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Unwilling to Acquiesce – Part 26


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#1 Guest_No One of Consequence_*

Posted 24 June 2003 - 06:22 AM

Nalia leads the party through dark corridors in the keep’s depths, with only her magically conjured light to guide them. After a time, they stop at solid looking door with a heavy lock made of iron. Nalia touches her fingers to the lock and from the other side comes the sound of a bolt being withdrawn.

“No key?” asks Yoshimo, curious.

“No,” agrees Nalia. “This door only opens for members of my family, direct descendants of the of the line. Even my aunt cannot open this door.”

Beyond the magically locked door, the party finds themselves in a simple looking smithy, as would be maintained by any village blacksmith. There is a forge, with a black iron hood; two stone troughs full of water, fed by terracotta pipes from a well somewhere else in the castle; there is a pile of straw and another of fine sand. The only unusual feature is the long line of arcane runes carved into the bricks around the top of the forge’s firepit. These are not noticeable however, until Nalia approaches the forge. When she does, the coals of the firepit begin to glow and quickly reach a working temperature, as though tended by an unseen smith. The glow of the flames picks out the etched runes, like shadows cast against the rock.

“This is the only place where the Flail of Ages can be reforged,” Nalia explains as she stares into the blazing coals. Her expression is melancholy. “Father always said that it was as much an heirloom of our house as the Flail itself. The magic empowers it to do the forging itself, and no mortal hand can work this forge.”

Taking hold of the three flail heads, Nalia places them on the forge. Unseen forces draw the heads into the red hot coals. From a place by the side of the forge a rod of iron and a length of steely chain rise up of their own accord and also enter the flames.

“Astonishing,” murmurs Anomen, mesmerised by the sight of the magic forge at work. Everyone watches the flames, the ruddy light dancing over their fascinated faces. The roar of the fire is like a great wind and from within the blazing coals, the sound of metal being beaten and forged rings like an irregular chime.

Gradually, the fires fade, the coals cool and the only light in the smithy is Nalia’s conjuration. From the fading flames, the completed Flail of Ages rises up and floats out from the forge to one of the stone troughs. It plunges into the cold water, jets of steam hissing upward from the contact. Then it emerges again, glittering and complete. Each of the three magical heads gently glows with a mystical radiance, one red, one blue and one green. The weapon has an aura of unmistakable power, as it floats serenely through the air to Nalia, who grips it by the handle.

“Impressive,” says Yoshimo.

“Indeed,” agrees Anomen. “Magnificent.”

“Not worth dying for, though,” says Nalia glumly.

“Few things are,” says Adamant. Nalia thrusts the haft of the Flail into the sash of her robe.

“We should leave I think,” she says. “There’s so much to put right.”

The companions make their way out of the mystical smithy and back up through the castle.

----

Adamant plunges his head into the water of the horse trough, shaking it about under the surface for a moment. Then he stands straight, his long blonde hair flicking out from the water and whipping across his shoulders. Trails of water flow down his armour, turning a sickly green as they wash away much of the troll blood smeared on the steel plates. Anomen and Jaheira likewise wash themselves with water from the trough, though Anomen is much more fastidious in his attentions to his armour, using some wetted straw to scour off the majority of the troll blood.

The companions stand in the warmth of the afternoon sun for time, enjoying the clear air and bright light. From the rooftop somewhere a magpie calls to its mate, the sweet warbling echoing across the bailey. The guard are all inside the castle proper, ensuring that all of the trolls are gone, and their yuan-ti masters with them. The keep’s main door swings open and the Lady Delcia De’Arnise emerges into the light for probably the first time since the keep was taken. She wears a dress of silk and lace in the De’Arnise house colours. Behind her a maidservant carries a parasol over her Lady’s head and the Lady’s bodyguard also comes in attendance, his armour and surcoat showing no signs of having been involved in the day’s combats.

Also with the Lady De’Arnise is slender man with thin brown hair and a neatly styled moustache. He wears a green and white surcoat, with no armour. Although he wears a sword at his belt, he has no sense of a military bearing; he looks rather like a young boy playing at soldiers.

“Isaea Roenall,” Nalia says under her breath at the sight of him. It is as though his name to her is a curse. The two nobles stride regally over the muddy ground towards the companions.

“There you are Nalia,” calls Delcia. “You must come now and thank Lord Isaea, my dear.”

“Thank him for what?” asks Nalia, somewhat perplexed.

“Oh come now, dear,” replies Delcia. “Let us not fight like this, here in front of our guest and saviour.” Her aunt’s words seem to make no sense to Nalia who looks back and forth between Lord Roenall and the Lady Delcia, trying to divine their meaning.

“It’s quite alright, Nalia darling,” says Lord Isaea, his voice smooth and sweet, like treacle. “There’s no need to make a big show of thanks. As your fiance, what else would I have done but come to your rescue.”

“To her rescue?” asks Jaheira. Isaea turns to her in surprise, as if he has only just noticed the presence of Nalia’s adventuring companions. Like a parent indulging a spoilt child, he smiles and answers Jahiera’s question.

“Why, of course; it was my men who stormed the castle and drove off the dreadful beasts.” Isaea’s face is calm and happy as he makes this claim. The fact that he is neat, clean and looks as if he has just stepped from his tailor’s salon, while the companions are encrusted in the muck and blood of recent battle only serves to make his claim seem all the more ridiculous as well as false. However, Lady Delcia is completely in accord with Isaea Roenall’s version of events.

“Gods alone know what would have happened if Lord Isaea had not courageously come to the rescue, Nalia,” says Delcia.

“Come to the rescue?” asks Nalia, incredulous.

“Why yes, dear. Of course.”

“Lady De’Arnise,” says Adamant patiently, interceding as gently as he can after his previous outburst. “Your family’s own house guard retook the castle, after we opened the gate for them.”

“Poppycock!” retorts Delcia.

“Lady you were there,” says Anomen in a pleading tone, astonished at this overturning of the truth. “We escorted you to safety.”

“Listen,” interrupts Isaea. “Obviously you freebooters feel that you played some part in the liberation of our lands and I am magnanimous enough to allow that. Perhaps we can find some appropriate compensation.”

“You are too kind,” says Jahiera, sarcastically.

“Our lands?” asks Nalia.

“Well of course, my dear. With your father dead we must marry as soon as possible, or else brigands may hear of your family’s weakness and take advantage. Our marriage will bring your lands under the protection of the House of Roenall. I love you too much to see your lands suffer like this.”

“Could your house not offer its protection regardless?” asks Adamant. Isaea whirls on him angrily, the constant questioning obviously wearing his patience thin.

“What advantage would there be to House Roenall then? Why should I bother?” he asks.

“Is your professed love not reason enough?” asks Adamant, a mocking half-smile playing across his lips.

“Nalia, Lord Isaea is your fiance and you must marry him as soon as possible,” Lady Delcia declares stridently. “I insist that you do it! Then we can rid our lands of these accursed bandits and their interference.” She is looking at Adamant as she says this.

“I don’t want to marry him,” protests Nalia.

“I does not matter, he is your fiance. It’s all been decided.”

“Even before the trolls came on hand, it would seem,” says Jaheira. She looks to Adamant and what passes silently in their eyes tells her that he too is beginning to suspect something unspeakably nefarious.

“Nalia, we are engaged and I insist that you fulfil your commitment,” demands Isaea.

“A point of order, Lord Roenall,” says Anomen, using his voice to convey authority like a trained orator. “As Lady Nalia is now the head of the De’Arnise household, she is entitled by law to choose her own spouse.”

“Bah!” says Isaea, almost spitting in disgust. “Of what consequence is that. Whom else would she marry? You? Hah!” Isaea’s words have some sort of effect on Anomen, like dawn spreading across the darkened land.

“Lady Nalia,” he says, turning to face her directly. “You know that by law you may choose your own husband?”

“Yes,” says Nalia, nodding. Her eyes portray a desperation, like a rabbit cornered by wolves, and she listens eagerly to Anomen’s every word.

“Then I propose a marriage of convenience,” continues Anomen. “My blood is not as noble as yours, but I am not so low born for such a marriage to be a scandal for you. We could present a picture of stability for your lands’ sake and then, after a convenient time, you could divorce me. You could say that you were releasing me to pursue my vows to the order and I swear by Helm that I would not contest it.” There is an earnestness in Anomen’s voice that is undeniable. No one listening could deny his honesty.

“But a marriage would ruin your advancement,” protests Nalia. “The order frowns on it, do they not.”

“Somewhat,” Anomen concedes. “But regardless, I would do this, for you.” Nalia and Anomen look into each other’s eyes, he eager to convince her of his honesty and honour, she desperate to believe.

“This is preposterous,” mocks Isaea. “Nalia, you cannot marry this merchant’s boy!”

“She may do as she wishes,” snaps Anomen. Nalia draws strength from Anomen and she smiles, gently.

“My love of this land died with my father,” she says quietly. “I cannot marry you Anomen, but neither will I marry you Isaea. Auntie, you have always wanted to govern our lands, now is your chance. I leave them in your hands. I have all the family I need here and my home shall be the road.”

Nalia turns away from her aunt and walks towards the gatehouse. Anomen turns and walks with her, followed closely by Yoshimo.

“You cannot deny me like this,” declares Isaea, his face black with rage. He begins to pursue Nalia, but Adamant catches him by the arm, pulling him up short. “Unhand me, you common beast. I’ll have you flogged for this impudence.”

Adamant pulls Isaea close to him, their faces barely an inch apart. His steel-shod fingers dig painfully into the nobleman’s flesh. “Torgal and his gang were very talkative, for trolls,” Adamant hisses. “Loquacious even. You may wish to attend to your own business and let the Lady Nalia be.”

Isaea Roenall pales visibly at the mention of Torgal’s name. He struggles in Adamant’s grip and, when the paladin releases him, staggers backward , almost slipping over in the mud. He and Adamant exchange stares for a moment and then the young paladin follows his companions to the castle gate, Jaheira walking with him.

“Men like him do not easily give up,” says Jaheira quietly.

“More fool him!”




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