“Amiable” was not a word often—if ever—used to describe the Land of Darkness. Bonnelle’s previous raids of the Land of Darkness were not the nightmarish campaigns filled with death and horror many of her peers would imagine, nor were they the unexpectedly pleasant tours she presented them as. This adventure, given its inauspicious start with the furclaw attack, was no different despite the relative ease of their trek across the Dread Lord’s domain.
The need to be covert had been discarded due to the team announcing their presence early on, despite Lt. Chrincha’s paranoid insistence otherwise. Not only did they brazenly travel by road, but they’d also been provided horses and carriages by Oleg to help them on their journey! He likely was happy to get the invaders away from his peaceful farms.
So they traveled as loudly as they could. Occasionally scouting parties of orcs and goblins might emerge from the woods to advise them of troubles on the road ahead: a stretch washed out by floods a month prior or a wandering murksire. Sometimes larger groups would ride up from a nearby settlement and deliver smoked meats and barley water.
Although the elven soldiers and mages were wary of these visits and gifts, Bonnelle knew the monsters were simply excited to see visitors from the World of Light. As this Dread Lord’s domain was nestled deep in the Land of Darkness, few bothered to venture here.
The orcs lingered as they delivered the food and marveled at the soldiers’ fine armor, resplendently stained metal of crimson and gold, or the mages ensconced in velvet robes. Few Dread Lords bothered to outfit their armies so finely. Withering Sorrows’ domain boasted a Machines Works, so their soldiers’ weaponry and armor had a uniformity to them owing to the capacity for mass production.
While they admired the invaders, Bonnelle made sure to glean what she could from them. There were rumors that repairs had begun at the Prison of Eternal Suffering and supposedly the War Master selected for leading the defenses was known for being belligerent with the Dread Lord. Whenever this Hohza fellow came up, the tones of the orcs changed as they verbally jostled to denounce his views the loudest, however many had a marked hesitation to do so. In exchange, Bonnelle shared what she could of her companions. Her name was known in these, but they seemed especially curious of her two newest recruits. Not wanting to give up the advantage of the unknown, Bonnelle mislead the orcs by insisting Ayara’s wore gloves because she was a pugilist, and although Kornin’s strength was apparent she did not indicate his lineage. Additionally, as Lt. Chrincha would be joining the Rude Rubies on the campaign, she introduced him as a part of the team. It was important to let the enemy know who the combatants were; doing so kept the other soldiers and mages from being targets unless they interfered.
“Never any woman among them,” Kornin observed with a hint of disappointment.
“You like your women burly, do you,” Bonnelle taunted, flashing him a playful smile.
“No! It’s just … it seems weird.” He blushed and focused on Ayara, who although tall and tough, was by no means masculine.
“There are a few domains where populations are … different. All male, all female, supposedly one where the men and women are duplicates of each other,” Bonnelle answered. She’d never been to any of those domains but had heard the rumors.
“How is that even possible?” The Lieutenant scratched at his brow. He tended to march among the Rude Rubies, leaving the management of the soldiers to those under him. Did he feel the need to personally watch the mercenary company or just relish the opportunity to detach himself from military life?
The dwarf shrugged. “Wraith magic. They can do some wild things.”
From there Ayara launched into an exuberant and seemingly endless diatribe about the wraithstrains, relics of the era when wraiths visited the World of Light. They were horrific amalgamations of creatures and people tied together by wraith magic. It seemed she was an enthusiast of such oddities.
So it was that they journeyed towards the Prison of Eternal Suffering. Road signs and maps helped them to skirt around the Central Keep area; approaching the Dread Lord so directly might be considered a breach of protocol. They found a place some distance away from the prison and made camp. Daily they sent scouts to examine the grounds of their upcoming campaign, and though they reported progress in the prison’s repairs and the building of defenses, no formal commencement of the campaign was made.
The Lieutenant grew impatient. “It’s right there,” he’d gripe.
“But it isn’t ready,” Bonnelle would hiss.
They waited.
Bonnelle sat on a bench, an overturned split log, and read her book. She had tried reading in her tent, squeezing her girth into the too-narrow frame of the cot she was issued, but that caused her back to ache. Ever since, she’d opted for this log, although she had to wriggle about to get the sunlight to land just right so she didn’t have to strain her eyes. Even at noon the sun in the Dark Lands was frustratingly dim.
Just as hundreds of pages of anticipation were about to crescendo in this yarn about an heiress and her butler, Bonnelle heard Corporal Yalcha call out: “Lady Rhodian!”
Frustrated, she clapped the book shut as she slipped in one of her tattered, aged lace bookmarks. It was an heirloom from her grandfather from whom she’d inherited a voracious appetite for reading. When he was found dead with his face buried in a book, she made sure he was interred in the family mausoleum with the tome in hand.
Clutching the novel to her waist she stood and waved to Yalcha with her other hand as he approached. When he stopped before her, he tugged at his disheveled, sweat-soaked uniform to straighten it. He must have run all about the camp before finding her. “Lady Rhodian,” he huffed.
“Bonnie,” she corrected.
“The sorcerers have detected enchantments at the prison,” Yalcha said between gulps of air.
“I can see you’re quite excited by this news.”
The Corporal shook his head in the negative. “We were just finishing morning drills.”
She enjoyed the drills. Not performing them, of course, but since she wasn’t military they were optional. For them a twice daily routine was, to her, a once every-other-day curiosity.
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While elves were far too tall for her tastes, she could admire some of the men’s physiques. None of them matched up to Kornin, though. Bonnelle couldn’t fault Ayara’s dalliances with that strapping elf. “I take it Osuan …” That was Lt. Chrincha. “… would like to meet at the Command Tent?”
Yalcha nodded.
“I’ll gather my team and we’ll meet him there,” Bonnelle said. She hoped those two lovebird elves hadn’t wandered too far from the camp. Lt. Osuan Chrincha did not like to be kept waiting!
“Finally, some action!” Kornin pounded his fist into his palm.
The Rude Rubies, Lt. Chrincha, and several of his mages, were gathered in the Command Tent, hunching over a table covered in maps and surrounded by shelves laden with magical sundries. The tent was sweltering despite it being cool out. There were too many bodies, too many candles, and too little airflow. Dwarves were masters at letting enclosed areas breathe, given that they lived underground. Bonnelle frowned at the closed front flap of the tent. Lt. Chrincha had already refused to leave it open out of fear of the dozens of imagined spies skulking about the woods.
“Why did they take so long?” The Lieutenant leaned over the table. He pored over a map detailing the domain of the Dread Lord Withering Sorrows. Its surface reflected the light with a soapy sheen. “Have you any thoughts, Lady Rhodian?”
“Bonnelle,” the dwarf corrected. Although Ayara snickered in response, she was otherwise ignored. The dwarf continued: “These kinds of engagement can be unpredictable, Osuan. Not only are we talking about the mood of the Dread Lord themself, but there could be delays due to organizing the forces in the region and getting the pieces into position. From our own scouts’ reports they had to make some hasty repairs to the prison grounds.”
“I’m sure they worked in traps as well,” Chrincha mused as he stroked his chin. “So that’s it, then, we ride for the prison?”
Shaking her head, Bonnelle looked at the map. As they’d established the Prison as the battle ground it came as no surprise the lures were placed there. The mages’ spells bore that out, as the five golden cubes that tracked the lures were centered where the prison was marked on the map. Bonnelle bent over and flicked one of the cubes away from the Prison. It rolled a short distance and then snapped back into place. “Five lures. They’re likely spread around the Prison with each guarded by a team of warriors.” It seemed rather standard, bordering on dull.
Henri and Renaut walked across the map like the giant First One strolling across the land after the Makers made them. Renaut sat on one of the golden cubes and looked about. “It seems too simple. You’d think someone who hasn’t seen this kind of action before would make more of an effort.” She looked up at the elves towering over the table. “There are no Key Stones?”
The Lieutenant’s attention snapped to one of the nearby mages. The magician fidgeted a moment, swaying in her robes as she looked about the tent uneasily.
“Amateurs,” Bonnelle grumbled. She stood on her tiptoes to scan the nearby shelves. She spotted a jar filled with metal shavings marked ‘Brass.’ She strode toward it, although she was two shelves too short, she knocked the container down with a well-placed bump of her butt against the frame. In one swift motion she caught the jar out of the air and unscrewed its lid. After pouring a pinch of brass filings into her palm she returned to the table and tossed the filings at the map. The sprites held up their arms as shields against the rain of brass scraps. The pieces scattered across map surface, bounced about, and began to pool together into a point. “It would take a dull Dread Lord indeed not to use Key Stones. They make things more … fun. The Prison will be locked off from us until we collect them,” Bonnelle informed the others.
The point the filings formed was just past the western gate of the Prison. Still seated on a golden cube, Renaut kicked at the point with her foot. The pieces were knocked away for only a moment before they returned to the point. “Just one Key Stone … and so close to the prison? What even is the point?”
“This is perverse, making my uncle’s fate depend on the outcome of a game.” Ayara pouted and looked away. When she choked back tears, Kornin put his arms around her and rubbed her back as he held her close.
The Lieutenant gave Bonnelle a wary glance, not wasting a word as he inquired about Ayara’s dependability. When Bonnelle quickly shook her head in warning, he relented. “This is a place forsaken by the Makers. We couldn’t expect better,” said Lt. Chrincha.
Henri scrutinized the dot of brass as he squatted beside it. “Are we sure it’s only one? There wouldn’t be so many filings attracted to it if it was just one.”
“Let’s see how many more, then.” Bonnelle tipped the jar over the map and rattled out more metal slivers. Once they struck the map, they skittered across the parchment to join the others. The dot kept growing bigger the pieces began landing and staying in place. Bonnelle withdrew the jar and swept off the inert brass. She whistled impressive notes as she beheld the pile before the golden markers.
“That’s a big Key Stone,” Kornin asked. Ayara was still in his arms, but she seemed composed, perhaps even curious.
“It’s a stupid Key Stone,” Renaut stomped her foot by the pile. The ones at the top shook free. “Why put such a strong enchantment if it’s just the one needed? Unless the Dread Lord is worried that we’d try to use these mages to break the spell there’s no point to making it so powerful!” As she shouted her complaints her antennae poked from under the hood of her cloak and twitched wildly.
“Wait, wait.” Henri leaned in closer to the brass. “I think it’s moving!”
“It’s not moving,” Renaut was quick to respond.
“No, it’s definitely moving! See here? A moment ago the tip of the circle lined up with the end of the symbol for ‘forest’ there.”
“That’s your shadow!”
“It’s not my shadow!” Henri produced a small, black seed from one of his pockets and plunked it down beside the brass pile. “Watch!”
“What would it mean if it’s moving?” The Lieutenant leaned over the spot where the sprites stood, scrutinizing the dot of metal.
“They don’t move. The Dread Lords place them around the battleground, in this case the Prison, at fortified positions. Sometimes they’re hidden from tracking spells like this and then we have to solve puzzles or something to identify their hiding place. We fight some orcs, gather the piece, and move on to the next.”
“I like the puzzle solving,” Henri said, still staring down at his marker.
“The fighting orcs things can be difficult. Lots of death and gore everywhere,” Renaut casually commented. She dropped down and almost pressed her face against the brass marker. “It did move! It’s just a little past where you placed that seed!”
“I told you!”
“So what does that mean?” The Lieutenant stood tall and sniffed at the air with an arrogantly upturned nose. “If they’re not supposed to move.”
“You know, it might not be one big enchantment. It could be multiple stones closely grouped. Three or four of them, I’d guess.”
“Why keep them so close?” Renaut raised her hands into the air. The ends of the sleeves pooled at her shoulders as she exposed her thing, iridescent arms. “This Dread Lord is an idiot!”
Bonnelle rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Or an especially inventive one.” She snapped her fingers and pointed at the woman mage who had been hovering around the proceedings. “Do you have the resources here to produce seeking spheres?”
She nodded with exuberance. Her bright green hair waved as she did. “You’ll need them for the keystone … or stones?”
“Also for the lures.” Bonnelle slammed her hands onto the table. “Okay, Rude Rubies, Lieutenant, at dawn we head out for the prison. Those of you new to these lands, I know that things have been rather friendly with the orcs during our journey, but from here on out keep one thing in mind: these are out enemies. They have been charged with killing as many of us as they can for the glory of their Dread Lord, likely under threat of painful death. Show no mercy, for they’ll show none for us!”
Looking across the room, Bonnelle saw her romance novel set on one of the shelves, where she’d shoved it when she entered the tent. She considered she could die with unfinished, and perhaps some kind elf might bury her with it. What a shame it would be if she spent the rest of forever with that book and it had an unhappy ending! It would be best to rush through it before dawn.