Drums in the Deep

The party spent an uneasy few hours quartered in the empty tomb. They barred the doors and Siegfried created a tiny hut , the space of which overlapped with the sarcophagus of Uruth Ukrypt. Varien spent time in prayer when he wasn’t on watch, hoping to glean further clarity from his god Sune about what to do about the crystal panes of Hyolyn. Siegfried was sullen and deflated. Time and again he paced the length of the hut, drawn back to the empty sarcophagus. “There must be something,” he muttered. His gaze was drawn to the heavy carved lid of the sarcophagus, its insides stained with centuries’ worth of poisonous residue. Even through the layers of green mung, Siegfried’s eyes could make out faint indentations that looked intentional rather than natural imperfections in the stone. He prestidigitated some of the goop away and his eyes widened as he realized that the inner surface of the lid contained a number of inscriptions. “Here’s something,” he muttered to himself. Theryn joined him, his breathing echoed by the orcish mask he wore. He reached out and dipped a finger into the poison, confident in his inner strength and immunity to such substances. He sniffed the poison. “This smells like the work of Lethchauntos the Black,” he said to Siegfried in Orcish. “The same Lethchauntos the Black who crafted the Ettin Axe of Uruth, unless I miss my guess,” Siegfried said distractedly as he read the first inscription:   Uruth Ukrypt has fallen in battle. I, King Raurugh, will rule in his stead. The War Lord of Nimoar’s Hold has taken his ill-gotten prize to his grave. We will bide our time, regain our strength, and retrieve it. Our spies have shown us the way. And when next we visit that pathetic outpost, we shall leave no stone of the Hold intact.   “This was written 500 years ago,” Siegfried said in a reverential voice. Beneath this inscription was a map etched into the stone. It looked strangely familiar, a plateau on the coast with a single mountain peak overshadowing a port. Siegfried recognized it as a fairly detailed drawing of Nimoar’s Hold, the precursor to Waterdeep. At the time of Uruth Ukrypt’s death, it was a bustling port village that corresponded to the present-day Dock Ward and the southern part of the castle ward, protected by palisades known as the Trollwalls, but where the North, Southern and Sea Wards would one day be on the map were instead represented by stretches of farmland with the occasional farmstead. Even Castle Waterdeep at the foot of Mount Waterdeep had yet to be built – only the Abbey of Chauntea, upon the burned remains of which Castle Waterdeep would eventually rise - was visible, dating the inscription to before the Second Troll War. The beginnings of a cemetery corresponding to Waterdeep’s City of the Dead was also drawn in detail further to the east, with an X marking a spot of interest to the inscriber. “The War Lord of Nimoar’s Hold went to his grave with the Ettin Axe, perhaps?” Siegfried mused. “That would be War Lord Gharl, who took over from Nimoar. He must be buried in the Hall of Heroes in Waterdeep’s City of the Dead, and perhaps the axe with him.”   There was a second inscription beneath the map, this one scrawled in hurried Common:   Through trickery and subterfuge did we plunder this tomb. We exchanged crystal panes for a greater treasure as our patron foretold. The Broken Bone is just that; broken! Hail to the Dawnbringer Company!   “Those dickheads!” shouted Siegfried in a rage. He ran through a litany of curses from a dozen languages that fairly curdled the mildew on the tomb’s walls and would have made Gruumsh blush, had the deity been listening. There was yet another inscription immediately beneath the Dawnbringer graffiti, this one in Orcish:   This desecration shall not go unpunished. These invaders were clumsy and left much treasure in their wake. The White Hand of Yurtrus we have taken to Melairrin for safekeeping. We march on Waterdeep. For the glory of Uruth Ukrypt! We are the Broken Bone! Vengeance shall be ours eternal!   “This tale is legendary in Waterdeep,” Siegfried said. “After the Dawnbringer Company plundered the tomb of the orc king, an orc horde streamed down from the mountains intent on razing the city to the ground in revenge. However, it is said that a golden dragon intercepted the horde and defeated them before they could reach the city walls.” Siegfried gave Bob a look. “A golden dragon, eh? I don’t think that’s a coincidence.” Bob was suddenly struck by a vision from Palarandusk of a great horde of orcs fleeing as the golden dragon rained fire down upon its ranks. “Yes, I can almost remember it myself,” he said, his scales glowing a faint golden hue. “Dawnbringer Company?” Varien repeated. “Speaking of coincidences, that sounds awfully similar to the Order of the Burning Dawn.” “I’ve no doubt the Dawnbringers reformed as the Order of the Burning Dawn,” Siegfried said. “What happened after the dragon ate the orc army?” Theryn asked. Siegfried shrugged. “The orcs of the Sword Mountains had one last show of force in them, forming the Black Claw horde to attack Waterdeep in 1026DR. It was another legendary siege, a great battle that claimed the life of Waterdeep’s Warlord Laroun. The horde was driven off and destroyed in a final confrontation near Stump Bog, and after that, the realm of Uruth Ukrypt was spent, declining and splitting into warring tribes, some of which are represented in those encampments we saw at Tholl Sla-Houk’s entrance.” “And this reference to Melairrin,” Theryn said in Orcish. “That was the seat of power for Uruth Ukrypt, was it not? Located somewhere east of here I think?” “South of here, I should think,” Siegfried said. “On the slopes of Mount Sar, they say. Close enough to Waterdeep to be a cause for concern in those days.” Siegfried swiped away more of the gunk that obscured the writing. “But there’s still more here.” There was indeed one final inscription, which seemed newer than the others, in a more refined dialect of Orcish:    From the Spine of the World the Black Horde has marched. We will sweep the human kingdoms of the Sword Coast into the sea. None shall survive. We have unearthed Tholl Sla-Houk and borne witness to the historic insults to the legacy of the legendary Uruth Ukrypt. To that end, we shall destroy Waterdeep and liberate the stolen treasures and relics therein. The Ettin Axe of Uruth shall swing again, cleaving all who would stand against the Black Horde. Woe to Luskan and Neverwinter. Woe to Silverymoon and the hated elves. Woe to the foul stain of Waterdeep. Woe to Amn, to Tethyr and Calimshan.   Witness our complete and total victory! For Uruth Ukrypt! For Gruumsh! FOR THE HORDE!   “The Black Horde,” Siegfried whispered softly. “Even I’ve heard of that one,” Varien said. “It’s said a great tribe of orcs rose up beyond the Spine of the World and swept south, encircling the great cities of the Sword Coast and threatening even the southernmost human kingdoms.” “That they did,” Siegfried nodded. “They were only defeated through a calling together of the Lord’s Alliance,” he said. “This would have been in about 1235DR, if I recall my lessons. The siege of Waterdeep lasted nine months, and it was only broken when a valiant party of warriors fought their way through Halaster the Mad Mage’s Underhalls and survived those horrors to regroup on the surface and attack the horde from the rear, while Open Lord Ahghairon’s flying steeds and griffon riders kept Waterdeep from starving.” “Neat,” Erwen said. Siegfried thought for a moment. “Bob, do you know how to shape stone?” “I can cast erupting earth !” Erwen chirped. “Not yet, small man,” Siegfried said. “Here’s my thinking. If you could prepare a stoneshape spell, we could take this specimen to the Orc warlord and present it to him, revealing that the destination he seeks is in a completely new location.” His eyes lit up. “We could send this orc horde to Lorelei if we wanted to, or someplace suitably desolate while we take care of business. A wild goose chase.” He repeated this to Theryn in Orcish for his benefit. “This stone magic,” Theryn said. “Could someone detect that it’s been used on the sarcophagus lid?” “No, the spell will have done its work and there would be no aura for the detect magic spell to sniff out,” Siegfried said. “And with the warlord distracted, we could make off with their sacrifices, perhaps by saying that we could use portal magic to get the sacrifices to the new location in a flash.” “Let’s call them children, and not sacrifices,” Theryn said sharply. “A fair point,” Siegfried conceded. “We need to bamboozle them.” He put his hands on his hips and sighed.  “It’s like none of you have ever run a proper scam before.” Bob took offense to the notion of running scams. “So, we mock up a new inscription, and then take this lid back to the surface as a trophy,” Siegfried said. “We can fast-talk whoever we need to and be on our merry.” “We haven’t yet plumbed the depths of this wretched place,” Varien said. “And is the Black Spider down here?” Siegfried asked. “No, so it’s in our interest to move on.” Theryn frowned, his mask exaggerating his expression. “I say we continue to search.” “I have found what I came here for,” Varien said, referencing the crystal panes. “But we should also save the children and all that.” He walked off, intent on keeping watch while the others rested. Hours passed. Siegfried played a number of bawdy tunes both Orcish and human, and got through several stanzas of “The Wizard’s Staff Has a Knob on the End” until someone threw a shoe at him. The party members cycled through a series of watches, until it was Varien’s turn again. The paladin began to add his own inscription to the walls of the crypt.   You run and hide and go down to the pits to trap yourself. But the light will find you and will cast away any shadow.   As Varien relieved Theryn, he thought he heard a noise outside the heavy doors of the orc king’s tomb. Varien pressed his ear against the doors. He thought he could hear the rhythmic pounding of drums in the deep. He unbarred the door and stepped out into the darkness of the chamber, Fiendsbane casting a glow of light across the stones. He listened again. Even over the crashing sound of the waterfall, he could make out the unmistakable pulse of drums, sounding out in a regular beat, from somewhere far below. “Uh oh,” Varien said. He turned back to rush into the crypt and found Theryn standing silently behind him, uncomfortably close. “What do you see?” Theryn asked. “I don’t speak Orcish, Theryn,” Varien said wearily as he brushed past the monk. Theryn tried some sign language, and Varien responded with an elaborate pantomime of drummers drumming, and then pointed at the abyss in the centre of the chamber. Theryn peered over the edge. The darkness extended beyond the range of his darkvision, but he could hear the sound of drumming as well over the sound of the waterfall.

Varien re-entered the crypt. “We’re going to have company, I think. I hear orc war drums sounding somewhere below.” “War drums?” Siegfried said. “This is worse than I thought.” He thought for a moment and then nodded to himself. He cast sending to Kavatos Stormeye, member of the Arcane Brotherhood and close advisor to Dagult Neverember.   Orcish horde gathering at Tholl Sla-Houk in the Sword Mountains. Scry on them. Prepare for war. Warn other nations. Please don’t let Neverwinter die.   After a few moments, Siegfried received an answer.   Interesting if true. Your devotion to Neverwinter is admirable, Siegfried. I shall look into this and advise the Lord Protector appropriately. You’ve done well.   “That three-eyed popinjay,” Siegfried muttered at the tone of the wizard’s response, which was not up to the standards and station to which he held himself. “I have warned Neverwinter of the existence of this orc army,” he explained to his friends. “And they believed you?” Varien said. “I wish you’d given me a chance to tell General Sabine that I said hello.” He said with a wink. “Is this a poor person’s joke I’m too rich to understand?” Siegfried said crossly. “Take it as you like, Siegfried, but you know that your word isn’t exactly taken at face value by those who know you,” Varien said. “You may be correct,” Siegfried said. “I’ve already got my place set out in Mammon’s palace in the Nine Hells, but a scoundrel though I may be, I have always placed the best interests of Neverwinter at the forefront of everything I do.” Siegfried watched Varien’s expression darkened at the mention of the archdevil. “Now, now, don’t get your Fiendsbane in a bard, Varien.” Varien’s frown deepened. “You know, I think I have a spell for this,” Siegfried mused. “Let’s try something with a little more subtlety than our usual modus operandi, yes? If you’ll permit me, I can disguise the lot of us as Orcs of some renown, which should allow us to bluff our way past any sentries or guards we encounter, so long as you don’t let anyone touch you, and as long as you let Theryn and I do all the talking.” The party members agreed. Siegfried cast seeming and began to weave new Orcish identities for the party members. Alec became an Orc barbarian in mail and fur; Bob took on the appearance of an elderly Orc shaman. Erwen became a nimble, cracked-up Goblin wearing a skull for a helmet, while Theryn took on the form of a shadowy martial artist. Varien became a dread warrior prince, and Yeemik changd into the form of an undead Orc Bloodsworn. Siegfried himself took on the appearance of the dead Bloodsworn Orc whose axe he had claimed in the stairwell a few levels above. “My, my, don’t we look the damned lot,” Varien said. “Well, let’s get on with this.” He strode over to the eastern door and with Alec’s help bashed it open. The smell of freshly-spilled blood filled their nostrils. The interior of the chamber looked like it had served as a forge, with anvils and tongs scattered about. More recently, however, it had served as the scene of a vicious battle between undead orcs, wraiths, and Orcish soldiers and Bloodsworn magic-users, many of whom were now sprawled dead on the floor amid the remains of chopped-down zombies and scorched ghouls. The large, rectangular chamber was divided in two. A barricade made of sharpened sticks and other debris was piled more than ten feet deep and nearly to the ceiling, sealing off the northern half of the chamber from the rest of the room, which appeared to have no entrance or exit save the one the party had just come through. Firing slits for scouts and javelin-hurling sentries were built into the palisade. The twisted corpses of several undead orcs were hung up in the pike-festooned perimeter like ghoulish puppets. As the adventurers walked into the centre of the chamber, a voice from beyond the barricade barked “Who goes there?” In Orcish. “A Bloodsworn,” Siegfried rasped. His illusion was complete with a grotesque, if not life-threatening, wound on his neck that would explain any variance in the voice of the dead Orc whose identity he had stolen. “I bring Shadowhand Tarin, Bloodbreaker Varock, Skullburner Borak, Aluk Bloodslayer, Arveen Beargnasher, and Yimokal Ghostbearer.” The face of an orc sentry appeared in one of the firing slits. “Sekdath Coldchains, is that you? I thought you were dead!” “The same,” Siegfried rasped. “Now let us through and be quick about it!” There was the sound of fortifications being dragged out of place, and soon a portal of sorts opened amid the mantraps. Siegfried led the way through. On the other side of the barricade was a squad of battle-weary Orcs who looked like they had been through the meat-grinder. They worse the insignia of Many-Arrows. “We lost many in our journey into the depths of this place,” Siegfried said, indicating his companions. “These ones are new recruits and do not speak the language of our northern tribe.” “We too have lost many,” one of the orc warriors replied, “but they were all good deaths under the Eye of Gruumsh.” Varien activated his divine sense and detected the presence of strong evil wafting from one of the Orcs, a hooded shaman who hung back from the main group. Tied to his belt was a collection of severed forearms. Varien asked the orc in Abyssal, “What is your purpose here?” The Orc blinked, and in simple Abyssal replied, “I am a Hand of Gruumsh here to protect the ritual.” “What ritual?” Varien asked. “What do you mean, ‘what ritual?’” the Hand of Gruumsh retorted. Several of the Orcs exchanged uneasy glances. Siegfried stepped forward and loomed over the Hand. “The Defiler demanded an answer of you, simple one! Do not dishonour him by dissembling. You will answer him with honesty and subservience!” The Hand of Gruumsh was cowed by both Varien and Siegfried’s intimidating glares. “Well, yes, of course, as you are a guest invited to Tholl Sla-Houk perhaps you have not been completely informed as to what it is you are here to bear witness to. Forgive me for insinuating otherwise. Our lord, Rulgar, is undertaking the Bloodspear Ritual,” the Hand continued. The Bloodspear Ritual requires eight days of preparation and unfolds over a period of 8 hours. Aunty Jurrg spends eight days chronicling the deeds of mighty Rulgar and prepares a special warpaint during that time. Once finished, it is applied to the warlord’s body as a series of runic invocations. Once the warpaint is applied, worthy sacrifices,” and at this the Hand began to grin evilly, “will be brought forth and shackled to the pillars of the temple in the depths of this tomb below. Aunty Jurrg then chants for hours, carefully recounting the brutal deeds of Rulgar and calling upon He Who Never Sleeps to anoint him with a special sign of his favour – The Mark of Nishrek. Once the chant is complete, the sacrifices are killed one by one with a longspear, the favoured weapon of our god, and then the blood-drenched spear shall be passed to Rulgar, who must offer it to the One-Eyed Lord as proof of his devotion.” “So that explains the drums then,” Varien said. The Hand of Gruumsh nodded. “Emissaries from several tribes in the Sword Mountains have come to witness the ritual and judge for themselves whether Rulgar is worthy,” the Orc Hand continued, winking as he switched to Orcish for his friends’ benefit. “And we all know Rulgar Ashenshadow is worthy, right boys?” There were several grunts of assent from the guards. Varien shifted position and turned his back to the Orc Hand while he whispered to Siegfried what he had just learned. He turned back around to the Orc shaman. “So, why are you cowering here behind a picket fence?” “A…picket fence?” The Orc replied, mystified. “Oh, you mean a spiked barrier, of course. Well, we all have a role to play in ensuring that the ritual is not disturbed. We must ensure that things are well taken care of up here,” he said in Orcish. “Do you think we would be standing here in this state if all was well in this tomb?” Siegfried cried out. “So these sacrifices as you call them, are below?” Varien asked. “Yes,” the Orc Hand nodded. “You’re not too late to witness their painful, torturous demise,” his eyes glittered with bloodlust. “Well, it sounds like we’re not too late,” Siegfried said. To the Orc Hand he said “Lead these Emissaries down to the ritual, and the rest of you venture forth and clean up the damage that invaders have done to Uruth Ukrypt’s resting place.” The Orc Hand nodded. “Follow me,” he grunted. The party fell in in single file as the Orc led them past a set of iron doors into what looked like a cave network. Grave pits had been dug to hold the bodies of the dead. The Orc Hand led the party down a narrow tunnel. While in single file, Siegfried cast a series of message spells to his companions as surreptitiously as possible outlining his plan – he would perform a portal ritual and then on his signal, the rest of the party would grab the scions and rush to the portal before the Orcs could do anything about it. “If I can lie my way into this warlord’s confidence, we’ll have an easy time of it,” he whispered. “Everyone grab a gnome child at my signal.” Varien could smell sulphur. “I smell sulphur,” he growled in Abyssal. “You would sire, as we had to deploy tanarukks to keep the undead guardians of this crypt at bay,” the Orc Hand explained. “But don’t worry, our Horderaiser keeps them, and the zombies, under control.” “Horderaiser, eh?” Varien said. “I would very much like to meet him.” “He’d better keep things under control, or it will be your throats that get cut,” Siegfried said. The tunnel opened into a larger chamber. “Who approaches?” said a voice in Orcish. Varien’s senses were pinging against great auras of necromantic energy. “A Hand of Gruumsh approaches with emissaries to witness the ritual,” The Orc Hand proclaimed. There was a dry chuckle. “You’re almost too late,” he replied in Orcish. The party entered the chamber. “Ah,” Siegfried said. “This must be the Hall of Triumph.” The waterfalls, which originated far above, poured down the central shaft where they made their final plunge onto the floor of the spacious, 20-foot-high domed chamber, forming a large swirling pool that exited the room through a crack in the southeast wall. The eastern end of the room had partially collapsed, likely due to erosion from the diverted underground watercourse. The walls of the chamber were painted with murals showing orcs presenting the spoils of war, including slaves, before their king. They also depicted powerful orc gods and their demon allies scouring the conquered battlefields and kingdoms of humans, dwarves, and elves. Siegfried could make out depictions of the deities of the Orcish pantheon: Bahgtru, the Son of Gruumsh, Gruumsh the One-Eyed God, Ilneval the War Maker, Luthic the Cave Mother, Shargaas the Stalker Below, and Yurtrus the Rotting One. Numerous alcoves contained statues of leering orc warpriests. Two of the statues had toppled and shattered, while nine remained intact. A set of doors to the north hung open on rusted hinges. Another set of doors to the west stood closed. The sound of the drums grew ever louder. The party members noted that effort had been made to straighten up parts of this ruin, even by the lax standards of warrior Orcs. Faded pools of blood marked the floor in regular intervals, with bloody footsteps leading northward and westward towards the sealed exit. Lurking in the shadows of the chamber were four oversized tanarukks. Two of them looked like they were on their last legs; clearly they were the creatures who the party had knocked into the abyss several levels above. Two more Orc Hands guarded the northern entrance. Near the centre of the room stood the Horderaiser, and imposing figure half again as tall as an ordinary orc, and resplendent in an oily black cloak that exuded necromantic energy. The orc mage’s shadows appeared to be made up of wraith-like creatures that writhed in arrested agony while he paced, and he held a quarterstaff in one hand and a curious bladed gauntlet in the others. Siegfried knew enough about Horderaisers to know that the gauntlet was used in the field of battle, where a Horderaiser would deliver a coup-de-grace to a dying ally and then raise it as a zombie in its service. “Too late?” Siegfried replied in Orcish. “I understand that those in your line of work find the time.” The Horderaiser’s face was impassive. “Does a Bloodsworn whelp dare open his mouth to me?” he whispered in a dark tone. “I open my mouth to warn you of the humans above who opened my throat,” Siegfried rasped, showing his wound to the Horderaiser. “Your horde can find them and snuff them out, if you’ve got the time for such activity.” The Horderaiser’s eyes twinkled. “You’ll find my horde can snuff many things out, including disrespectful acolytes.” Siegfried turned and walked towards the northern exit. “Using the servant’s entrance, are we?” The Horderaiser called out mockingly. Siegfried stopped and turned to Varien, a look of understanding passing between the two of them. Siegfried spoke carefully. “Does his arrogance displease you, my Dreadlord?” Varien smiled. “I think we should take the route most direct to this ritual, and make haste.” Varien cast crusader’s mantle . “It shall be done,” Siegfried said, bowing slightly. He turned to the party members and with a wave of his hand, indicated that the Horderaiser was now a target. Bob wasted no time. He cast guiding bolt and blasted the Horderaiser where he stood. Theryn leaped at the Horderaiser, casting ensaring strike and attempting a series of stunning strikes on the orc. While he buffeted the orc necromancer with his blows, he could not stun him. Erwen cackled and cast fire storm . “Stealth, Erwen! Stealth!” Siegfried shouted to no avail. A fire storm made up of sheets of roaring flame erupted in a crescent around the chamber, catching the orc sentries, the Horderaiser, and one of the tanarukks. A creature lurking in the pool of water also shrieked as it was scorched by the blaze. Alec cast a fire bolt that staggered the surprised Horderaiser, while Seigfried moved into position behind the reeling orc. “You will genuflect before Varok the Defiler! You are now at his mercy, or his lack thereof!” Siegfried shouted and swung his Sanguine Axe at the Horderaiser, chopping grievous wounds into the orc and knocking the necromancer across the chamber where he ended up at Varien’s feet. Varien struck remorselessly with Fiendsbane, delivering a staggering smite, followed by a critical hit that landed a smite of divine radiance down on the evil magic-user. “Genuflect before your Dread Lord!” Siegfried called out with glee in what he hoped was his most intimidating tone. In the chamber beyond, somewhere to the west, the drumming faltered, and then ceased entirely.