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The Loquacious Lord Grimm

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  1. The Loquacious Lord Grimm
    A little over ten years ago, I stumbled across a game on a shareware disc. That game was different than the rest: there were people to talk to, a world to discover, a war to fight on a person-to-person basis. Instead of playing a preformed character, I took control of a team, forced to be dynamic to be successful, and forced through circumstances beyond their control, to become the saviors of their world.
    That game was Exile II.
     
    I'd never played an RPG before, and as a freshman in high school and aspiring writer, I took to this fantastic world like I have never taken to anything else, before or since. It was not long before i began my first work of fanfiction based on the plot of the game and some basic characterization exercises, and work on creating a working soundtrack through what I had learned sitting through a music theory class followed shortly afterwards.
    Yeah, nerdy high school nonsense, mostly, though I did learn a fair amount about orchestration through the music, and people responded well to the fanfic when I posted it online in college (though it was stopped, unfortunately, by a bout of writers' block followed quickly by a load of classwork that took me nearly a year from which to fully recover. Depression is a [censored].).
     
    Several years have passed since then, and I have since left college, gotten married, started my own business, and am in the (eternal) process of developing an original-story webcomic. I don't play games as much as I used to, and my tastes have shifted more to first-person or strategy affairs, but I have almost always kept a splash screen from the Avernum series as my desktop background, and I have always regarded the story of the Exiles as my favorite franchise. Not the best, just my favorite.
    With Jeff's remastering of Avernum, and some issues in my own life, it seems time to finish what I started: to go back through the portal, join the war against the Empire, and remember that the wrong people in the right place and time can change everything.
    I hope that you enjoy this journey as much as I will.
  2. The Loquacious Lord Grimm
    This is the Prologue.
    It tells of what came before.


     

    1



    She turns from the portal site swiftly, unconsciously straightening the mess that the teleportation ritual has made of her hair. While her research and scry-scouting has been thorough, and the magical precaution to push the adventurers through the enemy wards even more thorough, there is always the risk of something going wrong on the other side. Time is of the essence, and there is still much to be done.
    Her focus is now on her scrying pool, preparing the brief set of spells that will give her a clear view of her emissaries miles above and lands away.
    With the magic ready, her deathly pale hand touches the darkened waters of the pool, and in the ripples emerges an image of the four who had stood in front of her but a moment ago.
    She allows herself a hesitant breath of relief. So much rides on the next few moments. So much planning, so much effort, and now the fruit of her labors, oh, the very act for which she has dreamed for decades rests in the very capable hands of the four she watches in the pool.
     
    She would be doing the deed herself if she could; indeed she would have done it long ago. The old rage simmers beneath her calm surface, as she watches her emissaries pass through familiar halls. Damn him and his toadying minions. Damn them all! This should be hers!
    For years, the one moment that has haunted her dreams is the one in which she clutches his lifeless husk by the throat, and throws him down in front of her enemies, victorious without question. But even in her dreams, she knows that it will never come.
     
    She turns away from the scrying pool towards the closest window, forcing herself to focus for a brief moment. Tonight is only the beginning. Perhaps, after he is dead, she can take out what is left of her rage on the minions that cursed her. The magic of the artifacts used for this teleportation will be used up in the return trip, but there are other ways... always other ways...
    Garzahd might be first. She had always liked seeing him squirm.
     
    But there is no time to consider this. Not yet.
    She returns to the scrying pool renewed from the brief departure. Already, her emissaries have encountered the Empire's finest troops, and are dispatching them with ease. Would she expect any less of them? Her agents had been watching them for weeks before they did something even she could not expect to do: this team of exiled misfits had actually managed to destroy the corporeal form of the Demon Lord, and banish him back to the hell from which he came.
    How could she not summon them to her after that?
    How could they not turn down the opportunity that she had offered?
     
    A flicker of light from one of her experiments briefly illuminates her pale, ageless face in the scrying pool. She has spent nearly half of her life damned to these cursed caves: decades that she can never recover, decades devoted almost exclusively to survival, and to tonight.
     
    Tonight, these heroes will bring the crowning act of her vengeance upon the man who ruined her life. Tonight, they will deliver justice for themselves and the rest of the tens of thousands that the Empire has exiled under the earth. Tonight, the nation of Avernum will send a message to the monsters who deemed them unworthy of the sky above: We live. We thrive. We remember.
     
    Tonight, they will kill a king.
     

  3. The Loquacious Lord Grimm
    This is the Prologue.
    It tells of what came before.


     

    2



    The Spire in Solaria is hailed as one of the great wonders of the modern world. Its porcelain walls rise a majestic ten stories above the rest of the Empire's capital, and can be seen from afar throughout much of he surrounding region. It is a fitting reminder to the citizens of Solaria and the Empire beyond of the supreme power and might of the Empire, and the purity that it represents. Even those in the Far Continents know of the Spire's existence, and many of the Empire's more loyal and affluent citizens make a point of experiencing its awesome presence firsthand at least once in their lifetimes.
     
    Being the palace of Emperor Hawthorne III and the central hub for all Imperial operations, it is naturally also the most secure location in the world. Full garrisons of Elite Dervishes and battle mages are personally selected for the honor of serving as the Spire Guard, and the Empire's finest wizards and incantors regularly supply its grounds with modern magical defenses. It is heavily warded against all teleportation and flight spells, the outer gates are layered with specialized anti-enchantment spells and an antimagic field to obstruct the occasional rebellious fireball from the city, and the command center is equipped with a state-of-the-art magical scrying system, allowing the Guard to instantly locate any disturbance within a radius of several miles.
     
    And yet, if the reports are accurate, a small army has somehow managed to appear midway up the tower. They came out of a janitors' closet, according to the servant girl who first saw them and sounded the alarm. The Guardsmen assigned to the upper floors are doing their best to hold them back, but whoever the intruders are, they've already pushed up to the sixth level and are moving quickly.
    That's one of the problems with the new system, of course. It was noted in the last efficiency report: the Guard can use communication magic to coordinate through the tower, but with these fancy anti-portal wards, they can't just teleport up to the top floor anymore. Of course, it would be a lot easier to coordinate if the godsdamned scry pool was working. It's never acted like this before.
     
    General Limoncelli listens to the commander's report quite stoically, taking in cues from the environment as low-level wizards and communications officers panic around him. In particular, the much-hyped scrying system lies clouded as several mages continue their spells in attempts to fix it. In the back of his mind, Limoncelli notes that he owes Garzahd a well-deserved "I told you so" for relying solely on his magical [censored] instead of making room in the budget for a separate garrison upstairs.
     
    "We've sent squads up behind them already," the commander continues, "and we're trying to call in every available soldier from the city. But we don't know what it is we're dealing with, and the mages upstairs need to concentrate if they're going to send us messages. They can't damn-well concentrate if they're being attacked."
     
    "Priest support? Augmenting?" Limoncelli's time in the Nephar Campaigns taught him well that the right magical buffs can turn a battle quickly.
     
    "I've sent our available spellcasting assets with the back-up," the commander responds. "They're under instruction to try and haste the force up the Spire as efficiently as possible. To save energy for the fight."
     
    "And the Emperor?"
     
    "Was having a meeting in the throne room when the first reports came in. He's pinned upstairs."
     
    Limoncelli takes a moment to process the information flowing around him. The upper Spire is designed primarily for opulence instead of offices, but the hallways are narrow enough to defend, should that be the case. Of course, the truly heavy security ends at the fourth floor: one practically needs an invitation from the Emperor himself to pass that point.
     
    "Sir!" One of the communications officers approaches the commander. "And,,, sir," he says quietly, recognizing Limoncelli. "The mages are coordinating. The best that they have seen is that there are only four intruders, and that they are crossing into the seventh level. The Guardsmen aren't giving them enough trouble, even with the troops from lower floors coming up." The young officer pauses, receiving another telepathic message. "Sirs, they want to know where the backup is."
     
    Limoncelli has finally pinpointed the best line of defense. ...but... only four invaders taking on the Empire's Finest? Stranger things have happened.
    "Lieutenant, please have our forces upstairs pull themselves together in an ambush on the steps of the ninth level. I want only a token defense on the eighth floor. Tell them to prepare for a long fight: acid and stunning when possible, but mostly, keep the men shielded and on their feet. There are healers on the way. I want confirmation when they're ready." As an afterthought, he adds. "And get in contact with the Throne Room Guard. Tell them that they are to wait and use the throne room doors as a final choke point. "
     
    The commander waits for the communications officer to return to the mages, "That's right outside of the throne room," he says quietly.
     
    Limoncelli does not have the opportunity to respond, for which he is glad. Instead, he is interrupted by the blustery entrance of a throng of soldiers, clearly trying to escort a very irritated someone of importance.
     
    "... teleported all the way from Imperius, to be asked for IDENTIFICATION???" The two soldiers in front fly out of the way as Arch-wizard Garzahd, arguably the second most powerful man in the Empire, storms towards the scrying pool. He is unusually disheveled, and the particular set of ratty laboratory robes that surround his short, bulky form make him look more like a clown than the head of the Imperial Army and the emperor's most trusted counselor, a fact that Limoncelli has pointed out to him in the past. Limoncelli unintentionally smirks, and a single finger flies up in the general's direction. "Not a WORD, you!"
     
    "It's good to see you, too," Limoncelli mutters, joining his superior at the rim of the scry pool.
     
    Garzahd ignores him, instead muttering thoughts of punishment aloud. One hand traces an intricate pattern on the water's surface, while the other nervously claws and tugs at the wizard's foot-long beard of well-groomed graying hair.
    Within seconds, the clouded image that has plagued the command center comes into sharp focus, eliciting a sharp snort.
    "It's them."
     
    "Which 'them'?" Limoncelli asks cautiously, taking in the pool's scene. He has no idea who the four people in patchwork armor are, but he has a fairly good idea, given the rate at which they quickly take down an armored Guardsman, where they are, and just how dangerous they are.
     
    "The Scree Pits." Garzahd turns sharply to Limoncelli, his face beginning to burn a disturbing crimson. "Last month, our primary outpost Below was attacked. I watched the whole thing through a communications sphere."
     
    Below.
     
    The statement is barely out of the Arch-wizard's mouth before Limoncelli begins moving towards the door. There are contingencies for this. Every possible option has been considered. There is a good reason why the Spire is so heavily fortified, especially with magic.
    But clearly, it is not enough.
    His swords are out before he reaches the hallway, and he finds the old motions coming to him more quickly than he expected.
     
    Before he hits the stairs, General Limoncelli becomes a racing blur to those around him, as the magical augment that made him a legend kicks in.
    With all of the mages and rebels and criminals that Emperor Hawthorne insisted on simply shunting away underground instead of killing, Limoncelli has always known that there is a risk of them striking back. There is an even bigger "I told you so" that will have to be delivered, one involving the mass execution of enemies of the state. One that, unless he hurries, may come too late.
  4. The Loquacious Lord Grimm
    This is the Prologue.
    It tells of what came before.


     
     

    3


    From his viewpoint high atop the Spire, Captain Vlish is able to see the first glimmering star emerge, if only through his periphery. His eyes, like the eyes of the eighteen soldiers under him, are fixed upon the gold-trimmed double doors that are the only entrance to the Imperial Throne Room. From beyond the doors pours the terrible sound of combat: steel against steel, bodies falling to the floor, suits of armor rolling down the stairs, all punctuated by the thud of the occasional spell missing its target.
    It has been but a few minutes since the alert came through, and only a moment or two since the Royal Guard's battlemage received the unit's orders: "Hold position under all circumstances. Reinforcements coming." No indication of the enemy's makeup, nothing to explain how a strike force of any size had managed plow through a garrison and ten floors' worth of barred doors and elite soldiers.
    But Vlish has no fear, and any doubts in his success, should the forces outside fall, are fleeting. Captain Vlish personally commands the Royal Guard: men and women hand-picked for their training, loyalty, and lethal battle prowess. A raging dragon would be unable to pass them, if dragons were not extinct.
    Indeed, the only person in the throne room not to hold claim to ending a full rebellion singlehandedly is their charge. Emperor Hawthorne III sits on the throne beside Vlish, his eyes, too, set upon the door before them. However, the Emperor's eyes are filled with something different than Vlish's unwavering determination. Awe? Fascination? Amusement?
    The Emperor is an older man, yes, and has never experienced more than a few laughable attempts on his life, but he is fit and well-trained. Vlish's predecessors saw to that. Emperor Hawthorne, who, like his father and grandfather of the same name before him, has been a ruthless and cunning leader, cutting down all who would oppose his perfect rule, and sending them to Avernum in perpetual exile.
     
    Avernum. The thought gives Vlish a small chill. Like all citizens of the Empire, he knows of the caves below ground, where monsters flourish and the lawless run wild. Like all citizens of the Empire, he knows that any variance from strict obedience could land him there. And like all citizens of the Empire... he doesn't like to think about it. Yet tonight, with the ringing crash of another dropped shield sounding in the hall before him, Vlish finds himself suddenly wondering what might happen to him should he not perform to the Emperor's expectations. For the first time since his orders have arrived, Vlish's eyes wander from the doors to the ... unimpressed?... face of his Emperor. He and his staff are guilty of allowing an attack force into the Spire, and worse, possibly into the presence of the Emperor himself. Palace servants have been banished for less.
    No, no. He will do his duty, and the Emperor is not a fool.
     
    The sound of another few sword strikes leads to the thud from another casualty in armor hitting the floor, followed by silence. The fight was... oddly, shorter than Vlish had expected. Perhaps the reinforcements have arrived?
    A few helmets tilt ever so slightly in the rank of soldiers at the doors, betraying quizzical glances and expectation of orders.
    There's something odd about the silence. Odd, Vlish realizes, because there is not enough movement going on outside for a full set of reinforcements to be there.
     
    "Your Majesty," he says simply, "I think it's time."
     
    The Emperor wordlessly nods and maintains his seated position, leaning forward and grasping a pendant around his neck. Anticipation, that's what it is. He's looking forward to what's coming next.
     
    THOOM.
     
    The sound of something heavy ramming the ornate double doors visibly rattles Vlish, if only for an instant. It is most definitely not what he expected.
     
    THOOM.
     
    Why would someone be bashing down the...?
     
    THOOM.
     
    In the quiet, the Royal Guard can hear footsteps in the hall, and the voice of a woman calling out. "Hey, hey, Phil! PHIL!"
     
    Thump.
     
    The line of soldiers before the doors stands at the ready, waiting for the breach.
     
    "I think they open out," the woman continues.
     
    "I... they.. oh, gods, I don't believe this," a man says, fairly close to the door.
     
    "Well, thanks for letting them know we're here. Sheesh!" another woman says.
     
    Is this really happening? Vlish wonders. Someone outside mutters something unintelligible.
     
    "Does it matter?" the man rebuffs. "Just buff us already, so we can get this over with."
     
    Emperor Hawthorne's impenetrable body language breaks as he looks up to exchange a glance with Vlish. What the hell is this?
     
    He is answered with a vibrating groan, as the heavy, gold-ornamented doors to the throne room slowly open. Until twenty minutes ago, they had not been moved in decades, and the Guard had encountered enough trouble getting them closed when the alarm went out. Weapons tense, archers behind the throne pull back their arrows, and Emperor Hawthorne stands. The battlemage prepares a shielding spell.
     
    With a rush of wind, the first attacker flies through the open doorway: a juggernaut in mismatched plate mail, clearly moving with the aid of hasting magic. The line of soldiers converges on him at once.
    At Vlish's side, the Emperor's pendant emits a blast of light, and a shimmering glow envelops Hawthorne, who readies a burst of flame in his free hand. Behind them, the archers let loose a pair of precision-aimed projectiles that harmlessly glance off of the juggernaut's armor.
    A spray of frost pours from the doorway, knocking some of the guardsmen off-balance in time for the fireball that flies over the juggernaut's head and into the melee.
     
    In these few first moves, Vlish has already seen enough: they are standard adventuring tactics, and they are easily dealt with. Pulling a potion from his belt, he makes his way around the line towards the door and the undefended spellcasters beyond. The fighter is too concerned with the other soldiers to notice as Vlish as he sweeps around him to the open doorway and promptly receives a boot in the face. He barely gets his shield up in time to block the follow-up sword stroke. Battlemage?
    The blows have disoriented him slightly, but he can still see the longbow and the set of robes in the hallway, behind the leather-clad woman with whom he is now engaged. That's... one... two...
    Vlish manages to turn the woman's sword against her upper arm, and bashes it with his shield, for good measure. Three... It gives him the brief instant that he needs to turn around and assess the fight behind him.
     
    Two of the Royal Guard lie on the floor, their comrades fighting around them. The plate-mailed invader... four... still hasted, holds them off... it's probably an invincibility potion. Invincibility potion! Vlish pries the stopper out of the bottle in his shield hand and is forced to take the nastiness in one gulp as he dodges an amateurish thrust from the woman in leather. He can feel his skin tighten and harden beneath his armor, and he tears past the women into the hallway with confidence.
     
    Gods. There's no one else out here.
     
    Rushing towards the mages' robes first, briefly stumbled by the leather-clad woman's attempt to trip him, Vlish sees enough of the macabre display of burning bodies strewn through the hall to recognize that all of the fallen wear the armor of the Guard. There is not enough time to think on this before he realizes that the figure holding the longbow is also holding a holy symbol. He turns to face that instead, but a gust of icy wind knocks him off of his feet mid-stride and throws him back through the doorway. A rain of acid flies through the air where he had just stood, striking the priest instead: she screams, hands flying to her face, where some of the spray hit exposed skin.
     
    Another boot to the head, this time accidental, brings Vlish back into focus. The leather-clad woman stands practically on top of him, sword sheathed, a shortbow out and aimed over the line of Guardsmen. She is only able to get one arrow off before Vlish seizes her leg and pulls her to the ground. His sword lashes at her, trying to carve its way past her bow and through her simple armor, but every time he draws blood, the wound closes instantly behind it. She is already fast, hasted, magically regenerating, and determined, but more dangerous than that is the contempt in her eyes. This woman had probably been on the wrong end of a political struggle, or had a close family member exiled, and that thirst for revenge is what continues to deflect Vlish's blade.
     
    A third gust of frost pushes at them, but this time, Vlish is braced for it, and the invulnerabilty effect allows him to merely shrug the cold off. The potion will last a few more minutes, and simply keeping this force occupied for a few minutes is all he has to do, until the Juggernaut's invulnerability wears off and the reinforcements arrive. The leather-clad woman's swift defenses finally leave a hole open, and Vlish delivers a decisive blow just above the collar of her armor, severing vein and tendon, fracturing bone. She spasms in pain beneath him as he finally stands and leaves her to bleed out.
    One down.
    Now for the casters.
     
    No sooner is Vlish in the hall than a set of ghostly aparritions appear in front of him, summoned from the nether realms to defend the spellcasters. Lovely. Vlish tears into them before the inevitable claws can even manifest: he needs only break through them to keep the invaders busy again.
    Behind the hostile shades, the priestess rummages through a backpack on the floor, while the mage defends her: a wand flicking out bolts of flame in one hand, and various other spells from the other. Even through the spirit, Vlish watches as the mage's wand burns out. Ha.
    The mage merely tosses it away and... pulls out another from within his robes?
    At the same time, the priestess pulls the scroll for which she had been searching from the pack and begins to read.
     
    The mage's fireballs continue to barely miss Vlish as he finally disrupts the first of the shades. Despite their low-quality trappings, the invaders clearly have come very well-prepared, and are quite skilled. Wands, scrolls, and potions might be common, but the number and quality that he has already seen cost a very pretty penny. Someone's life savings went into funding this attack.
    Vlish disrupts a second shade, but the remaining two move closer to block his path.
    And what of the attackers? Surely, a group of four people capable of fighting their way up the Spire would be remarkably famous. The Emperor would have seen to either honoring or exiling them by now.
     
    A fireblast from behind disrupts a third shade, and from in front, the mage launches yet another set of acid sprays, again, barely flying over Vlish's head... right back in the direction from which the fireblast came...
    Gods, they were never aiming for him.
    In a single smooth motion, Vlish disrupts the final shade and spins around to regard the carnage that has come of the throne room. Half of the Royal Guard lies dead at the feet the juggernaut, sliced, broken, and singed in equal measure. The other half fight defensively over the bodies of their commrades. Behind them, the Emperor continues to rain down spells on... the invincible juggernaut, dammit, doesn't he know better than to waste his magic?
    And behind him, the blackened goo on the walls can only be what remains of one of the archers. The other lies sprawled on the top steps of the thone platform, steam rising from her body, and beside her lies the body of the battlemage, several arrows clearly protruding from his... oh gods... Vlish had rushed out into the hallway, giving no orders, in order to end things quickly. Instead, the throne room has been recieving orders from...
     
    "Keep forward!" the Emperor cries, pelting the clearly unbothered invader with fireballs. "Defend your honor! This dog cannot last forever!"
     
    With no missle or casting support, Vlish had been the only one able to get around the invaders, leaving the line of Guardsmen as easy pickings for the enemy casters' spells. Not even the Empire's Best could withstand the seemingly infinite supply of magic coming from the hallway. But... how... could one man... fifteen soldiers? One... no, this doesn't make sense? Why would they all attack him when the obvious threat is beyond? They could easily encircle him and...
     
    Even as Vlish watches, some of his Guardsmen stop fighting, completely dazed. What is this? More magic?
    While spells exist to counfound large groups, there's no way that anyone but the most accomplised of battlemages could ever develop the willpower to...
     
    The juggernaut throws the middlemost of the defenders aside, and begins to move for the Emperor. The Emperor takes the assault almost gleefully, his energy shield pulsing in a strange acidic yellow as it takes blows from the spellcasters in the hall.
     
    No.
     
    Vlish begins to run up behind him. Spellcasters and invulnerability be damned, no one appraches the Emperor without his consent.
     
    And from beside Captian Vlish, a single arrow flies out.
    In his periphery, he can see the leather-clad woman on one knee, reaching to pull another arrow from the satchel at her side... how is she even still alive...?
    And then all is blindness. A white light bursts forth from the Emperor's chest, like a brilliant sunrise or a thousand moons. The burn of the light forces him to look away, if only for a brief instant...
     
    ...And when he looks back, the Emperor is gone.
     
    And now all is deafness, as a deep rumble of the universe itself roars forth. Some of the guardsmen shake off their magical curse and dive in time to avoid the tearing of the very fabric of reality itself.
    Now the light is green, and the blast of wind throws Vlish to the ground on his side. A solid... no, not solid... something... something liquid and green and glowing and not right has ripped through the air in a corner of the room. The silhouette of the juggernaut moves toward it, and then vanishes into it. Vlish thinks he is screaming in terror, but he cannot hear... the roar... the roar is everything, and it makes him hurt. The leather-clad woman... she goes through too, unharmed, and then the mage... such a hurry. Where is the Emperor? Do they flee?
     
    And the light grows brighter, and the priestess, hauling along her backpack, steps in front of the glow, and then turns around to look at him.
    So pale.
    He skin... he hadn't noticed before. She's so pale. So was the leather-clad woman. And the juggernaut. All, so pale. Why didn't he notice that before?
    The priestess shakes her head at the carnage and walks into the greenness. It swirls up behind her like a whirlpool or a puddle absorbed into the ground.
     
    The roaring continues, though the wind is gone, and Vlish cannot hear. He stands, or tries to stand, and as he does, a single man runs into the room, a balding blur with two swords.
     
    The reinforcements. Did they take the Emperor? What was the light?
     
    The running man opens his mouth, and might have asked a question, but Vlish cannot hear it over the roar.
     
    "I can't hear you!" Vlish tries to say back to him, over the roar. The man repeats his question, gesturing emphatically towards the throne. "There was a light!" Vlish explains. "Do you know what it was?"
     
    The man dashes over the bodies of the fallen guards and begins to search around the throne. Vlish follows him, barely able to keep his balance. "I think they were ghosts," he tries to explain, as the man grows ever more upset. Vlish isn't sure what he's looking for. "They had to be ghosts! Why else would they not die? And why else would they be so pale?"
  5. The Loquacious Lord Grimm
    This is the Prologue.
    It tells of what came before.


     

    4



    Decadent robes hiked up to his waist, a wrinkled man wearing more jewelry than clothing ascends the stairs at as fast a clip as he can muster. Those among the living he passes salute or bow to him, but he pays them no mind: he is too focused on blocking out the nauseating squish that accompanies his every step. Every few meters, he is forced to move around the form of a fallen soldier, and in most cases, there is no way to avoid the blood and... other fluids that have since caked into the plush carpet once the unfortunates were left to bleed out. Healers and battemages tend to the casualties fortunate to survive the slaughter, but the rest...
    Gods, so much blood.
     
    At least, he comforts himself, most of these poor souls are important enough to warrant resurrection. They are, after all, the best that the Empire has.
    He rounds the corridor of the ninth level much more easily than the floors previous, given that there are no bodies, only to stop short at the macabre display left upon the final flight of stairs. The scene from hell itself, with still-burning tapestries, half-mutilated bodies draped at unnatural angles, and entrails strewn across the path forces his supper to unceremoniously evacuate his stomach. He quite fortunately manages to catch the holy sign and other baubles around his neck before it happens. The two guards at the top of the steps continue staring forward as if nothing has occurred.
     
    Catching his breath, he gingerly steps around his sick, still careful to keep his robes of office far from the floor, and picks his way up through the obscene scene around him. If the guardsmen recognize him, which they should, given the significance of his position, they do not show it. They do not move at all as he passes through the flame-pocked doorway into the throne room itself.
     
    "Howar," the familiar baritone rumbles behind him. He turns to find Garzahd propped against the front wall of the room, peering into open space. "Thank you for coming."
     
    "I came as quickly as I could," he responds, turning back to search through the room. Even though the throne room is equipped with massive braziers to light up night audiences, only a few torches are in use, making it difficult to see. "The Emperor's body, where is it?"
     
    "Gone," The answer comes from a silhouetted figure in the back of the throne room that Howar does not recognize. "Dusted. We will have to wait until morning to be sure, but it's doubtful that there is enough left."
     
    "I don't understand," Howar says, returning to Garzahd. "I presumed that you had called me here to resurrect him. Why else call for the High Priest?."
     
    "You are here because I require your political prowess," Garzahd says, eyes still fixed on some unidentifiable point of the floor in front of him.
     
    "Political prowess? In such an emergency? Garzahd!" The wizard's eyes snap up to regard Howar. "Do we know who did this?"
     
    Garzahd's response is wordless: he merely regards the darkness to his right, and conjures a magical light to illuminate the large serpentine rune burned into the marble floor.
    Howar instinctively clutches his holy symbol and backs away, his throat too hoarse from the sick to properly shriek in terror.
    The figure behind the throne supplies the words for Howar's thoughts:
     
    "A single silent symbol tells a story that would fill volumes, doesn't it? Erika Redmark literally signed the assassination. It would make for excellent poetry, if it did not so clearly violate our laws of censure. And that's not even the best part."
     
    Howar cannot be sure if the words are bitter irony or outright praise, but they clearly show a measure of respect for the outcast worm... "I'm sorry," he forces out before trying to clear his throat. "Just who are you?"
     
    "Ah, manners," Garzahd says. "I assumed you knew General Limoncelli."
     
    "Only by reputation, of course," Howar says, trying to view into Limoncelli's tall outline.
     
    "Charmed," Limoncelli does not move.
     
    A moment of tense silence passes before Howar asks, "How did she do it... I thought... the curse?"
     
    Garzahd shakes his head. "The death curse that I placed on her only triggers in response to sunlight. We thought it would be the most... appropriate measure of punishment."
     
    "Given the timing, that alone would have worked, had she not acted by proxy," Limoncelli explains. "Instead, she managed to teleport a small group of fighters past all of our defenses... and teleport them back out."
     
    "I still don't understand," Howar says. He has finally found a portion of carpet that does not squish with his every movement. "The spells? The antimagic field? The teleportation measures? We were prepared for this."
     
    "We were only prepared for what we knew they had," Garzahd corrects him. "Erika clearly tapped into something even more powerful than she. There is no other explanation."
     
    "What, artifacts? A demonic alliance?" Howar asks.
     
    "It's possible," Garzahd responds. His moving hands betray that he is thinking through the rites that might allow such a thing. "Quite possible. Our last reports from Below suggested that an army of demons had escaped imprisonment. Erika was part of the group that sealed them; she may well have let them loose, for a price."
     
    "Anything to get what she wanted; yes, that was Erika." Howar shudders at the thought. "She was a menace."
     
    "Is," Garzahd corrects him again.
     
    "Is a menace," Howar amends. "Well, we can't simply banish her again, now can we? She's already there, and besides...[censored]!" He is shocked that the thought has only just now come. "An heir! He's dead, and no heir!"
     
    "Hence, why you were summoned," Garzahd states, returning his gaze to the floor near Howar's feet. "Limoncelli and I have been talking. You see, there are... oh, we're not entirely sure, at least a dozen illegitimate claimants to the throne in Solaria alone. A few of them even live here in the Spire. But we're going to need your help determining the best one to continue the royal line."
     
    "The Council of Governors will never stand to have a bastard on the throne," Howar says, trying to figure out just what Garzahd is looking at.
     
    "They will if you validate the union." Garzahd looks up to meet Howar in the eyes. "It'll be two or three days before the Council is fully assembled. We have until then to provide them with the heir. I'm thinking one of the younger ones, and I, of course, will be happy to serve as temporary Regent."
     
    "I will help preserve the line," Howar agrees. "That is my duty. But why do you assume that I'll be your patsy?"
     
    "Because of the single most important detail in the room." Garzahd smiles a twisted, mocking smile. "Obviously, you missed it; otherwise, you wouldn't be standing on it."
     
    Limoncelli's deep, resonating, ironic chuckle sounds behind Howar as the High Priest looks down and promptly stumbles back.
     
    Written in blood and ash, ground into the carpet by Howar's feet, are two words:
     
    "WE REMEMBER"
     
    Howar whispers the words, trying to understand.
     
    "It's not just Erika," the general says, behind him. "It's all of them. And now that they've found a way into the one place designed to keep them out, it's only a matter of time before they come out somewhere else. And kill again. Why stop with kings when you can directly address the men who threw you in the pit? The Judge who passed your sentence? The... priest who used his influence to make you disappear?"
     
    "Gods," Howar swears, his hands again reaching for his holy symbol. "What will you do?"
     
    "We will do what we have to do," Limoncelli says. "When a dog repeatedly turns on its master, there is only one course of action.
     
     
     
     
    "It must be put down."
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