Joseph L. Selby

 

These events take place preceding Dyv5-01 Setting in the West.

 

            To the north, the Kingdom of Furyondy. To the south, the Archlericy of Veluna. In between? An army of undead, devils, and orcs lead by a dead Raoan Canon-made-lich, the Velverdyva River…and profit.

            The ship Intrepid, out of Maraven, glides up the Velverdyva River, moving like a shadow across the water. The moon is in its monthly state of eclipse and all sources of light have been extinguished on deck. A crew mixed with a variety of unscrupulous humanoids (half-elves, half-orcs, and a few of their full-blooded kin)—all with preternatural vision—navigates using what little light is given by the stars above. Atop the Intrepid’s mast, a great standard of the Free Lands of Dyvers flaps in the night wind. The crew has been ordered to silence in an effort not to disturb the sleeping army to the north, a barrier between the West and the Empire of Iuz. The sailors are on edge, not so much due to the pressure they feel to be silent, but because they know where they’re headed. They’re quickly approaching one of the major tributaries to the Velverdyva, the Fals River. The Fals marks the northern border of Veluna, passing the city of Whitehale and the great Castle Sepher on its journey to the Yatil Mountains. Whitehale used to be the gem of northern Veluna and Castle Sepher a wonder of modern construction, finished only two short years ago. Now, they’re a testament to the horrors that have beset the home of Rao’s chosen people. Overrun by orcs, undead, and innumerable devils. Human life has been extinguished in these cities. No more than a few slaves remain and even they consider themselves dead.

            Veluna has been dealing with raiding orcs for years now. It was a constant threat to their livelihood. But it was only a prelude of the devastation to come. The northern half of the country overrun, the Holy City of Mitrik divided in half, the south belonging to the hellish army, the north still controlled by the Archclericy. But that city is miles away. The Fals River leads to Castle Sepher. There is no Velunan military force there. No adventurers. No Knights of the Hart. Only orcs…and worse.

            The fork arrives and the ship slows to a stop, matching the river’s current. Without a sound, Captain Jyarl—a burly half-orc with large tusks and very few human features—signals to his elven first mate, Aeis. The Dyvers colors are dropped, folded, and stored. Shortly thereafter a new flag rises in the darkness, a red face so horrible as to be confused with no other standard, the banner of Turrosh Mak’s Pomarj and the subjugated Wild Coast. With a wave of his hand, the ship begins to move again, veering due west, off of the Velverdyva and onto the Fals. As the wind dies from the sails, oars reach into the water and force the ship up the river, overpowering its current. The docks of Castle Sepher are not far.

            With the colors switched and the Furyondian coast vanishing in the pitch black of night, the call to silence is ended. “I want to make port before midnight, boys. Put your backs to the oars!” Captain Jyarl howls. “Bring the cargo above decks nice and proper near the gang plank. I want to get our business done with and back home as quickly as possible. I’ll be Vecna’s right eye before I let some ghoul make me his plaything.”

            The sailors snap into action, hauling 12 large crates from the hull of the ship onto the deck. Below, a drum beats a fast tempo and the powerful oarsmen fall into a rhythm. The ship surges forward, slips back, surges forward, and slips back, fighting the current of the Fals. Jyarl turns to his first mate and whispers, “Fools me what an army of undead need with weapons and armor. Let’s make this quick and clean and get back to Maraven as soon as possible. I don’t want to be standing on the docks when those hellspawn realize a dead orc makes a good zombie.”

            The crew works with expert proficiency and the Intrepid sets sail from Castle Sepher only an hour past midnight, hull empty, a sizeable chest of coin and a few magic items the only cargo left on board. Jyarl sighs with relief. He is still waiting for the day when the ship does not return to the waters of Dyvers and he and his crew are added to the mindless rank and file undead of the Velunan invaders. But for now, the job is done. The trip back to Maraven will be quick; sailing with the current always makes things easier. With the moon past its zenith, the wind shifts. It promises to be a short return home.

            Whether his thoughts lingered on the evil he left behind or his good spirits for having survived the encounter distracted him, the half-orc captain is unprepared when a keen-eyed half-elf on the rigging breaks silence and shouts “Sail ho!” Jyarl looks up at the rigging. The sailor is pointing portside. The Intrepid reached the Velverdyva as a large ship flying a Furyondian banner moves to intercept. Jyarl looks aft to see the Dyvers colors finish their assent. Did they see the ship change colors? Would a patrol vessel ever believe that a ship from the Pomarj successfully passed both Greyhawk City and Dyvers unmolested all the way to the Fals?

            “Archers port and aft! Make full sail boys; we make Maraven tonight, Furyondy be damned!” The crewmen begin to whoop and holler as their blood starts to rush. Although sailors by trade, the crew’s orcish instincts tell them to turn and fight. Only Jyarl’s imposing figure standing by the helm keeps order. They grin with satisfaction, though, when they see the captain pull out a longbow that a lesser man could barely heft, much less draw. “Aeis, put some wind in our sails!”

            As the archers take their positions as ordered, Jyarl stomps behind them. “No one fires until I say. First man to disobey is thrown to the crocodiles.” They stand ready, muscles tense, waiting for the order to let fly. First Mate Aeis stands on the quarterdeck, a scroll in his left hand. As he recites the incantation, the archaic letters burn a brilliant gold and then vanish. As he finishes his recitation, a massive wind fills the sails and the Intrepid lurches forward, the mainmast straining under the pressure.

            The Furyondian patrol ship, Peerless, slips out of bow range as the magic wind distances its prey from it. A crew of mostly humans, it is difficult for them to track the rogue ship they found sneaking out of the Fals. With orders to sink any ships the Velunan invaders may have acquired, usually any ships they intercept are smugglers hoping to make a profit off of Veluna’s misery or temple raiders pillaging the abandoned temples of Whitehale. Captain Eimanus, a hardy Oeridian man who’s spent more years on a ship than on land, says “Mijaian!” forcefully, and the steel box on his hip transforms itself into a suit of plate armor. Prepared for battle, he barks orders to his crew.

            “Marines to the starboard rail. When they lose their wind, we’ll have them. Smugglers are no match for the Royal Navy. Keep your focus and we all make port tonight!” The crew of the Peerless follow the captain’s orders with expert precision. They are disappointed, though, when the smuggler’s ship maintains its distance. Even with their magical wind gone, the rising sun brings rising winds and the ships ride the Velverdyva to the mouth of the mighty river.

            Captain Eimanus bites his lip when he sees the lights of Caltaran come into view. His first mate, Borsyl, looks at him expectantly, having seen the same. “Captain? Do we follow?” Eimanus hesitates for a moment, weighing his duty as a Furyondian officer and knowing the difficulty he will have enforcing his jurisdiction when capturing a smuggler in the waters of Dyvers, complicated more so by lax nature in which the local law deals with smugglers.

            “Captain?” Borsyl asks again.

            Stemming his frustration of Dyvers law, Captain Eimanus is struck by a moment of clarity. “Make for the port at Caltaran boys. We’ll take this matter up with the local magistrate.”

            “The local magistrate? Not to be impertinent captain, but how could the magistrate of such a small village help us with this matter?”

            “His name is Enruhl Leardyn.” The first mate stares blankly. “Sir Enruhl Leardyn, Lord of Westguard and Knight of the Hart. If there is anyone in this den of thieves that will aid us in our mission, it will be he. We make port!” The Peerless is left behind, hearing the taunting howl of the Intrepid crew as the smugglers continue on to their destination.

            Passing the metropolis of Dyvers, the Intrepid eventually makes port in the eastern village of Maraven. Waiting anxiously on the docks, a lanky human dressed in servant’s robes watches the ship as its moorings are tied off.

            “Hail Captain Jyarl. Were you successful in your mission?” the servant shouts as the gangplank is lowered.

            “By the gods, man, I have yet to set foot ashore and already you prattle in my ear. Let me feel land beneath me again and I’ll answer your question. Continue to act like a pest and I’ll crush you like the fly you are,” the captain growls.

            “Things did not go well then?” the servant continues, discarding the half-orc’s threats.

            “The delivery was made and your master’s payment is aboard, Thurgen. We incurred extra cost on the journey, depleting a number of magic scrolls to outdistance a Furyondian patrol ship.”

            “Yes, yes,” Thurgen says dismissively. “You will be compensated as long as full payment has been made. There are some particular items my master has been anxious to receive. If you’ll excuse me, captain, I should make haste to deliver them to him.” The servant pushes past the half-orc, sure enough in his master’s power that he does not excuse himself when his shoulder collides with the captain’s heavily muscled arm.

            “I’ll eat your marrow some day, worm.” The captain’s temper flares.

            “Well, won’t that be a treat,” is all Thurgen replies.