Letter Twenty-one

Dear Sneffles,
We arrived about two miles south of Korvosa and carefully hiked toward the city, Finarfin’s little legs pumping to keep up with his big buddy Szechuan, whose offer to carry him was answered with an angry singeing around the edges. Szechuan just grinned, rubbing the ashes from his hair.

There was no one on the road, no one alive anyway, but there was the occasional cruciform pole with its rotting victim to warn passersby not to fuck with the Queen. Concealed within a copse of jingleberry trees we decided to wait until nightfall before approaching the city walls. Instead, we carefully made our way over to bayside to wait out the afternoon. I fingered the ring of invisibility that had replaced my ring of sustenance. For the first time in over a month I was hungry!

At the water’s edge I decided to capture dinner, wading into the water. Szechuan bet I couldn’t catch the fish using only my hands and I soon had several big bay trout and his 10cp to boot. We debated briefly whether to risk a fire, then gathered wood from fallen jok trees, Driar saying it made almost no smoke. He then whipped up some fluffy hoecakes, adding honey that PJ found in a nearby hive. Finarfin rustled up the greens, making a surprisingly subtle dressing from herbs, wine, and oil he had squirreled away in our portable hole. Szechuan dug up some roots that roasted about six hours before we could eat them but were damned tasty when we did.

We played pinochle after that, using the harrow deck Zollara had given us. Driar turns out to be quite a card sharp—or at least very lucky—and I was out 3gp for the afternoon. When evening came PJ used wind walk to create a cloud and float us to our destination in the Gray Ward. I was surprised at how few lights shone in the city, once the crown jewel of Varisia. What the fuck?

The Temple of Pharasma was quiet, but then it always is. Torches burned by the great wooden doors, illuminating a nave of blue and white onyx. Finarfin sent his arcane eye ahead of us to check things out. Then PJ, taking the lead, banged on the large door until finally a slit opened to reveal a suspicious pair of beady eyes regarded him. PJ wheedled with the eyes until they finally let him in, with running commentary from Finarfin courtesy of his eye. After a comical lot of convincing someone important finally realized that we really were who we said we were and they opened the doors, escorting us into a sub-basement where pyramids of skulls were stacked like melons at the market. There were bins of ribs and tailbones, tibia lay bundled and stacked like so much cordwood. I find the notion of such anonymity in death somewhat comforting.

Thankfully, we were soon ushered through an iron door into a passageway bustling with activity. It looked like they were preparing for a long siege. I stole a few trinkets along the way for old time’s sake. Finally we reached a large room with tables and couches, where maps hung from the wall. There, with the old bishop,  gathered our comrades.

Kroft, sat wan and weary, heading the resistance obviously doesn’t agree with her, whereas Vencarlo never looked better, the excitement rejuvenating the old war horse as he and Trinia canoodled in a corner of the room. Neolandis was, well, as stolid as ever, Grau drunk—that much hasn’t changed—and Bardar was unapproachable. Yeah, it was a big happy reunion.

I filled a plate of plain fare at a small buffet as Kroft filled us in on the situation. The Queen was crazier than ever, she told us, using any excuse to imprison and execute her citizens, who mostly stayed indoors, at least until they were dragged out by the Gray Maidens. There was one “peoples’ hero,” Trifaccia—three face. The suspicion was that he was a sockpuppet for someone else, but whether that someone was a free agent taking advantage of the situation or the Queen’s operative, no one could say. Of course, you must know all of this, but it was news to me.

We told them of our adventures in Scarwall, what we had found out about Kazavon and his probable domination of the Queen, the role the adherents of Zon-Kuthon and Rovagug were playing, and the solution to our problems, the blade Serithtiel, which Szechuan extended in all its legendary glory to the bedazzlement of those gathered.

“That and a small army,” the bishop concurred.

We then palavered over the role us Dudes would play in all this. Of course, Kroft wants us to do the heavy lifting while they finish their preparations. “No one else can confront Trifaccia,” she said. “He may seem a fop but, believe me, there is power there.”

“Fa!” Finarfin interjected dismissively. “If Mithrodar can’t handle us, how is this chump gonna do it?”

“Hush,” Bardar commanded royally. “We will underestimate no one.”

“Pfhaa!” Finarfin replied.

“What allies do we have?” PJ asked, ignoring him.

Neolandus fielded this one. “House Arkona, maybe.”

“What about the Acadamae?”

“They’re going to sit on their hands until it’s over.”

“Criminals and intellectuals,” Driar muttered.

“Is there a difference?” Vencarlo shrugged.

“We think we can get enough support on the street without them,” Kroft said.

“I donno,” PJ replied. “We’ve got an in with the Arkonas and we might be able to coordinate a diversion with them. At least let us try.”

“All right,” Neolandus sighed.

Then the discussion turned to who among us would take the reigns of government after we’d deposed the Queen. I expected to snooze through the discussion but it quickly became rancorous when Finarfin jumped on his chair and loudly pronounced his claim to the throne! The silence that answered him was so deep I could hear the rats gnawing the bones in the walls. As if these establishment types would ever consider handing their nation over to a stoned former slurry-boy with an evil temper who wastes his considerable charm seducing lonely party girls. How exactly would a guy, who still plans to kill a snotty receptionist four months after she bruised his feelings, deal with political opposition, and would it look any different from the corpses now lining Ileosa’s streets? Being in hot water with Finarfin already, I kept my mouth shut just in case he succeeds, but really, his delusion is perfectly hermetic.

He even came on to Trinia again, not noticing her edging away from him as he smacked his lips while regarding her liquidly; or that she has something going on with Orisini, who fingered his weapon speculatively while watching them converse. Wake up, little dude!

After our meeting broke up I followed Orisini and Trinia to their small room down a long cold corridor where we shared a bottle of wine. I sat in their only chair while they curled up on their bed together. The walls were covered with maps of the castle that Trinia had made, as well as likenesses of people we’d eventually need to capture or kill.

“This is Trifaccia,” she said while handing me the likeness she had modeled from clay. “Although he doesn’t always wear this stupid mask, I’ve never been able to get a good enough description to draw his face.”

“He’s a third-grade fighter and a worse comedian, yet he always seems to come out on top,” Vencarlo added.

“Sounds like the fights are rigged.”

I apologized to him for selling his Keen rapier but he shrugged dismissively. “I’m always losing those things,” he admitted. “That’s why I carry so many knives.”

In the morning Driar ghosted out into the city, visible only to children, spreading the word—the Dudes are back in town! Tell your friends. Tell your enemies. Tell the Queen.

It was dead quiet as we strolled through the city as if as if we owned the place. The silence was eerie, like the tombs of Pharasma we’d just left behind. Even the hounds were quiet, or perhaps they’ve all been eaten.

We were standing around Eodred’s Walk waiting for Driar to show up when, right on cue, we were confronted by a small gang of thugs, one of them wearing the mask of Trifaccia.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Trifaccia said while looking from Szechuan to Finarfin. “I wasn’t expecting a freak show.”

“We’re the Dudes, little brother,” PJ stepped forward. “And we just want to know what side you’re on.”

“What side have you got?”

“We fight for the people of Korvosa.”

A brittle chuckle emerged from behind the mask. “Ah, yes, the people. Do you mean the ones standing with you today?” He indicated the empty square.

“The powerless, yes,” PJ intoned vigorously.

“Powerless like Kroft, Neolandis, and Orisini?”

PJ colored violently.

“I am the one truly for the people,” Trifaccia rasped insolently, “and against anyone who would exploit them!”

Szechuan, who was having trouble following the talk, strode forward with a roar, wielding his axe, intent on removing Trifaccia’s mask along with his head, suddenly stopped in mid-swing, consternation etched on his simple face.

“And you, halfling. Why don’t you impress us all and piss your pants!” And, to his great embarrassment, my small companion did just that. It was possibly the saddest thing I’d ever seen, but I finally understood—Trifaccia was imbuing his commands with some sort of sorcery!

Angry now, Finarfin cast feeblemind on the fucker, who reeled backward in obvious consternation. He then cast a simple cantrip on himself, drying his breeches.

“Very good, little man.” A burly red-haired fellow stepped from the gang while the others wisely ran for cover.

“Who are you calling a man?” Finarfin growled in reply.

Ignoring him, the “real” Trifaccia called out a challenge to any of us who were willing to meet him mano-a-mano and Driar immediately stepped forward. “Me.”

They stood glaring at one another like two carnie wrestlers, standing about ten yards apart. “Demon spawn, I know you,” Driar growled.

Seeing my opportunity I used my new ring to fade from sight, moving quickly to flank him from behind. Driar kept him occupied in the meantime, boinking him so hard that he dropped the illusion of a man, revealing a big fat ugly efreeti pointing its naked ass-end at Driar’s head. Before he could fart flames at the cleric, Szechuan sliced a squealing hunk off the fire-genie, sparks flying everywhere. Not seeing me he stepped into my waiting bane rapier, which thrust deep into its heart. Hot blood spurt from his chest like from a slaughterhouse drain.

I barely had time to wipe the blood from my boots when a loud rustling overhead and a sudden darkness announced the arrival of the great black dragon Zarmangarof, which descended perilously, as if to its own destruction, bullied down by its rider, Sabina Merrin. I know she was your pal for awhile, Sneffles, and you claim that out of uniform she is a very sweet person, but, believe me, on the field she’s scary. That dragon didn’t want to be anywhere near us yet she forced it down using just the strength of her thighs. My god, no wonder it is said that her lovers wear full armor if they expect to survive the encounter. She forced the dragon into a death trap when she probably could have just walked over from the next block and joined us. We didn’t waste our opportunity and soon the magnificent beast lay dying on the ground as Merrin surrendered herself, giving us a sob story about, well, you probably know better than I.

She gave us a song and dance about losing faith in the Queen, and I suppose there must be something to it, although I don’t believe she cares if the Queen hangs every citizen in the city. No, this is personal. She does not trust the change Kazavon has made to her lover, but doesn’t think she has the strength to overcome his influence, either—and that, dear love, is what scares me.

After waiting for us to loot the dead efreeti (I found his real name, Yzahnum, sewn into his underware), Merrin led us over to Gray Maiden HQ where she started slaughtering her unsuspecting soldiers like dumb beasts. I looked upon the young women lying on the floor, surprise still etched on their faces, praying that I’d find none familiar to me. It’s one thing to battle someone to the death who has chosen that path for themselves, but another entirely to murder those helplessly enthralled by a godlike being. Sweet Desna protect me.

From the cellar prison she freed the women who would help her subdue the rest of Ileosa’s Gray Maidens and secure the city. Our work done, we prepared to leave but suddenly she returned, hastily pressing the maps of Castle Korvosa we’d need into PJ’s hands, then sent him away with a slap on the ass.

From there we passed near the old neighborhood where I’d shared an apartment with Redcullin that seems like a lifetime ago.

“I wonder whatever happened to him?” P.J. wondered aloud.

“Hell, he’s probably piss drunk in some pub as we speak, crotch rotten from two-copper whores,” Finarfin spat. “Good riddance, I say. I mean, that guy could’ve been somebody. A hero. A fuckin’ Dude, dammit. You know what I’m saying? Instead, what does he do? He chooses to slink away like a coward.”

“Harsh,” I laughed. “What is it with you? He’s just a kid.”

“Maybe his clan called him home,” Szechuan added helpfully.

We followed the avenue below the Heights until reaching the wrecked waterfront separating the city from Old Korvosa. PJ cast wind walk again, and we wafted serenely over the imposing battlements protecting the Arkonas. They must have recognized us because we were soon presented to the same bored majordomo who served us last time, only now, instead of the overconfident, fat, Glorio Arkona, we waited for his willowy sister, Vimanda, who’d helped us kill him.

“State your business, gentlemen, I’m very busy,” she said upon arrival.

“All right,” PJ replied agreeably as the rest of us sat back down. “Essentially,” his head rolled the way it does when he’s winding up for a speech, “We represent a coalition of forces that want to take this Queen out. She’s a threat to everyone.”

“We have evidence that she’s been . . . infiltrated,” Driar began.

“Possessed,” Vimanda interjected, “by the dread Fangs of Kazavon, yes, I know.”

“But how? . . . ahem, of course, m’lady.” Even Driar recognized that not much was going to escape the attention of the queen of the underworld.

“We just want to know if you will support us,” PJ finished for him.

She looked at PJ and Driar for a long moment, then to the rest of us. “I owe you a favor,” she finally replied, “and Ileosa will only tolerate us as long as she has to, so yes, yes, you can count on our support. I’ll send a couple of my representatives with you to work out the details.”

“I’ll be damned,” Driar marveled. “Maybe something can be gained from straight talk after all!”

We woke Szechuan and were soon on our way to the Acadamae where we hoped to talk the scholars into our camp but they wouldn’t even meet with us, making sure that the Queen’s spies saw no disloyalty on their part and that we saw no serious obstruction for ours.

Back in the catacombs under the temple I lay in my narrow cot thinking about you. How can I protect you? (Knowing in my heart you need none.) When will we be together again?

I rose to join Driar at evening prayer and a moment’s peace.

Your love,
Cordobles

Letter Twenty

Dear Sneffles,
We’re coming home! Somehow we survived Scarwall. . . .

After taking down Mithrodar’s last anchor we paused to survey our loot, which was far greater than I could have ever imagined possible. Part of me wanted to stop right there, grab my share, and run home. What do I care about a conflict I only half understand? You and I could disappear forever, buy our own vessel, travel the world, own an island, and make babies. I can hear you laugh and, truthfully, I dismissed the notion as soon as it entered my head. How could I raise sons knowing that I’d walked out on my friends? What could I teach them? Come what may I’m in this to the end, which I hope will be glorious. Besides, there’s more loot to be had and no natural son of Gaedrun Lamm can turn his back on that!

We’ve seen so many dead things since entering Scarwall that we’ve become quite jaded, so it took us all by surprise when, while Szechuan was prying gems from one of the many skulls littering the room, it suddenly spoke to him!

“I am Andachi of Tamrivena!” it proclaimed.

“I didn’t do it!” Szechuan replied, hastily dropping the chattering pate, wiping his hands on his bloody tunic.

Nobody was too sure of who Andrachi was, or any of the other skulls who gave us their names, but they’d obviously come to a bad end. I shivered, realizing that I could end up like one of them, especially if we’re dealing with that fucker Rovagug.

On this note we packed the stuff we’d won by rite of combat and dragged it back to the guardhouse where we rested before searching out Mithrodar. Like the previous evening, I woke early and, feeling restless, slunk carefully out into the night under our watchman’s (i.e. Finarfin’s) nose, who was—typically—smoking zong and staring dreamily out a window.

“Laori, where are you?” I whispered. But there was no answer. Then I heard a sound down a long hallway and followed it to a door that was slightly ajar. In the dim glow of an oil lamp I saw Asrya, the chain demon—but she was not alone. It took me a moment to realize that what I was seeing was her making love to one of her own kind! They lay entangled, chains lustily entwined, rattling and clanking in rhythmic harmony, blue sparks flying, the smell of ozone, sighs like wagonwheels over cobblestone.

“Very charming,” a husky voice whispered into my ear. Startled, I jumped haphazardly, bouncing off the heavy door and landing helplessly on the flat of my back. In a heartbeat she was next to me, breathing hotly in my ear, undoing my belt.

“Laori,” I gasped.

“Ta ta,” she grinned. I felt her cold blade against my scrotum and, Desna help me, my erection became all the greater.

“That’s my boy,” she giggled and took me right there on the floor. After our first orgasm together she put the knife away and we rutted like two barbarians on the corpses of their enemies. Making love to Laori Vauss is something like fucking a porcupine, only worse, because she makes the pain feel so good. I treated her in kind and soon we were slipping over one another in our own sweat, blood, and come. She bit and cursed me as I gouged and bruised her. Dawn found us exhausted in each others’ arms, gasping for air, so sensitive that the slightest breeze sent us both into ratcheting orgasm. I kissed her full red lips, which were covered with my issue, as my lips were covered with hers.

 Ah, I considered asking her to come away with me, but then I remembered you, my love. You, whose love is unqualified, healing and pure, as wholesome as mothers’ milk, and who loves me for what I am, not as a trophy on her wall—Laori would be the death of me, sooner rather than later, I think. I watched her closely as she put on her clothes, wincing at times, and leaving me with a final lingering kiss—she seemed suddenly bashful, but I watched her all the same, as much to make sure she didn’t circle back to kill me, as to express my love for her. Then I crawled back to the guardhouse—bleeding from a thousand wounds; stinking of sperm, shit, and vaginal fluid—where an astonished, and possibly nauseated, Driar healed me without a word (although his eyes burned brightly with indignation).

Then I took Szechuan’s proffered cup of coffee and tried to stop my hands shaking.

It didn’t take us long to find Mithrodar’s lair. While most of the boys went in the hall’s front entrance, Driar followed me around to the back door. I’ve never written much about Driar despite the fact that he is a cleric of our beloved Desna. He’s a chilly and imposing figure, an authority type who is not impressed by my waggish incorrigibility. He sees Desna-worship as a very serious thing and doesn’t believe me sincere but, as you know, if it wasn’t for Desna I never would have made it out of the slums, never twigged that there was more to life than rolling drunken sailors, breaking and entering, or convincing young girls to try their luck on the streets.

Of course, I didn’t tell him that.

Driar entered first and quickly realized that we were close enough to the ancient guardian to count the hairs on his ass, so I stayed outside the door and used my shortbow to good effect as Szechuan, typically, went toe-to-toe with the creature. With his anchors gone Mithrodar was vulnerable. I concentrated on his spectral minions as the boys wailed on him until he literally gave up the ghost, leaving us with a loud hiss, like a fat man on Bean Day. There was a moment of silence before we heard the heartening sounds of the ancient curse being lifted from the castle and the release of many trapped and suffering souls, including, I assume, our old pal Zellara.

Outside of loving you, this is the proudest moment of my life.

Then things really got freaky as the air in front of us shimmered and shook as an old geezer emerged, like he’d stepped from some ancient time, the buckles on his shoes giving him away, about a thousand years out of fashion. Raw strips of skin peeled from him in a languid and haphazard way until his flesh was completely gone. Then he healed and the process started over again. He didn’t seem to mind, like he’d grown used to it.

He spoke with difficulty, it being so long, I suppose. At first I didn’t think he was speaking a language I understood but I soon realized that it was like our speech, only noisier, with glottal stops we would never use. It was Count Andachi himself (the same guy whose skull we’d found) and he said that he had ruled Tamrivena a long time ago until his general Kazavon (yeah, the fang guy, whose partial spirit in now living inside Ileosa’s brainpan) caught up with him and turned him into a BLT.

(FYI: The guys look down on me for using street-talk like BLT, LOL, IMHO, etc. They say it’s not dope and no true PC would ever sully an RPG with such chattertalk. I don’t know, I hear the NPC’s using it all the time, and even the GM himself. WTF? If we would all just LOL we’d be much better off, IMHO. That’s how us kids discussed what we were going to do with the bean-sniffers and bent eagles in the old days, without them suspecting a thing. Yep, so if I lapse into old-school once in awhile STFU, I’m LMFAO. LSMFT!)

Anyway, Count Andachi was trapped here afterward, even when Mandraivus arrived to ram his mighty sword Serithtial up Kazavon’s ass. His victory was short lived because soon after the orcs made sure Mandraivus’s spirit joined him with the many others the castle’s foul aura captured. Finally, after many centuries, a party of “true heroes” (his words, not mine) arrived to finish the job.

Only the job was not done. “You must retrieve the sword, Serithtial,” he told us. “Kazavon is returning, gaining power every day. He’s taken your Queen and the world itself hangs in the balance.”

Melodramatic, I know, but that wasn’t the end of it. “Even now the minions of the Midnight Lord, Zon-Kuthon, seek to deny you your prize. Go to the Star Tower. Go. . . .”  With a sigh like an old man passing gas he embarked for the next world.

“Damnation,” hollered PJ. “Let’s move!”

Naturally, there was no way into the Star-shaped tower, which had grown a cap like the hood on a penis. With the lifting of Scarwall’s curse, though, the gargoyles had apparently migrated back to hell so Finarfin was able to fly us to the top where Laori waited with her pals, Shadowcount Sial, and Asrya, the chain demon, who looked none the worse for wear after her amorous interlude. For that matter, neither did Laori, who chose to ignore me as frostily as she had been passionate just hours before. I didn’t blow our cover.

“WT”—I mean—“What the fuck?” PJ said.

“We were waiting for you,” Laori shrugged, with a sharp insouciance that caused his eyes to bulge in anger. We followed them down a long spiral staircase, arrogantly cut into the living stone by the Midnight Lord Zon-Kuthon’s thrall. At the bottom was about what you’d expect for a freak’s bedchamber, although it’s been a long time since anyone died here in bondage.

It turns out this is but one of a series of Star Towers that stitch the earth together binding “The Rough Beast” (Rovagug) within.

Things were spooky enough when a disembodied voice greeted us cordially, told a couple of mildly amusing jokes (Why did Rovagug cross the road? To destroy the world! Ha ha!) and asking which one of us needed a job. To be honest, guarding Rovagug’s left nipple didn’t appeal to any of us, but really, he was just asking our pals, Leori and Sial.

Sial is a snotty prick and seemed to think insulting Laori was a winning strategy, but instead she got a look in her eye that would give Zon-Kuthon pause. I think Laori could have handled him alone but I felt restless, sideling behind him with a quiet hand at my rapier of human-bane. The others boxed him in on either side.

Sial reddened, but wisely decided to make no move.

“Hey, don’t take it so hard, Sial,” Laori smirked, “it’s only until the end of time.”

“Damn you,” he cursed bitterly. “Damn you all!”

The disembodied voice chuckled. “You two come back to the top of the tower and we’ll hash out your new duties. The rest, follow the stairs down to find what you seek.”

“Crap,” said Laori, surprisingly me with a desperate look. I crossed to her expectantly, secrecy forgotten.

“This is it,” she said, looking first at me and then beyond me. “I give this pain to Zon-Kuthon, and thank him for it.” She then embraced me. Her barbs pricked me and the pain was sweet. I glimpsed no hidden knife so I returned her caress, tasting her tears, hoping Finarfin was watching my back rather than her backside.

“You’ve still got a lot to learn, grasshopper,” she said, not unkindly, giving me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll come back for you when you’ve grown up. Look for me with the first new moon of a new year.”

“I’ll be waiting,” I said to her departing back. She stopped at the foot of the stairs, turned, and gave me a little wave before disappearing.

“Wow,” said PJ, slapping me on the shoulder. “What a hottie!”

“Yeah,” I replied dreamily, wiping blood from my face, still not believing she was gone.

“I don’t think I’d keep that date with her, though.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t you know? The new moon of the new year is the Kuthites’ Eternal Kiss ceremony. For ten days they give their special guest anything his little heart desires and on the eleventh they yank his entrails out to foretell the future. Those mackerel-snappers are crazy as coots, but it’s considered a great honor.”

“Yeah . . . ,” I sighed. “Honor.”

Finarfin came over to commiserate as well. “You’ll see her again, ’Dobles,” he said brightly. “If not in this life, then the next.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of, little buddy,” I smiled. “Come on, let’s end this thing.”

“Yeah,” he snarled at our enemies, wherever they were, whoever they might be; running ahead of us in his excitement like a little boy at a picnic.

At the bottom of the stairs was a large cavern where a deep recess in the floor exuded glowing blue mist. Its walls were pitted and it looked like an easy climb but we found ourselves falling to an icy floor far below. The clammy mist roiled about us as we caught our breath. Finarfin sent out his arcane eye to scope out the cavern. It found two passages, one leading nowhere, the other to a large underground lake, with a light burning in the distance. That’s where we went.

“I hope that light ain’t Rovagug,” Szechuan muttered.

We had just carved up a few guardian turkeys when the big show arrived, erupting from the lake like a corpse-rat from the guts of a week old green cheese. Despite its power, it had a fatal weakness, being of just two dimensions, so we hacked at the thing until it was gone.

We were so tired by this time that we were just going through the motions, sending Finarfin over the lake to reconnoiter the light. It was Serithtial, all right, glowing brightly with purity and power. He grabbed it roughly from the rock it was embedded in to bring it back, thinking it now belonged to him. But, like many a virgin, it didn’t care for his touch. But like a virgin, he grabbed it anyway, flitting back and forth over the dark water like an errant firefly as it tried to escape him. Finally he made it back to shore where the sentient weapon literally threw itself into Szechuan’s loving arms.

“That’s the thanks I get?” Finarfin huffed, but no one paid him any mind as we admired the glowing sword, the legend Serithtial. Then Szechuan made an astonishing announcement.

“In accepting Serithtial, and she me, I have pledged myself to Iomedae, goddess of righteous valor, justice, and honor.”

“Wait until Bardar hears about this,” PJ said with wonder.

I won’t bore you with the logistics of our journey to Janderhoff. Hauling the loot turned out to be more trouble than any of our foes had ever been. We did make one last exploration—into the once forbidden west wing where we found the last mortal remains of the hero Mandraivus, and figured we might as well take him, too.

So we made it back to Janderhoff. Driar was eager to give his prayers to Desna so I gave him a copper for the alms box. He also assigned us tasks—mine was to accompany Finarfin to check-in with Orisini and “Squarehead” Neolandus. I was eager to tell him of our adventures and of how his pupil has grown, but his abode was quiet and still. We decided on a simple plan: Finarfin would go into a nearby tavern and keep an eye on the joint while I drifted around the neighborhood to look for trouble. Finding none, eventually I joined him inside.

“Let me just stealth in and see what’s up,” I begged.

“No, no,” he replied. “These guys are clever. We gotta watch a while longer.”

So I had a brew and a shot of something they call “Orc’s Delight” until he was finally satisfied. I went in first, picked a suspiciously easy lock, and passed inside to disable their traps. Finarfin watched from outside before coming in a few minutes later. We nosed around, finding nothing incriminating, or valuable—but I didn’t expect to.

On a whim, Finarfin cast detect secret doors and was surprised to spot a loose bit of trim around one of the front windows that opened to reveal a small hollow. Inside was a sealed envelope with a single word scrawled across it: Dudes.

“You think that means us?” I asked.

“Of course it does, you nimrod!” Finarfin snapped, reaching for the letter eagerly.

Crack!

A loud snap—mild lightning, I’m guessing—passed through him from head to foot like a bright wave on the beach. Reeling, he handed me the smoking envelope.

“Sorry, man,” I tried not to laugh. “I guess I missed one.”

So I bought the next round. The letter said they’d gone back to Korvosa and that we should follow them there to the temple of Pharasma.”

“Cool beans,” said Finarfin standing up. “I’ve got to go see a man about a dog, so I’ll talk to you later.”

“Whatever.” I watched him walk away jauntily, like a sailor his first day ashore. “Good luck, you little booger,” I thought before going my own way.

A sky citadel like Janderhoff might sound aerie but they are really claustrophobic places, buildings on top of buildings on top of buildings; with passageways up, over, around, and through. Like old Korvosa, only the ceilings are lower and the citizens wider. I was constantly in danger of being head-butt by a dwarf or catching a Barbarian’s elbow in my ear. Every once in awhile I’d see a bit of blue sky, or catch a whiff of fresh air.

I walked down to the leatherworkers block, where I took the strips of dragon I’d removed from Bellshallam. But none of the craftsman would catch more than a glimpse of the hide before shooing me out of their store. “Where’s you get that?” they’d rasp. “Don’t you know it’s against the law to tan dragonhide? I’d get my license taken away!” I was rolling the strips up and putting them back into my pack when one of the shopkeepers gingerly approached me.

“Look—for a tenner,” he whispered, “I’ll give you the name of someone who can help you.” I happily paid him the 10 gp and a half hour later found myself in a pungent, disreputable alley leading into a dark cul-de-sac. I asked passers-by for the dwarf I sought but no one would talk with me. Finally, a kid stopped and asked me who I wanted.

“Harsk, jr. the bootmaker.”

“Oh, shit.”

I waited.

“It’ll cost you.”

I shrugged and reached for my pouch but he didn’t want money. He liked the Starknife I was carrying. Now I’ve never used the weapon with its silver symbol of Desna that is only visible when spinning rapidly towards the heart of a foe. It looks cool but is not much use, so I gave it to him and he took to me Harsk, jr., right across the street. I don’t begrudge the boy because he reminded me a little of myself at that age—more interested in style than substance. As he was leaving with his prize I told him to look me up in the north ward sometime over the next few days if he wanted lessons on how to wield the thing.

Inside, Harsk, jr’s eyes lit up when he saw the skin I was holding. “Oh, yeah, man, have you got any more?”

“I’ve twice as much but you’ll only get it when you finish the boots.”

“And a thousand gold pieces.”

I laughed. “You’ll be happy with the leather.”

“Come back in two days,” Harsk, jr. grumbled while accepting the skin, taking it immediately into the back to begin a spell of curing.

I walked back to our little hut in north ward, which is also where most of the Barbarians live. The streets were wider there, the buildings taller, and although the air was not sweeter, there seemed more of it.

Szechuan and PJ had found a house with a little space around it and a defensible border. I went in and took a nap, waking towards evening when Finarfin and Driar arrived. Smelling of pussy and zong Finarfin decided to take a long bath and rest so I went over to a nearby tavern (The Glowering Beetle) with Szechuan and PJ for dinner.

Before you knew it we were invited to a table with some Barbarians just in from the Cinderlands who’d discovered we knew Krojun-Eats-What-He-Kills.

“How is the old Eater?” I asked.

They all laughed uproariously.

“What’s so funny?”

“Something he ate killed him!”

We got home quite late that night.

During the following days we sorted our loot and used the proceeds to prepare for our return to Korvosa. In my spare time I showed the boy, Glanili, how to use his new weapon. When he could swing it without cutting himself, I tutored him in the art of bluff, taking your opportunities, flanking your opponent, how to cut low, stab high, and when to run away.

“Only a coward would run,” he said contemptuously.

“Yeah," I quoted the Bard:

'A coward lives another day,
while the heroes have all turned to clay.'"

He didn’t come back after that. It’s what I get for being honest.

I content myself with playing with the house’s cat, Mortimur, whose trick is to let you brush his long red and black coat for few moments before suddenly catching your wrist in his sharp teeth. It is all in play, though, he never bites too deeply. The trick is to brush him until he's about to snap, and then calm him down with your free hand. Of course, at some point he always snaps. Then we roughhouse until he or I become bored.

I sold off some of my baubles and the weapons I never used. I had intended to return Orisini’s Keen rapier to him but sold it instead. His note did say that we should prepare for the final battle, so I think he would want it this way.

I bought a ring of invisibility, upgraded my amulet of protection, doubled the resistance of my cloak, and acquired a few other surprises to spring on the Queen and her toadies. Most amazing, Driar took me aside and, with a very serious look, suggested we share a ring of friend shield. I was agog at the honor he did me. He’s kind of signed on as my big brother now. When Finarfin asked, “Why him and not me?” Driar shrugged, saying, “The boy has a good heart but lacks direction.” I don’t know how the direction thing will work out but I feel honored nonetheless.

My one last chore was to go pick up our new boots. Harsk, jr. did a beautiful job, a true craftsman, and I’m looking forward to personally slipping yours onto your beautiful feet. I handed over the rest of the dragonhide to him as payment. Harsk, jr. hastily checked the contents, indicating his satisfaction even as the treacherous dwarf had arranged for neighborhood thugs to take the boots away and all they could strip me of as I left his shop. I was unsurprised to see that one of his lads was Glanili, who smirked when he saw me. It was all so predictable I had to laugh. A minute later they lay groaning in the street and I had my Starknife back.

“Look me up when you’re ready to carry this again,” I told the cowering boy. “Ask for Cordobles of Korvosa.” I left the shop, whistling a happy tune while twirling the Starknife with my free hand.

Dear lady, I’m coming home.

Love you soon,
Cordobles

Next is Finarfin's Twenty-first Report

Letter Nineteen

Dear Sneffles,
I feel badly about getting Szechuan killed. I mean, it was his decision to stand and fight, and we would have had to confront that monster anyway, but it was my rookie error that got him killed. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

It began with Finarfin pulling his eyeball out of its socket with a soft “plop” and sending the dripping orb down the long dark hallway before us—I'm kidding, of course. "That's not how arcane eye works!" Finarfin lectured stentoriously as we followed it down the hallway. I listened to him with one ear while checking for traps as he told us how the thing worked, what it was seeing, and what he would do with it once we returned to civilization, which doesn't bear repeating except that he said he intends to keep his mystic eye out for you, dear Sneffles, so you might want to modify your arcane eye trap so that it doesn't blind him permanently.

I found no traps, which made me nervous because whatever awaited us obviously did not feel the need for special protection. We came to a door that opened easily into a darkened space, lighted only with a few guttering torches. On one end was a sacrificial pit of ash and bone in front of a large stone fetish of Zon-Kuthon, spiked chains dangling from its eye sockets. Amongst the ashes beneath I found an exquisite—priceless—necklace and, like a young plowboy visiting his first cathouse, I picked it up.

The ashes erupted around my head in a furious tempest that stung my nose, mouth, and eyes. I caught one glimpse of Mithrodar’s spirit anchor emerging (either lich or demi-lich depending on whom you ask) when my world filled with unbelievable pain. I staggered backward, wondering why I hadn’t taken half-damage, turning and scrabbling out the door. My friends girded their loins for battle.

"Because it was an instantaneous magical effect that you could not dodge, nimrod!" I heard Finarfin growl as I stumbled past him.

As I lay on the floor outside retching, the sounds coming from the next room were frightful—guttural snarls, loud thumps, and shrieks of agony. As soon as I could stand I lurched back down the hall to fetch help, to find Laori. She had just finished her prayers, bleeding from a hundred small cuts, as I fell into her arms, white with ash, stammering my story as acrid smoke curled from my hair and clothes. In the cold light she looked down at me as if at a sniveling child at the fishmarket.

“Oh, bother!” she snapped, dropping me on my head. "Show me!"

As I picked myself off the floor and hobbled away I did not care that I had exposed my back to her, for her scorn was a far sharper weapon than her hook could ever be. Ducking low, I tried to hide my burning shame, but I could hear her cruel, musical laughter echoing down the hall.

The room was ominously quiet as we approached. Reaching the door we could hear low moans and muffled sobbing emerging from within. Laori’s smile grew broader, feral only begins to describe it. From the doorway I spied Szechuan lying in a pool of vomit and blood. I found out later that he had refused to back down when our comrades had begged him to save himself, simple replying, “That’s not my way.” His little buddy Finarfin seemed relatively unscathed as he kneeled beside the corpse. Blood was everywhere, mostly Szechuan’s, who lay broken on the floor. “Help him somebody!” Finarfin wailed.

Driar and PJ could only shrug their impotence, looking bewildered.

Laori turned to me. “Where did you get that?” she asked.

I realized that she was staring at the strand of expensive prayer beads I’d mistaken for a necklace. “Oh, I dunno,” I shrugged.

Coyly smiling, she said, “I may be able to help your friend.”

“Say what?” PJ stepped forward aggressively. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

“You had nothing of value before.” She nodded at the beads. “Like those.”

I would have given it to her without qualm but PJ and Finarfin insisted on haggling over our friend’s life like pimps on a streetcorner at 3am. While they bargained I inspected the prayer beads, which looked unsettlingly like the anal beads you innocently wore as a necklace to the street fair when you were just six years old. These beads were very important, I knew that, and was one of the reasons Laori and her pals had hooked up with us in the first place, but really we had no choice—we could hang onto the baubles or we could save our pal.

So Laori got our prize and Szechuan reanimated with a cough of phlegm that almost took off Driar’s head—fast reflexes, I note. But even so he was on death’s doormat and needed restoration fast. PJ wasted some of that time tracking down Laori’s pals and inveigling Sial to restore the barbarian but the Shadowcount laughed at him derisively as PJ barely restrained his anger, the muscles standing out on his neck like whippet-cordwood. The Shadowcount could not be persuaded by compassion, by threat, or by riches.

Finarfin hoisted the huge barbarian on his back and, with PJ in tow, comically waddled off to get outside Scarwall’s necromantic influence. Kidding again, I don't know what's gotten into me. I like to read these passages to Finarfin and watch the blood rush to his head—he would kill me if he could only catch me. In truth, he gave his big pal someone to lean on as they traversed the rougher places across the bridge. As I said, it was touching.

We waited around fretfully while Driar prayed to restore our health. I wished he had a spell of cleansing because I was covered with grit that itched around my neck and chafed my nethercheeks. Laori did not bother with me again, so deep was her contempt. She took her leave and our beads. I don’t like to give up hard-gotten gain any more than the next thief but this one time I felt like we’d gotten the better of the deal and, with Szechuan's help, will get another chance to prove it to smug Laori, contemptuous Sial, and the chain gal.

When they finally returned PJ looked grim, Finarfin smelled like a ham and cheese on rye, and Szechuan was woozy but game for more fighting, figuring that it would settle his stomach. The whole dying thing seems to have affected him less than it did me. Brave, stubborn, loyal, and slyly stupid—he is the archetypal barbarian. I am proud to call him a fellow Dude, no matter how this turns out.

I know, this must all seem perfectly absurd to you, the all-for-one camaraderie I’m spouting, but do you remember our kid gang—the Boll Weevils—back in Old Korvosa? There was a time—when we were eight or nine—that we were one body, one mind with our gang. We did everything for one another, shared everything, did everything. It’s the reason we survived that hellish place. Sure, it ended badly, with betrayal all around, but for a little while there we trusted each other, believed in one another. Only you and I remain.

That’s how “The Dudes” feel to me (although I still can’t abide the name).

Inside the cathedral and up the stairs we surprised an old gent who fought back with fury but he was no match for my human bane rapier and soon fell in the dust. The boys were taken aback by my ferocity but I was frustrated and humiliated and needed something to take it out on.

We found nothing of value in the room so Finarfin popped his eyeball out again (kidding) sending it scurrying through the corridors and soon finding the spirit anchor we were seeking. It wore flaming armor, charging us in a fearful rush, but in the end the battle proved anticlimactic. It’s just too bad we didn’t find this guy first because he was all show and no go as Finarfin thumped him with a powerful spell and instead of laughing it off and reaming us up the backside the way they usually do, it merely disappeared with a soft hiss. His shade companions were little more than troublesome as we dispatched them back to whatever part of hell they had come from. They did leave us excellent booty.

From there we headed to the Star tower, the obvious place for the final spirit anchor. We made our way up its stairs slowly, the tension building with each step. Everyone seemed anxious to get this over with, especially Finarfin, who hopped from one foot to another as if he was late for an assignation with a lovely lady. I chalked it up to zong deprivation, it being at least an hour since he’d last imbibed.

At the top of the stairs we polished off a couple of minor entities before reaching a door that was beyond my skill to open or Szechuan’s to break. Fortuitously, Finarfin had acquired a passwall spell and we soon found ourselves inside the tower, which was filled with Zon-Kuthonic devices of torture and pain (which is getting to be monotonous IMHO). At one end of the room sat a throne and at the other a stagnant pond.

At this stage Szechuan, practical as always, pulled out his winger and peed into the pool, the sound of falling water causing me to join him there. Szechuan was so impressed by my manhood he suggested we perform a tribal ritual he called “Brothers of the bladder.” It involves pissing on the other’s head—him going first, of course. As flattering as that was I was about to decline when the final anchor appeared from nowhere, Nihil the Ashbringer, wings outstretched, scythe reaching, seeking, screeching uproariously as the great Boneclaw and its Shade companions dived for us. I confess I soiled my pants, but I wasn’t the only one.

Fortunately, Finarfin and Driar held them off while we pulled our pants up. Actually, now that I think of it, Szechuan never did get his up, using his natural club as well as his mighty axe. I did not know that they made adamantine ampallangs but surely it must hamper his mobility.

Finarfin traded blows with the Ashbringer but I could tell that something was eating him deep inside. I’d watched him enough in battle to know that he was hurrying his attack, like he just wanted to be gone from this place. I wanted out, too, but was more concerned with saving my skin. Distracted, Finarfin got whopped upside the head pretty hard, lying on the fecal-strewn floor watching the birdies circle his head as, with a mighty oath, Szechuan charged the big guy head-on while the holy joes used their sheer spiritual might to crush its pals.

This fight lasted interminably long, even when the ending was certain. I added my two bits, Thank Desna. I’ve stopping pretending that I’ll ever make a two-handed fighter. I guess I was trying to emulate Vencarlo’s rizzrazz slicing-and-dicing technique, but was never up to it. Finarfin has been hassling me to use my quickness more. “By Callistra's ponderous tits,” he’d curse me. “You’re faster than shit through a goose, but you stand there getting your brains beat out like a moron!”

The reason for that is that I can only use two-handed fighting effectively when I’m close and personal, and that technique simply doesn’t encourage moving anywhere else until the fight is over—it's a tactic for a stronger man. And Bluff? “You can’t even bluff at cards!” I remember Finarfin screaming at me, throwing his hand of five Kings into the sand by the dung-fueled fireside late one cold evening in the Cinderlands. Ah, Sneffles, I could never bluff you, either.

Once again the heavy lifting was done by the “Big Three,” while me and Finarfin did what we could around the edges. Finarfin—his head had to be ringing like a bell—limped hurriedly out of the room as if late for an appointment with his hairdresser. Was the bloodlust full upon him or was it a siren's call?

Our argument is now with Mithrodar itself. If I die here, Laori has promised to bring you this letter. You’ll finally get the chance to meet her and if anyone can turn her head to pleasure without pain, it’s you.

If this is my end let me live in your heart,

Cordobles

Next is Finarfin's Twentieth Report

Letter Eighteen

Dear Sneffles,
The night seemed to last forever in that stinking pen where we rested and the spirits came to talk with me...Little Willie, Mackerel Snapper, and Chemical Bob—they’d first appeared in my rooms at Korvosa soon after Redcullin arrived. (You know you’ve hit bottom when you have to rent a room to a Barbarian lad, wet behind the ears, and horny as a sea owl.) But you know something? He was good fun. I wonder what’s happened to that big lunk since then? Eating the brains of a four-day-dead mule in the great outback, I imagine. “Staff of life,” they call it in the Cinterlands.

What good is all this loot if we die in the morning? I could not sleep in the stuffy room and slipped out into the courtyard of our afternoon battle. I cut a big strip of dragonhide from the flank of the great beast we’d killed. I’ll have it made into boots for you, my love.

I crossed over to the well where I had cowered like a new sailor during his first storm at sea as the dragon squeezed the life from little Finarfin. Good times. From there I crossed to the passage beneath the balcony where I should have been lurking with my bow during our encounter with Bellkazar. Live and learn, I guess.

Then, a sudden movement in the shadow.

There Laori Vauss waited like a hungry cuttlefish. I approached her gingerly. She’s all fishhook, that girl. You would think that someone who loves the taste of blood as much as she does would be a vampire, but, no, it’s part of her religion, apparently, and when a female adherent of Zon-Kuthon mates, it’s said, she murders the male and then bears his child.

She’s hot! I know.

My challenge is how to get her to bear my child without me dying in the process. “Easy,” says the spider to the fly.

In the shadows she stayed mostly hidden, except for that wicked smile. “I won’t bite,” she mocked. “Maybe....”

“Who cares?” I reached for her, grasping her forearm. She had an adamantine blade stashed there. As I bent to kiss her hand I caught the scent of almonds from the poison she’d applied to its edge. I exposed the back of my neck to her killing blow.

But none came.

Instead we kissed in the wan moonlight, my left hand upon her breast, where a short-ranged magic missile aimed right between my eyes. She did not release it. She tasted sweet, which surprised me—I guess I was expecting carrion. Her garrote was finely crafted, caressing as it strangled, but she’s a bit slow, so I put her on the ground and held her there.

“Seriously, Laori,” I said as she struggled beneath me, angry now, instead of her earlier smiles. “Can’t you love a man you can’t kill?”

“I haven’t met that man yet,” she cooed, a venomous rasp.

At that moment we heard a cock crow in some forgotten corner of the castle’s keep and knew that playtime was over. I bid her farewell, ducking just before her blade whipped past my eyes. I watched her smile fading into the darkness.

I slipped back into our redoubt before anyone noticed although I caught Finarfin eyeing me speculatively later. He still insists he “made sweet love” with Trinia Sabor even though half a village and yours truly saw her somewhere else at the exact same moment she was supposedly walking the dog with him. Whatever. I guess a man’s gotta dream.

By this time the boys were stirring and working out the kinks in their joints. Szechuan let off a fart that knocked over a bench and turned Driar as green as Andoran wine. We choked down a cold breakfast, barely talking, as we each prepared for the ordeal we would soon be facing. Then Finarfin recited the infernal poem that brought us here and we went out into the gray dawn.

“Fate of steel…Serithtial Her cage for years sustained Four enthralled in lost Scarwall; Undead to keep her chained. A spirit first, red war his thirst Still stands at post of old; A second foe, infernal soul Waits high in tower cold. In kennel’s grime, third bides his time Then vents his killing breath. And on a stone ‘mid ash and bone, The final dreams of death. The spirits worn and battletorn And locked in their damnation, The chained one’s hold at last grows old And ushers in salvation. Yet hope remains amid the chains When blade’s stone cage has crumbled, Friends to dread and the death of the dead, Keys to Kazavon humbled”.

PJ thought we should pursue the “infernal soul” in the nearby tower but there was no way in. Maybe it was underground. Szechuan solved the problem by headbutting a hole in the wall. The boy was jacked to the gills, but I think it was his stones talking, not spell nor herb. We entered cautiously, me lurking in the background like a circus pickpocket.

Finarfin, still smarting from the whupping he’d taken from the dragon, demanded the point, hurrying up a dark staircase where several hellhounds mischievously waited for him. They burned his hair off, giving him his second thrashing in two days. It was hard not to laugh at his surprised yelp, although, to be honest, it wasn’t funny. I tried to cut the legs out from under one of them as it came down the stairs but was shouldered aside by PJ excitedly joining the fray.

A loud gooey splat came from upstairs where Driar had popped a ripe Zombie like a week old boil. We found the rest of the tower empty and were soon contemplating the awesome awfulness of Scarwall from the roof. The bulky shapes of Gargoyles lumbering across the sky reminded me of crows circling the docks in Old Korvosa. Above all a large star-shaped tower loomed and I wondered with a shiver whose eyes were watching us from there. A second tower, much like the one we’d just climbed, anchored the far side of the castle.

We had gotten some nice loot but overall the tower had been a waste of time and we returned to ground floor arguing about our next step, deciding to try our luck in the dungeons next. We descended a short set of stairs into a wide corridor. It was empty and dull. PJ counted his steps as we carefully looked for any entrance into Scarwall’s inner depths. Finally, we found ourselves standing before a large stone door, permanently sealed from the outside. Who—or what—could possible be so dangerous that they would have to be locked away here? And why would we wake such a creature?

Szechuan didn’t care, he made short work of the door using his warhammer this time instead of his head, which had turned black and green and begun to swell ominously.

Inside was a large chamber, on one end of which was an altar and on the other a pool of water that reminded me uncomfortably of the well holding the tentacled creature in the Acropolis. I hung back as the others struggled to get inside, restrained by some sort of spell that spat Finarfin out like a pumpkin seed across the hard, broken tile.

Like sudden Death, Laori Vauss stepped from the shadows, a pixie grin on her face. She helped Finarfin up, saying, “What the fuck?” She ignored me but gave Finarfin the attention an old grandma gives a plump rabbit right before she breaks its neck.

We led her over to the hole in the wall where she gave a squeal of delight upon seeing the altar, which turned out to be a holy place of her deity, Zon-Kuthon. Yeah, he’s a nasty piece of work, but she was able to neutralize his spell for us and also got to ritually slice herself and bleed a little for the greater glory of her god—win-win for everybody.

The entrance to the dungeon was sealed but it wasn’t too hard to pop its lock. I’ve come a long way since Burns’s tutelage, I wonder where the old boy is now and if he’s as rich as I?

In any case, we started with the loot for a change, literally mounds of diamond dust. Maybe I’ll make a cake of them for you when I return. That’s when four ravaged specters appeared, late as always, and said some pretty rude things to us before the Holy Joes took them out. Finarfin basically called me a pussy for not joining in the fight but I don’t see how my blades would have helped with spirits. Maybe he’s right, though, maybe I am a pussy—a pussy who intends to survive these shenanigans of ours and one day cover you with chocolate and diamond dust.

All my love,
Cordobles

Next is Finarfin's Nineteenth Report

Letter Seventeen

Dear Sneffles,
We rested for a short time. The castle was full of spooky noises and the stench rising from the bodies made me skittish, like the night we broke into that old charnel house on Slattern Street North. It’s a terrible thing what wharf rats do to the sad corpses of the unlucky. At least there was none of that kind of mayhem here.

The next day we returned to the heavy door barring our way. Szechuan and PJ quickly turned it to splinters while Laori and her cohort lurked in the background, more than happy to let us do the heavy lifting.

Inside, the room was full of detritus, tattered hangings smelling of mold, and the bones of the ancient dead. With amazement we discovered that one skeleton was wearing the fabled armor of old Mandraivus. His bones were as desiccated as grandma’s pap and exploded into powder when Finarfin, trigger-happy as always, blasted it with a lightning bolt.

Driar immediately honed in on the armor, brooking no dissent as he laid claim to it, eyes shining greedily while he laced it on. Even a holy man covets something, sometimes, as Wally the cross-eyed pimp used to say. The armor is a beautiful thing, though, even beneath its layer of grime. More power to Driar, I say. His luck brings us luck because old Mandraivus was an ass-kicking son-of-a-bitch and if Driar picks up even a copper of that we’ll be the ones who benefit.

Unfortunately, all our noise waked the powerful ghost of Mandravius, who apparently was still bound to the place. It cast a spell that almost knocked me out and sent Finarfin to dreamland faster than two spliffs and a bottle of red wine. I spent the next minute ducking as PJ duked it out with the angry spirit, finally blowing out its candle with a ray of searing light. “Rest in peace, old man,” I thought as he faded from view.

I hurried over to Finarfin’s limp form. All the anger and bluster had drained from him in slack-jawed slumber. What emerged was a vision of the innocent child he had been before my father wronged him. Perhaps this is what Shelley beholds when she gazes upon him in morning’s light, before waking him with a lusty roll in the hay. I, for one, remember the fierce, unrelenting, unforgiving Finarfin too well to soften much, but here, for a moment, I pitied him.

Splashing him with water soon revived him and he sat, surly and sore, on the chamber floor while we regrouped.

We poked around the bowels of the castle for a time but it was so obviously unused that the boys didn’t even bother to check for traps after awhile, which made me nervous but, hey, I’m the rookie and would have been dead 15 times over by now if they hadn’t been watching out for me. I’m not about to tell the holy rollers or the big brute to wait a minute while I look for a trip wire or garroting machine. They’re protected by gods and dumb luck, after all!

We soon came across a kitchen with three massive ovens, their back walls decorated with the grotesque charred shadows of endless victims—like a monochrome painting by Salvator Scream. The faint, nauseating smell of burnt flesh ruined what had been an otherwise perfect day. Yes, it was the smell of my flesh burning!

Daydreaming, I had been caught in the blast that erupted from an oven as a brace of fire elementals entered from the flue. I was singed all over and a bit overmatched in the ensuing fracas. These semi-sentient aspects of fire were able to enter the lungs of their victim, causing a violent hacking and coughing fit that incapacitated their foe, although Finarfin’s battered lungs warded them off with seeming ease as he spat a tremendous green-brown hocker at one of them, disappearing in a puff of stream. Soon the boys had dusted them off and PJ doused me with some kind of healing salve. After a time the pain became merely excruciating.

We got small loot, gold teeth and the like, but someone had obviously beaten us to the best of it. In the next room was a run-down torture chamber, adequate for their purposes I suppose, but I’ve seen better. I thought this castle was supposed to be legendary!

Finarfin poked his head through a window on the far side. Exclaiming with a loud curse that he saw a large courtyard dominated by a gray grim gallows. He said he also saw a well at one end and a stairwell leading up at the other.

What he didn’t say was that he had been observed by a coterie of fat-headed skeleton thingamabobs. They seemed as surprised as we were, only they didn’t have the brains to think about it so they turned as one and charged ferociously, swinging their heavy broadaxes. Well, this is why we brought a barbarian along. I whittled a little off them as they carved a lot off me. I was saved only by the ghost-touch material embedded in the sleeves of my armor.

Afterward, in the alchemy lab next door, we found a caged female halfling. We all expected her to get a rise out of our little guy but Finarfin eyed her indifferently. After some skeptical questioning by our cleric—who proves as cynical as a flesh peddler on Water Street—we called Laori and her pals in to winkle out the truth. Soon the pseudo-halfling melted into its true identity—a nighthag. I thought the residents of Pox Alley were ugly, but in comparison they’re a sunny day on the beach.

She said we had to destroy four spirits chained to another called Mithrodar. The four spirits were known as Castothrane, Nihil, the dragon Belshallam, and one whose name she did not know. She also warned us away from the west wing, which makes me want to go there.

With that we set her free. Unfortunately for her, Laori and her pals decided to escort her out—maybe all the way out. She sputtered noisily as they frogmarched her from the room. Driar sighed as if somehow defeated and I suddenly realized why Bardar, the good, had abandoned us.

We decided to explore the courtyard below. I watched Finarfin rising in the air like a fat red balloon when a shadow crossed him from above. I gasped in horror seeing the floating bulk of a dark umbral-dragon above him, and heard the ominous wafting of its gently flapping wings. It was Belshallam and its blast hit us before I could squeak a warning. Fortunately, I stood a little outside the blast’s cone of destruction and was spared the worst of it.

It had Finarfin pinned in one mighty claw and he cried like a virgin caught in the grip of Ort “Cherrypopper” Magdolore. He sprayed some acid at the thing but it only made the monster angrier. I got in some shots but it busted me down to nothing and the only reason I didn't pass out was by using that little spell of revive you taught me back in grade school.

For the rest of the battle I hid behind the well's wall—well within the cloud of darkness the dragon had conjured. When it died it somehow contrived to fall on top of Finarfin with a thud, nearly taking him to hell with it, but PJ and Driar were able to revive him by packing his orifices with a poultice made of spit, piss, sawdust, and fresh ogre-felch.

Then we retired to a back room with the dragon’s horded wealth and I spent the night sleeping on a pile of gold with jewels for a pillow. Praise Desna, for tomorrow we die!

Love Love Love,
Your Cordobles

Next is Finarfin's Eighteenth Report

Letter Sixteen

Dedicated to Takara—live long, be productive, find happiness and fulfillment!

Dear Sneffles,

Finarfin took our lists, our items for sale, and our money. He insisted that he had to be touching Trinia to teleport even though a sun-shaman, Kaddok Speaking-Stones-Point-at-the-Sky, was doing all the heavy lifting and he didn’t seem eager to touch anyone. The quick thinking girl slid her backpack between them just as he grappled her and they disappeared in puff of blue light—that’s what it looked like anyway. I drank the last of the ale and took a nap while PJ meditated.

Several hours later Finarfin reappeared with our old compatriot, Driar, cleric of beloved Desna. We'll need the holy man because the rumor is we're heading for a land of the evil undead.

Our reunion was typically understated. Driar asked for a cup of tea, unrolled his prayer rug, and began meditating in the corner of the compound without flies. I sat with him for a time before he asked me to describe my experience above the world where I had united with glorious Desna. I tried to describe the experience in my inadequate Varesian, with a few barbarian grunts thrown in for effect. He asked for directions to the Acropolis and then gave me his blessing.

Afterward, I visited Finarfin to pick up my new weaponry—a mace for bludgeoning things and Elixir of Fire Breath to burn them down. He looked smug and halfway sated so I guess he used the time off to get his knob polished. “Did you get Trinia back all right?” I asked him but he just grinned nastily. “How’s that sex-ay Sneffles doing? Seen her recently?” He pulled out a toothpick, sucking air noisily through his teeth.

“At least she’s no ghost,” I answered curtly before turning away, leaving him to puzzle my meaning out.

Soon after sunset the village’s final ceremony, the "Blessing of Ancestors," began with a huge feast near the still-smoldering pyre. The main course was barbecued Red Mantis, the sauce peppery, cactus-honey based, reddened with the enemies’ blood—and delicious. They served grog they had stolen from somewhere and save for special occasions—like when a quarter of their tribe is senselessly wiped out.

There were more speeches and glad-handing until Ready-Klar called for silence. Portentously, he introduced a sinewy old man—no, old is too gentle a word—aboriginal—a shaman of the sun, direct descendent of Mandraivus, the hero who slew Kazavon, the Blue Dragon of the Lord of flies, Zon-Kuthon, over 600 years ago. At Scarwall they split the creature into seven parts, hoping to put an end to its evil influence but could reduce it no further for a sliver of Kazavon’s soul remained in each tender loin, longing to reunite and once more dominate the world. Instead, they scattered the parts widely in hope that no one would be foolish enough to bring them back together again, forgetting, apparently, that there are fools enough to accomplish any feat. One of the parts, the Midnight Fangs, were secreted in pre-Korvosa, where it waited patiently several long ages, for the day when our simple-minded Queen desired a fancy new tiara made from the old dragon’s teeth someone had dug up in the basement of her moldy old castle.

The shaman, saying that he could talk with spirits, asked us to think of the dead acquaintance who could most help us prepare for our ordeal. I admit I was stumped. I would have liked to have seen Redcullin again but, improbably, he’s not dead. Then I thought of Majenko, but no reason the pseudodragon would want to see us again. Then Finarfin barked that it was Zellara we wanted—“Damn it!”—the medium who had first started us on the road to this mess.

Well, the Sun-Shaman started moaning and wriggling about like a cock’s eel at spawning time. Drier and PJ soon joined in, as did Ready-Klar, Krojan-the-Eater, and Szechuan-the-Dude. Finarfin stared determinedly into the fire as I watched the ceremony passively, letting my thoughts drift where they would.

There came a cool breeze—the first I’d felt since we entered this hellish country—and a growling sound like a barbarian’s hungry belly. Above the fire, the hurtling embers scribed the image of Zellara. The afterlife must agree with the old gal because, where she used to be as wrinkled as a walnut, she’s now as smooth as a new-girl’s bottom.

She started shuffling her cards like three-fingered Monty, the head dealer at Fat Jack’s, laying them in a divining pattern. Turning as pale as a ghost scribed in glowing embers can be, she pointed out at us with bony finger, telling us in rickety voice to, “get-thee-hence to ancient Scarwall.” I nearly jumped out of my skin as the drums boomed forth melodramatically. Scarwall is a cursed place in orc country, filled with ghosts, skeletons, and who the hell knows what else, where we get to hack our way through the undead to retrieve Serithrial, the legendary sword of Mandraivus.

Zellara imperturbably turned her cards as a lad sprung forth to loudly recite her poem:

“Fate of steel…Serithtial
Her cage for years sustained
Four enthralled in lost Scarwall;
Undead to keep her chained.
A spirit first, red war his thirst
Still stands at post of old;
A second foe, infernal soul
Waits high in tower cold.
In kennel’s grime, third bides his time
Then vents his killing breath.
And on a stone ’mid ash and bone,
The final dreams of death.
The spirits worn and battle torn
And locked in their damnation,
The chained one’s hold at last grows old
And ushers in salvation.
Yet hope remains amid the chains
When blade’s stone cage has crumbled,
Friends to dread and the death of the dead,
Keys to Kazavon humbled.” *

Each of us received three Harrow cards to help us in our quest (her words), and two others to help us cheat death. Then, with a ghostly cackle, the apparition disappeared. I drank grog as the ceremony wound down and sometime after midnight Szechuan and I held each other up as we returned to the Boneyard.

“You ain’t so bad for a gay guy,” he belched.

“Neither are you,” I replied. Before I knew it he was pulling off his pants and calling for the bear grease. I could have easily slipped away but I realized that, half-clothed, he was already snoring pitiably on the ground by my feet. I painted a couple of obscene gang signs on his jerkin before finding a remote spot to rest my eyes.

* * *

 The next day we were transported far north to the eastern tip of the Kodar Mountains—within the orc-controlled Hold of Belkzan. We were standing on a hill overlooking a dry valley, which the gloomy fortress of Scarwall commanded from an island surrounded by a deep, wide lake. A small fort guarded the entrance to the bridge leading there.

“I’ve got a bad feeling about this,” I said as we began making our way through the dry scrub.

“Man up,” said Szechuan, giving my ass a reassuring (for him) squeeze. “We’ve come this far, haven’t we?”

“True,” I sighed, “every road is an opportunity.”

“Would you stop it!” Finarfin cut in. “I mean, really. Are you going to cry now?” Typically, he misunderstood my quotation from Desna's holy scriptures. “Maybe we should have dropped you off in Janderhoff with Trinia.” He growled nastily, revealing his true attitude towards her, despite all his pretty words to the contrary.

“Leave him alone, Finarfin,” Driar suddenly spoke up, surprising us all. “He’s just expressing what we’re all feeling,” he looked down upon the volatile halfling warily. Finarfin was quivering like a tuning fork with nearly uncontrollable rage. Vencarlo calls this sort of thing “combat nerves,” and it can be quite deadly.

“Well, at least I don’t prattle on about such things,” he finally grunted.

“Ease up, wee lad,” Szechuan said, patronizing him. Finarfin’s eyes bulged as he turned towards the much larger man, who seemed as innocent of his offense as a newborn babe.

“Would you all just shut up for a minute,” PJ hissed, halting the confrontation in the nick of time. “Someone is coming.”

Looking up, my heart skipped a beat as the three approached us, led by Laori Vauss. She looked rumpled, as if she had just climbed out of bed. She glanced at me briefly but I saw only disdain there. I dropped behind the others.

Quickly she introduced her companions: Shadowcount Sial and his servant Asyra, a chain demon, who incongruously wore a thin bracelet of enchained hearts around one wrist.

Laori quickly acknowledged that we were on opposite sides of the fence but offered a truce of sorts because the castle held many traps, the least of which would impede us, or them, but not both. “You guys are too good and we’re way too bad,” she smirked.

I could not keep my eyes off her. You know how it is when you’re attracted to someone you shouldn’t even speak with? It can only end badly but you can’t help yourself, something inside you really wants that person and you wonder if it’s because, deep down, you share with them the quality you find so disgusting. Yeah, that’s how it felt, and I was as helpless as a corpse wrapped in sheets. Worse, she knew it. What will happen to little Cordobles if he has to kill her someday and will she come when I do? Vencarlo calls this sort of thing, “performance anxiety.”

She hinted that they were actors for Zon-Kuthon, god of darkness and pain, who had something against the castle’s current management. This seriously perturbed PJ who exploded in a somewhat confused diatribe against “all you death-dwarves and the horse you rode in on!” But ultimately the holy guys held their noses and agreed because they knew Laori was right. She winked at me with satisfaction, her smirk returning when she glimpsed my longing gaze—the spider and the fly.

Up above we could see ghostly lights flickering at the windows and the shadow of movement of something that was probably both mean and smelly.

PJ and I crept around the back of the blockhouse while the others kicked in the front door and started slaughtering orcs like chickadees. I managed to kill one and lame another. You always say that the best thing about orcs is that they never stay long. Another good thing is that they carry lots of valuable loot, although we made Finarfin do the disgusting job of emptying the pockets of the ones he’d fried like Founder’s Day quail. He wrinkled his nose but did it, pulling the flesh off with their rings and other jewelry. Laori, who had been following along behind with her crew, mocked him delightedly, saying, “Don’t forget to check their cocks, they wear gold rings down there.”

“You’d know!” he growled in reply, but I noticed him checking their crotches from that point onward.

 We split up opals galore and I saw a necklace of seven silver-plated wyrmling skulls that I really wanted but didn’t think they’d let me keep. By the front gate we found an information kiosk with pamphlets about Scarwall and its history printed by the local chamber of commerce. It read:

“The castle sits atop a small island in a crater lake made of the caldera of a long dormant volcano. The keep is an imposing collection of towers and fortifications. (Note the clouds of dark carrion birds perched upon its pinnacles, riding the winds above its towers.) A single span connects the castle to a small peninsula on the lake’s southern edge, where a crumbling gatehouse stands. The barbican consisted of a moldering curtain wall flanking the remains of two towers, the western of which has collapsed on itself. The other, though battered, still stands, supporting a ramshackle lean-to. Hosts of undead wait to welcome you to Zon-Kuthonland, a world beyond anything you’ve experienced before.” *

We disposed of the bodies in the black water surrounding the castle and were surprised by a surge of movement as something very large and hungry gobbled up their remains—like trout sucking bugs under the water’s surface. Gods keep me from such an ignoble ending.

With a loud thump that reverberated throughout the valley the far gate opened and a coterie of skeleton shambled towards us, armor clashing against their bones, longswords held stiffly and inexpertly. They were led by a monster’s skeleton bearing an immense lance riding what Laori called a “Night-mare,” which is an overly large horse, flesh rotting beneath silver armor, with glowing, demonic eyes, fire coming from its nose, and smoke hissing from its asshole.

I don’t know why they bothered except to clean out their deadwood because we’ve become so powerful that we wiped them clean, like Aunt Eldoron sweeping ants out her kitchen. Even the Nightmare and its rider were no match for us, although they hurt us some. Licking our wounds we were soon on our across the causeway again.

We were walking into a strong wind. I soon recognized the familiar sensation of spirits gathering—like in my old apartment after Redcullin left. Looking back I saw Zellara’s ethereal form besieged by flying darkness but before we could react she was gone, swept away by a “swarm of souls.” I vow that we will find her again.

Our way was blocked by a tall latticed gate framed by two heroic statues of warriors bearing flaming lances. Szechuan and Finarfin lifted the cumbersome portcullis as we scuttled beneath it. Once inside we saw that the hallway was littered with bodies, orc and human alike, in a desperate, final struggle. Many of the bodies lay pincushioned by arrows, and I eyed the firing slits lining both sides of the hallway uneasily. I guess I’ve become inured to gruesome sights because I was indifferent to the ruined lives and lost dreams represented there.

Suddenly I spied movement in one large pile of bodies that had started creeping towards us, cursing all the while from a dozen mouths. I found out later that this thing was a "corpse orgy," which sounds fun but in fact is a nasty scavanger that absorbs the dead. For some reason this one was being prevented from finishing the process of assimilation—a sort of a chunky stew instead of the puree it wished to be.

It seemed like a good time to try out my elixir of fire breath, which hurt it some but stunk up the joint, causing the critter to try to absorb me! Fortunately, Laori and her pals had followed us in and helped put the creature out of its misery. I guess there are worse things than being eaten by a lake monster.

We decided to take a break and found a corner unfettered by corpses, where we rested and counted our loot. Laori continued ignoring me so I sat by a broken-out window gazing out over the lake, a light breeze cooling my brow.

Always yours,
Cordobles

* Quotes (the second one rewritten) courtesy of JollyDoc’s  SCARWALL.
Next is Finarfin's Seventeenth Report.

Letter Fifteen

Dear Sneffles,

The next day the men returned. Their shock and rage at the carnage greeting them threatened to escalate into a fight with us but Ready-Klar and Krojan the Eater talked them down, explaining that but for us there would no one left alive. This calmed them somewhat until one smart-ass remarked that if we hadn’t been there in the first place the Red Mantis would have had no reason to attack them, and the grumbling renewed. Thankfully, the diversion had bought just enough time for Ready-Klar to get his lieutenants deployed. Soon everyone was too busy cleaning up and preparing the dead for the funeral to pay attention to us. Ready-Klar asked us to stay until the next evening when we would take part in the grand funeral’s closing ceremony—the "Blessing of Ancestors." Until then, “stay the fuck outta the way.”

So we hung out in the shade of a huge pile of dried up old bones. Szechuan went off to help his pals clean up while the rest of us got a card game going. That’s when a young barbarian shambled into our encampment, looking about with distracted air. Trinia quickly went over to him to find out what he wanted. Finally she turned to us to translate as the youth asked haltingly which one of us was “Phan-arf-faine?”

Finarfin looked up at him disdainfully. “Who wants to know?”

The guy scratched his dirty blond head, looking as abashed as a mule at Marshmallow Park, stammering, “They told me you were with Toska at the end—when she died.” The boy was too miserable to be angry and when he said her name his voice cracked a little. Finarfin didn’t know what to do, so he stood there diddling with his electrical thingamajiggy, just in case he had to fry the lad.

A tear crept down the boy’s cheek. He didn’t bother to wipe it away. “I just want to know that she died bravely . . . and that she didn’t suffer.”

Finarfin visibly gulped. He stared blankly into the distance for a moment before gathering himself. “She saved my life,” he lied, surprisingly humble. And maybe she did—that blade was meant for him. “She took on those Red Mantis fuckers wearing nothing but . . . well, uh, anyway she was tearing them a new asshole when that Cinderlander dog shot her down from behind. She died whispering a name . . .”

“Was it Klogg?” the boy interrupted hopefully.

“Yeah, sure, I think so,” Finarfin shrugged. “It was kind of noisy out there.”

Finarfin stepped back warily as the young man pulled out a very large knife and opened a vein in his arm, bidding Finarfin do the same. The halfling wasn’t enthusiastic so I quickly put a nick in him, using the silver knife—he barely felt it. Then the two clasped arms, bleeding on each other profusely. There were more tears and hugs and Trinia told me that Klogg had called him, “Brother of the womb,” which seems to mean that they’d fucked the same woman.

I guess that makes me brother to half of Korvosa.

That night they started their mourning. We sat by our pile of bones listening to the ceremony unfolding down by their fire-circle. Each stanza of the shaman’s steady cadence of ancient verse was answered by the clan’s hearty response. I fell asleep to the gentle sound of Trinia’s rhythmic translation, somewhat after the recitation of their “Trail of Tears,” which happened  during the time they call the "Cheliax Scourging."

As dawn approached they finally lit up the pyre, consigning their loved-ones to the afterlife. That took the rest of the day to accomplish as a choking pall of smoke reeking of oily flesh enfolded our hilltop. They fed the Red Mantis corpses to the dogs, after dissecting the big Mantis for spare parts. They also kept the Cinderlander’s head as a souvenir, proof that he really was dead. To his face they’d glued a beard. When I asked why, they told me it was fashioned from Toska’s “private hair.” A jape, I suppose. I admit that it smelled of her.

By late afternoon the village was sleeping in the acrid heat. I tried to rest, too, but ended up at the cliff’s edge staring out over the rusty plain in the direction of Korvosa, where everything I hold dear awaits me. I’m getting a very bad feeling about our adventure and can only beg you to visit the Count’s summer retreat on the coast until I return. I know, you’ll say, “I can take better care of myself than you can yourself but, unless you’ve suddenly acquired a taste for violence, I guarantee you won’t like what’s coming.

“Hey pinhead,” I heard Finarfin call. “We need your help.” I quickly returned to the “Boneyard” (which I learned was where they compost their "middens") to find my compatriots hurrying about, dividing our Mantis loot. Finarfin had magically acquired the ability to teleport great distances and decided we should revamp our weaponry. I couldn’t argue with that and put dibs on the Cinderlander’s own mithral shirt! It’s light, looks sharp, and is as strong as an m-word fucker. If only I’d gotten it autographed!

I also got Szechuan’s spare Gauntlets of Power to augment my noodle arms.

Trinia, who had been distracted and haunted all afternoon, suddenly announced she was returning to Janderdhoff with Finarfin to stay at Orisini's and Adriel's bachelor pad. I held him by the shoulders, looking deeply into his beautiful green eyes. So that’s how it plays! “It will be comforting for all of you there,” I agreed. “You’ll be able to help the old boys with whatever they're doing.” I opened a small pint of ale we’d rousted from some Dead Mantis’ belt, toasting her.

With a guilty look, she confided that the night of the attack she’d sent a succubus to Finarfin in her place, just to shut him up, and now he's got some kind of sex-jones for her. She knew she shouldn't have done it but the guy was way too obnoxious. She's afraid that if he finds out the truth his berserker-revenge fetish will kick in—she knows the type—making her life a living hell. So it’s fare-thee-well, young sailor. When this is finally over, my sweet girl, I’ll introduce you to him, and we’ll all take a long vacation together along the coast, in your winter-boyfriend’s yacht.

[I’m giving these letters to Trinia to post when she arrives in Janderhoff. I asked her to give Vencarlo and Jasan a kiss for me when she arrives. She blushed prettily and said with a crooked grin that she intends to do more than that!]

Much love,
Cordobles

Followed by Dear Sneffles Letter Sixteen