The Darkening

[brainpiercing]

The Darkening

The Beginning of the End – Chapter One

Day One

Arglak looked down the row of silent warriors in front of him. Their faces were defiant, impassive, but he felt their uncertainty. Before them lay eight straw mats. Far too small they were. Far too small. Beneath the straw mats, only bulging them slightly, were eight small bodies. Far too young they had died.
Arglak was one to believe in strength, in survival of the fittest. Yet these… they troubled him more than he would ever admit. His own son, Gromak, whose future had been so bright, lay there with the lesser children. And Arglak was not one who ignored events that left him childless. Not he. Someone would pay. Someone.
Channelling his anger he raised his jagged war axe and roard, drawn out and guttural like a dire tiger. The honour guard joined in, gnashing their teeth and clashing shields and axes together. Arglak drew out the roar until it culminated in a hoarse cry of pain and anger.

Arglak lowered the axe, and the bearers came forth from between the other mourners: the women, the artisans, workers. In the back of the stockaded village eight human slaves knelt, tied to poles firmly set into the beaten earth, their faces ashen pale, their bodies covered in wounds, dried blood and filth. Their eyes were already dead, all hope was gone from them. Before them lay only more suffering until death released them from their misery. They had been whipped and tortured through the night, and had little better to hope for today. They had not the strength left even to whimper.

Arglak watched in silence as the bearers very gently picked up the bodies, stood for a moment before the honour guard, and then turned and carried them to the pyre, where they were arrayed side by side. Gromak’s body took the chieftain’s place at the centre of the pyre, his elevated resting place laid out with furs and ceremonial weapons, while the others had fewer funeral gifts.

Dressed in ceremonial furs and wielding a stout black staff Grathok the village shaman had been watching the proceedings, his rugged, goblinoid face grave and his eyes unblinking in the heat of the mid day. He scanned the honour guard, and finally Arglak’s eyes met his for a second, and he nodded. He closed his eyes and began humming, raising the staff and drawing pictograms in the air. His humming and waving drew into a crescendo, until he threw back his head, slammed the staff into the ground, and, opening his eyes wide into the mid-day sun, roared into the sky as Arglak had done before. His roar, however, did not end on a note of pain. It broke off suddenly, as Grathok swung the staff in a wide arc and thrust it towards the centre of pyre, where Gromak’s empty eyes stared into the treacherously blue sky.

The first Flame Strike hit, and Gromak’s eyes wilted in the heat, becoming white and opaque before shrivelling with the rest of his small body. The second, quickened, Flame Strike hit the right end of pyre with the older children, before the third Flame Strike set the left end ablaze, with the infants. Somewhere in the village a short, hoarse wail rose and died before the strikes had finished.

None of the children had been older than six, their weak bodies not capable of withstanding the onset of the disease that had taken them. Throughout the village more children lay sick, fighting death this very minute. Even some adults were severely weakened, sitting huddled together in a tight group close to the main hut of the village. They were, of course, scared. Weakness was a liability.

Grathok drew his staff close to his body, threw his furs around himself and strode off. Arglak and the honour guard remained silently where they were, and watched the children burn.

Many others would burn, too, later. But these were the first.

Day Four

Gubrik awoke when the sun became hot and bright enough to shine through his eyelids. His throat felt like he had swallowed sand - and likely as not he had, and his head was hurting enough to burst. In his right hand he felt the deflated wineskin that had accompanied him through the night. As he tried to swallow he gagged, then coughed up a lump of very sandy mucus, which he spat out sideways, and then opened his eyes.

He lay sprawled on the side of a dune, the sun was already half-way up its ascent and beginning to burn his furry Bugbear hide. There was a lump in the sand a few yards off which was likely his armour, while his Falchion was upright in the dune within arms reach.

Groaning he got to his feet, and immediately grabbed the Falchion for support. He was, however, still a bugbear warrior, strong as an ox and at least as stubborn. It wasn't his first hangover, and it wouldn't be his last - although he hoped to get by without quite as much sand in the future. Grunting he drew the Falchion out of the sand and took a few tentative swings, to see whether his feet would carry him safely. He neither stumbled nor fell - which was good - so he trotted heavily towards the lump and bent over to dig his breastplate out of the sand. This sent a sharp spike of pain through his forehead that startled even him with its intensity.
He straightened out reflexively and his hand shot to his forehead. There it stopped, startled, and withdrew. Very slowly he lowered his fingers back onto his forehead, creeping over his rugged goblinoid features until they found it. In the centre of his forehead. There was a lump, a hard pointy lump. A horn. A single horn growing out of his head.

And it certainly hadn't been there last night.

Day 13

Under the cover of a Silent Image Gubrik lay on the ridge overlooking the gem-mine near Lundeth, in the south-western corner of Anauroch. Troops of Bugbear raiders were in position from both sides of the natural gorge that enclosed the mine entrance, the fort guarding it, and the road leading away from it. There was a watchtower at the head of the gorge overlooking both the advances on the sides as well as the fort.
The raiders had crept in under the cover of a sandstorm – partly natural, partly augmented by magic. They now lay concealed from the many eyes on the watchtower.

Gubrik peered over the ridge at the watchtower. The success of this raid would depend on whether the watchtower would go down without arousing attention. Gubrik’s raiders had recently captured a guard, who had, after due attention had been given him, told them all about the defences. The tower was equipped with mock beholder eyestalks that granted the guards inside all-around vision, including a permanent See Invisibility effect, as well as offensive eye-rays. Both the fort and the tower were well lit up at night, and both were equipped with zones of Anticipate Teleportation. In addition, the tower could counterspell a number of destructive spells. To make matters worse, both structures were patrolled by elemental guardians as well as housing a large guard force.

If they charged openly against the fort they would be caught between hammer and anvil. Now if the tower was gone, or depopulated… There was a mage among the raiders, but if they Teleported or Dimension-Doored close to or into the tower they would be redirected or delayed and land straight in a trap. Neither invisibility nor sneaking closer were viable options. There was nothing but bare rock all around it. Unfortunately the Bugbear raiders lacked the offensive magic to quickly destroy a fortified structure.
 
Gubrik’s single horn ached. The shaman had been unable to cure him of it. It had grown further very rapidly the past two days, until it was a nearly a foot long, curved protrusion –and it was still growing, although much more slowly. The armour smith had had to make a hole in Gubrik’s helmet for it. And even though Gubrik hadn’t talked about it, there had been side-effects. He was suffering from a skin decoloration over almost his entire body. His hands had seemingly grown larger, and his teeth and nails were harder and sharper. Strong Childs that let the wild into themselves experienced growth of claws and their jaws became like vices that could chew iron. But this was different. He had never let the wild in. But now his mind kept going in odd ways, and they were not ferocious. Rather cold and calculating, analytic. He kept coming to conclusions that had before eluded him. And he had the distinct feeling the other Bugbears kept staring at him suspiciously behind his back.

The mage, Gorbog, was staring intently at the tower with this Horizon Goggles.
‘Found it, yet?’ Gubrik snarled quietly. Gorbog bared his fang-like incisors. ‘We’re too far away. I can’t see from here.’ Gubrik swallowed his retort into an angry snort. ‘We could just DIG’, he added scornfully. Gorbog shook his head. ‘Through this rock? Also, they’ll detect digging and probably collapse our tunnels. No, no digging. But there IS an option. We can glide. There is probably an earth elemental below the tower, we just have to be lucky to avoid it, or kill it quickly. The catch is: It’s you and me alone. I don’t have enough spells to take more people.’ Gubrik felt his gut contract involuntarily, but his face only showed a smirk. He was a Bugbear War Captain, he was condemned to courage. ‘Only a few guards in the tower. I am Gubrik, I can take them on.’ Gorbog knew Gubrik was strong. He had seen him kill an adult Sand Dragon almost by himself. However, Gorbog also knew that however strong Gubrik was, he was also so limited. Unfortunately Gorbog himself would never become a captain. In their clan, only the Strong Children became captains, or chiefs, for that matter. The Weak Children, who were not superior to common Bugbears, could do as well as they liked. Noone would ever listen to them.
So Gorbog could only attach himself to the strongest of the Strong Children he could find. And Gubrik was strong, and not stupid, either. So Gorbog only snarled an acknowledgement.
‘I will prepare’, he said, solemnly.
Gubrik gave a few orders to his group of raiders, then got back to his observation position on the ridge. Not more than a minute later he felt a hand on his shoulder, and heard Gorbog say a few words. The moment the words faded Gubrik felt the rock go soft beneath him. He swam on the surface, and his hands could easily push through the solid rock. For a moment he panicked and would have almost sunk into the rock, but Gorbog’s hand was still on his shoulder and held him back.
‘We won’t be able to see within the rock. Hold on to me and count. We should get there by the time you reach around 90.’
   
Gorbog took the lead, diving into the rock, and Gubrik could only hold on with his left hand and somehow match his movement. Gorbog didn’t waste time, either. He made a straight bee-line for the tower, at what Gubrik imagined was around a yard or so beneath the surface. But there was no way to tell, really. So he counted. And sure enough, just as he reached 85, Gorbog stopped in front of him. ‘It’s here…’, he snarled, barely audible through the rock.
Gubrik felt something hard swim into him from the side, and shuddered. Reflexively he let go of Gorbog and, grabbing his Falchion with both hands, slashed angrily and blindly at the presence. He felt the blade bite, and it bit deep. He swung a second time, but the blade met no resistance. Then he took a “leap” forward after the presence and followed up with a Mountain Hammer. Again the blade found resistance, and overcame it. The earth elemental crumbled and melded into the solid rock.
Gubrik relaxed, slightly, until he tried to remember which way they had been going. He had made about a half-turn to the left…. Shifting his position within the rock he tried to get back to the direction they had been moving, before, but it wasn’t easy at all. He instinctively knew Up, but if he went up, their plan would just fall apart.
Just then he heard a snarl in front of him, and Gorbog’s voice, calling ‘Captain, captain…’, drifting through the rock. ‘I’m here..’, he growled back, and swam forward. His extended left hand met Gorbog’s arm and he grabbed it.
Reassured, the two Bugbears moved forward again for only a few moments before Gorbog again stopped.
‘There’s a wall, here. It must be a tunnel that connects the tower with the fort’, he said.

Following the tunnel as it slanted upwards, they found the base of the foundation of the tower. It was made up of flat rectangular slabs put down in a bed of cement and gravel.
Gorbog tugged at Gubrik’s arm to position him just next to him, right below the still impenetrable worked stone. Reaching into his pouch he produced a flat piece of soft clay, which he moulded  slightly, to match the foundation slab, then pushed a hole into it with his finger. The same instant he touched the clay to the slab, and a hole opened in the slab, about five feet across. No light shone through, however. As predicted, there was yet another line of defence against earth gliders. Gorbog was prepared, however. As soon as the hole opened his arm reached upwards, against the metal plate. The plate almost immediately shattered, caving upwards away from his hand.
Gubrik didn’t need further instructions. He saw a person standing above him, even as shards of metal still flew through the air. The guard gaped in surprise at the destruction below his feet, but Gubrik didn’t leave him time to come to conclusions. He dove upwards, through the hole, and literally spattered his opponent into the base of the Pillar of Eyes that took up the centre of the tower. That certainly got their attention, but his Warning blade gave him speed. It was already raised for the next closest guard, when something welled up within in, something dark, cold and unyielding. A deadly certainty took hold, and instead of sending the next man flying he threw back his head and roared.

And the BLASPHEMY from within him shook the tower and every man in it to the core.
   

[brainpiercing]

Day 21

General Garam Haradot, arrayed in his articulated full-plate armour, strode by the assembled column of troops. First and foremost the vanguard of  heavy cavalry, augmented by a company of griffon riders. Their warbeast mounts impatiently dug hoof and claw into the ground, but they were not allowed to go just yet. The heavy cavalry was a dying breed, too numerous were the threats to a warhorse in battle, too omnipresent the destructive magic that could separate mount and rider. But they were a proud regiment, with centuries of traditions, and resisted being divided up into the light cavalry and mechanized troops. The offensive power of a cavalry charge was still a force to be reckoned with. Warbeast mounts were the solution the cavalry had come up with to the fragility of horses – extremely tough and dangerous animals, which could barely be controlled.  It was a constant balancing act to keep them in check, an affront to an orderly army indeed, but necessary.
After the heavy mounted troops came the skirmishers, light cavalry and mounted archers. These would sweep to the front when they came nearer to the enemy, but for the display of power that this ostentatious disembarkation was to be, it was better for the gleaming armour of the knights to form the van.
Behind the skirmishers came the war wagons. Squat boxes of Steel and adamantine, with battlements or turrets on top, which all but obscured the driving mechanism underneath. This was a necessary precaution – the animated objects that drove the wagons were vulnerable to dispelling. Soldiers  were crowded onto the war wagons, which could move tirelessly for days. That way the infantry could dismount close to the enemy and immediately join the fight, but also advance in the cover of the war wagons. The war wagons also gave protection and a mobile fighting base to the army spellcasters.
Behind the war wagons the artillery was arranged on their own self-propelled carriages. Catapults and trebuchets would bombard the enemy and attempt at keeping the air clear of flying demons. The army also employed spellcasters to keep the weather consistently bad over the battlefield, in order to inconvenience flyers or even force them to land.
Behind the artillery was the other group of military personel – not fighters, but equally important: Support troops, medics, supply wagons (these mostly propelled in the old-fashioned way, with horses). Magical resources meant that the amount of food necessary to sustain several thousand men in the field that needed to be physically carried was quite low. The men all had neverending ration bags, the animals feedbags, and water was too provided from neverending magical containers. Also, the proliferation of cheap healing equipment such as healing belts made the necessary medical supplies a lot more compact. Still, there were many wagons with supplies, ammunition, officers’ meals , tents, and other amenities necessary to support an army of this size.
And due to the nature of the enemy, the entire column had to travel together – it was simply too risky to leave the supply trains unprotected against teleporting  demons. A few spellcasters were always present in the rear, as well as a curtain of light cavalry.
Garam reached the end of the column, where his aide was waiting with his own special warhorse in gilded plate barding.  The General mounted and rode back along the column until he joined up with the other heavy cavalry.
Spectators lined the road the column was taking out of Ladydove. Seeing an entire army on the move was an impressive sight – even though the Baldur’s Gate military had long since begun seeping troops into the desert. Special forces of flying troops or even more clandestine scouts had been in the desert for days. Garam was awaiting their final reports before giving the order to depart.
The question remained: What did the demons really want? They had invaded Lundeth with a scout force, one barely big enough to assault a village, and not nearly enough to assault a fortified town. They had started some skirmishes with surrounding tribes, most of which they had lost. But they had nevertheless criss-crossed the desert with scouting parties, and at the same time amassed a sizeable force around a solid, permanent portal within the desert, and in a proximity FAR too close for comfort. In addition, with demons, numbers often weren’t what mattered. It was what the individual troops were made up of. There were, by all reliable accounts, infinite numbers of demons, and only logistical problems (and the constant decimation in the war against the devils) stopped them from pouring out over the prime material plane and annihilating everything. What they did not have infinite numbers of was the most powerful demons. Noone really knew how they came about (there were some educated guesses on how devils advanced, but then you could actually talk to a devil and walk away) but demons were so far a mystery. There were guesses as to the numbers – for every hundred dretches a Succubus or Vrock, for every 50 Vrocks a Balor. Something like that. But even a Vrock was a more than a match for the rank and file human soldier. And many who were marching today had never seen battle. And probably a good portion of them would never see battle again – either due to being dead, or due to the nature of the times.  He envied the commanders of Lundeth – basically every soldier in Lundeth had combat experience. But back in the heartlands? What was there to fight? An occasional invasion of monsters, or some brigands, now and then. While there was a constant bickering going on among the city states, there was very little war. Too little for Garam’s likes. He knew that if things didn’t change, the frontier nations would soon have troops that could all but overrun the heartlands – there were just some things money couldn’t buy, and experience was one of them.
Still, money could buy training, and excellent training at that, and he was confident that for now, at least, what his troops lacked they made up in training and numbers – and support. He had basically every magical aid there was at his disposal – bards, clerics, wizards, you name it.  These would have to make sure that his inexperienced troops could face their enemy – and not only make a dent, but also survive.
The column waited for another while in relative silence, while animals clawed the ground restlessly, and men began slumping instead of standing to attention. The townsfolk that lined the road didn't understand the wait, some were wandering off already, others tried to talk to the soldiers, while the city watch sought to prevent just that. Garam regretted not having had time to organise an army band. Some music would have kept everyone in line, and the townsfolk entertained. Finally a griffon rider raced towards them from the north. The griffon landed at the head of the column, a sweaty soldier arrayed in a chain shirt, and bearing the long spear and bow of the scout troops, dismounted and saluted in front of the general, while the griffon sat breathing heavily on the road. The soldier handed the general a rolled piece of paper, and also said a few words.
Garam nodded, surveyed the notes on the paper, and nodded again. Then he raised his arm, for all the troops around him to see.
‘MOUNT!’ his aided shouted behind him. ‘MOUNT!’ came repetitions along the line. Then one after another confirmations came back in quick succession. ‘MOUNT AYE’.
The infantry had clambered on top of the war wagons and held on. Artillerymen had mounted their self-propelled siege engines. The supply columns had already been seated on their wagons – they were not part of the show. The lone messenger hurried to get out of the way - his task was over, and he could join the townsfolk in watching the departure.
Word came back to the General that all troops were mounted and ready. Garam brought his arm down forward in a sweeping motion, his general’s signal stick pointing down the road. Immediately he dug in with his heels and as a man the heavy cavalry set in motion. The thunder of  hundreds of iron clad hoofs pounding the ground let the entire town shake, and the rumble of the war wagons, each weighing thousands of pounds, followed up. The townsfolk cheered as the column moved past them, waving caps and hats, and throwing coloured ribbons with inscribed well-wishes.

The army was on the move, after a record time preparation. Now the hour of truth was approaching.