There was an admirable simplicity to the Land of Darkness. The Dread Lords adhered to a nebulous code of conduct, in a bid to win the favor of the Makers, concocted over the ages. The gist of it was to show a deference to visitors from the World of Light not afforded to their underlings, the monsters of the Land of Darkness. Successfully operating in the Dark Lands came down to appreciating the wraiths’ eagerness to earn the respect of The Makers.
“This is crazy!” Ayara was pouting with her arms drawn across her body. Bonnelle rolled her eyes at the fact a woman who was thousands of years her senior could come off as a petulant teen. Although she supposed that, for an elf, she was exactly that. It would be nice if she took a hint from her lover, Kornin, who walked beside her with a nonchalant swagger.
The maps Lt. Chrincha acquired showed a farm nearby. Per the myriad, unspecified rules, Bonnelle and the others were to announce their presence. As such, the Rude Rubies and Lt. Chrincha enjoyed only brief naps after the furclaw attacks. They then set off through the woods and to a dirt road to let the locals know they were around. From there, word of their presence would find its way to the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows.
“It’s certainly unorthodox,” Chrincha said. He used his staff weapon as a walking stick as he strolled along with the group. It made the weapon seem unassuming despite the jewel crowning it. “Just strolling along the main road to a place called ‘Withering Fields?’ It certainly sounds like a place on The Map which ought to be marked ‘dangerous; do not go there.’”
With a groan that rolled up her throat, Bonnelle raised up her right hand to strangle the sky in frustration. “Unorthodox for war in the World of Light! We’re in the Land of Darkness. Here it isn’t war so much as a …” The dwarf searched for the correct word as she turned her hand over in the air. Her left hand gripped her hammer’s handle as it rested against her shoulder.
“Business negotiation,” Henri yelled out from his perch on Kornin’s head.
“Yes! Exactly. The war comes later … if at all. Right now, it’s more like a business negotiation with the Dread Lord. We’re just coming out here to let them know we’re in town and we want to talk.”
“Have you ever met one,” Kornin asked.
“Dread Lords? A couple of times.”
“Any in battle,” Chrincha asked pointedly, the question seeming more like an accusation.
“She’s alive, isn’t she,” Renaut chided the Colonel as she swooped past him on her sparrow, Chirpers.
“Like when we got the Wand of Winters,” Henri said from the top of Kornin’s head. He took off on his big raven, Cawcaw, as the big elf playfully swatted him away.
“That was Dread Lord Joyful Lust. They didn’t want to deal with us, so they just appeared in our camp, asked us why were there, then came back with the wand and said we were free to stay in their domain if we’d like but not to bother them.” A contented smile pushed Bonnelle’s chubby cheeks to the sides.
“Stay in the Land of Darkness? Why ever would you do that?” Chrincha looked up at the sky. “It’s past noon but it feels like a cloudy mid-morning despite the clear sky. This place is, at best, the Makers’ rough draft of a place to live.”
“The nights are pretty, at least,” Ayara offered with surprising enthusiasm. “Up until the monsters started eating people,” she added with a mumble.
“Joyful Lust’s domain is on the coast of the Shattered Sea. Almost as warm and light as the cities on our coasts. Lots of beaches and relatively monster free. We took the wand and spent the next few weeks enjoying the area.” Bonnelle took a moment to consider that none of these elves would appreciate the sight of a voluptuous dwarf in a swimsuit. “I helped the Dread Lord’s army with slaying a sea creature. Very interesting, working with orcs out on the water.”
“We made a small fortune selling the supplies we gathered during that time,” Henri shouted. Sitting on a bobbing branch, Cawcaw used his beak to tug a razor-edged leaf free. Henri then snatched it up, folded it, and slipped under his robes.
“I can assure you, Lady Rhodian, should this contract conclude with such fortuitous rapidity, you will not be afforded the opportunity to stay here any longer than needed,” Chrincha informed through an unamused growl.
“The farm is just past that hill,” Renaut informed Bonnelle as she flew past on Chirpers.
Bonnelle announced: “Everybody, do your best to look intimidating! Remember that we’re battle-hardened adventurers!”
Withering Fields drew into view as the team crested the hill. Bonnelle couldn’t help but smirk at the looks of awe on her three elven companions. This was no nightmare landscape blighted by rot and swept by winds of despair. Instead, rolling hills were covered by tall wheat which swayed in the breeze. The bearded heads reflected golden sunlight against a grey-blue sky dotted by fluffy gray clouds. Among the fields, orcs and trolls struck down swathes of wheat with scythes while goblins picked and bundled after them.
Near the bottom of the hill one goblin emerged from between rows. His arms were wrapped around a bale of twine as big as he. Since he couldn’t see around the twine, he proceeded carefully, probing the dirt before him with his toes before taking a step. With the side of his face pressed against the spool he soon found himself staring up at the adventurers atop the hill.
The goblin yelled in surprise and dropped his bundle. It rolled in the dirt, unspooling as it did. Running towards a red barn circled by silos, the goblin repeatedly yelled “invaders!” The workers in each row he passed paused as the orcs and goblins wandered into the road to stare up at Bonnelle and the others. Their gawping faces belied fear, confusion, and rage.
“They’re farmers,” Ayara stated with dry disbelief. “Are we … we’re not going to fight them, are we?”
“They shouldn’t pose much threat.” Lt. Chrincha raised up his staff. The jewel on its head glowed red, making some of the monster below stumble back.
“Stop that, Osuan!” Bonnelle motioned for the Lieutenant to lower his weapon. He did so while glaring at her. “No wonder you’re career military. That’s not how you open a business negotiation!”
“They’re mostly goblins,” Lt. Osuan Chrincha said. “They don’t even seem like they know how to fight.”
“Goblins guarded by orcs and trolls. We’re not far from Withering Sorrows’ western border right now and border settlements are well defended! Make no mistake here, Lieutenant: we are hopelessly outnumbered. We survive in the Dark Lands by adhering to the Dread Lords’ ways,” Bonnelle said.
The barn doors were thrown open and a red sleigh riding atop metal plates strung together by chains trundled out. It belched white smoke from its rear as it moved along at a pace barely faster than a jog.
What is that?” Kornin pointed his club at the machine. It proceeded sprayed mud behind it as it trundled along the dirt road. “A weapon?”
Bonnelle set down her maul and rubbed her chin as she leaned against the handle. She’d heard about some of the domains developing means of transportation that relied on steam or magic rather than horses. She’d even seen drawings of them, but she’d not witnessed one in action. “They call it a ‘truck.’ Withering Sorrows’ goblins seem to be very inventive.”
Seated in the driver’s box were an orc and goblin. A troll was hunched over in the bed of the vehicle. The orc, broad shouldered and grey-skinned, stared at the Rude Rubies. His jaw set, his lips peeled back to reveal his yellow tusks, he seemed the type who was coming ready to fight. The goblin, scrawny and orange, worked a collection of handles and cranks with chaotic glee. The troll, a dull green pile of muscle, dug his little finger into his nose while he looked up at the sky, intent on a pair of blue birds intertwining their flights as they sang to one another.
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The machinery began to burble in anguish as it strained to push the sleigh up the incline. It lurched to a stop, ticking and bouncing but not budging. The goblin pounded furiously at the levers and dials but eventually turned to shrug at the orc.
Sighing, the troll at the rear climbed off the bed. With his burden removed, the vehicle lurched forward. Bonnelle and her party dived to the sides of the road lest the mass of metal and wood crush them beneath it. The goblin screamed as he yanked on a lever so hard it tore free of the dashboard. He pitched it to the ground as the truck rolled on and made an abrupt stop by nudging a tree. The troll followed behind with a casual gait. While the orc had kept his attention on the invaders to watch for attack, the troll seemed more bemused to meet them.
Kornin gasped. “Look at the size of him!”
“Still want to fight, Chrincha,” Renaut teased. Chirpers tittered at the lieutenant.
The troll lumbered up to the group with an amiable smile on his face. He looked past the Rude Rubies at his comrades, who were emerging from the vehicle. The goblin kicked at the sleigh and cursed it while the orc kept his attention on the invaders. His hair mussed, his face smeared and sweaty, he attempted to menace Bonnelle and the others by brandishing his sword. The dwarf kept her attention on the orc because they were usually in charge in the Land of Darkness, especially the well-armed ones.
“Put the sword down, Oleg,” the troll commanded the orc. His voice was charmingly sedate. Bonnelle turned to him, her lips pursed in surprise. “You’re invaders from the World of Light? We’ve not had any of your kind around for quite a while! I’m War Master Caetano, the one in charge of this settlement.”
After a slight curtsy, Bonnelle answered him: “I am Lady Bonnelle Rhodian, of the Dwarven City of the Deep Shine and head of the adventuring company The Rude Rubies. We have come here on behalf of—”
Chrincha coughed.
“—Debt collectors!” Bonnelle flashed the troll a toothy smile as she blinked innocently.
Caetano offered his hand, which Bonnelle shook, with most of her arm being swallowed in his grip. “Debts? I can assure you, we’ve no dealings with the World of Light, let alone any Dwarven City. If it’s a matter involving where our supplies come from, I can’t help. We get seeds and whatnot through the Machines Works. Where the goblins get it from is a matter for the Central Keep. We just grow food for the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows.” Caetano paused and looked to his companions as they joined him.
Oleg the orc had stowed his sword into a ruddy scabbard hanging from his hip. The goblin was holding some broken piece of machinery but was inspecting it rather than brandishing it. “Hail the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows,” the two cried out in unison.
“May their reign be marked by the Makers,” Bonnelle answered. She noted Caetano’s nod of approval. “These debts are not yours nor the Dread Lords’, however we’ve reason to believe their payment can be found in these lands. Tell me, where does the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows keep their most precious treasures: enchanted items, hostages, and the like?”
Oleg stepped forward, hand on his hilt. His eyes were on Kornin and Chrincha, watching their every move. “There is a fortress towards the heart of the Dread Lord’s domain named The Prison of Eternal Suffering. It’s not too far from the Keep, but a week’s journey north and east of here. It has long since fallen into disuse. We only use it for training exercises.”
His interest piqued, Chrincha mumbled: “War games?”
The orc nodded his head in understanding. Good ears on these orcs, Bonnelle thought. They were about as big as elves’, but a bit rounder, with frayed lobes. “I suppose, if the wisdom of the Dread Lord saw fit to put some goblin workers to repairs, it could make as good of a vault for their treasures as any. I can’t say if that’s been done, though.”
“As you can see we are but simple farmers here,” Caetano said. He swept his arm out, indicating the below which stretched across the horizon. A number of goblins, orcs, and even some trolls had wandered into the road to watch the exchange. It was also a show of their numbers.
Bonnelle nodded in agreement with Caetano. “This Prison of Eternal Suffering sounds like the place we’d want to go. Thank you for the information.” She slung her hammer over her shoulder. The goblin jumped back. With one hand freed, Bonnelle rummaged in the satchel by her side and removed a bauble. It was small, well crafted, shiny, and bright. A nonsensical cluster of gems, none terribly valuable save for the artistry of their arrangement; a symbol of a long-lost great house of the Deep Shine. She tossed it to the troll who dutifully snatched it out of the air. Bonnelle could seat herself in that massive palm. “A token of our appreciation.”
The troll pinched the item between his thumb and middle finger and brought it close to his eye for inspection. “Much appreciated, Lady Rhodian. I shall pass it on to the Dread Lord for his hoard, along with word of your arrival and debt collecting. Is there anything else? Have you need of any supplies while you wait for the great and powerful Dread Lord’s response?”
“You’re too generous, Caetano,” Bonnelle said. She daintily covered her mouth with her hand as she let off a lilting laugh. “Don’t worry, we’ve supplies enough with us. We’ll head back and break camp to head toward this Prison of Eternal Suffering.”
After a slight bow, Caetano took a step back. “Oleg, send word to the patrols to watch Lady Rhodian’s party and keep their path clear.” He tossed the jeweled nothing into the air and caught it at its height. The gust from his fast, massive arm rustled Bonnelle’s red locks.
With no more words to say, the troll turned and headed back down the hill with the orc at his side. They began speaking, already too far for Bonnelle to hear, but Oleg’s scornful glances over his shoulder at her made the subject apparent. Their goblin comrade lingered at the top of the hill a moment, still fussing over the piece of machinery in his hands. After a moment he realized he was alone with Rude Rubies and ran to join the others. The Bonnelle turned and began the trip back to camp. It would be nightfall by the time they’d arrive.
“Did we just fall into the break of The Map or something,” Ayara cried out. Her shrill whining caused birds to fly out of the nearby trees. “We walk for half a day for just a few minutes of conversation?”
“Not conversation. Business negotiation. We made it clear we’re here for someone to settle the debts of unspecified parties. We firmly established the Prison of Eternal Suffering as the place we’d find them.” Bonnelle pointed at Chrincha. “Was that place on your maps?”
“Indeed it was, Lady Rhodian,” the Lieutenant answered.
Ayara raised up her arms. “You heard them: it’s a ruin! Also, we never even established that my uncle is in this Dread Lord’s domain,” she screamed to the sky.
Kornin kept his distance from the raging elf girl by pretending to have a keen interest in whatever stirred in the woods along the road. Should she warn him about the razorsquirrels or doomcrickets? A former member of the Rude Rubies, although it was called the Red Deadlies back then, lost his head when one of those insects exploded nearby.
After a haughty sniff, Lt. Chrincha said: “We are quite confident that Toran is Withering Sorrows’ prisoner.”
“You could have been fully confident if you’d mentioned his name to that orc! How are you so confident, anyway? For all you know, my uncle is vacationing in Osdell right now!”
“Caetano was a troll,” Renaut corrected. “Do you really think a farmer way out near the border would be privy to the details of the Dread Lord’s hostages?” Bonnelle laughed, bobbing her head as though keeping beat to a song as she did. “But how do you know Toran is even here, Osuan?”
A per clearing of the throat by the Lieutenant. Then: “When we began looking into potential weaknesses of Harnen Brokenshield, we came across her history with Toran.” He leaned towards Ayara, who shrank from his approach. “Your uncle. We traced your family’s flight to Fairlaigh and from there his travel to the Land of Darkness. You know he needed to get approval from the authorities on the coast to come to this side of The Map. After that we reached out to the Dread Lords to find him. Of the twenty-eight we sent golden peacocks to with our letters of inquiry, including Withering Sorrows, twenty-five responded, not including Withering Sorrows. None of the responses claimed he was their guest, although several specifically mentioned him being with Withering Sorrows.” He paused, perhaps expecting questions. None came. “Ergo, Withering Sorrows’ refusal to respond supported their claims and indicated this was not am amicable residency, like the other elves in this land.”
“It’s like a game to these immortal magical beings. The Dread Lord is playing the part of some maniacal villain. Actually, I’m surprised he didn’t send a response daring you to come get Toran, like the kidnapped princesses of old.” Bonnelle grunted as she switched the shoulder she rested her hammer on. It was a pity to haul this maul all day just for show. “Now, we go back to the camp, get some rest, and start heading toward this Prison of Eternal Suffering tomorrow … no, the day after. You heard Oleg, it’ll take us at least a week to get over there. It’ll take a couple of days just for word to get to the Dread Lord, and we’ll need to allow time for repairs to be made to the fortress.”
“But if they’re already holding my uncle there …,” Ayara mumbled, hugging herself. Kornin snuck up behind her and rubbed her shoulders.
“Right, this is your first time here!” Bonnelle snapped her fingers. “Your uncle is most likely at the Central Keep so he can live in the lap of luxury with the Dread Lord. He’ll be placed in the prison once the campaign starts, though.”
“That … doesn’t make any sense,” Ayara said.
“It’s a game, Ayara. One where we stand a chance of being grievously injured, if not killed! But it’s best to play along, because otherwise we upset our host … and then our deaths are assured.”
“A mad place,” Osuan Chrincha growled.
Kornin rubbed his chin. “I don’t think there were any women at that farm. Isn’t that weird?”