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.