“That beastie was hidin’ in a chimney,” Haffoot explained, nodding to the sloughed bag of gray skin and the black spatter that was once the serpent within. “We musta passed right below it in that crawlspace. Anyway, it pushed through the sticks and stuff to go after the folks here. Smart little fucker, yeah?”

“So when we all came back through the crawlspace…” Umur muttered, rubbing at his beard, and glancing up at the gap in the stone.

“There was the pile ‘o sticks and stuff, yeah. I shimmied up there easy-like, and there was the real tomb.” She gestured to the silver wolf pelt on the floor, wrapped around the wicked spear.

Erin leaned down and pulled the weapon free. Even with its butt planted firmly in the hard-packed earth, the spear’s broad head stood well taller than the cleric. Its length made it a decidedly human weapon, and would be too unwieldy for Umur or Haffoot. Crossbars mounted near the spearhead could pin a creature, if the wielder had the strength to keep it pinned.

“Ulfheonar’s wolf-spear,” Joane breathed reverently. The other Hirot villagers too seemed in awe of the weapon. “I knew you all would succeed, but…” she swallowed. “I– I don’t know that I ever really believed it was real.”

“The Hound,” the rough-faced man of the group, Anthol, said decisively. He spat to the side without taking his eyes from the spear. “You all can kill it now and keep it dead. The cost of coming here was awful, but it’s done. We’ve saved the town.”

Erin’s steel-eyed gaze fell on Haffoot, who was basking in Anthol’s words. “Perhaps,” she said. “If the bard’s tale is true. But that was reckless, Haffoot. What if, instead of the true tomb, you had stumbled upon a nest of those Chaos-kissed creatures? You would be dead, and your death would draw us into their midst looking for you.”

The halfling scoffed and grinned back at the white-mailed young woman. “You worry too much, Erin. If it’d been dangerous I woulda hopped away.”

“And you worry too little,” she frowned. “There is enough danger here without you taking unnecessary risks.”

“It’s done now,” Umur inserted himself between them, forcing Erin’s stare onto him. “We have the spear.”

“And this!” Haffoot chirped. She brandished a polished drinking horn, capped in gold and held by a leather strap.

Umur took the horn and peered at it. “Don’ recognize the writin’ here. Not dwarven, nor the common tongue. You know it?” he held it up for Erin to see. The cleric shook her head. “Hrmph. And what’s this?” he muttered, freeing the ornate cap from the widest end of the horn and sniffing. “It’s got liquid in it. Not spoiled. Smells clean and clear.”

“Magical,” Hilda said ominously from behind them.

“Go on. Take a drink, yeah?” Haffoot grinned.

“Absolutely do not,” Erin warned.

Umur sniffed the horn again, scowling mistrustfully. He looked from Erin to Haffoot, then quickly tossed back a gulp of the item’s contents.

Vitality seemed to infuse the dwarf immediately. He blinked in surprise and peered down at the horn in wonder.

“By the gods…” Umur gasped, and immediately replaced the cap. “’Tis an item of great power. I’ve no doubts about your claim, Haffoot. That spear Erin’s holdin’ there was Ulfheonar’s, I’d bet my beard on it. As the man there says, we’ve got we came to claim.”

“I have Shul’s rights to offer our dead,” Erin said. “Unless you would care to offer Justicia’s blessings instead, Briene?”

The comely young woman seemed startled by the offer. She pulled her gaze from the legendary spear and met Erin’s steely stare. “Oh! I– I’m not a priest, ma’am. You should do it. But maybe outside, in fresher air?”

“Aye, let’s get the bodies and ourselves out of here,” Umur nodded.

“Unless we think there are more treasures to be had?” Hilda offered, peering down the hallway to the areas they had not yet explored.

“We have what we came for!” Joane spoke up angrily. The other Hirot villagers nodded in agreement. “The treasures were in Ulfheonar’s true resting place. Only death lies in the other passages! You have what you need to kill the Hound.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” Erin said. “The horn is an unexpected boon, and I cannot help but feel the silvery wolf hide, so much like the moon itself, is a direct message from Shul about our victory here. It is enough. We are not here as graverobbers.”

Umur looked around and saw steely resolve in the others’ faces. Haffoot, he figured, would probably be up for anything, but the others clearly wished to leave this place.

“We go,” he grunted. “Let’s get the dead outside for Erin’s rites, and then let’s get to our beds before nightfall.”

Hilda, inscrutable behind the hood that only revealed the bottom half of her face, said nothing. She replaced the glowing orb in her satchel carefully and drifted towards the rear of the group, keeping her distance but following their lead.

Umur hoisted the body of his fellow dwarf, Tor Goldfinger, with a grunt. It was an enormous burden with his armor and the shield strapped to his back, but he said not a word of complaint as he slowly ascended the three wide stairs to the main hallway, then through the narrow corridor from which they’d entered. Erin cradled small Avel Wayton, the halfling merchant, like a sleeping child and followed. The remaining corpse, the beggar Umulf, had been torn to shreds by the tomb’s denizen. It was Anthol who, face set grimly, gathered what he could into his arms, covering himself in gore. Joane, Maly, and Briene huddled around the man, their presence meant to bolster his bravery and offer support.

Without conversation, the group found their way to the partially collapsed room, where shafts of sunlight slanted from the far side. Those not carrying bodies helped those who were to navigate the piles of rubble and ascend the slabs of stone to the narrow gap outside. Only Hilda stayed back, hands folded within her sleeves, following like a silent wraith.

As they pulled their way into the late summer afternoon, squinting from the bright light, it was as if they were being birthed into a new world. Birds chirped from the nearby trees and tall grass swayed in a gentle breeze. Overhead, the sky was a bold, blue dome.

“Where is Riffin?” Briene said worriedly. “He said he would wait and keep watch.”

It was then that the hail of arrows began.

Two arrow shafts embedded in the soft ground near their feet before they knew what was happening. Then a sharp clink! echoed as an arrowhead glanced off Umur’s black, scaled armor just as Haffoot cried out in pain. More arrows whistled through the air.

“We’re under attack!” the dwarf bellowed, unceremoniously dropping the corpse he had been carrying. “Close the distance! Quickly!”

Like an anthill kicked over, the group scrambled forward. Haffoot, in her loping gait, drew both of her blades as she ran across the grassy field, and soon villagers had joined her, eyes wide and panting.

They charged a small cluster of human men in travel cloaks, three within the clearing and two farther back near the tree line. All five had short, curved bows, and they drew arrows from quivers on their backs and let loose with trained precision. None of the heroes from Graymoor nor the villagers from Hirot dropped under the deadly rain, but many took glancing hits.

As Umur and his gang neared, an ugly man with a mashed face dropped his bow and drew a long blade. The two huntsmen flanking him followed his lead, though their swords were considerably less impressive. With a shout, the three of them dipped their shoulders and moved to meet the charge.

The ugly man was clearly the best fighter among the group, and likely the leader. He sneered as Anthol, still covered in his neighbor’s blood, ran forward. The man spun and cleaved down with his blade, and Anthol fell dead into the grass.

“Broder! Bina! Go! Cut the traitors down!” he yelled.

The next several moments were a dizzying dance of chaos and death. The two hunstmen near the tree line continued launching arrows again and again at the party while the mash-faced man and his two companions deftly swung their swords. Though they and the Hirot villagers seemed to know one another, these cloaked figures had clearly come to kill them all.

Haffoot leapt with both of her blades, meeting the huntsman the ugly man had called Broder. He was a hulking human with a shaved head, strong and skilled. The ring of steel echoed across the clearing as neither found an opening in the other’s defenses. Umur, freeing his ancestral sword from its scabbard, roared to help his halfling friend and stomped across the clearing.

The ugly man, meanwhile, felled Maly Peabrook and her mismatched armor as easily as he’d killed Anthol. The young woman’s oversized helmet rolled into the grass as she died. Joane, eyes blurred by tears, stabbed ineffectually at the man with her pitchfork as he shook his head at her.

“You shoulda died two nights ago at the sacrifice, girl,” he jeered. “And you never shoulda joined this lot.”

“Don’t do this, Iraco!” Joane cried. “They’re going to save us all!”

Nearby, eyes glowing a luminous white, Erin charged in with Ulfheonar’s spear. The broad spearhead burst from the cloaked woman named Bina’s back as the cleric attacked with a righteous frenzy.

Hilda had been standing back from the battle, chanting in a language she did not understand. She could feel the orb within the satchel at her hip pulsing like a thing alive, communicating with her in ways she could not describe. When Erin thrust the legendary weapon through her opponent, the orb grew icy cold against her and drew Hilda’s eyes to the scene. It was as if the cleric in white armor was a beacon upon the battlefield, like a star in the endless dark of space. The black rectangle upon Hilda’s forehead shone a brilliant blue, and her eyes took on the same hue.

“I understand!” the wizard cackled as, across the clearing, the light seemed to dim. “We are both your vessels! She is of the moon, one of your acolytes’ acolytes, and you are of all celestial creation! Shul is your child and so I must protect her, this child of Shul, above all others! I see! I see it now! I SEE IT ALL!”

None of the others heard Hilda’s rantings. Instead, they became aware of the air growing warm and full of flecks of blue light, even as the sunlight dimmed. Monstrous shadows prowled that dimness, and though none of them would be able to recall exactly what those shadows said, they whispered awful truths. Dark susurrations filled the combatants’ minds, and they stumbled and were filled with despair.

All except the acolyte of Shul, upon whom Hilda’s blue gaze was fixed. How had she not seen it before? It was so obvious now. Erin was the first celestial body in the galaxy of Hilda’s expanded consciousness. Then and there she vowed that no harm would come to Erin Wywood while the wizard drew breath. Hilda would guard the cleric as her own child, just as–she was now certain–the shadowy man within the orb would guard Erin’s god Shul. They were inextricably linked by their time beneath the Empty Star, two mortals now under the protection of immortal forces. No one else mattered. It was only those offered to the open sky who would survive the coming void. A thousand insights rushed into Hilda’s mind at once, and she could not help but cackle with the glee of it.

To Hilda’s companions, the overwhelming feelings of helplessness and despair were familiar from her magic within the tomb. Yet this time they would each have nightmares for many nights to come, of shadowed creatures prowling at the edge of their vision and whispering their darkest secrets. Umur and Haffoot had been spared before, but not this time. They swayed and moaned on their feet with the others, utterly overwhelmed.

If anyone had been able to shrug off their anguish enough to see it, one of the archers near the tree line shrieked as what appeared to be black lightning sparked around his eyes and mouth. The man fell dead at the feet of his companion, who shuddered under the magic’s effects.

Iraco, the ugly leader of the ambushers, shook his head with a shout to free it of the shadowy visions. As his vision cleared, Erin was there, leaning forward with the legendary wolf-spear and piercing his side. The cloaked man snarled with pain and brought his sword up to attack.

The hunt master and the acolyte of Shul engaged in battle. Erin’s wolf-spear was the superior weapon, but Iraco was the superior fighter. Once, twice, they made feints, and then Erin moved to thrust her spear forward. The mash-faced man stepped deftly sideways and then up, impaling Erin on his long sword. Ulfheonar’s spear dropped to the grass, and Erin’s limp body slumped to follow it.

“Erin, no!” Umur shouted, his stocky legs churning across the clearing with sword and shield raised.

Before he could get there, however, Hilda arrived. Her hood thrown back, hands glowing the same bright blue as the black doorway on her forehead, she grabbed Iraco’s head from behind like a child capturing a skittish frog.

The man shrieked, a keening sound full of anguish and sorrow as much as pain, and his eyes rolled up and into his head. In moments, his hair turned wispy and white, and those eyes sunk and disappeared. Flesh grayed and tightened across bone. When Hilda released him, everything above Iraco’s shoulders was a skeleton that appeared as ancient as Ulfheonar’s tomb. The wizard looked down on what she’d done with something akin to contempt before returning her hood to shield her face.

Umur, for his part, wheeled with sword raised to survey the battlefield. Haffoot had dispatched the man named Broder and looked unharmed. Joane, the red-haired young woman who had rallied these villagers from Hirot to their side, was stabbing down on the last archer with her pitchfork, yelling defiance and crying. Which meant that all five of their ambushers had been defeated, though it had cost them dearly.

As if reading his thoughts, the healer Briene cried out from behind him. He turned to see Erin face down in the grass, her white, scaled mail stained by bright red blood. Kneeling beside her was the young woman, whose hands were searching for the wound that felled her.

“It’s bad, sir!” she cried. “I think she may be dead!”

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 9