IGMS Issue 22 (2 page)

Well, please convey my apologies to Martin. Urgoth has saved my sorry ass more times than I can count, and it was wrong of me to imagine he might one day turn on us. (But I take back nothing I said about Shariel. Oeu bless her pointy little ears, but if any of us are going to go evil, it'll be her, just out of sheer bloody curiosity.) Maybe if Urgoth's mother had raised him among her people, there'd be a problem, but as it stands he's really more human than orc. And you know, orcs aren't entirely bad -- for one thing, they've got better hygiene than dwarves. So if you can reassure Martin (subtly!) that his son's a good adventurer, please do. I know Urgoth worries about it.

Anyway, I've clipped hair from him and Bjartald both, though I'm not sure when I'll be able to send the vials back; Abu ibn Jaqsa insists that teleporting them to you will mean our enemies can find us, though I'm not sure I follow his logic. Then again, what do I know about magic? I'm also enclosing some hair from Maggie -- I'd feel pretty rude if you guys resurrected us, but left her dead, just because her parents aren't old adventuring buddies of yours.

So, that letter you put into the care package was pretty fascinating: Shariel's trying to figure out how you got it to telepathically scream certain parts only into my head, and Maggie wants to know where Mom learned to swear like that. Is this any example to set for your impressionable daughter? I appreciate that you guys actually kept your promise not to scry on me once I left home (and, more impressively, seem to have made Liraiel keep it, too), but I'm beginning to think I never should have sent that letter. It's done bad things to your peace of mind. There are things you need to know, though, and since there isn't a lot to do while riding across the Wayyir except sleep -- the dust-fiends are mostly nocturnal, so I'm up all night defending the camp -- I might as well fill you in.

(YES, Mom, I'm getting enough rest. Is nagging like that something they teach in every seminary? Because it's like you shrank two feet and grew a beard, every time Bjartald opens his mouth.)

So we were going after that goblin village, right? Well, they lured us straight in, and we didn't see the magic circle until we were standing in it. A beginner mistake, I know, and one that blew up in our faces rather spectacularly. Some robed creature starts chanting -- I have no idea what he was; not a goblin, that's for sure -- and next thing we know we're halfway across the world and halfway up a mountain. Dad, you'd be proud of me; I took a look around at the vegetation and figured out we must be in the Dragontrap
before
the first dragon showed up to eat us.

For the record: your stories do
not
do that place justice. Maggie almost fell off the ledge we appeared on, and I think she would have had another birthday before she hit the ground. It's kind of gorgeous, really, with all the granite slabs and snowmelt waterfalls. Pity you can't take the time to appreciate it when you're trying desperately to stay alive.

It was around then that I figured out Shariel's historical lectures are actually a calming mechanism that kicks in when she's nervous. No sane creature of any humanoid race would respond to "Oh shit, we're in the Dragontrap" with a perky declaration that the wizards who constructed the trap-spells achieved it by fusing the imperative art-speech of the ancient Rowhaurangan enchanters with the conjurational whatever of the whoevers. Not unless she's trying to keep herself from screaming. But screaming turned out to be kind of inevitable before she got more than twenty words in, because, well, DRAGON.

As much as I'd like to tell you we bravely whacked off its scaly, horned, fanged, fire-breathing head, the truth is we ran like scared little bunny rabbits. Which doesn't work real well on a surface that's more vertical than horizontal: we promptly fell off the ledge. But hey, there are advantages to thousand-foot-drops; they give you time to think! And also to spellcast. Shariel's calming mechanism must work, or else the screaming settled her down, because she managed first to float our fall, then to make us invisible, and with the winds tearing around in the valleys no dragon was going to be able to track us by scent. Of course, floating as we were, the winds also scattered us to hell and gone, and getting back together when you're all invisible and trying not to be found by dragons is a cute trick.

But we managed it, and then we started running again (this time on flatter ground), and kept running until we were past the boundary of the trap-spells. Funny how fast even a halfling and a dwarf can run with dragons nipping at their heels -- okay, Bjartald just tried to knock me off my camel for writing that, and I think Maggie's going to knife me in my sleep. Maybe it will appease them if I also say that it's amazing how far an elf -- no, on second thought, I don't want to find out what other spells Shariel has up her sleeves, so I'll just stop while I'm, er, behind.

(Urgoth was great, though. And I'm not just saying that because his sword's as big as I am.)

Insert a lot of gloating here about how good I am, getting us out of the Dragontrap without a map or any of the magic weapons you guys didn't give us because we should, and I quote, "have the fun of winning treasure for yourselves." I'd write the gloating out myself, since my ego could use some balm against the bruises it's taken, but we've lost most of our baggage along the road and Abu ibn Jaqsa's stingy with his paper, so I'm trying to keep this short. Also, it would be embarrassing to write all that, then admit at the end that although I got us out of the mountains, I didn't realize how far south we were.

Yeah. We, er, missed Bhuvak, and crossed over into Lunggar instead.

On the bright side, the slavers apparently never saw a halfling before, and thought Maggie was some kind of mutant breed of beardless dwarf. Which she was quick enough to take advantage of, at least for herself;
she
got the royal treatment, by captivity standards, all the way to Phrasom. (Did you know that's the capital of Lunggar? I didn't. And why didn't I? Because Dad, when giving me geography

lessons, pointed at the map and said "That's Lunggar, but trust me, hon, you don't ever want to go there," and moved on to places he considered suitable for his daughter to adventure in. Sorry to break it to you, Dad, but I appear to be on a Grand Tour of everywhere you never wanted me to go, and it would be nice if I knew something about the places I'm being teleported and chased and flown and dragged and shadowstepped to.)

(Just kidding about the shadowstepping. So far, anyway.)

So where was I? Phrasom. I'm not sure what happened with Maggie while we were in the slaver pens; we all got crammed into one big cage, and she went somewhere else. But Bjartald found a Gorevyish priest who spoke enough Heartlander to tell us more than we wanted to know about the slavers' plans for us: they were going to whack off Shariel's fingers and cut out her tongue, then sell her as a pleasure-toy, ship Bjartald off to die in a mine, and send me and Urgoth to their gladiatorial arenas. Apparently there's a big market for female gladiators. They didn't think I'd last long, and I wasn't sure whether to be terrified or offended.

Those plans ended up being useful to us, though. They weren't going to mutilate Shariel until a buyer showed interest (because maybe somebody would want to buy an intact wizard, for the excitement of keeping her from killing him? I don't even know), and the mine overseers only come once a month, so those two were safe for the moment. Urgoth and I, not so much, but when they moved us into a different pen with the other would-be gladiators, I found myself truly grateful, for the first time, that you guys really do have friends
everywhere
. This old guy in the pen (not a gladiator himself, but a trainer) turned out to be Ba Xiue -- you know, the Lunggarian mercenary you guys helped escape the geas put on him by his employer? Somehow he recognized Martin in Urgoth's face (don't ask me how), and once all the "hey, how's your father doing, oh I'm sorry to hear his orcish romance didn't work out" formalities were done with, Ba Xiue helped us get a message to Maggie.

Whereupon we proved to the slavers that sticking all the would-be gladiators into one pen is a
really
bad idea, even if you don't give them weapons. Where there's a will, there's a way to kill people.

After Maggie picked the lock on the pen and Urgoth led the Charge of the Pissed-Off Prisoners, we were pretty close to home free -- for values of "home" that put us on the wrong side of the continent from the actual holder of that title. Sure, some of the guards got away, and sure, they put the entire standing army of Phrasom into the streets, but Ba Xiue's apparently been itching to lead a rebellion, so we let him get on with that, and got out while we could. Aside from the weird tentacled beastie some conjurer sent after our party, we had a relatively easy time escaping Lunggar.

Once we were in Bhuvak, we started looking for a boat to take us to someplace we'd rather be. Which was pretty much anyplace other than Lunggar or the Dragontrap, at that point. But, well, you know pirates, and I don't mean Cousin Eddie, either. And according to Shariel, the storm that caught us while we were fleeing the pirates wasn't normal, it was some kind of magic thing -- I didn't understand her explanation, but it has something to do with a wizard casting a dimensional spell under the wrong conditions during a storm? Judging by what it did to us, it's the same thing you guys ran into when you were on vacation in Asterrhion. Thanks to your stories, I knew enough to keep me and the others from being ripped into bite-sized pieces -- though not all of the sailors were so lucky. Of course, the downside to the stories is that I also knew enough to dread what would happen after that. Sometimes ignorance is bliss, or at least better than the alternative.

Dammit, Abu etc won't give me more paper. Sorry for tiny scribble. Will mail this on other side of desert. More later.

Mostly in one piece,

Cayce

Dear Mom and Dad,

Sorry about that gnomish amulet; you must have had kittens when you realized it wasn't working anymore, and it's been a while since my last letter. No need to worry, though; I'm out of Wayyir and into a civilized land, with both mail service and an abundant supply of paper, and while the royal bodyguards did cut the amulet out of my hip, they brought a priest to heal me afterward. We're not only being well taken care of, we're being
pampered
, and let me tell you, it is so very nice after everything we've been through. Contrary to what you told me during those less-than-adequate geography lessons, Dad, Ahuatepec is not actually a bad place.

It's changed since you chased Fellshadow's mist-assassin here. They tell me there was a palace coup about ten years ago, and the priests don't run the show anymore. The new queen is very nice, and they get so few visitors from outside that we're being treated as if we were royal ambassadors. It's kind of like being on vacation, except for the hummingbird-sized mosquitoes.

I seem to be the only person who's not sure what to do with my vacation, either. Urgoth's trying to eat his body weight at least once a day -- which is not as much as you might think; we've been on short rations for way too long now, and I don't blame him for making up the difference while he can. Bjartald is alternating between sleeping and sampling the local corn beer with a couple of fellow priests. Shariel, who appears to have misunderstood the concept of "relaxation," is attempting to pack five years' worth of magical education into her head, courtesy of this smoking young sorceress who's figured out that arcana's the quickest route to Shariel's affections -- if she can get her to put the books down for ten minutes. Maggie . . . best not to talk about how Maggie's been keeping herself amused.

Hopefully this convinces you that, despite me being in Ahuatepec, I'm not in dire peril, at least not at the moment. With that out of the way, then, let me get back to the dimensional storm.

I can't remember where you guys ended up after Asterrhion, but it seems that for once we were luckier than you. Call the residents of Dibirvedne barbarians if you like -- which they are; raw reindeer meat, ugh -- but their shamans know all about dealing with astral creatures. They were a bit surprised when we showed up out of nowhere, but it only took them about three days to figure out how to reverse the storm's effects and convert our bodies back into something physical. (Though Bjartald complains that he still doesn't feel entirely solid.) We therefore got to skip the stage where everyone goes batshit crazy -- except maybe Maggie, but really, with her, who can tell?

I won't bother writing up what happened after that, since Jass presumably passed along a summary after we showed up at his thieves' guild in Les Leyasulas. (The ice giant was pretty cool, though. Even if it was kind of a piddling giant, compared to the one you killed outside Irix Fellshadow's glacier-citadel.) Jass did give me the requested earful from you two about the lack of letters -- but hey, how was I supposed to know Shariel's messages home were expurgated to the point of uselessness? I thought Liraiel was telling you everything. (Don't listen to a word Jass said about what we went on during our visit, though. I ask you, who's the bigger idiot: the supposedly responsible elder brother who left the watch commander in the town square wearing nothing but a few parrot feathers and impersonating a chicken, or his sister who is totally not at fault for some random were-rat thief falling in love with her?)

Anyway, in Les Leyasulas we decided it was time to start acting like grown-up adventurers. You and Helga and Martin and Liraiel gave us epic tomes full of advice on how to start our adventuring careers, but we were kind of past our bandit-and-goblin days. And we were tired of being flung all over the map for no reason other than a frantic attempt not to die. (Though I finally understand your favorite proverb, Dad, about how real rangers don't bother with maps. It isn't because we have flawless direction sense; it's because you never end up where you planned to go.) We wanted a mission, and found what sounded like a good one: some kind of warlord troubling the dwarves in the Cwrelyn Isles. It was a chance to save something other than our own hides for once, so off we went.