Book III - Terror at Tresendar Manor

Being the Chronicle of Cadan Dalmas, Knight

 BOOK  III

Terror at Tresendar Manor

               The frontier township of Phandalin rose from the blackened ruins of the first settlement lost five centuries before. That old town had prospered long ago, when the mine was busy and trade thrived, when the roads were guarded and hopes were high.   Hundreds of busy lives; dwarves, gnomes and humans all sharing the same home, all with some chance at happiness and fulfilment.   For years their settlement endured but alas for all fond hopes; the same orcs that sacked the mines laid waste to the old town too.

               In these last three years a few score hardy folk have begun to scratch a new living amid this devastation. New Phandalin is home to farmers and woodcutters, traders and daring prospectors searching for gold.  A few fools even still try to find the long lost mine of Phandelver, fools who soon become lost themselves never to return for these are dangerous lands now, wild and untamed. Would we leave our own bones alongside them? Only the Fates knew and they were certainly not talking.

(c) Wizards of the Coast

         

               The rutted earthen track rounded a wooded hillside and the small town lay before us, forty or fifty simple log buildings, some built on old foundations still blackened and stained by fire. Abandoned ruins, their crumbling stone walls crowned with ivy and briars surrounded these newer dwellings and trading posts; we sensed an air of dilapidation and hardscrabble hopes in new Phandalin, but a sense of life returning all the same.

2

               "As long as it's not one of those funny small towns out in the middle of nowhere," Dain Rocksmiter muttered, giving our plodding ox one more gentle flick with the traces. 

.              "Funny?"  I replied.

               "Where things happen,"  Dain said darkly.  "Things involving innocent visiting strangers."

               "Oh,  like folk dancing on midsummer's eve?" Buddynock chipped in merrily.

               "Yes just like that," said deadpan Dain, "Folk dancing and ... all that follows." 

              

               Our reflective friend fell silent.  We began to suspect some deep personal trauma here.

               "I've never heard of Dwarvish folk dances," Celmar added politely. "You don't have any?"

               "One of our better points!" growled Dain.

               To see children playing on the small town green raised our spirits, girls and boys together raising a fine racket as they filled the air of this summer evening with their innocent cries. A few abandoned chasing a leather ball to run alongside our wagon

               "Innocent because we are too far away to hear what they are actually calling each other," smiled Celmar.

               "Just promise me they don't look weird," said Dain.

               "Weird?"  I asked.  This was rather alarming, I've never known Dain seem anxious before.

               Our good Cleric almost seemed to be reciting from a personal list.  "Smiling in a fixed sort of way. Eyes which sort of light up. Using telekinesis to casually brain strangers  with a hitching rail. You know ... weird!  And don't even mention towns where the folks are twanging mandolins really fast”.

              

               "That boy chasing his friends is certainly using the ultimate weapon when you are ten," said Celmar.

               "What!"  Sildar Hallwinter's hand dropped to the sheathed Goblin scimitar on his belt.

              

               "Suspected dog doo on a stick," laughed our Elven Sorceress.

               "Suspected?"  I asked.  Our new friend was like no elf I had ever met before.  Or any Wizard!

               
             "Could be just mud, but who is going to risk getting close enough to find out for sure?" laughed Celmar, her brown eyes twinkling.

               "Now that reminds me of-"  began Buddynock eagerly.

               "Weird I tell you!" muttered Dain from his perch on the wagon box. "Weird!"

3

               Townsfolk wound their way along the muddy streets, tending to evening chores or running errands, some looked up at our approach but they all soon returned to their own business. "There seems no immediate alarm," I said with some relief.

               "And they are clearly used to parties of adventurers,"  added Dain.  Our Cleric gestured to the back of our wagon where the rain washed clothes he had leant to Buddynock were drying in the sun. "Right I'll have those back now."

               "They are still rather damp," said Celmar. "Are you sure?"

               "No matter," hissed Dain.  "Pass them forward please. Yes now."

              

               "I really did appreciate them," beamed Buddynock with sincerity.  "Your socks came right up on me and there was a bit of chafing here and there, but I was still very grateful all the same."

               "Yes, yes, no need to mention it I'm sure," muttered Dain, hastily stowing a much worn, still clammy woollen shirt and assorted, unspecified other garments (of an apparently more intimate nature) into his leather pack and out of sight.  (*)

               At least grizzled Sildar Hallwinter seemed more at ease though still as laconic.  "We need lodgings.  The local inn is very quaint.  I shall see you there shortly." (**)

               "You are not seeing the wagon home?" I asked in surprise.  "After all you've been through."

               "I have other business, " said Sildar.  "And it calls me now."

               "And I bet it always did,"  muttered Buddynock, for once almost under his breath.

---

(*)   I  fully accept wearing ill-fitting nether garments on a long march causes uncomfortable and painful chafing.
        I fully acknowledge all Paladin's have a duty to ease the suffering of the sick and injured.
       I fully accept Laying on Hands is done wherever the injury is located and some are in deeply personal areas.
       I know this is my sworn duty but I still prefer my patients not to be lying on their backs and grinning broadly while giving me two 

        thumbs up at the time.

(**)  Buddynock has never really got on with Sildar Hallwinter. This probably explains why we had to confirm Sildar said 'short - L -y'  as in a brief period of time. The similar sounding word our Gnome thought he heard was less acceptable.

              

4

            "A quaint inn,"  sighed Dain,  as  our tall companion strode away. "Quaint! That's the other word no wise traveller ever wants to hear. Almost as bad as ' picturesque.'  It will be cultural festivals and poetry recitals next... "

               We still had enough light to finish our first business; returning the stolen goods recovered from the goblins.  The Lionshield Coster trading post was easily found but the thin lipped mistress behind the counter was less easily reasoned with. If she was thankful austere Linene Graywind hid her gratitude well but our 50 gold crowns reward was still very welcome all the same.

               At Barthen's Provisions we finally delivered the wagon and supplies of Gundren Stonefoot as instructed. His long journey over, Flëck the Ox bent his heavy head to a full manger with obvious relish.  We looked around with careful interest; this provisions store held a decent range of supplies of obvious quality, we would not go short of lamp oil and coiled rope in Phandalin. Many storekeepers are unctuous to clients and hectoring to their staff but this Barthen seemed  decent to both our party and his two young clerks.  He was obviously eager for our future custom,  yet Barthen initially seemed worried by the jingle of mail and unfamiliar voices at his door.

               "I thought honest shop keepers welcomed patrons," mused Celmar. "Usually."

               "Some tavern keepers get really stroppy with me, "pouted Buddynock, "Just because I like-"

               "Let's find the one Sildar recommends," interrupted Dain. "And trust it is tolerably bearable. At least not the sort of establishment where everyone stops talking whenever strangers  walk in…"

               Despite our Cleric's doubts, the Stonehill Inn proved to be all Sildar Hallwinter had suggested. Its rough hewn timbers lacked paint or polish but the tavern was warm and clean, welcoming and clearly popular. There is often a brisk egalitarianism in these frontier settlements, a pleasing lack of deference in places where respect must be earned, not inherited. We entered through a common room filled with locals nursing mugs of ale or cider.  Our entrance created much curiosity but we were received with courtesy all the same.  The innkeeper a short, genial young man named Toblen, came forward to greet us, wiping his hands on his apron and glad of the chance to fill his remaining rooms. At last we could take our ease, at least for the moment, but something seemed awry all the same.  Once again our host seemed fearful when he first heard our voices.  Once again someone clearly breathed easier now he actually saw us.

               "Say nothing just yet," I advised my friends.  "But stay alert and listen … carefully. All of us. Let's play this circumspectly.  We are not hazarding everything on one simple cast of the dice."

               "Yes. Fine. Sure. First of all,"  Buddynock Rubyrubb bounded forward. "She better be here safely! Upstairs?”

5

               To our great joy a familiar face was waiting in one of the six guest rooms, young Neave Gemstone returned to us safely and ready for our continued quest. Shy Neave was sitting on the bed studying her spell book, her long dark hair held back neatly by the golden circlet around her forehead, her new Raven familiar perched at her side eating grapes but keeping both bright eyes on the world around them.  "He is called Pelydrn,"  smiled Neave, as she gently ruffled the raven's neck, the happy bird responded by holding his head to one side and chattering his long beak.

               "Elvish for Ray! Short and sweet," said Celmar with approval,  "And very appropriate!"

              

                I had wondered if our two Elven spell casters would resent each other, a wizard of the book and a sorcerer of wild magics, but both ladies were of such good humour any such difference seemed minimal.  As we planned, young Neave had made her way to Phandalin with a logging convoy, she had nothing to report but plenty to hear from eager Buddynock .  Some of it was even rather accurate.  Some of it...

               "Come on. There were only ever four Goblins in that patch of briars by the cave," said Dain Rocksmiter with a good Cleric's regard for ungilded truth.  "Just four!"

              

               "I quite agree," I said mildly, as I sipped the best vintage the Stonehill Inn had to offer.  An act which could earn any man a deserved reputation for valour.  "No Buddynock we did not overlook a further dozen lurking behind the bushes."

               "Just as well, considering goblins' hobby activities," murmured Celmar. "Outdoor, indoor, anywhere..."

               Somewhat later, as I returned from the privy, Buddynock Rubyrubb's valiant tale had wound almost to an end.  "Silky smooth and surprisingly comfortable," continued our Gnome. "not to mention the..." The alarm in good Dain's eyes was disturbing, not to mention the sudden frantic waving of his encumbered hands.  The bar staff seemed most surprised to witness a Dwarf actually spilling his ale.

               The evening wore on. Stabling for my mule Sisyphos was easily secured. It was our own arrangements that proved more problematical.  Six rooms were normally available at the Stonehill Inn, but two were already taken and canny Sildar Hallwinter had the third reserved. (*)

               "Our two Elven ladies must of course have one chamber," I insisted.

   

               "Spin a coin for which of us sleeps single then?" suggested Buddynock.

               "Yes but not one of yours!" grumbled Dain, who appeared to be invoking his deity as he flicked a bronze penny into the air.

               "Result!" beamed our Druid.

               "Best out of three?" Dain Rocksmiter asked plaintively.

---

(*)  Dain and I appeared to realise the implications for our sleeping arrangements at roughly the same moment.  

        Buddynock Rubyrubb was simply happy to have the chance of a slow pint and a turn by the log fire

6

             

               Our first concern settled, satisfactorily at least for some, we soon met the other two guests at the Stonehill Inn.  We could not miss the sudden music floating through the air, the plaintive cry of pan pipes and the merry hammered notes of a dulcimer. The fair haired man in the green hooded cloak stood as tall as his long bow,  I always expect to see Rangers clad in leather armour but Samuel wore heavy scale mail, the pieces carefully tinted to avoid catching the light. A dextrous man of obvious strength, this Ranger proved slow to speak in company but his words flew true as arrows when he did.

               The hands of the young Halfling beside him flickered with dazzling speed as she played; her dulcimer small enough to carry on the road, yet sturdy and beautifully tuned, the delicate notes echoing into the evening sky. Music to summon back old memories, a melody lithe as springtime, as calm as the sea after a storm.   No one dared speak  each of us simply lost in the moment.  The light was failing and any musician must be used to occasional errors but I saw this Halfling Bard bite her lip with exasperation as her last note rang false into the air.  She set down her dulcimer with a sigh.

               "You seek the lost mine?" asked the Ranger.

               "That and a few giggles along the way!" beamed Buddynock. "You know how it is. Battling with Carrion crawlers one day, performing groin surgery on goblins the next."

               "You do seek the lost mine?" asked the Ranger, now looking somewhat alarmed.

               "Not just us I believe," said Celmar, raising one elegant eyebrow.

               "It's a hard road alone," smiled the Bard. "Shupatra the Halfling at your service. The bigger the group the more challenging the song."

              

               "But no folk dancing!" Dain Rocksmiter said quickly. "Not now, not ever, let's get that straight right now!"

               "The moment calls for seven tankards," I suggested.  "If you would like to join us."

               "Oh you're not trying the wine again?" asked Neave Gemstone.

              
           

             "My courage has its limits!" I laughed.

               "We've been here two days," said Samuel.  "Scouting the land.  Just back from another try."

               "It's what people won't say that's most interesting," added Shupatra the Halfing. "The fat fool of a Townmaster huffs and puffs and does nothing.  I wish I had time for a ballad to sting his legs into action."

              

               "They are scared," said the Ranger.  "All of them. You noticed?"

               "Scared of what?" asked Buddynock with sudden seriousness. 

               "Redbrands," offered the Ranger.

               "Well armed thugs who visit each shop and house in turn, collecting money to ‘keep the peace’." said Shupatra with undisguised disdain. "A score of them, always in groups, always with weapons in their belts. No one will say when these Redbrands first arrived and few dare speak of them at all.  Thel Dendrar a local woodcarver faced down these ruffians ten days ago when they invaded his shop and leered at his wife.  Brave he was, standing alone against three, a folk hero fit for a song.  That was in daylight, by the next dawn his shop and house were both empty, Thel, his wife, daughter and son, all gone missing in the dark."

              

               "How will we know these ruffians?"  asked shy Neave Gemstone. Our Elven Wizard truly has the scholar’s way of isolating the essential facts with economy.

               "Look for the red cloaks, red masks too sometimes," said Ranger Samuel. "They will be back. Soon enough."

            This Shupatra was not the Halfling I was seeking; that would come later tonight; into the dark and out of sight of my comrades.  Even so, this Bard and her Ranger companion could still prove doughty companions in our quest.  

               My bed was simple but warm and clean and at least I was not sharing the mattress with a Gnomish Druid who had spent the last night celebrating  with happy enthusiasm. (*) We rose early, most of us without much fervent groaning, for time was pressing and our first task was obvious. New Phandalin is a small settlement and splitting into three groups would cover the ground more quickly. As a Paladin my duty is usually both plain and inevitable; from experience we find it's better if I handle any 'respectable' negotiations. Well better than trusting our  carefree  Gnomish Druid. The Ranger and Bard led me to the Townmaster's Hall, easily the most impressive building we had seen in Phandalin so far, with its sturdy stone walls and new wooden roof. It even boasted a bell tower. 

---

(*)  The adjoining wall between our rooms proved rather thin. My knowledge of colloquial Dwarvish expressions is much  

         improved and growing stronger.  I sadly suspect most may not be entirely suitable in polite company.  

         My expanding colloquial Gnomish is most definitely only suited for certain very specific circumstances.

7

               Regretfully, our visit proved both tedious and time consuming, a case of not so much listening to the words of the Townmaster as deducing what he was choosing not to say. Harbin Wester had the worse traits of any banker, obsequious to those more powerful and contemptuous of any deemed beneath him. He waddled forward to greet us arms held wide, yet the warmth of Wester's beaming smile did not shine in his eyes, he made no mention of the Redbrand threat and looked askance when I deliberately stated their name.  A man in denial, to everyone and especially to himself yet unless this Harbin Wester was a superb actor, he scarcely seemed involved in the murderous extortion scheme run by these hardened ruffians. The Townmaster changed subject with alacrity, eagerly offering 100 gold crowns to anyone who could destroy  a band of orcs preying  on outlying farms and hindering trade. I could hear Shupatra the Bard mulling over phrases under her breath.  Had she found inspiration for her next satiric ode?

               I was not truly surprised to see who sat next to the Townmaster. We had long suspected Sildar Hallwinter was never simply a bodyguard for dwarven prospectors.  In terse words Sildar revealed himself as a secret agent of the Lords' Alliance his goal to restore law to Phandalin once more.  "My order wishes to find the lost mine and resume production. Restore prosperity to the town will help civilise it. These Redbrand scum, no Townmaster, I will also say their name, these Redbrand brigands are only one sign of the chaos.  These repeated ambushes on the Triboar trail, does anyone really believe they are purely random?"

               "You are here alone?" I asked.  "Really?"

               "Not intentionally," replied Sildar, wincing as he leaned back in his high carved chair. The pain in his face was still clear, it would still be some days before poor Hallwinter truly recovered from his terrible experience at Cragmaw caves.  "I follow the path of a missing colleague. Poor Iarno Albrek came to Phandalin on the same errand.  He arrived, he sent his first report, we waited but no further word ever came.  He vanished without trace two months back.  Find him for me, find him for the Lords Alliance, Iarno Albrek does not deserve to disappear into the dark."

               "How will we know him," asked our Ranger.

               "A short man with a neatly trimmed black beard and a wizard's staff," said Sildar Hallwinter.

"Iarno Albrek is resourceful and reliable. He cannot be abandoned."

               "A song often brings immortality," said our Bard

               Townmaster Harbin Wester coughed nervously; Sildar Hallwinter simply stared.  

8

              
             Meanwhile two of our comrades worked closer to the ground. It is strange how swiftly the atmosphere of any town changes, go a hundred yards and the mood can differ so abruptly.  The Sleeping Giant tap house lay  at the eastern end of Phandalin, a gloomy ramshackle building where daylight was banished by closed shutters along with fond hopes and fair dreams. Dain Rocksmiter and Buddynock Rubyrubb entered a dirty watering hole, already crowded even so early in the morning, a place whose regular  patrons clearly drank themselves into oblivion as swiftly as possible each day. Five surly faces turned to stare suspiciously. No one said a word. 

               "No scarlet cloaks," whispered Dain. “That’s something.”

               "But have you seen the barmaid?" grinned Buddynock.

               Dain Rocksmiter flushed with embarrassment.  "This is no place for a female dwarf. What can she be thinking of!"

               "A few tips and a warm place to crash,"  suggested Buddynock. "Why don't you ... "

               "Stop nudging my elbow and grinning. You'll spill my beer again."

               " Go on!" Buddynock urged. "Why not .. you know ... have a try?  She might go for-"

               "What?  No.   NO!  Shut up before she hears you!"

               "We need information and she might-"  our Druid insisted.

               "You can tell if Grista likes you," one of the drinkers said suddenly. "When she cleans your tankard and she only spits in your mug !"

               Buddynock was about to reply when Dain caught his arm. "Just behave yourself," warned our Cleric. "No jokes, no dancing, no offers to do magic tricks and just a swift half."

               "It's bad for my image that's what it is!" complained our Druid. "How come the Paladin suggested we should come here?"

               "Next time saintly Cadan Dalmas can try the dodgy diplomacy," muttered Dain.

               "And the dodgy drinks!"  added Buddynock.  “He’d worry less about the moral imperatives of our mission if he was more concerned with finding a safe place to pee after his fifth pint!  If I'm not back soon load your crossbow and come looking.”

9

            
            The Shrine to Tymora, Goddess of Good Fortune, was small and made from scavenged stones from nearby ruins but Phandalin's only temple was clearly well kept and dearly loved.  By happy chance Celmar and Neave Gemstone were able to pass the time of day with a fellow female elf, the gentle acolyte and scholar Sister Garaele.  Our Party had finally found one resident of Phandalin brave enough to speak openly about the Redbrands.

               "They say they provide law and order. They say!" Young Sister Garaele's voice only grew louder as she spoke, so loud, Celmar and Neave cast anxious glances over their shoulders. "The Redbrands extort ever more money each month.  If anyone refuses to pay they disappear, dragged off to Tresendar manor up there on the ridge. We have no help we have no hope!  There was a wizard who said he was here to investigate but even he vanished. Please aid us!  The people of Phandalin are crying out for aid!  At least those still brave enough to admit we are being oppressed."

               Our comrades did their best to reassure Garaele but the zealous young elf was hard to convince. At length she mentioned another concern, her personal quest for the lost spell book of Bowgentle the Mage.  "Three days down the trail to the east lies the ruins of Conyberry, abandoned to the wilds and the dark. A shade lurks there, a restless soul with much knowledge. Akatha may know the fate of the spell book.  I dare not travel so far alone; it would take a well armed group to survive the wilds.  If you take a gift to Akatha, this jewelled silver comb, if you ask her she may tell you. I could gladly give you three potions of healing for your troubles.  Yes, I understand you must speak to the rest of your friends first.  But please, please do not abandon us.  Not when you have such strength, such skill!"

               Whether they heard outspoken Sister Garaele we cannot be sure, maybe they were simply passing by, but as Neave Gemstone and Celmar left the shrine they heard an arrogant shout from behind. Six burly men stood across the street, each clad in studded leather armour, heavy short swords hanging from their belts, dirty scarlet cloaks across their shoulders. Their unshaven leader smiled through broken teeth.  His gesture was crude and clear, with the swaggering arrogance of fighting cocks on a dunghill they beckoned Neave and Celmar towards them.  The rest of the street was suddenly very empty.  

(c) Wizards of the Coast

Not every threat to  little Phandalin lurked in the wilderness; these Redbrands were ruthless and ready with their weapons. Not only wolves hunt in packs.

               Our two elves held their ground. First Neave then Celmar chanted a Charm spell but to their dismay neither enchantment had any affect.  The Redbrand leader shook his head in puzzlement then realised who he faced.  Barking an urgent order he rushed forward, sword drawn and ready to swing, his band of ruffians close behind.  Swift as thought shy Neave cast a sleep spell and to her delight this time her magic worked.  The six Redbrands stopped dead and snoring.

               "Find Buddynock and the others?" suggested Neave Gemstone, almost shaking with sudden reaction, Pelydrn the Raven still perched on her shoulder.

               "No time," insisted Celmar.  "Any shock or slap could awake them.  We deal with them now."

              

               "We can't kill them in cold blood!" Neave said in dismay. "Even after their threats."

               "No need," smiled Celmar with calm deliberation.  "Just untie their belts and shoe thongs. Yes, one at a time. Look Garaele has seen us at last. Is that the best weapon she has? A chair leg!"

              

               As Pelydrn the Raven kept watch and before the sleep spell could wear off, each  Redbrand was woken in turn by a dagger point pressed against his throat.  "I really don't advise you to sneeze," Celmar said conversationally as nimble Neave and Sister Garaele quickly bound their hands and feet. "But you might still be grateful I'm not pointing this anywhere even more personal.  I don't suppose you'd like to repeat that invitation you made to us? No? Oh, there’s a surprise!"

               The last Redbrand was secured just before we found them.

10

               With much persuasion and eventually the cold insistence of Sildar Hallwinter, these six Redbrand captives were grudgingly secured in the Townmaster's Hall. Their leader remained close mouthed but his men proved more pliable; each eager to save himself by betraying his comrades. We spoke to each prisoner separately  and did not allow them to confer before interrogation. We learnt, their leader was a human mage known as Glasstaff, but even he did not hold the real power. Somewhere out in the wilds the Black Spider lays his plots and hires his minions: these Redbrands were recruited to terrorise Phandalin and frighten off any adventurers seeking the lost mines. Our captives could not identify this alleged Black Spider but claimed he sent four Uruk-hai reinforcements to their hideout.  Our Redbrand captives confirmed ruined Tresendar Manor was their base and admitted the disappeared citizens of Phandalin were held prisoner in the cellars. "Some of them at least," said one scared Redbrand.  "The latest ones."

               "And the others, " Sildar Hallwinter spoke so calmly, there was no trace of anger in his voice but this gnarled and grizzled ruffian was still too scared to meet his gaze.

               "There is an eye lizard in the lower cave.  Horrible it is. And hungry.  The boss insists! We have no choice!  I was only following orders! They would have killed me!" His voice died away, this Redbrand stared down at his feet.

               "You will be taken from here to a place of justice," Sildar Hallwinter replied coldly.  "I shall request instruction and an escort from my superiors.  Or they may empower me to carry out  retribution here. If you think I am unmerciful just remember I could open the door to your cells and let the good townsfolk of Phandalin come and attend to you personally. Each of you. In turn."

11

               Swift as an arrow's flight we held our Council of War. Finding the lost Mine of Phandelver and the Forge of Lazair Glas remained our ultimate objective. Only the missing dwarves knew the location. Six days ago, Gundren Stonefoot was abducted along the road by agents of our unknown enemy.  If Gundren was fortunate he was merely a prisoner but this was a pious hope at best, for his secret map had also been taken and maybe our ruthless foes already had all the information they needed. His two brothers had vanished in the wild lands but only Gundren knew where.  To help  them we must save Gundren first, yet we could not seek his location with these vicious Redbrands lurking on our doorstep.  It was still early afternoon. Our Sorcerer and Wizard had already used some precious spells but we were otherwise fresh and time was racing, it would surely not take long for the remaining ruffians to miss their patrol.  We had to act swiftly.

               Our foes were ensconced in the shell of Tresendar Manor a bare half mile away. A dozen ruffians at least, not to mention the Mage and four Uruk hai nor this peculiar lizard beast lurking in the ruins. Anything to even these odds would be welcome. Since all Redbrands were male and human, Ranger Samuel and I donned the least grimed scarlet cloaks taken from our six prisoners, a simple ruse but one that might still gain us entry. This seemed the best we could manage until Buddynock suggested an addition he insisted on trying.  I still smile at the memory for our Druid becomes an irrepressible force of nature whenever he cherishes an idea.  Our Gnome stood on Shupatra the Halfling's shoulders a long red cloak neatly covering the deception. (*)Together we escorted Dain, Celmar and Neave ropes merely looped around their outstretched hands, their weapons hidden beneath their traveller's mantles.  It was the second hour after noon.

               Tresendar Manor lies east of Phandalin on a raised spur of land flanked by beech woods and briars.  The original inhabitants were long dead and long gone. We walked towards a maze of tumbled walls, broken windows like sockets in an open skull, a roofless shell open to the sky. The once ornate gardens were riot of confusion. "Actually, I rather like this," smiled our Druid, "All free and untamed."

               Our Ranger walked ahead peering intently at the ground.  Heavy boot prints led to a stone staircase just off the empty ruin of a large kitchen, where a heavy oaken door stood ajar. He spoke without turning his eyes away:  "Either there is no one inside or."

               "They are here and incredibly confident," said Shupatra, muffled beneath her disguise.

               "Are they simply cocky or are they right to be confident?" said wary Dain.

               "How will we know?" asked Buddynock.

               "After you!" said our Ranger.

---

(*) Once again I struggle to establish Buddynock's rightful place in any standard manual of tactics. 

12

               

(c) Wizards of the Coast

We gently pushed the door wide open, checking the threshold and lintel for wires, weights or swinging blades, hooked nets, pits, hidden sentries, trip darts, pressure plates, suspicious slime or pots of acid (*) The door opened onto a narrow landing fifteen foot above a substantial cellar with flights of stone steps descending to the floor.  One door stood between the stairs to the north, a second  faced us in the far wall.  The air was full of disturbed dust dancing in the light of our lanterns and we could not miss the  skittering of frightened rats hurtling into the shadows. This large cellar was a jumble of barrels, but a large low walled cistern filled most of the western side.  Our search was as quiet and as thorough as possible, the barrels contained salted pork and beef, flour, sugar, apples and ale, some bore the Lionshield Coster emblem we already knew.     

"And the ‘rampart lion’ on the badge is only rearing up , he is not rude," said Celmar proudly, "see I do listen and remember."

               There was no sign of our foes, but as Celmar gingerly probed the rectangular cistern with her staff it suddenly slipped from her grasp, falling to the bottom of the tank ten feet below.  "Don't look at me!" insisted Buddynock.  "I got soaked last time."

"No but your ... fishing rod should do the trick," suggested Neave. "Get your tackle out!"   With luck and effort and some strange smiles we dragged Celmar's staff clear of the water.  (**)

"This is all taking too long," muttered Dain, gripping his battle axe tightly.

---

(*)   "Not to mention bloody Carrion Crawlers dangling from the ceiling!" said our Gnome.

(**)   Was  Neave was making a joke. She paused, coughed and smiled very innocently.  Dain's eyes widened, he made little waves with both hands. And everyone went quiet for a moment. Oh for a comprehensive phrase book!

13

              
            We took the small door nearest the stairs, it opened into a stone flagged corridor, ten foot wide and ornamented with  thin mosaic borders on either side. Flickering torches along the walls lit our path and the boot prints in the dust were plain as day. The corridor ended in double doors sheathed in polished copper plate now green with age, a carved mournful angel above the lintel.

               "Dead cheerful," our Ranger grimaced.

               "As long as it's properly dead I don't care how happy or not she is," replied Neave.

               Shields up, blades drawn, two by two we stepped forward into the corridor. Moments later our nimble Ranger leapt back with a warning shout, I tried to follow but  the weakened floor gave way beneath me and I fell twenty feet into a hidden pit, landing flat on my face, half stunned and winded among a splinter of sawn through timbers. As I lay there feeling bruised, sore, angry and foolish in equal measure, I saw anxious faces peering from above.  I must give my comrades fair credit, they saved any jokes for after they had pulled me to safety on a rope but  the yawning pit still lay open before us.

                "See those narrow ledges on either side," Shupatra pointed.  "You said Buddynock can take the form of a weasel. If he shapeshifts again he could run along them safely with a rope in his teeth."

                "And that's a lot more family friendly than the last thing you gnawed," smiled Celmar.

                Weasel Buddynock gallantly ran the ledge as we paid out a silken line behind him. Changing back to Gnome, he pressed his ear against those heavy doors filling the far end of the corridor.   Only then did our Druid tie the rope to their ornate curling handles and give us a nod. First Ranger Samuel, then our Halfling Bard, then Dain Rocksmiter traversed the northern ledge,  the rope lifeline serving them well.  My own turn would come but for now I acted as a rear guard while also, truth to tell, still catching my breath after my  fall and pulling two broken oil flasks from my pack. Only Celmar and Neave were still with me, when five Redbrands burst through the door at our back.

                I pushed Celmar behind me as I met their attack, but these ruffians proved canny fighters,  for every blow I struck, they each aimed two at me.   One Ruffian fell to my blade, our Ranger claimed another with a well placed arrow as Celmar and Neave scrambled clear of their darting swords, Pelydrn the Raven distracting one Redbrand long enough to ensure their safe escape.  I was struggling to hold my ground; three times, four times, my foes were through my guard and only my stout hauberk and helm saved me.  Now Neave's Chromatic orb felled a further Redbrand in a spray of deadly colours and Dain was fighting at my side, having risked the ledge a second time to come to our assistance.  These Redbrands fought furiously and our comrades were desperate to aid us, so desperate their aid stung.  Suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my leg, I staggered nearly dropping my sword, a misplaced Elven arrow had pierced my left thigh.  Even as I was hit I heard a bellow of fury from Dain, as a wayward Gnomish dart simultaneously wounded him.

14

                Our last foes turned to flee but Dain and I struck home before they could alert their fellows. We searched their bodies but found a mere scattering of coins, no keys, nothing of significance or use.  Our good Cleric plucked the wayward arrow from my leg as gently as he could.  I tried to return the favour but furious Dain Rocksmiter waved me aside. We heard shuffling feet from behind us.

                "Yours I believe?" as I held out the arrow to Celmar. Our Elven  Sorceress could not meet my gaze, but I know her apology was from the heart.  What more could anyone say save the stark and simple truth: we must accept these risks if we choose to walk the wild places. Accidents are all too easy in the frantic press of combat, all we can hope is to avoid all wanton injuries with due diligence and care. And yes, to show sincere regret when we are responsible. That always helps.

                Oooh a '19'!"  beamed Buddynock Rubyrubb.  "Just be glad I spin 'em to the right. If that had been a '3' instead you might have been really annoyed. Walking cross eyed too I bet!" (*)

                "Might?  Might!" roared Dain.  "Miserable, misbegotten, hairy, half sized halfwit.  Right through the links in my brand new mail, right through!"

                "You're not pleased are you?"  asked Buddynock whose attempts to hide his grin were fooling no one.

                "Get it out now!   And stop laughing you reduced rate social menace!"  (**)

                "Shan't!"

                "What?"

                "Not after that. You've hurt my feelings!"

                "Buddynock you say worse about your Cousin Gizmo," said gentle Neave Gemstone.

                "So?" pouted Buddynock, performing a credible mule impersonation despite no actual transformation to hooves, mane and tail.

                "Buddynock Rubyrubb  you are not helping," sighed Neave.  "That is your dart. Please."

                "Well if you say please that's different,"  muttered Buddynock.

    "Why by the burning Balls of Durin's Bane is he the one everyone feels sorry for!" shouted Dain, temporarily forgetting we were actually trying to be reasonably quiet while invading our enemies' territory.  Our Druid reclaimed his Gnomish dart with as much dignity as possible. I am not certain how our two newly joined comrades regarded this incident.  On reflection I would prefer not to know.

                  "Now shake hands," urged Neave.  "Go on.  We have to adventure nicely together."

              "Spare me from Gnomes with more enthusiasm than sense and more attitude than aim," groaned Dain.

                "And Elves," I muttered to myself.  In truth I was rather alarmed. Within half an hour of entering ruined Tresendar I was bruised from a serious fall, limping from an errant arrow wound and cut by a short sword ... all this before we had found our main foe. It seemed time to use my Healing powers on myself.

                "If you ever chuck those darts behind me again, I shall take them and stick them-"snarled Dain.

                Celmar quickly changed the subject: "Someone never bought the red cloak disguise. I suppose in fairness our advanced rope aided gymnastics gave the game away. A pity, the ruse deserved better."

---

(*)       Gnomes enjoy many tavern games.

        At least Buddynock Rubyrubb does, especially hitting segmented round targets from six paces.

         Buddynock has many favourite taverns, (180 by his own count), but not many he returns to twice in the same six months.

(**)  Inevitably in all our lives, perspective is a purely personal measure.

15

             

          We listened again at the copper sheathed doors but nothing was stirring despite the recent din of battle.  The oiled hinges swung open at a touch and we gazed into a stone  flagged crypt of considerable size. Flickering pine torches lined the walls, set between pilasters carved to resemble entwined oak trees, carvings so detailed even stone acorns were visible between the leaves. We noticed these precise details a little later, for our immediate attention rested on the four dark sarcophagi standing within the tomb and the four armed skeletons standing against the slabs.  Each wore scraps of rusted mail, each clutched a heavy sword in its bony grasp. Four eyeless faces turned to face us. We braced ourselves to meet their attack, but to our amazement, the skeletons suddenly froze, still staring in our direction.  Seizing the moment our resolute Cleric stepped forward, his Holy Symbol of Marthammor Duin raised in defiance and now these skeletons moved!  With one word of command Dain drove them back to the farthest wall.

---

(c) Wizards of the Coast

  The Upright Mace and Traveller's Boot of Marthammor Duin

                                                      Finder of Trails, the Watcher over Wanderers

               

    

               “Take them one at a time,” counselled Dain. “I can only turn them for a few minutes and they will attack as soon as they feel a blow.”

                “Then they’re very optimistic!” murmured Celmar.  “Considering their condition.”

                Yet even as we advanced a second door crashed back. Two Redbrands stood on the threshold, weapons raised; we heard weak voices behind them calling out desperately for help.  I sprang to meet these ruffians, our brave Druid at my side, while our careful comrades destroyed each skeleton in turn.  Our struggle was fierce, for once again these ruffians proved more skilful than anyone might expect. One Redbrand wounded Buddynock in the side but our gallant Gnome held his ground defiantly with my encouragement. Our blades struck home together, our foes fell to the ground and we finally saw who they had been guarding. “No wonder they never asked for quarter,” exclaimed Buddynock, the anger in his voice only too real.

                This long adjoining room had only one purpose. Iron bars divided the space into two separate cells secured by heavy padlocks.  Two dishevelled women were held in one cell, a boy was confined alone across the room.  All were clad in plain grey tunics with iron collars hammered around their necks; all were cold, hungry, and terrified, bruised, beaten and probably worse. In the central space stood a crude table and two wooden stools, a flagon of wine and a long whip lying conveniently close at hand. A pathetic heap of discarded clothing was piled carelessly against the far wall, worn peasant gear, the clothes of men,  women and children, enough for a dozen people at least.

Perhaps once Mirna Dendrar had been a pretty woman, once, a few days and a lifetime ago. Maybe her sobbing daughter even had that wildflower peasant beauty, delicate yet full of dancing life like daisies in a bright  meadow breeze. Now they looked grey with fear and pain, hollow eyed with loss, barely still able to think and reason. Mirna held her daughter in a grip of iron, staring across the room at her young son, alone and helpless in the shadows. Dragged from their beds in the dead of night, assaulted and terrified, Mirna witnessed the callous murder of her husband and expected her children  to be killed at any moment; her voice seemed to be travelling a great distance to reach us.  "I know my husband is dead, I saw them stab him in the back, they did, in the back, they did not dare look Thel in the eye, he stood by us and they killed him, they stabbed him, they laughed as he died, Thel heard them laughing, knew they had us too. And they dragged Thel away, they would not even leave us his body, we could not even make him decent."

               

                Livid  bruises ran down her  arms but I saw no serious physical wound.  Even with my crowbar I barely managed to force the door of the women’s cell and it was a weary time before we could also free the boy. We ask so much of Buddynock so many times, his little fingers are very nimble, but expecting him to pick locks is hardly fair.

16

               Mirna Dendrar and her children told us what they could, once we had cast aside our borrowed cloaks, for at first they thought we were merely Redbrands fighting amongst ourselves.  They  had seen a score of ruffians in the Manor together with a handful of 'big orcs' who sounded far too similar to  Uruk hai for my taste. This was not all, for the Dendrars believed something else lurked in ruined Tresendar, a creature the Redbrands used but feared, something unseen, unknown, something monstrous.  The  family spoke of a voice inside their heads, a greedy hungry voice which knew their thoughts, a voice which left them cowering on the floor whenever it chose to speak.

                We did not know if any Redbrand patrols were due to return, we could not risk telling the Dendrars to run for the safety of Phandalin. It seemed best to help barricade them inside one cell, leaving them the weapons from their slain guards. As a last resort they could snap shut the padlock Buddynock sprang open.

                "We cannot reward you," stammered Mirna Dendrar, "but if you ever get to Thundertree look beneath the shelves of the alchemist's store; a box may still be there, an emerald necklace, the only wealth my family ever had.  We had to run, we had no choice, the Undead came to Thundertree and all we could do was flee."

                Before moving onward we checked the crypt carefully. Yes there were four stone coffins and yes we destroyed four ancient skeletons but wise adventurers assume very little at face value ... at least if they hope to become old adventurers still swapping yarns years later. I levered free the cover of each sarcophagus with my crowbar as my comrades stood poised with weapons levelled and spells prepared. We found nothing save dust and rotting fragments of cloth, that and a platinum ring we placed in the group’s communal bag. The Tresendar family were all long dead, there was no known owner anymore and even pious adventurers have to eat,  hire lodgings, replace worn boots and pay for dints to be knocked out of their armour and shield. The last person to bear that ring was almost certainly now lying in a welter of bone splinters in a corner of the crypt. 

                “I'm just glad they were human skeletons,” I heard myself saying. In all truth, after seeing the desperate plight of that bereaved family and the pathetic heap of clothes on the prison floor, I think we all craved a joke the way a drunkard pines for ale.

                “Aren't they always?” Neave asked innocently.  “It makes no sense but I always think of animated skeletons as being human.”

                “Are  necromancers prejudiced?” said our Bard with a wry smile.

                “Oh no, they are not always human,” Dain said earnestly.  “Some are very strange.  Some are very weird, with bits you don't expect!”

               A sudden thought struck Buddynock:  "Do Gnome skeletons still have beards?" 

          Dain sighed:  "I've honestly no idea. We don't get a manual you know.  Yes we study the theory and yes we practice but we don't have some sort of guide to all the walking Dead ever possible." 

                 "Pity," replied Buddynock, clearly unabashed, "I mean, you could get points for spotting the more unusual ones. Undead Orcs, or bony Kobolds.  Or Gnome skeletons with or without moustaches."

                "Please if they do have hair, let it only be hair on their chins," Neave whispered to Celmar.

                Poor Dain caught my eye.  "I don't think we achieving quite as much as we could be right now," I said. "Time to move. One door left to try."

17   

                A short  stone flagged corridor led us forward, there were tracks in the dust to the very end and we could make out a stout oak door in the right hand wall. I was about to step forward when Dain gripped my arm. He stared for a long moment and beckoned to our Druid. Buddynock gently rolled his bucket into the corridor.  Nothing happened. Our Gnome pulled his wheeled bucket back on its chain and cast again, this time sending Wilson ten feet down the corridor and knocking against both walls on the way. Still nothing and Buddynock summoned his strength for a final cast, finally rolling his bucket right to the far end.    He gave us all a beaming smile.

                "Well done, but let's still be careful," I advised.

                "It’s a good trap detector wheeled Wilson," replied Buddynock winding back the thin chain, "but not as reliable as a clumsy Paladin in the vanguard!"

                "Thank you!"

                This next room proved to be an armoury and each weapon was stored with care; blades greased against rust, spear shafts placed carefully where they would not warp. We counted twelve spears, six short swords, four long swords, six light crossbows and eight cases with twenty bolts apiece.

“Interesting. They keep better discipline than mere brigands,” said our Ranger hefting the weight of a spear.

“Well, they have a whole town to hold down,” said Shupatra the Bard standing on watch in the doorway .  “From all these weapons it looks as if they are hoping to recruit more to their band.”

 “Either that or they struggle to make friends and want to be ready,” chipped in Buddynock.

“If we pass these weapons to the prisoners will they know how to use them?” suggested Celmar.  “The crossbows at least should be easy enough.”

 “Providing they remember who we are,” muttered Dain Rocksmiter. “I don’t fancy being shot by a 'friend' twice the same day.”

“It was an accident!” exclaimed Buddynock.  “Honestly!”

“You’re getting upset?” growled Dain: “You!”

“Let’s keep moving,” I said hastily.  “Remember we seem to be up against a wizard they call Glasstaff.  Not to mention what sounds like a group of Uruk hai. Remember the last one? We can't afford to take any foolish chances.”

                "So back the way we came then?"  said Shupatra.

                "Wait," said Dain, staring at the opposite wall of the corridor.  "One moment. There’s something not quite right."  He ran his keen hands over the dressed stone and with a sudden snap, a rotating panel opened before us. A cold gust of air made us shiver as we peered into a doorway dark as pitch, dank and forbidding.  None of us missed the faint smell in the air.  A smell we knew too well.

                "How did you guess the door was hidden?"  Neave Gemstone spoke with true amazement.

                "Just a sense.  Dwarf stuff.   You’re good with spell books and pentagrams, and our delightful Druid is good with daffodils and badgers."

                "You’re not so bad with daffodils too,"  smiled Celmar, "you are a Nature Cleric after all."

                "But I’m still all dwarf," said Dain Rocksmiter with quiet pride.  (*)

        

---

(*)  I somehow doubt any subterranean Dwarvish nature deity would be particularly familiar with daffodils.

18

     One by one we passed through the secret door and stepped into a store room. The coldness was as palpable as marble and the ripe stench only grew stronger;  something very close was very dead.  We picked our way forward our lantern held high, we peered intently into the gloom, every nerve alert for danger. I heard a sudden gasp from sensitive Shupatra, wheeling round I saw her standing still, her eyes wide with surprise; next Buddynock Rubyrubb was shaking his head in disbelief, his small knuckles white on the hilt of his curved sword.  I saw their eyes flicker in fear and confusion, heard their swift denials anything was amiss.  

               

                 "There's nothing there," said Shupatra firmly, "just my imagination playing tricks."

                This desolate room held more barrels and wooden crates, a heap of cured beaver pelts and more rats lurking in the shadows. Nothing remotely out of the ordinary … save a yawning opening where this cellar suddenly gave way to a natural cave, stretching into the distance as far as we could see. Flickering torches in the rough rock walls illuminated two mighty stone pillars stretching from floor to ceiling and a dark crevasse ran down the centre of this cavern, spanned by two dilapidated timber bridges.  The cold emanated from here, a biting cold no could have expected.  And with the cold the smell of death. There was more to Tresendar Manor than we ever imagined.

                First Shupatra and Buddynock, then our stolid Ranger and Elven Sorceress, now Neave Gemstone too, we saw each other's eyes widen with alarm, we saw each other stare into the darkness, turning to cover each quarter of the room. Everyone was hesitant to admit the truth, each of us feared what someone might say, but no one could deny what was happening, no one could pretend any more. Now Dain and I heard the same gurgling voice in our heads, insane whispers at the far edge of thought, greedy and capricious,  cunning and cruel; a voice alive with malign delight and close now, very close: "Belly so empty. Food all gone. It moved once. Not now. Not now. It crunched once. Not now. Not now. Hungry!  Hungry! I see you!"

                I pushed my heavy helm back to look at my companions. Faces I knew and trusted; friends who shared the same dangers side by side. Neave had fearlessly tried to aid poor Hrove dead in that horrific Grimlock ambush; Dain had drawn the ire of a terrible Carrion Crawler; young Celmar had stood firm against the Goblins and Buddynock had charged back into their twisting stronghold to find us no matter the odds.  I had seen the stalwart courage of our Ranger and Bard as we fought the Redbrands and Skeletons, I knew each of my comrades could be counted on, but now, with this voice echoing around our heads, this presence that seemed to read our minds and memories, now I saw the fear in their  faces and felt the terror gripping my own soul. 

                "Do you still hear nothing?" said Shupatra, clear concern in her voice.

                "Yes, no …  maybe.  I’m not mad!" even our resolute Ranger appeared uneasy.

                "Well I’m not either," Dain added firmly

                "And I’m still fine!"  said Buddynock, his deadpan face ashen between his bronze goggles and beard.

                "How would you know, how would any of us?" said Neave with quiet logic.

                "So we are all hearing this now?" said Celmar with quiet deliberation. 

                 "A rasping rambling voice saying it's hungry?" nodded Dain.

                 "But other things as well," added Neave.  " ‘You have a spell book! How nice! How lovely! I must remember to keep it clean afterwards.’ "

                "Not to me," Dain shook his head.  "It just mentioned wanting my magic Battleaxe."

                "It said I was far from the trees," added our Ranger.

                "Well it told me you let the goblins reach me in the tunnel," Celmar said evenly.

                I flushed with embarrassment: "That was only to face a dozen goblins charging from the rear, I left you fighting three.

                "I know, I do not blame you," Celmar placed a gentle hand on my shoulder. "What choice did you have?"

                Only our normally irrepressible Buddynock would not disclose any details: "I don't want to repeat what it said to me but it thinks Wilson will be useful ... afterwards."

                “It’s giving me the creeps," murmured Shupatra.

                "I’ve gone beyond the creeps," said Buddynock. "But I don’t fancy going beyond that opening."

                "We’ve rescued the prisoners," said Ranger Samuel.

                "We’ve rescued some of the prisoners," Dain said firmly.  "Some of them."

                "There’s something very dead down there," said Buddynock.

                I nodded my head in agreement.

                "And I’d rather not join it!" our Gnomish Druid added.

                "There is reasonable light from those torches," Neave said very quietly. "If my familiar flies through this cavern I will sense what he detects.  Do you agree?"

                "What of the risk to Pelydrn?"  said Buddynock anxiously.



            "I promise you he cannot be hurt." Neave smiled as she gentled her raven’s feathers.  "Dear Pelydrn simply returns to his own plane of existence if he would be injured in our dimension.  He will be quite unharmed and I can simply summon him again when I have a spare hour for the ritual."  For a moment Neave stroked the head of her familiar then with a sudden movement the Raven soared into the air.

19

     

                Neave stood still as death concentrating furiously.  "The cavern is sixty feet in length and nearly forty across.  I see dusty stone and shadows, more rats, the two stone pillars, I see other openings in the cavern, other corridors, a rough cut tunnel, he is circling back now, no Pelydyn the crevasse as well please.  The fissure is ten, no twenty feet deep, it's cold, so cold, I see a body, it's very dead, a human male, been dead for some time, there are bite marks, pieces missing, there is something moving, something big, something getting nearer, a yellow green light,  Pelydrn is climbing again, soaring upwards, staying out of reach, Pelydrn is gone!”

                Nobody spoke for a moment then Ranger Samuel stepped forward.  He carefully poured an oil flask over his coiled rope then nodded to Shupatra.  A spark flew from her tinder box, our Ranger dashed forward and hurled the bright burning coil of rope down into the crevasse. It landed in a spray of sparks banishing the darkness all around it.  Something substantial scuttled back into the shadows. Something larger than any man.

                Shield up I moved towards the far bridge, as Ranger Samuel and Dain advanced to the wooden bridge nearest to us.  Our feet scuffed through thick dust, the rock ceiling was festooned with cobwebs, the smell of decay grew stronger. Our Ranger nodded: the only tracks he could find were left by normal boots; nothing to match the large beast we glimpsed lurking down below.  Was the creature trapped in the crevasse? If we were safe staying above the yawning chasm that was something.  I approached my bridge with caution, I could still see nothing below me but the unnatural cold was even more intense. I checked the supporting posts and ropework, all seemed in order, I stepped gingerly onto the wooden slats, they creaked but bore my weight. I walked out onto the middle of the swaying bridge. All seemed well until that moment it promptly gave way beneath me with a scream of rending timbers. I hurtled down into the darkness far below.

                I surely should have died. At the very least I should have been stunned, or left lying helpless in the blackness my legs smashed beneath me.  Miraculously I landed flat and in soft sand, avoiding the jagged rocks alongside.  I heard anxious calls from my comrades above, as I staggered to my feet, then saw the grey grinning creature twice my size bounding toward me. I saw a long jaw lined with dripping  fangs, I saw spines protruding from its back, I saw clawed feet reaching for my throat, I saw one huge green baleful eye staring in mad frenzy and I heard a screaming roar of hatred, hunger and greed echoing around my head. That terrible, hideous stare transfixed me like a lance. A stare to strip a soul from its body. For an instance I felt cold pain, but with a shout of defiance I swung my sword up and out shearing away one of the creature’s foreclaws.  A Nothic, a filthy nothic!

(c) Wizards of the Coast

               

Former wizards whose dark ambitions fatally out ran their ability, transformed into twisted aberrations by the curse of  Vecna the Lich Lord,  Betrayer, Corrupter, Vecna the Chained God, the Holder of Secrets, the Shadow from the Pit.  Insane  and vicious, Nothics search hopelessly for some mystic knowledge to restore their former selves and ever hungry they seek fresh meat to sustain them in the meantime. Their stare means death for the full gaze of a Nothic rots flesh down to the bone, while their weird insight plucks memories from their prey, thoughts which disorientate with fear, thoughts to give Nothics the opportunity to strike.

                It sprang at me again, teeth tearing at my mail, I beat it back with my shield, striking again with my sword as a crossbow bolt shot past my head from above splintering against the rock.  An arrow buried itself in the Nothic's flank, another crossbow bolt pierced a hind leg. I cut and thrust with all my waning strength, the beast reeled back blood spurting from its wounds. I felt a sudden stab of pain in both my shoulder and back as two, two Elven arrows missed the beast completely and hit me! (*)

                Even outnumbered and wounded the Nothic made no attempt to flee or negotiate. As another keen arrow struck home, the beast turned its gaze to the eager archers clustered above.  The hideous eye gleamed and our poor Ranger fell without a cry, his skin blackened and smoking. Enraged I thrust my long sword home to the very hilt. The  screeching Nothic reeled backwards, claws scrabbling for a purchase. I wrenched my blade free and brought my sword down, once, twice, only stopping when that bright eye dimmed and died.

               Celmar and Neave Gemstone peered over the edge of the crevasse.   They saw the affects of their archery; I saw the expression on their faces.  "Just say nothing, nothing at all," I advised.  "That really is best.  What of the others?"

                 "Buddynock is on watch, Shupatra too.  The Ranger is really bad," gulped Neave. "He caught the full stare of that Nothic."

---

(*)   When your own comrades are repeatedly shooting you in the back I think anyone can be forgiven for keeping careful  count.   

20

"Is he alive?" I asked, quietly cursing my slowness in killing the beast.

                "Barely," said Celmar as she lowered a knotted rope, "but Dain is working on him.  Do you need a hand?"

                "One moment please.”  I peered past the dead Nothic.  “There is something else down here."

               

"Threatening you?"  The urgency in Celmar's voice could have won a griffon race.

                "Thel Dendrar I suppose," I sighed.  "Or what is left of him, that Nothic was hungry.  When Dain is finished, please pass down all the sacks we have for a shroud.  We can't leave Thel  here and I don't think his family should see this. And I need a lantern. I want to make sure this ground is clear."

                "We can cover you from above," called Neave, nocking another arrow to her bow. She saw my reaction, she gulped:  "Very carefully!"

                The floor of the crevasse was so cold I could see my panting breath before my face. A foul den scattered with the spoils and filth of the Nothic, littered with gnawed bones and torn flesh.  We had surely found the resting place of those dozen missing villagers and that vanished wizard Albrek.  I could only hope they were all dead before being pushed over the edge of the crevasse.

                I finally became conscious of my many wounds; cuts and bruises from my fall; a claw slash from the Nothic and a spasm like cold lightning across my forearm where I avoided the gaze of that unnatural beast.  My fine mail saved me from the worst of those Elven arrows but I would still need help to remove them.  It was fortunate my two precious vials of Holy Water were secured at my side in a padded steel box since, from the smell, another broken oil flask was now dripping from my pack.  I again gave thanks my precious copy of Malory’s Chronicle was sheathed in fine waxed leather.

21

                The chest lay near the ruins of the bridge.  I set down my lantern and used the tip of my sword to pry at the lid, my dented shield raised almost to my eyes.  The swollen wood resisted then creaked open: spilling 100 or so gold crowns and a little more in silver. A pouch held five small malachite gems, alongside a faded parchment scroll which crackled when unwound but seemed to hold some magic all the same. Every adventurer recognises potions of healing and I placed the two vials in my pouch. Then underneath these spoils, to my mounting excitement, I saw a linen wrapped bundle, a long sword in a silver chased scabbard furred with cobwebs and dust. The silver was tarnished and stained but the keen blade pulled clear with barely an effort.  Any well-crafted sword seems more than mere metal, a true blade has balance and grace, it fits the swordsman's hand like a living thing, a predator beautiful and deadly, lithe and ready for the kill.

               The hilt was worked in the form of a falcon, the outstretched wings curving back to form the guard; I held the sword aloft and flickering lamplight sent a blue sheen running up and down the spotless blade. My hand trembled for I knew what fate had brought me:  Talon the famed sword of Aldith Tresendar, the knight who died defending his home against those Orcish hordes so long ago. I remembered the old stories, I had read the accounts, old Phandalin had not fallen without a desperate struggle; those orcs paid dearly for their victory.  Talon was symbol of justice, lost but never forgotten, this blade was waiting to be wielded again.  The Tresendar family were all long dead, no rival claimant existed. I sheathed my old sword with regret, the blade that had served me so well, but Talon was a weapon any warrior would be honoured to bear. Some unnatural entities resist even the keenest steel, until now, the only magic weapon  in our party was the gilded battle axe wielded by Dain Rocksmiter. With Talon in my hands good Dain and Grom would not face any eldritch enemies alone.

            After my comrades pulled the wooden box out of the crevasse, they lowered another rope for me. I was staggering now, wounded and weary, without Dain’s strong arms and Buddynock's encouragement I would have struggled to climb back to them. We all took a moment to catch our breath and for Dain Rocksmiter to further demonstrate his skill removing errant arrows. Shupatra knelt at the side of Ranger Samuel, holding a waterskin to his blackened lips; the poor man had barely survived the necrotic stare of the Nothic.  It took three potions and our remaining healing spells to restore Samuel and myself to fighting trim and we still had not located the remaining Redbrands, the Uruk–hai or their mysterious wizard leader.

               I quickly told my comrades what has occurred: "An evil creature, degraded and desperate, foul and cunning. That Nothic could have laid waste to all Phandalin and slain every person in the town."

               "An intelligent beast though," said Dain Rocksmiter.  "And yet it did not even try to talk."

               "Apart from weird unwelcome telepathy," replied Celmar with a shudder.

               "The Nothic left me no choice," I said.  "It attacked as I was still winded.  One great eye stabbing out of the dark.  It saw me alone and vulnerable, it tried to destroy me."

               "And it knew as well." Our  Halfling Bard looked me full in my face.

               "Knew?"  I asked.

               "Knew you are a Paladin, knew you are sworn to destroy all workers of evil, each and every one," said Shupatra.

               "Yes?" 

               "It is fortunate you are so good at knowing who it is right to slay and who to save,"  Shupatra said evenly. Bards are known for their dislike of most authority and all who follow orders too slavishly.  Mockery is their stock in trade, the songs and poetry which sting the skin of the small minded and unthinking, the mighty and the powerful. Was there irony in her voice, disdain even?  Disdain for me?

               "I had no other option Shupatra, no choice at all. It was the Nothic's life or mine," I replied.

               Her eyes were piercing: "What about the day when you do have a choice to spare a life?"

               I chose not to answer. As I placed the Nothic's treasure in our shared bag I remembered the ancient scroll stored with the long lost sword.  It is always pleasant to find an appropriate gift for a dear friend. I proudly unrolled the crackling parchment and read the title to my companions. Now to make a slight confession, despite my love of books, I have always struggled to pronounce certain words.  Telling my startled friends I had found a Scroll of 'Orgery' was one thing.  Confidently stating pious Dain Rocksmiter could make expert use of it was quite another. There was a stunned silence from Shupatra and Ranger Samuel, frantic coughing from both the elves and Buddynock’s instant eager response:  “What!  Are there pictures?”  (*)

               It was now we discovered a short tunnel leading from the large cavern to the overgrown gardens outside.  A useful escape route if we were hard pressed or the means for fresh foes to attack us from the rear?  Who could say? After hauling Thel Dendrar’s shrouded remains to the main cave we crossed the remaining bridge one by one, but with a life line rigged all the same.  We entered the remaining stone flagged tunnel, turning a corner and climbing a short flight of steps. We were back in the sprawling cellars of  ruined Tresendar and none of us missed the many footprints in the dust. It was very clear these corridors were still occupied.  Our advance was slow and cautious hugging the walls, negotiating each corner with care. We stopped dead at the sight of one rat which refused to flee. Careful examination revealed it was made of stone and carved with incredible skill. 

               "I can see a tiny wound on the shoulder,"  said keen eyed Neave, "why would any sculptor bother including that?" (**)

               "Having a bad day?" whispered Buddynock: "Poor little squeaker!"

---

(*)   I also remain grateful to good Dain Rocksmiter for his tactful manner and the correct pronunciation. 
       He accepted the clerical Scroll of Augury with quiet gratitude

      It is fortunate I am not some wizard or sorcerer reciting arcane lore where the slightest error can spell disaster involving:

                    (a)  an instant pair of empty smoking boots.

                    (b)  the accidental summoning of life forms well endowed with both teeth and healthy appetites.                                                               (c)  the extensive, unplanned redesign of the immediate neighbourhood of the mage in question.

(**)             Yes we were all already thinking was it really carved or …

22

               The landing beyond these stairs led to two doors opposite each other.  From the right came a strange almost rhythmic bubbling noise. “That’s either the worst party in the world,” said Celmar.

               “Or the best!” beamed Buddynock. "I can explain if you like. No? As you wish."

               We could not miss the sound of slurred voices and pattering of dice behind the left door. One exultant voice swore with delight, several others sounded less enthusiastic; this did not appear a game when players congratulated a rival's success.  I glanced at our Ranger, we nodded and kicked the door wide.  Four Redbrands all reeking of ale stared in dull surprise, their game interrupted, their piles of coin scattering to the floor. Before they could rise from their seats we were on them.  Ranger Samuel and I each slew a ruffian, the remaining two threw up their arms and surrendered.  A wise decision in the circumstances, partly due to our sudden appearance, partly because one of the surviving Redbrands was so drunk he accidentally stabbed his own foot with his sword.

               The room held nothing of interest,  only some wooden benches, shabby draperies and several ale kegs, one empty, a second already tapped. Our cringing prisoners were eager to speak but said nothing we did not already know: warning us of a hidden pit, an 'eye beast' deep in the earth and the fact their leader had magic powers. Those first prisoners back in Phandalin had also mentioned this Glasstaff. A coincidence? Possibly, but only a brave man would put money on it. If a dark wizard lurked in ruined Tresendar, he must surely be close by now.  We retraced our steps to the remaining door, prodding the two captive Redbrands ahead of us.  Well we could not risk leaving them behind even if they were bound. None of these ruffians had been forced to join this vicious band:  their guilt was plain and their readiness to kill.  We all remembered that brutalised family in the cells and that heap of empty clothes, these ruffians had not even bothered to burn.  Many scattered bones littered that cold crevasse: the Redbrands had not just fed men  to that ravening Nothic.

               The remaining door led to an alchemist’s laboratory, the stained wooden benches were a forest of stained glass alembics and retorts, flickering burners, distillation coils and condensers all busily bubbling away. Bookshelves and scroll racks lined one wall, each crowded with sheaves of parchment and leather bound tomes.  A rack of small empty vials stood in one corner; many more broken vials were piled in a wicker basket. Neave Gemstone pored over the scrawled notes, lost in fascination: "If I could make an educated guess I think someone is trying to make invisibility potions."

               "Charming," muttered our Cleric. "Is there any sign they succeeded? I ask just from academic interest.  Nothing to do with the fact I'm the rearguard.  Again!"

               "Steady and true Dain, steady and true," I said, "Everyone keep listening for footsteps.  Neave there will be time to look at the books later.  Well there should be time.  Hopefully. But not now. Sorry."

               "Have you seen that big rat over there?"  said Ranger Samuel.

               "The only one not running away from us?" Celmar said slowly, as she began to raise her staff.

               "Half a mo and I’ll have a word," smiled Buddynock. "Hang on it’s off! Through that hole in the far door.  The one none of us noticed.  Ah.  Umm. Would you say it sort of looks sort of planned in advance? I’m just asking."

               Dain nodded  to the Ranger: "Yes this can be generally taken as a bad sign... "

               This second door swung open to reveal the most luxurious room of the manor, ornate scarlet hangings on every  walls, thick rugs on the floor, a crowded desk laden with notes and scrolls, a quill pen, ink and sand shaker, a charcoal brazier gently smouldering,  a low divan bed, a small man with a neatly trimmed beard lying on the bed staring back at us, a transparent six foot staff already in his hand, the large rat crouching at his head. This ermine-robed stranger mouthed words of power as his free hand shaped the air around him, for a heartbeat I felt gripped in a vice, held rigid and helpless but strength returned to my limbs and I raised my sword again. Nimble Shupatra attempted her sleep spell, as Buddynock and Ranger Samuel charged forward blades drawn and Celmar levelled her elvish bow. The unabashed mage simply raised a tiny glass vial to his lips. An instant later he vanished. (*)

               "The door! Shut the door! " Celmar bawled. "It's Glasstaff. Stop him escaping!"

               Dain threw his stocky body against the door we had entered, slamming it shut. "Done!"

               "Back to back, quick!"  I shouted, covering the unarmoured Shupatra with my shield. Surely we had the magician now.  Our hearts raced, our eyes scanned every inch of the robe, where was-?”

               "There in the corner!" Neave Gemstone pointed frantically at a flapping tapestry, Ranger Samuel wrenched the cloth aside to reveal a hidden portal and a flight of stone steps disappearing into the dark.  The rat familiar rounded the far corner as we stood there, following its master before we could intervene.  Once our lantern was lit, a few steps brought us back to that storeroom with the beaver pelts and the entrance to the cavern. There was no sign of life, we could not hear a sound, save water dripping down from the cavern roof. We had no chance of finding Glasstaff now. The only saving grace was careful Dain Rocksmiter making sure our two Redbrand prisoners were still waiting when we returned.  We searched this wizard's chamber swiftly but with care. A sturdy unlocked chest at the foot of the mage's bed held the best pickings: over 300 silver and gold coins, a silk purse with five small carnelians, two green peridots and a pearl of unblemished lustre.   An opened bag of bird seed was more puzzling.  Even Neave could not offer any explanation.

---

(*) Dain has carefully explained using the phrase "charging forward with our 'weapons' out, or drawn, extended or ready, can   unfortunately create an unintended image for the reader.  Unless I am describing some genuinely unusual circumstances.  (**)

(**) At least for Paladins.

23

               Two scrolls were of particular interest.  Neave Gemstone has not yet mastered the safe casting of fireballs, such powerful magic requires further study and far greater experience, but this scroll could still be copied into her own spell book ready for the future.  Bards are a stark contrast, they trust to memory for both magic and music and rarely use the written word. All the same Shupatra could still read from a spell scroll if her own magic had already been sung.  There are times when need drives a hard bargain; a second Charm spell would never go amiss.

               "Have you seen this?" said Ranger Samuel, holding an opened letter from the cluttered desk. "I somehow doubt Glasstaff intended to leave this for us."

(c) Wizards of the Coast

               "Our prisoner at Cragmaw spoke of a great leader," mused Buddynock, "Before he took that little tumble. Remember him boasting? Quite tedious really and a right pain in the nads."

               "Look at the name," urged Neave Gemstone. "Remember Sildar's missing wizard?"

               "Iarno Albrek, a short man with a trimmed beard and a staff," I said slowly, "Well we certainly found ... Glasstaff."

               "And Albrek too! And he's not dead," said Celmar with heavy irony.  "There's something!"

               "Happy days! But will Hallwinter still want him back," Buddynock grinned until a sudden thought struck him.  "Come to think of it can we trust sober sides Sildar anyway?  Seeing as one of his friends is a traitor?"

               "We left him with those half dozen Redbrand prisoners," said Shupatra.  "What if they have been released?  They could be all coming after us!" 

               "The ones who really don't know how to speak to ladies," added Neave Gemstone.

               "Well if we happen to meet again, I hope for their sakes they've learnt better," said Celmar.

               We retraced our steps back through Glasstaff's chamber and the laboratory to the guard room where those four Uruk-hai lurked.  Both our prisoners nodded but their grudging confirmation was scarcely necessary.  We could not miss those gruff voices behind the door, voices heavy with contempt and barking commands in the goblin tongue:  "Lick the floor!  Again! Roll like a dog!  Down on your face!"  (*)

               The moment had come, these savage Uruk hai could not be left so close to Phandalin. Brave Buddynock silently transformed into a Brown Bear, his last shape shift before dawn.  We gritted our teeth as we flanked both sides of the doorway, our weapons suddenly heavy in our hands. (**) Each of us nodded in turn, each of us knew the part we would play. Our two cowed prisoners were ordered to open the door and tell the Uruk hai leader he was summoned by Glasstaff; let just one of our foes step out into the corridor and we would soon even the odds. The heavy timbers swung back, we heard an angry Uruk hai snarl at this interruption, our two Redbrand prisoners suddenly bawled a warning and leapt inside to join them!   (***)

               Nimble Buddynock recovered first, charging headlong through the closing door, his great paws slashing from side to side, driving back our startled enemies and winning us vital fighting room.  Our transformed Druid badly injured one Uruk hai but a second swung its heavy maul with cunning skill, the weighted hammer smashing into the bear's side with deadly affect.  Our comrade staggered back, half stunned, but Ranger Samuel and I were also through the open doorway now, Dain hard on our heels, as Celmar and Neave loosed their first careful arrows from the corridor. I took on two Uruk hai, our Ranger a third as Dain Rocksmiter cast a hasty Shield of Faith over wounded Buddynock and the two treacherous Redbrands scrabbled around for weapons to join the fight.

               The cramped barracks left little space for the finer points of swordplay, it held four rough bunks and a scatter of squalid litter, not to mention two bodies already sprawled across the floor. These hulking Uruk hai have many creative means of passing time. The dead goblin lying near a crumpled red cap had clearly been casually kicked to death.  A second goblin crouching submissively on his bony knees fainted dead away as Buddynock burst through the door. 

---

(*)        Buddynock Rubyrubb was not inspired to mention any past social gathering or 'recreational activities' from his past

             It just goes to show even people you know well can still surprise you.

(**)      Between us we were wielding  a long sword, a battleaxe, a scimitar, a rapier, two short bows and a pistol crossbow. 

             If I can't legitimately use the term 'weapons' in this instance when can I?

(***)     After careful post melee analysis, with due consideration given to tactical manuals and military history I maintain the   

             correct and appropriate response remains:  "Oh bugger!" (****)

(****)    Which in any case was still more polite than Buddynock's  gesture ... with both furry paws simultaneously!

24

               The delicate notes of a dulcimer graced the air, we heard Shupatra chanting a Bane spell and saw three of the Uruk hai falter and pause. Thankfully their next attacks went wide but the two Redbrands seized spears from the wall and joined the fray. Blood dripping from his grievous wound, our Druid changed back to Gnome form; his studded leather armour offering better protection than a bear's hide.  Invulnerable while the Shield of Faith lasted, though unable to fight himself,  poor Buddynock clasped a bandage to his side as he drew his small scimitar and prepared to rejoin the battle.

               A sudden laugh sounded from outside the room.  The treacherous mage reappeared at the top of the stairs mouthing a charm spell, transparent staff in his hands, a small wooden box at his feet.  Our resolute Sorceress shrugged off the fell magic, spun round and sent a swift arrow flying in reply; the keen Elvish shaft flew true but seemed to slow in mid air, falling to the floor like a fluttering leaf. Our enemy smiled with contempt, savouring the moment,  with one kick Glasstaff sent the wooden box bouncing down the steps, its lid flying open as it crashed against the flagstones by Celmar’s toes.

              

               Small claws scrabbled against splintered wood, there was a frantic outraged squawking,  suddenly a hideous bird creature bounded into the fray screaming at everyone in its path.  It resembled a featherless chicken in size and shape, we saw a mad yellow eye and jagged beak but the naked head looked almost reptilian, and the jagged wings could have graced a vampire bat.  The mystery of that rat 'sculpture' was solved quite definitely; to our horror we recognised a furious Cockatrice.  Somewhere nearby the Fates were laughing.

(c) Wizards of the Coast

                                                          Cockatrice:  half-life size but just as horrible.

              

Our fight was desperate now, as fortune swung back and forth. The guardroom was a sea of bestial faces, screams and swinging blades; these Uruk hai are terrifying in close combat, well armoured, strong and almost without fear. We were fighting for our lives we had no doubt of that, we knew there would be no offer of quarter from these foul creatures. I slew the Uruk hai already gravely injured by Buddynock but to our horror a spiked maul struck Ranger Samuel to the ground, our gallant comrade lay helpless at our feet, his life-blood draining away.  Dain killed the limping Redbrand; as Shupatra unleashed her Vicious Mockery on Glasstaff;  her string of insults, laced with enchantments hindering his efforts to attack.  Any help was welcome now, any faint chance at all. We were failing, we were being overwhelmed and with Glasstaff at our backs I could not even order my comrades to run while I held the doorway to the end.

25

               Inside the guardroom Dain, poor Buddynock and I fought frantically with our eager foes, in the corridor, Celmar, Shupatra and Neave engaged Glasstaff in a vicious magic duel, that flight of stone steps between them, the crackling air alive with rainbows of coloured sparks. Glasstaff hurled down spells from the top stair, our friends took turns to shelter behind a corner, darting out to level their own spells and arrows back at our cackling foe.  At least that was their impromptu plan.  Careful tactics tend to go askew when also coping with a enraged Cockatrice hurtling between your legs, leathery wings flailing, its beak gaping wide in berserk fury.

Darting from side to side, the small Cockatrice was a near impossible target.  Shupatra's hasty crossbow bolt went wide as the demon bird screamed forward.  Celmar dodged its frantic attack, our Halfling Bard nimbly leapt clear, but our gentle Elfish wizard was pinned against the wall. Neave's face blanched in horror as she felt a peck on her shin; somehow she resisted the eldritch poison but the Cockatrice drew back its head to lunge again. In desperation Neave kicked out at the foul creature, something, anything to keep it away; her foot connected and the surprised Cockatrice was suddenly soaring through the air stubby wings outstretched. Neave Gemstone had finally cleared the corridor ...  by accidentally sending it spinning through our crowded doorway.

                 I still hear that demented clucking in my dreams; well, those nights I wake up screaming. Fighting hand to hand is hard enough without some devil rooster rushing round your feet aiming for ankles. Any ankles. No matter what Glasstaff may have hoped, this particular Cockatrice proved quite content to attack everyone. At least I had fine mail chausses covering my legs, the Uruk hai menacing Buddynock was less well protected; the huge orc easily shrugged off the Cockatrice's poison but this brief distraction still gave me a chance.  With one swing Talon cut through his helm.

               Finally free of that avian enemy Neave loosed her magic missiles, the spell renowned for never missing its target. To her dismay the evil mage merely tapped his transparent staff on the ground, and Neave's spell exploded en route before it reached him  Using her sorcerer's powers Celmar summoned her Shocking Grasp a second time but again our enemy's Staff of Defence blocked the Elven spell. Glasstaff threw back his head in triumph and raised his hands once more, his long blackened fingers outstretched and quivering.

               Our helpless Ranger still lay in a spreading pool of blood. Samuel made no sound and barely seemed to be breathing, but we had no chance to come to his aid. Three Magic Missiles injured Celmar and Glasstaff’s Shocking Grasp spell threw delicate Neave Gemstone to the floor, black smoke billowing from her singed robes.  Our comrades loosed arrow after arrow but each attack was foiled by that magic staff. Buddynock was frantically parrying his relentless opponent, we slew the third Uruk hai, just as Dain brought down the last treacherous Redbrand. Our good Cleric shot one glance in our direction and seized his chance. Working frantically, flailing swords a few inches from his head, Dain Rocksmiter was finally able to staunch Ranger Samuel’s grievous wounds. Another few minutes and no aid could ever have been enough. Was the tide finally turning at last? 

               Yet now gallant Buddynock gave a shrill shout of pain as the Cockatrice pecked just above his knee.  Our Druid struck back, his keen scimitar shearing away one stubby wing, but to our horror we saw the colour leach from Buddynock’s face, his movements began to stiffen, we saw his furious will to resist but fell magic was spreading through his tiny body.  Even in such a plight our keen witted Druid kept his head, Buddynock reversed his iron rimmed battle bucket, his first attempt failed but with his final breath our Gnomish comrade slammed down Wilson over the injured creature. The screaming Cockatrice was finally trapped.  Brave Buddynock lurched forward than froze forever, transformed to solid stone.

               I finally killed the last Uruk hai. To my amazement I had come through the whole fight without even a scratch.  Glasstaff still fought from the top of the stairway; more of his magic missiles badly injured Shupatra, but our steadfast comrades held their ground, loosing arrows as fast as they could  nock and draw.  The top stair was littered with shattered shafts and broken crossbow bolts, none pierced our foe’s defences but the furious barrage was beginning to tell.  For all his cunning Glasstaff had fought too long.

               Now Celmar unleashed her final spell: her three magic missiles streaked towards their target, Glasstaff summoned his magic shield once again but his exhausted Staff of Defence sputtered and died.   Our enemy barely had time to register what was happening. Celmar’s spell hit home in a shower of purple sparks, sending Glasstaff's smouldering body flying into the wall. Slowly his left hand began to rise, but Neave and Shupatra had already levelled their bows. An arrow and crossbow bolt both struck home.  His arm fell back, Glasstaff’s corpse slid slowly down the stairs.

               "Was he trying to surrender, right then at the end?" asked Shupatra, her eyes wide with shock.

               "He never said, he did not make it clear," gasped Celmar. "How could we have taken a chance?"

               "Buddynock!" screamed Neave Gemstone from the guardroom doorway, her bright eyes full of tears. "Oh Buddynock!" 

               Time seemed to have stopped forever. I gently touched our small comrade's shoulder only to recoil in horror; in place of once warm flesh there was only the cold chill of stone. Dain Rocksmiter still knelt over Ranger Samuel, his hands stained by our friend's grievous wound, his honest face numb with grief and surprise.  In our shock and dismay we were barely conscious victory was ours. The barrack block was a charnel house, the floor running with blood; even the walls stained red in places.  Each of us was exhausted: most of us were injured and our dear friend stood unmoving, unbreathing solid stone.  No one spoke, there were no words left to say.  Only the hoarse screams of the trapped Cockatrice finally roused us. That battered wooden bucket was rocking dangerously.

26

Once we had carried Ranger Samuel clear of the fouled room, we retreated to the far wall and readied our weapons. Celmar’s mage hand tilted the bucket from a safe distance and the raging Cockatrice instantly leapt clear, charging forward screaming with anger and pain only to be immediately transfixed by a javelin, two crossbow bolts and an Elven arrow.  Tresendar was finally ours.

Dain and I gently inched Buddynock closer to the wall; he would be safer there with less chance of being accidentally toppled or chipped, for any damage would have horrible consequences if we ever hoped to revive our petrified comrade.  Such high magic was far beyond our own abilities, but we did all we could all the same.  Dain offered a heartfelt prayer for divine aid: his deep voice soaring, his words passionate, honest and from the heart,  his voice died away yet no answer came.  I tried myself, imploring good Pallas Athene to intervene but again our friend remained lost to us. Neave Gemstone returned in tears: she had searched Glasstaff's workshop with diligence and care but she could find no potion, compound or incantation which could restore life to poor Buddynock.  As we sat back in despair the delicate sound of Shupatra's lute echoed through the blood stained cellar of Tresendar Manor; her pure voice lifted up in a lament for our lost friend:

So many adventures couldn't happen today
So many songs we forgot to play
So many dreams are swinging out of the blue
We let them come true

Forever young, I want to be forever young

Do you really want to live forever,

forever and ever

Forever young

              A flower of music lighting our darkness the delicate threnody filled the air, fell slowly, faded and died.  Each of us was lost in the moment, each of us was lost with our memories, each of us was reaching for weapons as one of the sprawled bodies suddenly opened its eyes. We had all forgotten the Goblin those Uruk hai were mistreating. The wizened creature began to rise, saw us, shrieked and fell face down on the floor again cringing with fear. Ensuing negotiations were protracted but fruitful. Even if the Uruk hai had not been abusing this pathetic creature none of us had any stomach for more bloodshed.   After we repeatedly promised to spare him, invoking all the deities Dain and I have ever vaguely heard of, this cringing goblin sat up and actually answered our questions, his speech a stuttering saliva flecked rush of syllables, while his bony hands plucked at our sleeves. (*)

---

 (*)             Gove answered our questions once he was finally dissuaded from polishing our boots with his tongue.
                    I do not exaggerate.  Wanton pride is grating but craven subservience sickens the soul.

Neave Gemstone swearing by the name of Buddynock's favourite beer  'Sticky Chicken;' was a nice touch in  the                                     circumstances  and surprisingly effective.  "I will swear by it," said Neave, [ before whispering],   "Poor Buddynock used   to                 swear after it..."

27

Cave trolls will fly before Goblins can be trusted to keep their word and Gove was clearly desperate to please us, yet some of what he said still rang true.  As we suspected Gove and his dead comrade had both fought us at the Cragmaw cavern, escaping into the woods when we cleared the tunnels. Gove also remembered the capture of Gundren Stonefoot two days before.  He said the dwarf and his pretty picture had been taken to the King. Not to the Chief, little Gove insisted, but to the King.  He was the King because he lived in a real Castle, but he was not the real Chief.  Gove thought the Castle was somewhere north but he could not be sure, he could not tell us who and where the Chief was and he did not know the location of the lost mine.  Goblins are wretched creatures who lie as readily as they breathe, yet Gove was so desperate to ingratiate himself he seemed to be telling the truth.  He  could have  invented locations to buy time; the fact his knowledge was so partial actually made him more believable.  Unless, of course, he was really a consummate actor ...  but that particular theory did not survive half an hour of seeing  Gove trying to remember key facts while sucking the hand he had just used to scratch his buttocks. After excavating his ears.  And nose. (*)

               Twilight had fallen.  Our Ranger needed a warm, clean place to recover.  Each of us had been injured during the day, each of us desperately needed to rest. We collected the Dendrar family from the prison cell and made our exhausted way back to Phandalin. All but one of us; we had no choice, we had to leave Buddynock behind. Small in stature a Gnome may be, but a solid stone Gnome is still a heavy weight to bear.  The ground was rough and uneven, carrying him by hand was far too great a risk; the consequences of a stumble  would be horrible.  Better to return in daylight with a cart lined with straw; only then could we transport our stone friend safely back to the inn. 

               Celmar wanted to stay with poor Buddynock until dawn, even if she kept her vigil alone. She is truly tender hearted and her courage is exemplary but this was no place to linger.  We had no time and strength to deal with the many bodies strewn through these desolate cellars; there was a chance the blood would draw scavengers and Celmar would be safer passing what was left of the night in the warmth of Phandalin, where her own wounds could receive proper attention. No hungry scavenger would bother with a statue.

---

(*)     From their expressions Dain and Celmar were also remembering poor Buddynock soaked to the skin and furious the same red-capped Cragmaw goblin  had:

                                                                                                    a)    ambushed us on the road

                     b)    washed him clean out the cave once; 

                                                                                                    c)   almost swept him outside a second time;

                                                                                                    d)    shot an arrow through the tip of his hood;

                                                                                                    e)   escaped!

                                                                                                    f)    ambushed us while we slept in the forest;

                                                                                                    g)    escaped a second time scot free!

                And now Buddynock Rubyrubb was  turned to stone and his Goblin nemesis lay dead next to him, casually killed by his own vicious allies, that same crumpled red cap lying near his twisted fingers.    Two lives suddenly snuffed out.  It’s a turning world and only fools hope for any certainties;  the only constancy is the fragility.

28

               It was hard enough to persuade Celmar just to return with us to Phandalin.  When we finally reached our rooms the quarrel really began. The only hope for Buddynock was a spell of Greater Restoration but such deep magic would call upon a Cleric of high standing.  We would have to transport Buddynock’s stone body by cart for at least 100 miles to find anyone able to return him to life.  All my comrades were willing but I could not join them however much I yearned to.

              Personal is not the same as important. (*)  I could not break off my quest.  I was charged with finding lost Phandelver and this mission was vital, we searched for more than mere gold and glory, innocent lives were at stake, I could not, must not fail.  It would take months to travel by slow ox cart, inching our away among the pot holes and ruts of the Triboar Trail, indeed we would need more than one cart and spare wheels and axles too, for if our transport broke  we would be forced to abandon our poor stone comrade to the encroaching forest and briars.  I could not forsake my sworn duty,  not even to save one dear friend. Dark forces were gathering, we had unearthed treachery and a conniving mind dictating events.  We could not risk the power of Phandelver falling into the wrong hands, time was flying, the mission had to come first.

               At first my comrades were simply incredulous, at first they tried to reason with me, but when I remained obdurate their boiling anger could have rivalled a Red Dragon's wrath. Neave’s fury was a palpable force; her accusations deep and bitter,  Celmar argued each point with passion, feeling and clarity. Dain was the least openly roused, at least to anyone who did not know his abiding sense of honour and passion for justice. I saw his hands tighten on the haft of his axe as he shaped his words with an artisan's precision.  Our injured Ranger was too weak to join the debate but Shupatra looked on my stance with contemptuous disbelief.  I swore on my honour I would struggle to restore Buddynock Rubyrubb the first opportunity that arose. I offered to pay every penny I possessed to meet the cost of the magic but my comrades simply rose, turned and walked from the room, refusing to speak another word.  I have lost their goodwill irrevocably, this then is the end of our fellowship; the end of any hope we ever had.  I can only wish them every success with their journey for whatever the odds I must simply go on alone. Phandelver must be found.

               Gove was curled up in front of the dying fire. His grovelling promises to be honest were hard to stomach, but it seemed unwise to leave this goblin free to wander. In any case Gove might still have crucial information. I was too exhausted to even mind the smell. I sat late and alone in the empty bar over a flagon of wine, seeking to numb my grief and guilt any way I could. That in itself was a failing but in the circumstances I think I can be partially forgiven. (**)

             By bitter irony after our desperate fight in Tresendar I finally had the experience to truly call myself a Paladin. I could choose to swear my Oath of Devotion, I could choose to take this final step to wed myself to the destiny I dreamed of. Success at such a heavy price is bitter as rue.  I had no stomach for any mockery of an oath just now.

               I simply sat in that high backed wooden chair, no longer drinking, not even thinking. I was a blank man, I had no face, no meaning, no personality, hardly a name.  I was the last person left alive in the world.  I was right I knew that, but to be right is sometimes not enough.  Fine words can still make you sick to your stomach.  I longed to hear a voice, someone's anyone's.  Nobody had to like me, I just wanted to get off this frozen star.

              

               I finally heard the faint tapping on the window. Something, someone outside.  I finally lifted my head and looked.  I saw, I stared, I ...

---

(*)     One of the teachings of the wise Terentius P. A kind and noble soul much missed by all who loved him.

(**)    On being told to follow us, Gove said "I'll just get me hat"  retrieving his battered red headgear from the  floor.  

          Little in life is ever certain but Buddynock's goblin nemesis was certainly consistent in surviving. 
          I wonder how our poor Gnome would have reacted to the news 

 

---

29

Being the Account of Buddynock Rubyrubb,  Moon Druid

            Dalmas has asked me to scribe an account of what happened to me that evening. After all, no other bugger was present when I awoke so I suppose this does make the most sense. I still don’t really understand why our holy leader has this unquenchable need to document every aspect of our time together. Does he not know that living in the moment is far more rewarding?

            Being turned into stone is one of strangest sensations I have ever felt in my entire life. I am very familiar with the more hedonistic materials of the world. Many wonderful sensations can be achieved through ale and plant but becoming stone is something else entirely.

            It was not altogether unpleasant. Turning back however, is a slightly different story.

            Anyone who has meddled in alchemy will know that turning lead into gold is difficult enough. Turning gold back into lead is a much longer process and a lot more messy.

This is my time to shine and tell things from a Gnome perspective! Enough of Dalmas and his holy mission, we need a new perspective. I am honoured to present to any readers of this tome:

“HOW I RETURNED FROM STONE ...

BY BUDDYNOCK RUBYRUBB” or... “THE HAUNTING OF CADAN DALMAS”

            My sight was the first thing to return. I’m not sure if my eyes had actually returned to flesh or just the ability of sight had come back to my aid. What I do know is it was bloody dark. Which was concerning. Keep in mind I was very disorientated and my memories of what had happened were patchy. My eyes took a few minutes to adapt to the darkness and so I took a moment to look around as best I could. Vision was limited but I could see a couple of bodies on the floor within my line of sight. They looked pretty dead and did not look like any of my companions so I took this as a good start.

            I looked to both sides of me as far as I could but sadly no further clues were presenting themselves. I noticed a strange burning sensation had started around my toes, followed by what I can only describe as the sensation of lots of Gnomlings stabbing my feet with drawing pins.

            Judging the passage of time whilst in this state was difficult, being solid and unable to moan plays tricks on your mind. It could have been two minutes, it could have been two hours, but soon I found myself able to wiggle my precious toes.

            I wanted to scream with relief!

            I wanted to dance!

            I wanted to be naked!

            I wanted to dance naked whilst screaming!

            I wanted to wave my scimitar violently in celebration!

            Probably while screaming, definitely whilst dancing, although probably not whilst naked.

            30

            I knew I would be okay. This was not some stone afterlife where my soul would be trapped forever surrounded by the overbearing smell of slightly funky cheese. I found the burning sensation begun to cover most of my body, and gradually parts of me started to ease up allowing me to finally start moving. I found a pool of water in one corner of the room and used this to peer at myself. The sight was slightly worrying.

            It seemed that only small amounts of me had returned to normal, I was still more stone than flesh. At least now I knew I could move and leave this place. My priority was to find some light. I could see now that the floor was littered with bodies. Four Uruk Hai and a couple of Redbrands. Memories were starting to flood back.

            The bastards! They left me!  I could still not work out how I had ended up in the position I was in. I remembered fighting the Uruk Hai but from there everything is still a haze.

            I moved backwards slightly and tensed up and I knocked into something. I froze for a moment fearing that maybe a lone opponent had been missed. I could not move my arms at this stage, I had no hope of defending myself. I lightly kicked behind me to feel something move with a familiar squeak.

            “Wilson!” I tried to cry out, but my face was still stone. I slowly hobbled around and saw Wilson there facing me. He looked pleased to see me.

            I found I was very unsteady on my feet as parts of my legs were still stone. I did not want to risk tripping or losing my balance as stone is easily shattered. An idea struck me. I would use Wilson for support. My arms were already slightly outstretched so I could use this to balance on Wilson and he would keep me steady and I could slowly amble out!

            I approached Wilson but found just before I got close enough to place my stone hands on him he was move away as though something had knocked him. I approached again but the same result. This became quite frustrating and then I realised the problem.

            It would appear my arms were not the only appendages rock solid.

            I was glad at this stage the others had left me. I wonder if they had noticed the unfortunate side effect this curse had afflicted me with.

            My thoughts turned to the group. I am not one for anger, but I could not help but feel annoyed by these that I had come to call friends. I do not doubt that they had cause to leave, after all they may not be familiar with this curse and may consider me dead. Or they may have known of my safety and plan to return for me. It still hurt that they did not at least allow one member to stay behind to guard me.

            The burning sensation throughout my body was intensifying. I could only assume this was good and meant more of my solid body would ease up soon. Preferably enough so I could continue my plan to use Wilson as a tool to safely leave this compound. It was then that another memory flashed into my mind.

            I had been sitting in a pub once with an elderly gentleman. He was kind but had a look of sadness all over his face that no amount of ale, mead or merry song could lift. I tried to convince him to let me in on his troubles but all he told me is that he could no longer do what his wife wanted.

            At the time I did not really understand what the gentleman was referring to but I think my current predicament has enlightened me. I stopped suddenly as another key memory returned.

            That bloody chicken. It was that demon bird that did this to me. I lost a fight with a Coq Au Vin.

           I studied the room and sure enough the carcass of my arch nemesis lay lifeless across the floor. Good. I’m glad the others managed to avenge me.

            I am not a Gnome for scheming, but I sensed an opportunity. Chaps like my dear friend at the pub should not suffer and perhaps this hell poultry could be the key!

            I managed to angle myself in such a way that I could grab Wilson without knocking him away. I slowly shuffled over to the carcass. The feeling in my finger tips had started to return and despite the pain I managed to grab the bird and place it inside Wilson.

            I was concerned by the fact that although most of my body seemed to be gradually returning to normal and loosening up, my face was still firm and stone. I begun the long journey out of that rotten place, taking the time to have a quick search for anything valuable the dead Wizard outside the room may have had. Neave or Celmar must have got there first.

            As I eventually made it outside I found that it was night time. I would have to be careful. 32

            Once I rolled my way into the town a small tabby was watching me by the gate. My face was still hard and stone but my lips had free enough now to project speech.

            “Awwhk vhhhhattt aaa coooooot kiiitttty!” I spluttered.

            Animal speech does not translate well into Common. So please excuse this, but it is the closest translation I can muster onto how the cat responded.

            “Speak to me like that again and I will aim for your precious areas. I am a Tom and do not appreciate cute talk.”

After profusely apologising and assuring this feline as to its masculinity I then negotiated for it to take my letter and the demonic chicken carcass to my cousin Gizmo. For a price of course. The finest cream and freshest beef rather than the tinned ground beef and water he had become accustomed to.

            I agreed and quickly reminded the Tom Cat that the demon chicken cannot be eaten or the poison would turn him to stone too.

            I do not know what the time was at this stage of the night. But I do know it must have been late as I reached Stonehill. A quick glance inside showed that most were not around. But there he was. The bastard.            Cadan Dalmas, our valiant leader was sat by the fireplace, a half drunk tankard by his side. He looked sorrow. Wracked with guilt no doubt.

            I understood his position; he has to think of the big picture. That didn’t mean I was going to let him off lightly.  My legs were completely free now and my waist. The top half of my torso was loosening but still firmly placed in stone. As a lovely layer of mist was surrounding the town I decided to have some fun.

            I noticed the fireplace of the Inn had a hand hatch around the back, presumably where coal could be shovelled straight in from the storehouse outside. I filled Wilson as best I could from the near well and opened this hatch. A quick toss of Wilson and the fireplace that was keeping Dalmas warm and in comfort was snuffed out.

            I had to be quick. Timing was everything. As a confused Paladin came to the window, over the road in the distance all he could see was a stone Gnome looking across at him.

            Dalmas understandably yelped and closed his eyes and rubbed them for a moment. I took my chance and dived between some nearby barrels so when he looked up again I was gone. I do not know what he must have thought at this stage. I am guessing he felt that this apparition was the result of guilt mixed with mead, or maybe some undigested beef.

            He returned inside and I approached the window. He was now crouched by the fireplace, trying to work out how to re-light the fire and where all this water had come from. I was aware that nearly all but my face was now normal so must be quick. I climbed up some crates so my face was at the window and gave a slight knock with the tip of my nose. Dalmas whipped round and was face to face with me. My face still twisted and stone as it had been when he left me.

            I will never forget the sweet sound of those screams.

---

33

              

               I am trusting the attached account of Buddynock Rubyrubb is of academic and medicinal interest.  I am trusting his account is fair, honest, thorough and reputable, even the paragraphs he unaccountably failed to translate into any Common tongue.

               I reserve the right to dispute any or all comments he may have included.

               Our sudden surprised joy soared like a veritable phoenix.  Our Druid was alive, and breathing, and knocking back copious amounts of ale, brandywine, Uisce beatha and rum, while bawling “exuberant” Gnomish “folk” songs complete with gestures and racing around the bar shouting "I’m alive, I’m alive!"  All in all rather restrained for Buddynock Rubyrubb.

               While Ranger Samuel regained his strength we walked back to ruined Tresendar for there were still tasks to complete. Each corpse was carried to the long pit hastily dug by a party of villagers but  we returned poor Thel Dendrar’ to his grieving family, once his ravaged body was washed and safely hidden within a shroud..His funeral pyre was lit, his spirit could now sleep peacefully, but I do not forget the despair in his widow's eyes.  Mirna Dendrar had lost her ancestral home, she had lost her husband, she had almost seen her children slaughtered in front of her.  The cruelty of this world is an open wound; there is always so much suffering and almost always by the innocent. We could at least make sure the family would be provided for and .Sister Garele and Dain Rocksmiter stood side by side to offer blessings in the name of each murdered villager.  I hope Mirna Dendrar took even a little comfort from their kindness.

               Sildar Hallwinter looked on the corpse of Glasstaff with horror and disbelief, it was some moments before he finally confirmed the wizard was indeed his missing comrade Iarno Albrek.  We searched one room we had missed, another small barracks near the entrance but found nothing of any interest save some stolen provisions. Taking time to probe the cistern again, we discovered a watertight bag containing spare clothes, 50 gold coins and a potion Neave identified as Invisibility.  All things considered Albrek/ Glasstaff had been very careful, this was much more than some nest of ruthless bandits.  Orchestrated attacks along the Triboar trail; the careful abduction of Gundren Stonefoot and his map; the deliberate intimidation of an entire town and the suborning of an experience wizard.  A dark controlling mind seemed ahead of us at every turn; its methods unclear, its ultimate purpose still unknown. Who was giving the orders, who was this Black Spider?  Only time and good fortune would tell.

               Buddynock appeared to show no ill effects from his bizarre experience; his wound still needed attention but our tough Gnome quickly recovered with a hearty breakfast, second breakfast, dinner, tea and supper.  Focusing on our revived friend at least gave our party a chance to heal its own grievous rift; our halting conversation was still stilted, self conscious and overly polite. I could only hope this  coolness thawed in time.  Maybe one day we would even make jokes.

               "So nobody knew Cockatrices only petrify their victims for up to twenty four hours?"   Shupatra rolled her eyes with disbelief.  "Despite all the profound book learning between us?"

               "I don't know the intimate details of every wild nasty we might possibly encounter," I said with some feeling.

               "All right all right," replied Buddynock, "but in that case surely someone should be writing all this stuff down."

               "Into a handy guide for adventurers," agreed Ranger Samuel.

               "Easily portable of course," added Celmar

               "And hard wearing," advised Dain, "An up to date compilation of the various creatures we might encounter and the precise risks they  could pose."

               "An actual manual of monsters?"  asked Neave Gemstone.

               "Hmmm!"

               For one hideous night our party seemed irrevocably broken.  I can only hope our strength and resolve is renewed to continue our arduous task. I must understand and accept any hostility from my comrades.   I can only hope to earn their trust again.

---

Aside from the magic long sword Talon and the Staff of Defence, we had found a Clerical Scroll of Augury, a Scroll with a Fireball spell, and a Scroll with a Charm Person spell.  We recovered a potion of Invisibility and we had two potions of Healing still unused.

We found the equivalent of 428 gold pieces and total goods worth 825 in gold, including the furs, precious stones, alchemical ingredients and the weapons from the armoury and those dropped by our human foes. 

The total came to 1, 253 in gold.  An equal division came to 179 gold pieces each.

The money we quietly pased the the Dendrar family would at least help keep the wolf from the door.

---