Chapter 9

A rhythmic chanting arose from the Orc camp in harmony with the sinister drums played around various campfires. The blood-dyed tents formed several half-circles on the open plain. Among them, one pale-blue pavilion stood in stark contrast. The flap opened and out strode Oshiah followed quickly by Wilgar and Cirox. Within the tent, Vannah curled up on a spread of pillows while an attentive black dog stood guard.
“Your fighting style is very subtle Cirox” Oshiah said as they passed Orc patrols. Smiling, Cirox responded, “I didn’t know I had a style of fighting. I just do what I have to do with what I have. I suppose I’ve learned a trick or two along the way.” As they arrived at their destination, a large red tent, they could see the the Chieftains great reptilian mount within a makeshift corral.
From within the large tent, the growling voice of the Chieftain could be heard as well as that of another Orc who spoke in whispers. The three stood at the entrance and waited. The flap slowly pulled open and a crooked and hunched Orc stepped through. He scowled at the humans that stood in his way, his clouded eyes looked to each of them in turn. Drool trickled from his misshapen lip. Gesturing with his gnarled hand, he spoke with a thick accent. “Move you foul lumps of flesh before I rend you.” The three parted to permit his departure. He pulled a cowl up over his head and limped down the path leaning heavily on a cane. The three looked at each other, shrugged and stepped through the opening in the tent.
Inside, Sorris Pale, the Orc Chieftain, hung calmly from a cross beam by straps on his ankles. Large engorged leeches dangled from his chest. His deep guttural voice spoke “Your efforts here have not been wasted. My people may revel in combat, but they cannot thrive there. Only through a peaceful existence with our neighbors can we flourish as a tribe.” Releasing the straps, Sorris dropped to a handstand on the floor of his tent and then rolled to his feet. The leeches dropped off as he stood, blood ran from both of the holes in his chest. Seeing his guests staring at the wounds, Sorris commented, “My blood is drawn so rarely in battle, I must find other ways of cleansing it.” Wrapping a robe around his body, Sorris walked to a low table and unrolled a map. “I have held my lines here and here, withdrawn from the human kingdoms here and here, but that’s not enough to bring a halt to this. You still need to convince this human king that the raids into his lands were not my Orcs.” With a confident smile, Wilgar replied, “This I will do, you have my word on it.” The smile faded as he spoke more sternly, “However, our quest to bring these impostors to justice also requires my attention.” Sorris responded, “I think I can help you on that front. The shaman that just left here used the bodies you brought me to divine a location. He will help you.”

Chapter 8

A wagon rattled along a dirt road, its wheels creaked under the weight of the load. Two mounted guards rode ahead. Their tabbards and shields bore the rampant stag of Port Tamerand. Thick trees choked the road from all sides concealing the danger that lurked there. The woodland serenity interrupted by frequent coughs from the wagoneer. He sat bundled in blankets and a cloak.
One of the guards signaled and everyone stopped. Before him stood three warriors wearing the masks of the Crescent Moon Tribe. Two brandished jagged axes and the third, apparently the leader, stood with a long spear pointed at the face of the mounted guard. Behind the wagon, three more emerged armed with short bows. The one with the spear spoke with a thick Orcish accent. "Surrender your cargo to the Crescent Moon, we have a dozen Orcs surrounding you." The lead guard raised his hands, showing his empty palms to the Orc "What is within this wagon belongs to the Crescent Moon already. Please help yourself." As the bandit cocked his head in confusion, the cover of the wagon leapt into the air on a gust of wind. The six Orcs within stood and aimed their bows at the archers on the ground.
"Perhaps you'd like to reconsider." Said the guard on the horse. "Meet the real Crescent Moon Tribe." Looking at each other for confirmation, the attackers lowered their weapons. A cry from the woods rang out "Kill them all!" and the impostors raised their weapons to attack. The Orcs in the wagon let loose, two arrows hit each of the archers on the ground as the Orcs paired up their targets to insure kills. The lead guard kicked aside the spear pointing at his face and lunged his horse forward passed the three before him.
A howl rang out and several more men emerged from hiding in the woods, each brandishing swords or axes. Each wearing the imposter mask of the Crescent Moon Tribe. The spearman turned to swipe at the guard, grazing his back with the spear blade. His two axe-men split up. One ran for the wagoneer and the other charged the rear guard. The lead guard stepped from his saddle and turned to face his foe. The spearman's facemask turned sideways a second time as he watched the guards helmet reshape itself into a headband revealing the face of Wilgar. The Cleric threw his cloak back and smiled slightly, raising his mace above his head, ready to strike. The six real Orcs jumped from the back of the wagon drawing their own implements of war to engage the men now emerging from the forest. As swords clashed all around him, the axeman charged the rear guard. The mounted guard hopped up to a crouch on the saddle and then leapt onto the incoming attacker tumbling them both against the front wheel of the wagon.
Meanwhile, Vannah stood from the center of the wagon, her arms raised in ritual movement as she called the elements to her will. The earth shook and the road behind the wagon erupted, throwing dirt and debris into the air. Two massive rock hands emerged from the crevice, swatting the attackers away. Soon the rest of the huge stony body emerged from the hole.
In front of the wagon, Wilgar sidestepped a spear thrust. With a quick flick of the wrist, he busted the haft with his mailed gauntlet. His mace hummed as he dropped it squarely on the shoulder of his attacker. The crunch of metal and bone were drowned out by the howling of the imposter while he buckled to the ground at Wilgar’s feet.
The axeman charging the wagoneer found an empty seat as he arrived. Looking around for his quarry, he caught a swift leather boot to the face. Spitting blood, he stepped back and looked again to see the wagoneer remove his cowl, revealing Cirox-Thong scowling at him from between the wagons horses. On the ground nearby, Oshiah, disguised as the rear guard, tangled with the axeman. As they struggled against each other, Oshiah felt a blade stick him in the ribs. Wincing, he back-rolled off of his foe, coming to his feet. His empty hands poised at the ready as his helmet tumbled to the ground. His attacker came to his feet, pulling the Orc mask off, revealing a very human face. The two men squared off while the sounds of battle raged around them.
Swiping the bloody knife back and forth the Orc impostor attempted to gauge his enemy. He suddenly lunged toward Oshiah's belly, but Oshiah slipped inside the attackers thrust and struck him in the forearm with a rigid finger. The knife dropped as the man yelped in pain, his fingers curling inward as his muscles tightened uncontrollably. He flailed at Oshiah with his other hand, but his attack was in vain. Oshiah deflected the poorly aimed attack and slid in even closer to his foe, wrapping his hands around his head. A quick flick of Oshiah’s wrist brought a sudden end to his troubles with a resounding crack.
Turning toward the wagon, Oshiah saw the final moments of the assault on Cirox Thong. The assailant staggered backward with a cluster of steel darts protruding from his throat and slumped to the ground. Cirox stepped down from the tongue of the wagon smiling at his handy work. Behind the wagon, Vannah’s stone creature had completely emerged from the crevice and had made short work of many of the men assaulting from there. The few who were outside the creature’s reach fell at the hands of the vengeful Orcs. In a matter of moments, it was all over. Several bodies of the Crescent Moon Tribe imposters lay twisted and crumpled at the feet of the true Tribesmen. What they did to the remains of those men is not for the weakhearted, but their message was clear for any who traveled that road in the future. Imposters will not be tolerated.

Chapter 7

Tamerand Tower stood in the distance; fire belching from every window. Panicked people jumped from the parapets into the crowd below. Their screams were drowned out by the clash of steel on steel as the battle raged throughout the city streets. For two days, the Orc hordes had pounded the walls and gates of Tamerand until finally a breach let them in. Fire had eaten its way through the housing section and much of the merchant quarters was already leveled.
From the overlook on Rinnak pass, the entire town could be seen. Four people stood there, solemnly staring at the battle below. Wilgars voice was the first to break the silence. “We’ll need to get their attention. We’re too far away to help directly.” A soft, sad voice spoke in response, “What element do the Orcs fear the most? I can get their attention.” Cirox stepped to Vannahs side as he answered her “They fear little, but they consider fire to be a sign of power. If you opposed that power, you’d gain their notice.”
Her voice seemed to perk up. A mix of cheer and malice, “I’ll see you all in town.” Vannah gave Oshiah a quick kiss, said some mystical words, and ran down the side of the mountain. As she ran, her steps carried her higher and higher above the surface of the mountain below her as if the air itself turned solid to allow her an invisible walkway. The three men watched as her whispy form disappeared into the night headed toward the crashing waves on the shore. “Quite the amazing woman you’ve got there Oshiah” Cirox said, admiring the grace with which she bounded into the sky. “She is amazing” he replied, seemingly lost in thought “we’d better get moving or we’ll never be in position before the show begins.”
Back in the city, the guard retreated to the plaza in the center of town from attacks on three sides. As they gathered there in a circle, the orcs swarmed in around them. The fate of the inhabitants of Tamerand was sealed. Or so it would seem. A rumbling sound slowly overtook the sound of the buildings collapsing from fire damage. Orcs and men alike, looked around to find the source. It seemed to come from every direction. A shout from one of the men brought all eyes toward the sea.
A great wave rose above the city as if the entire ocean rose up to consume Tamerand. As if responding to the gasp of fear from the crowd, the wave stopped moving. It stood like a vertical lake leaning dangerously over the city, but refusing to fall. From the crest, droplets began to fall and a steady rain poured down soaking everyone and everything. At first, everyone began to cower, but the hiss from the fires gave them some comfort. The guard looked at each other and then cheered. The Orcs backed away a bit, not knowing if this was the wrath of some diety or magic from an unseen warlock, but knowing full well that it was meant as a boon for the humans and a bane to the orcs.
A piercing wail from the darkness snapped everyones attention back to the moment. The Orcs parted and a serpentine creature crawled forward. A huge orc sat astride it, coated in plate armor. Blood and gore still dripped from the spikes and blades protruding from various points on the armor. Gleaming red eyes almost glowed through the smile of the skull helmet. He held a thick staff in his left hand. The top of the pole passed through an almost complete circle of steel. A great, flat crescent blade painted white like the moon, streaked with blood from the battle reflected an eerie light that seemed to have no origin.
His deep grating voice suddenly spoke; “Show yourself sorceror. Clearly you want to negotiate, otherwise you would’ve crushed my army by now with your water trick.” A silence fell and several moments passed as everyone anticipated the response. Finally, a voice from the southern wall spoke “You always had a flare for dramatic entrances.” All eyes turned to see a man gifted with unnatural beauty and presence standing upon the steps of the ruined south tower. A howl arose from the orcs on the ground as several of them charged at the unarmed and unarmored man. Cirox tilted his head, keeping his eyes on the mounted orc chieftan. “I almost forgot.” He said, as he backed against the half-wall behind him, his hands appearing from beneath his cloak in preparation for the inevitable assault. The first two orcs, brandishing axes, charged at Cirox together. He quickly slapped aside the axe of the first, almost knocking the attacker off of the steps and ducked under the second, letting the axe clang against the mortared wall. With a flick of the wrist, Cirox lashed out with a thrust to the throat of the second attacker. A gurgle and a gout of blood were the response to this surprise attack. A steel edge shimmered as it withdrew from the orcs wound. Cirox winked at the Orc as it grasped its throat. “I came here to talk. I don’t want any trouble.”
The four Orcs waiting for their opportunity to engage the newcomer, found a fight they were not ready for. A scimitar reached from beneath the stairs and disemboweled the first. Th e others roared and then lunged into the darkness, hoping to avenge their brother. Clangs and hard thuds implied they’d hit something hard. A round shield thrust from the shadow, shoving all of their weapons back. Oshiah stepped forward, very boldly, and twirled his scimitar around in a violent cutting motion. The twin faces on his shield seemed to mock the Orcs, one laughing and one crying, as their wounded companion slumped to his knees and then to his face.
“Persist and you’ll all die unnecessarily.” He spoke, hoping to bring an end to the attack.
Meanwhile, up above, Cirox’s foe regained his balance. As he turned, he whipped his axe around wildly, meeting only air once again. Coming up from a crouch, Cirox stuck the dumbfounded Orc with a hard el bow to the chin, knocking him from the stairs and onto the three now facing Oshiah.
The three Orcs scrambled to regain their feet, the fourth lay unconcious with broken teeth and a bleeding nose. Oshiah stood, shield in front, scimitar poised like a scorpions tail, waiting for one of them to advance. The Orcs snarled and hissed, but held their ground. Oshiah’s pink eyes narrowed as he looked from foe to foe, determining which one would attack first, if any, and how. Suddenly, their mood shifted and they all backed away slowly.
A large man stepped from the shadow behind Oshiah. Covered top to bottom in plate armor. The ominous glow from the mace hanging from his right hand spooked the Orcs. The grim glare he cast them reinforced Oshiahs ultimatum. As the three Orcs backed up, their Chieftan strode forward on his mount. The glistening blade of his weapon, showing the pride and power of the Crescent Moon Tribe, loomed overhead. Wilgar stepped forward and presented himself; “I am Wilgar the Cleric, War Priest of Titane and I come to speak with you peacefully.” The mounted Orc replied; “As you well know, I am Sorris Pale, Chieftan of the Crescent Moon. I am well within my rights to have you all beheaded this day.” Thick droplets of water hit the saddle all around the Orc Chieftan, a not-so-sublte reminder of the great wave hanging overhead. Looking down at the wet spots on his saddle, the chieftan smiled and looked up to Cirox-Thong. “But there’s no need for that this day. I will spare this town further ruin while you speak your words.”

Chapter 6

“Someone must want you dead. Someone of great influence.” The voice of an angel spoke. “Did they get their wish?” asked Wilgar. “Not this day Titanian.” As his eyes cleared, he could see the cloudy sky above. Looking toward the voice, Wilgar saw a beautiful woman kneeling over Cirox-Thong. “You and your friends are very fortunate,” She said softly. “Are they all ok?” he asked while attempting to get back to his feet. “Yes. It seems the three of you took the harshest of the punishment brought by the ocean. The captain and his crew have already moved on. They seem to fear me, but they left you in my care.”
Staring at her nearly naked form, Wilgar asked, “And who are you?” Turning and smiling, she stepped over Oshiahs limp body and approached. Bowing, she spoke, “I am Vannah Galadriel of the sea kingdom.” He hadn’t noticed before, but Wilgar could now see the womans skin was a pale shade of blue and her hair was adorned with various seashells. Her gossamer dress clung to her still-wet body. Bowing and then taking her hand “I am Wilgar the Cleric, High Priest of Titan…ian… you know… of me?” Brushing the mossy hair out of her face and tucking it behind her pointy ear, “Yes, I’ve heard of you. Oshiah has spoken often of you.” Tiptoeing back to the spot where Oshiah lay, she knelt down and kissed him on the lips. Raising his eyebrows, Wilgar turns to secure his gear. Down the beach a ways, he could see Dante as he strode happily with a large mass in his jaws. Shaking the water out of his ears, Wilgar moved to check his two companions. Neither seemed to have more than a few scrapes on them. The vague memories of the ship shredding beneath his feet were confirmed by the spinters of wood floating in the nearby surf. Kneeling between Oshiah and Cirox, Wilgar whispered a word to Titane and they both sat up abruptly, fully awake and alert. “We were attacked by something in the sea,” Wilgar explained. “Some creature from what I remember. By Titanes will and the help of this sea maiden, we triumphed.” Looking around, both mens eyes focus on the beautiful elvish woman standing to one side. The tide pushed debris onto the shore at her feet and swirled foam about her ankles. “Vannah!” Oshiah exclaimed as he lept unsteadily to his feet and greeted her with a big hug. Settling her back to the beach after a twirl, “I wasn’t sure if you got my message, but I’m glad you did.”

Chapter 5

The sun arose out of the ocean like a great fiery serpent to begin its trek across the cloudy sky. Daylight was a welcomed gift as the sailors loaded supplies and rowed them out to the ship anchored in the harbor. A cold morning wind caused the ships flag to snap to life and the sailors adjusted their collars to keep the chill out.
On the beach, an enormous black dog chased the tide and played in the surf. At the edge of the beach, bare feet dangled from the shroud of a tree. Oshiah dropped onto the sand without a sound and crouched low. His breath slow and shallow as his pink eyes focused out to sea.
The great black dog, Dante, suddenly turns and runs up the beach, barreling full tilt toward the tree where Oshiah spent the night. As he neared, Oshiah lept up from the ground in an all out run toward the war dog bearing down on him. A gutteral growl arose from both of them as they closed. At the last possible moment, Oshiah dropped to the ground and slid in the sand as the dog bounded over him.
They both recovered quickly and then grappled each other in mock combat. The dogs great jowels locked onto the bare skin on Oshiahs right arm. Oshiah slipped from under the dog and clutched it around the neck with his free arm. The dog rolled right, throwing the pale-skinned man to the ground and then pounced onto him locking his massive teeth onto the neck of the nomad and growling a low rumble. Oshiahs outstretched hand raised quickly and patted the dog on the side twice and the dog let up. Oshiah back-rolled to his feet and laughed as he began wiping the sandy drool from his neck.
“Good job Dante. Very good job. Always use your oppenents weight against them. And always finish them. A foe left living is a failure waiting to find you again.” Dantes ears perked and Oshiah turned to see two men walking down from the small manor overlooking the beach. Following behind them are six more men hauling crates and trunks. He recognizes both of the lead men as the two men he sat across from for most of the night. They drank expensive Elvish wine and Gnomish cordials while telling tales of their grand adventures. Although he’d been travelling with Wilgar for some time, he knew the bond the Cleric had with Cirox-Thong had existed for much longer.
The two men wore thick cloaks to protect them from the icy bite of the morning wind. Oshiah retreated to his tree and pulled down his pack and began to dress. The other two stood upon the beach watching the sun rise from behind the wooden ship in the distance. Wilgar was the first to break the silence of the moment. “So, tell me again, Cirox, how you know this Captain Goras and why you trust him.” Cirox pondered the question for a moment before he replied. “Come now Wilgar, you know I’d never put you in the hands of someone if I thought they might betray you.” Wilgar only nodded in response. “In any case, I shall seek guidance from Titane before we set upon this journey. Too many powers align against us already.”
Cirox gestured to a point barely visible in this light along the beach “There is a flattened mound that may serve your purpose. I remember your communes to be quite… vigorous.” “That they are, but how else would one gain the attention of a war god? Would you care to join me?” Cirox smiled, “I’ll pass. If Titane will grant you insight to the safety of this journey, then I needn’t exert myself. Besides, I must meet with Goras to insure things are progressing as they should be.” Wilgar turned and called over his shoulder “Oshiah, I’m heading to that mound over there to commune with Titane and then we’ll be under way.” Sheathing his scimitar, Oshiah ran over to Wilgar followed by a bounding Dante. “Well, you speak with your god then. Tell him I said hi.” Oshiah smiled. Wilgar didn’t. “You need not worry Wilgar, I fear not the sea.” Oshiah said as he knelt to secure Dantes armor about him.
Standing high upon the mound, Wilgar swirled his mace above his head. His feet shifted as he moved in a rythmic pattern as if fighting multiple attackers to the beat of a drum. The intensity increased as his swings smashed through their invisible foes and his breathing hastened. Divine words spilled from his lips as sweat dripped from his brow. As his ritual came to an end, Wilgar dropped to his knees and closed his eyes.
Breakfast was served upon the bridge of the Wavecutter. At the head of the table sat Captain Goras, a veteran seagoer and shrewd merchantier. At the opposite end, Cirox-Thong sat, his magnificent hair dancing in the wind. To each side, the officers of Wavecutter sat quietly waiting for the Captains nod. Oshiah and Wilgar sat to either side of Cirox, also waiting patiently. “To a magnificent journey” the Captain announced as he stood, lifting his cup in the air. The others raised their tankards and shouted, almost in unison, “to the journey!”
The rest of the trip was quick and uneventful. The wind seemed to carry the Wavecutter to its destination. Even the captain was amazed at how easy the journey was. “See?” Oshiah commented, “nothing to fear from the sea.” Wilgar replied, “We’ve not yet set foot upon the shore, but it does seem we’ve had a fortunate voyage.”

Chapter 4

The stark gray tower pierced the clouds forming in the dark sky. High arched windows darkened with stained glass bearing arcane symbols peered down on the two approaching visitors. The two strode confidently, but carefully forward. Their gaze shifted from rooftop to doorway as they passed the empty buildings surrounding the great tower. A large black dog followed close behind. Leather armor covered much of his face and fore-body.
The huge iron doors creaked as the two reached the foot of the stairs. It seemed to take an eternity for the doors to part completely, but Oshiah and Wilgar stood quietly until they grated to a halt. The black dog sat to Oshiahs right, peering into the darkness beyond the gaping archway. The darkness gave way as chandeliers within came to life, casting a warm glow down the polished bronze walls. "Ok then." Wilgar spoke as he nodded to Oshiah and ascended the stairs. Oshiah turned to his canine companion and smiled. "Ok then." he echoed and they both followed closely behind the Cleric.
Within the great doors, the ceiling seemed impossibly high and the foyer reached the width and breadth of the tower. As they reached the center of the great circular emblem on the floor, a disembodied voice rang out. "Who dares enter the temporary home of the Archmage of Evermore?" Wilgar replied "Wilgar the Cleric. High Priest of Titane and..." "The only one you'll ever need as I remember" the voice interrupts, now coelescing in front of the two travellers. A man steps from nothingness a few yards from the pair. The dog instinctively growls both as a warning to the stranger and a warning to his companions. "So, if you're the only one I'll ever need, why is it there are two of you here?" The mans flowing robes conceal most of his form. A belt about his waste bears fancy pouches and the jewels adorning his fingers hint at the enchantments that must protect him. "Archmage, it's been too long. You look well." Wilgar spoke with a smile, ignoring the query of the robed one. "This is my friend, Oshiah of the Undying Nomads and we are in need...” The Archmage cut the Cleric off once again "You need my help with something." He spoke as he walked a slow circle around the three beings. "You're helping that idiot King with his quarrel with the Orcs and you need my help. Why not call upon Titane for a miracle? He likes helping these mortals." Wilgars smile turned to a look of disappointment. Oshiah chimes in for the first time "Archmage, we don't have time for games. We visit the Crescent Moon Chieftan with or without your help." The Archmage stopped in his tracks, spinning quickly to face the pale-skinned man standing before him. Each seemed to take a moment to calculate the other, reading their body language, gaging their weaknesses. Smiling, the Archmage returns to his circular pattern. "I can help you, but it'll do you no good. You're in over your head and the Orcs will never let you close enough to speak to their Chieftan. They already know you're coming and they're not happy about it." "If they know we're coming" quipped Wilgar, "then they should already know we mean to end this war before it begins."
"It matters not." the grand wizard stated, his voice calming, almost distracted. "The path ahead of you is already blocked." The smile returns to Wilgars face "Then give us another path. Misdirection. Is that not the way of a powerful wizard?" "Wilgar, you may not have noticed yet, but I'm incredibly impatient today. This little parlance is over. I'll do what I can for you, but the next time you darken my doorstep, expect to repay this favor. Now go."
A sudden burst of wind temporarily blinded the pair and when it ended, they no longer saw the polished walls of the tower, but walls of stone capped by a starry sky. “I’m not fond of teleportation.” Oshiah spoke quietly, still not sure of his surroundings. Dante sniffed the air, the wall, and then the ground as he looked for a familiar scent. “Give me a moment” Wilgar spoke in a very sedated voice as he shifted his stance and thrust his mace into the air. Oshiah looked around seeing that he stood in an alley of an unfamilar town. Sounds of music and meriment carried on the air, as did the smell of freshly cooked meat. Dante noticed the scent as well and a whine escaped his jowels reminding Oshiah that it had been nearly a day since they ate. Turning to see Wilgar still standing with his Mace in the air and mumbling to himself, Oshiah scratched the back of Dante’s neck between the layers of his studded leather barding. “As soon as we know where we are, we’ll eat.” Sniffing at the air again “and if we go where the music and the food is, we’ll eat well.” “Well indeed. This will be a night of feasting for us my friend. The Archmage works in mysterous ways. But I never thought he would send us this far out of our way.” “At this point, I don’t care where we are as long as our next goal is food.” Smiling, Wilgar heads out of the alleyway and into the dimly lit cobbblestone street. “You move as if you have nothing to fear here. We’ve been watching our backs and travelling back roads for three weeks. We must be far indeed.” Oshiah looks at the stars to find his bearings as he speaks.” No, here we are safe. We can rest and relax at least for this night. A friend of mine is likely at the center of the celebration.” “I just hope he’s friendlier than your last friend. That Archmage seemed more bothered by you than a friend should.” “Heh. Yeah, he’s a very busy man. I don’t often ask him for favors, but he is a trusted ally. Besides, he has to keep up appearances. If word go out that he helped anyone that found his tower, he’d be overwhelmed with requests for aid.” “I suppose that is true. So, what should I expect from this friend? I suppose he’s a master wizard as well, or maybe another diviner of the divine.” “Actually, he’s a businessman and he’s very friendly. This may sound strange, but he’s probably the most beautiful man you’ve ever met.” Oshiah looked to the sky again, “you’re right. That does sound strange.” As the pair drew closer to the celebration, the sights, sounds, and smells of a grand celebration filled their senses. Jugglers, dancers, and musicians filled the streets. Every cart and storefront bore an overabundance of delicacies. Purchasing the first recognizable chunk of meat, Oshiah cut slices and alternated between stuffing one in his mouth, and tossing one over his shoulder where they were snatched from the air by a very hungry war dog. “You must know that I don’t like crowds. Too many people to read. You can never know what to expect amidst all this chaos” Oshiah shouted at Wilgars back, hoping he could hear him over the din of drums and flutes.
A sudden shout rang out and the music died almost immediately and the crowd parted. Guards with long spears seemed to come from every direction and surround the wayward travellers. Oshiah and Wilgar instinctively turned back to back, their hands upon their respective weapons. “I’m starting to doubt your understanding of the word friend.” Oshiah said under his breath as he chose the order in which to eliminate the guards on his half of the circle. “Calm down, I’m sure it’s just a precaution” Wilgar said to his cautious friend. Shouting to the armed men before him “We don’t want any trouble. We only want to speak with…” interrupted again! “Trouble” came the voice from the crowd. “Trouble is what you’ve come seeking and you have surely found it.” The voice drew closer and the guards parted. A man hardly dressed stepped into the circle and all the spears lifted. This had to be the man of whom Wilgar spoke. He wore only a loincloth, a fur cloak and a finely decoated helmet and bore an impressive physique. Removing his helmet revealed he had the looks to match his build. Long flowing golden locks dropped from the helmet and draped across his shoulders. A pearly white smile cut across his face as he saw the men before him. “Wilgar! It is you!” The man strode forward with the grace and style of a fairy tale prince and embraced the large Cleric. “I’m sorry for the formalities, it’s not all fun and games around here. Well, actually it is all fun and games around here, but not all is as it seems.” He smiles again while resting his hand on Wilgars shoulder. Glancing over at the purple-clad nomad, he turns his attention. “Any friend of Wilgars is… welcome in my home.” He said has he extended a hand. Oshiah returned the gesture and introduced himself. “I am Oshiah of the Undying Nomads.” “I am pleased to meet you. I am Cirox-Thong… of Port Hagos at the moment. Welcome to my party.” With a gesture, the guards disperse and the incredibly handsome man led his new guests back to a pavillion at the center of the celebration. “Port Hagos?” Oshiah queried, “That’s more than ten days north of were we found the gray tower. This time of year, Serpents Crossing is thawed. We’ll have to cross the sea to get back where we’re going.” Wilgar answered only with a knowing glance.
Once inside, a harem of scantily clad women dispursed and others entered with platters of food and drink for the three men. One even brought a bowl and a brush for the dog as Oshiah unbuckled the armor from about the dogs head, neck, and shoulders. Dante sniffed the clean water and chopped lamb before voraciously devouring it.Settling into a seat entirely comprised of silk pillows, Cirox-Thong tipped a glass of wine to his lips. “I hear you want to have a peaceful conversation with the chieftan of the Crescent Moon Orc tribe.” Sitting across from Cirox, Wilgar and Oshiah chose more sturdy accomodations in the padded wooden chairs and spoke as they ate from the food upon the table. “Apparently the Archmage felt you were our best shot at getting to him before the war begins again” Wilgar said after a drink. “Wilgar, why do you care about this war? Isn’t War your business? Shouldn’t Titane be working to draw more armies into this conflict?” Cirox quipped with a grin, winking at Oshiah. Wilgar sat his tankard down and answered, “Unnecessary war brings meaningless deaths for many. Titane is about valor and justice, not politics and subterfuge.” Cirox turns his attention to his unfamiliar guest, “So, Oshiah. What is your part in all of this? Do the Desert Nomads have some vested interest in the business of the Orcs and men?” Looking pensively at his inquisitor, Oshiah wasn’t sure of Cirox’s intentions. “It’s the right thing to do and I am capable of helping. Therefore, I help. Wilgar seems set upon a similar course. You should consider how a war could affect you. Maybe you need to walk upon a battlefield afterward and…” “Hold on, hold on. I didn’t mean to rile you, nomad. I’m just curious about purpose.” Oshiah, already irritated, stands and walks away from the table. Cirox, picking from among the hors douvers on the platter before him addresses his old friend, “Wilgar, you’ve taken to much more sensitive company than usual. What’s with this guy?” Planting his metal encased elbow upon the table, the Cleric responds with “You know I don’t ally myself with the weak. Oshiah is a powerful warrior and a trusted friend. He has saved my hide more than once.” Cirox, looking genuinely offended, “Hey, I’ve pulled your bacon out of the frying pan several times! Remember that time at the Chasm of Woe? You were about to be drawn and quartered and I…” “You bought me from that elder demon with a… a… What was it you gave him again? Some sort of crown?” “The Circlet of Dreamwalking. Oh yes, I’ve always wondered if that cursed artifact would turn up again!” The two burst out laughing. “I bet he’s still trapped in the mirror realm.” More laughter. Oshiah came back to the table with another slab of lamb. “So, how is it you can help us Cirox-Thong?” With a smooth grin he replied, “I am close personal friends with the chieftan of the Crescent Moon Tribe.”

Chapter 3

The large ivory doors opened, revealing a grand hall. The two walked sternly forward dwarfed by the statues lining the walls. Light emanated from censers behind the statues giving a shadowy glow. At the end of their walk, they both dropped to one knee, lowering their gaze to the floor. The first, clad in steel armor, emblazoned with the markings of a field cleric. His glimmering mace hung at his side. The other bore wraps of cloth, designate of the desert nomads. A bow and a scimitar the most prominent of the weapons he wore.
A regal voice from ahead of them spoke “Wilgar the Cleric? The War Priest of Titane and a companion from the Great Desert have come to my throne? How interesting. You may rise.”
As the two raised their heads, the King before them rose to his feet.
Wilgar spoke in a precise, courtly tone, “This is my friend and ally, Oshiah of the Undying Nomads. We bring you troubling news, Excellency.” Several of the king’s aides stirred uncomfortably at the mention of trouble. “I have plenty of trouble, Wilgar. I’m sure you’ve noticed we’re about to go to war against the Orcish nations again. That damned Crescent Moon clan has cost us many lives.” Wilgar, after a quick glance back to Oshiah, responded, “A war with the Orcs would cost many more lives, but would be in vain. For they are not the enemy that razes your lands. The foe you now face is one of human blood. The facemask of the Crescent Moon conceals not only their face, but their mission as well.”
“You know this?” The king responded, “How? Nevermind, I know your honor Wilgar and I don’t have time to consider the details. What is your plan to resolve this?”
“I intend to go into the northlands, peacefully I hope, to meet with the chieftan of the Crescent Moon tribe. To find out their involvement in this.”
“You?” the king stared as if Wilgar were insane. “You are going to just wander into the Orc lands and ask the chieftan of his involvement? Do you know this chieftan? What makes you think he’ll talk to you with your head still intact?”
“No, Excellency, I do not know this chieftan, but I do know the Archmage of Evermore and he can ease my entry into the orclands.”
“Bah, I should’ve known you’d rely on some sort of sorcery.”
“Of course. I stand here at the will of Titane, so I have the power of the spirit on my side. The Archmage weilds the power of the mind, and Oshiah weilds the power of the body. I fear not these Orcs, I only wish to prevent an unnecessary war.”
“What do you need of me then? I have no men left to send with you, I can only give you my prayers in your success and my blessing on your mission.”
“That’s all I ask.” Bowing as they withdraw Oshiah and Wilgar head back through the ivory doors.
“So, who is this Archmage? You’ve not mentioned him before.”
“He’s an old friend. I only hope that our need is in his best interest.”
“And if it’s not?”
“Then the marauders will be the least of our worries.”

Chapter 2

Crimson blood dripped from his face onto his bare chest. A stark contrast to the pale white of his albino skin. As he tried to focus his eyes and remember where he was, another shock of pain shot through his head. The steel gauntlet, splattered with blood withdrew from his face, drawing his focus to its owner. The gnarled face before him spat in his face and spoke, the sound echoing through Oshiahs already ringing skull. “Where is the War Priest, Wilgar?”
Oshiahs eyes narrowed as he stared into the face of his tormentor. These were the men impersonating the Orcish clan known as the Crescent Moon Tribe. In this guise, they’ve cut a path of destruction through local villages, leaving the mark of the Crescent Moon, placing an easy blame on the Orcs. The peace between the local Humans and Orcs has been broken by this act of violence.
With a jolt of memories, he remembered how he got here. The fight with these impersonators was quite spectacular. The pale-skinned nomad was in rare form, a true tribute to the temple monks he spent his childhood with. The sheer numbers of warriors he faced was the only strength they had that he failed to overcome. This one, the torturer, was one of the last faces Oshiah saw before he was subdued. A combination of a poisonous dart and a relentless barrage of fists and weapons had taken him down. Ahh, the poison. That would explain the pain within his head, which almost numbed him to the pain in the rest of his body.
Another stream of blood ran down his face from the open wound on his temple. His eyes followed the drop, as it hit his chest and dripped onto his leg. As he focused on his legs, he could see the bandage wrapped around his thigh. The torn cloth was dark with blood. Shifting his weight, he could tell the leg was broken, likley a compound fracture. Disjointed memories of the beating he’d received danced across his vision. Many of the men hitting him with clubs had wounds of their own. He managed a smile as he recognized his work. Precise arrow hits cutting vital tendons and piercing major arteries. If it weren’t for their healer, many of these men would’ve died by now. A vision of a quite pleasing move came to mind. A backflip off of the bar to dodge a sword swing while firing an arrow, killing one of the tribes’ archers.
The vision was disapated by steel against bone as the interrogator backhanded Oshiah’s weary face again. “Tell me, wanderer, or I’ll carve my name in your chest with a rusty dagger.” Oshiah, fighting the pain in his jaw as he managed a few words, finally spoke. “Don’t you worry. Wilgar will soon find you.” Oshiah sneered at the man, wondering which of them looked worse. The flayed skin on his assailant reminding him that it was Oshiahs blade that cut it open. The mans face twisted as the rage burned in his eyes. “Ahhh!!!” The man screamed as he kicked Oshiah in the chest, knocking him backward in his chair. The manacles bit into his wrists as his full weight came down on his hands. He heard something heavy drag across wood. From the corner of his eye, he could see a large flanged mace dangling from the mans hand as he approached. Taking in a calming breath, Oshiah took a quick assessment, calcuating his options as certain death approached. As the man neared, a pounding echoed in the chamber. As the man turned toward the source, Oshiah could hear other footsteps, as someone must’ve gone to answer the door. He closed his eyes as he focused on the sounds. The sliding of the bar from the door, a strangled gasp, and a body flung to the floor. The howls of several men and the unsheathing of swords and he knew he was no longer alone.
Wilgar, having broken the neck of the first man at the door, kicked it wide welcoming the tide of weapons as he faced the attackers. With a clawing gesture, Wilgar felled one assailant, the man doubled over in pain as Titanes might clawed at his very soul. Wilgar twirled his mace above his head and smashed the first attacker within reach. A sideward swing attempting to take Wilgar’s leg from him barely marked the enchanted plate protecting him. With a flury of gauntlet and mace, Wilgar tore through the cluster of assailants, leaving them in a broken heap. He now stood, face to face, with the torturer.
A scarred and malicious man, the torturer held a chain-whip in one hand and his own mace in the other. Blood ran down the shaft of the mace from the stained gauntlet on the mans right hand. Wilgar quickly assessed his foe as he circled to the right; the man twirled the whip around preparing to strike. Wilgar took the first opportunity to enter with the mace, but was deflected by his foes mace. As he withdrew, the whip came about. The chains, in an unnatural movement, entangled his feet and with a yank, he was on his back. The man, confident from his successful takedown, stepped over Wilgar to plant a solid strike on his face. As he raised his mace above his head, Wilgars steel gauntlet shot up into his groin. Not a punch, but a grab. As the steel hand twisted, so did the expression on the mans face. The mace slipped from his hand and dropped toward Wilgar’s face. At the last moment, it glanced aside, Wilgar’s invisible helmet protecting him fully. Kicking his attacker aside, Wilgar returned to his feet. As he strode across the room, he assessed the damage done to the barely recognizable figure before him. Through dirt and blood, he could still see the white skin and hair, but little else identified this mess as his companion Oshiah. Standing over the broken body, he set to a rhythmic chant, summoning forth the will of Titane and placing Oshiah in a painless slumber.

Chapter 1

The room lit up as torchlight crawled through the opening door. The two entered cautiously and quietly. The first, Oshiah, dressed in the layered garb of a desert dweller with all but his eyes concealed crept along the wall, his hands empty. The second, a living icon of religious presence in battle, Wilgar, strode more dominantly through the door. Spiritual symbols marked upon heavy armor told the tale of his faith and prowess.
As the light filled the room, its stark contents were made clear. The far corner bore the subject of their venture. A brass stand bearing a grand tome stands as the solitary presence in this closed cold room. Oshiah was the first to break the silence. “It appears as if we’ve found it. If the accursed thing didn’t move itself, this would be so much easier.” Wilgar, with a knowing glance, spoke “It is as it should be.” He then strode confidently to the tome and began turning the pages, quickly scanning the words upon them. His lips moved as he skimmed each page, subconsciously speaking the occasional name.
Oshiah turned his back to the Cleric, his eyes narrowing as if he were attempting to listen beyond the door. The Clerics reading suddenly stopped. Oshiah turned just in time to see him become rigid and fall to the floor. A final gasping name, “Yarrokon” escaped his lips as his eyes closed and his body went limp. Oshiah, cautiously looking around, released a controlled breath, expanding his senses. His cautious, silent footsteps, like those of a cat, led him to kneeling by the fallen Cleric. His fingers searched for pressure points on the Clerics upper body. A couple of seconds and he knew his companion was alive and breathing well.
Oshiahs eyes darted about, checking the door for light and movement and then to cast a suspicious gaze upon the tome. Suddenly the painful silence was broken as the door flew open. Three men in metal masks burst in bearing jagged Orcish war implements. Moving with the grace and speed granted him by the rigors of the Shan Ti Temple, Oshiah dove toward them to come up from a roll in front of the lead assailant. His heel shot out from beneath to strike solid on a kneecap. The bone-shattering sound echoing in the small stony chamber. The attacker, yet to even react to the desert wanderer’s aggressive move, yelped in pain and dropped his jagged blade. The attacker on the left, being more responsive than his now-crippled companion, turned to drive his jagged knife into Oshiahs chest, the third bypassing the others, headed for the unmoving cleric.
Quickly, Oshiah spun on the floor, coming to his feet while sweeping the feet from under the attacker with the broken knee and narrowly avoiding a downward chop. As the yelping fiend crumpled to the ground, Oshiah drew his enchanted scimitar from his back in time to deflect the second blow from the determined attacker. With a side-winding whip of the blade, he cleaved the upper thigh of the attacker and dropped the scimitar as his bow leapt from its case and into his hand. The painful groan echoed from the stone walls as the gout of blood gushed from the intruder’s thigh. The third attacker nearing Wilgar raised his blade for a lethal strike. Before his jagged axe could reach its apex, two arrows burst through his body, followed by a third from his throat.
Oshiah, diving away from the two wounded attackers, rolled to his knee facing them with arrows already in flight. Before either could utter a word of surrender, they were both pierced through the chest and lay dead. With a whirling spin, Oshiah clipped the legs of the still standing foe near Wilgar, topping him and dropping a final knee to his throat. His metered breathing the only remaining sound in the room he relaxed the pull on his bow. After tucking his weapons back into their respective places, he leaned over Wilgar. Pressing his fingers into specific points on Wilgars face and neck, he awoke Wilgar with a start. “Wilgar! Wilgar, awaken. Whatever it is that you saw within that tome, it has distracted you from a task at hand." Wilgars voice cracked as he spoke. "He's Alive! The S.O.B. is Alive! Here! Look!" Pointing at the last entry in the book that he was reading right before he hit the floor. "While you were sleeping, we were assaulted by these three.” Oshiah said has he gestured at the mess about the room. “They wear the masks of the Crescent Moon Tribe, a band of Orcs of the Northern Region, but…" removing the mask from the nearest one, "these are no Orcs" revealing the human face of the dead man.
“Can you tell me of this Yarrokon, Wilgar?” “Yeah...he owes me money,” Wilgar said with a smirk. Oshiah, apparently missing the humor in the statement, "Does he have any dealings with Orc tribes of the north? Perhaps this was his attempt to clear his debt to you." “No. The sum is not that great, and I am sure it would be beyond him to stoop so low as to send assassins.” As he stares at the metal mask in Oshiahs hands, Wilgar speaks again “Crescent Moon? That sounds familiar too. But why would humans be parading around in Crescent Moon masks?” Oshiah again, "Their facade implies an attempt at misdirection," as he dropped the mask to the floor. "The Tribe is our only lead currently, but surely whoever they are, they would send more than three, even if they thought to catch either of us alone, these three could not have prevailed." "I agree. So were they sent with the intention of failing? Were we meant to discover this deception?” Wilgar asked.
Looking to his friend’s eyes, Oshiah said "Perhaps. So, is a trap lessened if we walk into it knowingly?" Wilgar said “Considerably...and not at all. Quite the dilemma. Are there any other things of interest we can learn from our attackers? Oh, and Thank You for saving my life here today." Kicking the body nearest him, Oshiah said, "Yes, this one here came directly for you, while I was entangled with the others. It seems they were determined to end your life." As he admired Oshiah’s accurate hits, he replied "Just what I need...” Out of habit, Oshiah checked his weapons and spoke as he walked toward the door. "I'd suggest we not wait here in this room of little purpose. We should go out into the city and perhaps the next assailant will reveal themselves." Wilgar replied with “Always looking for trouble, aren't you?" "I don't need to look for trouble, but I prefer to sleep without worrying that more of these people show up. Might as well go find them." As he passed the two bodies at the door, he stopped to say, "Perhaps if you'd been conscious, one of them may have survived long enough to give us more answers." To which Wilgar said, “I'll be sure to sleep with one eye open next time..." "I think it was that Elvish wine we had for breakfast, made you a little light headed” Oshiah quipped. "The elves sure know how to stomp grapes. I am a bit annoyed at myself for the reaction I had" Wilgar said as he shook his head.