Varnae (Chapter 14)

Template:Varnae nav Dear Diary,

Upon my return to camp this evening, Deckard Cain informed me of two things. Some of the jewelry I freed from the clutches of the Claw Vipers was of Horadric make -- is there any kind of enchanted craftsmanship those old busybodies did not engage in? One of the pieces may be the headpiece for the staff I already found, and could be reunited with its shaft using the Horadric Cube. More interestingly, Jerhyn wished to see me, and left clear instructions that I was to come to his palace at once. A welcome change, that. At least he has sense enough not to linger about the tavern door like a quean awaiting her special fellow.

My instruction (despite his rank, I cannot call it a command) was to go at once. So, I made my leisurely way back to the Desert Rain. The innkeeper keeps a "lost and found" of random detritus other guests left behind as they hurriedly made their way out of town; I had nothing better to do, so I went through the pile. Most of it had been cast aside with good reason, but tossed behind a weather-beaten croquet set -- why was that here, anyway? -- was a thing of beauty. While I had heard of demon skulls being used as helmets, much like the nest of demon bones I was using as a shield, I never would have guessed that the result could be so aesthetically pleasing. I normally do not favor such "barbaric" splendor, but as they say, live and learn. A healthy bribe convinced the innkeeper I was the original owner (memory is so fallible.) The helm is enchanted too, but I almost don't care.

I was still admiring myself when Jerhyn's guardsmen retrieved me. I do hope he'll be angry, any proper sultan should be. No, he isn't; he's consumed with fear. All my hopes for he and his kingdom are dashed. A leader should never, EVER be seen as afraid, especially when he is. Ah... the truth comes out.

The city has been under attack from three directions all this time. There were those outside the walls, and those who infiltrated the sewer -- those Jerhyn could not hide from his people. Those inside his palace he could hide, and did. Lut Gholein was built atop a Vizjerei fortress, which would explain the underground tunnels and waypoints. Down in a deep palace cellar is a dimensional gate, (!) which has sat quietly for centuries. A short while ago, a visiting Vizjerei of doubtful sanity asked to examine the gate alone. (!!) Jerhyn granted this request without a second thought. (!!!) The sorcerer disappeared, and the gate began to function again, disgorging wave after endless wave of demons into the palace.

Lord Jerhyn's harems -- apparently quite sizable -- were put to the sword. The two palace guardsmen who retrieved me so efficiently are the last two he has. By tonight, they will be gone as well, unless something is done. There will be no rest for the wicked tonight. The Lord of Terror, if he awaits my pleasure, will have to wait some more. More likely, Lordling Jerhyn's deceitful cowardice has cost me the race. Jerhyn is asking... nay, begging me to stop the demons and their sorcerous master; any and all valuables I can haul away will be mine without question. Of course, I would have done this regardless. In all this desert, where else but here could I sleep and store my things? Odd -- having a mighty lord offer me the jewels of his crown and the wealth of his kingdom should be delightful, yet all I want to do is slap him for wasting my time.

At least on the upper floor, Jerhyn has little wealth to pick over. Most likely, it's all lining the mercenary captain's purse. There is a strange wanted poster in the guard quarters:

WANTED: Tearlach

Height: Bigger than his britches

Weight: Always thrown around

Eyes: Full of primal rage

Hair: May be cause of primal rage

Sex: Not in this lifetime

Distinguishing features: Frozen orbs

On charges of:

Assault, nasal: first degree

Creating a public nuisance

Female abuse

Conduct unbecoming to the king of the world

Reward! Call LGPD for more information. Keep our city clean.

What a thoroughly unpleasant brute this must have been. So glad he's nowhere to be found. Downstairs, the lord's personal quarters were almost empty, stripped of their ornaments and valuables. Below that lay the harem, as opulent as legend. There is a kind of madness in the decoration of harem rooms -- the colors must be bright and clashing, the textures shining yet soft, with all manner of patterns juxtaposed in every combination. The effect may seem overdone, but one must remember that "dignified understatement" is not a phrase associated with harems. The harem is a celebration of excess, in which a powerful man may flee harsh reality into a fever dream of carefree abandon and suckle at the teat of self-indulgence. If good taste is also abandoned at the threshold, so be it.

None of this is to imply, of course, that I would voluntarily spend time here, especially not as things are. My preferred forms of self-indulgence are... different from those of the common man, let us say, and even under more sanguine circumstances I would not favor the harem's charms. Hmm... perhaps I should say LESS sanguine; the whole palace is literally soaked in the blood of dozens of women. I have never seen so many in one place, all cut down in their prime. A lesser number of palace guardsmen lay among them. Some clearly died "with their boots on," (despite the local lack of closed footwear) while others were taken alive and died, quite miserably, a short time later.

Then, there is the enemy: Desert Raiders, and enormous fat giants with tiny pin heads. From my studies, I seem to recall creatures called "Urdar" by the lords of Hell, and these beings fit the description well. Slow and flabby, Urdar are very strong, but not nearly as powerful as they are heavy; a quick opponent will run them in circles, and forceful thrusts penetrate their layers of fat easily. I find poison works very well on them, perhaps because their hearts are already overtaxed by their lumbering exertions. In addition to living foes, skeletons from the sultan's own basement crypt are present in extraordinary numbers, all with bows or magical enchantments. The curse of Attraction works wonders for distracting their attention in open areas, such as the large dance arena which occupies the center of the harem.

Both the harem and the cellars beneath feature plenty of iron grillwork, which the skeleton mages and archers are fond of using to their advantage. Of course, I find this feature to my advantage as well, again for the curse of Attraction. Creating dissension in the ranks of my enemies is such a simple pleasure.

I have just noticed something very odd: the cellar stairs are in the corners of each basement level, but not in matching corners. I went downstairs in the northeast corner of one level, but arrived in the northwest corner of the level below, and the stairway was not nearly long enough to traverse such a distance. Excepting the current inhabitants, these cellars are utterly mundane; the plain sandstone walls and stored household junk hint at nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps this is a relic of the Vizjerei, who were fond of reality-flopping tricks in their days of greatness. Under the pretense of making the illusory nature of earthly reality clear to lesser intellects, the Vizjerei went to a great deal of effort to play tricks on men's senses. Myself, I think it likelier that they wanted to make everyone else look stupid, a bit of adolescent pridefulness one often finds in intellectual wizards, especially those who boastfully claim to be above such things.

The cellars have been cleared; that was dull. The dimensional gate (that is what it is, there can be no doubt) is classic Vizjerei work: two silver spires crossed like an X, with a solar disk spinning freely in space between the upper branches. Naturally, the gate itself occupies the space between and under the spires, and is low enough that one must bow to enter -- the sorcerous desire to humble those who take advantage of their devices, no doubt.

I have just gone through the gate, into a wondrous new dimension! This place is absolutely fantastic! If only I had time to study it, curse the fate that makes haste so necessary. So much knowledge is slipping through my fingers like water, and I can only let the merest taste of it touch my lips. This must have been built by Vizjerei, there can be no doubt. A mere physical description must do: marble pathways hang suspended in an endless starry void, lit by classic Balrog braziers. Slender silver columns and spires guard the corners, the orange light of endless fires dancing across their cold surfaces. Perhaps sorcerers are not wholly unworthy: they did decorate their sanctums with great style. This understated elegance is positively rejuvenating after the sumptuous overripeness of the harem.

The creatures of this strange dimension are completely unlike those in the palace. Though I found no other way into the cellar, I find it difficult to believe that the palace demons came from here. Our old friends the Goat Men are putting in an appearance, and Vampires like those who served Andarial. Ghosts are abundant, though I have no idea if they are "native" to this place or were summoned from afar. Clearly, these are some of Terror's favorites. No matter; I know them well enough not to fear them.

Whoever made this dimension must have been very powerful indeed; I have found one of his treasuries. Never before have I seen so many rare things, precious jewels and adornments. For defense, this unknown architect adapted decorative spires to a new use: by placing a triad of tines at the apex and suspending a ball of electrical energy within, he created a trap of lightning, like the fire towers in the desert necropolis. Curiously, these metal spires are vulnerable to poison, while the stone fire towers were not.

I hereby revoke my kind words for sorcerers -- I have had quite enough of this place, thank you very much! A misplaced fondness for optical illusion has led to the creation of the most confusing set of paths imaginable. Wiser architects laugh at plans for impossible buildings and move on; this intellectual imbecile just HAD to show off and make some! At least he only made one section require teleporting through gates; any more of that, and I would have become quite sick to my stomach.

The errant sorcerer who has caused so much mischief is no more. He was hiding on a platform that might once have been a study, wearing the bright ceremonial robes and crown of a high Vizjerei archmage. To put it mildly, he was not worthy of those trappings. A single dagger thrust, applied simply and directly, put an end to his delusions: like a moth too close to the flame, he crumbled and vanished in a puff of smoke. The platform where he sought succor is obviously a place of power. Six strange sigils dance in empty space, and a pile of books awaits my perusal.

Oh, I should have known! One of the books is a journal, identifying this dimension's maker: Horazon, archmage extraordinaire and the second most egotistical sorcerer of all time. The first was his brother, Bartuc, now a slave to his former slaves down in Hell. I fell to reading it at once -- I love reading other people's diaries. Never my own, though; the scandals of my past lack novelty.

Never let it be said that I have refused to learn from sorcerers; Horazon has taught me a few very important things.

First: the old crank was a hopeless voyeur. He watched, and kept notes on, almost everything that happened during his life. Yet, there is never any note of anything he himself did. Watching seemed to be all he was good for.

Second: only great egotists keep journals. Who else would imagine that anything they think could possibly be worth recording? Thankfully, my personal pride is well-deserved.

Third: For the sake of your readers, don't be dull! Horazon, a born bean-counter if there ever was one, is so wearisome a writer it ought to be a sin for him to put pen to paper. This journal describes some of the juiciest sorcerous follies in history, but I almost nodded off before I found his account of the binding of Baal.

With meticulous detail, Horazon recorded more than anyone would ever want to know about Baal, those arrayed against him, and their final solution to the demon lord problem. The local Horadrim, steeped in their cultural traditions, had their remains mummified and entombed in a small gorge they called the Canyon of the Magi. Coincidentally, the battle to subdue Baal took place nearby, and the soulstone they intended to imprison him in was damaged. The "foremost" of their number, one Tal Rasha, impaled himself with the damaged stone, and both were entombed in a vacant crypt in the canyon. There, the spirits of Tal Rasha and the Lord of Destruction were to wrestle for all eternity, an estimate of the mortal's endurance I find frankly laughable. Horazon offers no opinion, but he does note the location of the canyon, a portal incantation which leads directly there, and which tomb contains our eternal wrestlers. To my astonishment, this detour is the most productive path I could have taken. If only I'd known of it earlier! Jerhyn will have to suffer in some way; I'm sure I can think of something humorous but lingering when I have time to put my mind to it. Perhaps involving boiling oil... or would molten gold be more fitting for a fool of his station?