The Savage Caves - Chapter 15
The Savage Caves: Original Story by T.H. Lain
A Fan-Fiction Reimagining: Walthus Proudstump
Chapter 15
“Okay.” Jozan said, sitting down on a stone. Lidda and Tazerg, the goblin, had been going back and forth with explanations and discussions, all while Lidda was translating as best she could. It wasn’t a very quick manner of communicating, the priest knew, but better to be slow than not to be talking at all. He shifted as he continued. “Tazerg,” he gestured to the goblin and the little creature nodded and pointed to himself. “Tazerg didn’t send the spiders after Fairbye, just their sheep - and only then because Rezrek asked him to do so?” He looked to Lidda for confirmation.
“Commanded him,“ Lidda corrected. “On pain of death.”
The priest nodded. “Understood. And these bugbears took his home, killed some of his people and don’t belong here?”
She nodded. Jozan sighed as he stretched his legs out. The fighting was exhausting and being hurled through the air had his back screaming in agony. The last bits of Pelor’s power he’d used for Naull and Regdar. Luckily the warrior still had the antitoxin in his blood, so the spider bite was a minor thing to manage. His own wounds were something he could manage another time. His arm was incredibly tender but gratefully it hadn’t been broken. He suspected if he removed his armor and vestments there would be a hideous bruise.
“So we need to manage the bugbears. But then what about the goblins? And the spiders?” Regdar asked.
Jozan agreed. The bugbears seemed to be the issue but once they were removed from the problem, what would stop the goblins from raiding Fairbye with their spider pets? The idea of a spider as a pet did not sit well with Jozan and he suppressed a disgusted head shake. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but the removal of the bugbears is only one issue.”
Lidda spoke in the halting, strange tongue of the goblins and Jozan regretted neglecting his studies in the cloister regarding other languages - though he seriously doubted that goblin would’ve been offered by the monks there. At least it would expand his understanding, he thought as he rubbed at his lower back. He needed to rest; clear his mind and tether his spirit once more to the Sun Lord. After several long moments, Lidda turned to Jozan.
“Tazerg says his father was chieftain of the cavedeep goblins - or deepcaves goblins, I don’t know.” She shrugged and continued. “He promises that he won’t attack Fairbye.”
“Can we trust that?” Regdar asked, looking down at the little goblin. To his credit, Tazerg didn’t flinch. He met Regdar’s gaze definitely.
Tazerg nodded to Lidda. “Tazerg uuglet Rezrek, hu-man uuglet Rezrek.”
“Tazerg hates Rezrek, the bugbear leader, and so do we.” Lidda translated.
The little goblin continued. Lidda nodded, explaining that if Rezrek died then Tazerg would take his rightful place as leader of the goblins. Then he’d let the humans - and assumedly Lidda - go and leave Fairbye alone.
“Goblins' promises,” Naull said with a chuckle. “Now that’s a story I’d read as a child.”
Jozan looked at her. Those vivid green eyes looked sad as they scanned his face, he mused.
“Tazerg,” Jozan said. “Is there somewhere we can rest?”
Lidda translated, using far more gestures than Jozan thought would be necessary for such a simple question. She moved her hands and face, almost constantly, and even used pantomiming to express ideas in the goblin tongue. Where she’d learnt such a language was beyond him. The woman was an adventurer, though, he thought. Perhaps there were cities that had goblins who were more civil. More common.
The goblin nodded and Lidda said, “Safe places, all over.”
“I doubt that.” Regdar’s comment mirrored Jozan’s concerns. Where could they rest where spiders, goblins and bugbears wouldn’t find them?
“Let’s get out of this chamber,” Jozan said as he stood. His body protested but he took a deep breath and pushed through it. “Can he lead us somewhere safe? Maybe we could get some rest - I have no idea how long we’ve been down here.” He looked around at the walls and the stone. Everything looked exactly the same - grey stone, lit in blue, covered in spider webs and darkness. Jozan took heart in the presence of his holy symbol. He ran his fingers over the item. A gift in days past, he silently thought.
Tazerg picked up a dagger, kicking the dead Thrunk once in the head. Jozan disapproved but he wasn’t about to tell their guide not to. Regdar’s shield was dented heavily but would likely be salvageable, at least according to the warrior. Jozan could keep it, though how much use he might have out of it now that the strap was torn he couldn’t say.
Naull, following along beside him, eyed the shield curiously. “I can fix that, I think.”
“Oh?” He responded. The idea of her working magic around him once more did not bring up positive feelings.
“Yes. I’m skilled in many spells and Larktiss, my mentor, always told me to be prepared for the little things in life that required the touch of a skilled mage.” She gestured to the shield and Jozan handed it to her. Lidda, Regdar and Tazerg shifted ahead and the group wound their way through a high hallway with relatively little webbing.
The priest watched her move through the gestures of her spell, speaking the words - Jozan knew his own invocations but these were lost to him. When he called upon the blessings of Pelor, he spoke them in his own tongue. It took several minutes and Naull looked so focused Jozan was worried she’d trip over the errant little stones in their path but a golden glow cast over the bent shield. Floating gold glyphs appeared above the shield’s damaged parts, shifting and ebbing with obvious power. Jozan saw the metal shift soundlessly and warp back into its natural state. The image of the dragon which had been destroyed by the bugbear was restored. When she was done, she looked over the shield and smiled.
“There we are.” She nodded, handing it back to him.
As he examined it, Jozan realized that the metal had been restored but so had the leather strap that would hold it to his arm. He tested it, slipping his forearm into the enarmes - it fit well, tightened easily enough. He turned to her and gave a simple thank you. Jozan could see in the woman’s face that there was something she wanted to say; the way her brow furrowed, how her lips pursed ever so slightly.
“See? My magic is good for many things.” The tone she gave felt pointed and Jozan felt his frustration crawl back into his mind. He took a breath and gave a measured response to the much younger woman.
“I never intended to express otherwise, Naull. Your magic is not the issue. It is the type of magic I have seen you call upon.” She frowned. Up ahead, Jozan could hear Lidda and Tazerg gibbering back and forth. The sound echoed in the halls and Jozan worried it might alert whatever was down here to their presence. As if his shifting scale, Regdar’s armor or the light they carried wouldn’t.
The mage folded her arms over her chest and Jozan felt the gesture made her look even younger; like a chastised child.
“No, Jozan, my magic is the issue. You have a narrow view of necromancy and its applications. I use my magic as I will it; for good or for ill, whatever I choose. A blade isn’t evil because it can wound. Neither is a spell.”
He shook his head in response. “Wrong. A blade is a tool - which can wound, yes, and defend.”
“As my spells defended you, and Regdar and Lidda.” She said, still keeping her defensive stance.
He held up his hand. “A blade's very nature is not corrupt. A blade does not tap into the essence of life and death, draw it forth and kill or warp. It is a tool. Your magic is a tool as well, yes, I understand that. But necromancy is wicked.” His voice was stern, perhaps harsher than he expected it might be or wanted it to be. But the girl didn’t understand.
“You meddle in magic that is forbidden by my faith - by most faiths and most cities. For a reason.”
“Yes.” Naull said with a strange finality. “That reason is fear. Ignorance. You fear what you don’t understand.”
“I understand all too well, girl.” He snapped. She looked taken aback. “I have seen the evil worked by such magic. I have felt the sting of loss because of it and yes, I do fear necromancy. As any person of good bend should. It is corrupting. A manifestation of evil, dangerous and foul. Each use of it risks more degradation of one’s spirit and will.”
“This is idiocy,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. Jozan stepped in front of her.
“No, Naull. It isn’t. You have never seen the horror wrought by such things. I have. Trust me - do you see in my eyes how wicked such things can be and how they stick with a person?” He felt himself shaking. He clenched his hand over his mace, again and again. “I have lost those close to me because of Calmet,” he stopped himself. He turned his face away and took a steadying breath. Now was not the time to reveal such things.
But Naull didn’t relent. She stared at him.
“I don’t know who Calmet is. I don’t know your experience. But I do know that you’ve seen me use such magic in defense of people I care for - regardless of how long I may have known you three. I used my power to help you. To protect. To defend. The purpose, the intent of my magic is pure. It is how I use it that changes it - good, evil, whatever. There is no sin in magic, Jozan.”
The words hit him like a blow to the chest. He looked into her green eyes and for a moment all he could see was his mentor, standing before him with a look of disgust in his eyes. Jozan blinked. There stood this young woman, not a ghost from his past. The sound of Regdar’s voice snapped the priest from his conversation with Naull.
“Don’t fall behind. This little guy is faster than you’d expect. His tone was kind.
Naull nodded to him. She shifted her staff in her hand and moved past Jozan without a word.
The priest lingered for a moment and followed, the weight of the shield and his equipment suddenly feeling oppressive in the confines of the cavern and dark. He watched the dim forms of his companions shift and bounce before him, dancing in the soft blue hue of the lichen they carried. Jozan strapped his mace to his side and let his hand linger on the holy symbol once more. He took a deep breath and tried to push the swirling memories from his mind.
But in the dim of the underground halls, they would not be banished.
The morning light shone brightly through the glass windows of the cloister as Jozan continued his studies. Dappled sun spilled through the stained glass images of Pelor, sunbursts and scenes of beauty to flood the large library area. The great illuminated tome that sat before him was yellowed with age and the edge of the pages - despite the proper care given sacred texts- were stained with the oils from many dozens of hands over the years. He could see all of the small creases and folds in the pages. He skimmed his own notations in a small journal to his side, making comments and adding questions to be asked at later lectures. The place was blessedly quiet and Jozan was grateful. Other people often distracted him from his work and already he struggled heavily with the academic requirements of the clergy; litanies, history, holdings and rituals were a whirl of information.
He often felt overwhelmed by it all.
In the silence of the library, he could focus. He could properly set his mind to the teachings and commands of Pelor.
As his eyes skimmed the ancient writings before him, Jozan’s mind began to wander - as it often did. The words before him were prayers of healing; the restoration of the body. He had read them many times before but his memory for such things had never been very good. He recalled his mother’s disappointment in him for such lapses, and his father’s, and his siblings. He struggled so often to keep his mind on a single task and it felt so overwhelming to force himself to do so. It tired him. He felt tired now, even as he traced the looping script of Celestial invocations meant to channel Pelor’s grace to heal.
Languages were never easy for Jozan. He could speak the common tongue, as well as Flan and knew a few phrases in the tongue of the angels but nothing more than that. He ran a finger over his chin, feeling the beginnings of stubble there and remembered that he neglected to shave earlier in the morning. He would need to do so before he returned to prayer.
The sound of hard steps on the tiled floors filled his ears not long after he’d closed the holy book. The steps were familiar to him - few clergy that wore boots were those of higher ranks within the church of Pelor. Given the time of day, though, it was likely only one person.
Jozan rose, respectfully inclining his head. He smoothed his vestments; a long white robe, over which was draped over an undergarment of blue and grey. The sleeves were long, with the robe covering these and cuffed with several black buttons. He wore a small woolen cap, the top embroidered with a sunburst in red and orange. A simple prayer shawl rested on Jozan’s shoulders and his rope was belted. As he looked up, his mentor stared imperiously down at the considerably younger man.
He was quite tall - the tallest man in the cloister, Jozan knew, by several inches. He was straight-shouldered, with an imposing if thin frame and a severe face that showed his age. His face was sharp, almost aristocratic, with a high widow’s peak and a strong nose. He was clean shaven, as all the priests were and he had dark hair kept short. Thin eyebrows topped a scowling face and his eyes, blue, were ever watchful. Ever judging, Jozan thought. His vestments were similar to Jozan’s own, though considerably more elaborate and stylized with images of the sun throughout.
“Jozan - unsanctioned library time, as has always been, is inappropriate.” His voice was sharp, commanding. It made Jozan’s skin crawl. “Return the holy texts immediately and see to your prayers.”
The younger priest opened his mouth to say something but was silenced by Calmet’s thin hand, raised to stop him. His pale skin was made all the more pallid-looking when one saw his dark hair. The look his mentor gave him was one of contention; frustration, Jozan thought. It was a look he was very familiar with.
“See to your prayers, Jozan. These distractions are the reason why your understanding of Pelor’s grace and his teachings is so,” he searched for a word. “Stunted.” He leveled Jozan with a withering gaze. “The cloister has heard your excuses, your attempts to deflect your own inadequacies and we will hear no more of it.” Calmet turned away.
“Yes, Father Calmet.” Jozan said, lowering his head. He felt hot shame rush up his cheeks and suppressed the desire to shrink away from his imposing mentor. Calmet was a senior clergyman - respected, connected and considered a venerated expert in more fields of study than Jozan could even remember. He was exactly what Jozan might imagine him to be. But his ire, his disdain, for Jozan was oftentimes more than the young man could stand. He’d often held his tongue for fear of expulsion from the cloister but each time he failed Calmet was there to chide him.
“Stop simpering, Jozan.” Calmet sneered, his face a mask of disgust at the younger man. Jozan felt the weight of those eyes and couldn’t help lower his shoulders, making himself as small as he could.
“Yes, Father Calmet.” His voice sounded weak even in his own ears. He moved to leave.
Calmet caught his wrist in a surprisingly tight grip.
“What is your purpose here, Jozan?” The question dripped with disdain.
“T-to learn the teachings of Pelor and spread His blessings, Father.” Jozan turned to look into Calmet’s eyes.
“And have you learned? All I see is the wastrel before me; incompetent, incapable, inexcusably without dedication.” The words stung and Jozan turned his face away.
Calmet grabbed his chin roughly, pulling Jozan to look back at him.
“I am not finished, child.” He continued, his words vicious and pointed as he spoke. “I see nothing in these eyes, child. No dedication. No effort. No desire to serve His will. I see only a paltry skill at His blessings; more fluke than focus, I am certain of it. You came to us as a child and yet, here you are, at the cusp of your manhood and still there is nothing remarkable about you. Surely you see your peers - their successes, their piety. Do you not also wish to serve as they do?”
Jozan said nothing. The biting fingers of the man’s boney hands hurt but he didn’t dare to pull away. He was only grateful no one else was here to see. Not that it would stop Calmet’s castigation. It never had before.
“Nothing, yes, as I suspected.” He released Jozan roughly. “Get out of my sight, child. See to your prayers and see that you do not disturb those of actual faith with your insipidity.”
Jozan nodded, turning away and moving out of the great library of the cloister. The great doors, tall and stained dark wood, opened and closed with such noise. The young priest’s heart sank. He turned to close the doors, turning away and looking down the long hallway -
- his vision was filled with the bodies of dead students, acolytes and the faithful of Pelor. Their bodies were strewn about the tiled floor, the tall and beautifully crafted windows splattered with blood and bile. His eyes immediately filled with tears. Jozan took a step forward but the floor was slick. He looked down to see blood; pools of it littered the hallway leading to the library and vomit caught in his throat. The scent of blood was so strong he could smell nothing else; it suffused every breath, seeping into his mouth and leaving the heavy taste of iron on his tongue. He steadied himself and heard the sound of whimpering from one of the bodies. He rushed forward, slipping on the blood and falling. He hit his knees hard and scrambled, ignoring the discomfort as he moved towards a shifting form. An acolyte, Sister Reglathia, was crying softly as she lay there. Blood covered her face and once silver blonde hair, matting it to her face. A terrible bloody gash seeped at her shoulder, the exposed chest ragged with some terrible wound.
The skin around the wound was black with corruption and rot, as if it had been left to fester for weeks.
Jozan knelt, bringing his hands onto her wound and trying to recall the words to his spells of healing. The sun had faded, replaced by a ruddy red moon that loomed high in the evening sky, its sister moon a paler yellow. He shuddered and felt the breathing of Reglathia stop. Her eyes were glassy, mouth hanging open in a silent wail of death.
Jozan felt tears spill down his cheeks and a hand gripped his shoulder from behind. He turned to see Calmet standing before him, gaunt and otherworldly. His robes were covered in blood, his eyes a horrible swirling black energy that sparked and flowed out from him like smoke.
The young priest screamed.
“Commanded him,“ Lidda corrected. “On pain of death.”
The priest nodded. “Understood. And these bugbears took his home, killed some of his people and don’t belong here?”
She nodded. Jozan sighed as he stretched his legs out. The fighting was exhausting and being hurled through the air had his back screaming in agony. The last bits of Pelor’s power he’d used for Naull and Regdar. Luckily the warrior still had the antitoxin in his blood, so the spider bite was a minor thing to manage. His own wounds were something he could manage another time. His arm was incredibly tender but gratefully it hadn’t been broken. He suspected if he removed his armor and vestments there would be a hideous bruise.
“So we need to manage the bugbears. But then what about the goblins? And the spiders?” Regdar asked.
Jozan agreed. The bugbears seemed to be the issue but once they were removed from the problem, what would stop the goblins from raiding Fairbye with their spider pets? The idea of a spider as a pet did not sit well with Jozan and he suppressed a disgusted head shake. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful but the removal of the bugbears is only one issue.”
Lidda spoke in the halting, strange tongue of the goblins and Jozan regretted neglecting his studies in the cloister regarding other languages - though he seriously doubted that goblin would’ve been offered by the monks there. At least it would expand his understanding, he thought as he rubbed at his lower back. He needed to rest; clear his mind and tether his spirit once more to the Sun Lord. After several long moments, Lidda turned to Jozan.
“Tazerg says his father was chieftain of the cavedeep goblins - or deepcaves goblins, I don’t know.” She shrugged and continued. “He promises that he won’t attack Fairbye.”
“Can we trust that?” Regdar asked, looking down at the little goblin. To his credit, Tazerg didn’t flinch. He met Regdar’s gaze definitely.
Tazerg nodded to Lidda. “Tazerg uuglet Rezrek, hu-man uuglet Rezrek.”
“Tazerg hates Rezrek, the bugbear leader, and so do we.” Lidda translated.
The little goblin continued. Lidda nodded, explaining that if Rezrek died then Tazerg would take his rightful place as leader of the goblins. Then he’d let the humans - and assumedly Lidda - go and leave Fairbye alone.
“Goblins' promises,” Naull said with a chuckle. “Now that’s a story I’d read as a child.”
Jozan looked at her. Those vivid green eyes looked sad as they scanned his face, he mused.
“Tazerg,” Jozan said. “Is there somewhere we can rest?”
Lidda translated, using far more gestures than Jozan thought would be necessary for such a simple question. She moved her hands and face, almost constantly, and even used pantomiming to express ideas in the goblin tongue. Where she’d learnt such a language was beyond him. The woman was an adventurer, though, he thought. Perhaps there were cities that had goblins who were more civil. More common.
The goblin nodded and Lidda said, “Safe places, all over.”
“I doubt that.” Regdar’s comment mirrored Jozan’s concerns. Where could they rest where spiders, goblins and bugbears wouldn’t find them?
“Let’s get out of this chamber,” Jozan said as he stood. His body protested but he took a deep breath and pushed through it. “Can he lead us somewhere safe? Maybe we could get some rest - I have no idea how long we’ve been down here.” He looked around at the walls and the stone. Everything looked exactly the same - grey stone, lit in blue, covered in spider webs and darkness. Jozan took heart in the presence of his holy symbol. He ran his fingers over the item. A gift in days past, he silently thought.
Tazerg picked up a dagger, kicking the dead Thrunk once in the head. Jozan disapproved but he wasn’t about to tell their guide not to. Regdar’s shield was dented heavily but would likely be salvageable, at least according to the warrior. Jozan could keep it, though how much use he might have out of it now that the strap was torn he couldn’t say.
Naull, following along beside him, eyed the shield curiously. “I can fix that, I think.”
“Oh?” He responded. The idea of her working magic around him once more did not bring up positive feelings.
“Yes. I’m skilled in many spells and Larktiss, my mentor, always told me to be prepared for the little things in life that required the touch of a skilled mage.” She gestured to the shield and Jozan handed it to her. Lidda, Regdar and Tazerg shifted ahead and the group wound their way through a high hallway with relatively little webbing.
The priest watched her move through the gestures of her spell, speaking the words - Jozan knew his own invocations but these were lost to him. When he called upon the blessings of Pelor, he spoke them in his own tongue. It took several minutes and Naull looked so focused Jozan was worried she’d trip over the errant little stones in their path but a golden glow cast over the bent shield. Floating gold glyphs appeared above the shield’s damaged parts, shifting and ebbing with obvious power. Jozan saw the metal shift soundlessly and warp back into its natural state. The image of the dragon which had been destroyed by the bugbear was restored. When she was done, she looked over the shield and smiled.
“There we are.” She nodded, handing it back to him.
As he examined it, Jozan realized that the metal had been restored but so had the leather strap that would hold it to his arm. He tested it, slipping his forearm into the enarmes - it fit well, tightened easily enough. He turned to her and gave a simple thank you. Jozan could see in the woman’s face that there was something she wanted to say; the way her brow furrowed, how her lips pursed ever so slightly.
“See? My magic is good for many things.” The tone she gave felt pointed and Jozan felt his frustration crawl back into his mind. He took a breath and gave a measured response to the much younger woman.
“I never intended to express otherwise, Naull. Your magic is not the issue. It is the type of magic I have seen you call upon.” She frowned. Up ahead, Jozan could hear Lidda and Tazerg gibbering back and forth. The sound echoed in the halls and Jozan worried it might alert whatever was down here to their presence. As if his shifting scale, Regdar’s armor or the light they carried wouldn’t.
The mage folded her arms over her chest and Jozan felt the gesture made her look even younger; like a chastised child.
“No, Jozan, my magic is the issue. You have a narrow view of necromancy and its applications. I use my magic as I will it; for good or for ill, whatever I choose. A blade isn’t evil because it can wound. Neither is a spell.”
He shook his head in response. “Wrong. A blade is a tool - which can wound, yes, and defend.”
“As my spells defended you, and Regdar and Lidda.” She said, still keeping her defensive stance.
He held up his hand. “A blade's very nature is not corrupt. A blade does not tap into the essence of life and death, draw it forth and kill or warp. It is a tool. Your magic is a tool as well, yes, I understand that. But necromancy is wicked.” His voice was stern, perhaps harsher than he expected it might be or wanted it to be. But the girl didn’t understand.
“You meddle in magic that is forbidden by my faith - by most faiths and most cities. For a reason.”
“Yes.” Naull said with a strange finality. “That reason is fear. Ignorance. You fear what you don’t understand.”
“I understand all too well, girl.” He snapped. She looked taken aback. “I have seen the evil worked by such magic. I have felt the sting of loss because of it and yes, I do fear necromancy. As any person of good bend should. It is corrupting. A manifestation of evil, dangerous and foul. Each use of it risks more degradation of one’s spirit and will.”
“This is idiocy,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. Jozan stepped in front of her.
“No, Naull. It isn’t. You have never seen the horror wrought by such things. I have. Trust me - do you see in my eyes how wicked such things can be and how they stick with a person?” He felt himself shaking. He clenched his hand over his mace, again and again. “I have lost those close to me because of Calmet,” he stopped himself. He turned his face away and took a steadying breath. Now was not the time to reveal such things.
But Naull didn’t relent. She stared at him.
“I don’t know who Calmet is. I don’t know your experience. But I do know that you’ve seen me use such magic in defense of people I care for - regardless of how long I may have known you three. I used my power to help you. To protect. To defend. The purpose, the intent of my magic is pure. It is how I use it that changes it - good, evil, whatever. There is no sin in magic, Jozan.”
The words hit him like a blow to the chest. He looked into her green eyes and for a moment all he could see was his mentor, standing before him with a look of disgust in his eyes. Jozan blinked. There stood this young woman, not a ghost from his past. The sound of Regdar’s voice snapped the priest from his conversation with Naull.
“Don’t fall behind. This little guy is faster than you’d expect. His tone was kind.
Naull nodded to him. She shifted her staff in her hand and moved past Jozan without a word.
The priest lingered for a moment and followed, the weight of the shield and his equipment suddenly feeling oppressive in the confines of the cavern and dark. He watched the dim forms of his companions shift and bounce before him, dancing in the soft blue hue of the lichen they carried. Jozan strapped his mace to his side and let his hand linger on the holy symbol once more. He took a deep breath and tried to push the swirling memories from his mind.
But in the dim of the underground halls, they would not be banished.
The morning light shone brightly through the glass windows of the cloister as Jozan continued his studies. Dappled sun spilled through the stained glass images of Pelor, sunbursts and scenes of beauty to flood the large library area. The great illuminated tome that sat before him was yellowed with age and the edge of the pages - despite the proper care given sacred texts- were stained with the oils from many dozens of hands over the years. He could see all of the small creases and folds in the pages. He skimmed his own notations in a small journal to his side, making comments and adding questions to be asked at later lectures. The place was blessedly quiet and Jozan was grateful. Other people often distracted him from his work and already he struggled heavily with the academic requirements of the clergy; litanies, history, holdings and rituals were a whirl of information.
He often felt overwhelmed by it all.
In the silence of the library, he could focus. He could properly set his mind to the teachings and commands of Pelor.
As his eyes skimmed the ancient writings before him, Jozan’s mind began to wander - as it often did. The words before him were prayers of healing; the restoration of the body. He had read them many times before but his memory for such things had never been very good. He recalled his mother’s disappointment in him for such lapses, and his father’s, and his siblings. He struggled so often to keep his mind on a single task and it felt so overwhelming to force himself to do so. It tired him. He felt tired now, even as he traced the looping script of Celestial invocations meant to channel Pelor’s grace to heal.
Languages were never easy for Jozan. He could speak the common tongue, as well as Flan and knew a few phrases in the tongue of the angels but nothing more than that. He ran a finger over his chin, feeling the beginnings of stubble there and remembered that he neglected to shave earlier in the morning. He would need to do so before he returned to prayer.
The sound of hard steps on the tiled floors filled his ears not long after he’d closed the holy book. The steps were familiar to him - few clergy that wore boots were those of higher ranks within the church of Pelor. Given the time of day, though, it was likely only one person.
Jozan rose, respectfully inclining his head. He smoothed his vestments; a long white robe, over which was draped over an undergarment of blue and grey. The sleeves were long, with the robe covering these and cuffed with several black buttons. He wore a small woolen cap, the top embroidered with a sunburst in red and orange. A simple prayer shawl rested on Jozan’s shoulders and his rope was belted. As he looked up, his mentor stared imperiously down at the considerably younger man.
He was quite tall - the tallest man in the cloister, Jozan knew, by several inches. He was straight-shouldered, with an imposing if thin frame and a severe face that showed his age. His face was sharp, almost aristocratic, with a high widow’s peak and a strong nose. He was clean shaven, as all the priests were and he had dark hair kept short. Thin eyebrows topped a scowling face and his eyes, blue, were ever watchful. Ever judging, Jozan thought. His vestments were similar to Jozan’s own, though considerably more elaborate and stylized with images of the sun throughout.
“Jozan - unsanctioned library time, as has always been, is inappropriate.” His voice was sharp, commanding. It made Jozan’s skin crawl. “Return the holy texts immediately and see to your prayers.”
The younger priest opened his mouth to say something but was silenced by Calmet’s thin hand, raised to stop him. His pale skin was made all the more pallid-looking when one saw his dark hair. The look his mentor gave him was one of contention; frustration, Jozan thought. It was a look he was very familiar with.
“See to your prayers, Jozan. These distractions are the reason why your understanding of Pelor’s grace and his teachings is so,” he searched for a word. “Stunted.” He leveled Jozan with a withering gaze. “The cloister has heard your excuses, your attempts to deflect your own inadequacies and we will hear no more of it.” Calmet turned away.
“Yes, Father Calmet.” Jozan said, lowering his head. He felt hot shame rush up his cheeks and suppressed the desire to shrink away from his imposing mentor. Calmet was a senior clergyman - respected, connected and considered a venerated expert in more fields of study than Jozan could even remember. He was exactly what Jozan might imagine him to be. But his ire, his disdain, for Jozan was oftentimes more than the young man could stand. He’d often held his tongue for fear of expulsion from the cloister but each time he failed Calmet was there to chide him.
“Stop simpering, Jozan.” Calmet sneered, his face a mask of disgust at the younger man. Jozan felt the weight of those eyes and couldn’t help lower his shoulders, making himself as small as he could.
“Yes, Father Calmet.” His voice sounded weak even in his own ears. He moved to leave.
Calmet caught his wrist in a surprisingly tight grip.
“What is your purpose here, Jozan?” The question dripped with disdain.
“T-to learn the teachings of Pelor and spread His blessings, Father.” Jozan turned to look into Calmet’s eyes.
“And have you learned? All I see is the wastrel before me; incompetent, incapable, inexcusably without dedication.” The words stung and Jozan turned his face away.
Calmet grabbed his chin roughly, pulling Jozan to look back at him.
“I am not finished, child.” He continued, his words vicious and pointed as he spoke. “I see nothing in these eyes, child. No dedication. No effort. No desire to serve His will. I see only a paltry skill at His blessings; more fluke than focus, I am certain of it. You came to us as a child and yet, here you are, at the cusp of your manhood and still there is nothing remarkable about you. Surely you see your peers - their successes, their piety. Do you not also wish to serve as they do?”
Jozan said nothing. The biting fingers of the man’s boney hands hurt but he didn’t dare to pull away. He was only grateful no one else was here to see. Not that it would stop Calmet’s castigation. It never had before.
“Nothing, yes, as I suspected.” He released Jozan roughly. “Get out of my sight, child. See to your prayers and see that you do not disturb those of actual faith with your insipidity.”
Jozan nodded, turning away and moving out of the great library of the cloister. The great doors, tall and stained dark wood, opened and closed with such noise. The young priest’s heart sank. He turned to close the doors, turning away and looking down the long hallway -
- his vision was filled with the bodies of dead students, acolytes and the faithful of Pelor. Their bodies were strewn about the tiled floor, the tall and beautifully crafted windows splattered with blood and bile. His eyes immediately filled with tears. Jozan took a step forward but the floor was slick. He looked down to see blood; pools of it littered the hallway leading to the library and vomit caught in his throat. The scent of blood was so strong he could smell nothing else; it suffused every breath, seeping into his mouth and leaving the heavy taste of iron on his tongue. He steadied himself and heard the sound of whimpering from one of the bodies. He rushed forward, slipping on the blood and falling. He hit his knees hard and scrambled, ignoring the discomfort as he moved towards a shifting form. An acolyte, Sister Reglathia, was crying softly as she lay there. Blood covered her face and once silver blonde hair, matting it to her face. A terrible bloody gash seeped at her shoulder, the exposed chest ragged with some terrible wound.
The skin around the wound was black with corruption and rot, as if it had been left to fester for weeks.
Jozan knelt, bringing his hands onto her wound and trying to recall the words to his spells of healing. The sun had faded, replaced by a ruddy red moon that loomed high in the evening sky, its sister moon a paler yellow. He shuddered and felt the breathing of Reglathia stop. Her eyes were glassy, mouth hanging open in a silent wail of death.
Jozan felt tears spill down his cheeks and a hand gripped his shoulder from behind. He turned to see Calmet standing before him, gaunt and otherworldly. His robes were covered in blood, his eyes a horrible swirling black energy that sparked and flowed out from him like smoke.
The young priest screamed.
Jozan bolted upright, smacking his head on the low-hanging rock shelf he slept beneath. It stung but didn’t bleed and he rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. The soft blue lighting of the lichen cast his sleeping companions in a strange glow; Lidda’s child-like face looked even more so as he looked over to her. The halfling’s chest rose and fell steadily. He wasn’t sure how she slept so peacefully but her little hands were wrapped around the hilt of her blade.
Naull slept as well, curled into a small ball with her hands around the staff she carried. The little goblin wasn’t too far away, sitting and watching the darkness - his head shifted back and forth at every small sound, as if his entire life was filled with the paranoia of something coming for him. Jozan supposed that it must’ve been, at least since the bugbears had arrived. Regdar sat a few feet away from Tazerg, blade out and eyes keen in the minimal light.
The priest looked down to his hands, clutching his holy symbol and they were clean of blood. He ran his fingers over the wood of the symbol of his faith and closed his eyes, letting his silent prayers calm him. He was deep in the soil of Oerth, far from the memories of the cloister and Calmet. The name brought the tingling of gooseflesh and Jozan rubbed it away. He’d doffed his armor to rest - he had little skill in resting in such heavy, cumbersome equipment and wore only his vestments. He rubbed his arms for a minute, looking out into the blue darkness and trying to settle himself.
Naull stirred.
He looked over to her. Still asleep, though it seemed her dreams weren’t calm either. She shifted her face, grimacing as she did so. She was very young, Jozan thought.
She doesn’t realize what she meddles with, he thought to himself. Just as Calmet hadn’t realized. At least in the beginning. He blinked away the tears of frustration and failure that had begun to well up in his eyes, wiping them away in the darkness. Calmet’s words rang in his head in the silence of the caves.
“All I see is the wastrel before me…”
“Pelor,” Jozan said quietly to himself. “Give me strength in this darkness, within and without. Show me the path You have laid out before me and reveal the strength within me to walk it.”
“Jozan?” Regdar asked, turning. His face was heavily shadowed and, backlit by blue, Jozan could’ve sworn the older warriors’ face looked exactly like his old mentor. Jozan shook his vision to clear it.
“Oh, I’m sorry Regdar. I was speaking prayers to Pelor - even here He hears them.” Even Jozan knew his words were weak and deflecting. Regdar nodded, though, and did not seem to press.
“Get some rest, alright? I’ll keep watch.” Regdar was rewarded for his comment by a shushing finger and hiss from Tazerg, who stared at the much larger warrior with frustration.
“Shh!” He said again, turning his head to look down from the high ledge they were nestled in. The goblin had led them to a safe place, at least safe enough for the time being, and they had been down for a few hours of rest. Naull and Jozan were all but spent with their magic and Lidda had begun to complain about walking. Again. The rocky crevasse they were hidden within was tight but would serve well enough for their purposes. Tazerg explained to Lidda that the goblins didn’t know about this place; it was his ‘secret’ place to think and to wonder about things in the dark. Apparently the goblin had come here often as a child and Jozan had to admit he was grateful for the respite.
The last day had been difficult for many reasons. He turned his eyes to Naull again.
The priest doubted he could change Naull’s mind about her magic and her use of such foul workings. She was stubborn, which he supposed was a trait most wizards must possess. Her skills had saved them. He shook his head.
Too much, he thought.
These questions were too much. He needed to focus his mind on the task at hand; defeat the bugbears, protect Fairbye. One step at a time. He could most certainly do that. Jozan lay his head back against the cold, uncomfortable rock beneath him and tried shifting himself into a comfortable position. Naull whispered softly in her sleep. He strained to hear her.
“No, Larktiss. I just think he’s-,” her voice trailed off into nothing and she was soundless once more.
Sleep would bring little release from these thoughts, he knew.
Some things are best not known, Jozan thought as he closed his eyes and held his holy symbol tight.
Calmet’s face swirled there, behind his eyelids.
He drifted, breathing quietly, into an uncertain sleep filled with blood and fear.
Rezrek stood before the Spider Mother; glistening black eyes stared out at him, uncaring and hollow. Her huge mandibles clicked and shifted, constantly moving and grasping as if eating the very air before her. Or tasting the space where Rezrek was. The bugbear grasped the amulet tightly in his paw and focused his thoughts, trying to push them into the giant arachnids’ own mind.
He could feel the hunger from her - she was so very hungry. Even the sheep that Rezrek had brought for the spider brood had not been enough. The bugbear felt the unease, the listlessness of the giant spider and the desire to feed that she had passed through him like an unstoppable wave. He closed his eyes against the onslaught of desire, that impossible need for more and more food.
He cleared his thoughts of hunger, ignoring his own aching stomach and the growl that came from it.
Mother, he thought at her. There was silence in his mind for a moment and it felt as if a string snapped.
Hunger, came the response deep within the meat of Rezrek’s brain. Hunger!
The bugbear nodded. He reached out a hand, unsteady, and tried to place it on the giant spider’s mandible. She shifted away, avoiding the touch and Rezrek could hear the soft hissing of her brood around him. They were warning him.
But he opened his eyes and stared deep into hers. He would not be frightened by spiders, no matter how strong.
He was stronger. He reached out his bloody paw once more, still covered in the gore from Erzmer’s death, and touched the left mandible. It felt strange and smooth but cool to the touch. He ran his hand over it, tightening his grip on the amulet and forcing his mind into hers deeper.
Mother, he called again. This time it was a command, not a summons. The giant spider turned back to him.
Listen, Rezrek. He slowed his breathing and gave her images of humans - ones he’d seen before, ones he’d killed.
She shifted her massive legs, almost as if stamping the ground in anticipation. Her brood continued to hiss but Rezrek hissed in return. They fell silent as he and their mother communed in the dark of the brood chamber.
Mother belongs to Rezrek. He felt her resist but the power of the amulet compelled her. She could not look away from his eyes. He felt the hunter in her recede and there was a strange, animal fear buried deep in there. The bugbear’s thoughts, filled with rage and bloodlust, seemed to overwhelm the simple mind of the immense creature.
She was afraid of him.
Rezrek smiled.
Fear, he thought at the spider. It gave nothing back but shifted itself down, as if attempting to submit to the bugbear but it’s size made that impossible.
Rezrek laughed, a loud and barking thing that echoed deep in the brood chamber. Spiderlings of all sizes skittered and shifted, on every surface and on their mother’s back. He pushed harder, leveling his eyes again at her and trying to push the fear for him deeper into her. She shuddered.
The other spiders stopped moving in response.
Rezrek raised a bushy eyebrow.
He called one of the spiders to him, not with his gruff voice but with his mind.
A spiderling shifted forward from the shadows, mandibles clicking and shifting as it approached. The bugbear, still holding the amulet, drew out his weapon. The little spider, still the size of a large dog, shifted back and forth but didn’t seem aware of the bugbear’s actions at all. It just followed the command in its mind. Rezrek looked at the warhammer, taking in its power and the fact that Erzmer’s flesh was still stuck to it. Rezrek looked over to the brood mother, raised his warhammer in one hand and brought it crashing down onto the back of the spider.
The blow shattered the spider’s body, splattering Rezrek in blue gore. It made a disgusting noise as it died. The Spider Mother didn’t move. The bugbear wasn’t sure the giant spider could feel anger. But as he brought the weapon back up, raising it threateningly towards the brood mother, none of her children responded. Nor did she.
Rezrek placed the warhammer on the head of the brood mother, the spike pressing against the beast’s chitin. He let the point dig a small groove in her head just above her eyes.
The massive spider didn’t move.
Rezrek smiled, drawing the weapon away from the beast,
Mother hunt. The thought flowed out of him, filled with rage and purpose.
The massive spider shifted, pulling away from the bugbear and her massive brood followed. He watched her shift to a large hole in the farthest section of the brood chamber, crawling into the deep darkness. Dozens of spiders spilled in behind her, chittering and clicking as they followed the call of their mother.
As they followed Rezrek’s command.
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