Being the Chronicle of Cadan Dalmas, Knight
BOOK IV (*)
Wandering the Wilds
The
battle for Tresendar was over, the vicious Redbrands
vanquished, the ruined manor cleared. The struggle had been truly desperate,
our victory hard won, ravaged Phandalin was safe for the moment, but our weary
party had little chance to rest. Dark
forces were conspiring against us, an unknown Enemy watched and waited, guiding
our foes and governing their attacks.
His reach was long; his crafty patience all too apparent, he had
corrupted our allies and intimidated our friends; he commanded men and goblins,
uruks and hideous creatures from the shadows. A formidable and faceless Enemy full
of energy and guile, we had faced his minions time and again yet even now, all
we knew for certain was his spider seal.
More than ever I wished an armed troop of my Order rode at our backs.
Not everyone in Phandalin welcomed
our intervention, of that I was sure. Sildar Hallwinter was more concerned with
establishing good order than aiding our quest; the portly Townmaster made grand
noises and did little of any substance unless compelled; Sister Garele shone
with smiles but was more ready to ask for help than offer any aid of her
own. And now we heard rumours a stray
Druid was wandering the wilds alone! Our allies were uncertain, our path
unclear.
Somewhere nearby lay the Lost Mine
of Phandelver and somewhere within its winding tunnels and galleries was the
fabled Well of Spells. Whoever held the
mine could craft weapons of power not seen for generations. I had not revealed all to my comrades not
yet; not even to stalwart Dain Rocksmiter, a dwarf of clear and resolute
honour. Better by far to leave my
friends in ignorance a little longer; yes better and kinder. We were clearly
not alone in seeking lost Phandelver, my friends would learn this soon enough,
providing enough of us survived the next few days. For now our priority
remained the same: rescue poor Gundren Stonefoot in the hope he could lead us
to the mine.
We
spoke with Gove again, but though still desperate to ingratiate himself the
Goblin could not provide any precise location for the "castle" where
Gundren had been taken. Gove is a small creature,
rather red in the face with pronounced eyes and cheeks, a creature of
low cunning, rather than intelligence.
He simply kept repeating it lay somewhere to the north within
Neverwinter Wood, that sprawling stand of oak and beech stretching for seventy
miles. Any direction is better than
nothing and we turned our faces northwards all the same but now another urgent
need demanded our time. Orcs had destroyed three outlying farms leaving only
blackened rubble and mutilated corpses in their wake. Were they simple raiders
or scouts for some larger war band, testing our defences and calculating whether
to attack in strength?
2
Our
Party was the only force in Phandalin able to engage them and after careful
consideration we prepared to march east along the Triboar Trail. We gave ourselves a day to recover our
strength: Ranger Samuel had barely survived that desperate tussle with the Uruk
hai and we all wished to ensure Buddynock Rubyrubb had truly recovered from his
own bizarre experience. (*)
If we
survive we grow in might and prowess. If
we survive in both body and mind.
Battles leave more than physical scars, I have seen too many of those
veterans within my Order; men and women of proven gallantry and valour, who
have served with distinction for many years in many trials of strength. Comrades who rarely speak much now, who
savour harmony and calm, comrades whose injuries are not always visible but
comrades still too wounded to be asked to fight again.
Now our
own quest lay before us. Some ordeals we had faced already, death and anguish
and lurking menace in the dark, some of us already carried our share of scars. Yet
despite our grievous struggle at ruined Tresendar our party still remained
sound. We were more experienced now; we
had new strengths, new skills; we had grown into our roles, mastered our
individual powers.
So I was grateful for the chance
to walk quietly under the trees, to pour a libation of sweet olive oil and
offer a lock of my hair to Pallas Athene in thanks for her guidance and inspiration. At last I swore my Oath of Devotion at last I
could truly call myself a Paladin. It is
usual to recite this oath before witnesses but I was alone in the wilds with no
High Archon to hear my words and observe I spoke truly. Well, what did that
matter, the tenets of my Order are as familiar to me as breathing: Honesty, let
my word be my bond; courage, never fear to act, though caution is wise;
compassion, aid and protect the weak and show mercy to my foes tempered with
wisdom; honour, treat others with fairness and justice; duty be responsible for
my actions and their consequences and obey those who have just authority over
me. I can only hope to live these ideals
to the full, with modesty and humility, without self-regard and
self-righteousness.
Ever since boyhood I had often
imagined this day; picturing the moment my Oath would ring out before our
holiest shrine, before my assembled brethren standing in solemn ranks, their
bright amour gleaming before the banners of our Order slowly flapping in the
breeze. For all my daydreams, I never foresaw this, kneeling alone under an
open sky, with only a golden beech grove to witness my words. Yet the wonder
and glory of it all was undiminished; in my mind I heard the rolling sword
beats of my comrades on their shields, in my heart I felt the austere beauty of
the Goddess smiling down upon me, her grey eyes shining, her kindly wisdom bathing
me in light. Athene Parthenos: ever
maiden, Athene Promarkos: she who fights in the front rank of battle; Pallas
Athene, lady of right and justice.
.
3
A moment of glorious wonder, of
dawning realisation; for within my hesitant heart I found new strength and
fresh determination. I was not alone in spirit, never alone; all the great
heroes of my Order were standing with me, all those knights of valour I have
loved and admired for so long. I recited their names and deeds slowly to the
trees and the open heavens, honouring their valour and achievement. If I should survive this perilous Quest I can
make my Oath of Devotion again in the Temple of my Order, before her great gold
and ivory image standing so serenely among those marble columns. For now these
quiet words alone will meet my need, our Lady of the Grey Eyes sees wisely; no
finery is needed when the heart is true. If I honour my oath come what may, if
I prove myself to be worthy, I will walk the rest of my days with the divine
aegis of Athene to aid me in battle. With her holy force flowing within me I
cannot succumb to disease: I will sense any evil around me, the walking
dead will flee at the sight of her holy
symbol, the injured and the sick will turn to me for aid. May I always use my powers wisely and with
honour. May my sword never be disgraced.
Other
members of our party prepared in their own way. "I agree Linene Graywind
is tight as a Kobold's bolthole but she offers good deals all the same,"
beamed Buddynock, "especially when she is really keen for you to leave her
shop because other customers are edging towards the door."
Dain
and I exchanged glances. Celmar and
Neave Gemstone listened with wary interest.
Shupatra and Ranger Samuel merely looked confused. (*)
"I
appreciate after a certain incident in Tresendar Manor," Buddynock spoke
with careful innocence, "certain
people are not totally happy with me chucking darts around."
I
quietly laid a restraining hand on Dain's shoulder.
"So
I'm being considerate of others and I bought this instead,” smiled our Druid.
"See!"
Somehow
I still doubt any of us quite expected Buddynock to pull a red leather thong
from his belt. (**) "Err Buddynock Rubyrubb," I fumbled
a response," I err, I'm quite sure I can speak for everyone who remembers
the Cragmar cave Goblin Sudden Flood Trap Incident and the ensuing
consequences-"
"To
my spare clothes!" muttered
Dain. "My dry and nicely folded spare
clothes."
"And
I'm sure we are all relieved you now have clean spare underwear," I
continued, "but we really, honestly don't need to see you prove it."
"Especially
in public!" added Shupatra.
(**) Probably.
4
"It's
a sling!" beamed Buddynock. "What were you imagining? I bought a sling instead of darts. It has a longer range and you can pick up
stones from the ground. It's a lot more
friendly to the local habitat".
"And
the friends standing within twenty feet of any targets?" glared Dain.
"It
comes with a special offer! Thirty
shaped lead bullets with humorous messages to make any occasion that little
more special," said our happy Gnome.
"I like this one: ' Here's One for your Nose!' That's personal but not as rude as these two."
"Really?"
asked Neave Gemstone, reaching out one delicate hand, then quickly stopping
herself. "I would like to examine
them later. Just for academic
interest."
"Oh
for some stray wandering monster right now!" implored our Ranger.
Not before time, (or
soon enough for some), we strode from
Phandalin to find and destroy these Orcish raiders around Wyvern Tor. It
transpired this was not our only objective for Sister Garele repeated her
heartfelt appeal for aid: she sought the lost spell book of Bowgentle the Mage,
last seen five centuries ago and sorely missed for its enchantments to ward
away the physical debility of age. Three days down the trail lay the ruins of
Conyberry, a village abandoned all those years ago when our frontier lands
collapsed. Close by this ravaged settlement
lurked a restless soul, a spirit of darkness both mighty and wise, bound to the
place of her death, but long in memory and vengeful of heart. The unquiet shade
Akatha possessed great knowledge of the past, but Sister Garele did not dare
make the journey herself. She begged us to approach Akatha with a question, she
assured us the gift of a silver comb would appease this turbulent shade. (*)
Our party made good progress along
the trail to ruined Conyberry, while Pelydrn, the Raven familiar of Neave Gemstone, scouted overhead. We did not force the pace and increase any
risk of being surprised, but we moved briskly all the same thanks to our Ranger's
skill. Both Samuel and Buddynock Rubyrubb were noticeably happier to be out
under the open sky, from time to time I saw each of them simply standing and
smiling at the trees, lost in contemplation of the teeming woods around
us. Dain Rocksmiter and I took turns in
bringing up the rear and Gove led Sisyphos the mule. Our outward journey was proving peaceful, the
calm presence of birds and small creatures in the undergrowth suggesting no
immediate danger. We took turn to stand watch at night, our fire banked down,
but oil flasks left nearby in case we had any need of a sudden blaze in the
dark. (**)
Approaching Akatha would take diplomacy and tact. We would keep Buddynock Rubyrubb holding
(**) Some men savour obsequious praise. Even the most fame craving actor would find
Gove's near ceaseless prattling a trial.
Excluding that buffoon I sat through last Dionysia Festival.
"Gove puts the sick into sycophant," muttered Buddynock. "And he keeps
flashing me the fingers when you can't see! Bloody midget! And yes I'm allowed to say that."
5
All wayfarers know the sensation
of lying on your back staring up at the shining stars, their patterns as familiar
as the face of an old friend, your shoulder bones vainly hoping to find some
slightly softer patch of earth, one of your hips over warm from the fire, your
other flank cold in the night's chill.
We had discussed Gove quietly before leaving Phandalin but there seemed
no need for binding him as we slept. This Goblin had endured a lifetime of
kicks and casual betrayals, he was treacherous and utterly self-serving and I
was not innocent enough to place any faith in his fervent and frequent
statements of loyalty, but Gove was wily enough to realise each of us was more
than a match for him, even our willowy Elven mages. Neave and Celmar were hardly gifted hand to
hand fighters yet either could easily slay a single Goblin with one swing of
their quarterstaffs.
(c) Wizards of the Coast
"Why is he wearing a string
vest round his waist?" whispered
Celmar.
"I
prefer not to speculate," muttered Dain.
"I do know if that Goblin tells me one more time just how glad he
is to serve us I shall lose whatever is left of my breakfast."
6
Wanderers in the wilds must trust one another
if they hope to ever reach journey's end.
There had been too many betrayals already in this Quest and it felt
wiser to keep Gove where we could watch him , but we had not travelled far
before our Goblin had become a most wearisome companion. Fervent flattery palls
very quickly, especially when combined with rapacious greed and vile
habits. Any task Gove ever actually completed was accompanied with a long
, loud and plaintive account of his hard toil, efficiency and skill.
Our Goblin's manners and habits
are very far from pretty. We soon
realised Gove is quick to identify any
rivalries within a settled group and
once sure of his ground, he attempts to
exploit these rifts for his own ends, while loudly stating his own loyalty and
lack of ambition. (*) Though naturally obsequious to anyone taller, Gove swiftly reverts to a
bullying manner with anyone more his own stature. This did not prove wise! It is hardly surprising a Paladin and Bard
struggle to always see eye to eye but Gove made two crucial misjudgements. He assumed I would gladly listen to slanders
regarding Shupatra and he thought our small Halfling companion would prove easy meat. Some strategies are doomed
before the trumpets even sound.
Gove's first and only attempt to
browbeat Shupatra ended abruptly when he received her most withering stare.
Gove now concentrates on his
burgeoning rivalry with Buddynock. This
if nothing else illustrates his rank folly, for our Gnomish Druid is more than capable of putting paid to any
Goblin ever hatched with just one
tap from his shillelagh. This did not
stop Gove's malign whispers whenever he thought any of us might actually listen or even some mean spirited
tricks undoing Buddynock's pack. We have treated Gove fairly, with mercy and compassion but I
cannot see any prolonged place for him within our company.
7
Yet
there were always compensations all the same. Our evenings were enlivened by
quiet conversation and the plaintive music of Shupatra's dulcimer, her skilful
fingers endowing each note with quiet grace and beauty as the last daylight
faded. I remember one night most clearly, Neave Gemstone stayed close to the
flickering firelight pouring over her spell books and the scrolls we recovered
from Tresendar Manor, while our Druid shared some anecdotes with a wandering
badger shuffling through the bracken and Celmar sat meditating, setting some
equilibrium to those elemental forces she channelled and controlled. When I was not reading my beloved Malorian
Chronicles of those most noble questing knights of Artorius Rex, I shared some
memorable games of chess with my comrades.
Dain Rocksmiter and Ranger Samuel both proved steady tacticians, careful
and thorough and Buddynock showed real flair though he remains prone to
reckless onslaughts which often exhaust their own impetus. His fondness for providing 'appropriate'
sounds for his chessmen is less welcome; I ascribe the failure of my last
attempt at a Heliconian defence to his relentless impersonation of amorous
horses each time he moved his knights, not to mention Shupatra singing that all
pawns, whether red or white, should simply unite and turn on their commanders
skulking in the rear. I should add that
Neave Gemstone and Celmar have already been asked several times to stop using
tiny invisible Mage Hand cantrips to shift the position of play! (*)
Noon on the third day brought us
to ruined Conyberry, a scattering of wattle and daub dwellings and timber
buildings, sacked and burnt long ago, now empty, abandoned and fast being
reclaimed by the forest. We still
searched each hovel in turn but found nothing save leaf mould, burrowing
beetles and a mournful owl woken from its slumbers.
Sister Garaele's directions were
very clear and we now turned northwest, picking our way through dense woodland,
the trees bending low over our heads, their writhing branches pressing ever
closer. Soon the trail became barely discernible, indeed, without our Ranger
and Druid we might easily have become lost. The forest grew darker as the path wound
deeper into the undergrowth. I guessed
Dain, Neave Gemstone and Buddynock were also
remembering that last time we picked our way through a menacing forest every
nerve taut for fear of an ambush, but still striding onward all the same until
our frantic search and fondest hopes were brought to nothing by those vile
Grimlocks waiting in the dark.
Despite his attentions being unwelcome it is not advisable
to have Gove otherwise occupied with cooking or cleaning. I might be able to
cure diseases but I've seen his hands and his habits and I don't relish taking
any chances.
In all honesty, the same goes for Buddynock Rubyrubb. We all accept Druids are earthy, that is quite
simply the way of things. Even so, I
still prefer not to find mysterious matter in our mess tins or cooking pot! Especially after eating everything above it!
Those 'herbs' Buddynock added to our stew last month might
indeed have been 'organic' and 'natural' - I still don't appreciate any meal
which leaves diners aiming to misbehave and floating with the fireflies...
8
Heavy vines and creepers hindered
our progress; tangled briars kept forcing us to find some easier path, tearing
at our ankles as we pressed on. The trees and boulders were covered in thick
layers of vivid green moss, so thick they seemed to absorb all sound. Nothing
was moving, we could have been the last creatures alive in the world.
"Is it just me or is the air
getting colder?" asked Buddynock.
"It's just you," said
Ranger Sam, peering into the trees ahead.
"Honest?" our Druid said
hopefully, his bright eyes wide behind his brass goggles.
"Dead sure, honest."
said Ranger Sam crossing his fingers and levelling his longbow.
“You had to say ‘dead’?” muttered
Buddynock.
We emerged into a small glade, we
knew it was barely noon but that chill was unmistakeable, now, we heard no
sound of bird or rustling beast, the very air seemed watchful and waiting. A
few paces ahead we saw a wattle screen festooned with weeds and brambles,
interwoven branches shaped to form a dome. A dwelling of sorts, sparsely
furnished with shelves, a table and reclined couch, all of Elven craft, all
old, all stained by mould and covered with moss. None of them used for many
years.
Warm summer died, we stepped into
sudden midwinter, our clouded breath hung in the air; a sense of dread settled
round us like a shroud. The branches
above were glowing, flickering, there was no more chance to run, not now. In
deathly silence the corpse light grew, our eyes winced but we could no longer
look away, a glow bright as the sun, but cold as death in the dark; coalescing
into the form of a slender Elven woman floating above us, raven hair and long
robes billowing around her though the air in the glade was deathly still. Her face still echoed a faded beauty, high
cheek bones, a mouth to set poets dreaming but her hollow eyes gleamed like the
guardians of hell; her smile wide, white toothed and hungry. "Foolish mortals," Akatha snarled.
" Do you not know it is death to seek me?"
I know
we were standing pressed shoulder to shoulder, I felt the fear in my
comrades, I felt my own heart thudding
in my breast. I know my fingers were
reaching for my talisman of Athene, I saw Dain was fighting the same desperate
temptation. Gove lay screaming on the ground.
It is
one matter to plan beforehand: quite another to set strategy in motion. As if waking from a nightmare, the delicate
notes of a dulcimer caressed the air; Shupatra, undaunted and fearless played
the part we had devised, a tune of regal beauty, timeless, ageless, music fit
for an emperor's chamber. Now Celmar
stepped forward, her right hand raised in respectful greeting; an Elven woman
speaking with an Elven shade; our sorcerer was charismatic and charming, she
spoke with grace and sincerity, she held the silver comb of Sister Garele
before Akatha.
9
Those terrible eyes stared down
upon us but now that ghostly figure smiled with cold amusement. "You may ask one question. You may have
one answer. Speak now if ever."
Again
Celmar's mellow voice rang across the haunted glade, clear, precise and
courteous, while all the while Shupatra's steel dulcimer sang. Akatha the Shade smiled without warmth, but
smiled all the same, she replied without waiting a heartbeat: "Bowgentle's spell book was traded to
the necromancer Tsernoth from the fabled city of Iriaebor more than a century
ago."
"I
give grateful thanks for your wisdom," said Celmar. "You honour us
with your-"
"I
honour you with your lives," hissed Akatha. "Leave now. Leave quickly. Place the comb upon the
table. You will not return. Ever."
Our
retreat could best be called brisk despite those tangled thorns. Even Gove was silent. I can only say I have
rarely been more grateful to hear birds squabbling in the trees as we regained
the main trail once more. Dain opened his flask of medicinal spirits and we
toasted our two gallant comrades Shupatra and Celmar.
"How
big a risk did we just run?" asked
Ranger Sam.
"I
really could not say, " said Dain Rocksmiter, patting the Holy Symbol blazon
on his shield with grateful thanks, "but I certainly prefer not to face
Akatha again."
“Is
she actually evil?” asked wide eyed Neave.
“Many
would think so and they would have justification,” I said. “Or maybe Akatha the
Shade is simply deadly and full of despair and nothing whether living or lifeless
holds any meaning for her.”
“Deadly,
full of despair and tragic,” nodded Dain.
“Maybe,”
as Buddynock looked back once and once only, “but sympathy only survives a safe
distance away. Of course we could have asked Akatha where lost Phandelver lies
instead. Did no one else think of that?"
"Yes."
snapped Dain, "but somehow I did not quite fancy taking the chance! Did you?"
"Thought
you clerical types were experts at handling the Undead," said Buddynock.
"Give
me a chance!" gasped Dain Rocksmiter.
"Ambling skeletons are one thing; animated shades of despair are
just a little out of my league right now!"
"Thought
faith could move mountains," insisted Buddynock.
"Marthammor Duin, Finder of Trails, is
the divine Watcher over Wanderers, " said Dain with studied emphasis,
"not of bloody fools who don't know when not to push their luck."
Good
fortune only runs so far. As we returned
through the desolate village we found Conyberry was no longer quite so empty.
The four Hobgoblins inspecting the ruins darted back into the nearest building
as soon as we broke cover. Three of them succeeded: Neave Gemstone's Charm spell halted the last
in his tracks, a foolish smile spread over his brutish features, at a snap of
her fingers he marched towards us, laying down his great yew bow and long sword
at our command. Our interrogation was brisk and to the point. His answers were surprising and actually
welcome. "There is something subtlety wrong here," declared Buddynock.
"We outnumber them!"
“Is this the Fates balancing out
our desperate struggles in the past?”
asked Shupatra, her delicate brow furrowed with thought. “Or is this creating an imbalance the Three
Sisters will want redressing in the future?
Should we see this battle as our rightful due or a portent of future
dread?"
10
It is beyond question Hobgoblins
preserve great discipline. Two of the
patrol leapt from the house, painted shields locked, their mail coats gleaming,
while the fourth burst from the rear of the building, his hauberk abandoned for
greater speed but a buckler still slung across his back, racing for the tree line
only a few paces away.
I met the charging Hobgoblins, my
sword Talon brought down one, but even while dying their martial skill was all
too clear, his blade gashed my arm as he fell, his nearby comrade also found a
gap in my guard and struck home. Dain
Rocksmiter slew the second Hobgoblin with trusty Grom but despite their
hopeless situation our foes showed a calm resolution and skill which boded ill
for any future when the odds were not so vastly in our favour. They made no
attempt to surrender.
Our Ranger’s arrow flew wide,
Gove’s too: the final Hobgoblin almost reached the trees despite suffering
wounds from magic missiles. His escape was almost certain, another two steps
would see him clear. It was now Buddynock Rubyrubb came into his own, his
careful sling shot sent the Hobgoblin crashing to the earth never to move again.
Little Gove cheered as we brought
his cousins down; if we had not stopped him I suspect he would have tried to
claim more than their ears as battle trophies. That cuff across his head was well
deserved. There are matters I will not tolerate, not now, not ever. Mutilation
of the fallen is not acceptable. He even tried to offer his spoils to me!
"It's strange they did not
all try to flee," said Neave Gemstone. "Just this last one."
"You see the skull insignia
on his arm," I said. "He held
some senior rank. He ordered them to
delay us while he escaped."
"And they obeyed without
question," Dain Rocksmiter whistled. "Tighter discipline than I
really want to see in our enemies."
"Our prisoner says they are
scouts," said Ranger Sam.
"Scouting for what?"
smiled Buddynock. "If they wanted
bed, beer and a tickle they are very definitely out of luck!
"Scouting for us," our
Ranger grimaced. "Just look what the prisoner has in his pouch."
25 gold crowns for this one.
Dwarf priest.
Carries axe of power ?
Bring his axe.
No payment unless you also bring his head.
11
“What ‘happy'
'prankster’ is writing these?” Dain
demanded. (*)
“Same
spider seal as in Tresendar,” mused Shupatra. “But without the web motif this
time.”
“I don’t give a ‘Fomorian’s fart’ about ‘underlying
motif’,” snarled Dain. “I am slightly
concerned this unknown ‘Kobold kisser’ has 'ambitions' around my neck
height.” (*)
“Ask Bargul,” suggested Celmar. “Our prisoner.”
“How long before your spell fades,” asked Shupatra,
eyeing the Hobgoblin with caution.
“We still have another half hour at least,” said
Neave Gemstone, “but can we please bind his hands while he is still amenable. There is a spare bowstring in my pouch.”
“And drag those corpses into the briars?” suggested our Ranger. “There’s no sense in alerting
any others.”
Our prisoner could tell us little. He could not reveal the identity of our Enemy
but simply said Grol the Uruk had sent them to find us and report. “Them?”
asked Buddynock. “How many is
‘them’? And is that more or less than
‘lots’? I bet it’s too bloody much whatever the number!”
It appeared at least a score of Hobgoblins were
combing the forest for us. Each eager
for the reward; all well armed and obedient, all returning to the same
location: that crumbling castle Gove kept mentioning. At last, at long last, we had some clear news:
yes, poor Gundren Stonefoot was being held prisoner within its walls, yes our
prisoner could guide us to the site! Our
Council of War was swift and to the point. “We have a task already, we keep moving.
Wyvern Tor is barely two days away: those orcs are also a threat and they are
the closest.” I finished wiping the blade of my sword. “But eyes open everyone. We take turns guarding the prisoner. No Gove you just keep guiding the mule. No Gove!
The Gnome is not going to run
away and leave us.”
“Just as well!” exclaimed Buddynock. “And I thought I knew the odd dirty word.”
12
We turned southward as planned, moving faster now, keeping our foraging to the minimum and grateful for the keen eyes of Pelydrn high overhead. As we crested a low ridge we spied the crumbling ruins of a watchtower standing amid the rugged hills like a last rotted tooth jutting from a gaping mouth. The place was so ancient the walls were mounds of rubble a little over head height, the surrounding courtyard nothing more than lines of loose stones in the grass. Yet a bright scarlet tent was pitched jauntily beside the tower and a strawberry roan horse contently cropped the grass around her tether.
Nothing else moved but I froze,
my senses screaming. I knew what awaited us amid those tumbled stones. The word I mouthed left my comrades
shuddering; eyes wide, lips suddenly dry. We stared intently, Dain and Shupatra
covering the rear. My comrades eased
weapons from their sheaths, arrows from their quivers. A moment later we all saw the grey figure
standing motionless in the open tower doorway.
I nodded, our Ranger nocked and
loosed, it was a fine shot from a fine archer, any normal foe would have fallen
but this zombie still turned to face us, the long arrow piercing its head, a low moan escaping its bloodied lips. Dain and I both shot crossbow bolts, but only
when Celmar and Neave Gemstone hit home with their own arrows did the creature
finally fall. I heard the intake of
breath all around me, I felt my colleagues’ fear.
“Not
the easiest to finish off,” quipped Buddynock, “but could have been worse…”
“It is now!” shouted Shupatra. “Look!”
To our horror we saw a wall of
grey bodies appear in the threshold, arms outstretched, eyes white and dead,
hissing as they surged towards us; their charnel stench filling the air with
decay. Ten, a dozen, no fourteen zombies
lurching forward only forty feet away. I
felt the panic all around me, Dain and I knew our undead foes but our comrades
had never imagined such a sight before.
Now our Cleric stepped forward,
his holy symbol resplendent on his shield, his deep voice ringing as he called
upon Marthammor Duin, Finder of Trails. The affect was miraculous, the advancing wall
of zombies, faltered and froze, we saw a grey sea of naked arms and bodies,
threshing in confusion they turned, they turned, our foes fell back before
stalwart Dain and the power of his faith!
Only three still kept pacing forward, only three from all that fearsome
mob, and they had to struggle through their comrades to reach us.
Now we were ready, now our Party
was determined to stand and fight, triumph and win. Celmar quickly used her
Staff of Defence. I gave the word and a
volley of missiles hurtled towards the three: Elven arrows, crossbow bolts,
Buddynock’s sling shots and even a long shaft sped by our Hobgoblin prisoner. Faced
with a wall of hungry Undead, quick thinking Shupatra had severed his bonds and
returned his weapons. We were fighting for all our lives now.
13
The three zombies staggered as
our missiles thudded home; they were the easiest mark in the world, packed
together, lacking any armour or protection: not a single arrow missed but the
walking dead still lurched towards us. A second volley sped home and now it was
shields up and swords out. I slew one
zombie, my magic blade severing his neck as Dain Rocksmiter fended off his
adversary with his rune axe Grom. The
third zombie was beaten to his knees and finally to the ground. I have never faced any enemy so hard to
kill. While they showed any animation at
all, these foul creatures pressed home their attack, even with limbs severed
they still crawled forward, hands clawing, dry mouths hissing, unless their
heads were split and cloven they simply refused to die.
“What if they bite us?” Celmar gasped in horror as she drew another
arrow, her mage armour shimmering all around her. “What if they-“
“Watch for the others!” I bawled,
“They will return soon, stand firm, stand ready, keep-“
“Just what do you think you are
doing?” A ringing voice filled the air,
a strange man stood in the open flap of his eastern tent: forty or so, stout
and stocky, clad in ornate red robes, his face and hands as sallow as old
wax. His scalp was shaved bare, a black
six fingered hand was tattooed on his forehead.
The man stood so calmly before the small tent: his manner mild, his
voice level and unconcerned; that grey wall of ravening zombies only yards away
to his left.
“A necromancer!” hissed Neave
Gemstone, her eyes wide with horror.
“You think?” replied Buddynock
Rubyrubb deadpan, fumbling a fresh stone into his sling.
“What do you here?” Disturbing
the work of the great and powerful Hamun Kost?”
Foolish as this may sound I think
we were all perturbed by Kost’s serene calmness; for a moment none of us were
sure how best to reply. I saw his dark
eyes glinting, but his hands were still at his side; the necromancer had his
mage armour in place but who could blame him for that.
It was the Hobgoblin who broke
the deadlock; his panicked intervention was swift and direct, came without any
warning and set the tone for all future negotiation: Hamun Kost stared with fury at the long arrow
buried in his chest, his eyes widened, his mouth shaped eldritch words, a
chilling blast formed around his outstretched hands, he tripped on a tree root,
his spell shot into the sky, an arrow from our Ranger found his throat, the
necromancer fell back even more dead than his minions. I think we were surprised even more than he was.
“They’re coming back!” shouted Dain.
“Doesn’t killing the Necromancer
destroy his zombies?” asked Celmar
plaintively.
“You don’t really need anyone to
reply to that?” said Shupatra levelling her small bow.
14
“Here they come again!” sang out
Buddynock
Now it was my turn to step
forward, the owl symbol of Pallas Athene in my hand. I called upon my divine protector, called
upon her love of light and justice, law and honour; my voice rang louder than I
could have imagined and again that shambling horde turned back before our
defiance.
Some terror does not survive
familiarity. We formed a single line, we
poured our missiles into the few zombies I had not turned and few of our arrows
missed, Celmar's Burning Hands spell taking a deadly toll. Instead of being overwhelmed by their foul
numbers we split our foes again, slaying each in turn as it finally closed the
distance, Not one zombie struck home!
For all their numbers, despite that fearsome necromancer. We had faced down our fearsome foes without
suffering even a scratch! The last zombie fell and lay still. I caught the eye
of Dain, his rasping breath easing like mine.
We stepped from corpse to corpse cutting each head from its body to be
sure. In the euphoria of victory I
think we were all talking a little too much, laughing a little too loudly. Most
of us. One person was quietly backing
towards the tree line. We suddenly remembered our Hobgoblin prisoner was still
holding his longbow and sword. He
suddenly remembered we how quickly we had felled his comrades. Bargul the Hobgoblin dropped his arms and
raised his hands. Extremely quickly. (*)
“Something is very very wrong,”
grinned Buddynock as he wiped his scimitar on the grass. “No one’s hit me once. Still!”
“That’s called tempting the fates!” warned our Ranger.
“That’s called being bloody grateful for small mercies,"
smiled our Druid. “For a change.”
"Did we just pick a fight?" asked
Shupatra. "For the sheer sake of
it!"
"They were zombies!" I stuttered in amazement. "Walking
dead!"
"Were they actually hurting us?" our Bard
insisted.
"Personally, I didn't feel inclined to give them
the chance,” muttered Celmar.
"Technically we shot first,” said Dain
Rocksmiter, "but-"
"We killed a fellow wayfarer without giving him a
chance to speak," said Shupatra. "Maybe there was another way."
15
"Yes,” replied our Ranger,
“we could have been the latest recruits to his glad to be grey off road
ramblers! Once Bargul loosed that arrow
I think it's fair to say benefit of the doubt was off the table."
"Maybe he was simply an
elderly man making a long journey and wanting the best protection he could
find,” insisted Shupatra.
"Not if you have a shufti at
his reading matter,” piped up Buddynock dragging a leather bag backwards out of
the tent. "Very educational. And spicy!
Especially pages 5, 33 and 67 to 78 inclusive. Full colour adult
embellishments to his pentagrams."
"A spell book?" Neave Gemstone nearly knocked me flying as
she ran forward. "You found a
book?"
The sight of Buddynock Rubyrubb
blushing with embarrassment was quite possibly the single most startling event
all day. "You know I used the word
'spicy'?"
"Yes,” said Neave, eagerly
plunging her hands into the leather bag; her eyes wide as she drew the heavily
bound book into the open."
"I was sort of being
tactful," said Buddynock.
"Some of those pictures ... well ... even for bendy people they are
… sort of ... "
"Ware the smoke!" shouted our Ranger.
"Drop the book Neave,” I warned.
There are spell books and spell books in the
world. Each unique, each powerful; some
can be even said to have personality; some-
"Some grimoires are only meant to be opened out of
direct sunlight," said Celmar, as
the necromancer's heavy tome suddenly burst into flames; within three heartbeats nothing was left but
grey ash and a small blackened circle on the grass.
"Did you see the colour of
those flames?" I whispered to Dain.
"Green tinged
purple?" Our cleric nodded. "Decorative yes, soothing and restful
no."
"Never mind Neave,” said
Buddynock, "Old Hammy Kost had some other treasures too."
16
Inside the weatherworn tent was a
folding cot, a travelling chair and writing desk, a chest of clothes and the
contents of that leather bag: the equivalent of a 100 gold pieces, a pearl of
similar value, a potion of healing and a worn parchment within a bone tube
which happily did not burst into flames before our eyes. Neave Gemstone gratefully accepted the Scroll
of Darkness while Buddynock Rubyrubb was very gratified to receive a rare Ring
of Protection. (*)
"There is never any absolute
safety,” said Shupatra. "I have a song about that."
"Providing this helps tip
the balance my way, I'm happy!" exclaimed Buddynock.
"No one can cheat the
Fates,” Shupatra intoned solemnly.
"When Death calls he must be answered."
"He'll need to be good at
hide and seek!" said Buddynock.
"I'm not going without a fight.
And hopefully a frantic zigzag sprint for better cover."
"Is it true all Rings of
Power magically adjust their diameter to fit any new bearer?" I
asked. "I have heard of this but
never seen one”.
"Well it's nicely snug on
me,” smiled our Druid: "Platinum
set with a single emerald.
Stylish!"
"I suppose there are
inevitably a limited number of magic rings anyone can wear at any one time,” I
asked. "I mean to say, most of us
only have ten fingers."
"What about toes?"
asked our Ranger.
"Or ears,” added Celmar.
"And your nose,” smiled
Neave Gemstone. "That must surely
be the final limit."
Dain Rocksmiter was thinking
deeply. His hand brushed his belt buckle.
His eyes widened. "Just keep it on your finger Buddynock Rubyrubb!"
"Dirty Gnome, dirty
dirty!" spat Gove making sure I saw his carefully shocked
face. (**)
"And we have to keep his
lovely horse," beamed Celmar.
"She will not be safe out here alone. It's not poor Honey's fault her old master had some
socially iffy magical hobby activities."
"Honey?" I asked. "Oh because she is a strawberry
roan."
"On balance I prefer not to know. The 'great' Hamun Kost probably had plenty to choose from," Dain murmured.
(**) When a Goblin
hireling attempts to assume the moral high ground I really have nothing
remotely adequate to say.
17
Our Druid's voice was a sudden medley of gentle whinnies and snuffling. "She is very happy to remain with us but please don't forget her hay. Honey says she was scared of those terrible zombies, they stank of death and made her so nervous. She says 'the great' Hamun Kost was not exactly cruel to her but he rarely bothered to be kind," reported Buddynock in one long breath, swishing his long beard with equine emphasis. "Oh and Honey says she is very happy for Celmar to ride her, providing I'm sitting on the saddle bow too."
"Really?" our Ranger raised one eyebrow.
"Do you speak
Horse?" Buddynock Rubyrubb rose indignantly
to his full height. (*) "No? Well give me a leg up then."
"Did the horse actually say
that,” I whispered to Dain.
"More or less,” he
grinned. "Our Druid's translation
was perhaps a little ... free. Mainly, 'I will carry you but please none of
those heavy sods in armour!' "
"Do you know how to care for
a horse," I asked. "No one ever
goes charging full gallop all day. Ride
an hour then walk a quarter mile. See
her girth is not too tight and she does not become overheated." I
saw Buddynock roll his eyes as he clung to the horse's mane; Celmar's arms
encircling him as she lightly gripped the reins. "And
Buddynock we will take turns riding.
Other people have little-"
"What was that?" barked
Shupatra.
"Other people might like to
rest their legs too,” I continued hastily.
"In a fair and planned rota, based on shoe size and working up. Well, since no one fancies making camp
here en avant, mes braves en evant!"
We pushed on south and eastward making
a few more miles before nightfall, Gove still leading the pack mule, our
Hobgoblin prisoner marching at my side, his hands tight bound before him. After
comments both heartfelt and plaintive from the rest of us, some more direct
than others, Buddynock was eventually persuaded to stop loosing practice sling
shots from the saddle. Ahead our last objective stood stark against the dying
sun, lit from behind, grim and menacing, a long shadow reaching out towards us.
Once the roost of ravening dragons, this barren rock had been left abandoned
for years, a desolate wild place open to wind and storm. Was Wyvern Tor still
uninhabited? Only time would tell and our slow trudge onward come what
may. The terrain became rugged, boulder slopes and loose scree as the
land rose, any cover from the trees was far behind us. "But on the bright
side there is less chance of an ambush," smiled Celmar.
18
"What about from above,” muttered Dain. "Keep Pelydrn flying circles overhead please.”
"Not every party has an
early warning Raven," smiled Neave Gemstone.
A little before noon the next day
we reached Wyvern Tor, taking pains to stay below each ridge line as we
advanced. The bleak rocky peak loomed above us; there seemed no sign of
life save two circling buzzards, no sign of anyone at all until our eagle eyed
Ranger spied a faint spiral of smoke wafting into the sky. We inched our
way forward keeping low to the steep ground, shields slung across our backs to
leave both hands free, trying to stifle any sound from our heavy mail. Our
animals stayed tethered out of earshot. At long last we gained the summit, a
plateau maybe seventy yards across. Ahead we could make out a cave mouth; by a
boulder lurked a single orc on watch.
"He looks very short,"
said Shupatra. "Sure it's an
orc?"
"He's squatting,” hissed our
Ranger.
"Near the cave mouth?” winked Buddynock. "The dirty bugger!"
"That orc has a longbow in
his hand," murmured our Ranger.
"If that's the only weapon
he is holding we can breathe easier," smiled Celmar.
"So can anyone inside the
cave..." whispered Neave Gemstone.
(*)
"Well, it’s time to test this
magic ring,” Buddynock spoke with surprising nonchalance.
"Are you quite
sure?" Neave Gemstone laid an
anxious hand on his arm.
Our Druid gave us a swift thumbs
up while he still possessed any thumbs. Buddynock shifted to rat form and
scuttled forward, hugging the stone strewn ground, running from bush to bush,
pausing a moment, waiting but always moving forward once again. Our hearts were
in our mouths but the sentry never stirred.
Buddynock peered into the cave then disappeared into the choking darkness.
There are times when time itself seems
to stand still. There was no sudden shouting, no sign of life from within.
At last little Buddynock reappeared, scampering down slope towards us. To our
dismay we saw the drowsy sentry reaching for his bow; orcs will eat rats and
much else besides, "He's licking his lips!" exclaimed keen eyed
Celmar. The orc aimed and loosed in one fluid movement, the black arrow
flew wide; Buddynock darted left then raced to safety. Shupatra the Bard sang
words of inspiration, our Ranger steadied his aim; his shaft flew true, the orc
sentry fell dead without a sound.
I have given up trying to decide who is the worst influence.
19
His Gnome form thankfully resumed, Buddynock made his report after a grateful swig from his water skin. "Eight orcs at least: I counted that many snoring just within the cave mouth. I went as deep inside as I dared. There was more breathing in the darkness. Heavy breathing. Much heavier."
"Heavy breathing?"
asked Neave with careful innocence.
"Definite dirty buggers!"
"You were gone longer than
we expected,” I said, resisting the temptation to lean down and ruffle his hair
in relief. (*)
"I went as far as I dared,”
said Buddynock. I caught Dain's eye, his
quick nod echoed my own. Our Gnomish Druid was noticeably happier and more
confident out here in the wilderness away from sunless chambers and dank
dungeon corridors. Natural caverns like
Wyvern Tor held far less terrors than eldritch voices deep in the bowels of
ruined Tresendar Manor.
"Your daring was more than
we bargained for," added Dain.
"Please take care."
"What can I say,” beamed
Buddynock Rubyrubb, "I'm just feeling lucky today!"
We decided to let the orcs come
to us. They would be an easy mark as
they emerged from their lair and after recent incidents in ruined Tresendar
Manor we preferred to limit the risks from archery overhead. (**)
We brought up our animals, Gove and our prisoner. There is little love lost between orc and
hobgoblin, once again Bargul knew his best hope of survival was to fight at our
side.
We were still discussing how best
to rouse the orcs, or in Buddynock's terms, just how offensively we should
shout, when the sentry was missed. With
a screaming cry orcs burst from the cave mouth; our first volley tore holes in
their ranks but nine orcs were still charging towards us, covering the ground
with incredible speed, fangs bared, their red eyes blazing. Amidst them strode an Uruk hai in rusted mail
and lumbering behind a giant ogre gripping a black bogwood club in both
hands; his bestial face snarling, fresh human scalps swinging from his belt. The
sky was a rainbow of colours as our Mages loosed their battle spells: magic
missiles rocketing through the air.
Neave Gemstone readied her sleep charm but a flung stone sent her
staggering backwards ruining the enchantment she wanted most. Our bows were busy, more orcs fell: but the
remaining half dozen crashed home against our shields. I slew one with Talon, our stalwart Cleric claimed another with his rune
axe. A spiked buckler smashed our Hobgoblin prisoner to the ground; a heavy axe
rose and fell, the orc raised his dripping weapon to finish helpless Bargul,
but Buddynock and Gove struck home together before his final blow could land.
(**) A single stray arrow in
the back is memorable. Three even more
so!
"And a bloody dart!" growled
Dain. "Especially with novelty
feathers.""Again? How many more times is this going to come up? I've said I'm sorry can we move on please."
Our Gnomish Druid shrugged his shoulders. "Look I'm using a sling now! Thinking of others!"
20
Shupatra the Halfling unleashed her full Bardic powers and before the ravening ogre could even raise his club, her spell left him rolling on the ground helpless with laughter. The chromatic orb and burning hand enchantments of Neave and Celmar killed the beast mercifully quickly; well with more mercy than he would have ever shown us.
I finished the Uruk hai with the aid of Dain; two
orcs tried to flee but our arrows and slingshots dropped them in their tracks; our
last foe turned in desperation, his heavy spear aimed and levelled; Shupatra
fell back with a shrill cry, we slew the orc but the joy of our victory was
tempered by the wounds among our own ranks. Thanks to Dain Rocksmiter's skill
they would both survive but poor Shupatra would carry a scar across one cheek
as a permanent reminder of this day and our luckless Hobgoblin prisoner had
lost a foot. Two severe injuries in
moments, a sober reminder of how swiftly fortune can turn even when a fight
seems simple and victory clear. I was able to ease Bargul's terrible pain but
none of our spells had any hope of restoring the Hobgoblin's missing limb.
A swift search of the cave satisfied our final question, these
orcs were an isolated band of raiders, not scouts for some larger force.
Raiders are only concerned with amassing loot and the evidence of their "foraging"
was all too clear and nothing I wish to remember; predatory orcs are the terror
of lone travellers and isolated farmsteads, those scalps on the ogre's belt
were very fresh. Near the rear of the cave a jute sack held a little under
100 gold pieces in mixed coinage; their previous owners had no more need for
money of any kind now. Such spoils are to be expected in any orcish lair
it was the three vials of perfume we found rather more surprising. "Don't
tell me ogres like to smell nice for special occasions,” Shupatra was trying to
smile despite her bandages and aching head.
"If the answer is yes, just never explain why."
Celmar winced as she replaced the last stopper. "This is rough
stuff. Leaves the wearer as inconspicuous as a tarantula on a slice of
angel food."
"But subtle enough for ogres?" asked Neave Gemstone,
scribbling down another note at the back of her spell book.
"Again, please don't tell me why!" pleaded Celmar.
With
Sisyphos and Honey to bear our injured we made good time. Despite the greater risk of any ambuscade it
was a relief to regain the woodland trail and leave those bleak hills behind
us; barren places are surely bad for the soul, empty of life, empty of hope,
sites where no wise party lingers. Yet forests too have their dangers. We
were sleeping at the side of the trail when four ravenous Stirges dropped from
the tree tops. At least we were already on our guard; a few hours earlier
we had seen the carcass of a small deer drained of blood and pocked with
puncture marks; factors which still did not stop Gove wanting raw venison to
supplement his evening meal. (*)
21
Maybe some scholar
will one day trace their ancestry: it always seems too convenient to simply
assume Stirges are the result of some depraved mage combining the essence of
bat and mosquito. Barely a foot high, with four leathery wings Stirges
possess a vicious hollow proboscis. A hungry Stirge grapples its victims
with its barbed legs and drives its sharp snout into exposed flesh. Any
exposed flesh… A Stirge sucks out blood with glad abandon only pulling away
when its belly is too full to take another drop. In small flocks these
beasts are a fluttering irritation and easily driven off, but when Stirges swarm
in great numbers they can easily kill creatures many times larger, for as fast
as one small Stirge is slain or satiated, others are hovering nearby only waiting
their own chance to feed.
The
lesser Stirge, sadly all too common.
It was a little after midnight,
Dain Rocksmiter was on watch and his hearty shout woke our entire party. The
fight was over in moments, indeed we spent longer scanning the sky for any
further creatures than slaying the few Stirges which actually attacked.
Our wounded Hobgoblin prisoner was stabbed by two of the flying creatures:
trust Stirges to instinctively attack any helpless prey, but I was able to heal
his new injuries without delay.
I did not expect any thanks but once
again Bargul simply lay still as I worked, staring into space with cold
disdain. What did he expect? Not every
party troubles itself to take prisoners, let alone feed them and tend their
wounds! Hobgoblins follow orders to the letter whatever they may be; this Bargul
was clearly a veteran, he was no stranger to bloodshed and death. No, I did not
expect thanks from this Hobgoblin but some response would have been
welcome. Did he remember speaking so
freely under the influence of our Charm spell, was Bargul ashamed of his
betrayal or merely plotting revenge? Again
what else could we do? We were playing for high stakes, the safety of Gundren
Stonefoot, the whereabouts of Lost Phandelver and we would use all lawful tools
at our command. A Charm spell is an intrusion but at least it causes no
pain. Other adventurers have less time
and fewer scruples; there are many ways of loosening even a stoical tongue. A Paladin must remain within all rightful laws,
a paladin must count for something in this dark and troubled world. We would
treat our Hobgoblin prisoner with decency, Bargul would lead us to his
castle. All things considered neither of
us had any choice.
22
At least we had one sure remedy to
ease troubled thoughts; the antics of our merry Gnomish Druid. We all observed the slow smile spreading
across Buddynock's little face: "One more battle, once again Buddynock
Rubyrubb wins through unhurt.”
"Is this all down to your magic ring?" asked Celmar
"Nope." beamed Buddynock. "Nobody came close to
hitting me these last few days even before we defeated Hamun Kost. And
I've been right in the thick of it too. It must be down to skill, sound
judgement and a certain Gnomish something!”
"Well it's certainly not due
to clean living, temperate speech and clean habits," muttered Dain.
"I'm not going to dignify
that slur with any response," sniffed Buddynock his nose in the air.
"I can always buy new throwing darts remember... "
Our remaining journey was largely uneventful. We surprised a second scouting party of
Hobgoblins. Our ranged magics and Ranger
Samuel's keen arrows slew all three before they had any chance of escape, but we
approached their corpses with caution all the same. The same armour we had seen
before, the same blood moon on their crescent shields, the same yew bows and
long swords, the iron rations and standard kit any traveller carries through
the wilds and something rolled tight inside a pouch, an illustrated parchment torn
and stained with much handling. (*)
I wish any of us had been more surprised. Again the same Black Spider seal at the foot.
I wish any of us had been more surprised. Again the same Black Spider seal at the foot.
25 gold crowns for this
one
Elf mage
No payment unless you
bring her head.
Nothing paid for just
ears.
23
"This is really creepy,” Celmar’s elegant face was pale despite her sunburn. "What have they got against me?"
"The elf in the picture has a staff,” Shupatra peered at the parchment,
“and a book under her left arm? Surely she's a wizard not a sorcerer."
"That's a relief-"
began Celmar before she remembered, "Oh I didn't mean..."
Neave gave a wan smile.
"They've not caught us yet," our Ranger ran a loving hand down his
longbow. "And they won't take us without a fight. We've walked
through everything against us so far."
"Walked?" exclaimed Buddynock. "Stumbled more
like! Have you forgotten Tresendar already? Some of us are carrying a few
scars, not to mention a slight gritty taste behind their teeth. It's
taking ages to fade that is. Just ‘cos I’m lucky now doesn’t stop me
remembering."
"And some of us still have to be careful whenever they sit down,” glared
Dain Rocksmiter. "Right through the links of my new mail.
Right through!"
"We certainly have evidence of a conspiracy,” I said.
"Travellers waylaid on the trail. Gundren Stonefoot abducted and
still missing; Sildar Hallwinter abducted and tortured for information.”
"He says,” Buddynock hissed to Neave. "We never actually
saw Sildar being worked on."
"You can't dislike Sildar just because he never laughs at
your jokes, " whispered Neave Gemstone shaking her head in reproof.
"There's something
wrong with the man," insisted our Druid. "That Sildar never smiled
once. Not even at my good jokes! Like
that one about the farmer's twin daughters, the high hayloft, the rickety
threshing machine and the nose flute.
Quality gags!"
I coughed several times. The
whispering near the ground finally stopped. Eventually. "Sorry Squire!" I saw a Gnomish
thumbs up from below. " You carry on." (*)
"Thank you Druid. We
only know we had a town held down by a savage mercenary gang and a suborned
wizard; all receiving orders with this same black spider seal," I added.
24
"And now we have wandering art aficionados" said Shupatra. "And barely a day from Phandalin too."
“While he was charmed Bargul said he could take us to the
castle to find Gundren. One night to rest in soft beds and refill our packs and
then we head north.” I glanced at my travel stained, weary companions, each one
in turn as we stood in quiet contemplation, and I took fresh strength and
courage from the steady resolve in their faces. "We will charm Bargul
again when needed. He is our best, our
only hope of saving the dwarf."
“And then?” murmured Celmar, still staring at the parchment in his
hands.
“We shall see,” I replied, “But we will still go forward come what
may.”
"And I'll be writing more about
this little jaunt" said Buddynock.
"My voice is going to be heard.
So there!"
Sister Garele gave us three potions of Healing for
completing her mission. We found a further
Healing potion, a Scroll of Darkness and a Ring of Protection.
We found
the equivalent of 211 gold pieces and total goods worth 155 in gold, including
the jewelled box, pearl and perfume. Harbin Wester, townmaster of Phandalin
reluctantly paid the 100 gold crowns bounty for destroying that band of orc
pillagers.
The total
came to 466 in gold. An equal division
came to 65 gold pieces each. We put 11 gold pieces to cover current and
future living expenses in Phandalin. Inn keepers do not relish wounded
Hobgoblin prisoners under their roof.
Gove
received 4 silver crowns and 24 copper coins.
His incredulous delight was actually quite disturbing.
What
wretched lives these Goblins lead.
No comments:
Post a Comment