The stench of stale air assaulted my nostrils as I stepped into the bank. Exquisitely carved furnitures stood devoid of its intended charm. Behind the time-worn lobby, stood expensive velvet cushion chairs collecting dust. A still silence invaded the space and even my stealthy footwork echoed in the stillness.

Looking at the scale of the bank, at least fifteen employees would have been employed, when the city was alive. Now only the echoes of ghosts remained. The elaborately designed chandelier, fine chairs and rich cerulean curtains hanging on onside indicated that they catered to the nobles and large guilds. Not the common local sort like carpenters and blacksmiths but larger commerce based guilds. With that knowledge, my hope of finding a suitable vault became closer to reality.

Paying no further thought, I strode towards what I felt could be the records room. The vast reinforced steel door stood open. No obvious signs of violence or subtle force on the lock. Either Waroendil has been lethargic with the privacy of his clients or it is another mystery that Arlond has guarded.

I quickly grabbed the object of Karlienne’s interest and on my way out stuffed it into a fine boarskin satchel that lay nearby.

My luck has not abandoned me so far and I held a sliver of hope that it would last a bit longer and then the voice of Zaehran cut in.

“Could I ask you, if you had fatigue, lack of vitality, difficulties with coordination, unexplained lethargy, aggression or memory lapse in the past days?” asked Zaehran like a dubious travelling physician at a remote hamlet fair.

For elusive reasons, his tone and gait irritated me.

“I am out of this damned city and once I find my companions or their fate, I am well out of this region as well,” I hissed.

Zaehran’s eyes neither widened nor squinted at my words. Instead, he held an all-knowing gaze. His patronizing eyes irritated me further than anything he could have uttered.

“You should follow my example too,” I snorted at the monk.

“If I were to provide help, would you take my offer?” he asked.

His offer brought an undisguised shadow of a doubt. The monk quickly took in the furrows on my forehead and the sudden tightening of my lips and added, “against the real enemy.”

He took a bold step forward in my direction ignoring my hands clasping The Sentinel tightly.

“Could you remember what you were about to do?” he asked, “or the why of it?”

I reminded myself that Zaehran has so far never shown any outward enmity. So far, I repeated to myself. But the monk has not shown any reason to trust him either.

“Follow me. if you want to know the truth,” he suggested, “for coherence is fleeting within this place. Though I suspect we would not be simply allowed to pass.”

Something about his words resonated with the arcane warning that pulsated deep inside.

“Through Low Crag pass,” I suggested, “Zelaphiel and Merrick are at Ratmire and Fargate exit.”

*****

Zaehran advanced towards the Tradeward square. Motivated by his keen sense of perception, he willingly divulged to my silent unheard pondering.

“No need to stick to the shadows,” His voice almost a whisper but still commanded my attention, “Our presence is known and they are prepared.”

His words came out like a prophecy when they stood in an array, motionlessly.

Across the Tradeward Square and filling further beyond, the wide street snaking across Forlorn Fair, clad in heavy armour of various assortments, they faced us with painted eyes filled with void.

Some carried the unmistakable weapons of the city guards and standard-issue High-elven longswords or spears. Others wielding exotic sai, guisarme and kama littered around in the fine array of assembled soldiers.

On the rooftops, more armoured soldiers stirred wielding strung bows.

“Desperate,” I snorted knowing full well the dreaded situation that we found ourselves in.

“I reckon around eight hundred, closer to a thousand,” estimated Zaehran without any hint of panic.

His hands reached behind his waist and grabbed a narrow cylindrical wrapped bundle anchored between his back and his sash. He unwrapped the bundle, held the chain and let the twin blade dangle.

“The siangham,” he elaborated, “I have aversion to using it, but it can save lives when used in the right moment.”

Eventually without any warning as if commanded by an unheard voice, the archers on the rooftops let their arrows race in our direction.

Zaehran spun, grasping the blades of siangham in one hand and with his other, deflected the oncoming arrows.

“How is your jumping reflexes?” worded the monk a question as if we were in a ballroom. Perhaps, for the ascetic, the battlefield and ballroom held the same regard.

“Compared to yours,” I shrugged, “not the best.”

“Then trust me,” he said and without waiting for a response, the monk grabbed me and rushed towards the town hall on the opposite side of the square.

Zaehran challenged the notion of gravity as he ran across the wall with the same speed while he scaled to the rooftop. My own attempts to scale the walls were met with relative success until a scream issued from Zaehran.

“Drop down,” he shouted.

A few arrows flew dangerously close by and embedded themselves against the crumbling wall. Heavy footsteps from the converging soldiers echoed treacherously nearby.

Zaehran shouted again. His words filled with earnest plea urged me to jump and I dropped down.

Where I expected to land with a thud and a shock of the fall to propagate from my legs, I stood on invisible grounds, far above the floor of the square. Soft as if made from a bed of feathers than hard ground, the unseen stage that I found myself on, levitated slowly till I came on eye-level with the waiting monk on the rooftop.

Without any further exchange, I hopped on the roof of the town hall. Zaehran had made himself busy in the meanwhile, as indicated by the few motionless archers and guisarme wields soldiers in the vicinity, on the roof.

As the monk spun the siangham, the blade reflected the radiance of the sun in its brilliant arc, basking the otherworldly monk in an ethereal glow.

“Jump to where I land,” he instructed and proceeded to run ahead.

The arrows that managed to get closer were deflected from the rotating barrier created from his spinning weapon.

We leapt further, higher, on a more invisible platform till the array of soldiers assembled beneath became a swarm of tiny dots. Even the tall collapsing chimney of the neighbouring buildings, shrunk to a tiny fleck of grey splotch.

Eventually, the arrows fired from the rooftops failed to gain sufficient altitude enough to reach us.

Zaehran led further through an unseen platform, floating unsupported in midair.

“You are not just a monk,” I exclaimed, “those are mage hands.”

The ascetic monk responded with silence. An intense concentration ruled his attention as he tried to navigate the invisible platforms formed through his innate abilities.

Eventually, even the guard towers of the Forlorn Fair entrance gate seemed a dull reddish mote in the vast expanse below.

I wondered silently if Zaehran could keep up his levitating platforms for an indefinite period as we left Arlond behind.

The monk spoke after a brief leap of two unseen landings as if responding to my thoughts.

“This is where we must drop,” he said, “I have extended the limits of my ability.”

I braced myself for a freefall while clinging to a sliver of hope that the resilient monk has some additional tricks up his sleeves. Zaehran did not betray my expectations as our freefall soon defied gravity and instead of a fast-paced rush, we slowly glided towards the green meadows outside Arlond.

“A monk with mage hands,” I exclaimed with a grimace, “You are filled with surprises.”

“And featherfall,” corrected Zaehran, “though limited in range and frequency.”

At the distance, the Forlorn Fair gate of Arlond stood silent betraying the tumulous roar behind.

“A psionic Monk,” I did not bother looking directly at his face and I finally called him out, “You are a githzerai.”

Zaehran clutched his hands in an alien sign that could only be interpreted as an admission of modesty.

The strange pylon still loomed near us and surrounding the pylon stood ragged creatures wielding heavy two-handed weapons. I squinted my eyes to pierce through the distanced and widened in amazement.

While the pylon was surrounded by orcs, amidst them stood the unmistakable slender form of Syrune and near the mage hopped the small Colby. While the tiny endless energy bundled in the form of gnome ran around in circles, the mage stood pensive and motionless. Clawed firmly on the scholar’s shoulder was the callous hands of Urganza, who stood solemnly behind.

*****

Seeing my companions made me abandon the multitude of questions that swarmed inside my head and I bolted towards them. Time to grab them and abandon this forsaken place.

As I neared, Colby was the first one to notice and he gave a shout of joy. Karlienne soon appeared, trailed by two orcs following her orders.

“You three could have left me a trail to follow?” I accused, seeing them unharmed.

“Seeing that you got ahead,” countered Karlienne with suppressed anger, “you could have left us a trail to follow.”

Her words made me realise my folly and I bit my tongue.

“The responsibility falls on me,” spoke Urganza, “Your companions wanted to leave signs and search for you, but in the vicinity of the curseforged city one cannot be but cautious.”

“Urganza of the Stonecleavers,” my words brought a wide smile from the orc revealing wide tusks and sharper teeth, “I thank you for taking care of my companions.”

The orc caught the sarcasm in my words but she grinned even wider.

“Dark elf Lady, you attract trouble like fleas on a mammoth,” Her deep-set yellow eyes contorted with mirth.

I returned the gesture with my own comeback.

“I could say the same Urganza. So what brings you here?” I asked.

“Dire tidings,” the orc made a throaty noise and her voice grew dark.

“The One-Horned Warlord stirs in the north. Even the Stormlord could not stand against,” continued Urganza as she surveyed the grim faces of the surrounding Orcs, “Wise maybe the Stormlord's counsel but those are not our ways. Our forefathers gather no honour.”

“The cambion warlord?” I asked taking a hint from my memory.

The orc gave a simple nod.

“Your exarch rebellion supplied him with cheap mercenaries and he amassed power,” she explained for all to hear.

“There have always been warlords vying for power. What is so terrible about him?” Karlienne boldly asked the question, that I have no doubt, lingered in the minds of all who gathered around.

“That is a part of a never-ending cycle,” I deeply inhaled and rubbed my palms more as a sign to stall and prepare myself, “Tieflings are always persecuted while Aasimars are revered. Periodically, all throughout our history, a tiefling hero would rise, when their community is oppressed.”

“Not a hero,” corrected Zaehran whose presence I forgot, “for such is a relative term. A champion of tieflings might be a more appropriate term.”

“A champion of the tieflings would rise and liberate,” I went with Zaehran’s flow, “except, it is done through a bloody war, razing the regions and with a pogrom.”

“And this time it was a cambion who rose to answer,” scoffed Urganza.

“Cambion?” questioned Colby.

“A direct descendant of a devil or a demon,” explained the silent Syrune.

“Still does not explain your presence, Urganza?” I trailed back to the original topic.

“If High Crag Pass fails, all the southern lands will drown in the one-horned warlord’s wrath,” words close to a prophecy came from Urganza, “the Stormlord aims to bid time. Our Ashen Bulwarks conscripted to the warlord’s whim. We sent the Dusk Reavers to scout and heard from none. Now the Stormlord had tasked me.”

“If it helps,” I lowered my voice, “I found the remains of their camps not more than three days journey from here, along low crag pass, past Havorik Farmstead, in the direction of Asterlund.”

“But the Dusk Reavers?” asked Urganza.

“Fallen to the mysterious entity that calls Arlond home now,” I shrugged.

For a moment, her deep-set eyes closed and a single tear escaped from the corner but soon she reeled her feelings.

“Then it was wise of us to secure the services of your mage, for courageous as we are, we are not magically attuned,” said Urganza.

“I am of little help here,” confessed Syrune, ”even I do not understand those strange pylon structures. All I could say for certain is that it is some sort of an attenuating device. The markings on the surface are a form of steering mechanism.”

“And what if I were to tell you that the material is not from here but rather from the void?” I divulged the information that the Knight of Ash and Smoke revealed.

“Void?” Syrune pondered openly, “but that counters my theory. I definitely identified sigils for attuning with other planes.”

“Syrune, just accept that you were wrong,” shouted Colby with his untamed petulant behaviour, “you were not yourself the past few days.”

Syrune looked directly at me for comfort while the clueless Colby continued.

“If it were some sort of steering mechanism, then those grooves were for control,” continued Colby, “judging by the shape, those who control do not have forefingers. Maybe a mysterious cabal of the lost forefingers is behind it.”

Colby cackled at his own joke, oblivious to the truth behind it.

A shiver passed through my spine as I realised the dreadfulness of the situation.

“We need to evacuate this place fast,” I said, “Urganza, if it were any good you should take your people and leave. The enemy is right beside us.”

Colby attempted to complain but learned to control his mockery upon seeing my reaction. Karlienne simply eyed the silver ledger poking from my satchel but dared not to address it. Only Syrune stood perplexed.

“You knew everything,” I turned towards Zaehran in anger and clasped The Sentinel tightly till my fist paled.

“Suspicion and confirmation are not the same,” answered Zaehran calmly.

Only Urganza mustered the courage to stand between Zaehran and my drawn blade.

“I have seen you stand against a thousand armoured knights alone and not waver, yet, now, before me, you are thrall to your own fears. Explain?” she demanded.

“Mind Flayers,” I hissed in disgust.