Hommlet Dark (576 cy)

On The Road To The Slaver's Stronghold

 EPISODE 87/88

I, Silversun of Greyhawk, set quill once more to parchment not in triumph, nor in rest, but in the long, dangerous pause that follows revelation. The ground before us no longer pretends to be wilderness or road—it has declared itself an antechamber to war. Smoke rises where mercy has long since burned away, and every step forward now carries the weight of intention.

What comes next was not born of chance encounters or wandering blades. It was shaped by what we uncovered beneath still water, by what aged before our eyes, and by the quiet understanding that some evils do not wait to be found—they wait to be confronted. The slavers have a fortress. We have knowledge, scars, and the sort of resolve that only comes when retreat stops being an option.

Let this installment be read with steady breath and open eyes. For at anytime the gods are watching. And whether by spell, steel, or catastrophe dressed as destiny, what follows will decide who's god answers in kind—and who's allow one to be reduced to ash and rumor.

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The battlefield, always a battlefield in our wake—not peaceful, always spent. Together with blood and mud, shattered shields lay where courage failed, and the shallow pond at the ruin’s edge had turned the color of old iron. Death had soaked into that water deeply & it had Slash & Dog’s attention.

It was Slash who found it first while wading through the muck, his boot striking something that did not give like stone or root. He cursed softly and bent, hands probing beneath the silt telling Dog to take a look too.

Sensing trouble, I passed them a pair of halberds taken from the cooling hands of dead hobgoblins. Long reach is wisdom when the water hides its teeth. With careful prodding, the shape revealed itself—flat, broad, stubbornly heavy.

A door.
Or a hatch pretending to be one.

We tied a rope to the latch and hitched the other end to the horse. When the beast strained and the door finally broke free, the pond itself seemed to recoil. Water rushed away from the opening, draining just enough to form a recessed ring around the hatch—a crude berm of mud and stone that held the rest of the pond at bay. Whatever had built this place had planned for intrusion.

Before trusting it with living flesh, we trusted it with dead weight.

We lowered a dead hobgoblin down on a rope, letting it sink into the darkness below. The line went slack. After a moment, we hauled the corpse back up. Wet. Limp. Untouched.

That unsettled me more than teeth would have.

Dog volunteered next. He was lowered some fifteen feet before his boots hit bottom. His voice echoed up to us, tight but steady. He described an archway and a door marked with a large skull—its eyes crossed out, defaced with intent.

Terry Or descended to confirm, faith clenched in his grip. Irving followed him down without hesitation. The rest of us stayed topside, watching the hole like it might blink.

Moments later, Dog called up that the door opened easily.

With this information Marawen, Slash & I secured the horse and cart, then we dropped down after them. Dog’s bow glimmered faintly, casting just enough light to reveal a long passage lined with sconces. Terry Or lit the nearest torch—and to our astonishment, every sconce down the corridor flared to life in perfect sequence.

Magic. Old. Confident.

Roughly forty feet west, Terry and Irving reached a “T” intersection—ten feet north and south, both ending in dead stone. Terry invoked his god’s sight and found what the builders left behind: traps on both ends, patient and armed.

Irving pressed where Terry indicated on the south wall.

The corridor exploded in motion. Darts screamed out with enough force that many shattered against the far wall after piercing flesh and armor alike. Once the servants of Cuthbert removed the darts, we noticed the true trick—a door had opened in the south wall.

Terry and Irving advanced, weapons ready.

That was when the dead came for them.

Dozens of zombies surged forward in a reeking wave. Terry Or did not retreat. He raised his holy symbol and called out St. Cuthbert’s name—and reality itself rejected the filth. The undead did not fall.

They were erased.

A second wave followed. It met the same fate.

When the divine light faded, we found ourselves in a sixty-by-sixty chamber. Five pillars lined the south wall, each set with skulls like the one on the door—each socket holding a gem that caught the torchlight like a watching eye. A dry well yawned at the center.

While some inspected the well, I studied the pillars and the south wall. Stone whispered secrets to those who listen. I found the seam of a perfectly balanced secret door.

Slash checked it for traps. Against the odds, it seemed safe.

He opened it.

His scream tore through the chamber, sharp and sudden. His body went rigid as a corpse mid-fall.

Terry and Irving dragged him clear and charged into the room beyond. Dog and I held position, waiting, listening, counting heartbeats.

They shouted back that some fiend lurked within.

They charged.

Dog stepped forward, bow drawn—only to freeze mid-stride, caught by the same paralyzing stare.

Irving closed with the thing and struck it twice with his enchanted mace, bone ringing like a cracked bell. Terry missed his blow. The creature missed in return. Irving swung again but missed and nearly lost his grip entirely.

That’s when Terry Or found his opening. His weapon came down with the weight of judgment, crushing the creature’s skull. It collapsed into dust, leaving behind a crown and a sword resting where it had ruled.

Irving took one look at the items in the pile of dust, frowned, and backed away. We all entered the room & I grabbed the crown while Slash took the sword only then did we truly see the cost of this fight with the vile ghost like entity.

Under the torchlight, Terry looked older—maybe a good 20 years. But Irving… Irving had aged decades in the engagement. Grey hair. A face carved by time. No longer the youthful right hand of St. Cuthbert, but something closer to a shell shocked warrior who refused to kneel.

We returned to the pillared room & Terry Or searched the chamber thoroughly. I quietly removed as many gems from the skulls as I could without incident, noting to myself they appeared to be exactly like the ones on the crown I just grabbed. Irving drank healing potions. Slash checked his instrument with shaking hands. Dog returned to the hatch to ensure no surprises awaited us above.

Finding no more doors, we withdrew from the underground and sealed the pond behind us as best we could.

Dog led us onward, scouting for a place to camp. We traveled miles before suitable ground presented itself. Along the way, Dog halted us—spotting a lone traveler approaching.

A tall human fighter hailed us, longbow in hand & ready. Dog told us to stand down as the stranger approached without hesitation. He spoke slow & warily of his wife taken by slavers. We told him our purpose. We did not mention Lady Morwen. When she revealed herself, neither knew the other. Tension eased. The fighter named himself Kern Blackshield, and he joined our cause gladly.

At dusk, we made camp. Dog hunted and returned with fresh game. We thanked the old gods and the new and ate meat instead of rations.

Rest came slowly.

Just before my final watch, I woke to a sound that did not belong. My eyes opened to see Irving rifling through my pack. I was on him in an instant—boot to ribs, staff ready—waking the camp in a breath.

“We must destroy chaos!” he spat.

“This,” I snapped back, “is what the Lion of Cuthbert does to friends when they sleep?”

The party answered for him. Even Terry Or, reluctantly, rebuked Irving. Not this way. Not like this.

Sleep returned, thin and uneasy.

We traveled two more days along the slaver road. Smoke rose ahead from a valley. Dog, Slash, and Morwen scouted. Slash returned breathless first—patrol incoming. Then Dog & Marawen returned. The patrol is large & the size unknown they spat.

We hid the cart, released the horses on Kern’s suggestion, entangled the wagon, and climbed to high ground. From there we saw it.

The Slavers’ Stronghold. High walls. Towers. Smoke. Patrols beyond counting.

We had lost sight of the first patrol that was coming down the road. Then Dog pointed out a second patrol that circles the stronghold. Morwen showed us where she escaped—an area the guards believed haunted.

“Maybe we go in that way,” she said.

She named names. Eight leaders. Atrocities poured from her lips like poison.

Plans were spoken. Laughed away. Reconsidered.

And then Terry Or began to chant again, holy symbol catching firelight as he sought St. Cuthbert’s guidance once more.

I wrote this knowing with certainty:

The road ahead does not end in glory or without sorrow.

We will show no quarter to those that benefit from enslaving others.

We will not stop and nothing will hinder us.

Hail hail, fire & snow. 

Call the angel we all  know...

Far away, far to see

Friendly angel come to me.