Pigs & Crowns
The party was a day’s ride from Olgotha Mound when winter made an unseasonably early appearance. Clouds the color of despair came sweeping southward across the Reaversward, blanketing the land in a snowy mantle. Raylin used the weather to replenish the group’s stores; he bagged a brace of coneys in short order with a shortbow apparently reserved for such a purpose. Vath, who could only stomach meat, was especially grateful for Raylin’s rabbits – two of which he immediately ate, uncooked.
Yet the cold had left the land nearly as quickly as it arrived, changing the new-fallen snow into a drab slush. On the third day of travel the companions crested a ridge to stare once more into the Valley of Ul’Daegol. The turf, springy as a sponge from the melted snow, was a veritable quagmire beneath them – their descent lasted the better part of the morning.
Nearly all signs of Aramin’s camp had vanished – the canvas tent, the bolts of cloth, the wooden chests, the furs and pillows. Gone, all gone. John walked amongst the dragon’s bones like a man reviewing the site of a lost battle. He peered into the back of a wagon resting forlornly in the mire, then spat. “Empty. The Rornman’s serving boy must have packed everything and left after we departed for Olgotha.” John kicked a half-buried tankard in disgust. “The whelp knew, one way or another, his master was not returning.”
Raylin nodded from where he knelt studying the ground. The recent snowfall, and its subsequent melting, covered any signs of the youth’s trail. “He is gone.”
“Aye. And gone, too, are any crowns the damned Rornman may have been hoarding.” John sighed audibly and collapsed onto the wagon’s tongue. “Just once,” he held up a finger, “I would have liked to fill my purse without having to defeat anything more dangerous than a serving boy.”
Kellus shrugged. “Much of the day yet remains – if we leave now we might reach Ciddry within two days’ time.”
“Fine.” John stood and walked toward his own mount. “But there is little to purchase within that town – I saw not one lady, maid or matron, worthy of my lyre. We shall be forced to head elsewhere to properly spend our coins.”
“Your trysts can wait. We have other questions which must be answered first.” Kellus gazed upon Amelyssan. The elf was silent, huddled deep within his robes, the cowl of his cloak hiding his countenance. Margate’s Staff was strapped to his saddle, still wrapped in blankets and furs.
John followed the priest’s look. He frowned. “Elf, you have spoken little, ate less. Yet you say that ungodly staff does not affect you?”
Amelyssan looked up. The bags under his eyes were pronounced shadows. “Not yet. No. But it calls to me.”
Vath strode forward, ignoring the suddenly-agitated horses of his companions. “Give it to me. I shall break it.”
“Thank you, but no.” Amelyssan shook his head, lips pursed. “We have discussed this, Brother Vath. We have no idea what would happen should you sunder the staff.”
Baden grunted. “It would break.”
“We do not know that.” Kellus looked from the Amelyssan to the Axemarch dwarf. “Are you willing to risk freeing Ippizicus?”
“For all we know, the demon is already free.” The party had heard Kellus tell of the shadowy form that had appeared within the yellow mists upon Olgotha Mound. They had searched the summit after slaying the last of the dwem, but the unnatural fog had dissipated by that time, leaving no trace of any creatures stranger than dead dwem.
Baden studied Amelyssan for a long moment before scowling. “The staff poisons him, mark my words. And it calls to him, like some thing alive?” At Amelyssan’s weary nod, Baden spat. “Who shall say when the burden will be too heavy for him to bear?”
Kellus nodded. “All the more reason why we should not linger. We must find someone who can tell us more of the staff.”
“And then we shall destroy it,” Vath finished.
“Perhaps,” allowed Amelyssan, softly. Perhaps not.
***
Raylin was content to silently study the man and his pigs for some time. The scene was one which had been played and replayed across central Valusia for countless seasons. The swineherd was alone, Raylin knew with a woodsman’s certainty, and most likely had driven his score of hogs this far from Ciddry seeking pannage prior to the coming winter.
The field was dappled with sunlight, the air almost warm, and the smell of sea on the west wind. In short, it was a beautiful morning. Raylin folded his arms and leaned against the bole of a towering fir. The ranger knew his companions – waiting behind him in the fastness of the forest – would soon worry or wonder at the delay. But, if only for a handful of heartbeats, Raylin reveled in the repetitive natural cycle and mankind’s place within it.
Only when a particularly brazen sow nearly ate the toe of his boot did Raylin step forward to reveal himself. “Ale and warmth, friend,” he said, striding into the clearing with empty palms heavenward. “I am Raylin mac Larren, a Black Rider, down from the Reaversward.”
Raylin was ready for any number of reactions from the swineherd – most of them derivatives of astonishment or fear. He did not, however, expect joy.
The swineherd’s head snapped up at Raylin’s call. The man listened, mouth agape, before doffing his woolen cap. “So you are, so you are!” The man slapped his cap against his thigh and showed a gap-toothed smile. “Damned if I didna’ put two apples on the Harvest Mother’s trestle this very morning, praying I’d be the first to find you.”
Raylin frowned, confused. “Find me?”
“Indeed I did!” The man smacked his cap against his knee again as if in exclamation. “You see - some dandy come into town but two days’ past, dressed in the fop and finery o’ Val Hor. Last night at the Guildman’s, he says to anyone that was listening to be on the look-out for some travelers. Says one of them might be a Larrenman. Says four crowns would go to him that first brings word o’ them.”
The farmer positively beamed, apparently still surprised at his good fortune. “And old Breof was listening, thanks be to Lady Chauntea.”
Raylin nodded slowly. “Well, Master Breof, it appears you have earned your gold.”
Raylin waited patiently while the party, drawn by the swineherd’s laughter, entered the field leading their mounts. His companions studied the man with guarded expressions. Save for Vath; the half-troll’s chin was wet with slaver as he stared at the chortling pigs.
Raylin once more addressed the farmer. “Tell me, if you would - do you know why this Valudian* seeks us?”
“I do not,” Breof admitted. He seemed not to care.
The farmer looked upon the rest of the party like a man measuring his wealth. His eyes widened when he first realized Baden was a dwarf. They grew even larger, if such was humanly possible, when he gazed upon Vath. His tone was bit more reserved when he continued. “Will you all be headin’ to Ciddry, then?”
“We will.” Raylin accepted the reins of his horse from Kellus’ outstretched hand. “Lead on, Master Breof. We are as anxious to meet this man as you are.”
“Oh,” laughed Breof, suddenly carefree once more, “I doubt that.”
* Valudians are those citizens of the White Empire of Val Hor. This is decidedly different than Valusians, a term which applies to all peoples of the Valusian Isle in its entirety. Regrettably confusing, I know.
