These events take place succeeding Dyv5-04 No More!
The robes were considered to be the finest made in all of Dyvers; grander than any gentryman’s or merchant’s. Now, what remains of the tattered robes are stained with blood, dirt, and sulfur. Propped up against a large rock, Asyth and Jereader Zomawyn gasp for air. Their lungs burn with acidic fire and their muscles scream for rest. Knowing their task is incomplete, they expend what little magic is necessary to stop the bleeding, not that they could do much else. Their fight with the devil-cambion has expended much of their resources as the trio waged war through the streets of Dyvers, above the city, and now, in a different plane of existence. Neither of the Zomawyn brothers are exactly sure how the tear in the fabric of Oerth opened, but they knew they could not let the cambion escape after his part in the tragedy befallen the City of
“When mother told us to save the city, I don’t think this is what she had in mind,” the elder Jereader says sarcastically.
“Unless the Merchant’s Guild has been conducting secret negotiations with the Nine Hells of Baator, I’d have to agree,” Asyth replies, removing what little remains of his shirt. The golden, jewel-encrusted dragon turtle atop his chest hangs in stark contrast to his bloodied, mud-caked skin. “I’ve lost sight of him,” the Xerboan high priest continues, returning the conversation to a more serious note.
“Your trident drew blood, I think. Perhaps he fears our ceaseless hunt. Whatever power protected him before has not followed him here.” The Zilchan high priest sighs with relief when the bleeding on his back is finally arrested.
“He has completed his foul purpose. Perhaps that is all he was meant for. Your last invocation had a visible effect on him. He is vulnerable now.”
“The good that will do us,” Jereader retorts gruffly. “I have little spell power left and I wonder if my prayers will reach the Great Guildmaster in this accursed place.” The high priest looks up, although the skies of Baator are not the same as those of Oerth.
“Save your prayers, brother. We are not finished yet.” Asyth removes an overly large belt lined with numerous small pouches and hands it to his older brother. Jereader opens one of the pouches cautiously, through force of habit, regardless of his religious rival being his only friend in hell.
“By the Guildmaster!” Jereader exclaims as he pulls a handful of pearls from one of the pockets.
“Take what you need. There is more than enough,” Asyth says matter-of-factly.
“How is this possible?”
“They’re pearls, Jereader.” The younger Zomawyn stares at his slack-jawed sibling. “I am the high priest of a sea god. Now shut your mouth. Yours are the nine pouches on the left.’
“Mine?”
“Every year since I was 15 I’ve sent you a pearl for your birthday, and every year you tell me you have no interest in the filth dredged up from the sea. Thirty years makes thirty pearls.”
“By the Guildmaster!”
“You said that already.”
“I always thought it was the same pearl every year. I assumed you had spent all your coin on that boat of yours,” the Zilchan says, still struggling with his surprise.
“Boat? The Cathedral of the Sea Dragon is not a boat,” Asyth says crossly.
“Take no offense, brother. I am sure it’s a nice boat.”
“If you weren’t busy putting huge gold seals on every wooden door you come across, perhaps you could afford a boat as well, you sanctimonious—”
The two are quickly reminded that they are not at the supper table taking innocent jabs at one another, but in one of the foulest places conceivable. A blood-curdling scream draws their attention over the boulder they’ve been using as a windbreak. Sounding like the death throes of the purest maiden, what they find on the other side of the rock couldn’t even be compared to human. The mass of creeping ooze and teeth could only be described as the substance of the vilest nightmares, but the carnage it unleashes on an invading incubus belies any description either Zomawyn brother could offer.
Pearls spill to the ground, and the two set to replenishing their spells, returning themselves to health as they do so. As Asyth refastens the belt around his waist, the priests hear the flapping wings of their quarry. It seems the brief respite they offered him was enough to rekindle his fighting spirit. The two grab their weapons in one hand and their holy symbols in the other and leap from behind the rock to confront the cambion. They stop quickly in their tracks at what they find waiting for them. Indeed, the half-fiend has returned, but with an ally. For all their years, neither cleric has ever witnessed a lord of the pit before now. The tales they heard from adventurers unfortunate enough to survive the experience were not encouraging, that is, when there was enough of a mind left to recount such a tale.
The thunder of the beast’s hellish tail pounding the ground snaps both of them out of their dumbfounded malaise but does little to restore their confidence. The cambion stands behind the pit fiend, a gloating look of satisfaction clear on his horrid face.
“You take the one in the front; I’ll take the one in the back,” Jereader says jokingly, hoping to find courage in sarcasm.
“I will miss my boat,” Asyth replies. His knuckles whiten about his trident, and he charges the fiendish duo, his brother Jereader at his side. Only the most skillful bard could recount what happens next. Seconds feel like hours as every spell, every swing of a sword, and every crack of sulfur-filled thunder moves in slow motion. Having survived the initial charge, the priests find some hope in the bleak landscape of the hells. Witnessing their resolve, the cambion leaves nothing to chance, joining the fray and lending his own arcane might to the pit fiend’s already unstoppable rage.
The tide of battle quickly turns as the two clerics are overwhelmed. Standing back to back, the brothers slowly step in a circle, trying to keep their assailants in check. Seemingly, the final blow strikes when the fiend’s tail splinters Jereader Zomawyn’s holy symbol. Zilchus’ hand about the pouch of gold falls like tears to the charred ground. He shouts in horror, but is cut short when he feels the pressure against his back disappear. He turns to see his brother lying limp on the ground.
“Asyth?” Jereader exclaims.
“You were a fool to follow me here, Zilchan. Your god does not come here. He has forsaken you.” The high priest turns to see the cambion standing above him, the creature’s confidence restored with the certainty of victory. Although he hoped to retort, Jereader screams in pain as the cambion’s claws rake across his chest. Two fists to his shoulders slam him to the ground like sledgehammers. He lies across his brother, the cambion now towering above him.
“Although I am of your plane, priest, these are my people.” The cambion raises a hand to the mass of devils that have gathered to watch the slaughter. The power expended during the battle has drawn the foulest creatures of the pit. “You should have accepted defeat in the city when you had the opportunity. Now we will feast on your souls.”
The elder brother looks down at his sibling, fearing the worst. Everything seems to stop momentarily as Asyth’s eyes flutter open. Jereader exhales deeply, not having known he was holding his breath. Tears fill the younger brother’s eyes.
“I love you, Jereader,” he whispers. It has been 30 years since he heard his brother say those words, not since they joined rival churches. The Zilchan priest has one last moment of clarity as he looks into his brother’s eyes. He smiles comfortingly.
The fury that follows only a brother could understand. Tearing the gold dragon turtle from Asyth’s chest, Jereader stands menacingly, knocking the cambion back a half-step. The Zilchan raises the holy symbol of Xerbo and speaks. His voice bellows so loudly that the lesser fiends scream in pain.
“In the names of Zilchus, Xerbo, and all the gods of Oerth, by all that is holy I command thee, return to whence thy came!” The expulsion of divine force is visible, exploding as a mighty volcano from the enraged priest. Those gathered are thrown to the ground and the hills echo with magical thunder. Where once three denizens of Oerth stood on the fields of Baator, only a crater now remains, one among many.
On the quarterdeck of the Cathedral of Xerbo, two men lie motionless. Steam rolls off their bare backs and blood slowly follows the natural curves of their bodies. The seamen standing about stare in wonderment. The two arrived with a mighty crack of thunder, though there are few clouds in the sky. Wherever the cambion fell, it is not in the Free Lands. Life returns to the prone men, and they cough loudly, expelling the sulfur from their lungs. It is difficult to move, but with a considerable amount of effort, each looks about to make sure the other is present.
Like fish thrown onto shore, their arms flop about until they grasp each other’s hand. They lie there unspeaking, refusing to let go of one another. Finally Jereader smiles at his younger brother.
“I love you too, Asyth.”