One of the runes on Fiendsbane’s blade flickered out as it was scored through with a slashing insignia, leaving three glowing a deep purple. Varien regarded his blade. “Fiendsbane, what happens when you finish your goal?” He asked. Fiendsbane pondered this question. “You mean when I’ve achieved my purpose? When I have become the bane of all fiends?” There was a pause. “That future has not been revealed to me. But I bet you it will be cool.” Varien sighed. “I’ll bet you’re right,” he said. “That last one, Rimmon, was powerful,” Fiendsbane said. “But not as powerful as Levistus, right?” Varien asked. Fiendsbane chuckled and the sound was like a blade being drawn across a whetstone. “No, are you kidding? But close, very close. I can feel my power increasing. I feel as though I am getting closer to my true purpose.” Fiendsbane’s blade began to glow, and its weight shifted a bit in Varien’s hands. The blade looked sharper somehow, and perhaps even a few inches longer. Bob examined the five-pointed quintent in his hands as it magically shrank down to a human-scale polearm. He felt as though the weapon was attempting a telepathic bond, but there was too much interference in the psychic signal to be sure. Eventually, the Claw of Tiamat spoke. “Who is it that has picked up the Claw of Tiamat?” a voice like claws on a chalkboard echoed. “Speak, wielder!” Bob cleared his throat. “It is I, Robert Trevelyan, to whom am I speaking?” “Robert Trevelyan?” The voice repeated. “A human? Ugh, give me strength…oh! But a human with dragon’s blood coursing through their veins. Very interesting. I am Vutha Iejir.” “Vutha Iejir?” now it was Bob’s turn to repeat a name. “Yes, I am Vutha Iejir, resident herald of Tiamat’s will, and you will hear me,” Vutha growled. “Sure,” Bob said. “I hear you.” “Good, good,” Vutha said. “Can you hear me now?” “The signal was a little dodgy,” Bob admitted. Vutha sighed. “Yes, that is the doing of the abjuration chamber on board the ship of my previous wielder. It interferes with telepathic communications from outside the vessel, but also plays merry hob with telepathy within its airframe, although in close proximity it can be less of an obstacle.” There was a pause and then another sigh of disgust. “Ah, but you’re of gold dragon lineage. Oh dear, what a pity.” “What do you have against gold dragons?” Bob asked. “What do you think?” Vutha replied brusquely. “But it is of little matter. There will be plenty of time for transmogrifications and bloodline cleansing later. So long as you and the Will of Tiamat are in alignment I don’t see any problem with us getting along.” Siegfiend suppressed a giggle. “Yeah, sure, complete alignment,” Bob said warily. “Yes, yes,” Vutha replied, satisfied for the moment. “Now, I’m getting something…yes…you’re a religious figure of some renown, is that correct?” “That is correct,” Bob said. “Ah, I can work with that, yes, yes, I can work with that,” Vutha said thoughtfully. “But let us put our cards on the table, human. To wield me is to command utmost respect – you bend the knee to no one when attuned to me, do you understand?” Varien leaned over to Bob. “Bob, I’ve got devil ichor in my boots, would you mind cleaning that for me?” “You walk with lesser beings,” Vutha growled, “but you shall not carry me as one, allow me to make that clear to you now.” “Would you like me to carry you on my head?” Bob asked. “Well, that would be a start,” Vutha replied. “Now then, tell me, what happened to Rimmon? I feel that our attunement has been broken.” “Rimmon’s vessel is under new management,” Bob replied. “Oh dear,” Vutha said. “Fair enough, I’m sure we shall speak more in the future should you open yourself to attunement, oh, I have such sights to show you.” “I’m sure,” Bob said. “Yes, well, clearly you and your…minions…are busy. We will talk again, as I am very curious to see what treasures you may have uncovered in your mutinous venture. You shall find that a little coin goes a long way towards keeping me happy. Again, we’ll speak more later. Enjoy yourself. But not too much.” “We’ll see about that,” Bob said. A brief calm had descended upon the ichor-soaked deck of the airship’s bridge. All was silent save for the clucking of a couple of polymorphed devils who were presently strutting around as chickens. A few tentative imps replaced their dead comrades at various battle stations, and the chain devil navigatrix expertly pulled the directional chains from the complicated clockwork apparatus before the expansive viewing windows. One imp wearing overalls emerged from a tunnel carrying a mop and bucket and began to mop up the steaming ichor with alacrity. Air-wen’s pixies were flitting about on gossamer wings, shortbows at the ready, and some shared shy glances with some of the more courageous imps on the command deck. A confused gelugon lowered his spear and backed off as Optio Dundarth leaned into his new role as Chief of Bridge Security, barking orders to the remaining fiends. Siegfiend followed Air Marshal Zuvok towards Rimmon’s Ready Room and invited Bob, Varien, and Airwen to follow. Varien gave Bob a knowing glance and the two fell in behind the pit fiend. Airwen drifted behind them like a lost puppy. The Ready Room was well-appointed, large enough to conduct a briefing with staff officers. There was an imposing desk with a high-backed chair, studded with nine-inch-nails, the pelt of some kind of animal stretched on a trophy frame above two brackets, where normally a weapon would be stored. Along the walls were mounted a series of shadowboxes containing a variety of soul coins. Varien recognized the pelt as belonging to a winter wolf, a native to Cania. Clearly it was a trophy of some kind. Air Marshal Zuvok was behind Rimmon’s desk, cutlass sheathed and pistol holstered, rifling through a scattering of infernal parchments atop the blotter. “It must be here,” she muttered to herself. “It must!” “I would imagine that Rimmon’s absence will make your job a lot easier,” Siegfiend said. Zuvok’s heavy-lashed eyes flitted towards the pit fiend. “You don’t know the half of it,” she said. “One does not get demoted as often as he does without learning to play the game as well,” Siegfiend said. Zuvok chuckled. “Indeed. Devils are indeed skilled at playing a particular sort of game, but clearly Rimmon was not anticipating the introduction of a number of new playing pieces onto the board.” She gave the Champions of Phandalin a significant glance. Varien approached the desk. “What are you looking for?” Zuvok’s reddish complexion blushed further for a moment, and then she shrugged. “I see no reason to lie. I am looking for a particular contractual agreement.” “Your contract?” Varien asked. “Yes,” Zuvok said. “I hold half of it, but Rimmon carries the other half.” Siegfiend cast detect magic to see which documents were magical and soul-binding. Using his Harper tradecraft he had become quite adept at discerning incriminating paperwork and obtaining classified information. Varien assisted the Air Marshal as well, looking for anything resembling an infernal contract. It wasn’t long before they recovered Zuvok’s contract. Siegfiend also came up with a sheaf of correspondence between Rimmon and other fiends that contained information of great interest. My dearest Tuncheth, Congratulations on the establishment of your retreat at Nebulat – I trust the troops I pledged to your service were put to good use in taming the frozen wilds of Gelineth and providing you and your wizards with the time needed to build your redoubt unmolested by agents of the Archduke of Cania. Your research into the Plume is fascinating to me and I would be happy to offer you my patronage—through the usual channels, of course—to support your pet wizards’ continued research and development. Your theoretical research into the deepest of cold magics shows incredible promise and will doubtlessly elevate you to the greatest heights, depending on who is best placed to do the elevating. Wink, wink. I always counted you among the most promising strategists in the advisory corps and it warms my heart, figuratively speaking, to see you taking such initiative under these dire circumstances. Would that I had the opportunity to reward your loyalties in person – but time will indeed tell. Yours deliciously, The Rightful Lord of Cania First to His Infernal Majesty Duke of Nessus Rimmon To the illustrious Duke of Nessus Rimmon, I write Spare me your syrupy spiel – remember that we have been abandoned twice over – first by you, when you were exiled from Cania, and second, by Mephistopheles, who was seduced by that flaming fool Quagrem with his overrated and un-Canian fire magic. We, the true loyalists of Cania, have been frozen out, if you’ll excuse the pun. That said, your support in establishing Nebulat was, and is, appreciated. However, Mephistopheles is currently Lord of Cania and you are not. Why should we not focus our efforts on turning Mephistopheles from his heretical pursuits and return to his good graces, rather than foment another civil war in our homeland to put you back on the frozen throne? The path of least resistance seems to me to be less prone to failure than a risky venture that could put the plans of my brethren back by centuries. In His Service, Tuncheth My very dear Tuncheth, Your cause for irritations is very valid, my protegé. However, you should tread lightly lest the ground beneath your feet be a frost-covered crevasse – recall the fate of the city of Kintyre, buried thousands of feet beneath the Great Glacier T’chemox. It is my dearest wish that you and your colleagues in Nebulat avoid that gruesome, grinding fate. I submit to you that Mephistopheles’ obsession with the Hellfire project is deeply-rooted and he will not be turned from it – you and your fellow advisors will not be able to break him from the thrall of pyromancy so easily. Not without my patronage. Why waste your time to correct your master’s foolish behaviour when you can connive for a replacement, especially one that stands ready to take action in congruence with your goals? Let us entertain your corrective strategy for the moment. I am well aware of your agents’ continued intrigue in Mephistar, their efforts to spy on Quagrem and company while searching for—or hells forbid, planting–evidence of treachery against Mephistopheles. Recall that I still have contacts of my own in Mephistar, and, if you were to pledge your loyalty to me, could activate them in service to your cause. To show that I am a devil of my word, I provide you with the following bit of intelligence: Mephistopheles’ all-consuming obsession with Hellfire has upset the balance of divine energy in Cania – his work expends more souls than it takes in. Simply put, my dearest Tuncheth, Mephistopheles has overextended himself. He is gambling on reaping a bumper crop of corrupt souls—namely, his Cult of Hellfire upon the Material Plane—but in the meantime he must borrow divine energy from his fellow rulers in the Nine Hells, and that leaves him vulnerable. His creditors, were they canny enough, could sabotage his recruiting drive to keep him in their debt. Have your spies investigate the dealings of Adonides, Steward of Cania, who has been misappropriating divine energy and siphoning it to Quagrem, Dean of the School of Hellfire, to fuel gods-know-what deviltry behind the Archduke’s back. Surely a devil of your aptitude can work out how best to turn this information to your advantage. In the meantime, I suffer you to continue your work into the Plume and consider how well your research could be supported by a Lord of Cania sympathetic to your cause, rather than one consumed by the perversions of Hellfire. Yours succulently, The Rightful Lord of Cania First to His Infernal Majesty Duke of Nessus Rimmon