On A Faded Parchment Awaits a Testament From Fort Duran

  … onward did the heroes march, their followers much diminished. Spread to the winds were those who had traveled with them since the deep woods. Many a Battlemage had returned to their tower of learning, with several others taking monster-slaying contracts in the region. Only with the help of wandering desert nomads did the party reach the desert oases amidst red stone valleys.

  The expansive pine forests north of the desert loomed. The start of the outlander marches, which dominated the highlands.

  “Beyond this lies the plateau. And past that, the fumaroles where no man dares to tread,” said Knight Roland. “Mayhaps the Shackled can use these powers to blaze a trail.”

  None passed the party on the road. Still, they stuck to the road to ensure ease of travel. The path brought them to a wide cliff not far from the ancient and venerable fort.

  Brave Roland did gasp at what they found upon reaching sight of the fort.

  The forest for leagues around had been cleared bare. Thousands of freeborn marcher knights and lords toiled in the field, themselves bound to servitude under the demonic Interface. All were set to level 1, and all toiled in the field like common brand-slaves.

  Under the cover of night, Gustavo and Roland did sneak into the gaol-camp. Battlemage Aldia provided them a Hush spell by which they could move without sound. They found allies by which to give testimony to the fall of Fort Duran. All five of the foreign marcher strongholds had been put to the sword in the past year, with the four other castles torn down so thoroughly there was no longer evidence of their existence. The conquerer of these marches now ruled from Fort Duran.

  The newly-enslaevd knights and outlanders had been put to work clearing the pine woods of the highlands. For what purpose, none yet knew.

  “Busy work,” Gustavo said from the crew’s hidden redoubt.

  They hid in the woods at the edge of the work camp for many a week upon Roland’s insistence.

  “What mean you, good sir?” asked Cleric Mia.

  “I’m saying it’s busy work. Like the prison spire. Shackled are tasked with doing work for work’s sake.”

  None knew the reasoning behind why the demons did Shackle entire settlements in some places, and merely took an established tithe from others. The area around the Battletower had been entirely depopulated for a century by squadrons of wandering Piper Demons. With demons being mere appendages of the Demon King and incapable of reason, nothing could be gleaned from interrogation. There were human slave lords. Those sold to these collaborators were often used as servants or workers, but any demon-thralled brand-slaves were put to work mining or forest clearing.

  “There was no word from the capital for months before the fort fell,” Gustavo said.

  Roland nodded. “That’s what Sir Goethel said when he visited him in the work camp, yes.”

  Never before did liberation from the demonic hordes feel so far out of reach. Even so, Roland drew out a map of the area around the fallen fort with a knife.

  The liberation party, down nearly to its original four, lured out a demonic search party to the edge of the lumber camp. These demons disappeared into the forest, as did the next search party after them.

  Flying demons were then seen in the skies, flying north to report the incident. The camp was put on lockdown, with a squad of three demons on every corner. There would be no further delays, for reinforcements would arrive within a week if not sooner.

  More illusionary magic courtesy of Aldia returned Roland to the camp’s sleep quarters. They brought with them paralyzed level forty-odd Demon Scouts, down to single-digit HP. They cut the chains of the former knights and allowed the captives to fall upon the paralyzed fiends. Experience flowed into these level 1 prisoners, raising their strength considerably, especially as they scored hits upon each scout in turn.

  Newly empowered, the slave riot began. Many old and rusty weapons were carried by the four members of the old heroes. They traded these weapons, gathered throughout their travels, to the prisoners. So equipped, the knights wafted out over the work camp, slaying any demons they could find and freeing any other humans under brand-slavery. Each freed Shackled was sent through the camp, landing one blow on each demon and running off to hit yet another demon. When the higher-leveled rioters or the old heroes slew these fiends, the experience rapidly compounded in the weaker rioters. And so did a single hostile party turn into a mass rebellion of once-subjugated knights.

  Onward did they fight, into the baileys and keeps of Fort Duran. This was a human fort, for which demons were an ill-fit. They struggled to move in the outer halls. What’s more, it was Paladin Roland’s home turf. He made for the castle armory and, once liberated, the rebels had a trove of well-made gear to interface with their Shackles. Demons fell one after another.

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  Roland was joined by Mia, Gustavo, and Aldia. They continued their push into the fort’s central chamber. There, sitting on the grand throne of a long-dead marcher lord, was…

  A simple gladius, planted by Roland in their last fight, remained stuck in the demon’s chest.

  The foul Demon Sentry #1’s three party members waited at his flanks. All level 65 – exactly ten higher than the heroes’ party. Coldly calculated to best the heroes in battle.

  Roland wielded his new sword, standard-issue from the Fort Duran armories. He brought bare his great shield emblazoned with the insignia of the marcher lords. The mere sight of Roland enraged the beast, and it pulled out the knight’s old gladius from its chest. The demon let out something approaching a laugh. Unclear was it whether Demon Sentry #1 was still a mere appendage of the Demon King.

  The parties did battle, four versus four.

  For hours, the fort remained contested. Mia and her demonic counterpart maintained their heals, ensuring none would fall despite all fighters lashing out without fetter.

  Only a surprise feint by Gustavo, sneaking behind enemy lines to slay the Demon Soothsayer. This left the demon assassin unguarded to strike at Mia, but Roland took a backstab meant for her, his own Paladin class negating bonus damage from behind.

  Unable to heal, the Demon Sentry and its fell allies were whittled down one by one. The sentry grew enraged, smashing the lord’s seat before focusing single-mindedly on Roland. Try as it might, the Paladin’s guard was indomitable. With a dozen hit points to spare, the demon took off. It broke the glass window and flew off to the north on a frayed dire-bat wing.

  The victorious brand-slaved knights rushed into the fortress’s command room. Fort Duran belonged to humans once more.

  The renewed rebellion wasted no time in sending scouts to the other ruined forts before demonic reinforcements could be assigned to the highlands. They liberated and power-leveled the defeated knights much like at Fort Duran. No demon proved so vindictive as Demon Sentry #1, and they typically fled when the battle was lost.

  “That demon. It’s thinking on its own,” Roland said.

  “Aye,” said Battlemage Aldia. “There is much about the demonic mind we do not understand. And may never know.”

  “Think you made him mad, boss,” Gustavo quipped.

  “Suffice to say, this may not be the last we see of it,” Aldia said. “Now, as to our next order of battle…”

  A war council was declared. The marcher lords, now-enslaved to the Brand, had no further reason to show prejudice to those under the demon’s thrall. Where for years the knights of the outland marches maintained strict hierarchies of lordship and squirehood, now all were equal around a circular war table.

  The old capital was in open rebellion, barely quelled under harsh demon jack-hoofs. Words of an army moving in from the south had been brewing all year, bringing hope to freeborn and Shackled both. There was little time – the now-shackled marcher army would move north, training about the nature of the Interface as they went.

  And so, on that night the reinvigorated army camped on the far side of the lake, ready to depart for the capital. A sea of tents hidden amidst the woods, within view of the Fort’s mighty towers. All tents were marked with the ornate coat of arms of the Duran marcher lords, including, for the first time, Paladin Roland’s tent.

  “My lord,” said a diminutive voice from outside the tent.

  Faint light illuminated the tent’s fabric walls. The inhabitant was yet awake.

  Paladin Roland poked his head out of the tent.

  “Mia?”

  The cleric only nodded.

  “We march tomorrow. You missed the war council.”

  “Aye. T’is true. I took a walk among the woods here. Is this truly the land of your birth, good sir knight?”

  Roland nodded. “I was born in the fort’s hospitalier. Yes.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said the cleric.

  This portion of the camp was assembled by hand. Beyond fires still simmered from the ‘Camp’ items that would create a fully functioning camp out of the ether. There were still people milling about in the distance.

  “Have you used your Camp yet?” asked the Paladin.

  Meekly, the cleric shook her head.

  “M’lord…” she began.

  Cleric Mia cast her robes to the ground, a less coquettish maneuver under the Interface than when done manually.

  “Please, m’lord,” said Cleric Mia. “I know not of any other way to express these desires.”

  Roland gazed at her, somewhat skeptical look upon his face. So chivalrous was the good sir knight that he only glanced upon her bare form but for a moment.

  “This was the role assigned to us in the gaol, t’is true,” said Mia. “But would you deign to fulfil these desires? I assure three, m’lord, this is… what I wish.”

  The tent flap closed as Roland ventured inside the tent for a moment. Then, the tent flap opened wider.

  “Just… come on in,” said Roland. “Before someone sees you standing there. And pick up your robes off the ground, will you?”

  (The Parchment fades...)

  The trio continued to pour over the document.

  “Ahem, well,” Calaf said after a time. “We still have the tent somewhere in our inventory.”

  “I believe we failed to sell it at the auction.” Jelena nodded, then turned to Zilara. “Now Zil, when a man and woman love each other very much…”

  “I hear you two thrice weekly, hoss,” Zilara said with a frown.

  “Yes, well. I suppose these are your ancestors, aren’t they?” Jelena asked. “We know how the story ends. This part isn’t too different from the official church canon.”

  The major difference was in context: the Brand as a demonic slaving interface, rather than holy instrument of liberation. Still, the old heroes took advantage of their branded state well enough. There was that Demon Sentry as well. A figure that felt strangely familiar to Calaf. The demon was using Roland’s first sword. Roland’s holy sword was an artifact conspicuously missing from the church’s relic hoard. Perhaps this demonic thief was why.

  “What’s this?” Zilara squinted at the lowest segment of the page. “Guys, read this.”

  Scribbled in Gustavo’s chicken scratch at the bottom of the parchment was a note. Zilara read it aloud:

  “Backtracked at great personal cost to add this note. The Shamana gospel has been found by the church and transported to the vaults at Demon Lord’s Fall. Mia’s brat is on the warpath. Set another parameter to allow the other twin to find this more easily. You’re welcome – G.G.”

  This could well be Gustavo’s last note, that automaton beneath his old docks notwithstanding. But the final gospel was lost to them, deep in the interior of the grand cathedral at Demon Lord’s Fall. Surely, it would take a heist multiple centuries in the making to dare retrieve it.