Sir Gerard d'Montfort - In his own words (a tale of Anka Seth)- Updated Nov 11th

[Haraash Saan]

Theron, the grizzled and scarred captain of the Baron’s guard taught us team strategy and tactics. “In the games there are three rules that you must follow to succeed,” he said.

“Rule one, strike them with arrows first. Rule two, always concentrate your attacks on one opponent as you’ll down one quicker working together than you can fighting one on one. And rule three, the most important rule, take out the wizards first!” He endlessly repeated these laws until I am sure we murmured them in our sleep.

He went on to explain that wizards often disguised themselves to mask their abilities. Rarely did they wear robes with astrological symbols, but it was also unlikely that they wore armour. They might carry weapons and appear to be ready to wield them, yet would not. They usually did not stand in the front row, although often that was where they were safest at the commencement of the battle.

There were many more such strategies but I will not bore you with them now. Perhaps as we use them in the future I will have the good grace to mention Theron and his wise ways.

Another requirement of the Baron’s teams was a name and company colours. Moxadder suggested Hydra as a name. He explained that a Hydra was a strange multiple headed beast that was particularly vicious and dangerous that lived in the swamps near Irudesh City. Without hesitation we all agreed, that it was a fine and appropriate name for our group. Once again Moxadder proved that he truly was united with us.

Strav suggested black and green as our main colours. Not a particularly interesting combination so I proposed a silver hydra over our left breast and on the back of our cloaks. One must have some contrast to make an outfit really stand out!

So the Hydra was born! Six heads in all, one for each of us. What a strange group that it was too. Unlike the Baron’s other teams; the Massive Hand that specialised in quick decisive melee combat, and Five Kinds of Death that were all wizards, we had no particular speciality. We were all individuals that had different strengths.

The one thing that we had not discussed was our captain. Someone to ensure that combat went efficiently and that we all followed Theron’s rules. Whilst Mortec, Morgan and Strav all fancied themselves as leaders, I believed it was a role that was to fall upon my noble shoulders. Leading men was in my blood, I was to be a Knight of Mendus. It was my right and there was no way that I would bow to a lesser man. I had no doubt that time and example would demonstrate my leadership qualities to them and they would embrace me as their captain.

On the evening of the fourteenth day after passing the Baron’s trials, Zmrat and I had finished a particularly taxing session with our blades. Old moss covered blocks of stone provided me with a comfortable seat as I rested in the keep’s amphitheatre. Serenity was the player that evening and other than myself, the ocean was its only audience. Every now and again it roared with a thunderous ovation to the silent performance on offer. It was a wonderful place for contemplation and relaxation.

My peace was disturbed when I spied three sails on the horizon. I called for my companions who were still practicing with their swords in the training grounds some way from my scene of solitude. They came quickly at my cry.

Together we stood, silent sentinels watching the ships sail closer to the Yorathton. Argonne, whose sight was keener than the others, muttered, “Those are red sails on yonder boats.”

We all leapt to the same conclusion. Bloodsails! And their ships were almost flying across the ocean such was their amazing speed.

My first thought was to alert the keep. I ran straight for the closest building, which housed the Five Kinds of Death. I hammered on the wizards’ door, no doubt interrupting some sort of arcane practice, and shouted “Kassquok! The Bloodsails approach.”

Without waiting for a response I bolted for the castle yelling as I went. I stood in the Keep’s courtyard and at the top of my lungs sang out loudly, “Bloodsails in the east!”. And with that I hurried back to the training ground.

I was exhausted when I got back, and was a trifle dismayed to see that the boats were now only several hundred feet off shore. Thankfully the mages had gathered and were preparing all manner of strange of magics. My companions were readying bows and I followed suit, grabbing a crossbow and a case of bolts from the archery range as I ran passed it.

The wizards were the first to launch an attempt to repel the invaders. Tiny glowing darts spewed from their finger tips to the boats. Screams indicated they had found targets. How I did not know because at that stage darkness had well and truly fallen. I could not even see a victim for my quarrel. There was yelling and excitement coming from the ships. Morgan chose that moment to light a torch. Could he be more stupid? The only purpose that it could have ever served was to show him as a target. A soft squelch and accompanying thud proved me right. The surprised exhalation from Morgan confirmed it. Then he flew into a mighty rage.

Cursing and screaming vengeance Morgan dropped his bow, unsheathed his sword and charged off down a narrow trail that led from the cliff top to the rocky beach below. It was also the pirates only path to us.

Below I saw that two buccaneers were outlined by bright purple light. It sparked all about them, showing their forms clearly.

I shouted a sharp command to target the luminous foes. Mortec took the hint and loosed a shaft, striking the illuminated figure to our left. I took careful aim and let fly a bolt. It sailed true, dropping the corsair.

More glowing darts were released by Five Kinds of Death. Resulting in more cries of anguish in the darkness. One scream sounded out closer than those from the beach, it had the distinct ring of Morgan to it. Immediately there were little fairy lights hovering above the beach and they provided a small amount of extra light. As a child I had heard tell that fairies always lit tiny lanterns so that they knew where they were going.

“Glowing man!” I shouted and this time Moxadder responded with an excellent arrow that hit the pirate in the chest. His hands groped for the shaft. My second bolt hammered into him. He fell backwards and moved no more. Two glowing corpses now lay on the beach. The remaining Hydra also loosed their arrows into the darkness. I could not see whether or not they had hit a buccaneer.

Another volley of brightly coloured darts saw the pirates off. “Retreat!” and “Man the ships!” were the calls we heard, and as quickly as the cutthroats had come they had gone, their ships turning tail and then gliding over the water as if there were a massive gale behind them.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Argonne, Strav and Mortec ran to the path with Moxadder and I following more cautiously. More fairy lights appeared over the path, lighting the way. However, they did not help Argonne. In a fit of clumsiness perhaps caused by the speed of his decent, he tripped and slid, landing on the stones below and causing them to grind and crunch against one another. We called out but got no answer. With more care the rest of us managed to scramble down. In particular we avoided a glossy, wet area of the path that had two telling pairs of skids.

Down below, Stravarious found Argonne unconscious and bleeding. Mortec found Morgan who looked even worse than the woodsman. He was covered in cuts and bruises and the arrow shaft that had struck him in the shoulder had been broken off near its entry point. Mortec ripped out some bandages from a pouch on his belt and feverously began bandaging all the wounds he could see. Morgan seemed to have stabilized so Mortec ran to Argonne to see if there was anything that could be done. There was only one serious gash across his chest that was bleeding freely. Again Mortec applied bandages, but the wound was too deep and they could not stem the flow.

Moxadder pushed him aside saying “Let me do it!” and then proceeded to try the same thing. Well, to my untrained eye it looked the same. It certainly had the same result. Moxadder was getting frantic by this stage and with a Fastendian curse he tore open a bag that was secreted within his clothes, grabbed a handful of herbs, packed them into the wound, spat on them and then bound it one more time. This time it worked. The blood stopped seeping, and to everyone’s surprise and relief, especially Moxadders, Argonne’s eyes flicked open as he coughed, spraying a little blood onto Moxadder.

“Thanks.” He rasped and then passed out once more.

The Five Kinds of Death joined us on the pebbled beach shortly afterwards. They paid us no heed but walked straight to the oceans edge. They stood close enough for lapping water to lick their boots and stared intently out to sea. Strav, having turned to the ocean to see what was of interest to the mages, mumbled something about red sails and began his own silent vigil. It soon became apparent that two of the Blood Sails’ boats were desperately trying to find a favourable wind. But I do believe our wizards were ensuring that what they sought would not be found. Sure enough the two boats seemed to be drifting closer, as if pulled by some, forgive the pun, massive invisible hand. My companions loosed bolts and arrows, as befitted their weaponry. I could not make out what they were targeting, but the screams of shock and pain, told me that they had registered hits. Pretty impressive archery really! I was yet to make out a shape more discernable than the longships themselves, yet those three, Strav, Moxadder and Mortec, were scoring well.

Several minutes went past, in which time Theron and some guards arrived. Eventually the two ships ground up the stones and rocks to be effectively beached. One boat was empty of buccaneers, they had been shot by my companions and fallen into the sea, but there were two corpses in the second boat, arrows and bolts protruding from their chests, and one motionless figure, in a rowing pose. Although the oar itself had slipped from his motionless grip.

Without doubt it was the strangest thing I had seen to date. Under the direction of one of the mages, guards lifted the still rower off the bench on which he sat. He remained in that same position; leaning forward with hands stretched out as if to complete an oar stroke. Somewhat unnerved I decided that I would try my very hardest not to annoy those that were magically gifted. I would learn what I could from them instead. It was with excited dread that I wondered what else the arcane masters could do to a person.

The guards took him away, none too carefully. We were left with several bodies and two longships to search. Moxadder quickly volunteered to scour the corpses for ‘clues’. I am sure that he was hoping to find some sort of drug stash. I decided that it may be more prudent to search the boats. Mortec joined me. Together we found two things of interest. Firstly there was a map of the castle grounds, with the castle itself circled in red. Secondly we found three holy symbols. Two on the pierced bodies and one laying on the deck of the vessel. All honoured Geduld, God of Death and the ever encroaching Dominion. Not only were we assailed by pirates, now we discover that they are death worshippers who are in league with the horrendous threat that hovers over the Fastness.

The only other items that we found were of less interest; spears, nets, a barrel of brandy that was quickly confiscated by Mortec for ‘further analysis’, fresh water, rations and the like.

I showed Theron the spoils of our search and whilst he dismissed the holy symbols as trinkets he was very interested in the map. Whilst it showed and explained very little of the intent of the attackers it did reveal, by its existence, that one of them at least had visited Yorathton before or that there was a townsman or member of the Barons’ own court that was in league with them.

Strav edged closer, peering over my shoulder at the map. “Interesting”, he muttered. He followed it up with a request, “May I borrow the map for a moment?”

“Of course, but be careful with it” Theron said as he handed it to him.

Strav was a curious one, probably the most secretive of our little group. I had not really got to know him at all. He mainly kept to himself and his aloofness made me all the more curious. My eyes followed him as if he were a mouse in a field and I a falcon ready for a meal. He approached the congregated wizards and spoke to them briefly. The mage Emble spoke something and waved his right hand over the map, sprinkling a powder as he went. It glowed suddenly, giving off a blue light that eerily lit up Emble’s face. Just as suddenly the luminescence vanished. Strav nodded in thanks, muttered something, and returned to us.

The map he presented to us was now fundamentally different. Whilst the same drawing was still represented, much more had been revealed by Emble’s magic. Now the Baron’s tower was also circled and the path that we had been venturing up and down all evening was clearly marked. Now there was no doubt in my mind. The Baron was the target of the raid. Whether they wanted him dead or alive was another question.

As we made our final journey up the path for the night, I asked Strav how he knew to look for something magical. His reply was typically cryptic. “I have a natural affinity with magic.” And that was all that he would say about it.

Yet another Stravarious mystery. Perhaps he was gifted as Zmrat and my sister Isabella were? I thought about my unusual companion as I drifted off to sleep and realised that I had never actually seen his face. It puzzled me, but not enough to stop me slipping off into my very own dream world.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Chapter 4 - Revelations and Investigations

I slept well that night. Very well. The excitement of the previous evening had taken its toll, for I did not hear my usual dawn wake up door pounding; damned pageboys! I had become so hardened since setting out from Halfast some twenty five days ago that I could no longer remember the feeling of luxurious feather stuffed cushions that I has been so accustomed to. Every evening after the rigors of the days training I slumped exhausted into my hard unforgiving mattress and slept more soundly than I had ever before. Amazing what a little physical activity will do for you. When I finally managed to drag myself from my simple bed, I found the others of the Hydra milling about on the training grounds looking perplexed.

My companions explained their confusion. Instead of disturbing us, the pageboys woke the Massive Hand and Five Kinds of Death and summoned them to an urgent audience with the Baron. So, somewhat neglected, we were left to our own devices. I convinced Strav to fence with me to pass the time. As we duelled we made small talk, I was trying to pierce him with my blade and also his secretive ways with my tongue. My sword yielded much better results than my questions.

It was mid-morning when we were finally called to the see the Baron. The Great Hall was swarming with activity, servants ran about purposefully and the self-important ensured that chaos ensued. They seemed to be catering to the requests of the Massive Hand and Five Kinds of Death, who stood in separate groups some way off. I stopped a young lad to inquire as to what was happening, but the only information I could garner was that the two parties would be journeying separately to achieve some mission of the Baron’s. A hail from our lord cut short any further inquiries.

“Come stand before me.” commanded the Baron gruffly. “As you are no doubt aware we have been having some considerable trouble with the Bloodsails. Cutthroats, thieves and plunderers the lot of them. They are not my immediate concern, but unfortunately their attack has caused your training to be somewhat shortened. I must send your trainers on errands and this leaves me with the problem of how to proceed with your education.

Two solutions have presented themselves, either you stay here and practice with minimal tuition, or you accept a commission that may well accelerate your learning.”

Whilst the Baron offered two alternatives, I was under no illusion that we had any option but to take his commission.

The Baron continued, “I have a task for you to perform and I am willing to pay for your services. Obviously, your lack of experience comes into consideration and as I am supplying you with all the necessary equipment, including a long boat, your wage will not be high.”

A long boat? A sea voyage obviously awaited us. I hoped our captain was a reasonable man.

“It has become obvious that I have certain enemies and my investigations have so far led to the Sorcerer’s Isle.”

My knowledge of this island was limited to a few smatterings of history relating to its founding. The great wizard Novorod, a follower of Nachtigal, many thousands of years ago had escaped from the clutches of the Convocation. The slippery mage found his way to what is now called Sorcerer’s Isle where he built himself a tower and in it he housed all the arcane knowledge that he had gathered over his many, many years. His divine belief was so great and the tasks that he had performed for Nachtigal were of such importance to his Goddess that his reward was to cheat death, at least temporarily, for he lived for several hundreds of years. Over the years the isle became surrounded by a thick fog of unknown origin. Most traders avoided the fog and its hidden island as if it were the plague, fearing that their ships would crash against hidden rocks. However, eventually the island and its abandoned tower was discovered and Sorcerer’s Isle soon became a haven for learning the magical arts.

“I require you to travel to this island and see if you can learn who is plotting against me. Who sent the pirates to raid Yorathton and why did they have a map that showed a direct route to my chambers”, said the Baron.

“I wish this to be a,“ he paused, “delicate operation. Draw no attention to yourselves for fear of forcing my enemies into hiding. Your only other constraint is that you must be back here by the seventeenth day of Burn to ensure that you have enough time to reach Halfast for the games on the twenty eighth. If you do not return then my investment in you, and your accelerated learning, will be completely wasted.”

He offered us one copper common a day, the pitiful earning of a simple guardsman, but we accepted. It would not have been wise decline the first work our Baron had given us.

Baron Yorath also warned us against attempting to disable or remove his enemies, unless of course we felt that we could achieve this challenge without getting ourselves killed. I believe he was more concerned with the loss of his ‘investment’ than our lives, but nobility has a habit of thinking that way. Trust me.

Mortec was returned the sorcerer’s coin that he had retrieved from the lighthouse in Ravenswood and we were told that we would be well served investigating the Transmuters that operated on Sorcerer’s Isle, as they would be the ones capable of creating such coins.

Mortec must have been held in high esteem because the Baron also gave him an opaque purple stone set into a necklace. It was the mate of one that the Baron Yorath wore and would allow Mortec to magically communicate with him once per day. Our patron and employer wanted frequent and accurate updates on our progress. I could not comprehend why I was not given the task. It was my right as the only member of the Hydra with any lineage to speak of to be given such responsibilities.

Our final surprise was possibly the most daunting, we had to supply our own captain. Much to my dread it was decided that Argonne, being the only one of us with any sailing experience (he had been taught the art of sailing by one of the members of the Massive Hand), would be the ship’s Captain. I argued that he was not yet capable of taking a vessel, with his companions, out into open sea by himself? Seeing my companions would not relent on their choice I urged the Yorath to provide us with an experienced seaman. However, he refused my request, quoting what was now becoming a tiresome line, “accelerated learning”. So that was it, our task, our captain and potentially our doom. What a wonderful morning it was turning out to be.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Whilst we could have set out that afternoon, I decided that it would be more prudent to travel at dawn. That way we had the entire day to reach the isle, rather than travelling part way in the darkness, which is what would have happened had we set out that day. The remainder of the day was spent preparing and provisioning the boat as best we could. It was only a day’s sailing if the winds were fair, but one cannot take enough precautions with a novice as our guide.

Late that afternoon our friend Maron Devlis arrived at Yorathton answering a request from the Baron. I took him to be a gift from Srcan, god of hope, something I was very much in need of with Argonne as captain designate. We queried him on Sorcerer’s Isle and he informed us that he had travelled there a few times and that there really was nothing to be concerned about. Seeing an opportunity to have a companion that had actually been to the island, Morgan tried hard to convince him to come. He declined, citing business of the Baron’s that he would not disclose. He did, however, offer several titbits of information and one very important and very reassuring gift. He told us that there were actually three islands, not just one. Sorcerer’s Isle, the largest and only populated island, was the first, with Bleak Isle and the Isle of the Dead rounding out the small archipelago. The second piece of information, while somewhat cryptic, proved to be useful. “Gather some nice shells for your journey.” He said with a knowing smile. Whilst we tried to garner a reason for this advice, he would say no more on the topic.

The gift, his most precious possession, was the loan of his dolphin Elwing. He told us that Elwing would guide us to the Sorcerer’s Isle. I was sceptical, but faced with a fish for a guide or Argonne as a Captain I was most pleased to have Elwing along for the journey. It certainly could not be worse than Argonne.

With that he left us, telling us that the dolphin would be waiting by our boat in the morning. We thanked him and went to the beach to gather shells as he had suggested. My search proved to be fruitless, yet whilst I trudged along the beach I recalled a book that I had been reading at Leathes Abbey. It had spoken of a strange people called Tritons. A bizarre race that lived in the oceans and were in someway descended from the Fey folk. They were an odd combination of man and fish. From the drawings I had seen they were essentially men with scaled and finned legs. I recalled two other important things; there was a colony of Tritons that lived in the waters off Sorcerer’s Isle and that in the pictures they had been adorned with many bright and colourful shells. I told the others my recollections and we searched with a little more vigour. Whilst we managed to find several pretty shells it was Argonne who found the prize, a huge shell that seemed to glisten a rainbow of colours when the waves washed over it.

On the morning of the sixteenth of Low Summer we boarded our small longship. It was fitted with eight oars and a mast. I had been told the previous day that the Swift, as our vessel was known, was a sound and speedy coastal ship and was perfect for our journey. However, this was my maiden voyage on the sea, that in itself gave me little confidence and I was yet to grow comfortable with the idea of the forester suddenly being master of the sea. At least the weather was good, or so the fisherman said as they boarded their own boats. The sky was clear, although dawn had not yet crept over the horizon, and once we were clear of the sheltering cliffs, a southerly breeze would only aid our journey.

At Argonne’s request we boarded our small ship and ‘cast off’, as Argonne put it. That done, his next command was for four of us to take the oars, and for Mortec to keep watch at the bow. Upon his arrival at the front of the boat he called back that Elwing was waiting for us. That was a comfort. I felt I could rely on the fish to guide us. Strav and Morgan grabbed oars on opposite sides of the boat and Moxadder grabbed one behind Morgan. I leant on a rail as I watched, curious to see what they would do next.

“Come on Gerard! Hurry up and grab an oar!” shouted Argonne, annoyed at my apparent tardiness. After several weeks I had actually become accustomed to the common use of my first name.

“What?” I replied. I was in shock.

“Grab an oar so we can start moving.” Said Argonne, barely concealing his impatience.

“You want me to row?” I must admit it had not even occurred to me that I was required for such a menial task.

“Yes!” cried Argonne in exasperation. I do not think he was handling this captaincy very well.

“You want me to sit on that filthy bench and actually,” I paused as comprehension slowly dawned on me, “row?” Was it possible that they expect me, Gerard d’Mowbray, to row? A boat? Surely not.

“Yes you fool!” screamed an increasingly agitated Argonne, saliva spraying from his mouth. “Sit down behind Strav and start rowing now!”

I heard mutterings of agreement from the others.

“But I am not really a rower. Not much physical strength you see. And think of my hands, I will ruin them. They will develop calluses!” It was my last throw of the dice to avoid this task that was well beneath my station.

“Calluses?!” he spat incredulously.

“If you don’t sit down now, I’ll throw you overboard.” said Argonne in forced measured tones through clenched teeth as he tried to restrain himself. The others began to murmur their approval of Argonne’s suggested action.

I raised my hands in a gesture designed to placate the mob and said with resignation, “Very well. I will do as you ask.”

So I shuffled meekly to the bench that Argonne had allocated to me, looked down at it, dubiously pulled one glove off, brushed the seat down vigorously, replaced the glove, and took my seat. I grabbed the oar in my hands and was about to ask how one was supposed to row when I thought better of it.

Finally we set off and I learnt a new skill. One that I hoped I would never have to use again.

 

[Haraash Saan]

We only rowed for an hour before we emerged from the shelter of the cliffs. Argonne ordered oars up and unfurled the sails. Thank Mühbelung that our toil was over. My gloves were ruined and my blistered hands ached.

The Swift was true to its name, setting a cracking pace now that the sails were full. Mortec occasionally yelled course adjustments, as indicated by our fishy companion. As daylight appeared over the starboard rail, we could see our destination clearly ahead of us. It was a massive wall of fog that rose on the horizon.

It took us six hours to get to that mist, and it was not a pleasant time for me. I was ill, very ill for most of the trip. Thankfully I was not alone, Moxadder’s stomach also felt the waves that rolled underneath us.

Inside the fog, visibility was terrible. I could not see Mortec on the bow . A few minutes after we entered the fog we stopped, becalmed. The wind that had proved a wonderful ally could not penetrate the mists. It meant that my poor hands had only had six hours to recover before being forced once more to pull an oar. I hated boats!

Propelled by our rhythmic strokes, our sturdy little vessel journeyed for another half hour or so before we heard a distant splashing accompanied by a horn. The fog befuddled my ears, I could not tell from which direction the noise was coming.

“Silence!” bellowed Argonne. And he called me a fool? They were practically upon us before we actually realised they approached from the bow of the Swift.

We quickly congregated at the front of the boat, crossbows hastily loaded, where we waited for the unknown travellers of the mist. The first thing we saw the heads of four creatures, bobbing in and out of the water as they approached us. Beyond them was a barge adorned with shells and seaweed that they seemed to be towing. It was as if it were sculpted out of the waves themselves such was its form. There was no doubt that we were dealing with Tritons. Their elfish, narrow features and pointed ears were just like the pictures I had seen at Leathes Abbey.

A voice from the barge addressed us in a strange and melodious language unknown to my companions or I. I answered in my own native tongue, Guernean, but only received more gibberish. I nudged Mortec and suggest he try Arcanum, the language of magic. He had been teaching me it, but I did not yet have the vocabulary to converse capably. Mortec took my advice and shouted a greeting.

One of the Tritons responded in kind and several communications flew rapidly between them before Mortec told us they wished to search the Swift.

“Not a chance!” yelled Argonne in Guernean, confirming that the man often did not think. We had already discovered they did not understand that language.

I hushed him and told Mortec that we had nothing to hide so they were welcome to come aboard. He relayed the message and their barge drew alongside our ship. Now that it was nearer I could see that there were four more Tritons on it.

Two of the fish men that towed the barge spoke quietly in their native tongue to the one which had been speaking with Mortec, their leader presumably. It responded and the two Tritons water swam up to him. He passed them each a small object and then the pair swam to the Swift and hauled themselves aboard.

Their torso and arms were essentially that of a man, but from the stomach down they were covered entirely in scales, just like a fish. Whilst they did not have tails, like mermaids were said to have, their legs ended in flippers or fins not feet.

Both had pushed themselves up, with straight arms so that their chests were raised off the deck and their legs and flippers trailed behind them. Then, each spoke a strange word and suddenly they began to change. Their flippers became more rigid and a pronounced joint formed. Then the ends of their flippers seemed to tear and split apart forming toes. Their flippers had transformed into scaled feet.

Sorcerer’s coins! The objects that their leader had given them must have been Sorcerer’s coins enabling them to transform their bodies so that they could more easily search our boat. If they had access to the magical coins then it was obvious that they had access to a mage who knew how to create them. Mortec leapt to the same conclusion and started vigorously questioning the leader whilst its two lackeys scoured our boat for whatever it was that they were looking for. They did not find it and jumped disappointedly back into the water. Mortec addressed the leader once more in the language of magic.

The Tritons had been looking for pirates, the gnome explained, and had taken us for such. He also told us there was a mage called Quickling who was known to create Sorcerer’s Coins. He lived in the Port of the Warlock. As way of thanks for the information, Mortec offered them our shells . They were delighted, especially with the shell that Argonne had found. In appreciation of our gift they gave each of us a small white cockleshell with a strange symbol etched into it and then let us go on our way. They did not explain what the cockleshell’s were for, but I pocketed mine assuming that if I met a Triton again it may prove to be a useful symbol of friendship.

It was another hour before Elwing guided the Swift through the fog and into the natural bay that housed the Port of the Warlock.

 

[Haraash Saan]

As we gazed at our destination we saw a tall tower on a hill that overlooked the ramshackle town. This was undoubtedly Novorod’s Tower, home of arcane knowledge and its three guardians. Spiralling outward from the tower were all manner of buildings. Some were just shacks that even from this distance looked as if they should have collapsed. Perhaps they were held together by magic? Others were grand mansions circled by high walls. But the most unusual thing about the Port of the Warlock was quite simply the vast array of architectural styles. I had only travelled in central Guerney and from there to Halfast and then Yorath, but this town was unlike anything I had seen. Unfortunately I cannot even begin to describe the types of houses as most seemed very odd and I had nothing to compare them to. The only constant seemed to be that there were many more walled houses nearer to the tower. An obvious sign of wealth and prestige, I thought.

As we docked a busy and officious round man hurried along the pier to greet us. His little legs travelling so briskly that he swayed rather violently with each step. Two burly sorts followed him at what one might call a respectful distance, but their bored expressions showed no respect whatsoever.

The little butterball stopped in front of us, pausing only to mop his sweaty brow with a kerchief, “Good day. Welcome to the Port of the Warlock,” he began haughtily. “I am here to ensure that all of your cargo is legitimate and to collect any fees that you and your goods incur.”

Argonne, puffing out his chest as if impersonating a pigeon, spoke up on our behalf. Captaincy had given him some ill conceived idea that he was our spokesman. “We’ve no cargo other than us.”

The bureaucrat sniffed at this, sensing that there was little profit to made from us. He inclined his head to his two toughs and they immediately went to work searching the boat for cargo. “So if you come with no cargo, what is your business?” he asked.

Argonne opened his mouth but I managed to interject, “We are here simply to seek magical assistance. I understand this is the place to come for such help?”

He admitted that it was and proceeded to collect a sickle from each of us as entry fee into the town. He had almost finished when Argonne spoke up once more. “You wouldn’t know where to buy drugs would you?”

I am not sure who was shocked the most, the other members of the Hydra, or the little fat man. He, unfortunately, reacted first. “Drugs? We don’t allow that sort of thing to occur in our town. Can’t have wizards that are not completely in control of their facilities running around now can we? Who knows what would happen! Ah boys’,“ he beckoned once more to his large assistants, “I think you should search this lot. Look for anything suspicious.”

Argonne is truly a buffoon. The Baron Yorath’s words echoed in my mind “Draw no attention to yourselves.” What chance of success did we have if simple instructions could not be followed? I would have to buy Argonne a gag, as the mask he wore to hide his face did not muffle the fool enough.

Not surprisingly our biggest concern was Moxadder. The man was probably carrying all manner of narcotics to support himself. And by the look of him he knew he was in trouble. I could see his eyes darting about looking for a way of escape.

They searched me roughly. I bit my tongue and held my pride in check, it would do no good to complain. It was obvious that they were not trying very hard to find anything, they were just going through the motions, probably thinking of having a nap whilst waiting for the next boat to come in.

Unfortunately they soon got to Moxadder, who had somehow managed to be the last to be examined. He controlled himself quite well, until they found his stash that is. He snatched it back, eyeballs frantic now. Argonne leapt in once more, “Ah that’s for personal use, isn’t that right Moxie?”

Moxadder stood mute. His shock and fear did not allow him to utter a word.

The official and his men turned to face Argonne who had just spoken. Moxadder edged further down the pier, out of arms reach. They saw him move and our podgy friend said menacingly, “Hand it over son. You’re coming for a little trip to the lock up.”

At that point things got really strange. Strav, who had been quiet throughout the entire discussion suddenly pulled down his mask and revealed himself. All of us were stunned, none more so than Morgan. Strav’s skin was black as night, while his hair was white, as though bleached by an eternity in the sun. His eyes burned a vibrant crimson. Structurally his face was that of an elf; fine, angled, chiselled features, long and thin nose and of course elongated ears ending in a slight point.

Morgan’s sword quickly rasped out of it’s scabbard. He was livid! The Fastendian glared at us as he asked “What is the meaning of this? Did any of you know that this,” he paused in mid bluster,” this thing, was in our company?” No one answered so he continued his tirade. “This thing is a Black Elf. Evil to the core and a servant of the Dominion! My people have been fighting these creatures for a hundred years!”

“Morgan!” I hissed with urgency, “Now is not the time! We can discuss it later.”

“Yes.” Agreed the port official. “I couldn’t care less about your bickering. But rest assured,“ he shifted his focus to look squarely at Strav, “I know your kind, and whilst they are accepted here, they are not welcome. I’ll be watching you so stay out of trouble. But right now there is another issue that needs to be dealt with. Boys, grab him and take him to the gaol,” he ordered, pointing to Moxadder who had managed to edge a long way down the pier.

“Come now sir.” I said, “Surely this is just a misunderstanding. Perhaps I can, offer you a little something to ease your mind about such a trifling matter?”

“Boys, rack off!” he order his lackey’s and then added more softly as they shrugged and headed back down the pier, “what have you got in mind? I’ll not let those drugs into my town!”

“If we just get rid of the drugs, then they were never really here. Were they? Perhaps this gromit would guarantee that, hmmm?” I said.

With a greedy glint in his eye he snatched the gold coin from my palm and said, “Throw them in the water, and this never happened.”

Moxadder’s eyes widened but he reluctantly threw the bag and its precious contents into the water. Or so it seemed to the official. I saw Moxadder secret the pouch in his shirt as he pretended to throw it.

In the end it was a good result. We had no more trouble with the Port’s authorities and I suppose Moxadder was happy. He retained his beloved stash.

 

[Firedancer]

Just a little post to say I am enjoying this storyhour, just the right amount of arrogance for a nobleman.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Glad you are enjoying the SH. Thanks for the kind words.

 

[Haraash Saan]

We found an inn, the Witch’s Brew, that seemed sufficient. Gastok the barkeep saw us to a large room that we could share. I was unused to ‘bunking’, as Argonne called it, with others, unless it was in a more intimate setting. However, I repressed my natural protest as we had pressing matters to discuss.

As soon as we had entered the room Morgan slammed the door shut and demanded an explanation from Strav. The dark elf, to his credit, fulfilled that request.

He told us the first thing that we needed to understand was that the Dominion corrupted other races and shaped them into new ones. Goblins, he said looking directly at Mortec, were perversions of Gnomes. From Mortec’s reaction I think that he was none to impressed with this slur on his race. In the same way, Stravarious continued, Dark Elves were corrupted Elves.

In his youth, almost a hundred years ago, Strav and several other elves were in a forest hunting game. They were beset by the forces of the Dominion and captured. They were placed in one of the great Death Barrows created in ages past by the Gerechians. These barrows had been built to house all the criminals that had broken the Gerechians’ harsh laws. Those sentenced had their souls bound to their bodies so that they could not die. The miserable wretches were then incarcerated within the Barrows were they pondered their crimes for all eternity.

The Gerechians, or Convocation as they had come to be known, were eventually overthrown by the Circle of Eight, a powerful consortium of Druids that could command the very earth to do their bidding. In the last battle some of the Great Barrows were cracked open, unleashing hordes of living dead and strange perverted creatures filled with hatred of those that lived. They were the seeds of what is now the Dominion.

It was not long after the Barrows were breached by the Druids that Stravarious was captured. He spent several years inside a Death Barrow, all the while slowly being transformed. His physical appearance changed to what we saw now, but his mind had not been corrupted. Although he refused to recall with any detail his time in the barrow, undoubtedly he experienced remarkable horrors.

One day the earth began to shake with tremendous power. The great ceiling of the Barrow began to crack and sections fell, crushing the helpless. As he cowered in a corner the wall against which he lay was torn open by the violent heaving of the earth and he tumbled out of the Barrow.

Strav rolled quickly down a rocky inclined, collecting many a cut and bruise before eventually slamming into a boulder. He painfully picked himself up and stood in the gloomy daylight for the first time in years. His first sensation was the rain that lashed him and then the wind that whirled about him, tearing at the remnants of the clothes he still wore. Lightning cracked in the distance and the earth rumbled with echoes of the great quake.

It was a day after the earthquake that Strav found himself in a forest and stopped by a pool to refresh himself and clean is battered body. It was then, for the first time, he saw what had been happening to him. Staring at the mirror like surface he was aghast. At first he thought that he was about to be recaptured by a Dark Elf, but then realised that he saw himself in the still pool’s water. With what was left of his clothing he fashioned a crude mask to hide his hideous features from the world. He travelled south for many months before finally happening on civilisation in Guerney.

That was Strav’s story, as much of it as we could get in any case, and a truly remarkable one it was. There were many questions that we asked him, some of which he answered, others which he refused to dwell on. My biggest question was one that Strav could never answer satisfactorily. How much of his fantastic tale was true?

We all sat in silence, pondering the amazing story that we had just heard, even Morgan had no heart to recommence his tirade.

A deep and rumbling voice from a corner behind us broke the silence. “Now that is an interesting tale.”

We whirled around, swords rasping from scabbards and were amazed to see that Kuruul had been replaced by a large goblin like creature. Instead of the rags normally worn by a goblin, however, he wore fine garments including a splendid red waistcoat.

“Who are you?” we asked.

“Who? I am Kuruul. Who else would I be?” he said.

He explained that he was a Barghest, a distant relative to the gnomish peoples with the extraordinary ability to transform their shape into the dog form that we had grown so accustomed to.

He too had been captured by the Dominion and his original form had been corrupted into the being that stood before us. He, like Strav, spoke very little of the events that took place inside the barrow. The only additional information that he gave us was that the Lord of the Barrow he had been in was named Rawloqu the Transmuter who was one of the great powers of the Dominion.

Of his past he only boasted that he was the greatest wizard and swordsman of all of his people and that he was driven by vengeance for what Rawloqu had done to him and his family.

This was indeed welcome news! A member of our company had real skills, arcane and martial at that. Sadly Kuruul quickly dispelled any thoughts that he might be of any use by claiming he was only here on the Baron’s request (they had some sort of binding relationship) and was much more concerned with his own epic thoughts. He would not even disclose these, citing “I doubt very much that any of you would come close to comprehending them so I can’t see much point in explaining them”.

He spoke with Strav for a little while and then transformed back into his dog shape, curled up, hid his big black nose under his tail, and entertained himself with his own musings.

This was all too much for me. After an exhausting day I had heard two fantastic stories, each with a thousand unanswered questions. Even worse, I had my hopes raised that a self professed great wizard could aid us only to have them dashed by that same wizard, who had told us he preferred life as a dog. It was all too much so dragged myself to my bunk (ye gods!) and was mercifully asleep before I could even worry about the bed bugs that were no doubt visit my person later that evening. I cannot recall my dreams of that night, but I did wake strangely refreshed. The world appeared a little different to me now.

 

[Haraash Saan]

That next day we decided to pair off, leaving Kuruul to watch, sleep more like, the room and our gear. Our plan was simple; Strav and Mortec were to investigate the central part of town, Argonne and Moxadder would try the markets and Morgan and I would investigate the rest of the town. All of us aimed to discover who could make sorcerer’s coins, that evening we would assemble at the Witches Brew to plot our next stratagem.

Of the three groups, Morgan and I returned quickest and with the least information. Well, no information. Not even a skerrick. However, while waiting in the tavern for the others to return we overheard other patrons discussing the Tritons. Quite an aggressive and independent lot with no allegiance with anyone it seemed. They were particularly unfriendly at the moment because the Bloodsails had captured their prince. That explained their search of our vessel, they must have been searching for him.

The others returned as we were supping on a reasonable roast lamb lunch. The news was mixed. Quickling, the mage that the Tritons spoke of was a well respected transmuter. Strav and Mortec discovered that his residence was near to the Tower in one of the quality areas of town. They also learnt that another transmuter operated in the market in the morning. He was a dwarf, called Grisha, with an evil reputation and the skills we were interested in.

Port of the Warlock was indeed an unusual place. I myself had never seen a dwarf, they short, stocky folk virtually never left their mountain home of Kazakash and rarely accepted visitors to their mountain caverns. Moxadder and Argonne had also learnt about Grisha, but had missed him at the markets. However, they revealed that a third transmuter, Messamorph, also operated in town, although his reputed forte was transforming inanimate objects, rather than a living beings.

An idea formed in my cunning mind. We sought information about a transmuter so that we could try to identify which one of them created coins for the Bloodsails. With this information we could try to trace who was organising the pirates and therefore we could discover the identity of the Baron’s antagonist. My plan was this; Argonne covered his face from prying eyes for the simple reason that it was totally deformed. This condition, for want of a better word, was crucial to the plan’s credibility and success. I proposed to the group that I take Argonne to see the transmuters we had identified and ask them if they could create coins to transform him into something less hideous. That way I hoped to learn who could make the sorcerer’s coins and also who would actually bother to do that sort of work. It was decided that whilst Argonne and I the met the wizards, Moxadder would try to learn what he could about them from those that lived near to their homes, or in Grisha’s case, those in the market. Mortec, Strav and Morgan decided that they could be better used by investigating Novorod’s Tower. They offered no explanation so I can only think that they were pursuing some personal agenda.

Quickling cordially greeted Argonne and I. He was a tall, handsome elf with fine angled, almost gaunt features and long blond hair that lay upon his shoulders. His home was lined with shelves full of books and trinkets. It was very organised and neat, everything its place. My first impression was that he was a businessman that knew very well what he peddled.

“Good day to you sir.” I said with a beaming smile, “I have been led to believe that you are the person to see regarding our very particular needs.”

“Indeed? How may I help.” He said with a polite smile.

“Well, please forgive me for any shock or discomfort you are about to feel.” I warned, and then lifted Argonne’s mask to reveal the gruesome visage.

“Ah, I see.” said Quickling, blanching a little at the sight, which was quite impressive in itself as elves are already quite pale.

“Yes I do believe that you are right. I can help. What exactly were you thinking?” He continued, recovering quickly as he began to get excited at the challenge that I had proposed.

“I have heard tell of objects called sorcerer’s coins. I believe they grant the temporary ability to change one’s appearance. Is that correct?” I said

“Yes that is an accurate description, but I tend not to deal with such trifling magics. You see I am a great deal more than a hedge wizard with simple tricks. My speciality is more permanent transformations. Gladiators tend to see me regularly come this time of year. They always want to improve themselves in someway to gain that edge in combat.” He said somewhat loftily.

Gladiators, I thought, that was information that might provide useful in the future. “Permanent you say? Perhaps I may trouble you with two questions then. How much would it cost for a permanent change, and, if you would actually consider creating sorcerer’s coins, how much would you charge for them?” I queried.

“Well,“ he began, casting an appraising eye over the two of us, “probably a lot more than you could afford for a permanent change.”

“Nah, Gerard here has bucket loads of money, don’t you Gerard?” interrupted Argonne.

I honestly could have killed him right then. The concept of subtlety and subterfuge was lost on the simpleton. However, I do not condone needless violence, although this was close to justifiable, so a glare of pure fury was all that he received.

“I am not made of sickles Argonne, thank you very much. How much do you charge for a sorcerer’s coin good sir?” I responded

“I suppose I could create some coins for you.” He said, boredom creeping into his voice, “Twenty sickles per coin.”

I thanked him for his time and told him that we would consider his offer and left.

As we wandered down the dirt street Moxadder sidled up next to us and suggested we go to a tavern to discuss our findings. I passed on the information that we had gathered, and he responded in kind. He had found out that Quickling had several regular customers, but they usually hid their features with cowls and cloaks and came only once or twice a year.

Our next stop was to visit Messamorph. His home was surrounded by lavish gardens with unusual plants. Some were twice the height of a man, with succulent looking leaves. Another was perhaps four feet tall and its flower looked to be some kind of mouth, a point proven when a honeyeater looking to draw some nectar fluttered into it. Quick as a flash the mouth snapped shut trapping the poor bird. It flapped about, causing buldges in the sealed sphere as it hit the internal walls of the mouth, but after a few moments all motion ceased. A little uneasy, we moved on and into the dwelling of Messamorph.

The interior of his luxurious abode was decorated with curious art works and a single shelf that bore several books. He reflected his surroundings, odd and effeminate.

Argonne and I went through our routine once more, although this time we learnt that Messamorph did not lower himself to producing such trivialities as sorcerer’s coins, so we left after some polite chit chat.

We had to wait until the next day to see Grisha, as it was already late afternoon. We decided to head back and wait for the others.