masterghandalf

Chapter 3: The Departure

The old fortress of Sarrin stood several days to the south of Korth, the capital of Karrnath, and though it possessed a brooding, ominous air, in most respects it was unremarkable. It didn’t sit on any major road or lightning rail track; the family who owned it was noble, but none of its members otherwise held significant positions in King Kaius’s government. It wasn’t the site of any significant battles in the Last War, though its current lord had performed with distinction during the conflict. The fact that it sat across the Cyre River from what had once been a prosperous nation but was now a waste given the all-too-apt name of the Mournland did little to add to Sarrin’s appeal. So far as the majority of Khorvaire was concerned, it might as well have not existed at all.

Of course, Irinali thought as she walked through the castle’s corridors with her cloak billowing out behind her, if all went as planned, that might soon change; she allowed herself a faint smile in the shadows of her hood. She walked with confidence as she made her way through the hall, and the handful of servants she passed inclined their heads with respect, for though she wasn’t nobility herself – wasn’t even Karrn, for that matter – they all knew that she had the confidence of their lord. She was a short, slight figure, but her red cloak with its cowl pulled low made her seem more imposing, as did the sleek, military-style uniform she wore beneath it and the long black staff that tapped the flagstones beside her as she walked.

As she made her way to her destination, she passed several suits of antiquated armor, as well as tapestries and paintings depicting the exploits of Karrn the Conqueror, Galifar I, and other such Karrnathi notables; her host’s tastes, Irinali thought, ran towards the martial, gloomy and predictable. Then again, it wasn’t his discerning eye for art that had brought him to the attention of their mutual organization; whatever he lacked in that area, he more than made up for in other talents.

Reaching the end of the corridor, Irinali opened a heavy wooden door and entered a curving stairwell. She made her way to the top, staff tapping on the stone stairs as she went, and finally emerged atop the keep’s wall, where Kharvin ir’Sarrin, master of the house, warlord, Emerald Claw operative, and Irinali’s patron and ally awaited her.

Even from behind, ir’Sarrin was an impressive sight. A tall and powerfully built man, he was in his sixth decade of life but in Irinali’s opinion wore that age better than most humans did. His hair was largely gone to grey, but was still long and thick and worn in a tail; though he currently wasn’t wearing his battle armor, his clothing was rich and red, his hands clasped behind his back. He stood in a position Irinali had seen him take many times before, staring out away from his family’s ancestral home and towards the distant, shifting mists of the Mournland on the horizon; what he was looking for even Irinali, who knew him better than most, couldn’t say.

Some of the keep’s servants whispered that their lord and his “guest” who had taken up residence two years ago were lovers, but there was no truth to that in the slightest. Not only did Irinali prefer her men rather younger, but those servants who’d been with ir’Sarrin the longest knew that such a relationship was entirely outside his character. The lord had loved his late wife dearly, and after her death more than a decade ago, it now seemed that only two things could stir his passion – his country, and his chosen religion, the Blood of Vol.

It was therefore unsurprising that, in the year the Treaty of Thronehold was signed and the Last War finally ended with an uneasy peace, he had found his way to the Emerald Claw, and they had welcomed him.

Irinali was silent for a moment longer, and then cleared her throat loudly. “You summoned me, my lord?” she asked.

“Ah, good,” ir’Sarrin said; he turned to face his ally, revealing his aristocratic face, short, neat beard, and piercing eyes. He gestured towards the wall. “Come, stand with me. There are things we must discuss.”

Irinali swept forward to stand beside ir’Sarrin; she then leaned her staff against the battlements and reached up to lower her hood with red-gloved hands. The features revealed were those of an elf with jet-black hair and deathly pale skin that sharply contrasted her brilliantly red lips, though in truth, she used makeup to achieve the effect. Still, Irinali had learned long ago that first impressions mattered, and there was certainly something fitting in painting herself to resemble one of the living dead, for she was a necromancer of no small talent.

Despite his words, ir’Sarrin fell silent again and the two of them stood side by side, staring out at the river near the horizon and the misty desolation beyond it. Finally, ir’Sarrin spoke. “Everything is in readiness, Irinali,” he said. “The expedition leaves tomorrow to find the location marked on the map. If all goes well, they should reach the site within the week and have begun excavation. If this relic is what you say it is, it could change Karrnath’s fortunes and make all of Khorvaire tremble.” He fixed Irinali with his bright gaze. “I don’t mean to doubt your competence, my friend, but I have to ask you one more time – you’re certain the map says what you think it says?”

“You wound me, my lord,” Irinali said in mock outrage. “I translated the text myself and arranged for several historians to check my findings. The map either is what it purports to be, or it’s a brilliant forgery. And I don’t think the latter is very likely.”

The map purported to show the location of an ancient sepulcher buried deep beneath eastern Cyre which housed a powerful artifact from the Age of Demons. An Emerald Claw spy had unearthed it from where it had been gathering dust in some university library, and the Order had sent it to ir’Sarrin, the closest of their operatives to the location the map depicted. The map’s text was written in an archaic form of Irinali’s native Elvish, and translating it had been difficult even for someone of her education, but what she’d discovered only confirmed their suspicion that whatever was buried in the Mournland, it was a weapon of tremendous potency. Orders had come down from the Crimson Covenant that ir’Sarrin was to excavate the artifact and, if it proved to be a device as potent as the warnings and intimations on the map suggested, to see to it personally delivered to the Queen who commanded them all.

“I believe you, Irinali; I just felt I should check one last time. So much is riding on this.” He shook his head. “Think of it. Karrnath is the land that birthed Karrn the Conqueror, Galifar himself, and yet we were reduced to slinking to the negotiating table after the war ended by some magical catastrophe we had nothing to do with. Now we all circle each other like vultures waiting for it all to start up again. Madness!” He slammed his fist into the battlement. “But we have a chance, Irinali, and chance to acquire the kind of power we need to make Karrnath a force again, to conquer Khorvaire and then, when that is done, to follow the Queen and conquer death itself. Isn’t that worth fighting for?”

“It is, Kharvin,” Irinali said softly, using her host’s given name for the first time that evening. She wasn’t a particularly devout believer in the Blood of Vol herself, caring more for the galifars the Order was willing to handsomely pay her for her necromantic services, but ir’Sarrin? He was a believer. Sometimes he almost managed to make her want to be one, too.

“The expedition will establish a secured camp and begin digging,” he said. “When they unearth the sepulcher, we will join them and make sure the artifact is brought safely back to Karrnath. From there… to the Queen. We can’t fail, Irinali. Everything is riding on this. Everything.”

“Don’t worry, my lord,” Irinali said. “I understand. And tell me – when have I ever let you down?”

///

It was early the next morning when Thyra approached the lightning rail station, her pack slung over one shoulder. She was dressed in clothes fit for travelling but were simple enough not to stand out – blue blouse and sturdy brown skirt, with a scarf wrapped around her neck and a determined glint in her eyes. She knew that, among the teeming crowds of Sharn where people and creatures from across Khorvaire – and, indeed, Eberron itself – could be found, she wouldn’t stand out much. Just one young woman from the most common race on the continent, meeting up with some acquaintances to take a trip by the rail. Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that eyes were following her.

“Hey, kid!” a voice called from nearby. “Over here!” Thyra shook herself out of her reverie and turned towards its source, where she saw Captain Len waving her over from the mouth of a nearby alley. The mercenary looked much as she had yesterday, all dark, functional clothes and suspicious looks, but today she wore a sword girt at her side. Clustered around her was a small group of figures, some of whom Thyra had met yesterday and some of whom she hadn’t.

“Hello, Captain,” Thyra said after she hurried over. “Are you ready to head out? I’d prefer not to wait a minute longer than I have to.” That, at least, was the plain truth.

Len held up her hands. “Hold on a minute, kid,” she said. “If you’re still determined to come with us, I’m going to lay down some ground rules. First off, the job’s yours and the goals are yours, so I’ll do what you say on the way, but once the action starts, I’m in charge. It’s my business and I know it. So if I tell you to do something and I don’t have time to ask nicely, you do it. Second, before we get on that train we’re going to have some introductions; I want you to know who everyone is and what they can do in case you need to know later and don’t have time to ask. And finally, like I said yesterday, none of your magic is to be used on anyone here, under any circumstances. Now, does that all work for you? If it doesn’t, either you stay here, or you find yourself another team.”

“It works for me,” Thyra said with finality in her voice. “I just want this over with.”

“Good,” Len said. “Now, for some introductions.” She glanced to her side, where the elf-woman from the inn stood, clad in white robes with faint gold accents, stood next to the also-familiar hobgoblin who was giving what was probably supposed to be a reassuring smile. “This is Yhani and Ghazaan; you met them yesterday. ‘Hani’s the one who’ll patch you up if things go wrong, and Ghazaan’s the one who’ll probably be hitting the one who did it.”

“Well met,” Thyra said, bowing her head slightly. Yhani’s expression was unreadable, but Ghazaan seemed to grin wider.

“Harsk here is our scout and tracker, and you probably won’t get more than two words out of him at a time unless you make the mistake of bringing up druids, in which case he’ll talk your ears off,” Len continued, gesturing to a shifter who was leaning against a nearby wall; true to her description, he nodded in Thyra’s direction and grunted, but didn’t speak. From him, Thyra’s gaze wandered to the last two members of the team – a rakishly handsome elf in a black shirt and pants who winked in her direction, and a dark-skinned human girl who looked to be no older than Thyra herself who stood beside him. Or was she human? Though her clothing consisted a plain brown tunic and pants, there was nonetheless an arresting quality to her, an alien beauty that made her seem more a work of art than a person. Thyra couldn’t put her finger on why, but there was just something faintly off about her.

“That’s Havaktri,” Len said, nodding in the strange girl’s direction. “She’s completely mental, but she can read minds, so we keep her around. She’s a kalashtar,” she added, noting Thyra’s confused expression. Thyra flushed, realizing she’d been staring; she’d met a few kalashtar in passing, but had never spent long in one’s company and wasn’t sure what it was about them that set them apart from any other humans. Havaktri, noting her attention, suddenly smiled broadly, but even that expression seemed off, as if she’d practiced it in front of a mirror every day but hadn’t quite gotten it right.

Well, Thyra thought, I don’t exactly have any leg to stand on when it comes to criticizing someone for being strange. She turned her attention back to the elf, who was now glancing around with an obviously affected air of great disinterest.

“And that,” Len finished, a faint note of distaste in her voice “is Rinnean, who is far too good at getting into places he shouldn’t. He also fancies himself a ladies’ man, but at least he knows how to take rejection. If he starts flirting with you, just ignore him and he’ll take the hint.”

“Oh, come on, boss,” the elf in question said, “you can do better than that! From the sound of it, this job’ll be needing my skills more than anyone’s, so I think you could stand to give me a better introduction. Especially towards a client as lovely as this one.” He winked at Thyra again; she flushed even deeper and glared at him.

“Anyway,” Len grated, “with that out of the way, let’s get started. Thyra, this is your operation, so what do we do?”

For a moment, Thyra was speechless, but she quickly recovered herself. Drawing in a deep breath, she wove a little magic into her words – not to cast a spell on another person this time, but to make herself sound more impressive and convincing. “In just a few minutes we’ll be boarding the lightning rail,” she said, “for which I’ll buy the tickets, and we’ll be travelling to Korth. From there, we’ll be heading south to a fortress called Sarrin, which is owned by a man who has stolen something from my family. I’d very much like to get it back, and that’s where you come in.” She looked over at Len. “Captain, are we ready?”

“We’re ready,” Len replied with a brief glance at Yhani, who nodded once. “All right, then, let’s move it, people. We’ve got a train to catch.”

///

We meet the main antagonists of this fic for the first time in this chapter. The Lords of Dust are sniffing around in the background, as the prologue (and, likely, the title) made clear, but even though they’re probably the most powerful villains in the Eberron setting, they’re more a subtle threat than an overt one (and far beyond the abilities of our characters here in any case). The Emerald Claw, here represented by ir’Sarrin and Irinali, are a much more obvious, human-scale enemy.

Ir’Sarrin has a bit in common with General Azun, the villain of my Avatar: the Last Airbender fic “Heart of Fire”, in that he’s an older military man who shows how good and even heroic qualities can become twisted when wedded to a bad cause. Irinali is something of a shadow archetype to both Len and Yhani, which will be covered in more detail when they actually start interacting. And no, they’re not just acting coy about the artifact to hide its nature from the reader – they don’t know what it is either, just that the documents Irinali translated point towards it being a powerful weapon.

Finally, we end up meeting the rest of Len’s team in this chapter, characters we’ll be seeing a lot of as the fic progresses; here we meet them through Thyra’s eyes. Class-wise, Harsk’s a ranger, Rinnean’s a rogue, and Havaktri’s a psion. Speaking of classes, Thyra uses one of her sorcerer bloodline powers in this chapter. A careful reader might be able to start guessing as to what her secret is…

On the front of character images, I've included some villains this week. Irinali was easily doable with the same program I've been using, and for ir'Sarrin I was able to use a Game of Thrones character creator to get a pretty good likeness (though it wouldn't work for most of the other characters in the fic, unfortunately).

Here's Irinali: and ir'Sarrin:

-MasterGhandalf