Xylon rode swiftly back to Phandalin as
quickly as his mount could carry him, intent on speaking further with his
sister, Zenith, who was posing as the Cleric of Tymora at the Shrine of Luck.
He found her at the parsonage near the
shrine. Xylon knocked on the door of the small cottage.
“Who calls?” said a woman’s voice in a
businesslike manner.
“Uh, it’s Xylon,” the wizard said, somewhat
sheepishly.
“Oh, in that case, come in,” the woman’s
voice leapt up an octave to Zenith’s usual vocal register.
Xylon entered. His sister Zenith was just
finishing up at a copper washtub, toweling her lustrous brown hair and trying
not to get the sheer shift she was wearing wet.
Xylon averted his eyes.
“You look like you could use a bath,”
Zenith said over her shoulder to her brother. “Actually, you smell like you
could use one.”
“Well, I just rode in from-” Xylon noticed
his sister’s tired expression and the faintest suggestion of bruising around
her neck and shoulders. “Wait, what have you been up to?”
Zenith motioned at a suit of cleric’s armor
on a stand across the room. “Duty called, brother. As it does again. You’d
better freshen up, as the Harpers have called a shieldmeet. You’re supposed to
be the guest of honour.”
Xylon noticed that Zenith’s armor looked
like it had taken a beating. “What were you doing? And why do the Harpers want
to meet with me? I’m not exactly in their good graces at the moment.”
“They asked me to track down an artifact
for them,” Zenith said. “It was close by, thankfully. I tell you, working for a
living doesn’t exactly suit me.”
“Where was this artifact?” He took a closer
look at the armor. “Are these…bite marks?”
“Some ruins, I don’t know what they’re
called,” Zenith said, dismissing her brother’s concerns. She dropped the towel,
walked to a chest, and began pulling out clothing. “And there were only a few
zombies to contend with. Nothing major.”
“Zombies!?” Xylon spluttered. “You could
have been killed!”
“Come now, Xylon. Brotherly concern after
all this time?” Zenith sat on a nearby stool and began pulling a pair of
stockings onto her slender legs.
“And where is this artifact?”
“Here on the dresser,” Zenith said, pulling
off her shift and reaching for a linen undergarment.
Xylon averted his gaze again and focused on
the object on the top of the dresser. It was a fine jeweled silver comb, of
delicate Elvencraft. He nodded in appreciation before shaking his head and
glaring at his sister.
“And this, this trinket was worth putting yourself in harm’s way?”
Zenith was shrugging her way into the linen
tunic, pausing as she buttoned the garment over her breasts. “Ask the Harpers.
Apparently I’m just supposed to do as I’m told.”
“I will,” Xylon said. “So where’s the
shieldmeet?” Xylon knew from experience that a shieldmeet involved the
gathering of a few Harper cells or individual agents, usually to solve a
problem or share intelligence.
“Outside a place called Conyberry to the
northeast,” Zenith said, walking over to the suit of armor. “Now, help your
sister back into this blasted thing. It’s time to play ‘let’s pretend,’ just
like we used to back at court.”
Xylon sighed.
It was an uneventful ride along the Triboar
Trail to the site of the shieldmeet. Xylon filled Zenith in on his actions with
the party against the Redbrands and Glasstaff. For her part, Zenith was
tight-lipped about her activities in and around Phandalin.
After a few miles, Zenith drew her horse to
a halt and dismounted. Xylon followed suit, wary of the unfamiliar
surroundings.
The Triboar Trail was bounded by the
darkness of Neverwinter Wood to the north, and foothills that sloped steadily
southward; growing into full mountainhood the closer they got to the horizon.
The area was dotted with copses of trees that swayed in the afternoon breeze.
“According to the message I received,”
Zenith said, looking around uncertainly, “the Harpers should be right about-”
“Here,” said a voice from behind them.
The siblings whirled about. Facing them was
a man in ranger’s leathers, holding a bow and arrow that wasn’t exactly pointed
in their direction. He had stepped out from behind a ridiculously small piece
of cover – Xylon figured that he’d have to tear off his pockets if he wanted to
hide there.
The ranger nodded at the treeline. “We’ve
been waiting for you. This way.”
Xylon and Zenith followed the scout into
the lightly wooded hills and came upon a glade. A small campfire crackled.
Xylon could make out a number of concealed sentries watching his every move.
Standing beside the campfire were two human
rangers, male and female, one of whom Xylon recognized with some distaste.
“Harpshadow Menelek,” Xylon said through
only slightly gritted teeth. He made as if to bow deferentially.
“Watcher Nightshade,” Menelek said in
amusement. The two had been of equal rank before Xylon’s falling out with the
Harper brass. He turned to Zenith. “Watcher Garaele.”
“I hear you have been busy in Phandalin of
late,” Menelek said. His female companion smirked. “Why don’t you tell us what
you’ve been up to?”
“My friends and I traveled to Phandalin
from Neverwinter and encountered a group of thugs called the Redbrands who
seemed intent on taking the place over,” Xylon said. “We learned that the
Redbrands were being led by a wizard named Glasstaff, and I ended the threat he
posed to Phandalin personally.”
Xylon handed Menelek a sheaf of notes he
had taken from Glasstaff’s study, but kept the dwarven journal to himself.
Menelek read through them, frowning. “You
ended the threat, did you now?”
“Yes, I killed Glasstaff,” Xylon said. “Someone
named the Black Spider was paying him to cause trouble in Phandalin and in the
area surrounding the village. To what purpose, we do not yet fully know.”
“Well, bravo, Watcher Nightshade,” Menelek
said with only a hint of sarcasm. “I will mention your heroics in my dispatches
back to our superiors.” His eyes narrowed. “Of course, you would find your path
back into the Harpers’ favour eased if you were to verify the rumours
surrounding your family’s more… unsavoury
activities.”
Xylon shook his head. “As I’ve said before,
allow me and my family to handle our own affairs. And after all, if not for
decisions made by the Harpers, you and I would still be of equal rank.”
“Actions, or inactions, have consequences,
Watcher Nightshade,” Menelek said.
“And I will take action to ensure my family
faces justice soon,” Xylon said.
“Ah, yes, justice,” Menelek said. “But
wouldn’t it be better to have Harper justice win the day?”
“I’ve experienced enough Harper justice,”
Xylon said. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”
“Quite, but remember whose side you are
truly on,” Menelek said.
Zenith stepped forward. “If I may,
Harpshadow Menelek, Watcher Nightshade may yet find reason to loosen his tongue
about his family’s dealings, but if he were to decide to do so, would it not be
more prudent to divulge what he knows to someone a few steps higher up the
Harper ladder?”
“Who, like Brightcandle Absalon in
Neverwinter?” Menelek laughed. “He wouldn’t know what to do with intelligence
like that.” He shook his head. “No, no. But a day will come when truth must be
put to these rumours and conjectures. Perhaps I will mention you too in my
dispatches, Sister Garaele. Are you sure you want your name associated with
Xylon Nightshade? After all, your career with the Harpers is just beginning.”
Zenith stepped back.
“That’s enough, Menelek,” Xylon said. “Tell
us about the job the Harpers want us to do.”
“Fair enough,” Menelek said. “In the woods
north of Conyberry lives a banshee named Agatha. She is renowned as a diviner
and keeper of lore, but seeing as she is a banshee she is a very dangerous and
challenging source of potential intelligence. I have sent agents to meet with
her, but those who have returned at all, have returned empty handed.” He gave
Xylon a sly look. “Now, I’ve been told that someone of your particular, er,
charm, might have better luck in inducing Agatha to show herself and answer a
question we want to pose to her.”
The woman next to Menelek laughed.
“We need you to ask Agatha about this Black
Spider you mentioned, and his intentions,” Menelek said. “That artifact Watcher
Garaele recovered should appease her and put her in a talkative mood. If it
doesn’t, I’m sure you can talk or otherwise charm your way out of trouble.”
“I will do what the Harpers have asked,”
Xylon said.
“Return to this location with your answer
in one day’s time, Watcher Nightshade. And good luck.” Menelek dismissed the
two of them.
“I’m surprised you agreed to this mission
so quickly,” Zenith said as she and Xylon made their way back to their horses.
Xylon saddled up. “So, Zenith, would you
mind,” —at this he looked around to see if any of the Harpers were still in
earshot — “telling me precisely what a banshee is?”
Zenith laughed, and then realized that her
brother was serious. “Now, how do I put this delicately…?”
Xylon and Zenith rode warily into
Conyberry, which was little more than an overgrown collection of ruined
foundations. The Triboar Trail continued through what was left of the town,
tracing a deeply rutted path around heaps of crumbling stone.
Dismounting, Xylon looked about and spied a
narrow trail that led north out of town.
Neverwinter Wood beckoned.
“So, the Harpers somehow feel the need to
consult with an undead horror created from the spirit of a female elf wronged
in death as well as life, eh?” Xylon muttered as he pondered the foreboding
woods ahead. “It’s a good thing Varien isn’t here.”
“Should be easy pickings for an elf of your
particular charms,” Zenith chuckled.
Xylon turned to his sister. “You know your
older brother well, sister. I would appreciate it if you would stay back for
this one, for a change. I couldn’t live with myself if something were to happen
to you.”
Zenith fluttered her eyelids in mock
surprise. “Such brotherly concern, Xylon? Where did this come from all of a
sudden?”
Xylon stood firm. “The Northmere family has
very few honourable members left,” he said. “To lose you now would be
unthinkable.”
Zenith’s smile faded at Xylon’s mention of
their family’s true name. “You’re serious, aren’t you? I am touched by this
sentiment, however saccharine.”
The siblings entered the woods.
The two elves could feel the weight of the
trees around them as their branches formed a canopy overhead that refused to
let all but the most determined sunlight in. The trail, such as it was, was
covered in a carpet of matted leaves, and in every direction, patches of silent
shadow swallowed up the meager light. Dust motes and pollen hung suspended in
the wan shafts of sunlight.
What struck Xylon was the utter lack of
normal woodland sounds. Aside from the creaking of tree limbs in the slight
breeze, he could not make out the buzz of cicadas, the chirping of birds, or
the chattering of squirrels. It was as if the animals had abandoned the woods.
Wait.
A sound was filtering through the gloom.
It was the sound of a woman sobbing, each
cry echoing in an unnatural way.
Xylon and Zenith shared a look and
continued forward.
Every fallen log and piece of brush seemed
to grab at their legs, and every tree branch seemed to attempt to hold them
back as they delved deeper into the darkened woods. The forest grew darker and
ever still as the trail wound deeper into the trees. Heavy vines and thick
layers of moss draped the branches around them, and the air grew noticeably colder
than it had been in Conyberry proper.
Rounding a bend in the trail, Zenith and
Xylon say a screen made from the warped branches of trees huddled close
together, woven into a protective barrier in the shadows. Beyond stood an
immense stump of a long-fallen tree, sheared off so that only the roots, each
one larger than a man was tall, disappeared into the loam. A low door fashioned
from a crack in the stump led inside.
The ground surrounding the hovel was
surprisingly bare, and the spindly trees and underbrush leaned in the opposite
direction, as though the very woods themselves were attempting to flee.
Zenith clapped a gloved hand on her
brother’s shoulder. “Good luck, Xylon. I will, as usual, watch your back.”
“All right,” Xylon said to himself. “Nothing
to fear. Be an elf. Just imagine there are beautiful nymphs awaiting you
inside.”
He approached the simple wooden door and
knocked.
He received no answer, but the door creaked
inward, sounding like a tree branch bending in the wind.
A home of sorts had been made inside the
hollowed stump, sheltered within a dome of woven branches. It was sparsely
furnished with chests, shelves, a table, and a reclined couch, all of it old,
and of fine elven craft.
Xylon swallowed a nip of whiskey from a
pocket flask and looked around.
The air grew colder still, and a powerful
feeling of dread washed over the elf. A cold, pale light began to flicker in
mid-air before him, rapidly taking on the form of a female elf, her hair and
torn robes waving in a spectral wind. In life, she would have been very
beautiful, with a shapely full-figured form cinched into a tightly tied bodice
that held the delightful promise of an impending wardrobe malfunction, but in
undeath, her features were twisted hatefully. It took all of Xylon’s
constitution to keep his gaze on the creature’s face, with a lower jaw that
looked shredded and torn in a terrible manner and ready to unhinge at a
moment’s notice.
“Foolish mortal,” the Banshee’s voice
boomed in the confines of the hovel. “What do you want here? Do you not know it
is death to seek me out?”
Xylon bowed, keeping his eyes locked on the
Banshee. “Hello beautiful, how are you doin’?”
In the depths of Cragmaw Castle, Bob was suddenly seized
with the impulse to throw up.
The Banshee loomed over Xylon. “Ah,” she
said. “A gentleman caller. How perfectly quaint.” Her mirth had a razor’s edge.
“Why are you here?”
“I had heard of your beauty, and wished to
see for myself,” Xylon said, getting down on one knee. From his cloak he
produced the silver comb. “And I have brought you a gift.”
Agatha’s glowing eyes narrowed, but her
voice softened. “And where did you get…that?”
“I really wanted to meet you,” Xylon
continued. “So I wanted to make the best impression I could. I fought several
foes to recover this object for you.”
“A touching tale,” Agatha said. “There was
a time when many elves like you darkened my door bearing gifts in the hope of
romance.”
The banshee’s shape became more corporeal
and in an instant she was standing over Xylon rather than floating. She reached
out to take the comb from Xylon’s hand. Her fingers ever-so-slightly brushed
against Xylon’s as she did so, and Xylon felt a chill cut through to his bones
– the coldest cold he had ever felt.
Agatha smiled with cold amusement as she
turned the comb over in her hands. “Very well,” she said. “I know that you seek
many things. Ask me one question, and I will give you an answer.”
“I am here to ask about the Black Spider,”
Xylon said, still on one knee. “He has captured a close relative of mine, who I
care about deeply, but I know nothing of who he is, though I have searched
everywhere. You are my last hope, for I am desperate.”
Agatha turned away from Xylon, her
footfalls echoing as she sat down at a stool and gazed at a mirror that seemed
to have appeared from nowhere atop a chest of drawers. Slowly, she began to
comb her hair with the jeweled comb.
“You seek Nezznar the Drow, recently exiled
from the Underdark,” Agatha said. “Forced to make his living on the surface, he
has taken the name The Black Spider and wishes to expand his power in this
region. He seeks a great many avenues to increase his abilities, but he has
stumbled upon a particular one that will help him regain favour with Lolth, the
Spider Queen he and the rest of his kind worship.”
“Yes?” Xylon prompted.
“He has discovered the location of Wave
Echo Cave and the Forge of Spells contained in its darkest depths.”
“Yes, but where can I find Nezznar and Wave
Echo Cave?” Xylon said. “Do you know where it is?”
“I know many things,” Agatha turned her
terrible gaze on Xylon and smiled with infinite cruelty. “Oh, but you have
asked your question, my handsome elf.”
“Surely, though, if I were to somehow gain
your favour,” Xylon said.
Agatha stood. “There are a great many
things you can do to earn my favour.”
“You have only to ask, milady.”
“I am a seeker of knowledge and lore, that
which has been lost, or obscure understandings.”
Xylon felt around for Urmon’s journal. He
pulled it out. “What about this?”
Agatha took the journal and flipped through
it. She sighed and turned incorporeal, letting the book fall to the floor.
“What care I for the scratchings of a failed dwarven explorer? Urmon died
penniless, defeated, and empty-handed, his life’s work a failed venture. I know
his story all too well.”
Xylon sighed, thinking that it might come to this. “What if I were to help you
cure your…your condition?”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?” Agatha loomed
threateningly over Xylon and gave him a glimpse of her visage at its most
horrifying – her lower jaw unhinging in an almost reptilian way. “You fool! I
am not suffering from any sort of condition – my powers are far greater in my
current state than they were in life!”
Though every bone in his body wanted to
flee from the banshee’s sight, Xylon didn’t let his gaze waver. “Oh, Agatha, I
beg your pardon a thousand times. I meant no offense, rather I was offering my
service to you in the best way you see fit.”
This seemed to placate the banshee
somewhat, though her hair still swirled as though she was caught in a
maelstrom.
Anger faded from her glowing eyes. “The
knowledge I seek is esoteric, cryptic, hidden. The promise of new knowledge
invigorates me,” she shuddered with a horrible pleasure. “Like a spellbook,
magical item, or other trophy. Bring me such a gift, and I will tell you the
location of Wave Echo Cave.”
Xylon offered her Glasstaff’s glass staff.
“What about this, milady? I single-handedly defeated a wizard to retrieve this
magical staff of defence.”
Agatha hefted the staff, appraising it.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Xylon said.
“Indeed,” Agatha muttered, lost in thought.
“A worthy prize, though I have little use for such a trinket.” She handed the
staff back to Xylon. “But I think in your hands, I can put it to much better
use.”
“Go on,” Xylon said.
“Several miles to the east there stands an
ancient tower. This tower holds terrible secrets lost for centuries. Now, a
fool of a mage is digging about in search of things he does not understand. He
could be a thorn in my side. I want you to end his life, and return to me with
the tower’s treasures.”
“What is this treasure?”
“You ask too many questions, my elven
servant. You will know it when you see it.”
“And who is this mage?” Xylon couldn’t stop
himself. “What has he done to earn your disfavor?”
Agatha whirled and slapped Xylon across the
face, a bolt of frozen fury that made him gasp a breath of fog and ice
crystals. He had never been so turned on in his life.
Agatha’s eyes danced with fury. “The Red
Wizards are making their move,” she hissed. “You will do well to make your move
quickly. Now begone!” She disappeared in a flash of light.
The comb sat on the dresser, now tarnished
and blackened with age.
Xylon backed slowly out of Agatha’s hovel,
turned, and briskly fled.
Zenith stepped out from behind a tree. “Did
you get any answers?” She said, and then recoiled at the sight of her brother.
“Oh Xylon, what happened to your face?”
“What are you talking about?” Xylon asked.
Zenith pulld out a hand mirror and let
Xylon look at himself. His face was frostbitten, in the shape of a hand.
“I can cure this,” Xylon said, only a
little quaver in his voice.
“What did you learn?” Zenith pressed.
“She told me the Black Spider’s real name,
and what his intentions are,” Xylon said. “But if I want actual answers I have
to take someone out on her behalf. We need to keep this information to
ourselves for the time being.”
Zenith was hesitant. “But the Harpers are
expecting you to tell them everything.”
“I didn’t get very much to begin with,”
Xylon said, “but if I do a job for Agatha she will give us the answers we seek.
I don’t want the Harpers knowing that I’m beholden to a banshee. I need to get
back to my party so we can search for this ancient tower where the target is
located.”
“Well, we can still tell them what you know
about the Black Spider,” Zenith said. “The Harpers will understand if you don’t
have the whole story yet.”
“Agreed.” Xylon said. “Let’s go back
there.”
They retrieved their horses and rode away
from Conyberry to where the Harper sentry had been stationed.
Nobody was there to greet them.
“That’s odd,” Zenith said.
A cold thought struck Xylon. “No,” he said.
“No!”
He rushed into the trees, following the
path he had taken earlier. His sister followed behind.
The Harper campsite was in a shambles.
Menelek, his companion, and half a dozen
other scouts, including the sentry, lay in the frozen throes of violent death
around the camp, their bodies defiled and looted.
Xylon whispered the names of his fellow
adventurers.
Zenith looked around in horror. “Xylon, we
have to get out of here!”
Xylon bent down over Menelek’s body. He
only recognized the corpse because of the man’s long hair, which he had always
been so fastidious about. Menelek’s body was pierced by several javelins. Xylon
pulled one broken haft out and took a close look at it. He shook his head.
“Rest in peace, Harpshadow Menelek.”
He turned to his sister. “These people were killed
by Orcs.” He said. “We need to go back to Phandalin.”