Being the Chronicle of Cadan Dalmas, Knight
BEING
a BEGINNING to BOOK IX
The last morning had come. Our camp
was struck with speed. Another day,
another journey, but first, inevitably the farewells. High Archon Theramenes had
already mustered his retinue for their long march homeward, but this was not
the only parting. After so many months of shared perils and toil, our own small
company had also come to an end. Ranger Samuel and Shupatra the Bard would
journey eastward together and our Elven sorceress was heading south” It’s
definitely time for little Megan to see
her parents again,” said Celmar. “And it’s just too long a journey for any young
sloth all by herself, even if there were handy trees and branches all the way.
Thank you for Sisyphos, I will take good care of your mule.”
So Celmar raised her Staff of
Defence in one last salute, the early sunlight setting the glass rod aglow.
Celmar, Neave Gemstone and Shupatra, they had all stood together to
defeat the fell wizard of Tresendar in that desperate fight along the stairway.
It was only fitting that Celmar kept his
cherished staff as a token of victory. No one else could wield such magic and Celmar refused to even touch that Drow
serpent wand we captured in ruined Phandelver. Well, some things were surely never
meant to see the light of day. We were all grateful when High Archon Theramenes
took that Drow artefact for careful study and safe storage. My Archon made sure we were all
fairly recompensed and there was no further risk of that snake staff returning
to evil hands.
We still had the dragon fangs and scales we salvaged from
Thundertree and these were sure to sell for a pretty price in Svarstaag. We
all knew that city’s vile reputation but nowhere closer could meet our needs;
we had treasure to spend and equipment to buy! All adventurers value shining driftglobes
or bags of holding but Dain was considering
full plate armour too. I was certainly tempted to replace my own
chain hauberk, yet now I had someone new to protect first. Any Paladin of the
Fifth Level may summon his own celestial steed but any warhorse without barding
is so vulnerable. At least there was still
plenty of time to consider my choices, it would take us many days to reach
treacherous Svarstaag. (*)
Expertise is born from
experience. I think we all struggled to clearly
remember our first faltering steps as adventurers. Our skills had grown, our powers were more
developed, our early foes would seem so puny
now unless they attacked in overwhelming hordes. Dain Rocksmiter had certainly proved his
piety and valour and divine Marthammor
Duin had smiled upon him.
Our stalwart Cleric had mastered new magics. Some spells truly seem miraculous. Pious Dain could now cast Revivify, he could
actually bring a dead soul back across the river!
“Providing they only died a
few moments before.” Dain sounded his
words like a smith beating out steel, determined we would all understand. “I
must have time to work. You must give me
that time even if a battle still rages. I can only save someone if I have that prompt
chance.”
Buddynock Rubyrubb has no
shame! He pushed his brass goggles back to ensure we could not miss his grin. “You know we’ve always respected you Dain. Well,
you know at least I have always respected you!”
Dain muttered something,
sighed and passed his Revivify scroll to me.
“Best you start studying the incantation laddie. This scroll could mean
life or death for any of us. ”
Our three former comrades would not be denied their full share of any
spoils. Any established merchant house
can sent letters of credit and wizards have their means of passing messages.
2
I slowly drew the aged
scroll from its leather case. “I clean forgot we found this written copy of Revivify
too. But Dain, I can’t be sure I could
cast this spell successfully. Not yet at
least. I don’t want to risk wasting it.”
“It’s still best
you are familiar with the words,” said Dain. “Just in
case! There might be two people down and the time running hard against
us. Better to prepare and never need, than
lament the lack when too late.”
I unwound the scroll and
peered at the blue inked incantation. “I do remember how Celmar mastered that Fireball
scroll. We would never have slain Venomfang without it.”
“Exactly!” nodded Dain
Rocksmiter. “Just remember, I can help
you practice too.”
Our Gnomish Druid had also
mastered new powers. When I first
met Buddynock all those months ago I never dreamed he would ever summon
lightning from the heavens or fey creatures to serve him, let alone possess magic which set the earth
below erupting upwards. Maybe it is
their beards, or possibly the differences in their height, but our Dwarven
Cleric almost shows a paternal concern for little Buddynock. Today was no
different. I witnessed
Dain Rocksmiter in earnest conversation with our good Druid. I heard the gruff words “responsibility” and
“possible misuse” and for “pity’s sake just make sure you check where I’m
standing first!” but I still saw
Buddynock Rubyrubb grinning like a pit fiend all the same. (*)
We would see
our Druid’s new magic soon enough. I would simply
remain grateful for my own enhanced skills.
No time spent with our swordmasters is ever wasted; I could now wield my weapons with far greater speed than before. I had also learnt new healing magic, I had
mastered a spell which let me sift truth from lies. Yet dearest of all was my
new steed Boreas, a mighty destrier of
16 hands, rich chestnut in colouring with a sagacious mind and valiant
heart. No mortal warhorse but a
celestial Spirit willing to bear me into battle and beyond. I could summon and dismiss Boreas as I
required, my faithful horse could be dispelled but never injured or killed. At
long last my mailed feet rested in iron stirrups once again, at long last I
balanced an ash wood lance in my right hand, my silken penoncel fluttering in
the breeze. Yes most times I would still fight on foot, but now, oh yes, there was at least some chance, I could charge
home resplendent once again. (**)
High Archon Theramenes saw I had a high cantled war saddle and tack, a lance and
caparison bearing my proud cat blazon. Yes
I knew where my treasure would be spent.
Boreas might be invulnerable but a skilled enemy could still strike him
down, dismissing my steed back to the celestial plane. Metal barding would keep my gallant warhorse
fighting for longer, the sooner we could reach a skilled armourer the better!
And so the three of us set forth for Svarstaag , that city renowned for wizardry and streets where wise men walk
in armed groups. Sadly no pony or donkey
proved available and we faced a long walk to our destination. I completed the ritual to summon gentle
Boreas but a knight does not ride while his comrades march alongside. I would have time to swing myself into the
saddle should danger threaten along the way.
(*)
It is quite possibly safer to be standing as close to Buddynock Rubyrubb as
possible.
(**) Dain
can cast speak with animals but he is sensible.
Our Druid can claim whatever he likes, I simply do not believe celestial Boreas
would ever demand that!
Buddynock Rubyrubb, despite his clowning, is an erudite and educated Gnomish Druid.
I also refuse to believe he has never heard of horses’ heights
measured in hands.
His comment was surely some joke. Surely!
Did Buddynock
really imagine I would be ride some many armed demon from the netherworlds?
3
Svarstaag would be three weeks away. A sea passage would
be swiftest but alas, we were far from any trading port . The only boats near us now would be small
fishing vessels which never stray far from their own grounds. I know our Gnomish Druid dearly wants to take
passage with these fabled ships of the air, but once again, we were out in the
wilds and far from any regular route. At least we could while away our long journey
with conversation. (*)
It was now the stranger asked to join us. A tall man, no a Half Elf, with neat fair
hair and pointed beard, his leather jerkin
travel worn but his long rapier clean and gleaming. We had not seen Haldamuina arrive, we never realised
he had been watching us. He spoke politely and clearly had a way with words , yet
none of us quite expected his request.
Any fool can mistake simple
indifference for toleration, our decision now would stretch our prejudices. A
Paladin is honour bound to defend anyone in need, even peasants who cry out for
aid. I had learnt the worth of stalwart
Cleric Dain and even wayward Buddynock, their valour, honesty and skill had
saved my life. But a Rogue? To share our small company with a Rogue! (**)
I can admit this now. We had endured weeks of treachery in the struggle to save
lost Phandelver. Just to be sure, I cast
my zone of truth spell surreptitiously, this Haldamuina never realised my magic
was testing his words. He was young
like all of us and seemed keen witted, well Rogues who lack intelligence rarely
last long. Haldamuina was striking north
himself and glad of company on the way. He seemed honest enough, men who live
by their wits and sleight of hand are not all petty sneak thieves and cut
throats. My own education has its
limitations but I was soon satisfied this Half Elf meant us no harm.
We set
an easy pace, those first days on the road.
Our rations were plentiful, the weather largely kind, these last few
months had taken a heavy toll and I think we were all glad to simply march
onward, not worrying how soon we would arrive. In any case, such journeys bring
the chance to learn more about new comrades than simply their names. Haldamuina
was watchful but that was only to be expected. In any case, I would rather walk
the wilds with a wary man than some fool who blunders into every brawl and bog. I could sense no evil in Haldamuina, we soon
slept peacefully while he took turn standing watch in the night. And on the third evening we saw evidence our
new comrade had both determination and nerve.
A badly greased wheel announces its presence early. We were off the road well before the small
company rounded the corner ahead. A
knight in full plate led the column, his visor down, his shield emblazoned with
a raised gauntlet. A bearded squire was riding at his side, mail clad, lances
ready, a far older man than I expected.
Behind marched their retinue, a dozen men-at-arms with halberds on the
mailed shoulders and eight more bearing wound crossbows ready to loose.
(*) I still
remember certain campsite discussions with my comrades. No matter how long ago!
“You know I think I miss Neave Gemstone most of all at night,”
sighed Buddynock
Celmar nodded in sympathy. “You mean when you gaze up at the stars?”
“That and the way she used to warm my blanket,” smiled our Druid.
(Really! A gentleman does not speak lightly of any Lady’s
reputation; I was about to speak, I was about to say something when…)
“Ah yes,” said Dain Rocksmiter, “her prestigitation
spell was just the thing for warm tootsies when getting off to
sleep.”
(**) Buddynock Rubyrubb
never displays any social
prejudice at all.
Providing people are kind to animals,
don’t mistreat plants and always stand their round without being
prompted.
In their midst a rumbling oxcart, with two retainers leading the
beasts and a robed cleric walking alongside.
On the cart stood a great wooden box, five-foot-high but narrow, the
dark wood bound with iron and studded with bolts, a small barred window near
the top. We heard a cry for help, by the Dog, there was someone inside! A desperate woman’s voice, pleading for aid . We all saw the nearest man-at-arms casually
shove the butt of his halberd into that small window.
Only a fool rushes headlong into unnecessary strife. Only cowards stand back when harm is inflicted
and help could be offered. I confess I blushed with shame beneath my heavy
helm. Give any young knight a spirited
steed and they only think of crossing lances with some worthy foe, yet how
could I ride down that grim warrior with twenty armed retainers at his back? Stealth
must serve when strength is not sufficient.
Dusk was falling. We followed the company carefully until they camped
for the night, always being sure we stayed hidden. My heart sank when I saw their careful defences,
four men remained on watch at all times.
Our council of war was brief; the odds were bad but how could we delay? if we wanted to intervene what better opportunity
would we have?
“Give me half a chance and I will work on
that wooden box with these.” Haldamuina
grinned as he pulled the dark steel lockpicks from his pack. Was this
really Haldamuina’s choice, or did he seek to impress us and earn his place
within our group? No one should ever
risk their life without good reason, but we all remembered that plaintive
scream and the sound of that halberd striking home. Our new comrade was the best suited for such
a desperate venture, but my heart sank to
think this cheerful rogue would go alone.
Yet what else could Dain or I do? Even without heavy mail we would
struggle to move quietly and without our armour how could we intervene if the
alarm was raised? Little Buddynock tugged at my sleeve. “It’s always better with two,” he nodded
bravely. (*)
I never doubt my comrades’ courage or their ingenuity. Haldamuina was almost at the cart before they were caught. As the
sentries levelled their halberds and the roused company reached for their
weapons, Buddynock Rubyrubb swiftly took
the shape of a placid straw-coloured dog, just as Haldamuina pulled a band of cloth over his eyes and
called out: “Oh is someone there please?”
A valiant and inspired effort which surely
deserved success. Alas for all our fond
hopes! The strange knight summoned
Haldamuina to his tent, spoke an invocation and our roguish friend found
himself simply unable to lie. Buddynock Rubyrubb’s attempted deception was
ended moments later, despite gamely cocking a hind leg against one sentry’s
feet while wagging his feathery tail furiously. I glanced at Dain. We sighed, shrugged and
nodded; we stepped forward into the light too.
(*) That’s also one of Buddynock’s
‘special ‘jokes. I still wait for Dain
to explain them to me.
Sometimes even a desperate battle seems
easier than looking foolish. Sir
Brandamore heard us with weary patience and spoke like a swordsmith beating out
a blade. A paladin of great Torm, The Hand of Righteousness, walked where he chose whenever he had sacred
duties to perform; a paladin of great Torm expected to face fell evil, not
ignorant bumpkins unaware whose precious rest they wantonly disturbed. (*)
“But your prisoner,” I began, “treating any
woman with such discourtesy is simply-.”
“Not your concern,” spat Brandamore, “furthermore-.”
For our actions had their unwitting cost, a distracted
sentry strayed too close to that sealed box.
A long white arm, more bone than flesh, reached from the barred window,
we heard the soldier’s choking cry, saw
the colour drain from his face as he stood, unable to move. The robed cleric leapt forward holy symbol
raised, we saw the grasping arm blister as the steel symbol pressed home. Sir Brandamore strode forward cursing and
laid both hands on the stricken soldier’s brow.
A few moments later and the injured man recovered. “Another day,” snarled Sir Brandamore, “do
not interrupt a Paladin of Great Torm when he carries vampire spawn to
destruction!”
There was little left of the night now. Sir Brandamore marshalled his small company
at first light and marched them away with not even a parting word to us. We watched them down the road simply thankful
this foolish errand had ended. We were all
too weary for travel today, the embers of their fire were still warm. Yes, we could grant ourselves some little
time to rest.
“It’s an incredible spell, that zone of truth,” said Haldamuina.
“For the life of me I simply could not lie.”
“Do you think we would have fooled them if I been wearing a collar
and lead? Even just a bit of hairy string?” Buddynock said earnestly. “I could have a
name tag too reading Mr. Benjy and-”
“For the love of what’s left of my sanity no more,” sighed Dain
Rocksmiter. “Not now!”
(*) “He’s not a
bit like our Paladin is he,” Buddynock whispered when he thought I was fast
asleep. “Dunno
how he squeezes such a big head into his helmet.”
“Sssh!” hissed Dain.
“Don’t make things worse.”
“I’m just
saying that’s all,” said Buddynock.
“Dalmas is a bit strait laced and ‘read the instructions one
more time to be sure’, but he’s nothing like
this one!”
“Your influence you think?” glared our Cleric.
“Aww!
Now that’s a real sweet thought thank you!” Buddynock beamed. “Just got to get you
cracking
an actual smile once in your life and my work
is done!”
Ten days further along our journey and now the
Great Mere lay before us. “No not a nasty swamp!” Our Druid’s wayward beard
quivered with indignation. “A wetland
area supporting a complex and beautiful mix of species, plants, animals, fish
and insects all in harmony. Ooh look down
there a Bayonet Frog!”
“I bow to your expertise,” said Haldamuina, “but I can’t honestly
say I ever planned to take this path.” Dain was also peering dubiously at the
muddy water and tussocks stretching out into the distance. He kicked the
nearest causeway post with his heavy
boot.
“You want to go to Svarstaag?” Buddynock gazed up at us with firm resolve. “You want the
shortest route? This is the way, trust me.
Yes you can! No need for those
looks! There is a wooden causeway all
across the marsh, there are villages raised up on stilts where we can rest. And
just look at the life all around us.
Dragonflies! It may be just a
swamp to you but it’s all still beautiful to a Druid!”
“Thought you were a Forest
Gnome,” muttered Dain.
“Maybe. But that just means I’m good at branching
out!” Buddynock winked. “Branching out! Get it?”
“Are you still sure you want to
join us Haldamuina?” I asked.
Any warrior clad in heavy armour
looks askance anytime they traverse water.
I did not forget nearly drowning when that orc knocked me down into the
clinging mud. Valiant Boreas was sure footed and wise, yet I led my horse on
foot all the same. Some paths are definitely not for riding! Yet to give our
Druid his due, our journey proved speedy and safe. The wooden causeway was old yet in good
repair, those villagers along the way clearly earned their keep by ensuring the
posts and planks were well maintained. We even had sunshine on the second day
and Buddynock was constantly delighted by the vibrant life all around us, grey
herons soaring ungainly into the sky, a booming pair of bitterns hidden by reed
beds, small lizards darting across the
water and always the murmur of croaking frogs.
(*)
7
We made good time and reached the
first village a good two hours before nightfall. Lower Froome was a small
settlement, maybe sixty people at most. A dozen wooden huts raised on stout
posts with walkways running between them, all surrounding a circular stone
tower, at least twenty feet high with a battlement and signal cresset.
“They keep good watch,” I
observed. “Even out here.”
“Especially out here,” said Haldamuina. “City streets are more to my liking. Still,
at least they seem truly friendly.”
We slept soundly that night. The
evening stew was simple but wholesome, we paid our travellers’ toll without
complaint. I noticed our Rogue was
respectful. I am sure he found such
simple villages a far cry from city folk yet Halduamina entertained their
children with stories and cunning sleight of hand without expecting money in
return. Sometimes our smallest deeds
reveal our character most clearly.
Like those brave foresters we encounted so many weeks ago, these
swamp villagers lived far beyond the protection of any feudal lord. They traded
independence for risk and maintained that raised causeway for travellers. Their
food chiefly came from fishing, we saw
the narrow skiffs they poled through the reed beds, but they hunted small game
too, strapping round wooden boards to their feet to cross soft mud. A wild and lonely life, I was relieved that stone tower was strong, well
provisioned and could clearly hold each family for many days. Even so, even if the blazing signal cresset
could be seen through the murk, I still doubted their chances to withstand any
prolonged siege. Any help would take a
long time to arrive. Some families were split between several settlements, well, anything to reduce the risk of one
overwhelming catastrophe. A hard life for anyone, especially small children.
“All the same,” Halduamina said
softly. “They may still be better off than people trapped in stifling slums
where you only glimpse the sky if you gaze straight up. Having people all around you can still be
dangerous.”
I am not sure if this Rogue had
actually spoken to me or merely voiced his thoughts out loud but Halduamina clearly
observed his surroundings most closely. Young
heads can still have old habits. His
long rapier was plainly not carried for show.
Dain and I both used our healing
arts before we marched away from Froome. Any settlement has ailments and my
lesser restoration spell healed two cases of inflamed eyes. The villagers
offered us back the five gold piece toll, but it seemed ungracious to accept.
Any conscious display of virtue is vulgar and self-serving; a paladin and
cleric should simply know their duty and humbly oblige. Dain Rocksmiter truly endeared himself to our
hosts by summoning magical food after invoking Marthammor Duin. Even plain fare is a
feast when the food is different. (*)
A dawn chorus of birds and humming insects
heralded our departure, the croaking frogs almost setting a pace for our
march. I must confess, even though I
longed for dry land once more, I could now notice the beauty all around us. Our Druid’s enthusiasm never waned, every few hundred yards little Buddynock
found some other plant or creature to delight him. Indeed,
Buddynock even shifted to fish form to swim alongside the causeway, the
bright sun dappling the water through the reeds.
At least until early afternoon. At least
until the frogs stopped singing.
Buddynock Rubyrubb was back onto the causeway with sudden haste. Our
Gnomish Druid was no longer smiling. “There’s something out of place here. Something very wrong.”
“Dangerous?”
said Halduamina, reaching for his longbow.
“Not sure, not
yet.” Buddynock’s long nose sniffed the
air. “Where are all the fish or the
flowers. Half these rushes look rotten and there are hardly any frogs. Everything looks dead or just gone.”
“Has something
eaten them,” asked Dain. “It’s only natural
surely. Each living entity, plant or
creature needs sustenance.”
“Yes but this is everything,” and we all
heard the worry behind Buddynock’s words. “Everything faded or fled. Nothing should eat everything. Nothing
survives that way.”
“Could this be some spell?” said Halduamina,
“some wizard’s experiment gone wrong?”
“Maybe. Can’t
say,” said Buddynock but something is very wrong all the same. We need to press on, I don’t want to be
caught out here after dark.”
We
are profoundly grateful we never risk going hungry or thirsty in his company.
We
are also profoundly grateful anytime we have anything else to eat!
8
“Is there
anything you suspect Buddynock?” I asked.
“Nothing I
want to think about! Let’s move and move fast. Is that the next village up ahead?”
“Maartslock,
they called it in Froome. I can just make out the tower,” nodded Dain.
“Don’t
care about names. Let’s just get there fast.”
Halduamia
ran a broken bulrush through
his fingers. “Look at the stalk. Its brittle, no life left. That’s not normal,
surely.”
“I
can tell you something
else wrong too”, said Dain. “We’re well
within long bowshot and there’s been no challenge. I can’t see anyone on watch.”
Our worst
fears were soon realised. Ten wooden huts
raised on stilts and no sign of life in any of them. The silence pressed down around us, a silence
more fitted to a tomb. We found a
scatter of simple clothes and tools, a stove in boat and more of those round boards for crossing the
marsh. Clay cups, this was never a
wealthy community, an axe still sharp, reed knives and some simple wooden toys,
well, even poor peasants still love their children. We stood in the doorway of
the largest house, as far inside as we dared. The wooden floor was gone, the
heavy planks split asunder.
“Broken from below,” I told my comrades, “the wood has been splintered
from beneath.”
Buddynock glanced behind us. “Don’t want to
worry anyone but did that first hole just get suddenly bigger?”
“There’s still the tower,” said
Dain, his heavy crossbow cocked and ready.
The causeway
narrowed here, the planks were sticky with mud.
I chose my moment and moved at speed for the yawning doorway. There was still no sign of life and again the
round floor was broken from below. Was it my imagination or could I hear
timbers creaking? I edged cautiously into the tower, my mailed back pressed
against the curving walls, feeling for each footstep as I inched closer to the
stairs. Overhead a trap door lay
open, I poked my long sword ahead of me,
gulped hard and clambered onto the roof.
Nothing, still nothing. The signal cresset was raised high on its metal
pole, a stack of firewood piled nearby. I stared out across the marshland, hoping my
high vantage point would offer some clue to these villagers’ location, No, there was nothing only the long causeway
running into the distance, I rubbed my
tired eyes and peered again and then I was down those twisting stairs at full
pelt, shield up, sword ready, from far below I heard Cleric Rocksmiter shouting
defiance.
They had all
been living men once. There were three of them, no four, all lurching from out
a ruined house, their grey flesh swollen
and dripping with muddy water, their bulging eyes white and lifeless. Dain challenged them again, divine power
coursing through his stocky frame, but the twisted creatures ignored his holy
words and still staggered forward, their grasping hands outstretched. I saw the
stark surprise in Dain’s eyes. What in the name of reason were they? We had faced zombies and skeletons before,
those ravenous ghouls and that cackling flameskull deep in lost Phandelver, but
these creatures now… these cold moving
corpses … what form of walking dead were they? Well, no Dwarven Cleric ever trusts words
alone. Dain Rocksmiter still barred their path defiantly his rune axe ready to
swing (*)
“True,” sighed Dain, “but even that lonely
lady Banshee in the woods never made more din.”
I stepped
forward, beat aside those grasping hands with my shield and buried my long
sword in the creature’s ribs. It fell
without a sound, the taut belly splitting like a wineskin, but only a torrent
of silt and dark water poured onto the timbers. We finished the other three
quickly, we still could not say what these undead creatures were, but we all saw a trailing plant stem jutting
from their backs. Silence fell on abandoned Maartslock once again, silence, save
the sound of creaking timbers.
“And before
you ask, no, I’ve never seen anything like this before,” said Buddynock.
Suddenly Halduamia was pointing. Ten foot or so from the causeway a wooden
stake leaned from the muddy water, clinging to the blackened oak timber were
two small children. We saw them move,
saw the desperation in their faces, they must have been hiding there for
days. It was too far to leap and none of
us wanted to step down into that eerie marsh. Dain Rocksmiter gave the word of
command and his collapsing pole extended out across the swamp, our dwarven
cleric held the near end flat against the causeway in his gleaming ogre
gauntlets. I slowly inched my lance
alongside, standing with all my weight on the grip. (*)
“Trust me this will be handy.” Our
Gnomish Druid cast Enhance Ability on Halduamia. “Cat’s Grace is definitely called for just now!”
I nodded to wise Boreas who took position past us on the causeway.
No foe would evade his vigilant gaze and little Buddynock fell back to cover our rear. We were all hideously vulnerable but at least
there was less chance of being surprised.
“Well unless something comes from below,” said grim Halduamia as he laid
his long rapier on the causeway. “My turn now I suspect!”
“We’ll hold them firm, don’t you worry,” urged Dain. “I’m truly sorry not to be going myself
but-“
“For so many reasons this is so definitely my task,” Halduamia
smiled wryly. “If I don’t make it back my money is in the second pocket of the
pack.” Our new friend held his breath and
stepped lightly onto the outstretched lance and pole. I threw myself flat across the lance haft,
Dain exhaled as he gripped the pole more tightly, Halduamia wobbled for a
moment then recovered his precarious balance.
Steadily, carefully our light clad nimble rogue inched out across the
water. The two young children, not more
than five or six years old I guessed, were too far gone to cry out or even
shift position. Halduamia called
something soothing and tried not to look down at the ink black water a few feet
below.
As Halduamia
stepped further away my lance began to dip. I feared I would not hold him, I began to mutter a blessing, I could not
fail, I could not let my comrade fall.
Dain Rocksmiter’s brawny arms were firm as granite, there was no risk he would let Halduamia
down.
Three more steps and Halduamia was leaning against the oaken
pile. We saw him reach up, we heard him
call out to the terrified children. A
small girl turned her tear stained face.
She stared but could not speak, the young boy alongside her did not even
move. Halduamia called again, balancing
on the balls of his feet, holding out both hands in greeting. His pleas bore fruit, the small girl summoned
her nerve and leaned out towards him, in another instance Halduamia had her
clinging safely to his back. Our friend called out a third time, a fourth, but
the small boy still would not respond. Exhausted or simply half dead with fear
the child clutched the sodden oak with desperation. He would die there if we
left him, we all knew that. Halduamia put
honey in his voice and called again, begging, pleading, then suddenly the small
girl on his back was screaming with terror.
(*) Sildenafil’ suddenly makes the tiny pole ten
feet long. Argaiv makes this erection retract.
Why
do both Halduamia and Buddynock always snigger?
Even Dain Rocksmiter has to hide a smile!
A towering mass of fetid vegetation reared out of the mud, rivulets of water pouring off its flanks. A
tangled mass of decaying plants, a twisted medley of reeds and stalks, which
moved, which knew we stood there! It made no sound, it gave no warning; the lumbering plant started shambling towards
little Buddynock, reaching out with two limbs like great rotting branches. Did we all merely imagine those gleaming eyes?
Our watchful Druid wasted no time,
we heard him chanting, saw the four fey beasts he summoned to his side;
great lizard creatures with yawning maws, able to both swim or walk
ashore. The moving mound of vegetation
threw out a great arm, lucky Buddynock dodged the first, but the second caught
him across the head. Our gallant Druid barely kept concentration on his
spell.
Halduamia reached out again
for the terrified boy, pleading, begging him to heed, all the while keeping his
precarious footing by a miracle of exertion. Buddynock Rubyrubb sent his fey
beasts into the attack, the towering plant loomed ever closer, but these
snapping lizards slowed the advance. The mound of rotting stalks dispelled one
lizard as little Buddynock stood at bay, his drawn scimitar gleaming. We all saw the skeletal legs protruding from
the side of this plant creature, the bones stripped bare, even the leather
boots decayed and half digested. Alas, we had surely found another lost citizen
of ravaged Maartslock.
At last the little boy reached out to Halduamia. At last our gallant Rogue could clasp the
terrified child in his arms and start to inch back to the causeway. Halduamia moved as fast as he dared then suddenly,
to our horror he started to sway. We could not move, we could not help them! Was
the weight of both children too much for him?
I thought Halduamia was lost, I
thought they all were, but no, not today, our Half Elven rogue somehow recovered
his perilous footing all the same. Dain was cursing with sheer relief, I simply
gave silent thanks for Buddynock’s kindly magic; Cat’s Grace was truly the only
fitting name for that wonderful Druid spell.
The plant beast showed no
fear, no emotion of any kind. It was
hunting and we were clearly its prey. I
was half stunned when one green arm smashed down across my helm but we all
stood resolute all the same, hacking back at that stinking mass of fibre as
exhausted Halduamia sped careful arrows from behind us and Dain’s enchanted
rune axe shouted the best attacks. The causeway and water were littered with
severed strands of vegetation, we kept cutting until the creature finally
stopped moving. Was it dead? Had we killed
it? How could we tell? At least the
mystery of tragic Maartslock had been solved. (*)
Our bruised and battered Druid peered closer at the motionless
mass of twisted stalks and roots. We all
saw him smile in sudden recognition.
“Some call them Shambling Mounds, but the proper term is Krynoid,” frowned Buddynock. “I really hate to say this
out loud but I suppose I sort of have to tell you. Just don’t shout at me
please! A Doctor once told me these
Krynoid things tend to travel in pairs.”
Dain raised an eyebrow:
“Who’s the Doctor?”
“Exactly!” beamed
Buddynock.
Boreas returned at my request the two distraught children still
tied safely to his saddle. We camped
that night in the ruined stone tower. It had not saved the people of Maartslock
but those high stone walls remained our best hope should another Shambling
Mound attempt an attack. At least I did not have to abandon my brave horse or
leave him vulnerable on the causeway overnight.
I dismissed Boreas with my thanks, knowing I could summon him again next
morning. (**)
Our decision at dawn was unanimous. Svarstaag was still ten days away
but how could we bring two terrified children with us? Yes, there might be some kindly cleric or
temple to offer sanctuary but how could we take that chance with their innocent
lives? Monsters take many forms, and
some have polite manners and full purses, some are skilled at seeking young and
helpless prey with no friends or family to protect them. Could these two tiny
children truly recover from their ordeal?
We could not say, we could not know, yet we simply had to retrace our steps.
The people of Froome welcomed us once more, then wept at the fate
of their neighbours, or stared grim faced over the clinging marsh. That small boy and girl had kinfolk who
could offer shelter; and they accepted
the children before we offered any fat pouch
to pay for their lodging and education.
The village elders already knew the habits of these Shambling Mounds,
the loss of other plant life was a sure sign one of these foul creatures was lurking
nearby. The people of Froome gladly
accepted all our spare lamp oil, but
they still chose to remain in their homes. They did not want any armed escort
to find some safer place. (***).
The next morning we set our faces to the north and plodded on once
more. Maartslock was still empty when we
returned a dead and deserted place empty to the sky. Halduamia had carved warnings on two wooden
boards and we nailed these to the causeway either side of the ruined
village. That twisted pillar of
vegetation had disappeared. We stared down into the black water and it was a
while before anyone spoke. Had the beast fallen to pieces and slipped into the
swamp? Was it somehow restored to life
and seeking fresh prey?
“Look you can all stop
asking me the same questions please,” sniffed Buddynock. “I may be a Druid but
that does not mean I know every single plant.
Especially hungry buggers with some very anti-social habits. These Shamb, these Krynoids are clearly
tricksy. See, you’ve got me confusing them now!”
(*) Dain remains grateful his enchanted
rune axe Grom can now speak.
Dain would be even more
thankful for a little more courtesy when Grom is calling the attacks!
(**) “Krynoid!” insisted Buddynock.
(***) “I’ve told you three times now. Krynoids!”
11
At least our last days walking that causeway
were through swampland clearly full of natural life once more. Druid Rubyrubb
was clearly pleased, but even his delight seemed rather muted. I suspect even our Gnomish comrade was
relieved when we finally reached dry land again. Dain Rocksmiter did not stop stamping his
heavy boots for quite some time.
The land was rising before us, a line of
rounded hills, with a stony path winding between them. A caring lord or wealthy city maintains their
roads, cutting back shrubs and brambles and clearing boulders for a long
bowshot either side of the path. We had
no such luxury here, we would be marching with rocks pressing close on either
side, good ground for any beast or brigand lurking in ambush. At least we could all defend ourselves; we
had no vulnerable waggons or helpless people to protect.
Familiarity may not necessarily breed
contempt but it certainly brings assumptions! We found the two trolls at their
supper, gnawing bones with the boots still on them. Dain Rocksmiter and I
charged without even a pause, meeting long claws and dripping fangs with axe,
sword and shield. Buddynock Rubyrubb
ordered gallant Halduamia to keep his distance; these
were foes far beyond his strength. I
swung long Talon forehand and back, cutting deep into cold green flesh, just as
Dain Rocksmiter struck with cunning skill, his magic gauntlets lending their
own strength to his rune axe. Dain swept
one troll’s head from its shoulders, black blood gouted as the hideous skull
rolled down the slope towards us.
“About time you listened boy,” creaked Grom. “Come on, come on, finish the other!”
Trolls either lack the sense to feel fear, or
they simply trust their warped bodies to knit themselves back together. Buddynock Rubyrubb hurled a flash of oil over
the troll I had wounded, then jabbed a blazing torch up under my shield. Flame sputtered and caught; the wounded troll
screamed with berserk rage and charged again.
Halduamia was striking sparks from his own tinderbox as the
severed troll head rolled towards him.
Stout Dain peered in puzzled surprise.
The decapitated troll still had not fallen! A moment later and the
headless monstrosity stepped towards him, clawed arms flailing! Halduamia leapt back in alarm as the severed
head stared up at him, a forked tongue flickered from the thin lips and jagged
teeth snapped at his fingers.
“I told you! I told you!”
creaked Grom. “Dwarves these days! Don’t
fanny around, get stuck in there boy!”
(*)
I am simply grateful there were only two
trolls and deeply thankful we knew fire or acid ensures they die. Our faithful mail hauberks withstood their
claws and fangs, we kept hacking at their twisted bodies while Buddynock and Halduamia hurled fire. We had
learnt much in the quest for Phandelver, not even two trolls could withstand our blades
this day. At last they lay still, at
last we could draw breath.
“At last your anti-social axe has shut up!”
said Halduamia.
“He’s not anti-social,” Dain said defensively. “Grom just has high standards that’s all!”
“And the same diplomacy skills as a stunned
turbot!” muttered our Gnome Druid.
We gathered the hideous fragments of the dead
trolls’ meal, laying them to rest with a blessing. Little enough I suppose but we gave the
respects we could. It did not take long to find the trolls’ lair, we poked
Dain’s collapsing pole into the shallow cave before we entered, the stench was
revolting and we were again glad of our Cleric’s mending cantrip to clean our
soiled boots. Our haul was truly a
surprise, nearly 1000 copper and silver pieces, a heavy sack of gold and even
80 or so coins of platinum. Other
objects also caught our attention. A
finely cut red gemstone, a slick dark
leather cap and a painted ceramic pitcher with eight cork stopped spigots
jutting at all angles. It was some time
before we dared touch it. We heard
liquid sloshing inside yet nothing appeared when we poured the pitcher.
“More gnomish hijinks?” growled Dain.
“You never know, “ smiled Buddynock, “but
those boring geometric patterns are never our work!”
“So we have no way of identifying this?” asked Halduamia.
“Sadly no,” I said. “Nothing without a spell. Well at least we are heading to the right place for magical advice.”
Our mystery many- stoppered
pitcher
(*) “If your Grom ever has some lah-de-dah elocution classes he might just sound as nice as someone dragging finger nails down a blackboard!” I have never heard our Gnome speak with more passion., little Buddynock even had both hands over his ears.
“Just be glad Grom only speaks in battle,” sighed Dain. “At least he’s not insisting you have all the martial prowess of a pastry chef!”
“You were the one who shoved him into the magic flame of Phandelver,” Buddynock insisted
“Yes, I was, wasn’t I,” muttered Dain.
“And ever since Grom guides your hands in battle! Such a benefit for anyone,” nodded Halduamia.
“What? Oh yes … a ‘benefit’ quite,” said Dain Rocksmiter thoughtfully.
12
“At least we all know what this is,” grinned
Dain Rocksmiter, and we all sat entranced as the shining sphere floated up from
his hand, silver light shining like stardust.
The drift globe followed Dain as he paced about, hovering constantly a
few feet from his head. On his command,
the sphere blazed even brighter, with another word from Dain the glow faded and
died. “By Durin’s beard what a wonderful discovery,” smiled Dain. “Who needs lanterns now!”
It had been a long march but at least the
last days were along paved roads with armed patrols to keep the peace and inns
to sleep in comfort. At last we saw the
towers of fabled Svarstaag on the
horizon.
“My first ever city.” Buddynock was standing
on my shoulders for a better look.
“Friendly sorts are they?”
I exchanged glances with Halduamia.
“They will certainly welcome our money,” said
our Rogue but as to being ‘friendly’-“
“We don’t do anything ridiculously stupid!”
said Dain. “Now if this Svarstaag was some decent dwarf hold-“.
“Some bearded Clerics would never let us hear
the end of it!” grinned our irrepressible Druid.
“I can foresee one … potential problem for
some of us,” I began, “I hope not but-“
“They will be SO friendly we won’t ever have
to buy a round?” Buddynock Rubyrubb
tried to look innocent. (*)
I looked at my friends. My heart sank. I began to speak, I tried to be bluff and
matter of fact but the cruel words simply could not pass my teeth.
Halduamia was waiting his moment.
Our Rogue is always so watchful.
“I think you might just mean there will be citizens of Svarstaag who
will welcome a noble knight but slam their doors against a vagabond Rogue or
hedge Druid. Some will even refuse to
acknowledge a Cleric of Dwarvish blood.”
“Bastards!”
said Buddynock in shrill outrage.
“If they are not careful I might just ‘freely express myself! With
flair, persistence and maximum mess!”
“O great Marthammor Duin, look down on your acolytes
and preserve them!” said Dain with feeling.
“We will not stay long,” I said quietly. “Enough time to sell our trophies and buy
what we need, but I hope we are all away without delay.”
“Why? Won’t we be safe in this Svarstaag?” asked Buddynock. “I mean
we’ll be behind high walls with guards on the towers and streets. I thought all you big types liked being in
boring cities. All stone and brick and no green.” (**)
I exchanged
swift glances with our Rogue and Dain.
“I think I might be of service to you for a
little longer,” said Halduamia. “Knowing my way round mean streets as I
do. Just until you err … find your
feet.”
“Assuming we
are not arrested and set in the stocks for insulting the overlord, infringing civic
rights of way, or buggering about in public without a mountebank’s licence,” groaned
Dain.
BEING
an END to BOOK
IX
Our spoils came to 20 platinum
pieces each and 500 gold coins; 200 silver crowns and 250 coppers.
We also recovered a red corundum
gem, a close-fitting leather cap, that drift globe and this mystery pitcher.
Best of all we had found a new
friend and proven our worth in battle.
“And saved those two children,”
Buddynock said quietly.
“Saved them maybe,” said
Dain. “Spared them much no.”
(*) I do now realise when our Druid is pulling my leg. Usually.
(**) Was Buddynock being serious now? And I thought I could tell!
NOTE I:
Any honest chronicle of our travels cannot
avoid one further detail. We were all there, we all bore witness. Our Druid
displayed both resource and resilience, his efforts were exemplary and no one
could ever have tried harder.
“Apart from being obviously pointless from
the outset,” muttered Dain.
“Well I’m glad Buddynock Rubyrubb had the
chance to try if it was really that important to him, “ I said.
Dain Rocksmiter gave me a very knowing
look. “You say that now, once it’s all
over! I somehow can’t hear you saying
that if we were being barred from yet another inn on a filthy night!”
“No I am glad, really glad that Druid
Rubyrubb had the chance to try.” Why did I look away from Dain as I spoke?
Our Cleric snorted. “I’m just glad our
lunatic Gnome still has all ten fingers and every inch of his nose!”.
“She did hang on well, didn’t she,” grinned Halduamia. “There was real
determination under all that fluff.”
“What else do you expect from an Owlbear?”
demanded Dain. “Or clueless Druids with
more patience than sense?”
“I am still here you know,” came a plaintive voice from below. “I heard all of that by the way!”
“Buddynock,” said Dain, “And I safely speak
for all of us. You are NOT having
another one! Ever!”
“Well, you say that now,” beamed Buddynock,
“but just think how much I learnt this time round. Another try would surely be
easier.”
(*) Or was that chub?
Our long march to Svarstaag had been enlivened by Buddynock Rubyrubb’s daily
skirmishes with his owlbear chick. Our Druid endured a raging fusillade of
daily bites and scratches, or the incensed beast hanging from his long nose and
clawing at his ears with every free talon. (*)
“If
we actually charged you for healing spells …” sighed Dain. “I don’t mind being called on but every
single waking hour! If you can’t train
it Buddynock, surely-“
“Not
it! Her!” Buddynock said proudly. “Little Bianca.” (*)
“How
do you know that chick’s a girl?” began Halduamia.
“Don’t tell me-“
“You
peeked under her feathers? Great Durin’s Beard no!” Dain gaped with horror.
“It
could help to explain why she keeps biting,”
I smiled.
“Excuse
me. I am a Druid of the Circle of the
Moon and Druid’s just know these things!”
A good answer, delivered with natural pride. Our small friend
persevered for days but eventually even Buddynock Rubyrubb conceded defeat.
He set little Bianca down in a bank of deep leaves under a
beech tree with enough fat blackberries nearby to keep her fed. She would have more chance here than
confiscated by angry watchmen and sold into captivity or hunted down for
sport. Little Bianca stared balefully
at us, hissed with fury and bit the head off a passing beetle. We saw her padding down the leaves with
satisfaction and clambering deep within the tree.
“Do
you think Bianca will forget me?” sniffed Buddynock.
“You
can only pray and hope so,” Dain replied.
“But if one dark night she turns up looking for seconds, just be
sleeping the other side of the camp from me!”
(*) “Bianca?“ I asked. “For an Owlbear?”
“He’s off in a world of his own again,“ sighed Dain.
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