“I have an idea,” Nat whispered. No one was listening. Shadowcount Sial was edging away from the open door into Scarwall’s chapel to his god, Zon-Kuthon, terrified of what lay inside. “Isn’t there some way we can do this without … getting close?” Jax asked. ‘This’ was destroying the final Spirit Anchor. They’d already taken care of three of them: the first, the umbral dragon Belshallam, had all but begged them to free him, and flown off as soon as Wren had cast Dispel Evil to break the Chained Spirit’s hold on him. The other two – the undead knight Castothrane and the ashmede devil Nihil – had not been so accommodating, but both had fallen to their blades and spells.
“As
soon as we get too close, that guy’s going to re-form and zap us, right?” Jax
continued. “So can’t we just do the thing Wren did with the dragon and be done
with it?”
Wren
shook her head in frustration. “There are just so many things wrong with that
idea,” she groaned. “First, I have to touch the skull to cast Dispel Evil, and there’s no way I’m
doing that. Even if I did, the dragon was a willing participant to the spell,
and made no move to resist it. I can’t believe that will be true for him.” She pointed at the skull. “Besides,
he’s not going to ‘re-form’ – that’s
what he is now.”
“What
do you mean?”
Wren
sighed. “So you know what a lich is, right?” Jax nodded, but the look in his
eyes told Wren he was out of his depth, so she continued. “A lich is a powerful
spellcaster who achieves immortality by becoming undead. In order to ensure his
survival, he keeps his soul hidden away in a phylactery – usually some sort of
sealed box, but sometimes a ring, or amulet, or such. That way if his body is
destroyed, his soul will survive, and a new body will reform eventually.
“But
if a lich is left undisturbed for too long – like being trapped in this room
for centuries on end – the phylactery’s magic can fail. The lich’s body is
destroyed, but the soul returns to its skull, remaining in a state of torpor
and meditation until something disturbs it. That
is a demilich.”
“Tomato,
tomahto,” Jax huffed. “He’s still going to wipe the room with us as soon as we
get too close.”
“I
have an idea,” Nat repeated, and this time heads turned. When he was sure
people were listening, he continued. “There’s a new spell I learned recently,
and it might help neutralize the demilich.” That caught everyone’s attention. “It’s
called Anti-Magic Field, and it suppresses
any magic in the area.”
“Cool!”
Jax enthused. “So you cast it on him and we go in a whale away on him!”
“Not
quite,” Nat corrected. “I can only cast it on myself, so I’d have to, um, get
close to him. And if you’re also close enough to hit him, all your magic would
be gone, too.”
“Let
me see if I understand this,” Erin said. “We could hit him, but he couldn’t
cast spells, and you couldn’t cast spells at him, either.”
“Not
just that – any spells you have active would stop working as soon as you got
too close to me.” There was a collective groan – people had spent the last
several minutes casting protective spells as they discussed strategy. “Your Haste, Invisibility, Fly – all that
would stop working.”
“But
the Prayer I already cast would still
help, right?” Wren asked hopefully, but Nat shook his head. “Not only that,” he
continued, “your weapons would just become mundane weapons – no magical
enhancements.”
“What?!”
Erin sputtered, holding up her flaming longsword. “You mean this would just
turn into an ordinary hunk of sharp steel?” Nat nodded. “Well that sucks! I’m
not sure it’s worth it – without magical weapons, will we even be able to hit
it?”
“I
think so,” Nat said hesitantly. “I think these sort of creatures’ resistance to
damage is a supernatural ability, so hopefully it should also be suppressed.”
“You
think? Hopefully???”
“Umm
… probably. Most likely. I’m 95% certain.”
The
debate continued for a while, but no one had a better alternative to offer. At
last, everyone grudgingly agreed to try Nat’s approach. As Nat gathered his
spell components, he prayed that this would work – their lives all depended on
this spell working the way he hoped it would. He made the correct motions and
tossed a pinch of powdered iron into the air. There was a slight poof and the powder burst out into a
sphere around him. As it did, everyone nearby felt themselves settle slowly
back down onto the floor, their Fly spell
negated.
Knowing
his friends were counting on him, Nat made his way cautiously into the chapel,
stopping just far enough away from the stone altar on which the demilich rested
that his spell would not reach it, and waited for the others to get into position.
Jax, Erin, and Wren followed him, and took up positions around the altar,
weapons at the ready. The jeweled skull did not react. As Nat had moved away,
those left behind found that they could fly again. Tomas flew into the room,
hovering well back near the ceiling. He filled his quiver with adamantine
arrows, and waited nervously. Laori flew to his side, ready to offer healing or
magical protections. Shadow also flew into the room, and Tomas did a
double-take as he saw the sorcerer transform into a small blue dragon. The
Shadowcount hung back near the doors; he’d made sure that Asyra was well down
the hallway before Nat had conjured the Anti-Magic
Field, knowing she would be instantly dispelled if she were inside its
radius. As for himself, he wanted to be in a position to run for his life as
soon as this strategy backfired.
Seeing
that everyone was ready for action, Nat took a deep breath then moved forward, stopping just behind Erin. As soon as he saw Nat move, Tomas began firing.
Being out of range of Nat's spell, he still benefited from Haste, and his arrows flew in a continual stream. As soon as they
entered the area of Anti-Magic they
lost some of their pizazz; no crackle of electricity from Tomas’s Shock bow, no extra oomph from his Gravity Bow spell
or other bonuses. But an adamantine arrow was still an adamantine arrow. Two of
them buried themselves in the stone altar, their shafts shattering from the impact, but the other three sank deep into
the skull, one directly between its ruby eyes.
The
skull began to vibrate violently, and everyone else sprang into action. Wren swung
down two-handed with her warhammer; it rang against the bony skull, but
rebounded with little damage. Jax, more nervous about this that he’d like to
admit, missed altogether. Erin swung her longsword, still mentally grousing
about all the powers it should
have had, and gashed a chunk out of the back of the skull. It was still thrashing
about on the altar; it seemed to be trying to rise into the air, but without
its magical ability to fly, it was unable to move, and at least for the moment
took no action against its attackers. Nat held his ground, but he was ready to
drop the Anti-Magic Field at the
first sign that the demilich was indeed able to use its powers; if that
happened, he wanted to give his friends every advantage at their disposal. Then
another volley of arrows flew in from above. The skull shuddered as arrow after
arrow struck true. The final arrow hit between the eyes, directly above the
previous shot. With a loud crack, the skull split in two and stopped moving. A psychic
shudder ran through Scarwall as the last of its Spirit Anchors perished.
Nat
held his breath, and slowly backed away from the altar. The flames sprang back
on Erin’s blade, and his friends floated back up a few inches off the floor,
but the skull did not move. Everyone breathed a sigh of relief, and Jax drew
out his dagger and began to pry the gems out of the skull’s eye sockets and
teeth.
“We’re
not done,” Wren said firmly, and everyone paused. She pointed to the Zev
Ravenka’s remains. “He’s going to reform if we don’t do something.” Everyone froze,
then raised their weapons, expecting the demilich to attack at any moment. “Not
now,” Wren clarified, “but in a few days.”
“How
do we destroy him?” Erin asked.
Wren’s
brow knitted. “There’s a ritual we can perform, but I don’t have all the spells
it requires right now.” She looked around at the others. “How do you all feel
about taking a short Nap?”
“I
could use some Restoration,” Tomas
said from above. He was still suffering from his encounter with the spectres a
few minutes ago. “But we need to check out the rest of this area first.” There
were curtains hanging on the right and left walls, and another blocking off the
southeast portion of the chapel. Tomas pointed to them. “There are openings
behind those two curtains, and it looks like there’s a statue behind this one.”
The
Shadowcount moved in to look behind the curtain at the back of the room. It
concealed another statue of Zon-Kuthon, a smaller copy of the one behind the
altar. The shallow stairs leading up to it were dark with old bloodstains. “This
area was used for … certain ceremonies,” he said ambiguously, “but there’s
nothing here. Shadow pulled aside the curtain on the left; it revealed a
triangular open room filled with the ruins of old benches and other ceremonial
gear that had once served the chapel, but he saw nothing magical or apparently
valuable.
Moving
to the right hand curtain, they found a short hallway, with three closed doors.
They listened at all three, but heard nothing. Jax opened the farthest door
first. He found a refrectory, with a dust-covered table with seven chairs and
place settings. Everything was covered with a thick layer of dust, but the dark
plates and flatware were fine – if badly tarnished – silver.
They
moved to the next door, and found the chapel library. Bookshelves lined the
walls, filled with dusty tomes and scrolls, with a single reading desk in the
center of the room. Sial’s expression brightened as he viewed the titles. “These
look to be antique texts on our faith’s worship, and the Shadow Plane!” he
called back to Laori. “The Brotherhood of Bones will be thrilled to add these
to their library!” But as he opened the first tome, its pages crumbled to dust
in his hands. Reluctantly, he left the other books alone. “We’ll need to send
experts here to preserve these texts.”
Shadow
had cast Detect Magic, and his face
lit up. Showing none of the Shadowcount’s reverence for the books, he
pulled several ancient tomes off their shelf to reveal a trio of pages hidden
behind them. Each was covered in densely-written arcane runes, and as he
studied them, his eyebrows went up. “I’ve heard of these!” he said in surprise,
“But I didn’t know they were real!” Nat came to look over his shoulder. “What are
they?” he asked, surprised he didn’t recognize them.
“They’re
Pages of Spell Knowledge,” Shadow
said excitedly. “Kind of like free spells. I suppose you spellbook-types wouldn’t
know about that sort of thing.” Shadow grinned wider as Nat turned away in a
huff.
By
now, Tomas and Jax had already turned their attention to the final door. It
revealed an austere bedroom. There was a single iron bedframe (with no sign it
had ever had a mattress) flanked by an iron kneeler studded with short spikes.
On a table nearby was a gold-plated skull, its cap removed and mounted on a
stand to serve as a font for unholy water. In the corner was an iron door, secured with a stout
lock. Jax and Tomas worked the lock together for a while, and at last it
succumbed to their picks. Inside was a small, triangular closet, its only
content a small altar topped by a finely carved wooden box. Jax examined the
box closely; its surface was decorated with designs of kytons and skeletons
cavorting, but it showed no signs of traps or magic. When he opened it, it was
empty. “I’m betting that was the Bishop’s phylactery,” said Wren, looking over
his shoulder. Jax shuddered, but slipped the box into his Bag of Holding nonetheless; it looked like it might bring a pretty
penny. As he left, Shadowcount Sial was already kneeling on the spiked kneeler,
his face suffused with divine agony.
Their
explorations complete, the group gathered around Wren. As she prepared to cast
her spell, Sial interrupted her. “Wait a minute!” Everyone looked at him. “I
want to try something.” He turned to face Asyra, who’d moved away from the
group, expecting to be dismissed as her master fell asleep. “Come to me!” Sial
commanded, and the kyton vanished, only to reappear at his side. “Yes!” Sial
exclaimed. “I hoped that would be the case.” No one else seemed to get the
significance, so he explained. “With all the Spirit Anchors gone, the Dimensional Anchor effect that prevented
us from using spells like Teleport or
Dimension Door seems to be gone, too.
Keep that in mind as you prepare your new spells.”
No
one else seemed to have any experiments to try, so Wren finally cast Nap Stack. Despite the fact it was still
mid-morning, everyone fell into a restful sleep; unlike the last time they’d
tried to rest in Scarwall, no one was troubled by nightmares or visions. They
awoke two hours later, feeling reinvigorated, and Wren turned her attentions to
the demilich’s ruined skull and other remains. First, she sprinkled holy water
over everything, praying to Pharasma as she worked. Then she cast Hallow, to ward the remains from being
inhabited by any undead entity. Finally, she cast Dispel Evil, to expel the remnants of Zev Ravenka’s soul that still
resided within. A low moan filled the room, and the skull and bone fragments dissolved
as if drenched with strong acid.
Once
everyone had prepared their spells, the party set out to return to the main
castle. They wanted to avoid the spectres they’d chased off twice before, so
they went the other direction down the hall outside the chapel; as they suspected,
it led to another set of stairs that took them back up to the private chapel
where they’d fought the mummified Prelate. They returned to the door where they’d
first entered the donjon. Erin and Tomas strode out onto the parapet, but Nat
suddenly held out an arm to stop the others. “Wait! We forgot about something!”
“What?”
Sial asked in an annoyed tone.
“The
Forbiddance magic,” Nat answered, and
the Shadowcount’s face dropped. “Only those of good moral character can safely
leave the donjon.” He looked meaningfully at Sial, Laori, and Asyra.
“That
might leave us out, too.” Shadow said, nudging Jax. Their morals were …
flexible, at best. “Not to worry, though,” he said, face brightening. He
quickly formed the others into a tight group, had them join hands, and muttered
a spell. The group vanished. “It worked!” his voice called from behind Erin and
Tomas, and they turned to see the missing group standing on the parapet behind
them. That just left Wren and Nat inside. Wren stepped confidently over the
threshold, the turned to wait for Nat. He took a deep breath. He’d always tried to be good – would it be
good enough for the gods? Squeezing his eyes tightly closed, he hurried out the
door, gasping in relief as he emerged into the cold sunshine.
Tomas
moved across the open parapet. On one side was the door where they’d first
entered Scarwall, the one that led down into the guest wing. Across from it was
another door leading into the main castle, overlooked on their first foray.
Opening it, he found himself looking down a long hallway, running the length of
the courtyard below. The left wall was pierced by arrow slits looking down into
the courtyard. About 100 feet in, he could see that another corridor led off to
the right. Just inside on the right was a sturdy wooden door, with a narrow eye-slot
set well above eye level. Locking his fingers into the slot, Tomas pulled
himself up to peer into the room – and found a pair of bony eye sockets peering
back out at him.
Tomas
barely had time to drop down and scoot away before the door slammed open.
Inside was a small guardroom, inhabited by one of Scarwall’s minotaur skeleton
guards. A dented brass alarm bell hung on the wall behind him, but after
centuries of inactivity, the guard’s training was forgotten. He swung his
greataxe at Asyra as she darted into the room, but she ducked under his blade.
He didn’t get a second swing. Erin stepped forward, her flaming sword flashed,
and the guard collapsed in a heap of bones.
The
group crept cautiously down the hallway. At the intersection, Tomas peeked
around the corner. Thirty feet in, the hallway took a dogleg to the left, but
opposite that was a pair of huge, ornately carved wooden doors. Tomas held up a
fist to halt the group, then crept forward to listen at the doors. He heard
nothing, then motioned the others quietly forward.
Nat
held up a finger, then slipped on his Gloves
of Reconnaissance. He pressed his hands against the stone wall, closed his
eyes, and an image began to form in his mind. This was clearly Scarwall’s Great
Hall. Thick wooden columns, their surface dark with age, supported the vaulted
ceiling of this large hall. A fire pit lay in the center of the room, its ashes
long cold. Old stains darkened the floor; most likely from food or ale, but
others perhaps more grisly. At the far end of the hall a large dais rose, where
the lord’s table would have sat. A great chair sat in the center of the dais,
carved of oak and studded with rivets. One step down and just to its left was a
smaller, less elaborate chair. Hovering above that chair was a spectral figure.
It was a bare-chested man, bound in writhing chains, dwindling to mist below
the hips.
Nat’s
eyes snapped open. “It’s Mithrodar!” he hissed. “It
has to be!” There was a flurry of hushed activity as everyone hastily cast all
the protective spells they could think of. Erin’s sword began to glow with Daylight as she called upon her Power of Faith for the final time of the
day. When everyone was ready, Tomas drew out his Horn of the Huntmaster. He looked from face to face, people he’d
not known just a few months ago but for whom he’d now gladly lay down his life.
“Let’s do this.” He kicked open the door and blew a low bleat on his horn,
imbuing everyone with his ranger’s hatred of the undead enemy before them.
An
unholy screech drew their attention to their left. A horde of spectres began to
emerge from the wall, intent on defending their master. But the holy light
blazing off Erin’s sword drove them back; they could still be heard screaming
with hatred from within the stone, but they could not confront the light to
attack.
Mithrodar
made no sound. One of the chains binding him whipped through the air, over Erin’s
head to lash at Laori. The incorporeal chain passed right through her, but she
felt it tear at her soul. It was the same feeling she’d had the day before,
when some malevolent force had tried to overwhelm her. Crying out to
Zon-Kuthon, she embraced the injury to her soul, and fought off the attack.
Wren
cast Destruction on the Chained Spirit,
but its centuries of ruling Scarwall gave it the strength to shrug off most of
the spell’s damage. Shadowcount Sial cowered behind a column in frustration; he couldn’t drop the Spirit into
a pit and it had no weapon he could cast Grease
on. He tried hitting it with a Ray of
Sickness, but was not surprised when Mithrodar didn’t even notice.
Tomas
had dropped his horn, nocked an arrow, and now began firing as fast as he
could. One of Mithrodar’s chains batted the first arrow aside, but the next
three struck home. Tomas was used to dealing out massive amounts of damage,
bringing foes to their knees single-handedly, but now his arrows barely seemed
to scratch the incorporeal being. Jax and Asyra were also hitting for all they
were worth, but to little effect. In this battle, it was the spellcasters’ time
to shine. Nat hammered Mithrodar with Intensified,
Empowered Magic Missiles and even as they were still striking, Shadow’s Maximized Magic Missiles began to
arrive. The bolts of force, though small individually, hit the incorporeal
creature to full effect, and it staggered under the combined onslaught. Erin
saw it weakening. “My blade for the Inheritor!” she cried, and launched a
flurry of thrusts and sweeps that sent globs of ectoplasm flying. Mithrodar
slumped down, actually sitting upon the chair he'd floated above. A low groan
escaped his lips, the first sound he’d made. It began as one of pain, but
transformed into something resembling relief, and then his form, and the chains
binding it, faded from sight.
As
Mithordar fell, a great wind began to blow through the castle. The walls and
floor began to vibrate, sending a thin cloud of dust sifting down from the
rafters. Throughout the castle thousands of voices cried out: screaming,
crying, moaning, laughing. The sounds gradually receded into the distance, to
be replaced by silence. The walls of the castle began to shimmer and brighten,
as the shadows that clung to every surface of the cursed structure began to
fade. One cloud of dust continued to swirl, and a familiar figure materialized.
It was Madame Zellara, tears of joy and relief streaming down her ghostly face.
She gazed at the party in silent gratitude, let her fingers stroke Wren’s cheek
for a moment, then flowed back into the box containing her Harrow deck.
After
several seconds, an awareness seemed to wash over the ghostly stranger, and
with a weak smile he began to speak. His accent was distinctly Ustalavic, and
archaic, but his words were clear, seeming to sound as much in their minds as
in their ears.
“You
have done a great thing today. You have accomplished the conclusion of a
legend. What has festered in Scarwall is no more, and in saving us all, you
have returned honor to Tamrivena after these long years of shame — a shame I created,
and a shame I was unable to lift. I sent Kazavon into Belkzen so many ages ago.
Eventually, when even my coward’s soul could no longer bear to hear tell of his
cruelties, I came here to Scarwall to attempt to undo what I had done in asking
for the Midnight Lord’s aid in defending Tamrivena. Yet again I failed. My
general, Kazavon, had me skinned alive and ate the strips raw before my dying
gaze. And when I did die, my soul remained trapped here as surely as any
prisoner.” With a start, the group realized that this was the ghost of Count
Andachi of Tamrivena, the hapless nobleman who had loosed Kazavon upon the
world.
Count
Andachi continued his tale. “There came a time soon thereafter when Kazavon was
finally slain, along with many of his cruel minions, by a powerful blade borne
by a hero named Mandraivus. His blade Serithtial brought an end to Kazavon’s
rule, yet could not quench his spirit, for Kazavon was one of the Midnight Lord’s
chosen. Mandraivus wisely ordered the dragon’s relics taken away, then remained
behind to watch over the castle. His faith, his strength of will, and most of
all, Serithtial kept the spirits of the dead quiet, yet these did nothing to
protect him from a baser threat. The orcs came down from the mountains and
murdered him. As he fell, his soul became trapped in these cursed walls.
Without his presence, the light of Serithtial went dark, and the spirits of
Kazavon’s legacy took hold. This is the blasphemy you have righted today, and
now Scarwall will be left to crumble to dust as the ages march on.
“Yet
I sense that your quest is only partially complete. I have dwelled in Kazavon’s
echo for too long not to feel his strength, his influence, take root in your
queen, so far away. Strange names that I do not know are in my head. Korvosa. Ileosa.
Sabina. Your own. Kazavon quickens in your home, and you must recover
Serithtial if you are to cast him down as surely as you have cast down his
presence here. Yet a fallen agent of the Midnight Lord still subdues the threat
Serithtial poses to Kazavon. While the sacred blade cannot be destroyed so
readily, nor even taken far from this place without invoking the wrath of
Iomedae... it can remain hidden.
“I
can still feel a presence in this place, a power linked to the Midnight Lord.
It lurks deep below, in a vault accessible via the Star Tower, Kazavon’s inner
sanctum. I see that here, in the deepest heart of Scarwall, your goal awaits in
the foulest of places. A fragment of Scarwall’s curse lingers there, lodged and
stubborn. When the curse held sway, Serithtial’s power was blocked to you. But
seek out the blade’s crypt, and it shall lead you to your goal. Now, with my
time here at an end, your time shall at last begin.”
As
Count Andachi concluded, one of his repeated mutilations also completed. But
this time he did not rejuvenate. Instead, his form crumpled to the floor and
slowly faded from view. The House of Tamrivena was at last no more.
The
PCs earned 28,267(!) XP for the night, putting them at 344,035, with 425,000
required for Level 15.
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