Down these mean dungeons a Paladin must go, who is not himself mean but hopefully rolls some 20's!: 2019

Chronicle of Cadan Dalmas, Knight

BOOK VII

The Green Lord of Thundertree

Dawn found us wounded and weary, still half stunned at still being alive. Gundren Stonefoot would recover in time, even our cautious Cleric was certain of that now. Poor Gundren could walk again for short distances and at least our spells could close his wounds and numb his pain, but the tortured Dwarf would still need days to fully regain his strength. We were no strangers now to injury and death, but we winced at the lacerations and burns to his back and legs. Gundren's voice remained a hoarse whisper but we saw the fierce recognition in his eyes. "My brothers. They both wait hidden at Phandelver,” his maimed hands clawed at the map. "You must..."

At least Gundren Stonefoot and Gove were still speaking to me. (*) Hours had passed since the first recriminations, long painful hours with silence fit for a sphinx. There are times when the knowledge of doing my duty is the single scant consolation. My friends’ fury was not my only concern for the sight had never returned to my injured left eye. With my right eyelid closed, all I could distinguish was a grey fog with occasional flashes of light. My crossbow would serve little purpose now and I tried to hide my fear. Any enemy attacking on my left flank would have the advantage; I could only trust to my battered shield and hope. (**) My injury was only too serious but then I recalled my stoic training and the small scarred faces of our Halfling Bard and Gnomish Druid. I was not the only one marked by this quest, our Ranger had also suffered much these past few weeks.

"It's incredible the lost mine should be found so close to the town," Ranger Samuel paused as he lashed another full quiver to my mule, he had spent a good hour scouring the castle before accepting no further goblin arrows lay abandoned in Cragmaw. "Especially when so many have searched."

"True," said Dain Rocksmiter, "but much may be hidden by magic or time."

"The mine was only taken after a titanic battle underground,” I said, my voice sounding louder than I intended. “The invading orcs had trolls and ogres to bolster their assault; they even hired human mages to defeat the wizards of Phandelver. Spell met counter spell in those dark tunnels and galleries. The fighting lasted for days; the damage was great. Who can say how the site was changed afterwards?”

There was a long pause. I saw my outraged friends exchanging glances. I almost thought I heard a weary sigh.

(*) Our ‘friendly’ Goblin’s conversation has sadly little to recommend it.Treacherous, self-serving whispers, a creature whose overweening ambition far outstrips his pitiful talent.

(**) I remain most grateful for the Mending cantrip of Dain Rocksmiter. Apart from repairing all minor damage to our equipment, this spell is a wonderful means of removing rust from my mail. Much quicker than a leather bag of sand and vinegar.

2

"Any mine sprawls," advised Dain. "Gundren and his brothers may have stumbled across one entrance, a minor ventilation shaft maybe. It does not mean they discovered the great gates themselves. Many galleries may have collapsed, we simply cannot say. Yet."

By the Owl of Athene my friends were talking to me again! I know I was correct, I know I had no choice but it was still a miserable time when everyone was too angry to speak. Even kindly Buddynock Rubyrubb.

Shupatra arched an eyebrow: "All this eager talk of dark caverns and you a Cleric of Nature."

"I'm still a Dwarf," Dain Rocksmiter met our Bard’s merriment with one of his own rare smiles. "And do you think the Deeps lack life? Maybe one day you shall see for yourself."

"Perhaps,” Shupatra gazed upward at the scudding clouds, "but I'm in no hurry to leave the fields and greenwood. Or market days glad for a singer."

We were ready to leave ravaged Cragmaw and glad to be going. Our kit was packed, our weapons sharpened, our armour cleaned, a padded roll of blankets would give Gundren the smoothest journey possible on my mule. (*) All we wanted now was to march at the best speed we could manage to the refuge of Phandalin town, but there were matters more pressing we could not postpone. We had to face Venomfang of Thundertree. Our safety and the survival of Phandalin rested on nothing less.

“What about that tentacled worm beastie though?” Celmar peered upwards with pronounced distaste. “It might still be lurking up in the roof?”

“Maybe the dragon chomped it?” Buddynock Rubyrubb sounded more hopeful than convinced. Being nearest the floor conceivably made our Gnomish Druid less vulnerable to any sudden swoop from above, but Buddynock clearly remembered the size of that gaping maw and wanted to take no chances.

“Is that what you really think?” Celmar’s green eyes were focused on some point far beyond my sight as she summoned the power of her glass staff. An instant later and her body was enveloped in shimmering Mage Armour. We all have our careful habits each new morning.

“It’s what I want to think! In any case we’ve no time to waste tip-toing across the tiles to check. Too many holes and dodgy bits. And I’m not shifting to squirrel form if that thing might still be ambling about up there.”

I nodded my agreement: “True, but maybe on our return we can-”

(*) No wise adventurer sets out with a mule already fully laden.

3

“Let’s just concentrate on the first task ahead”, Shupatra’s jaw was set.

“And that we still have to decide,” said our Ranger. He shot another aggrieved glance in my direction. “Now we finally know the truth.”

“Just to be sure I understand,” and Celmar infused each of her careful words with crystalline clarity. “If this magic forge still functions but we cannot guard it then the flame must be destroyed? You still say that?” We saw her utter dismay, we heard the sudden catch in her voice. “Even though this is natural magic, a power alive in its own right?”

“I am sorry-” I began.

“You keep saying that,” Shupatra shook her head in exasperation. “Some of us have minds of our own. Some of us think for ourselves and take real responsibility, some of us don’t lie to their companions!” I tried to answer but our Halfling Bard was a mountain spring in spate. “A lie by omission is still a lie. Don’t give me any tangled theological justifications. Words can clarify or words can conceal. You allowed us to walk into danger without realising!”

There are times I could gladly hide within my faceless steel helm. “Yes, if the Forge of Lazair Glas survives but we cannot hold our ground the Flame must be destroyed. Yes, if the Forge has become polluted the Flame must be destroyed. If I fail, one of you must take a phial of Holy Water from my pouch and dispel this power forever. We have no choice, we must see this mission through to the end. The safety of all the province depends on it. And yes, despite everything I am sorry!”

My friends did not appreciate this comment anymore the first time but at least now our genial Gnomish Druid broke the silence. “And just to make things even more peachy there’s also Venomfang the Green and his halitosis of doom!”

“We must stand united,” growled Dain, his hands resting lightly on the head of Grom. “If we withdraw now there is no certainty Venomfang will not find us anyway. Our only hope is to take the fight to him at a time we decide and on ground of our choosing.”

“And his deadly breath that felled our gallant knight in a heartbeat?” Our Bard can give an uncomfortable emphasis to certain words when she chooses.

“Next time will be different,” said Dain with grim insistence. “Next time we will be prepared. I can cast a protection against poison, Buddynock too. We would be more able to withstand that dragon.”

“More able?” Trust a bard to be sensitive to language, Shupatra pounced on the discrepancy like a swooping hawk, “but not immune?”

Now it was Dain Rocksmiter’s turn to look askance: “yes the spell reduces the potency of any poison no, it cannot overcome any venom entirely.”

The silence which followed our Cleric’s statement was long, thoughtful and heartfelt.

“Maybe we should just chase after that rooftop worm beastie instead,” Buddynock’s upturned face beamed hopefully. “Just in case anyone has not already realised this. If we are casting Protection from Poison spells to hamper that damn great dragon that means no shiny spiritual weapon floating alongside doughty Dain and no moonbeam magic for me. I looked up Venomfang’s nose remember, I saw those dripping teeth close up!”

“We have my scroll from Tresendar," Celmar did not raise her voice to gain our attention she did not need to. Had the others forgotten this power only waiting her command? "It is more potent than any magic I ever cast before but I have read through the text more times than I can remember, I have mouthed the incantation and practiced the gestures. My amethyst crystal will serve in place of a pinch of sulphur. I believe I really can cast a fireball successfully. Probably."

“We have to finish this,” I rang the tip of my sword against the stone flags to emphasise each point. “We tricked this dragon and Venomfang wants vengeance, he will come looking and he will find us. Unless we choose the ground we will die. It is as stark and as simple as that. We know Venomfang resides in ruined Thundertree. What does that suggest?”

Trust a Ranger to be wise in the ways of beasts, especially creatures of the forest. Samuel nodded slowly, a grim smile creasing his face. “A Green Dragon is usually found in dense woodland, they lair within great hollow trees or inside earth caves beneath the roots. If a Green Dragon chooses a township instead it is surely sleeping within a building.”

“Why?” asked Dain, then immediately answered his own question. “For prestige! This Venomfang is an arrogant brute, a simple forest cave is not good enough for him.”

“Makes sense, I suppose,” said Shupatra. “I cannot recall any song with such a setting but it makes sense all the same.”

“So, on top of chomping through a whole company of hobgoblins, wantonly damaging a castle, injuring a paladin and, oh yes, making very serious threats to eat my feet, this vicious dragon is also a squatter! Anything I’ve left out?” said Buddynock Rubyrubb.

“If Venomfang is lurking in a building he will have a perfect target if we attack him headlong. We will be bunched together and one breath will finish us all. On the other hand-” I began.

“Any building makes a tight confined space for a fireball,” Celmar’s eyes were gleaming.

“We are guessing,” I said, “I know we are, but these are logical assumptions even so. One fact is certain, Venomfang gorged himself yesterday and he must still be sleeping off his banquet. He last saw us fleeing back inside Cragmaw Castle, I seriously doubt this dragon expects any sudden attack.”

Buddynock’s brass goggles can amplify his eyes most alarmingly and especially when he is agitated. “I can’t help hearing the words ‘suggests’ and ‘guessing.’ Call me unduly pessimistic, but I would really rather hear words like ‘definitely’ and ‘guaranteed’ and ‘cannot fail.’ Little words like those!”

“That would only be wishful thinking,” Dain smiled down at him with quiet affection. (*)

“Maybe, but I would still appreciate hearing them!” Our Druid’s plaintive sigh could have melted the heart of a golem. “I looked straight up that big bloody nose I did. It was my toes he wanted for a snack!”

The arguing was over, we were a company once more. Our path was set, our plan was laid, though we needed a glimpse of the ground to be actually sure. Come what may we were marching to Thundertree, but there was still a quiet task needing attention. My friends have so many skills and I am still learning their limits. After his morning prayers our Druid cast his Animal Messenger spell. A dainty Pine Marten was the first to answer his summons, little Buddynock thanked the beast and politely sent it away with a scrap of dried meat for its trouble; a field mouse appeared next, though waiting a careful interval after the Marten departed, this small rodent also seemed keen to do our Druid’s bidding, but again, with thanks and a gift of oatcake crumbs, Buddynock dismissed the creature.

Only when a brown winged swift perched on his arm did Buddynock smile, letting the tiny bird walk onto his shoulder to receive a beakful of grain and his message. One moment our careful Druid was stroking the swift’s throat, a heartbeat later and the bird was flying south for Phandalin. Qelline Adlerleaf would soon have word of our discoveries, whatever our fates facing the dragon, the location of Phandelver would not be lost.

Druid Rubyrubb’s Swift messenger speeding south.

(*) Our Dwarven Cleric is fearsome in battle but quietly retiring and gentle most other times.

Excluding occasions when Buddynock’s enthusiasm with a dart fundamentally outweighs his aim.

“Hawks, hippogriffs, perytons and over eager archers aside,” muttered Buddynock, shielding his eyes with one small hand as he anxiously followed the brown swift into the sky.

“The bird was willing,” Celmar said gently. “You shared food too.”

“I still don’t like asking,” said Buddynock. “It’s not fair getting little people tangled up in dangers not of their making.” (*)

“Well I don't like that Shapeshifter impersonating a Drow,” said our Ranger. “Of all the forms it could choose why that?”

Now it was Celmar’s turn to look away; her face flushed, her green eyes suddenly bright. I have seen this reaction in elves before, indeed, what else could anyone expect? How should creatures of light and nobility feel when they know their own cousins live deep in the forsaken dark and follow evil?

“Who can say,” Dain Rocksmiter spoke with swift tact. “Maybe a random choice by that Shapeshifter, maybe not. We shall know soon enough either way.”

“Their reputation is foul,” our Ranger insisted. “I have seen what they leave behind them. Dark Elves are feared for good reason.”

“And actual Drow wait for darkness before they walk upon the earth,” I said. “We have no more time for talking, lead us forward. Our Bard is quite correct. Let us face one task at a time.”

Guided by Ranger Samuel we made excellent progress marching north, his unerring senses keeping us true even where the ancient trees pressed close around and tangled briars barred our way. We made the best speed we could but not so fast we put ourselves at increased risk of being ambushed. Buddynock and Shupatra kept the pace with grim determination, indeed, our Gnomish Druid must surely have marched the greatest distance of all, for Buddynock kept darting to right and left, his brass goggles glinting as he cast about for plants and herbs, plucking some, discarding others, once even burrowing down to drag roots from the dank ground. That night our Druid sat over our spare cooking pot, adding one plant after another and stirring briskly as he muttered incantations.

“Is it really Buddynock’s turn to do the cooking,” sighed Shupatra. “So soon?”

(*) Buddynock is always most distressed if he ever discovers some injured beast and his own healing spells are exhausted. After
weeks in his company I am well used to his silent pleas and I freely admit I often struggle to see the right path. A Paladin
must ease all innocent suffering, that is never disputed, yet am I correct to use powers we may well require for ourselves on
rabbits with the hideous white blindness or desperate crows with a broken wing? At least by evening I can be more confident
my own party will not need my aid that day, at dawn my dilemma is harder. Perhaps I should simply remember that old adage,
   the question is not whether animals ‘think’, the question is can animals feel emotion and pain? That answer is all too clear.
Compassion makes expensive calls on the conscience and it is a comfort to find it undeserved.   We do not save the world if we
   save any single life but we save the world of that creature all the same.

5

Perched on the pack saddle of my mule, Gundren Stonefoot endured the long jolting march without even a murmur of complaint. “Trust a dwarf miner to never say die,” our Cleric told me with quiet pride. Yet Gundren’s steady recovery raised a concern we had not foreseen. His first request for a loan of Dain’s axe was casual, his second entreaty was courteous but with two refusals Gundren’s dark brows furrowed in anger. The reason was all too plain now we troubled to think of it. Those Cragmaw goblins had waylaid Gundren Stonefoot on the road, they had robbed and stripped him, before handing him over for interrogation, torture and execution. Gove may not have been personally responsible, how could we say, but he was from the same vicious tribe. It was no wonder this much aggrieved dwarf yearned to settle the score.

“I can see the justice of his request, I truly can,” Dain shook his head with resignation, “Anyone else would surely want the same. Yet … “

“Yet Gove is under our protection?” I replied. “That is understood even if unspoken.”

“I cannot blame Gundren for his anger,” said Dain. “Not when three days ago he still expected a knife across his throat at any moment. At the very least more spear points in the fire.”

“We cannot leave either behind. Not out in the wilds. They both have to stay with us for the time being.” I stared at our Cleric in mute appeal, surely one honourable Dwarf could persuade another.

“I will give Gundren a weapon later,” Dain’s strong hand rested on his throwing axes. “Nearer the time he will truly need one. Let’s just keep that Goblin away from him. You know what Gove is.”

It was still an hour before noon on the second day when we reached the southern limits of ruined Thundertree. (*) The trees and briars gave way to tumbled walls and winding roadways choked with fallen branches, leaves and mud. There must have been near forty buildings, most lying open to the sky, their yawning doorways and windows like the eye sockets of tumbled skulls. Some stone lintels bore cabalistic marks in blue dye, signs I had hoped never to see again. I glanced to my right. Our Cleric’s mouth was suddenly grim as an axe blade; yes, Dain Rocksmiter had recognised them too. His lips mumbled a prayer not quite under his breath. I touched the Sacred Owl symbol of Pallas Athene hanging round my neck, glad of its familiar comfort.

Our keen-eyed Ranger pointed to the tattered parchment wedged by wooden dowels into a crumbling wall. A jagged edge suggested some of the sign had been ripped away, the surviving parchment bore two lines of letters that twisted like bramble roots. He spoke one word: “Magic?”

(*) Without Ranger Samuel we would still be trudging through the forest, hoping our direction was reasonably true.

Our unusually speedy journey would surely give us a better chance of surprising this fearsome dragon.

We must acquire a lodestone at the first opportunity. A great pity Phandalin town is not better supplied.

6

“No script I’ve ever seen,” said Celmar.

“Nothing familiar to me,” added Shupatra, as she craned on tiptoe to read.

We heard a hesitant cough from waist height. “It’s Orthodox Druidic actually,” said Buddynock. “I’m guessing any missing piece had the same message in Common for all you ignorant types.”

“And it says?” asked Dain.

“ ‘Beware Spiders, Blights, Undead and a Dragon’. ”

“Nothing else?”

“Nothing I’m willing to share with outsiders,” Buddynock Rubyrubb pursed his lips. “And it’s signed by Reidoth Nisbyht , Circle of the Moon.”

“One of your lot then?” asked our Ranger

“If you mean a fellow initiate of the Sacred Brotherhood, then yes, but not someone I’ve ever met before.”

“It said Undead?” muttered Gundren Stonefoot from the back of my mule. Little Gove shrank back at the word and we all heard his hiss of dismay.

“Zombies,” I nodded. “Yes, I can sense them. There are blue necromantic symbols on some of the walls too. Holy Symbol within reach eh Dain?”

“But what’s a Blight when it’s at home then?” said Buddynock.

7

Travellers soon become attuned to the natural noise around them, we had walked the Neverwinter Forest for nearly two days hearing quiet rustles in the undergrowth and birdsong in the trees. Ruined Thundertree was silent as a tomb with no sign of life save the tall weeds bending in the breeze. The inhabitants were dead or gone, but no animals had assumed their place as expected. No normal beasts at any rate.

After a moment’s pause, we stepped forward into the light. The first buildings were little more than heaps of tumbled stone and bleached timbers on the point of final collapse. One seemed practically encased in tangled briars; it took a second glance to see this particular hovel still seemed sound, its red tiled roof intact, the wooden door and windows shut and barred.

“Someone attempting to hide?” I asked.

Our Ranger simply nodded, a long arrow already drawn and nocked. We had planned for this moment, we had no need for speech. While my friends covered each approach, I forced the door with my crowbar, Dain standing flat against the wall, his rune axe Grom ready in his gnarled hands.

Inside the darkened room was a bed of clean bracken, a traveller’s pack and accoutrements stacked handy against the wall and a bronze sickle handing from a wooden peg. Buddynock pressed forward, inspected the room and nodded. We lingered a few moments while our Forest Gnome addressed any hidden occupants in polite Druidic. Buddynock sadly shook his head. “No response. Maybe they’ve left, maybe they’re lurking silent in spider form. Can’t tell sorry.”

“Reidoth,” asked Shupatra, her own bow levelled and ready.

“Presumably,” said Buddynock. He gently tested the edge of the sickle. “Still sharp. It’s not been left for long.”

“Do you know him,” said our Ranger. “He’s one of your Circle.”

“Never heard the name before,” said Buddynock. “Of course, I am rather new at this.”

“Would a Druid voluntarily leave this equipment behind?” Celmar shook her head. “We all know the answer.”

“Well it’s a place to tether Sisyphos,” I suggested. “No Gove, thank you for the offer but we will close and bar the door. We’ll have to trust him without a guard.”

“Your mule wants to know if he can eat the bed?” said Buddynock.

“Probably best not,” I said, “Not if we hope to meet this Reidoth on friendly terms. We’ll leave Sisyphos some oats in his nose bag and water in his bucket instead.”

“Did you hear anything?” said Celmar.

“Hear what?” our Ranger was alert as a hunting leopard.

“A rustling noise. Very quiet. It’s stopped now.”

“Anyone else?” said Ranger Samuel.

“Can I have a bloody crossbow now?” said Gundren Stonefoot. “I have rights!”

I blame myself for the next events. My only excuse is the curving walls of brambles obscuring our vision and steering our steps. Ranger Samuel, Celmar and I moved left to investigate two joined buildings, maybe forty feet in length, both open to the sky. The rest of our party moved forward to cover the crossroads; we stepped out of sight before we actually realised and this was not a place anyone felt inclined to shout out to friends for their location.

8

Ranger Samuel stood poised in the first doorway which gave him a clear shot the entire length of the two rooms. Only fragments of their roofs survived, timber beams more than half rotten, the original thatch lost to the wind. The two long buildings were choked with dense ferns, briars and spider webs, thick and heavy with dust. The air was still, there seemed no sound left in the world.

Celmar and I moved around the outside of the building to a second yawning doorway. We saw a cocooned heap lying on the floor, we saw a bony hand thrust through the dense grey web and grasping at empty air, we did not see the three giant spiders lurking in the roof tree until they dropped down like quicksilver, their many eyes gleaming, spitting great gouts of web in our direction. Two missed but the third web engulfed Celmar in a shroud of sticky strands. Our dainty Elven sorceress was suddenly hanging from the door post and helpless.

The spiders were four feet high at least and almost as broad, they scuttled forward fangs dripping but Celmar’s response was almost as quick and even more deadly; the clinging web restricted her movement but this was a spell she did not need to aim. Flame leapt from her linked fingers; the foremost spider shriveled, shrieked and burnt. The remaining creatures recoiled in pain but Ranger Samuel loosed long arrows down through both buildings, pinning one huge spider to the floor. Desperate and dying, the last spider leapt at my face but Talon did not fail me, my sword cleaved home, the creature twitched twice and lay still. Ranger Samuel waved a salute another arrow already nocked and ready; I drew my dagger and slashed Celmar free. Our Sorceress was unhurt.

We turned our attention to the snared body lying on the floor and Celmar’s bright eyes dimmed with sadness. The elf had been dead for some time; his body a mere dry husk, drunk and devoured by those filthy creatures. His studded leather armour was quite rotten, his pack too, even the short empty scabbard on his hip. We took a small pouch from his belt; this adventurer had no use for coins now. He seemed to have died from a savage bite to the back of his neck, his healing potion still unused.

“Look here,” I pointed to the far corner. “Two more dead spiders, what’s left of them, but each killed by a single small stab. Nothing like the carved corpses we left.”

“His missing short sword?” suggested Celmar, “there’s no sign of it here.”

“Or his right hand,” I added. “Sorry”

“We can offer proper rites when the day is over,” Celmar spoke briskly but I knew her well enough to realise she was masking her feelings. “When chance permits and time allows. Until then, may the silver moonlight speed your steps brother. Well I am more than ready for some fresher air. Back to Ranger Samuel I think.”

9

While we faced giant spiders lying in ambush, our comrades were engaged in their own explorations. No one has ever admitted who took the first steps down that tangled lane, Dain Rocksmiter still insists they were simply trying to find a way to link up to ourselves. They passed four more empty buildings, but then Buddynock’s eyes gleamed. “That’s an alchemist’s sign. Or what’s left of it. Remember the Dendrar family from Tresendar?”

Trust any Bard to have a keen memory: “The mother and children from the prison cells?”

“And remember what they told us?” said Buddynock Rubyrubb. “They lived in Thundertree once, they had a workshop. Abandoned with the town but abandoned with a jeweled chain under the counter!”

“You really want to check?” sighed Dain. “There’s no one in there look. Up, down, side to side, nothing.”

“Won’t take a mo,” beamed Buddynock. “Mirna Dendrar said in a wooden box under the counter. Look under that brushwood. There’s the counter, there’s a trinket box and here’s the emerald necklace!”

“Which belongs to Mirna Dendrar,” said Dain with friendly firmness. “Who needs this jewel for her welfare and her children’s sustenance. We hold it in trust… don’t we?”

Balanced like a dancer, Shupatra covered the weed choked roadway with her levelled bow. She shot one swift glance within the room: “Careful of those broken bottles.”

“Trust me,” beamed Buddynock. “I checked the box first, you saw me, and look I’m nowhere near any sharp glass and ow!”

“By Durin’s Beard give me a crossbow now!” insisted Gundren. “Why is that ----------- goblin armed and not me?” (*)

“Your hand, it’s bleeding!” Dain stared at Buddynock in bewilderment, “but-”

“But what bloody well got me,” our Gnomish Druid’s eyes bulged behind his brass goggles. “There’s nothing here, nothing – OW!”

“Watch the lane Shupatra, fall back Buddynock, back now!” Dain stared intently into the ruined hovel, desperately trying to detect this unseen attacker.

“My legs, it’s got my legs. Little bloody pinpricks and scratches. Moving up!” Our Druid had both hands clamped frantically around his knees, pressing his leather britches tight to his skin.

(*) Dain Rocksmiter flatly refuses to explain this Dwarvish phrase. He simply stated it was traditional and colloquial among miners suddenly suffering stubbed thumbs. Very traditional and very colloquial.

I bow to his linguistic sensitivities.

Gove’s vicious smile did not require translating.

10

“Back to us Buddynock, stop jumping up and down in that brush wood … the brushwood, the blights. Here now Buddynock it’s Twig Blights!” Our Cleric’s eyes gleamed with recognition. (*)

It was no wonder my friends struggled to see them. Whenever one of these tiny Blights stops moving it cannot be distinguished from any normal twig littering the ground. Miniscule, malevolent awakened plants, sentient and soaked in evil inherited from that foul Gulthias Tree of dark legend. An annoyance to us but a real danger to common folk, these Twig Blights are too often a harbinger of greater woes nearby. (**)

“Treacherous little buggers,” Buddynock kicked one of the suddenly still blights against the wall. “Burn em!”

Dain Rocksmiter sighed with weary patience: “We need the oil and we can’t risk alerting the dragon. Just get back here and stop making so much noise.”

“And just be glad no one is lying helpless in the midst of them,” said Shupatra from the lane. “Death by a hundred nicks and scratches.”

“Who’s making all the damn racket?” hissed Ranger Samuel as we re-joined our comrades. “Remember why we are here!”

Twig Blights. Actual size. Any bigger Twig Blights are truly branching out.

(*) Buddynock Rubyrubb clearly possesses untapped potential as a clog dancer. Fast paced.

(**) “Just ‘an annoyance’?” said one aggrieved Forest Gnome Druid still checking his undergarments for stray intruders.

11

Buddynock shot us a hurt look in return as he continued to gingerly pat at his breeches and woollen stockings, refusing to move forward while there was even a remote chance stray Blights still lingered on his person. Satisfied at last Buddynock slackened his belt buckle and surveyed the damage. “Any chance of some healing hands Dalmas,” Our Druid beamed up at me. (*)

“I am sorry Buddynock but we have to reserve all healing spells for facing the dragon. They are only minor cuts.” (**)

“Minor? It’s fine for you to say that, you’re not the one whose bits nearly got bit!”

“A weapon please!” hissed Gundren Stonefoot. “For the love of Morradin!”

Dain Rocksmiter nodded and handed over a throwing axe. Gundren’s eyes gleamed; little Gove’s face fell, our Goblin scuttled behind me without waiting to be told. He was muttering again, I could hear the sound but not his actual words. More malign whispers I suppose. Well, when the fight with Venomfang began Gundren and Gove would have to forget their feud; we could deal with their hatred in good time. I could sense walking dead nearby. They were our first concern. (***)

(*) All his comrades were resolutely scanning the various compass points during this operation.

(**) It will be a long time before I mercifully forget healing a chafed Gnome after the borrowed Dwarven leggings incident.

(***) We are all so wise after the event. We had somewhat limited opportunities for mediation and had simply to hope.

12

United once more we moved forward. Thundertree seemed utterly deserted and the silence grew ever more oppressive. Once a prospering community, now a place of shadows and fear even the animals shunned. This was no place to linger after dark. We stayed close together, every nerve tensed, alert for any sign of deadly Venomfang. Each hovel we passed we searched, probing for concealed pits and hidden places. We could not afford to linger but we had to be sure all the same.

Undead were very close now, I could sense them so clearly; their malignant evil feels like a chill breeze on a summer’s day, cold clay from a half drowned grave has more warmth. There was still no sign of those zombies but in a small building, some cattle byre I think, we found two corpses, both male, both human, both wearing the grotesque green leather robes of that dragon cultist we saw killed at Cragmaw. Both had swords drawn, both lay smashed to the ground, their heads split by repeated heavy blows but these wounds were not left by weapons. Our search was swift and careful and told us nothing.

The lane ahead seemed almost a perfect tunnel of arching briars, an impenetrable tangle of thorns studied with small white petals; the sight of beautiful flowers utterly incongruous in these surroundings. After sixty feet the lane appeared to widen, a hundred yards away the ground rose and we could clearly see the conical top of a tower poking above the tangled trees. A tower with an intact roof, at least at the angle facing us. We inched forward, ahead we could now see a town square, overgrown but still open to the sky. A scatter of crates and boxes lay before an ancient wooden statue on a rotting plinth, some hero holding spear and shield at the salute. I quietly cursed my injured left eye, I could never claim the vision of an elf but my sight used to be clearer than this.

Our Druid nodded. In a heartbeat Buddynock transformed into a rat and scampered down the tunnel of arching brambles, pausing twice to listen intently and sniff the air, hugging the shadows, but soon pressing forward once again. We saw him disappear. We waited our hands clammy on our weapons. It was only a little after noon. (*)

“Keep watching the flanks and rear,” hissed Ranger Samuel, “Assume nothing, trust nothing.”

We heard shambling feet on the baked earth, the sounds near to where we lost sight of Buddynock, for a moment I thought there was a gruff shout of alarm, a human voice I did not know. Those lumbering feet grew louder, closer, my senses did not lie, I knew what was coming.

We saw blurs of movement at the end of that tunnel of brambles, shambling figures stark against the light, I heard the harp twang of Ranger Samuel’s longbow near my ear, even as I hissed the word “zombies” at my friends. The nightmare was upon us once again, the Dead who walk, the corpses which do not die. Again, the same plodding tread and that hideous hissing groan, twisted hands outstretched, breathless mouths gaping, but these zombies seemed to move within their own dark mist.

(*) At present our Forest Gnome Druid can adopt animal form twice each day, for up to two hours at a time.

Only creatures which walk the earth at the moment, but Buddynock’s powers will only grow with time.

13

As planned, we concentrated our missiles against the first walking dead, their lack of armour and slow pace making the creatures an easy mark, their hideous fortitude and mindless determination making it hard to actually land a killing wound. The first zombie kept lurching towards us despite the arrows and crossbow bolts piercing its dead flesh. I hurled a second javelin and the creature finally fell, but the other seven were hard behind and closing. Gove shot true with his short bow, Gundren Stonefoot hurled his throwing axe, demanded a second from Dain, threw that too and begged again for a crossbow.

Celmar stepped forward as the creatures closed, her face calm with concentration, her long fingers linked. Fire leapt from her hands, but to her dismay three of the four zombies were hardly singed, evading the eldritch flames despite their clumsy gait. It took a second Burning Hands spell from our sorcerer to leave the restless Dead mere charred corpses at last lying still at our feet.

So, we thought. Even then, one creature attempted to crawl towards us, that hideous hissing groan still seeping from its mouth. I struck once with Talon and my aim was true, but I was suddenly enveloped in a cloud of choking ash. For a moment I struggled to see or breathe and I was grateful indeed this skirmish was already over. I am aware any true Paladin is immune to diseases and pestilence, but I confess my heart still hammered when I thought of unnatural contagion. I wiped myself clean with a shudder. (*)

Silence returned to forsakenThundertree, but for a long moment we stood stock still, our breath tight in our throats. Where was this dragon lurking? Was Venomfang already aware of us? Was he lying in wait round the very next corner, the venomous breath already pulsing in his throat? None of us wanted to speak above a whisper. Those zombies would never move again, but where they alone? We could only hope Master Rubyrubb had evaded these evil creatures.

(*) We did not try to turn these Undead. I needed to conserve my divinely granted powers for a far greater threat and
Dain Rocksmiter wisely feared alerting proud Venomfang by setting zombies fleeing past his hidden lair.

14

“Look there,” our Ranger pointed with an expert’s eye. “Two already had quarrels in them. Shot at close range. Flat trajectory. No elevation. Westfold fletching, standard bodkin points.”

“Buddynock, can you see him?” Shupatra craned up on her furry toes as she peered at the distant square. “What’s keeping him?”

“Would zombies bother with a rat?” Celmar shielded her eyes with one hand. “Surely not, and Buddynock could have hidden quite easily anyway.” We all heard the hope in her voice but hope is no substitute for hard fact; our Gnome was missing and the world might have well as stopped turning. I glanced back but Buddynock had not circled round behind us in the confusion. I only saw Gundren Stonefoot winding his borrowed crossbow, a bolt between his teeth ready to drop in place. I only heard Gove’s quiet cackle as he spat on the nearest fallen zombie: “one bigger gone, one gone.”

“There he is!” Dain Rocksmiter was so relieved he almost forgot himself and shouted.

We saw a familiar form scampering towards us neatly dodging the sprawled corpses littering the path. A moment later and Buddynock Rubyrubb was standing upright, his bright eyes twinkling, his beloved bucket Wilson swinging from one arm. “Sorry I couldn’t warn you but they were already past me before I could cut ahead. Yes, there’s a town square, ruined buildings on two sides, but a rising path up to that stone tower to the west. You can see the roof from here. There is also one intact building on the right side of the square with half a dozen dragon cultists cowering inside. Not many and not happy, they were giving their leader a right bollocking. They seem to be under siege.”

“Really? Someone else’s turn for a change?” Celmar said dryly.

“They’re in a right state, doors barred, windows shut tight, their kit piled anyhow. And worse,” Buddynock’s little voice hardened, “there are abandoned crates and cages by that statue in the square. There’s a grey squirrel crammed into a tiny box, poor little man can hardly move, a couple of cowering rabbits, a hairy thing with long arms I’ve never seen before and a smashed egg.”

“Dragon’s?” asked Ranger Samuel.

“Almost as bad. Going by what spilled they looted an owl bear’s nest.” Our Druid’s voice held an anger I had never heard before; but Buddynock’s studied calmness was starting to unnerve me.

“What by Great Orpheos are they playing at?” asked Shupatra.

“Offerings for Venomfang the Green,” Dain Rocksmiter said softly. (*)

(*) I would always trust our Cleric’s intuition in matters of faith and ritual.

15

“Really? What are they, remedial cultists?” Celmar blinked in disbelief. “Arcane amateurs!”

“That’s certainly the impression,” Dain nodded.

Celmar was still shaking her head. “Worshipping a Green Dragon … about as wise as asking an Orc Berserker for alms while he’s actually aiming his axe. I’m not sure what worries me most, the fact they are actually trying or the faint chance they might even succeed.”

“Well that’s less likely than your Orc Berserker daubing daisies on his dagger sheath,” Shupatra said with wry amusement. “Remember how Venomfang treated that eager Cultist back at Cragmaw? With my body I thee worship, with my breath I do respond!”

“So where is this mighty dragon now,” said Gundren Stonefoot. “You are sure you can find him in all this stinking maze? Really sure? We should be marching for Phandelver, we should be searching for my brothers!”

“We have ways,” said Ranger Samuel. “I can cast my Beast sense but with a battle coming I prefer to retain my powers.”

Dain nodded agreement. “I have my Augury scroll if necessary, but maybe we can still find Venomfang without it. There cannot be many likely buildings in this town. Why else would this dragon remain in Thundertree? Venomfang can sleep in any forest cave he chooses.”

“His lair has to be in that stone tower,” said Buddynock. “It’s by far the grandest building here and can you really see those lunatic cultists sharing their guard house with gentle Venomfang.”

“Guard house?” said Ranger Samuel. “How do you know?”

“It has a wooden parapet round the flat roof with, what do you call them, those up and down things running all around it.”

“Crenalations?” I asked.

“No, it’s just the way I walk!” beamed Buddynock. (*)

(*) Our Gnomish Druid may sometimes act the buffoon but I have no doubts anymore regarding his erudition and wisdom. Or his propensity for appalling jokes!

It’s a poor day for Buddynock without at least one comrade rolling their eyes in stunned disbelief.

16

Suppressing my sigh seemed wise. “How frightened are the cultists?”

“Very! They’ve clearly been here sometime with nothing to show for their efforts. It looks like two got jumped by the zombies, so the others are right scared of Undead. They lob off a few crossbow bolts from behind those loop holes but they are too afraid to come outside and face them. Those cultists have a ladder inside, they hide on that roof when they want to. Do you think they are still waiting for their dead friend from Cragmaw? That flying potion he carried must have been his ticket back to them.”

“Do we actually need to fight these dragon cultists?” Celmar seemed to be staring into space.

“We can’t leave them threatening our flank,” I said, “we can’t risk them charging us while we are already engaging the dragon. Weak or not that might tip the balance.”

Celmar nodded: “Very true but do we actually need to fight them? It won’t be quiet or quick to force those heavy doors. Why not speak to them first?”

Dain, shook his head: “Anyone walking out there will be an easy mark.”

Celmar’s quiet answer was as calm as sleeping kitten: “I’ll try. I’ve got my Staff to protect me. And, no offence, but of all of us, I think they’ll most likely listen to me.” Our Sorceress stilled my protests with one smile. “If we walk out together these cultists will think we fear them. Let me show our disdain by facing them alone. That will surely unsettle them and we need a quiet resolution here. As I say, I have my staff.”

“It’s a risk,” said our taciturn Ranger.

“So’s life,” said our Elf. “Is everyone ready?”

Even Gundren Stonefoot and little Gove nodded.

Led by Celmar, we walked forward to the end of the overgrown path, making sure we were hidden from any sentries. Forty feet away, across the open square, stood the guard house. A breeze was stirring. We could just hear the angry voices. “Hold the bastard’s arms. Said it would be easy he did. Said it would be no trouble Now Rismugg and Kovacs are dead and Nadteto vanished days ago.”

We heard the sound of heavy thuds and a different man speaking in quick grunts “You … never … said … there … would … be … bloody … Undead.”

Celmar paused, swallowed hard, yet even now our dauntless Sorceress turned to us and smiled. She smoothed her long dark hair back over her shoulders and casually stepped forward into the square, glass staff held across her body. Her bright voice calm and melodious Celmar called out to those desperate men trapped in the guard house. The sounds of bickering ceased abruptly. All the world seemed to stand still.

“Do I want your leader? No thank you,” said Celmar and she now sounded as serene as a purring cat sleeping in silk. “I want whoever truly speaks for you.”

Every bow we had was trained on those loop holes and wooden battlements; Ranger Samuel is our finest archer and he covered the doorway. I dropped my pack to the ground, ready to dash forward and protect Celmar with shield and body. “Just let them try it,” little Buddynock was muttering.

“Who am I?” Celmar’s laughed. “I think I am actually your best friend, certainly the best friend you can hope to meet today. I think a smart man, a wise man, is going to be wise enough to listen to what I say. I’m someone who is standing here unafraid of you but I’m sure, quite sure, we all realise you should be very afraid of me. So now is a very good time for you to be opening that door and coming out. Very slowly but right now. While we’re all still smiling.”

“Bloody hell!” whispered Buddynock. “They’re not the only ones scared of her!”

17

In all my life I have never witnessed anyone ever more persuasive. Six scared men filed out of the building, dragging another limp body between them. Each wore the same tawdry leather robes with headpieces resembling the spiked crest of a Green Dragon and black leather cloaks cut to resemble wings.

At a nod from Celmar their short swords and crossbows immediately dropped to the ground. They stood silent and trembling, eyes averted, heads down. The man they dragged along was bruised and bleeding, one of his hands trailed in the dust. He at least actually seemed pleased to see us!

“Not a happy band then,” said Shupatra as she darted forward to drag the weapons away.

“It’s as well for their sakes they left no wolves penned up in those boxes,” nodded Dain with an eye on our Elven Sorceress. The danger was averted and we all heard Celmar’s heartfelt sigh of relief at her success. Only utter fools dismiss risks easily and our comrade was never one for thoughtless folly.

Our chance had come, we asked the obvious question and our prisoners were so eager to please us they answered in unison, three even pointing to make their meaning plain. As expected, our dread foe lurked in that tall stone tower atop the rise. Barely seventy yards away was a dragon!

I do not choose to guess their ultimate sordid aims, but it was very clear this sorry band had long since abandoned any ambitions to worship Venomfang. The Fates had turned against them and they had turned on each other. (*) They could possibly even be grateful for our arrival for I doubt they would have survived too much longer, a party divided is a party doomed. Their only wise choice was selecting their bolt hole. This guard house was stoutly built from stones and heavy timber and in far better repair than any other building we had found. Two rooms of bunk beds able to house ten soldiers and a combined kitchen and pantry, once well stocked but now a mass of rotten sacks and barrels that once seemed full of salt pork, raisins and twice baked biscuits. Some had been swept into the nearest alley, but our prisoners seemed haphazard even in making their own quarters decent; their provisions and equipment were scattered through every room. (**)

They were certainly consistent. I have no love for tyrannical discipline but the sight was an object lesson in the need to maintain decent order in any party out in the wilds. Apart from the increased risk, there is a corresponding loss of efficiency whenever a campsite or bivouac is allowed to fall into chaos. Confusion over sentry rotas is often fatal, broaching rations early leads to hardship. At least we found one item of worth among all the confusion: a small locked coffer held tribute for Venomgfang the Green; three small diamonds wrapped in black velvet.

(*) They had made their feelings very clear to their former leader. His bruises looked painful.

(**) Buddynock Rubyrubb took unprecedented care in searching the decayed food stocks still in the guard house.

He began by firmly tying string around both legs of his breeches.

18

Our search complete, Celmar began opening those sorry cages. Our Gnomish Druid was doing his best to calm the poor creatures but both the scared rabbits immediately bolted to safety. (*) Buddynock stared sadly at the smashed owlbear egg; the dead chick within was near to hatching but then a slow smile sent his long beard quivering. The upturned wooden box was still half full of straw. Without hesitation he placed a second intact egg very gently in his pack. (**)

The largest crate was next and that mysterious animal Buddynock could not identify. Two soulful brown eyes peered out in aggrieved alarm; the tiny creature was a mass of brown and white streaked fur, its long arms waved slowly in the breeze and we saw formidable claws. A wide gentle mouth set in a flat good-natured face suddenly gaped open: “Eeee! Eeee!” (***)

“Oh, the little darling!” Celmar was leaning down without hesitation. The sloth promptly climbed onto her back with slow but deliberate care. Huge eyes stared with sleepy outrage at a baffling world far too fast and noisy. The sloth hung from Celmar’s pack with three arms, it’s fourth waving cheerfully in the breeze: “Eeee! Eeee!” I have never seen our Sorceress look happier.

Megan the Three Toed Sloth. Absolutely nobody was going to ask Celmar if egan really ought to join us.

I gently pulled apart the final wooden cage; a crude box barely big enough for the tattered grey squirrel within. Events were suddenly moving faster than expected. One moment we saw an angry forest rodent, yellow teeth chattering, the next heartbeat a bearded man of middle age stood before us, a gnarled oak staff in his hand, his matted robe mud stained and ragged, his hair a tangled soup of dirt and weeds, despite the band of grey cloth bound about his brow.

(*) We already had enough rations and it was far from certain any of us would ever need food again after today.
It is one matter to swiftly trap creatures for the pot, their deaths are sudden and unsuspected.
These poor caged beasts had suffered needlessly for longer than I want to imagine.

If a Paladin does not fight for all then why fight for anyone?

(**) I shared a swift glance with Dain Rocksmiter. Owlbears? Owlbears!!! One of us would clearly have to speak with him.

(***) There were also purple streaks in this sloth’s fur, a colour surely most unusual for any creature.

19

Reidoth Nisbyht, Moon Druid of the Fourth Circle

Since this Chronicle may be read by the tender of years and innocent of heart,

Druid Reidoth is not shown ready for battle.

“Yer took yer sweet time yet great lang streak o pish!” The stranger sniffed, snorted and spat on the ground. Far enough to miss my feet, yet close enough to make his feelings plain. “Feck! Yer nae snashters are yer! Awa, are yer the best dobber they could send?”

“Pardon?”

“Don’t ‘pardon’ me yer hoity toity glaikit gommeril! The best to help chiv the chebs offa this toaty dragon.” The stranger’s bleary eyes struggled to focus, he stared around with belligerent disdain. Then he noticed Buddynock Rubyrubb. His words became an indistinct blur of sound one moment like a breeze amid the trees, then resembling a bear’s deep growl. To my astonishment our Forest Gnome answered him likewise.

“Druid,” mouthed Celmar, as she gently stroked the young sloth’s head. The creature’s eyes closed and its blissful smile seemed to grow even wider.

“Reidoth?” I asked.

“Wha twally scunner’s making free wiv me name? I will tell yer this boy, I will tell yer this.”

Venomfang’s lair. The roof only seemed intact from this angle; a gaping hole on the northern face was his door.

I shudder to imagine the Green Dragon perched upon that pinnacle surveying his domain with pitiless eyes.

20

“Quiet please!” Dain gestured frantically at Venomfang’s tower. Our Cleric’s caution was entirely justified, it was just unfortunate Reidoth interpreted the request rather differently.

“Hey pal, who’s tellin’ me to be quiet, ya wee beardie bawbag!”

I am grateful any Cleric’s training imparts a strong measure of calm resolve and stoic self-control. Even so no Dwarf is slow to avenge an insult. We all heard a sharp intake of breath and Dain Rocksmiter was gripping his battle axe with whitened knuckles.

“What happened …. noble Reidoth?” I smiled in what I sincerely hoped was friendly welcome.

Reidoth’s glare could have curdled milk still in the cow. “Them midden toonsers took me off guard!”

“I’m guessing not while he was taking a bath,” muttered Shupatra.

Reidoth peered at our prisoners. “Ya wee glaikit bastards y’ are!” Memories of that cramped cage were clearly not pleasant. Before we could move Reidoth spat out a spell, the air shimmered, the earth rippled. His Thunderwave smashed three dragon cultists into the ground, the surviving four ran pell mell for the trees not looking back once at their dead comrades.

“Steady on!” said Buddynock, his eyes wide with horror.

“They had surrendered!” I began, forgetting to lower my own voice.

Reidoth stared back with contempt. “Wis that you in their toaty cage?”

“No but-”

“Listen ya bam awa an' stop talkin’ keech! Great gormless piece of armour-plated pish!”

“They were prisoners under accepted safe conduct and-” Dain silently laid a hand on my arm.

“What were yer planning to do with em anyway?” Reidoth snorted. “Give em grapples and ropes and get em to hook that dreich beastie? Yer huddy nugget! Yer aff yer heid!”

“Look there is absolutely no need for us to quarrel.” Celmar tried her most radiant smile.

Reidoth’s eyes gleamed: “Sure there’s no need for us to bicker doll, hows about you and me taking a wee walk after all this is over and we’ve skelped that scaly creutair on the napper?”

Celmar swiftly stepped behind me. Her smile was suddenly less warm.

“Ah yer loss hen, yer loss. Time to gie this toaty bastard the malkie eh. One up the bahoochie! Reidoth, sniffed, snorted, spat and rubbed his hands together. “Gie it laldy!”

Ranger Samuel raised a baffled eyebrow.

“Time to hit this tiny beast one on the bottom,” translated Buddynock “and don’t make me tell you the other bits.”

“Which bits?” Shupatra is always so interested in language.

“Most of it!”

21

It was a few hours after noon. We would meet and engage dread Venomfang before nightfall. What was there to say; soon we should know if the Fates were kind. We stored our gear in the empty guard house, and moving with careful stealth we brought up Sisyphos too. I saw small wounds on his fetlocks and my mule was staring with deep suspicion at the brushwood bed. Several broken twigs lay across the floor. More of those damned Twig Blights?

If our battle went badly, we had no hope of holding any wooden building against an angry dragon, but if, by great good fortune, we proved triumphant, we would still need a safe refuge afterwards where we could lick our wounds. This was the stark truth, even a Young Dragon was far too deadly a foe for us; we would suffer serious injuries even in victory.

“Slay any leading predator and other creatures will soon try to usurp the newly vacant territory,” advised Ranger Samuel. “Lesser creatures but still dangerous all the same. I do not relish the thought of being caught out in the open while they fight. Or in some tiny shack lacking a door. They’ve left us more water skins too. Good, so much the better.”

We rested long enough to catch our breath. I poured a libation to noble Athene, ever Maiden, She who Fights in the Front Rank of Battle. The small vial of olive oil glistened in the afternoon light, the smell a precious reminder of my home. Nearby my comrade honoured Marthammor Duin, He who Watches over Wanderers, Dain’s gruff voice shaping each word of the paean with deep devotion. Our Ranger checked the flights of his arrows with painstaking care, setting them within easy reach on the guard house roof. Celmar employed her mastery of raw eldritch power to recall some of her spent magic and the gentle notes from Shupatra’s silver dulcimer helped each of us steady our nerves for the struggle ahead. As we planned Buddynock cast a protective magic against poison on himself and Shupatra while Dain used the same spell to ward Celmar and me. This magic would endure for an hour, that would be long enough, one way or another. Dain Rocksmiter would trust his stout Dwarven constitution would endure Venomfangs’ vile breath. At last Buddynock’s herbal potion was ready but whether it would actually help us remained to be seen.

Reidoth rejoined us after making a short visit to his own lodgings. He was not wearing leather armour as I expected, yet he still carried a rough-hewn oaken staff, the wood dark with age. I noticed his eyes looked somewhat brighter when he returned but Reidoth seemed no better pleased with our company. There was only one person he would speak to.

“Hey pal. Yeah you. Reidoth Nisbyht , Druid of the Fourth Circle.”

“Err Buddynock Rubyrubb, Druid of the Third.”

“Third eh? Only Third. So we know who’s boss eh pal? We’re no gan to argue eh pal?”

“No, no, sure thing.”

“Ah c’mere pal yer my mate then.” Reidoth produced a worn leather bag from the depths of his robe and unfastened the drawstring. The contents could best be described as ‘herbal’. “Here pal ha’a wee snort o’ this.”

“Maybe later. You know, busy day, things to do,” Buddynock smiled with painful brightness.

Reidoth noticed the brimming pot. “Yer got some homebrew swally there pal?”

“Oh … err … just a little something.”

Reidoth sniffed the air. “Nah yer can keep it but cheers for the offer of a wee dram.”

“Tastes of natural herbal goodness.” Our Druid stirred the pot one last time and beamed up at us with anxious pride. No one moved. Buddynock began to look hurt. I braced myself, took the spoon, and to my surprise suddenly smiled. It was actually rather pleasant. “Wood sorrel? Peony?”

“As long as it doesn’t taste of his fingers,” muttered Shupatra.

Our Ranger wiped his mouth as he passed the spoon in turn: “Yes, but will it actually work?”

“I’m sure it would overcome any simple venom,” Buddynock’s smile was earnest as a gambler’s whose weighted dice have just spun once too often. “I followed all the instructions. Well, the ones I remember. It’s been a long time since making the last one.”

“And was that a success?” said Ranger Samuel.

“Well it certainly helped our hangovers!” Buddynock seemed torn between honest pride, a fond memory and concern for our reaction. “And technically a hangover is poisoning too. No, honest. Just think about it.”

“This is a dragon!”

Our Gnome’s brass goggles grew misty. “It’s the best I’ve got!”

Maintaining morale can be more important than strict honesty. “And I’m sure it can only help,” I said. “It could be just enough to tip the scales.”

22

Reidoth appeared to have finished scanning the contents of his tangled beard. He appeared to be talking under his breath; he appeared to be growing angry again. We had all seen his contempt as Dain, Ranger Samuel and I made last checks to our mail.

“He really does like spitting,” sighed Shupatra.

“Hey pal yer gonna wear that bogus armour into battle?”

Buddynock smiled uncertainly.

“Hey pal, I know yer peely wally friends don’t have the balls for fighting like real men, nae offence there doll, but yer a Druid and real Druids fight in the skud.” Reidoth ripped off his ragged robe and what resembled a tattered fishing net bound about his torso. A warning would have been welcome. A warning would have given us the chance to be looking the other way when Reidoth suddenly stood nude before us, save for a runic inscribed gentleman’s leather support and a lifetime’s accumulation of what I still choose to believe was only mud. “C’mon speccy, let’s be seeing you!”

Buddynock could almost have met a Cockatrice again. His long beard quivered, his mouth opened and closed but no sound escaped.

Celmar and Shupatra exchanged stunned glances. Our taciturn Ranger proved he can be highly expressive when the moment calls for it. I mainly just remember the choking noises in a gruff dwarfish brogue from the other side of the square: “He’s only got a string at the back,” murmured Dain Rocksmiter. “And when I say string it’s more of a thread … a thin thread too.” (*)

On even brief experience, I suppose it was hardly surprising Reidoth paid no attention. He murmured words of power and for an instant his skin took on the grey tinge of old bark. He stepped clear of his fallen robe. “Right then yer tubes, let’s be heading for some craic!”

“Not that word please!” Dain

“Crack?” asked Gundren Stonefoot.

“You had to say it? Really?”

We all knew the plan, we had talked through each move more than enough. Ranger Samuel took his post on the guard house roof where he would have the clearest view, Gundren Stonefoot and sly Gove lurked in ruins nearby, all had bows and full quivers. None could hope to survive a close quarters fight but their archery might still turn the day in our favour.

It was now I drank the flying potion, and for a sweet instant I felt my feet begin to lift from this tired earth. Oh, the sheer joy of that sensation! I had to resist a sudden urge simply to soar into the sky and revel in the intoxicating feeling. Instead I made sure the short lengths of rope were tight about my shoulders. I would not be able to fly fast with my load but no matter; it would be enough.

We had emptied out our packs. There was almost three gallons of oil between us, but now we had actually seen this dragon’s lair it was only too clear we could not simply empty flask after flask down the tower for Venomfang would soon be rising to meet us those terrible jaws gaping. We needed some means of dropping all the oil at once. We needed a receptacle, something easy to carry. I will never forget the sheer horror on Buddynock’s face when he realised the implications. Especially when Dain explained his Mending cantrip could not restore any object smashed to tiny pieces or burnt to cinders. As wide eyed Buddynock instinctively clasped the worn handle of his beloved bucket Wilson, I wordlessly produced the wooden pail I used to fetch water for my mule. Buddynock’s relieved reaction confirms Moon Druids have a particularly vivid vocabulary when the occasion demands. (**)

(*) “Great Durin, it’s even worse when he moves!”

(**) No one should ever dictate what form a cherished family heirloom can take.

And in all fairness not many inherited treasures are as useful as wooden Wilson. (***)

(***) “Useful yes, to be wantonly hacked, slashed, bitten or toasted never!” said Buddynock Rubyrubb. “End of!”

23

Druid Reidoth’s mood was most curious. His eyes shone even brighter and somewhere a cloud must have cleared the sun, since for a few moments his belligerence actually seemed to fade. That was not necessarily welcome for one of us. “Eh pal that’s pure gallus the way yer mail hangs off yer bahoochie. Yer no the clarty scunner then.” I think it was the way Reidoth leaned closer and smiled which proved most alarming. Though in fairness only some of his teeth were black. (*)

“What’s he saying to me?” Dain’s eyes widened. “Tell me. Tell me now.”

“I thought he fancied me,” whispered Celmar.

“Yes, we all saw that,” Dain hissed, “but now?

“Err I think he’s been out in the wilderness a long time,” said Buddynock with careful tact. “You might want to time your next nods very carefully though. Ah, look! He’s having another herbal sniff.”

Shupatra looked up from tuning her dulcimer: “Do all wandering Druids wind up this way? He’s talking to that bush now!”

“Not all Druids no,” Buddynock gave a friendly wave to Reidoth. “Only some, honest. Not even half, well not even two thirds. A quarter at least never go ‘strange’. Feral maybe but not ‘strange’.”

“And that makes this properly propped and beamed eh? Who’s got to wait with him until that damn dragon is on the ground? Who?” Dain Rocksmiter’s sigh could have shivered stone. “Why did I ever leave my mine?”

There was little time left to us now. We faced the greatest fight of our lives, all at stake and the odds against us. What can I say, in all honesty I knew we would be fortunate if even some of us survived; I chose to place my own life at this hazard, but what of my comrades, my friends, what had I led them to? Whose death would I have on my conscience assuming I would stand beneath the bright sun tomorrow? We made our final preparations and each of us now seemed to retreat inside ourselves, seeking the courage to face this danger, to stand firm and resolute come what may. Any jokes now tasted sour on the tongue, we shook hands, we nodded to each other but no one wanted to speak just now, for the moment no one quite trusted their voice.

Shupatra struck a silver echo from her dulcimer, Celmar rolled out the Fireball scroll one last time, our Ranger smoothed the goose feather flights on his chosen arrow, I pressed the winged quillons of my long sword to my lips. Dain Rocksmiter’s gnarled fingers gripped his Holy Symbol and from close to the ground I heard Buddynock Rubyrubb’s plaintive voice “I have been a good Gnome, I have been a good Gnome, I have been a very good Gnome.”

(*) It is more than a little off putting when a man outnumbered eight to one continues to casually insult, threaten and flirt. Especially when clad only in mud, (we were holding to this belief very firmly), and a rather frail leather thong ensemble.

24

All warriors have their own ways of meeting danger. Reidoth’s was becoming ever more apparent. I doubt there was much left in his drawstring bag now and his herbal concoction certainly seemed potent. To our alarm, this Moon Druid was only growing louder. “Yer wee skelpit bastard! BASTARD! Shower of Bastards!! Kick his nads! Kick him in the nads!”

“Shower of bastards?” Celmar raised an eyebrow. “Plural? Does he think there is more than one dragon?

Buddynock sighed: I think he may be seeing more than one. Pink dragons quite possibly.”

“Inna nads!

“He’s your friend!” Shupatra pointed with no small force.

“No, he’s not!” Buddynock’s indignation was no less keen.

“He’s talking with you.”

“He’s talking at me! He’s talking at everyone! Including that stray shrub!”

All powers have their limits, even for the mightiest. Our desperate plan relied on forcing Venomfang to the ground and holding him there. Three of us would play their crucial part and our Bard spent her precious inspirations wisely. In these last few moments Dain Rocksmiter cast a Blessing on himself, Ranger Samuel and Shupatra, I performed the same rite for Buddynock and Celmar, now Dain like me had the old familiar words running through his head, we kept concentrating on the incantation, keeping the spell alive as long as possible, the spell that might just turn this desperate day in 0ur favour. Yet at very best our Blessing would only endure one minute.

Taking Celmar in my arms I soared to the top of the stone tower. We rigged a grapple and line and I left our brave Sorceress clutching the rough stones forty feet above us, her eyes wide, her long hair whipped by the wind. We could see the yawning hole giving entrance to Venomfang’s lair, but we did not dare peer down, not quite, not yet.

I was only back on the ground for a moment. Shupatra and Buddynock were already wearing their improvised harnesses, two swift knots were tied and we soared slowly into the air, my friends now hanging beneath my shoulders by five feet lengths of rope and steadying that swaying pail of lamp oil between them, scarcely daring to breathe in their struggle to keep the bucket upright. (*)

(*) I was suddenly most envious of Buddynock Rubyrubb’s goggles, but at least, for the moment, I could fly wearing my leather arming cap. Time enough later to don my steel helm, just now I needed clearer vision.

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Soon all four of us were pressed against the conical roof, the angle was steep and the remaining tiles so slippery with moss we struggled to keep our footing. I was grateful we had left our heavy packs behind, but the weight of my shield kept pulling on my blind side and for a horrible moment I almost dropped my sword. At least I had that flying potion coursing through my veins; my friends were far less fortunate. Far below I could see Ranger Samuel, crouching behind the wooden parapet of the guard tower. With an effort I balanced the brimming bucket on the lip of the yawning hole. (*) Celmar held her precious scroll open, she nodded, we were ready.

My comrades have frequently surprised me. This was the moment I totally astounded them. Without warning I held my free hand to my mouth and shouted down into the dragon’s lair, my words a rolling echo against the stones: “Tyrant of Thundertree I do charge you to yield. Venomfang the Green surrender or die!” (**)

(*) I swear we heard Buddynock whispering “don’t look Wilson!”

(**) What else can I say, my duty binds my actions, I cannot strike a sleeping foe, my Paladin’s Oath is not some convention of choice to be set aside whenever chance permits.

But consider please, the circumstances. My challenge did not compromise our advantage and perhaps even aided our attack. This dragon assumed himself unchallenged master, yet suddenly, drowsy Veneman woke to an unknown foe actually choosing battle! Let Venomfang know fear and dread, let uncertainty blunt the edge of his aim. Let him know, we chose to bring the fight to him!

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My three comrades were all too stunned to speak. I saw their eyes widen with horror, their mouths gaping open like stranded fish. We all heard a roar of naked fury from the now awakened dragon, we heard the beat of his wings as he soared towards us. I heaved the heavy bucket into space, three gallons of oil rained down into the tower, Celmar’s amethyst crystal glowed with purple fire as she cast the incantation, the words of the spell fading from the scroll as they were spoken. There was a great flash of light, a reek of sulphur, Celmar’s Fireball sped into the tower, bursting like the sun twenty feet below us; the oil-soaked walls exploded in flames as Venomfang the Green screamed in rage, surprise and pain.

“I have been a good Gnome, I have been a good Gnome, I have been a very good Gnome!”

“Eee!”

Most of the oil had only coated the tower walls but some surely had still splashed onto the dragon. One matter was certain, he was soaring up to meet us, we would face our foe in the open as we wanted. I hurled a javelin, Buddynock aimed a sling slot. Despite my Blessing spell, both missiles rebounded off Venomfang’s scales. True to our plan Celmar took hold of the rope attached to the roof and rapidly descended hand over hand, alas our Sorceress missed her footing when a sudden gout of flame shot from within an arrow slit. She fell twenty feet to the ground, landing prone with the breath knocked out of her. Celmar’s injuries would have been worse if the sloth had not snatched at the rope, briefly slowing her descent. (*)

Out of flame-licked darkness soared Venomfang the Green, Lord of Thundertree. His wings unfolding, his gaping jaws jutting wide, curving his body with sinuous grace as he found empty air and freedom. The wind of his passing would have knocked us into space but that flying potion was holding me aloft and Buddynock and Shupatra still hung safely from my shoulders. We had seen Venomfang’s face before but not like this, never like this; there are no words possible to describe the eyes of a vengeful dragon, huge, pitiless, with intelligence to match your own. We looked into his gaze and saw our own deaths reflected.

(*) Sloths may be slow but their instinct to grab at vegetation is well honed.

27

Dain’s deadly Guiding Bolt spell missed Venomfang by the width of a scale, Gundren Stonefoot shot wide but Ranger Samuel sped an arrow with deadly skill striking the dragon in the flank, as a plume of black smoke gushed from the burning tower below.

“I have been a good Gnome, I have been a good Gnome, I have been a very good Gnome!”

As planned, I closed the range, hovering only twenty feet away, we were below Venomfang now, his long lithe body rolling in the air, ready to swoop down, eyes blazing, jaws wide, ready to breathe his deadly vapour, ready to rend us limb from limb for our insolence. I have never been so terrified, that mesmeric gaze burning into my soul, that strength, that might, who was I to dare stand against a dragon? I hurled my last javelin and this at least struck home. The dragon’s great eyes gleamed

Shupatra the Halfling now showed her quality. Inspired by her own song, blessed by Dain Rocksmiter she cast a Hideous Laughter spell at the speeding dragon. No magic is ever certain, especially against such a powerful foe but today, oh today the Gods of Battle smiled! Dread Venomfang may well have been struck by a meteor, the dragon, convulsed in mid-air and fell clean out of the evening sky, crashing helpless to the ground in a plume of dust. Time itself seemed to stop dead; we planned for this, we hoped for this, but for a long moment none of quite dared move, then I was plunging out of the sky as fast as my load permitted, sword out, diving down into the attack.

“I have been a good Gnome, I have been a good Gnome, I have been a very good Gnome!”

I saw Reidoth the Moon Druid, with Dain Rocksmiter close behind breaking from cover and charging home. Celmar appeared around the curve of the smoking tower, unsteady on her feet, her face streaked with blood, but sending her Magic Missiles striking home into the dragon. Ranger Samuel shot true, Gundren Stonefoot levelled his crossbow again, but again his bolt missed. There were still no arrows from Gove, I could not blame him for being scared but we needed everyone playing their part! Did Gove no longer want equal shares any treasure?

Venomfang was struggling to his feet amid a tangle of gorse and scrub, his long neck swaying in confusion. We saw burns on his body and tail, not many, not serious but we had injured this dragon all the same, we had driven him out from his lair. Come victory, come death Venomfang would not forget this day! The divine might of noble Pallas Athene infused my sword, long Talon glowed with light, I swung but far too fast, my blade glanced off the dragon’s long bone crest. Buddynock landed lightly, lashing out with his Shillelagh spell. Our Bard’s swift blade slashed the ropes dangling from my shoulders. Reidoth rounded the tower his eyes bulging with fury: “Chib the fecker! Gie it laldy! Gie it laldy!” Valiant Dain Rocksmiter was gamely trying to keep up but struggling to make much speed through the entwined bushes.

Our Ranger’s next shot failed but more Magic Missiles hammered home; their damage was limited but Celmar’s spell could never fail. (*) It was now sly Gove finally chose to chance an arrow: at Venomfang, no, at unsuspecting Gundren Stonefoot! The shaft sprang back from the stone wall surrounding Gundren, but nothing loath Gove nocked and loosed again. Two arrows had just missed by inches; Gundren cursed, turned and returned the favour with his crossbow. Gove also had walls to hide behind and the furious pair began exchanging shafts, each hoping for one lucky shot.

Before I could strike again Venomfang lunged at me; his left claws pried away my shield, he missed my head with his right claws but his fangs ripped at my mail. I felt searing pain, I gasped in sheer agony, I felt hot blood running down my side. By some miracle I kept concentration on my Blessing but that spell was fading fast anyway. Buddynock could not cast Thunderwave, his friends were too close, but this time his magic Shillelagh struck home. (**)

Venomfang’s terrible jaws snapped shut again, but missed. The Dragon gathered his feet to soar back into the sky. Shupatra again cast a Hideous Laughter spell, and again Venomfang convulsed helplessly under the spell, his wings beating to no avail, his serpentine neck threshing backwards and forwards. I seized my chance and pressed my palms against my grievous wound, the torn flesh closed under my hands, I staggered but did not fall.

Reidoth leapt into the fight, suddenly taking the form of a great brown bear, Dain close behind with his axe. Venomfang suddenly gathered his wits, shrugging off Shupatra’s spell we saw his neck bulge and pulse and a plume of chloral vapour engulfed Reidoth and Dain. I am aware my modest friend Dain dislikes glib compliments but I cannot complete this account without due praise for my friend’s conduct. I shall never forget the sight of Dain Rocksmiter grimly closing those last few yards, running forward his shield high, his rune axe raised, despite that choking fog bleaching his beard and burning his eyes. Only a dwarf would have the fortitude to endure such punishment. (***)

(*) We were all thankful our Elven Sorceress was successfully controlling the eldritch power suffusing her slight body.

(**) Battle cries vary greatly. Most are very personal some more personal than others: “Threaten my toes would you!”

(***) Reidoth was charging into battle clad only in his runic embossed gentleman’s protective leather support, the pouch held in place by a thin Y shaped string at the back. Poor Dain was charging forward too, but inevitably several paces behind. His view was graphic and unrestricted particularly when Reidoth was leaping tussocks.

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Ranger Samuel’s next arrow hit so deeply only the waving feathers were still visible, Gundren and Gove were still trading shots, engrossed in their private battle, but more Magic Missiles from Celmar hurled themselves against our fearsome enemy.

Venomfang spat a second spume of venom against Shupatra and myself. The bright sun vanished in a searing cloud, I felt my lungs burning, my eyes ran with tears, I fumbled, faltered but with Buddynock’s spell and potion both protecting me I was still on my feet and striking back. I heard our Bard’s battle chant at my side; small Shupatra was battered and choking but never missed a beat of her song as she cast Dissonant Whispers and Bane spells at our deadly foe, her enchanted cutting words and vicious mockery marring Venomfang’s aim and hindering his attack. The dragon was again gathering himself to fly but Buddynock Rubyrubb also shifted to bear shape, leaping forward, our transformed Gnomish Druid wrapped both paws around Venomfang’s long neck, grappling the dragon to the ground and still within range of our swords. Reidoth was slashing wildly with his own bear claws and doughty Dain Rocksmiter struck home a savage blow with his rune axe Grom. The fight was far from over!

Yet now Venomfang breathed again, Reidoth the Bear was hard hit and barely on his feet but to our horror we saw Dain Rocksmiter fall helpless to the ground. We could not get to him, we simply could not help our fallen comrade and Gundren Stonefoot and treacherous Gove were still ignoring us in favour of their feud. I knocked aside one claw with my battered shield, sword high I stabbed home, cutting deeply, the divine power of Athene guiding my hand. Now we all saw that dragon’s blood flow!

Few spells last forever: our whole company sorely missed those divine Blessings. Celmar’s determined efforts were wearing down Venomfang but suddenly her sloth companion frantically tapped her shoulder: “Eee! “Eee!” A dozen more zombies lurched into view, barely forty feet behind her.

Megan the Sloth left unsmiling at the sight of a dozen approaching zombies. “Eee! “Eee!”

Celmar turned, cursed and cast an Elvish Dancing light cantrip. As she hoped four of the mindless creatures began stumbling towards the floating orange glow. Ranger Samuel reacted with swift skill from his high vantage point, skewering the lead zombie with one arrow and using his Hail of Thorns spell with devastating effect on the closely packed targets. Gundren Stonefoot also saw the danger and began firing crossbow bolts into the Undead as fast as he could wind and aim his bow, ignoring the arrows sly Gove was still sending

We fought on, exhausted, hurt, fighting for breath we fought on. Venomfang turned with lightning speed, snapping at Shupatra and shaking her like a rag doll, our Halfling Bard rolled clear but her arm was badly gashed. The dragon threw off Buddynock and clawed at Reidoth, shearing home with vicious precision, Dain still lay helpless nearby, we could not say if our friend was alive or dead. This dragon was severely injured, we all saw that now, worn down by missiles, spells, sword cuts, bear claws and a desperate Forest Gnome Shillelagh, but we were hurt too and hurt badly. I had been bitten again, my blood soaking my torn surcoat, only little Buddynock fighting alone on the far flank of the dragon was still sound. Victory hung in the balance.

Reidoth was dying on his feet his face a mask of blood and bone. With his last strength he shifted to human form, with his last breath he seized the dragon’s upper jaw with both hands; throwing his head back Reidoth butted Venomfang on the snout. “See me? See you, yer mauchit scunner! See you!” Our ally slumped to the ground, Reidoth the Moon Druid moved and spoke no more.

Celmar fell back facing the oncoming Undead, waiting her moment our Sorceress unleashed her final spell and her Burning Hands slew one Zombie forever. Ranger Samuel sped a second and third Hail of Thorns, leaving these zombies quilled like manticores, any normal creature would have fled or fallen, but these walking dead had the fortitude of granite. At least our Ranger and Sorceress had severely damaged these shambling abominations: Gundren Stonefoot finished the most injured with his heavy crossbow. The ten remaining kept coming.

Shupatra cast her final hideous laughter spell to no avail, Buddynock, still in bear form was striking left and right with his paws. Venomfang was critically injured now but still roaring defiance, still gathering his deadly breath, still lunging headlong jaws gaping. Did Venomfang fear being brought down with arrows if he tried to flee, or was he simply too enraged to break off the fight? Each of us had inflicted wounds, but each of us, save Buddynock was wounded, weary and barely able to stand.

Venomfang turned on me again, I stared back into those raging reptilian eyes, those dripping jagged teeth, if the dragon breathed now Shupatra and I would both die, we were too badly hurt, we could not endure anymore. Dark blood dripped from Venomfang’s nostrils, his neck pulsed and swelled; the dragon forced me back against the curving tower wall, his savage head swept forward and missed; I raised my long sword, struck out and down with all the strength I had left, calling on Grey-Eyed Athene to guide my hand. Talon cut home, my sword cleaved the dragon’s chest, hot blood gouting over my mail gauntlet. Venomfang the Green, Lord of Thundertree, shrieked in final agony, his long neck threshing back and forward his tail flailing the air, the dragon reared up, his legs buckling beneath him, screamed, rolled back and died. The air stank of blood, the whole world seemed lost in blood. I staggered forward striking again, stabbing deeply, determined above anything to make sure. The sudden silence was deafening, this dragon was dead and only my sword pressed into the churned earth could hold me upright.

I looked down at my sundered armour and riven shield, at my own blood pooling on the ground. I could not feel any pain, not yet, for in this moment I could barely remember my own name. Shupatra gave a sobbing gasp, her voice red raw and hoarse. Little Buddynock’s hooded head appeared the other side of fallen Venomfang, his eyes wide with shock, club in one hand, his battle bucket Wilson still serving as his shield. “I must have been a good Gnome, I must have been a very good Gnome! Laldy was most definitely gied!” I could see his lips moving but there was no sound I could hear, none at all. Nothing seemed real around us, each moment seemed an eternity.

29

Then the world flooded back in a deluge of noise and sensation; the moaning roar of the zombies, the desperate shouts from Celmar eager to know our fate and the whirr of arrows as Ranger Samuel emptied his quiver into our last foes. Shupatra and Buddynock ran to our fallen comrades; stout Dain seemed stable, he was unconscious and helpless but his breathing had steadied even so. Druid Reidoth was another matter, there seemed little left of his face and a few more moments alone would have finished him. Buddynock Rubyrubb had the greater medical skill and fought to save our ally as Shupatra held a precious potion of healing to Dain’s pallid lips.

I soared back into the air, speeding to the fight. Feathered with arrows, shot with crossbow bolts and charred by sorcery, nine of the dozen zombies were still moving. My arrival let Celmar fall back and draw her own bow, she was lucky to still be alive and but for Ranger Samuel and Gundren she could not have survived their onslaught. Now, at last, the tide was turning. These filthy creatures did not warrant chivalry and I hovered over their heads striking down savagely with Talon, all the time wishing I wielded a lance, for this flying potion would have made my charges deadly. Ranger Samuel buried his last arrows in their bodies, Gundren and Celmar picked their targets well. These Undead would never rise again, they died, we lived, the day was finally ours.

Gove had already taken to his heels and I give thanks for his wise cowardice. I had no more stomach for killing this day. He had his bow, blanket and dagger, his paltry treasure and his malicious will to survive; if any Goblin could endure the wilderness our treacherous ‘friend’ could. Gove did not matter anymore and at least we could not blame ourselves for his betrayal.

With tender care, we carried Dain and Reidoth to the safety of the guard house, improvising a stretcher from our cloaks. We moved as quickly as possible despite our exhaustion; more foes could arrive at any moment and there would be time enough to rest when those heavy doors were barred behind us.

An oil fire burns fiercely but dies fast. While Ranger Samuel and Gundren stood sentry atop our refuge and wounded Shupatra waited ready at the entrance, I quickly searched Venomfang’s lair with Celmar and Buddynock. Opening a postern door helped clear the air and we found a mass of semi melted coin in the smoking tower, some was beyond saving but we carried away what we could. Anything else had been lost to the fire, but beneath the squalid litter lay a short elvish sword and a brazen quiver with three apertures and an intricate design of twisted runes. Both were still shining. (*)

There was little daylight left to us, but after recovering any undamaged arrows and crossbow bolts, we removed some of the unbroken teeth and scales from Venomfang’s corpse. Vulgar work I admit but these items have their value. We had no time, no means of storage and no inclination to harvest this dead dragon any more thoroughly, even though mages and alchemists pay much for fresh materials. Only fools trust their luck will hold forever and at this moment all any of us wanted was to hear those guard tower doors closing. We did cut seven steaks from the carcass, this beast thought to devour us and we would dine well instead! Celmar is wise in the ways of magic and the old lore is clear enough; there can be benefits to anyone feasting on the first dragon they ever slay. We debated living off cold rations to avoid drawing attention, but Ranger Samuel convinced us any small fire we made would be nothing to the eddying smoke from that devastated tower. So, we sat together in grateful comradeship, cooked and ate our unexpected meal. I can only say this; Dragon meat is definitely an acquired taste but I grant we all soon felt a benefit. (**)

(*) When we found the fire contorted handle of my bucket Buddynock held his hand over Wilson’s painted eyes.

(**) Indeed, we all felt ourselves more resilient in body after our meal, a sense of increased vigour which thankfully endures. We owe much to our well-schooled Sorceress, yes only a true dullard despises books and study!

30

We kept a careful watch from the guard house parapet. Various forest predators dined on the long corpse of Venomfang but nothing to threaten us. So much was at stake and any delay was hard to bear, but these wild lands are perilous and we needed one day to catch our breath. Our Bard has many skills but I have never been so glad of her songs before, the soothing notes of Shupatra’s dulcimer helping us rest and speeding our recovery. Dain Rocksmiter’s blurred vision thankfully cleared, but Venomfang’s raking claws had ripped the right eye from Reidoth’s head. All we could do was ease his pain, yet to our astonishment, Reidoth made no complaint, simply whispering: “Pure gallus! Yer see me chib that scaly tube on the napper!” This Druid is truly a man apart, his only concern was seeing his duty done and knowing the little creatures would now reclaim ruined Thundertree.

Our own Quest too was nearing its end. We were finally free to march to Phandelver, though my blood ran cold whenever I imagined what we might find. At last poor Gundren Stonefoot could search for his missing brothers, but after so many weeks did our dwarven friend truly think Tharden and young Nundro could still be alive? No, we could not ask him that, we could not strip away his fondest hopes, the truth would be plain soon enough. Buddynock summoned a second brown swift to carry word to Sister Garaele that Venomfang, Green Lord of Thundertree had fallen. We buried the three cultists slain by Reidoth and the two killed by zombies. Unnecessary labour? Some would say so, but I quietly choose to differ all the same. (*) The slain Undead were already little more than dust.

We were loath to take unnecessary risks but one plain duty remained. Our friends stood post as Celmar and I slipped out to the lair of those Giant Spiders. (**) Dain did not begrudge the loan of a hand axe and I swiftly cut a pyre as Celmar laid out the body of that luckless elf adventurer. The timber was green but the corpse was a mere husk. We turned our faces to Phandalin next morning and that fitful column of smoke was the last sight we shared of ruined Thundertree.

BEING an END to BOOK VII

We recovered semi melted coins worth a total 0f 848 gold pieces. As before we divided these equally but with the same shares for Reidoth and Gundren. The emerald necklace we hold in trust until it can be returned to the destitute Dendrar family. Three small diamonds worth a further 300 gold pieces we put aside to power any future Revivify spells.

Shupatra will now wield Bywen, an elven short sword which deals especial damage against spiders.#

Ranger Samuel can now bear a Quiver of Elhona, a magic receptacle capable of storing prodigious quantities of arrows, javelins, even spears and bows.

(*) If I have no other power I will not become like my enemy.

(**) Megan the Sloth still clinging to her back.

NOTE I:

I cannot forget that towering green scaled body, that great reptilian head and glaring eyes, those teeth half a foot long, those scything claws, hooked and barbed. Venomfang towered twice my own height, but if I found this young dragon immense what of Shupatra and Buddynock, how gigantic did this fell beast seem to them? Yet our Halfling Bard and Gnomish Druid fought toe to toe with this towering dragon, Shupatra at my side, Buddynock alone on the far flank. Without their magic we could never have brought and held Venomfang within reach of our swords.

How can I not praise my friends’ courage, how can I not honour their bravery?

Do they realise all they achieved? If one of us had faltered, just one of us for even a heartbeat all would have been lost, but no, despite everything, my gallant friends fought doggedly. Ranger Samuel loosing arrow after arrow, standing proud atop the merlons for better aim and the clearest possible line. Many men would simply have hidden in fear or fled into the forest, many brave archers would have lurked behind the parapet, concealing themselves and only loosing shafts when chance permitted. Not our Ranger.

Celmar drew all Venomfang’s ire upon herself with that Fireball, when she had no hope of surviving his venomous breath. Even injured she faced down the Walking Dead.

And Dain Rocksmiter, slogging forward through that deadly cloud, teeth, set, his axe ready, refusing to leave his comrades in their moment of need.

How can I not praise my friends’ courage, how can I not honour their bravery?

NOTE II: A Sloth named Megan, that is to say Pearl that is to say Brithil

Megan the Sloth is a gentle beast of most sanguine temperament. Her name, I understand means ‘Pearl’ or Brithil in the Elvish tongue. Little Megan cannot be roused for at least five hours each morning but still clings tight to Celmar’s pack with her claws. Once awake this placid sloth quietly surveys the world with her huge round eyes, occasionally emitting a high pitched “Eee!” if some sight interests her. This sloth seems most attached to our Elven sorceress both literally and emotionally. When placed on the ground near some low hanging trees, the sloth stared, hissed gently and proceeded to slowly climb Celmar’s legs and hang from her pack once again.

Megan the Sloth will forage for leaves when we camp but will also happily eat the Goodberries conjured by Ranger Samuel and Buddynock. She is a most clean creature. When nature calls, and this appears an infrequent occurrence, Megan the Sloth gently descends to the ground and crawls to a quiet corner to sit in still contemplation. Her toilet completed, this fastidious sloth insists on resuming her familiar perch on Celmar’s pack.

At Celmar’s keen request Buddynock Rubyrubb has spoken with Megan using his Druidic powers. At least now we know she is happy to remain with us. For the time being at least.

“I live with my parents in a most agreeable jungle garden. I was curious and went off to see the world very slowly. I want to write stories and I want experiences. I took flight on a friendly eagle and rode a giant turtle across the seas. This new land is not as warm as home but still worth exploring. I went for a wander in the tree tops to find these old ruins but I was picked up and thrown in a cage by a very rude and extremely smelly orc, with only one tooth and longer claws than mine. “This was most vexing and unfair. The smelly orc sold me! It was all rather colder than I liked and those men in the silly wings were not nice either.”

“I am old enough to have a boyfriend but all boys are silly and I don’t want to settle down with one just yet thank you very much. I want to meet a friend to be my bff and who will explain what a bff is, someone who will be loyal and watch my back as I watch theirs.”

“When I eat carrots, I like to make rabbit noises and when I eat cucumber, I eat upside down to avoid burps. Those purple streaks in my fur? Maybe I should not tell you this but … well … I like to roll in blackberries!”

“I can make another noise too. I have a special friend. Henry is a donkey and we practiced imitating each other. Sometimes I forget to go “Eee!” and “Eeeyaw!” instead. Henry was too scared to come with me but we will meet every ten years to swap stories.”

“Do you have any more of those special berries please? Eee!”

Down these mean dungeons a Paladin must go, who is not himself mean but hopefully rolls some 20's!

Wednesday, 3 April 2019

Thoughts on Thundertree and Daring the Dragon

Wednesday, 13 March 2019

Book VII - The Green Lord of Thundertree

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