Jerad wandered into a section of the cavern where the remains of previous challengers to the wyrm were posed in various positions. A grisly scene and, had he not still been under the effects of the potions, he might have run screaming from the place. As it was, he merely stared at each with a morbid curiosity. A dwarf wielding a fine axe that didn’t seem to have a speck of dust on it. He picked it up and held it in his hand. A fine weapon. Perhaps he’d claim it for himself, considering the sword Caspar already wielded. It wasn’t exactly his style he thought, leaning on the spear.
Something caught his attention on the far wall. He placed the axe down next to the dwarf who had once wielded it. Jerad leveled his spear as he got close, but soon saw instead of another of the gruesomely posed dead, this was a cache of armor, weapons, and helm. The helm was the most gods’ ugliest thing he’d ever seen, yet, he felt strangely drawn to it.
On a whim, Jerad leaned his spear up against the stone cavern wall, and took off his own helm. He had to see what was so intriguing. He turned it over, giving it a full inspection. The helmet was a lacquered blue and featured an eye slit with a cut down the center. Good visual and breathing. Attached to the sides were two great dragon wings, also painted with the same blue lacquer or enamel that covered the rest of the armor. He placed the helm upon his head.
It was snug, not uncomfortable. The area around him was more crisp and he found he could make out more of the details of the armor, and other items. Leaving the helm on, he examined the rest of the gear. There was a steel shield with a formed skull on the outside. The thing looked a bit heavy and ungainly, but each to his tastes. A great gold girdle with a shaggy fur attachment sat beside what looked to be half a suit of blue chainmail armor. The armor ended in a left boot with a spike affixed to it.
Then, Jerad had a crazy notion. I should put this on. Imagine how unstoppable I’ll look. He remembered his own gear and wondered, for a fleeting moment, it might look strange to do so. He was brought around by a scream that was quickly cut off.
“Great Owl shine on you, Jerad. That helm had me scared out of my wits. You know those eyes glow, don’t you?” Huru said, her hands on her hips. “You look ridiculous, you should take that foolish thing off.”
“Okay,” Jerad said, but did not make a move to do so. He could see much better with the helmet on.
“Okay,” Huru responded flatly. “Anyway, we’re gathering all the finds in the main chamber.”
“Got it. I’ll gather this stuff and meet you there,” Jerad said. A moment after Huru had gone, he thought he heard a whisper.
“She knows. The Owl will know.”
“What?” Jerad said to no one in particular. There was no response to this, but when he reached for the items he had a strange feeling that someone, or something, observed him. Judged him. It was not a comfortable feeling. He shook it off and bundled the loot, forgetting the dwarven axe altogether.
He placed the meager loot down on the growing pile, as the others hauled chests, pieces of long lost art, bowls of gems and placed it all in a tight pile. Jerad did the same.
“What’s with the helm?” Twilight asked, releasing the end of the heavy chest he was carrying with Caspar.
“I think I want it as part of my share,” he said, his voice echoing in the blue helmet. Twilight looked to Caspar who just shrugged.
“I’d say the kid’s earned it, right?”
“Fair enough,” Twilight responded.
A bell or so after the fight Jerad found the fear creeping back into his thinking. He was just glad the whole ordeal was over. They finished packing the best of the loot and were just deciding on the final pieces to pack for the short haul back to the New Haven. By the end of the day Jerad and his companions were far richer than he’d ever dreamed. With a haul like this Jerad could retire— have anything he needed until the end of his days.
While the others were packing, he attempted to take off the helm donned so brashly earlier. While the effects of the potions bolstering his courage were in full swing it had seemed innocent enough. Now, he just wanted to be sick. The helmet was stuck. The others continued a deep debate over which of the art pieces had the most merit. Caspar sticking to the idea the ugliest of the bunch would gain the most money, with Huru debating on the loveliest.
He pulled upward with all his strength. The helm wouldn’t budge. He felt a swell of panic. A claustrophobic closing of his throat. He stumbled a step closer to his companions, then froze. His limbs would not move. He was rigid as a young lad on his first date.
“I wouldn’t do that,” the whisper came, followed by a deep rumbling laugh. “Oh, what an auspicious day this has been, friend. Can I call you friend? Good. I’ve been so in need of a new friend, you see? Many have come to try and many come to fail and I am fortunate enough to meet you, fool—er, friend.”
The world went dark, his limbs were moving of their own accord. He felt queasy. “Who are you?” he asked in his own head.
“I am you, you are me. This, you, are my new home,” the growly voice said.
“What do you want?” Jerad shouted, but it came out as a mere muffled echo, like he was trying to yell across a field.
“I have what I want, Jerad. I have your life now,” the voice boasted. “Here, let me show you.” The world flashed back in. He could see perfectly, even outside the line the helmet would normally block. His body was stretched by the fire posed in a seductive manner.
“What the—?”
The voice laughed and his form adjusted of its own will. “You see, Jerad. I know what you know, and now— I’m in charge.”
He saw it now. He was the perfect fool. Survived the fight with a dragon only to be possessed by a magical helmet. The damned potions. They’d made him overconfident. No, he was always a fool.
“What about me?”
“Don’t worry, Jerad. I bore easily maintaining a vessel and all its mundane parts. Atrocious. For now, you and me, we’re gonna have some fun. See?”
A flash of images came unbidden to his mind. Foul images of bloodshed and killing, a whole history of vile acts, evil deeds. When the helmet was done, it spoke its name. “Warlord,” the helmet intoned. “Warlord is your new master, Jerad.” The thought of being a slave to an evil artifact, one that—as he had just been shown—had centuries of atrocity to its dark record. And it was his foolishness which unleashed it on the world once again. He had to warn The Vindicators. He felt Warlord pressing against him, pushing him further down the harder he fought. “I can see you need to learn a lesson. Fair enough. It comes.”
Jerad was unsure what he meant, but in that moment, Huru approached. He tried to scream a warning but no words exited his mouth, nothing even intoned in his mind, he could do naught but watch in horror.
Huru sat down across from him, looked at him a bit sideways.
“Is the helmet comfortable then?”
“It’s a snug enough head—for the head,” he heard his voice say in a very un-Jerad-like manner. Huru frowned.
“You see, Jerad. I was just taking an inventory of the magic of the hoard and I couldn’t help notice the helm you’re wearing emanating a powerful enchantment. If you would allow me, I can probably give you some idea of its properties.”
“No thanks, I’d rather not take it off.”
She squinted her eyes. “I see. I’ll discuss this with the others,” Huru said standing. She wasn’t prepared for the attack in the slightest. She hadn’t noticed the danger. She knew something was wrong. She shouldn’t have looked away like that. Not then.
The spear went up, under the chin, and into the brain cavity of the tall half-orc. In an instant, Huru, priestess of the Owl was dead. In his own hands was the spear Huru had handed him, just after they’d all defeated a dragon together. Her limp form fell to the ground and an instant later Jerad had the horrific realization of being in control of his body once again.
The laughter reverberated in his head. “Good luck, I’m sure the others are going to notice soon. I suggest you do something.”
It was already too late. Dunja rounded the corner—likely looking for Huru. She screamed.
“Fuck. This wasn’t me, Dunja. The he—”
“I don’t think she needs to know that. You better kill her before the others show up.” the voice said, taunting.
“Please—” he tried to say more but was cut off. He’d lost control again, as his body hefted the spear in one hand, cocked and hurled the missile with unerring accuracy, striking the robed woman in the chest, pressing her back against the wagon, and rattling the treasure with the impact. “Shit,” he managed, before the helmet— or demon— or whatever had him, advanced on the wizard. Her protective magic flared around her even as he watched himself grab the spear and pull it free once more. Dunja spat blood, spoke a word, and disappeared.
“She’s gone to get the others. She will bleed to death more than likely, unless she has more potions to drink. See what happens when you don’t react immediately? Messy. What kind of warrior are you?”
But he knew the voice knew. Just as he had been shown the vile deeds of the entity that now called him home. He looked over at the body of Huru. She stared up at him with vacant accusing eyes. He saw betrayal writ there.
“Why are you doing this?” he managed to the entity alone.
“Because I can,” Warlord said. “Watch and see how a true warrior comports himself.”
Warlord took full control of his body, Jerad a mere observer. He took the skull shield, Jerad recognized it as Warlord’s now, from the images he’d been shown. He took up the spear and spun, just as an arrow streaked at him. Warlord deflected the missile, the metal shield resonating.
“You killed, Huru. You fucking, bastard spearman. I’m going to kill you and bury that damn helmet up your ass!” Twilight shouted from a good distance away as he fired arrow after arrow from his already half depleted quiver. Warlord perfectly placed his shield for each shot seemingly without trying.
“How’s your sorcerer, darkdweller?”
“The fuck you call me?” Twilight yelled. His last arrow loosed, he drew twin short swords and charged. But, the ranger wasn’t the target Warlord awaited, only a distraction. The sweep of a flaming golden blade came in from a high and unusual arc. An attack many swordsmen would not have seen coming. Warlord caught the blade with the edge of the shield and spun it downward with the paladin’s momentum, in the same moment stabbing at the Warrior of the Retaliation with the spear, held in one hand—a style Jerad was unused to.
The blow skittered off the Caspar’s plate armor, but came close to finding the seam. Whoever Warlord was, he was a master of weapons. Caspar, enraged by the site of Huru dead at their feet, swung wildly the other direction, trying to catch him with a false edge cut from his champion’s blade. Warlord swiveled his hips and caught the blade once again. In one fluid motion he blocked and kicked the paladin away from him, far enough to jam the edge of the hefty shield into the paladin’s helmet, knocking him to the ground.
Yet, he had no time to capitalize, or so Jerad thought. As Twilight closed in, short swords ready for the attack, Warlord pivoted and released the spear at the man’s leg. Twilight expected something much higher and didn’t react in time. The spear sank deep into the muscle of the upper leg, when the ranger brought his leg up in the next step, the shaft flung back toward him, tangling with his weapons, dropping him to the ground. His leg won’t support him.
“Not with where I put it,” Warlord said in his head. “Watch and continue to learn, young Jerad. I’m going to show things that would amaze.”
Caspar scrambled to his feet. Warlord kicked him in the face, pulled the dagger Jerad kept in his boot and wrestled the aasimar into a supine position. Caspar’s finger scraped for his champion’s blade, just out of reach. If he could get it to him, maybe he might explain what had happened, get out of this somehow.
Warlord pinned the paladin by the left arm with his heavy shield. In his right was a dagger and his knee pressed on the man’s chest. The look of fear on Caspar’s face Jerad never thought he’d see. Jerad tried to will himself back into control. No! He screamed, but he was again dim beneath the will of the entity in control.
For a brief moment, he wrestled control back. He dropped the dagger and let up on the left arm. Caspar almost wriggled loose, when he lost control again. Rather than pick up the dagger, Warlord reached for the sword, Jerad felt his own fingers grab the hilt, flip it quickly in his grip, and take perfect aim at the slit in Caspar’s visor. The paladin was again pinned. The sword came down. There was the snick of steel on steel as the sword slotted in with a sickening final crunch. Warlord stood and spun on the ranger, who limped weakly toward him.
“We gave you a chance and this is how you repay us?”
“Sorry, that’s just the breaks, Twilight. You lot may be good, but I was killing for a millenia before your gods were born. Well, time to meet the petulant children you dirt dwellers worship,” Warlord said, facing the ranger unarmed. He made a feint the ranger mistimed and required footwork, an option he didn’t have. Taking advantage of the off balance ranger, Warlord snapped a hand at Twilight’s elbow, in one motion breaking it and disarming the weapon. Using Twilight’s stolen sword, he cut downward, removing the ranger’s head from his shoulders.
“Damn you!” came the yell from the wizard, Dunja.
“Ah, yes, I think we started something we best finish,” Warlord said to the Protectorate wizard.
“Ha, I know when I’m beat. We’ll see each other again,” she said, incanting a few words and disappearing with a pop.
“It seems we’ve made an enemy, Jerad. Ah well, let’s loot the bodies, shall we?”
Jerad could do nothing. Nothing but watch Warlord loot the bodies of his companions, his comrades in battle, his friends. He started with Huru and he saw the helmet adjust his sight so that the areas emanating magic on each body were visible. Items of magic glowed with light, in varying hues and patterns. He did not know what they meant, but Warlord seemed to. He did not share the information with Jerad.
He cut a finger from Huru’s left hand, holding it up to examine the ring on her severed finger. He took the ring and slipped it onto his own finger, Jerad’s finger.
“Do you even know what that does?” Jerad asked, his voice echoing slightly in his own head, or wherever he was watching all this from.
“Doesn’t matter,” the voice growled smoothly. “Take it all, sort it out later. Ah, but what do we have here?” Warlord pulled Caspar’s sword from the paladin’s skull. “Now, this is special.” That much Jerad had seen, from the brightness of the multiple overlapping auras of magic. He knew the blade was legendary. Caspar called it Reaping Flame. Warlord read the inscription on the blade. It was a language Jerad didn’t understand, but Warlord did. “Do you know why the paladins of old used holy-sanctified weapons, boy?”
Jerad didn’t like being called names, he was just hanging on as is. Perhaps Dunja would return any minute with the cavalry. But feeling belligerent and not wanting to waste a moment to complain about the situation, he finally asked. “I suppose you’re going to tell me?”
He hefted the fine blade in his hand, made sure Jerad could feel it too. Perfect balance and sharp as a barber’s razor. “Because, Jerad, if they were to lose that weapon, it would be useless to the dark forces. They would not dare touch it for fear of being burned by holy flame. Do you know why I am not being burned in holy flame now, Jerad?” He elongated Jerad’s name for effect.
“It isn’t a sanctified weapon?”
“Oh ho ho, Jerad. It seems I’ve underestimated you. Indeed, it is not a sanctified weapon, and I guarantee I will make them understand their mistake when next our enemies face us.”
“Why?”
“Why?” Warlord, said his voice incredulous. “With this, and our fabulous cache here, we’re unstoppable.” He stooped at Twilight’s body and retrieved a dagger from the ranger’s belt, and tucked into his own. Then, he changed his gear from what Jerad had been wearing, which was a perfectly sensible set of splint mail, into the lacquered half suit of chain mail found near the helm. Picking through the rest of his companions belongings, he took several potions which remained from the stash for the battle, the satchel Huru had pulled the spears from, and several large gems. He took no platinum, no gold, so silver, not even a copper penny. Jerad got the idea Warlord felt this was under his station in the Great Conflict, whatever that was.
Warlord piled the treasure he wanted, which to Jerad was a strange mix of books, magic, gems, scrolls, and potions. He knowingly left valuables he could easily have taken. Why these specific items? Warlord was not forthcoming with answers, and when he spoke his own voice was so muffled he was almost unable to hear himself. He could do nothing but watch his own possession. It was not a pleasant experience.
Jerad’s horse was sturdy enough, but resistant toWarlord climbing atop him and shied away.
“You must ride the beast. He senses something is not right. If you attempt to deviate from my intended course, I’ll just walk, then I’ll make you feel all the pain. Or worse, lock you away in the dark and never bring you forth again.”
“I’ll— do it,” Jerad said, trying his best to sound sincere. All he wanted to do was run, to just have his own legs back again. Then, if he died like the others, so be it.
“Get astride the horse and ride to the gates of Summerfort. You have memories there and it’s as good a place to start as any.” Jerad felt his limbs again as the world of experience rushed back to meet him. It was only then he realized how much the helmet or the entity muffled him, keeping the majority of the life experience for himself. Jerad felt robbed. He mounted his steed and turned the horse toward Summerfort road. The expedition itself had set out from New Haven which was the exact opposite direction from Summerfort. He knew full well, the Protectorate forces would be after them.
Leaving the gold and a dragon’s hoard of treasure behind, Jerad and Warlord rode from the swamp drowned hills, took the fork toward Summerfort. Jerad’s only thoughts were of escape. He found there was none.
