Subject: Summer 1999 D&D Cartoon On-Line Fan Club Newsletter, Part 3
Date: Sat, 19 Jun 1999 11:52:27 EDT


[Unable to display image]
Author's note: This story is a work crafted out of love for the original
Dungeons & Dragons cartoon, which is owned by TSR and Marvel. Don't sue me,
you won't get anything. On the other hand, if you like the story and want
to copy it, please do--just make sure that my name stays on the by-line.
The City of Silver Fire
by Buggman (MdBugg@aol.com)
Story Rating: PG-13

Chapter 5: Free City

Sheila clung to her saddlehorn, having long ago lost her grip on the
reins, holding on for dear life as her steed galloped with the others in a
frothing frenzy. It was like riding a roller coaster without the benefit of
a seatbelt, and she was certain that in another minute she would be pitched
from the Elvensteed's saddle. Beneath the coat of Elf-mail she wore, her
side ached like fire. The silvery shirt had saved her life from a chance
swordblow that would have otherwise cut her in half, but it had still felt
as if someone had wacked her with a baseball bat.
A hand reached out and steadied her in the saddle. Looking up, she
saw that it was Llythen's. His other hand clutched his bloodied sword,
silver as the moon, and he guided his horse with his knees. "Are you all
right?" he shouted over the thunder of their hooves on the forest floor.
"Fine!" she gasped.
 He reached down and grabbed her reins, putting
them back into her hands. Then, voices from the front of the misshapen line
called, and Llythen, Warder-lord of the Sidhe Gildas, spurred his mount
even faster, taking the lead of the charge as the next line of foes came into
view. These were not Drow, but some hideous combination of men and lizards.
Sheila could remember fighting them before. They were tougher than orcs,
more disciplined.
The ragged line became a spear-head of flesh and steel in the hundred
yards between them and the lizard-men. With a sound that was half ringing
steel and half the sickening crunch of bone, the lizard-men were ridden
down.
That's when the shadow fell upon them.

Miles away, making their way swiftly through the rain-greyed forest,
Hank and Eric heard the roar. Eric turned half as if to run back before
Hank caught his arm. The Ranger could see his friend swallow in fear, and felt
the lump in his own throat, but he knew that they couldn't turn back,
couldn't arrive soon enough to help the others even if they did.
Eric quivered, fighting an inner battle between panic and
foolhardiness that Hank knew so well. Finally, he turned and the two of
them continued on their way, praying for the safty of their friends as they
continued on their journey.

Some days later, Hank lay stretched out upon a stack of hay, one arm
flopped over his eyes to block out the suns. He had long ago learned the
value of catching a short nap whenever he found himself able to (and those
occassions were seldom). His makeshift bed rolled and bounced beneath him
with an unsteady rhythym that lulled him like a baby's rocker. So, when
Eric's finger started poking him to full wakefulness, it was with a bit of
irritation that he asked, "What is it?" without uncovering his eyes.
"Sorry," said Eric's voice. "But we're almost there."
Hank sighed and stretched, regretfully forcing himself to rise.
"Sorry, didn't mean to snap."
"No problem," said Eric, grinning crookedly. "It's not like I'm all
that great when I wake up either. But take a look." Eric's hand gestured
outward like a tour guide's. Hank followed it and blinked, wondering if he
had, in fact, fallen asleep and was now dreaming.
The city of Iardunn stood atop a tall plateau, a position to which it
owed its continuance as a Free City. In order to accommodate its vast and
growing population upon that relatively small area, the cities' buildings
had been forced to grow upwards rather than sprawling outwards as was the case
in most cities of the Realm. The result was the closest thing Hank had ever
seen in the Realm to the highrises that dominated the city back home, but
somehow grander. Instead of conforming to the almost uniform design of the
tall buildings of the cities of earth--rectangular, with little to adorn
them other than windows--each building of Iardunn was unique. Hank saw
European-style minarets constructed side-by-side with the golden domes of
the Middle-east and the sloping, tiled roofs that resembled the Chinese temples

he had seen in movies and books. The result was a magnificently chaotic
mosaic. "Wow," said Hank.
"Yeah," said Eric. "It's not too bad, I guess."
"Lemme guess," Hank said with a rare twinkle in his eye. "Your dad
has a place just like it in the mountains."
Eric laughed. "Yeah, right. In his dreams, maybe."
Falon, the old farmer who had agreed to give them a lift, grinned at
their reactions. "Your first time in Iardunn, my young lords?" he asked
cheerfully.
"Yep," said Hank.
"No--yes," said Eric. All at once, his humor vanished and a troubled
look shadowed his face.
Falon raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment on Eric's answer or his
change in mood. The two of them had saved him from a pack of wolf-like
humanoids a few days before, and he felt that he owed them enough not to
pry at the very least. He drove the hay-laden wagon up the road to the base of
the platau cliff. From there, the road curled up and around the city, so
that one had to pass a full third of its circumferance in order to reach
the gate.
"Be Hell's own fire to take," Eric muttered suddenly.
"What?" asked Hank.
"The city. Look, the road curls right past the wall for at least a
mile or two. Every step of the way you'd be turned into pincushions, hit by
rocks, and boiled alive--and there's no way around it, no way to breach the
wall short of getting to the gate." Eric's hand rubbed the hilt of his
sword as he spoke, his eyes far away.
Hank tried to shrug away the sense of unease he often felt at Eric's
sudden knowledge of warfare. It was especially bad knowing the source. But
what Eric said made perfect sense. "No wonder Venger never took the place."
"There is that, young lord," Falon said suddenly. "And then there's
the Council."
"What Council?" Hank asked. Eric kept silent.
"The High Council of Iardunn. They say all twelve of them are
powerful wizards, strong enough that even Venger doesn't want to take on
all twelve at once. They're the real reason the city stays open and free like
it does."
Eric nodded in agreement. "It should be safe."
Hank nodded. "That may be, but let's go according to plan anyway."
A minute later, the two of them were buried beneath the hay. There was no
real reason for it, Eric insisted, but Hank was adamant. He didn't want
Venger even knowing what city they were in, Free City or not.
The gate guards gave Falon and his wagon hardly a second glance as he
rolled through. One more farmer was of no possible intrest to them. Hank
and Eric remained hidden until they felt the wagon come to a halt in a
seldom-used alleyway. "All set, young lords," Falon told them in a stage
whisper.
"Thanks, Falon," said Hank.
Eric reached for his belt pouch. "Here, let me give you something--"
"Not a chance!" Falon barked, waving it violently away. "You saved
my life, and I have a debt to repay. Taking you to the city was the least I
could do."
Eric nodded slowly and took his hand from his pouch. It seemed
strange to him that such an obviously poor man could have pride enough to
turn away money that would go a long way to helping him and his family. It
was strange, but he was beginning to learn a bit about pride, and the
diffrence between that and arrogance. "Okay. Thank you."
The greying man in the battered leather hat grinned. "Be well, my
lords. And do come to see me if you ever need help again." With that, he
spurred his team, a pair of swaybacked draft horses about ready for the
glue farm, and drove his wagon away, leaving the two Young Ones in the shadow of

the alley. They waited a few minutes after he had gone before setting out.
Iardunn was as wonderfully chaotic within as it looked from without.
Peoples of every concievable race, human and otherwise, milled together in
the many multi-layered markets of the city, trading everything from
valuable jewels and cloths to fine steel weapons to plain grain and barley to
supposedly magical talismans of questionable origins and potency. Mixed
with the sounds of the throng were the cries of those hawking their goods and
the instruments of a dozen or more minstrels they found playing in just one of
Iardunn's seven marketplaces. Hank caught sight of a woman, an exotic blend
of human and feline, dancing behind a translucent silk that she held in her
hands in such a way that she was never completely exposed. Hank found the
effect far more . . . interesting . . . than if she had indeed danced naked,
and found himself blushing. It took an effort to turn away.
"Slave," Eric muttered.
"What?" asked Hank.
"She's a slave," he said, guesturing towards the cat-woman. "Didn't
you see her collar?"
"Uh, no." Hank turned back to look, and caught sight of a narrow,
steely band around her throat. Then he saw the small, greasy man bedecked
in silks who sat between two ogres--his bodyguards, no doubt. Hank fought the
urge to draw his bow, reminding himself that they had a mission to perform.
It took several more self-reminders before he could set aside his seething.
Eric, he noticed, was gripping the hilt of his sword as if trying to
strangle it one-handed. He only released it when they left that market. They
wandered aimlessly for a few more minutes until Hank spotted a tavern.
"Hungry?"
Eric barked a laugh. "Like that ever stops."
They entered, and Hank was pleased to notice that the place was far
from a hovel. The room was brightly lit by both open windows and lit
lanterns, the tables were clean, and the patrons were respectable-looking.
The barmaid who appeared at their table was cheerful and friendly, with a
plain face but a pleasant smile that did much to add to her appeal. In
short order, the two of them were feasting on sauteed beef and vegetables and a
fresh, dark bread that they slathered with butter. Crockery mugs with cool
watered wine were set before them with the food, and they drank thirstily.
"So what's our next move?" Hank asked. Coming to Iardunn was Eric's
idea, after all.
Eric swallowed the bite he had taken before answering. "I'm not
sure," he said. "I figured some of my . . . Warduke's . . . followers might
have made their way here after my . . . his . . . army broke up, but I'm
not sure where to start looking." His eyes started to follow one of the tavern
maids who had just entered. She was a rather pretty young woman, about his
own age, with long, dark hair swept back from her face with wooden combs.
Something about her . . .
"Think maybe we should find out where the mercenaries hire themselves
out from?" asked Hank.
Eric snorted. "Somehow I don't think any of the hobgoblins who
worked for me count as my 'beloved' servant." The girl was taking ale to a
table which seated a small party of Dwarves. Her movements were almost
timid, her smile shy and slight, as she passed out the mugs and spoke to
her customers.
"Who else then?" asked Hank. "One of the human slaves."
Eric nodded. "Yeah, maybe. Like . . ." Like who? His head felt
fuzzy somehow with the effort of trying to sort through two sets of
memories.
The girl looked up, her large brown eyes catching his own, and suddenly she
paled so much it seemed she would faint. ". . . Meredith . . ." Eric
whispered. That was her name.
Suddenly, Meredith spun around, dropping her platter and running to
the front door in a panic, ignoring the shouted questions of both patrons
and tavern keepers. Eric was right behind her, with Hank--who threw down a
handful of coins easily worth three times their meal's price--on his heels.
Hank's longer legs brought him abreast of Eric for a moment, and he
shouted,
"What's going on?"
"It's her!" Eric shouted back. "She's the one!" Please, oh please don't let Hank figure out why.
The crowded streets actually helped them, slowing the girl down more
than it slowed them, and with the angry and perplexed shouts of the crowd
leading them onward like a signpost or beacon. Finally, the girl left the
main street and darted down an alley, trying to lose them in the maze of
Iardunn's many towers. It wasn't long before she succeeded.
"Where'd she go?" asked Hank when the paused for breath.
Eric shook his head, wheezing. Suddenly, a scream rang out. "That
way," Eric gasped, centering in on it, and the two were off.
They turned several corners before finding the girl, surrounded by
three orcs in the rust-blood red uniforms of Venger's troops. One held a
scrap that he had torn from the girl's dress, exposing one slender leg for
the leering eyes of his companions. Hank didn't bother with a warning
shot--the golden arrow from his bow blasted the orc against the far wall
where he slumped, unmoving. The other two spun around, weapons in hand and
eyes wide as the Cavalier's sword rang as he tore it from its scabbard.
Facing even odds, they did what any self-respecting orc would do--they
fled.
Hank let them go, conscience warring with his better judgement. He
knew he could kill at need, but it wasn't in him to keep killing when the
battle was over. Eric slid to a stop a few feet beyond, obviously feeling
the same. Hank knelt down beside the girl, who was curled into a ball, arms
crossed over her face. "Are you okay?" he asked in his most gentle,
soothing voice.
One eye peeked out at him, filled with fear. Hank made no move other
than to hold his hands out to her in a gentling manner, and waited until
she slowly uncurled herself from her fetal position. "Sorry," Hank said. "We
didn't mean to scare you like that."
"You . . . but he's . . ." Her eyes darted from the Ranger to the Cavalier and back again.
Eric sighed and squatted on his heels. "I'm not the Warduke
anymore," he said wearily. She looked disbelievingly at him.
"It's true," Hank quickly put in, keeping his voice gentle. "We
freed him from the curse."
Those dark brown eyes turned back to him. "Who are you?"
"My name's Hank, the Ranger."
"Oh!" she said, recognition clear in her voice. "You're the one Lady
Sheila spoke of." Her fear seemed to evaporate, and she finally took Hank's
outstretched hand.
"_Lady_ Sheila?" Hank asked.
"Meredith was Sheila's handmaiden while Sheila was my . . . _his_ . .
. prisoner," Eric explained. He seemed about to add more, but didn't.
Meredith nodded.
"Nice to meet you, Meredith," Hank said. "But for now, we need to
find a place to stay. Those orcs might come back with reinforcements. Do
you know a place?"
She nodded, slowly. "I . . . I do. Come with me. My lords."
Eric rolled his eyes at the honorific, but he and Hank followed
Meredith through the maze of alleyways until they came at last to a tower,
this one with a conical roof. Meredith led them inside and up the winding
stairs, to a small room. "This is where we stay," she explained, softly
tapping at the door before opening it.
"We?" asked Hank, but got no further with the question. For inside
the small room, sitting on an old stool beside the open window, was Llythen
a'Corimira of Sidhe Gildas.

To be continued . . .