Feorik and his hirelings strode south through town until the reached
a back alley in the poorest section of Bilcoven. Cobern, very quiet until
they reached this area, seemed more at ease on his own turf. "Now y'see,
there's this way we's use to get in'an'out of the sewers. O'course, ye'll
have ta swear to forget about it after today." He glare particular hard
at the two guards.
Grimly, Feorik agreed, explaining that he had little interest in the coming and goings of Gyllick's men. The two boys were plainly too frightened of this man to protest, and muttered weakly their compliance. Satisfied, Cobern giggled slightly and led them to a pile of mangy furs and refuse in the alleyway corner. With practiced ease, he shuffled some of the pile aside, revealing a sewer grate. Immediately a waft of sewer air hit them. Cobern didn't seem to mind, but Feorik and the two boys wrinkled their noses. Feorik nodded to the two and the three of them attached their nose cloths.
"Very pretty...heehee," Corbern commented, his eyes twinkling. "When you a been down there as long as I have, there's not too many smells you don't like." With that he heaved on the grate and it came up slightly.
Feorik could see where it had been carefully sawed through. The whole grate could be lifted off and then replaced, without anyone being the wiser. "Down, down ye three go. The rungs are a bit wet; watch yer step or you'll break yer neck, fer sure."
Feorik, Deein, and Tulane crept to the edge of the circular hole and looked down, into foul-smelling blackness. Metal rungs led downwards. They seemed in good-condition, no sign of rust or slime. Faced now with the reality of this for the first time, Feorik thought, Curse these maggots for living in such holes. He took one last breath of alley air and slowly descended the rungs to the bottom of the shaft where the cool dark water splashed less than an inch deep.
As he looked about in the gloom he saw the advantage of this entrance. The floor here was relatively dry and the roof was high, maybe six feet. In all directions there were exits, where the ceiling went down to five or even four feet. He made space for the others as they each came down, and then instructed Deein and Tulane to light their brands. In the guttering light, the shadows crept and crawled, much like Feorik's skin. The orange glow of the torches glittered off the still sewer water.
Cobern chuckled at the ranger's obvious uneasiness, "Not ta worry, my one-eyed friend. Nothin' bigger 'an rats down here... ‘course they can get pretty big. I assume we’re looking for the goblin lair; we’ll head east, then north toward the warehouses. We ought’ta pick up some trace of them."
Cobern told Feorik to approach the tunnel on the right. The arched tunnel extended back into the darkness from the chamber they were in. The walls were old crumbling brick. Periodically along the walls small dark openings spilled a black gooey stain onto the walls. Feorik, crooked backed, followed his spear point toward the darkness ahead. His shadow swayed back and forth before him dizzyingly as the nervous boys unsteadily wielded the torch.
Once away from their entrance chamber, the smell became a bit less dominant. The floor was merely damp and squishy rather than wet. After many awkward paces, Feorik could see the bars of a gate ahead. A heavy rusted chain secured it locked by a padlock. Debris and dried slime hung on and between the bars. As Feorik neared, Cobern called from behind, "There’s a loose brick to ye’re right, get the key." It took Feorik a few moments to find it, but he did and after a bit of wiggling, the padlock opened. "Pass it back, Cobern told him."
Beyond the gate, the tunnel continued. "Beyond the gate the sewers are a bit wild," Cobern said while Feorik heard him close and lock the gate. Feorik did not see any signs of traffic in the algae and filth-covered floor. He continued on until the sewer ended at a tee; the new tunnel was a bit wider and shorter. Already Feorik realized his back and legs were straining with the awkward squatting walk. Both directions extended into darkness. Flies buzzed all over the new tunnel’s floor. It was covered in pasty smelly muck. "Turn left!" Cobern called.
Feorik told Deein behind him to mark the wall with the chalk and Sted to start paying out the twine. "Come on," Cobern insisted not realizing what the hold up was. He chuckled again as he realized the precautions they were taking, but otherwise waited patiently. Feorik proceeded to the left, following, it seemed from the patterns in the gooey floor, the flow of the sewage. Still no tracks were evident.
They waddled further into the dark labyrinth. Eventually, Feorik came to a still shorter tunnel leading off to the right. Another tunnel to left was visible at the edge of light ahead. "Right turn," Cobern said, "under the Parade." At least the new passage was not filled with sewage and bugs. It led to another chamber like the one they entered, but there was no grate. Just many small openings ringing the top of the dome. The storm drains flushed water down three exits: one across from them, one to the left, and the one they came from. They stretched a few moments.
The dirty floor showed signs of passage between the other two tunnels. Short wide prints of clothed goblin feet. They were old prints in the gritty dirt. Rain would wash them away, so they could be up to two weeks old Feorik calculated. Overdue for a storm, he thought. There were several sets going back and forth, no dominant direction. Feorik looked up from where he studied the small footprints. "Old ... many days. But definitely goblin." He looked toward the two youngsters, "take heart, we are on the right path."
"Further east," Cobern said pointing to the chamber across. They set off again into the low tunnel. It was not long before he came upon a mound of bricks and dirt filling the tunnel, covering the tracks.
"Damn," Cobern cussed peering around to see why Feorik stopped. "Bastards. There’s anuther way around."
Feorik sized up the pile of earth, "We could dig through, but not today. It is good to know about these things, though." Cobern turned around and led everyone back to the domed chamber where Feorik shuffled by to resume the lead down the other passage with the tracks. As he proceeded, the stench of excrement grew stronger and stronger. The source was a small side tunnel they came upon that sloped steeply into darkness. They were more than glad to get passed it.
They came to a tee where water trickled down the walls and rippled mostly down the tunnel to the left along with the tracks. The guards eyed the dripping walls and ceiling nervously. Their eyes above the marginally effective masks revealed that they were concentrating to stave off claustrophobia. Cobern directed Feorik to the right. As Feorik turned to the new direction, he inclined his head toward Cobern and stated, "You know these tunnels very well. Have you been in the entire length of them?"
"Probably at one time or other. I grew up on – and under – the streets," Cobern answered grimly. "Go on, torches are burning."
Feorik came upon a small sunken section of the floor and collapsing wall. The trickling water had filled it and continued on its way. He just missed stepping on some squirming thing as he stepped awkwardly over the pool. A small infant rat struggled to retreat from the light of torches. Feorik was startled though by the tracks it attempted to follow; if rats made them they were the biggest rats Feorik had ever seen. More like raccoons. Several sets of smaller tracks were scattered around the larger. They had been drinking and slunk away when the torchlight approached them. Feorik peered into the darkness ahead hoping he didn’t encounter the vermin.
He approached the ever-present wall of darkness before him. Soon the low tunnel intersected another muck filled sewer buzzing with flies and writhing with insects and larvae. The rats had run off to the left. They paused while the boys lit the second brand. In the renewed light, Feorik studied the muck. Like the other sewer, it flowed left, north according to Cobern. Stains on the walls showed the tunnel nearly filled during rains. Other than rats, no tracks were apparent. Cobern seemed indecisive, but finally bid them proceed to the right.
They sloshed up the slippery and foul smelling tunnel. A side passage to right came into view. At last, they had come upon more tracks; this time both booted humans and goblin. The guards had come upon the disgusting mud and stopped their pursuit. The goblin trail led further up the mucky sewer line. Feorik followed them. There were at least eight pairs of prints in the filth; the raiding party.
Somehow the stench was getting worse, almost gagging the surface dwellers. The tracks led into a very low, but wide spillway a foot above the floor in the wall to the right. It was the source of a large portion of the tunnel’s sewage and odor. It piled on the floor below. The passage of the goblins had displaced much of the sludge to the sides of the five-foot wide two-foot tall tunnel. Even the goblins had to crawl through it; it was a repulsive proposition.
Unfortunately, progress further up the tunnel was impeded by a blockade of bricks and larger worked stones. From the patterns on the floor, rainwater still could seep through the barrier, but not much else. Faced with the dead-end, Feorik halted and turned on his three companions. "Things are about to get ... interesting," he muttered, mostly for the benefit of the youngsters.
Feorik walked towards the bricked up area, and tapped it with his spearhead, hoping to gauge its thickness. Then, putting down his weapons on a dry spot so that he had his hands free for balance, he gave the wall a firm kick in the hopes of dislodging a portion of it. The force of his blow was blunted by the thin layer of slime that covered the stones, and everything else. Not much happened.
Silently, he retrieved his spear and knife and turned towards the spillway, taking the torch from Deein momentarily. Squatting, he craned his neck in the opening with a torch near his ears in an attempted to see how far the small tunnel went. Mentally he imagined squeezing through it, greatly disgusted at the concept. Feorik returned to look up the spillway. "I'm going up...I can fit."
He returned the torch to Tulane, put down his spear and reached for the rest of the lard he had purchased earlier that day. After greasing his arms and the sides of his armor, he looked up at his three companions.
"Deein, Tulane, Cobern...you stay here. I'll take this brand," he motioned to Tulane for it, and then lit the third and final one from it and gave it to Tulane. "I'll call down to you from up there." Without further ado, Tulane helped push him up the spillway, shimmying upwards as best he could holding the spear and torch. The three at the bottom waited quietly and nervously for the ranger to call to them.
The sticky slope climbed thirty feet. The buzz of flies grew louder as Feorik climbed. The torch sputtered and flared more brightly as the passage emerged in the wall of a putrid ten-foot square pit of sewage. Just below the spillway an oozing layer of watery excrement squirmed with worms. The air was thick and foul, making Feorik gag. Across the pit and up several feet another five by two foot spillway was built entered the chamber. The stone ceiling of the pit was barely visible. At the top of the pit on the wall to Feorik’s right was another tunnel dripping dark sewage into the pit. Stones on the wall to his left had been knocked out forming a rough hole in the pit wall.
Feorik thought he heard something from the hole skittering away in the dirt tunnel beyond. In the dim torchlight, Feorik could make out the flat shape of a sturdy plank pulled back into the tunnel well out of reach from his position. Feorik turned his head in a complete circle, making sure he was alone. Then he called down the hole, as softly has possible but still loud enough to be heard, "all clear up here. I'll let you know in a minute if this pit leads anywhere."
The smell threatened to deaden Feorik's other senses, as it flooded his nostrils. He tried his best to ignore it, but it was not easy. Determined to go onwards, Feorik gingerly tested the bottom of the sewage pit from where he squatted in the small tunnel. The spear sunk deeply into the sewage. Below the watery layer it became thick and sticky. The spear sunk three feet into the sludge before hitting a solid bottom. The ooze held on to the spear with a watery suction. Feorik pulled it free, the foul smelling muck clung to the shaft in clumpy wet chunks.
He unbuckled his scabbard and laid his sword in the spillway. No use ruining the leather, he figured. Steeling himself, he slowly stepped into the sewage, sinking up to his waist. The situation was thoroughly revolting, and for a moment Feorik thought back to the other Watchers and Guardsmen, all somewhere above, clean and unknowing (uncaring?) as to the their town's problems. Feorik spat. He felt the foul water trickle down around his buried legs. The goo was riddled with maggots. Choking back his rising bile, Feorik concentrated at the hole in the wall and kept his eyes off the noxious sewage pit.
He heaved his foot to proceed to the tunnel and the plan and discovered his leg stuck fast. A panic approached, but Feorik kept his head. He moved slowly, lifting and pushing his limb through the mire. It was slow and awkward progress and a noise from the tunnel ahead swept a wave of dread up Feorik’s spine. Halfway to the plank, Feorik stopped to solidify his stance. The sound of shuffling was more definite. He hefted his spear and torch defensively.
The slinking creature showed itself moments later. Even the short goblins had to crawl through the small tunnel. It’s misshapen head sneered at Feorik, then the point of a spear appeared. All thoughts of his situation evaporated as Feorik gazed upon his hated enemy. I've found you, he thought to himself triumphantly. "Tulane, Cobern, Deein! I've found them. Hurry, come join me."
Cobern sprung into action. Loaded crossbow first, he knelt to the spillway and practically jumped into it. Deein followed, then Tulane with the torch. The low flat tunnel required that elbows and knees be used to push along the gooey floor. It stank badly of excrement and rot. The foul mud was infested with insects and worms wriggling away from the torchlight.
Feorik moved backward towards the spillway from which he entered. The spear flew at him awkwardly and Feorik deflected it easily with his javelin. It landed with a splash on the sewage and lay there slowly sinking. The goblin snarled and managed to screw its face into an angry scowl. It backed off into the darkness out of sight. The eerie high-pitched voices of the creatures echoed out of the tunnel. Feorik kept up is cautious retreat listening to the incomprehensible words. Something dragged the plank back too. Then the goblin suddenly appeared again shouting and baring its crooked pointy teeth. It held another spear, but it just shook it at Feorik and did not throw it.
From the spillway, Feorik heard his companions scrambling up. He dared not take his eyes off his hated enemy, even to swat the numerous flies and other bugs that were constantly landing on him. He backed up to the spillway. Its spear flew out at him at hit the wall close by, very close by. It flopped onto the wet sludge. Feorik lay his torch on the spillway so he could unsheathe his sword, keeping an eye on the little green-skinned humanoid constantly. Feorik taunted the thing, his hatred bubbling to the surface, "Good little shit-man...stay right there where I can see you. Don't worry about me, I'm staying right here..." With those words Feorik suddenly hurled his own spear, straight at the thing's left eye. It jumped back too late and took the javelin through its filthy hide. It cried out in pain and disappeared into the darkness taking the javelin with it.
Feorik smiled at the creature's obvious discomfort. Feorik hollered loud, "Ha-Haaa. Boys, I got one. Hurry, or you'll miss all the fun." He turned to see Cobern leading the way, almost to him.
"Uuuuh," Cobern exclaimed as he made it to the top and looked at the muck wading ranger. Tulane was curious, but could not see passed Deein or Cobern.
Feorik smiled at the man, then suddenly grew fearful as the man’s crossbow was lifted and fired. The bolt flew over his right shoulder toward the tunnel. Relieved somewhat, Feorik spun to see another goblin, but its spear was already airborne and accurate. He felt the impact and knew it was solid. His hopes that his armor absorbed the blow quickly evaporated as his eyes registered the shaft protruding from his side. "Aaahh," Feorik gasped. Snarling, Feorik shifted and sent pain shooting throughout his torso.
His vision swam as he continued to move. With a shudder he stopped and gasped, "rrg. Damn...unggg." Blood trailed down from the pierced flesh. Feorik knew that removing the spear would invite a huge amount of bleeding, but he could not move effectively with it in his side. He leaned on the spillway. Cobern launched another bolt, Feorik vaguely heard a squeal. He muttered something that did not come out intelligible. He dropped his sword next to the torch and fumbled for his knife.
"Oh gross," Deein said as he maneuvered to see what was going on. "He’s waist deep in shit!"
"Pouch, you," Cobern called, "Kid get him a bandage out of my pouch! Stay still Feo. I’ll get it out."
"Cobern ... nnng ... watch that entrance," Feorik's voice was weak,
dazed.
"Heh heh heh," the man giggled, followed by another click of his crossbow. "There take it," Feorik was handed a roll of cloth. "Wad up and end and get ready to stuff it in." Feorik was still in the process when Cobern yanked the spear out. When the stars cleared, Feorik held the bandage to his wound. He felt the warm fluid seeping onto his dirty hands. "Pull him up!"
Feorik bent into the spillway and Deein grabbed him under the arms and hauled him from the sucking mire. More bolts were launched. "Wrap it around him," Cobern instructed Deein. "Tulane, go back and make sure they’re not comin’ from behind!"
Tulane slid/climbed down the sloping spillway back to the sewer line carrying Deein’s torch. His companions’ voices and shuffling seemed too loud. The sounds echoing down and out into the surrounding dark sewer tunnels. Tulane’s heart was beating quickly. Fear, anticipation, anger. Tulane calmed and listened for approaching danger. He felt all alone in a small island of light in a sea of heavy darkness. He heard something and spun to face the wall of debris blocking the sewer line. All was still, but something was making noise on the other side of the plug. He approached slowly and listened closely. Footsteps and grinding; an occasional high-pitched voice muffled by the stone blockade.
Deein maneuvered Feorik awkwardly to get the bandage around his torso. The spear thunked onto the spillway next to Feorik; another bolt clicked away. Feorik regarded the spear tip next to his face, its metal head bright red and shiny in the light. When the bandage was secure, he rolled and pulled himself into an contorted and painful sit so he could get his waterskin from his soiled pack. He sipped the cool clean water, and let his head clear somewhat. He wished it were wine. He waited there, trying to gauge whether he could go on. Thankfully, Feorik judged, the head had bit too shallow to puncture his stomach or liver.
Prone in the spillway, Feorik's breath came in shallow gasps. He felt cold already, knowing that soon he would be in shock. Lined with slime and still greasy, Feorik's body was inclined to slide back down. With one hand he strained to keep himself in place. His free hand shook, and Feorik could feel adrenaline course through him. The tiny tunnel was very dark and close. He could hear Deein below him and Cobern above, but he had lost his spear and the torch. Tulane was somewhere below, but very quiet.
Feorik cursed his stupidity ... and felt sudden rage at the Goblin who had hurt him. He also felt that Cobern may have saved his life had he not provided covering crossbow fire. "You've done well, Cobern," Feorik called out to the man, a rare compliment. "I'll be with you in a ... ng .. moment," Feorik grimaced as he shifted his weight, taking some pressure off the wound. He could feel his entire right side ache, and the wound was wet and sticky. Feorik started to slide down away from the cistern. Suddenly Deein's hand was on him again, holding him in place.
Feorik could hear the young guardsman grunt with the effort. Feorik looked up and regarded Deein, silhouetted in the torchlight from above. The shock on his face was plainly visible in the half-darkness. Feorik rasped, "bastard thing got lucky, is all. Thanks for your help. It's just a scratch."
His slide stopped, Feorik slowly lifted his head and regarded the opening to the cistern above, trying to see or hear how Cobern was doing. He was eager to rejoin the fight, despite the wound.
"What now?" Cobern asked over his shoulder followed by a chuckle, "Can’t keep them back long. Quiver’s getting light." He launched another bolt and deftly cocked the bow and seated a new one. Deein looked nervously upon Feorik.
Feorik called up to Cobern, "any idea where that tunnel leads to? Is there another way to get to where it leads?"
"Could go anywhere. Heh-heh, the way they’ve been putting up walls, no telling where things go."
Feorik gave Deein a one-eyed wink and gritted his teeth as he moved back upwards and into the cistern. It hurt like hell to move, but already the pain was lessening due to the body's natural responses.
"What’re you doing?" Cobern put a hand on Feorik as he attempted to squirm by. "We don’t want to get into that filth, eh Dee? I ain’t got many bolts left. They haven’t stuck their heads out in a bit. There probably circling around to pin us here now."
Feorik grunted, "Pin us, ergh...damn, you are right. Come out then." Feorik took the torch and wriggled back down the spillway after Deein. Once out, he waited for Cobern to follow as he took stock of the situation.
Tulane looked nervous holding the other torch and eyeing both the tunnel and the blockade alternately. "They’re on the other side," he told them indicating the piled stone.
Feorik oozed blood from his bandaged side wound, he swooned feeling light-headed. From the waste down he was covered in dripping brown ooze. His water-logged boots squelched with every step. The smell that covered him was vile, and Tulane strained not to back away even more than he already had. Deein seemed worried, not to mention similarly repulsed.
Once Cobern was out of the spillway, Feorik handed his torch to Deein and muttered, "lead the way, Cobern. Tulane, keep watch of our backs." He drew his sword, the shiny metal catching the torchlight, and motioned for Cobern to go.
"Where? My bet is they’ve blocked off the main lines from their lair," Cobern giggled irritatingly. "They might not know all the tunnels. But," Cobern arrested the excited look in Feorik’s eye," we’ll have to do this tonight or tomorrow, and we have to leave here now." The shifty streetwise man eyed Feorik waiting for his response.
Feorik's eye glinted, his features showing signs of pain, and emotion, most likely anger and frustration. "Damn, but we're not going to let the filth off that easy, are we?" Feorik slammed his sword back in its sheathe and whirled on Tulane and Deein. "Well, be you men, or boys? Cobern says we go up top, with nothing to show for our effort but blood and stink. What say you two? We have almost another hour of torches, if we put one out. I say we wait here, and hide the light, and kill the bastards once they approach."
Tulane, tried to comprehend all of what occurred muttered and shouted, grabbing his head in contemplation, glaring crazed at Feorik, "Wha.. wait... what happened up there? How many did you see? How did you get cut Feorik?..." He started pacing a bit frantically in the low sewer, "I mean shit! We're down here in this shit!, it smells like shit!, we climb through shit!... now Feorik, you look like shit, you're covered in shit, and I... I... ... ... shit."
Tulane swiftly turned his back to them and paced one last time, head bowed, knelt for a moment, and then sat down on his knees with his arms falling limp, sword and torch let to touch the floor. Silence fell on the group, except for the muffled sound of high-pitched voices filtering through the stone blockade nearby.
Deein went to comfort Tulane, "We’ll get outta here."
Tulane threw a hard elbow at Deein when he came over to comfort him, warning the other youth to keep his distance from the testy young guard. His back still turned to Feorik and the rest, head bent down.
From behind, Cobern giggled slightly, and whispered to Feorik, "I'll reckon we'll be going up, now?"
"Damn," Feorik swore, and sighed, causing him to grimace. "Nng ... yes, we go up," he muttered.
Slowly he walked over to Tulane, and knelt down beside him. While earlier Feorik's voice was lined with pain and frustration, now it was softer. "Easy lad...I never promised that this would smell good. I saw one of the bastards, and it got lucky, is all."
"He stuck it too! And winged the one that got him," Cobern stated enthusiastically, but sounded condescending.
Feorik stood up and ripped the cloth mask from his mouth, and making a ball, hurled it at the spillway. Then he said to everyone, "We go up. Now that we know where they are, maybe the Constable will help us."
When Feorik came down to kneel besides him, Tulane got up abruptly and took a few steps away then turned around. "To damn with the constable and to damn with you." he said glaring at the two older men, "I am not a 'lad' and I am not going to take this patronizing shit from any of you." Gritting his teeth and furrowing his brow, his face turning noticeably red even in the poor torch lit light he continued, "I'll be damned if any of you would feel real damn comfortable down here alone thinking there were a dozen damn little monsters chasing your ass. Well that's where I was, so you'll have to excuse me if I flip out for a minute.
Then having turned to Cobern, "And you, you sack of rancid horse's placenta. I'll see you dead and rotten before you can think you've the better of me! You're nothing but a low lifeless thieving rat! And I'll see you run up on a pike if you ever think of laughing at me again." A visible battle of facial muscles waged on the rogue’s face, but the man’s eyes stared steadily at the young guard.
The tension mounted, then Tulane said to Feorik "If you want to go after them, then let's do it! I'll be damned if we go up now like this."
It was Feorik's turn for anger. He gave Tulane a hard look, and his voice was raised slightly, and iron timbered, all traces of softness lost. "You're damn right I want to go after them! But there'll be no fighting goblin scum if we fight among ourselves! I agree, it is frustrating, scraping along these tunnels like rats, and that's why there is NO room for personal feelings, down here. Tulane! That man you just insulted may have just saved my life, and may very well save yours before we get the hell out of this stink."
Feorik, having finished his uncharacteristically long-winded outburst, looked at Tulane a second longer then turned to Deein. "Alright, we go up. Deein, I'll take your torch, so I can follow the twine better." He looked at everyone, "And I'll need silence. The bastards may well be lying in wait for us. Keep your eyes open."
Without further words the foursome decided to head out. Tulane seemed angry, but kept his tongue. Feorik too was upset, but the pain took the edge off it and he just felt tired. After being insulted, Cobern assumed a sulky silence. Deein seemed to be trying very hard to appear unafraid; Feorik knew the look as it was one he had often worn. They tramped in silence except for the sputtering of the torches and the squelching underfoot.
After twenty minutes of diligent scurrying, they reached the entrance by the storm sewer. The twine formed a disgusting ball of slimy rope that Feorik threw aside as they emerged from the drain. The sun hung low in the sky, and a wind whipped through the alley. Feorik was suddenly very cold, although the fresh alley air was intoxicating after the stench below.
Cobern stretched, looked around, and muttered, "I'll be goin' to Luca's... I've had enough of the stink." Luca’s was not unknown, but none of the others had been there. Without further words, the rogue strode off. No one said anything.
Feorik nodded and watched him go, then he turned his attention to Deein and Tulane. He said, "I'll get clean at the stream outside of town. Then I'll be at the Inn. Are either of you interested in going back down there, tomorrow?"
Deein mumbled that he wasn't sure; the pair looked at each other like they wanted to talk privately. "You know where to find me," Feorik said scraping gunk off his clothing and flinging at the alley wall. He tramped out of the slums and out the town gate, covered in filth, and looking none too pleased. Apparently either his odor or intense monocular gaze was enough to keep people at bay, as the streets literally cleared in front of him as he left the town.
Soon, with the sun setting in the background, Feorik sat with his feet
in the pond directly south of town. No one was there to bother him, so
he sat in silence for awhile as he washed his boots and unwrapped the bandage
and gave the puncture wound in his side a wash. It was still very painful,
and Feorik knew he would have to have it looked at, to make sure it was
properly cleaned. He cursed all of goblin kind.
Perhaps the warmth of a bar was not the best place to judge the
Bilcovs. People roamed the morning streets of the village quietly and hurriedly.
Darvian stood with Arnough and practiced the friendly beckoning that drew
customers to their wares. Villagers shuffled by silently looking over the
goods. Very few produced coins from the pockets of their worn clothing.
Despite their attempts, no one seemed interested in conversation. The most
communicative were the other merchants interested in making deals on the
side with Arnough; his evening agenda rapidly filled.
Darvian took a stroll as the morning progressed. He passed many deserted buildings, obvious by their lack of attention, although there was at least some attempt made to repair, or cover up, the wear of time. Trade seemed good here. There were many craftsmen at work here and there. The grainy smell of a small brewery filled the air in the Artisans corner of the village. Mostly the people he passed gave him quick glances and went about their way. Those that caught his eye long enough for him to smile and say hello at least returned his greeting unenthusiastically. He wondered about the poor attitudes. Perhaps here they were less dependant on merchants and less respected.
As he returned to the square where Arnough was practically pleading in his patronizing manner with a woman to purchase some knickknack. It was going to be a long day. Darvian then recognized the man from last night as he approached Arnough's display. The woman went off and the two started speaking. Darvian crossed the square to join them. Brian was sharing condolences on the hardships they all faced on the journey to the Marchy while he perused Arnough's miscellany.
He ran his hand interestedly through strands of colored beads hung on a pin. "There's a thing!" He announced separating one from the rest. "What better to drape across fair Mellody's neck." He bought the necklace from Arnough without haggling. "Say, you come through here much Arnough?"
"Every few months indeed."
"On our way here, rumors of the Marchy were quite bleak, and I see the people of the villages do indeed keep to themselves. It is all Cannon Linda can do to get people and sit and talk with her. Oh, they take the Goddess' blessings quick enough, but they sure don’t talk much." Brian put the necklace away and started fidgeting with one of a few hunters’ blades. "I heard there's been strangers turn up missing in these parts. That really true?"
It wasn't the first time Darvian had heard that, but according to Arnough the rumors were nothing to be worried about. He did catch Arnough throw a quick glance his way before answering though. "It's nothing for passer's-by like us to concern ourselves with. Folks around here are just superstitious ‘s all."
That didn't satisfy the pilgrim though, "That's what I am afraid of. I'm thinking Linda may take to this place, setup a shrine someplace. Are you saying there is a danger to those that stay?"
A look of concern crossed Arnough's features, "The folks here think that they've angered the spirits. There's been a few disappearances and strange deaths. Newcomers mostly. I don't know what to make of it. They say the spirits torment them, drive them mad or fleeing into the forest to get away. In all my time here, nothin's bothered me, 'cept the bleak people."
"Linda's not one for superstition, if there is real danger, I'd like to keep her safe. Here, I'll get this too," Brian said hooking the knife through his belt. "What sort of strange deaths?" A couple of people walked up to the cart and Arnough went to them before he could answer. Brian turned to Darvian with the same question in his eyes.
"I am afraid it is my first visit to the Marchy too friend."
"Have you eaten? Let's get something," Brian invited. Darvian looked to Arnough, who waved him on subtly, probably glad to be rid of the curious man. They found a boy roasting pork strips and purchased some skewers. While chewing the overdone but flavorful meat, Darvian felt the urge to question the pilgrim about the wizard using blinding flashes to fight gnolls. However, he didn't know how to broach the subject without giving away his own profession. Thus he rather asked Brian about the merchant caravan he used to travel with. "You are currently not guarding a caravan? Did your merchant stay behind in Bilcoven, while you tour the Marchy with your boss Linda? I really would like to travel south a bit and Arnough will never go that far. Maybe I can hire up with your merchant? What do you think, will he have a spot for another guard?
"I cannot speak for my employer, Durrant, but I could put in a good word for you. I know we could use another guard, and he has been reasonably generous in paying us."
Turning more serious, Brian added, "I fear we may be facing some trouble, because Durrant is somehow involved with the druids here and there is some mystery involved. Also, Canon Linda has uncovered a number of suspicious deaths which the church wants to investigate. It all seems to lead back to a gang of bandits and some mysterious curses on these towns. I would personally be grateful if you would offer your assistance in solving the mystery and protecting my friends from any dangers that may arise. Someone does not want strangers poking around here."
Darvian looked very seriously at Brian and nodded. "You can count on me. I will stick around and help you investigate. All these attacks we faced on our way also appear strange to me. There is something seriously wrong with this area. It would be very nice of you if you could recommend me to your boss Durrant, once we meet him in Bilcoven." Darvian stuck out his hand and shook hands with Brian as to seal a freshly negotiated pact.
As they finished their food Brian looked at Darvian and asked, "Y’know them red’n black dressed folks? They up and left last night sometime." Darvian raised his eyebrows at that; he wanted to find out more about them. "Yah, I was up pretty early and didn’t see them leave. I finally asked the innkeep about’m and he told me they were gone."
"Strange, I wonder how long they were there?"
"Just yesterday. Barso, the innkeep, told me they showed up in the morning, paid for a room, and he didn’t see them leave all day," Brian concluded.
Darvian shook his head and muttered audibly, "Strange folks. Already their garb makes one wonder. Now they arrive in the morning, sleep all day and then leave during the night. Why would anybody want to travel in the dark? Especially with all those less than friendly creatures around. I guess they must have something to hide."
Later in the inn, Brian watched the merchant talk to several of the local craftsmen and proprietors. He sat with Storn and conversed with Darvian while waiting impatiently to get more information from the man. He had tried throughout the day to broach the subject with the locals, but could not get any more information. Some of the villagers performed some sort of protective gestures upon themselves attesting to Arnough’s statement that the people were very superstitious - about something.
When Arnough finally got a break, Darvian, Brian, and Storn joined him. He looked a bit nervous, but the fresh mug they brought to him assured his participation. Arnough explained to them as unobtrusively as possible what he knew. He had never witnessed any of the events, but the stories he heard were told to him by different folks in different places so he believes them.
"The last disappearances were two years ago. Whatever brought the folks up from the south is unknown, but they weren’t merchants. They had come to the Marchy and were visiting the villages looking to set up some sort of business or guild or some such. There’s lots of empty places and some of them settled here and others in Sola. All of them are gone. I think one was found dead, trampled by his own horse."
"Year before that, with all the business with the Kildarae settling down after the famine, Lord Cinclair sent an Envoy to stay in Bilcoven. The entire entourage was ambushed and killed by the remnants of the bandit gang, except for the Envoy."
"Kildarae?"
"That’s what we of the Merchant’s Guild named the bandits. Its an elfish word for unrelenting."
"Who were they?"
"I think they were Bilcovs, probably from the stink hole capital."
"Who was their leader?"
"No one knows, Lord Cinclair says he is still at large, and I believe him."
"Did they use any distinctive uniforms or symbols?"
"I only had one encounter with them. Before the famine. I had only started working for Delmen the year before. I made one attempt to get here that year and was robbed of everything. Lucky to be alive too. They looked like peasants to me, nothing distinctive."
"Did they stay hidden out in the woods or did they base themselves in a particular village?"
"They stayed to the woods, there was, and still is as far as I know, a bounty on the head of bandits. Twenty gold I heard, but I ain’t sure. There still out there too. I wouldn’t be surprised if that group that jumped us were some of them.
"But the bandits were only part of it. I heard that first year with Delmen that about a bunch of folks here and in Tir that wound up dead or missing. They had been in the Marchy for a year or so; had come with a merchant that met a bad end I think. Strange deaths too; choking on their own food, a guy hung himself, another jumped off his roof. Either dead or gone, all of them that winter and spring.
"Like I said, the stories go back. I kind’a feel a chill talking about it. Hope there’s nothing to these superstitions about inviting that about which you speak to befall you," Arnough said with an unconvinced smile as he downed yet another of the proffered mugs. "So you’re heading to Tir on the morrow? I could probably use your ladies’ blessings after such dark tales."
A storm rolled in that night waking all but the soundest of sleepers. It brought heavy rains and winds, and a fierce round of lightning and thunder. The morning was gray and dreary. The town had become a mud pit, the few trees that struggled for life in amidst the buildings had had most of their autumn leaves stripped by the wind. The rains continued through the dawn and morning with no sign of letting up. Linda discussed leaving for Tir, but Brian and Darvian, introduced Arnough to the priestesses, and convinced her to wait for the weather to clear so they could accompany him and his carts.
The delay also allowed them to hear a rumor of Tir that reinforced their decision to join forces. Apparently there had been two bands of hunters gone missing in the woods outside Tir. Tir was known for its hunters and trappers, and it was disturbing that such experienced men would get lost. It was therefore more likely in the villagers’ minds that they were attacked by something, goblinoids likely. The conversation took a life of its own spurring many wild theories from the superstitious locals.
In a more serious moment between the pilgrims and merchants, they discussed possibilities about what attacked the hunters. Surely bandits would not be interested in the possessions hunters, especially considering the locals statements about how scarce game was and how hard-pressed hunters and trappers have been. Darvian told them how the bandits that attempted to rob them were looking for food and supplies. Most bandits did not kill unless forced. If it was goblinoids, why?
"Perhaps they’ve intruded," Arnough figured. "They’re very territorial,
goblins."
When Sirilyr could see by the morning light, he walked to the ground
by the sheep carcass and the stand of trees. He stooped to inspect the
ground for tracks of something beyond the ordinary. Finding nothing, the
ranger carefully examined the kill for signs of disturbance exceeding that
caused by the gnawing of the wolves. The wolves were indelicate with their
kill; its flesh was opened with jagged tears amidst the rain soaked wool.
Meat was cleaned to the bone, in places. He lifted the head to reveal the
ravaged through and neck. Blood still dripped from the wound protected
by the shaggy coat. Sirilyr could not find anything definitely unusual.
He not inspected closely the handful of wolf kills he had encountered though,
so he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had been there.
He cautiously checked over the other side of the ridge again unsuccessfully for signs of movement or tracks. The rains and blowing leaves loosened from the dormant trees probably obscured any signs anyway. The hideous creature of his vision was small too, covered with bony spikes; perhaps a waking nightmare, perhaps. Scowling, the leery soldier returned to the camp. He retrieved some dry wood set aside the night before and rebuilt a fire. Its warmth not reaching the chill he felt. "There is evil here. I'm sure of it," he said with an edge of iron to the flames. The light of the fire danced in his hard eyes as he watched the rim above them, sword and shield to hand.
Sleene awoke and heard the sound of rain beating upon her tent. It was Sunday; a new week. Chilled she did not want to get wet, so she stayed in the tent and meditated. She finished with a vow to Belenus, god of the sun. Done, the sound of Sirilyr building a fire and Snap licking her hand urged her to start the day, dreary and wet though it promised to be. Sleene emerged from her tent bundled in a heavy cloak. The wolves bound out after her. They approached the soaked sheep, but after sniffing it, they ran off into the woods.
Sirilyr looked tired, waterlogged, and upset as Sleene approached the fire. "Good morrow m'Lady."
Sleene, looking after the exiting wolves curiously, acknowledged him with a nod.
He asked her, "Are there creatures in these woods which radiate a feelin' o' evil hate, that seek out spilled blood, and what are capable of intelligent thought? Are there any legends or stories of such things as I've described that ye know of? Think well girl, our lives may depend upon what you say or do no' say."
Sleene looked at him with a frown creasing her face. "No, nothing specific," she replies. "There are some old superstitions about the Old Ones but that doesn't really fit. I learned a new legend about some giant Goblin-like creatures...Ilrak I believe they were called, that chased off the Old Ones. Legend has it that they still exist. The villagers half believe the legend although that may be that their story to frighten young children has taken on a new meaning with the hunters going missing."
As the well versed woman spoke, the worn ranger absently scratched in the dirt at his feet with a long thin stick from the fire as he listened. His mind was replaying the events of the last few hours. The drape of his long heavy gray cloak concealed his scratchings from the druidess. When Sleene had finished speaking, Sirilyr tossed aside his cloak to reveal a likeness of the fire eyed, goblin sized, boney spike covered malevolence he had had the dubious pleasure to witness and hold at bay through sheer force of will, and no small amount of luck he was sure. Pointing with the stick to the vile and crude representation of the creature, "It weren't no giant. But, Is this your IIrak?"
Sleene looked
at the drawing in the mud, considering it carefully, her manner changing
to deadly seriousness. "I have, of course, never seen an Ilrak but from
the descriptions...well, it fits but so could a number of other interpretations."
Sleene racked her memory for more information on the beasts, or similar
beasts, a moment before continuing, "You have seen this in your wanderings,
and recently? When and where?"
His eyes locked on the young woodswoman. His mind intent on her reaction
to his rough rendering, although, even at such dire a moment, he could
not help but admire her. He felt the urge to protect her. And for the first
time in his life as he glanced down at the demonic figure in the mud, he
felt inadequate to the task. This job was going to take all of them working
in unison to complete, or even to survive if monsters such as this came
for them. He replied, "Last night during the storm, I saw it watching from
the trees yonder. And near the sheep's carcass. I and it watched one another,
each sizing the other for some time. When the storm left, so did it." The
soldier broke his seriousness with, "Fear not m'Lady, should sech as this
come, we'll jest blind 'em with the shine from o'l Spencer's brain pan!"
He said with a long slow grin, hoping the bravado would reassure the both
of them. "Now, where did that smelly hound o' mine get to? He'll like as
not be wantin' his mornin' breakfast. As will I fer that matter."
"Did he, perchance, trot into the woods this morning? If so, I think
we may have trouble." The lazy dog was sleeping in the dry tent at Dolan’s
feet.
Dolan let out a groan, "Morning already." The warm happy hound raised his head and looked to the waking Dolan with a sleepy yawn and the thump, thump, thump of his wagging brown tail. Nosing his way out from under the tent's flap, he trotted to the one who had saved him from starvation. "There's my lad," said the smiling man. Both content in the other’s company, they broke their fast. The dog squeezing himself in between the woman and the man who fed him
Despite the torrents as the storm front blew through, the tents withstood the weather and kept their inhabitants dry. The front left an overcast sky that rained steadily. Everyone warmed by the fire before gathering their equipment. They left the tents sheltering the dry ground and firewood for the next night. They looked upon the village as they trudged down the path. All was quiet and peaceful in the gray rain mist. The four humans, horse, and dog trudged down the muddy path through the meager farmland to the warehouse.
The rain had subdued most of the tannery’s stench with the odor of mud and worms. A fleshy creature had emerged every few feet along the muddy paths and streets. Spencer got Pradareus into the stable and spent some time drying him off before joining the others at the warehouse. Within, scented candles and boiling herbal mixtures fought the unpleasant smell. Jack was outside sitting on a wagon under a tent canvas; the heavy things had settled almost six inches into the mud. Cecelia had prepared a breakfast.
"Won’t be doing much selling today," Durrant acknowledged. "I’ll welcome anyone Talon can interest, but those wagons aren’t going anywhere until the ground dries. Still want to go exploring? Dolan, Kort stick around the wagons; Jack’ll go with you all."
When the meal was finished, Durrant said, "Orinden is going to try and put together a troop of villagers to go looking for the hunters. He said ‘today’ last night, but this weather is probably going to delay that. I’ll find out what his plans are while you are gone; take horses so you can be back this afternoon."
They retrieved Jack, Karod, and Spencer helped Sirilyr, Georan, and Sleene get their horses ready. Like Spencer, they were by no means proficient with the animals, but all but Sleene had ridden enough to know the basics. They rode slowly from the stable into the rain. Sleene directed them across the muddy main road around behind the tavern to a path leading to the ring of benches around the small covered shrine. Of course no one was there in the rain.
The path from the shrine was little used and grown over, but years of mournful passage had worn it distinctly into the ground. It climbed the eastern hill and entered the surrounding forest. Soon the horses bore their riders beyond the tangley underbrush reaching out over the path onto a winding path beneath towering trees stripped of most of their remaining leaves by the storm. Had not the year been dying, the twisted branches of the canopy shroud the woods in gloom. Newly fallen wet leaves carpeted the forest floor.
The path wound up and down rolling hills, across small streams formed by the storm’s rain. It was indeed a long trip and they were glad for the horses’ steady pace. An occasional carving in nearby tree trunks reminded them of the path’s eternal destination. The skulls watched the procession with almost quizzical expressions wondering where the departed soul was. The forest was quiet except for their intrusion, and the soft natural noises of falling rain and trickling water. It seemed the somber mood of funerals passed had infiltrated the very nature of the forest.
The passage of time was difficult to determine under the smooth gray sky. They rested the horses out of curiosity and necessity when they came upon a region speckled with stone ruins, even a structure with two facing walls still standing. A tall pine with its highest boughs a hundred or more feet in the air grew from within the crumbling walls; a testament to the age of the worked stone structure. Sleene had never traveled this path before and could offer no insight to the constructors other than the area had once been home to elves long ago, the Old Ones.
They left the ancient village behind. They came upon the first signs of the cemetery probably around noon. The path entered a level region started tending southeasterly. On their left an occasional burial mound rose quietly among the trees in the distance. A large dark spire of a tower became visible through trees shortly thereafter. The trees began to thin, and the underbrush became thicker, but the spire continued to climb into the sky from the horizon, joined by two smaller companions.
Soon the quiet procession could see the large stone temple that supported the towering spires; the large pinnacle on the south end, the two smaller on each corner of the northern face. The path brought them to the neatly kept grounds south of the temple where it joined a circular cobbled road surrounding a marble statue atop a pedestal. Runes titled the work of art in an unfamiliar language. The robed male figure wore a grim expression that opposed its welcoming gesture toward the temple. They rode slowly single file around the statue on its encircling road. The scene was awe-inspiring, even to Sleene who had witnessed it before.
They took their horses to the large recessed arched doors of the temple. As big as they were, they were dwarfed and shadowed by the looming spire rising above. A small, man-sized door within one of the giant sized portals opened and an old man stepped out followed by two boys, a teen and a younger one. They wore heavy black robes that hid their hands and feet. The man smiled a warm smile as he approached the dismounting visitors ignoring the light rain.
"Welcome strangers, I am Viatteni." He bent to the boys and whispered for them to take the horses. "There are stables," he said indicating the eastern corner of his temple, "William and Joanor will take care of them. Please come in from the rain."
They followed him through the small door all the while marveling at the dark stonework. Carved patterns and faces decorated the blocks as they rose foot after foot into the sky. Leering gargoyles spit unsteady streams of water out at the woods from high on the walls. Inside was a vast sea of shadowy space. Beyond the entryway the ceiling rose to at least fifty feet. Two rows of columns supported the vaulting roof above the nave, almost unseen in the gloom above. Clear glass brick windows along the top of the high walls eastern and western walls let diffuse light filter weakly into the chamber.
An aisle between many rows of pews led to a dimly lit carved wooden altar atop a raised dais. Candles flickered on it in the distance. Not only was the size and foreign architecture of the cathedral striking, but also its strange lack of ornamental decoration inside. It was quite rugged. Spencer asked the holy man, "How old is this place? Who built it?"
"Very old indeed my friend. No one knows for sure who or when, but it is generally assumed the elves erected it. Though I have my doubts. Come, look around the nave while I fetch some ware beverages. " He pointed to a doorway to the right, "We’ll meet there." He walked into a hallway next to the room. The group moved down the aisle to admire the only intricate artwork there, the altar.
As beautifully
worked as the dark polished wood was its subject matter was unnerving.
The intertwining figures were skeletons in eternal toil. Near the bottom
they were smaller, struggling. Around the top larger figures were depicted
in various poses of worship and prostration. The top was shinny lacquered
black, ringed with lit thick black candles. A black leather bound tome
rested closed in the middle of the surface. The embossed image of on its
cover was of the rune Eihwaz atop a yew tree; a book of prayers for the
dead.
"Eihwaz, rune o' protection or death. Providin' I remember my mother's teachin's right. The black candles puzzle me though, the color's normally shunned in rights o' the ol' ways. Sleene what connections do the Druids keep with this place?" The soldier's eyes seemed drawn and distant as the young Druidess looked to Sirilyr as he asked her the question.
Sleene paused, thinking the question a bit odd. "Death is a part of life. We know this place and treat it with respect. Older members of my following assist with the preparation of the dead and know of what follows. I know little of this side of life as of yet other than it is believed that those buried here get special favor from Arawn in the next life."
"These Druid Elders, do they perform rites here at this temple?"
"No, I’ve only seen our rituals done at the villages, before the body is brought here to Viatteni."
Nodding his head at her answer and seeing the puzzlement on her face, Sirilyr answered. "You see I'm a bit uncomfortable at seein' the usage o' the black candles, an I'd like to know a wee bit more 'bout the hows an' whys of it. Did ya know for instance that black candles are used by some, who'd be branded as evil by most folks, to perform rites o' necromancy?"
Sleene merely shrugged, "Some prefer black, some white. The big problem is that the black concentrates and tries to pull all into itself while the white spreads and dilutes itself. Both are necessary in moderation."
"That'd be reason fer debate wit' some I'd wager. My dear departed mother never gathered wit' the likes o' that side o' the Art. She saw it as a gift o' Nature, to be used judiciously an na'er maliciously. She drummed a thing called the 'Rule o' Three' into us youngin's. She'd say 'Well ye little devils do as ye will, so mote it be. But all that ye do will come back times three.' Mum was well versed in the Craft's many ways. I picked up a bit o' the Craft from her. I na'er could feel comfortable wit' the ebb an flow o' the actual use o' the powers. The natural life force o' the wilderness beckoned to me as a lad instead, an that call which I follow. This," pointing to the dark alter, "is a glum reminder o' where my life might 'ave gone. Perhaps it is that which bothers me?"
"It's a good thing then that you escaped the vile clutches of the Art." Georan said, "Else, gods forbid, you might have become such a foul thing as a mage."
"Oh come now Geo, you're not anywhere near so foul as all o' that my friend. An' ye definitely smell better than that god forsaken Tir!" Sirilyr replied to the lean magic user with a sly smile.
The north wall behind the altar was painted dull black; a lightless void. Almost indiscernible in each corner was a dark hall. Probably leading under the base of the two smaller towers. They walked back up the west side aisle along the rough dark stone wall. Toward the southern entrance, the west wing was accessed through an archway. An unlit corridor extended beyond, only two closed doors on either side of the hall were visible in the dim light penetrating from the clerestory windows of the main chapel.
Viatteni returned with a tray from the opposite hallway and beckoned them with a nod of his smiling head. They crossed to the room that was a meeting room with a large table. Viatteni set the tray down and was lighting candles of a central candelabrum. The six took seats and poured themselves steaming cups of tea. It was a very delicate tea set much unlike the wood or clay vessels the visitors were accustomed to. "What brings you my temple?" Viatteni asked as he took a seat at the table.
"Call us curious new comers," said Jack looking at the priest closely. "You have a most impressive temple. I have to say I am more than impressed. Yet no tales tell of this place."
"No one much likes to talk about death - the great unknown beyond. This is a shunned place," Viatteni answered somewhat defensively.
"Who makes use of it?" Spencer asked.
"All the villages bring their dead here for rites and burial."
"We are curious about the history of Bilcoven," Jack said changing the subject, "we thought we would visit the cemetery. We did not expect to find so grand a temple," Jack glanced at Sleene who looked puzzled.
"You are welcome, you can have William as a guide. It is a curious request if you would indulge me," the priest requested of Jack.
Jack looked at him for moment before speaking, "I am in charge of the safety of my master’s caravan. Many rumors have promised calamity to outsiders. I suppose I am curious to confirm the danger."
Viatteni sat back in his chair and sipped his tea. "You shall confirm some of those rumors," he said thoughtfully. "There has indeed been a few premature deaths, particularly to ‘outsiders’. Those that chose to stay. Is that your plan too?"
Jack nodded, "At least for the winter."
"I can not explain the deaths, only that I have seen them. Particularly from Tir and Ziret," the priest looked around at each of his guest.
"You say you can't explain the deaths. Clarify, if you will...do you mean to say that the cause of the deaths is a mystery?" Spencer asked.
"No, that the strange deaths seem to happen to ‘new comers.’ But I suspect more than accident and self-destruction."
"The cemetery is large, and old. These lands have been sacred burial grounds for all those that have come before. Even I have not fully explored them in all my years here. William can take you to the recent graves."
Georan who had been seemingly lost in thought turned to the priest, "I was wondering...from what I understand of what you just said this temple was built more recently than the use of this site as burial grounds. Could you tell us more of the history of the temple?"
"There are burial sites I believe are much older than this temple. The temple is a sacred site, you shall see. But its architect did not leave credit to himself. Custodianship of the temple has passed from generation to generation since the elves brought us Milar to Brendil. We, my order, believe care of this place to be why the Marchy was established.
"Bless ye fer the tea Sor. Have ye heard o' the missing hunters o' Tir? Ah, I'll have to make a note o' that fer Talon, thar be a tune in it somewhere." He absently noted somewhat callously.
"Aye. They still have not returned?"
"Nor have the Watchers sent to find them," Jack answered.
"That is not good. I’d hate to lose them," Viatteni said ruefully.
Sirilyr asked casting a sideways glance at Jack, "Have ye seen any creatures lurkin' 'bout your yard o' late? Usually they've said to be active at night in the woods of Tir. And I be wonderin' if'n ye've had any graves disturbed? Especially any that 'ave been planted in the past three years or so."
"I am afraid I do not go out among the departed as often as I used to. My boys have not mentioned any desecrations, or creatures of the night. Although it might surprise you that even we do not roam the sleeping grounds at night." That defensive tone had returned.
Grimly smiling at the elderly priest, Sirilyr said, "Sounds like good common sense ta me boyo. However, we should probably take a long stroll 'round the grounds jest to make sure thar be no nonsense about. Not that I'm a believer in such child's tales o' the undead. But...'ave ye any holy water ta spare?" Flashing his most innocent of looks to the old man.
"I do, but you will not likely need it here. Know that it is not danger to the body that is to be feared from the unrestful dead, but danger to the soul. Come let me show you to the stables." He led them down the hall next to the meeting room. They passed several dark rooms on their way to the door at the end of the hall. It opened into wooden hall, obviously an addition. Viatteni walked down a side hall and opened a door to a yard bearing a garden, and a stable beyond.
The boys were inside the stable grooming and playing with the horses. Viatteni told William he would accompany the group for a tour of the cemetery. He whispered something to them, and Joanor ran off. The stable housed two old work horses and an ornate black carriage, actually a hearse. Much to the horses’ dismay they were resaddled. William threw a saddle on one of their horses, and led the group away from the stable. Joanor returned puffing with a large pouch for Viatteni, who walked it to Jack, "Spare some for the graves." Jack nodded and took the pouch silently.
Sleene approached Viatteni behind the others leading her horse and asked, "My good priest, is something bothering you?" she asked with a tone of genuine concern in her manner.
The old priest looked down at her, "Sleene. I fear these people are meddling in something evil. Be careful; something wicked stirs in Bilcoven."
Sleene's concern turned abruptly to anger. "Something dangerous," Sleene blurted mordantly, surprising the priest. "My superiors hint at something dangerous. My companions hint at danger. Even you hint at the danger but NOBODY will tell me anything!" She complained angrily, "Everybody seems to feel that I have to be protected but nobody will say from what and yet they expect me to lead these, these, these PEOPLE around and help them!" At this last, Sleene slammed the butt of her staff to the floor making a sharp crack against the stone. At the sound, she looked at Viatteni's rather shocked expression and continued a bit more calmly. "I'm sorry Viatteni," she said laying her hand on the old priest's arm. "I'm just frustrated and being forced to be around people so much has made me a bit edgy I guess. It's just that everybody seems to know more than they are telling me and I can't figure out why."
"I wish I had more to tell you, but I am afraid that I am in the dark. Probably so are your superiors. If they have put with these strangers, I am sure there is a reason," he looked at the departing group with a hint of suspicion.
Sleene sighed, and then smiled at Viatteni. She had to admit that his living out here tending his "grove" with almost druidlike affection made her respect him. "I don't trust them either," she said. "Thank you, I guess I just needed to let off a bit of my frustration." With that, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed Viatteni on the cheek before moving off after the others.
A path left the north end of stable and met a cobbled road that commenced at another arched entrance on the north side of the temple. The black painted portal was much smaller than the southern entrance they used earlier. There also was no visible door inside behind the altar. The road continued north into the light forest.
Reining his horse back until it fell in along side of the druidess, Sirilyr, continuing to look straight ahead as he rode, said very lowly as if to be heard only by her and their horses. "Lady Sleene, if'n your willin' to accept a helpin' hand from one o' 'those people' ye be shepardin'. I'll go wit' you to Cap'n Durrant when we return. He's a fair man, an’ should ye state your case to him squarely, he may be willin' to share more with you than your superiors have. But, you also will have to be forthcomin' with answers to his questions. Think on this, an give answer as to your decision when we return." The young soldier put heels to his horse then and returned to his place behind William, Jack, and Georan.
The steady light rain and gray sky enhanced the somber ambience as the road soon passed between ancient mausoleums of carved white stone marked with unfamiliar runes. Immobile stone doors sealed the chambers.
Georan paused beside the mausoleums, "These must be the ancient burial grounds the priest told us about." he said, looking at William for confirmation.
"Aye," William acknowledged, "Though there’s more deeper in the woods." Georan dismounted and, handing his reins to William, approached the mausoleums. Stopping at the nearest one he examined it more closely. The stone was rough white flecked with black and shiny gray. The engraved runes were in similar patterns to the few elfish documents Licyn had shared with him. Sirilyr had dismounted and circled the old structure, searching for tracks while leading his mount. Climbing back into the soft leather saddle, he glanced at Jack and shook his head.
They left the stone tombs behind and came to a region of unmarked earthen burial mounds. The road branched west and east, and the cobbles became gravel. North of the road, a parallel series of long low mounds lay north to south. Some twenty feet wide, and over one hundred feet long. It was something seen near battlefields, or after great calamity. William confirmed that there lay the victims of the famine of four years ago. The six mass burials were the Town of Bilcoven’s. The other villages had their own; none so massive.
Silence swept over the group as the enormity of what had befallen swept across those who surveyed the last resting place of the famine's victims. "Ehem," Sirilyr cleared his throat in order to continue. "William, did ye see the bodies as they were brought in an prepared fer burial? Wuz there anythin' strange 'bout them to ye?"
"I had just started my apprenticeship," the teen said. His deep-set eyes revealed something like regret. "It was bad. As many starved as frozen. We had…" the sullen boy stopped and frowned, fighting back tears, "We had to stack’m up ‘til the thaw. Like wood." He sighed, "No, nothing strange." He didn’t seem the type for dark sarcasm.
A short distance north of the burials William brought them to the acres that were being used to inter the Marchy’s dead. The grounds were neatly kept with gravel trails between graves from small mounds to large, and an infrequent sepulchre. The size and care the cemetery was given astounded everyone. The cool drizzle dripped from overhanging branches. They wandered the peaceful trails awhile, finding nothing unusual. The only thing disturbing was the similarity between a farmer’s labors and the priest and his young apprentices’.
William explained that they marked areas for each village. They lasted many years before becoming full. How he managed not sounding callous as he explained this was amazing. They toured the Town of Bilcoven’s cemetery that had been in use for twenty years.
"Sounds like ye love this place lad. And I must admit, tis beautiful in it's way. Tell me, do ye know what deity the great temple is dedicated to? Does ol' Viatteni ever perform rites there?"
"We serve the dead so that Arawn may have favor upon them. The temple is our place of ritual and Viatteni our Patriarch," William answered the ranger.
Changing the subject, Sirilyr inquired, "Has anything ever got into yer stables an caused trouble?"
"Naw. Had some coons nesting in the loft awhile back." William looked puzzled.
After walking a short distance farther, "Show us the graves o' the outsiders who've died in the past three or four years. Thank ye, that's a good lad!" For a reason the young soldier couldn't put his finger on, he felt a nervousness creep round him like a cloak. All of his senses were on edge. Absently, he stroked the hag's amulet hanging from his neck. He glanced down at the symbol upon it, eagerly accepting what little comfort it offered. He wondered if it had anything to do with the night creature's not coming into their camp the past night. His narrowed eyes swept continuously the treeline edging the well-kept borders of this place of the dead.
"They’re up in Tir an’ Ziret’s plots. A bit of ride," William mounted and again led them along the forested road. They passed cemeteries of years passed; the forest had grown in and over the graves leaving only reminiscent mounds and occasional stone marker peaking from the dry autumn growth. They rode amidst the graves in the drizzle for several miles before they came upon another cemetery under the care of this strange order.
It was similar to Bilcoven’s, but much smaller. Sirilyr again dismounted and circled the area sweeping it with his critical gaze. He was determined to find something. They had laid the graves of the strangers in a separate plot. William explained they did not have any family in the area, so they were buried together. There were eight graves; quiet, damp, and undisturbed under a blanket of storm blown leaves. William said he helped with four of them and indicated them with a limp gesture. "The others were buried there before I," he paused, "joined Viatteni."
The soldier caught William's hesitation and asked, "How did ye come to join Viatteni?"
The question flustered the youth, "I, uh, was, well, given to him. An orphan, gettin’ into trouble. Just like Joanor."
"Did somethin' happen to his last assistants, the ones that helped Viatteni bury the other four?"
"He died just before I came. Viatteni does not talk about him."
Jack approached the graves and produced an opaque vial from the pouch Joanor had retrieved for Viatteni. He removed the cork and shook it at the mounds, sending clear water upon the earth.
"Do we go to the other?" William asked.
Looking to Jack and wiping away the accumulated drizzle from the front of the round brim of his helmet, the ranger removed his travel splattered gray cloak and shook it hard away from the horses. Steam rose from his body in the cold damp air of the woods. "It would be a good idea to check it out Jack." He proffered non-committedly to his leader as he replaced his cloak and raised it's hooded mantle over his helm before remounting. "Oh my achin' rump. A man pays a high price for the services o' a horse!" Escapes his lips, as Sirilyr settles again on the damp saddle. He mollified himself with the warmth from the bowl of his freshly lit briarwood pipe. Exhaling a rather large bluish smoke ring which floated in an eerie halo above him, he contentedly puffed on the 'Kilkenny' pipeweed as he awaited Jack's word.
"Don't know about the others but I definitely want to take a look at those other ancient graves you mentioned. The ones in the woods." Georan said.
"It gets late," Jack said. "This place is much larger than I expected. How far to the other place?"
"Half hour if we ride fast. Viatteni has forbidden us from the ancient sites. I can only show you where it is, but cannot take you there."
"We haven’t the time for that," Jack said flatly; Georan looked frustrated. "We seem to have come a ways north and west, how long back to Tir?"
"Taking the road back to the temple or up to Ziret would be about the same. Three-four hours."
"Hgh." Jack scowled. "There’s too much here, old and new. Let’s head back."
"I’d like to stay and look more," Georan stated and looked at Sirilyr hoping for support. "Do we all have to go?"
"I’d just as soon head back," Karod said glumly. "Had enough of this place and this weather."
Sleene said nothing but watched the humans, the surrounding forest, and the other surroundings. She was used to the cold and wet but was unused to being mounted. "I wish Nip and Snap were here," Sleene muttered under breath feeling a bit lonely among this group and wishing for the companionship. Death, life, outsiders being killed, questions about ancient beasts, nothing about this entire assignment made much sense.
Feeling almost as much frustration as the young Mage, Sirilyr asks Jack, "Why come all o' this way just to do half o' what needs done? We can stay in the temple stables tonight after we're finished here can't we?"
"I'm sure we could offer better accommodations than that," William smiled; it didn't suit his face.
"See," the ranger announced enthusiastically. "The risk to Durrant is reasonable in view o' 'knowing' all o' this place and being able to give him a full report. I work for you Jack. What you say goes. However, I am willing to stay and escort Georan in a thorough look at this place. I too 'ave no desire to be caught out in these woods after dark especially after what I've seen. The two o' us can sleep over here and rejoin you in Tir ere noon tomorrow if you feel Durrant will need reinforcing tonight."
"That's fine," Jack said, "but I want to find out what that Orinden is up to. We may leave in the morning, but with your mounts you'll catch up to us." Jack looked at the weeping sky, "If this keeps up, the roads may still be to muddy. Alright, if you’re with me, lets go!" He handed Viatteni’s pouch to Sirilyr then mounted and tipped his helmet to Sirilyr, Georan, Spencer, and William. "Be careful." He rode off with Sleene and Karod.
Sirilyr turned to William, "Why has Viatteni forbidden you to take us inside the ancient sites?"
"It is dangerous; I know not why."
"Will you guide us?"
"I have given my word not to enter without his presence. We will pass near on the way to Ziret, but I can not accompany you."
Nodding his head to William, Sirilyr looks to his two companions, "Shall we take the short ride to visit the other ‘foreigner's’ graves and then complete the circuit o' this place? I'll follow you're instincts while here, as I fear what we may find will lie in your areas o' knowledge more so than mine. Although, I do suggest we find ourselves back at the temple before dark."
"Fine by me," Spencer said looking bored with the serene surroundings.
"Lets go," Georan eagerly mounted his horse.
As they rode Sirilyr, gently but persistently, prodded young William with more questions about the surrounding area, it's history, it's people and it's animals. Offering the boy a puff from his smoking pipe as he did so. He had little new information to offer; he was not well educated. "Ye don't happen to know what the cause o' death was fer any o' these 'foreigners we be visitin' now do ye?"
"Not the older ones. There're two that were found dead in their room at the inn. Another guy was trampled by his horse. Weird."
The soldier's small talk continued. "Did ye hear tell o' any acts o' cannibalism arisin' from the want o' that bad Winter?" Exhaling a long plume of smoke from his nostrils as he continuously eyed the woods gathered close around them, Sirilyr unobtrusively rummaged in his haversack as they spoke.
William blanched at the question, "There were folks found," he gulped, "probly dogs or rats though."
The ranger eventually pulled a small silver mirror from within the stale smelling bag and used it to take a quick look at himself, taking great pains to include William in the mirror's visage as he did so. "Egh, I need a bit o' groomin'." Smiling at William, "I been too long on the road." Holding the mirror tightly, he pointed it at William. "Want a look?"
The lad glanced into the small mirrored glass briefly and shook his head. Sighing he said, "One of these mornings, I'll sprout a beard. I keep hoping it will be sooner than later."
Laughing, Sirilyr replied, "It'll come as all thing's do. In it's own time!"
Later, pointing from his horse to the south William said, "All of that heavy forest and thick undergrowth surrounds the ancient burial grounds. It's hard travelling through there." The remaining ride to Ziret's cemetery was uneventful, save for a sudden cloudburst that thoroughly soaked the already damp party. Sirilyr ensured the sack Jack had entrusted to him was safely tucked away under his soft leather outer tunic and dry beneath the protection of his cloak. If the cold riders listened carefully, they could hear the ranger softly singing an old marching tune in time to the beat of the horse’s hooves upon the sodden ground as they reached their destination.
Ziret’s portion of the vast burial ground was very similar to Tir's, only somewhat larger in scope. The four slowly wandered the grass covered mounds until they came upon the grove William indicated was the final resting place of several outsiders who found early graves in or around Ziret. Large trees shrouded the grove from what little light filtered through overcast.
"Someone's been here." Surprise was evident in William's voice as he dismounted and knelt by the lonely plot that held the stranger's graves. Sirilyr followed him while the others watched. "See, someone has covered this one," indicating with a nod to the grave in question, "with plants and leaves." He immediately began to tidy up the gravesite.
The ranger laid a hand on the younger man's arm. "Wait William." The statement was soft, but the boy stopped. "These small branches 'ave been bent and snapped when they were alive. And they be from a tree which isn't near enough to 'ave dropped 'em 'ere." The ranger's eyes read the story placed before him. "An' these plants...There all dead. See how's their roots 'ave all been torn from when whoever placed 'em 'ere pulled 'em up?" William, Georan, and Spencer could all now plainly see what the ranger had been the first to note. The ranger carefully brushed away the leaves and twigs scattered about the site as he searched for tracks or signs of what had gone to such pains to hide or decorate the grave. Sirilyr silently scrutinized the area briefly before nodding his head in understanding and quietly asking to no-one in particular, "Now, what do ye think they was tryin' ta hide?"
"We need to do some lookin' William. Which be the way to the ancient place from 'ere?" Sirilyr asked of their young guide.
"There is a road just east of this section of the cemetery that leads south. It will take you to the gate of the ancient place. I cannot take you there, as I am bound by my oath to my master. And I give you warning, Viatteni would not require such an oath from me were it not greatly warranted. Beware should you go there." The ranger diverted his attention from the gravesite and pulled the sack out from it's hiding place under his tunic.
"Thank you William. By my reckonin' Ziret lies jest o'er there, does it not?" He said as he gestured to the north.
William replied, "Aye, it does. And it's closer to here than the temple is. You have about two and a half hours of light left. The temple is two hours ride back the way we came. Do you wish me to stay to guide you back?"
The ranger was busily moving from grave to grave dispensing the holy water upon each in passing. Finished with all but the partially concealed grave, Sirilyr looked to his two companions, saw that they were already engrossed in the mystery of the gravesite, smiled and said, "No lad, ye best get back to yer duties. Thank ye fer yer services this day."
He shook the young man's hand and waving good-bye as he replaced the remaining holy water in its sack called, "We'll most likely make fer Ziret when were through here. But if ye happen to hear noise in yer stable tonight, it'll not be raccoons a makin' it. One never knows where they'll end up. Give our thanks and regards to yer master." Sirilyr watched while William rode rapidly from view on his sway-backed nag.
Turning to Georan and Spencer. "We'll now, which is it we'll be doin' first? Diggin' up this 'ere grave or riding to the ancient burial ground? The only thing I can tell so far 'bout who or what tried to hide this one is that it has been a few weeks."
"The only thing someone would probably want to cover regarding a grave is the fact that its been dug up." Georan stated, "I don't know how to tell if the ground's been disturbed but I'd rather not dig up any graves. Personally I think we should go to the ancient burial site. Graves aren't dangerous unless something strange is going on and those priests seem pretty uncomfortable about them."
"Yes Geo. But, why was it dug up. And why was it dug up within the last two weeks? I'll wager there isn't even a body in there. However, there may be some trace o' what was hidden there. Some clue as to what is going on around here. The ground's soft now, if we work two at a time, we can have the grave open in twenty minutes and know for sure. If we don't, the freeze will be in the ground and we may have to wait all winter for spring thaw to know. Spencer's a shrewd man, if you were Durrant, what would ye do now? Durrant won't like the fact we had the chance now and passed it by."
"I’m not sure what that man would do. I’m not for digging up graves though."
"I don't think I dare pass it by. We can check the grave and refill it and be at the ruins within an hour. What do you say? Will the two o' you 'elp me? Then we all can go see these 'orrible ruins o' William’s. By the gods, we may even find a hint about those right here at our feet!"
Georan shrugged and said, "All right, as long as we can have enough daylight to explore the ruins."
They all glanced at the dreary sky. "Lets go now Georan, I’d rather not get caught in the dark," Spencer said. "Leave the dirty work for Sirilyr," he smiled but he was probably serious. "I’m more interested in seeing the ancient burial site, and it grows dark soon."
The ranger began to clean off a good-sized branch shaped at one end for scraping away earth. "There is something amiss 'ere my friends, and my instincts are tellin' me this must be done. I'll catch up wit' ya as soon as I can." The soldier began to dig in earnest at the gravesite. He called over his shoulder, "If youn's run inta somethin'…and it gives ya 'alf a chance...hightail it back 'ere or make for Tir. Whichever is the safer choice."
"Sure," Georan agreed not disappointed at all. The two men had not dismounted and they nudged their horses into motion leaving the ranger scraping soil from the grave.
He soon cleared the grasses and dirt from the rocky mound. Feint sat watching him patiently, even pawed at the ground in an ineffective attempt at help. Sirilyr smiled at the dog, but did not slow his excavation. Without help, it would take more time. Stone by stone, Sirilyr dug into the earth. The pile next to him grew. His hands were cold and rubbed raw by the gritty dirt and stones. His efforts were finally rewarded when a lifted stone revealed a bit of fabric.
The soil had stained it beyond identification of its original color, but pulling on it and moving more stones out of the way released a skeletal arm from its earthen confines. Sirilyr held the upraised arm in shocked awe. A few bugs scurried around the desiccated fingers; strands of decayed flesh still held the bones together. Reality sunk in and he suddenly released his hold on the corpse’s sleeve. The arm fell back to the moist earth. The hand broke into pieces.
"Gaaar! This is dirty work. An Durrant will be buyin' the drinks for this job." Sirilyr removed the rocks from the interred body. It had been there long enough so the grave only smelt strongly of earth. The body was wrapped in a decaying leather cloak. The skin had eroded off the skull; the light rain slowly cleaned it of dirt making it stand out in contrast with the dark earth. As was custom, the person had been buried with their possessions. In this case, a mace lay next to the right leg. The ranger gently raised the heavier than expected corpse from the grave.
Beneath its cloak was a rusted chainmail shirt and enough of the tunic to call it green. Hardened leather leggings indicated this was someone prepared for battle. No cod piece; the only evidence this may have been a woman. He returned to the grave and placed the mace next to the body before digging down another foot finding nothing but rocks and packed dirt; no wonder they couldn’t farm much.
Cold, wet, dirty, and disappointed, he climbed out to examine the corpse for any markings or items of significance upon it. On the intact right hand was an iron ring; some symbol cast into it. It wore a wooden holy symbol around its neck; the eight pointed star of Lugh; god of knowledge. A priest then. There was no indication of how the cleric met his unfitting end, and no sign of tampering. When finally satisfied with his search, the ranger took a piece of parchment from his haversack and with quill in dirty hand made quick sketches of the ring, holy symbol, and mace. "Forgive me for this disturbance o' your rest priest." This job was definitely not to the woodsman's liking and his conscience bothered him a bit. Snorting and shaking his head, he whispered to himself. "Loyalty has a price." After fashioning a crude marker similar to the priest's symbol with the words "I know" carved shallowly into the soft wood, Sirilyr looked to Feint with a wry smile. "Well, I'm glad ta see ya decided to show up again. There be no joy nor chewin' fer ye to be doin' 'ere boy-o. But ye keep watch whilst I put this un 'ere back in the sod and set the marker."
Grimacing, the ranger re-laid the skeleton in the grave. By the time
he had finished recovering the grave and scattering leaves back over the
site it was almost dark and the wind was chill. He murmured a small prayer
and sprinkled holy water over the individual's remains. Then he swept away
his tracks, washed up, and mounted his horse. Quickly Sirilyr galloped
for the ancient grounds with Feint trotting along after him. He kept a
close watch on the trail left by his two companions and closed as rapidly
as possible with them.
Rasoric was startled by the echoes of approaching footfalls. He
did not know what to think, but none of it was good. His heart beat quicker
as thoughts of marauding goblins filled his head. Or heroic city guards.
Which was worse? He blew out the candle bringing complete darkness. Feeling
for the canvas covering the crack in the wall, Rasoric pulled it aside
and leaned close to the wall to look into the darkness beyond.
The footfalls were coming closer, but the darkness without was as solid as within. Rasoric found the level with his hand, and kept watching. Still no light source. The steps seemed close, should be at the end of the hall, but only darkness. Rasoric gasped and pulled back suddenly as a pair of glowing red eyes turned upon him from the blackness. Did they see him? Hear him?
Holding his breath Rasoric leaned back to peer out the crack again. He had never seen anything so eerie, like rats eyes catching firelight, but there was no firelight. Heart pounding more than before, he watched as the pair of glowing eyes scanned the hallway leading to him. They were approaching, at least it seemed so. The footfalls were becoming fainter, this creature was silent until the sharp clicks of releasing crossbow bolts broke the quiet and forced a yelp out the intruder. It was an inhuman cry, high pitched and angry. Rasoric had never been so nervous.
Rasoric was trapped. The mewling creature would bring its cohorts back, and they would want to see what was protected by the lethal trap. He looked at the lever that would topple the wall. Lethal but he had no idea how many had passed by. He wasn’t going to die for fat Mortlake’s stash. Fat goblin-dealing Mortlake. That’s what Gyllick meant. How else would these vermin have gotten into the undercity. Rasoric’s stomach knotted with anger. He found his dagger in his hand.
He had to move quickly, shut it up. He left the alcove and quietly unbolted the door. It was completely dark, but the goblin could see in the dark. Rasoric spread his cloak to hide himself and slipped into the hall. He inched toward the wounded goblin, unseen. He did not hear any others, but they were probably being cautious. Nearing, he could smell the foul stink of the thing. It had limped back almost to the main tunnel, calling to its friends. Rasoric was right behind it, could hear it scraping along the dirty floor.
Suddenly it spun around and Rasoric stared into those red reflective eyes. It was too late for it; Feorik punched his knife between them. It did not make a sound, but its eyes went dark and it slumped to the ground. Rasoric stood there quietly in the dark, dead goblin unseen at his feet. He heard nothing, but had the dread feeling that just around the corner lurked more of its ilk. Rasoric wanted to see.
Blind, he knelt and felt around the small body. The clothes were rough and grimy. The smell was bad too; shitty sewer stench. He rolled it over and felt along under its cloak. He quickly pocketed a small pouch with a few coins hung on its rope belt, along with a oversized dagger. As Rasoric pulled the sword free, a noise drew his eyes to the darkness of the tunnel ahead. He caught a glimpse of red eyes then all was black again. Heart beating, Rasoric clanged the sword on the wall and shouted as he stood and backed toward the storeroom. He could think only of luring the beasts into the corridor and dropping the wall on them.
Suddenly it was charging. He backed off, but knew he wouldn’t make the door. He dropped the clumsy blade and whipped his club out. Apparently there was only the one. It too stunk badly. Despite the darkness, Rasoric found himself wildly parrying the awkward stabs of its blade successfully. He just kept the club and himself moving, but his attempts at offense were just as poorly aimed. The two battled in the dark for wild. Both were breathing heavy, tiring. The pace slackened.
Rasoric found his ears helping him anticipate his short antagonist. The red eyes at least have him the right direction to swing. It would lunge, he would dodge and smash. It would block and stab. Then they would face off panting, staring at eat other with hatred, fear, and murderous thoughts. A pain shot up Rasoric’s leg forcing him to emit a groan. He saw laughter in its eyes. "Zarug een!"
Rasoric back swiped with his club and whacked the overconfident goblin in the head. Ignoring the sting in his leg, Rasoric let loose and released his fear anger and hate in a furry of violence that left the creature split open and dead. When Rasoric calmed he felt the warm goo that had erupted from the goblin’s wounds dripping from his face. He slumped against the cold wall and stood there in the black, listening. It seemed like hours as the seconds washed away. Silence. The dead things were abandoned. As much loyalty among goblins as among humans. He relaxed, he craved light.
He moved back in to the storeroom and got a torch lit. He looked at the spent rack of crossbows; he should probably reload them, but damn Mortlake and his little bestial allies. Then he remembered something else Gyllick said, a Watcher and some guards were in sewers, looking for goblins, and bounty. Bounty, Rasoric had one coming, but Mortlake would probably take it from him. Or Mortlake would punish him. Damn, damn, damn.
Gyllick said the Watcher was out for blood, and from Dir not Bilcoven. He may not know of Mortlake and his dealings; maybe he would take the credit and pass along the bounty. But not if he found Rasoric sitting among Mortlake’s ill gotten goods. He had to get himself and his victims away from here. Two gold; more than he had anyway.
Rasoric decided to reload the crossbows and reset the trap. He looked and listened from the alcove before leaving the storeroom with the torch. The two small corpses were dark lumps on the floor in the orange torchlight. They were small but heavy. Rasoric struggled to carry them one at a time to the ladder. He scuffed the signs of passage and battle as best he could. He climbed the ladder and rotated the wall open. He carried the foul goblins up the ladder and dumped them in the rain sewer. He was sweating and streaked with goblin filth when he finally swung the secret door closed.
The low sewers were full of untraveled tunnels. Rasoric carried his victims away from Mortlake’s domain and dumped them several feet into a gooey dark sewer line. He didn’t bother to take care to hid them well; the low tunnel was foul with sewage and stink. Hopefully he could find the Watcher soon anyway. Again he brushed away his tracks between the ladder and the goblins; then crept to a rarely used exit. The night air was cool and fresh. He went to discover where the one-eyed Watcher was.