The Price of Steel is a piece of fiction from Sellswords of Sundara, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

The sun was just beginning to set when Dagmar and his Dusk Raiders rode up on the little hamlet of Blackberry. A collection of small houses and dirt streets, with a single inn and two taverns, the place was far enough from anywhere important that it had been a low-hanging fruit for the bandits to pluck whenever they needed supplies… which was often. Standing across the road now, though, was a line of men. They wore black armor and ragged, black cloaks. Some carried spears, and others had shields strapped to their arms. One, who stood a head above the others, rested his gauntleted hands atop the hilt of a great sword. Standing off to one side, shaking like a leaf in a wind, was the town’s mayor Garl Hemley. Dagmar drew rein perhaps three dozen yards from the men, and leaned forward in his saddle.

“Well, well, what’s this?” The bandit chief asked, the knife scar that slashed his mouth drawing his lip up into a sneer. “I hope you hired this crew to make sure nobody stole our tribute while we were off on campaign, Garl. Because if you did, that’s right thoughtful of you.”

“There w-won’t be any more tribute!” Hemley managed, swallowing hard. He drew himself up, and managed to stop his teeth from chattering. “You and your men never harmed us, for all your threats. So we’re giving you this one chance, Dagmar. Turn around, and never come back.”

Silence settled over the Dusk Raiders. As the last lights of the day stained everything red, Dagmar favored Hemley with a wide, wicked smile. Steel whispered from sheaths, and leather creaked as men used to violence readied the tools of their trade.

“You’re a very kind man, Garl,” Dagmar said. He put his right hand in the air, and twirled his first two fingers. A bandit with a greasy leather eye patch nocked an arrow to his horse bow, and took aim at the line of black clad warriors. They didn’t so much as shift their stance. “So I’m gonna show you exactly what kind of mistake you’ve made here.”

The moment hung there, suspended by a single breath. The Dusk Raiders were a tableau of brute malice positioned on a razor’s edge. The hamlet’s guardians stood at rest, unmoving as they stared at the highwaymen. Hemley swallowed, and the bob of his Adam’s apple seemed to take a small eternity. Then the bow string twanged, and the arrow loosed. It flew straight and true, punching through the ring mail of one of the warriors, quivering from where it was buried in his chest.

Barks of laughter went up from the bandits, along with howls of blood lust. As the red light darkened to the purple of twilight, though, the warrior didn’t move. He didn’t stumble, nor did he fall. No blood ran down the shaft buried in his chest. The realization dawned on the Dusk Raiders slowly, and their cries of jubilation slowly died. Dagmar turned, and looked at Hemley with dawning comprehension, and horror, on his face.

“Cur!” Dagmar howled, snatching at the cutlass on his hip. Fear made his hand shaky, and his usually smooth draw was anything but. The rest of the Dusk Raiders milled, their chief’s hold over them starting to slip. Some were eager for the fight, glancing at him and waiting for the signal to advance. Others, the sharper ones, had realized what stood on that road in front of them. Dagmar wheeled his horse, planning on calling a retreat, but the words died on his lips. More figures in black armor had flanked them, walking through the deepening gloom and arraying themselves in a second line to cut off their retreat.

The battle was as swift as it was bloody. The Dusk Raiders were hardened killers who’d spilled a river’s worth of blood between them, but they were ambush predators who’d grown fat, used to dealing with scared townsfolk and the occasional caravan guard. These figures in black armor advanced mercilessly. They showed no fear of flashing steel, and didn’t react to the bandit’s bellowed threats. They fought without tiring, their sword arms rising and falling even as their opponents cleaved at their helms and ran their blades into their torsos. All the blood spilled that day belonged to the Dusk Raiders, even if they managed to bring down a handful of their opponents as well.

Hemley stood there in the darkness, listening. When all had gone silent, a figure joined him. Dressed in a black officer’s tunic with a silver medallion shaped like a grinning skull around her neck, her head was shaved, and her boots polished to a mirror shine. Cayliss made a gesture with a hand, and touched the necklace. It shone like a torch, light spilling out from her in all directions.

“Come,” she said, turning and walking into the night. Swallowing hard, Hemley followed. The idea of declining her command never so much as crossed his mind.

The light fell upon her soldiers, who stood at attention around the bodies of the Dusk Raiders. Arrows protruded from several of the black-armored soldiers. One mercenary’s arm was snapped at an unnatural angle. Another leaned on its spear, its left leg smashed to the point where it wouldn’t support its weight. Cayliss walked the length of the line, examining those that had survived. Once she was satisfied, she turned to survey the carnage her warriors had left behind.

The bandits were splayed out, each dealt a quick, efficient killing blow. Throats were cut, hearts were stabbed, and guts were spilled, but all of them had their heads left intact. Scattered among them were several of Cayliss’s own warriors. They had been shattered by powerful blows, their armor dented, and several of their limbs torn off, but every one of them still clutched bloody weapons in their fists. Cayliss lifted a dented helm, and turned it over. A skull rolled out into her hand. The skull was old, and seamed with small scars. Several of the teeth had been splintered, and a hole had been smashed into the side just above the ear.

“Brekker. One of my most reliable,” Cayliss said, shaking her head slightly. “He will need to be replaced. As will these others.”

“As we agreed,” Hemley said, swallowing hard. “The Dusk Raiders, and whatever loot they have, are both yours. In addition to your fee.”

Cayliss nodded, and touched the amulet around her neck. She gestured at her warriors, and they snapped to follow her instructions. They began stripping the bodies, setting aside clothing, weapons, armor and packs in separate piles. The bodies were stretched out along the road, spaced equidistant from one another. The only sounds made were the clink of bone against armor, and the occasional whispered order spoken by Cayliss in a dead language that only her soldiers seemed to understand.

As Hemley withdrew, doing his best not to run while the mercenaries did their grisly work, he told himself it was worth the price they’d paid. By the time he was home, he almost believed it.

Audio Version

Crafter of the Unusual is a piece of fiction for Silkgift: The City of Sails, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

The workshop was at a temperature many would find uncomfortable at best. Kellen Smeltfire, being a Takatori dwarf, just found it pleasant.

The dwarf pondered the slightly unusual commission she’d just received from the sorcerers of Archbliss. Not so much for the subject of the commission, as where it came from. Those of the City of the Sorcerers were known for their elevation of magic above all other things, so for them to require purely mundane assistance was, though not unheard of, certainly not common.

It seems, though, that there are some things that magic does need help with, and that is why Silkgift’s Ingeneurium had been contacted. Kellen specialised in the construction of optical devices and the grinding of precision lenses, not an easy feat to do, and it seemed that Archbliss’s Stargazer’s Tower needed some new lenses to be ground to some very precise specifications for a new gazing device that was going to be installed in it.

The device would need a focusing ability, and this would require a mechanism to be constructed in order to achieve this. Magic is unable to create a mechanism out of thin air if the caster has no idea what the mechanism was supposed to be, only what it was supposed to do.

That is where the Ingeneurium and Kellen came in. They had access to the necessary skills and expertise to turn a detailed description into a functioning device that would do just what it was intended to do. Well, do what the specifications said it should do; no-one really understood just what the sorcerers were creating, beyond the physical and mechanical aspects. Magic would no doubt be involved in the finished device, after it was shipped to Archbliss.

Of course, just because you had the skills and experience didn’t mean that the construction would be easy. Besides, where would be the fun in it if it was easy? “Should be fun” mumbled the dwarf to herself as she grabbed pen and paper and started sketching some plans for the device, referring back to the details sent from Archbliss, and making notes of what materials and skills would be needed.

As to how Archbliss was paying for this… well, not really her problem. Certainly, the sorcerers could pay with gold, but given they would just conjure it up, the dwarf assumed that negotiations had been done for something of more value in payment. She’d make the device so that it worked. What happened next was up to everyone else.

A Lesson Learned is a piece of fiction for Ironfire: The City of Steel, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

Oleg bellowed as bones cracked. Steel clattered as it fell to the paving stones, and the huge man’s roar was cut off suddenly as the butt end of the staff slammed into his jaw, and spun his head. Eyes rolling, he stayed on his feet a moment longer before dropping to the ground in a heap. For a moment the crowd all around was silent, then whistles erupted, followed by curses. Coins exchanged hands as bets were settled. The young man knelt, placing his fingers on Oleg’s neck, and then in front of his mouth.

“He’ll live,” the man with the staff said as he stood. “But I would get him to a healer, if you want him to be able to use that arm again.

Varian’s mouth was tight with anger, his eyes dark and narrow. Fear erupted in them when the man with the staff crossed the circle toward him. The crowd around them went quiet. The man had won the duel handily enough, his spinning staff more than a match for Oleg’s brute muscle. But he had the look of an outlander, and outlanders didn’t always understand the rules of the duel. If he broke the rules the red cloaks would find him eventually, and there would be a trial, but that was small comfort to Varian, whose protector lay insensate in a heap on the flagstones.

“See here, now,” Varian said, taking an involuntary step back. His voice had risen to a shrill pitch that he tried unsuccessfully to swallow. “You won. I commend you. Now if you’ll excuse me-”

The man put a hand on Varian’s shoulder, and Varian’s voice died. The young man leaned down, and held his gaze. He waited a beat, ensuring he had Varian’s undivided attention. The crowd around them was silent as a mural, except for Oleg’s grunt of pain as he attempted to swim back up into consciousness.

“All I wanted was directions,” the man said. “Where is the House of Black Banners?”

Murmurs rose at that, as excited onlookers began to speculate. The man paid them no mind, his gaze steady on Varian. For his part Varian might have looked less stunned if he had been struck. He gestured vaguely behind himself.

“Two blocks down, and turn toward the harbor,” he said, looking at the unkempt man with the staff. “The black flags… they hang from the balcony above the door.”

“Thank you,” the young man said, enunciating the words to drive them home. He let go of Varian’s shoulder, and smoothed the tunic he’d been gripping. “My uncle has been expecting me.”

“Y-your uncle?” Varian asked as the man brushed past him, walking toward the chapter house of one of the city’s more dangerous companies of freelances.

“Come by upon the morrow, if you wish,” the young man called over his shoulder, his voice as friendly as could be. “If you’re willing to step into the ring yourself, I’m sure he’d be happy to teach you to fight your own battles. I doubt you’ll be as pretty as Oleg is by the time the lessons are done, though!”

Teaching a Lesson is a piece of fiction for Ironfire: The City of Steel, one of the supplements for Cities of Sundara, which is available in versions for 5th Edition and Pathfinder.

The square was lively that night. Crowds of people moved over the pavers in small knots, gossiping and laughing. Peddlers with wine casks on their backs, or racks of grilled meats on sticks, moved among them, doing a brisk business as the city’s lights were lit. No one stepped over the line of the circle in the center of the square, though. Blood still glistened on those stones; a slick, dark testament to the differences that had already been settled that night.

Two figures stepped into the circle from the northern end. They were a study in contrasts. One was broad-shouldered and tall, his thick nose scarred from being broken many times, and his long hair unkempt and knotted. The other was shorter, and slender, with an amused sneer on his face. The brute was pale, the other was dusky. The warrior wore steel and boiled leather, his companion painted silk and lambskin. The crowd began to whisper, eyes turning toward the pair of them. Oleg the Grinder had never lost a challenge laid down in the square, and given how easily his master Varian Kadrick took offense it was rare that a week passed that the musclebound enforcer didn’t settle at least one affair in the dueling ring.

It was a moment later when another figure stepped into the ring. He was tall and slender, dressed in a sweat stained tunic and worn down boots. His skin was burned nut brown by the sun, and though he wasn’t large, he seemed strong enough. He carried a staff nearly as tall as he was, but other than that he bore no weapon or armor. He leaned on the staff with both hands, regarding the other two across the circle.

“I call a challenge,” Varian said, his pouty lips curling into a cruel smile.

“Are you sure this is what you want?” the young man in the handmade woolens asked. “I apologized for what happened.”

“Your apology is worth less than nothing,” Varian snarled, turning and spitting on the ground. “I call a challenge. Do you accept, or yield?”

The young man looked around at the crowd for a moment. Dozens of eyes were turned his way. Some were curious. Others pitying. Several had the sharp, hungry look of those sure they were about to see real bloodshed. One man sat on a bench, his gnarled fingers wrapped around the head of his walking stick. He smiled, his white teeth a sharp contrast to his dark skin, and winked at the young man holding the staff.

“I accept,” he said, turning back to face Varian. Oleg smiled as well. It was just as unpleasant as his master’s smile, though for completely separate reasons.

“Teach him a lesson, Oleg,” Varian said, slapping his champion on the shoulder. Oleg drew the sword from his hip, turning it in his grip so the unsharpened edge was on the striking side. Those who’d seen the Grinder fight knew that the blunt edge was no less dangerous for lack of a whetstone. The young man sighed, rolled out his shoulders, and stepped forward.

Loyalty Discounts