest soon but there was still time to scout the next chamber, Dain and Buddynock leading as before, we entered the straight tunnel running due south.

In barely a hundred paces we entered another vast and silent room. We stood upon a paved shelf of rock, wide enough for a large wagon to pass. Sixty feet away we saw a second rock escarpment mirroring our own. Between these raised ledges was a black void, we could see nothing, we could hear nothing, only the remorseless echoes of dripping water far ahead. The slope down was steep but stone steps disappeared into the shadows. The air was cold as an open grave, a chill wind billowed our cloaks like fighting sails. Megan withdrew as far as possible into Celmar’s open backpack, grateful for any additional warmth. Her small mouth opened and closed; the tiny sloth never made a sound but her bright eyes showed her dismay all too clearly.

“The old banquet hall I think,” Dain Rocksmiter barely moved his lips.

Our ledge was strewn with broken tools, splintered weapons, and tumbled bones. Many bones, idly cast aside, all sizes, all yellow and broken in a lunatic tangle of death. “Each one of them has been split for their marrow. Split open and gnawed.” Our Ranger walked the savage wilds alone, forsaken forests and mist kissed marshes, he knew the sight and the smell of death all too well but we still heard the shudder in his voice.

“Some are little Gnomes,” whispered Buddynock, his bright eyes round as the waxing moon.

We walked in dark places, we walked unknowing and unseeing. It was now our Cleric cast his Augury spell. Nundro Stonefoot held our lantern close and we saw the inked letters on the parchment scroll suddenly shift and shape themselves into new words before our eyes:

Your direction is true but you walk into grave danger.The famished are close.They will not wait for you.Only Elves are sure to withstand their touch.

A moment later and all the marks faded. “They’re never cheery, are they? Buddynock Rubyrubb was valiantly trying to smile. “No omen ever says: ‘Hello Mate all the trees are safe and the animals are happy. Nature is in perfect balance. You’re now going to have a great night with free beer, naughty community singing and saucy barmaids!’ No, it’s always doom, gloom, beware, bewail and run like buggery if you still can! Alright, alright no need to glare! I’m just saying.”

Nundro played our lantern out across the void, we could see those stone steps leading down but the shadows seemed to swallow our lamplight whole. Nothing moved, nothing made a sound, but nothing could have induced me to step down into that choking blackness. “We’re not alone.” I mouthed the words, not trusting my voice at that moment. “Something is down there. More than one. Not living but moving. Nothing we’ve met before.”

Suddenly we heard skittering claws echoing in the darkness, we heard guttural wordless cries, calling from the shadows, calling to each other, the cries growing louder as they closed. Despite the glass casing our lamplight flickered; for a moment I thought we would be plunged into darkness. The screaming roars rose to a frenzy.

“Do you think someone might have heard my thunderwave?” said wide-eyed Druid Buddynock.

“Someone or something?” Bard Shupatra stared into the darkness with fixed resolve. “Oh, just possibly!”

“Keep watching the flanks and rear,” said Dain. “Shields up, stand firm!”

“Fall back!” I cried, “fall back now. Quickly, they are coming, back to the smelter room fast!” I did not know for sure what followed us, but I guessed all the same and the fear swept over me like a clinging shroud. We made the best pace we might, but we were all heavily burdened and Celmar could only drag her injured leg, wincing with pain at every step. Silence would not serve us now, only speed could save us. I was desperate to reach anywhere more defensible, the smelter room was better, but I hoped to regain that guardroom even so.

The pursuit was close, the pursuit was gaining, eager screams echoing at our heels, howling fury behind us and by the Gods, we could hear it ahead too, the pack was on all sides and closing. I could sense them, many of them, waiting at the very limit of our light, by Athens eternal it was too late, they were all around us, massing in each of the tunnels, creeping through the cut stone channel in the floor. They were close and they were closing, the calls were softer now, almost casual, they sounded confident, at ease, they were massing in numbers unknown, gathering ready for their attack. We were surrounded, we only had one hope. Ranger Samuel scaled the ruined blast furnace first, trailing a rope and grappling iron, flakes of rust falling in our faces as he climbed. As he reached down with his long arms, we hoisted injured Celmar, little Shupatra and Nundro onto the pitted steel shell. Any more of us would have struggled to find a foothold, there was little space even for four.

“You will die now,” Nezznar the Dark Elf spoke with all the emotion of an iron statue. “You will die, I will die, in a manner you cannot imagine. I do not expect to live, but I do ask for the chance to defend myself.”

I looked at my companions, what had we to lose? Whatever the peril we could not let them simply be butchered. In any case, our lives hung in the balances and their presence might be the feather weight needed to tip the scales. It was the work of a moment to slash our prisoners’ bonds and return their weapons. Neither made any response even now, the two Dark Elves simply rubbed their stinging hands as they took position along the left flank of the furnace, Nezznar patting his spider tipped staff with grim satisfaction. I took the place of honour, the most exposed point in our defences, where the two flanks joined. Buddynock Rubyrubb was a step to my right, extending our line, his beloved bucket Wilson still serving as his shield, his moon curved scimitar drawn and glinting. Dain Rocksmiter stood before the yawning doors of the furnace, a healing potion had eased some of his burns and our Cleric swung his rune axe Grom with short sharp chopping motions, steadying his nerve to meet the onslaught. He summoned a spiritual weapon to aid us, light shimmered at his side and an image of the spiked mace of Marthomir Duin, Watcher over Wanderers hung in the air hovering ready.

We heard the patter of bone bare feet, the scratching of dragged claws, dim shapes flickered at the edge of our lamplight, stepping back into the darkness moments later, ten, a dozen at least, maybe more. Buddynock held his shining moonbeam spell closing the tunnel to the banquet hall, Dain cast a dense thicket of thorns to block the other passage to the east, a zombie or skeleton would either throw themselves heedless against such barriers or simply stand and stare while the spell endured. That was our plan and our hope at least; to our horror these unseen foes proved very different.

“They’re moving around,” Ranger Samuel called from above, “They are posting guards behind your spells but the rest are moving round, massing in the channel by the wheel. Clever. They are using terrain to mask their approach.”

“How many?” said Dain Rocksmiter.

“Enough.” Our taciturn Ranger ran the feathers of his chosen arrow through his lips.

“What are they?” Buddynock gazed up at us his face pale as moonlight on snowblossom.

“Nothing I’ve ever seen before,” said Ranger Samuel. “Nothing, wait, oh by Holy Sylvanus they are dragging the dead Uruks into cover, they are tearing at the corpses with their teeth!”

I heard gasps of horror from my comrades and Dain’s savage cursing. If my fears were true, we had little time left now; a few moments only, maybe the last of our lives. I began a Blessing spell, a moment later and Dain Rocksmiter joined me. There was no need for silence now and we let our raised voices ring out, the familiar words a comfort and a strength, defying the darkness, invoking the mercy and strength of Pallas Athene and Marthomir Duin to aid us in this trial come what may. We were not alone, we never stood alone!

“The channel is barely twenty feet away; we will only have one shot. Make your shafts count and speed them truly.” Our Ranger licked and raised a finger to check for any breeze and trained his great bow towards the wheel. The two Drow did not even speak to each other, simply staring stoically into the blackness, little Nundro clutched his borrowed throwing axe and readied a small handful of stones. He held our lantern high; he bawled a warning. Eyes gleamed, we heard hissing in the shadows; our foes leapt into the open and charged like swarming insects. A dozen, no there were more, fifteen, sixteen at least, gaunt faces of scraped bone and sinew, raw famine-hunger made flesh. Ghouls! By the sweet mercy of Athene not Ghouls!

We had time for one swift volley. I turned four back with the holy owl symbol of Athene, only four alas, they moved too fast and randomly. Nezznar angled his staff, muttered a command and snared one ghoul in a clinging web. I hurled my dagger into their midst. Celmar’s firebolts and a shower of bolts and arrows scourged their screaming ranks, one fell, no two, but we could not break their rush and the rest were on us. Emaciated bodies more bone than flesh, naked save for a few frayed rags, their eyes ravenous, their dry mouths howling; without fear, without breath, their only desire to feed on our living flesh. The ghouls slammed against our shields like a mill race, outstretched fingers clawing for our faces. They lacked any armour and we could scarcely miss, but they were many, we were few. The first died swiftly but there were always more behind them, always more.

A knight must hold the point of greatest peril a knight must serve as the shield of his companions but this was a waking nightmare, this rushing hissing horde of grave starved horrors. All soldiers know a natural fear of battle, wise warriors avoid food before a fight not just to ease any belly wound, for veterans know the reality of warfare the poets avoid. A warrior with fouled and reeking legs who holds his ground despite his fear is still a better, braver man than any epic fantasy who faces down his terrors with a merry quip and calm resolve. We who truly know do not judge, we simply see who holds steady all the same.

These ghouls are lifeless creatures of the dark; they do not breathe but they hissed all the same. I cannot say why, I have no explanation. One ghoul pushed its way through that tangle of thorns, so eager to feed it ignored the jagged wounds ripped from its flesh. I killed the first that approached me. Nezznar caught a second undead in his webs, before smashing his steel staff over the head of another ghoul closing the range. I saw jagged claws score his arm, blood flew, Nezznar winced but fought on regardless. To our astonishment the drow warrior at my side suddenly shimmered and changed, in place of a dark elf, a blue doppelganger now stood before us and the surprised ghoul fell to a flurry of savage blows. Ranger Samuel dropped one enemy with three well placed arrows, Shupatra unleashed magic missiles, Celmar shot fire into their ranks and desperate Nundro hurled his stones. Our four comrades above us let fly as often as chance permitted, but they had to cling desperately to the rusted furnace to avoid sliding back helplessly into our foes

The four turned Undead rushed back to the battle, eager to kill, desperate to feed. Dain fought as if Durin the Deathless himself was watching. Two ghouls fell to his rune axe, their heads shorn clear from their shoulders, as his shining spiritual weapon spell slew another. Claws ripped at poor Buddynock to my right, our brave Druid cried once in pain then stood still as a statue, frozen where he stood by some fell power of our foes. Our friend’s eyes bulged but he could not speak or scream, he simply waited helpless before those closing claws. Two ghouls were on me now, I swung my sword in a desperate arc but I could not cover my friend, I could not save him. As the victorious ghoul surged forward for its prey, Ranger Samuel sank an arrow in its chest, the Undead was still reaching for Buddynock, even as Celmar’s firebolt set its grave rags burning, only when Shupatra summoned her very last magic missiles did the creature fall stricken to the floor. Our Bard’s exhausted wand glowed bright and for a moment it seemed on the point of crumbling, but the magic spasm passed and it grew still. Celmar and Ranger Samuel were already taking aim at more of our foes, but poor Buddynock still stood motionless as we fought for our lives around him.

My comrades faced one ghoul at a time, I was fighting two Undead each moment of the melee, a whirling frenzy of teeth and claws. Both ghouls wounded me, I felt a cold chill like midwinter wind, for a moment all movement seemed to flee my body, but the blessing of Athene still sustained me. I rammed Talon’s pommel into its face, feinting high I slew one of the ghouls assailing me, my sword buried deep in its ribs. The ghoul died screaming into my face, but the second creature was under my guard, tearing at my shield hand. I felt searing pain, I felt blood running hot over my lacerated wrist, my heavy shield dropped to the ground, the sinews of my hand were severed. I fell to my knees, my lifeblood pooling around me. From far away I heard my comrades shouting. (*)

I never quite lost consciousness, but I still lay helpless amid this butcher’s shambles. To our surprise Celmar suddenly vanished when a surge of wild magic overwhelmed her, reappearing an instant later when she cast her next cantrip. The blue skinned doppelganger killed another ghoul, the creatures Nezznar trapped within webs were finished with careful arrows. Buddynock suddenly shook himself back to life. Our Gnomish Druid gasped with sheer relief, and splashed some precious water over his face. “Not again… not again! First that damn cockatrice, now these howling horrors!”

Our comrades upon the furnace descended, all save Ranger Samuel who remained on his vantage point, drawing another long arrow from his quiver. Dain was already kneeling beside me winding a bandage. Our Cleric winced as he gently turned my ruined hand. The dressing he applied gave some comfort, but I could not move my fingers anymore. I nodded and my comrade bound my heavy shield to my left arm. I bit my lip at the pain but I needed the protection even more.

Nezznar the Drow glanced around the chamber, he took one pace back, then another, but saw the levelled bow of our Ranger. The Dark Elf wizard shrugged his shoulders, dropped his staff once again and waited, arms folded in defiance. Shupatra replaced his bonds, ensuring his fingers, hands and arms were all secured. A sad irony I suppose, our liberty loving Bard acting as a turnkey, yet our need for rest was now desperate and we could not take any chances in the long watches of the night. Leaving any prisoner bound is sheer cruelty, yet what credible alternative did we have? Nezznar the Drow would struggle to sleep, but we at least would be safe. Well, perhaps we would be safe, for another urgent question needed an answer.

(*) Ghouls attack with claws and savage teeth; their touch paralyses and then they feed. Remorseless and cunning, creatures which truly inspire terror. Ogres can be easily fooled, an orc can be intimidated, but ghouls only wish to devour living meat. I will fight orcs, I will slay orcs each and every time they prove a threat, but I resort to my sword as a grim necessity I take no pleasure from the deed.

Orcs are creatures of eager conscious evil, capable of horrific violence yet they retain a capacity for reason all the same. For all their dark deeds there can be, no there must be, some faint hope they may yet better their bestial natures.

The Dead who Walk are different. Ghouls are creatures of the crawling dark, soulless abominations without hope or any chance of change. They have no saving graces; they are to be fought and utterly destroyed each and every time they are encountered.

21

The blue skinned doppelganger also stood before us, aloof, unspeaking, an outlandish creature with an unfathomable mind, an entity beyond all notions of good and evil as we knew them. We all remembered that desperate struggle with the shapeshifter of Cragmaw Castle. We knew fighting now would take all our united strength and some of us might not survive the battle, but this doppelganger still knew that we would win. Was our Party’s decision wise? Possibly not I suppose, but much was at stake and two of us were already grievously injured. Once again, we had little real choice in the end.

The creature seemed to show no loyalty to Nezznar, we simply told the doppelganger to leave. It heard us, it must have, but the creature made no response, simply stepping into the shadows and disappearing. Nezznar the Drow showed no emotion either, we could almost have imagined the whole encounter. Would the doppelganger attack us later? Possibly, yes, we knew that. Was this still the best choice we could make this very moment? Definitely, yes, we knew that too.

“Just let’s not welcome any new lost prisoners within our ranks,” said Buddynock Rubyrubb with some feeling. Not unless we’re absolutely sure! All right?”

The guardroom where we fought the Uruk hai was closest, the room was fouled with blood but still the nearest place we had any hope of sleeping in safety. We customarily share the watches equally but I remain deeply grateful my comrades let me sleep soundly all night. Celmar too, for even though elves need only a short trance to recuperate their powers, our Sorceress was suffering badly from the savage blow to her leg. My dreams were vivid and unwelcome but I woke more refreshed than before, even though my left hand could hold nothing more ever again. My healing powers could do nothing to repair the torn sinews, but at least I could drive out any poison from our tainted bite wounds. I might have been over cautious in this matter but no one in our Party wished to run unnecessary risk of infection. We made a cheerless breakfast and plunged once more into the unknown reaches of lost Phandelver, the crashing rumble of air to the north, our constant, never changing companion.

Back through the smelter room now littered with fresh corpses, back to that sinister banquet chamber our hearts beating hard in our chests. Despite our fears it was quickly evident every ghoul in the locality had already attacked, alerted by the crashing boom of Buddynock’s thunderwave.

“Hey I cast that spell for a reason remember?” Our Druid was in no mood for debate. “A certain bony bonfire giving fireflies a run for their money! Well then, thank you!”

We moved ever eastward, trudging a series of tunnels all showing the unmistakable signs of battle. The bodies began to grow thicker and suggested the ancient miners of Phandelver had gathered to make their last stand. Some had weapons, many only mining tools but they had stood and fought fiercely all the same. After an hour we entered the largest cavern we had yet discovered, our tunnel emerged at the lowest point of the floor facing a steep escarpment with space to site two free standing buildings. We did not notice them at first for our attention was drawn by the glittering rock ceiling high above our heads. The chamber roof was set with so many shining fragments of quartz and mica we could easily have believed we stood under a starry night sky. An unexpected and most welcome beauty in the desolate lost mine.

Two flights of steps led up to the raised stone platform and the two battered buildings dominating the cavern. Both built to human proportions, unlike the rest of Phandelver scaled to dwarves and gnomes. We saw their walls were scorched and blackened by fire, their double doors charred and buckled in their frames, but a faded grandeur somehow still existed, despite the ravages of war and those long centuries lost in the dark. Was this an end to our quest?

“Has no one else seen what’s standing over there?” asked our keen-eyed Ranger.

To be tired is no excuse for carelessness, I felt a pang of shame as I finally noticed the single skeleton standing thirty feet away, standing motionless but staring in our direction. Once a living gnome now a set of animated bones. It bore no weapon but carried a leather bag over one shoulder, it wore only scraps of rusted mail but the boots on its bony feet still looked sound.

“Has it seen us?” said Shupatra.

“It must have,” Dain rubbed his chin in surprise. “Normally they attack straight away but- “

“Mr Bony is giving us a chance to admire his teeth,” Buddynock raised his goggles for another glance. “Poor devil, to end up like that.”

“Summon a firebolt?” asked Celmar. “He’s well within range.”

“Why is he just standing?” I wondered. “He has no bow, he surely can’t cast spells, he must have seen us by now, so why is he just waiting?”

“Orders to guard a certain spot,” said Dain. “That’s most likely. I will check the ground ahead for traps but it’s not worth trying to turn him, not one single skeleton on his lone- oh!”

The bony jaw dropped like a drawbridge, the skeleton threw back its head with a soundless scream and leapt the thirty feet between us in a single standing bound. Celmar reacted in a heartbeat and the jumping skeleton glowed with arcane fire but the undead creature was on us and among us even so. The creature’s leather satchel gaped open; fifteen more skeletal gnomes burst from the bag like a breaking wave, throwing themselves against us small swords swinging.

Any adventurers try to hold a defensive formation best suited to their capabilities, objectives and terrain. Not us, not here, not now, these skeletons made a mockery of our hopes, they broke us on their first attack into a disorganised, struggling rabble. If they had been ghouls we would have been overrun, paralysed and devoured in the first few moments.

Even so, little Buddynock wielded his magic shillelagh with dramatic effect. So much so, we faced as much risk from flying fragments of bones as from our enemies’ blades! We all slew the undead facing us but no one could match our bludgeon happy Druid.

“It’s called ‘giving it loads,” beamed Buddynock Rubyrubb. “Take that yer bony bastard!”

“Just how many inns are you barred from?” said Shupatra, ducking low then striking home with her short sword. Yellow ribs broke and splintered as she thrust.

“Hey they were all quality moves,” said our Druid. “Folk dances for the daring.”

The battle was over swiftly but we all bore wounds now, minor maybe, but wounds all the same. Celmar still struggled to stand and the blood still dripped from my savaged left hand despite Dain’s careful bandages. I had read accounts of other expeditions. Some parties fall to a single overwhelming attack, many more are worn down slowly by repeated petty injuries that sap their strength. Our journey was far from over. Too many careless fights like that would be our ruin.

We approached the magic bag with caution, shaking it vigorously before we were satisfied no more adversaries still lurked inside. Celmar’s magic torque was primed again after our night’s rest and her identify spell soon revealed all. This magic leather satchel is truly a most marvellous creation. Bigger inside than its outside dimensions the Bag of Holding is essentially a four-foot-deep chamber with an opening two foot wide. It can hold 500 pounds in weight, yet only ever weighs fifteen pounds regardless of its contents.

Her discovery made Buddynock Rubyrubb beam with pleasure. “Mine please, it has to be mine! A real Bag of Holding to carry Wilson once he gets his wheels and crossbows. I know everyone needs one, but this should be mine, it really should, please!”

“Just be careful,” said Celmar and when our carefree sorceress speaks sternly it is wise to play close heed. “If you overload or tear the bag it will rupture and scatter all its contents in the Astral Plane. You can turn the bag inside out to dump everything at once but you must never rip the fabric and please, please never place any similar bags inside each other. The consequences would be truly horrible, for you and for anything nearby!”

“I hear you loud and very clear,” grinned Buddynock, “now just give me a moment while I redistribute my load. A Mending cantrip would be appreciated too Dain, just so I know it’s all clean inside please.”

“And on the magic boots as well please,” said Shupatra. “Considering the last owner.” Our Halfling Bard seemed torn between pleasure at our discovery and reluctance to risk her hairy toes. Shupatra slipped her feet inside with grim resolve and the laughed with sheer delight as she felt the benefits. Any magic clothing should resize itself to accommodate a new wearer. We did not need any spell to realise what we had found. Boots of Leaping and Springing are a boon for anyone, but particularly a diminutive Halfling whose little legs struggle keep up with others. Any of us can need a sudden turn of speed in a tight corner, these magic boots would serve our Bard well.

Checking for traps as we went, our Party climbed the stone steps to the escarpment. Two scorched buildings stood before us, both blackened by fireballs with the iron hinges on their broken doors half melted and twisted in the heat.

We spun a silver piece, sometimes this remains the only means of choosing. There are times a party runs forward heedless, (*) there are many more times when a wise party stands patiently and waits. Dain prodded the cracked doors with his pole of collapsing. Next, he bumped the iron shod timber against the lintel, and then threshold, mimicking footsteps. There was no response. Dain poked the head of his pole through the open gap between the doors, held it in plain sight, moved the pole from floor to ceiling, we waited like cats at a mousehole; there was still no reaction to our presence.

After a last look behind us, we pushed those battered doors open. The room beyond was quiet but far from empty. We stood amid the tragic aftermath of battle, we saw fallen roof beams, charred and broken furniture, all the tangled chaos of lives lost and hopes betrayed; that and the single strangest creature we have ever encountered.

(*) Invariably because something worse is close behind, angry or hungry, if not both and gaining.

22

We had entered a workroom quite obviously. Artificers’ benches took up two walls entirely, we saw dust covered tools and shards of half shaped metal, all scorched and burnt by fireballs long ago. The walls had been brightly painted once with intricate designs; now jagged fragments of broken plaster littered the floor. We saw all of this, but we saw something more.

Sometimes a triumph is heralded by drums and trumpets as waving standards snap in the breeze. Sometimes. Usually success is a far quieter affair, born of hard toil and worry, wounds and blood. In the middle of the room sat a small stone pedestal, quite plain and unadorned. Atop the pedestal was a small steel brazier where an eerie green flame danced and crackled. A small pale and fitful flame, yet both brazier and pedestal seemed untouched by the elemental magic which destroyed the rest of the workshop. Was this it, finally, was the long- lost Forge of Lazair Glas just a few more feet before us?

Maybe only a few paces away but still far from our reach. Above the brazier, floated a spherical creature roughly two yards in diameter. Four long eyestalks protruded from its central mass of fine green scales, they each stood upright at our approach, the dark pupils staring with fixed attention. The creature suddenly revolved, the eyestalks swivelling round to face us. In the centre of the body was a single massive eye above a huge mouth set with jagged teeth. A three-foot rose-pink tongue lolled to the floor. The eye creature hung in the air before us. The yawning maw did not move but we all heard the same bubbling voice within our heads.

“Hello there. Are you more of the naughty people?” The voice was calm, no hint of fear or threat, quietly curious and clearly quite insane.

“Err Hello!” Celmar only sounded casual and carefree. “Who are you please?”

“I’m a Spectator.” Again, the same, pleasant, almost friendly voice echoed in our heads and that single immense eye still stared without blinking in our direction.

“What are you watching,” Celmar was smiling, was she trying to mimic the creature?

“I’m a Spectator!” The glistening tongue moved from side to side.

“What’s your purpose?” I said. “Please. We just want to understand.”

“I’m a Spectator!”

“I see,” said Celmar. “But what are you observing?”

“I’m a Spectator. A very good one! I’m still here. Just where they said! I’m a Spectator!”

“I really don’t like the way it is smiling,” muttered Buddynock. Our Ranger shook his head vigorously and rolled his eyes.

“What are you watching?” said our Elven Sorceress.

“Everything!” The genial floating eye seemed genuinely proud. “Everything in here. The two shinies on the bench and the flicker flame. Can you see all the mess? Someone should tidy up, they really should.”

“How long have you been watching?” asked Celmar, carefully keeping her hands open, palms held towards the creature. I dared not look away, despite being puzzled by a scratching sound behind me. A familiar sound somehow, but I still could not place it, not now, not here. What was this, was our poor Bard now talking to herself? I could certainly hear muttering behind me

“I’m not a watcher, I’m a Spectator!”

“That’s very interesting,” said Celmar. “How long have you been spectating?”

“Oh, six hundred and … just one moment, add five, carry the two, ah yes, six hundred and eighty- nine years from yesterday!”

“That long?” I whistled gently through my teeth. “That’s err, very impressive.”

Buddynock was whispering to Dain Rocksmiter: “So before the fall of old Phandelver!”

“I’m a good Spectator! I do what I’m told.”

“Who told you?” asked Dain, pushing his round helmet back to leave his face clearly visible.

“The Wizards. Well the nice Wizards. Not the naughty wizards and their loud friends. Naughty wizards, like the one next door. He can’t come in here anymore, not since he became naughty.”

“How do you stop him?” Shupatra the Halfling spoke out loud before we could stop her. Our clever Bard is to the point like a sailmaker’s needle yet sometimes speaks her mind before she thinks.

The huge central eye remained impassive, the bubbling voice resounding in our heads still warm and genial: “How? Oh. Like this!”

Those long eyestalks pulsed, there was a flash of light from the first. Celmar was nearest and her bright eyes clouded with confusion, she stared around unsure, uncertain, a firebolt sped from her fingers, bursting on Dain and setting his long beard smouldering. We leapt forward to pin her arms, as a second eye stalk twitched leaving Nundro Stonefoot frozen in place, unable to move a muscle. A third eyestalk blistered the flesh of our Ranger and the fourth, oh this I can only admit with abject shame, I saw the eye flash, it was gazing at me, straight at me, I saw the eye staring and my mouth gaped wide in utter terror. I staggered back, almost dropping my sword. A moment later and the spasm passed, I gathered my wits, stepped forward ready to charge home, but I saw little Nundro could move again and an outraged Celmar was demanding to know why Dain and Shupatra had grabbed her. (*) And all this time the Spectator floated serene as sunshine, impassive as carved marble, genial, kindly and clearly ready to kill us. (**)

(*) “If I find out who touched me there it will be more than merely a firebolt!” glared our Sorceress. “Emergency or not there are limits!”

(**) I have never felt such utter shame; a knight to respond with fear, a paladin of Pallas Athene quailing before an enemy? A foe beyond my experience, with powers uncanny and unearthly, but I was still at fault, I should have been stronger, no I must be stronger, there is no excuse, no justification for failure. I felt my surging shame beat down like a crashing wave. Had my comrades noticed; they saw me reeling back but did they realise I was terrified? My heavy helm hid my face, but did they see, had they guessed? How could I ever hope to endure the infamy?

No one said anything but what were they thinking? I could not indulge these feelings, not now, not when they needed me to stand firm, but how could they trust me, how could I trust myself if I ever showed fear?

Buddynock Rubyrubb quietly came up to me. He looked so tired, so worn, I wondered just how he was still standing. Our Gnomish Druid looked up, his eyes unblinking, Buddynock said nothing he asked nothing, as he gently patted my sword hand. I remain ever grateful for his kind regard.

23

“I really don’t think you should be here. You don’t look like wizards.” The Spectator blinked its central eye with calm deliberation. There was no impatience, no obvious anger, but we heard the new tone, a decision had clearly been made. The floating sphere appeared to swell, each eyestalk was turned to face us, the yawning maw gaped wider, “I am sorry for any inconvenience, but my orders were very clear. Goodb-.”

“Read this, please, just read this!” Our crafty Bard stepped back into view, a scrap of parchment held in both hands. There were only a few lines of text, dwarf runes I thought.

The huge central eye focused on Shupatra’s coil of paper, but all four eyestalks stared at us. They never wavered once. When I tried a quiet half step to the side, one eyestalk mirrored my movement, without haste, fear or concern. Ranger Samuel’s drawn bow never wavered; Dain held his rune axe Grom in a grip of iron; come what may, we were ready to fight for our lives.

We heard a series of clicks from the Spectator sounding for all the world like some market merchant’s abacus. The scaled sphere appeared to contract slightly. “Oh, well that’s all right then. You do have permission. Signed and clear and very much in order. So, you are taking over my job then?”

“Yes, right away,” said our wily Bard. She was holding that unrolled parchment so carefully. Ah, was the ink still wet? (*)

“I hope the next 689 years simply fly for you too. Nice speaking to you. May all your days be most adequately pleasant. Goodbye!” One moment the creature was floating in mid-air before us; an instant later and the Spectator blinked out of existence with no sign to show it had ever been present.

The chamber was clear and we were still alive. The chamber was clear and our goal stood before us. I made no sound, I did not move, I simply stared like a moth caught by candlelight at the flickering green flame, dancing before us, the Forge of Lazair Glas, was ours at last. I was lost for words, barely even thinking, ten trolls in full battle armour could have pounded on the doors and I doubt I would have heard them. The flame barely seemed alive but the Forge was here and the forge was finally ours!

Ranger Samuel cautiously stepped forward, slowly moving his arms where the creature had been. Even his resolute voice sounded strained: “Goodbye maybe, but gone where?”

Like the rest of us, Celmar was struggling to comprehend what we had witnessed. “I can’t be certain. Maybe to some other reality, another plane of existence. That would make sense. A creature summoned to serve long ago.”

(*) Our Bard had never cast an illusory script spell before. Her timing and penmanship were both perfect!

24

Taciturn Nundro actually spoke. “My brothers and I, we studied the old records, all the accounts we could find. Old Phandelver had defences of course, but there was no mention of anything like that!”

“It had a regrettably keen sense of duty,” snorted Dain Rocksmiter. “Look what you did to my beard!"

“What are you saying,” our Elven Sorceress sounded truly baffled. “I admit to being a bit foggy about the last few moments but why would I ever attack you?”

“Those eye stalks had magic powers,” Shupatra began. “One confused you, another-”

“Look at this!” Buddynock interrupted loudly, he did not glance once in my direction but pointed to the long work benches where two treasures sat for the taking. The first was a cuirass of polished steel, its lustre undimmed by the long centuries, the front piece embossed with a regal gold dragon, wings outspread. We immediately knew who should claim it, this breastplate offered the same protection as his former mail but it was lighter and far less noisy than clinking scales. Ranger Samuel should have little problem stalking his enemies now.

The magic breastplate Dragonguard, a masterpiece of the armourer’s art,

and the enchanted mace Lightbringer, bane of the Dead who Walk

I looked on the second treasure with awe. The mace was burnished steel, chased with brass, the head shaped like a sunburst. Lightbringer was inscribed in dwarfen script along the shaft. It is always obvious when a weapon is enchanted; there is a grace, a lightness and a sense of lurking power which cannot be mistaken. I would wield my longsword for choice but there are times when a weighted bludgeon is very welcome. My comrades nodded and I lifted Lightbringer into the air, was I really the first hand to touch this mace in five centuries? Was I truly worthy to wield it?

“So do we try the fire too, “ asked Buddynocky.

“One at a time,” said Dain. “Hold your weapons and ammution within the flame while you count slowly to a hundred. Mail and shields too, the Flame of Lazair Glas will not hurt you.” We knew the legend of the Forge but it takes strong nerves to doff armour while enemies could attack at any moment. There was no sense in rushing, we each waited our turn and it was a good hour before we were finished, but at least only one of us was vulnerable at any moment. My trusty hauberk, heater shield and heavy helm had preserved my life time and again and I felt great gratitude at this chance to enchant them. Poor Nundro Stonefoot cursed his lack of decent dwarf mail; all he carried was that crude Uruk shield. On one point the old legends were unclear. I exchanged glances with Dain and Shupatra, we held our breath and held our magic weapons within the flame. Would we damage them, ruin them even? That was possible, true, but the risk still seemed worth running all the same.

“Oh firkytoodles!” Druid Buddynock recoiled in horror. “I forgot to take my Ring of Protection off! I’ve been holding it in the Flame too.”

“It may not matter,” said Dain. “It’s a bit early to be worrying.”

“Yes, but how am I going to find out for sure?” Buddynock’s voice rose a few notches. “When some bony bugger is swinging some dirty great axe at my noggin or some gent in a mystic frock is shuffling magic around a little too carelessly!”

“Look!” We all turned at the tone in our Ranger’s voice. The flame was much fainter now, the Forge of Lazair Glas was failing. It flickered, we could see clean through to the far wall, I took a step forward but what could we do? We stood in silence, we watched as the magic flame faded and finally died. There was no trace left, nothing to say it had ever existed. My mouth dropped open, but if I spoke, if I made any sound at all, it was no words any of us knew. Nezznar the Drow began to laugh, heedless barks of helpless amusement, laughing at the ruin of all our hopes, laughing at so much blood and striving and so little to show for any of us.

“Did we kill it?” Buddynock’s voice was hushed.

“No, I don’t think so,” said Dain Rocksmiter. “We did not enchant every possible item at once, we took our time. The flame was fading the first moment we saw it.”

“Maybe that eye creature leaving finished it off,” Nundro rubbed his beard in perplexity.

Celmar the Fiery bowed her head and whispered a few haunting verses in Elvish, a sad farewell to a faded magic spirit. To my surprise her heartfelt words seemed strangely familiar, echoing that final poem of the noble Hadrianus. Different peoples, different customs but so much is shared so often. (*)

(*) “Little soul, gentle and drifting, guest and companion of my body, now you will dwell below in pallid places, stark and bare; there you will abandon your play of yore. But one moment still, let us gaze together on these familiar shores, on these objects which doubtless we shall not see again… let us try, if we can, to enter death with open eyes.”

25

Our Quest was over, our mission complete, now we only wanted to escape with our lives. That roaring rumble of air still pounded in our ears and we still had no idea of the cause. “And what about ‘this naughty wizard’ next door,” said Buddynock Rubyrubb. “assuming that giant floaty peeper was telling the truth. By next door that building on the next terrace?”

“If you can’t believe huge hovering eyes who can you trust?” Shupatra said wryly.

“There are so many reasons I simply refuse to answer that,” said Ranger Samuel.

“We should check,” Dain paused, looking for my reaction, but when I failed to speak our Cleric continued. “If nothing else we need to be sure no lurking mage can’t revitalise the Flame.” (*)

We descended a short stairway down to the lower terrace and another ancient building scorched by fireballs or worse. The door hinges had actually melted, but my crowbar forced our entry. We found more choking dust, more heaps of debris, walls blackened by fire and a sagging ceiling near the point of final collapse. We seemed to have entered a guest house, we saw several charred beds, burnt bookcases and chairs. A scorched iron chest rotten with rust stood near the wall. There was no movement, no sign of life. After checking for traps, we opened the chest with Shupatra’s mage hand to find a thousand copper coins, 160 silver crowns, two score electrum pieces and an expensive wooden pipe inlaid with platinum filigree. Best of all were three diamonds wrapped in faded red felt.

The chill air grew colder still. A sense of dread, of lurking evil stole over me like a weighted shroud. I pointed. “Back to the Forge! Quickly, back!” A black cloud was rising out of the floor. Shadows thickened and coalesced, a dark shape was forming in the frigid air, still faint but growing more solid, a hint of swirling robes with faded cabalistic signs, hands of bare bone reaching out, a face now, a face without skin, or lips, nose or hair, a face with only teeth and two deep pits for eyes, hollow with hatred and hungry. A Wraith, by my sword a Wraith!

My comrades were behind me now, falling back fast to the Forge, the best place, surely, where we could make a stand. Up the narrow stairs we sped. Dain Rocksmiter linked his shield to mine; another two steps and we would reach the door. A voice like wind from a tomb scythed the chill air: “I am the great Mormesk, Archmage of Phandelver! Your presence is offensive to me, your lives forfeit. My treasures are mine alone, not yours to plunder!”

Dain hurled a flask of holy water, the vial shattered and we saw the Wraith’s robes blister and burn, Mormesk shrieked in fury, I threw a vial too and the shadow fell back. Seizing our chance, we stepped back into the ruined Forge. Ranger Samuel was ready with a broken stool, he rammed the wood against the doors in place of the missing bar. It might not hold for long, but it held for now.

(*) My Oath of Devotion demands courage, yet I had shown fear, I no longer felt certain of anything, least of all my own honour and worth

26

We stood ready facing the doors, Dain and I in the front rank, our friends clustered behind. Our bows, bolts and arrows were all magic now, this Wraith would walk into a point-blank barrage of missiles. Dain and I cast blessings on our comrades, we readied our weapons, took careful aim at the narrow doorway; the Wraith simply floated through the walls.

Nundro Stonefoot hefted a granite block in both hands, staggering forward he hurled the rock over his head. It was heavy enough to fell an ogre but the stone simply passed through the Wraith to smash harmlessly against a stone pillar. Our enchanted weapons and missiles were striking home, but Mormesk surged forward regardless, passing through our ranks without a pause. Poor Buddynock seemed enveloped with writhing black smoke, he cried out in pain and his right arm hung useless at his side. Undead Mormesk shrieked with triumph and reached for our reeling Druid once again (*)

Our friend was struggling for breath, his face ash grey. I leapt in front, pushing Buddynock aside. Mormesk’s glowing hands seized my throat, his red eyes burning with hatred, bare inches from my face. His bony fingers tightened and the coldness cut like a razor, the breath was sucked from my lungs the very life from my body. I stabbed home with Talon and the Wraith’s wispy body flowed around my blade like fog in the wind. Enchanted arrows from our Ranger and Bard ripped through the swirling mist, the Wraith struck again at injured Buddynock, always Buddynock, our little Druid was down on his knees, his eyes blank and bulging, now Ranger Samuel leapt forward to take the brunt of Mormesk’s next attack.

(*) Did Mormesk recall some ancient rivalry with a Gnome mage, or was this a Wraith’s instinctive loathing for a Druid who defended the natural world and championed the living?

27

I heard the deep voice of Dain Rocksmiter calling on his God, the Wraith faltered for a moment then struck back with savage fury. We fought back, we never paused or halted, but even with enchanted weapons, we struggled to hold Mormesk at bay. Our shield ring was drawn tight around poor Buddynock, the Wraith would have to overcome us all before he could reach our wounded Druid. One moment Mormesk towered before us, an instant later and our fell adversary simply faded through the stones and vanished. (*)

We clustered together in the centre of the room, as far as possible from the walls, though what real protection could that offer when our enemy could simply rise through the very floor if he chose? Nezznar stood bound and rigid in our midst, his dark eyes burning with hatred at this guiding intelligence this ruination of all his hopes. Poor Buddynock was gasping like a stranded fish, slowly some colour returned to his face, but his right arm still swung uselessly, the pallid skin cold to the touch and grey. Our Druid’s Ring of Protection gleamed with blue fire; yes, it still worked, the magic ring was still trying to shield him, but a Wraith remained a foe beyond his strength. We all had suffered some injury but nothing to match our stricken Druid. We faced all about uncertain where Mormesk would strike next.

“Can we overcome him?” Celmar’s eyes were huge in the shadows. She patted little Megan.

“Some blows went home, I’m sure of it,” said Dain.

“How?” snorted Shupatra.

“The wraith started to disperse; his body seemed less visible.”

“Really?” Buddynock groaned with pain. “Do … do you know… or are you only hoping.”

I tried to help Buddynock hold his curved scimitar, but our poor Druid could no longer flex his fingers. “All our weapons are enchanted now, that must give us some chance and-”

Ranger Samuel bawled a warning as he nocked and loosed in one smooth movement. A shadow dark as midnight was forming behind us. Mormesk the Wraith rushed forward, enveloping Shupatra and Buddynock yet again. A close fight at close quarters, the high risk of hitting a comrade. I kept stabbing with Talon, as Dain plied Grom with short chopping strokes. The air was chill as a winter morning; Mormesk the Wraith shrieked in triumph and faded again. How could we defeat a foe like this? Mormesk could wait his moment, wear us down and finally drag us into darkness. All of us were wounded now, three of us badly. We had barely beaten him off. How could we retreat when the Wraith could emerge from any wall? Even If I could turn Mormesk what could it do? He would return in minutes; a brief respite would give us nothing, this Wraith flew faster than we could ever run.

(*) Shupatra the Bard is fond of quoting plays or poetry as she fights.

Her words were only too appropriate: “for it is, as the air, invulnerable and our vain blows malicious mockery.”

28

It was then I remembered. I cursed my slowness; a Paladin of Wise Athene should be expected to retain his wits and some mastery of tactics even when the odds are long and the struggle doubtful! In truth I was not thinking with any clarity the pain in my ruined left wrist and the abiding shame of my cowardice facing the round Spectator. My compelled duel spell! Instead of trying to drive Mormesk away I would force him to fight me. Only a Paladin has this power. While my spell endured the Wraith could be held within a sword reach.

I spoke quietly to Dain, our Cleric always thinks calmly and deliberately, he makes no hasty resolution but holds fast when he has decided. “Can you withstand him long enough? You will draw Mormesk’s full fury onto yourself.” I could only offer a wry smile in reply, Dain slowly nodded and cast his blessing once again, concentrating furiously to maintain the spell.

Mormesk rose from the floor, speeding towards us like a thundercloud, glowing hands outstretched, his red eyes blazing. I stepped forward calling on my grey-eyed Lady Athene, Lady of light, Lady of courage and wisdom, Athene ever maiden, Athene who fights in the front rank of battle. I cast my spell, Mormesk recoiled in fury, fighting against my enchantment but I had Dain’s blessing to sustain me, I chanted the words again holding Mormesk in place. I saw that cowled head dark as the despair, deep as the Pit turn towards me. Mormesk struggled to escape but again I held him back.

His hands were reaching for me, I felt my chilled body wither at his touch like summer leaves snared by autumn, but my comrades stood resolute at my side; our Ranger nocked and loosed with desperate speed and Grom sang through the air as Dain Rocksmiter struck home. Shupatra leapt forward, her short sword Bywen darting, wounded Celmar and Buddynock sped firebolts and sling shots from a safer distance. Megan the Sloth burrowed deep into Celmar’s pack grunting her profound disapproval.

Mormesk screamed, tried to break away, failed, struck at Dain and missed, turned back to me and closed his bony hands around my throat. I was swallowing blood and choking, fighting for breath, those blazing eyes were burning into mine, yet we were striking home, we were all striking home, the Wraith shrieked in dismay, its body was growing thinner, we hit and hit, we did not pause to think, we did not pause for breath, we stood firm, we stood together, we slew Mormesk the Wraith, the Dark Terror of Phandelver. His tattered cloak fell empty to floor. There was no sense of triumph, no exultation, we were too spent, and injured to do more than sink to our knees, gasping for air.

“Who was he?” said our Ranger eventually. “Who was he once I mean?”

“Archmage of Phandelver as he said. Mormesk once sat on the High Dais, he steered the fortunes of Phandelver for half a lifetime and he fought to the end defending the mine those last terrible days.” We all heard the sadness in Dain’s voice, sadness for a renowned life brought to ruin and darkness. “He died trying to protect the Forge of Lazair Glas from those filthy orcs.”

“But he became a Wraith,” said Celmar quietly.

“Great loss and great bitterness can corrupt the very best,” said Dain. He held his flask aloft, pouring a careful arc of precious spirits over the cracked and dusty stones, offering a quiet valedictory for the repose of Archmage Mormesk, once Lord of Phandelver. “Can any of us be sure, really sure, we would not follow the same dark path if something we loved so dearly was betrayed, desecrated and destroyed?”

Was the day finally ours? It seemed too much to hope for. That doppelganger and handful of Uruks were still roaming the winding tunnels and that unceasing, unchanging rumble of air still sounded to the north. We rested an hour in the Forge; this did nothing to restore Buddynock’s withered arm, my ruined hand or Celmar’s damaged leg but the rest was sweet in itself and so very needed after all the horrors we had faced. Shupatra the Bard uncased her dulcimer and when her small silver hammers fell like morning rain we were carried back to the light, to the bliss of a summer meadow under a golden sun. Only those who never trudged a labyrinth in fear for their lives can truly understand the sheer joy of hearing such music once again.

We had one mystery still to solve. Dain led us forward once again, his dwarven stone cunning our best hope of survival. The roaring rush of air grew ever louder, we were drawing near, we had no doubt we were close. No one spoke. Was this fear? Possibly, but more a simple fatalism. We had endured so much, faced so many perils I suspect each of us was simply too weary to care anymore. Phandelver might still claim us, but by all the Gods we would meet our fate, eyes front and facing forward all the same.

We came to a curving angle of rock, the rumbling breath echoed in our ears. There was something else, something strange, we had spent almost two days in the close, stifling tunnels of Phandelver, yet now the air seemed fresher. Dain Rocksmiter is a Cleric of Nature, wise in the ways of the wild. Our comrade paused brow furrowed in thought: “You know it almost sounds like … water?”

“A water dragon?” Oh lovely!” Buddynock shook his head in numb disbelief.

“It seems to be around the next corner,” I curved my hand around my sword hilt. It is strange how the most momentous occasions can seem so utterly simple when they actually face you. No silver trumpets, no skirling pipes, just your own words sounding over loud in your throat as you draw your sword calmly and advance to meet your Fate. It was roughly this moment we realised our weapons and armour were no long enchanted. The magic from the Forge of Lazair Glas had faded. We stood alone again facing dangers we could not see and risks we could only imagine. We stared at each other in consternation. The steady rumble of air still sounded in our ears. (*)

(*) The original magic items retained all their potency. Expert arcane artificers had crafted them.

29

“You needn’t say anything,” Buddynock sighed and took the form of a grey mouse. The tiny rodent sat up on its hind legs, whiskers twitching then scampered forward out of sight. It is always hard to see a friend run into danger, but his careful scouting has saved us more than once. We waited heart in mouth, spells readied, swords drawn, ready to charge the moment our comrade called. We heard Buddynock sooner than we expected. We heard him swearing with care, close attention, focus, originality, extensive vocabulary and passion. A concise summary would be: “You said what Dain? You said what? Just promise me you did not know all along and were keeping us scared! Oh yes, everyone out of hiding! Everyone come and take a look. Yes, up here on the ledge. Come on, come on. Room for everyone.”

We stood in silence, we stood and stared. A moment later and we stood howling with heedless laugher, pounding each other on the back in sheer relief at our happy deliverance. We saw the reason for that rumbling roar of Phandelver, so steady and regular, without variation or pause.

Our narrow ledge overlooked a large cavern fifteen feet below; a cavern half filled with a seething pool of water. We stood, we watched we heard. At regular intervals a fresh surge of water swept into the cavern, gaining in speed as it was funnelled ever tighter. The rushing wave slammed against the rock wall under our ledge with the regular booming crash we mistook for breathing.

Celmar spoke with studied calmness but despite the grievous injury to her leg, our Elven Sorceress was still trying to smile: “You know Dain, maybe Dwarves could consider writing some vistors’ guides to their mines. Where to go, places and people to see, and special features no guest should miss!”

“Like echoing waves deep in the mines?” Dain Rocksmiter raised one eyebrow.

“Maybe,” said Celmar. “If you happened to think visitors might possibly like to know the reason for any strange sounds deep underground, simple reasons like that.”

“A book tastefully picked out in runes,” said Dain.

“Oh of course! No question of anything else.”

We moved through the rest of Phandelver, tired, exhausted and hurt, we saw nothing of those three Uruk prisoners we released nor the crafty doppelganger. We found old guardrooms overrun five centuries ago, stone bunks, toppled racks of weapons and the dusty bones of long dead dwarves and gnomes, orcs and ogres. There were storerooms with rotting kegs and barrels cracked and split with age, miners’ dormitories with mould caked blankets and cold stoves. Ore samples still filled the rusted iron scales in the assayers’ office. Cubbyholes carved into the walls held brittle scraps of paper, so delicate they turned to dust when we touched them. A locked iron strongbox held 600 copper pieces, almost 200 silver crowns, 90 or so electrum coins and a welcome 60 gold.

We moved with caution, tapping the floor ahead, pausing to listen, and taking our time. We still had oil for our lamp, enough for another two days if need forced us. Not that we needed any lantern in one cave; the chamber was festooned with huge iridescent fungi, all shapes and sizes, some over five feet in height and all glowing green as corpse light. “I don’t want to put the mockers on taking a relaxing botanical ramble, but you see those two dead Uruks lying in there; the two very recently dead Uruks with all those shiny mushrooms growing out of them? They obviously lacked an erudite Gnomish Druid to advise them. Let’s just say I really don’t recommend strolling in there and breathing any of the spores.”

There was nowhere left to explore, rock falls sealed the remaining tunnels and we lacked the strength, time and skill to clear them. Our task was done; it was time to make our escape. We retraced our footsteps back to the first cave and to our delight, saw our two remaining ropes were still in place. Without the loan of Dain’s magic gauntlets, I doubt injured Celmar or I could have completed the climb, but Ranger Samuel faced that yawning drop three times to ensure our safety. We all emerged into daylight, with the gratitude of men returned from their graves. We lost no time in securing Nezznar’s bonds then sank gratefully to the ground, the setting sun warm on our faces, the small birds singing in the trees. Megan emerged from Celmar’s pack, beaming with delight to see trees again: “Eeee!” For one happy moment all seemed very well with the world, even if the Forge of Lazair Glas was lost forever.

It was there they caught us, but in truth, I think they would have soon found us anyway. We heard the tramp of marching feet, the jingle of mail and a horse’s whinny. We looked up to see a full company of billmen, weapons levelled, flanked by crossbowmen their weapons fully wound. Mounted men at arms sat their horses, their lances ready; a hulking noble in full plate was at their head. His blazon was only too clear and no traveller in the borderlands mistakes the arms of Baron Ulv of Borgo. A raised gauntlet grasping a golden thunderbolt, on a shield with diagonal fields of carmine and black. (*)

The arms of Baron Ulv of Borgo:

Party per bend sinister, gules et sable, with a Gauntlet dexter grasping a thunderbolt Or.

Baron Ulv rode forward, a gilded morningstar clenched in his brawny fist. He spoke like a butcher chopping a carcass; “Yield or die. Immediately”. There was movement behind us, more bowmen were closing the range, as the dying sun glinted on the billmen’s hooked blades. Buddynock Rubyrubb is a sensible soul, he fights when he must but our Druid sees no virtue in reckless courage or wilful pride. My friend simply looked up at me, his eyes wide. Yet before I could speak, we heard Dain Rocksmiter’s brusque refusal and I shouted back to our waiting foes: “You want our weapons? Come and take them!” Death had come to meet us but we would face him on our feet. (**)

Was this the squalid end to our quest? To be casually ridden down by this robber lord, this wolf of the border marches? How could this be, we deserved, no anyone deserved better! Ulv withdrew behind his company, his passage sped by a sudden arrow piercing his tall crest. Sixty crossbows were levelled in our direction. Fingers tightened on triggers. They were all around us and those billmen stood ready to meet any charge.

(*) “No go on let him,” grinned Buddynock. “You know he loves this heraldry stuff.”

“Maybe, but it’s still complete gibberish,” Celmar rolled her eyes. “We all know that.”

“It makes no sense at all out in the wilds,” said Ranger Samuel.

“It’s deliberately obscure language to maintain aristocratic privilege,” snorted Shupatra.

“Yes, yes, all true, but as Buddynock said, just let him,” Dain held his hands palm up, appealing for consensus. “He’ll be done soon. You know it will make him happy”

“Well I still think he makes it up as he goes along,” sighed Celmar. “In all honesty, is his terminology even consistent each time he does this?”

(**) I have no love for the traditions and legacy of Ancient Sparta but their dying valour at the Gates of Fire sustains all people facing heavy odds without hope. Dain Rocksmiter and I might have some hope of ransom, our friends would be butchered where they stood and left to the crows. Surrender would only have meant our deaths.

30

Baron Ulv’s hirelings have a reputation to match their brutal leader.

They hold the border fiefdom of Borgo safe against the Great Shadow but at what cost?

How far can we compromise before we are no different to the Evil we face?

It takes a truly brave heart to joke in moments like this. “What do we do?” asked Buddynock. “Drop to the ground and hope they hit each other by accident?”

“Or maybe they’ll kill so many of us they’ll get too melancholy to continue!” said Shupatra

We linked shields as best we could, standing back to back, shoulder to shoulder. Time crawled like a fly held fast in amber. The crossbows were wound ready, we waited for that final order, this did not seem real, surely could not be real? Baron Ulv called again for our surrender, then raised his right hand. I closed my eyes for an instant, the better to call upon my Grey-Eyed Lady: “Athene who stands in the front rank of battle, be with your sons this day, in our living or dying let nothing shame you.”

Desperate hopes are as cruel as claws. The sounds were faint at first, so soft I dismissed them as mere imagination. Yet our foes were not fools and Ulv had clearly posted pickets on his flanks and rear. A mud splashed rider galloped up to the Baron, hasty words were exchanged, the scout was pointing behind him. Baron Ulv spat on the ground and cuffed the luckless messenger across his face. We heard the bark of orders, saw the billmen turn about, their long spear shafts wavering in confusion.

Nundro Stonefoot suddenly shouted in dwarvish, something that made our Cleric cackle with delight, then swiftly shake his head with pious disapproval. “Give them an axe kiss! Give them the axe!” bawled Nundro, unabashed and waving wildly at the trees. We could all hear the drum beat now, a march tempo, fast and furious. Evening sun glinted on metal, a column of dwarven warriors was closing the distance at speed, all dusty and tired but never slackening their pace. From the west came the peal of silver trumpets and the snap of a silk gonfalon in the breeze. Surging forward from Phandalin rode a tight knot of mail clad knights, lances raised; mounted archers guarding their flanks, men at arms marching at speed behind them. My Order! My comrades! By my sword, by my faith, my High Archon himself, old Theramenes tied to his saddle, his bodyguard at his back. Euripides himself could not have ended a tragic play any better: a deus ex machina indeed!

Baron Ulv of Borgo, as brutal as any orc, as rapacious as any ogre

There are times we seize the reins and spur forward; there are moments we simply wait for events to unfold. We were wounded and utterly weary, we had striven so hard, for so long we simply lacked the strength for any more. For a few moments battle still seemed likely. The Baron of Borgo no man to let any prize slip through his mailed fingers. Yet Ulv saw the forces suddenly ranged against him; the grim resolve of the dwarf lords and the steely courtesy of Archon Theramenes. Each company was too well balanced. No one would walk from this fight easily and the price of victory was too great for any to afford. Orcs and far worse press on our frontiers, only waiting for a chance to storm the border forts. The Lord of Borgo was ruthless and rapacious but nobody’s fool. The parley only lasted long enough to save precious face. Baron Ulv withdrew his company with speed; tawdry loot from Phandalin town taken with them.

The day was done and the day was ours. Nezznar the Drow was safely in the hands of my Order. He would be questioned closely but within the limits of decency. His ultimate fate was hard to guess, but many foes hold hostages and Nezznar might well be exchanged for the freedom of one of our own retainers. If that was ever the case our prisoner might not relish any future homecoming. The High Priestesses of Lolth the Spider Queen are rarely ready to tolerate failure. Well that would be Nezznar’s concern not mine, I could only hope we would never meet again.

For the first time in months our close knit Party separated. Dain and Nundro were deep in conversation with their people. Dwarves are pious folk, and this clan had marched hard for many leagues to reclaim their lost mine. Gundren Stonefoot was already with them and greeting his surviving brother with outstretched arms. Well, each of us had something to celebrate. Shupatra and Celmar, Buddynock Rubyrubb and Ranger Samuel sat gratefully around a campfire, wrapped in blankets, a flask of dark Chian wine passing between them, laden platters at their elbows. They beckoned me to join them but I had other business first.

It would still be many hours before I could rest; my Archon was waiting for my report. We sat inTheramenes’ campaign tent with a single trusted scribe. The heavy canvas strained against the night breeze; the hanging oil lamps flickered. Our aged and injured High Archon no longer led his knights into battle and few could remember the last time Theramenes had ridden so far with such speed. The rapid journey had pushed frail Theramenes to the end of his endurance, but despite his infirmity, my Archon was only too keen to listen. Even so, I never expected an invitation to sit down, I certainly did not foresee High Archon Theramenes pouring me wine with his own brittle hands, adding water as is decent and refilling my cup every time I drained it.

I hope my account was both clear and concise, detailed and fair. I hope it gave full recognition to the gallantry of my comrades each day of our perilous quest. I was very conscious of those mild brown eyes boring into mine; shrewd Theramenes was known for gentle civility and renowned for missing very little. A kind leader can inspire devotion, but even courteous lords show ruthless resolve when required. Fools might underestimate Theramenes but only once. Only ever once. My Archon listened attentively, speaking occasionally to clarify some point but otherwise saying nothing until I had finished and our patient scribe could finally rest his pen.

Theramnes nodded gravely at the news of the Forge of Lazair Glas. He murmured his regrets, but I am not certain his heart and words were in accord. Once a simple Knight errant, over the long years High Archon Theramenes had learnt the subtle arts of statecraft. So, the magic Forge of Phandalin was no more and we had not found a source of enchanted weaponry. We still endured even so. The life of our Province was already balanced on a sword blade; when maintaining stability already strains every reserve and resource, it is natural to be grateful nothing new exists to tip the scales. The unknown, at times, is more than we can bear.

High Archon Theramenes of the Order of Athene.

Ruthless when required, kindly by nature, I would prefer him my honoured Captain than my enemy

31

Did Archon Theramenes sense my sudden wariness? Almost certainly I suspect, very little escaped him even on the bad days when his old wounds left him prostrate with pain. He gently laid his hand on my own, weighing each word with care. From some this speech would reek of sanctimony, but not from Archon Theramenes, not here and now: “You feel you have failed despite striving so hard, despite each of you being ready to die in the attempt. You can continue to believe that if you choose but only if you wish to. Fools never think. The juvenile imagine the whole world revolves around them. Some minds realise the truth then reject all effort as pointless and call themselves wise for never trying. We may all take that stance anytime if we choose. Yet the brave keep striving come what may, despite knowing death, darkness, and failure wait inevitably for us all. Our world may be bleak but we do not have to simply tolerate it. The valiant will strive come what may, for even small triumphs are victories of a sort, even when there is no reward, no recognition, just the quiet knowledge that cruelty was defied and justice honoured. We do what we can, when we can, however imperfect. Down those mean streets we all must go but not all of us are tarnished and afraid. Now we are both more than tired. Go with my blessing and my thanks, go now and rest.”

It was victory of a kind but not for every resident of Phandalin, poor Townmaster Harbin and Silldar Hallwinter had not survived the cruelty of Baron Ulv. Their deaths still rankled, and despite Theramenes’ speech, their killer had fled justice, at least for the moment. Yes, this was the price of maintaining a hard-pressed frontier, yes, two lives are expendable in order to safeguard thousands. Yes, I could see the stark reality oh so very clearly, but I still gave heartfelt thanks I did not have to consider high policy in my own actions. Maybe one day I would lose this small luxury, but not now, not yet. I gave thanks to Pallas Athene for that!

At least that was my first thought. As I left Theramenes tent a young squire asked me to accompany her. She led me to another tent within the boundaries of our camp. Four guards stood spear in hand, two pages waited near a table laden with refreshments, wine, soft bread, fruit and cheese. Two raised biers lay on trestles, two bodies lay in repose; poor Silldar Hallwinter and Harbin.

I bowed my head in respect, then I heard Squire Briallen cough with careful tact, then |heard both bodies stirring where they lay!

“They had both been dead six days. The High Archon cast two Raise Dead spells, Sir Dalmas, he sacrificed two diamonds from his own coronet!” Briallen’s voice rang with pride. “It will take some time to fully recover from their ordeal but they will soon re-join their families and friends.”

Never before had I witnessed such deep magic! “A noble deed beyond doubt.” I said. “Most could never afford the spell and those with deep purses rarely have any thought for others.”

“Silldar Hallwinter, I can understand,” said Squire Briallen. “He is an honourable knight of some renown even though not of our own Order. But this Townmaster, this civilian what has he ever done to earn this chance? I understand he cowered before those red-cloaked bandits, he put his own wellbeing before the safety of his people.”

I was still gazing at the two men lying beneath clean blankets and linen, their faces pale as swan’s down. A page tilted a cup to their lips and I saw Silldar Hallwinter mouth his thanks. I smiled with relief, glad to think we had even recovered his stolen mail hauberk and sword. Townmaster Harbin lay quiet, a slow tear trickled down his cheek, poor man to endure such terror and pain, how else could anyone react to suddenly being called back into the light?

I do not normally stare at anyone but I was so weary now that even thinking took a conscious effort of will. Why did Briallen seem so incredibly young to me? I was barely four years older. Somehow I found the words: “You doubt the Townmaster’s worth?”

“Is he truly good enough Sir Dalmas?”

“Are any of us Squire Briallen? Truly?”

She flushed with embarrassment. “I do not mean to be cruel Sir Dalmas. I am simply amazed at the generosity of our High Archon. How many times has he done this in the past? He was never a wealthy man despite his rank. Has everyone earned to the right to be raised from the dead?”

Briallen sounded genuinely curious. I am glad of that, I would hate to know the callous and unthinking ever rode at my back. “Your question is a good one and the simple truth is few of us will ever have that chance. You ask for an answer I don’t have. Maybe the High Archon has seen the aftermath of more than enough battles when the dead are heaped high and very few can ever be saved. Maybe High Archon Theramenes simply takes his chance now, when he can. He has made more than enough hard decisions in the past.”

“And Townmaster Harbin has a family,” said Briallen quietly. “Perhaps that was enough.”

“In this case, I am quite sure. Good morning to you Squire, may your day go well.”

32

The fiefdom of Borgo remained only two day’s ride away and Baron Ulv’s greed was undiminished, but Phandalin would not lack for protection anymore; the rediscovered mine was far from exhausted even if the magic had faded. Those tunnels and galleries could soon be productive again, the dwarves were ready to stay and their industry and courage promised better times ahead for the town. Gundren and Nundro Stonefoot would both swing their picks again. Sister Gareale might even expect a bigger congregation.

Our Quest was done but others would lie ahead. We had goods to sell, the scales and claws of Venomfang and we would soon leave the wilds behind, at least for the moment. We had gained in mastery and power, we had new skills at our call, greater experience and ability. To my great delight, it was now, finally now, I was worthy to summon my celestial warhorse. Noble Boreas is a rich chestnut stallion of noble demeanour and marked sagacity, fearsome in battle yet gentle as a butterfly at rest. He enters this world whenever summoned. Boreas can never be slain; he merely returns to the celestial plane whenever any foe strikes home It is an honour to ride him, a joy to call him my faithful steed.

We restocked our supplies. Ranger Samuel was careful to fill each compartment of his Quiver of Ehlonna to the very brim: he now carried sixty arrows, eighteen javelins, a second longbow and five spears. I took a stout ashwood lance, my pennant fluttering proudly near the tip. I felt ready for adventure again, ready to face anything.

Buddynock Rubyrubb’s Ring of Protection: tried, trusted and very much tested!

Dain Rocksmiter added a heavy warhammer to his belt and I suspect we were all slightly concerned by Buddynock Rubyrubb stocking his Bag of Holding with every spare crossbow bolt left in Phandalin. Even a hundred quarrels did not increase the weight of his magic satchel. “Well you said it never hurts to be prepared,” smiled our Druid. “Yes! I have my reasons. Might not be enough later on. And people might talk too. Careful does it!”

Before he departed High Archon Theramenes summoned us all. He presented my comrades with a medal in gold and a scroll of merit. Wherever the rule of justice is honoured, these talismans would proclaim the bearer’s worth. That was not all. Theramenes healed my damaged left eye and hand, Celmar’s crippled leg, our Druid’s withered right arm and the grievous scars of Shupatra and Buddynock. Our memories both good and bad remained and we were ready for whatever the fates chose to throw at us

“Well, so that’s that!” said Celmar. “And little Megan is most glad of it.”

“Undoubtedly,” said our taciturn Ranger.

“And all’s well that ends well.” Buddynock Rubyrubb sighed with happy satisfaction.

“There’s certainly a song in this somewhere,” said Shupatra.

“Quite so my friends,” I smiled with relief, the warm sun on my face, the horrors and trials of Phandelver all behind us.

“Just one thing,” Dain Rocksmiter sounded his words with no little care. “Just why is my axe now talking to me!”

BEING an END to BOOK VIII

The Lost Mine of Phandelver

We recovered coin and goods worth a total of 1,332 gold pieces.

As before we divided these equally, each member of our party receiving 222.

Our Party now possessed six diamonds and we entrusted the precious stones to our Dwarven Cleric.

Now Dain coul cast the Revivify spell these diamonds would fuel his life saving enchantment.

Magic items were the greatest treasures from Phandelver and we shared them as follows

Buddynock Rubyrubb: Bag of Holding

Cadan Dalmas: Mace +1: Lightbringer

Celmar: Spider Staff and Torque of Cognesco

Dain Rocksmiter: Gauntlets of Ogre Strength and Pole of Collapsing

Ranger Samuel: Breastplate +1: Dragonguard

Shupatra: Wand of Magic Missiles, Boots of Leaping and Springing and Potion of Vitality.

33

NOTE I:

Over the next few days of idleness, Celmar’s Staff of Defence and Shupatra’s Wand of Magic Missiles both regained their full potency.

Each day allowed our Elven Sorceress to use her Torque of Cognesco on the unknown magical treasures we found in Phandelver

Shupatra now carried a crimson Potion of Vitality, a panacea curing any disease or poison and maximising the benefits of any rest. Her Boots of Leaping and Springing would increase her walking speed and she could now jump three times as far or as high.

Ranger Samuel now wore Dragonguard, a magic breastplate with the power to protect against dragon breath.

Celmar bore the Spider Staff once wielded by Nezznar the Dark Elf. A wicked weapon and I felt acutely uneasy any friend carried it. Any staff serves as a bludgeon but this Drow weapon infected any wound it inflicted. The bearer could also climb walls and ceilings like a spider or conjure choking webs up to sixty feet away. Useful functions to be sure, and they had certainly helped sustain us against those ravening ghouls but this staff remained an evil weapon even so.

There was a further surprise for three of us. The Forge of Lazair Glas may have been failing but even if the flame no longer permanently enchanted weapons and armour, it had awoken new powers within three existing magical treasures.

Buddynock’s Ring of Protection could now cast a Knock spell daily, magic which opened any single closed item, the only drawback the thundering rapping noise audible to anyone within 300 feet.

Dain Rocksmiter was already delighted with his strength giving gauntlets but his cherished rune axe Grom had also been enhanced. A Guardian spirit now lurked in the blade; in combat it whispered instructions, helping Dain aim his axe strokes more rapidly.

For me a new power for my long sword Talon, appropriate I suppose considering the hilt shaped like a hawk’s folded wings. Whoever wielded Talon could cast a Levitate spell once daily: rising vertically up to 20 feet and floating gently to the ground when the spell ends. Talon could now also glow on command, shedding light like a burning torch. For all this I gave great thanks.

My new mace Lightbringer could also glow on command and inflicted increased radiant damage on any Undead. Ha, that would show the next zombies or skeletons we encounter!

34

NOTE II:

In all honesty none of us should have been surprised. “Did you hear? Look, look, it’s starting!” Buddynock Rubyrubb was hopping from foot to foot with excitement. The owlbear egg swaddled in his backpack was rocking backwards and forwards. We glimpsed a furious golden eye, saw a fierce hooked beak, the crack widened, the shell split open and a six-inch baby owlbear sprawled in damp confusion at our feet.

“Aw look at her little paws, look at those fluffy paws and wispy tail!” Our Gnomish Druid seemed irrevocably smitten. “Look, look, she’s trying to stand up. Aw brave little mite.”

“How does Buddynock know she’s a girl?” asked Celmar.

“I’ve no idea, but I’m certainly not getting close enough to disprove it!” muttered Shupatra.

“Are baby Owlbears cubs or chick,” I asked Dain.

"I may be a Cleric of Nature but our seminary could hardly cover everything!”

The tiny Owlbear did not seem particularly concerned with gender roles, she rustled her feathers, hissed like a rusty gate hinge and stared balefully at the world.

“Oh, she’s hungry! The poor mite!” Buddynock pulled a strip of cured meat from his pack. “Come here little darling, come here Feather. Come on, don’t be scared, don’t be-” our Druid’s tender words shifted into a stifled scream; it took three of us to prise the baby Owlbear’s curved beak from his long nose and her talons still took the skin off my hands.

“Doesn’t she like him?” asked our surprised Ranger.

“Does Buddynock still have his nose?” said Dain Rocksmiter. “He does? Oh, she most definitely adores every inch of him.”

Down these mean dungeons a Paladin must go, who is not himself mean but hopefully rolls some 20's!

Saturday, 4 July 2020

Book VIII - The Lost Mine of Phandelver

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

Your direction is true but you walk into grave danger.The famished are close.They will not wait for you.Only Elves are sure to withstand their touch.

21

22

23

24

25

26

27

28

29

30

31

32

33

34

No comments:

Post a Comment