By Lynn LeFey at http://www.d20forge.com

Wergild: Chapter Twelve: Volaar Draal

Chapter Twelve of a complete Eberron Novel: The adventurers head into the SeaWall mountains to Volaar Draal, seeking information on Orgok's ancestry.

Chapter 12: Volaar Draal

“So now what?” Brig asked, staring into his ale. Orgok shook his head, his face pulled into a permanent frown.

“We can still prove to the kingdom of Aundair what d’Orien did,” Tef said.

“That doesn’t bring any peace to my fallen kin,” Orgok said, looking up with tired and angry eyes.

“There’s no way of getting the clan sword your captain lost, is there?” Brig asked.

Orgok shook his head.

“I don’t even know where to look. D’Orien could have thrown it into the Bay for all I know.”

“He’d throw away something so valuable?”

“The sword was not anything all that special. It was just historically significant, held by the hands of chieftains for generations, blessed by shaman.”

“So… I mean, if you’re the only member of the Mreesh’nok, you’re the chieftain. Why not just make another sword?” Brig asked.

“Who would bless it, and declare me chieftain? It needs to be given in a ceremony of recognition. No hobgoblin faithful to the Lhesh Haruuk would do it, defying his will. And it needs to be passed on from elder chieftains.”

“How old was the blade that was lost?” Brig asked.

“Nine generations. Almost three hundred years old.”

“What happened to the clan sword that was used before that?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a historian,” Orgok said, his face suddenly lighting up, “but I think I know where such knowledge might be found.”

The next morning, the troupe restocked their supplies in the bustling markets of Rhukaan Draal and turned southwest toward the mountains.

For two days, they rode across the lowlands, toward the rolling hills. The small farms, operated by throngs of goblin slaves, grew less and less frequent. By the end of the second day, the gathering rested in untilled fields of wild grass. That evening, huddled around the small campfire, the group took their rest.

Brig sat at the fireside with the pieces of the folding bow he’d removed from Mith laid out on his bedroll, whittling a piece of bronzewood. He stopped to check the fit of his replacement bow stave. Unsatisfied, he returned to his work.

Mith brushed out the horses, and busied himself with feeding the animals.

Murias stared at the war marshal across the fire from him.

“I thought you said the hobgoblins in the mountains didn’t get along well with those in the plains.”

“Yeah. I did.”

“So, why are we going there?”

“We’re going to Volaar Draal, home of the Kech Volaar, the wordbearers. They are the keepers of our history. I hope to impress upon them my need of their wisdom.”

“And failing that?”

“I will kill a great number of them.”

Murias looked into the soldier’s eyes for a hint of humor.

“We need to work on your skills of diplomacy, Orgok.”

Orgok bared his yellow teeth, in a sinister smile.

Tef pushed beans around in the bottom of her wooden bowl, and glanced up.

“Do you think they’ll know where a lost clan sword of your people might be?”

“If anyone knows, it would be them. I know my forefathers and foremothers for nine generations back. They may be able to trace my family back to the Dhakaan Empire.”

The next morning, the five companions continued their journey. The adventurers wound their way through roads less grand than those maintained by house Orien, most little more than rutted trails. The hills slowly rose out of the plains as they ascended into the highlands. By slow measure, the deciduous trees gave way to conifers.

In the distance, forests stippled the craggy mountains. Wide bands of red twisted across the mountainside, the same red granite used to make Lhesh Haruuk’s stronghold. Above the treeline, the highest peaks were capped in brilliant white. The mountains were more a thirty miles away and already loomed large.

The day passed, and the warm spring night of the lowland was replaced with the chill of highland winds blowing from the cold mountains. The howling of wolves disturbed the quiet night.

The next day took them into the mountains. The progress slowed as the trails wound through steep mountain slopes. The horses picked a slow path on the rough and rocky ground. Along the ridges, the wind howled. The sun beat down mercilessly, and combined with the wind, left the party blistered and chapped, looking worse for wear.

Late in the day, Murias yelled ahead.

“Orgok, what’s that ahead on the mountainside?”

Orgok lifted his eyes from the trail and beheld the snakelike procession of marching hobgoblins, headed along the trail toward them. He yelled forward to Mith.

“What? You can’t spot a hundred men headed toward us?”

“I was watching the trail to ensure no horse fell lame,” the warforged countered.

“You didn’t see it either,” Murias reminded Orgok. “Who are they?”

“I don’t know. Mith, you better let me take the lead.”

Orgok eased his horse forward, along the narrow trail. He watched the column of men coming, single file, and searched for a wide spot on the trail. Finally satisfied, he reined in his horse. The place he’d picked was, he hoped, wide enough to allow the marching men to squeeze past the horses and keep good footing. Still, they would be brushing right past his companions. He straightened himself in his saddle, and stiffened to military bearing. The sound of synchronized footfalls grew louder. The hobgoblins marched in tight step, well ordered. Orgok was unfamiliar with the crest on the guidon, but knew the colors to mean they were Kech Volaar. The sergeant held up his hand when the procession was within shouting distance.

“Company,” The hobgoblin shouted, “halt!”

In unison, the procession stopped. Orgok felt a bit of pride, to once again stare upon a unit of well trained hobgoblin soldiers. The feats he could perform with such a company!

“State your business, Ghaal’dar,” the sergeant barked.

“I am Orgok, of the Mreesh’nok clan. I come seeking the wisdom of the Kech Volaar on matters of ancestry.”

“You carry no banner of the Lhesh Haruuk?”

“I come in defiance of his will,” Orgok said sternly.

The sergeant’s face showed just a hint of a smile.

“Then you may proceed.”

With that, the sergeant took in a mighty breath.

“Company,” he bellowed, “forward march!”

Orgok dismounted, and drew his blade, holding it up in salute of the passing soldiers. When the procession had marched past, he returned his long sword to its scabbard, and remounted.

A few minutes of riding led the group over a rise, to stare at the fortified gates of Volaar Draal. Soldiers armed with crossbows paced across the terrace above the gates. The doors themselves were stone, nearly two feet thick. Beyond the gate were a series of portcullises and a tunnel leading into darkness. The travelers approached warily. A thin hobgoblin in robes strode forward. Two footmen flanked him, and behind the footmen, a pair of goblins trailed. The shaman held a staff in his hand that appeared to be crafted from bone. It was etched with symbols and darkened with some substance akin to the coating used on the Karrnathi skeletons. Orgok realized that while the hobgoblin was stooped and frail, he was not all that old, perhaps no older than himself.

“We have been expecting your arrival,” the hobgoblin said, with a weak and nasally voice. “The Pallid await.”

With nothing more, he turned back toward the darkness.

The travelers hurried to dismount. Guards took their horses, and the team labored to catch up with the shaman. An attendant passed a torch to Mith as he led the way into the darkness. The passage was unlit aside from the torch. Mith noted that the flame gave off no heat or smoke, and realized it was a magical contrivance.

The warforged marveled at the little he could see of the hobgoblin stronghold. His eyes were made for the daylight, and the illumination of the torch only allowed him to catch glimpses of cross corridors and chambers opening into the yawning darkness. What struck him was not what he saw, but what he heard. The acoustics of some chambers spoke to their massive unseen volume. From certain locations as they walked, he could hear the muffled murmur of thousands of voices speaking softly in some unseen gathering place. The greatest surprise to Mith was the shocking beauty and sophistication of the architecture. It was of a style he’d only seen glimpses of, in the goblin ruins he’d visited. Here before his eyes was that style revealed at its height, unworn by the elements, in its full splendor. He thought it might well exceed the majesty of the works of house Cannith, and the towers of Sharn. This was the work of the long lost Dhakaan Empire, before the hobgoblin nations fell into dark ages. Of the members of the company, only Brig and Orgok saw the city in its truest form. Hidden to the eyes of those born to the surface world was a myriad of inlays which only showed to the eyes of those born into darkness. Dwarves and hobgoblins shared the ability to see in the absence of all normal light. For them, the passages held unimaginable works of beauty; mosaics of breathtaking intricacy, and subtle crystal formations in the stone that glittered only to their superior dark vision.

After uncounted minutes, the group finally immerged into a chamber, the first they’d seen with light aside from that which they carried. Large candles stood on brass candle holders, green with age, and coated with the deposits of countless melting. The waxes twisted in frozen waterfalls creating delicate translucent tendrils. The air was thick with a peculiar odor, incense made from particular fungus spores, and sprinkled over hot coals. In the center of the room were five robed figures, facing toward a central point. In their midst was a large silver bowl, wide and shallow. Floating a few inches above the bowl was a writhing ball of small serpents, coiling and twisting about one another, seeking entrance to the warm center of the mass.

The five figures whispered in unison, a chant in ancient hobgoblin, which Orgok couldn’t quite understand. As he strained to comprehend, the chanting suddenly ceased. With it, the ball of snakes slowly sank to the surface of the bowl.

In unison, the five figures pulled back the deep hoods of their robes to reveal themselves. Three female hobgoblins and two males sat in the circle. On each of them, the skin was an unnatural white. Unlike true albinos, they showed markings in a darker cream color, some with light brown. However, their eyes were the thing which most drew Orgok’s attention. They were not red or yellow, or any shade in that range. Each of them had eyes of ice blue.

“Captain of the dead,” one of them said loudly, breaking the silence.

“King of none,” the rest returned in chorus.

Orgok stared at the gathering, not knowing what to say. He thought they referred to him.

“I am Orgok, of…”

“We know who you are,” they spoke softly.

“More than you know yourself,” one of the males continued.

“Why have you summoned…?” Orgok began.

“You hold the broken shards of Dhakaan in your hand,” they said softly.

“Be warned. Do not let them slip through your fingers…,” a female said.

“For the sake of drawing your blade,” another female said, moving her unblinking eyes to look directly at the soldier.

Silence fell for a moment. The five oracles drew their hoods back up.

“Leave us now.”

The thin shaman who led them in escorted them back out of the Pallid’s chamber.

They stood for a moment in silence.

“Well, I have to admit,” Brig said, “you hobgoblins do creepy much better than we dwarves.”

“Shut up,” Orgok demanded.

Brig chuckled to himself.

“You wish to speak with the dirge singers?” the young shaman asked.

Orgok nodded, and the procession again began winding through the passages in the darkness.

…

Long before the group moved into the chamber, they could hear the songs; the haunting dirges drifting on long wailing notes. Orgok felt a strange pouring of emotion, hearing the songs. They spoke of suffering and madness, and beauty fallen into ruin. The group entered the chamber of tears, where thousands of the Kech Volaar gathered and wept, moved to tears by the memories of the past. To his surprise, he heard Tef take up the weeping. Apparently she knew enough of their tongue now to know the suffering of which the mourners sang.

The soulful mourning was at once beautiful and agonizing. The song sank into him, breaking past the tricks he used to hold in the anguish. The warrior shuddered to control himself, finally breaking under the force of his own pain. He staggered, as if his knees would buckle, only to find himself held up by the cool metal hands of Mith. The heartache he bore for his lost comrades threatened to suffocate him.

He trembled, reliving the slow death of his clan, the long suffering of imprisonment. Every pain he’d buried deep inside flooded to the surface. The faces of his kin, faded by time, came back to him in vivid detail; how they looked in their brightest hour and the faces they wore in death. His mind locked onto the image of his captain’s head, severed, and held up as a trophy in the hand of Ekhenas d’Orien. Orgok wailed in torment.

The shaman leading them fell into stride with the slow tempo and solemnly led the travelers across the chamber. A single female voice pierced into their souls, echoed by a chorus.

Orgok finally came to his senses. He stood in a long thin room beyond the chamber of tears. In the center of the room, a fountain of fresh spring water bubbled. He fell to his knees before it and washed his face in its cool water. He was ashamed to meet the eyes of his comrades, feeling as thought he’d behaved in a most inappropriate fashion for a soldier. To his surprise, none of his companions passed through the chamber unmoved. He wiped the water from his face with his forearm, and smiled at his friends, realizing the incredible sense of catharsis he felt. The burning fury which threatened at any moment to consume him had been doused in tears. The anger remained, but was a more tamed beast.

“What was that?” Mith struggled to say.

“That is the history of my people,” Orgok said softly.

The shaman led them on, finally arriving at a large lit chamber. The gathering beheld a great library, and marveled at its scope.

A female hobgoblin approached. She wore simple, functional clothing under finely made form-fitted leather armor. Tattoos were inscribed around her left eye. Orgok felt his pulse quicken at seeing her striking features. Her hair was braided, and the braids pulled back into a bundle. Her features were graceful to Orgok’s eyes.

Orgok greeted her in the goblin tongue, and she returned the greeting.

Brig watched, and noted a sly smile on Tef’s face. He pondered for a moment before the hobgoblin spoke, breaking his train of thought.

“I am Gad’tos Ush’kohuur. I am wordbearer. What knowledge do you seek?”

“I am Orgok, last of the Mreesh’nok clan. I come to find a clan sword of my ancestors. My chieftain has fallen. I am all that remains, and I wish to claim chieftainship of clan Mreesh’nok.”

“You wish to be chieftain of none?”

“I wish to claim rulership over myself, and hold the right to rebuild my clan. I wish to have the power to claim wergild for my fallen clansmen.”

“You wish for revenge.”

Orgok stared silently at the wordbearer.

“We will find quarters for your companions, then we will discuss your lineage, you and I,” she said flatly.

The remaining four companions were ushered off through the dark of Volaar Draal. At length, they were deposited at the door of a small chamber. Brig stepped into their new accommodations, to find their saddlebags and personal effects awaiting them. The room appeared to be an overflow barracks, capable of holding twenty soldiers. A row of five double bunks stood neatly aligned on either side of the room. It was otherwise unadorned. Brig noticed the circular hole just outside the door, realizing it was just the right size for the staff of a guidon.

“Anyone care to stay here and watch over our stuff?” Brig asked. “I feel like taking a look around this place.”

Mith offered him the torch.

“No need, friend,” Brig said, waiving it off, “I’ve got perfect night vision. Comes from being a dwarf, you know.”

Murias retrieved a small lamp from his belongings, poured a little oil in it from a flask, and struck flint to steel, to ignite the wick.

“Mith, why don’t you take Tef for a look around? I’ll stay here. I’m sure the two of you are the best navigators among us. I’d just end up getting turned around and confused.”

“Is there anything you need while I’m out, Murias?” Brig said, standing at the door.

“I’m fine. Go sate your curiosity.”

Brig nodded and trotted off at his best pace. He was sure he’d heard the echoing of hammerfalls ringing on an anvil, and wanted to see if the smiths of this place were anywhere near as impressive as the architects. His feet carried him swiftly as his ears led him to his destination. Rounding a corner, two hobgoblins walked toward him. He waited for them to pass him, making way in the corridor. They stopped a few feet from the artificer.

“You’re not supposed to be wandering,” one of them said to him.

“Beg your pardon. I was just looking for your forges. Thought I’d share some words with your smiths, if I could.”

“You can’t. Let’s get you back to your barracks,” the hobgoblin warrior said, making a sweeping motion as he approached Brig.

Disappointed, the dwarf trudged along in front of the guards, back toward his room.

“Well, could you at least ask one of the smiths if I could visit their forges?”

The guards deposited him back at his room, where the other three adventurers sat. He looked at Mith and Tef.

“Friendly place, isn’t it?”

He tossed himself onto a bunk, and stared up at the ceiling.

“I was informed that it is rare for outsiders to even be allowed inside these halls, Brig,” Mith said. “We should consider ourselves fortunate to have seen as much as we have.”

A knock at the door drew the group’s attention. Mith opened the door, looking down at a squat and ugly goblin.

“Who wanted to see the smithies?” it yipped.

Brig sprang up with a smile, and bounded away with the goblin. He returned a moment later, gathering up the broken arm bow taken off Mith. He paused in the doorway, turned back and took Mith by the forearm, leading him away.

“He seems excited,” Murias observed.

Tef sat down on a bunk and sighed.

“What’s the matter?” Murias asked.

“What are we doing here, Murias? We’ve got all the evidence we need to press on with d’Orien’s ousting. What’s so important here that we should stay?”

“It seems to me that you and Orgok have a common purpose. I think maybe you two will be better off working together toward this common goal. You’ve seen what d’Orien threw at Orgok, Mith, and Brig. He’ll only escalate the violence until we’re eliminated, and splitting up just makes it easier for him to defeat us individually. Now’s not the time to go it alone.”

“What do you mean? We had the bounty on Orgok removed. The threat is gone.”

Murias snorted a wicked laugh.

“You’re kidding yourself. His bounty might no longer involve the Blademarks, but it’s just a matter of time before he finds other takers. It’s going to be particularly bad trying to get to Fairhaven, to talk to the royal courts, or worse, through Passage, where the house d’Orien’s power lies.”

Tef lay back on the bunk and closed her eyes.

“Thanks for cheering me up.”

“I never thought it would be so, but I feel safer here in goblin territory than I will back in human controlled lands.”

The hours passed, and in the cold stone barracks, Tef’s thoughts turned to her fate. She felt no strong urge to weep, only a deep sadness at what she’d done, what she’d seen, and her own foolishness for being drawn in as she had been. She knew, even as a child that what she’d done was wrong, but for the clean, warm, safe life of a noble, she’d ignored what she had known was right. As an accessory to the murder of Lord and Lady ir’Othar, she would likely die, whereas lord d’Orien, being of a Dragonmark house, would be reprimanded, and left doing menial services. At worst. No death for the grand conspirator, only his lowly accomplices. In Aundair, changelings were usually put to death by fire. Tef rolled onto her side and curled into a ball, staring into nothingness.

The door to the barracks opened, and Orgok strode in, startling Tef. Murias looked up from his reading, a small book of devotions to the Sovereign Host.

Orgok looked around the room.

“Where are Mith and Brig?”

“Off to see the smithies,” Murias said.

Orgok nodded and left as quickly as he’d come.

Minutes passed before he returned, comrades in tow.

“Alright. I’ve spoken with the wordbearer, given her my ancestry as far back as I know it. It will take her some time to track it back further. Another word bearer is looking into clan swords of my ancestors. It might take a little while.”

“Can you talk to someone to see if we could be allowed to wander about?” Tef complained. “It’s kind of boring being stuck in this room.”

“Yeah, alright, I’ll go do that now,” Orgok said, getting up.

“Hey, Orgok, how long is ‘a little while’?” Brig asked.

“A few days, is my guess.”

He swept out of the chamber again, obviously full of excitement and energy.

“So, the hobgoblins suggested spider silk for the replacement string to the arm bow. I think it’ll handle the quick tension from the folding bow springing into place a lot better than hemp,” Brig said to no one in particular.

More time passed. Orgok returned, followed shortly by goblins carrying food trays. They set down a cauldron of soup, five bowls, a pitcher of water, two round loaves of bread, and what looked like a platter of steamed crab legs.

In no time, the travelers dug into the meal. Brig grabbed a leg, cracked upon the dark blue carapace, and savored the soft flesh inside.

“Where do they get crab legs in the mountains?” Tef asked, picking up a leg and cracking it open.

“What?” Brig asked a bit confused.

Tef pulled a long piece of tender meat from the leg and ate it with delight.

“I said, where do they get these crabs this far up in the mountains? Do they have an underground lake or something?”

“Uh, probably,” Brig said, “but these are spider legs.”

He cracked open the next one. Orgok joined him. The pair watched a sickly sheen pass across Tef’s face.

“What? It’s okay to eat sea bugs, but not land bugs?” Brig asked with a laugh. “Fine by me. Leaves more for us.”

“What’s the soup?” Tef asked with anxiety.

“Mushroom. It’s wonderful,” Murias said, managing to hold his bowl fairly steadily to his mouth.

The night passed. Murias found it hard to wake up with no sunlight to tell him what time it was, but he dressed and began his morning meditations.

The early morning hours passed by, and before noon, the wordbearer arrived at their quarters. She left with Orgok, and the two were gone for another hour. Finally, the pair returned and the whole company was asked to accompany her to the great libraries.

Gad’tos Ush’kohuur, dirge singer of Kech Volaar, entered the vaults of wisdom. Scribes stooped over their work, copying scrolls that crumbled almost to dust at a touch. She guided the adventurers to a tall rack, from which a scroll hung. It was a long and detailed genealogy. Orgok stared at the long document, which traced back two hundred and fifty generations, more than seven thousand years into the past, well before the collapse of the Dhakaan Empire. The tiny, immaculate script was tightly scribed. Orgok had never seen such a work of art, all made for his benefit.

Gad’tos pointed at the document with a dry writing quill.

“See these names underlined in red? These are seven of your forebears who were interred with their clan swords in hand. We are certain these two have had their tombs pillaged already. Of the remaining three, we can only state the location of one with any degree of certainty.”

She pointed to a name on the list marked with a red dot.

“Your great grandfather of one hundred ninety seven generations past was a chief of the Undermountains, Orgok, before his descendant granddaughter fifteen generations after married into the lowland tribes. The clan sword you seek may be no more than five days ride from here.”