In Which Our Hero becomes a Subversive Unionizer! Betrayal!

December 12th, 1885

Rain pattered against the windows of the Misk household’s expanse library. Virginia had, helpfully, set every light in the room to as bright as it could go. Warmly burning oil lamps and electrical bulbs shrouded in comforting draperies both worked with the stoked fireplace to give the room a warm, cheery glow – but it did little to offset the grim mood that had cast its pall over the Misk house. With both Victor and now Wesley the butler both dead within the same week, both murdered by the ominous curse of T’Sen-Ang, it felt as if we were all at an impasse, with no clue as where to investigate next.

Save...

Virginia sat next to me on the small reading couch that was situated across from the fire. Light danced along her freckled cheeks as she held up the small, wrapped package that she had retrieved on her mysterious errand. I took it and winkled my nose. “This smells like you fetched it from a grave,” I said.

“Heh, uh, well, open it,” Virginia said, coughing demurely behind her hand.

“You didn’t,” I said, my eyes darting from Virginia to Leslie Misk, who was sitting near the fireplace and looking into it, her black gloved hands rubbing together in slow circles.

Virginia coughed. “Well, the exigencies of the service and ... well ... I put ... I buried him again once I was done!” She whispered, her voice growing increasingly furtive. “If we can’t find T’Sen-Ang, who knows how many more innocent folk these blighters will arrange ‘accidents’ for.” She tapped the wrapped sack. I sighed and put aside the faint distaste that rose in me. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t searched a dead body before, nor used the equipment taken from still cooling hands. But there was a step of remove between taking a dead bandit’s revolver and reading a book buried with a dead gentleman.

The book, once I unwrapped it, proved to be a poorly bound copy of Horror Among the Dark Elves by Renford A. Terwilliger. My heart picked up a pace as I held the book, looking down at the age worn leather. Or ... was it age worn? I held the book up closer to my eyes, looking at the seaming. It looked more like wear from a poor job on the binding itself, not actual age. And the papers in the book itself were less yellowed than I’d have imagined for a fifty year old book. I opened it and scowled fiercely.

“What does it say? Does it have a map?” Virginia asked.

I turned the book to show her the printing within: HOW THE VALIANT NASRUDIN DEFEATED THE NEFARIOUS ARRONAX and other stories to elucidate young minds!

“Purchased at the Roseborough Gift Shop,” I said, my voice holding no small amount of anger.

“B-But...” Virginia’s face twisted in confusion. “Why the bloody hell would Mr. Misk bury himself with that!?”

“I beg your pardon?” Leslie Misk asked, her head snapping up.

“I was just wondering,” I said, closing the book up tight and tucking it into my jacket pocket before she could pounce with more questions. “Did you and Victor ever vacation at Roseborough? It has a rather nice inn, does it not? And the Ring of Brodgar and other such sights?”

Leslie’s lips quirked into a faint smile, her eyes filling with sad recollections. “Aye. In fact, Victor’s father was buried there. He lived out the last years of his life there, hiding in seclusion from his own nightmares and demons.” She paused. “Not that those demons and nightmares seem to be so phantasmal now, eh?” She asked, her voice growing bitter. She shook her head slowly.

“That must be it!” Virginia said, brightening.

“Good find indeed, old girl!” I said, springing to my feet. “We must away to Roseborough.” I grinned. “It seems my travels are nearly circular...” I shook my head, while Leslie came to her feet.

“Wait!” She held up her hand. “Must you go so soon, Rayburn?” She took my hand with one her gloved hands. “It is yet still raining, and Wesley has not yet been buried nor given a service.” She nodded. “At least allow me to put you up for, say, a few days?” She smiled at me, her eyes soft and gentle, like that of a doe. I took her hand in my hands.

“I would dearly love to do so, Mrs. Misk,” I said.

“Bugger me sideways!” ‘Magnus’ exclaimed, her voice squeaking audibly on the ‘me’ before plunging down the register as she attempted to once more fake the gender she was perforce required to masquerade as while in public, where dwarves might react poorly to seeing a woman of their species wandering about unveiled and unchaperoned. Everyone in the library turned to look at her – save for Sally Mead Mug, who had quietly begun to snore in the corner.

“Yes, Mr. Shale Fist?” Mrs. Misk asked, her voice dripping with irritation. ‘Magnus’, her face beat red beneath the false beard she wore, turned to face us, holding a tome she had fished from the shelves. She held it up.

“Is this truly the book of ... Durin’s Truth?” she asked.

A memory, as thick and sudden as a living dream, struck me. Standing in a silent cave, looking up an ancient dwarven machine. Hearing a croaking, hissing, popping voice emerging from a speaking tube, like a primeval phonograph. We had all heard what the ancient dwarves of the Iron Clan had left for their descendants to find: “Listen to the words passed down from the Iron’s Clan, find the book of Durin’s truth, for within those pages lie the key that you seek.”

“Oh, yes,” Leslie said, unaware of the consternation that this discovery had thrust us into. “That was one of Victor’s prizes. He had found it in some old pawn shop or another.”

“May we read it?” I asked.

“Well, it is a book,” Leslie said, a flash of humor appearing on her face, which was then immediately clouded in a moment of sorrow. “Oh, that was one of Victor’s favorite sayings.”

We gathered about the book of Durin, but I gave ‘Magnus’ the chance to turn the pages. The first page was embossed with an excellent dwarven map, showing the exact coordinates on the Stonewall Mountain of the ‘entrance to the Iron Clan’, with a decorative symbol I personally did not recognize – but which caused ‘Magnus’ to gasp in shock, her voice warbling around her higher register despite her best attempts. Her hand went to her mouth, and before I could ask whatever it was about that symbol that made her so impressed, she was turning the page, reading the dwarven script within. Her voice, husky and low, read out the text as she turned the pages.

Search you for the Truths of Durin? Do you seek the Stone and Shape? Then walk the path and know the path She follows in its wake

Have you found the place of Voices? Have you heard the message clear? I think you have I know you have For else you’d not be here

The road from here is not much longer You’ve traveled far to see this light Your heart keeps stronger Your courage long The morning will be brighten

Now travel to the Vault of Iron And bring with you the key of glass The door swings wide and there inside You find your truth at last.

“The Stone and the Shape...” ‘Magnus’ breathed. “And that symbol? It is the symbol upon the Harrower combined with the symbol upon my bracelet!” She reached into her pockets and pulled forth the small bangle she had shown me almost a year before on the smokey streets of Tarant. She pointed at the small etched symbols on it, her eyes shining with excitement. “Sir! Ray! I believe that this Iron Clan may be ... may be...” Emotion choked her and she quieted down, looking back down at the book. I clasped my hand on her shoulder.

‘Magnus’ Stone Fist had joined our group out of an urge to do right and to find the answer to the secret of her origins. We had, unfortuantely, needed to leave her origins as a problem for the future. Which mattered less to her than to, say, a shorter lived individual like myself. Maggie could spend a decade doing good deeds and still have centuries ahead of her to find the secrets of her long lost clan. But the idea of denying her a chance to seek out the Iron Clan when the secret was right there before us. However, before any of us made any decisions, Sally pointed down with her finger at some of the runes.

“Whazzat?” she asked.

“Uh, the ... key of glass?” ‘Magnus’ asked, grumbling her voice as low as she could.

“Wait, you can read dwarven script?” Gillian asked Sally, who wobbled slightly as she stood in her perpetual drunken haze. She blinked slowly at Gillian, then hiccuped.

“Yeah.” She paused. “Why?”

“No, she’s right,” Virginia said. “It makes no sense to head into the Iron Clan’s entrance without that key.”

“Maybe the historian bloke back at the Wheel Clan knows what it is?” ‘Magnus’ suggested.

“Excellent!” I said, then smiled at Leslie. “I’m afraid, though, to answer your earlier question ... no. We cannot stay. I know that this may seem like a great deal to accept, but dark forces are at work in Arcanum and I have a duty to see them off.” I clasped her hand. “But you have my thanks, for allowing us to read your books and to seek our answers to our questions.” I bent forward and gently kissed Leslie’s knuckles. Her cheeks darkened and she smiled ever so slightly.

“Do promise to visit again, once you return to Caladon, Mr. Cog,” she said, her voice soft.

“That,” I said. “I can do with ease.”

The storm began to abate as we walked through the streets of Caladon. But as the rain ceased, pedestrians returned. And with pedestrians came-

“You idiot! You fool! You simpleton! You jackanape! You cad! You absolute ignoramus! You-”

“Ho there!” I called out, turning to face the pair of figures – one of whom was a blustery looking gnome. The other was a rather sheepish looking halfling, his bare and fuzzy feet kicking at the ground. The gnome, who had been the one to fling every single insult at the halfling, turned to face me. He put his hands on his hips, scowling slightly.

“What do you want, greenskin?” he asked, angrily. “Though, no, wait, even a half-orc can surely have more sense and intelligence than Terry here! Isn’t that right, Terry!” He glared at Terry, who flushed even more. I had to admit, this was all a very striking depiction of the gentle kindness of most halflings. Most men I knew would have, by now, drawn steel and flown at this gnome, demanding satisfaction.

“What exactly is going on here?” I asked, my brow furrowing, my hand going to my mustache, to cover my lips lest I betray an irritation.

“Well!” The gnome put his hands upon his hips. “Terry here and I worked together on a gardening company. And things went quite well – save that finally, now that we’re ready to try and retire, I sent him off to sell our equipment to secure us some extra coin for our retirement, yes?”

Terry blushed and I frowned at him. “What did you buy instead?” I asked, already divining the end of this story.

Terry coughed. “Magic-”

“Beans!” the gnome bellowed. “Not magic! Beans! Beans! Just normal beans! Beans! You bought beans with our retirement funds! Beaaaaaaaans!” He stomped his foot. “You ignoramus! You absolute doddering fool! You syphilitic drooler! You-”

I held out my hand to Terry, letting the gnome work his ire out. Terry helpfully dropped one of the so called magic beans into my palm. I frowned and held it up – and heard a loud crunch from my pocket. My brow furrowed and I reached into my pocket with my free hand, drawing out my pocket watch. The glass had cracked. One of the gears was sticking out of the edge of the casing, and the hands looked as if they had both tried to leap from their tracks. I tucked it away, quickly. “How many beans did you buy?” I asked.

“T-Three...” Terry said.

“I’ll pay you three hundred and fifty pounds per bean,” I said, grinning.

“Deal!” The gnome exclaimed. “That’ll be enough to make up for your damnfoolishness, Terry!”

Terry, looking crestfallen, gave me the beans.

As the two of the smaller folk walked off to enjoy their good fortune, Virginia crossed her arms over her chest and looked at me as if I had grown cracked in the head. Her eyebrow arched. “Magic beans, sir? Really? Really? You think we’ll plant them and it’ll grow a great big beanstalk that leads up above the clouds, where we can find Arronax in his castle, like in that daft story?” She snorted. “Or were you just trying to find a way to save that halfling a horsewhipping?” She bit her lip. “Oh, bloody hell, you just paid a hundred times a hundred what those beans were worth, didn’t you?”

I reached into my pocket, showing her my watch.

“Did you fall on that?” Gillian asked, cocking her head and leaning forward into the conversation. But Virginia grasped my meaning.

“Ah,” she said.

“What’s ah about it?” Gillian asked.

“My watch’s mechanical nature is dependent upon the laws of science and nature,” I said. “A powerful magickal field interferes with those laws. In this case, violently enough and powerfully enough to completely destroy my watch. Meaning...”

“Oh good heavens!” Gillian exclaimed. “They really are magick beans!”

“Exactly,” I said, grinning as I pocketed all three. Then, reconsidering, I pulled the beans out and handed them to Virginia, who took them with a wan smile.

Feeling quite smug with myself, I set off once more, ready to explore the nature of the beans when we had a moment to spare. However, we were not but three blocks down the road before a sudden, piercing scream broke the peace of the Caladonian afternoon, ringing out above the sounds of dripping, pattering droplets from every awning and rooftop. I drew my pistol without a second thought and charged towards the sound, my companions with me. The screaming came from a small home off the road. I charged to the front door, only to find that it was locked and bolted, enough that I rebounded from the door with some force. I would have landed on my own backside, had I not been caught by Sally, who held me with one hand, lifting her other, clenching it into a fist. She struck the door a ringing blow, angling it directly at the knob, which snapped in half and splintered – the door flinging inwards and rebounding off the inside wall.

Within the house, we saw a horror.

There was a woman – or at least, what was left of her. Her body sprawled upon the floor, what skin not covered in red blood looking quite pale. But a figure loomed above her, dark and narrow and tall. Red eyes gleamed and I saw it held a scalpel in one hand. Its other hand dripped with green blood. I lifted my pistol, shouting. “Hold!”

The thing darted away – rushing towards the back of the small house. I fired. One shot struck the wall above the creature’s head, punching through the thin brick wall, filling the air with powder and leaving a gaping hole the size of my own arm. The creature did not pause, it simply leaped. Its arms stretched outwards, as if it were diving into a great river ... but rather than landing in a river, its hands struck the bowl of an indoor toilet. I gaped, watching with disgust as its bones snapped and cracked, its flesh wriggled and it began to stretch and slip forward, a grotesque parody of a contortionist. Sally, thinking quickly, grabbed for its feet, but one kicked upwards, leaving three bloody lines across her forehead. She staggered and clutched to her forehead, crying out – more in fury than in pain.

But it was enough time for the hideous thing to slide into the pipes – and to be gone, utterly.

Virginia’s hands glowed with her healing energies and she touched them to Sally’s forehead, while I looked down into the toilet bowl, shuddering. “I am never going to complain of a chamber pot again,” I whispered.

“Sir!”

Gillian waved one hand to me. I turned and saw that Gillian, despite looking pale and wan, had done what I’d hope any good adventurer to do in this situation: She had knelt down and begun to examine the body. But I saw that she had found something of note – and was carefully moving to make sure she did not track her feet over it. I stepped out of the bathroom and saw what she had seen. Scrawled on the ground, in thick green liquid that I was sure was the creature’s blood, was a name.

L’anamelach

“What on Arcanum?” I whispered.

The door – which had gently swung shut under its own momentum – sprang inwards again. Two of the Caladonian constabulary stood in the doorway, their blue uniforms looking quite striking in the sudden brilliance of sunlight that came after a great storm blew through. Their revolvers, too, gleamed brightly, even as they aimed them at us. One, a clean shaven fellow of tender years, bellowed: “Freeze! Hands in the air, all of you!”

I raised my hands, and my comrades followed suit.

The two constables stepped into the room – and the younger of the two looked down at the body. His face went pale, but then he grinned fiercely and looked up at us. He pulled back the hammer on his revolver with his thumb, the click sounding louder than anything else in the room, save for my rapidly hammering heart.

“Well, well, Merkins,” I said, surely using the name of his partner. “It seems we bagged ourselves the Whytechurch murderer. Just as we expected all along: It had ta be a half-orc.”

My apprehension lasted for a good twenty minutes – which was the time it took for the Caladonian constabulary to bring us to their station in the center of their fair city, within spitting distance of their King’s huge castle, then to have each of us processed. This processing was quite technological in nature and very impressive, even if it was irritating to undergo it under such a circumstances. First, they took daguerreotypes of our features standing before a clear white placard, so that they could see our faces clearly. That alone was not unique, as I had seen similar photographs placed up around Tarant for criminals of various stripes. But the next step was most ingenious: They dipped our thumbs in black ink, then had us set those thumbs to white cards with our names on them.

When I expressed an interest as to the nature of this test, the man who took them had gone on at great length as to the effiacy and genius of the procedure. It seemed that each man, elf, halfing, gnome, dwarf, orc and ogre’s finger print was unique. If one had a fingerprint, they could match that fingerprint with any fingerprints found using magickal or technological means, then pronounce that someone had done a crime, even if no other evidence existed. For example, if I had shot a man dead and left nothing behind, they might find my “finger print” on the knob of the door I used to escape and, thus, begin to establish a clear case against me.

Fascinating!

Marvelous, even!

Surely a stupendous step towards the fine art of criminology and the alienistic study of the miscreant’s inner workings.

I was less than pleased to have it used on me. But once the thumb-prints were taken and I was marched into the holding cells of the police den, I found myself watching as a halfling of stout features, muscular build, fierce mustache, and fiercer disposition come out. He had a cigar in his hand, a cigar that he smoked profusely, and he barely took five seconds to eye me before he barked out the order: “Take this fellow out of there at once!”

The constables that flanked him responded with snappy salutes and discipline. Before I could say widdershins, I was seated in the paper strewn office of one Chief Inspector Henderson – the very halfling who had ordered my release. He puffed on his cigar and spoke in quick, choppy sentences. “Do forgive my boys, they’ve been looking for a perp-” which I presumed to be a shortening of the common word ‘perpetrator’ “-on these Whytechurch murders for the past three weeks, ever since ladies of the evening began to end up dead...”

I chuckled. “While I am glad to no longer be a suspect, I would like to know how and why you assumed I was innocent?”

“Well,” Chief Inspector Henderson said. “Let us begin. Firstly, the body was still warm and had been cut up with a scalpel, just like all the others, with the organs removed. The organs are not on your person, nor do you have a single drop of blood on you, save for what you walked in. Secondly, the door was shut and locked at the time of the screaming and three onlookers placed you arriving after the screaming came. Thirdly, the green blood: None of you have a wound and none of you bleed green either way.” He puffed on his cigar. “And furthermore, there’s no motive, no indication of why a group of five random people and a dog all happened to be the ones killing prostitutes over the past three weeks, doubly so when you, Mr. Cog, only arrived here on a clipper two days ago.”

“I see you deserve your title, Mr. Inspector,” I said, my voice dry.

“Quite,” Henderson said. “Which leads to the question I want to ask you: Did you see anything in there?”

I nodded. “Aye. There was a kind of ... dark figure. I believe it entered the room through the sewer pipes – it was able to contort itself to an inhuman degree, reaching through the pipes and crawling through them. Furthermore, I don’t know if you’ve seen this, but it wrote its name on the ground in its own blood: L’anamelach.”

Henderson slammed both palms onto his short desk, causing papers to leap upwards, then settle down. His bushy eyebrows shot to the roof of his hairline and he spluttered. “That’s a demonic name! Bloody thunder!” He scowled. “I hate demons. I hate demons. The last demon who caused trouble around here, five years back, do you know how much damn hassle they were?” He shook his head, then slowly sat back. “Not only did they kill three of my men, which was bad enough, but the damn thing wouldn’t get killed normally. Oh no, a demon can’t possibly get polished off by a normal gun, oh no, that’d be far too simple! No! I ended up stomping through a bloody marsh for three days, answering riddles from old elven broads, avoiding damned traps, getting half-eaten by mosquito. Then the blade itself was nearly as much trouble as the demon. It was all ‘slay the unclean’ this and ‘purge this world in flames’ that. But I stuck the demon with it and you know what I do? I melted that damn blade down in a forge and I had it made into my bidet!” He harrumphed.

“Oh,” I said. “We might have been able to use that dagger.”

Henderson paused, mid puff in his cigar. “Ah bloody hell.”

“Well,” I said. “Do you know much about this demon?”

“No...” Henderson scowled. “The last demonologist, a scary fellow named Ethan Rayne, got himself eaten or turned to evil or something. I kind of lost track of him.” He shook his head. “But there’s a friend of his I’ve corresponded with in Tarant, ever since these killings started. I had the idea that they might have been demonic in nature, so I made sure to get in touch with him.”

“Who was this demononlogist?” I asked. “My friends and I are quite concerned about this murder...” I nodded. The Curse of T’sen-Ang was, for now, a slow burn threat. The dark elves and their machinations operated on a larger time scale than human concerns. But this demon might slay another dozen prostitutes in the time it took us to go to Roseborough and back. Tarant, meanwhile, was a mere week away by clipper!

“Giles!” Henderson said. “Professor Rupert Giles, of the Tarantian university.”

I smiled. “Well, then, I’d like to offer my services in bringing this blackguard to justice.”

I’m sorry, Maggie. Your Iron Clan may have to wait, I thought.

“Well!” Henderson clapped his hands together. “That’d leave me to secure the sewers. Surely, I can call upon the royal mages to at least contain this L’anamelach into a specific part of the sewer, so he won’t threaten anyone while you’re gone.”

I nodded. “Capital!”

I found my companions at the front of the police station, each looking rather irritated at their short confinement. Virginia, in particular, was glaring mulishly at the officer who I recognized as being the one who had taken our thumb-prints. I clapped my hand on her shoulder, but before I could speak, Henderson harrumphed beside me. “Now, I’ll tell you this, Mr. Cog. You’ve signed up for a nasty, brutish, ugly job. Why, I don’t doubt you will be mucking around in some ancient sewer, built by a barmy half-mad mage, full of demons and undead and elementals. It’ll be called something like the Tower of Durlag and you’ll need to find the Blade of Tommyblather and it’ll just be the biggest damn hassle out there.”

I chuckled. “Come now, Inspector. You’re surely being a touch dire, aren’t you?”

Henderson did not look amused.

The clipper Dragon’s Breath arrived in the smoky city of Tarant during a thick snow storm, which shrouded the vast city in a pea soup of fog and ice crystals. The date? The 25th of December. The new year was creeping towards us, and I reflected as I stood beside the railings at the prow of the ship, how strange it was that I would still be traveling after such a time. And there remained so many questions to answer – so many mysteries. However, I felt as if the time I had spent traveling had ... toughened me.

I was a damn better shot than I had ever been on the Morhiban – and my studies continually bore new fruit. Why, I had already had an idea for a few tonics, based off studying a magazine on chemical pharmacology. And during the travels, each of my companions had grown more honed. Virginia definitely held her blade with more skill, and her mastery of both conveyance and white necromancy both were a sight higher. Sally was endlessly fond of demonstrating her great physical strength. And ‘Magnus’, whenever she got a chance, practiced with the Harrower, though she had not yet had a chance to do much more than brandish it at enemies. Even Gillian was showing a better proficiency with melee weapons, considering she was able to lose with grace to Virginia whenever the two sparred.

I wondered what about it was about our adventures had provoked this remarkable growth?

Was it the natural byproduct of so many dangers, of learning so many truths?

Or...

Or was it that the skein of fate itself was twisting to suit some preordained narrative? Was the Silver Lady right? Was I becoming more akin to the Living One the more I walked along this road? For Nasrudin had been a powerful mage ... was I becoming just as powerful, but ... in my own way? Was I already trapped? I felt trapped, in a way. I could never turn my back, not while monsters like L’anamelach walked the world. Not while Arronax plotted in the Void, planning his return. I shook my head, then started as I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned and saw ... not Virginia, to my surprise. Rather, it was Gillian, enveloped in a thick coat and a thicker scarf, her breath fogging the air.

“You all right, sir?” she asked, her voice still faintly twisted by her aristocratic air – sounding standoffish, despite the several times that we had shared a bed.

“Yeah, just wool gathering,” I said, smiling slightly. “Come on. Lets go to the University.”

Tarant University was just as impressive when shrouded in fog and snow as it was in a crisp, clean day. We entered into the main building and found it piping warm, thanks to the radiators set up against the walls. At the front of the building, we were directed to Professor Giles’ offices by a secretary. Finding his office took some time, as we navigated the old building that sprawled behind the new, the windows feeling increasingly drafty and old until, at last, we came to a small, narrow office tucked between two larger lecture halls. The interior was filled with books and bound scrolls and behind the desk sat a tall, handsome chap with graying hair and a body that looked built for war, but then let to go to seed with his middling age. He was dressed in a tweed jacket and had glasses tucked into the front pocket of his shirt, and was currently examining a book, muttering under his breath. “Pictured: Actual size?”

“Ahem,” I coughed.

Professor Giles looked up, swinging the book shut. “Yes?” He asked, sounding quite polite despite my green skin and tusks. Then he started. “Oh! Oh good heavens, you’re Dr. Cog, aren’t you?”

I smiled. “Yes, Professor Giles,” I said. “You’ve read my work?”

“Your Quintarra Journals were fascinating,” he said, smiling at me. “Though I do wish you had interacted with more magickal beings – that’s my specialty. Applying the scientific theories to magickal phenomenon. It, ah, is not exactly popular.”

“There’s an elf in Quintarra who thought very similar,” I said, cheerfully.

“So! Dr. Cog, what-” He blinked as I held up my hand.

“Please,” I said. “Call my Rayburn.”

“Then you may call me Rupert,” Professor Giles said, nodding. “So, ah, Rayburn. What brings you to my office?”

“A demon,” I said, simply.

“Ah.” Professor Giles grew serious. “Let us begin with identification – do you have a bodily type. Is it bestial, spectral, or humanoid? Do we have an inkling as to what strata of the underworld it came from, or if it is a purely void-based construct. We’ll need this information to track down the name in the books I have.” He stood. “There’s the Scriptora Demono-”