Black Bard
First Post
It can be worse...
Bally could be family...
Poor uncle Cal...
Bally could be family...
Poor uncle Cal...
Shackled City Epic: "Vengeance" (story concluded)
- Thread starter Lazybones
- Start date
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 146
The mood was somber among the small company as the sun rose over the eastern mountains to illuminate the narrow track that they pursued southward from Cauldron. Already the city was only visible as a black line behind them that formed a smooth contrast to the rough edges of the surrounding peaks. The morning was cold, but not bracingly so, and as the sun warmed the trail cloaks were opened and the heavier coats worn by some of the company were shorn. The trail formed a winding line that descended from the volcanic peak upon which Cauldron was perched, down into a maze of smaller peaks, ravines, and valleys that undulated in a rocky wave that continued until one reached the shores of the Shining Sea. They knew that in one of those valleys, perched along the shore of the Red River, they would find their current destination, the village of Redgorge.
The only sound was the jingle of harness and the occasional snort from one of the sure-footed mountain horses that had been provided them with the aid of the connections of the church of Helm. None of them felt much like conversation. The two dwarves wore grimly serious looks and rode at the head of their small column. Mole, who’d barely spoken since their departure, looked dejected, her usual irrepressible demeanor weighed down by the memory of what had happened the previous night. Zenna would have normally spoken to her friend, but the tiefling was distracted by her own concerns, and had sunk into a depression marked by cold indifference to anything but immediate practicalities.
This indifference certainly extended to their newest member, who rose alone at the rear of the column. Morgan Ahlendraal cut an imposing figure atop his charger, of six feet and twelve stone, the latter of which was more muscle than idle bulk. His features were still youthful and angular, with a shock of orderly black hair and a carefully trimmed beard contained to his strong jaw. He might have been considered attractive, but for a certain coldness in his eyes, and the way that his lips pursed in a reflexive expression of contempt whenever he saw something that did not meet his approval. It seemed that few things failed to fall into that category.
Zenna had spared the man little attention when he had arrived at the Morkoth that morning to greet them, as punctual as she had expected, with every detail of his person in perfect order despite the early armor. At least he looked competent, with a carefully polished suit of plate armor, a large steel shield emblazoned with the sigil of his faith, and a large sword slung across his back. He looked more like the classic image of the crusading knight than a typical cleric, but Zenna knew that the former were common in the ranks of the clergy of the god whose followers stylized him The Watcher.
Morgan had said little to them, though his demeanor made it quite clear that his acceptance of Jenya’s mission to join them in search of Alec Tercival was not a course of action that he embarked upon out of choice.
Zenna bristled at the man, and his distate for her was obvious, but at the moment she could not work up the motivation to care. Inside she felt a gaping emptiness that seemed to threaten to swallow her up, and she fought it by retreating into the shell of self-discipline and self-denial that she’d crafted for herself in the years growing up in a world where she perceived herself to be alone. There, in the shroud of emotional nullity forged in her mind, she felt safe. There, the pain could not reach her.
Only now, it wasn’t working very well.
She was drawn back into the moment by the sound of conversation ahead of her. Looking up, she saw that the dwarves had called a halt. Kicking her mount forward, she edged her way up along the trail to join them, Mole and Morgan following belatedly behind.
Up ahead was a bend in the trail, where the treacherous path they’d been following downward for the last hour widened slightly as it curved back around to another long descent. The elbow was in the lee of a steep slope that was nearly a cliff, rising some eighty feet above. Several huge boulders had fallen from that rise over time, and the space showed signs of having served in the past as a campsite, despite the hazard of future deposits from above.
When Zenna saw the reason for their pause, her mouth tightened, and she offered a scowl that was a fair imitation of Morgan’s.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the edge out of her voice.
Dannel rode the same dun-colored mare on which they’d encountered him in another roadside meeting a few months before. That time they’d been hurrying to the Lucky Monkey to find Sarcem Delasharn, and they’d found only death.
Before the elf could respond, Zenna had already continued, “I thought I made it clear... before...”
The elf’s expression betrayed nothing. “I am still a member of this company,” he said. “Whatever your sentiment toward me, Zenna, I have still fought and sacrificed with all of you, and will continue to do so until the whole decides otherwise.”
Zenna glared at him.
“I have not been idle,” the elf went on, ignoring her hard look. “I have uncovered information that may be of use in tracking down the whereabouts of Alec Tercival.”
“How do you know about our mission?” Zenna asked. “Been spying again, have you?”
He ignored the vehemence in her words, and looked to the others. “What say you?” he asked. “Is my company still valued among you?”
Arun glanced at Zenna, who looked about to explode with fury. But the dwarf only said, “You have been a true ally, and I will not stand in your way.”
Hodge added, “Aye, yer prancin’ about be a bit annoyin’, but yer a decen’ shot with that bow, and yer don’t run away when things turn ugly.”
The elf looked to Mole, and in his eyes she saw empathy, and understanding. “And you, Mole?”
The gnome nodded, a thin tear descending down her cheek. “Of course you’re still one of us, Dannel,” she said.
The elf nodded. “I do not know you, cleric,” he said, with a nod toward Morgan.
The priest looked at Zenna. “The half-demon doesn’t care for your company, elf,” he said. “That alone is enough reason to vote for your presence.”
Dannel’s jaw tightened, and Zenna flinched as if struck, but neither said anything. Dannel twitched his reins, and moved his mount closer to Zenna’s as if to say something to her, but she angrily kicked her animal forward along the trail.
“Let’s be on our way, then,” she said, anger burning in her voice. “I want to reach this damned village before nightfall.”
She cantered ahead at a pace that was nearly reckless, and the others had no choice but to follow.
The mood was somber among the small company as the sun rose over the eastern mountains to illuminate the narrow track that they pursued southward from Cauldron. Already the city was only visible as a black line behind them that formed a smooth contrast to the rough edges of the surrounding peaks. The morning was cold, but not bracingly so, and as the sun warmed the trail cloaks were opened and the heavier coats worn by some of the company were shorn. The trail formed a winding line that descended from the volcanic peak upon which Cauldron was perched, down into a maze of smaller peaks, ravines, and valleys that undulated in a rocky wave that continued until one reached the shores of the Shining Sea. They knew that in one of those valleys, perched along the shore of the Red River, they would find their current destination, the village of Redgorge.
The only sound was the jingle of harness and the occasional snort from one of the sure-footed mountain horses that had been provided them with the aid of the connections of the church of Helm. None of them felt much like conversation. The two dwarves wore grimly serious looks and rode at the head of their small column. Mole, who’d barely spoken since their departure, looked dejected, her usual irrepressible demeanor weighed down by the memory of what had happened the previous night. Zenna would have normally spoken to her friend, but the tiefling was distracted by her own concerns, and had sunk into a depression marked by cold indifference to anything but immediate practicalities.
This indifference certainly extended to their newest member, who rose alone at the rear of the column. Morgan Ahlendraal cut an imposing figure atop his charger, of six feet and twelve stone, the latter of which was more muscle than idle bulk. His features were still youthful and angular, with a shock of orderly black hair and a carefully trimmed beard contained to his strong jaw. He might have been considered attractive, but for a certain coldness in his eyes, and the way that his lips pursed in a reflexive expression of contempt whenever he saw something that did not meet his approval. It seemed that few things failed to fall into that category.
Zenna had spared the man little attention when he had arrived at the Morkoth that morning to greet them, as punctual as she had expected, with every detail of his person in perfect order despite the early armor. At least he looked competent, with a carefully polished suit of plate armor, a large steel shield emblazoned with the sigil of his faith, and a large sword slung across his back. He looked more like the classic image of the crusading knight than a typical cleric, but Zenna knew that the former were common in the ranks of the clergy of the god whose followers stylized him The Watcher.
Morgan had said little to them, though his demeanor made it quite clear that his acceptance of Jenya’s mission to join them in search of Alec Tercival was not a course of action that he embarked upon out of choice.
Zenna bristled at the man, and his distate for her was obvious, but at the moment she could not work up the motivation to care. Inside she felt a gaping emptiness that seemed to threaten to swallow her up, and she fought it by retreating into the shell of self-discipline and self-denial that she’d crafted for herself in the years growing up in a world where she perceived herself to be alone. There, in the shroud of emotional nullity forged in her mind, she felt safe. There, the pain could not reach her.
Only now, it wasn’t working very well.
She was drawn back into the moment by the sound of conversation ahead of her. Looking up, she saw that the dwarves had called a halt. Kicking her mount forward, she edged her way up along the trail to join them, Mole and Morgan following belatedly behind.
Up ahead was a bend in the trail, where the treacherous path they’d been following downward for the last hour widened slightly as it curved back around to another long descent. The elbow was in the lee of a steep slope that was nearly a cliff, rising some eighty feet above. Several huge boulders had fallen from that rise over time, and the space showed signs of having served in the past as a campsite, despite the hazard of future deposits from above.
When Zenna saw the reason for their pause, her mouth tightened, and she offered a scowl that was a fair imitation of Morgan’s.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, trying unsuccessfully to keep the edge out of her voice.
Dannel rode the same dun-colored mare on which they’d encountered him in another roadside meeting a few months before. That time they’d been hurrying to the Lucky Monkey to find Sarcem Delasharn, and they’d found only death.
Before the elf could respond, Zenna had already continued, “I thought I made it clear... before...”
The elf’s expression betrayed nothing. “I am still a member of this company,” he said. “Whatever your sentiment toward me, Zenna, I have still fought and sacrificed with all of you, and will continue to do so until the whole decides otherwise.”
Zenna glared at him.
“I have not been idle,” the elf went on, ignoring her hard look. “I have uncovered information that may be of use in tracking down the whereabouts of Alec Tercival.”
“How do you know about our mission?” Zenna asked. “Been spying again, have you?”
He ignored the vehemence in her words, and looked to the others. “What say you?” he asked. “Is my company still valued among you?”
Arun glanced at Zenna, who looked about to explode with fury. But the dwarf only said, “You have been a true ally, and I will not stand in your way.”
Hodge added, “Aye, yer prancin’ about be a bit annoyin’, but yer a decen’ shot with that bow, and yer don’t run away when things turn ugly.”
The elf looked to Mole, and in his eyes she saw empathy, and understanding. “And you, Mole?”
The gnome nodded, a thin tear descending down her cheek. “Of course you’re still one of us, Dannel,” she said.
The elf nodded. “I do not know you, cleric,” he said, with a nod toward Morgan.
The priest looked at Zenna. “The half-demon doesn’t care for your company, elf,” he said. “That alone is enough reason to vote for your presence.”
Dannel’s jaw tightened, and Zenna flinched as if struck, but neither said anything. Dannel twitched his reins, and moved his mount closer to Zenna’s as if to say something to her, but she angrily kicked her animal forward along the trail.
“Let’s be on our way, then,” she said, anger burning in her voice. “I want to reach this damned village before nightfall.”
She cantered ahead at a pace that was nearly reckless, and the others had no choice but to follow.
Dwarf_Paladin
First Post
The only question is, how will our new red shirt meet his gruesome end 
My money is falling off his high horse and smashing his noble head open![:]](http://www.enworld.org/forum/images/smilies/devious.png "Devious :]")
My money is falling off his high horse and smashing his noble head open
Lazybones said:
Dungannon said:Ahh, Morgan is truly gonna be an "ally" worthy of scorn & dislike.
Ironically, that quote alone makes me hope he survives. It's Zenna that needs knocking down a peg or two. Between Dannel and our new half-orcish friend, maybe she'll come to her senses.
And hopefully Mole will cheer up as well... what a nasty thing to have on your conscience!
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 147
The village of Redgorge was situated at a bend in the Red River where it descended from the lower reaches of the Alomir Mountains before turning over a series of cataracts and resuming its course to the Shining Sea. The place had an aura of ancient glory about it, primarily evidenced in the massive walls of shining black basalt that rose nearly as high as those that guarded its larger neighbor, Cauldron. From the high trail that led down out of the mountains, travelers could see the several dozen stone structures huddled securely within those walls, as well as the massive cliffs on the eastern side of the village, across the river, where red clay had been quarried and shipped down the river to the sea for centuries since the village’s initial founding.
But it quickly became clear that Redgorge was well past its days of glory. For one thing, the mighty walls that shielded it were in a state of advanced decay, with several breaches around the perimeter, including a twenty-foot gap through which a new road had been blazoned. And many of the structures inside the walls mirrored that decrepitude, with several of them overgrown with vegetation and otherwise showing signs of long abandonment.
The small company from Cauldron approached the village warily, but nothing stirred to threaten them as they approached the village. The walls loomed over them like sentinels as they drew near, but there were no sentries or other guardians that they could detect. With night approaching, the black bastions took on a menacing tone as they approached the nearest open breach in the walls.
The village itself was quiet, although not utterly deserted; a number of people were visible in the streets, going about their business as they wrapped up their activities for the day. A number of curious looks were fired in their direction, but no one moved to hinder them, and they were able to quickly get directions to The Redheaded Miner. The inn was difficult to miss, in fact, a sprawling structure that was mostly stone, with an added wing of wooden construction on the west face a sign of relative prosperity. A stableboy clad in a simple tunic of brown homespun came out to claim their horses, and after a few adjustments to their gear—keeping weapons and spell components close at hand had become an instinct, by now—they went inside.
The common room of the inn appeared to take up the entire front space of the structure, and the bustle within contrasted with the quiet outside. It seemed as though the people of Redgorge preferred to end their days early, and as they watched a veritable mountain of a man behind the bar, his long reddish hair tied back into two ponytails, laid out a spread of various snacks in deep wooden bowls upon the bar.
“Arr now, ‘elp yerselves, nobody’ll go hungry while Mikimax runs this place!”
A dozen villagers gathered quickly about the bar, and the boisterous innkeeper was soon put to work filling a number of drink orders. Hodge had reflexively started in that direction, but Zenna held him up with a hand on his shoulder.
“Remember why we’re here,” she said.
“Aye,” the dwarf replied, “But me belly’s so empty it be scrapin’ me spine, and it’ll harm our quest not to have it filled!”
“Let him go,” Dannel said. “We’re all tired and hungry, and we’ll be better able to deal with the Chisel rested and fed.” The elf kept his voice low, and as he spoke he unslung his bow and removed his pack and cloak, hanging the latter two objects on one of the dozen or so hooks that stood beside the door before heading into the room after Hodge. The others, after attending to their own gear, followed him.
Zenna turned and strode angrily into a less-densely occupied part of the common area to their right, away from the centrally-located bar. How had everything gotten so out of control? Here they were on yet another mission with little in the way of direction or purpose, blundering from one danger into another. With her lover—ex-lover, she corrected herself sternly—as well as a man who openly despised her, a holy crusader whose idea of “tactics” was to yell loudly and charge, a man for whom “bathing” was an abstract concept, and finally a gnome who would no doubt stick her head into a dragon’s mouth if she thought that there was something interesting to see inside.
At the last thought, Zenna couldn’t help but smile, and she allowed herself to let the rancor go, and turned from her feelings to focus on their current predicament.
She became aware of a man sitting in the shadows on the far side of the fireplace, clad in a cloak of finely-tailored wool that looked rather expensively cut. He was still in that nebulous boundary-zone between youth and middle age, and there was a bit of a rakish look to him, with a black beard trimmed short and moderately long hair drawn back into a tail at his back. His profession became evident as he shifted to reveal a small hand-harp held against the side of his body, and he played a soft melody upon it that filled the space between them, but did little to counter the din coming from the crowd at the busy bar on the far side of the room.
Zenna felt a pang as the music reminded her of Dannel, but she squashed it with an angry thought. He finished his peace, and looked up at her, as if expecting comment. “You play well,” she told him.
“I am gratified, lady,” he said with a nod. “When first you entered, before you smiled, I sensed a storm descending upon me, and I thought perhaps I’d somehow unknowingly acquired another critic. I am pleased to see that I am mistaken.”
“You’re rather forthright in speaking to a stranger,” she said, slightly annoyed.
The man smiled, and offered another nod that drew a frown from the tiefling, uncertain if its tenor was slightly mocking. “That is why they call me the Honest Minstrel, lady,” he said.
Zenna started to turn, but there was something in the man’s look that held her there. He shot a glance at the bar, where Zenna’s companions had joined the crowd in securing food and drink. Zenna saw that Mole, despite being smaller than anyone else in the place, had somehow managed to liberate a pair of mugs and a plate of sweetloaves that she balanced in the crook of her elbow as she made her way toward her.
The bard strummed an idle tune on his instrument as Zenna turned back to face him. “Tell me,” he said, “What can bind with water, sand, and lime?”
Zenna’s ambivalence evaporated as she immediately made a connection. Serious now, she stepped forward. “Mortar,” she said.
The village of Redgorge was situated at a bend in the Red River where it descended from the lower reaches of the Alomir Mountains before turning over a series of cataracts and resuming its course to the Shining Sea. The place had an aura of ancient glory about it, primarily evidenced in the massive walls of shining black basalt that rose nearly as high as those that guarded its larger neighbor, Cauldron. From the high trail that led down out of the mountains, travelers could see the several dozen stone structures huddled securely within those walls, as well as the massive cliffs on the eastern side of the village, across the river, where red clay had been quarried and shipped down the river to the sea for centuries since the village’s initial founding.
But it quickly became clear that Redgorge was well past its days of glory. For one thing, the mighty walls that shielded it were in a state of advanced decay, with several breaches around the perimeter, including a twenty-foot gap through which a new road had been blazoned. And many of the structures inside the walls mirrored that decrepitude, with several of them overgrown with vegetation and otherwise showing signs of long abandonment.
The small company from Cauldron approached the village warily, but nothing stirred to threaten them as they approached the village. The walls loomed over them like sentinels as they drew near, but there were no sentries or other guardians that they could detect. With night approaching, the black bastions took on a menacing tone as they approached the nearest open breach in the walls.
The village itself was quiet, although not utterly deserted; a number of people were visible in the streets, going about their business as they wrapped up their activities for the day. A number of curious looks were fired in their direction, but no one moved to hinder them, and they were able to quickly get directions to The Redheaded Miner. The inn was difficult to miss, in fact, a sprawling structure that was mostly stone, with an added wing of wooden construction on the west face a sign of relative prosperity. A stableboy clad in a simple tunic of brown homespun came out to claim their horses, and after a few adjustments to their gear—keeping weapons and spell components close at hand had become an instinct, by now—they went inside.
The common room of the inn appeared to take up the entire front space of the structure, and the bustle within contrasted with the quiet outside. It seemed as though the people of Redgorge preferred to end their days early, and as they watched a veritable mountain of a man behind the bar, his long reddish hair tied back into two ponytails, laid out a spread of various snacks in deep wooden bowls upon the bar.
“Arr now, ‘elp yerselves, nobody’ll go hungry while Mikimax runs this place!”
A dozen villagers gathered quickly about the bar, and the boisterous innkeeper was soon put to work filling a number of drink orders. Hodge had reflexively started in that direction, but Zenna held him up with a hand on his shoulder.
“Remember why we’re here,” she said.
“Aye,” the dwarf replied, “But me belly’s so empty it be scrapin’ me spine, and it’ll harm our quest not to have it filled!”
“Let him go,” Dannel said. “We’re all tired and hungry, and we’ll be better able to deal with the Chisel rested and fed.” The elf kept his voice low, and as he spoke he unslung his bow and removed his pack and cloak, hanging the latter two objects on one of the dozen or so hooks that stood beside the door before heading into the room after Hodge. The others, after attending to their own gear, followed him.
Zenna turned and strode angrily into a less-densely occupied part of the common area to their right, away from the centrally-located bar. How had everything gotten so out of control? Here they were on yet another mission with little in the way of direction or purpose, blundering from one danger into another. With her lover—ex-lover, she corrected herself sternly—as well as a man who openly despised her, a holy crusader whose idea of “tactics” was to yell loudly and charge, a man for whom “bathing” was an abstract concept, and finally a gnome who would no doubt stick her head into a dragon’s mouth if she thought that there was something interesting to see inside.
At the last thought, Zenna couldn’t help but smile, and she allowed herself to let the rancor go, and turned from her feelings to focus on their current predicament.
She became aware of a man sitting in the shadows on the far side of the fireplace, clad in a cloak of finely-tailored wool that looked rather expensively cut. He was still in that nebulous boundary-zone between youth and middle age, and there was a bit of a rakish look to him, with a black beard trimmed short and moderately long hair drawn back into a tail at his back. His profession became evident as he shifted to reveal a small hand-harp held against the side of his body, and he played a soft melody upon it that filled the space between them, but did little to counter the din coming from the crowd at the busy bar on the far side of the room.
Zenna felt a pang as the music reminded her of Dannel, but she squashed it with an angry thought. He finished his peace, and looked up at her, as if expecting comment. “You play well,” she told him.
“I am gratified, lady,” he said with a nod. “When first you entered, before you smiled, I sensed a storm descending upon me, and I thought perhaps I’d somehow unknowingly acquired another critic. I am pleased to see that I am mistaken.”
“You’re rather forthright in speaking to a stranger,” she said, slightly annoyed.
The man smiled, and offered another nod that drew a frown from the tiefling, uncertain if its tenor was slightly mocking. “That is why they call me the Honest Minstrel, lady,” he said.
Zenna started to turn, but there was something in the man’s look that held her there. He shot a glance at the bar, where Zenna’s companions had joined the crowd in securing food and drink. Zenna saw that Mole, despite being smaller than anyone else in the place, had somehow managed to liberate a pair of mugs and a plate of sweetloaves that she balanced in the crook of her elbow as she made her way toward her.
The bard strummed an idle tune on his instrument as Zenna turned back to face him. “Tell me,” he said, “What can bind with water, sand, and lime?”
Zenna’s ambivalence evaporated as she immediately made a connection. Serious now, she stepped forward. “Mortar,” she said.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Chapter 148
The man who called himself “the Honest Minstrel” led the companions down a dusty staircase that descended off a narrow side-corridor adjacent to the inn’s kitchens, down to a door of solid-looking oak heavily banded with iron. The noise from the common room, not more than twenty paces distant, was almost completely muted, and as they descended the only other sound was the sound of Hodge finishing the last of the sausage links he’d purloined from Mikimax’s spread. The last of the fat links vanished into the dwarf’s beard with a thick slurp. Zenna turned and shot him a hard look, but the dwarf merely shrugged and belched loudly.
The door opened to reveal a spacious subterranean chamber, with a look more suited to a lord’s hall than an inn cellar. Great pillars of smooth stone supported the weight of the inn above, and between those bastions was an open space dominated by a great ovoid table around which a dozen high-backed chairs were situated. Seated at one of those chairs was a man, clad in a workingman’s tunic of clean linen reinforced with leather patches. He was older than any of them, perhaps fifty, through he still had an air of vitality about him, and his muscled hands seemed as though they needed only tools in them to make them complete. He looked up and smiled at them as they entered, although there was something in his eyes, hooded.
“Good evening,” he said to them. “I am Oliron Masht, known in this body as the Foreman. Please come in, make yourselves comfortable; we will begin once the others arrive.”
“What of Alec Tercival? And the merchant, Maavu?” Arun asked.
“All of your questions will be answered as best we are able,” Masht said. “It will not be long now.”
The Honest Minstrel crossed the room and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter on a sideboard butted up against the far wall of the chamber. He did not offer any such hospitality to the others, and when he returned to the table to speak to the Foreman, his soft tone and body language indicated that the conversation was not open to outside participants. An awkward silence resulted at the far end of the table, where the companions gathered. Mole, typically the catalyst for chatter, was still feeling out of sorts, and Zenna almost laughed at the various scowls on the faces of the men.
What keeps us together? she thought. Unable to simply sit still and wait, she turned and walked toward the one of the side walls that looked interesting. Although the lighting was poor, with her darkvision she could clearly discern the artistic displays that had been carved into the wall in relief. Upon closer examination she could see the quality of the work, depicting a series of scenes in sequence across the wall from left to right. A tall, robed figure, carved in profile with a noble cast to his features was prominently featured in most of them. A wizard, Zenna thought, examining one scene where the man was depicted raising the massive walls that shielded Redgorge. In other scenes, the figure was shown with a winged woman who was offering him a quarterstaff wreathed in symbolic flames; defending the city against a horde of terrible, monstrous creatures; now holding the staff boldly as he faced a huge dog-headed, four-armed demon; and finally vanishing into a mountain that hovered protectively over the town below.
“Surabar Spellmason,” a voice said, interrupting her contemplation of the artwork and drawing her attention back to the table. It was Masht who had spoken, his eyes aglow with an inner fire as he regarded her. Belatedly she realized that the far door had opened, and that two newcomers had joined the company; Mikimax the innkeep and a familiar face: Maavu. Of Alec Tercival, there was no sign. “The founder of our order,” Masht went on, “who dedicated the Chisel to working for the greater Good of the region.” The way he said it, there was no mistaking the capital; the word clearly had a greater meaning to the man.
And to his listeners. Maavu looked chagrined for a moment, an expression that he quickly mastered before heading forward toward the table, while Mikimax nodded solemnly, as if acknowledging a blessing.
Maavu pulled out a chair and seated himself near the middle of the table, straddling the invisible line that seemed to separate the Foreman and Honest Minstrel at one end, and the adventurers at the other. Mikimax, true to his role as innkeeper, crossed to the sideboard and secured the decanter there, along with a half-dozen slender glasses for those gathered at the table.
“I am so pleased that you elected to come,” Maavu said with sincerity at the companions. “I fear that I did not get a chance to adequately thank you for your intervention on my behalf... before.”
“Any further news?” the Foreman asked him.
“Nothing new,” Maavu said. “Our foe bides its time, it would seem...”
“Perhaps not,” the Honest Minstrel began, but was interrupted as Morgan asked bluntly, “Our foe?”
The Foreman sighed. “A force of chaos and evil stirs in Cauldron,” he said. “We have been tracking its development for quite some time, although the actual source of danger has remained cloaked in the shadows, not revealing its true nature. Maavu, by forcing the issue, has not helped matters... you stand to make the Chisel into a scapegoat for the people of Cauldron.”
The Honest Minstrel snickered. “I sense the hand of the Last Laugh at work in that business. Face it Maavu, they suckered you, nothing else!”
Maavu bristled at the comment and turned to face the bard. “Better dead than slaves! A wandering strummer like you should know!”
“Peddler! You count lives like money! No difference to you, eh?”
Maavu opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted as the Foreman slammed his palm into the surface of the table. “Enough! We have enough difficulties without squabbling like children. Ekaym, you were about to say something earlier, about events in Cauldron?”
The Honest Minstrel grimaced. “Aye. My sources tell me that Skellerang has plans to move a force from the city garrison to Redgorge, to secure and search the town.”
The companions exchanged a look as the gathered members of the Chisel reacted with incredulity—even Masht’s calm façade betraying more than a hint of anger before he schooled his features to stony control.
“This does not bode well,” Mikimax rumbled. “The people will resist Skellerang’s half-orcs... at least some will.”
“I cannot believe that the Lord Mayor would allow such,” Morgan said.
“There is much that I likewise would not have believed, a year past,” Masht said wearily. “But many things have changed.”
The wizened craftsman turned to Maavu. “Alec will have to publicly renounce his challenge, to forestall this action,” he said.
“Agreed,” Maavu said, looking deflated.
“Well, that settles that,” Arun said. “Now be time for the question we brought here: where is the paladin of Helm?”
The four members of the Chisel exchanged a meaningful look. Finally their eyes settled on Maavu. The wizard-merchant looked stricken.
“We don’t know.”
Dannel cleared his throat, drawing their attention to him. For the first time since the gathering had begun, he spoke.
“I believe that I may have an answer to that question.”
The man who called himself “the Honest Minstrel” led the companions down a dusty staircase that descended off a narrow side-corridor adjacent to the inn’s kitchens, down to a door of solid-looking oak heavily banded with iron. The noise from the common room, not more than twenty paces distant, was almost completely muted, and as they descended the only other sound was the sound of Hodge finishing the last of the sausage links he’d purloined from Mikimax’s spread. The last of the fat links vanished into the dwarf’s beard with a thick slurp. Zenna turned and shot him a hard look, but the dwarf merely shrugged and belched loudly.
The door opened to reveal a spacious subterranean chamber, with a look more suited to a lord’s hall than an inn cellar. Great pillars of smooth stone supported the weight of the inn above, and between those bastions was an open space dominated by a great ovoid table around which a dozen high-backed chairs were situated. Seated at one of those chairs was a man, clad in a workingman’s tunic of clean linen reinforced with leather patches. He was older than any of them, perhaps fifty, through he still had an air of vitality about him, and his muscled hands seemed as though they needed only tools in them to make them complete. He looked up and smiled at them as they entered, although there was something in his eyes, hooded.
“Good evening,” he said to them. “I am Oliron Masht, known in this body as the Foreman. Please come in, make yourselves comfortable; we will begin once the others arrive.”
“What of Alec Tercival? And the merchant, Maavu?” Arun asked.
“All of your questions will be answered as best we are able,” Masht said. “It will not be long now.”
The Honest Minstrel crossed the room and poured himself a glass of wine from the decanter on a sideboard butted up against the far wall of the chamber. He did not offer any such hospitality to the others, and when he returned to the table to speak to the Foreman, his soft tone and body language indicated that the conversation was not open to outside participants. An awkward silence resulted at the far end of the table, where the companions gathered. Mole, typically the catalyst for chatter, was still feeling out of sorts, and Zenna almost laughed at the various scowls on the faces of the men.
What keeps us together? she thought. Unable to simply sit still and wait, she turned and walked toward the one of the side walls that looked interesting. Although the lighting was poor, with her darkvision she could clearly discern the artistic displays that had been carved into the wall in relief. Upon closer examination she could see the quality of the work, depicting a series of scenes in sequence across the wall from left to right. A tall, robed figure, carved in profile with a noble cast to his features was prominently featured in most of them. A wizard, Zenna thought, examining one scene where the man was depicted raising the massive walls that shielded Redgorge. In other scenes, the figure was shown with a winged woman who was offering him a quarterstaff wreathed in symbolic flames; defending the city against a horde of terrible, monstrous creatures; now holding the staff boldly as he faced a huge dog-headed, four-armed demon; and finally vanishing into a mountain that hovered protectively over the town below.
“Surabar Spellmason,” a voice said, interrupting her contemplation of the artwork and drawing her attention back to the table. It was Masht who had spoken, his eyes aglow with an inner fire as he regarded her. Belatedly she realized that the far door had opened, and that two newcomers had joined the company; Mikimax the innkeep and a familiar face: Maavu. Of Alec Tercival, there was no sign. “The founder of our order,” Masht went on, “who dedicated the Chisel to working for the greater Good of the region.” The way he said it, there was no mistaking the capital; the word clearly had a greater meaning to the man.
And to his listeners. Maavu looked chagrined for a moment, an expression that he quickly mastered before heading forward toward the table, while Mikimax nodded solemnly, as if acknowledging a blessing.
Maavu pulled out a chair and seated himself near the middle of the table, straddling the invisible line that seemed to separate the Foreman and Honest Minstrel at one end, and the adventurers at the other. Mikimax, true to his role as innkeeper, crossed to the sideboard and secured the decanter there, along with a half-dozen slender glasses for those gathered at the table.
“I am so pleased that you elected to come,” Maavu said with sincerity at the companions. “I fear that I did not get a chance to adequately thank you for your intervention on my behalf... before.”
“Any further news?” the Foreman asked him.
“Nothing new,” Maavu said. “Our foe bides its time, it would seem...”
“Perhaps not,” the Honest Minstrel began, but was interrupted as Morgan asked bluntly, “Our foe?”
The Foreman sighed. “A force of chaos and evil stirs in Cauldron,” he said. “We have been tracking its development for quite some time, although the actual source of danger has remained cloaked in the shadows, not revealing its true nature. Maavu, by forcing the issue, has not helped matters... you stand to make the Chisel into a scapegoat for the people of Cauldron.”
The Honest Minstrel snickered. “I sense the hand of the Last Laugh at work in that business. Face it Maavu, they suckered you, nothing else!”
Maavu bristled at the comment and turned to face the bard. “Better dead than slaves! A wandering strummer like you should know!”
“Peddler! You count lives like money! No difference to you, eh?”
Maavu opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted as the Foreman slammed his palm into the surface of the table. “Enough! We have enough difficulties without squabbling like children. Ekaym, you were about to say something earlier, about events in Cauldron?”
The Honest Minstrel grimaced. “Aye. My sources tell me that Skellerang has plans to move a force from the city garrison to Redgorge, to secure and search the town.”
The companions exchanged a look as the gathered members of the Chisel reacted with incredulity—even Masht’s calm façade betraying more than a hint of anger before he schooled his features to stony control.
“This does not bode well,” Mikimax rumbled. “The people will resist Skellerang’s half-orcs... at least some will.”
“I cannot believe that the Lord Mayor would allow such,” Morgan said.
“There is much that I likewise would not have believed, a year past,” Masht said wearily. “But many things have changed.”
The wizened craftsman turned to Maavu. “Alec will have to publicly renounce his challenge, to forestall this action,” he said.
“Agreed,” Maavu said, looking deflated.
“Well, that settles that,” Arun said. “Now be time for the question we brought here: where is the paladin of Helm?”
The four members of the Chisel exchanged a meaningful look. Finally their eyes settled on Maavu. The wizard-merchant looked stricken.
“We don’t know.”
Dannel cleared his throat, drawing their attention to him. For the first time since the gathering had begun, he spoke.
“I believe that I may have an answer to that question.”
I just wanted to say thank you for this story. I find it very captivating. I love your portrayal of the characters, finding I can empathize with them all, even understanding some of their motiviations. Great writing!
Sigh, now I know I'm totally hooked since I am checking for updates from two different places.
Sigh, now I know I'm totally hooked since I am checking for updates from two different places.
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