Chronicle of Cadan Dalmas, Knight
BOOK I
Grim Terror Locked Within the Dark
I met
my companions the next morning. Wise Theramenes had
corresponded with his Dwarven brethren and I
was joined by Dain Rocksmiter, a
novice Cleric of Marthammor
Duin, Finder of Trails, the Watcher over
Wanderers. I must confess to some
surprise, I had not imagined many Dwarven clerics would feel a calling to protect the natural world around them, but the ways of all worlds are ever
varied. A long coat of brazen
scale armour fell to Dain's knees, a
kite shield was slung across his back and a stout battle axe hung from his wide
belt. Taciturn but steadfast, his
company was all I could ask for on this Quest.
My Archon’s orders exist to be
obeyed, yet I tried to hide my surprise at the next smiling figure ambling
towards me. It is the height of vulgarity to pass comment on the limited
stature of any comrade but this Forest Gnome still seemed an eccentric choice
for our mission. Buddynock Rubyrubb wore
a rough hide jerkin and a green hooded cloak, well worn and much patched,
sometimes with reasonably similar colours. A curved blade hung at his waist, a bandolier
of darts lay across his small chest and he peered up at the world through a
pair of polished brass goggles. Our party will walk in wild places and I accept
a Druid may well be of crucial service, yet I struggle to place faith in any
companion who wields an iron rimmed bucket in place of a shield! A bucket he calls Son of Guillium! (*) A bucket he plans to one day fit with wheels
and armour plating, a chain and pistol crossbows! I am not certain which alarms me more, these
wild notions and the glint in Buddynock’s eyes as he describes them, or the
face already painted on this bucket.
“It’s a happy face!” insisted
Buddynock Rubyrubb with injured dignity. “He’s smiling!”
2
“Yes but at what?” muttered Dain Rocksmiter, before hastily
weighing the balance of his axe when our Gnome suddenly turned in his
direction. Peace was restored, with some difficulty, after a hasty round of ale
bought with my last silver pieces. Alas
this only raised new concerns, for Buddynock drained his flagon while chatting
earnestly with my pack mule Sisyphos. I am relieved to know our hardworking
beast of burden is content. I do not
need to know our mule's opinion's on acceptable lengths of march, feed corn and
pack saddles. Again! (*)
At least stalwart Dain Rocksmiter
clearly understood our comrade, patiently tolerating the Gnome's wilder flights
of fancy, especially when Buddynock spoke so eagerly of small reptiles like
living stones which could draw their tiny heads and legs within their own hard
shells. Indeed by their relative statures and long beards once could almost
judge Dain Rocksmiter and Buddynock to be father and son, thought I am not
certain either would be pleased by such a notion. Paladins are bound to our
oaths of service, we accept our duties to serve the greater good. Only tyrants insist all creatures obey them;
a wise mind provides examples of moral behaviour but never insists on
conformity. I know our precepts well and
I have been taught to see the worth in all creatures whether or not they share my own
tenets. Even so this Gnomish
Druid's impish disregard for custom and manners demands much forbearance from
his companions! I choose to overlook
his behaviour in the tavern on our last evening before taking to the road. I am only grateful the Watch did not press
charges.
The third member of our party
stood graceful and shy as a woodland bird: Neave Gemstone, a young Elvish
wizard, barely 70 years of age, fresh from her studies. Clad in violet, her treasured spell book
protected in a waxed leather cover, she carried an elegant double-curved short
bow slung across her back and a stout oak quarterstaff in her hand. Careful of
speech but logical of mind, her contributions always of value. Neave was nervous at leaving her tutors, but
gladly accepted her place on our shared mission. Wizardry and magic was woven within the heart
of long lost Phandelver: should we ever find the mine again, who could say what
arcane powers might still be lurking deep in the dark? Neave also seemed very tolerant of wild
Buddynock. I was pleasant to see how her influence calmed his antics. He would
even wash his hands before eating when she prompted him!
Hrove and Espiga were the last two
members of our party, two tested comrades of long standing and good reputation. Hrove a fighter of prowess who made light of
his heavy chain hauberk and great sword, throwing axes and pack. A lithe man
with silver rings piercing his eyebrows; brave to a fault, a merry warrior who
laughed long and often. There are many
worthy men who do not call themselves Paladins. I must always remember that.
(**) I must, most definitely, never mention the
inadvertent noises my ass occasionally makes.
The first two times I innocently made this apology little Buddynock
collapsed in the ditch struggling for breath and stoic Dain suffered a sneezing
fit,so prolonged I actually grew alarmed for his safely.
3
Nimble Espiga his companion for
many years wore cured leather set with metal studs and throwing knives strapped
to his sleeves and belt: a courteous
rogue, with a rare grace and formality to his manner, skilled with both short
bow and sword. Dextrous and quick witted, Espiga was prone to tapping his
fingers when thinking, or telling of the Guildmaster he once crossed two towns
back. Not a man to play cards with more than once, but not a man to take the
last copper pieces from a beggar. I
look forward to sharing some close fought games of chess around the fire with
Espiga. We had hoped more might have
joined our Party yet time was pressing and we could wait no longer. And since the Watch now wanted us on our way
it seemed best to depart immediately and with speed. (*)
The
old road wound through dense forest on either flank as we picked our careful way
through wild hill country. High mountains lay ahead, their peaks crowned with a
glimmer of snow even in summer. Before
the Long Night there were way stations and walled inns, watch towers and
regular patrols. Once the undergrowth was cut back well beyond bow shot but now
the trees and brambles crowd close to the winding road and any creature
thinking of ambushing travellers could scarcely ask for better ground.
The farewell words of Archon
Theramenes ran through my head: “You will make your way to the township of
Phandalin with all speed. So much has been lost over the years, but you will
see our closest map before you depart.
Phandalin sits within the shell of the old town, scratching a simple
living but surviving. If any mortal still knows the likely site of the Lost
Mine, surely they live within this shabby excuse for a settlement. You will
find allies there, but Cadan Dalmas."
“Sir?”
“This is no Halfling walking party
I send you on. Be on your guard. Always.
Some foes will have smiling faces and open hands.”
The town of Phandalin was still
five days march away. We passed few
settlements now, and none lacked walls of some description. Wise minds keep
alert on the borders; the careless and foolish rarely live long enough to grow
wise. We saw few fellow travellers now. A wandering bard, who seemed to have
elvish blood, kept us company for two days; his flute enlivened our march and
he was glad to share our night time fire and take his turn at standing
sentry. Since he took another path our
only company was a pair of circling hawks far overhead. At least I presume they were hawks. My companions did not say otherwise.
4
We kept careful watch each night,
sleeping with unsheathed blades close to hand.
My Malorian chronicles speak of Knights Errant riding the Wastelands but
never mention how dirty you become sleeping on cold ground under the stars. We found little hint of romance or riches and
beggars would earn more renown for singing bawdy songs. At least Buddynock the
Druid appeared in his element, gladly passing the time of day with any beast or
bird we encountered; his manner is strange yet soon endearing all the same. (*)
On the third night we expected
some respite within the palisade of a timber station but all we found were heavy
oaken gates broken back upon their hinges and no sign of life within the walls. We investigated with caution, Espida and Buddynock scouting our approach, while we
covered their advance, my companions with their bows, I with my levelled
spear A family lived here once, their spare clothes, tools and few belongings
remained but there was no trace of the people. An oil lantern was left to run
dry on its bracket and the trace horses were gone too, though the long timber
wagons were still in the yard, the mud churned up around them. A joyless eerie place, a mystery we had no
time to unravel.
“You’d find more fun and festivity
in a Kobold knocking shop,” sniffed Hrove.
“Like last time?” Espida spoke
with grim mirth. “With devices both ancient and modern, pointed and sharp? And scrabbling little scaly feet closing
fast?”
“Don’t remind me!” said Hrove. “At
least two of us got out again.”
It was past noon the following day
we heard the sound of cartwheels heading back down the roadway towards us. We quickly moved to the brambles either side
of the road, pulling my mutinous ass
mule behind us. My mouth was dry
as we stood staring into the distance, mindful of our flanks and rear in case
the sounds should prove some ruse. Two light wagons rounded a bend in the road.
An ox pulled one, the second was dragged by desperate men and women, stumbling
along the rutted path, their legs caked in mud.
The carts were piled high in crazy
disarray, small children perched among a clutter of supplies, food, water
skins, a few rusty axes, no luxuries, no chosen goods, the mere essentials
of survival in the wilderness. All clad
in simple green homespun, foresters by their dress and moving at the best speed
they could still make. A woman cried out
as she saw us. The group froze, faces staring, hands gripped tight as they
raised their rusted axes. One family had
a blue bear tattoo on their right arms, it is strange the insignificant detail
that strikes your eye.
5
I advanced slowly and alone, first
laying down my spear in clear view, my hands held aloft in greeting. The
foresters stood nervous as wild birds, for a moment one man actually seemed
poised to charge me and I had to call out twice before those axes slowly
lowered to the ground. I beckoned my
companions forward, the foresters looked askance at my bearded and elvish
comrades yet accepted our gift of food.
One man's hand was bound in clumsy
blood soaked bandages. Good Dain is the
medic of our party and his manner with the injured is both competent and
gentle, yet when he offered to examine the wound this forester stepped back suddenly
in fear. My skills do not match Dain's
prowess, but my own offer found more favour with this stranger; he allowed me
to dress his maimed hand in clean linen.
I can call on my Lady's Aid to heal but not to replace lost limbs. I was
shocked at the injury to his hand, his left thumb and two fingers missing,
severed by teeth it seemed to me.
As order is restored our peasants
have the chance for better futures. Hardy souls who relish their independence
and are willing to accept risks, forge better lives in the wilderness,
forsaking city slums to live among the forests, sweating a hard living sending
hardwood timber down to the coast. Such
folk are noted for their fortitude and self reliance. To see robust foresters reduced to such a
pitiful state was more than I ever expected.
Their plight was truly pitiful,
save for a few stones and knives and two rusty axes the group was unarmed, yet
they still dared travel such dangerous roads. That day I learnt how fear marks
a face when men are near driven out of their wits by terror. At first they
would not speak, but then like water bursting a broken dam, they told of
creatures stalking the darkness, neither beast nor men, yet able to force doors
and open wooden latches, creatures which show no fear and need to light to see,
which ignore livestock to carry off human prey.
Two families remained out of five; the rest were gone, taken by the
night.
I am proud to say the first
instinct of our party was to offer protection.
I am ashamed to say my long studies gave me no inkling what such
terrible creatures could be. I spoke
privately with the learned Neave Gemstone, but even her scholarship offered no
answers.
We were now shocked to see a third
cart bumping along the track towards us. Two Dwarves dragged at the yoke,
staggering with exhaustion and effort. A small human boy worked at their side,
a puppy trailing at his heels. The boy, ten years old at the most, bore the
same blue bear tattoo on his right arm. Yet when we looked to the foresters
their faces set like stone. I learnt
something more of what terror does to a man, it risks driving any rational
thought from his brain and any kindness from his heart. One woman ordered the boy to join her,
"your family needs you not them!" I heard the two weary dwarves urge
the boy to obey, yet the lad shook his head and continued to push at their
swaying cart. The boy's mother turned
away in silence, the man beside her did not speak a single word.
6
At least I could offer some immediate help to these
poor Dwarves. With the aid of good Pallas Athene, I was able to ease the fever
of Thoradin, though this ague would still take time to leave him. He gave me gruff thanks, his grateful smile
memorable for a missing tooth. His wife
Hlin laid her small hand on my knee as she stuttered her gratitude. The look that passed between husband and wife
left no doubt as to the devoted bond they shared. When I saw the only cargo of
their cart I realised why they would risk all facing the wilderness. Alongside a war hammer and heavy crossbow lay
a tiny baby dwarf, fidgeting with a blue bead strung around her neck. Little Ilde gurgled contentedly wrapping her
stubby fingers around the long beard of Dain.
Looking at my companions I knew there was no possibility of abandoning
any of this group now. Our mission to
find lost Phandelver must wait. We began to retrace our steps
Night was soon upon us. Even now
the foresters refused to form any united camp, insisting every dwarf stayed
fifty paces away. I choose not to describe the quiet fury and frustration of my
comrades but I shared their feelings in full.
I can only say we did our best, setting three fires one by the
foresters, one by the dwarves and one in the space between. Merry Hrove attempted to make light of the
situation but we all recognised our danger. We were too strung out to offer any
coordinated defence, but we shared our spare weapons with those foresters still
willing to fight. The small boy slept
alongside his Dwarven friends; his puppy at his back. We could only take turns to stand sentry,
stay watchful, and hope.
“Damned fools,” Dain said staring
into the darkness, a throwing axe ready in his hand. He caught my eye. “Yes,
very damned fools!” I could only nod my head in agreement.
They came five hours before dawn
when the fitful moon had passed behind cloud.
But for Neave we would surely have been surprised, her keen elvish eyes
saw shadows among the trees and the warning she shouted woke us in time. Seizing our weapons we sprang to our feet,
staring outward beyond the flickering firelight. Two of the foresters began to scream, stark
staccato explosions of terror and dismay, I saw Hlin fitting a bolt to her
crossbow, brave Buddynock readying a dart.
Suddenly the terrified puppy darted into the trees behind us, his young
master instantly followed. We heard crashing in the undergrowth, Hrove was
closest, he charged out his sword gripped in both hands, Espida shouted a
reproof yet instantly followed his friend.
Before we could react, I saw my companions point with horror. Nine dark shadows were moving towards us
through trees the other side of the road. Shadows walking upright, shadows
larger than any man.
7
Hlin shouted defiance and loosed a
crossbow bolt, the range was too far for my spear, or Buddynock's darts. Nimble Neave shot her own arrow but even
elvish eyes struggled to find a mark. It was Dain Rocksmiter who saved us, a
bolt of light sped from his outstretched hand into the darkness, one tall
shadow exploded in flames and fell. We
heard the sound of a struggle behind us but we could only trust Hrove and
Espida were coping. Eight shadows still
faced us; my companions loosed missiles again but none could find any mark in
that dense undergrowth. We braced ourselves to meet these foes hand to hand,
prepared to sell our lives dearly come what may. Time floated like a feather, our
hopes and fears hanging in the scales, yet then, without a word, the shadows
turned back into the night. It was still
the darkest hour, surely their best chance of overwhelming our scant defences,
yet our enemies chose to vanish all the same!
It was only then we began to realise they had
already achieved their objective. There
was no longer any sound from the bushes behind us. Our lantern revealed the
horror all too clearly. There was no
sign of the boy or Espida; the puppy was dead, dashed to the ground and the still
body of valiant Hrove lay before us. At least we recognised his armour and the
sword still gripped in both his hands; the body of Hrove now lacked a head.
Neave Gemstone may be shy in
company but her erudition and learning gives her an enviable skill at
investigating such deeds. As I stood
facing outward my sword and shield ready, Neave scoured the area, then gently knelt
to examine the maimed corpse of poor Hrove.
A single axe blow had felled him, a remarkably keen blow to cut through
mail and spine, leaving him helpless and dying even before a second blow had
ruptured his chest. It was a strange
injury, a round circular crushing with a deep red stab wound in the
centre. No creature known to Neave, no
weapon I ever studied, left such a wound.
And finally poor Hrove's head had been cut from his shoulders by some
ragged blade wielded with more strength than skill. None of us had ever seen a comrade die
before. It seemed unreal someone so alive and merry as our fighter Hrove could
so suddenly be taken from us in so foul a manner.
“Look there,” pointed Neave, “just
raise your lantern. Beaten branches leading away from the road. All broken down.” I have little skill at woodcraft yet even I
could see our foes had carried away poor Espida and the boy, carried them away
from friends and firelight into the dark.
Meanwhile Buddynock showed a cool
valour I had not expected from anyone. His small size and dextrous manner made
him a fine scout. Alone, he moved through the undergrowth, to the spot where
Dain's magic bolt struck home. Alas for
all gallant hopes, Buddynock found the place, the charred trees and branches
made that clear, but any corpse had been carried away by our unknown
enemies. Buddynock could only return to
the road empty handed, we were still no wiser to the nature of our foes, but
his bravery alone in that desolate place still moves me.
8
Our Council of War was brief and
unanimous yet still left a taste as bitter as rue. We could not follow an unknown number of foes
into the darkness; not while eight enemies could still be lurking close by,
ready to seize the remaining peasants as soon as we left them defenceless. Whatever action we took meant death and
despair. Two lives against twelve; a
hard and evil tally. Two lives most likely already over, against twelve not
counting ourselves, I saw Thoradin and Hlin try to speak with the lost lad's
mother, I heard her pitiful screams echoing into the sky. I will remember that
night with horror for all my life.
We stumbled onward at first light,
our eyes red with lack of sleep. No one spoke, not any more, the only sound the
boy's mother weeping. Hrove's corpse lay slung across my mule, shrouded in his
cloak. The road was empty the entire
world seemed drained of life, but we did not dare leave the track to forage, we
could not afford the time and could not risk encountering our enemies. We
sensed the eyes weighing us, watching us, waiting to strike again. As hoped we reached the battered way station
two hours before dusk. The palisade was in poor condition and the gates were
useless, but the central blockhouse was in better repair, loop holed for
defence and with a stout oak door and bar.
Compared to our camp the night before this was a palace fit for any
emperor. We took our positions inside,
lanterns lit, water buckets filled, a fire in the central hearth, our animals
and carts safe alongside. All was as
ready as maybe, all we had left was hope. We had not rested long enough to cast
our spells again.
Our last action was to bury the
body of poor Hrove, his great sword lying between his cold hands, a shallow
grave with a wreath of spring flowers around his maimed neck. At least the words we spoke over him were from
the heart. It was no tomb fitting Hrove's
bravery, but maybe the best grave any of us would receive.
Cloud covered the moon. Like
living shadows the creatures stepped from the blackness, moving without noise
or hesitation; their dark shapes flitting against our light as they moved at
speed within the palisade. They were all around us, within moments our
blockhouse was surrounded; they spoke no words we could hear, but now we smelt
them, a charnel house stench of cold and empty death. Now we could hear their
breathing, at least these were mortal creatures of flesh and blood, but the
sound filled us with horror, these deep snuffling breaths like hounds seeking a
scent. A long fingered hand dragged
against a wooden shutter. More hands appeared at other loopholes, we saw thick
fingers pulling at the timbers.
It is in the moments of crisis
that training tells. We readied our weapons. Thoradin still struggled to stand
yet gripped his war hammer in both hands as he stood defending his
daughter. Brave Hlin fitted a bolt to her
heavy crossbow, a shape moved before her loophole; with lightning speed and a
shout of triumph Hlin fired, we all heard a choking gasp as one shadow fell.
(*)
9
The time was now. The action we had planned. Waiting to be picked off one by one would
serve nothing, waiting until we were too exhausted to resist would only bring
ruin. Better to charge our foes openly
come what may, to fight them within the confines of the palisade and take our
best chance to strike them down. Yet as we moved to the door a forester was
before us. A burly man, his strong arm
fixed tight to the oaken bar, his sinews corded like iron, the sweat pouring
down his face. We urged him aside to no
avail, we tried to drag him clear with no success. Stark terror leant him strength, we would
have to break his arm to open that door.
Our chance was slipping away, our
foes pressed against our stout walls, we heard their deep breath and still this
curious sniffing sound like a beast tasting the air. We loosed arrow and bolt
whenever chance came yet these creatures proved more cautious now and never
presented a clear target. It was still
night when they withdrew but we did not dare stand down until the light of dawn
lit the trees. As we stood amid the trampled mud within the
palisade we saw the imprints of bare feet, prints so like our own, yet of
greater size and curiously flattened.
And to our delight we saw a trail of blood leading out and into the tree
line. Hlin at least had hit her mark. It is vulgar to rejoice in wanton pain, yet
we were fighting for our lives against a bestial foe; the odds were heavy
against us and our fate uncertain. At
least we had some hope of inflicting damage before we fell.
“They know we are no easy prey,” I
said with some satisfaction, “they know there will be a price for dragging us
down.”
We again faced stark choices. Follow up our enemies and hope these
terrified foresters could hold the blockhouse without us, resume our desperate
march to safety or wait together within our shelter for the next attack. No option seemed certain, all carried grave
risk. We lacked the provisions to stand
a siege and we could not risk abandoning the helpless. Yet to continue our slow trek down the road
meant more nights spent sleeping in the open, knowing our foes were hard on our
heels.
It was then I heard the sound of
hooves and the jink of harness. Horses,
a whole troop by the sound, moving at speed, moving towards us. I barely had
time to alert my comrades as seven riders rounded a curve in the roadway, a
cloaked officer at their head, four riders bearing lances, two with crossbows,
all with mail coats and helms, an azure lion rampant on their shields and
caparisons. The instant he saw us the
officer barked an order, his troop instantly swung into line facing us,
crossbows on the flanks, lances ready to charge. The officer stared down at us with suspicion.
10
I must accept my failure at this point. I had thought my bearing and rank would have
assured us respectful treatment, yet my words only angered this Captain. I
tried again with even less success. For a horrible moment I thought we would
actually be attacked until the desperate foresters surged forward, prostrating
themselves before his horse, one woman actually clutching his stirrups as she
begged for aid. Slowly this Captain
Anders ordered his men to lower their lances. Our discussion was terse but
illuminating. I thank the stars wise
Dain had the good sense to firmly keep Buddynock out of sight. These men at arms needed mollifying and our
brave Gnome rarely shows much regard for any convention or manners
“Just cos they’re bigger than me?”
sniffed Buddynock. “I’m a free spirit I am!” (*)
“A spirit free permanently if
those lances are lowered far enough,” growled Dain.
Captain Anders revealed these
night attacks have continued for several months past. Two settlements deep in the woods have been
destroyed; his small patrol is one of many sent out by their Duke, spending
long days on the roads but they have much ground to cover and few men for the
task. He had nothing more to tell us beyond this. It is little wonder Anders was
suspicious. His only purpose now was to
escort the surviving foresters to safety.
At least now we were free to
follow the blood trail left by our wounded foes; free to attempt to find poor
Espida and the missing boy. Only fools or madmen never admit fear. Even worse
than fearing for your own skin is the dread of making an error that costs the
lives of others. We did not seek this adventure but none of my comrades wished
to step away. It was now Hlin asked to
join us. For a moment I hesitated, we all knew her courage and but for her
skill with a crossbow we would have no trail to follow, yet to take a mother
from a young child is a hard decision. I
remember the earnest look in her brown eyes, the long braids hanging down
either side of her face, and the slight stammer in her voice as she spoke. This
was their fight too. We needed all the help we could find. Thoradin nodded his acceptance. Still weak
from his fever, he would travel with Anders' troop, guarding little Ilde with
his life.
We
moved swiftly through the dense forest, Buddynock leading the way. Our path twisted and turned, we would have
welcomed the aid of a ranger but the trail was unmistakeable even for us.
Hlin's crossbow bolt had hit a lung, the blood was plentiful and frothy, her
target was surely dead or dying, carried clear by its comrades like before.
11
We soon had clear evidence our trail ran true, evidence I dragged clear of the brambles with my spear point for I had no wish to touch the foul object. At last we knew what caused that second wound to poor Hrove. A massive thighbone, the lower shaft worn smooth with much handling, the bulbous knot at the head set with jagged bone spikes held firm by rawhide straps. A vicious weapon, crude but effective when wielded with strength, a weapon now stained with the blood of its dying owner. We shared a glance and smashed the club to splinters.
The trail led us further into the woods. It was dusk when we reached a low dell crowned with a high boulder and wind twisted trees, fresh blood stained the entrance of a dark crevice leading into the living rock. Dain Rocksmiter confirmed at a glance this was a natural cave. Leaf matter and decay covered the ground, the woods pressed close around us. The lair was here. At last.
The air was very foul. Careful Buddynock craned his head
inside, his scimitar drawn and ready.
Our good Gnome was wise to be so cautious, we heard his disgusted gasp
as he saw what lay within the entrance, crude stone troughs brimming with
filth, blood and offal where fat buzzing flies fed happily. One careless
footstep would have sent them spilling over the tunnel floor.
I imagine each of us was equally
amazed and revolted by the sight. Even outside the cave mouth the rank smell
was still appalling. No one spoke but I saw Buddynock’s little mouth open to form
an outraged: “NO!”
“Let me try,” asked Neave
quietly. “I have a solution. I think.” Our Elf says little but always with
purpose. We will witness magic many times in our lives yet the sight still
startles me even so. Wise Neave summoned a spectral hand, a shimmering form
appearing before our eyes. We would not simply rush into this dank charnel
house. Under Neave Gemstone's careful
guidance the spectral hand gently pushed the stone troughs aside giving us clear
space to enter.
“What purpose do they serve?” I
asked. “The reek would be disgusting if
it were accidentally trampled through the cave.
What creatures could ever welcome such a stench in their home?”
Our only warning was a snapping twig. Ten of the shadow creatures were
charging out of the forest above the dell. We glimpsed squat muscular forms,
hairless save for dark clumps around their heads, grey skinned with tattered
animal skins bound about their thighs.
They made no sound, they moved without hesitation in the dark, they
swung the spiked bone clubs in their hands and they moved with terrible
speed.
(c) Wizards of the Coast
12
I hurled my spear at the first and
saw the creature fall choking even as Hlin sped a crossbow bolt through the
chest of a second. Dain and I rushed to hold the entrance to the
dell as Neave scrambled atop the tunnel entrance, fitting an arrow to her short
bow. Quick thinking Buddynock fumbled in
his pack emptying his small bag of iron balls down the cavern mouth.
A club drove down on my shield
forcing me back, half of the creatures were dead or dying yet the others
showed no fear and no intention to retreat. Even the dying still clawed at our
legs, as we struggled to stand in that clinging leaf mould and blood soaked
bracken. Hlin slew another creature with her crossbow as I recovered my footing
and cut down my own adversary, my hilt rammed hard against his breastbone.
Buddynock suddenly shouted in alarm as a grey hand reached out of the tunnel
mouth behind him, it snatched at the hem of his cloak, missed and crashed back
into the cavern, felled by the iron balls he had poured inside. Buddynock had
his scimitar ready as the beast appeared for the second time, it was larger or
older than the others, I saw its splayed nostrils sniffing the air for our
scent as it emerged from the darkened tunnel; a gleaming battle axe clutched in
both grey hands. Bellowing with fury it charged our little Gnome.
13
Buddynock feinted left and
attacked right, a cunning move, slashing deep into the beast’s thigh. The
monster bellowed in agony lashing out wildly in response. Our Gnome lunged
again, missed, Buddynock raised his scimitar in a desperate parry but the
creature's axe brushed his curved blade aside as if it were merely a toy. Good Buddynock dropped to the ground his
life's blood pouring from a grievous wound. Our poor Gnome lay helpless, unable
to move as the staggering creature raised its axe again, dark blood dripping
from the edge. I was shouting, I think we all were, desperately trying to
distract our vicious foe. Dain and I charged the beast together, just as Hlin
and Neave loosed their missiles. I
cannot say which one of us killed the last creature, but all eleven lay dead as
we leaned on our weapons gasping for breath, astounded to find ourselves still living.
I have some skill at medicine but
nothing to compare with Dain Rocksmiter.
He tenderly drew aside Buddynock's ruined hide armour, to staunch the
bleeding with his healer's kit. Without his help our brave Gnome could not have
survived. I was able to call on my Lady
for her Divine Aid and close poor Buddynock's grievous wound but could do
nothing to cure the livid scar marring his cheek. Our brave Gnome would struggle to charm
anyone now, though I suspect he would intimidate stray bystanders far more
easily.
Dain Rocksmiter hefted the
battleaxe we took from the last dead creature.
"From a good Dwarven smith," he said grimly, "I do not
like to think of his fate." We
could all see the axe was magical, the head and haft were incised with runes of
power in silver wire and despite long neglect the edge remained as keen as the
finest razor. "
" Dain
read the name out aloud. "And may Grom soon thunder again." We had no
doubt this was the weapon that first felled poor Hrove, cutting through his
stout mail like thistledown.
"Not forgetting me!"
spat Buddynock, his head pillowed on my cloak and lifted from the mud by his
iron rimmed bucket. We rested a few hours, keeping careful watch. I was able to
summon my healing powers again to bring our Gnomish Druid back to full health
while my companions readied their spells.
The last act lay before us.
Buddynock again approached the
cave mouth, moving gingerly between the basins of blood and filth. We could see old scratches on the cave floor
showing our foes frequently dragged these brimming troughs to and fro as it
pleased them. Since we knew our mysterious creatures relied on scenting their
prey, were these stone bowls a crude means of detecting careless
intruders? Anyone who spilt such filth
on themselves would be an easy mark for these sightless hunters? The ways of the world are many and strange
and frequently horrible.
14
"Thought you were a
Druid" said Neave.
"Yes?" replied our
Gnome.
"And a lover of Nature and
Animals..." she continued.
"Not bloody big insects with
more legs than an all terrain Hobbit folk dancing team! Little ones yes. Not insects big enough for a belt. On a
troll. With weight problems."
"Finished?" asked Dain
mildly.
"Not remotely, but get the
rope. I'm going in."
The tunnel was narrow and
twisting, plunging down deep into the earth.
The rock floor was wet and slippery, anyone falling would plunge
helplessly to depths we could only imagine.
It seemed wise to knot a strong silken line to the back of Buddynock's
belt. Both wise and fortunate it proved.
For a time we could hear Buddynock
scrabbling over the stones, (though the words he was forming were hardly for
polite ears). His silver signal whistle
was clenched between his teeth. As
agreed he would give a short blast every minute to confirm his safety. As a plan it was hardly perfect, but what else could we have done?
"Aside from going first
yourselves?" sniffed Buddynock much
later.
We heard four blasts on the
whistle as planned, then silence. The long silk rope went slack, for a
heartbeat we stared at each other. “Pull, pull!” screamed Neave and with
desperate speed we hauled hand over hand, now thankfully we could feel a weight
at the end of our line, “Keep going,” shouted Neave as she stared into the
darkness an arrow nocked and ready. To our immense relief the body of Buddynock
bumped over the lip of the tunnel as we dragged him into the fresh air.
Our poor Gnome lay rigid on the
ground still breathing but his small body was still as stone, save for his wild
eyes and beating heart. Hlin and I kept
watch, as Neave and Dain Rocksmiter frantically worked to bring him round; I
cannot say if their ministrations eased our Gnome’s condition but when we saw
Buddynock trying to reach for a second swallow from Dain’s medicinal flask we
guessed our stricken Druid was fast on the road to recovery.
15
“No you’ve had enough for the time
being,” Dain said with kind firmness.
“All right, all right” replied
Buddynock, “but who was rubbing me there?
Yes there! You?”
“No! And shush!” whispered Dain, “not in front of
the Paladin.”
“At least you are smiling again,”
said Neave, quietly nudging the flask of Dwarven spirits nearer our fallen
Druid.
“H-h-have you all known each other
long,” Hlin asked me politely.
“No, it just seems a lifetime
already,” I replied.
“Hey. Where’s my bucket?” asked
Buddynock with real concern. “We have to go back for Wilson! Now!”
I began to make some comment,
“it’s only a ...” but then I saw our Druid’s expression. Not to mention his
dawning realisation we had left sundry scrapes and grazes on his arms, face and
legs after unceremoniously hauling him out of the depths.
“D-d-does he always complain so
much?” asked Hlin.
“Not always. Not quite always,” muttered Dain shaking his
flask and looking very thoughtful.
“M-m-my daughter likes him!”
beamed Hlin. “She wants a new d-d-dolly
with a special smile.”
We had dragged the last of our
dead foes into the trees and out of sight. Patient Sisyphos we left hobbled
inside the dell, contently cropping a patch of thistles and after anchoring our
best rope to a convenient tree we descended that steep sloping tunnel together.
The shaft felt ice cold to the touch, dank and dripping with moisture.
Did our creatures do without fire
in their lair? After thirty feet the
passage levelled out, still raw stone with no sign of ever being worked, but at
least we could walk more comfortably now, as intrepid Buddynock led us onward,
a lantern raised in one hand. I soon learnt another Gnomish phrase, a short and
terse one.
“Now you’ve found your bucket
again,” Neave said mildly, wasn’t there something else you wanted us to see?”
16
"Something touched me,"
said our Gnome. "All cold and
sticky." We could see crude boards
fixed into worn wooden runners in the tunnel roof. It was clear they slid back
and forth, a protruding nubbin providing a crude handle. Could Espiga be up
there or the boy? We called but no answer came, we held our lantern high but
could still distinguish nothing more above us. We knew this was some risk but what choice did
we have. Slowly, with measured care, we began to slide the boards apart, after
a jolt they began to move, one inch, two, then to our dismay a strength far
greater than our own began to force the gap far wider than we ever intended.
The horror that emerged was beyond
imagination. Eight coiling vines the colour of earth dropped down among us. Vines? No these were alive, they writhed like hungry serpents, as we staggered back in horror, something lurking above
us began to push the groaning boards aside.
With desperate speed we raced up that steep shaft back to the open sky,
but for the silk rope already tied in place at least one of us would surely
have slipped and fallen. We burst out of
the narrow cavern panting for breath but with weapons drawn, wheeling round to
see the creature pursuing us, twisting and turning as it squeezed through the
narrow opening out and into the light.
Almost twelve feet in length, a
sickly yellow green colour, its bloated body segmented like some insect from a
drunken nightmare, its many legs scrabbling for purchase as it emerged from the
cave. A swaying head reared up before us, towering against the stunted trees. Two black bulbous eyes stared with evil
intent as the monster lurched forward, the eight quivering tentacles around its
small sharp toothed mouth, threshing the air. A Carrion Crawler, a scavenger of the
forsaken dead, a beast all travellers rightly fear, for they do more than
merely steal corpses, these creatures seek live prey too. The waving tentacles paralyse, the beast
drags its helpless victims to some quiet darkness, only then are they killed
and only when their bodies are ripe and ready do these foul creatures
feed. No wise adventurer faces a Carrion
Crawler at close quarters; no fortunate adventurer ever faces one alone.
17
The lives of all our party hung in
the balance. As the best armoured I knew my duty, with sword and shield high I
charged the hideous creature, trying to draw its full attention upon myself. A
snake's nest of tentacles curled towards me, I parried three with my shield as my
long blade struck deeply into that swollen body. My comrades stood back
unleashing missile after missile at the beast, barely pausing to aim so
desperate was our need. The ravenous
Carrion Crawler cared nothing for the numbers ranged against it, the beast had
scented meat and would not break off the fight while it still breathed. I saw
brave Buddynock closing the range, hurling his throwing darts in quick
succession.
Few missiles failed to strike home
in that soft green flesh, I began to hope, we might survive this nightmare, I raised
my sword again but alas, it would have been wiser to have merely concentrated
on evading its attack, for a tentacle caught the side of my face and the breath
caught in my throat. To my horror I felt my limbs freeze still as a
statue. I could not move, I stood
helpless before that terrible beast. I saw the great green head towering above
me, I saw that yawning mouth. I saw those teeth.
I will never forget how my gallant
comrades saved my life that day. Without
hesitation Dain Rocksmiter in his stout scale mail leapt forward to take my
place, his shield thrust forward, his magic battle axe Grom whirling through
the air. I could see Hlin frantically winding her crossbow, I could hear the
curses of Buddynock launching dart after dart into the Carrion Crawler's
vulnerable flanks, somewhere nearby Neave was emptying her quiver against this
terrible foe.
If this beast had paralysed Dain
too, if it had turned against Hlin and overpowered her, Buddynock and Neave
could not have survived for long. I saw the tentacles striking home on our
stalwart Cleric but Dain's Dwarvish constitution stood him in good stead that
day, he withstood that evil poison long enough to see the wounded Carrion
Crawler collapse at his feet. Dain raised Grom in both strong hands, paused to
reckon his mark and severed head from writhing body with one swing. We had
survived. We were lucky. And one of us
no longer minded mere Giant Centipedes quite so much.
“Really?” asked Neave
Gemstone. "Despite all those
wriggling legs and pincers?"
Buddynock smiled with carefully
modest bravery.
I will not forget the agony as
sensation returned to my limbs, every nerve in my body seemed aflame. But just
to move again, oh the sheer joy! I looked at my weary companions, poor
Buddynock with the bandaged wound across his face, brave Dain with the weals
left by the tentacles' sting, Neave, her once elegant robes mired with mud and
shy Hlin, clutching her crossbow ever tighter to her chest, the last familiar
object in her world.
18
We had a few hours of daylight
left. We knew the last task ahead of
us. Retracing our steps with the aid of
our silken rope we cautiously stood beneath those sliding wooden boards. A narrow
chamber ran above and parallel to the main tunnel, the Carrion Crawler
had clearly been penned within by those sliding timbers; its tentacles left
dangling down to deter any intruders. I
found it incredible those blind creatures possessed such cunning; they clearly
fed their monstrous sentry enough meat to keep it alive but ever hungry and
alert; the sliding board allowed them to push the dangling tentacles back into
that upper chamber any time they wished to pass beneath.
“Surely something else crafted
this foul trap for them?” Dain Rocksmiter shook his head in disbelief. “Surely they would have needed sight to
arrange such an ambush?”
Hlin stepped back after her own
close examination of the stone work.
“Th-th-there’s only one place we might find any answers. D-d-down there.” Her face grew pale.
“I know,” I said gently, “I smell
it too.”
The tunnel led down into a larger
cave. The flickering light of our
lanterns revealed all. Thirteen mounds of leaves and furs formed crude sleeping
pallets, one for each of the creatures we slew.
Around them was strewn the remains of their feasting. Gnawed limbs, cracked bones, all devoured
raw. We had found the missing foresters,
we had found our missing comrade Espida and the boy he tried so hard to save. I
do not think the sight will ever leave any of us. There are no more words I am
willing to add.
The last cave was smaller but just
as horrible. For a long moment we
thought the figure against the back wall was alive as we stood shouting a
challenge, our weapons drawn and ready. Well, what else could anyone expect, our
nerves were ragged and our bodies utterly exhausted. The statue was crude but vivid, shaped from
raw sandstone. A little larger than a tall man, a creature in a flowing robe,
with four long fingers, twice as long as mine, each ending in a crooked
talon. The bulbous head was like some
octopus crown, utterly hairless and water dripping from the roof made the high
stone forehead gleam. This creature had
deep set eyes, formed from two small gems black as jet, this creature had no
mouth we could see but four long tentacles grew from its chin.
Around the statue in serried rows
sat severed heads. Some bare bone skulls
yellow brown with decay; some with staring eyes and pieces of flesh still
clinging to the cheeks, three so fresh we recognised poor Hrove, Espida and the
boy. Heads set up as offerings to the
statue, trophies collected with care for many years. I can only hope our
comrades died swiftly and died unknowing. For days the sight of this charnel
house came between me and my dreams.
For days either I or my comrades would wake from sleep suddenly, crying
out in fear from the memory.
19
We searched the chamber, after
checking we had indeed come to the limits of this place. Seven small gemstones, and five hundred each
in silver and copper, a bare seventy in gold were our only spoils, that and an
ornate filigree circlet with a red stone mounted in the centre. A thing of
beauty, clearly magical, and we all agreed it must go to Neave Gemstone our
Elvish Wizard. Only she could hope to
master such an artefact.
Buddynock Rubyrubb suggested
prising the two black eyes from the statue but on careful reflection we decided
such an action was simply too dangerous.
Who could say what power these stones might possess? Even if merely
natural gems, these were scarcely stones we would wish to keep for ourselves and I did
not care to imagine any future buyer attracted by their provenance. Those stone
eyes had witnessed much evil, let them crack and burn in atonement.
Despite the drizzling rain we cut
enough dry brushwood to cover the floors of both caves. We emptied our oil
flasks, a good thirty between us, retreating back to the sloping crevice as we
soaked everything that could burn. From the top of that tunnel we hurled a
burning torch down into the darkness, for a moment we watched that flickering
light turning over and over as it fell and then we felt a blast of heat against
our faces and saw the gout of flame roar through both charnel chambers,
eradicating all presence of those foul creatures. It seemed the cleanest service we could offer
to the tortured dead, may their shades find peace at last.
The blessing Dain Rocksmiter
offered to their spirits was from us all.
20
Little
is left to tell. We made good time on the road and caught up
with the troop on the third day. No
words of mine can do justice to the joyful reunion of our Dwarvish allies. Ander's listened to our report with deadly
patience and actually graced our actions with nodded approval.
There was no question of not
sharing our spoils equally with brave Hlin, we would never have triumphed
without her. Seventy gold pieces would allow our Dwarvish friends to
re-establish their forge in some happier settlement; at least something had
been saved from the wreck. Giving all our
silver and copper to the foresters seemed the least we could do, no recompense
for the lives of their young son and their friends but a chance for them to
avoid destitution and renew their hard existence elsewhere. It was clearly the
most coin they had ever owned in their lives; enough for all the tools and
draft animals they might need.
For each of us a bare seventy
golden crowns, for Dain Rocksmiter the magic battle axe Grom, for Neave
Gemstone, once she had leisure to cast her Identify spell, a Circlet of Blasting, a thing of true power
we could have made sore use of these desperate days. For valiant Buddynock a fearsome scar I wish
I could heal better, and for all us hard memories of fear in the dark and
creatures of depravity. For poor Hrove
and Espida a lonely grave and a crude pyre of purification; an undeserved fate and shabby reward for their
cheerful gallantry.
We would renew our quest for
Phandelver within the month. We did not
seek this delay but it would prove to our advantage.
21
NOTE I:
There are many Orders of Paladins
and many similarities between them. Our critics point to the worse
excesses of some Brethren and accuse each and every Paladin of the same
failings.
·
Rigid dogma in
place of reasoned thought.
·
Inflexible
duty before simple humanity.
·
Self-righteous
arrogance masquerading as piety.
I hear these comments and I
acknowledge they have some sad truth to them.
Yet that is not all.
Such comments are all some minds
ever wish to entertain. They state the fight is hopeless each
time and every time, they show their 'wisdom' and 'maturity' by bawling the
pointless folly of holding any ideals at all. They shout loudly, their voices are
heard. It is always easier to destroy rather than create, always easier
to mock rather than praise.
I can follow their argument, I acknowledge their
logic, but I still say this is not enough.
To those critics who argue that all effort is
pointless and all ethics simply childish folly I simply say this.
Maybe the only folly is the
attempt to impose any single path to the
light.
Maybe the Truth exists in many
places and many guises, in penny pockets of insight on half-forgotten pages, in
smiles and kindly laughter, in faint whispers under the trees.
No creature under the Sun knows
perfection.
No creature under the Sun lives without hypocrisy of some degree.
No noble ideals are immune from
being tainted.
Maybe all any of us can do is to
acknowledge our weaknesses yet still try all the same.
Surely the only true failure is
never to make a true attempt.
And for all the mud thrown
against our blazons, I will simply answer this.
We are each of us dying one day
at a time, we never know if we shall even live to see the next dawn. Faced with
the everyday horrors and cruelty of this existence, faced with all the pain and
degradation, faced with all the fear and distress I still choose to stand
whatever the odds.
If we cannot end all pain we can
at least ease some suffering.
If we cannot always claim victory
at least we can ensure our defeats are dearly bought.
As a dear friend once told me: “while we
breathe we stand, and while we stand we hold the line.”
Better to resist Evil than live
compliant.
Better by far.
That is all, that is everything.
Come what may.
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