Hilda peered over her shoulder to make sure that no one was approaching. In the early morning light, Hirot seemed practically empty except for the occasional emaciated dog skulking near walls and looking for scraps. Smoke from chimneys gathered overhead, making the sky hazy and gray. This was a dreary place, Hilda decided. Though she wasn’t as prone to the black-and-white views of Erin, Hilda couldn’t deny that it felt as if a taint of Chaos sat upon the village of Hirot. For the moment, however, she was thankful for the village’s emptiness. There was no sign that the Jarl or any of his minions had trailed her from the Wolf-Spear Inn.

A crow cawed suddenly above, momentarily startling her. Hilda sighed and pounded once again, harder this time, on the rickety door of the hut before her.

“Ymae!” Hilda hissed, trying to both yell and be quiet at the same time. “Are you there?”

After a third try, something moved within the hut. Hilda gripped her staff with both hands, leaning her weight on it while she waited. It seemed to take forever, but eventually the door cracked open.

A face peered up at her with one wide eye, the other drooping below folds of flesh on an ancient, craggy face. “By the balls of Bobugbubilz, child, can’t you let a woman sleep before you go rattling her door? What is it?”

“Ymae,” Hilda breathed, letting go of some tension. “Good. I’ve brought the hair and the Hound comes tonight.”

“Ah. I see,” the old woman nodded, smacking her lips. She receded into shadow and left the door open. “Come in, then.”

As before, the interior of the hut seemed somehow larger than the outside, though still cramped by numerous shelves filled with jars and curios. Beneath the thatched roof, the wide, round hut was dark, with its central fire pit unlit. The mottled cat, which had been eyeing her from atop a shelf in her previous visit, lay stretched out and asleep on the straw mat near the stone wash basin.

“Give it to me,” Ymae said, extending a gnarled hand. Hilda rummaged through the satchel at her hip and produced a folded cloth. The old woman took the cloth and brought it close to her wide eye, examining it closely. With a grunt, she carefully unfolded the cloth with shaking fingers.

“Lots of hair,” she commented. “All from corpses?”

“Yes,” Hilda nodded.

“Hm,” she sniffed the locks. “And all fresh, even the ones that look ancient. Death follows you, child.” As she said the words, Ymae raised her gaze to take in Hilda’s robed figure. For several heartbeats, she looked at the young wizard from head to toe, eventually grunting again. “You’ve been using his power again, this shadowed man in the orb, hm?”

“How– how do you know?” Hilda asked, smoothing her robe self-consciously.

“You’re weaker. Not frail, exactly, but diminished. You’ve given too much of yourself, or he’s taken it,” the crone tsked. “Dangerous. Very dangerous. You should rest before you call on the magics again, and be wary of letting it sap your own strength. Another day like today without recovery, and you may be the corpse offering the hair, hm?”

Beneath her hood, Hilda stared at the old woman, unsure how to respond.

Ymae chuckled darkly. “But you’ll do what you do, it seems. Take my words or not, makes no difference. As long as you bring your aura of death to the Hound and me a husband. He’s still coming at the end of this, yes? The dwarf?”

“He is,” Hilda nodded, swallowing. She was confident that Umur would fulfill Hilda’s promise to the old woman. Or, at least, reasonably confident.

Ymae watched her carefully, then half-grinned. “Good enough. Let’s get to work, shall we? Help me get this fire started.”

Hilda had seen it done two days ago, so she moved to gather sticks from the nearby basket as the old woman retrieved her flint and steel.

“We’ll bind the fire to the hair of the dead.” As they worked, Ymae spoke almost casually. “The Hound is from beyond the grave, you see. A spirit of Chaos from the time of the Savage Kings. It’s picking fights because it wants to be killed, to rest. But whoever summoned it or whatever force released it hasn’t made that easy.”

“The Savage Kings,” Hilda repeated, stacking sticks carefully. “Like Ulfheonar.”

“Mmm. He was the one they called the Serpent King, yes. The Savage Kings littered this side of the Trollteeth long ago, each seeking power to conquer the others, doing anything and everything to get the upper hand. Too many played with fell powers they didn’t understand, and we’re all paying for it still.”

“In Ulfheonar’s tomb, there were images of snakes battling wolves. Might the Hound have been summoned by another king to kill Ulfheonar and his snake tribe long ago?” Even as she said it, Hilda felt she was fumbling the history, not knowing nearly enough even to ask questions.

“You’ve been to his tomb, then? Did you find the spear?”

Hilda looked up at Ymae’s tone. The crone had stopped what she was doing and watched her pointedly. The former baker felt like she was seeing in Ymae a child from Graymoor as she removed a pie from the oven, hungry and eager. The old woman even licked her lips.

“Y-yes. It almost cost us our lives, but we have it.”

Ymae cackled and slapped her knee. “Good! Good. Well done, child. We’ll make you a net of flame and undeath, something to bind the Hound. Denying its freedom is like denying its essence, yes? Then your warrior friends can stab its heart with the Serpent King’s Spear. Oh, delicious, delicious. I wish that I could be there to see it. Ha ha!” She cackled again, shrill and dry.

“I don’t understand,” Hilda sighed.

Ymae tsked, almost mockingly. “Don’t you mind, child. You have enough to worry about with this patron of yours. The important bits are this: Find the Hound’s lair, for it can only truly be killed there. Bind it. Land the final blow while it’s bound.” She extended three knobby fingers as she ticked off the steps. “Let the otherworldly forces sort out the rest, mm? Now, get comfortable. While the fire burns, we must weave these hairs into a single thread, and your fingers are far younger than mine.”

---

“You’re sure she’s in there?” the Jarl growled, rubbing at his chin and examining the heavy, iron-banded door of the Wolf-Spear Inn.

“She was there when the sky topped its zenith,” Sylle Ru said in his high-pitched, whispery voice. “I watched her with my scrying.” The thin man rubbed at his hands as if they itched whenever he spoke of using his magics. “The outsiders as well, and the pretty pretty girl from the church.”

The Jarl grunted, ignoring the seer’s lascivious licking of lips, and regarded Claus. Sensing the attention, the lieutenant turned so his one good eye could see him. Claus raised a thick, black eyebrow.

“We do it fast,” the Jarl said. “They’re warriors of some skill, but we outnumber them two to one. Get one of them alive. That’s all we need.”

“It’s risky,” Claus said, his voice deep and harsh.

“We need a sacrifice,” the Jarl sighed. “And the town is close to revolt as it is. If it’s not the girl or one of these outsiders, it could get ugly. Everyone knows what they’ve been doing. We need to bring them down and show our strength. And their weakness.”

“Hirot folk we can cow,” Claus said. “If they truly beat the Hound as easy as…”

“Enough,” the Jarl barked.

Claus snapped his stubbled jaw shut and nodded. He turned to the others and began organizing them for the assault. All around were rough men and women in armor, grim-faced and quiet. None of them seemed to like this plan–or to be outside the relative safety of the manor, truth be told, as their eyes darted to every corner constantly–but they were trained warriors and would follow orders. Heavily calloused hands gripped swords and spears and axes, while gauntleted boots found purchase in the dirt, ready to charge.

“I’ll get that door down,” the Jarl growled, stretching his neck and flexing broad shoulders covered in iron and steel. The giant bear of a man stomped over to the door and grabbed the front latch.

It clicked open.

With furious confusion, he looked back at the seer. Sylle Ru shrugged, clearly not anticipating an unlocked, unbarred door.

“Careful,” Claus rumbled low.

“Bah!” the Jarl snarled and threw open the door. Recklessly, he charged inside. Behind him, men scrambled to follow.

The common room tavern of the Wolf-Spear was as it would be any night after closing. Dark. Quiet. Tidy. Chairs upturned on tables. But it was not the wee hours now; the late afternoon summer sun slanted in through the doorway.

By the time Sylle Ru entered, the room was flooded with armored forms, panting and wary. He gently slid his way around them, made easier by those who saw him coming and wanted to avoid even grazing the strange, oily communer of otherworldly powers.

He found the Jarl holding a single sheet of parchment. The burly man thrust it at his seer.

“It was on the bar. Read it,” he bellowed. The Jarl was all power and strength and had never learned his letters, one of the many ways he relied upon his advisor.

Sylle Ru accepted the document and unrolled it with knobby, long fingers. It was a clumsy, blocky script but written in the common tongue. The ink strokes said, simply: “We will handle the Hound. Stay away.”

---

“Do you think they’ll actually leave us alone?” Haffoot whispered from the bushes. The group had gathered on the opposite side of the clearing surrounding the standing stones as before, the logic being that, if the Hound was expecting a similar ambush, perhaps originating in a different location would give them an edge.

The clearing itself was the same as they’d left it, minus the snow, which meant it was much changed by Hilda’s magic. All around the clearing, the trees and low shrubs appeared overgrown and wilder than the surrounding forest, because in the moments of Hilda’s spell the vegetation had burst out frantically, reaching for anything nearby. The grass in the clearing was noticeably longer than the pathway leading here, except where the black scar of a lightning strike marred an area near the standing stones. The stones themselves were cracked in places, the rope threaded through holes in them appearing frayed and ancient. All around were unsettling reminders of the powers that their hooded magic user could call forth.

Umur shrugged. “I hope the Jarl sees that for him it’s a win-win. Either we kill the Hound or it gets its sacrifice. But he’s a vicious bastard and has no reason to listen to us, so he may wait until after the battle to kill whoever’s left.”

“We have Briene watching the path,” Erin whispered, touching the silver crescent moon dangling from her neck. “She’s smart and will come running if someone approaches.”

“That’s the hope,” Umur sighed. “For now, let’s just worry about the Hound. It should be here soon, yeah?”

“The sun has set,” Erin nodded. “And this is the third night.” She looked skyward, frowning at the darkening sky.

“What’s wrong?” Haffoot nudged her.

“It’s nothing…” Erin said, uncharacteristic uncertainty in her voice. “It’s only that the moon tonight will be but a sliver. Shul’s gaze is less upon us now than when we first arrived.”

“Does that means you have less power?” the halfling’s eyes were wide.

“I– I don’t know. Perhaps. But Shul feels more distant. Or perhaps it’s merely a test of my faith, a chance to be his emissary even beneath a darkened night sky.”

With that thought, silence settled over the group. They watched the clearing warily as shadows overtook the twilight. Each of them remembered their previous time in this place vividly, and their eyes darted this way and that, waiting for movement.

They were still unprepared for the menace of the Hound of Hirot when it appeared.   

Emerging from the darkness was the same hybrid wolf and bat creature from before, as large as a pony. It stepped cautiously with its padded feet prickling with oversized claws, head low and black fur bristling upon its back. The Hound’s bat-like nose sniffed in deep, powerful huffs as its sharp ears twitched. The companions held their breath, staying silent and still while gripping weapons tightly as the Hound came fully into view.

Unlike before, the beast didn’t immediately approach the standing stones. Instead, it moved to the center of the clearing and circled, its head near the grass and scanning the surrounding forest with red eyes. As they’d hoped, the creature began its inspection where they’d hidden in the previous encounter, putting its back to the companions.

“Ready,” Umur said in a low, quiet whisper.

Almost inaudibly, Erin, acolyte of Shul, began a prayer. Her companions could not hear the words, but the long, curved blade of her dagger began to glow a soft white.

“NOW!” Umur bellowed. He, Haffoot, and Joane burst from the bushes, charging the black-furred back of the Hound.

Joane, however, was neither used to the leather armor she’d obtained from her late father’s rooms nor the long wolf-spear. She stumbled in the wild vegetation, nearly losing her balance. Haffoot sidestepped the young woman’s fumbling form, but it cost her momentum. Only Umur’s charge was unaffected.

The Hound turned lightning-fast, its top lip curled above jagged teeth as long as the dwarf’s hand. Roaring, Umur hurtled into the beast’s head with his wooden shield.

Within the cover of the forest, Hilda stood and removed her hood. As she began to reach for her patron’s power, Ymae’s words from the morning echoed in her mind: “You should rest before you call on the magics again, and be wary of letting it sap your own strength. Another day like today without recovery, and you may be the corpse offering the hair, hm?”

The black rectangle on her forehead flared briefly blue and then went dormant. Hands outstretched, Hilda found herself reluctant to embrace the forces swirling just beyond reach. Through wide-open eyes, she briefly glimpsed the umbral form of a bald, inhuman man, staring at her and frowning from within an orb glowing like a star.

The Hound snarled savagely, throwing its impressive weight in a thrash meant to knock its enemies prone. Joane cried out in shock at the wolf-spear was torn from her grip and tumbled into the long grass. Umur hunkered behind his shield, absorbing the Hound’s frenzy but unable to strike back. Haffoot danced back and out of the way, but her short blades and arms prevented her from touching the aggressive creature. For breathless, frantic moments, the combat seemed a stalemate.

Shouting her defiance, Erin Wywood stepped forward with her glowing blade. Clad in her white armor, with eyes and dagger shining like a full moon, she appeared to be the perfect foil for the black-furred creature of darkness. Erin plunged her weapon into the Hound’s side. It shrieked, more like a squealing bat than a canine, and fell sideways into the clearing. Its red eyes rolled up to the sky, even as its limbs jerked spasmodically and stilled.

“Quickly!” the cleric yelled. “It is paralyzed! End it now!”

Her dwarf and halfling companions complied, stepping forward with their swords and hacking at the beast again and again.

“Step back!” Joane snarled. She had retrieved Ulfheonar’s wolf-spear and held it overhead with both hands. The young woman’s eyes narrowed as she bore the broad-headed blade down and into the Hound’s side. The spear first met resistance, and then the creature was dissolving into oily smoke. Panting, weapon buried into the long grass in front of her, Joane screamed her father’s name.

Umur immediately brought his sword up and turned to face the path, waiting for an ambush from the Jarl and his thegns. Haffoot, taking his cue, stood back-to-back with Umur, swords raised.

No ambush came. The companions’ breaths calmed. The wild, magic-touched clearing was empty and still in the night air.

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 11

What’s this?! A level-up post smack dab in the midst of an adventure!? That’s right. Dungeon Crawl Classics doesn’t presuppose that a party of adventurers is all at the same level, nor does it expect that their level-ups will occur at the same time. Both Joane Cayhurst and Briene Byley have survived a terrible ordeal at the Tomb of Ulfheonar, more than earning a “Funnel-like” experience that warrants a real class and some additional stats. In addition, bringing both characters up in level means that the party can finish the Doom of the Savage Kings with six Level-1 PCs, which is what the adventure suggested in the first place. In practical terms, this means that any surviving PCs from The Portal Under the Stars funnel will reach Level 2 at the end of this adventure, while Joane and Briene will have the wait until the next full adventure concludes. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, though. For now: let’s focus on Joane (and a little bit of Briene… curveball incoming).

First, let’s remind ourselves of Joane’s Level 0 statblock:

Joane Cayhurst. Level 0 Corn Farmer. STR 12, AGL 13, STA 14, PER 7, INT 16, LCK 9. Init +1; Atk pitchfork +0 melee (1d8); AC 11; HP 3; MV 30′; Act 1d20; SV Fort +1, Ref +1, Will -1; LNG Common (+2); AL Lawful; Equipment: hen, 10’ pole, 29cp.

I never really justified why and how she was a corn farmer while her father ran the Wolf-Spear Inn. Thankfully, I never called her out as a farmer, though I did keep her as wielding a pitchfork in Ulfheonar’s tomb. In my mind, she was the innkeeper’s daughter and helped him there, and the pitchfork was the tool from her work at the inn that she felt was the most practical weapon to bring with her. I never worried about her having a hen or a 10’ pole, nor did I roll any skill checks that relied on her farming occupation. Yay for not having to retcon anything there (although boo for me not more fully leaning into what I’d rolled).

When I first sat down to level up Joane, I assumed that she would be the party’s Thief. It’s a class not represented by the current PCs, Ethys Haffoot sort of stinks at thieving, and narratively it’s easy to pluck a random, brave villager and make them the person who sneaks around and backstabs stuff. But the more I read about the class, the less it fit with my image of Joane, who I’ve described as the quintessential headstrong teenager with a stereotypical red-headed short fuse. At the same time, I had been struggling with the idea that Erin, our Cleric of Shul, was the only one realistically capable of wielding Ulfheonar’s Wolf-Spear, which would mean eschewing her god’s favored weapon and the very cool crescent-shaped dagger. I even started imagining that perhaps, as Erin wielded the spear, its blade would begin to curve or something so that I could keep it as her holy weapon.

Anyway, combine these two struggles and it suddenly occurred to me that Joane didn’t necessarily have to be a Thief. Instead, she could be our party’s first Warrior. Yes, the Warrior and Dwarf classes are close cousins and have a lot of the same attributes and advantages. That said, with six characters there are bound to be some overlap, and I don’t think a party can really have too many Deed Dice in combat. Once I started thinking about Joane as a Warrior, everything sort of clicked.

Hit Points: A Warrior gains a whopping d12 in hit points at each level, +1 for Joane’s high Stamina. I roll a [6+1] 7, adding to her original 3 hp. Joane now has 10 hit point, matching both Umur and Erin.

Mighty Deed of Arms: Just like I described with Umur,  Erin gains a d3 Deed Die to express her martial prowess. Like Umur, she’ll declare her “Mighty Deed” when she attacks, and if she rolls a 3 on the Deed Die, she will do some cool combat maneuver effect.

Critical Hits: The biggest single advantage that Warriors have over Dwarves is their expanded Critical Hit range. At Level 1, Joane will score a Critical Hit on a roll of either 19 or 20, not just a natural 20. She also rolls on a sweeter crit table, like Umur, meaning that her Critical Hits tend to be more devastating to opponents.

Weapons and Armor: As a Warrior, Joane will be able to wield whatever weapons and wear whatever armor she can afford. If she had a Luck bonus, she could also apply that bonus to her “favored weapon,” which of course is going to be Spears (she was using a pitchfork before, which is mechanically a spear, and now she will be the proud bearer of Ulfheonar’s Wolf-Spear). Whereas Umur is a “sword and board” fighter, swinging his longsword and bashing with his shield, Joane will be our “two-handed reach” fighter, able to stab from further away.

Speaking of the Wolf-Spear, let’s talk about it for a second in mechanical terms. It is a +1 spear for both attacks and damage, and also grants a +1 to initiative rolls. On a successful hit the wielder can use the cross bars mounted below the spearhead to pin a creature, reducing the target’s AC by the wielder’s Strength bonus (which for Joane is 0, so unlikely something she’ll do often). By sacrificing her actions in a given round, the wielder can maintain the pin on the target with a successful contested Strength check. With the spear, Joane can even pin magical creatures, preventing them from assuming gaseous form, teleporting, stepping to another plane, and so on. This last ability may come in handy against the Hound if Ymae’s net somehow fails.

For now, I’ll give Joane leather armor, which feels like something she could obtain easily enough in Hirot. Hopefully sometime soon she can upgrade her armor situation. She already has Iraco’s longsword, and I’ll say she also took one of the huntsmen’s shortbows. So, while she doesn’t have the highest Armor Class, Joane is bristling with weapons!

Title: Despite her hot-headedness, Joane is decidedly Lawful and a sworn enemy of Chaos. It makes sense to me that she’ll look up to Umur and begin calling herself his Squire. Squire Joane Cayhurst of Hirot is not at all how I thought we’d end up from my dismal band of retainers before I started Doom of the Savage Kings, but as seems always happen in any Funnel, I’m pleasantly surprised by the PC waiting on the other side.

Finally, Joane also gets a +1 to Reflex and Fortitude saves and Initiative, which are reflected in her handy new character sheet:

Stepping back, I’m thrilled to have a Warrior in the party who can wield the magical Wolf-Spear, allowing Erin to stay focused on her god’s favored weapon. I wish she had a Luck or Strength bonus, but having bonuses in Agility, Stamina, and Intelligence is sweet. Because of her high Intelligence, in fact, I’m going to say that, while Joane does not benefit from any formal education, she is a quick study in pretty much everything she tries. Moreover, she will surprise the others in how quickly she picks up both the Dwarven and Halfling languages from her party members. Her low Personality is already established as her fiery temper, and I suspect she’ll clash with everyone from time to time.

Now, Briene Byley had the same Funnel-like experience as Joane and also deserves a level up. But I’m going to wait until we’re through Doom of the Savage Kings before giving her a class. Why? First, because the most obvious class for her is Cleric, and we already have one of those. If Erin dies in the final clash with the Hound (or some other threat along the way), Briene will slide nicely into that role for the party. If instead Erin survives, well… Thief makes no sense for our do-gooder healer. Keep your fingers crossed, though, because I’ve decided that Briene will be my first dip into the many (literally, dozens and dozens) third-party classes available in DCC.

That said, we can’t have Briene waltzing through danger with a single hit point. A Cleric has a d8 hit die, and so does the class she’ll take if Erin survives. As a result, I’ll roll and get… an 8! Nice. So, while Briene won’t have class abilities to help the party yet, she will be a bit more durable.

I’ve ended these level-up posts with some fiction to help establish the character’s identity. Here we go, then, as we dip back into the Doom of the Savage Kings narrative. Consider today a sort of Chapter 9.5.

---

The Wolf-Spear Inn was quiet as a tomb that night. Lloré the bard neither sang nor played. The scarred tables sat empty, chairs stacked neatly, upside-down and atop them. The heavy front door was locked tight. Only a single lantern burned to shed a low, dancing gloom across the tavern’s six inhabitants, all either sitting or standing near the long bar.

“We’ll sleep here tonight, but we can’t linger in town,” Erin said in urgent, low tones. “The Jarl will know we’re here, and that his plot has failed. He won’t sit idle.”

“Maybe he’ll lock himself in his manor ‘top the hill?” Haffoot offered. “Maybe he’ll be as scared of us as we are of him, yeah?”

“A hopeful thought,” Erin scowled. “But he’s shown himself to be more active than that. He’ll come after us, sure enough.”

“Mm. Probably,” Umur said, draining his tankard of ale and leaving himself a wet beard. As he set it atop the bar, Joane woodenly moved to fill the empty mug. Her face was lifeless and dull, as it had been all evening. “But Hilda needs time with the old witch to make this net. So we’re here at least the day tomorrow, I’d think.”

“I’ll go at first light,” the hooded woman said. Hilda stood away from the others but seemed to hover nearest Erin. In the dim light, she seemed almost a wraith.

“We must inform the families of those we’ve lost,” Erin sighed. “It will be unpleasant, but we owe them that.”

“I’ll handle that, ma’am” Briene said, her voice soft at first but then gaining in strength. “I don’t know what rumors the Jarl has spread in our absence.” She paused, scowling. “Father Beacom as well. But I’m safe from the Jarl, I think, and know everyone’s family. I– I think it best if the news comes from me.”

“You’re brave, lass,” Umur smiled, briefly laying a hand atop her forearm. “Thank you.”

Briene blushed and nodded.

“Share the coin we found on the huntsmen with each family,” Erin said. She looked at each person to see if they’d argue. None did, though Hilda frowned beneath her hood.

“So… we stay here tomorrow?” Haffoot asked. “What do we do about the Hound? Tomorrow night it’s back if it comes every third night.”

“The Jarl will have a drawing at midday,” Briene said. “For the sacrifice.”

“If he knows who’s returned, it will be Joane’s name on the lot,” Erin said. “He promised her that.”

Umur’s thick fingers drummed the bar’s surface in thought. He took another long draught from his mug. The others deferred to him in matters of tactics, so they sat in silence until he was ready to speak.

“If that’s so,” Umur said slowly. “Then he’ll show up here in full force, with all his thegns, and he’ll expect us to give her up, sayin’ it’s the town’s will or whatever. He’ll paint us as outlaws if we disagree.” His fingers drummed again as he paused. “This inn’s probably the most defensible structure outside the Jarl’s manor, but methinks he’ll just trap us here and burn it. Dammit all.”

“Let him,” Joane said suddenly. All eyes snapped to her, startled.

“What’s that, lass?”

“Let him burn it. This inn is dead. It died with my father. When Hilda’s back, let’s go kill the Hound at the standing stones, and then let’s go into the Fens. Let’s never let the Hound take anyone else ever again. Let’s purge it from Hirot and then leave the Jarl to clean up the mess he’s made of this town.”

“You’d just… leave?” Briene gasped. “The whole village?”

“Hirot died a long time ago, Bree. I don’t know when. Maybe it’s when the Jarl first stepped in, or when his seer began making the Jarl his puppet, or when the Hound started appearing, or when we made our first sacrifice to it. But it’s as dead as my family. We’re living in a stinking corpse, decaying all around us. Hirot’s like those things in the tomb, gray and twisted. At some point the rot beneath will burst out. You’ve got to see it that way, don’t you?” her voice rose, as she looked pleadingly at her friend. “Does Father Beacom bring you any hope at all? Or, or… faith?”

“No, he doesn’t,” the young woman said softly, and cast her eyes down at her lap.

“Maybe I’m dead too,” Joane spat angrily. “But I’m not just going to be tied up and dragged to some sacrifice. I’m going to kill the bloody Hound or die trying. I’m not letting dark forces control my life anymore. I’m fighting back!” Panting, a sheen of sweat upon her face, she looked around at the others defiantly.

“It’s a plan, then,” Umur nodded. “When Hilda returns, we’ll go hunt the Hound, first at the standing stones, and then find its lair.”

Joane seemed almost in disbelief. “Truly? You’d let me join you?”

The dwarf chuckled. “Lass, seems you already have.”

“It’s a quest of conviction. Of faith,” Erin said the word forcefully, directed at Briene. “And whatever fell forces are responsible for the death in this village, including your father, we will see them ended. By Shul’s light we will.” She made a fist.

None saw Hilda frown at the mention of Joane’s father’s death. The robed wizard stepped back further into the shadows, saying nothing.

“Thank you,” Joane said with a rush. “Master Dwarf, I pledge my sword to you.”

“Oh,” Umur blinked, stammering. “Well, uh… that’s not strictly necessary, lass. But I… That is to say…”

“You do not fight with a sword,” Erin said loudly. “Joane Cayhurst, I have seen you fight with a common pitchfork bravely and with skill. Don’t rely on a sword. Take a weapon designed for your holy quest.”

Almost casually, the white-armored cleric hefted the Wolf-Spear of Ulfheonar onto the bar, knocking empty cups and mugs aside as it landed with a loud CLUNK!

Everyone stared at the weapon, then to Joane. The innkeeper’s daughter’s eyes widened at the sight of the broad-bladed spear, even as a wooden replica hung over her head above the bar.

“Yes!” Umur bellowed, slapping the surface in front of him.

“Yes!” Haffoot cheered, small fists raised in triumph. “Joane the Hound-Slayer!”

Briene and Erin nodded encouragingly.

Hesitantly at first, yet with growing conviction, Joane’s hands moved to the ancient weapon. As she grasped the long haft, worked with carvings of serpents along its length, something sparked on her freckled face. She raised the spear, tears blurring her eyes.

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 10

“Dead!?” Umur crouched down, eyes wide and troubled. “By the gods, no.”

To her credit, Briene appeared neither panicked nor overwrought. Her pretty features were creased in concentration, her hands moving efficiently and rapidly over Erin’s bloody side. Already the novice healer’s hands were soaked in red halfway to the elbow as she pressed an end of her cloak down firmly to staunch the wound.

Erin groaned.

“She’s alive! I have something!” the dwarf stammered, fumbling at his belt. He pulled out the Horn of Kings, newly acquired from Ulfheonar’s tomb, a polished horn capped in gold with ancient script upon it. “Pull her head up, lass, cradle it while I pour the liquid.”

Briene moved to comply, supporting Erin’s sweat-damp head while Umur uncapped the horn and brought it gently to her lips, all while holding the sodden cloak to the cleric’s side.

By now the others had begun to gather round. “What is it?” Haffoot asked, craning her neck to see past them both. “Is that Erin? Is she okay?”

“Quiet,” Umur barked. Trying not to spill a drop, he tilted the horn. Clear liquid crept into Erin’s mouth, wetting her lips and briefly causing her to sputter. In a heartbeat, however, the cleric of Shul was drinking, her throat bobbing. When Umur tilted the horn away, capping it once more, Erin’s eyes opened.

“Let me up,” she said clearly, beginning to stand.

“I don’t think you should–” Briene tried, but Erin pushed her hand away.

“I’m fine. Let me up.” With a groan, she stood. Her white-scaled armor was punctured from the sword thrust, and all around it shone with Erin’s scarlet blood. But the wound beyond the rent mail was fully healed, its skin unblemished. Briene gasped.

Erin’s gray eyes, narrowed and calculating, took in the wider scene of the clearing.

“We’ve lost so many,” she said gravely. “I’m sorry, Brienne and Joane. You joined us with the hope of saving Hirot from the Hound, and instead we couldn’t protect your neighbors from the world’s other horrors. It is a cruel cost for this spear. Who were these ambushers?”

“Iraco was this one’s name,” Joane said, kicking the corpse in frustration and disdain. “The Jarl’s hunt master. And the rest are his huntsmen. Or were. Hunting us instead of the Hound.”

“But why?” Haffoot asked, confused, looking around the fallen bodies.

“Sent by the Jarl, obviously,” Joane growled. She tossed her red braid aside angrily. “He wanted credit for whatever you found, or maybe just wanted rid to be of you lot, not caring what you were doing but only that you were out of town and vulnerable. Bloody fool.”

“No, he wouldn’t do that,” Briene argued.

“Open your eyes, Bree!” the young woman spat. “He’s got no plan! The Jarl has lost all hope and doesn’t want anyone else to have it either!” And with that she collapsed to her knees, dropping her pitchfork into the grass and covering her face with both hands. Briene moved in to envelop Joane in a hug with bloodstained arms.

“The lass has the right of it,” Umur said in low tones to Erin and Haffoot. “This was a calculated moved by the Jarl, and he will be none too pleased that it failed. He’ll find some way to blame us for all this death, despite the spear.”

“Are you okay, Erin?” Haffoot asked hesitantly. The gash in her white armor was almost eye level for the halfling, and her stare flicked from it up to the cleric’s face.

“I’m tired,” she sighed. “Perhaps a little weak from blood loss. But the horn healed me fully, when I was close to meeting Shul. It’s not my time to face the moon, it seems.” She tried a grin, an expression uncharacteristic for her serious face. Her ponytail was messy and frayed, and blades of grass clung to one side of her head.

Haffoot met the grin with wide eyes. “Bloody miracle is what it is. That horn might be a better find even than the spear, yeah?”

“It’s almost empty,” Umur grunted. “Maybe one more draught is all that’s left. It’s a precious thing, but today taxed it.”

“And yet worth the cost,” Hilda said, approaching the trio. Her hooded head was fixed upon Erin. Umur and Haffoot shuddered at seeing her, suddenly remembering the shadowed whispers of her magic and the despair that had filled them because of it. “We cannot lose Erin, our acolyte of Shul.”

It was an odd prioritization of the four of them and hung awkwardly in the air. It was Erin who broke the silence, saying, “Your magic again turned the tide, Hilda. We would all be face down in the grass if not for you.”

Hilda inclined her head, expression unreadable beneath the hood.

“But,” Erin continued. “I’m troubled by the manifestation of this magic you wield.” She looked over at Iraco, whose withered skull gazed up at the clear blue sky from empty sockets. “It seems… a thing of Chaos, if I’m honest. I worry for you. For all of us.”

Hilda waved a hand dismissively while leaning on her staff. “I’m fine, though I admit more questions than answers about it all. As some truths become revealed, others wander into shadow. It is the way of magic, I think.” She sighed. “The important thing is that you’re alive, Erin, and that our quest continues. Let’s focus on the creature of Chaos terrorizing Hirot first, eh? Then we can all worry about me.”

If any of them noticed that Hilda’s hands seemed almost gaunt, or that her neck was far thinner than the former baker had possessed even that morning, none said anything. Indeed, Umur and Haffoot seemed to give the wizard a wide berth, much as the Hirot villagers had done within the tomb. It was as if some unnoticed stench permeated the air around Hilda, subtly pushing them away. Erin was the only one who seemed unaffected by robed woman’s presence.

The cleric frowned in thought. “Hirot doesn’t feel safe with the Jarl bent on ensuring we are gone. He has tried once to kill us and will not stop now. Do we camp near the standing stones and wait for the Hound there tomorrow night?”

“Hrmph. That’s a sure way to force a bad confrontation,” Umur sighed, smoothing his beard with a hand in thought. “The Jarl’ll pick another lot to sacrifice, probably Joane’s father if she’s not around. Then he’ll charge up on horseback with all his thegns. That’s not a fight we can win.”

“And we must return to the town,” Hilda intoned. “The spear is but one tool with which to kill the Hound, and Ymae will create another for us.”

“The hair from a corpse,” Umur growled. “I’d forgotten.”

“The hair from a corpse,” Hilda agreed. “She will make a net from her magic to bind the creature. Then the spear can slay it.”

“Does the mad widow know where to find it once we’ve got the net?” Haffoot asked.

“Everyone knows where,” Briene called out from nearby. The four companions turned to see her still cradling Joane. The two rocked gently, and the young healer met everyone’s eyes but Hilda. “It’s in the Sunken Fens, downriver. I don’t think anyone knows where, exactly, but its lair is there, sure enough.”

“Sunken Fens,” the dwarf groaned. “Sounds lovely.”

“It’s a cursed place,” Briene said earnestly. “Full of malevolent spirits from a bygone age, Father Beacom says. A place steeped in Chaos.”

“Excellent, Briene,” Erin nodded. “So we return to Hirot and get Ymae working on her net. When it’s ready, we cleanse these Sunken Fens of its Hound, and whatever other evil we find there. It is a fine plan, and a noble one. How do we avoid the Jarl and his madness until then?”

“And what if the net’s not ready or we can’t find the lair until after tomorrow night?” Haffoot asked. “What do we do about the bloody sacrifice?”

“Something to contemplate on the way back,” Umur said flatly. He looked up at the cloudless sky. “But we should gather the dead and Erin should do her rites. We’re already into the afternoon, and if we don’t make it back by nightfall they’ll lock the gates up tight. I don’t relish another night in the woods.”

For the next hour, they gathered the dead into a grisly pile. Though it felt vile to them all, they rifled through the huntsmen’s possessions for items of value, eventually equipping Joane with Iraco’s longsword and Briene with the best bow and fullest quiver of arrows. Haffoot found a purse upon Iraco’s belt heavy with coin; either the man had recently won at gambling or, more likely, the Jarl had paid him handsomely for today’s ambush. Once the others were done, Hilda stepped in with a dagger from a huntman’s belt to cut hair from each corpse. The others grimaced but let her do the task without comment.

The number of dead outnumbered the living almost two to one, so it was clear they could not transport the bodies back to Hirot through the dense forest. Unsurprisingly, Iraco had come on foot instead of horseback, further limiting their options. It was Briene who said that it was common in Hirot to burn the dead as a tribute to Justicia’s cleansing fire. Erin suggested that doing so may also prevent any of the corpses becoming infected with the serpents from the tomb, and that the number of discarded snakeskins within the false room within far exceeded the three creatures they’d destroyed. Shuddering at this realization, they quickly agreed to build a pyre, despite the waning afternoon sun.

As the fire blazed near the serpentine mound within the clearing, sending a column of smoke up into the open sky, Erin sang out in a haunting prayer.

“O Shul, Silver Lord of the Night,
Guide us through the veil of darkness.
As the moon fades and returns,
So too may we rise from the shadow of death.
Grant us rebirth, as your light renews the sky,
For in your eternal cycle, we find hope,
In your endless rising, we find life anew.
Shul, keeper of time and tides,
Shine upon our souls and lead us back to the light.”

It was perhaps the most reverent moment in Briene and Joane’s young lives, and they both wept openly for their losses and hugged one another long after Erin’s words had ended. For Umur and Haffoot, the hymn was a balm for the lingering malaise of Hilda’s magic, and they found themselves spiritually renewed, even if physically exhausted.

The effect of Erin’s voice upon Hilda was unclear, but she looked upon the cleric with an open, warm smile throughout the brief service. If anyone had watched her, firelight illuminating the shadows beneath her hood, it was akin to the look of an exceedingly proud parent upon a precocious child.

“That’s done, then,” Umur said simply as the pyre smoldered. “Let’s get going.”

Despite his obvious fatigue, the dwarf guided them expertly back through the forest and occasional marshes to the palisades wall of Hirot. It took all the remaining daylight, and he urged them on at every rest, seemingly motivated by the promise of a comfortable bed over a damp bedroll. By the time they arrived, everyone was sweat-soaked and bedraggled, stumbling their way to the tall gate.

“Ho! Nothan!” Joane called out.

The stern face with the long moustache appeared at the top of the palisades, looking down with some surprise.

“Joane! Where have you been all day, girl?” he barked. Umur and his companions listened carefully to determine if he perhaps knew about Iraco’s ambush and assassination plot, but it seemed the watchman was fixed on the red-haired young woman more than any of the others. Indeed, Nothan seemed not even to note that they had returned with only a fraction of the original group who’d left at dawn. There was rebuke in his words to Joane, but something uncharacteristically gentle as well.

Joane seemed to pick up on the peculiarity. “We were out in the forest. What is it? Has something happened?”

Nothan grimaced. “Come in, girl. Come in, and let’s talk. I’m afraid I do have grim tidings.”

The group exchanged confused looks and entered the village. They were not so alarmed as to have their weapons drawn, but their eyes darted everywhere looking for threat, expecting a second ambush at any moment. The place seemed once again empty, though the few eyes in town watched them with interest.

Tall and whip-thin Nothan barked orders at the two watchmen on duty to close the gate behind them all while he regarded Joane with sorrowful eyes.

“What is it?” Joane demanded. “What is the–”

“Your father’s died,” he responded abruptly. Briene gasped, covering her mouth with both hands. “I’m sorry, Joane. Damndest thing. This afternoon he… well, those present said he just clutched his head and fell over. I– I don’t think there was much pain in it. He passed in a blink.”

He had barely finished his words when the young woman with the red braid was already running for the Wolf-Spear Inn, Nothan shouting after her. The others looked at each other sadly, shaking their heads and moving to follow them both.

Hilda, in the back, pursed her lips in thought. Something about the description of Broegan Cayhurt’s death made her hands itch, and the black rectangle upon her forehead tingled with something she could only describe as amusement.

DCC Character Level 1: Joane Cayhurst

“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

Haffoot’s bravado proved warranted. The halfling sheathed her two blades, handed her tricorn hat to Erin, and scurried up the stone wall easily to the gap above.

“Sure enough,” she called down in a loud whisper. “It’s carved into the stone and goes for a while. Not big, but enough to crawl. I’m gonna toss a rope down. It’s tight for you bigguns. Leave your backpacks there.”

Soon the knotted end of a hemp rope slapped the floor, scattering the dried snakeskins around its impact.   

“I don’t like leaving our belongings unattended,” Erin frowned up at the dark gap.

“I don’ like tryin’ to navigate a crawlspace with this large a group,” Umur agreed. He turned to the Hirot villagers. “Alright, listen: We’re going to see if that gap leads to the real tomb. You can come if you want or stay here to watch the gear.”

“Do we… all have to go up there?” Hilda asked, pursing her lips.

“The four of us, yeah,” Umur sighed. “Don’ know what sorta monsters or traps might be guardin’ the spear if we find it. Your magic might be needed, lass.”

At that statement, the villagers all decided to stay. Erin, Umur, and Hilda removed their packs, though the wizard kept one bulging satchel close. Umur, with the help from others, strapped his shield to his back. Hilda reluctantly left her staff with Joane, who was equally reluctant to receive it. Then, one by one, the companions gripped the rope and scaled the rough stone to the gap above.

Umur was the last to perform the task. As he placed his black boot against the wall, he looked back at the six villagers–Joane, Briene, the dwarf Tor, the girl with the oversized helmet, and two rough-looking human men whose names he couldn’t remember–and nodded reassuringly.

“Those gray things were nasty business, but we haven’t heard or seen anythin’ else in here. You should be safe.” He cleared his throat, and then added. “Just, uh… don’t go wanderin’ and keep your eyes sharp.”

“May the gods light your way,” Briene nodded to him.

With that, Umur grunted and pulled himself up. Thanks to his scaled armor and broad frame, it took some work. Eventually, however, his legs disappeared into the crawlspace and the villagers were left alone and wide-eyed, listening to the echoed, murmuring voices above and standing in a room littered with discarded skin.

“All I can see is Hilda’s feet,” Umur complained. The passage, stone but with a ceiling of branches and roots, fit each of them and allowed them to move single file, but it was cramped going. There would be no drawing weapons or casting spells in this narrow passage, something they all realized warily. “What’s ahead, Haffoot?”

“Continues for a ways and bends to the right,” the halfling whispered back. “Let’s go.”

Haffoot led the way, followed by Erin, Hilda, and Umur. For the wizard it was a terrifying journey, not only for the feeling of stone and earth pressing down on her from all directions, but also because she was the only one of the four unable to see in darkness. Hilda pushed forward on hands and knees, sweating and frequently bumping into Erin’s boots for fear of being left behind.

The crawlspace indeed continued to the right. Shortly thereafter, it opened to a room beyond.

“It’s here!” Haffoot called. “The tomb!”

Thankfully, the passage ended at floor level to the tomb, which made exiting head-first considerably easier than if there had been a drop. Haffoot, Erin, and Hilda emerged one by one upon their hands, rolling free and standing. The room before them was modestly sized and square, with a high-vaulted ceiling. A large stone column rose from the center, decorated by numerous carvings of wolves dying in numerous ways–by arrows, spear, fire, and sword.

“Look there,” Haffoot pointed for Erin once she’ stood. Well off the ground, perhaps halfway up the column, a long spear and bronze shield hung from leather straps.

Umur rolled free of the crawlspace clumsily, cursing. Hilda, holding the glowing orb they had taken from the portal beneath the Empty Star, helped the dwarf rise. She pointed out the spear and shield above as he took in their surroundings.

“Always with the false tombs,” he grunted, but with a note of satisfaction. “Well, we’ve found it, then. How do we get them down from there?”

“I climb again, yeah?” Haffoot grinned. Without waiting for confirmation, she rubbed her hands together and approached the column, studying its surface for hand- and footholds. With the stone carvings across its entire surface, there appeared to be no wrong choice.

This time, the halfling’s bravado may have been ill-placed. The way up was cunningly treacherous, and several times a hand or foot would slip and make those below catch their breath. Tongue protruding from her lips in concentration, Haffoot said nothing as she focused on the task and, increasingly slowly, she made her way to the leather strap and dangling weapons.

“Spear first, yeah? I’m dropping it,” she called down with a voice strained by exertion. With a grunt, Haffoot pulled the spear free…

…and the entire chamber immediately began to rumble.

“Get out!” Haffoot called. She could feel the column swaying and beginning to topple. With a deftness borne of desperation, she launched herself from the collapsing stone at the chamber’s nearest wall. Down she fell, and as she hit the stone surface she pushed with one leg, aiming at an angle towards the floor. All in one motion, she struck the floor, rolling, and then disappeared into the crawlspace faster than any of them would have thought possible.

The halfling’s agile descent distracted the others from reacting as quickly. Sections of the stone column cascaded on them, and a fist-sized rock struck Erin’s armored shoulder, throwing her to the ground.

“Look out!” Hilda yelled, and dodged to the side just as an enormous slab of stone thudded into the floor where she had been standing. Cradling the glowing orb protectively, Hilda pushed her way into the gap after Haffoot.

“I don’t… what?” Erin shook her head, dazed, as rocks continued to fall.

“Go, lass, go!” Umur yelled into her ear and pushed her towards the crawlspace. Dumbly, the white-mailed cleric followed Hilda’s disappearing feet.

Rocks battered Umur’s helmet and armor, and he spared a glance up. The top half of the stone column was gone, and with it the ceiling was collapsing. Wide-eyed, he dropped to his knees and pushed Erin forward.

“GO!” he bellowed, and with a roar threw himself into the open space ahead.

Just as the dwarf’s boots pulled into the gap there was a deafening crash as the chamber beyond filled with debris.

Thanks to the cacophony of destruction, none of them heard the Hirot villagers screaming in pain and terror.

---

“When will they return?” Maly Peabrook asked in her squeaky voice. She was the apprentice to Hale the Crane, Hirot’s armorer, though the man often complained about the arrangement. It was well known within the village walls that Maly was a terrible smith, ruining as many pieces as she helped create. Her prized creation was a misshapen, battered iron cap, too large for her head, that she wore proudly, along with mismatched pieces such as a single shoulder pauldron, shin guard, and bracer. Each piece displayed her shoddy craftsmanship, yet these, at least, had survived the forge.

“Either there’ll be the chief’s tomb at the end of that crawl or death,” the dwarven carpenter, Tor, growled at her. He was a proud member of the Hirot crafts guild and had no love for the human he considered a blight to his fellow guildmembers. “So either soon or we leave.”

“They won’t die,” Joane admonished, frowning at Tor and then flashing a grin at the armorer’s apprentice. The two were peers in age, but Joane was by far the more confident and, thus, seemed like an older sibling. “Which means soon, Maly.”

As if her words had summoned the heroes, there was a rustling from the darkened gap above. The villagers’ eyes all followed the noise expectantly.

A gray-skinned humanoid figure in rags leapt, snarling, from the opening, its wide mouth open to reveal sharp teeth and a forked tongue. Claws outstretched on overlong fingers, it landed atop one of the human men. Omulf had lost his entire family to the Hound of Hirot, and with it his will to live. He had been a vagrant in the village the past few months, until the Graymoor residents had given him a spark of hope. That spark, it seemed, had led him to die screaming beneath an earthen mound far from his home. The creature spit and grunted and it rended Omulf apart in a matter of blood-soaked moments.

“What is this devilry?!” the dwarf Tor roared as he swung the dagger in his fist at the creature. It tore through the sagging flesh at its neck, spraying blood that was thick and black. The grotesque thing reared back in pain, its bulging eyes wild. With a backwards slash of its claws it tore out the dwarf’s throat, and Tor toppled, grabbing at his ruined neck, next to Omulf’s tattered corpse.

“No!” Joane shouted. She pushed her pitchfork forward, pinning the creature through its shoulder to the dirt floor below. It snarled and bit at her, distracted, allowing Briene Byley to approach and swing her club. The healer’s attack was wild and borne of horrified fear, but it caved in the creature’s head, killing it instantly.

A monstrous snake began tearing its way free of the sagging skin, but it seemed hampered somehow. Perhaps it was the pitchfork impaling a part of its serpentine body within, or perhaps it was less ready to be “born” than the other two who had emerged earlier. Whatever the case, as the human-like head with bulging eyes thrashed and chomped blindly with its shark mouth, the remaining villagers had time to attack.

Shouting incoherently, Joane pulled her pitchfork out of the sagging gray skin and stabbed down on the serpent. It squealed and hissed in response, wounded and even more aggressive because of it.

Maly Peebrook, near paralyzed by fear and wielding a smithy’s hammer, swung at the squirming creature. Her blow caved in the chest of the humanoid thing, allowing the snake within to burst free. She yelled in shock as it launched itself at her, then again in pain as its sharp teeth sunk into the flesh where her neck met her unarmored shoulder.

“No! No!” she screamed, battering at the scaled body with her hammer. Her efforts caused the creature to release its grip and fall, writhing to the floor. Maly rained hammer blows down until it was a black-blooded pulp. She kept striking until Briene firmly but gently pulled her away. The armorer’s apprentice dropped her hammer and collapsed into the healer’s arms, sobbing.

It was then that echoing sounds of a crashing avalanche reached them from the passage above.

---

“Back, back!” Umur yelled, though whether he could be heard above the ceiling’s collapse, or his companions needed the encouragement were both in doubt. The sound and vibrations from the rockfall shook their bones and rained twigs down over their heads as they crawled frantically away. The four of them moved through the passage as it jogged left, and then each bumped into the person ahead.

“Why are we stopping?” Erin said, speaking loudly and through teeth gritted in pain.

“I’ve, uh…” Haffoot said from the front. “There’s something here. And… oh! One of the villagers is crying! You all go. I’ll meet you soon, yeah?”

“Meet us?” Umur growled. “What does that mean? We’re in the same bloody crawlspace!”

“I’ll explain later,” Hilda said. “Follow me.”

The light of the orb pulsing a soft white, Hilda continued forward. Erin, still half dazed, followed. The two women pulled away as Umur shook his helmeted head, cursing in his native dwarven tongue. He followed as well, and soon found himself being aided by a number of outstretched hands to lower him from the opening to the false tomb’s floor. The dry snakeskin crackled underfoot.

“So where’s Haffoot?” the dwarf demanded, then blinked in surprise as he took in the scene. The dwarf, Tor, lay dead next to the body of one of the human villagers, both in a wide pool of blood. Nearby was the sloughed, gray skin of one of the creatures they’d fought before. Spattered gore was everywhere. Briene held the human girl with the large helmet, who was weeping inconsolably and covered in a mix of black, sticky blood and her own.

“What happened here?” he gaped.

“One of those gray fuckers attacked,” Joane Cayhurst spat, planting the butt of her pitchfork into the hardpacked earth. “Jumped straight out of the hole up there. How did it get past you and to us?” the red-haired young woman challenged Umur, but her eyes darted mistrustingly towards Hilda’s impassive, hooded form.

“I– I don’ know, lass,” the dwarf sputtered. He removed his black, horned helm and wiped sweat from his brow. His craggy face was lined with weariness and confusion. “It was but a single passage to the real tomb. We couldn’ta passed the creature without seein’ it. And somehow we’ve lost Haffoot through the same mystery, and ‘twas she who had the spear.”

“The wrong spear!” a jovial voice called out from above. They all jumped and grabbed at weapons, heads snapping to gape as Haffoot’s smiling face peered down. “A second false tomb, Umur! Can ya believe it?”

“Haffoot!” Erin strode forward. Miraculously, she looked untouched by the ordeal from the column. Her white armor was again pristine, and the pale skin of her face and neck lacked any bruises or obvious wounds. “What are you saying?”

“I found the real tomb,” the halfling’s echoing voice chuckled. “Look out below!”

 A bundle thumped onto the ground from the opening, which the others gathered around to inspect. There, laying atop the dried snakeskin, was a bundle of silver fur, wrapped around a long, flat-bladed spear.

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 8

It was a bloodcurdling scream from the back of the group that alerted them to something wrong. The halfling merchant, whose name was Avel, shrieked a second time, and immediately others from the back began yelling in alarm. Erin and Umur exchanged a quick nod, and the two began pushing through the Hirot villagers fleeing from the screams.

Erin outdistanced the dwarf and arrived first. Her eyes, limned by white moonlight, widened as she took in the two pale figures in dirty rags. They looked like humans, but gray and with sagging flesh over their bony limbs, assessing Avel with overlarge eyes. One crouched on the hard-packed dirt floor like a wild animal, sharp teeth gnashing. The other hung from the stone ceiling like a spider by clawed fingers that were too long to be human. Directly in front of the first creature, the halfling held her face with both hands and squealed while her fellow villagers scrambled away.

“Begone, creatures of Chaos!” Erin bellowed, one hand gripping the crescent moon hanging on a silver chain at her neck, the other hand on the hilt of the dagger at her waist. “By Shul’s light, begone!”

Snarling, the gray-skinned man-thing on the floor swiped up and grabbed a halfling leg. Almost simultaneously, its companion reached down and grabbed one of the merchant’s arms. Avel screamed even more hysterically as the creatures pulled her taut, muscles straining. With a howl from the creatures, her arm tore completely from her body. Gore and viscera sprayed the stone walls, splashing across Erin’s white, scaled armor and astonished face.

Umur bellowed as he arrived, shield in front like a battering ram. As he collided with the creature still gripping Avel’s leg, he slashed up with his longsword. The misshapen figure released the dying halfling and tumbled backwards in a heap, skidding on the floor and leaving a trail of thick, black blood. Umur snarled incoherently, spinning to raise his shield against the thing clinging to the ceiling, a small and bloody arm hanging from its grip.

Chanting filled the hallway, making everyone’s ears itch and causing them to wince. Hilda approached, hood thrown back and black rectangle upon her forehead glowing blue in the darkness.

For Joane Cayhurst and the three Graymoor companions, they witnessed Hilda’s miracle a second time. For the other five remaining Hirot villagers, they were awestruck by the sight of the Empty Star’s magic in action.

 As before, many events happened simultaneously and almost too quickly for minds to comprehend. Weeds and vines burst from the ceiling and floor. Cracks spidered through the heavy stone walls. Despite being indoors, snow filled the hallway, piling suddenly at their feet and upon their shoulders. And, above all, lightning flashed directly in front of Umur, blinding them all momentarily as it incinerated the gray-skinned creature that had rolled away from the dwarf’s shield blow.

When they blinked away the light from their eyes, the burned husk of the creature had collapsed like an empty bag. What had emerged from the husk was a large snake with a human-like head, eyes bulging and hinged mouth opening wide to reveal sharp, jagged teeth. It was as if the death of the first creature’s body had released this serpent that had been nesting within. The snake creature rose, hissing malevolently.

Charging through the blizzard with swords out, Haffoot spun and slashed. Her normally clumsy gait disappeared in combat, it seemed, and the halfling fought with a graceful savagery that was made even more dizzying in the snowfall. With a leap, she drew a black, bloody line across the humanoid creature’s ribs and it fell, snarling, from the ceiling.

“I said begone!” Erin yelled, suddenly appearing out of the storm to loom over the fallen creature. She had drawn her long, crescent dagger and it glowed pale white like a shard of the moon itself. The cleric stabbed down, and the blade sunk into gray, sagging flesh. The creature arched its back with wide and terrified eyes, seemingly unable to move.

“It’s frozen!” Haffoot whooped. “Well done, Er– aarrgh!” The halfling had taken her eyes off the large, human-headed serpent that emerged from the burned corpse. It snapped with a shark-like mouth full of teeth at her. Haffoot reflexively brought the thin blade of her rapier up to parry, but the creature still tore into her shoulder.

A breeze suddenly filled the hallway that could only be described as evil. Cold, sickly air scattered the snowflakes still drifting aimlessly, and with it a wan blue light that seemed to emanate from everywhere. The remaining villagers collapsed, most crying or doubling over, as waves of shame and guilt washed over them with the wind. Only the Graymoor adventurers seemed immune to its ill effects, and there could be no doubt as to its origin. Staff held aloft, Hilda continued to chant, the doorway on her forehead pulsing with light.

“Go!” Hilda paused in her chanting to yell at the others. “While the creatures are distracted, finish them!”

Haffoot spun, thrusting with her rapier and slashing with her short, flat-bladed sword. The first pierced the body of the unnatural serpent, and its thrash of pain sent it directly into the second blade. Two pieces of the serpent fell to the snow at their feet, each writhing and spewing black blood.

Teeth clenched, Erin twisted her glowing dagger in the chest of the creature at her feet. Doing so created a hole from which burst a second human-headed serpent, its shark mouth open wide. Erin reared back but would have been too slow if not for a lateral slash from Umur’s longsword, the ancestral blade from Councilwoman Leda Astford of Graymoor. Dark liquid from the serpent joined red blood from the halfling across Erin’s white armor, and the second serpent died as soon as it had been born from its gray-skinned carcass.

“It’s done!” the dwarf bellowed. “These foul creatures are dead. Villagers of Hirot, gather round.”

There was something in Umur’s voice that rallied the group. Wiping tear-filled eyes and running noses, the words pulled them from the despair of Hilda’s ill wind. Shakily, they stood and staggered closer. The dwarf, Haffoot, and Erin stepped to meet them, shielding most from the view of the dead, dismembered halfling and gray-skinned corpses.

“Is, is that Avel?” Briene asked, sniffling and hiccupping from her despair. “Oh, no.”

“She didn’t even want to be here,” another woman, wearing patchwork armor and an overlarge iron cap, said from Briene’s side. “Was in the back because of it. Poor thing.”

“It’s done,” Umur repeated commandingly, drawing eyes to him. “From now on, one of us will travel in the rear as well as front.” His eyes scanned the gathered villagers. “Wait, why are there only six of ye?”

“Riffin stayed outside,” Briene offered. “To keep watch.”

“Fine then,” the dwarf nodded, frowning and inwardly berating himself for not realizing the absence sooner. “I can’t promise that was the last o’ the danger. Keep your eyes open, and don’t bloody touch anythin’.”

They readily agreed, and Umur said they would carry Avel’s body outside once they’d found the spear and were leaving the tomb. In the frightened, skittish minutes that everyone regrouped, breath steaming in the sudden cold, every villager from Hirot gave Hilda a wide berth, either looking away or with narrowed, untrusting eyes. Even Joane, who had been telling everyone of Hilda’s astounding feats of magic for the past day, seemed unsure how to make sense of the wind the wizard had summoned that robbed her of all hope. Hilda, for her part, said nothing. She returned her hood to cover the top half of her face and stood stoically leaning on her staff.

“Excuse me, Haffoot, is it?” Briene approached the halfling. With slender fingers she touched the torn, bloody sleeve delicately. “You’ve been hurt! I– I’m a healer. Not a cleric, mind you, but I provide aid to the clerics in our church. May I… take a look?”

“Ah, sure thing,” Haffoot grinned. “Much obliged.” She turned to offer the shoulder towards the striking young woman. Briene asked for someone to bring a torch so she could see, then rummaged around in her pack for bandages and salves.

“It’s not a bad wound,” she said, lips pursed as she worked. “But already looks angry and red. I’ll clean it and give you a bandage. That pretty blouse will need some mending, though.”

“I’ll sew the blouse tonight,” Haffoot smiled, craning her neck to view the gash on her shoulder. “And appreciate the tendin’.”

By the time that Briene had washed the injury and applied a cloth to it, the others were ready to go. Half-melted snow littered the ground, and as it vanished it revealed the weeds that had thrust up from the hard-packed earth. It was all an unnerving reminder of Hilda’s power.

The halfling agreed to take up the rear and watch for more threats with her keen darkvision while Umur and Erin continued to lead the way. Hilda followed behind her two companions, and the five Hirot villagers held back from getting overly close to her. If Hilda noticed, the wizard of the Empty Star did not remark on their apprehension.

Erin and Umur led the group to the large chamber at the end of the hallway, ignoring the cramped, branching corridors except to be vigilant against additional threats. They neither heard nor saw movement. It seemed that, once again, they were alone within Ulfheonar’s tomb.

Three long steps descended from the hallway into the high-ceilinged chamber. Across from them stood a towering stone door twice the height of a human, flanked by ancient braziers of hammered bronze. Hundreds of carved, spiraling runes decorated the door, as well as the clear image of an enormous wolf being crushed by an even larger snake. The square room, which could fit their gathered group several times over, was bare except for thousands of what seemed to be thin, translucent strips of vellum covering the earthen floor.

“What’s that on the floor?” Umur frowned and squinted.

The acolyte of Shul, her white armor speckled red and black, descended the stone steps cautiously. When she reached the bottom step, Erin knelt and examined the objects on the floor with her luminous eyes. After several heartbeats, she reached out with a hand and snatched one, the sound like picking up a dry leaf in autumn.

“Snake skins,” she said simply, frowning and scanning the room. “Discarded snake skins.”

Carefully, she stepped onto the floor, dried skins crackling under her boot. Erin unsheathed her dagger, softly glowing eyes looking up and around. Grumbling, Umur followed her, his sword in one hand and shield in the other. The dwarf peered through his black, horned helm, ready to be attacked.

“Well, will you look at that?” Umur gasped, slightly lowering his guard as he approached the enormous door. “That’s dwarven make, that is.”

“Can it be opened?” Hilda asked, gingerly stepping onto the skin-riddled floor.

“Not by mortal hands,” Umur grunted. “That’s set into the ground, a seal more’n a door.”

“Is Ulfheonar’s tomb beyond?” the wizard asked. “Are we thwarted from reaching the spear? Perhaps my magic could…”

“No,” the dwarf cut her off. “Doesn’t smell right. That’s not his tomb.”

“Master Dwarf?” Briene Byley asked softly. The villagers had assembled on the bottom step at the chamber’s entrance, and only Joane and she had stepped forward onto the desiccated snake skins. Haffoot, taking her rearguard role seriously, stayed at the topmost step, back turned on the others as she watched the hallway.

“Mm?” Umur grunted. “What is it, lass?”

“It’s only,” the young healer said. “Look there, at the smoke from the torches. It’s being drawn up, above the stairs. What do you think that means?”

“What are you,” he began, and then squinted. Sure enough, smoke from the two torches the Hirot residents held seemed to be pulled up, to disappear into a horizontal gap near the ceiling he would not have noticed otherwise. “Step aside, let me see.”

The dwarf tromped over in his black-scaled mail, studying the wall below the gap, adjacent to the stairs.

“What is it?” Hilda asked. Villagers parted as she approached.

“By the gods,” he said, and when he looked up at the robed wizard, he was smiling. “She’s right. There’s a chamber above this one. See these holes here? And here? I’d bet my favorite hammer that was to anchor a ladder. Haffoot, lass, look at this.”

“Sure thing,” Haffoot sauntered over in her peculiar gait. “You, with the torch, hold it up and keep an eye behind us, yeah? What is it, Umur?”

“See that gap up there? Think you could climb it?”

The halfling crunched across dried skins, peering up beneath her tricorn hat. With a lopsided grin, she crossed her arms before her.

“Absolutely.”

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 7

“So… she’s human, and old,” Umur asked, pulling at his beard. “How old?”

“Let’s talk of something else, please,” Hilda said, pulling her robe free from a bramble that had snagged it as she stepped over a fallen log.

“She’s so old!” Joane Cayhurst cackled. “And hideous!” She picked her way through the forest beside the dwarf, on the other shoulder as Hilda. “I can’t believe you’re going to marry the mad widow!” Behind the red-haired young woman, two other Hirot residents snickered.

“Hilda agreed, not me!” Umur growled. “I haven’t said I’ll do it. She can marry her.”

“Can we change subjects, please,” Hilda begged, and her tone made Joane and the others laugh all the more.

The group made their way slowly through the tangle of the forest, following a trail so forgotten and overgrown that they were forced to frequently pause and argue where it was. Umur, Hilda, Erin, and Haffoot were joined by Joane and seven other villagers from Hirot who had volunteered to help the brave adventurers on their quest to find the tomb of Ulfheonar.

Each of the Hirot villagers had his or her own reasons for being there, most of which were unknown to the four outsiders from Graymoor. Some had been inspired by Joane’s tales of heroism. Some were concerned citizens prepared to do anything, no matter how fantastical, to help Hirot. Still others were searching for something to bring a spark of hope into their wallowing seas of despair. Six of the eight were human men and women of varying ages and trades, and they were joined by a halfling merchant woman and dwarven carpenter. None seemed particularly capable foresters, yet they were certainly brave enough to accompany what many–surely including the Jarl and his thegns–would call a fool’s errand.

It was Briene Byley, Father Beacom’s assistant at the church to Justicia, who had first mentioned the existence of the trail to Ulfheonar’s tomb. Her late father had been a hunter in Hirot his entire life, and he’d long suspected that the earthen mound at the end of the trail was the fabled chief’s burial site. Yet Briene’s father could never convince others to explore the mound, and the man had no desire to do so alone. Instead, he’d long ago marked the trail just in case and had taught those markers to his daughter. Thus it was that the girl had led their ragtag dozen at dawn’s light through the trees and moors north of Hirot. It was now nearing midday, but they had made decent time despite the sparse trail and large group.

“Briene,” Erin asked, casting an annoyed look at the snickering villagers. “How much further to the mound? If this is not the tomb, I fear we have wasted a precious day.”

“I haven’t been here in years,” the young woman admitted in conciliatory tones. “But I believe it– ah! Yes! Right here!” She pushed forward through a thicket, revealing the forest breaking on a ledge, with a narrow vale below. Set in the center of the valley was a long, earthen mound topped with tall grass. As the others gathered at the forest’s edge to see, Briene pointed excitedly. “You see? The mound there… my father said it always looked like a serpent to him.”

Sure enough, from above the mound wound in a snake-like line, flanked on either side by slender, silvery streams that glistened in the midday sun. It was the first time they had been free of the dense forest since leaving the clearing around Hirot, and stray puffs of cloud crawled overhead upon a blue field of sky.

“What do you say, Master Pearlhammer?” Erin asked, fingering the pendant at her neck. “Could that be the tomb?”

“I s’pose it could at that,” the dwarf said, rubbing at his mouth. He raised his voice. “Haffoot and I will take the lead, then our cleric and wizard behind. The rest of you follow but keep yer eyes open for threats.”

“What sorta threats we watchin’ fer?” one of the humans, a rough-looking fellow of middle years with a scowling face and a dagger, asked.

“Dunno,” Umur grunted. “But I don’ trust open spaces. Watch the skies. Watch the trees. Watch the grass. Just keep your eyes peeled.”

The group made their own serpentine line, winding their way down the grassy slope into the vale. It was not a precarious way down, nor a deep valley. Soon they gathered on the vale’s floor, facing a shallow stream and the broad “head” of the mound, though this close nothing about the place seemed particularly snake-like.

“Look there,” Briene added enthusiastically, pointing with a slender finger. “Set into the hillock there! That’s the door, my father said.”

They approached, eyes casting up and around everywhere upon Umur’s warning. Yet by all accounts it was simply a picturesque location on a pleasant, mild day, with no danger about. Sunlight glittered off the shallow pool between them and the mound, and a slight breeze ruffled the tall grass all around.

The round stone was large, perhaps as tall as either dwarven man, and from this distance they could make out faint spirals carved into its flat surface, worn by time to be almost indiscernible.

“It’ll take some work to move that stone,” Umur grunted and looked around at the rest of their ragtag gathering, none of whom looked particularly strong. He opened his mouth to say something but thought better and snapped it shut. Instead, he simply muttered, “A good deal of work.”

“Shall we examine it, then?” Haffoot asked brightly, and then without waiting for a response splashed into the pool.

“Wait! Dammit, halfling,” Umur complained, and splashed after her. Erin was at their heels, while the rest, including Hilda, waited apprehensively at the stream’s edge.

The pool was not deep, only reaching Haffoot’s knees. A white sand bed stirred as the three adventurers moved, clouding the water.

“Oh, what’s this, then?” Haffoot paused and reached down to pull something from the pool. It was an old–perhaps very old–animal hide wrapped around something bulkier, secured with rotting leather straps.

“There’s more here. Come, lass,” Umur said, moving his foot experimentally. “Bring it back to the group. Let’s see what these are, laying in the water.”

The bundle was indeed ancient, and the leather and hide sloughed away as they unwrapped it. Inside was a nicked and pitted bronze sword, a handful of tin and bronze coins, and a cracked, humanoid skull. All were badly treated by time and the elements.

“What do you make of that?” asked Hilda, peering over the others’ shoulders with the Hirot villagers. “A sacrifice of some kind, for some sort of ritual?”

“No,” Erin announced, a fierce grin of satisfaction on her lips. “It’s a burial ground. Ulfheonar’s tribe buried their warriors at the foot of his tomb in honor of their chieftain. This is blessed news. It means you have led us, by Shul’s will, to the correct spot, Briene.”

“Oh,” the comely young woman blushed. “I’m glad.”

“Let’s go, Master Pearlhammer,” Erin splashed back into the water. “Any of you with strength, come help us roll the stone aside.”

It was a task easier spoken than accomplished. Five people could fit around the circular stone, and after some discussion the strongest of the group seemed to be Erin, Umur, the girl Joane, the dwarven chest-maker Tor, and a human gongfarmer. Yet even with their muscles straining, the group could not move the heavy slab even a hair’s breadth. It was Umur, sweating and near collapse in his black armor, who eventually suggested they use a lever of some kind. The others went in search of one within the vale while the group at the stone recovered.

While Hilda and the other villagers scattered, Haffoot made a slow perimeter around the mound itself. She walked in the clumsy saunter brought on by her club foot, scratching at her chin and allowing her instinct to guide her. As she scrutinized the mound, she absently whistled a tune her brother used to sing.

“Now, what’s this?” she grinned, stepping through the shallow stream to examine something pale caught in what appeared to be a cleft in a stone. Haffoot bent down to tug out a shred of homespun cloth. Pulling it free caused the stone to shift somewhat. She bent down and, tongue protruding as she squinted, peered closely.

“Oy!” she called out to where she could hear Umur cursing and complaining about how bloody hard it could be to find a bloody tree in a bloody forest. “Umur! Come see this, yeah?”

Hilda was the nearest to the halfling. “What is it?” she called from up the hill towards the forest’s edge.

“Go get the dwarf and Erin! I found somethin’!”

---

Amazingly, the halfling had stumbled upon a collapsed section of the structure beneath the earthen mound, and seemingly a way to enter the tomb without moving the impossibly heavy stone door. Umur argued that using a tree trunk as a lever would have worked, but he could see his own fatigue mirrored on the others’ faces and gave up the protest with a grumbled murmur about “halfling luck.” Everyone else was more than happy to clear away the more manageable pieces of rock, clearing a gap large enough for any of them to squeeze inside.

“We dwarves, Erin, and Haffoot can see in the dark,” he grumbled to the humans. “Best light a torch or two for the rest o’ you. Now let’s go… we’ve lost enough daylight with that fool door. If we waste much more time, we’ll be sleepin’ in the forest tonight instead of a warm bed.”

One by one, they began to get on their hands and knees to push themselves feet first into the gap in the earth. First the four Graymoor residents disappeared, then Joane, then, with murmured nervousness, the others. The last two were Briene and an older man with a pinched face and white beard.

“What is it, Riffin?” the woman asked him. “You seem reluctant.”

“Fools, all of them,” the man spat. “Did you not see the cloth? Not one mention of who or what it belonged to. I don’t expect an empty tomb, waiting to be plundered, girl, and neither should you.”

“Oh!” she gasped. “Let’s go talk to them, then.”

“They won’t listen,” Riffin shook his head, disgust woven into every word. “They’re desperate, Briene. If the tomb is already plundered or the spear is not there or the witch cannot make good on her promise… well, they have no other options. They’ll leave us and escape the Jarl’s justice and Hound’s jaws.”

“No! Riffin, they’re heroes!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, child. They’re travelers who surprised the Hound and were lucky to beat it once. They’ve no loyalty to Hirot. Stay with me here. Don’t follow foolishness.”

Briene straightened and set her chin. “I will follow them, but if you won’t, I understand. Are you heading back, then?”

Riffin made a face and spit into the water. “Nine hells, girl. I’m only here for you. Go then, and I’ll stay here as lookout. If you don’t return, I’ll tell the Jarl of this foolish expedition and wait for the Hound to come for me.”

“Oh, Riffin,” she lay a hand on his shoulder. He looked down on her slender fingers, the pain of longing in his eyes. “You’re always so dire. We’ll all be back, with the spear. You’ll see. We have Justicia and Shul watching us!”

“Go on, then.”

She flashed him a bright smile and shimmied into the cleft. Riffin, frowning and eyes glittering with frustration, watched the darkness for several heartbeats. Then, with a curse, he wandered a few paces from the stream to sit in the grass and wait.

---

On the other side of the gap was what had once been a square catacomb of some kind, its ceiling canted towards the opening and piles of rubble littering the hard-packed earth of the floor. The walls still stood and were simply immense stone slabs set into the ground. Contrasting with the bright sunshine outside, the place felt damp, huddled, and dark, even by torchlight.

“Truly, Shul smiles down from his moonlit throne today,” Erin whispered once they had all gathered, her voice echoing even using hushed tones. “Well done, Haffoot.”

“Are you sure it’s Ulfheonar’s tomb?” Briene whispered fervently, eyes darting everywhere. She had been the last to arrive, but the other villagers were more than happy for her to move closer to the front with the four outsiders.

“It’s a tomb, alright,” Umur answered. “Let’s find where the chief might be buried.”

The room led to a long, narrow hallway with the same stone-slab walls and packed-earth floors. Given the collapse, several people eyed the ceiling warily. It was a cramped experience, and the sounds of their feet, armor, leather straps, and shuffling cloth crowded out any opportunity to listen to ensure they were alone.

Thankfully, the narrow corridor met a larger hallway with a slightly raised ceiling. Umur and Erin, in the lead, scanned both directions and sighed. To the left, the hallway appeared to open to a much larger, lower-ceilinged chamber, while to the right was an even larger, higher-ceilinged chamber. Two smaller corridors, like the one they’d just exited, branched off as well.

“Lotta options,” Umur grumbled. “Stands to reason the left is where we woulda come in through the stone door.”

“Yes,” Erin nodded. With a whisper she added, “We can look there last, to see if perhaps there is a way to open it from the inside. In the meantime, shall we check the side corridors?”

“Maybe later. If we’re looking for the chief’s tomb, it’s gonna be somewhere grand.”

“To the north, then,” Erin announced, slightly louder so the others could hear.

They could walk two abreast here, so Umur and Erin took the lead, with Haffoot and Hilda close behind. Joane and Briene followed most closely, with the others paired off after that.

None of them sensed the gray-skinned figures in dull rags that crawled, spider-like along the ceiling behind them. Their overlarge eyes reflected in the torchlight, and forked tongues ran along too-wide mouths filled with sharp teeth.

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 6

Huddled against the hill atop which the Jarl’s manor lorded over the village of Hirot was a small, ramshackle hut. A straw roof stretched over walls made of mossy and uneven planks of wood. It sat away from the other structures within the palisades wall and, because of its location, existed in perpetual shadow.

Hilda approached the old hut, stepping carefully through the untended brambles and shrubs. Exhaling and smoothing her robes, she straightened, cleared her throat, and rapped on the door.

Something within shuffled, moving slowly, and then the door opened a crack. A stooped and ancient woman peered up at Hilda from the opening. What little hair remained on her liver-spotted skull was bone white and wispy. Her face sagged like melted wax, and one eye opened much wider than the other when she spoke.

“Well, you’re not from Hirot. Didn’t know the fool of a Jarl would let in outsiders. Drop the hood, my dear, and let me get a look at you.

Hilda hesitated, then reached up and pulled her hood off, revealing a pleasant face with the black rectangle tattoo upon her forehead. The old woman seemed startled for a moment, then grinned a toothless grin.

“Are you Ymae?” Hilda asked.

“The same. Come in, come in,” she opened the door wider, which creaked loudly on rusted hinges. Ymae craned her neck to look past Hilda. “Just you, then?”

“I have companions,” Hilda offered. “But I’m obliged to talk just the two of us, about the Hound. If that’s alright?”

“Yes, yes,” Ymae stepped aside. “Perhaps for the best. What do I call you, demon-bride?”

The robed mage faltered. “What? My– my name is Hilda.”

“Ah. And new to your patron, eh? Come in, and we’ll chat. Tea?” the old woman shuffled deeper into the hut, her feet scuffling along the dirt floor as she moved.

The interior seemed somehow larger than the outside, though Hilda still felt a need to duck under the low, thatched roof. There were no other rooms; it was simply a wide, round hut with a large fire pit in its center, a rickety chair next to a loom, a wash basin, a mat of fresh straw, and, built into perhaps one third of the walls, countless shelves filled with jars and curios. As Hilda took in the darkened surroundings, she noticed a mottled cat yawn and stretch from one of the topmost shelves, regarding her with eyes that shone in the darkness.

Ymae plucked a bundle of dry sticks from the floor and began to carefully assemble them within the fire pit, using knobby and bent fingers. She spoke as she worked.

“So, how’d your patron come to you?”

“I, ah…” Hilda considered how to answer the question, then the words came out in a rush. “I found a glowing orb, beneath a blue star we called the Empty Star. I took the orb home, and… after months, a figure appeared within it.” Her cheeks colored at telling someone else about the shadowy man within the orb.

The old woman, nonplussed, grunted. “Hilda of the Empty Star, hm? And what did this figure offer you for the power you now possess?”

Hilda’s first instinct was to answer “Nothing” reflexively, but she paused. “I… don’t understand it, really. I don’t even know what powers I possess. I just know that I can open a doorway to him, and that he can send magic through me into the world. I have a vague memory of him speaking at times, but I… can’t remember it.”

Ymae was using a flint and steel to light the fire. She grunted as she struck them together once, twice, and a spark leapt to the leaves beneath the twigs. Painfully and slowly, she bent down to gently blow at the embers. When she finished, she looked up over the smoking sticks.

“Well, there’ll be a price, my dear. There always is. This isn’t like a cleric, where the demons and angels they call gods grant them boons because they align with their aims. What you’ve done is make a bargain, and the contract of it’s written plainly on your skin. At some point he’ll ask for something in return, perhaps something terrible. And when he asks, you’ll do it.”

“Or… what?” Hilda asked.

Ymae cackled softly, the sound dry and harsh. “There’s no ‘or,’ dearie. You’ve already agreed by using his power. And the more you use it, the more he can–and will–ask of you. It’s the way of these things.”

“You called me ‘demon-bride.’ Does that mean he’s a… demon?” Hilda asked haltingly. Somehow this conversation made her want to pull her hood up and hide her forehead, which she did.

“Do you know his name, this man in the orb?”

Hilda shook her head.

Ymae sprinkled dry leaves into a small pot, which she laboriously hung on an iron hook over the burgeoning fire. She produced a ladle from a basin on the floor, and spooned water into the pot. The growing flames danced in her one large eye, with the other hidden beneath hanging folds of skin.

“An angel wouldn’t have such a symbol, I think,” she shrugged. “A black door? No, no, surely not. Call it an educated guess, then. Unless he’s older than either the beings of Law or Chaos, one of the truly old ones. In that case, well… hope it’s a demon, Hilda of the Empty Star.” She chuckled grimly, poking at the small fire with a black rod. “But you said you came to discuss the Hound, mm?”

Flustered, Hilda said. “Oh! Yes. I ah… we’ve killed it, but the Jarl says it will return.”

“And it’ll remember who killed it, too.” Ymae continued to poke at the fire.

“What do we do? How do we keep it from returning?”

Setting the poker down, the old woman rose from her chair and smacked her lips. “Do you know, that fool of a Jarl has never once asked me that question. No one has. Hirot shrinks every turn of the moon and the people allow it because they think the fool has a plan. He doesn’t, he or his ridiculous seer.”

“The thin man who whispers in the Jarl’s ear.” Hilda said absently. She had begun sweating, the heat of the fire already warming the hut too much for her tastes on the late summer day.

“Mm. Sylle Ru is his name. Odious man. Some small gifts, I’ll admit, but clinging to power like a rat to a sinking barge. Now, where’s my cup?” Ymae turned her hunched back on Hilda and began rummaging around one of her many shelves. When she returned, she held a small, simple wooden cup. “There. Time for tea.”

Hilda stood to help the old woman lift the pot off its perch with a rag, then poured some of the discolored water into the cup while Ymae held it with trembling hands. Once Hilda had returned the pot to the hook and taken the cup from her, Ymae collapsed back upon her chair. It seemed the effort of making the tea had left her exhausted.

“Don’t you want any?” Hilda asked, looking down at her tea. Even in the warmth of the hut, the liquid steamed.

Ymae waved a knobby hand and chuckled. “Only have one cup. You drink it. While you do, I’ll tell you the nature of this Hound, and why I alone in Hirot don’t fear of it.”

Hilda blew gently on the tea’s surface. It smelled strongly of herbs and moss. The old woman watched her with one wide eye, licking her lips, as Hilda touched the cup to her mouth and sipped. The witch giggled.

“Trusting, demon-bride. Too trusting,” Ymae tsked and then grinned. “Well, you’ll learn, won’t you? For now, have a seat if you don’t mind the dirt. I’ll tell you what I know of this Hound, and how I might be of some help to you…”

---

That evening, the four Graymoor companions shared a table in the Wolf-Spear Inn. Minding the Jarl’s warnings, they insisted on paying coin for the food and ale that Broegan continued to enthusiastically bring them and promised to provide him his full rate for their rooms. When he reluctantly agreed, they suspected he quoted them prices far below the norm.

Their table was the most secluded in the crowded common room, which meant only that they could speak without shouting. It seemed half of the remaining townsfolk had gathered in the Wolf-Spear, and the sound of voices, clinking mugs, and calls for food competed with the bard Lloré’s fiddle and song. Pipe smoke hung thickly in the air, and everyone there peered through the haze, frequently stealing glances at the four outsiders at the corner table. Joane’s words had apparently reached across the whole of Hirot, and the locals’ gazes held everything from awe to curiosity to skepticism.

“Alright then,” Haffoot smiled, practically squirming in her chair. “We’re all here and pleasantries’re outta the way. What’d you learn?”

“You first,” Erin scowled, crossing arms over her white-mailed chest. She had been in a foul mood since returning in the afternoon, refusing to do much else than brood. “Were you sober long enough to speak with the bard or others?”

“Aye, we spoke to Lloré,” Umur said, wiping ale from his beard with the back of his hand.

“For a while!” Haffoot jumped in. “He was willing to go on and on about the Hound. Said that in ages past, the tribes of this land worshipped a wolf spirit, and made sacrifices to it by castin’ people into a pit in the Sunken Fens to the northeast ‘o here. Said it’s why the Jarl resorted to sacrifices, ‘cause he figures it’s the same spirit.”

“Why not use the same pit, then?” Hilda asked.

“Too far,” Haffoot shrugged. “And the Jarl thinks the Sunken Fens is where its lair is at, so it’s too dangerous. It’s comin’ to town anyway, and nobody wants’ta be outside the walls for long. Though Lloré says, as a spirit, it can walk through walls and that it’s taken people right from their beds, locked gates or no.”

“Half’a what the bard said is nonsense,” Umur added. “Rumors and such. But what Haffoot shared is what we figure’s the truth of it.”  

“How do we kill it once and for all,” Erin uncrossed her arms and leaned forward. “So we may leave this Chaos-cursed place?”

Haffoot pointed to the great spear resting above the bar, where Broegan was cleaning mugs. “Some ancient chief named… what was it, Umur?”

“Ulfheonar.”

“Him!” the halfling brightened. “Had a magical spear that Lloré said would do it.”

“The Wolf-Spear Inn,” Hilda grinned from beneath her hood. “The Jarl knows of the wolf spirit but has apparently forgotten his own town’s legends. But, ah… that spear there is wooden, a replica. Where is the actual weapon?”

Haffoot shrugged. “Nobody knows. But Ulf- Ulf,” she struggled with the name.

“Ulfheonar,” Umur said, taking another draught from his mug.

“His tomb’s somewhere north of here!”

“So,” Erin leaned back, thinking aloud. “We have the next two days to find this chieftain’s tomb and find the spear. Otherwise, we must be at the stones to dispatch it and buy ourselves another three days. This is good. This is a plan.”

“Now you,” Haffoot said to Erin. “Anything from the church visit?”

“No,” the white-mailed woman scowled. “The head priest is an awful man, and in my eyes not a true cleric. He believes the Hound is some kind of end to the world, that it will devour everyone, and that our only salvation is repenting our sins so that our purified souls make their way to Justicia. He is without hope.”

“Well, that’s cheery,” Umur grunted.

“We would have come to blows,” Erin admitted. “Except that he has an assistant, Briene, who intervened.” She pointed with her chin to a young, attractive woman in simple clothes and a cloak, laughing at a table with several others. “But I will not speak to that man again, nor visit their bleak, desperate chapel.”

“I’ve, ah…” Hilda said suddenly. “Spoken with the woman the locals call a witch, Ymae. I don’t believe she speaks in rumor and hearsay, and she adds another piece to the puzzle.” She paused, and the others looked at her expectantly.

“Well, go on then,” Haffoot encouraged.

Hilda cleared her throat. “She says the Hound must be magically bound before dealing the killing blow. It’s the only way to ensure it never returns.”

“Magically bound?” Umur frowned. “How’s that done, then?”

“Ymae can weave us a net to do the task,” Hilda offered. “But she requires the hair from a corpse.”

“Necromancy,” Erin growled. “I like that not at all.”

“I don’t think you would like her, no,” Hilda nodded. “But is it a surprise that a creature of Chaos requires such means?”

“I did not say that I would not do it,” Erin crossed her arms over her chest again. “Only that I do not like it. By Shul’s will, I will not touch a corpse’s hair for this task nor wield the net, but I would gladly thrust the spear into the befouling beast once it is bound.”

“That’s settled then,” Haffoot beamed. “Now we just hafta find a dead body.”

“We will, in fact, be searching for a tomb.” Hilda offered.

The halfling grinned. “Hey… I s’pose we are at that! A tomb’ll have corpses. Worse comes to worse, I s’pose they have graves around here too.” She made a disgusted face.

“There’s, ah… one other matter, though.” Hilda added. They turned to her, and the robed woman practically squirmed in her seat. “Ymae had two requirements for the task. One was the hair from a corpse. The other, ah…” She snapped her mouth shut, clearly uncomfortable. Her head turned to the dwarf at her side.

“Spit it out, lass,” Umur placed his mug on the table.

“Master Pearlhammer,” Hilda said delicately. “Ymae was willing to help us if one of our party agreed to, ah…” She cleared her throat.

“Yeah?” Now it was the dwarf’s turn to cross his arms.

“What is it, Hilda?” Haffoot asked, eyes wide.

“If one of us agreed to, ah… marry her.” If the wizard could sink further into her hooded robe, she would have done so. Silence filled the next several heartbeats at the table, all four of them frozen.

“WHAT!?” Umur thundered. The tavern crowd immediately paused in their conversation and camaraderie to look in their direction.

“She was, ah… quite clear,” Hilda faltered. “I agreed to her terms.”

Haffoot burst into gales of laughter, slapping Umur upon his armored shoulder with one hand and the table with the other. Even Erin grinned at the dwarf, who was red-faced and sputtering.

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 5

The great hall in the Jarl’s manor was its largest room by far, taking up over half of the structure. It appeared that it had been used as a sleeping quarters for the man, his warrior thegns, and perhaps their retainers as well. Blankets, mats, weapons, shields, and scraps of armor littered the floor haphazardly. It was if the Jarl had assumed that one day soon the Hound would come for him, and he had closed ranks to be prepared.

Upon each wall hung banners of a yellow wolf on a green background, presumably the Jarl’s standard. On one end of the long room, where the Graymoor companions entered with Nothan and Joane, was a large oaken dining table piled high with half-eaten breakfast. On the other end was a raised dais, upon which sat an ornately carved chair that could only be described as a throne. The Jarl lounged on the chair seemingly casually, an immense sword with a blade a full hand’s width laying across his lap. He still wore his wolfskin cloak across his broad shoulders. Flanking him were his seven thegns, battle-scarred men and women standing with arms crossed or fingering the hilts of weapons. It appeared as if the Jarl’s warriors had hurried to assemble, and many wore only pieces of armor, with crumbs of food still in beards. Skulking to the side and behind the Jarl’s throne, was thin, robed man of middle years with jet black hair.

“Bring them here, Nothan,” the Jarl bellowed, his voice echoing. “I would speak with these travelers who have neither ears nor brains.”

Erin began to say something in response, but Umur laid a cautioning hand on her arm and, defiance written across her face, she snapped her jaw shut. Nothan led them around the table, and they wove their way through the mess of bedrolls and items to stand at the foot of the raised dais. The Jarl glared down at them, frowning, as the warriors on either side studied each of the four outsiders. The thin man behind the throne smiled mockingly, his beady eyes darting over them and back like birds fluttering within cages. This close, there was something weaseling about the thin, sharp-featured fellow, and his black hair was limp and oily.

“We’ve done you a service–” Erin began, but the Jarl cut her off with a sharp wave of his hand. His gaze fell on the young woman, Joane.

“First you, girl. At the standing stones. What happened?”

Joane cleared her throat and, with earnestness in every word, relayed the brief battle with the Hound. The Jarl’s expression remained a stoic frown, but the thegns shifted in astonishment at Joane’s description, their eyes upon the Graymoor companions moving through a variety of conflicting emotions. The robed man’s eyes fixed on Hilda, sparkling with something like avarice.

When Joane had finished, she curtsied once and stepped back, leaving the four companions alone to face the Jarl.

“Well?” he growled. “Do you dispute any of the girl’s tale?”

“That’s pretty much it,” Haffoot smiled, then bowed. “You’re welcome.”

“Idiot fools!” the Jarl shouted at her. Hands from the companions and thegns simultaneously reached for weapons, and the robed man ducked for cover behind the throne. Thankfully, none drew blades from scabbards even as the Jarl continued his tirade. “Do you think we’ve never tried to kill the beast? To trap it? You think us mewling cubs? You think you are better, more fearsome warriors than my thegns?”

“Yet we killed it. It died,” Erin said with pride.

The Jarl laughed mockingly at the follower of Shul. “Oh, it died! Turned to oily mist, did it? Explain to me why, then, in three nights’ time the beast will be back and tearing through my village, seeking retribution? Pompous fools!”

“Then we’ll kill it again,” Umur said.

“Will you now, dwarf? You took no injuries, which I’ll admit makes you either skilled or lucky. But how do you fancy a rematch when it knows what you’re about? Tear out that wizard’s throat first, is my guess.” The weaseling man giggled at that, a high-pitched and childish sound.

The Jarl’s eyes bored into them like glittering coals. “Then it will see to the rest of you. And if you do defeat it, how about three nights after that? And then again? Are you moving to Hirot permanently? Will you keep killing it for the rest of your and your children’s and their children’s BLOODY LIVES?!” He worked himself up as he spoke, and by the end the Jarl was spitting and shouting, red-faced, at the Graymoor companions.

The thin man bent down to whisper in the Jarl’s ear, and the burly ruler settled back onto his throne, breathing hard. After several heartbeats of listening to the whispers, he nodded once, sharply.

“I told you to leave this place and you stayed. Well, now you’re here, so I’ll give you a choice, and this time you will heed my words: Leave immediately, unharmed, or, if you’d prefer, one of you can volunteer to replace Joane in three nights at the standing stones.”

“What?” the girl trumpeted from behind Hilda. “You’d still send me to the stones?!”

“Your father drew the lot, girl!” the Jarl bellowed, half standing, gripping the hilt of his enormous sword. “Do your duty or let others do it for you!”

“Ay, fine, fine,” Umur said in his low, gravelly voice, holding up both hands placatingly. “You say we have three days until the Hound returns. Let’s see what we can do in that time, ya? It costs you nothing.”

“Master Pearlhammer,” Erin warned.

“Enough, lass, enough,” Umur growled. “We can make no demands of this suffering place.”

The rat-like man at his shoulder bent down to whisper. The Jarl listened as he regarded the dwarf, frowning.

“You break no laws while here,” the Jarl said loudly. “You use no magic or draw weapons within our walls. You pay full price for any goods or services. My thegns will not aid you in whatever fool-brained scheme you attempt. In other words: You will cost the people of Hirot nothing, for they have already lost too much. Disregard my words and I’ll strap you the standing stones myself.”

“Fair ask,” Umur nodded. “Agreed.”

“Fine. Welcome to Hirot,” he said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. “Now leave me.” He rubbed his face with a hand, and, as they all turned to go, added, “Joane, girl, think on my words. If it’s not you, we will take your father.”

“Let’s go then,” The tall, gaunt Nothan said in the uncomfortable silence, guiding them out of the hall. The others followed, all frowning except Joane. The red-haired young woman looked lost, her eyes brimming with tears.

As they reached the far end of the room, Haffoot lingered and glanced back. The Jarl had his face buried in his large hands, beginning to weep while the robed man pat his shoulder awkwardly.

---

“Another round of ale for my new friends!” the innkeeper, whose name they learned was Broegan Cayfield, bellowed. The dozen or so patrons of The Wolf-Spear cheered and raised their mugs.

Broegan was a large, round-bellied man, and Joane’s father who was so despondent the night before. He had been dumbstruck upon seeing his red-haired daughter appear in the doorway, then fell to his knees, weeping with joy and relief. Joane endured a long embrace from her father, then proceeded to chastise him loudly for allowing her to be taken in the first place. She’d stomped upstairs briefly to change her clothes and wash the night’s events away. Now she was back and moving around the room, doing everything she could to both ignore her father and fan the flames of the Graymoor residents’ legendary powers.

“These outsiders,” she said to a well-dressed halfling woman, making sure her voice carried to the rest of the common room. “Will kill the Hound once and for all! You should have seen it! Dispatched it like a stray pup!”

A meal and three detailed tellings of the battle had passed, and now Umur and Haffoot’s cheeks were rosy with drink. Hilda still nursed her first mug, watching Joane work the room with a bemused grin beneath her hood. Erin, in contrast, pursed her lips disapprovingly and remained drinking water.

“It is almost midday,” the cleric said to her companions. “We are fed. I do not see how lingering here helps us solve the mystery of the agent of Chaos plaguing this village. We must act. You’ve bought us time, Master Pearlhammer, but Shul knows that time is already running out.”

Umur sighed and smacked his lips, pushing his plate aside. “Aye, lass. Ye have the truth of it. Broegan, do ye have a Hirot bard? Someone who can relay the legends of this Hound? Give some clue as to its origins?”

“We do, we do, Master Dwarf,” the man bobbed his head enthusiastically. “Lloré is his name, and he comes to the Wolf-Spear every night. Asleep now, to be sure, but should be here sometime before sundown.”

“Fine, fine,” Umur nodded, slightly slurring his words. “Anyone else ye’d suggest we speak to?”

“Oh, ah…” the innkeeper faltered, looking around the common room for help.

A man from a nearby table offered. “The mad widow may know somefin’?”

Broegan visibly grimaced at the suggestion. “I suppose, if you’re brave enough to take on the Hound you’re brave enough to face her. Good idea, Anthol. Ymae is her name, and she’s as mysterious and mean as they come, but she does have magic about her.”

“Who leads the church to Justicia here? I would speak to them,” Erin said.

“That would be Father Beacom,” the innkeeper offered. “He’ll be out in the village square by now, ma’am, easy to find.”

“Fine,” the woman pushed away from the table and stood in her white armor. “Hilda, perhaps you’ll join me?”

The hooded woman rose. “I believe I’ll pay the ‘mad widow’ a visit, actually,” she smiled. “From one witch to another, mm?”

Erin nodded, seeing the benefit of dividing their attention to make better time. “Excellent. You two,” she frowned down at Umur and Haffoot. “Sober up. See what you can find out from others. We meet back before sundown, yes?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned on her heel and exited the inn.

The cleric burst from The Wolf-Spear’s doors directly into the village square. The mangy, stray dogs had been replaced by mangy, stray villagers. Only a small handful wandered this way and that across the square, each looking down and huddled as if it were midwinter instead of late summer. Various peddler carts sat forlornly abandoned. Crows and smoke still circled in the air above, and Erin squinted up, frowning. There could be no doubt that Chaos had its oily grasp upon Hirot. The village practically reeked of it.

Father Beacom was, as the innkeeper had promised, easy to find. A thin man of middle years with the cruel face of a hawk stood outside the open doors of the Justicia church, shouting at each passerby. As Erin began striding towards him across the square, his head snapped to regard her with narrowed eyes. He momentarily ceased his shouting until she was well within earshot.

“An outsider,” he said, making the word sound like an insult. “Here to bear witness to the end of the world for all sinners. Are you here to repent, child of the Highest Magistress? Are you ready for the Restoring Flame of Mercy and Justice to pass judgment upon you?” The father’s face was slicked with sweat, out in the square and wearing his heavy robes, and his eyes shone with something close to madness. Erin touched the pale crescent moon around her neck.

“I am Erin Wywood, father,” Erin bowed her head subtly, then straightened. “An acolyte of Shul, the Watcher in the Sky. I would ask what you know of this Hound that plagues Hirot. Ways one might defeat this beast of Chaos the Jarl has failed to see.”

“Shul,” Father Beacom scowled, examining her head to foot. “Well, a disciple of Law at least, though that’s all the good I can say. Your goddess invites the Hound, child, for it only appears under her watchful gaze. You should leave the darkness of your god to come into Justicia’s light, for it is only the repentant who will be left after she cleanses the world.”

Erin stiffened. “You are suggesting Shul is complicit in this Hound’s attack? You, a cleric of Law?”

“I am not suggesting it, child, I am asserting it as so,” Father Beacom pounded a fist into an open hand, emphasizing his words.

“Then you are no true cleric of Justicia and do not serve the forces of Law,” Erin sneered. “As such, you are of no use to me. Stand here and rant to villagers who have no interest in your doomsaying, while I go find a solution to your people’s woes, old man.”

“What did you say!?” he sputtered, face turning purple. “I will bring down Justicia’s wrath upon your head for blasphemy!”

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 4

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 1

At first, it seemed a wolf or shaggy dog had emerged from the evening shadows. Yet when it approached the standing stones, head low, the companions realized that the creature was the size of a small horse. It stalked carefully, black fur bristling, growling in a sound so deep that it was felt as much as heard. Feet tipped by oversized, wicked claws, each a hand’s length, dug into the soft ground as it stepped forward. As it sniffed the air, they saw the thing’s face was as bat-like as it was dog-like, the nose smashed close on its short muzzle. Its ears, too, had a bat-like quality, and the longer the group watched the creature, the less canine it seemed.

“Chaos is here,” Erin breathed, she gripped her curved, silver dagger.

“We must leave this place, now,” the red-haired girl whimpered, eyes wide.

“You stay hidden, lass,” Umur murmured, eyes shining. “Haffoot?”

“If you think we can take it, I’m ready,” the halfling said in a small whisper, breathing shallowly. She held two short blades in her hands, one thin for piercing and one wide for slashing.

“On my charge,” Umur nodded. “Hilda, keep the girl safe.”

As Umur, Haffoot, and Erin broke from the woods, Hilda stood.

“What– what are you doing?” the girl stammered.

“‘Hilda, keep the girl safe’,” the robed woman scoffed. “Let them witness what I can do.”

Hilda threw back her hood. On her forehead was a tattooed marking of a black rectangle, like an empty doorway above her eyes. As she began chanting, the rectangle became outlined in a bright blue light. It was as if a miniature portal beneath the Empty Star from three months earlier had opened upon Hilda Breadon’s forehead. She swept her robed arms wide.

Everything in the darkened clearing changed. The earth dried in an instant. Trees and bushes grew, as if reaching towards the shaggy beast. Weeds erupted from the stones themselves, wending through cracks and bored holes. Just as suddenly, fat snowflakes filled the area as if it were a blizzard instead of late Summer. The black hound was suddenly a smudge of darkness in a white storm.

The others staggered and glanced back, stupefied, at Hilda. Lightning crackled at her forehead and around each hand. Then a flash of searing blue filled the clearing as a bolt of jagged lightning struck the creature at the stone, leaving behind a seared image in everyone’s vision. The creature staggered, then turned to peer malevolently at Hilda, its body smoking. It rumbled a low, dangerous growl.

Erin Wywood, Acolyte of Shul and sworn enemy of Chaos, was the only person not stunned by the display of otherworldly magic. Instead, she smiled savagely. “Ha!” she yelled into the storm, and then charged at the beast.

The white-armored woman, almost invisible in the blizzard, spun and slashed a line across the creature’s cheek. It reared and snarled at her, ready to pounce.

Instead, with a whoop, Haffoot soared past Erin with her thin blade outstretched, impaling the creature’s snout in a spray of black blood. The beast howled in pain, a sound that shook their bones. The howl grew shrill and louder as the creature’s back immediately arched in agony, its bloody nose to the sky, and then it was dissolving into oily black mist. One moment the enormous dog-bat-beast was there, and the next it was snaking tendrils of smoke, quickly dissipating, the pained howl echoing across the clearing.

Where the beast’s legs had once been, Umur completed the chop that felled the creature. The dwarf blinked in surprise at his success and its disappearance, then smiled fiercely at Erin and Haffoot through the falling snow.

It seemed that, with the creature’s death, the storm ceased. Fat, white flakes floated gracefully in the air in rapidly decreasing amounts, then stopped altogether. It had been mere moments, and yet the companions stood in almost a foot of fresh snow, their breath misting in the unexpected cold.

Hilda, stepping with high knees, crunched through the snowy clearing to them. She’d redrawn her hood, and heavy puffs of air were visible from her panting.

“Hilda, I…” Umur began, then lost words as he looked around. Though everything was blanketed in white, they all remembered the sudden growth of vegetation. She had utterly transformed the clearing with power none of them knew she possessed.

“Yes, well,” Hilda chuckled. “I… may not have expected that, exactly.”

“Bloody brilliant, is what it was!” Haffoot whooped. “And Erin, chargin’ that creature through the snow!”

The woman nodded, face stoic. “Your thrust to its head and Umur’s slash to its back seemed to have killed the abomination before it knew we were even there. Well done, all around. Shul’s will be done.”

“We’re bloody heroes, is what we are!” Haffoot pirouetted in the snow and waved a sword overhead. “We’ve saved the village! That girl over there and anyone else who they would’a sacrificed, yeah?”

At that, the four of them turned to the edge of the forest. There, snow on her shoulders and shivering, wide-eyed, the red-haired young woman watched them with dumbfounded awe.

“Come, lass!” Umur called out to her. “Let’s get you back home. The beast is dead.”

After the group had gathered and tromped to the edge of the fresh snowfall, already melting in the late summer evening, they were once more struck by the enormity of Hilda’s magic. Stepping from the snow into the path beyond felt somewhat like stepping through another world, as they’d done a season ago at the old stone mound. Though none of the four Graymoor residents voiced it, they all felt the echoes of that evening leaving the remnants of Hilda’s spell into the seemingly mundane forest path outside of Hirot.

It was entirely dark when they approached the palisades surrounding the village, which stretched a full fifteen feet high. The stout, double gates were closed tight. The five of them walked across the wide clearing towards the gates, and a voice called out from somewhere at the top of the wall.

“Joane? Is that you? Who is that with you?”

The red-haired girl stopped and placed hands on hips, peering up into the darkness. “Nothan, it’s me. Open the gate!”

Thanks to their respective ancestries, both Umur and Haffoot could see perfectly well in the darkness, though the images lacked color. Eyes limned in soft white light, Erin saw just as clearly. Thus it was only Hilda, squinting up into the shadows, who did not see the hawkish, gaunt man who peered over the palisade wall from some sort of platform. He had a simple steel helm atop his head and a long, drooping moustache.

“It can’t be done, Joane,” Nothan shook his head. “Only a direct command from the Jarl can open it after nightfall.”

“So go get him!” the girl stomped her foot.

“Ah, no,” the man said simply, peering down. “Now who are these folks with you, then, and how is it you’re…?”

“Not dead and eaten?” Joane hurled back at him. Nothan visibly flinched. “These outsiders saved me. Killed the Hound dead without even trying, with magic and blades. Go get the Jarl, Nothan! They might be what we need!”

Umur scowled and looked at Haffoot questioningly. The halfling shrugged.

“Magic and blades?” Nothan repeated, rubbing at his mouth. “And hardly trying, you say? That’s quite a tale. Well, you can tell the Jarl yourself in the morning, girl. Sounds like you have good protection through these dark hours. The gate stays closed.”

“Nothan!” Joane shouted, stomping her foot again. Haffoot calmed her with a hand to her arm and some whispered words.

“You have a peculiar way of giving thanks,” Erin called up, crossing arms over her armored chest. “We will wait until the morning and camp here.”

“That’s fine then,” Nothan responded. “I’ll tell the other Night Watch to not shoot you. Just don’t creep around in the dark or you’ll find yourself full of arrows.”

“A peculiar way indeed,” Erin growled, turning to her companions. “Shall we make camp, then?”

Umur sighed. “S’not a warm bed, but ya, fine.”

The group made a fire and ate the last of Hilda’s now-stale baked goods within a stone’s throw of the palisades. After the Night Watch captain’s words, it was unnerving to have the towering wall next to them, where bowman could be lurking at the top between sharpened tree trunks. Still, they made camp and ate. Eventually, bellies more or less full, it was Umur who asked, “So, lass, tell us about this Hound.”

Joane had stayed silent since the interaction with Nothan, seemingly both petulant and in awe of the Graymoor residents. She blinked with large eyes, glancing around at the others before clearing her throat.

“Not much to tell, Master Dwarf. Some months ago, soon as the sun went down, the Hound started appearing, killing people. Lots of people died. Eventually the Jarl decided to start sacrificing one person every three nights to keep it satisfied.”

“Sacrificing? Do say more,” Hilda asked mildly. A fingertip traced the runic writing atop her staff, seemingly studying it in the firelight.

“Yes, ma’am,” Joane’s head bobbed. She seemed, understandably, most in awe of Hilda. The outspoken, foot-stomping girl at the gate had been replaced by a polite, shy companion. “Every third day, the Jarl draws a lot from a box in the village square. That family has to send someone to the standing stones. Today my pa got the lot, and my mum and brother’s already gone.”

“Madness,” Erin scoffed. “What was the Jarl going to do when he ran out of villagers? Fool. Why not fight the creature?”

“Oh,” Joane said. “They’ve fought it a lot, ma’am, and just more people die. Nobody likes drawing lots, but losing one every third day’s kept it out of village, at least. People say the Jarl is working on a plan to defeat it, but I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s all done!” Haffoot piped up, smiling face lit by the fire. “No more sacrifices, yeah? We did the Jarl’s work for him. I wonder if there’ll be a reward?”

Strangely, Joane said nothing, and instead abruptly stood to begin cleaning up after the meal. She was a strong young woman, and clearly used to hard labor. But then with half her family dead, she would have to be. Her actions spurred the others to stand as well, and soon they were settled onto thin blankets and bedrolls to sleep for the night.

The group woke at dawn and had broken camp by the time the heavy wooden doors of the gate swung slowly open. There was Nothan, who, it turned out, was quite tall and older than they’d guessed, with gray streaked in his moustache. He was flanked by a man and woman in green livery, each carrying a spear, and both Watch members eyed the Graymoor residents suspiciously.

“Come in,” Nothan announced, his face serious. “I’ll take you to the Jarl. You stay with them, Joane. He’ll want to hear your tale.”

“Still no word of thanks?” Erin arched an eyebrow. “And no expression of joy for seeing your neighbor returned unharmed?”

“Come on,” was all Nothan said, grim-faced, and turned with the Watch members to escort them. The companions shared a confused, offended look and followed.

Nothan led them past several houses and shops and into a largely empty village square. A few scruffy mongrels picked their way through abandoned shop stalls while ravens circled and cawed overhead. Dark smoke hung forlornly over the village as well, as if it somehow wanted to stay within the protective circle of the wall. Ahead of them, past a large church, a path snaked up a low hill, with the Jarl’s manor atop it. The Night Watch members did not pause to interact with the few, disparate residents who busied themselves in the morning hours, nor did they bother to say a word when those residents paused to gawk at Joane and the outsiders with her.

As they passed a strongbox with a heavy padlock, bolted to a chest-high post, Erin scowled. “Is this used for the lots?” she asked Joane, every word dripping with disdain. The young woman simply bobbed her head, staring at the box with eyes wide. The white-armored woman grunted in disgust and her chin rose imperiously to glare at the manor above them.

The sole structure made entirely of stone was the chapel, and this early in the morning its iron-banded, heavy doors were closed. Above them, carved into the stone, was the symbol of a balanced scale, the sign for the goddess Justicia. Those scales, devotees claimed, must always balance between justice and mercy in equal amounts. As with most gods and goddesses, Graymoor residents found reasons to pray to Justicia, but none of the companions had seen a structure dedicated entirely in her honor, much less one so large. The church was fully twice the size of any other structure in Hirot, even larger than the Jarl’s manor. Umur examined the stonework as they passed and immediately recognized it as the most defensible building were Hirot under siege.

The last four days, the group had trudged through moors and forest, so it was a relief to be on simple, dirt roads. Their boots kicked up dust as they followed Nothan up the winding path to the manor atop the hill. As they crested the rise, a great, squat hall built from enormous timbers, thatched with golden straw, greeted them. Standing in front were more humans in green livery and spears. Nothan raised a hand in greeting and left the companions to speak in low, urgent voices with the manor’s guards.

“They sure aren’t happy we’re here,” Haffoot commented with some bewilderment.

“This entire village feels as if Chaos hangs over it,” Erin grumbled. “It is steeped in despair.”

“They’re in mourning,” said Hilda from beneath her low hood. “Did you see how few people still reside here? Every family must have experienced loss. But still, news of this Hound’s death does not seem to be spreading. It’s… odd.”

One of the guards speaking with Nothan left at a trot, pushing through the front doors of the manor. The Night Watch captain returned, his hatchet face still grim and serious.

“Let’s go,” he said, jerking his chin forward.

“I’m eager to speak with the Jarl,” Umur growled. “Find out what the bloody hells is going on.”

Beside him, Joane bit her bottom lip, looking at the open manor door with something like fear. Reluctantly, she followed the group into the Jarl’s great hall, guardsmen flanking with spears on either side.

Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 3