INQUISITOR KHALI – ETERNAL WATCHMAN, MASCHERATA, DRASAK
10TH KENNOVASHAE, SPRING 845 PBM
Inquisitor Khali had her arm hooked with Traviston’s and she strode with what she hoped looked like confidence towards the bouncer that was manning the small, unmarked entrance to what she believed was the Eternal Watchman. Already the bouncer had prevented Ramirez from entering, claiming it was a private bar for members and their guests only.
‘This could be a good thing. If they keep a register of members, perhaps they may even have addresses. Fingers crossed stupidity and luck combine to make my life easier for once.’
As she approached the saw the large bouncer give her a long appraisal up and down. He grinned, revealing several golden teeth, and he made a show of flexing his fists and cracking his knuckles, revealing hands adorned in gaudy rings.
‘Stay calm. Smile and look flirty. Just like Janus does it.’
Khali tried to smile seductively, but the look was not natural to her in the least.
“Stop sneering at him. You look like you want to fight him, or maybe eat him,” whispered Traviston.
Her look then became a complete scowl, frustrated with the whole ordeal of human interaction, “Then you get us in!”
“Your will is my will,” he replied all too calmly.
The bouncer was now sneering at Khali, clearly displeased with the look she had given him, and was now likely going to lord his small amount of power over them both.
“My good man. My God requires that you grant us access to your den of sin and debauchery so that we may carry out his good work,” Traviston said, in his deep whispery voice.
“I am sorry, this venue is for members and their guests only,” replied the bouncer, sneering again his mouth full of teeth at them. “Maybe try a church.”
“Ius suum peto ut creator,” Traviston replied, with a solemn reverence, briefly shutting his eyes as in prayer.
“What?” asked the bouncer sharply.
“I am sorry. I forgot you are not blessed with an education. I said, ‘I claim his right as the creator.’ That means that as Faylen created everything, he is in fact entitled to go anywhere. He is, if you like, a VIP everywhere on Driax,” replied Traviston.
“You and your whore will be getting in here over my dead body,” sneered the bouncer.
“I find your proposal agreeable,” replied Traviston, without any hesitation.
The bouncer looked at him stunned as Traviston punched a dagger up under his jaw and into his skull. In a matter of seconds he was dead, and Traviston was dragging his body further into the alley so it was less obvious to anybody who came by.
Khali noted as he came back into what little light there was, he seemed to have no blood on his white shirt at all.
“How do you kill a man and stay spotlessly clean?” she asked.
“It must have been Faylen’s will for this man. The Lord does not wish me to be stained or burdened with this kill, and so I won’t be,” he replied.
‘Each person must find a way to live with themselves when they begin to take lives. Most of us lie to ourselves, I suspect, about the justification we have to end the life of another. But Traviston truly believes he is carrying out Faylen’s will and that therefore his soul is unblemished by these acts. I cannot say I feel that way. I think my soul is probably damned for the things I do, but I know somebody has to do them to make the world a better place. It may as well be me. Someone else might screw it up.’
“Shall we go inside?” Traviston asked.
“We should,” Khali replied, gesturing for Traviston to lead her through the door. The tall wiry man skulked forwards and started descending a poorly lit staircase into an underground bar. At the bottom of the stairs was a small coat room on the left, a staircase leading up to the right, and a decent sized bar laid out in front of them. The bar was reasonably well packed, with a slightly smoky haze hanging in the air. From the scents wafting over them, there were illicit drugs being smoked in this place along with the usual tobacco.
Traviston was standing adjacent to the stairs and looking for a vacant table when a slender female hand reached for his shoulder from the stairs. Traviston jumped as the hand brushed his shoulder, reflexively stepping back and his dagger finding its way back into his hand. He turned and looked up the stairs when no attack was forthcoming.
Standing on the stairs was Janus. And she held a scantily clad young woman’s hand firmly in hers. The young woman was likely barely past twenty years of age, with blond hair past her ears, a petite, slender frame, and a mildly pixie-esque look to her facial features.
‘Judging by the attire, Janus has found herself a lady of the night. And a reasonably attractive one at that. Why am I feeling jealous?’
“Fancy meeting you here,” Janus said. “This is my new girlfriend, Candy. She and I are going upstairs to a nice little room where she once took a Lord Hightower. He was apparently quite impressed with the place. And if its good enough for a Lord then its good enough for me. Why don’t you join us beautiful,” Janus finished, winking at Khali.
“What about me?” asked Traviston.
“You aren’t welcome. You have something between your legs I have sworn off,” she replied.
“I am not interested in any of that,” Traviston replied calmly. “I am not a man of simple vices like Ramirez. I will come with you and guard the door.”
Khali nodded her agreement and all four of them made their way up the stairs.
“The boss will expect me to charge more if there is more than one of you,” the pretty blond girl said.
“We will make sure you get what you are due,” Janus said, her tone matter of fact, but still somehow sultry.
‘And not for the first time I am left wondering what it would be like if Janus were to give me what I am due. Of course, there are strict rules about Inquisitor’s fraternising with their acolytes. So afterwards the Preceptor would almost certainly see to it I get what I am due, and I doubt the memory of the pleasure would last as long as the memory of the pain.’
When they reached the upstairs room, Janus, Khali and Candy went inside, leaving Traviston in the hallway. It was a dimly lit room with little more than a bed and a small table with a bell on it.
‘I guess it doesn’t need to be any more than this. You aren’t coming up here to play cards.”
“We can ring the bell to get whatever drinks you require,” cooed Candy. “What do you feel like?”
“Wine,” replied Khali quickly. Candy rang the bell, shaking her butt in a faux dance as she did so, which was a most alluring sight.
“Did Lord Hightower behave any differently in here than your other guests?” asked Janus. “Any particular kinks or oddities I could use to gain favour with him?” Janus had moved back next to the girl and was holding her in a swaying embrace somewhere between dancing, a cuddle, and perhaps foreplay.
“Umm… not particularly. He was quite a religious man though. He kept going on about the Great Dragon,” replied Candy as she stared straight into Janus eyes from about two inches away.
“Did he say what he was trying to do for the Dragon?” asked Khali. She almost immediately regretted it as she could see the question interrupted whatever flow Janus and Candy had going, and the blond haired girl stopped dancing and looked at Khali with a look of mild confusion.
“Why do you want to know that?” Candy asked.
‘Damn it! Why am I even here? Apart from the fact that I am extremely turned on by everything I can see before me, of course. But not sure the Preceptor would be very understanding of that motivation. Can I sleep with Janus right here, and say it’s all part of my assignment? I don’t remember them ever covering that scenario in the church’s training.”
“We ran into a preacher who was also talking about this Great Dragon. He was trying to recruit new followers for his cult. She just wants to know if they are all recruiting in the same manner. We could be seeing the beginning of a powerful new religion, right?” interceded Janus, trying to cover for Khali and get control of the conversation again.
Candy seemed to consider the new question for a moment.
“Lord Hightower definitely wasn’t recruiting,” she replied emphatically. “He kept his profile reasonably low. He did meet with some pompous looking noble, but that was done here, in this room. I assume so that nobody would know.”
“He interrupted his time with you to meet some silly noble? Sounds like a very strange man indeed… one who doesn’t appreciate what he had,” purred Janus into Candy’s ear, leaning in ever closer to the girl.
“Oh, it wasn’t like that. It was in the morning after. He paid me for the night and then a bit extra to have the room to himself for another hour,” Candy replied, as she began to kiss Janus.
“Do you know who this noble was?” asked Khali, trying very much to focus on the conversation and the information rather than what was going on in front of her.
Candy and Janus continued to kiss each other for a few more moments, before Janus moved her kisses down and onto Candy’s neck region.
The young girl seemed a little flustered, but Khali could see her concentrating, and trying to recall information.
“Never caught his name. I could tell he was noble by the arrogant way he walked and talked down to everyone, even though he didn’t look very tough at all.” Candy paused briefly as a look of pleasure washed over her face. “He referred to himself in the 3rd person which was at least a little strange. And Anders called him Deceiver, almost as if that was his name. That was the last thing I heard before I closed the door and left them to it.”
Janus began to peel Candy’s clothes from her firm little frame. Khali found herself holding her breath in anticipation of the unveiling happening before her. Within moments Candy was naked and Khali could see all of her from her neck to her feet. It was a very appealing sight.
“Will you be joining us at some point?” Candy asked as she began to peel Janus’s clothes off.
Khali’s mind was panicking. Part of her desperately wanted to scream yes and somehow become entangled in the gorgeous naked flesh in front of her. But it was wrong – it was completely against the teachings of the Sun-God. And she didn’t really know how to involve herself in way that would be alluring and appropriate to the mood. She was not very good at normal human interaction, little alone how to behave in a threesome as the 3rd wheel.
Janus’s dress had just been pulled from her shoulders giving Khali a great view of her back one of her breasts from the side. The dress would soon be on the ground also, and shortly thereafter Janus would be naked too. It was all too much..
“Umm… I just remembered there is something I have to deal with… right now!” Khali stammered, as she got up and bolted for the door. She didn’t wait to see if anyone said anything. She just got out of the room as quickly as possible,and closed the door briskly behind her. She leant back against the door and tried to catch her breath.
“Everything OK?” queried the deep, whispery voice of Traviston.
‘No! It was horrible… and beautiful… and totally wrong… and totally amazing. Even now part of me wants to throw open the door and run back in. Maybe it isn’t too late!’
“Janus has it under control,” Khali said back uncertainly. Even she could hear the shaky tone in her voice. “She will keep us a breast of things… I mean… nevermind. Let’s go. She can handle things here. We have to find some noble who calls himself ‘Deceiver’.”
With that she pushed herself off the door and hurried back downstairs, almost knocking several people off the stairs in her haste to get down and out of this place.
Traviston followed her without saying another word.
ANDERS – WAREHOUSE DISTRICT, PORT CHANDREX, KLYDOR
10TH KENNOVASHAE, SPRING 845 PBM
Anders strode back into the warehouse, Josak’s acolyte, in tow behind. The warehouse was now a crime scene, and it showed signs that the Council of Defence had already been, and likely would return again soon.
‘No doubt the runes in the roof above and possibly even reports of a large demon running amok in here will have everyone on edge.’
He approached the guard and the council of defence lackey who had been left behind to watch the place, likely until a more powerful inquisitor could be brought in to magically divine what happened here.
In Klydor, as with many empires with an inquisitorial legal system, an inquisitor was essentially a crime investigator, and depending on the empire, also possibly the judge. Klydor was generally too sensible to combine judge, jury and executioner into one person, so theirs were really just investigators, often with magickal capabilities, and hence they were a division within the Council of Defence.
‘Contrasting this pitiful wretch with the Church of Faylen Inquisitors, who roam Driax hunting and destroying any creature that their Sun-God declares evil, without remorse or mercy, and the Klydorian version seem quite tame.’
Anders began to look around. He had no helm on, so his long blond hair hung down over the pauldrons of his plate armour. He brushed his hair back to ensure his family crest of Hightower was clearly visible. The large sword across his back sent messages of its own.
‘Where is the damn priest, Turin. I will have the answers I seek.’
“Excuse me. This is a crime scene. You have to leave,” called out a voice thoroughly lacking in an air of command or authority. Anders considered ignoring him, but decided best not to insult the man immediately.
‘Let us try to avoid bloodshed with the Council. That would complicate my life at this stage.’
“Why hello there…” Anders paused and walked a few steps closer, “…Inquisitor Captain.” He deliberately picked a rank well above what this lowly Arbiter was really.
“My family, the Hightowers, owns one of the warehouses nearby, and I wanted to check what all the commotion was. You know, to ensure there was no threat to our holdings, or perhaps a threat we need deal with to protect the good citizens of the city.”
The Arbiter seemed like he may have been about to correct the usage of his rank, but then when Anders kept talking, he just let it go.
“You aren’t really supposed to be here Lord Hightower,” faltered the Arbiter, his voice again lacking in conviction.
“What did you say your name was, Inquisitor Captain?” Anders asked. “I just want to make sure when I report back to my family how wise and helpful you were, I get it right. We have powerful friends and I want to make sure the favour of my family and their friends shines brightly upon you.”
“Ahh… its Lando,” the Arbite replied. “I require no praise for doing my job. And you should be careful. It may not be safe here.”
Excellent. Having your name should help the efficacy of my charm spell.
“Puto fidendum amicis Lando”
(I think we should be trusted friends, Lando)
The first line of the spell was whispered, with gestures that were not particularly obtrusive. The Charm sphere was one that was reasonably easy to use around others. Then you finished the spell with what you wanted them to agree to.
“I think you should let me stay.” That completed the spell. The last part had to be in a language the person could understand, otherwise the suggestion part would not work.
“What say you?” Anders asked the Arbiter optimistically.
There were a few awkward moments as Anders waited to see if the spell would work. Then the Arbiter went just a little glassy-eyed, as if his eyes lost focus briefly.
“Of course, my Lord.”
Anders smiled. The Arbiter moved away a short distance and motioned for the guard to follow him, leaving Anders and the acolyte to move around the warehouse unhindered.
Anders quickly moved from corpse to corpse, searching for the body of the old priest.
“Pretty easy to see the ones the demon got to,” he commented quietly to the acolyte, gesturing to the body of what was probably one of Gerard’s men, its chest cavity largely caved in by what could only have been done by something with supernatural size and strength.
“The power of the Lord and the creatures he grants us is impressive indeed,” responded the acolyte.
‘The fervent words of the true believer. Slightly sycophantic, but our Lord will need as many of these as possible to build up his power I suppose. I should at least try to spare him. But Josak can never learn what I am doing here.’
“What is your name, Acolyte?” he asked.
“Dimitrei Lyonya, High Priest. It is an honour to serve you.” the acolyte replied, in a Moscovyan accent.
Still takes some getting used to, hearing that honorific used for me. Can’t say I don’t like it, though.’
“My father is the brother to one of the Grey Council of Moscovya,” continued Dimitrei.
I love when nobles immediately tell you how powerful their family is. Like it’s some great pissing contest on who’s family is more powerful, or that the exploits of your family somehow equate to your personal greatness. The Grey Council is impressive though. That council of channellers forged an empire from the peasants of the north, uniting them to fight off hordes of barbarians and orcs. And now they rule it with an iron fist. Dimitrei here will likely not lack for conviction.
“We are looking for the body of the old priest, Turin,” explained Anders. “He is the one with the information we seek.”
“Yes, High Priest,” Dimitrei replied formally, before splitting off to search for the priest.
Anders focused on finding a body with a single small crossbow quarrel. That narrowed what he was looking for quite a bit in a scene that was otherwise macabre and strewn with bodies. After a few minutes he found him, the crossbow quarrel and the dark robes of a Faylenian priest confirming this was the right body.
“Over here,” Anders called out to the acolyte, using a level of volume that would carry to Dimitrei, but not the Arbiter or the guard.
The acolyte scurried over quickly.
“Ok. How does this work? Do we need to prepare anything?” asked Anders.
“I assume his soul will be an unwilling participant in this exchange of information, High Priest?” Dimitrei asked, seeking confirmation.
“I think that is a safe bet yes. His God hates us and all we stand for,” replied Anders.
“Then it would be best to prepare a circle around the body first,” advised the Acolyte. “We can use that to bind the soul temporarily and force it to answer our questions.”
“I am well-versed on Summoning circles. Could I assist?” asked Anders.
‘I am keen for the spell to work, but also keen to minimise the amount of time we are here. If a contingent of Council of Defence turned up this could get problematic really fast.’
Dimitrei nodded. “Many of the runes are similar. I can guide you, High Priest.” With that Dimitrei passed Anders some chalk and a small pouch. Anders quickly checked in the pouch and saw silver dust, which he knew was to reinforce the runes of the circle.
They moved the body a short distance to make it harder to see from where the Arbiter and guard was. And then went to work. Anders checked intermittently on the Arbiter, and while he seemed to be wandering around and looking at things, he never came too close to what they were doing.
The Acolyte was capable, and between the two of them the circle was completed in about twenty minutes. They each checked the runes to ensure they were as close to perfection as possible. They finished the circle by sprinkling the silver dust into each of the key runes.
“Shall I proceed, High Priest?” enquired the Acolyte, once he had completed his own checks. Both were now kneeling side by side next to the runed circle. Anders nodded his assent.
The Acolyte took out a small skull from a large hip pouch and held it in front of him as he began casting.
‘What a simply delightful thing to cart everywhere. Necromancers must be super popular with the ladies.’
Even to other casters, there was something unsettling about necromantic magick. The barrier between the living and the dead was sacred to nearly all cultures. Which almost certainly meant it was significant to nearly all the Gods too, regardless of pantheon, from northmen to the Black Orcs. And yet Necromancers dared to break this seal, and their magick manipulated the energies of this barrier, and the energies of both the bodies and the souls of the dead.
As Dimitrei drew in his necromantic energies, everything around him, including Anders, got colder. The eyes in the skull started glowing red, and while they were looking outwards away from Dimitrei, it felt like they were staring sideways at Anders with a ravenous hunger.
Anders found himself casting a shroud that would help protect him against Necromantic energy just in case he ended up being the target for one of these spells, whether that be intentionally or by accident.
“Coniuro clipeum circa me”
(I conjure a protective shield around me)
“Et a necromantia me defend”
(And I shield myself from necromancy)
He heard Dimitrei continuing to cast his ‘Speak with Dead’ spell. He watched as the red-eyed skull began to crumble to dust. The skull completely crumbled into a fine powder, but the eerie red glow from the eye sockets remained…but it was now merging and widening into a larger single red spotlight.
Anders heard the final words of the spell clearly.
“Advoco animam tuam, Turin,”
(I summon your soul, Turin,)
“ut meis quaestionibus respondeas”
(to answer my questions)
There was an eerie howl as a strange wind blew through Anders. It was clearly supernatural, both because it was impossible based on his location, and also just from how it felt, causing a strange feeling to shoot down his spine and through each limb.
In the red spotlight the ghostly apparition of what Anders assumed to be Brother Turin appeared. His body was partially vague and insubstantial, but his Faylenian vestments were still recognisable as such.
‘You wore them so much, they are actually part of your soul. Interesting. Does that mean my soul is going to the afterlife in plate-mail?’
The face of the priest was the clearest part of the apparition, and it was clear the old priest was not happy with having been summoned back to the land of the living.
“You sssshhould nnnot have donnne thissss,” said a strange, deep voice, part spoken, part heard within the mind, and part on the wind.
“Try to ignore him. We get to ask two to five questions depending on how strong his will is,” said the Acolyte with urgency. “The magick should compel him to answer correctly.”
‘OK. Would have been nice to know that in advance. Two or more questions.’
“I want to know how you join the Crown of the First King to the Stone of Evronn,” Anders replied.
The Acolyte repeated the question word for word to the shade of Brother Turin. Torment and pain was obvious on the face of the old priest as he tried desperately to avoid answering the question. Several of the runes flashed white and a few went orange as he resisted, with several of the pieces of silver flaring white hot. But the circle held, and the priest gave off an anguished scream.
“Annn enchantmennnnt ritual mussst be performed withinnn a four-pointed ssstar… unnnder a full black annnd red moonnn. Lunnnari mussst nnnot witnessss the ritual, or it will nnnot work. You nnneed the Crownnn annnd the Ssstonnne at two of the pointsss of the ssstar. The other two mussst be filled by a member of the Sssevennn annnd the sssoul of the Black Baronnn, and each mussst provide their consssennnt for the two artifactsss to be joinnned.
Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.
An audible groan escaped Anders lips as he heard the requirements.
1. We need a full red and black moon, and we need the white moon in low sanction. But getting one of the Seven and the Black Baron to agree to the joining? How the hell am I going to do that? How do I even find the Black Baron? That is a supernatural ghost from Klydorian legend… I guess that is question number two.
“There is something strange happening here. It feels like something else is fighting against us here,” warned the Acolyte.
To Anders the whole thing felt weird.
“Could it be his God? I suppose its possible Faylen is pissed we are talking to the soul of one of his priests,” suggested Anders.
“It could be…” the Acolyte sounded unsure. “Try to wrap this up fast.”
“Ask where we find the soul of the Black Baron?”
Again, the Acolyte repeated the question word for word. And again the spirit of the old priest railed heroically against the magick wards compelling him to answer, the runes in the circle flashing orange, and some of them even going red with heat. But the compulsion held, and he was forced to answer.
“It is innnssside the family crypt of the Blackstonnne family, in Royal. It was returnnned to the finnnal resssting place for Duke Korruxxx Blackssstone.”
The legend says he was the original Black Baron. A noble who lusted for the throne of Klydor so much that he continues to seek it, decades after his death. Least now I know where to find it.
“Quickly, High Priest. Something is very wrong,” said a panicked Acolyte. Anders could see blood dripping from Dimitrei’s nose. “I think there is something else here with us.”
“What risk will the soul pose to any who try to take it?” Anders asked. He could see the panic in the eyes of the Acolyte.
“Ask him!” Anders demanded.
“What risk will the soul pose to any who try to take it?” repeated Dimitrei.
The priest no longer screamed in anguish. The shade within the red lights became less distinct and Turin’s face was no longer recognisable. The necromantic wind and the howling sound it made picked up in intensity considerably. You no longer needed to be a caster to feel there was something supernatural and very wrong about this wind.
“The risssk from the Baronnn isss nnnothinnng compared to the risssk you facccce right here!” came the eerie reply, the voice similar but somehow different to before. “Come clossser. I will whisssper the anssswer.”
“Shut the spell down. Now!” barked Anders. If Dimitrei heard him he did not act on those words. He instead crawled towards the red glowing spotlight.
The feeling inside the howling wind was now painfully cold, and Anders could sense the magick was starting to attack his shroud of protection.
‘Time to get out of here. If this is indeed Faylen, I definitely do not want to be around for his full hospitality.’
Anders backed away from the red spotlight, the howling wind, and Dimitrei. The Acolyte kept crawling and put his face right into the red spotlight. The red light flashed across his face for a few seconds and …
Then it disappeared.
Dimitrei stopped crawling and slowly stood, brushing the dust off his hands and knees.
“Is everything OK over here,” called the Arbiter, moving to investigate. Anders took a few seconds to consider his best response. Dimitrei turned towards him.
His eyes were glowing red in the exact same way the skull had been doing.
‘Necromancy may not be my specialty, but I am pretty sure that isn’t good.’
As an expert in Summoning however, Anders did know a lot about demonic possession, and this was beginning to have all the hallmarks of just such a thing.
“Dimitrei, blink twice in succession if you have any control at all,” instructed Anders.
Red eyed Dimitrei began to move towards him. He did not blink.
‘Ok. Let’s try to banish whatever has possessed him back to its own plane of existence. But that spell takes a while to cast, so I better buy myself some time.’
Anders began to draw energy from the shadows in the warehouse around him, looking around as he did at both the floor and roof. This spell was much easier and faster to cast, so would complete before Dimitrei reached him at his current pace.
“In dimensio umbrae pervenio”
(Into the dimension of shadow do I reach)
“Ab umbra ad umbram volo step”
(From shadow to shadow I wish to step)
Anders stepped into the nearest shadow, and then shadow-stepped to another one in the rafters of the ceiling. He quickly regained his bearings and looked down for Dimitrei. Dimitrei was staring back up at him with those demonic red eyes.
The guard and the Arbiter were now approaching, and Dimitrei looked towards them.
“Whoa. Cool looking red eyes you got there. How about you lie face down on the ground with your arms on your head and nobody needs to get hurt, huh?” suggested the Arbiter.
Anders began to cast his Banishment spell. This was one of the more powerful spells he knew, and it took much longer to cast than simple spells.
‘I don’t know what I am banishing, and I am reasonably sure don’t know its name. We will guess its Turin, but this will be tough.’
As he began building up the necessary energy to cast the spell he watched as Dimitrei moved towards the other two Klydorians below. The guard seemed hesitant, and he drew his blade and held it out defensively. Dimitrei began to cast. Shadow energy flashed around him and in an instant he was behind the guard. Dimitrei reached his hand out and touched the guard on the shoulder. There was another flash of shadow magick and the guard collapsed to the ground.
‘I hope the Arbiter buys me more time than that. Come on fool, cast something.’
“Please don’t do that,” the Arbiter asked, a lot more politely than forcefully. “I hope you did not hurt him.”
Dimitrei turned his back on the Arbiter and looked up at Anders, who was just finishing his spell.
“Nunc pervenio et animam vocatam arripio”
(Now I reach and grab your summoned soul)
“Et in rationem tuam remitto te”
(And back into your dimension do I cast thee)
A surge of magickal energy streaked from his hands and flew towards Dimitrei.
Almost casually Dimitrei waved his hand, and a wall of anti-magick appeared in front of him and Anders spell dissipated harmlessly against it.
“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA” echoed a booming laugh from the red-eyed Acolyte.
“How about I let you two sort this out. You just let me know which one of you forbidden magick-using assholes wins, and I will have a chat with them,” offered the Arbiter, backing away.
‘Ok. Whatever this thing is, it is a seriously powerful caster. It couldn’t really be Faylen could it? Could it? It’s using Shadow magick. How hypocritical can a God be?’
‘I can run. But then this thing is loose. That could be bad if it draws attention to us. And it could tell Josak or somebody else what it knows. Damn it. I can’t let this thing live. So how do I kill it?’
The Acolyte, or whatever it was inside him, began casting. It was immediately obvious whatever the spell was, it was powerful, and it involved an immense amount of flame magick.
Anders drew his large bastard sword off his back, and prepared to cast his magick defence.
‘If I time this right, this might be my best chance to destroy this thing.’
He noted the Arbiter was also casting, but he didn’t have a Sense Channelling enchantment running and there were no visual signatures to whatever the spell was. That eliminated most of the elemental spheres so it was unlikely to be directly damaging to the Acolyte.
‘Typical. Even when I am on the same side, the Council of Defence are of no value to me. Why did I even bother to register with them?’
The Acolyte began channelling the flame magick into two large flaming arrows, hovering above each outstretched arm, with his hands and all ten fingers fully outstretched in from of him. As the spell completed, both hands retracted into fists, except for his pointer fingers, and he swung his arms to point at both the Arbiter and Anders. The flaming arrows leapt from Dimitrei’s hands and flew towards the two targets he pointed at.
The first arrow streaked towards the Arbiter, and skewered him through the chest. His body fell to the ground, the flaming arrow still embedded and protruding out from his body. His clothes began to smoulder.
The second arrow flew towards Anders. Anders used his Shadow magick to try and shadow-step away from the arrow.
“Egrediendo per umbras”
(I evade by stepping through the shadows)
“Sed ut umbrae dominus eligo quo venero”
(But as the Shadows master, I choose where I arrive)
That was quite an advanced and taxing defensive spell. But one well worth it. Anders stepped off the rafter he was holding onto, and into the shadow next to him. He then stepped out of the shadow right behind the red-eyed Acolyte.
Many demons were highly resistant to harm, including being harmed by normal steel. Anders knew enough to cover as many bases as possible when attacking such creatures.
With a few quick words he engulfed his sword in Dragon’s Fire as he stepped through the shadows.
“Domine mi, Razilin’Tera,
(My Lord, Razilin’Tera)
“quaeso benedic telum meum cum flamma draconis tui”
(I beseech you bless my weapon with your Dragon’s Flame)
He was already swinging his sword as he stepped out of the shadow and the blade took Dimitrei’s head clean off. In those final moments it looked like perhaps Dimitrei was fighting for control of his body, and the Acolytes body neither evaded nor tried to cast any number of spells which may have saved his mortal form. His body parts crashed to the ground and his blood spilled all over the floor, joining into the already incredibly macabre scene of blood and bodies strewn around the warehouse.
‘Making a host do the exact opposite of what they want to do is difficult. Perhaps, having Dimitrei attack a high-priest of Razilin’Tera was such an egregious offence, that he summoned the willpower to fight whatever it was. If so, I thank you Dimitrei. Your sacrifice will not be quickly forgotten.’
Anders offered a quick prayer to the soul of the departed Dimitrei, and wished it a quick onward journey to be with their God, Razilin’Tera.
Then, with a quick glance to confirm the Arbiter was not moving, Anders hurried from the scene.
MITCHELL – CHURCH OF FAYLEN, PORT CHANDREX, KLYDOR
11TH KENNOVASHAE, SPRING 845 PBM
Mitchell stood to one side of the hospice chamber of the massive church, watching the flurry of activity as priests and nuns scurried about tending to the four wounded forms of the Seven. On a separate tablet lay the recently recovered bodies of Brother Turin and Javelin.
The Silverestri elf, Rivas, seemed to be the most seriously wounded, and most of the more senior healers seemed to be focusing on him and his rather significant wounds. He had been found by Eva shortly after Maragon had collapsed, and she realised he was unaccounted for. They had then brought all the wounded and recently deceased members of the Seven here.
Mitchell felt sad that Brother Turin was dead. The old priest had been mostly a comforting and wise grandfatherly figure in his life, and in this moment the few strange and awkward moments were forgotten. He would be totally distraught were it not for the fact that Maragon was clearly going to be ok. The priests had reset his nose, he had a splint around his damaged ribs, but he was otherwise doing well, and he was already limping around and generally taking charge of everything.
‘Just like usual.’
Mitchell had some remorse that Javelin was dead. He did not know the old rogue as well as Brother Turin, but the old Drasnian did teach him how to do accents, and was always good at ‘smuggling’ in cookies, sweet cakes, or some other morsel of food that Maragon would never approve of. He also taught Mitchell the earliest concepts of critical thinking and problem solving.
‘I hope I make you proud with the way I use that knowledge, Uncle Javelin.’
Neither Ragnar nor Balinor seemed to have any life threatening injuries, although with Ragnar that was hard to say as he would never admit to an injury. The priests had just finished tending to his face and ribs. He had been tortured the worst of the Seven who had been captured.
“We have done the best we can,” the priest said to him.
“That is OK. Now I am as ugly as Balinor,” the big northman scoffed.
“How is it that you, who knew nothing of what they wanted, got beaten up the worst?” asked Balinor.
“My charming personality I guess. I did manage to kill someone with a chair. How many did you kill while you were held captive?” retorted Ragnar.
Balinor laughed and shook his head in disbelief. “Is there anything you cannot use to kill someone? Because a chair you are tied to seems pretty unlikely for most normal people.”
“I will admit, the man asking the questions did seem pretty surprised,” chuckled the northman.
Mitchell could see Azzanon was standing with Gaebriel and looking forlornly at the body of Javelin. He was also looking at Samtha, the Bard, perhaps with intentions of trying to comfort her. ‘Or perhaps he is just awestruck by her odd appearance.’
Alicia was tending to the wounded. And Hawkin looked like he may have been trying to court Eva. In her defence, she gave no indication of being in any way impressed by him, and that was with her mask off.
Apart from those he had helped rescue or come to the church with, Mitchell could see three other figures in the church that he knew from previous visits to Maragon’s Tower.
Mitchell approached Samtha and gave her a big hug. She was standing next to the body of Javelin and it was clear she had been crying a lot. But as Mitchell looked into her eyes he mostly saw a steely determination rather than grief.
“I am sorry,” Mitchell said
‘What do I say? Javelin has been her mentor and I suspect somewhat of a father to her for years. I imagine she is feeling how I would have been feeling had it been Maragon lying on the stone instead.’
“Not as sorry as they are going to be, Sugar, when I get my hands on them,” she said resolutely. “Josak Norgette, Anders Hightower… both are going to pay dearly for what they took from me.”
‘I have heard Maragon curse the name Josak Norgette, but I have not heard of Anders Hightower before, although Hightower is a Klydorian noble family with a decent standing.’
Samtha stepped back from the embrace and moved with purpose towards Maragon.
The second figure known to Mitchell was a leaner, dark haired man Mitchell could only remember seeing at the tower twice. He was moving between members of the Seven, and having mostly whispered conversations with each. Mitchell knew his name to be Entreris Jarvis, but what he did for Maragon, and why he was here he had no idea. He moved with a cat like balance, as if ready to strike or retreat at any time, and his dark, form fitting clothing suggested he spent much time moving through the shadows and darker places.
The last was a fair skinned, brown-haired man in his mid-30s, putting him in-between the younger kids of Mitchell’s troupe, and the mostly older people of the Seven. Mitchell knew him only as Falcon, and he had been training for years with Javelin to be the eyes and ears of the Seven.
‘Apparently the first lesson is to come up with a codename and keep to it from then on, no matter what.’
Falcon also seemed quite upset at Javelin’s passing. He was in what looked like a very serious discussion with Maragon.
“When do we strike back?” Samtha interrupted, her volume loud enough to draw attention from many people in the church.
“Not here!” replied Maragon sternly. “This is place of peace and healing. We will go elsewhere to discuss… and we must, as there is much to discuss. We must discuss Javelin and Brother Turin with the others.”
Mitchell headed towards Samtha and Maragon to hear the rest of the conversation.
“Are you trying to meddle in the selection process again, Maragon?” Samtha asked, a tone of disapproval in her voice.
“No… well, Yes,” replied Maragon. “Some of the choices are not always wise, and perhaps we can convince them from this side to decline.”
“What is going on?” Mitchell asked.
“I will explain everything. Just let me get us a more private chamber,” replied Maragon.
‘You, explain everything. That would be a first. You will tell us just enough to carry out whatever task you have need of us. Unless things really are in a bad way. Worse perhaps than even this looks.’
Maragon went and spoke with some of the more senior priests, and was quickly provided with a place they could discuss things privately. He quickly gathered Balinor, Samtha, Ragnar and Entreris in the chamber. Mitchell made to follow.
“Not yet. I must speak with the Seven, and then very shortly I will call for you,” explained Maragon.
The door to the chamber closed. Mitchell stared at the sunburst of Faylen emblazoned on the door long after it shut.
“How are you feeling?” came a concerned voice from behind him. Mitchell turned to see Alicia standing near him.
“I am ok. I am a little sad,” answered Mitchell. “I knew both of those people lying dead on the stone tablets. But mostly I am lost and not sure what is happening.”
“I know that feeling. Mine is likely similar to yours, except I do not know even the things Maragon has told you over the years,” Alicia replied.
‘That is true. This poor girl has followed me from her home with almost nothing to go on other than I needed her help.’
“Maragon has said he will explain everything shortly. I am not sure if I believe that, but I promise I will tell you anything you want to ask of me once we are finished here.” Mitchell tried to smile reassuringly.
“Can you tell why I am here?” she asked, clearly not believing there was an answer to that question.
“Actually, I think I can,” Mitchell replied quickly and confidently. “That is one of the few things I am not confused about.”
Alicia motioned for Mitchell to continue.
“I meant what I said back at the Rebirth Festival. You have a gift, Alicia,” explained Mitchell. “Chandrilar will grant you his blessings through prayer alone. There are devout followers all over Driax who never receive such gifts. Chandrilar has chosen you as one of his clerics and he intends a special path for you.”
“What I have dragged you into, and for that I do apologise,” continued Mitchell, “is the exact sort of thing Chandrilar would want his clerics helping with. I think this is your calling and what he wants you to do. There are others who can do any of the things we might accomplish back in Garet. But there are not many who may be able to do what we can do to help here.”
Alicia nodded, then eyes lost focus as she thought about things some more. It looked like she was going to say one thing, and then changed her mind.
“I am not sure I am ready for this,” she stated.
“I suspect that is how you are supposed to feel. Look at Hawkin,” replied Mitchell, gesturing to his big, noble friend. “He has less idea how to be useful than either of us, but do you see any self-doubts from him that he should be here?”
“He should have doubts aplenty,” continued Mitchell, “But instead he thinks he is going to save the world, become famous, and possibly marry an elf or a princess. Ideally both.”
Alicia laughed.
“My point is, you doubting you are the right person to be here is probably why you are the right person to be here,” Mitchell concluded.
Alicia nodded.
‘You appreciate the kind words, but I can see you are far from convinced.’
At that point the door opened and Maragon was standing there. He beckoned Mitchell, Alicia, Hawkin, Peregrin and Eva inside.
“Azzanon is Drasnian Intelligence Agency. You don’t know he won’t pick him,” whispered Entreris in Maragon’s ear as Mitchell passed.
Maragon considered briefly then waved Azzanon in too. Gaebriel followed Azzanon. Maragon appeared to be considering excluding the young princess, but Azzanon made it clear he was not coming in if she didn’t, so the mage acquiesced and allowed them both in. Maragon closed the door.
“I am Azzanon Klarence Ravis III,” said Azzanon, introducing himself formally to Maragon.
Maragon looked tired. Like he was at the end of a very long night and he was trying to get to bed. His skin also had a pale greenish tinge to it.
“So you are a Drasnian spy…in Klydorian lands without their permission… who has rescued a Drasak princess from a plot to kill her by her own people… and then during your getaway, you rescued Mitchell… unwittingly involving yourself in the machinations of the greatest evil Driax has ever known?” Maragon’s monologue highlighted the absurdity of what he was saying to everyone crowded into the small chamber.
“I believe that is the gist of it, old man, yes!” replied Azzanon, with a broad infectious smile on his face. “The Gods see fit to ensure my life is never dull.”
‘I think Hawkin may have a competitor for being most comfortable while totally out of his depth.’
“I knew another Drasnian spy well. His name was Javelin. He died tonight. I hope you can be half as useful as he was.”
“Javelin is a legend in my order. May I ask what happened, and how you know of him?” asked Azzanon. “And I mean it when I say ‘legend’. Every young recruit in the Agency was told stories of Javelin in training.”
“He has been the eyes and ears of the Saranti Seven for most of the last twenty years. I believe Javelin knew a great many people, perhaps more than anyone else has ever known. That was his gift. As to his untimely demise, I believe he may have been lead into a trap by one of his informants, probably under the influence of the High Priest, Josak Norgette.”
“Begging your pardon, but I thought Javelin retired over 10 years ago,” returned Azzanon.
“Nonsense, people like Javelin do not retire,” replied Maragon. “He simply got a better offer – the chance to work for no pay against hopeless odds, fighting a threat most think we defeated a thousand years ago. And now I offer you an opportunity to do likewise.”
“Sounds like a dream come true,” Azzanon replied sarcastically. “But even if I wanted too, I have my own mission.” Azzanon glanced towards Gaebriel. She smiled in return.
“How exactly does a weapons smuggler from Lotan end up here,” drawled Samtha, as she finally saw past both her grief and Azzanon’s disguise.
“I suppose I should be flattered. At least when you left me for important work, you weren’t lying,” replied Azzanon. “Of course, that didn’t stop it from tearing my heart out.”
A look of great confusion came over Maragon’s already weary face. Mitchell looked around to see that confusion more or less repeated on everyone’s face.
“You two know each other?” Maragon asked.
“More… or less,” they both replied, almost in perfect unison.
“That’s great,” deadpanned Maragon, making it clear he really did not care. “I do not have time for that now.”
“Azzanon, at least listen to what I have to say. Then you can decide which task is more important, and at the very least perhaps report back to your superiors and see if they can lend us any assistance.”
Azzanon bowed with a flourish of his hat toward Samtha, then nodded his agreement.
“Everybody listen carefully.” Everybody gave Maragon their full attention.
“The Saranti Seven is an ancient order founded during Razilin’Tera’s initial campaign of evil against the good races of Driax. While we cannot be certain, we believe it was Evronn’s mentor who first formed the order, and shortly thereafter Evronn codified it, and created the seeds by which we would forever watch and fight against the followers of Razilin’Tera.”
“He knew even as he was preparing for the final battle at Laurabel that Razilin’Tera had become too great, the number of his devoted followers too numerous, and that upon his death the immortality of Godhood likely beckoned. As such, he wanted an order that, no matter what, would continue to watch for signs of the Great Evil’s influence or perhaps even attempts to return to this plane, which Evronn felt, as long as great evil resided within this world, was inevitable.”
“But I thought the Champions killed Razilin’Tera at Laurabel.” queried Alicia, “You are saying he became a God instead and can come back again?”
“They did, but…” began Maragon
“Hang on… are you saying the Champions were the original Seven?” interrupted Hawkin.
“…Yes, I am,” Maragon replied, becoming a little frustrated at the interruptions. A gasp went across much of the room from that revelation.
Mitchell’s mind also raced at the implications of this new information.
‘That is so cool. Its not everyday you discover your father and his friends are all working for a group descended from what is probably the most famous victory in human history!’
“But the Champions all died at Laurabel, didn’t they?” queried Alicia.
Maragon held up his hand to forestall the great many questions he could see people wanted to ask.
“The Seven are very special. Evronn, with the help of the others, created a bond and an oath that they would stand against Razilin forever. Including after their physical forms died.”
‘The room just got super-quiet.’
Mitchell’s mind was racing, piecing together the many things he already knew, with what he was learning now, often solving things seconds before Maragon said them.
‘Does this mean…’
“Each member of the Seven carries within him or her, the soul of one of the original Seven,” revealed Maragon. “That soul brings the knowledge and memories it has accumulated all the way back to its original life, before the fall of Micronia.”
‘Oh my God! Maragon is Evronn. It makes sense now.’
‘Oh my God! Chandrilar had Xarron’s soul. No wonder he rose from a simple squire to the leader of his people so fast!’
“Evronn thought it unlikely many of the original Seven would survive the fight at Micronia. That challenge was in fact an act of desperation. But he knew the fight would go on regardless of the outcome of the battle, and thus the Seven were created.”
“Are we talking about the seven champions from the Great Cataclysm, who challenged the Red Dragon, and six of his best to decide the fate of the world?” asked Azzanon, clearly playing catch up between his knowledge of ancient history and what was going on in the room.
“We are. But regardless of the past, it is….” a wrack of coughing fits interrupted Maragon as he tried to continue, “…it is the current situation we must concern ourselves with. The Seven have lost two of their number. In the coming days or weeks those souls, ShaShayla of the Plainsfolk, and Kennitus Windtalker, will find new hosts. And those people will pledge themselves, heart and mind, to our cause.”
“Why are you telling us this?” asked Hawkin.
“Because two of us are likely to be chosen.” replied Mitchell, the full gravity of what was happening hitting him.
‘Within a few days I could be sworn into an eternal fight versus the great evil, Razilin’Tera.’
“Cool!” answered Hawkin.
‘I see Hawkin is even more excited, with no idea of what he is getting into.’
“Do not be so sure of that, son of Sarek Aranson,” replied Balinor. To join the Seven you largely sever ties with your current life. There can never be another cause to which you are conflicted with. I was as dedicated a knight to the throne of Klydor as I could be. But I had to give that up to join the Seven. You must give up everything and give yourself to the cause.”
There was such emotion in Balinor’s words that Hawkin looked chagrined. Mitchell noted both Balinor and Ragnar had the same greenish tinge to their skin that Maragon had.
“Do you become immortal?” asked Azzanon.
“You do not. You do not undertake this for what it can give to you. This is a selfless act where you give of yourself for the betterment of Driax. Anybody with selfish tendencies, or delusions of glory, best look elsewhere,” continued Balinor.
“We do not have much time. I must prepare you with what you need to know, and then we have things we must do,” cautioned Maragon. “Even now, Ragnar, Balinor and I are dying from a serum administered to us in large doses by a High Priest of Razilin’Tera. The priests here have done what they can to slow the poison with their magick, but I fear without a proper antidote we will all soon die.”
“And I will not die to poison,” interjected Ragnar. “I will go out in glorious combat and onto the halls of Valhalla.”
“What are you thinking then? Fight me at the very end if it comes to that?” queried Balinor.
“How would that help? Then you would be dead, and I would still die from poison,” replied Ragnar, appearing genuinely confused as to how Balinor’s proposal would help.
“Shut up, idiots!” yelled Samtha. Both warriors bowed their heads and went quiet.
“Meanwhile…
“How will they do that?” asked Mitchell.
“They believe, and I cannot be sure if they are right or not, that a ritual involving some very special components can achieve this.”
“Why haven’t they done it already then?” asked Hawkin.
“The components, Master Aranson, are somewhat unique, and they don’t have access to them… yet,” replied Maragon.
“What are they?” asked Mitchell.
‘Good one, idiot. You almost certainly just interrupted Maragon ever so briefly from answering the exact question I just asked.’
“Primarily they have been searching for the item that was used to kill Razilin’Tera in the battle at Micronia – the Sword of Xarron. They know this Sword and the Stone of Evronn are likely keys for a ritual to return him to this world. However, during our recent interrogations I learned they are also interested in the Crown of the First King. This one is new, and I do not know why they want that.”
“Where are these items?” asked Gaebriel.
We know where the stone and the crown are, and for the moment I believe they are safe. The blade has been lost to history for many years. One of his high-priest’s, Jakobi, believes that the sword may have been given to the Kestel Indians around the time of the Great Victory. Without a better hypothesis, I am forced to consider they might be right. It is possible that they have already recovered it, or it is possible they spread word they had found it to lure the Seven into a trap. I am still not sure which.”
“So we have to stop them getting this sword?” asked Alicia
“Or take it back if they already have it,” interjected Hawkin enthusiastically.
“All in good time, my young and enthusiastic friends. First we must get a cure for the toxin that is slowly killing the Seven.”
“What are the ingredients you require, Maragon the Teacher?” asked Eva. She brought forwards some small pouches from her backpack, and a hopeful look upon her face. Maragon’s eyes slowly focused on the pouches.
“If those are healing herbs than you may have some of what we need,” he smiled at Eva in a way a teacher might smile at a promising student, “but you almost certainly will not have one of the key ingredients. We require troll blood, a rare and dangerous substance that has considerable regenerative qualities, and will burn the toxin from our blood.”
Eva suddenly sucked in her breath, clearly surprised and perhaps horrified at the suggestion. Most others stood around mutely, wondering what the big deal was.
“Yes, Eva. Troll-Blood. And we need it to have been kept chilled, but anybody who has any, and is still alive, will already know this.”
“Why, what happens if it isn’t chilled?” asked Azzanon
“Usually, it begins to form itself into a new troll, who then in turn usually kills everyone around, including the person previously carrying the troll-blood,” replied Mitchell.
“And how do you know?” asked Alicia.
“In actual fact I do not know. But that is what Maragon told me when I asked that very question the last time one of his projects required troll-blood,” replied Mitchell. Maragon smiled, but it was clear he was weakening.
“Where do we get the stuff?” asked Hawkin. “Not sure I have ever seen any in the general store.”
“The Council of Defence?” offered Alicia.
“No!” responded Maragon. “Their involvement now will only slow us down. They will ask too many questions and need permission from too many people to get us what we need in time.”
“They are not likely to have it in any of the herbalist stalls in the city,” commented Eva.
“Then we go to the same place anybody goes when they want something illegal or dangerous…,” smiled Azzanon, deliberately inflecting his voice with an evil tone, “The Black Markets of Chandrex!”
‘The Black Markets of Chandrex are little more than mythical tales of criminals and hustlers to me, usually the sort of stories told around campfires or to keep little children from misbehaving. I can remember Maragon threatening to sell me in the Black Markets once if I did not improve my attention to some minor experiment he had me monitoring.’
“How do we find these markets? I have not seen any signs for them while we have been moving through the city,” asked Alicia innocently.
Azzanon had to stifle a laugh, and then briefly compose himself before responding, “My dear girl, there are signs but not the sort of ones you are looking for. Those who run the Black Markets are always moving them lest the authorities find them and close them down. It’s the whole ‘illegal’ part of what they sell that causes the trouble. Amongst my people we found it easier to just run the Black Markets ourselves. Made it easier to find when we needed it.”
“But how can they be illegal if the Government runs it?” asked Alicia. A brief perplexed look came across Azzanon’s face as he tried to think the best way to answer that question.
“Because in Drasnia the Government are better at being criminals than the criminals are. So it’s only natural in short order they become the biggest Thieves Guild, and therefore run the Black Market,” replied Gaebriel, spearing Azzanon with a cheeky grin.
“Ahh sweet Princess… I would love to debate the finer points of politics with you, and the ideal interactions between church, state, the military and the underworld, but I think we better get moving before it is too late.” Azzanon gestured towards the clearly suffering forms of the three poisoned members of the Seven. “I can find us the Black Markets, but I have no idea what troll-blood looks like so someone will have to come with me.”
“I will come,” said Entreris Jarvis. “But I will go in alone. I do not wish to be seen with you. I will be near if you have need of me, and I will help you find the ingredient if you cannot.”
‘How very strange. Totally fitting with everything else about you.’
“Why don’t you wish to be seen with us?” asked Alicia innocently.
“Because I have friends who would react very badly if they knew I had been associating with knights, spies, princesses, or a great many of you.”
“Do not mind Entreris. He really likes his own company,” interrupted Samtha. “I will come with you.”
“You cannot,” explained Maragon. You have been in close proximity of Anders too recently. He may be able to divine your location the moment you leave an unprotected site. Best you stay here.”
Mitchell thought Azzanon actually looked relieved a little that Samtha wasn’t going to go.
“I can go. I at least know what troll-blood looks like,” said Mitchell.
“As do I,” added Eva.
“I will stay and help look after the wounded,” said Alicia.
“I better go too then,” added Hawkin. “To keep them out of trouble.”
‘Now that is funny a concept. Hawkin is usually the one that causes all the trouble.’
“Then I will go too,” added Peregrin. “To ensure Hawkin does not cause the trouble he is trying to prevent.”
“Hey!” objected Hawkin. “I am standing right here, and I can hear you.”
‘I see I am not the only who thinks so. And Peregrin barely knows Hawkin.’
“How much do we need?” asked Mitchell.
“As much as you can get. But one vial per person to be healed would be ideal,” replied Maragon.
Mitchell briefly did the numbers in his head.
‘Maragon, Ragnar and Balinor… so three.’
“Could it assist Rivas too?” Mitchell asked.
“It might. It is a different potion, but I know the recipe for a regenerative healing potion,” replied Ava.
“If you can get enough for Rivas, then do so. But the priority is those of us who have been poisoned,” instructed Maragon.
Everyone began to move.
“Before you go, I need a moment with some of you,” said Maragon. “Please remain behind Azzanon. I will also need to talk to Peregrin and Mitchell before you leave for the Black Markets.”