Being the Chronicle of Cadan Dalmas, Knight
BOOK V
The Two Sieges of Cragmaw Castle
The Two Sieges of Cragmaw Castle
The most wretched goodbyes are those moments we know this is
farewell forever and our last words hang heavy in our throats; those times we
realise all too well, we will not look on our dear friend ever again. The
kindest farewells are when we do not know they close a chapter of our lives, those
occasions when we part on merry terms expecting or hoping to meet again and soon,
farewells we only realise were final when we look back and remember that was
actually the end. Some parties of adventurers never forge a true
Fellowship; they lack any sense of trust or shared endeavour. Some
companions cannot rely on each other, these are the parties most likely to
disappear in dark places never to return. Not us, never us, we were more than
mere mercenaries and I gave quiet thanks daily for my comrades. I had seen
their worth; I now knew their quality. So it was with deep regret we bade farewell to
brave Neave Gemstone. Word came from Rhiannon the Wise her mentor,
she was needed immediately, she must step aside from our shared quest and
return to her woodland home.
Our farewell was brief but from the heart. "You stay
safe, you keep each other safe. I know you squabble but you stand
together you hear me," said Neave her eyes suspiciously bright.
"Otherwise I will learn of it and I will come and find you and by then I
will have mighty magics capable of turning even knights, priests, bards and
rangers into toads. Not to mention Druids! You look after each
other. Please! And these are for you Celmar, no I insist; I know
these spells are barely within our grasp but these scrolls may prove invaluable
all the same. If you need to cast a shroud of Darkness, if you need to
send a Fireball, at least you will have the chance.”
It is a revelation just how loudly little Buddynock can blow his
nose. As Celmar hugged her fellow Elven mage, I glimpsed Dain
hastily stifling a cough behind his shield just as I stared skywards, fumbling
pointlessly with my buckle. A parting handshake from our Ranger and the
plaintive lament of Shupatra played Neave down the road and out of our
sight. The logging convoy would provide safe escort and her elvish magic
would more than earn her keep along the trail.
We waved while we could still see the last wagon against the trees, we
waved until Neave Gemstone was lost to a bend in the trail. Our dear friend
would be much missed. We could only earnestly hope one day our paths would
cross again.
Yet now our own quest beckoned.
Our purpose was clear, our last preparations almost complete. To find
the lost Mine of Phandelver we must first rescue Gundren Stonefoot and recover his
map. To find poor Gundren we must locate this Cragmaw Castle. “Yes, I agree we should leave Honey safe at
the inn,” Celmar spoke with sad realisation. “I know it will not be
safe for a horse.”
“A mule will go where a horse cannot follow,” said the
Ranger. “Even into a sloping cavern if necessary. My own was
wonderful. As surefooted as any mountain goat.”
2
“Sisyphos can bear all we need. And carry Bargul too,”
I added quickly. Did I feel guilty? Did I make a point of using our prisoner’s
name to salve my conscience, to remind myself we held an individual entity, a
thinking mind, not simply some faceless snarling creature from the dark?
Our captive was capable of great evil, had surely stood in triumph over his own
dying victims more than once, but now Bargul was hurt and helpless and in our
hands. The stump of his leg had healed but the Hobgoblin would never walk
again without a spell from some mighty mage or cleric. Bargul’s eyes were
dark as the ocean depths, but they still gleamed fever bright whenever one of
us stepped too close. I had stopped Gove humiliating him, but I had no doubt
our prisoner only waited a chance to do us harm. We had searched Bargul
for hidden weapons and taken both his short knives, but the Hobgoblin still had
his long claws and fangs and I was careful to wear my mail gauntlets whenever I
pushed victuals towards him. Shupatra had tried playing music for his
benefit, but Bargul merely spat on the ground and turned away.
“Can we trust it to guide us?” our Ranger asked again. “Really?”
“He won’t have any choice under a Charm spell. No choice at all.”
Celmar spoke with brisk assurance but I knew our Elven sorceress too well to simply
accept her words at face value. Sometimes
eyes can shout louder than speech. So, I
was not the only one uneasy with our actions.
“And now we tread north?” Dain, let his long beard run through his
stubby fingers. “Both Gove and now Bargul said as much.”
“Northward for the great forest. Well my friends, best foot
forward,” I tried to sound more cheerful than I felt. My riveted mail
hauberk felt less heavy than the responsibility for this mission. The
days seemed to be running faster now, each appeared shorter than the last. We
did not know the face or intent of our unseen enemy but His reach was long, His
power all too clear and His schemes laid with care. Surely we were drawing closer, surely we were
nearer to the end? We had endured so much already. Each decision I made put our
lives in jeopardy but at least I knew the reason for these risks; my poor
comrades still ran blind, still unaware of the real purpose of this quest. We
had prevailed so far but victory had hung in the balance so many times. I had grown to know and like my
comrades. I wanted to tell them, I
needed to share the reason for this Quest but I had my orders, I had to obey my
Archon. The hour would come soon but the hour was not here yet.
Time was scant, our need was great, we placed Bargul under the
charm spell again. We had his answer already, but too much was at stake
for any uncertainty. Even now the maimed Hobgoblin still fought
against Celmar's magic, closing his eyes and turning his head from side to
side as our Sorceress chanted the spell. More than ever I felt queasy in my
stomach, taking arms against evil is a cruel necessity but at least a sword
kills quickly in open battle and my foes wield their own weapons in return. Forcing
this enchantment within Bargul's unwilling mind felt unclean. (*)
3
At
last the Hobgoblin's fierce eyes clouded, he lay still as the great Northern Sea
after a storm. Once again our prisoner told his tale. Yes the
castle lay to the north amid woodland. Castle was a generous term, this fortification
was barely 125 paces by 90. There was no moat, nor any outer works,
Cragmaw had no central keep, no surrounding baileys; this castle was simply
seven linked and overlapping round stone towers, their upper levels long
collapsed, only the ground storey still habitable. Bargul described two means
of entry: the main doors above a stepped terrace and a small southern postern
behind a dog leg spur. The stone work was in poor repair all around the
castle; in many places the walls were little more than piled rubble. Other gaps in the ramparts might exist.
When asked about the garrison Bargul had smiled, tapping his chest with
pride. Twenty Hobgoblins like himself, keenly armed and keen for battle; smaller
skulking Goblins for menial labour and an unseen beast that roared each night;
all led by a swaggering Uruk hai who called himself king. Wise minions
recognised Grol’s majesty. The loud beast in the tower was always hungry.
"How
many could that castle hold?" Shupatra spoke with grim resignation.
"Realistically?"
There are times everyone looks to a Knight for the answers. There are
times that is far from flattering. I heard my own voice as if from a long
way distant. "A score sounds correct to me. Maybe a few more if they
are packed tight. Shared bunks, standing watch on, watch off.
Infantry only, from the description there's definitely no space for any
mounts."
"Only twenty or so?
Oh." Our Druid has apparently been practicing sounding
nonchalant. "A mere picnic party then. Not forgetting
something adorable in one of the towers."
"Unless there are tunnels underground housing
an even larger garrison," I continued. Better to tell my comrades
now rather than later? Their faces suggested otherwise. Dain stared back
with grim resignation, our Ranger ran a loving hand over his longbow; neither
looked happy but at least they were both warriors used to trading sword strokes
at close quarters. Others in our party were wise to be wary of another
touch and go tussle with the odds against us and the well-armed enemy brutal
and skilled. Shupatra swore and turned her head away, the long scar
cleaving her left cheek glowed livid red in the firelight. Wyvern Tor was still
a recent memory and the jagged wound from that Orcish scimitar remained
sore and angry for all my own efforts and Dain's most potent healing
magic.
"And
that roaring beast in the south eastern tower?" Buddynock spoke with
careful deliberation. "Any more details? Not that I really truly
want them. I just sort of presume it’s not always hungry for carrots and
cabbages…"
"I kept trying but he simply does not know," Celmar wiped her
forehead with exhaustion. "When charmed the Hobgoblin genuinely
wants to help us, it distresses Bargul when he cannot answer
questions."
"So
why can't it tell us?" Our Ranger's words were clipped as a forged gold
piece.
"Bargul has never stepped inside," said Celmar. "He was sent as a scout to find us, he
was never part of the actual garrison."
"Are you sure it's not lying," said our Ranger, one hand resting on
his knife hilt. "Quite sure?"
"Bargul would tell us if he could. He wants to tell us," Celmar
insisted.
Dain had been standing quietly, mulling over the details with typical care.
"When Bargul recovers his wits does he remember betraying his
friends?"
"I don't know," said Celmar. "The charm has faded now, I
will have to try again another day."
"It's a bizarre castle," said Shupatra. "Like nothing I've
heard of before."
"Certainly hard to defend," Dain's thick eyebrows were creased in
thought, "a single watchtower would have cost far less to build and could
surely have served the same purpose?"
Celmar and I exchanged glances. There are times a mage and a student of
history have the advantage. (*) "This was not a castle garrisoned with
swords and spears," I said slowly. "This was a wizard's
strongpoint; one of the 'stone shields' of old Phalorm. Wizards kept
those walls, keeping chaos at bay with their spells, hurling down magic from
their flat roofed towers, their fire bolts and lightning spells taking the
place of crossbows and ballista; their golems and creatures of iron and stone
defending parapets and gates with main force. A mighty bulwark, a place
of power; part of the old alliance before the orcs came and the darkness
fell."
Once again my words did not seem to encourage my companions.
"More
winding corridors and dusty rooms?" Groaned our Ranger.
"Err how long do these magical wotsits and doohickeys stay
functional?" asked Buddynock with a very fixed smile.
"And by functional I mean potentially deadly?"
Celmar
could only shrug and look remorseful.
"These long dead wizards were the good and friendly sort?" asked
Shupatra.
4
"By reputation yes," I said
with some relief. "Men and women, elves and dwarfs of honour
and eldritch prowess; their names recorded with pride in both surviving
chronicles. They held the darkness at bay for longer than any imagined
possible; they gave others the chance to flee, without their willing sacrifice
nothing else could have survived. Their deeds should be better known,
honoured and-"
"But these wizards all died violently?" Shupatra sounded each word as
deliberately as an armourer hammering rivets. "They died painfully
and with fear despite their courage."
"They defended their towers to the end," said Celmar quietly.
"They were not of my kind but they used their skills to help and to
heal."
"I just hope they truly rest in peace," said Shupatra. "There
are some songs no bard sings too readily, ballads best heard in broad daylight and
away from the ears of children or the timid. Even kind hearts can
be corrupted; even best intentions can turn foul."
"Songs without happy finger gestures and sock puppets?" began
Buddynock.
Our Bard has a fierce glare when she chooses. (*) It's rather disquieting even when shot from
three feet below you. "Some die but still walk," said Shupatra.
"When lives held great power they are rarely keen to relinquish it."
It is a profound shock to witness a hardy
Dwarven Cleric actually whispering. Dain’s
mouth certainly formed the dread word "Liches?" but maybe we read meaning from his parted
lips without hearing any sound at all. His
knuckles gleamed white on the holy symbol hanging from his neck.
"Mages who defy death and prey upon the living. Spirits of darkness
absolute, darkness visible," intoned Shupatra. "As I said, I
have many songs."
"Are Liches really that bad?" Buddynock is most determinedly facetious
when he is most scared. (**) "After all Clerics ‘pray’ upon the
living!"
At least our collective groan broke the mood. "Oh I quite
agree," muttered Dain. "We pray upon you besides healing your wounds,
salving your injuries, binding your broken limbs and-"
"Lending spare underwear?" smiled Celmar.
For the record, both Dain and Buddynock shuddered.
(**)
Whether of Undead Lich Lords or irritated Halflings... (***)
(***)
Any good hearted Druid loathes all Undead as abominations unsettling the
simple balance of Nature.
Buddynock Rubyrubb simply seizes even a bad chance of making a bad joke.
5
↑
N
(c) Wizards of the Coast |
Evening
was upon us. Bargul lay secured in his
shuttered room smiling at the ceiling, his mind still fogged by Celmar's
enchantment. We had the tavern to ourselves. (*)This had become all too
apparent these last few days for custom was scarcely so brisk at the Stonehill
Inn anymore, not now we were bringing monstrous creatures of darkness
within their very walls! Alas, our
welcome in Phandalin was certainly less certain. Most folk only want tomorrow to be like today
but with a minimum of effort and expense .Judging by the surly glances of
the tavern keeper even our gold pieces were growing thin. Gratitude is often
loud but rarely lasting, especially when any immediate threats seem
spent. If we wanted to throw our lives away seeking an ancient legend why
did we wait? Other fools eager for lost treasures drew their supplies and
wandered into the wilds. Some parties even
returned! Those Redbrand brigands had been vanquished, the orcs at Wyvern Tor were
slain or scattered, our tasks were finished, our duty plainly done and yet we
still graced Phandalin with our presence! Only our Elven friend Sister Garaele and the
veteran Sildar Hallwinter still seemed pleased to acknowledge our small
company. Only grey faced Mirna Dendrar
and her two children still spoke loudly on our behalf; they at least did not
forget the terrors of Tresendar Manor. It was clear our time in the town was
drawing to a close. While we still had the chance we took careful council
between us.
"Small on the surface you said. True the castle is
small. Unless as you once mentioned
there are tunnels or caverns hidden beneath. How deep underground could they
go?" Our Ranger stretched his long
legs closer to the fire. "No don't
tell me. Deep. Dank. Filled with every creeping beast that
likes the Dark."
6
"Deep
enough for a lost mine of Phandelver?
Dain smiled with grim satisfaction.
"It could be! A mine
concealed beneath a mage's strongpoint.
Now there would be an ending to our Quest."
"The
idea crossed my mind, “I said ruefully, "but Phandelver was founded long
after the 'stone shields' of old Phalorm."
"It's
still worth considering though," insisted Dain. "We check every possible trapdoor or
hidden entrance. There will be signs of
use, there are always indications. Trust
me, I will find them if they are there."
"So
apart from fighting our way through myriad maniacal Hobgoblins, unknown roaring
beasts and assorted Uruks we will be staring down at the floor of each
room," sighed Shupatra.
"And
not just for stray Goblin poop!"
chirped Buddynock.
"You
should worry,” added our Halfling Bard toasting her toes by the fire.
"Nobody
is telling you not to wear shoes,” said Buddynock.
Celmar
was the last to join our evening council once her work with Bargul was finished
for the day. She listened intently to our debate but contributed nothing, yes
she was missing our friend Neave Gemstone but that could hardly explain merry
Celmar's sudden silence. Not one joke,
not a single cheerful word, very unlike our free spirited Sorceress. (*) I know she has little time for formality or
decorum, traits it took me many days to accept,
but I have seen Celmar standing
faithfully by her comrades come what may, fighting resolutely each time we
faced an angry foe but remaining compassionate and gentle all the same. Only a
hidebound fool would not trust her good heart. Celmar wanted to speak, I
realised that, but she was still finding the will to open her mouth. She turned
her long staff in her dainty hands, her violet robes colouring the polished
glass with all the shades of sunset. I
saw the dread in her dark eyes, I heard her halting words and realised what we
had missed.
The
Hobgoblin Bargul was helpless in our hands.
He clearly had the information we wanted, innocent lives were in
jeopardy, there was no time we could waste. We needed him to speak and one solution was obvious. We could have dragged out answers at dagger
point, we chose to turn to magic instead.
Some might well call us faint of heart, too dainty to sully our pious self-regard
with hard necessity. Some might well say that but I in turn would call them at
best short sighted; at worst no different to the evil we were fighting. We live
in a world of suffering and anguish, there are too many dark deeds in darker
places; too many dying screams of torment and despair. I remember the
teachings of noble Aurelian Marcus: "The
best revenge is not to become like my enemy." And in all honesty, there is more than mere
scruples behind my refusal to adopt crude methods.
7
Inflicting
torture is an evil deed whatever the motive. Unthinking fools imagine pain
snares honest answers, for even the bravest cannot stand agony forever.
Wiser minds reject all such tortures and not merely from lofty ideals or prim scruples.
Hurt someone enough and they shriek any
response they imagine will be welcome, information which may be true, at least
in part, but information more likely to be sheer invention, for it is
worth giving any answers at all if they earn even a brief respite from
pain.
Any bystander can pound their
chest with bluff resolve urging robust policies to maintain the peace or ‘common
sense’ methods to achieve some speedy justice. I rarely meet any of these
bellicose advocates ready to get their own hands stained with the sharp
reality. Those eager few who do step forward can be as disturbing as
the malefactors they punish. My Order
will kill in battle when there is no other choice but my Order does not
sanction the wanton infliction of pain. We would betray noble Pallas
Athene with any such obscenity, we would dishonour her Holy Wisdom with
the attempt. It is
always so easy to be serenely wise from a safe distance or sanctimonious where there
is no responsibility, yet cruel expediency can become
a rule to live by rather than a desperate measure when no other options exist.
Each of us is capable of becoming a monster, no one is ever immune for all their
fine ideals and noble intentions. Turning to torture simply brings that destiny
a few paces closer. We were better than
that, we had to be better, for if we lose ourselves we lose everything.
And so we trusted to magic instead, magic painless and quick. We needed speedy
answers sure and clear, our solution seemed the best, but alas, not even
scrupulous methods are certain of success.
Our
Hobgoblin prisoner was helpless under Celmar's charm spell but even an open
book must still be turned to the right page.
There is an art in asking questions; a skill like swordplay in the
dark. An interrogator must infer and deduce, sometimes steering the
conversation with careful questions, sometimes letting the words flow
free. There is a time to cajole, a time
to probe, a time to show anger real or feigned. Not every revelation is spoken,
truths are also exposed by involuntary gestures and movements. Few arrant
falsehoods live for very long.
Theory
is a wonderful guide but a poor master.
We confirmed poor Gundren Stonefoot was held captive at Cragmar castle,
we had learnt its location and the strength of its garrison, the nature of
their defences and the best entry points.
We had gleaned a fine harvest from our questions but none of us had
thought to mention reinforcements. Only when Celmar actually asked did Bargul gladly
reveal more. A full company was massing,
sixty Hobgoblins summoned from the eastern marches; summoned by the Master who
summoned all, mustering at the castle and ready for battle. This Bargul was
only one of the advanced scouts.
"Sixty!"
Our Ranger shook his head with disbelief.
"You are quite sure?"
Celmar
held her hands helplessly in the air.
"They
won't be waiting at that castle,” muttered Dain. "Not for long, not a full company."
"They're
either a garrison for the mine or-” I began.
"An
attack on Phandalin is coming,” said Shupatra.
"And it does not take a Master of horse and foot to anticipate just
how that will go. A few score of peasants and townsfolk with farming tools and
rusty swords; no stone rampart, not even a wooden fence. And just seven of us."
"How
by the bones of Orcus did we miss this till now?" glared the Ranger.
“The
die are cast but the day is not yet done. Not yet, not quite." I looked at my comrades, each in turn. "We
can sit and wait or move to meet this."
"We
warn Phandalin and we move fast," Dain Rocksmiter spoke with grim resolve
fit for great Durin himself. "There
may still be time, still a chance to free Gundren first."
"And
hope,” said Celmar, her soft voice eggshell hollow. "And hope."
"Oh
sweetness and joy,” muttered Druid Rubyrubb.
"That makes everything peachy!"
8
On
reflection our meeting with Townmaster Harbin Wester went quite well
considering the circumstances. I simply
remain grateful for the stoic presence of Sildar Hallwinter, a grim and
humourless man but steadfast to his fingertips and with a veteran's eye for
ground. A man easily mocked whenever
danger has fled but a warrior anyone would pray to be standing at their side
when the enemy are closing and the Three Fates raise their shears. While Harbin
spluttered in panic and seemed most intent on finding some happy scapegoat,
Captain Hallwinter summoned his scant forces and set his defences.
There
was no time or hope of evacuating Phandalin; but Sildar sent two riders hell
for leather for aid; each leading a second mount in the hopes of maintaining
the fastest possible speed. Celmar was scarcely happy to hand over our own bay
horse but she was satisfied Sister Garele would treat gentle Honey well.
Sildar
gave orders to the frightened Townmaster, then Wester Harbin gave orders to
Phandalin. Only one place offered any hope of safety, the ruins of Tresendar
Manor. Provisions were stockpiled in the
cellars, food and fuel, blankets and bedding, fresh water and the best weapons this
small town could supply. Trees were felled to set a palisade around the
entrance. At the very least it would reduce
the frontage of any attack. The narrow passage leading to the central cavern
was disguised with brambles and leaves in the hope our foes would never find
it. Another palisade was set inside the
rock strewn cavern in case they did. With
lamentation and curses the townsfolk of Phandalin carried all the belongings
they could manage to their dank refuge; a hard task for anyone, least of all
Mirna Dendrar and her children, returning to their place of torment and fear.
It was a thousand pities Neave
Gemstone had already departed. Her presence and her powers would be sorely
missed but we had no time to lament misfortunes. Our swift march north began;
our Ranger scouting ahead, long arrows loose in his quiver, his green cloak merging
with the tall grasses and trees. Without
him we could not have made such progress; he guided us with unerring expertise,
threading a path between dense brambles and briars even when we entered the
dark forest of Neverwinter. Dain
Rocksmiter led the main party; I brought up the rear, heater shield slung
across my mailed shoulders. Gove led our
mule, maimed Bargul tied to the pack saddle; his mouth gagged in case he should
cry out to any hidden companions along our path.
That
evening we camped without any fire; our enemies were close now, armed and ready,
we could not risk betraying our presence.
Marching rations make a miserable dinner for anyone, but Buddynock was
able to augment our pallid meal with some bulbs of white wood sorrel and sour
purslane. I was rarely more grateful to
be journeying with an elf. While her
companions required sleep to ease their weary limbs, graceful Celmar stood in
that speechless trance, eyes still open still aware even as her body recovered
its strength.
9
My
armour and I have grown old friends. I
am only conscious of the weight of my iron mail whenever I doff my hauberk to
sleep. A few yards away Dain Rocksmiter
was doing the same, rolling his heavy armour and making sure the sleeves lay
smooth before taking care his holy symbol of Marthammor Duin, Finder of Trails hung safe about his neck It is
always a relief to lie back with only my padded gambeson and bedroll between my
skin and the night sky but only a rank fool would not feel more
vulnerable! There are many times I secretly
envy quick Buddynock and Shupatra for I lack their easy grace and nimble
movement. They do not need heavy mail to keep them safe!
Despite
our weary day on foot, it was many hours before any of us slept. Our objective was drawing near and none of us
imagined this would be simple. The odds
were bad and the risks only too apparent; our Unseen Enemy was mighty indeed,
his reach was long and his power far greater than we had imagined. It was too
late to turn back now, we would march on come what may, but dark thoughts come
unbidden at night when all is quiet, especially in a bivouac without the
comfort of a fire. Was it any wonder
each of us lay awake?
It
takes time to really know your comrades; you may fight side by side, bandage
each other's wounds, take counsel together and hazard all in your shared quest,
yet still know little of a companion's past life, their fears or fondest hopes.
Since our first struggle with those vile Grimlocks, I have grown to trust and
like Dain Rocksmiter for his quiet bravery, wisdom and essential decency. A pious Cleric yet there is no zealotry in
his demeanour and despite his gruff muttering, I have come to realise our Dwarven
friend is actually rather shy in company.
Tonight we heard his deep voice in the darkness as Dain admitted the
reason for his journey. Our Cleric was longing to reach the end of his quest
yet dreaded what he fully expected to find. "We believe this Cragmar castle houses a
forgotten shrine to our revered Marthammor Duin, Finder of Trails., He who
Watches over Wanderers."
"Cragmar
is not empty Dain,” I said hesitantly, picking my words with care. "There will be inhabitants."
"I
know," muttered Dain. "All too
well I know that, and I know they will not have left our shrine unprofaned, but
I have vowed to kneel before the Altar stone and look upon His image if there
is any image left to honour." Dain
Rocksmiter let his long beard flow through his fingers. "Don't be standing between a weary Dwarf
and his fond dream."
For
a long moment no one spoke. I am aware my account makes frequent mention of the
frivolous irreverence of our Gnomish Druid and Elven Celmar but I know beyond all
doubt there is no malice in their manner just a light-hearted merriment sometimes
the most staid and pompous would well do to heed. They heard Dain speak with honest passion,
they sat in respectful silence.
"I hope you find something
still worth saving,” Shupatra said softly.
"I seek my own treasure, the greatest riches in all the world. What else can anyone call music, the notes
that echo through our lives bearing the emotions we cannot capture in spoken
words, all our hopes, all our longings?" Our Bard paused but none of us
wanted to intrude. "I seek the silver dulcimer of Maponus. It has been
lost like so many precious artefacts since the Great Darkness. It may lie in ruined Cragmar, it may be
waiting for me! I may find nothing at all but I will go on seeking as long as I
breathe. By repute it played itself whenever moonlight fell on upon the
strings, music fit to charm both the living and the dead."
"We could certainly benefit
from a lullaby now," smiled Dain Rocksmiter. "I will share first watch and keep
Celmar company. Good night my friends,
good night."
10
Celmar
roused us just before the dawn. No one
spoke, no one wanted to, not even to share a curse. It is not pleasant to pull
a coat of night cold mail over your head; the sheer weight always bears me down
like a falling star, until I fasten my thick leather belt and baldric about my
waist and ease the load on my shoulders. Like any Dwarf, strong Dain makes
light work of any load. Already clad in armour he moved to one side of the glade.
I saw my comrade bow his head in humble thanks for the new day as I held the
sacred emblem of Pallas Athene aloft and began my own observances.
The
time had come. We all saw the fury on
our prisoner’s face; Bargul's dark eyes blazed, his fanged mouth clamped shut
but the sorceries of Celmar spun magic from clear air, the Hobgoblin’s ragged
breathing eased, his long claws opened.
Our Elven magic had claimed him once again. Bargul still pointed north, that was
reassuring, but now he also held one long finger to his lips.
We
moved ever more cautiously now; but for Ranger Samuel our progress would have
been slower still and more noisy. (*) We
could see nothing through the thick curtain of trees but charmed Bargul kept
urging us onward, smiling with happy pride as he steered our steps. From the
rear of our column I saw the Ranger fall to his knees, right arm held aloft. Thirty yards ahead daylight glimmered on the beech
leaves. One by one we inched forward, dropping
even lower as we closed the distance, then lying flat in the thick bushes to
peer out into the clearing at Cragmar.
Seven ruined towers huddling together two hundred yards away, a stony island
in a swaying sea of trees. The ground was pitilessly open, a carpet of knee
high meadow flowers save for a large pool of dark water some distance from the
main gate.
"Castle
is a big word for such a small fortification,” Dain shielded his eyes against
the rising sun. “I understand your description of this wizards' tower better
for seeing the place."
"There's
one very obvious danger-” I began.
"Really?"
Buddynock's contribution cut me off. "Apart from having to belt across
cleared ground as bare as a dracolith's dangly bits?"
"Apart
from that, yes,” I glared. "Look
how close the towers stand. No curtain
walls to separate them, each clearly linked internally. Cragmaw is so small if we rouse the garrison
of one tower we are certain to alert every single inhabitant."
"That
would probably be bad?" said Celmar with deadpan humour.
"Possibly,”
said Shupatra. "If we were waving
swords and assorted sharp objects."
"So
little chance of cupcakes and a comfortable chair?" continued Celmar.
"Maybe
chairs with iron safety fixtures so you never accidentally fall out," said
Shupatra.
"And
strategically placed, holes favouring recreational activities with heated
prongs and pokers?" said Celmar.
"Well,
good hosts would never want a guest to feel chilled. That would be fundamentally wrong,"
Shupatra squared her small shoulders.
11
"Have
you quite finished?" I asked, my fingers clenched tight around my sword
hilt. (*)
"It's only a quick joke,"
Celmar said softly, "while we still have the chance."
Our brash Druid is always so
gentle whenever he speaks with beasts or birds. Once Buddynock assured my
anxious mule we would return, I hobbled Sisyphos under a thick stand of
bracken, making sure he was hidden from view. Bargul we laid safely near the
animal, concealed, bound and gagged as before.
It would be at least an hour before the Charm spell faded, maybe enough
time to be successfully out of Cragmar and running for home. Ranger Samuel had
raised an eyebrow at my actions and I fully own the incongruity; I would have
no compunction in slaying any Hobgoblin I ever faced in battle but Bargul posed
no immediate risk and how could we hurt a prisoner so helpless and
dependent. Yes I know I had no real answers. What could we do with a maimed
Hobgoblin? We could not change his
nature, Bargul had no place left to live, no hope of anything better than a swift
and painless death. His comrades would surely simply kill him for meat or sport. Left alone he would hobble on a stick until
hunger claimed him or some lurking beast leapt onto his back. Leave him my mule? Where would he go? It is
true I had no answers to the problem of our prisoner and yes I would forgo
thinking of solutions for the moment. We
had other walls to climb.
Now
Ranger Samuel doffed his heavy scale mail, to lessen his chances of making a
noise. With a final nod he swallowed the invisibility potion we had found in
Tresendar. In an instant his slim form
vanished before our eyes; bright sunlight shining through the very space where
he stood. We heard barely a rustle as
our brave Ranger stepped into the clearing, we saw a few blades of grass bend
low as he passed and then nothing.
We did
not wish to light a marked candle.
Buddynock muttered something about missing one of those clockwork
contraptions his cousin crafted from polished brass but if wishes were horses
every steed would be a unicorn. We
simply counted instead and our small pile of pebbles grew as the hour ebbed and
the moments flowed through our hands. We sat, we waited as time crawled by, our
world shrunk very small, to nothing more thean the green leaves picked out in
sunlight before us. If Buddynock
Rubyrubb or Neave Gemstone had drunk an invisibility potion I would be
expecting some merry foolery as they returned.
Our Ranger Samuel was made of sterner stuff; he gave the low bird call
we had agreed then stepped up boldly through our line without a pause
12
Any
adventurer can show courage when comrades stand at his side. It takes a rarer fortitude to wander alone
and unaided among a fierce and deadly enemy.
Our Ranger’s report was brusque but detailed; our next move now seemed
clear. Only the ground storey was still standing,
fallen masonry and baulks of rotting timber were piled haphazard around the
base. Long lost Cragmar seemed on the verge of final collapse, the dank stench
of decay hung over the site. Stone steps to the west led to a cracked terrace strewn
with mould and two oak doors hanging open on rusted hinges. The flanking towers were pierced with arrow
slits and from the bickering voices inside, each post was manned with goblins
awake and ready. With ice cool courage
Ranger Samuel had stepped over the threshold, walking into the filth daubed
remains of a stone gatehouse. Not a soul
was in sight, but those goblins were even closer now, half a dozen at least,
voices that scratched like fingernails on slate. Closed wooden doors stood shut in his face;
surely passageways to other towers of Cragmar.
Wary of making a sound, wary of leaving clear foot prints in the door,
our Ranger stepped back onto the terrace, determined to scout the entire
perimeter while his potion lasted.
In
places the surviving walls were little more than rubble but any attempt to
scale the loose scree would be noisy and slow, Shupatra and Buddynock might
succeed unaided but Dain and I would surely need a rope and grapple for any
real chance of success. Ranger Samuel slowly
completed a circuit of Cragmar; passing the eastward tower where Bargul claimed
a roaring beast was housed. The
invisibility potion had little time left to run but with his last quarter hour
Ranger Samuel located the stone flanked postern gate to the south. A flight of mildewed steps led to an iron
door set flush to the tower wall. His
bow stave gently tapped each stone before he placed his feet; his keen eyes
looked for any sign of trap or alarm. Different voices echoed through the arrow
slits above his head; deeper than before and guttural. Our Ranger did not need
to speak fluent Hobgoblin to know the occupants of this room. He returned to us just in time.
13
We
stared at the rough plan scratched into the dirt. “The choice seems clear,” our
Ranger stabbed down with his dagger.
“Here, the postern gate.”
“Close
to those Hobgoblins,” Dain muttered.
“But
surely nearer their chieftain too,” I smiled.
“This Grol the mighty! “
“Find
him and surely find poor Gundren too?” agreed Shupatra.
“I
remember the caves,” said Buddynock. “I
remember what happens to hostages unless we can surprise them. So I suppose
this is down to me. Again!”
Celmar
laid a soothing hand on his shoulder.
“Neave Gemstone would be so proud of you.”
“I’m a
Druid I am!” Buddynock Rubyrubb said plaintively. “A child of nature and
whatnot, a spirit of wild places and the delicate balance of life and
beasts. Not someone who should be asked
to fiddle with bloody locks just because he has an unwanted second hand set of
thieves’ lockpicks! It’s not fair!”
“You
have the nimblest fingers my friend.” I began “And-“
“When
I’m not solid stone you mean!”
“You’ve
got that Ring of Protection now.” Shupatra said quietly.
“It’s
not certain though is it?” Buddynock's
wild beard waggled in agitation.
“I told
you I checked for traps,” said our Ranger.
“Yes
and are you strictly qualified to do that?”
asked Buddynock. “Everyone’s very
keen and certain of our next step when it’s my
turn to put me bum on the line again.
And note that word
please: again!”
“I am
truly sorry good Druid,” I tried to smile in a comradely way. “But only you are
stealthy enough to unlock that door. We
ask you because we have no choice. If I
try to force an entrance the noise will ring worse than a Fire Giant’s forge;
we have to open that lock quietly; we have to ask you to take the risk once
more.”
“And
you will be first to actually walk inside?”
Buddynock looked up at me like a fledging puffin being urged to risk its
first flight. (*)
14
“Just
as I said my friend.”
"You
swear on the Holy Name of Pallas Athene?"
"I
promise good Buddynock!"
“And
Dain will be rearguard?”
“Aye!”
Buddynock
sniffed. “Knowing my luck that just
means there will be some nasty lurking on the flanks then. Or from below. Or above.”
Shupatra
peered across the open ground. “How to you plan to do this?”
“Ideally
by sending someone else!” Our diminutive
Gnome held his breath, rocked back on his heels then rolled forward out of the
bushes. He froze, his small body tensed for the first shout of alarm or singing
arrow; we could see Buddynock’s lips move as he muttered.
“Is
that a cantrip of concealment?” I asked, impressed by our wily Gnome’s skill.
Dain
Rocksmiter stifled a smile. “Knowing Buddynock probably not. I think the grass
is rather long just there.”
“Surely
a benefit,” said our Ranger. "Especially for anyone his size."
“Not
when covered with dew,” said our Cleric.
“All
those leaves and twigs stuck in his cloak and hair certainly help hide
him.” Shupatra truly sounded
impressed. “When did Buddynock add them?”
Dain
gave her a very level look: “Nope. They are always there. Just trust me.”
The
swaying meadow flowers gave our Gnome better cover than we realised. I saw our
Druid flatten himself against the dog leg wall covering the postern. Buddynock raised his hand, he made a gesture.
I choose not to describe it in detail. Our Druid vanished.
“Spider
form?” asked Celmar.
“Most
definitely,” said Dain.
15
“A
pity he could not have made the whole journey that way,” I suggested.
“Just
imagine the additional time it would take,” said our Ranger.
“Not
to mention the danger from hungry frogs,” said Shupatra.
Celmar
shuddered: “I just hope he can do what I suggested. It makes perfect
sense.”
“And a fine idea too,” I nodded.
“Creep under the door as a spider, check for sentries, if the coast is clear simply
resume Gnome form and slip back the bolt.
Genius!”
Time trickled by. “He had oil for
the hinges?” I asked. “Buddynock definitely had a flask?” Celmar laid a gentle
hand on my shoulder. It can only have been moments
later but we suddenly saw our Druid, Gnome form restored, appear at the end of
the dog leg wall. He dropped to his knees, we saw his small arm waving.
“What’s that?” asked Dain, wrinkling his brow.
“He wants us to cross the open ground one at a time,”
said keen-eyed Carmel. “See his fingers?”
Shupatra strained to see: “And he wants us one
by one.”
“Oh so that’s what he’s signalling,” our Ranger
glanced back to check our rear.
“That’s a relief,” Dain muttered. “Buddynock was
quite cross all things considered.”
Shupatra set her teeth, darted clear of the tree line
and into the tall meadow grass, as we waited bows in hand, hearts in mouth.
Celmar was next. “At least a violet robe blends with the dawn,” she smiled.
Once our Sorcerer closed the distance,
her Misty Step sped her across the remaining open ground, for a moment Celmar flickered
into view then she repeated her spell to bring her hard against the crumbling
walls of Cragmar. Buddynock waved again.
“Is he signalling two of us have crossed?” I
asked.
“Let’s just hope so,” sighed Dain Rocksmiter.
Little Gove reached the castle walls without incident:
Our Ranger nodded grimly and slowly crossed behind his companions; his green
cloak offering welcome concealment, even if his heavy coat of bronze scales
made more noise than a stealthy man would wish. I made one last check on my
mule hidden beneath the bracken, water and oats close at hand. Alongside lay maimed
Bargul smiling at the sky, Celmar's spell was clearly still potent. My shoes were laced tightly, my sword loose
in its scabbard. Finally I looked across at Dain. There are times no one
welcomes wearing jingling mail.
16
"If we run
we make more noise. If we saunter any sleepy sentries might just forget
bickering and peer through those arrow slits. Do we go together or one at a
time?"
"You first." Dain pulled a wry face. "I’ll
only slow you down".
"Mail is sure to be arrow proof. At least
at this range."
"Assuming they’ve nothing in the way of siege
equipment wound, loaded and pointing out of those embrasures." Dain
Rocksmiter scowled. "Or some long dead wizard’s mechanical toy."
I stepped clear of the trees feeling more exposed than
ever before in my life. Ahead I could just see Buddynock peering
anxiously around the buttress. He seemed to be conferring with our comrades
pressed flat against the castle wall. They were clearly saying something
to each other, was money changing hands? Wretched Gnome!
I ploughed through the meadow like a ship through an ice
strewn sea, grateful the pliant grasses sprang back after my passing; at least
no flattened trail would mark my guilty approach. The crumbling walls of
Cragmar loomed ever higher as I ran, the breath catching in my throat, my heavy
pack bouncing against my shoulders. I stumbled in the last few paces, but
little Buddynock pulled me safe against the rough stonework. “Made it! Ah well Celmar I owe you a gold piece.”
Our Druid must have seen my face. “Only joking squire, only joking!” (*)
Celmar stood sentry as the rest of us turned to watch
Dain Rocksmiter making the meadow run, his face scarlet, knees pounding like
mill pistons. The voices from the arrow slits over our heads were only
too apparent, hobgoblins a half dozen at least practicing some dawn
drill. For a horrible moment the sound seemed to change and we expected a
flight of arrows, but our doughty Cleric reached the wall intact and
undetected, a stray poppy sticking from his bootstraps. "Is that bloody
door still not open?" wheezed Dain, taking a grateful swig from his water
skin as he mopped his brow.
"I tried from the inside, but there was no bolt
just this lock," said Buddynock.
"Do you think we're going to have fun storming the castle? We don't have a Holocaust cloak but maybe
Wilson could count as a wheelbarrow?"
"As
you wish," nodded Dain before glancing sideways and whispering. "Do
you know where he gets these notions from?"
"It's
inconceivable, "I replied, "I would not bet you a florin to a guilder
anyone here knows."
(*) His humour is irreverent, irrepressible and invariably IRRITATING but Druid Rubyrubb only makes his jokes when someone is safe. I notice that now. (**)
(**) But I'm STILL saying
“Wretched Gnome!"
17
The iron postern door was rusted but still solid. Celmar’s Mage Hand played around the
lock. Nothing was triggered by the cantrip, not conclusive proof no trap
lay waiting but even Buddynock seemed a little more cheerful. I held my heater shield
over our Druid’s head as he worked.
"I bet Thieves’ Guilds get right
stroppy with any freelance burglars," muttered Buddynock and by right
stroppy I mean short sharp encounters in alleyways. Either strategic bits
cut off or harbour tours from the seabed upwards."
No
one spoke; we scarcely dared breathe. We just heard Buddynock Rubyrubb
muttering. (*)
A sharp click broke the silence. "Pass
the oil then," beamed our Druid. "And after you!"
We were lavish coating those hinges. For a moment the iron door seemed to stick
but then we felt the postern give, shift and suddenly swing wide, I barely managed
to stop it crashing back against the frame.
At last we all looked inside Cragmar Castle. There was no sign of life, just a dusty
corridor hung with cobwebs, the stained flagstones cracked and broken where
tree roots had risen through the foundations.
Narrow shafts of daylight lanced down through holes in the roof. If Goblins had designated latrines we saw no
evidence of it. "Mind how you go," our smiling Druid told our
Halfling Bard. Shupatra shot him an evil
glance.
On our left stood a closed door of stout oak banded
with iron. The hobgoblins in the room behind were only too audible. As planned I tapped an iron spike between
frame and sill to wedge it shut.
"Muffle the hammer with your cloak!" hissed our Ranger.
Sword in hand I led us onward, Dain at the rear gently
swung the postern shut without locking it. We picked our way with care,
speaking only in whispers. Ahead we saw a corridor running the width of the
castle, two towers were on our right. Filthy sleeping pallets lined one chamber
wall. Behind the door of the nearest tower, we heard that foretold roaring; a
creature clearly large and angry but with a ragged, weary edge to the sound.
Buddynock’s
mouth was grim. "I have some business there, we had reports an
animal is being confined. I want to find out what."
"And if it is dangerous?" Our Ranger hefted
his bow: "I kill no beast wantonly but if that creature poses a real
threat to the town..."
"If it is dangerous." Buddynock spoke with equal
determination. "If! Otherwise it goes safe and free back to the
forest."
"Is it just me or does everyone see that heavy
oak bar fastening the door? Celmar said wryly. "I'm just asking.. ."
18
Sometimes the Fates prove kind. Sometimes. The wood was old and long past its
best, no match for my crowbar as I quietly enlarged a crack bewteen two panels.
In honesty we all leapt back when a glaring golden eye blinked back at us and a
razor sharp beak snapped shut only the width of an oak plank from our faces. If
we had to encounter a captive Owlbear I am deeply thankful those carpenters
knew their business...
“A
bear crossed with an owl?” Our
supposedly ‘one with all nature’ Druid shook his head in disbelief.
“Look
I did not create them,” I replied trying not to sound defensive. “Blame some
inventive wizard with too much free time to play with.”
“An
owlbear?” Buddynock Rubyrubb still struggled to comprehend. (*)
“A Winnie
the tu-whit, tu-whoo,” suggested Shupatra with lightning wit.
“What?” Ranger Samuel almost dropped his bow in
surprise.
“Bards
study many books of rhyme, verse and prose,” said Shupatra. “You’d be surprised.”
What did Shamans of the Circle of the Moon
actually teach their young charges?
Apart from drinking games and dubious folk
ballads
With
optional but inevitable hand gestures and gurning.
Both of
alarming vigour and highly unsuitable for adults of a gentle disposition.
Though by the
clear evidence we observed in Phandalin, very highly appreciated by
young children!
Wretched
Gnome!
19
(c) Wizards of the Coast
Moving through the castle, wedging a second door on our left, we saw fallen rubble and fractured walls shored up with random timbers, we saw bales and wooden barrels piled against the wall, we saw something our ranger had missed from the outside. Bright light picked out the edges of a square of painted tarpaulin, a camouflaged cover to conceal a yawning gap in the wall. We cautiously peered outside and saw the far side of the clearing. "Another way out," suggested Shupatra. "Maybe a faster one." The entire castle seemed on the point of final collapse, only a leader with delusions of grandeur would ever choose this crumbling relic for a strongpoint.
We heard nothing through
the next wooden door to our right but we still followed our plan even so and Gove entered alone, wandering with blithe
innocence as though on some simple errand. Of course we remained wary of our
Goblin companion, especially considering
the garrison of Cragmar. Little Gove was always eager for loot and knew serving
our company was his best hope of acquiring treasures, yet Goblins are hardly
renowned for fidelity and honour. I
would like to believe that kind and consistent behaviour earns loyalty. I would like to believe that but...
The door swung to behind Gove. We heard his reedy voice. Dain Rocksmiter
listened intently but unless Gove was making silent gestures to betray us his
words seemed innocent. We heard a barked
command, the door opened and Gove backed across the threshold, bowing so low
his nose was brushing the dust. The door closed firmly once more. No sound came from within, there was no sign
we had been detected. Not yet at least,
not yet.
20
Gove's orange eyes shone with sudden resentment. "Two. Biggers. Armed. Ready." He spat on the floor and licked his thin
lips. I glanced at my comrades, checking
all were alert, all ready. The moment
had come.
Our Elven Sorceress was poised and ready. Shupatra murmured a few lines of inspiration,
I saw her nod and I swung the door wide.
Twelve feet away two Hobgoblins stood spear in hand before a second
closed door; watchful and wary but not quick enough, not quite. Celmar's sleep spell claimed them both, our
daggers silenced them forever. I will
not countenance any wanton killing, especially the slaying of a helpless foe but
too much was at stake to risk any noise, too many lives rested on our success
and we knew what these Hobgoblins were capable of.
"Only
a little more than most humans,” Buddynock said wryly.
Behind this heavy studded door we heard three
voices. One loud and brutish, demanding speedy payment, I cannot imagine
an Uruk hai ever sounding pleasant. The other two were harder to place. One
human, male, eager, almost breathless and speaking the same sing song phrases
each time. "A spell caster?"
mouthed Ranger Samuel.
The last voice was higher and diffident, almost
languidand deftly avoiding answering the angry Uruk. I saw Celmar’s eyes widen,
saw her hands tighten on her staff. Gove
opened the door a crack and slithered through.
We heard an angry shout, Gove swiftly backed out of the chamber, just as
a heavy tankard clattered against the door jamb.
Gove
held a bone thin finger to his lips.
"Uruk. Warg. Elf black skin,
white hair and Man in dark leather with hat and straps. Mask on face.”
"Oh!
One of those rooms eh?" grinned Buddynock.
"Dearie me."
Dain
Rocksmiter glared with indignation from the rear.
Celmar
simply mouthed the word "Drow."
That was news we never expected! That
was news no sane creature welcomes. The Dark Elves are a force anyone should
fear. Yet what else could we do; the dice were already in the cup and the throw
was ours.
I
looked once more to my comrades, I saw their tense faces but saw they were
ready. The memory of helpless Sildar
Hallwinter with a knife to his throat was foremost in our minds. If this
guarded room was the chamber of their leader surely poor Gundren Stonefoot was
nearby. We could not risk him being held
hostage. My comrades nodded, Dain, Buddynock and Gove turned about to hold
the corridor, I kicked this second door
open, leaping clear as sweet music sounded on Shupatra's dulcimer.
We
sprang inside the largest tower of Cragmar Castle, a chamber thick with fetid
smoke from a charcoal brazier, the stained floor strewn with a haphazard litter
of furs, leather tankards and gnawed meat. Four startled faces stared back. Our Bard’s sleep spell claimed both the
bizarre man in dark green leather and the fierce looking wolf lying by the hearth,
but despite Shupatra's magic, the Drow warrior
reacted with incredible speed, darting out of sight behind a hanging curtain. Ranger
Samuel feathered an arrow in the shoulder of the startled Uruk hai, a grizzled
brute with bloodshot eyes in a face seamed with scars. I was already charging as it drew its hooked
sword, my first cut driving it back against the wall, I called on my Grey Eyed
Lady of the Battles and my long blade sliced through its rusted brigantine with
alarming ease.
I
could hear Dain's deep voice as he summoned his spiritual weapon, golden light
glowed around him and the emblem of Marthammor Duin, Finder of Trails appeared floating in mid-air a spiked mace over a fur topped boot. (*)
(*) Technically speaking
a Masse d'armes sur brogue Tenné vair, sur field argent. Assuming Dwarves
follow the same tinctures and fields of Heraldry. I add this note despite knowing I will
invariably hear Buddynock Rubyrubb whispering "Dalmas is off again. Still if it keeps him happy."
I have never seen any charge or
blazon of a Druid of the Circle of the Moon.
If they all resemble our own Forest Gnome that
can only be called a merciful release for our College of Heralds!
21
Shouting shattered the silence. Brave Shupatra sped round the corner of the tapestry
short sword in hand, as we heard sudden heavy thuds echoing through the castle.
Celmar knelt to bind first the snoring man then the sleeping wolf. Anyone
else would have simply knifed the beast but I had learnt much of Celmar’s
tender regard for wolves these last few weeks.
My stricken foe was dying on his feet, I ordered King
Grol to surrender, the Uruk spat blood in my face. My long sword Talon cut crown from head and
head from trunk. Dain Rocksmiter's Spiritual Weapon was floating towards the
fight in Grol's chambers; the first time we had witnessed our Cleric's spell in
battle. A corona of golden light spilled
out to light its passing. It's slow
passing.
"So it sort of relies on your enemies standing
right next to you?" Buddynock
looked up with careful innocence.
"Ideally sharing the same pair of trousers?"
"Shut up, shut up!" muttered Dain. "I just have to adjust the .. just wait
... I've got this."
Iron shod feet pounded down the passage behind us, we
had wedged that first door but there was more than one corridor through this
castle. Two dozen Hobgoblins at the least, fully armed in dark mail and
long shields; we glimpsed smaller Goblins lurking at the rear. Our Cleric's Guiding Bolt spell claimed the
first in a shower of sparks; little Gove loosed a hasty arrow to no avail, our
Druid's sling shot sprang back from their heavy armour. Dain's Spiritual Weapon began to retrace its
journey.
Bizarre stranger
in dark green leather, masked and cloaked.
(c) Wizards of the Coast
(c) Wizards of the Coast
"It
certainly suggests some interesting 'hobby' activities but none which involve
any actual lady friends," grinned Celmar.
"I'm
saying nothing!!"
"That's
probably wise," said Buddynock.
"Dalmas is giving us that 'hurt' look again."
22
Behind the swinging curtain a door led to a
smaller chamber, heedless of risk, valiant Shupatra raced inside alone. Part of
the curving wall was a tangled mass of rubble, on a filthy tangle of straw lay
a dwarf, bloodstained and barely conscious, stripped of mail and outer
clothing. A wide-eyed human child,
little more than ten at best, knelt at his side, her fair hair tousled, her
fearful face cut and bruised. She was
shielding the helpless dwarf with her own body, she pointed to an arrow
slit, the stone blocks were brittle, the hole wider than normal. "There
out there!" she cried.
Shupatra's eyes narrowed, she sang a second sleep
spell, enough to give any injured dwarf and child pain-free, fear-free slumber.
Yet, only the wounded dwarf succumbed, the child spat a curse and sprang with
incredible speed for the arrow slit, only to slip and slam her head into the
stone, sticking fast, unable to drop clear. This was no ordinary youngster! Shupatra hung desperately from the girl's legs
shouting for aid. I raced through the open doorway sword dripping.
Dain's crossbow bolt went wide, Gove's second shot
again sprang back from their heavy shields; even our Ranger's arrow failed to
penetrate their armour. Spears braced,
the Hobgoblins charged down the passage.
Buddynock Rubyrubb's face was creased with concentration, a white
moonbeam flickered into life blocking the doorway, the foremost Hobgoblin was engulfed
in silver fire, screamed and fell dead to the floor. His fellows halted with speed, our Druid had
bought us some time.
Small Shupatra still clung to the child's legs. I ran to join
her, Celmar too, and it took three of us pulling on those feet before the small
girl fell back into the tower. We heard
an inhuman hiss from that sweet, innocent mouth, we saw the fury in those
pitiless dark eyes. Yet she was a child
still, young, helpless, pigtails dancing either side of her pinched face, how
in Tartarus could I injure a small maiden?
"Your sword you fool!" Shupatra shouted from
the ground. Now I saw those tiny fingers sprout claws, I caught her first
slashing blow on my shield, but the second raked blood from our Bard. I shouted again and again, bawling a demand
for her surrender then Celmar's trusty magic missiles found their mark, a wise
choice in that small tight space. Shupatra
struck home with her short sword and that entity in child's form hissed like
some hungry snake.
Almost closing my eyes with the
horror of this struggle, I finally swung Talon, my long sword cleaved the
child's side, a stroke to topple a strong man to the earth, yet this creature
still fought on, despite the bright blood running down its ruined flank. The
creature sprang again, the fight was ugly squalid, our enemy was stronger than
any of us imagined, in that narrow space we buffeted together, slamming against
walls and crumbling buttress; all the while conscious of the battle our friends
were fighting, out of sight but only a few feet away. We heard the whirr
of arrows, the brittle skittering of shafts hitting wall and ceiling; a sudden
scream so close, an outraged curse in Dwarvish; then words of honour and pride
echoing through the tower:
“Cattle die, kinsfolk die.
We ourselves must one day die.
The one thing that will never die.
The dead dwarf’s reputation!”
Dain was chanting the august verses
of the Hávamál as he fitted another bolt to his heavy crossbow, a sound to stir the
heart of any listener not actually facing an angry Dwarven warrior! (*)
Brow furrowed in concentration, Buddynock kept focus on his
Moonbeam spell, despite the two Hobgoblin arrows now quivering in the bottom of
his raised bucket (**). Their attack stalled,
for the time being, our disciplined foes still reacted with speed. The foremost two Hobgoblins had knelt, their
angled shields braced as a dozen of their waiting comrades set arrows to
string. Another volley sped down the
short passage way, little Gove screamed like a stuck pig and fell back, a long arrow
deep in his thin chest. Goblins
are notoriously skilled at loosing arrows and fading back into cover, but not even
Gove was nimble enough at this close range, against so many skilled bowmen.
Dain’s crossbow bolt went wide again; we heard him
curse as a long arrow pierced his Dwarven mail.
His spent Spiritual Weapon faded from view, the Hobgoblins readied another
volley. Ranger Samuel stepped forward his longbow bent, chanted his mystic words and sped
his arrow in a magic Hail of Thorns.
Three Hobgoblin archers fell dead, a fourth fell back wounded; our foes withdrew
from sight. Our Druid's silver Moonbeam
still stood defiant in the passage.
I had no more time to spare for
even small kindness. Shupatra’ nimble blade slashed home again, Celmar
had drawn her dagger. I felt the creature’s fell breath on my face as I struck
with shortened sword, stabbing deep and finally bringing our foe to the
ground. The creature still fought with all the ferocity of a beast yet
there was rational thought so clearly in those cold eyes. Even when wounded,
even when dying, the creature would not heed any offer of quarter.
It fell to the cracked stone
flags, one hand clenching. We stared down at our foe, still in the form
of a small child, grey dress rent and stained with blood, blonde hair smeared
with filth. For a heartbeat I could not move, for the sheer horror of it
all; we knew we faced some eldritch entity but we saw a young girl whose life
we had ended with our swords. And then, and then, the still form shimmered and
shifted, in place of that broken doll like form we saw a tall gangling
corpse, naked but no apparent gender, blue grey hairless skin, a bulbous
head, long fingers tipped with talons. Not human, not even close, no troll nor
ogre either, a creature strange and unknown, deadly and able to change its
form at will. But for wise Shupatra we could have been fooled, a few
moments more and we surely would have accepted this helpless child under our
shields.
Despite
this his favoured battle cries fall more to “You’re gonna get your nads kicked
in!” rather than poetry. I am not
entirely sure what this means but I have my suspicions.
(**) One
day, soon, surely, our fancy free Druid will finally buy a proper shield!
23
What would have happened when we
ate our shared meal trusting our food was safe? What would this creature
have done when we slept unaware and our sentry was alone and
unsuspecting? I shuddered though my comrades did not see. A deadly
cunning foe yet I sensed no clear evil in its nature , no obvious malice even now,
just cold purpose, pitiless as a winter storm or black void among the stars.
An account of battle and war can
be stimulating to those devouring tales from the safety of their fireside, an
entertainment to any who have never faced fierce foes with long blades in their
hands, they see the supposed glory and hear trumpets in their minds. The stark
reality is agony and fear, blood and always blood, the dying eyes that take lodging
in your soul, the screams of pain, the churned earth, the acrid tang of voided
bowels from the dead and dying; from the living too though few warriors ever
admit to that. A soldier may live through a battle but a little of him still
dies in winning his victory.
The Shapeshifter
(c) Wizards of the Coast
We seized our slight respite in
both hands. Ranger Samuel and Buddynock stood sentry in the doorway, returning
arrows and slingstones whenever a Hobgoblin archer ventured a shot. Despite his
own injury Dain Rocksmiter fought to save stricken Gove, removing the barbed
Hobgoblin arrow then closing the wound with deft skill. At last I could turn to the Dwarven hostage. He had been tortured with
brutal skill and his deep voice was barely a whisper but I recognised the
battered face of Gundren Stonefoot. His brown eyes struggled to focus but his broken
hand still gripped mine in thanks. Gundren would recover I was sure of that now
but we would not be travelling quickly in his company. We used our slight
respite to the full but we knew only too well battle would be rejoined at any
moment. All through the castle echoed the sound of steady hammering.
24
There was no chance to rest and
regain our spells but we moved helpless Gundren and Gove out of arrow shot and
dragged a heavy table to cover the door. Our prisoner was still securely bound. We had no time to question the man though his
curious costume certainly seemed significant. A few Hobgoblin arrows were fit
for further use and Ranger Samuel gratefully added them to his quiver. Our
swift search uncovered a stitched leather sack hidden under dead Grol's
mattress. Inside lay a few hundred silver and electrum pieces, three potions of
healing and to our grateful surprise Gundren Stonefoot's map to Wave Echo
Cave. It felt so strange to actually
hold this precious parchment at last; we had strived so hard, risked body and
soul to find this map and after so much endeavour the scroll simply fell into
our hands. Surely trumpets should have
been sounding!
We had won the prize, we now had
to win our freedom. Before the hammering finished, we tried a desperate subterfuge,
we ordered our enemies to throw down their weapons if they wanted their King to
live. Without even a heartbeat’s pause the Hobgoblins loosed four further
arrows in our direction. “I guess King Grol
is late but not lamented then,” said Celmar. She stared and pointed “Here they
come again!”
The results of that frantic
carpentry were all too clear, the short passage was suddenly filled by a mass
of sawn through chairs and benches, all hastily nailed together to form a
wooden pavise. Our enemies had mounted
their shield on stout trestles, and the wood was clearly greased with something
I do not care to name for the heavy pavise moved at a steady pace despite its
evident weight. Hobgoblins were clearly
massed behind this moving cover; nearer and nearer slid the wooden shield,
nearer and nearer until Dain's simple produce flame cantrip and a flash of oil
set the timber aflame. Our foes still tried to push their pavise onto us but a
further flask of oil made the wood too hot to hold and our enemies fell back
again as black smoke billowed around them.
"Nicely
done," said our Ranger. "but
they'll surely try again."
"Why
do they need to?" replied Celmar.
"Remember those expected reinforcements? Sixty more Hobgoblins
heading our way. The Cragmar garrison
only has to sit and wait and hold us here.
Only Gnomes and Halflings could fit through those arrow slits."
"In
that case it's high time for someone to do something brave," piped up
Buddynock. Our Druid pulled the two
arrows from his bucket. "Yes
me! Yes I do choose to risk my neck
sometimes! All for the good of the party and the quest and so on."
"You
have a plan?" I asked.
"A
plan so cunning a Grand Archmage of the Twentieth would be beaming,"
grinned Buddynock. "Not to mention
it neatly resolves my own duties too."
"Do
I really want to hear this?"
muttered Dain.
25
It
only took moments to explain. What other
choice did we have? Each of our party
nodded in turn, brave Buddynock attached a rope and slipped out of the nearest
arrow slit as we kept careful watch from above. Dropping lightly to the ground
our Druid took the form of a pony for speed and raced around Cragmar to the
iron postern door where we had first entered the castle. Reverting to his Gnomish body Buddynock
tiptoed through the corridors, an act of supreme daring with so many armed and
angry enemies so near. Especially as he
took pains to close the iron door behind him. (*)
With
all his strength our comrade swung on the oak bar holding the door, all the
time shooting wary glances over his shoulder.
At first it would not give, but bracing both his little feet against the
frame Buddynock tried again, red in the face, his thin arms straining, at last
our Druid felt the heavy timber shift. The
bar swung clear; the door sprang open, nearly slamming small Buddynock into the
wall. The starving Owlbear burst into the corridor. It blinked in the
torchlight, it hooted with fury. It smelt the swiftest route to freedom and seized
its chance.
First
we heard the sudden roaring, then a babbling burst of terse commands, a moment later and we saw the Hobgoblin shield
wall shatter as the enraged Owlbear rampaged through their ranks, striking left
and right with its feathery claws. The fog cloud that Buddynock thoughtfully
summoned only confused our enemies more.
As the Owlbear burst through the Hobgoblins, slaying at least three with
its beak and talons, we charged headlong down the passage.
The
Owlbear slashed through the painted tarpaulin and hooting with triumph raced for
the shelter of the forest, the Hobgoblins had no chance to reform their ranks
before we were on them, I slew the first, Dain's battle axe Grom claimed a
second; our surprised and bloodied foes, leaderless, scourged by spell and
missile, broke and ran. I killed a
second as it turned to flee and our Ranger's arrow brought down another as Celmar's
Burning Hands spell wreaked havoc among them.
Ten or so surviving Hobgoblins fled deadly Cragmar, a scattering of
smaller Goblins running ahead of them, fighting amongst themselves as they
slipped free of the walls.
We sank back exhausted in grateful
triumph. Celmar was finally able to release the bound wolf, Dain Rocksmiter
telling the animal to run hard and fast for the trees. (**)
Our
Ranger glanced down at the three Hobgoblins savaged by the furious Owlbear; there was little trace left of their necks and
faces. "Remind me to ask Druid Rubyrubb just how he defines a dangerous
animal!"
"Just why would that shapeshifter
choose the form of a Dark Elf?" Celmar shuddered. "Are the Drow pitted against
us?" She saw my expression and
frowned. "What do you know Paladin?"
(**) I know better than to suggest saving wolves is a
foolishness, I well know that look of Celmar whenever they are hurt.
26
"Not
now, not yet,” I made myself meet her gaze. "Please."
"Now
we move fast," said Buddynock Rubyrubb.
"Out and away before company arrives."
"We can still spare a few
moments to search Cragmar," I said.
"There could be other prisoners."
Dain Rocksmiter's jaw was
set: "And a possible Chapel of Marthammor Duin. If it is truly here,
if, then I do not leave before offering a Blessing!" (*)
Our Bard did not speak of her own
quest but I caught the steely glint in her eyes. I had no doubt that Shupatra too would insist
on a few minutes to satisfy herself the fabled Dulcimer of Maponus was not
hidden nearby. The moment was ours and
we made good use of it. We first completed our search of dead Grol's tower. Amid
the debris we found an upturned table and a scatter of parchment scraps; spilt
ink, feather quills and coloured dyes. Any mystery vanished as soon as we saw
the drawings. Each with the same Spider
seal.
25 gold crowns for
this one.
Human Ranger
Bring his head and
bow hand
Nothing paid for ears
alone
“Well that’s not a bad picture,”
smiled our Ranger, “Quite rugged even if that longbow is laughable.”
Granite will
crumble, adamantine will shatter before a Son or Daughter of Durin steps away!
27
25 gold crowns
for this one.
Halfling Bard
Bring body.
Face and tongue
intact
|
Shupatra was less impressed with
the next. “Oh the level of detail is
stunning. A female Halfling bard, the
fact I don’t actually have a lute or wear my hair in a ponytail, does nothing
to detract from the fulsome flattery. But why the pointy ears? And shoes!”
“I wonder which Goblin drew them,”
said Celmar. “He really have a talent. I
hope they escaped. Look at the care he's taken. Shading and cross hatching
too. Not easy with clawed fingers.”
“They are Goblins!” glared our
Ranger.
“They’re not threatening us now,” insisted Celmar.
I should have spoken up myself, I
suppose but I freely confess my attention was fully occupied by the next paper
we found on the battered table.
“Could be worse,” said Dain grinned
up at me companionably. “They actually got your moustache sort of right. And
your shield. A bonus rate too!"
“I just wish I could afford full
plate and a visored bascinet.” I sighed.
50 gold crowns
for this one.
Human Knight
Cat device on
shield.
Wields long sword
– possibly magic
Bring his blade
with his head.
|
“Still saving?” asked Dain.
“Still a long way to go,” I
replied.
“You really want to carry all that
weight?” asked Celmar.
I rubbed a weary hand across my
forehead: “I explain this so many times, despite appearances, plate armour is
actually lighter than a mail hauberk; plate is contoured to your body, you can
run, and vault and leap into a saddle,”
“No cranes to lift knights onto
their horses?” said Shupatra, “there is
a song about-”
“No,” I insisted, “that is sheer
myth and fantasy”.
“What about a detachable thingummy
for when you need a personal moment alone and ideally something to aim
at?” Buddynock Rubyrubb spoke with such careful
innocence.
“NO! That is wantonly peculiar
myth and fantasy!” I saw our Sorcerer, Wizard and Druid trying to hide sudden
smiles. “Knights are careful what we
drink. And we don’t wear plate all day
and night.” (*)
(*) I saw
Buddynock mouthing: “Well I’m still glad I don’t have to clean out his metal
boots!”
I know what
he said. I simply choose to ignore
it. That’s generally best …. I find.
28
75 gold crowns for
them
Elf sorcerer, Runty
fighter, Dwarf priest
Bring heads for money
Nothing paid for just
ears. Or anything else. You know I pay
fair, I expect you to play fair.
Last
month must not happen again!
“Well that’s not too bad either,”
smiled Celmar who actually seemed pleased with her image. I saw her roll the parchment carefully before
slipping it into her pack.
“No staff for Celmar though,”
observed our Ranger, “that looks like a long sword strapped to her back.”
“They don’t realise I
am a Sorcerer?” smiled Celmar. “I can live with that. Hopefully
literally!”
Shupatra smiled.
“They’ve certainly caught something of Dain’s expression whenever Buddynock is
chucking darts close behind him.”
“Not sure about the
nose though and I stopped wearing scale mail days ago,” said Dain.
“We can accuse of
dastardly foes of many vicious crimes but in all honesty it’s not too fair to
criticise them for outdated fashion sense,” I suggested.
29
Our Druid poked his head up between us and
finally saw the picture properly. “Oi what’s happened to my bloody beard
and goggles! I ask you, these buggers hear one of their fiercest foes is
on the dainty size and they automatically assume he’s a hobbit. What
happened to gnome rights? Prejudiced sods!”
“Maybe you should see
this,” our Ranger slid a last parchment across the table.
25 gold crowns for
this one.
Gnomish Thief?
Appears to have
vicious animal pets
Kill him, bag him,
bring him
Nothing paid for just
ears.
Volcanoes usually
emit rumbling tremors and gouts of rancid vapours before any actual eruption.
Only the most violent shift from peaceful rocks to fountains of elemental fury
without warning. Maybe that also holds true for Gnomish Druids. “The first bastard
I find with a pencil case will be walking funny! That’s just feckin’
libellous!”
“Knobbly end inserted first?” Dain’s face
could have fitted a statue.
“Only if I feel kind!
That’s speciesism that is! Just because someone is of NORMAL stature they
draw him as a sad git with a height complex and an overlarge compensatory hat.
And I bet he was going to colour it red too. Bastard! Obsessed with all
this phallic symbol stuff!”
I've never seen our
Gnomish Druid so roused before, excluding that night his tankard was toppled
after the landlord had stopped serving.
“Phallic shaped?”
whispered Shupatra and Celmar together. “Red, round and pointy?”
“Not me!” insisted our
Ranger.
“Or me!” I
said quietly.
“You can stop looking
my way! Dain sounded outraged. “I’m perfectly normal in the lower
galleries I’ll have you know.”
“No one stare at
Buddynock no one.” I hissed.
“I heard all of that
I’ll have you know and I am not weird either,” our Druid said defiantly.
30
We had no idea of the forces still
ranged against us. It seemed best to
remain together, even though Grol's tower still seemed reasonably secure. We ordered our prisoner to support injured
Gundren and Shupatra learnt a hand to Gove.
Our prisoner simply smiled at us. He had not injured his head and we
could not account for his passive demeanour for we had no Charm spell available
to open his mind to questions. Was the man
too shocked to speak naturally? He kept reciting the same incantation: “The
Lord of Thundertree will be served. The
Lord of Thundertree must be served. We
seek new hearts to join the Faithful. We
seek them everywhere. Open your wings O Lord to your Followers.” Shupatra was
satisfied he carried no hidden weapons even though his bizarre leather costume
had plenty of potential hiding places. The green leather did not seem very old
but was clearly well worn and in need of cleaning. This mystery would have to wait, we had no
leisure for conundrums just now. We moved from room to room of battered
Cragmar.
The next was clearly a chapel, the
corbelled ceiling was higher than the previous chambers, the walls more sound
than the corridors. Dain’s deep groan truly came from his heart. Our poor
friend had found what he dreaded most. Long
despoiled, a shrine to Marthammor
Duin, Finder of Trails, with clear signs our foes had worshipped one of their
own foul deities in this holy space. A
filthy but embroidered cloth was still draped over the altar stone and the stale air still reeked from some unknown,
obscene incense. Any Goblin cleric and
acolytes had fled, anything of value had clearly been carried off with
them. I tried to imagine my own feelings
if a shrine to Pallas Athene had been defiled so shamefully. I know we were
fighting for time, I know our enemies were massing but we saw the grief in
honest Dain’s face, we could spare a few minutes surely, a few moments for our
friend to offer some small honour to his sullied God?
We were not careful enough. The
creature was above us all the time lurking in the shadows beyond our lantern,
its soft segmented hide blending perfectly with the grey stone. I still cannot explain its presence. Our foes
had clearly adopted this desecrated shrine for their own dark purposes. Was the creature a focus for their worship?
It was no dark deity I had ever heard of.
A watchdog lurking above? God
forbid not a pet!
It struck without warning, a
sinuous body at least six feet in length, its tail attached to the ceiling it's
tapered head swooping down on injured Gove before we realised. One moment it resembled a giant earthworm,
suddenly the head split apart into three
hooked tentacles surrounding a long beaked mouth. It missed cowering Gove by a rat’s
whisker. Our nimble Ranger sent an arrow winging upward but the keen shaft
barely scored its skin for all the apparent softness of its hide.
Buddynock's slingshot and
Shupatra's bolt also rebounded, only Celmar's magic missiles had any real
affect. Hissing with fury, the creature
slithered back into the shadows, disappearing through a gaping crack in the
ceiling, before I could leap and lunge upward with my sword. For all his valour
and prowess with trusty Grom it is simply not fair to expect Dain to tackle
foes several feet above his head. Our
Cleric levelled a throwing axe but the worm had vanished before he could chance
a throw.
Poor Gove was being sick on the
floor. Loudly and copiously. Considering the state of the ruined shrine
even that made little difference now. “What by Durin's balls was that?”
demanded Dain.
31
“Dunno,” said Buddynock grinning
from sheer relief.
“And you're the nature expert?” our Ranger shook his head in disbelief.
“Call that natural?” exclaimed our
Druid. Please!
“At least it has gone,” said
Celmar still peering upwards.
“For the moment,” growled Dain.
“And where to?” said Shupatra.
“You know I’ve absolutely no
intention of finding out!” said
Buddynock. “I’m just glad of one thing.
Another day, another battle and once again our popular Forest Gnome remains
untouched!"
Despite our hopes we found no
trace of any underground chambers anywhere in Cragmaw. Of course we were disappointed even though we
knew the chance was very unlikely. We
emerged in the gate tower originally scouted by our Ranger in his first
invisible foray; any garrison had fled but we finally realised how great a risk
he had taken. The trap was only visible
from within Cragmaw. There were certainly plenty of small stones to hurl but it
proved wise we all stood ten feet away.
There was a mettalic twang, the trip wire broke and slabs of stone,
broken cornice and ceiling tiles crashed to the floor in a cloud of dust and
splintered shards. Even doughty Ranger
Samuel looked askance.
“Lucky you did not advance any
further into the tower,” whistled Shupatra.
In the flanking turrets we found further
evidence of goblins (*) but any archers had clearly fled along with the others.
“I'd stay outside if I were you,” Buddynock advised Shupatra as he wiped his leather
boot against the door jamb. Dirty
little bas ....” (**) Even frightened
Gove was smirking.
Even so there was one welcome
discovery here: a rolled hauberk of mail,
heavy crossbow and Sildar's sword, all taken when he and Gundren were captured days
back along the trail. Captain Hallwinter will be overjoyed at their return and
with the imminent arrival of the Hobgoblin company, he will sadly have
immediate use for them. We spent barely half an hour searching deserted Cragmaw
but our spoils were sure to be useful.
Thanks to our Bard’s magic we were able to identify them: four very
welcome healing potions and a fifth flask I almost dropped in sheer surprise. Within this stoppered bottle liquid floated
at the top above an empty void sat happily below! Tiny fluffy clouds floated
free within the vial, they were bizarre but serenely beautiful, they moved to winds I could see. I could scarcely believe
what I was holding. To own a flying
potion opened more possibilities than I dared imagine. Oh the temptation to
drink it down just for the sheer joy and wonder of flying free as a majestic swan! (***)
(*) Their habits are unmistakeable. Only those vile troglodytes are consistently more
filthy.
(**) The
word he actually used was baskets. At
least that’s close to the word he used.
(***) We
all have dreams. Maybe we do not admit
to all of them but there is surely no harm in wanting to rise amid the
clouds and soar the heavens
32
Two
scrolls made up the remainder of our haul: a Scroll of Silence which Shupatra
gratefully claimed and a scroll which left Dain whistling through his teeth in
glad surprise.
"You
know what this is? You realise what I am
holding,” Our Cleric's eyes gleamed. "Only a Scroll of Revivify, only
that!"
"So
not a good tavern guide then?" chipped in Buddynock.
"Fool!"
smiled Dain but there was no anger in his voice. "Only a chance to drag someone back from
the Dark Realm only that! I hope to
learn the spell in time but I am not yet worthy, not yet. But this I can use, this I can try, by
Durin's Beard I hope we shall never need this magic but this is truly wonderful
all the same. I just have to reach the
stricken person in time."
"And
this spell only works once?" asked Celmar raising an elegant eyebrow. "What if more than one of us is
down? What if you have fallen Dain? Can
anyone else cast this magic?"
Our
Dwarven Cleric could only hold his two hands palm up in the air. "We have to hope. We just have to be careful. I can only do my absolute best for you
all."
"Everyone
lock shields around the Dwarf!" grinned Buddynock. "Just in case. That worm beast with the tentacles is still
lurking in the roof somewhere. Let's get
moving please."
We
rested briefly. Evening was almost upon us, but better to march even a few
miles and camp in the forest, than remain another night in ruined Cragmar. That company of Hobgoblins could not be far away.
Even with Ranger Samuel guiding our path we would struggle to make the same
speed as our outward journey, not with injured Gundren Stonefoot and Gove to
consider.
Buddynock
Rubyrubb stepped clear of the postern gate and with his usual stealthy care
walked out into the open, his small form half hidden by the tall meadow
flowers. We saw him peering at the dense
forest ahead, Buddynock was about to
beckon us forward, we saw his right arm begin to wave ... and then ... it all
happened before we could draw breath. The immense shadow surprised us all. A huge body
dropped down from the ruined roof of Cragmar Castle, landing with an impact
that shook the ground. We froze in absolute
horror, too shocked to move. Buddynock
was rigid with terror, a scaled foot had landed either side of him and an acrid
reek choked the air. Barely able to
breath; almost as petrified as when he faced the Cockatrice of Tresendar, our little
Forest Gnome forced his gaze upward. How
he did not faint from sheer fright I shall never know. Our little Buddynock found himself staring into
the open maw of a young Green Dragon, into two nostrils nearly as big as his own
head, into a gaping mouth lined with six inch fangs, into two amused and calculating
eyes. The outstretched wings must have
stretched for forty feet. If that
hideous creature had only waited a few moments more for the rest of us...
33
A
dragon? A dragon here! This was utterly outside our experience and
expectation. "Nobody move!" I
hissed. "Nobody!"
The
late sun shone on his vivid green scales, bright emerald in the full light,
dark viridian in the shade. The dragon's neck alone must have been six feet.
More than a tall man's height at the shoulder, a sleek iridescent body eight
feet long, a coiling tail a least a dozen more. Curving spines and membrane
formed a central crest. The heavy head
swayed slowly from side to side, wisps
of green vapour spiralled from its cavernous nostrils as the dragon's forked
tongue darted towards Buddynock's grey face. The hard upper lip curved in
languid amusement, the hell black eyes gleamed with delight. "And just
whom might you be?" purred the Dragon. "I suggest your answer should be
rather swift."
I freely admit I am in awe of
Buddynock Rubyrubb's intelligence and erudition. Never more so than now. His thin voice was quavering like a leaf on
the wind, but our terrified friend still had the wit to conceal his
identity. All creatures know the one trick
Druids are famed for.
"Oi be a farmer I be,"
Buddynock forced the words through his chattering teeth. "A happy jolly farmer looking for
truffles and mushrooms."
Those cold slitted eyes narrowed. "Really?"
I fear
to imagine what almost happened to
Buddynock then. The dragon's neck pulsed and swelled, his head came up, his mouth yawned even wider,
when our prisoner suddenly pushed
forward, shouting with joy, his ridiculous leather mask bouncing
on his shoulders. He was outside before we could stop him. "O Lord, O
Great and Noble Lord Venomfang! Oh my
Master Oh-"
"Another
one!" The green dragon sighed with weary contempt. "They grow so
tedious so quickly." Venomfang
pursed his scaled lips almost gently. A yellow-green cloud enveloped the
hapless man; we heard a bubbling shriek cut short, saw his shadowy form falling,
hands clutched vainly to his throat. Our prisoner died writhing on the bleached
meadow grass. I caught one glimpse of where his face had been and had to look
away. An acrid stink filled the air, the reek reached to the back of our
throats, burning our mouths even out of direct range.
Dain's
dark eyes blazed with fury, stepping forward axe raised before my hand fell on
his shoulder. Ranger Samuel nodded "Buddynock is still there. Still kneeling. The dragon did not aim the
breath at him."
"Why?" Shupatra's small scarred face was creased with
horror.
"He
wants to talk.” said Celmar, helplessly, "the dragon actually wants a
conversation!"
Young,
barely a century old, but even if Venomfang was still to attain peak physical
prowess, his vindictive humour was full grown.
This was more than a dragon looming over our helpless friend, this
seemed death incarnate, death invincible, an end to all our hopes and disaster
for our enterprise. We huddled inside
the postern not daring to move but we heard every word the dragon uttered. Venomfang rolled his vowels with malign delight,
picking each word with polished care. Our
Gnome's voice sounded eggshell frail but he still found the wit to answer this terrible
beast; even in absolute peril of his
life, wise Buddynock was able to keep the dragon talking. If this Venomfang should realise a Druid
stood before him...
"Oh
I be a farmer I be, a happy jolly farmer, wandering here, wandering there, no
harm to anyone. Look I have a bucket for
the mushrooms."
"And
not telling him the obvious." nodded Dain.
Good work Buddynock!"
"How
could even shapeshifting save Buddynock now?" Celmar's voice cracked with
despair. "He could become a tiny spider or ant but what good would it
do? If Buddynock vanishes Venomfang will
simply breathe again and anything in front of him is doomed. Even if invisible Buddynock would have no
chance, no chance at all!"
My
hand was bone white on my sword hilt.
"We must give him the chance.
Somehow."
"Call
me fanciful if you like, I just don't think a jolly little fellow like you is ambling
around all by himself so ..."
Venomfang stared hard at the castle wall, then paused savouring the
moment, "here's my offer. You can
either tell your friends skulking inside to come out and join us or ... well
... it's just you and me... Kneel down
little Gnome... kneel!"
34
How by
Holy Pallas Athene did poor Buddynock simply not faint? I began frantically searching through my
pack, throwing my belongings headlong in my haste. "Celmar can you make your Mage Hand this
small? Good." I finally found what I sought and pulled the
small box into the light. "Do you
know the rules Celmar?"
Outside
the dragon blinked one great golden eye:
"Well how can I put this ... which is your least favourite foot? It's so tiresome trying to keep my hoard
clean, I really do benefit most awfully from having a nimble pair of hands around
to polish and to count and to pile everything up. It’s sometimes so hard to
recover little items when one has stripped meat from bones with my breath. Things
do tend to ... err ... stick somewhat
and be all discoloured and well, dirty. So little 'Farmer' decide on your
feet. Yes, now if you don't mind, I'll only eat that foot. Once I've brought you to my tower you will still be able to get around after a
fashion. You just won't feel as tempted to try finding ... what is the phrase
... alternate employment."
Buddynock's
eyes bulged with abject terror.
"I
give good wages," grinned Venomfang, "Truly I do. Isn't your life the most valuable thing in the
whole wide world to you? Well I'm giving you the most precious wage in the
world then - your ability to keep breathing. Unless your friends have any shiny
little coins or sparkly trinkets they would like to bring me. Best of all any enchanted items they don't
seem to want any more."
A wisp
of green vapour spiralled upwards. "Do you think I am terribly
cruel?" said Venomfang.
Buddynock
could only shake his head.
"Oh
dear! So you think I’m too soft then?
How dreadful! I really can't
leave you thinking that can I little 'Farmer'?"
There
are moments when our lives weigh no more than a feather. I slung my shield
across my shoulders and passed precious Talon to Dain. "Guard my sword please. Be ready.
You will know just when. Pull back fast, pull back from all doors and
windows and any holes in the roof. Any
song Shupatra?"
That
first lone step was the single most terrifying experience of my life. From far
away I heard my own voice croaking.
"I bear a gift for Lord Venomfang the most Puissant and
Terrible." I walked clear of the
postern wall bearing my chess set in both hands. I looked up into those pitiless eyes, that
dripping, open mouth, how I kept walking I do not know unless good Pallas
Athene herself was standing with me.
A slow
hiss issued from the dragon.
"Mighty
Venomfang I bring you an enchanted gaming board. The pieces move at your command, most
faithfully to your strategy. I slowly
sank down upon one knee alongside helpless Buddynock. "May I prove the
worth of my gift O Great and August Dragon? May I set this down for your
delight?"
Somehow
I laid out all the pieces, fumbling only twice.
"If I may move first O Mighty Venomfang? King's Pawn advance two squares." Celmar's tiny Mage Hand obligingly made the
move. "You turn Mighty
Venomfang. Will you not display your
skill before us lesser creatures?"
Venomfang's
slitted eyes narrowed even further, his black tongue flickered over my face.
"This won't save you. You do
realise that? You are buying a little,
little time but not your life warrior.
Still ... Queen's Pawn advance one square."
Again
Celmar's cantrip did its duty; a red pawn opposite shifted forward. There was another long hiss from Venomfang. Move
followed move in quick succession and none to my advantage. My attack was
blunted, turned and soon I was desperately defending a dwindling position. I am
no novice at chess and can promise a good game to most, but it was all too
apparent that Venomfang outmatched me.
First a Bishop, then two pawns fell to his attacks; my Rooks were
desperately holding a file closed rather than attacking. Anytime I pondered my
position too long I heard another ominous hiss from over my head. It was only
too clear I had no hope of dumbfounding the dragon with my skill. I gently eased my right leg under me, this
was no time for a sudden cramp.
Through
all of this poor Buddynock did not utter say a word. He must have hoped for something when I first
stepped forward, but not this, never this!
Not some infantile bartering for time with no escape in sight. The dragon yawned with lazy deliberation. "I like the trinket I do but I like your
fear even better good sir
knight. Did you really think I was
fooled by your charade? You amuse me for
the moment but that moment will pass.
Tell me, sir knight, could you really think of no better strategy than
this? Do you hold your life so cheap you
simply throw it away?
I took
Buddynock's hand in mine. (*) His huge, helpless eyes turned in surprise. I
recalled those last inspiring words of our Bard. My numb lips mumbled a
blessing as I called on great Pallas Athene with all my heart. "We must
each of us turn so many ways in life, "I said out loud, "The plans of both mice and men so
often must shift. Turn and turn about
that is the way of life."
For
one breath-bereft moment I thought our clever Druid was too terrified to comprehend.
And then, one moment I held the trembling hand of a Forest Gnome Druid, the
next a tiny grey mouse squeaked in the hollow of my palm. Kicking the chessboard in Venomfang’s
startled face, I threw the mouse ahead of me, as I darted forward and sped for
the castle! (**)
(**) When making obeisance on one knee a
man is also already poised to run for his life.
Even cunning Venomfang was
not prepared for everything.
35
Buddynock in tiny mouse form sailed
through the arrow slit. A green claw missed my back by inches, the wind of its
passing speeding me forward, four paces, six paces, the gate was almost in my
grasp when my world vanished in a yellow green fog. Only my own impetus kept me going, my eyes
were on fire, my face burning, I was deafened by my own agonised scream, as I fell
across the threshold of the gate. The
last thing I knew was eager hands frantically pulling me inside and the sound
of Venomfang raging in fury. Without my comrades I would have died there and
then blind and helpless.
My friends
told me afterwards how strong Dain dragged me safety as nimble Shupatra caught
Buddynock the Mouse in mid-flight before he crashed against the far chamber
wall. They told me how Ranger Samuel
loosed shaft after shaft when Venomfang's vicious head appeared outside the
arrow slit, his hooked claws tearing at the opening until Celmar hurled a flask
of oil she ignited with her Burning Hands spell. My friends retreated within Cragmar just
before Venomfang could summon his breath again.
The curving wall protecting the postern was shattered by his assault the
old gate lost forever in a chaos of savaged iron and rubble. No one would ever enter Cragmaw that way
again.
It was
near nightfall before I regained consciousness, with a head pounding like a
trip hammer and gentle hands sponging cool water on my brow. (*) Dain's magic
had healed my burnt face but I still struggled to see. My tentative fingers found the padded bandage
around my head. My right eye still
worked, after a fashion but when I lifted the dressing and opened only my left,
my world disappeared into grey fog.
Dain's voice floated through the darkness,
reassuring me the damaged eye was not lost entirely but the optic wound was
beyond his capacity to heal. At least
that was something, that had to be something but shock and delirium overtook me
again. I heard my own voice muttering in the darkness: “A chevalier most
orgulous and caitiff armed cap-á-pie, waxing woodley wrath, the proudest
barbican of his demesne stuffed and garnished in readiness".
Dain
looked up in horror: “Is he dying? What else by Marthammor Duin
can I do?”
Buddynock Rubyrubb coughed, looked
from side to side and translated: “a proud knight but rather dodgy, armed head
to foot in mail, with his wild up, frothing at the mouth, nuts, barking, away
with the pixies, his castle provisioned for a siege.
"Really?"
asked Dain Rocksmiter, impressed despite himself.
Our
Druid looked sheepish. "So I like to read and I sneaked peaks at his
Malorian chronicle … there are some good bits among all those bloody
tournaments. Some chapters get a bit spicy too!”
I
plunged into a still pool, dark as death, deep as despair. I found no bottom, I
knew no more.
(*) Waking with an anxious hairy Dwarf and Gnome both inches from your face is both welcoming and alarming. I can thoroughly recommended Cleric Rocksmiter's taste in medicinal spirits though.
36
We had
no more hope of escaping Cragmaw Castle this day. Hours had passed, I lay still my head
throbbing, my left eye bandaged again
Most of my comrades must have been standing sentry but Shupatra and wounded
Gove were watching over poor Gundren Stonefoot and myself, a wise precaution
with that tentacled worm beast still probably roaming the roofs of Cragmar. I
lay still but my thoughts raced like a charging horse. Many would criticise my inconsistency. When the
blood-strewn cellars of Tresendar claimed gallant Buddynock Rubyrubb, I was
willing to leave him frozen in stone rather than abandon my quest. It was only the limits of that vile
Cockatrice’s powers that restored our Druid to life. I could never expect my decision to be quite
forgotten.
Yet
today I placed this same desperate quest in grave jeopardy with a hare-brained
hasty scheme to save my comrade; nearly throwing my own life away in the
attempt. Indeed the injury I have
sustained impedes my chances to complete my vital mission; I am blind on my
left flank and my attempts to use my crossbow will hardly be helped. If my poor
mule survives I must hope my javelins are still lashed to his pack.
An
inconsistent Paladin is no Paladin at all; he disgraces his sworn oath and his
august Order. And yet, and yet, what in all truth could I have done
differently? Surely these cases are not
the same? In Tresendar Manor poor Buddynock was already lost to us before we
could even try to save him. Today my friend was not yet dead, today there was a
chance to rescue him even at the hazard of my mission. I know how many lives
are at stake, I know the whole western province faces ruin and death, I will
beg forgiveness from my High Archon, but I could not stand by and see my
comrade kneeling before that vile and vicious dragon without an attempt to
protect him. I was disobedient; I paid with the sight of one eye. But even half
blind and wounded I can still attempt my quest. And with resourceful Buddynock
Rubbyrubb still within our fellowship we have a greater chance of victory
despite the odds.
A
hopeful thought yet those odds had just grown longer. We had missed our chance,
we were out of time; if the Fates were throwing dice someone’s set was
weighted. Keen eyed Celmar sighted the first scouts as
they cleared the edge of the woods; Ranger Samuel’s keen arrows claimed both as
they cautiously approached the castle but their fellows were close behind. We
had no hope of disguising the truth. A full company of Hobgoblins surrounded
Cragmar and their Captain deployed his command with a veteran’s skill. His main force drew up before the western
terrace where the broken gates stood permanently open. The remaining twenty were
stationed around the clearing, keeping out of arrow flight but vigilant, armed
and ready, either to forestall any attempt we might make to break clear or to
make their own attack as soon as we were occupied with the main assault.
“Never
thought I’d be sorry vengeful Venomfang has buggered off,” sighed Buddynock.
“Are
you quite sure,” Shupatra sounded as dubious as a two headed Lankhmar gold piece.
“Well
I’m certainly not sticking my nose out to check! Once was most definitely enough.”
“Trust
that damn Green Dragon to disappear just before these Hobgoblins.” Ranger Samuel had an arrow already nocked for
the first foe to step within range. “If
only we’d realised, we could have been away.”
“And
if wishes were horses all beggars would ride shining Pegasus,” Celmar said
quietly.
“The second siege of Cragmar Castle,” our
Ranger’s keen eyes never left the Hobgoblins mustering to our front.
“So it begins,” Celmar attempted a
smile but our young sorceress was only too aware of how Hobgoblins treat Elvish
captives.
“Anyone got any good ideas?” Buddynock spoke with wry resignation,
perching atop a barrel to peer through the nearest arrow slit. “Seven of us and sixty of them! Somehow I don’t think even my Ring of
Protection is going to be quite good enough.”
“I could always start singing Warriors of the High Slate Rock,” said
Shupatra with only minimal sarcasm considering the circumstances.
Dain paused in his labours and raised one bushy eyebrow:
“Pardon?”
“Men of hardd llech,”
our deadpan Bard replied.
37
Our position was now desperate
indeed. Even with the postern blocked we
were thinly spread; we could not afford to give our foes any easy access to the
Castle. The broken main gates remained
the most obvious weak point, but we still needed Buddynock, Gove and Shupatra
guarding the breach in the ramparts concealed by that torn camouflaged
canvas. We could not be certain our foes
would not discover the gap, we could not be certain the Hobgoblins did not
already know of its existence! A hasty wooden barricade now blocked the
corridor but even if valiantly defended, this could hardly hold for long. Gove was still slowed by his wound but was our
best choice to raise an alarm or summon help.This was certainly less than ideal
but all we could do.
The rest of us stood in the main
entrance of Cragmar. We had no hope of resetting that rope trap but at least we
had time to drag fallen stones to form a crude wall inside the open gate. The
wind carried the sound of axes and saws and by noon we saw the hasty mantlets
our foes had knocked together. Some Hobgoblins
would still fall to our arrows before they closed the distance, but not many
now, not enough and we would still be trading volleys with the squads of
archers drawn up on the flanks of the central assault. Good news was as rare as Phoenix eggs just
now, but at least that tentacled beast in the roof void had not reappeared; all
we needed was that vicious worm creature dropping down again mid battle. If Venomfang had found and eaten it, maybe
the Dragon was simply no longer hungry enough to wait for us.
Celmar had the creased Fireball
scroll in her hands, she surely knew the mystic words by heart now, but our
sorceress still mulled over the spidery text, waiting her moment to chance this
powerful magic. Her spell remained our best hope, but I privately doubted even
a fireball could save us today. Not from
so many Hobgoblins, not from a force so warlike and ready. We heard a war horn
sounding, its harsh bray repeated and answered from the cordon on our
flanks. A drum beat began heavy,
resolute and full of purpose, a heartbeat to the attack we could see forming
before the gate. The last act seemed about to begin.
Gundren Stonefoot lay helpless in
one of the small shuttered rooms, we left him a long knife as the best weapon
he could still wield. We had other choices which might have been kinder, but we
had not come to that, not yet, not quite. There was something else to consider too. The
flying potion gave one of us a hope of escaping, one of us only, though those
archers would need to be lamentably poor bowmen even so. One chance of life between eight of us. Only
a fool or a berserk would not have been tempted simply to seize the potion and
drink; only the deranged or truly desperate are willing to throw their lives
away. We could have drawn lots I suppose and maybe that would have been
fairest. In the event we gave the potion to Shupatra. It is hard not to feel
especially protective of Halflings; I mean no insult, but their small size
makes any man look on them as children, even when we know their worth and
prowess so very clearly. Buddynock
could take insect form and conceal himself if Cragmar fell, a path Dain Rocksmiter
vigorously urged him to follow once our enemies forced an entrance. We knew what we faced today. If even one survives
all is not lost, not quite. (*)
Anyone
can prove a fine stoic on a full belly; the only real proof is more dearly
bought. If we have no other choice at least we can always choose how we meet
our fate. Despite the
pain in my head I forced myself to my feet.
I did my best to clean my shield, for I wanted my cat blazon shining bright
this morning, come what may, I wanted these creatures to know who defied them.
My mail coif was back in place, my helm pulled down. I reclaimed long Talon and took my place
before the broken gate; Dain Rocksmiter at my side with trusty Grom, Ranger
Samuel standing proud with his bow, his arrows laid loose within easy reach. Behind us Celmar raised the Fireball scroll
to catch the daylight. There would be little time left for fear soon.
The Hobgoblins stood in close
formation, flanked by the deep pool. The
main body behind those heavy mantlets with their shields braced and their long spears
levelled and two lines of archers on either side, wielding tall yew bows even a
hardy forester would struggle to draw. Their Captain was no fool, his scouts
had examined the water first, chancing a few random arrows and stones to make
sure no predatory beast lurked into those dank depths. Any simple animal would have soon risen to
the surface, it was certain no mindless beast could endure such provocation. Our foes were ready, the drum beats rose to a
savage crescendo. Some of the leading spearmen carried rough bundles of brushwood
to burn their way through any pitiful defences we could offer.
Buddynock Rubyrubb would shift to animal form and simply abandon us. I give honour and thanks for our Fellowship.
38
We each of us make our plans, we
imagine we set order and reason to meet the whims of fate; yet for all our fond
hopes and grand designs we remain little more than wayward leaves blown wild on
the wind. (*)The Hobgoblin Captain had ordered his assault with great thought
and precision, no commander anywhere, not even great Pyrrhus himself could have
found fault with his deployment. And yet
even the best stratagem may contain a fatal flaw; even the noblest Swan Ship of
the High Elves may be holed and leaking below the waterline. Something lurked within that dark pool, tightly
coiled, keen eyes gleaming, his green scales hidden in the depths, a creature able
to breathe both in air and in water, a creature only wanting its prey to be
standing close packed, neatly within range. (**)
Few dragons choose to fight unless
the odds are in their favour, unless, of course, the dragon is so enraged it
has no other thought beyond rending its foes.
Yet a hungry dragon will take chances and Venomfang was cunning. The unwitting Hobgoblins had closed formation
barely 100 yards from the pool. The young Green Dragon erupted from the placid
water in a shower of weed and spray, the Hobgoblins barely had time to turn as
Venomfang burst forward, jaws jutting open, we saw the dragon's neck bulge and
then a choking cloud of vapour shrouded the scene.
We heard the guttural screams we heard the dragon's roar of triumph like rolling thunder. As the cloud cleared we saw at least a dozen Hobgoblins prone on the ground, the others reeled back in confusion. Venomfang was among them now and delighting in the slaughter, his wings held wide blotting out the sun, his long neck whipping to left and right his fearsome jaws seizing creature after creature, shaking and dropping each stricken Hobgoblin like a terrier chasing rats.
The effort
must be maintained the innocent shielded but the fruits of victory are always
so fleeting.
(**) “But who by
the Seven Planes of Hell ever expects a Dragon?” said Ranger Samuel. “Did we?
Did you?”
“You really
have to ask ME that?” said Buddynock Rubyrubb.
“Really?”
39
Even the High Elves do not decry
Hobgoblin courage and discipline. Our
foes fought back desperately with their spears and swords, others sent long
arrows winging through the air. Many shafts snapped back on the dragon’s
armoured hide but some still surely struck home. Yet any hope they had was
frail at best. Wounded and dying their Captain still rallied his troops, but Venomfang’s
claws tore his throat away before rippng apart the last two bodyguards trying
to shield him. The surviving score of
Hobgoblins scattered and fled. Venomfang hauled himself into the air, his great
wings beating backward as he hovered above them, again his neck pulsed as he
gathered his breath, again jets of choking green vapour scourged his prey. Only a handful of that proud company ever reached
the scant safety of the tree line. One dying Hobgoblin stumbled blind and
screaming towards Cragmar, falling to the ground, then staggering to his feet,
limping a few more paces then falling once more. The careful arrow from our
Ranger was a kindness.
Venomfang swept low around the
clearing, bursting through briars and undergrowth without even a pause; at
least a dozen more of his prey died under the trees. One last Hobgoblin knelt
quaking before Venomfang, we saw the green neck arch down, the long reptilian
face looming inches over the helpless creature.
We saw the Hobgoblin strip the mail and clothes from his fallen companions.
As each corpse lay naked under the afternoon sun, Venomfang ate his fill, ripping
off hunks of flesh and tossing up his head as he gulped them down, his neck
bulging horribly as each gobbet of flesh passed down his long gullet. Corpse after corpse, Venomfang devoured each
Hobgoblin in turn until his distended belly was swollen like an ale cask. At
the end the dragon almost seemed to be choking as he forced each morsel down.
Then there was nothing left beyond
the churned ground and the discarded fragments of armour and weapons. That last
Hobgoblin lay prostrate, arms outstretched, trembling with fear. Venomfang
stared down for a moment, said something we could not hear, made to turn away,
then suddenly and contemptuously trod the creature into the dirt. With a great effort the dragon forced himself
into the air, weary wings beating furiously.
Slowly, Venomfang soared over Cragmaw; he tried to send a last burst of
vapour over our shelter but barely a wisp emerged. We saw our enemy turn his long neck to the
north and disappear over the horizon.
None of us spoke for a long
time. Was this the sheer shock we were
actually still alive or the horror of witnessing a Dragon in the full glory of
slaughter? I still cannot say for
sure. It was longer still before we
ventured out from Cragmar. We did not
seriously imagine Venomfang was still waiting in ambush but even so, it took a
resolute heart to walk across that naked, bloodstained ground to the woods
beyond.
We found no sign of maimed Bargul
but it seemed impossible he could have escaped Venomfang. To our utter astonishment my mule was still alive! His eyes wide with fear, Sisyphos had backed
under a clump of ferns; the Hobgoblins had surely planned to seize or simply
eat him but my mule had survived their swords and even the dragon. Better than his master at least.
At least now we could cook a warm
meal, at least now we could finally draw breath without any immediate
fear. There was no sense of triumph
despite our success in rescuing Gundren and even his precious map; our victory
had been too narrowly won for celebration. We had survived, that was
enough. Our final objective was clear,
at last we knew the location of lost Phandelver and the site of the mine was a
true revelation.
It was more than time for a
Council of War. This was the moment I was dreading. After weeks of concealing
the real purpose of my mission I must finally reveal the truth. How would my
comrades respond, would they accept I had been acting under strict orders? I
could not complain if they simply walked away in fury, how could I truly blame
anyone for not risking their lives in a hopeless fight? And how can any sane
adventurer willingly attack a vicious dragon capable of killing its foes with one
quick breath?
We found the equivalent of 114 gp and 10 sp each. Gove was incredulous with delight at being
given 10 gp and 36 sp.
A Scroll of Silence - Shupatra
A Scroll of Revivify - Dain Rocksmiter
Healing potions - Dain Rocksmiter,
Cadan Dalmas, Ranger Samuel , Shupatra
Flying potion - Cadan Dalmas
We found a few surviving pieces from my poor chess set,
enough at least to share between my friends, as an emblem of the bond between
us all. For Dain Rocksmiter a Bishop, for our doughty Ranger a Rook. A Queen
apiece for Celmar and Shupatra and a King for our valiant Druid Buddynock. For
myself I give thanks this one white Knight survived with honour intact. We only
found fragments of the remaining pieces and wooden board.
These Forest
Gnomes are strange.
40
NOTE I:
I
should add a detail I unfathomly omitted earlier in my account. I somehow suspect I have to if I hope to get
any actual sleep this evening. That
night around our camp fire I heard two quiet voices.
"It's
not fair! " sniffed Buddynock.
" Not only do I nearly get ate by a bloody big dragon (*) what
about when I scurried us into the castle? Celmar was not the only one with inspired
ideas. Before slipping under the door as
an ant, I was right inside that there
keyhole trying to turn the springs and cylinders, all six of my little legs
pushing and pulling, working my anterior antenae down to the chitin and what
recognition do I get? Nothing! Who remembered? No one! Not a thank you, not
a single 'well done for lateral lock pick thinking!' Not one 'nice try even if it failed'. Big as
mill wheels those lock tumblers when you are
a tiny little ant. All rusty and
manky too."
"Finished?"
sighed Dain Rocksmiter.
"Not
remotely!"
I
heard our Cleric mutter something only certain gods ever actually deliver. Those deities heavy on the horns and leather
wings and rather fond of skull motifs.
"I'm sure no one meant to upset
you," said Dain. "Now go to sleep. Please!"
"Can
I have a cup of water?"
I
choose to strike Dain Rocksmiter's answer from this record.
I have stopped asking myself why any Druid should be
wearing metal goggles.
Or carrying a bucket with a smiling face on the side.
Our Gnomish comrade has his personal preferences that is
all I can say.
Buddynock, on the other hand, can and does say much, much
more and far more frequently ... roughly everytime he feels
remotely put upon.
My Gnomish
vocabularly is much expanded.
My Dwarvish vocabularly is now even better than my Gnomish.
41
NOTE II:
Forgotten Cragmar is found once more. We have rescued
poor Gundren Stonefoot and his precious map, the road to lost Phandelver at
last lies open; is there any logical argument under the sun for retaining a
slinking Goblin in our company? What,
in all conscience, should we do with little Gove now? Simply send him packing? We have stood side by side under the arrows,
we have healed Gove's wounds and rewarded his assistance, but can we really
trust this sly creature not to betray us? Even now? Our desperate Quest is far
from finished and it is only too plain a disciplined cabal is ranged against
us, if we simply bid farewell to Gove where will he run?
There is a simple answer to our quandary, very simple
and no distant than the length of my dagger. Some stark times it is the only
action possible. I did not hesitate from slaying those two Hobgoblin sentries
when we had to storm Grol's chamber, we had no choice then and I would make
that same decision now; their deaths are on my conscience however necessary,
but they died in the heat of action when success danced on a sword blade. But by the Aegis of Athene that battle is
over, no foe threatens us this very moment; slaying Gove would simply be
murder. He is an evil creature, but murder is an evil act. This Goblin is no immediate danger to us, not
now, not yet, maybe not ever.
We will either find lost Phandelver, we must, or prove
this forgotten mine is not the place of Eldritch power my Order so desperately
seeks. Do I shrink from this solution through humanity or weakness? I know only too well what some would argue
with words most logical and blunt. Do I
place my own qualms above the good of my comrades and all those unsuspecting,
innocent folk whose lives and peaceful security depend on our victory? There is always that simple answer and many
would not give conscience a crumb of thought, yet stepping back from that dark
path is perhaps the only way we show ourselves to be truly any different
Wishful thinking is the luxury of those sitting safely
removed from responsibility, I do not fool myself little Gove has reformed his
malicious ways; I simply hope that our steadfast example might offer him some
alternative to a life of petty bombast and brutality. A fond hope I know, but a hope that endures all
the same. Any petty tyrant can destroy,
if we wish others to forsake their evil ways we must be seen to live in
decency, compassion and honour. Easy piety turns my stomach; self-satisfied
morality is like a bard singing ballads of his own prowess. For Gove to be the creature we would wish, I
must be the man I should be. Once uniformly reviled and feared have not some
worthy Half-orcs proved their noble worth? If they can show such courage and
true chivalry how can we simply abandon all hope of others also changing.
Any
people who grow too sure of their own worth and piety far too often are soon
found lacking. As noble Sokrates so
often said "the unexamined life is not worth living." We must always look to others and hope, we
must always see ourselves as we truly are.
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