He was found. The thrice-cursed dragon was here.
With a desperate cry, Jerald grabbed his satchel and burst out of the doorway. Heat and smoke stung his eyes as he sprinted through the burning hamlet with all the strength in his legs. A reptilian screech echoed above, but the town crier could go no faster with the satchel weighing him down. He hurled the bag of notes into a thicket of bushes, planning to retrieve it once the creature was gone. He still had a chance, as long as he could reach the safety of Lake Baerussel’s chilly waters. The lake lay like a black mirror just ahead of him, gleaming with the orange light of the flames, drawing closer with every frantic step.
Then something above Jerald roared, and a startled voice from above screamed a curse. He looked up in time to see something oblong and trailing flames fall from the sky, illuminating a pair of leathery wings and a face that seemed more teeth than scales. The burning projectile hit the ground and erupted in a bloom of white-hot flames that washed over the town crier and drowned out his final scream.
Chapter 1
A tormented howl echoed through the mists of the mire. In the thick fog, the deep wail seemed to come from all directions at once. It carried notes of menace and agony in equal measure; the sort of baying that made night watchmen stand at the ready, prompted children to pull the covers over their eyes, and reminded late-night travelers why inns on the Heath could get away with charging such exorbitant rates.
“Ohhhhhhh…”
Yet the ominous howl held no fear for the robed figures huddled amidst the standing stones. Twelve mossy obelisks rose from the swamp like the jagged teeth of a long-dead titan; six shadowy figures lurked between the stones in a way that suggested said titan could have done better with its flossing. Sconces ringed the stone circle, cradling green flames that danced to the rhythm of the hooded figures’ chant.
“Come… come… come… come…”
As they spoke, the infernal howl became a moan, dropping in pitch even as it grew in volume.
“Ooooohhhhhhh…”
As the moaning approached the circle, the robed figures’ chant changed and accelerated in response.
“Come and see! Come and see! Come and see!”
Now something tall and grotesque was taking shape in the dark mists: a hulking shadow against the moonlit gray. It shuffled its bloated and bulbous form forward on thick legs. Tattered rags covered most of it, but what graying flesh was visible was pocked with boils and open sores. One crimson eye shone from beneath a mass of oily hair. It grinned, its smile like a barricade of sharp, blackened teeth.
“Ohhhhh!” the hag moaned.
One of the congregants, a stout figure in an ill-fitting robe, shuffled aside to part the group and reveal what lay at the center of the ritual circle: a tiny bassinet. The chanting grew in insistent fervor. “Come! Come and partake of thy dark need!”
“Ohhhh!” The monster scuttled into the circle with sudden, unnatural speed, looming over the bassinet. The tiny figure swaddled within shook and whimpered. “Ohhhh… I really shouldn’t!”
“Oh, thou must,” intoned the robed figures. “Partake of thy dark need.”
The bloated monstrosity hovered over the bassinet, talons waving at the ends of her long, spindly arms. “Oh no! I couldn’t,” she croaked. “I been eatin’ too much as is, and I’m supposed to be watchin’ my figure.”
The robed figures intoned the next part of the ritual automatically, “What speakest thou? Thou lookest wondrous. Partake as it pleases thee!”
“Well, I wouldn’t want to be a bother!”
“It is for thou that such was prepared. Partake!”
A hungry light flared in the creature’s eye. “Well, if you insist…”
“Nothing could please us more. Help thyself,” they responded.
A clawed hand peeled back the blanket of the bassinet, revealing a face like a bug-eyed weasel with a skin condition. “Eh?” gasped the hag, reeling back at the sight of an unexpected Kobold scurrying away from the bassinet.
“We got her!” shouted Burt as he fled.
The hag screamed in fury, rearing back. A crackle of dark energy bloomed around her outstretched hand, then dissipated in a flash of silver and crimson as a streak of light rent her palm in two.
“Take her down!” cried Kaitha of House Tyrieth, her hood pulled back to reveal a copper-skinned face framed by auburn locks. The Elven ranger had already nocked and drawn another enchanted arrow.
The hag lashed out in retaliation, a hateful sneer barely covering her jagged teeth. A blast of orange flame interrupted her strike and lit several of her oily rags alight. The creature fell back with a wail, its baleful eye seeking the source of the fire. They fell upon Laruna Trullon, who was already readying another blast of fire.
Sneering, the monster reached for the solamancer with a clawed hand. It drew back when twin flashes of steel severed several of its outstretched talons. Gaist, free of his disguise and wearing his signature black cape and red scarf, launched another flurry of blows with twin short swords.
“This is entrapment!” the hag shrieked. She clutched the stump where her hand had been with her remaining, mangled appendage. “I ain’t eaten no baby! And I wouldn’t ’ave, ’cept you offered!”
“What about teenagers?” shouted Laruna.
The hag’s lone eye had a hunted look. “Only bad ones!” she protested, searching for some sympathy. Finding none, she turned to flee.
Unfortunately for the monster, the other false cultists were joining in the attack now. A cleric in silver armor raised her hand, and an intricate circle drawn in golden light bloomed on the ground around the monster. The lines and runes forming the ring thrummed with power as the monster neared them, and she staggered back as though she had run into a wall.
A robed bard—pink-skinned, sandy-haired and bespectacled—had produced a lute from the depths of his robes and now played with enthusiastic vigor, though beyond his confidence there was no clear sign this was having any effect.
The final cultist, the stout one with the ill-fitting robes, flipped up his arms to throw off his garments. Unfortunately, the uncooperative clothing tangled above his head, and he staggered to the side with a muffled swear, clutching at the billowing fabric uselessly.
His absence made little difference. Swords sang. Silver arrows flashed like lightning amidst clouds of enchanted flame. Holy magic flared with divine light. The lute added ambiance. By the time the unlucky hero finally struggled out of his oversized disguise, the swamp hag was little more than a steaming pile of rags and gore.
“Thrice-cursed bones!” swore Gorm Ingerson, throwing his robes into the muck.
“All right, so it wasn’t great for a first quest back,” Kaitha conceded as the midmorning sun burned the last of the fog away.
“It was a bloody disaster,” Gorm grumbled. The Dwarf perched on a toppled standing stone, nursing a tin mug of coffee and a wounded ego as he watched the guild at work. What had been a ritual ring and then a bloody battlefield was now a labor camp, mere hours after the death of the Swamp Hag of Fenrose Heath. Guild clerks and carters swarmed over the monster’s corpse like ants over a fallen beetle. The workers wore smithing leathers, vented masks, and thick goggles to protect them from noxious fumes and residual sorcery as they searched for every last scrap of loot.
