Lords_of_Terror

                                                                                                                                                                                 Manor House, Teshwave
                                                                                                                                                                     9 Eleasis, the Year of Wild Magic
                                                                                                                                                                                                      (1372 DR)

                                            Kurg clutched the message tightly, crumpling the sealed letter in his nervousness. The young half-orc, splendid and
                                            terrible in his dark armor, walked the dank stone corridors that mazed below the Manor House. He held his helm tucked
                                            between his breastplate and left arm, striding forward with a veteran�s confidence, his uniform tabard�yellow and
                                            black and emblazoned with the Zhentarim�s scepter, disk, and dragon�swishing behind him. Twenty feet above him
                                            was a sprawling mansion outfitted in the most decadent Sembian style, from wool carpets and silk drapes to gold
                                            flatware and Kara-Turan porcelain dishes. But here, in these dark dungeons where his greaves rattled against bare
                                            granite rock, there was only a faint flicker from the everburning torches and the scent of his own fear. For the lords of
                                            Teshwave were in council, and he was about to interrupt with bad news.

                                            His own footfalls echoed throughout the labyrinthine passages, knocking hollowly through the claustrophobic passages.
                                            Check-point sentries barked out a quick �Sir!� as he passed, saluting the half-orc. He held the rank of Swordmaster
                                            �no great honor, to be sure, in a military machine as vast as that possessed by Zhentil Keep, but it was rank enough to grant him the power of life and death over these grunts. He had earned it, bore the scars that came with it, and had served nearly a year now in the Zhentarim, leading small teams on missions throughout the Dalelands. As he approached his destination, two dark-armed guards simultaneously saluted and lifted their halberds to bar the way. A thick stream of obscenities reverberated from beyond the thick door.

�Sir! High Captain Hellesk is currently in council, sir!�

�I�m aware of that, swordarm. Let me pass, in the name of Bane.�

The swordarms�well trained lads, reflected Kurg�didn�t waver. �Sir! We have strict orders that no one disturb the High Captain, sir!�

Kurg let his gaze linger on them for a few seconds, enough to impress upon these grunts the full power of his authority. Then he held up the folded paper in his gautleted fist. Faint yellow torchlight flickered over the black wax and the Zhentarim seal pressed into it.

�Your orders have been superceded.�

�Sir! Yes sir!� The two swordarms uncrossed their halberds, returning to attention. Though the air swam with violent voices from the other side of their post, the soldiers stared forward as if they were stone deaf.

Kurg nodded, knocked once, and then entered.

And saw an eye tyrant floating in the air just a few feet away, a few of its eyestalks lazily turning to regard him. Its chitinous bulk faced away from the door, sparing Kurg the terrible countenance of its great eye, but seven other eyes watched him carefully. Beside him sat a black-clad mage, calm and imperious, his elbows propped on the table, fingers folded in front of his face. Bright eyes darted briefly towards Kurg, windows to the fierce mind that pored lightning-fast over a list of spells capable of incapacitating or blasting any unwanted intruder, and then flicked back towards the opposite end of the table. At the head of the table stood a tall woman with white-streaked auburn hair, her scarred and ruined throat visible through the folds of her black and gold uniform. She stood with both hands pressing down on the thick wood table, leaning forward slightly in a posture that promised wrath. Her chair lay crumpled behind her as if kicked backwards by her sudden rise.

It appeared as though the council was not going well. Kurg did his best not to swallow in fear.

�Swordmaster!� she barked in a voice that would have cowed a drill instructor. It was hoarse and craggy, likely from whatever injury had caused the scar that ringed her neck. �Explain yourself.�

Kurg reflexively saluted, offering the message in an outstretched fist. �High Captain, message for you, sir.�

Zerana Hellesk, High Captain of Teshwave, strode towards him heavily and snatched the sealed massage with irritation. She tore open the black seal and began reading. Kurg did his best not to make eye contact with his other superiors.

Hellesk was not pleased with its contents. �Units dispersed! Wha�� She choked back her own question with a sudden grunt. �Tem dead!� Kurg, unable to control himself, noticed that the robed man frowned slightly before he looked away. He was a trained soldier, a commander of men who had faced his fear and the possibility of death many times in battle. But here, among these Lords of the Zhentarim, it was as if he were a timid child again. He could barely think over the tumble of thoughts running through his mind. He wanted nothing more than to leave these three to whatever business they had with each other.

But he had not been dismissed. And he knew better than to speak to a superior without first being spoken to.

Hellesk finished reading with a sharp breath, throwing the parchment onto the table. �Your blade, swordmaster.�

Kurg complied without hesitation, though he knew the danger he was in. The High Captain had a reputation for murdering disobedient subordinates. He saluted, slowly drawing his short sword out of its sheath. It rang with a sharp metallic scrape, heavy with the remembered blood of the enemies it had bitten. Firelight glinted off its bronze pommel as he turned it over, blade in one hand and grip in the other, as he presented it to Hellesk.

The High Captain took it without ceremony, hefted it, swung it twice through the air in skilled loops. She smiled, an expression that looked like a painful grimace on her angular face. �That�s a fine blade, Swordmaster. I think I�ll keep it.�

�Sir.�

�Zerana�� began the beholder in its rumbling granite voice.

�Thank you for the report, Swordmaster. Dismissed.�

�Sir.� Kurg saluted again and spun to leave.

The pain that he had half-expected came with sharp shock. Steel ground through metal, leather, and cloth, plunging through his shoulder and into the deep parts of his body. It felt hot, heavy, strangely foreign, cleaving through bones to bury itself between his organs.

But Kurg was a good soldier. He didn�t question his fate, or the Brotherhood he served, even as the second blade cut through his other shoulder and stilled his struggling heart.

Zerana released her sword, noting with satisfaction that she had formed a perfect vertical X with her blades. They quivered slightly, forming a cross of steel that went from the half-orc�s neck down to his abdomen, awash in the spurting blood of the late Swordarm. Zerana breathed sharply from the brief but furious exertion, wild on awakened bloodlust and on unleashed, unsatisfied fury.

The beholder spoke softly, almost soothingly. �Zerana, that was unnecessary.�

Zerana Hellesk turned around slowly, head lowered so that the firelight cast an evil shadow across her sharp features. Fair cheeks, scarred skin, and red hair glinted with the spray of fresh blood. �Yes, but I feel better now.�

Behind her, Kurg�s lifeless body still stood with a cross of steel protruding from his back. He stood tall and motionless, like a ghoulish sentry.

Manxam turned several of his eyestalks to the Khaleth Blackbolt, the mage who sat unperturbed with his hands still folded in front of his face. He had spent enough time with Manxam to read in the featureless blinking of his eyes the �body language� of the eye tyrant�s intent.

�I�m sure you do, Captain,� Khaleth said softly. �Kurg, however, like many of the soldiers you murder, was one of the best in Teshwave. If you must satisfy these rages of yours with blood, could you at least select blood that is less useful to the Brotherhood?�

Her chest still heaving slightly, Zerana carefully picked up her chair, placed it near the table, and sat. �Don�t lecture me, mage. Considering the number of wretches that you feed to Manxam and the rest of the eye lords, I�m entitled to one or two of my own from time to time.�

Manxam grumbled with a faint sigh. The bloodthirsty bitch was confusing eating with slaying. And when he and his kin ate, they fed on slaves and criminals, not the cream of the Zhent military. But he had no desire to belabor the point. �Indeed,� he intoned, �we are not here to discuss feeding habits. Human or beholder. What news from the message?�

Zerana gnashed her teeth, causing a curled lock of hair to fall and plaster itself to the blood drying on her cheek. �From the south. Tem�s dead, killed by sarking adventurers. Some of his men are in Mistledale on their way back to Teshwave. Most deserted.�

Manxam glanced knowingly at Khaleth with several eyes, half-closed in pleasure. They both knew now that there could be no further debate on this issue.

�So where does this leave us, Khaleth?� intoned Manxam. Even speaking to his most able aide, the beholder�s words seemed the echo, heavy with menace.

�As could have been predicted, the Shadowdale teams were quickly rooted out and destroyed by the Knights of Myth Drannor. 95% casualties; only the mages and some swordarms escaped. In Battledale we cannot avoid continuing skirmishes with drow forces, which have claimed 10% of the teams, but Ilmeth is far more concerned about them than he is about us. Galath�s Roost is retaken by a band calling themselves the Highdale Knights; 40% casualties, and with Sudillis slain, the raiders can no longer operate out of Mistledale. Losses in Tasseldale to the Marshairs are at 60%, and in Harrowdale to the Grey Riders are at over 80%. Operations in Daggerdale continue to be successful, with minimal losses, but all it has accomplished is to solidify the hold that Randal Morn has on the hearts of the people there. Featherdale lacks the resources to oppose us, and have caused no appreciable casualties, but those stubborn farmers refuse to be cowed. Our agents in Archendale prevent the Riders from effectively combatting us, but their sheer numbers prevent us from striking many worthwhile targets. 10% losses, but without any significant gains.� He spoke in a quick staccatto, throwing out figures as if they were lightning bolts, never moving his carefully folded fingers from in front of his mouth until he was finished with the roster. �Would you count this as a success, Captain?�

Zerana bristled with rage, but said nothing. There was no way she could get away with sticking a sword in Khaleth Blackbolt, and even if she could, she seriously doubted her ability to do so and survive. Moreover, he was completely right. The terror teams she had sent out to wreak havoc in the Dales, destabilizing the leaders and driving fear into the hearts of the populace, had failed miserably.

Manxam was not willing to allow Zerana to get away with just the insinuation of her failure. He needed to make it painfully clear, as clear as the rigid corpse that stood vigil over their council, dripping blood onto the flagstone floor. �Remind us, if you will, High Captain Hellesk,� he said, punctuating her title with cruel disdain, �what the purpose of these raids were?�

She was too angry now to obey the dictates of good sense. �Bind me, you damned eye-beast! You know why I sent them out!�

Manxam smiled, a hideous and terrifying curl of chitin and bone, unsheathing a mouth wide enough to bite a man�or woman�in half, bristling with dagger-sized teeth. �Please remind my associate. Khaleth�s memory can be spotty at times.�

Khaleth leaned forward, folded his hands in front of his face once more, and said nothing.

Zerana felt a wave of calm, and briefly wondered if that bastard eyeball had used one of his rays on her. With a beholder, you can never tell. �The object was to deflect attention, Manxam. With the other dales occupied, frightened, off-balance, they would all concentrate their attention on their own affairs. The Moonsea Ride would be considered a dangerous road, and merchants would start turning to sea lanes to deliver their goods. Sea lanes that we control.�

�Except that you underestimated the Dalesmen,� continued Manxam. �As your predecessors have done for decades, despite my attempts to convince you humans to respect these foresters as capable adversaries. Your plan was doomed from the start, for long experience has told us that Dalesmen simply do not bow to pressure. Not to all-out invasion, not to terrorism, not even to the hand of Bane himself�

�And now Tem is dead,� added Khaleth, �the first mage that we have lost in all these skirmishes. He was too valuable��

Zerana spat and interrupted. �Holy fist, Tem was a sarking idiot and a dangerous liability. Its better he�s got himself dead than to start spreading that shadow nonsense��

This time Khaleth interrupted, slamming his fist down on the table. �Watch your tongue, Captain. It is not your place to question the mages of the Brotherhood.�

Zerana smiled crookedly. �That�s High Captain, mageling.�

Manxam sighed with his low grumble again, simultaneously rolling nine waving eyes. These humans, always devolving into pissing contests. Even Khaleth. Zerana he could understand; she was a sword for the Zhentarim, as deadly and nearly as stupid, nothing more than an instrument of brute force. Khaleth, on the other hand, was a capable mage, with a subtle mind and a nuanced understanding of trade warfare. But like all humanoids, his ego got in his own way. Manxam would be very sorry the day Khaleth went too far, the day that he would have to turn his great eye on the human to rob him of his magic before crumbling his body to ash. �Regardless of your feelings about Tem�s extracurricular activities,� he said almost absent-mindedly, eager to change the subject, �he was quite capable. Who was it that is responsible for his death? Harpers?�

Zerana grabbed the parchment and threw it towards the beholder. It fluttered briefly before one of Manxam�s eye rays caught it and held it before his many stalks. He read the name just as Zerana spoke it aloud.

The Hand of Valor.

�Some adventuring group. Not Harpers, but they�ve been seen at the Leaves of Learning, where that half-elf whore lives.�

Manxam rolled the name over in his mind as he spoke it aloud. �The Hand of Valor. I am not familiar with them. Perhaps, however, they warrant further attention.�

The Lords of Terror