7th Day of Fireseek, 566 CY

The Brass Dragon Inn, Furyondy

Aslan and Argo materialized about ten feet in front of the Brass Dragon's front door.

The paladin immediately fell to his knees.


Aslan had been trying and trying to teleport from The Lone Heath for the past fifteen minutes before his Talent had replenished to the point where it was finally possible to do so, and the mental strain had exhausted him, as well as supplying him with an unwanted headache.

He was still able to see Caroline, whom he had returned to the inn yesterday along with Cygnus, rush forward to embrace her husband. The paladin also saw both mages, as well as Elrohir, Nesco and Tojo run up to himself and help the paladin to his feet.

Aslan didn't have to say a word.

The fresh wounds he saw on his friends, covered by blood-stained bandages were all the proof he needed.


"Aslan! We're under attack!"

Those four words, telepathically communicated through the mental link he had established with Elrohir, had elicited terror in the paladin's heart that he had long thought himself immune from.

Aslan had just finished dropping off Caroline Bigfellow back off at the inn the previous day, after doing the same with Cygnus several minutes earlier. His Talent was almost totally depleted.

And whomever had just launched an assault on his friends knew that.

They knew exactly when to strike.


Aslan knew who it was of course and had immediately informed his team leader of that fact. Unfortunately, Elrohir was already lost inside Dogai's fog cloud by that time, so this information was of limited use.

The paladin had to restrain himself from mentally shouting battle suggestions to Elrohir. He'd learned his lesson back in Gryrax with Elrohir's fight with the outcast Dumovar, and so had limited his questions and comments to those times when Elrohir had communicated an update or question to him through the telepathic channel.

It was possibly the hardest wait Aslan had ever had to endure in his life. Despite the fact that he knew Mr. Goth needed his quarry alive in order to draw their blood from them, he'd chosen early on not to inform Elrohir of that fact.

He hadn't wanted that information to risk tempting any of his friends into trying reckless actions because of that- particularly Nesco and Zantac, who not being among Kar-Vermin's killers, could be dispatched without concern by their foes.

Perhaps that was the reason he was trembling so badly when Nesco threw herself into his arms and held on tight, not saying a word.


"So that's it."

Elrohir's statement, delivered with the ring of finality as the octet sat in the Tall Tales room later, nursing both wounds and drinks, seemed to convey something extra to the paladin; something he was not sure any of the others had picked up on.

An accusatory undertone.

"Yes," Aslan mumbled, not meeting the ranger's gaze. "It looks like the Hierarchs now have another of the ingredients they need for their unholy ritual."

There was a short silence, which was broken by Cygnus who, after a short glance at Caroline, recited again the stanza from her dream.

"The soul shell of a servant. What is a ceremony without a feast?

The blood of his slayers, for he himself has only dust to offer.

The eye of a descendant, so that he may see clearly what he has wrought.

Memories among the stones, so no sin be forgotten.

The power behind his mirror, for his reflection already rests here with us.

And the soul itself, born again into the Joy of the twice-damned."

Another silence followed, longer this time.


"We know the Hierarchs have the first two," Argo Bigfellow Junior said at length.

"Perhaps the third, as well."

The following silence was not as long as the preceding ones, but every eye present locked onto Cygnus and stayed there.

The magic-user, however, said nothing else.

"Another theory, Cygnus?" Elrohir eventually asked.

The tall mage, looking (it seemed to the party leader) thoughtful, grim and unsettled in equal measure, nodded slightly but only said, "Something I need to mull on further. Let's just assume Schkall has that one and move on."

"Memories among the stones," mused Argo. "Sounds like a mawkish bard's tune."

A knock on the door interrupted their thoughts.

"Enter," Elrohir called out.

The door opened a few inches, just enough for the sallow face of their latest server (Cameron, Elrohir thought, who was determined that he would no longer not spend the mental effort required to learn their names)

The teenager, who was about Caroline's age, seemed apprehensive.

"Good sirs," Cameron stated, clearing his throat. "I know you are loathe to be disturbed whilst here, but a visitor is demanding to see you. Says he has travelled over a hundred leagues to do so, and he will not be dissuaded."

"What does he look like?" asked Aslan, frowning.

"Well for starters," came a rough voice from somewhere behind the server, "he's got ears enough to hear you lot from halfway to Willip!"

Eight individuals looked at each other with mutual expressions of recognition, and then jumped to their feet and bolted for the door. Cameron, a look of shock on the young man's face, leapt aside in the nick of time.


"Good to see you again, Wayne!"

Wainold glowered at Argo Bigfellow Junior as he downed the last of his complimentary mug of Celene Ruby that the Tri-Worldians had provided him with.

"Time makes fools of us all, but you've always had a head start on that, Bigfellow," the druid snarled at the big ranger. "Not that I'm much better; wasting precious time just to fly here and check on this sorry lot!"

Wainold finished by looking around at the others standing around him just outside the front door of the Brass Dragon. The druid's hazel eyes lingered on their fresh wounds.

"I'd ask how fortune is favoring you, but I can see it's about the same as usual," he finished by shaking his head in exasperation.

"You mentioned precious time," Elrohir reminded the druid. "What brings you up north, Wainold?"

"Business in Willip," Wainold answered vaguely, brushing aside any further inquiries with a hand gesture. "Nothing to concern you lot; just thought I'd touch base while I'm here."

"Well," said Nesco, smiling at him, "I for one am always happy to see you, Wainold. You've given us aid we can never repay."

If the ranger's praise had any effect on Wainold, the druid covered it up effectively with a shrug and a grunt.

Caroline Bigfellow, currently at the rear of the group, stepped forward.

"Wainold," she asked timidly. "May I ask for your interpretation of something?"

The druid listened, stone-faced, as a trembling Caroline described her nightmare, including the stanzas from her dream.

Wainold said nothing for a full minute after Lady Bigfellow had finished.

Then he turned to her husband.

"Get me another drink."


The octet, along with their guest, were back in the Tall Tales Room as per Wainold's hissed instructions. The druid was just finishing up his second glass of Celene Ruby.

He then turned to look at the party and again shook his head in exasperation.

"First Orcus and now Dispater?" he said in as close to an astonished tone as anyone present had ever heard from him. "Do you people like annoying the Rulers of the Lower Planes?"

No one thought this was a genuine question in search of an answer, so no one did.

Wainold sighed.

"Well," he began, "I don't want to see that lich come back anymore than you do, so-"

"Do you think we should just destroy this Schkall beforehand, instead of playing catch-up with his shopping list?" Elrohir abruptly interjected.

There was another pause, during which both Wainold and the other seven people present all looked at the Aardian ranger.

"You should," scowled Wainold, "but you can't. You're not up to that, even with my help- which you're not going to get this time. Suicide isn't on my shopping list, so your only option is to move first and move fast. From what I gather, you only need to stop these Hierarchs from acquiring any one of these items to bring their whole plan to a screeching halt."

Elrohir looked crestfallen but said nothing.

"You have an idea what this memory among the stones might be?" inquired Zantac.

"Maybe," replied Wainold. "It sounds like it might be referring to obliviax."

The druid looked at the party with a smug expression but Argo cut him off before he could resume with an explanation.

"That's what they call memory moss, isn't it?"


Wainold's expression held one part amazement that anyone among his audience would have known this, and three parts annoyance that the person in question was Argo Bigfellow Junior.

"Guess you're not useless after all, Bigfellow," he said grudgingly. "You've seen it?"

"I haven't," Argo admitted, "but my father once told me that in his youth he and some friends on a quest encountered a gold dragon named Auruma in the Grandwood Forest, and in the course of their conversation the dragon told them about obliviax- the moss that steals memories."

Wainold grunted an acknowledgement.

"It grows only in old forests or swamps," the druid said. "In small patches, maybe three to four feet across at most. It's dark as moss goes- most say it looks like tar or pitch. It literally steals the memories of anyone who comes near it- only the last days' worth, from what I hear- can't be sure of that, though. From all accounts I know of, the stolen memories soon return, but the obliviax retains its stolen copy."

"Why would this Schkall want that?"

"Anyone who eats this moss- and who doesn't die of poisoning in the process- gains the memories of every creature the obliviax has stolen them from. Spells even, if any of them were wizards."

Cygnus and Zantac exchanged uneasy looks.

Wainold stroked his beard, which was currently in the shape of a postiche, while thinking.

"Someone had knowledge of, or important information about, Kar-Vermin," he mused. "Someone whose memories were then stolen by this moss."

"This person now dead," Tojo spoke up for the first time. "Otherwise, Hierarchs track them down. Much easier finding person than finding one piece of moss in ho forest."

The others, considering this, nodded in agreement.

"This seems hopeless," Nesco felt constrained to point out. "Not only would finding this one particular piece of moss in an entire swamp or forest be a miracle, we don't even know which swamp or forest to search!"

"Maybe we do," Elrohir said quietly.

The other Tri-Worldians eyed their leader quizzically, but the ranger and the druid were exchanging somber looks.

"Kar-Vermin had several lairs while here on Oerth," Wainold said after a moment, "but his main one was in the Suss."

"I've seen that forest labeled on our map," Aslan said after a moment. "It's just south of the Welkwood, isn't it?" His eyes narrowed at Wainold. "Your territory."

"Not anymore, paladin," Wainold replied brusquely. "Another druid has responsibility for it now. I'm what you might call a freelancer these days." A slight if sardonic grin creased the druid's weathered face, before he turned back to Elrohir, a hard cast to his expression again.

"I'll tell you where you can start searching, but that's it," the druid snapped. "I've got business of my own to attend to here. I'll keep in touch with you as I can."

"Here," he added before rising from his chair with a slight groan.

He began casting healing spells on the party.

"Thank you, Wainold," said Aslan, his expression of gratitude as bright as midsun. "This means more than-"

"Save it," the druid cut in, his expression grim. "You'll all be bloody again soon enough."


An hour later, the party had bid Wainold farewell and begun making lists of what they would need to bring on their forthcoming expedition, which party members Aslan would be teleporting first and so on, when once again there was a knock on the door to the Tall Tales Room.

"Another visitor?" asked Nesco.

"I'm hoping its Alias," Cygnus said. "This is going to be extraordinarily dangerous, even by our standards. We could use all the help we can get."

"I'll cast a vote for either Yenom or Gastar myself," said Argo with a wide grin.

"Enter," said Elrohir again.

The door opened, but it wasn't Cameron- or any other member of their staff.

The man in full plate armor who stood before them was instantly recognizable as an officer in the Royal Army of Furyondy by the standard on his tabard.

They all stared at him.

It was Nesco Cynewine whose eyes went to the man's face first, partially hidden by the visor he wore.

"Sir Juntaros?" she breathed.

"My lady," the knight responded with inclined head. "Always agreeable to see you again."

Despite the quick smile that graced his face, it was immediately evident that Juntaros was here on business.

"Aslan the Paladin," the royal knight announced in a loud, ringing voice that carried through the open door to the common room, causing all conversation outside the room to cease at once.

Aslan's blood ran cold.

"You are hereby summoned to return with our patrol, to assume your duties and responsibilities to the Kingdom of Furyondy and to its sovereign as stated in your sworn oath of fealty."

The others all turned to Aslan, but the paladin didn't need to say the next words he did.

They all knew this day would come someday, but their memories hadn't been stolen by memory moss.

They, even Aslan, had simply chosen to forget.

"Future Services," the paladin said with a heavy look to his friends, "have come due."