Ice, Luck and Honour
Chapter One: Fateful Beginnings
Early Winter, Realms Date 1372
Thalin Vorspen pushed his way into the Glacier’s Reach. Strange eyes turned and watched him from the every corner of the tavern. A gust of icy wind ravaged the heavy leather curtains before Thalin heaved the door closed again. Ulutiuns, barbarians who live on the meagre benefits of the glacier, were crowded to each of the walls, and a pair of frostbitten half-orcs huddled next to a raging log fire. The bass rumbles of conversations died down for a moment as Thalin stepped across the floor and placed a hand of copper pieces onto the counter,
“A nights rest” coughed Thalin, not looking up.
The half-orc barkeep stared at the owl sitting motionless on Thalin’s shoulder for a moment, before sizing up the man who stood before him. He was a little taller than the average, though his frame was thin and wiry. A scraggly beard framed his youthful face. Thalin looked up from under his wolfskin hood just long enough to make eye contact with the barkeep. The money was taken and a rag of dirty leather with runes daubed on it in yellow paint was thrust into Thalin's palm. Scrunching the rag up in his hand, and not looking at the other tavern guests, he headed for the stairs.
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As Thalin disappeared up the stairs, an Ulutiun with a bronzed gorget stood up slowly, leaving his mug half full and made his way after the fledgling mage. But before the Ulutiun had a chance to follow him, two half orcs both dressed in Southern chainmail barred his way, their hands resting on their weapons. The Ulutiun growled something in Glacier-tongue before backing down.
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The night went uneventfully thanks to the vigilance of the two half-orcs and Thalin rose early the next morning to the sounds of wagons and horses. After a cruel breakfast Thalin decided to find a safe passage southwards. He didn't want to spend any more time than he needed to in Palishuk. The town was the primary trading post between the half-orc traders of Vaasa and the Ulutiuns, yet despite its position of power, the town had never expanded beyond its fifteen houses and large market square.
Wagons were herded like horses in the frozen square as half-orcs and Ulutiuns noisily packed their trade goods into the different areas of the cargo train. Negotiating a quick trade with a half-orc wagon master, Thalin ensured himself a place on the wagon train South. As the preparations for the days long journey began, the appearance of humanoids other than half-orcs and Ulutiuns spurred Thalin to attempt conversation. The harsh weather matched the harsh temperaments and nothing was said of any use.
Thalin threw his travel pack onto the fourth cargo wagon, but a scuttle of noise ensued and it was immediately thrown back out as an Ulutiun stepped forwards, towering over Thalin. Dariel beats his wings and dug his talons into Thalin’s shoulder, but the young mage quickly made his apologies and carefully checks the fifth carriage was empty before jumping in. After a few delays, the wagon train left.
An hour later, Thalin was buried deep in his spellbook. His studies had hit almost a standstill. The incantations and musings of the Arch-mage Mellius were thrown together seemingly randomly; deciphering a sentence was a weeks work, let alone a complete verse. Thalin placed the book down, closing it firmly. The steady rocking of the wagon train and the monotony of the terrain outside soon found the better of Thalin, and he fell asleep.
A jarring halt slid Thalin forwards, ripping him out of his sleep. Thalin instinctively called in his mind to Dariel, but he was gliding nearly a mile ahead of the wagon train, searching for tundra-mice. Thalin’s spellbook spilt across the wooden floor, as it did so, a rat nimbly stepped out of the way, then turned and sat up on its haunches, watching Thalin with little onyx eyes. Slowly crawling to retrieve his spellbook, Thalin picked up scattered parchments as he went and moved determinedly towards the crouched rat. But the rat did not move, even as Thalin waved a menacing hand at it.
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A man sat huddled in the corner of an otherwise empty carriage, around him a tattered brown cloak was drawn tight. He sat crosslegged, a pole shaped bundle of rags balancing delicately on his knees. Blood was dripping from a deep gash in his side. At his feet sat nearly a dozen rats; all lay attentive to their master in a crude semi-circle. The figures eyes glinted open in the darkness of his hood as the carriage lurched to a stop. He looked intensely forwards for a moment, as if searching his mind for something, someone. A shout from outside broke the man’s concentration and he suddenly winced in pain and clutched his side.
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A faint shout from outside drew Thalin’s attention. The rat suddenly set down onto all fours and almost fell over, turning quickly as if trying to scratch its side with its teeth. After failing in this, it scuttled to the crack in the carriage door and leapt out. Thalin, wondering what the hell all that was about, gathered his possessions and made to open the carriage door. Before he could, a gauntleted hand reached through the gap and thrust the heavy door sideways with considerable ease. A half-orc dressed in platemail and hefting a greatsword over his shoulder stood silhouetted in the doorway. A light snow had fallen outside and the reflection glared over the half-orcs face and armour.
“You there. Ice mage. Your help is needed”, growled the half-orc in surprisingly well-spoken common.
As Thalin went to answer, the carriage jolted into momentum again. A chorus of shouts came from outside accompanied by the sounds of carriage doors being opened and closed. The half-orc dropped away from the door without another word. Thalin considered the consequences of trusting a half-orc’s word, but his curiosity overrode his commonsense. A sudden, high pitched scream from outside pierced his thoughts. Without another moments consideration, Thalin drew his father's scimitar Shard and leapt out of the door and into the snow.
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Milo Whittersbane vaulted the last collapsed wall and burst through the mine entrance and into the sunlight. Milo stumbles onto the loose stone slope of the Talagbar mines, his legs go from beneath him, crashing him onto his stomach. His weasel companion, Isplit, catapults through the air, screaming in unison with Milo. The ghost behind them, emiting a hoarse scream, fails to stop and falls into the sunlight, its form dissolving to dust in a whispering sigh. The remnants of the ghost blow over Milo’s face as he props himself up on his elbows, the swift winds of Vaasa tugging at his clothes as he regains his breath.
Milo lets out a relieved whoop and looks again at the gem sitting on the ground next to him. Isplit’s head emerges from underneath Milo’s leg then scurries onto his arm and begins to touch the gem with his front paws, licking it once to make sure its real. Behind them the ghosts stand silent in the darkness of the tunnel, the dead fires of their eyes following Milo and Isplit as they pick themselves up, grinned back at the undead, then walk off down the slope chatting excitedly to each other, Milo’s small hands clutching the Keystone of the Talagbar mines.
“We did it!” shouts Milo, punching the air, thoughts filled with expectation of what Noristour would give him for it. A light snow had fallen since Milo had entered the recently thawed-out mines and the grand expanse of the Vaasa plains lay below him, an even white spread covering everything he could see. Isplit gazes intently into the gem, his eyes wide with delight at the sheer size of the prize.
“How much will it be?” chimes Isplit, although not daring to look away from the gem.
“I’m not sure. Maybe enough to help mother.” Milo says with a frown, his young halfling face suddenly falling at the thoughts of his mother.
Isplit, feeling Milo’s fall of heart, suddenly taps the gem with a claw, “There’s a little axe inside, I can see it!” his voice squeaking with the chance to prove something to his companion.
“I know,” Milo answers quickly, his mind taken away from his mother momentarily, “Its actually a hammer, although I don’t know why its there. Maybe Noristour does.”
The thoughts of payment and gems the size of kobolds heads suddenly shrink away as a distant scream peels up from the plains below. Milo stops for a moment and pulls himself onto the top of a large boulder. Even before reaching the top, a thick curl of smoke dirties the white landscape, its tail leading to a small patch of trees where the base of the mountain meets the plains. A few hundred meters from the smoke, the thin line of a cargo train inches slowly southwards. Milo places his thumb over the figures milling around the wagons and pretends to squash a horse before another scream shakes him to the present.
“We should go down there,” Isplit looks concernedly at Milo
“Yeah, I guess so. Maybe someone is in trouble.” Answers Milo, craning to see a clearer view of the smoke.
“No. I mean maybe we can jump on the wagons, that way we don’t have to walk.”
Milo gives Isplit a stern look before sliding down the front of the boulder and bounding towards the smoke, but not before safely ensuring the gem is tucked tightly into the side pocket of his pack.
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Thalin tries again to force himself towards the flames, but the blazing roof once again pushes him back. He looks desperately around for something to quell the blaze.
“Circle round the back and find a way in!” Bellows the half-orc in the platemail, his right hand clutching his holy symbol of Torm for guidance.
The woman screams again, she stands sobbing at Thalin’s side. She reaches a hand towards the burning house and screams once more.
A companion to the platemail half-orc turns sharply, “Shut that blasted woman up! Tell her we’ll get her damn child. Kossuth won’t claim this life.”
He is dressed in chainmail and wears a heavy steel helmet on his head. The halberd at his side is adorned with ropes of animal teeth and tattered remains of a Drow scalp. Thalin turns to the woman and holds her by the shoulders, but she shouts at him in a travelers tongue and pushes him away.
The platemail half-orc bellows another order to the chainmail half-orc in Damaran. His change of language has a recognized effect on the warrior and he roars a battle cry and charges into the burning house, brushing aside a burning timber as if it were not even there. As he disappears into the flames, a small figure skids into the clearing around the house and immediately shouts out,
“What can I do?”
“Stay away! The house might collapse at any moment. We can’t risk any more lives!” barks the platemail half-orc, almost ignoring the halfling frame of Milo Whittersbane.
Milo dashes forwards suddenly and shrugging his traveling pack to the floor, scoops up some snow and hurls it at a window ledge almost entirely caught up in fire. The flames die for a second but leap back within an instant. The halfling doesn’t stop, and packing another snowball, hurls a second with the same effect. Beside him, Isplit begins to pack his own snowballs and hurl them, although with decidedly less effect.
Thalin watches the rescue effort around him, the roar of the chainmail half-orc follows the thunderous snapping of a beam inside the house, and the woman screams again and suddenly, despairingly, sprints for the burning door. Thalin surges forwards, now knowing what he can, and must, do. He catches up to the woman quickly and gripping her by the shoulder, spins her round. As he does so arcane words spill forth and the air around the woman’s head suddenly flashes and pulses with a cold light. She drops to her knees, clutching her head as if dazed.
Another snowball hits the windowsill and Milo screams in fury, but this time the snowball sticks as Thalin steps towards the window and extends his hands in another arcane gesture. His cloak billows forwards and a fine spray of ice coats the windowsill in a glistening frost. Thalin turns and shouts at Milo over the roar of the flames.
The platemail half-orc, seeing Thalin freeze up the window bellows a command at Milo. Looking up, Milo lets the half finished snowball drop from his hands and dashes forwards. His sleek body crouches low and in one graceful arc leaps through the frozen window and into the burning building. Isplit goes to follow, but thinks better of it, and starts to construct the beginning of a snow weasel.
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Milo lands and slides to a stop, the ceiling above him is aflame and all around the heat beats down with unrelenting ferocity. Wincing through the smoke and heat, Milo pushes on through a burning doorway into the central room of the house.
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Isplit suddenly coughs and rolls onto his side. He squeals and arches his back in pain, as if he himself were burning.
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Milo coughs violently again, the room is black with smoke and feeling with his hands, touches a body on the floor. The huge from of the half-orc is pinned under a fallen beam but in his hands he holds a small baby girl, grimacing in pain, he offers the baby girl to Milo.
“Take her. Get her out. Just leave me here”
“Oh no you don’t, you’re both coming with me” wheezes Milo. With an quick swirl of his arms, the halfling conjures a small luminescent green ball in mid-air, which hovers for a moment then zips towards the beam pinning the orc. With a splintering crash, the timber snaps in half, leaving the half-orc free. Milo pulls the half-orc to his feet and pushes him back towards the window, the baby girl in the half-orcs arms clutching to his breastplate. With another hand movement, a second green orb hovers in the center of the room before zipping towards the wall directly under the window.
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Thalin ducks instinctively as the green orb explodes through the wall with a hiss and dissolves into nothingness, moments later the half-orc stumbles out with the girl in his arms. A sudden cascade of fire falls from the ceiling of the building, threatening to close off the blasted wall. But Milo slides underneath the falling ceiling moments before it crashes to the ground. Scampering to a safe distance before standing upright, the halfling beams proudly as the baby girl is delivered safely back to her mother.
Seconds later, the house collapses entirely in a shower of sparks. Thalin looks in amazement from the flaming ruins back to the mother then to the half-orc and finally to Milo. The chainmail half-orc drops to his knees, wheezing heavily. The platemail half-orc looks at Thalin and Milo and nods, acknowledging their help before turning back to his companion.
“Will he be okay?” asks Thalin as the half-orc removes his friend’s helmet to check his wounds.
“He should live.”
A black-feathered bolt shatters through the back of the wounded half-orcs head, instantly killing him. The platemail half-orc looks in disbelief for a moment before three crude arrows zip from the shadowy woods, lodging themselves into his breastplate. The half-orc lumbers to his feet, but only in time to receive a single black-feathered bolt through the neck. He gargles something, spinning slowly around to look at Thalin and Milo before dropping face down into the snow. Another hail of arrows shower into the mother and daughter, their entwined bodies collapse to the ground in silence.
The remaining half-orcs turn and flee back towards the cargo train as a tide of dark green skinned humanoids pour from the woods towards Milo and Thalin, their snarling faces gleeful in the shifting reds and yellows of the burning building…
To be continued in…
Ice, Luck and Honour
Chapter 2: Three’s Company
As Milo and Thalin race away from the goblin raid, they take shelter in a city under the command of a tyrannical mage, where they join forces with a mysterious man claiming to be a descendant of the gods and attempt to uncover the truth behind the goblin raids.
