Legacy of the Minotaur

Grroulth

It was a good trip-line, Grroulth was sure of that. Tied tight and well judged, just about the point where a horseman would get caught up and knocked to the ground, but not high enough to do permanent damage. He put out a hairy finger and strummed the line, listening to the resonant twang, before nodding in satisfaction and scrabbling back to his crude hiding spot.

It’d been ten days of tracking to find the bounty-head, but Grroulth had him. He’d followed the mark over hill and dale, tracked him to the small trading post in the wilds of Darokin, and he knew the marks plans from there on in. He was worth 70 gold, probably not enough for the effort Grroulth was going to, but there was such a thing as professional pride at stake. Grroulth caught what he said he’d catch. Most of the time, anyway. Occasionally, at the very least.

Grroulth’s stomach let out a loud grumble, and he swore silently at the noise. The elf was only minutes away, easy prey for the trap line, but only if he didn’t spot the bounty hunter. It would have been so much easier if Grroulth could just go into the tavern. Walk in, club the elf, drag his useless carcass out. Easy. No mess and no hiding.

Grroulth permitted himself a quiet sigh. If only it could be done without causing a panic, he thought. Humans – give them one glance at a patch of fur and sharp teeth and they start to panic. It’s enough to make a gnoll wish he ate man-flesh.

Tall ears suddenly twitched, catching the distant sound of horse hooves. Grroulth permitted himself a savage smile and tightened his grasp on his war-axe. His prey was getting closer…closer…closer…

“Dwarfsplitter?”.

It was a loud, cheerful voice asked the question. One that came directly to his rear. Grroulth swore quietly, whirled around to see a smiling gnome in a dark, three-piece suit. The gnome beamed widely, twirling a thick mustache.

“Quiet,” Grroulth ordered.

“Are you the gnoll known as Dwarfsplitter?” the gnome persisted.

“Was,” Grroulth hissed. “Don’t use it no more. Tends to scare people. Keep quiet”

“Ah, my apologies,” the gnome said, his voice unmoderated. “You’re uncles information was quite old, from what I understand.”

“Uncle?” Grroulth said. One ear was still listening to the sound of the horse approaching, the other trying to follow the gnomes speach.

“Graahk,” the gnome said. “Claims to be your mothers brother.”
“Mother’s dead.”
“A sad state of affairs, I’m sure,” the gnome said. “Your uncle spoke well of her, despite her unreformed ways. Were he still alive, I’m sure he’d be grieved to hear of her demise.”

The gnome nods amiably, as though expecting Grroulth to say something. Grroulth stares intently, wondering if the gnome is merely mad or simply some ploy on the part of his quarry to devious for the bounty-hunter to understand.

“Well,” the gnome says eventually. “No matter, I’ve been tasked to give you this.”

The gnome holds out a small, folded sheet of parchment. Grroulth regards it carefully, picking it up with one paw and sniffs it. It smells of ink and wax, nothing suspicious.

“What is it?” he asks.

“Well, it would appear…” the gnome begins, but the sudden twang of the trip-line going taut resonates through the forest and Grroulth is gone, sprinting through the undergrowth. The axe swings wildly, dispatching the elf’s horse, and the great gnoll is left struggling on the ground in an effort to subdue his quarry.

The gnome watches for a while, shrugs, then disappears behind the tree root.

Hop Barleyman

It would be unfair to call Hop Barleyman drunk. Not terribly inaccurate, he admits, but entirely unfair. He’s a big man, after all, and he can handle his liquor whether it’s inside his body or out.

He shifts the weight of the barrel on his back, holding it steady with his free hand. The other keeps a steady grip on his walking staff, using it to feel out the path as he crosses the fields.

Besides, he thinks to himself, it’s too nice a day to be drunk. The sun is shining, the birds are singing, there’s butterflies flitting across the meadow. People don’t know what they’re missing on days like this, working in fields and sitting in stores. The only place to be on a summer day like this is on the road, carrying a fine barrel of Barleyman’s Brew to the local tavern. Been good enough for the Barleyman for generations, it has, and he ain’t going to be the one to break with tradition.

Although it is a little warm, he has to admit, and it would be nice to have a rest.

Hop puts the barrel on the ground, in the shadow of an old oak, and wipes his forehead with a kerchief.

Very warm, now that he thinks about it, and it wouldn’t hurt to have a little drink while he’s cooling down.

Eager hands free a small mug from Hop’s belt and he pours himself a taste of the liquid amber.

A gnome pops out of the space behind the oak’s roots, carefully attired in a suit. His white hair is neatly coifed, and it regards Hop through a pair of thick spectacles.

“Hop Barleyman?” the gnome asks.

“Aye, that’d be me.”

“Did you have an Uncle, named…err…Barrel?” the Gnome asks.

“Ain’t heard that name for a while,” Hop says, scratching his chin. “Bit of a black sheep, that one was. Big lad, brave as anything, but strange in the head. Care for a drink?”

A second mug is freed from the belt, then pressed into the startled gnome’s hands.

“Err, thank you,” the gnome says.

“You should hear the stories about old Barrel though,” Hop says. “They’d make your hair stand on end, they would….”

It takes a few hours, and several more mugs of ale, before the bulk of Barrel's story is told.

“So what you askin’ about ol’ Barrel for anyway?” Hop says, suddenly recalling the gnome’s question.

“Wha’?

“Barrel, you were askin’ if he was me uncle?” Barrel reminds him.

The gnome smiles blearily.

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “I gotsh a letter for you.”

It takes several minutes of searching to free the letter from the gnome’s pouch, but the crumpled parchment is eventually thrust into Hop’s hands.

“Thanksh,” the gnome says. “It’sh been shwell.”

He pulls himself to his feet, trips over the tree root and disappears.

“Well,” Hop says to himself. “How do you like that?”

Evana

No one wants to live in Fort Doom. Evana reminds herself of that as she skulks through the mountain pass, looking over her shoulder at the keeps imposing black stone. It’s a place of sadness and tragedy, the common folk being ground into the dirt by the oppressive Baron and his minions. No one wants to live in a place where goblins steal your food and ogres have free reign to take the children.

But when she turns and looks at the winding road, cutting through the narrow pass, Evana misses home almost as much as she dreads what lies beyond. Behind there is danger, the possibility of beatings and torture and possibly even death, but it is the familiar dangers. The dangers she has long grown to accept, knows how to expect.

The way ahead involves unknown dangers, pain and fear she doesn’t know how to prepare herself for. Danger that is all the more frightening for its absence.

No one wants to live in Fort Doom, but it’s the only place Evana has ever known. It isn’t that she will miss the place, its simply that the dangers you know are more familiar than the dangers you don’t.

She spots a stray pebble tumbling along the roadside on its own, drifting a quarter inch above the ground, and Evana swears quietly. It’s been months since she manifested powers like this, let any scrap of power free without her knowing. She frowns at the pebble, forces it to drop to the side of the path, and grits her teeth against the pressure of the magic running through her head.

Once again she reminds herself that the dangers of home are no longer familiar, that the discovery of her magic simply makes her the target for new and more horrific terrors. Her powers are wild, untamed, born of the spark of the arcane on her very soul. Such people do not survive long in the Black Eagle Barony, for they all to quickly attract the attention of Bargle, and Bargle’s fascination for the arts of sorcery know no boundary. Evana shudders as she remembers her mothers stories, the way she describes the trials that her elder sisters went through. Milda was always pleased she escaped the tortures of magic, had none of the gifts of her siblings, but she knew enough to teach Evana how to control her powers when they started to manifest.

Control and secrecy, these were the way to survive in the terror of the Fort. Evana was merely a fisherman’s daughter, no-one special or worthy of attention.

Deep down, Evana knew it wouldn’t work. The power was a part of her, to strong to stay hidden away forever. And soon she was caught, using a little magic, and so she had to flee.

Fort Doom dropped out of sight behind her. It occurred to Evana that she’d gone further from the Black Keep than she’d ever considered. All that was left was mountain pass and the wide world beyond.

Well, the mountain pass, the wide world beyond, and a dapper gnome wearing a three-piece suit emerging from a gorse bush. Small hands brushed at the front of the suit, pushing away leaves and twigs. Then the gnome regarded the shivering rider with a wide smile.

“Evana, Daughter of Milda, late of Fort Doom?” he asked.
Evana could only nod, her mouth wide.
“Did you have an Aunt by the name of Portia?”
“Yes,” Evana whispered. “But she’s dead.”
“You’ve already heard?” the gnome asked. “My apologies, I hadn’t realized news had gotten through already. Ah well, no doubt you’re well prepared for this then. I believe this is yours.”

The gnomes’ small hands offer a folded piece of parchment, sealed in red wax. Evana is no longer sure what’s going on, but she takes the parchment anyway.

“I’ll see you soon, then,” the gnome says cheerfully. He scrambles through the gorse once more, disappearing out of sight.

“My Aunt died years ago,” Evana says quietly, but the gnome is gone.

Then, carefully, she pulls open the wax seal and reads the letter.

Tovaritch

The sun is shining in Norvikk, a rare occurrence that leaves the dockworkers and merchants baking in their furs and cloaks. Vilnius Chuilikov strides purposefully through the crowd, his heavy white cloak ominous among the crowds of people eager to divest themselves of clothing. His axe clicks against the ground as he walks, its long haft taller even that Vilnius’ six and a half feet. The stench of the slowly warming city is terrible, all stale fish and heavy sweat.

Ostlanders are not built for warmth, Vilnius thinks to himself. No more than my people were.

He pauses by the stall of a Thyatian merchant, buying some of the dried apple strips on sale. As he hands over his crudely minted Thyatian coins, Vilnius reminds himself once again that he needs to find a place where he can trade his meager wealth for less obvious coin. His crude currency easily marks him as a native of Norworld, identifies him as easily as his name if you know enough to ask the right questions.

He resumes his walk, chewing purposefully on the dried fruit. Not that I answer to my own name anymore

Which makes him all the more surprised when the small gnome, dressed in a finely tailored suit, emerges from the space between two barrels and asks: “Vilnius Chuilikov?”

Vilnius stops, staring down at the gnome. The small creature is will dressed for the heat, perfectly groomed and completely unafraid as it addresses the hulking northerner.

“Are you Vilnius Chuilikov?” the gnome repeats.

Vilnius considers all the possible responses to that question. Some of them don’t involve smiting the gnome with his axe.

“There he is!” someone screams, and Vilnius whirls to spot several of his cousins man further down the docks. Most of them have axes raised, charging through the sweat-soaked crowd.

Vilnius lets out a curse in the Old One’s name and runs, forcing his way through the dockside crowd with brute strength.

“I’ve caught you at a bad time then,” the gnome calls, then scurries back into the space between the barrels as an arrow is fired at him. Vilnius grunts as he pushes past a dockworker, ducking another arrow. Evidently one of the Steel Regent’s men has gotten impatient. A crate full of fetid fish is overturned, some cargo nets cut free with a swipe of the massive axe, none of them do enough to dissuade the men chasing him. Vilnius wonders how much they’re being paid for such persistence – evidently the Steel Regent is hiring professionals, and persistent professionals at that. Men who can be persuaded to hunt a man known to have the strength of a northern bear and the ferocity of an enraged dragon.

He spots a boat preparing to leave the harbor, the Lady Petra’s Bounty. The crew is starting to point at the chase on the docks, but a stern first mate is forcing them back to their labor. Vilnius considers the ship for a moment, then ducks around a cart full of more fish and makes for the edge of the docks.

An arrow buries itself into the fish. Vilnius thanks the Old One the Regent’s coin purse only stretches to cover bravery and persistence – he doesn’t yet have enough to hire competence. Then Vilnius is in the air, sailing over the murky water of Norvikk’s docks and crashing against the ships rail. Strong hands clutch at the wood, holding him above the waves as the ship starts to pull away. Feet scramble, searching for purchase on the wood, and eventually he finds enough to pull himself onto the deck.

Vilnius Chuilikov finds himself facing the tips of a half-dozen pikes, leveled professionally by several well-armored member of the crew. Evidently the captain of the vessel can afford competency.

Then the small gnome struggles through the ranks of men surrounding him, followed by a portly sailor that can only be the captain.

“Vilnius Chuilikov?” the gnome asks. “Nephew of Victor Rossokiyev?”
“Da,” Vilnius says grimly. “Call me Tovaritch.”
“I’m Gerbo Finnigan, of Finnigan, Finnigan and Wake,” the gnome says, reading from a small scrap of parchment. “Your uncle has, unfortunately, either passed away or moved to a realm beyond mortal knowledge, and I have been instructed to give you this.”

The gnome hand Vilnius a folded parchment.

“What does it say?” Vilnius asks, not bothering to open it.

“It’s a summons,” Gerbo says. “To the reading of the will. You’ve been asked to present yourself to the Fallen Minotaur Tavern in Kirchev Keep in 30 days. I’ve arranged your transport to Specularum with Captain Telhause here, I imagine you can manage the rest. “

“Summons?” Vilnius asks, but Finnigan has already forced his way through the crowded soldiers and disappeared.

The Keep in the Border Peaks

The Black Peak Mountains are hardly the favored post for loyal soldiers. Tall, old and wild, they loom over the border between Karameikos and threaten the border with all sorts of hidden dangers. Orcs and trolls are known to wander the mountain passes, as are goblins and giants and even more dangerous forces of chaos and entropy.

Kirchev Keep sits in the heart of the mountains, on the very borderlands between the Grand Dutchy and it’s neighbor, protecting those small communities that cling to life in the hidden dales and valleys of the Black Peaks. On a good day the watch can look out from the Keeps high tower and see the towering peaks of Mount Pavel to the East. If the wind is still, the same watchman could look west and see the looming expanse of Mount Dread through the lingering mists. Good watchmen know better than to look at such distant sights, for the orcs have never invaded from the sky. Good watchmen keep their eyes on the paths and the cliffs that surround the keep, forever watchful of humanoid forces.

Kirchev Keep is in the heart of no-where. Soldiers learn to hate the place, but it becomes a haven for the mercenaries and adventurers who seek to pit their strength against the mountains untamed spirit. To those that know of its existence it is better known as the Borderland Keep, the last bastion of civilization in the heart of the wilderness.

Gerbo Finnigan hates the Keep too. It’s to wild, the taproom to full of muscle-bound brutes and militant blades. He feels out of place in his crisp-cut suit, the neat coif of his mustache. He lurks in the back room of the Fallen Minatuar, away from the gathered crowd of cutthroats and mercenaries, and offers a wide smile to those gathered around the table. Four of them have made it by the due date, and only the brewer seems inclined to offer a smile in return. The gnoll and the northerner simply glare, confusion covered by a veneer of anger, and the sorceress seems too unsure of her surroundings to offer any response.

Gerbo sighs and shuffles through his papers, setting the complex legal implications in his head as clearly as he can. It’s been at least fifteen years since he’d prepared the documents, and even then he wasn’t entirely sure whether they were accurate. Still, the spirit was there, and the group had made their verbal instructions implicitly clear.

There was another one coming, if the firm’s reports were accurate, but waiting wasn’t really an option at this point.

“Hello,” he says. “There’s not much point in waiting, I suppose. We can catch up those who come late, if they show up at all. I’m Gerbo Finnigan of Finnigan, Finnigan and Wake, Specularum’s most experienced lawyers for two hundred years, and I’m here to administer the last will and testament of The Company of the Minotaur.”

“The what?” Toravitch asks.

“An adventuring company,” Gerbo explains. “A fairly prominent one, in the local area. All of you had family members that were important members. They have named the four of you, plus one or two others who can’t be present, as inheritors in their will. Which..ahem ..is to executed in event of reliable news of the groups demise, or after a length of time not less than five years have past and our return seems unlikely.’”

Gerbo adjusts his glasses and puts down the sheaf of paper.

“To put it bluntly,” he says. “My condolences – it seems likely that your Aunts and Uncles are no longer with the living. Then, may I say, congratulations – the four of you have just become the co-owners of this inn and many of its contents. I’ll explain the conditions over dinner, if you wish.”

Gerbo watches the four sets of blinking eyes. Most of them don’t seem to have realized exactly what happened. He nods at Paryn, waiting at the doorway, and dinner is served. The one-eyed manager of the inn nods and goes about his task with grim efficiency, and no one fails to notice his terse exchanges with the inn’s new owners as he services.

Poor bastards, Gerbo thinks. If they’re sensible, they’ll do the smart thing and organize its sale immediately.

A silence settles over the back room of the Fallen Minotaur with Gerbo’s departure, as the inhabitants try to absorb the minute technical details the lawyer explained about the inheritance before excusing himself to sleep. They look at one another, then towards the small stack of papers Gerbo has left them, then back at one another.

Eventually, Hop figures that he’s probably the best person to start speaking.

“I don’t know abou’ anyone else, but I think we could use a drink,” he announces. A quartet of clay mugs are freed from his belt, and he places them carefully on the table one after the other. With reverent care he plunges the first into the barrel sitting next to him, filling it with amber liquid and offering it to the broad-shouldered Tovaritch.

“Da,” Tovaritch says. He takes the mug and drains it in a single draught. “Again?”

Hop is more than willing to oblige, filling another mug and offering it towards the young woman at the end of the table. The lady is lost in thought, staring into space with a look of surprise, so the mug is offered towards the hair wolf-man occupying the fourth chair.

“Not for me,” Grroulth says. He shifts his bulk in the chair, listening to it creak. Furred fingers clench the table in readiness, should the furniture break, but it manages to hold. Everyone smiles awkwardly at the sound, and does their best to pretend they aren’t worried about sharing their inheritance with a savage humanoid.

Hop shrugs, drains the mug himself and begins the process of refilling. The awkward silence returns.

“So…yer a gnoll?” Hop asks, trying again.
“Yes,” Grroulth says.
“I take ye aren’t one o’ them man-eating type, then?”
“Not recently,” Grroulth says. He lowers his snout a little, trying to avoid everyone’s eyes. “These days I’m a bounty hunter.”
“What made ye give it up?” Hop asks. “The man-eatin’, I mean.”
Grroulth shrugs.
“Sometimes you just have to do what’s right,” he says slowly. “I prefer not to talk about it.”

“You ask many questions,” Tovaritch says. His stern look suggests he is less eager to answer them than Grroulth is.
“Best way to get to know someone, ain’t it?” Hop says, smiling broadly. He looks to Evana for support, but the young sorceress is still looking at the room with wide eyes.

“Five thousand Royals,” She mutters, and it’s obvious she’s having trouble even comprehending the amount, much less entertaining thoughts that even a fraction of it could be hers.
“Da,” Tovaritch says. “According to small gnome person.
“One thousand, two hundred and fifty a piece,” Grroulth says. “Assuming an even split, and no-one else arrives.”
“Assumin’, of course, we can find a buyer,” Hop says cheerfully. “And assumin’ our little gnome ain’t to far gone with his estimates. It’s an old inn, rickety, but its got a fair supply o’ customers by what I seen when we passed through the taproom. An Ol’ Barrel may not have gone into the family business like the rest o’ us, but you can be sure he’s used the old skills when he was putting this place together. Even if he forgot half o’ what he knew, the brew would be better’n half the places in this part o’ the world.”
“You seem to know a lot about taverns,” Grroulth comments.
“Been inside a few, in me time,” Hop says. “I might have picked up a few o’ the basics. Mind if I have a look?”

He reaches for the small pile of parchment Gerbo left behind, the details of the will and all paperwork associated with its running. No one reaches to stop him.

“All ours,” Evana whispers again. “Five thousand.”
“Da,” Tovaritch repeats. “But be not to impressed. There is cold wind in room, bad draft. Not good build, I think.“
“We could pay for the repairs,” Hop says, nose buried in the papers.
“Is it worth it?” Evana asks. Her voice is whisper-soft, almost shy.
Hop looks up from the papers.
“Probably not,” he says. A frown creases his broad features. “Accordin’ to the papers, the place is worth five thousand royals even. Hasn’t made a profit in five years, hasn’t lost a cent.”
“That’s strange?”
“It might be a bit…unlikely,” Hop says. “Seems the place has been run by the one-eyed fella behind the Bar, and he’s been in charge o’ the records.”
“You suggesting One-eyed barman lie?” Toravitch asks.
“Not at all,” Hop says. “But he might be the man to ask about how it happened.”
“I not like One-eyed barman,” Toravitch says.
“He’s a might rude, to be sure,” Hop says. “But he could just be nervous – new management and all.”

Grroulth stretches his arms, yawning loudly, and everyone pretends not to notice the long tongue lolling from the side of his mouth as he does so.

“Whatever he’s done,” the gnoll announces. “He sets a fine table. I’ve not been so full for a year, at least.”

The gnoll yawns again, and the dangerous creak in his chair finally turns into a crack, sending the gnoll sprawling. Arms and legs lash out, knocking against the table and walls. A mug goes flying, but everyone’s attention is instantly glued to Grroulth’s furred fist as it smacks against the wall with a hollow THUNK.

“Sorry,” Grroulth says, pulling himself to his feet. “I’m not good with furniture.”

Without speaking, Tavoritch stands and raps a knuckle against a panel. The sound is solid, muted by the wall behind. As everyone else stands and draws closer, Tavoritch works his way along the wall until the hollow THUNK resonates once more.

“Other side is empty,” the blond warrior says. “Perhaps it be secret passage beyond, yes?”
“Don’t be daft,” Hop says. “Who ever heard o’ putting a secret passage in an inn?”
“No-one,” Evana suggests softly. “If we heard of it, they wouldn’t be secret passages.”

Hop blinks, unable to argue with the simple logic of that, so he joins Tavoritch by the wall. The brewers thick knuckles tap on the wood, finding a panel that slides aside to reveal a narrow corridor, placed between two walls. It’s dark, but Tavoritch quickly pulls a slender sunrod from his pack and lights it up.

“Anyone else for looking?” he asks.

I'm hooked. The Keep, and the Duchy. Excellent.

GW

I'm hooked too - I look forward to all of the future installments...

I like the intros - good snapshots of the characters...

Hop squints at the narrow passage, then looks at his own ample frame. Exploration will require a lot of tight squeezes and held breath.

“Best you be lookin’ first,” he suggests, ushering Tavoritch forward. “Let us know if there be much point in goin’ in. I ain’t crawling through that kind of dust if it’s just a wine-cellar.”

Grroulth voices his agreement with the plan, no doubt comparing his own height with the passages low ceiling, and Tavoritch disappears into the gloom with a shrug. He returns within a matter of seconds.

“Ladders,” he announces.
“You might want to be givin’ us a little more to go on than that,” Hop says.
“Ladders up and down.”
“Right.”

There is a pause while Hop looks at the dust coating Tavoritch’s broad shoulders.

“At least you’ll have cleared out all the cobwebs at chest height,” the brewer sights. “Anyone object to going up first?”

“As long as you’re last on the ladder,” Tavoritch says. He offers a smile as wide as Hop’s belly. “We are not wanting you to fall on us, yes?”

***

The ladder leading up deposits them in the Inn’s attic, a place filled to the brim with boxes, chests and the musty smell of long-forgotten belongings. Everyone is searching through the contents of the closest box when Hop eventually emerges, lungs working like a bellows. He narrowly ducks a pair of curved horns, carelessly tossed over Evanna’s shoulder.

“Watch where you be throwin’ that,” he says. He mops his face with a kerchief, then picks up the accidental projectiles.

“Minataur horns,” he says after a few moments.
“How would you know?” Evanna asks. She turns away from the box she’s searching, suddenly interested in what was previously discarded. “Couldn’t they just be bull horns?”
“My da told me how to tell the difference,” Hop says. “The curve of the horn is different – something to do with the way minataurs walk around and charge.”
“He’s right,” Grroulth says. “I’ve seen them back home, in the lands of the bull-heads.”

Evanna turns back to the box, then pulls free another pair of horns. These also curve, but their points are sharper and their appearance is strangely stunted despite their three-foot length.

“What about these?” she asks.
“Might be a boar,” Hop says. He scratches at one ear with a thick finger. “Bigger than most I’ve seen though.”
“Razor-boar,” Tavoritch says sagely. “Twice the height of a man, tusks long enough to gut a horse and kill a man.”

Everyone looks at him.

“We used to hunt them,” he says. “Back home.”
“Cheerful hobby,” Grroulth mutters. ”There’s a lot of this stuff here – trophies and such. Do we want to keep checking them or…”

“Down,” Hop says. “If we’re ownin’ everythin’, we’ll be havin’ more than enough time to searching this place.”

This time, the hulking brewer is the first to go down the ladder.

“What I don’t understand,” he says, his balding pate lowering itself into the darkness, “is why anyone would be buildin’ a secret passage into an attic…”

Grroulth held his breath as he stepped off the ladder, trying to avoid the heady smell of fermenting grape in the air. Tavoritch jostled against him, a sharp elbow rapping against the stiff leather of the gnolls. It was tight quarters in the small room, barely large enough for Grroulth to stand. The length meant that he was forced back into the alcove with the ladder, the rungs pressing against his shoulder blades. Evanna stood on the rungs above him, her knuckles white as she waited for enough room to descend.

"This is very strange, da?" Tovaritch said. His caloused hands ran over the curving wooden walls, trying to find some evidence of hidden catch. Grroulth didn't comment, simply squeezed himself to one side as the northerner moved past. Hop was muttering something from his position against the front wall, his belly pressed against the round wall.

"What?" Grroulth asked, gritting his teeth as another elbow caught him in the snout.

"We be inside a barrel," Hop said, his voice muffled by the press of bodies. "A fairly large one."

Grroulth heard Evanna moving nervously on the rungs above him, the ladder creaking as she shifted her weight.

"Then open it," she demanded. "I want to come down."

Hop said something in reply, but Grroulth couldn't make it out. Once the circular wall swung open and spilled them into a darkened cellar, he didn't much care either. The air was blessedly cool, although the scent of beer and wine was stronger now.

"Beer cellar," Hop said needlessly. He pointed at a row of giant barrels, all tall enough to hold a few good-sized men or a single Hop Barleyman. "Those brands are me families mark. Probably Barrel's work."

Evanna emerged behind them, stepping carefully out of the barrel used to disguise the secret door. She examined the opened doorway for a moment, taking note of its unusual thickness, then tested the spiggot with an experimental hand. Red fluid spilt against the flagstone floor.

"Disguised as a barrel," she pointed out. "And it actually works."

"That's probably Barrel's work too," Hop announced. "Always did wan't to do strange thin's to his barrel's, ol' Barrel did."

Everyone considers this for a moment, then wordlessly splits up to start searching the dozen other barrels in the cellar for secret passages behind them.

Grroulth finds one behind the third barrel he checks.

"Here," he announces. The others gather and look the barrel over - noting the lack of a space between the end of the barrel and the wall it rests against. The spiggot spews fresh ale when turned, but it does little to allay thier suspicions.

"I'm sure there's a door there," Grroulth says. "We just have to figure out how to open it."

"You use a key," a deep voice announces from the stairs. "And if ye were half the men your forebears were, you'd know enough to leave it alone."