The road to the forbidden burial grounds was less than a mile east
of Ziret’s cemetery. The cobbled path branched south, but quickly became
overgrown and unkempt. The horses had no trouble stomping through the weeds
though. The growth thickened around them; closing them in with quiet concealing
greenery. The road came to a rusting iron gate supported by cemented piled
stone columns topped with glowering gargoyles. Its two halves linked and
chained, locked with a much newer padlock. A sign hung on the gate with
neatly painted letters, "BEWARE." Covered with ivy and weeds, the iron
bars and cross pieces extended into the forest regularly cemented into
pillars of stone. It would not be difficult to climb, or break the ancient
welds, although the bars sported rusted spires.
"So, do we climb over or break through the fence?" Georan asked.
Spencer dismounted and walked to the gate. He looped the reigns to the gate then ran his hand down a pitted and rough iron bar. He gripped it and shook it. The sharp sound of clanging iron echoed in the still wet air. The bonds were stronger than it seemed they should be. The chain and lock were quality items, also not likely to be broken. "Over will probably be the easiest," Spencer announced looking up at the perched stone creatures with toothy grins and leering silent eyes.
The upper crosspiece was six feet from the ground with eight inches of iron spike protruding above. Spencer gripped the iron and, foot on the bottom crosspiece lunged up to grip the gargoyle by the tooth. He did not have the strength to pull himself up. Frustrated, he sank back down and motioned to Georan, "A hand."
Georan dropped off and secured his horse. He went to kneel and cup his hands to offer a step for Spencer’s boot. Spencer repeated the action with the extra lift from Georan and was able to get a knee up to the top crosspiece and an arm atop the gargoyle’s horned head. From there he managed to arrive atop the stone column straddling the petrified guardian. "He didn’t bite, I must be allowed in."
Spencer made to drop down to the other side but Georan said, "Wait." He rubbed the grime from his hands then gripped the upper bar as Spencer had. The rough pitted iron dug into his moist palm. "I’ll need a hand too."
"Strength of mind for strength of arm," chuckled Spencer reaching down to take Georan’s other hand. Georan leapt up and Spencer pulled. It was painful as his shoulder was wrenched awkwardly, but the mage managed to get stabilized with knee on the upper bar, and hand gripping a spike that threatened to break his skin. Spencer put Georan’s other hand on the gargoyle’s tooth. "Down I can handle," he said stepping off and dropping gracefully to the ground. Georan was not so nimble, and Spencer helped him down as well.
The road continued on through the trees and weeds. They walked beneath the dark trees for several minutes in silence listening to the dripping leaves and whispering wind. The undergrowth was thick and concealing. Georan nudged Spencer and pointed into the woods. There were stone blocks scattered all around the forest floor. They would have to see on the way back how many they had passed before realizing they were there.
The closest were about twenty feet off the road and all were completely overgrown with ivy and weeds. Georan trudged through the growth and peeled back the plants. The stone was carved with writing: block letters, runic looking, but completely unlike anything either of them had seen; certainly not elvish. Gravestones. Milar did not mark their graves. The two young men looked around the dark forest at the countless tombstones stretching into the mists all around.
"I’d like to copy some of these runes," Georan said. "Shelter my book?" A half-question, half-command. The pair spent time moving from stone to stone, Georan copying the writing while Spencer stood to block the drizzle and dripping leaves. Georan recognized the pattern of names and dates from some foreign calendar, but all written in unknown letters and numerals. They felt alien among the ancient graves.
When Georan had noted enough, they just moved from stone to stone looking for something interesting. Some had passages along with the names, some glyphs. Most were thin rectangular slabs leaning from unfathomably many years. Many were broken or toppled over. "Hey," Spencer called from many yards away. He pointed deeper into the woods. Georan followed the gesture and realized the target of Spencer’s attention.
A structure of gray stones rose from the misty dark forest. It was unlike the rectangular walled buildings they had passed on the way to the temple, or the smooth square mausoleums north of it. Large gray blocks were stacked upon each other creating a stepped wall. Heavy pine boughs concealed the summit. From their distance, they could not tell the dimensions of it. They looked at each other and nodded in agreement. They started making their way toward the building, the pyramid.
It had a rectangular base, about two times longer than wide, north to south, parallel to the road about a half-mile back. The blocks that made it were two-foot high weather worn cubes. Less than a foot of the top of each block was exposed making a steep ascent to the top. The forest growth clutched at the lower steps of the massive structure, but it rose out of it to a height of thirty or so feet. Still well under the towering trees of the ancient forest.
The two were amazed by yet another display of impressive architecture from the past. The vertical faces of the stone blocks were carved with simple patterns rough and worn with time and weather. They circled the pyramid. A steep crumbling stair of smaller stones on the southern face led to the summit. Exchanging glances they decided wordlessly to ascend. The stones were loose, especially near the edge.
The summit was a mess. It was capped with slabs of stone and littered with stone rubble. The wind and rain of countless seasons had washed the smaller bits away leaving large pieces of stone scattered about. They wandered the rectangular summit. A circle was carved into the central slab with a four inch wide and half-inch deep groove. Five inch wide lines extended from the circle to join a five pointed central star. The star was cut deeper, but filled with dirt. The rubble was scattered around this symbol as if it once were a shelter. Some of the shattered stone pieces were rounded; parts of columns.
Both men were excited as well as apprehensive. They dug out pages to make sketches and notes. Spencer again shielded Georan from the rain as he drew the symbol taking care to note relative dimensions. When he was done, Spencer sketched the pieces of rubble. They noticed too that there was a spill of stones on either side of the pyramid, including some large pieces peeking up like bones from the foliage. The rain made things difficult, but they managed to record the information.
They had not noticed the gray sky becoming darker. "We best head back to the road," Spencer announced sounding disappointed. They looked into the gloom that had gathered in the forest below and felt a mutual chill of fear as if the forest were looking back upon them with an ageless gaze of deepest evil. Their skin crawled.
"Yes," was all Georan said. They made their way hurriedly down the steep
and slick steps.
The cool water felt good as Feorik stripped off his clothes and
soaked them thoroughly, then entered the water himself. After fifteen minutes,
he actually felt clean again, although the grease he had applied earlier
did not wash off completely. After wringing out his slop shirt and breeches,
Feorik quickly put them on and trotted back to the town and the inn, passing
the two gatekeepers without a word. Despite the light jog, he felt really
cold now, and his teeth chattered as he entered the inn and headed straight
upstairs.
In his room, he put on new clothes and laid his wet ones out to dry. Then he descended to the common room, to sit by the fire and have some dinner and several jacks of ale. Feorik stared into the fire for a while after he finished his meal at the Northland Inn. The cheap Solan wine was tart, but it numbed the pain in his side. Tomorrow, he would see some healers, he promised himself, to make sure it was properly taken care of.
A tap on his shoulder jolted him back to the present. It was Deein, still a little dirty but not foul. He still carried a little of the fearful look of the sewers in his eyes. Feorik was feeling mellow. He smiled up at the boy and offered him the empty seat next across from him. In fact, there seemed to be a few empty tables around Feorik, although the rest of the Inn was bustling. Word spread quickly.
Deein sat down and looked about then asked, "How is the wound?"
"Nothing a good night's sleep and a little wine can't cure, lad. I want to say that you did very well, down there." The rare compliment from Feorik was said simply.
Deein stuttered a little, "No, no, Feorik, I ... I was afraid the whole time, and, and ... well, I suppose I'm not any good at this stuff."
Feorik frowned, "Hardly the attitude for a guardsman, now. Fear is normal, it sharpens the senses. True bravery comes not from conquering your fear, but from recognizing that you are afraid, and carrying on, anyways." Deein was surprised, that was the longest sentence he'd heard Feorik utter. Perhaps he was drunk? Feorik continued, "We are afraid every day; it is a part of life. Not that I have seen much of life, aye, lad, only death and suffering, and then only a little, I suppose." Feorik trailed off, and sipped the red wine. He offered the bottle to Deein, who quickly declined by shaking both of his hands.
"Well, how is Tulane?" Feorik's tone was curious.
Deein shrugged, "He went home. He’s freaked out. I think he’s never felt so out of control; I never saw him like that, I mean, down there."
Feorik nodded, Deein continued, "About Cobern, he's ... well," and Deein looked about again and whispered so that only Feorik could hear, "a thief and a murderer, I think. It was scary, with him, down there."
Feroik nodded again, then he rumbled, "Sometimes you need to use scum to find scum ... and almost all men have killed. I was keeping an eye on the man, but we needed him. Don't forget that."
Deein was about to answer but the barmaid came by and pinched his left cheek, and gave Feorik a smile, which he ignored, just like the last few. Deein blushed and swatted at her; Feorik ordered another bottle.
Feorik raised his eyebrow as the girl left and Deein muttered, "Yeah, she's my cousin, Alendra." Feorik nodded, and looked towards the fire.
"Look, we're on duty at dawn," Deein said uneasily trying to deliver bad news, "I’ll come by here after." But Feorik could tell his heart was not in it. He turned back to Deein, his voice and head lowered so that those around him could only hear or read his lips with great difficulty. "Keep your eyes open on your shift. The bastards'll be on the move, and there may be raid in the night or early morning. They're vindictive scum."
Feorik leaned back and stared at the boy thoughtfully, covering his chin with his left hand and adjusting his eyepatch with the other. "If there was trouble, where do you think they would strike?"
"Ain’t much of value in town. The food stores maybe." Deein paused; and he let his guard down. He looked scared again.
Feorik was relentless, "Aye, that makes sense. A good place; if they poison something, or set it ablaze, there could be trouble this winter." Deein looked pale, as if he had never considered that the goblins could do something like that. Feorik turned away and stared at the fire, content to have made an impression. Feorik's words clearly troubled the boy and Deein left soon after, mumbling that he had to get some sleep.
Alendra returned with another bottle of the coarse Solon vintage, and Feorik looked up at her approach. She was pretty, perhaps twenty, or maybe as much as twenty-five, it was hard to tell. Dressed in a common brown robe, stained from the kitchen, her natural appearance was dulled somewhat. Her hair was blonde-brown and her eyes dark; her nails were bitten. A tiny white scar stood out on her chin.
Feorik commented, "Deein will be a guard captain, one day."
She snorted as she placed the bottle on the table, "Hah! Little Dee? Unlikely, that. An' you might have killed him today, you know!"
Feorik's eyes narrowed. Was everyone in this town complacent? He thought. He just shrugged, and looked away. Up close her sweet scent made Feorik realize that despite his quick wash and clean clothes, he still probably smelled like the sewers.
Alendra pursed her lips, but she caught the stares of a few nearby patrons. Apparently, her conversing with the outsider from Dir was something she didn't want to hear about in the gossip circles, and she turned and left for the kitchen. Feorik watched her go, then dropped coins onto the table, enough to cover his purchases, no more. Cobern entered the room from outside. He looked around ignoring the staring patrons and silence. When he spotted Feorik he smiled and giggled as he came over. A general murmur spread throughout the room.
"I thought I’d have to wake you. Dullin’ the pain I see. How ‘bout a swig?" Feorik didn’t want to, but he handed his fresh bottle to the man who took a deep drink. "Ahhh," he exhaled handing it back to Feorik. "That Deein I saw down the street?" Cobern sounded amused.
"He just left." Feorik's tone was neutral as he nodded. He kept his eyes both on the man and his hands near the coins on the table. "Good, heh heh heh." Cobern lowered his voice to a whisper, "Gyll's nervous. No guards; I'll bring some friends." Cobern eyed Feorik intently. Yellowish teeth poked out as his gaze turned slightly cocky and he smiled.
Feorik's one eye returned glare, but he kept his distrust hidden as best he could. In fact, he was surprised ... he trusted Cobern slightly more now, but there was still a long way to go, especially at the mention of friends. Feorik spoke quietly, "I need sleep, but I'll be there. No guards. Aye, I understand. Don't worry about that, I'll be alone. Just tell me where. I have a score to settle with those bastards."
"Two hours before dawn. Meet at the stables." Cobern left smiling at the onlookers. Feorik watched him leave, and then scowled at the room as his gaze swept around it to find distrustful looks turned his way. Scum to find scum, Feorik reminded himself. He looked down to make sure all the coins were still there - they were. Feorik picked up his bottle and headed to the bar where the innkeeper sat. He passed him a silver coin.
"A tip for the girl, and a knock on my door at midnight. I need to be up." The man looked evenly at Feorik and took the coin, putting it away in his pouch saying He said nothing.
Feorik headed upstairs to his room, unlocked the door, and entered.
He lit the oil lamps and looked about in the dim light for a moment. Content
that nothing had been touched, he locked the door and placed the wine bottle
in a corner, along with his boots and the damp clothes that had been on
the bed. Then he lay in the straw bed, trying to get a few hours of sleep.
Sleene's mood didn't improve with the splitting of the party. She
let her horse lag behind the two quiet men. She had decided to take Sirilyr
up on his offer to speak with Durrant but that was, apparently going to
have to wait. Spencer and Georan were staying as well which left her with...what?
She studied Jack and Karod when she wasn't watching the surrounding forest.
Karod seemed a bit of an oaf but he had a way with his horse and a kind
of enthusiasm that was at odds with that first impression. Jack...well...she
didn't think much of Jack and was pretty sure the feeling was mutual. The
trio rode through the wet forested burial grounds until the spires of the
temple were visible in the misty air.
Jack took them off the road to the southwest not wanting to encounter Viatteni again. It was a bit slower going in the rough, but there was a solid layer of leaves and pine needles and the underbrush was not thorny. They wandered around unmarked mounds large and small until coming upon the trail to Tir. They rested the horses at the ruins again. "Sir," Sleene said to Jack. "I fail to understand the fascination with the burial grounds. I realize that my guidance of this "caravan" is more than it seems but this interest in the graveyard...well...it doesn't seem to fit. Graveyards and Goblins have little in common other than the presence of the latter tends to fill the former."
"A place to hide things, or oneself. I have to admit I did not expect such an elaborate place, nor a priest in charge." Jack was watching the horses intently, "I think should our wizard have been there, Viatteni would have driven him away." This last thought surprised Sleene and she looked curiously at Jack hoping for more information. As none was coming, she made a mental note to ask some questions later.
They saddled up and rode a bit faster to reach Tir before the sun set. Despite the rain and mud, there seemed to be a fair number of people milling about the overhanging porch roofs along the main street. As the three approached the warehouse, a soaked and muddy Dolan greeted them. "Yer a bit late," he said to Jack. "Boss’s at the tower." They rode the horses into the stable next door. Sleene was stiff and sore from the ride. Karod told them to go to the tower; he would care for the horses. A smiling Wendell climbed down from the hayloft, he looked dry and warm in stark contrast to themselves. Jack and Sleene left the sweet smelling stable in their hands for the unpleasant air of Tir.
The rain had mostly stopped leaving the little hamlet drenched and muddy. They had to scrape off the caked goo from their boots when they reached the boardwalk along the main street. Villagers looked at them suspiciously as they approached the tower. Sleene was too sore and frustrated to put a happier countenance on. Stern voices were flowing from the open door of the tower where unhappy looking villagers strained to hear and looked unhappy to move when Jack nudged his way by. Sleene followed right behind the dark mean looking man.
Inside the tower hall was filled wall to wall with villagers. They all were looking upon the angry form of the speaker on the second floor balcony, Orinden. The other ‘council members’ were up there as well. But it was Orinden’s floor, and he was speaking to the crowd not to his peers. "They would have you pay the March for his forces to deal with these goblins. As if we could not! Our lands yield little enough these days; we can barely afford his taxes!" The crowd grumbled loudly and seemed to be agreement. Orinden let the muttering die down then pointed to Delak the chief Watcher for Tir, "He has already sent three of our own off to die! Our hunters did not get lost as he claimed. Now his tune has changed, but he doesn’t trust you. We are your leaders, we are bound to protect you."
Sleene looked at Delak who must have already had his say. He looked angry and frustrated. Jack was looking around to find Durrant or Stellan. The crowd was noisily agreeing with Orinden. "We can take our own revenge!" he called stirring up the crowd further. Ingend was there looking indifferent, as did old Kipp the tanner; he might have even been sleeping.
"You cannot listen to this non-sense!" Durrant’s voice rang out over the hall. He had pushed his way up the stairs along the left side wall. Two guards blocked his further ascent. "You are not warriors. You walk to battle with no experience! You walk to danger!"
"Stranger’s words," called Orinden.
"But he speaks as I have," Delak stepped up to the balcony rail. Orinden eyed him angrily. "Let the trained soldiers of the March protect its borders."
"We of Tir are already scoffed at. They will come and drive out some rat’s nest of goblins and laugh at us while counting our coins."
"And if these goblins defeat your peasant army?" Durrant called out to Orinden, "What of your reputation then? You risk your lives people!" The general murmur did not favor Durrant.
"He insults you friends! Join me tomorrow, we march at dawn. My sword will lead the way!" He turned to his peers on the balcony, old men. "Who is with me?"
"My son shall go," said Ingend. The others grunted, but did not agree.
Delak looked over the hall full of fathers and sons ready to risk their lives. "I cannot let you go without my guidance," he said defeatedly.
Sleene was surprised that Durrant had spoken, but not that he was not well received. What could he expect? He was a stranger to this area and here he is trying to tell these people what is best for them. Nevertheless, Sleene was concerned. She didn't know much but it was certain that Goblins were not taking out Watchers and experienced Trappers. No, Orinden was leading these people to a slaughter and, while it would be very nice...VERY nice to finally be rid of the man...no...no, this was not the way.
Sleene wrapped her staff loudly upon the wooden floor drawing all attention to herself. Even Jack turned and looked upon her curiously. She moved toward the stairs, tapping her staff and glaring at those in her way until they moved. She mounted the stair to get some height on the crowd in the hall. She stood a moment looking up into Orinden's eyes before turning to stand beside him facing the crowd. It was clear no one knew on which side she would fall.
"Yes," she said, "an army of Tirians will accomplish what the Watchers and Trappers have not. After all, it is just goblins. I, yes, even I," she spread her hands to emphasize her slight frame, "was able to defeat a pair of goblins who had charmed my wolf friends the other night but, you are right. Goblins would be too much for the Watchers and experienced Trappers, all on their guard these last weeks, to handle."
Sleene paused, scanning the room. Sleene found an ardent supporter of Orinden, a farmer, and points at him, "Jerem, surely your skills at combat are a match for any of the Watchers who have disappeared. Or you," pointing out another young hunter, "Holl, you could surely track the creatures through the woods more surely than the trappers who have not returned."
Another slight pause. "No. I do not know what has been killing your trappers or the Watchers. I do know that it is not goblins and it is not limited to Tir. Something is wrong in the Marchy. You know I bear no love for your home, you least of all;" she turned to acknowledge Orinden before turning back to the crowd. "But know this. Even I would not see you rush blindly into the woods to defeat what trained woodsmen and warriors could not. Throw away your lives if you must, but do not go thinking that it is goblins you fight for goblins is not your enemy. I fear it is old. I know it is evil. I don't believe that it is natural. And it is attacking the entire Marchy."
Orinden grew angrier as she progressed. "What our fallen had in experience
we will match with numbers! We go together to victory!" The crowd was sold
and no vague threat of supernatural evil would sway them. Sleene's hard
expression turned sad, so very sad. She looked out on the crowd and then
up to Orinden. "So be it. As I have already been ordered to help others
trying to solve these very matters, so I will help you as I may. If you
will listen to me once more before you leave in the morn, I will tell you
what I can. May the stones guide your steps and the trees watch your backs."
With that, Sleene walked down off the platform, her staff once more rapping
sharply against the floor at every step to the door. She went to see the
pleasant Cecelia and get some supper.
Spencer and Georan’s horses were tethered to a wrought iron gate
wiggling ears and tails in the rain. Sirilyr dismounted and looked around.
The two had managed to climb over the left side, footprints and scuff marks
showed they did not have an easy time of it. Feint padded up licked the
kneeling ranger than walked between the bars as if in mocking. His eyes
laughing at the speed with which Feint passed the obstacle of the fence,
a sighed comment came from the ranger as he securely tethered his mount.
"Ahh, if it were only that easy!" With a low grunt of effort, Sirilyr grabbed
the upper crosspiece and hopped and pulled himself up and found himself
straining. Unable to get a foothold, he let himself back down with a "Damn!"
The ranger shook his head irritably and walked to his horse. He pushed the beast's haunches parallel to the gate, as the animal quizzically looked over it's left shoulder at his rider. Sirilyr told it, "Sorry ol' horse," as he remounted and then stood in the saddle. He vaulted over the unyielding teeth of the annoying barrier, slowing his fall with the good hold of one gauntleted hand. Despite, he landed awkwardly and wound up on the wet ground with an umph." Feint came up and licked him.
Sirilyr crouched and listened to the sounds of the woods around him. Satisfied that all was ‘normal', he unslung his shield from his back and drew his longsword. Scanning the ground for his two companion's tracks, the ranger found where they had landed hard from the fence. Glancing to the hound that sat by his right boot, tail wagging. "Well now, it seems one o' 'em might have a sore rump too. Let's see if we can track our wanderin' scholars, shall we me lad?"
He raised his cloak's mantled cowl over his wet iron helm. Easily following the trampled plants along the overgrown cobble road, Sirilyr and the hound quietly made their way into the ancient forbidden grounds. Sticking to the deepening shadows and pausing to listen to the growing night sounds of the woodlands around them, the two of them hunted for the other pair of their small band.
Sirilyr trusted to the dog's keen senses as well as his own hard earned experience, to provide ample warning of any lurking danger. His gaze swept uneasily, trying to penetrate into the thickening gloom as they silently flitted from shadow to shadow as if they too were haunts natural to their surroundings. "These two leave a trail a blind man could follow." The soldier whispered as he scratched the hound's ears during a brief break in their quest while he checked their back trail for any sign of movement.
The two had left the road about a mile beyond the gate. Sirilyr soon found why as he closely followed their trail. It led to a partially uncovered slab of stone, etched with runes he had never seen. Startled, Sirilyr glanced around the forest and realized that many of these stones were scattered about. Spencer and Georan had spent some time wandering among them. They must have been sketching the runes. Finally Sirilyr found where one of them had headed off south, and he followed.
Sirilyr was shocked to see what they had come upon. A stepped pyramid of gray stone blocks rose from the foliage to some thirty feet high. The blocks were about two feet on a side. Motion from the summit drew his attention. He could not see anything, but it was probably his friends. Hopefully it was it friends. He suddenly felt very out of place in the presence of this alien structure. He stayed crouched, hiding in the growth at the base of the thing watching the summit.
It was not long before he saw Georan and Spencer round the southern corner of the pyramid and head north. They were moving quickly and carelessly. Sirilyr called to them. At first they ignored him so he called again. This time Georan stopped and looked around, patting Spencer on the back to get his attention. Sirilyr waved and approached, "You two look as if you've seen a ghost. What has happened?" Sirilyr watched the pale faces of his companions.
"This place." Georan replied, "I'd rather come back when its day. I have a feeling we're not very welcome here."
Nodding in agreement, Sirilyr replied, "'Tis no' a welcomin' place for folks who're still breathin' that's fer sure. Was it the two o' you I saw movin' 'round at the top o' the building?"
"Ppfff," Spencer scoffs. Outwardly, he forces himself to appear calm. Inwardly, he chastised himself for the fear he felt on the pyramid. Since he prided himself on his even composure, particularly with respect to fear, it is a great blow to him. Taking another moment to try to drive the offending emotion from his mind, Spencer told his companions, "Enough of yer blather."
"I saw movement on top o' the large temple. Was it you?
"Why, no...it must've been two of the other blokes wandering around this remote, isolated cemetery. A popular gathering place, isn't it?" Spencer gave a sarcastic smile, but to Georan and Sirilyr it looked more like he was baring his teeth. "What did you find in that grave of yours?"
"A bit teste are we?" A returned wolfish grimace rose briefly on the worn tall soldier's face for the sour, older, bald man. "Ahhh, I'd figure these surroundin's would suit one o' yer bright nature boy-o. I did find a weapon an a few odds an ends in that hole. But, I don' think I'll be sharin' what exactly, 'til we be gettin' back ta the Cap'n an all o' us lay our hands on the table at the same time. I did mark the grave b'fore I left. It'll be easy 'nuff for me ta find again. Will the two o' you be havin' anything 'sides yer rubbins an sketches o' the standin' stones at our wee bit o' show 'n tell?"
"Hm. It's too dark and time's too short to do any real investigations here. Loads of fascinating things about, but nothing we've seen that could really be linked to our present task." Spencer continues, "I sure hope we can get back here. You'd do well to join us next time, Sirilyr. I've seen more of the elves' remains in the last few days than all the days prior - no pun intended..."
A wolf's mournful howl sliced through the night as a perfect companion to the unpleasant topics and sent an involuntary shiver down the ranger's spine. Then suddenly tightening his grip on his sword and shield and with the growing mask of a worried look creeping across his face, the ranger glanced first left then right. Slowly he turned, until he had completed a full widdershins circle. "Oh boy!" He quietly exhaled growing quite pale. "Did either o' you two hear that disembodied call o' despair an those whispered nothin's afterward?"
Giving him a strange look, Spencer waves his hands about and begins to moan softly in a high-pitched voice: "Ooooohaaaah, sooomebodyyy heeelp! Sirilyr's lost his miiiind!" Chuckling, he says, "You do babble sometimes. Let's get going if we're going, shall we?"
Georan said looking around nervously, "We can always come back when the sun's up."
"Yeah, Gobbos are one thing, undead things are just plain un-nerving!" A owl hooted nearby causing them all to jump involuntarily. The time for words was over and the trio walked steadily through the dark forest to the road. They all did what they had to do to keep their minds from thinking about the shapes and distortions that seemed to be forming in the gloom. The very real shuffling of their own motion was a comfort and despite that no words were shared it was appreciated deeply.
Their swift pace brought them to the gate where the horses were whining and tugging at their tethered reigns. Spencer and Sirilyr helped Georan scramble up. The iron clanging seemed too loud and out of place. The mage cast a glance back into the forest from his temporary perch, pale faced he jumped down and his look encouraged the other two to hurry up. Sirilyr boosted Spencer and accepted a helping hand up himself. Behind them darkness flowed between the trees whose autumn branches seemed to be reaching up and clutching at the last vestige of light filtering through the boiling clouds. The phenomena teetered between natural and unnatural hypnotically drawing them to watch.
"Come," Georan found his voice. He hurriedly drew his horse from the
gate. Sirilyr and Spencer followed suit. The horses were skittish and took
some time to calm them. As they all managed to mount another howl peeled
through the air, this time much closer. They all looked back through the
iron bars of the gate, the sun had set and only the faintest of light revealed
the windy motion of the trees, but they all felt that the blackness was
watching them back. They rode away.
The knocking penetrated his slumber. Feorik’s eyes opened into the
darkness of the strange room. He was tired, felt like he had been dragged
away from some soft peaceful place. He didn’t know where he was for a moment.
Then the knock reminded him. Midnight already, he mentally groaned.
He got up and grabbed his blade and walked quietly to the door. Whoever
it was knocked again startling him. "Who is it?" he whispered loudly.
"I need your help!" Came the reply. He didn’t recognize the voice, but it could be Deein or Tulane. Feorik moved the latch and opened the door a crack. A kid his age, but shorter and wearing dirty peasant’s clothes stood shadowed by the hall’s torches. "You Feork?"
"Yes," Feorik answered cautiously ignoring the mispronunciation.
"Let me in," he said nervously. Seeing Feorik’s hesitation he whispered urgently, "Its about goblins!"
"What about them?"
"Inside, please."
"No," Feorik swung the door open showing the kid his blade. "Who are you?"
"Rasoric. I killed two goblins tonight."
Amidst the low torchlight, Feorik smiled at the boy, "So you did? That's nothing to be ashamed of. I'd parade its head around if I were you. Bilcoven needs more like you."
The boy remained silent and glanced nervously back and forth along the empty hallway. He appeared to be regretting his decision to disturb the fierce out-of-towner. "Not me. I need you to take the credit, but give me the gold. I’ve got information in exchange."
The kid was smooth. "I can take credit for the kills, and no one has to know. What do you have for me?" Rasoric nodded to the room.
Feorik nodded and backed off letting him in. "Light the lamp over there." When he did, Feorik closed and latched the door.
"They’ve fled. I can show you where they went when we get the bodies." Feorik nodded then fumbled for his money pouch. He gave over ten silver coins.
Rasoric looked at him suspiciously. "The rest when we get them. Give me a minute then we can go." Feorik grimaced as he pulled on a shirt over his wound, but on his face he still wore a smile. He put on his armor. Rasoric helped him. Grabbing his weapons Feorik felt weighted down and exhausted.
They left through the back door. There were only a few low voices from the barroom. Rasoric lead the ranger west down the street by the Druid’s Park then headed south into the residential district. The nicer apartments were quickly left behind; they entered the run down slums. Rasoric became more careful and cautious, staying to the shadows. They finally stopped in an alley and Rasoric uncovered an entrance into the sewers much like the one Cobern had brought them to. This was not the same one though.
Feorik shrugged off his weariness and tried to adopt his normal state of self-awareness as he walked in the darkened city. Hand on his pommel and wary for a trick or trap, he looked about to make sure that he and Rasoric were not followed from the Inn or that no one skulked in the shadows by the sewer grate. So far, it appeared that Feorik's paranoia was unfounded.
Rasoric grabbed a partially spent torch from the ground and got it lit again. The two descended a ladder into the sewer. The foul smell encased them. Despite their time down there earlier, their noses had to get used to the stench all over again. Rasoric walked into the low tunnel to the right, west. The rain tunnel crossed a sewage tunnel that seeped waste to the right. Rasoric pointed to the left passage. Two dark lumps had been dropped in the shit just at the edge of the torchlight. Just one pair of prints were left in the goo. In the darkness it was hard to tell what the lumps were. They could be Goblin corpses; then again, they could just as easily be sacks.
"Where’s the rest?" Feorik asked suspiciously.
"I’ll show you. Those are yours now." Rasoric crossed the passage and entered the rain tunnel opposite. They walked a bit, then he turned left at an intersection. He took another left an the next intersection. These tunnels were relatively dry. Rasoric stopped, listened, then pushed on a section of the wall. It spun back revealing a descending ladder. Rasoric beckoned Feorik into the secret passage.
Feorik's eyes widened at the revelation. Hidden doorways in the sewers? He mentally worked around the ramifications. These sewers are not just the home of goblin scum, Feorik thought. He quickly backtracked the path in his mind. Two lefts, and then here. He marked the spot in his mind as best he could. Despite his weariness, he found it easy to concentrate as the adrenaline flowed throw him once more. Feorik, wincing a bit, got onto the ladder and climbed down. He heard Rasoric slide the wall back into place.
The ladder descended to a tunnel of dirt walls shored by stacked stones. Rasoric joined him with the torch and Feorik could make out the tracks of many small feet. They lead from the left, east, to the right, west. Some of them had been disturbed. "They ran by from that way," Rasoric pointed out what the ranger had already discerned. "I don’t know where the tunnels lead. I was guarding when two came upon me. The others already passed."
Feorik studied the tracks awhile. He judged at least ten had come by. "Ain’t no goblins sposed to be down here," Rasoric told Feorik as he studied the dirt floor. "City guards or Watcher’s neither," the kid said nervously. "You gotta say you tracked them up there. And don’t say nothin’ about this place, or the’ll be hell t’pay."
Feorik looked up from the tracks. "No problem," he answered. Feorik paused, as if considering something. He looked at the young man intently. "You killed two of the bastards, but don't want the credit. Hmmm. I don't care what business you're in, but rethink it. You've done some good here, Rasoric. You make Bilcoven proud, even if you fear to admit it." Feorik reached into his pouch and handed him ten more silver coins. He took out another one, then clenched it in his right fist. "I have more silver, for more information. What do you say?"
"Sure. I don't know much though," Rasoric replied. Feorik nodded. He looked up and down the tunnel, and then settled his gaze on the young man. He held up a silver coin, ready to exchange it for a satisfactory answer to his first question.
"How long have the goblin scum been under Bilcoven?"
"I don’t know. Just found out about um. I think they been here awhile," the boy looked nervous.
Feorik took the information in, and then handed him a coin. He then asked, "Does anyone know what they want, or if they are here for any particular reason?"
"Don’t know why they’re here."
Feorik nodded; the kid probably didn’t know much about the goblins, but he did live in this dirty town. "How many people work for Gyllick?"
The question took Rasoric off guard; he had hoped this outsider was just interested in goblins. Now he had to consider just how far his betrayal would go. He had to think fast or rouse the man’s suspicions. Gyllick was powerful; if Rasoric were to succeed here in Bilcoven Gyllick had to be an ally. The rat-faced man didn’t seem too pleased with Mortlake’s arrangements with the goblins; it was not him that was consorting with the creatures. Out of all this it was Mortlake that needed to fall; it was Mortlake that stood in Rasoric’s way, fat Mortlake that supplied the vile goblins.
"Gyllick’s well connected. He’s not … with the goblins. They’re on his turf. I think know the guy that’s been supplying the goblins, and my bet is Gyllick’s not involved." Rasoric’s nervousness was becoming fearfulness.
Feroik nodded. This explains a lot, he thought. He spoke to the boy even as he handed him another silver coin. "Hey, like I said, rethink what you’re doing. Lets find these goblins while you think about it." Then the sound of motion echoed down the tunnel from where the goblins had come. Voices.
"Quick back here, go up," Rasoric instructed frantically. Feorik climbed
to the top of the ladder, "Stay there." Then the young man moved down the
hallway taking the torch and leaving the ranger in darkness. Feorik waited
in the dark unsure about what was going on, until he heard the voices more
clearly. Not goblin, but human. Light from their torches lit the lower
portion of the ladder and Feorik held his breath hoping they did not peek
up. From the pieces of conversation he made out, these men were following
the goblins.
Durrant returned from the meeting with Jack and Stellan. Stellan
made a joke about selling all their weapons, then went out to address the
few villagers that were interested in their wares despite the mud. Jack
goes to find his guards, and Sleene stepped in front of Durrant. He read
her intent, and nodded to the corner of the warehouse under the loft and
away from Cecilia and the brewing dinner pots. Before he said anything
she started, "I just tried to save those people from something I know nothing
about. You, however, you know much that you are not telling. No," Sleene
said, holding up a hand to forestall any response, "I'm fairly sure that
you don't know exactly what the danger to these people is. You do, however,
have a far better picture of it than I do."
Sleene gave him an appraising look, just realizing something. "And you fear it? No, not exactly. You fear the effect the knowledge you have would have on the people if they shared it..." Sleene sighed, wishing Sirilyr were there to ‘speak on her behalf’. She had some of the pieces, she just couldn't see the whole picture. "I will guide you and I will offer guidance where I can discern your motives. I can do little else, however, without at least some idea of what you are really doing here."
"You are right; I do not know the specific danger. I’m afraid this wizard brought some relic here, probably to master its power, and he may have. These people, your people, may be rushing off into something much more than goblins."
Sleene looked at him dissatisfied, "Why you? Here?"
"I’m following a trail of bodies and vague clues. You want the big picture," he paused. "This relic may be trouble. In the wrong hands, but also because of the attention it may draw. I’ve got to find it. Especially before these folks blunder into it or take it themselves."
Sleene looked at Durrant appraisingly a moment. "This ‘artifact’. You know something of it. What is it and why is it so dangerous to the townspeople?" And why are your hands the right ones?
"What would interest a wizard to come in secret to a far off place leaving a trail of blood? I suspect lost scrolls, spells of power best left forgotten and rotting in dusty chambers. But perhaps a weapon he sought to master to wield in service to some other, Ahkinar perhaps." He looked at her with very serious dark eyes, "Weapons are always dangerous." Sleene nodded.
"They are going tomorrow, so we’ve got to go ahead of them, but this mud will keep me here. Would you go with Orinden and his army? I’m going to send Sirilyr with some of the others." He looked frustrated that they weren’t there. "They should be able to make better time than Orinden with a gaggle of peasant soldiers; not to mention your guidance."
"I will go with them so long as you send Sirilyr and the others after
us. I must go prepare for tomorrow." Durrant nodded and watched her leave.
The unpleasant villagers were milling around getting ready for their war,
Sleene just wanted out of the place so she headed to the camp, and hopefully
Nip and Snap.
Rasoric rushed back to Mortlake’s warehouse. He was worried it was
Mortlake and the Watcher could not be discovered. He got inside and secured
the door. He doused the torch and watched the hall from the alcove. Soon
the light from the visitors’ torch lit the area orange. Then they came
into view. They were studying the ground. Following the goblins. It wasn’t
Mortlake or any of his henchmen that Rasoric knew. But the cloaked guy
in the lead looked right down the hallway at him.
"Looks like someone’s covered something up here," the man stated not taking his eyes away from the Rasoric’s spy hole. "Think o’Morty’s supplied these beasts?" Two other men became visible.
"Fat bastard," one of them said.
"His whole goblin loving crew ought’ta be killed," the other said.
"Anyone home?" the first man called down the hall. Rasoric was scared silent. "Come on out you goblin fucker faggot!"
"We ought’ta trash the place."
"No doubt the place’s trapped. But something happened here. Gyllick will take care of Mortlake," the lead guy sneered. Rasoric sneered to himself, son of bitch Mortlake’s gonna get me killed. "Go on, look for booby traps boob." A laugh rumbled as he pushed the second guy toward the hall. There were five or six of them. The boob stepped into the hall with a torch inspecting the walls, floor, and ceiling. He would find the trip wire, and the needle; hell they would probably just bash the door down.
Rasoric found his hand on the lever, but there was only one in the hall. Besides if he hurt these guys that would put him with Mortlake and they’d probably kill him. He had to face them, convince them he was not a goblin lover. So Rasoric grabbed his club and went to the door. Steadying himself he unlatched the door and opened it slowly. "I’m coming out."
"There’s one of Morty’s goblins now!" called one of the men. Rasoric stood ready, so were Gyllick’s men.
"I’m no goblin friend," he stated.
The lead man asked him suspiciously, "So what happened here?"
"Goblin sprung a trap. I chased it away." That elicited another mocking laugh. The boob went back to checking for traps. "Careful, I reset them." Rasoric said and approached taking care to make obvious side-steps and ducking occasionally. He nonchalantly stepped over the trip wire. He stood face to face with the bigger, older man with greasy black hair.
"That so. Looks like yer boss’s little friends are getting him into trouble."
"I don’t know nothing about it."
"I betcha don’t faggot." The man looked at him hatefully. "You take a message to the fat dung heap for me." The blow landed so quick Rasoric didn’t know what happened or even where he got hit, just that he was on the ground and hurting. Rasoric grabbed his dropped club and got up. "Don’t even think of it sissy."
"I’m telling you the truth. Look the thing stabbed my leg." Rasoric showed the blood stained rend in his pants. His head was pounding, his eye stung.
"I’d stab ya too if you tried to fuck me," one of the henchmen called.
"Heh heh heh," the man chuckled. "You tell Mortlake to make this right."
He made to hit Rasoric again, but Rasoric brought up the club defensively.
That just pissed him off. He lunged at Rasoric and took the club blow across
his arm, but that didn’t stop him from tackling the smaller man, or beating
him unconscious.
They came to Ziret under a cool night sky a couple hours after leaving
the strange burial grounds behind. A breeze had blown the clouds away leaving
a velvet sky sparkling with stars. Warm firelight from the town beckoned
them. A palisade surrounded this village and its buildings were tightly
packed. The edgy guards directed the trio to the town’s only inn. They
hitched their mounts to the post outside, and entered the smoky barroom,
chilled and pale. All eyes were upon the newcomers. A cute young waitress
greeted them smile, and a faux frown when she told them the kitchen was
closed.
Sirilyr, taking a shining to the buxom young honey, put on his most pathetic puppy in the rain look, "Ah lass, ye remind me o' my childhood love. She had eyes which could warm a cold winter's day or melt frozen snow with a sweet look. Eyes almost as fetchin' as yers." Leanin' close to the wanton wench, he whispered into her ear. A slight jingle of the ranger's coin pouch accompanied his slow retreat from her. "Now we'll be no bother my girl. But, if'n ya were ta find a scrap or two fer me an my friends it'd be appreciated."
She looked at him still with a friendly smile, but her eyes were suspicious. Spencer rolled his eyes and he and Georan turned to find a seat. Sirilyr lagged behind and winked and grinned at the barmaid in the wry way that had endeared him to other young ladies in the not too distant past, "I'll have mine in me room 'round closin' time lass. Bring a flagon o' wine along an I'll share if'n you'll do me the honor..." He left her with a lingering look of promise.
Without a word she went and told the proprietor they needed rooms and stables for three. They glanced around for a table, and happened upon a couple familiar faces. Storn and Brian were seated with two unknown men. Brian held up his mug with a big smile and called to his old companions, "Gentlemen! You have been out in the weather for too long. Come, sit, dry yourselves out and join us for a couple of drinks!" As they approached he pulled some chairs closer and made room for them. "These are my new friends Arnough and Darvian. They are caravaneers just like us, though from a different county. Arnough, Darvian, I'd like you to meet Siralyr, Georan, and Spencer. They are guards from the caravan I arrived with, hardier travellers you will not find on this earth..."
"Well, it be a night fer miracles. Brian an' Storn!" The men stood and shook hands. "Well met to ye both." Seating himself Sirilyr asked, "How be the honorable ladies? Both are with ye I hope?"
"Sleeping soundly and couldn’t be better," he said. "Their missionary work goes well. We have spent time in Beir and lovely Ziret here to spread the faith. Though people seem glad to have our blessings, they are not quick to join in ceremony, and they seem always fearful that someone is watching or that some curse hangs over the land. They regard us with much suspicion because we are strangers, and it is not an easy process to earn their trust, but we have made some progress. Lynda and Mellody have a great way with words and they are slowly winning the people over, leading them down the righteous path." The first round of drinks arrived, "This one is mine."
He lifted his mug and for a moment was lost in his thoughts and grinning into space. "I often listen, enchanted by their sermons even more than the local folk they preach to. Linda is very wise and well-spoken, but Mellody has a gentleness in her voice that warms the heart of even the most doubtful." He holds the mug in mid-air, having forgotten to drink from it, a dreamy look in his eyes. Then suddenly, as he realizes the other men are looking at him, Brian blushes and puts the mug down.
"Its more than worship I see in those eyes," Arnough joked.
"She is indeed charming in many ways, not just as a religious figure," Brian sheepishly admitted.
"Tell me, is you master near?" Arnough asked Sirilyr.
"Indeed I am," joked Spencer. Nodding toward Arnough, "Sirilyr, you may speak." Spencer kept looking to the kitchen.
Sirilyr shot Spencer a swift, sure, and dire look intended to kill a lesser man, before replying to the question. "A Graycloak is master o' himself foremost. Although, I am responsible for the 'safe' wild wanderings o' these two rascally gent's!" Flipping a bent thumb towards the two scholars.
"Can you not take a kidding, Sirilyr?" Spencer nudges him on the shoulder. "And I was wandering long ere we met."
Sirilyr smiled and nudged back, then answered Arnough. "The boss," quickly glancing at Arnough and Darvian, "that'd be Cap'n Durrant the owner o' our merchant's company, currently is in a stinking cesspit called Tir. We'll be rejoinin' them on the morrow. The Cap'n has had us out scoutin' the routes he may take." Shifting his gaze to Spencer and Georan holding eye contact with each as he spoke. He suddenly smiled as he saw the saucy wench approaching when his eyes sought out any would-be eavesdroppers to their conversation.
Finally the waitress, Pamela, came with a platter of food, scraps mostly, but some decent chunks of meat and bread. "Aw, now this lass 'ere knows her job. Well done me girl! What's yer name lass?"
"Pamela," she said with glance at the others that showed she wasn’t taking the willful soldier seriously.
"Ah...a beautiful name fer a beautiful girl." Sirilyr said wistfully. He gave the pretty waitress a devilish wink and handsome grin. "Pamela, these gent's are ol' friends. We fought the Gnolls together this early autumn. I came away with only a blow to me head then. It still bothers me from time ta time though, as Spencer here'll tell ya I'm sure. Because o' it I don't see so good in the dark o' the night by meself anymore. Pamela at the end o' our festivities, I may need ye to guide me to me room, if'n ya would be so kind my dear to walk me thar?"
"Perhaps I’ll tie a string to yer door and to yer crooked nose."
Looking up at the buxom barmaid with an innocent, open expression Sirilyr bantered on. "That mighty blow also aggravated a symptom o' a large ol' Goblin War wound dont'cha know. It swells an aches somethin' awful at times, especially when I get ta be 'round a beauty such as our Pamela here, it makes me limp somethin' terrible. An’ only a good rubbin'll fix it!"
She glared and him while the nearby chuckles and groans rumbled. Sirilyr returned her glare with a warm fun look of his own. He held out his hand with coins cupped within and wiggled it at her. She suspiciously extended her hand to take them. His fingers lightly caressed the barmaid's soft palm as she closed it around the hard coins with a haughty look at him. "That explains the calluses," she turned and headed away.
Sirilyr lightly laughed along with his mates, "A tough job. It's sad really, so many beautiful women, an' only one o' me! Oh fate be kind!" Hoisting his tankard, "To the pleasures o' man!"
"And the respect of women," Storn said straight faced with a stern look at Sirilyr while hoisting his flagon.
Lowering his own mug Arnough announced, "We shall be heading to that cesspit tomorrow. The pilgrims have offered to join us. Will you be waiting here for Durrant?"
Pointedly ignoring the paladin, the soldier thought for a moment, "No, we ride to Tir on the morrow I'm not happy ta say." He cast a longing look towards the sweet barmaid. "I'm sure I'll be back this way though," Sirilyr said with a smile, "Ta pay my respects!"
"We’ve heard rumor tonight that that there is trouble in Tir, missing hunters," Arnough looked at Sirilyr. "It is good to see the road is safe, for three at least, you’re welcome to come along with my crew, although the going will be a bit slow in the mud from this day’s rain. We’ve had a few too many dire encounters of late."
With a raise of his eyebrows the ranger replied, "There be more'n a dozen missin' men, an the roads 'n woods in the area are not safe for a party less'n ten or twelve in my estimation. I would not be agin' ridin' with you an yours. What say you Spencer? Georan?"
"Mmm...we'll see come the morrow," Spencer was purposely vague. He wasn’t comfortable with the newcomers, given the caravan's mission.
Georan was looking distracted, eating little and looking around the room. He had bent and was rummaging in his pack. Spencer gave him an inquisitive look. "Geo what on earth are ya rumagin' for lad? Ye'v been elsewhere since we've sat."
"Mm? Oh," he produced some candles from his pack. "Uh. I don’t care. We’re headed the same way right?"
Brian asked, "I thought Durrant would be staying in Bilcoven. Is he headed around to all the villages?"
"That’s the plan," Sirilyr answered, "and be back in Bilcoven for the Samhain Market Festival ere nine or so days." After hearing it, Sirilyr and Georan wondered how the Bilcovs celebrated the Hallowed day, first day of winter, the eve of which the dead could walk.
"As will every merchant and peddler in the shadow the Marchy," Arnough said. "That’s my plan too, just going the other way round."
"Good, good," Brian smiled, "I’m glad I’ll see him, there’s a load of golden oak in Beir that could be easily hauled to Cinclair by his hefty wagons. So what has happened with you all this passed five-day?" Brian asked Spencer mid-chew.
Spencer cocked an eyebrow, bringing his mind back to the conversation long enough to answer. "Ah, I understand the sales could be better. But I suppose people are conserving their wealth in anticipation of the festival."
Nodding his head in agreement Sirilyr said, "Aye, an we'd all better enjoy it as it looks to be a long dreary cold winter with no more social or fiscal relief to be had 'til Yule. And mayhaps not even then with the current temperment o' the Bilcovs."
"And there’s still a shortage of grain, winter will be no vacation here," Brian added.
"Tis true. I may have ta take up my ol' profession o' huntin' an try my hand at trappin' too ta aid me in gettin' by. That, or find a garrison ta hire on with an soljur again fer a while. I would stay on with Cap'n Durrant, but he may not be able to afford ta keep us on." The ranger replied with a slight tinge of ruefulness. "No bother though. It'll no' be the first winter I've shivered through. 'sides, I may just find me a nice cozy billet 'round here abouts." He said casting a sideways glance at Pamela's swaying hips as she bent over to wipe clean a cluttered plank table. One who's former patron now slumbered noisily under it as she stepped none to carefully over his twitching, out stretched legs.
Arnough stretched and stood, "Well gentlemen, I think its time to turn in. Thanks for the drink, and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. Gd’night." Darvian then stood and smiled, "Good to meet you." He had been quiet, but attentive. They left. Spencer got up to move across from Storn, and Georan lit a candle off the table’s and said he was going to his room.
Pamela told him which room, then came over to the remaining four. "You gonna keep me up all night?" she asked the slanted question knowing the likely response. The place had almost cleared out. "Another round?"
"Not for me," Storn said. He stood and dropped a few coppers on the table. "Time for rest. A pleasure to see you again," he told the new arrivals.
"One more?" Brian asked expectantly looking to Sirilyr and Spencer.
"Sure, the more time I spend basking in Pamela’s magnificence."
"He doesn’t quit. I’ll have another." His nerves were still frazzled and he mind still debated the odd things he had seen and felt.
"Great!" Brian said, "Bring them on Pam."
When the mugs were brought and she was away Brian asked, "You all look a bit worn, and that’s a new wound healing on your head Sirilyr. I have learned a bit about the dangers of being a stranger in these lands, and let me just say that Storn and I are keeping a close eye on the ladies for their safety. It may be wise for us to share information and prepare for the next phase of our work here."
For the first time that evening a seriousness came to Sirilyr. "There be good reason to worry. During the this past nights storm, a creature so malevolent I could sense it, circled our camp at Tir." Grimly exhaling, "I can't figure why it did no' come in. But, it is evil I tell you true. And 'somethin' has taken between twelve and sixteen seasoned woodsfolk, including a smattering of the local rangers." The soldier's tired eyes took on a haunted look. "I fear there will be more than cold come this winter to Bilcoven. And I am sure the gobbo's 'll be just a small part o' it.
"Even the town watch here is scitterish from what seems ta be in the wind. An when we traveled by the cemetery which lays hard by here, I'd swear the dead spoke on the chill breeze ta me. There is a disturbance over this land. The druids here 'bouts feel it as well. The older ones anyway..." Smiling as he thought about the beautiful, young and headstrong Sleene, the ranger sighed and finished up what he had to say. "What, if anythin' has yer clerics spoken of what they suspect is wrong?"
Brian's brow wrinkled with worry and his steel-blue eyes seemed to darken under his curly mop of hair as he bowed his head and stared at his nervously clasped hands on the beer-stained table. He explained, "The priestesses have been troubled by signs of a curse on the land, as if the gods have abandoned it. In fact, before we came here, we were crossing the stream yonder, and Lynda performed her blessings on the stream as usual, only this time the result was most unusual. She had a vision of blood in the water, and she nearly fainted, she was so startled by the revelation. I swear I have never seen her so pale, and there is clearly evil at work in these parts. I half expected something to grab me from under the water as we waded across."
Leaning closer, Brian added in a whisper, "There is also some business about a series of murders around a young priest who had uncovered the source of the evil. We seek the assassins who did in that holy man. I'll tell you more on the morrow." At this Brian leaned back and took a long draft of his mug, his usual gleaming smile now gone from his face.
"Well lad, keep a wary eye on yer back and yer hand close by yer blade while ye travel in this neck o' the woods. Good luck to ye. Likely as not, we'll see ye on the morn. Sleep well." They were finally ready for slumber. The stood and Sirilyr pretended not to be able to see, arms flailing wildly, but feet taking him straight for Pamela. She managed to avoid the groping hands looking for purchase, and informed the others which rooms to drag him off to.
"Let’s get some rest and meet in your room in the morning," Brian told Spencer before he entered his room. Brian looked at the heavy quilt covering the straw filled mattress, and although tired from the drink and the hour, he could only think that trouble was brewing judging by the look of his newly arrived comrades and the hints of danger they discussed at the table.
Denying the bed, he fetched his largest knife and sheathed it on his belt, before heading outdoors ostensibly to check on the horses and visit the outhouse. He actually circled the barn and doubled back silently to a dark corner of the building where he listened carefully for anyone else about in the streets. He waited several minutes, but all was quiet and cold. On a dreary, damp night anyone lingering outdoors was suspicious, so he went and checked on the animals. The stable boy snored from whatever nook he made he nest. The horses stood silently heads bowed in slumber.
The three familiar horses of the newcomers looked tired and sweaty.
The stable boy had done a cursory job of brushing them down. Pradareus
startled when he put his warm hand on him, but settled when he recognized
the man’s face. He found the bucket of carrots and distributed them among
their faithful steeds. He gave his horse an extra carrot and a pat on the
neck, and walked to the outhouse to take a long leak, before returning
to his bed for a night of fitful sleep.
Feorik heard most of the encounter from hiding. He could only hope
that they weren’t going to kill the kid. But the six rogues would surely
kill him if he showed himself. He had climbed down to hear better. Now
he waited for the men to continue in pursuit of his prey. Gyllick’s
men, but not Cobern. He needed to move quickly to use the rogues fading
light or he’d be lost in the blackness. A hall opened to the right of the
main tunnel. It was too dark to see, but that must have been where Rasoric
had gone. Feorik moved into the hall slowly, nervously thinking about reset
traps. His boot nudged something.
Bending down he discovered Rasoric in a heap, breathing roughly. He managed to rouse the boy conscious although a bit delirious. "The torch?" Feorik asked him.
"In the room," Rasoric managed to say. "Trip wire," he said almost unintelligibly. Feorik grasped his meaning though and moved off slowly to find the trap. He did, then managed to get Rasoric to his feet. They counted paces and managed to avoid stumbling over the trigger. "Door to the right," Rasoric said. They entered and he walked on his own away from Feorik. "Here it is," he called form the dark. Feorik followed his voice and felt around for the brand.
When he managed to catch it alight, he found himself in a rectangular storeroom. Chests, barrels, crates, and miscellany cluttered the place. He lit a sconce on the wall. In the corner was a wooden rack of cocked crossbows, bolts pointing into slots in the wall. Next to the door, a canvas curtain hung. Next to it sat a very battered Rasoric. His left eye was swollen shut, his lips were red and bloodied, and a large discolored welt formed on his right cheek.
"You’ve got to go," Rasoric told him. "Get your bounty."
"They rob you?"
"Nah, this is a message for my boss. He’ll probably rob me. Take this," Rasoric pulled his pouch off. "Meet me at the ditch by the Druid’s Park before dawn. We’ll come back and track down those goblins." Feorik was not sure the boy was thinking clearly.
"Those guys will find them tonight." Feorik wondered about his own appointment with Cobern. What had changed?
Rasoric sat thinking, eyes closed for a bit, then started to sob. "I’ve got to get out of here. Someone’s going to kill me, and I didn’t do anything!" Feorik let the boy cry.
As he waited, Feorik moved the money pouch from hand to hand and he thought on these new developments. It was pretty clear that Gyllick's gang was large, and organized. They wanted the goblins gone, but the scum had fled. That meant that later on tonight...Cobern was going to betray him. Feorik laughed to himself, a cold, heartless laugh. Yes, Feorik had seen too much, and with the goblins gone it made sense to eliminate him. Feorik suddenly realized that he needed to leave town, and quickly. When Rasoric calmed, Feorik told him he would help. "Can you leave now?" he asked.
"No, I’ve got to see Mort…my boss. I can not just run or everyone will hunt me. He’ll get me somewhere to lay low, then I’ll run, or turn up dead."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. Can you find your way back?"
Feorik wondered, but assumed he could. "Of course."
"After I see Mortlake, I’ll meet you at the ditch by the park." He went to sleep.
There were several fresh torches in a barrel. Feorik lit one, doused the sconce and left Rasoric in the dark. It didn’t seem right, but he had to go.
The rotating wall took Feorik a moment to figure out, but he managed to emerge into the sewers again. The lumps in the sewage were indeed goblins. Feorik chased away some investigating rats then dragged the foul carcasses one at a time to the grate. He managed to get them to the alley, but not without besmirching himself with their filth. He sat in the alley catching his breath and thinking.
Somehow the goblins, or at least a good number of them, escaped through some secret tunnels the thieves of this town used. Apparently this, or maybe the raid, has pissed one group of criminals off at another. Just the fact that someone in town was dealing with the creatures pissed Feorik off. Mortlake? He did not know the name, but Feorik filed the name away. He would settle Mortlake, later. Rasoric was one of Mortlake’s men, slave more likely, but killed two goblins himself.
He had told Gyllick’s men that one of them was wounded and ran away. The boy is sharp, and a smooth talker. Lucky he got away with just a beating. Now Feorik was holding his goblins and his pouch of coins. The kid was desperate. If Gyllick’s men were tracking down the goblins there, what was going to happen with Cobern? Feorik began to get a very bad feeling about it. And he was very tired. Feorik was convinced Cobern was going to get him if he met up with him tonight. And considering his fatigue, and the wound that every now and then reminded Feorik that it was there with jagged pain.
He looked at the stinking heaps. "Okay, I need to get going," he whispered. He did not know his way around the slum, and did not want to drag goblin corpses with him, so he slung them against the wall and went to find a patrol of guards. Of course he did not find any patrols in this part of town, and when he did find one in the residential quarter, it took some time, and a few coins to the corporal, to convince them to come get the bodies.
They did though, and Feorik accompanied them to the market square where they dumped them like sacks next to their racked brethren. Feorik asked to see the constable, but that was definitely not going to happen. "Get your bounty in the morning." That left the dirty man eager to get this night over with. The Inn was dark. The doors were locked. Feorik knocked lightly first, then more boldly, until the fat angry innkeeper opened up wielding a club.
He looked at the grim covered one-eyed Watcher disdainfully, "You ain’t fouling my beds, and I ain’t running you no hot water, so go away. Sleep in the barn." The man closed the door on him. Feorik though to bang again, but calmed down and realized that was probably a good idea; especially if he was going to stand Cobern up. The barn was not warm, but the loft had fresh hay and the tussling of the hogs and goats below was kind of relaxing. He was asleep before he knew it.
The door swung open with a bang and startled Feorik awake. He looked down to see a woman starting her morning duties. The sun had not risen yet, too soon the new day had begun. Feorik lay waking for a few moments, and then forced himself up. He felt cold, and beyond tired. His side felt as if shards of glass had been wedged in his flesh. And he stunk, the fact that he could pick his own odor out in the barn revolted him. Feorik arose and moved passed the startled woman with a smile and wave. Luckily, it was not the cute girl from the previous night.
He jogged right out of the barn, a plan forming in his head. He would see the boy in Druid's park, get clean, and then see the constable. Then get the hell out of Bilcoven. Feorik's stomach rumbled fiercely. He patted it. One thing at a time, he told himself. Feorik's loping pace quickly took him to the wide expanse of green that was Druid's Park. The streets of Bilcoven were mostly quiet, the odd early riser shuffled by Feorik without looking up on their way to some workshop or other. Feorik couldn't help but smile as he saw the trees coming into view. Here the air was fresh, at least, a little oasis in an urban desert.
He turned right and headed up the eastern edge of the park, wanting to avoid an encounter with the questioning old druids that lived in the grove. The smelly ditch announced its presence. Feorik emerged from the bushes and looked over the dry moat at the impressive wall to the Marchion’s outer bailey. The moat was relatively dry and much shallower than at the eastern end. To his left, he could see where the ditch met the west wall in a swampy hollow filled with leaves and thorns. Looking down, he scanned the surface for several minutes. Three spillways dripped sludge into the ditch nearby. Dark openings barely two foot in dimension. Birds pecked at the goop buildup on the slope.
No one. An owl hooted mournfully at the lightening sky. He waited a few more minutes in the growing dawn before worriedly abandoning the watch as the sun threatened to reveal him to the sentries on the wall opposite. He was a bright kid, if he was still alive, he would find Feorik. Just in case, Feorik set a silver coin on the stones; hopefully to show he was not absconding.
Forty-five minutes later Feorik felt like a new man. Actually, after
a soak in a copper tub, and some soap he even looked like a new man. The
short, smiling man who ran the baths shuffled back with more water as Feorik
gingerly scrubbed his wound. This early in the morning the baths were usually
quiet, the man had commented, and so far no one else had entered the public
house near the center of the town. After setting a fresh bandage, and paying
the man, whose name Feorik didn't bother to ask, Feorik reluctantly put
on his filthy clothes and headed across the square to see Derian. He had
a few things to tell the Constable this morning. The two goblin corpses
were still heaped on the ground; a satisfied smile crossed his lips as
he watched the flies feeding on the vermin. He approached the Guard Tower.
Tulane awoke early and threw out the straw he had slept on the night
before as it possessed a most sacrilegious odor. Having grabbed a scrap
of food from his stores he proceeded to the inn where Feorik had brought
them. He was supposed to go on duty in a short while, but he wanted to
see if the Watcher had gone back with Cobern. The ranger was not there
and Tulane shooed off the waitress until the fat innkeeper chased him away.
He went to the tower to join his patrol.
Two more goblins had been added to the display in the Main Square. They lay in heaps next to the rack. He entered the hall where they assembled and was not surprised to get a cold greeting by most of the guards. Deein was not there. "Your Watcher friend pulled a couple more from the slums," Wain told him. "You get a piece of that?" Tulane could tell the guard was only half seriously interested and ignored him.
"Where’s your sewer rat buddy?" someone else asked.
Corporal Erin came into the room and the hazing ceased at least momentarily. "Yes, Deein is late. Maybe you two have better opportunities as bounty hunters. Go get him." His patrol laughed as Tulane left, cursing, to find Deein. He had a room in a flat with some other guards just down the street from his place. He climbed the stair to the second floor and knocked on the door. It swung open revealing a broken door jam and Deein motionless on his back on the floorboards. He was wearing underclothes, his shirt was red with blood.
Dread turned his stomach to stone. He stood looking at the body in the silent room. Finally he bent and touched Deein’s head. He was still warm, but lifeless. Fear pricked Tulane’s neck, adrenaline heightened his senses. This was done this very morning, this very hour. All was quiet. Tulane slowly rose and readied his spiked bludgeon. He peered out into the hallway. Only quiet doors. Cobern, Tulane thought as the fear transformed to anger. Tulane was not in danger, grave danger. His friend lay dead, and his life was turned upside down.
Scared and angry, Tulane set off out the back alley and away from his own apartment. Thinking of that made his blood boil. All he could think of was that one-eyed Watcher that got him into this. Where was he? Dead too? The new realization threatened Tulane’s already shaky calm. He stopped his erratic flight at the end of a small alley looking into the main square. He supposed the Constable was the best one to report the murder to. He didn’t want to encounter his patrol yet. He took a circuitous route around the square and approached the tower from the side. Feorik was walking toward the same place. Tulane’s face reddened as he waited for the Watcher to near.
Tulane rushed from the corner of the Guard’s Tower to intercept Feorik. "You! Bastard! What have you done!" The young guard was nearly berserk, and Feorik felt more than a bit threatened by the white knuckled grip Tulane had on the morning star.
Feorik backed off, "I don’t know. What’s wrong?"
Tulane glared with angry bugged out eyes as he spat a bitter whispered statement at the ranger, "Deein’s dead. Murdered this very morning in his room."
The words hit Feorik like a hammer - how could he have been so stupid? Of course Gyllick would be interested in silencing everyone from yesterday's expedition, but he had never imagined that it would be done so blatantly. Feorik knew his next words would have to be chosen carefully if Tulane was not to spring upon him in a rage. He had already seen how volatile the boy could be.
"Damn," Feorik swore. "Gyllick got him. Damn, damn it all to Hell. Look, Tulane, I think I know what's going on. Mortlake and Gyllick are having a turf war. The goblins left in the night. I think you are in danger too." Feorik hoped the last sentence would catch Tulane's attention.
Looking hard at the older man, "I think you'd better explain what exactly you mean," said Tulane with a growl, "I’m well aware of my situation," Tulane stated. "What’s there for me now? You gonna protect us from those rogues? Pshaw."
Tulane's words struck a spark of anger in Feorik. These little pussies! he raged inside. "No, I don't give a shit about the rot in this place. I'm going after the fucking goblin scum. If the people running Bilcoven are a bunch of a fucking thieves and the guards are a bunch of old men, that's not my fault."
Tulane yelled right back, "Fuck you! Who the Hell do you think you are? You come here, you dig around in the shit, and now you're leaving. Deein's DEAD?! Don't you even care?"
Feorik took a step forward. "Yeah, I care. I really liked Deein." The lack of Tulane's name was an unspoken insult. Feorik looked at Tulane hard. He really didn't mean what he had said about not caring about the rot in Bilcoven; it was all so frustrating. "Look, I'm sorry. I want to help with problems but not now. Those scum have left and I need to follow, while they're tracks are still fresh."
Tulane spat, "you don't need to follow! You ... you're, you're a coward to run away. I’m going to the constable now. If you leave, he'll track YOU down."
Feorik stifled the anger he felt, "A coward, huh? Well, call me what you want. I was just looking for Derian anyways. Is he inside?"
Tulane turned and headed into the guard tower, wordlessly. Feorik followed,
already preparing for the worst.
As expected, Rasoric was shaken awake by Cauy. An older boy that
had been with Mortlake much longer than he had. Weasely kid that didn’t
like anyone. "Gods Ras. What happened?"
"A message for our master," Rasoric mumbled. "’Bout time you showed up."
"I ain’t staying here," Cauy announced.
"Why’re you here?"
"Um. Well. Who did this?" Rasoric knew Mortlake sent him here to keep watch.
"Gyllick. I’ve got to go." Rasoric painfully left Cauy muttering and cursing. His entire body was sore from being stabbed and beaten, and stiff from sleeping on the hard dirt floor. Not to mention tired, hungry, and thirsty. Rasoric took a long piss on the wall before climbing the ladder slowly. By the time he managed to emerge into Mortlake’s cellar he was ready for a nap, but he climbed the stairs and found the fence eating while Theod rubbed his flabby shoulders. Rasoric wanted to vomit. Theod was much younger than himself; an orphan brought in by Mortlake.
Mortlake dropped food out of his mouth when Rasoric stepped into the room. Rasoric tried to hide the hatred that burned behind his eyes; he had to get Mortlake to send him away. He stumbled a bit more than he had too and crashed into the table, spilling beer. He sat and slumped on his arm, waiting for Mortlake to ask.
"Don’t just lay there, tell me what happened. Did they take anything?"
Asshole, Feorik thought. He lifted his head and reached for the drink. "No. Gyllick’s men. They chased some goblins passed the room and decided to leave you a message." This worried the man, he paled. Rasoric drank deeply. "Said you need to make it right."
Mortlake’s concern turned to anger and he started shouting, cursing, and stomping around the room. Rasoric lowered his head again, to hide his smile. When the ranting was over he said, "I’m stabbed and beaten. I need rest. And I think they’ll kill me if they see me again." The fat man was too pissed to care. "I need to lay up a few days."
"Yeah. Disappear awhile. You’re hideous. Help yourself I’m not hungry anymore," Rasoric had started eating bread and cheese. "Check in a few days." Mortlake left with Theod. Rasoric finished eating and left before he would hear what was going on in the other room. He went to meet the Watcher.
The morning was chilly and much further along than he had hoped. The sun was well into the sky; Feorik and his money were probably gone. The sore rogue huddled under his concealing cloak as he made his way north through the slum and across the residential district. He went to the west wall and moved along the shadows of its base along the edge of the Druid’s park to the ditch that separated the town from the Marchion’s outer bailey. Looking down the ditch, not a soul was seen. The ranger may be keeping out of sight, so Rasoric emerged from the morning shadows and walked along the stony slope.
He had picked his way passed the first two drainage tunnels that filled the ditch with sewage, when suddenly a figure appeared above him at the rim. It was not Feorik, but an old man leaning on a staff. The Druid, Hernry. Rasoric had always felt nervous around the eldritch couple that haunted the park. The old man held out a leathery hand, a glint of sunlight reflected off the silver object he held. "Someone left this for you," the Druid said in a solid voice.
Rasoric looked at the man questioningly then asked, "Feorik?" The Druid nodded. Rasoric climbed to stand next to the man. Despite his age, Hernry had an aura of strength, like an ancient oak. He placed the coin in Rasoric’s hand.
"You are hurt. Come with me." Rasoric obeyed despite his nervousness. Hernry led him to a log home Rasoric had never seen before. Inside was warm and comforting. Rasoric sat on a fur lined couch while Hernry got some warm tea. When he came back he pushed Rasoric’s hood from his head and shook his head at the swollen eyes, lips and purple bruised cheek. The old Druid lay his hand upon the young man’s head and said a prayer that washed away much of the pain. "Tell me what has happened."
Rasoric was still uneasy and just looked at the Druid who looked back with sad, but understanding eyes. "I will help you, but I need to know what is going on with you and the Dir Watcher. Much I can probably guess, but you know."
copyright 2000