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

[Haraash Saan]

The following glorious day, in what was becoming a routine, I woke late and prepared myself for yet another combat. My opponent was to be none other than the newest Hydra, Zhontell. He had easily defeated a wizard of some repute by amazingly withstanding his magic assaults before shooting the mage from the sky to which he had magical fled.

My ever growing confidence took pause as I considered my adversary. He was a reasonable archer, so it would do me well to close early, however that would bring his awesome power into play. I had watched his fists and feet delivery almighty blows as they rained down on his opponents. Whilst I felt I could avoid most, he was sure to land a few blows and batter my slight frame.

However, the battle did not follow the course I had predicted. Zhontell was frightened of closing with me, obviously fearing my great speed and the deadly accuracy of my rapier. So instead he chose to attempt to exhaust me.

He would aim and loose a shaft, I would easily dodge it and then charge him down and usually manage a strike through his poor defence, before he ran away and hastily let fly again.

And so it went on. The crowd grew restless, perhaps Zhontell sensed it too, for finally, after sending his tenth shaft at me and bleeding from more than a half dozen wounds, he threw down his bow, stood his ground and did what I had been concerned about. He pummelled me.

The first punch that struck me felt as though I had been slammed in the chest with a boulder. It winded me and caused my own thrust to go awry. I managed two more strikes, staggering Zhontell, but my now ashen faced foe managed one finally almighty blow. I felt it lift me from my feet, but I was unconscious before I hit the ground.

And so the Halfast Games ended for Sir Gerard d’Montfort. With my brilliant swordsmanship I managed to out duel Zmrat and win glory in the individual tourney. And with the other heads of the Hydra, we managed two unlikely victories and an honourable withdrawal from a definite loss. No doubt Baron Yorath would be pleased.

Of my comrades, both Mortec the one armed and Zhontell were the most successful. Both reached the third round of the Apprentice division of the individual Games.

Most impressive was Mortec’s third round bout. He drew a Gerechian Knight, one of the few remaining. Their scarcity indicated that in all likelihood the plate mail clad fanatic was to be a very difficult opponent for a tiny Gnome. But as I have said before, do not underestimate Mortec.

The priest of Todesmagie stood undaunted in the immense arena. His adversary stood calmly opposite him, massive sword gripped in two hands. The crowd sat with baited breath, hoping to see Mortec pulped to a bloodied mess.

“Fight!” came the cry.

The crowd roared and I watched Mortec, unmoving other than his lips calling to his god. The knight rushed forward. Thirty feet away, then twenty, and then a mighty crack appeared in his breastplate. He paused his charge and looked down. Another crack appeared, this one right through the centre of symbol of Gerech painted upon it, and even as he gazed down to his chest his armour exploded!

His helm flew from his head and shards of torn metal struck him, drawing blood from dozens of cuts. The largest impaling itself in his thigh.

It was the laughter that struck me next and then I realised what it was that caused such mirth. The great Gerechian Knight, bloodied and bleeding, was now stark naked, his sword lying useless on the sand and his privates covered by his cupped hands.

A thin lipped smile crept onto Mortec’s face as he strode (with such little steps) forward with palm outstretched, no doubt ready to cause some grievous magical wound. But the knight recovered his awareness of the occasion, uncovered his unmentionables and groped for his sword.

Mortec’s stride turned to a run as he realised that he had no time to soak up the moment, but the knight was faster. His hand found the sword and he swept it from the sand, steel glistening in a wide arc as it struck Mortec with such force that he was lifted from the his feet and thrown some five feet before landing in a crumpled mess.

The little gnome may have lost but the fight but we certainly won the day.

Zhontell’s exploits in the third round were of much less note. He was quickly dispatched by an archer, without landing a retaliatory strike.

Morgan was the only other that achieved a victory. In a grim match and bloody contest he ended the fight by slaying his adversary with a magnificent final thrust through his heart. I could not have done it better myself.

We stayed in Halfast for another two weeks, resting and lapping up the recognition that came with our successes. I spent my time either with the most delectable Melinda or with Freydis studying the magical arts.

The ugly wizardress taught me more about interpreting written magic and even how to copy it down into a book. I asked dozens of questions about how magic worked, or where the power came from, but each time Freydis answered the same way, “It is magic my lord. It is not to be analysed, but harnessed. Do not seek to understand just value and utilise it.”

It was a balmy evening and I was idly chatting about the deeds of the Hydra to some wide-eyed locals in the Inn at the End of the Road. Melinda worked the bar and I was waiting for her to finish for the evening. Thankfully it was a quiet night so that meant she would be free to pursue more pleasurable pursuits sooner.

The large double doors, suddenly swung inward and a bedraggled Moxadder rushed into the room. His head swung around whilst seeking his comrades. Even from my vantage to one side of the room I could see that his eyes were bloodshot and he was under the influence of some narcotic.

 

[Haraash Saan]

For those of you that were reading, and hopefully enjoying the tales of Sir Gerard d'Montfort, I apologise for the significant delay in posting.

Once again I will try to post more often.

For those of you that may not have read about Sir Gerard, please start at the beginning, which as they say, is an excellent place to start.

And without further preamble, the story continues....

 

[Haraash Saan]

He spied me and strode purposefully to my seat, caring not a jot for the attention that he drew to himself.

“Gerard!” he hissed.

Inwardly I shuddered. Why was it that my companions continued to use my given name when they addressed me? “Sir Gerard” or “Sir d’Montfort” was how they should have addressed me. Even “d’Monfort” offered some sort of respect. But what should I expect from peasants that have become too personally familiar with their betters?

“We gotta get out o’ere.” He continued, to addled to notice my discomfort at his frankness in a public room. “Those assassins is after us!”

I smiled to the small crowd that had been hanging on my every word and politely excused myself and my companion and I ushered him upstairs toward my room. As he tramped up the stair case he kept trying to utter similar statements, each time I hushed him with a stern look and raised finger to my lips.

In my room, I sat him down and attempted to stop his incoherent blathering. Now that I could pay him due attention I could see that he was having one of his worse episodes. He was twitching and his hands kept wiping his clammy face.

His eyes danced on his face until a firm slap across his cheek managed to settle him enough to make sense out of him.

He had overheard a conversation between some rather nefarious and well know ne’er-do-wells that the “Hydra was going to get what it had coming to them.” And that the Daregushi was going to get his vengeance on spoiling his banquet plans.
Even as Moxadder said the name “Daregushi” he shuddered and started to convulse with fear. I could get no more from him so instructed him to wait there whilst I assembled the others.

I was not particularly worried. After all why would we expect any retribution for our actions at the banquet some two weeks after the event. Surely it would have already come? In any case the others needed to be told.

At my request the barkeep organised some boys to find my companions and bid them to return to the inn.

Eventually, after some hours, we had all gathered in my now quite cramped quarters. A quick discussion was held and it was decided that we best depart the city for safer climes. Personally I did not feel the need, but we were a company together and they were lost without my leadership. I could not abandon them.

As I had intended to visit Montfort, especially after my knighting and discussions with Isabella about the encroaching barbarians, I decided that we would make our way there. Everyone had unfinished business, even the flighty Moxadder, to attend so I decreed that we would leave the next evening.

Ship’s Cat, fully recovered and very much our friend, was asked to find us a berth on a ship that could take us to the river mouth. A journey by sea would take days off the overland journey.

I chose to spend my last evening with Melinda as blissfully as possible, deciding that telling her of my imminent departure could wait for the next day under more appropriate circumstances.

In the morning I bought what provisions I needed, informed Freydis of our plans and organised a delightful picnic lunch for Melinda and I. A few silver sickles to the barkeep saw him allow her the afternoon for herself.

Pleasantly surprised, and not at all suspicious, she gladly skipped up ahead of me as I lugged the feast behind her. I had chosen a lovely spot in one of the olive groves that overlooked the sprawling chaos that was Halfast.

After we had eaten, and a rolled in the grass beneath the silver green leaves, we sat quietly for a time.

Melinda’s soft and loving voice asked the obvious question. “Why did you bring me here? What is so special about today?”

I knew it would come. Her early enthusiasm had only delayed the questions that she had asked.

In all honesty I fought myself for the right response. One part of me wanted to ignore the intent of the afternoon and leave the day unspoilt, but the other part knew that I did not want to leave her that way. I did greatly care for the girl. No doubt she was a magnificent tumble, but she also was someone I could have a conversation with. Someone that I felt comfortable sharing my thoughts with. And someone whose thoughts and dreams I wanted to listen to.

I rose to my knees and knelt above her. Clasping her hands I said, "My dearest. I have been called away to my lands Montfort. There is unrest there and I must quash it. Whilst I do not wish to leave I must. Duty and obligation call me."

A small gasp escaped her lips and tears welled in her eyes. "But you can take me with you, can't you?" she whispered, choking back the tears.

“I most dearly wish to but alas I fear that the journey is far too dangerous to risk you my fair one.” I replied with all sincerity, “I would never forgive myself if something happened to you on such a perilous adventure.”

And it was true. I did want to take her with me, but the open road in High Summer is no place for a city woman to travel.

“And who will look after me if you’re gone?” her response gilded with the anger that began to well within her.

“You will not have to worry about that my beautiful one. I have some funds that will keep you well and I will endeavour to send more when I can.” I said.

“But even though I want to I cannot stay.” I added as I looked deeply into her eyes.
She turned from my stare, and we sat silent once more for a time, there was nothing more I could say. I lay back on the grass, closed my eyes and reflected on the wonderful times we shared.

After perhaps ten minutes it was my turn to release a gasp. This time it was because Melinda had leapt upon me! My eyes flickered open and I feared the worst, but instead I saw her grinning wickedly.

“I’ll wait for you Sir Gerard d’Montfort, but if you don’t return I’ll come looking for you!” she hissed in mock anger before launching herself passionately onto me.

The sun was low in the sky as we trundled back down the hill and through the gates of the city. We said our farewell in my room. I could hear Melinda’s soft sobs as I closed the door and headed to the harbour.

The sun had set when I arrived at the dock. My comrades were already gathered, even the strangely sober Moxadder, and waited to board the ship. With us were Freydis, who had accepted my offer as escort on her return journey to Montfort and Ship’s Cat who sought to put recent events behind her and start out afresh.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Chapter 11 – Home Sweet Home

The night passed uneasily for me. The crash of waves against the timber hull and the constant lurching of the vessel had me somewhat fearful. It did not help that the thoughts that plagued me were of our cowardly flight. I too had been keen to leave Halfast, although admittedly I had made no effort to organise my departure, and had succumbed to the apparent urgency of our changed circumstance. However now that I could reflect, it seemed inappropriate to flee under the cover of darkness and not allow the still adoring Halfastian’s the thrill of seeing their heroes once more. In fact I was actually angry that we had left like beaten dogs, tails trailing between our legs. It was not a fit way for a knight of the realm to travel!

The taste of salty wetness woke me. I spat and groped in the darkness for my skin of water and rinsed my mouth from the ocean water that had dripped into it from the timbers above. I rose cautiously, grasping the walls to steady myself against the constant rocking.

As I stumbled to the door Morgan, who I had not realised was also awake, called out softly from a corner of the room, “It is no use Gerard, our hosts have barred the door and it is stuck fast.”

“Barred?” I stated incredulously. “What do you mean barred?” I continued somewhat foolishly. It was quite obvious what Morgan had meant.

I sighed, sat down, leaning against the wall, and waited. It must have been close to midday before we heard the bar being lifted. During the morning my companions had woken, argued and yelled out. Argonne wanted to break the door open, but I managed to dissuade him. Whatever it was they wanted it would be easier to discuss their terms if they were not angered by our actions.

The door was pulled open, the rusted hinges groaning with effort. A hooded lantern shone into our prison, and was hooked on a nail beside the door.

It took me a moment to accustom myself to the light. A large and burly man stood in the doorway, behind him I could count at least seven others crowding the corridor.

“Mornin’ me lads.” He said jovially to us as he licked his cracked lips. “I’m Trev, firs’ mate aboar’ the Blue Mongrel.”

Before any of us could protest at our treatment Trev continued with another lick of his lips, “De ‘onorable Blue Pirat’ Platard wants ‘is payment.”

“Excuse me, Trev, but we have already paid your good Captain his fees.” I replied rather naively.

“Ah yeah, that you did. But the Cap’in wan’s ‘is otha money. The way ‘e sees it, you owe him anotha two hun’red sickles each fer safe passage. So be good and cough it up.” Said Trev with a wicked grin and another lip lick.

Well, to say we erupted would be an understatement. Harsh words were spoken by all. Weapon’s were threatened to be drawn, Trev’s boys tensed, but in the end Trev averted violence. “Firs’ly, you reckon you lot, can take on the entire ship’s crew, landlubbers the lot of ye? I think not.”

At this there was more bravado from the Hydra, but with raised hands Trev hushed us once more. Again his tongue forked out across his dry lips, “Are you gunna pay or not?”

“No sir we will not!” I exclaimed defiantly.

The smug first mate smiled, his tongue once again ventured across its crusty path, and closed the door. As the bolt thudded back into place we could all hear the laughter from Trev’s men.

We chose not to resist because Trev was right, there was no point. We would have lost our lives trying to engage the entire crew. So now we grumbled and waited once more. It was not a long wait.

A bead of sunlight suddenly lanced into our dingy quarters. A small hole, no larger than a fist, had been uncovered directly above us. Morgan was the first to act, he quickly organised to climb Zhontell’s shoulders and plug the hole. He stood a moment on the elf, a strange totem the pair made, reaching to stuff a cloth in the hole. But then with a splutter and a cough he fell with thump to the floor. As Zhontell strung his bow (somewhat pointlessly), Mortec assessed the fallen Fastendian.

“He’s unconscious!” the Gnome rasped, coughing a little.

A twang and accompanying thud sounded the result of Zhontell’s first and last arrow. He never managed another shot because he too fell unconscious to the floor.

“Their poisoning us!” cried Argonne as he dragged his shirt over his mouth, but alas it was too late, he fell face forward, thankfully across the prone Morgan.

I grabbed a handy kerchief and quickly tied it across my own and surveyed our situation. The women had slumped in a corner. Strav was trying to cast some strange magics, we never found out his intent because he did not manage to complete his spell. Moxadder seemed unaffected by the gas that was being pumped into the room, but then he had contributed nothing to the days proceedings thus far as he had taken his own narcotics the previous evening and was yet to recover. Mortec and I still stood.

The mighty hammer of Holton, Mortec’s prized possession lay against the hull, beside were he had slept.

“Grab the hammer!” I yelled whilst pointing to the door.

The little Gnome reacted instantly, cursing himself for not thinking of it earlier as he swung his first blow against the thick wooden door.

Bang! The massive hammer’s head smashed against the door. Three times the Gnome struck it, before he too succumbed to the noxious vapours. It was left to me, to try to breakthrough and suck in that sweet salty air.

Bang! Bang! Bang! I relentlessly pounded the door with all my feeble might. My lungs felt heavy with the gas and my arms ached at the effort of swinging the huge hammer. Nausea and dizziness began to creep over me. I mouthed a silent prayer to Srcan goddess of both the bold enterprise I was attempting and the hope that I had and swung my last blow against the timber door.

There was an almighty crash! The door exploded outward, ripped off its hinges. The hammer was torn from my grip., embedded in the hole that it had rent in the door.

I lurched forward, propelled by the ship’s roll and hands upon knees, gasped in dank air whilst coughing out the poison.

“Ha ha ha!” laughed Trev. “Now wha’ you gunna do?”

Slowly I raised my head and smiled. “Negotiate.”

After Trev and his boys’ mirth had subsided I managed to convince them, with brilliant bluster, bluff and double talk, to accept three hundred silver sickles (one hundred more than they had wanted in the first place I might add!) from each of us for the safe passage that Blue Pirate Platard promised, instead of killing us and taking all of our possessions.

Three days later they set us ashore at the mouth of the river Rarnas as originally planned. We had all of our belongings, sans a significant amount of money, and other than our pride, we were unharmed.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Our journey to Montfort continued along the dusty and barren roads of Guerney. Due to the oppressive heat Burn was never a good month to travel, yet because of the timing of our journey thankfully we met few travellers and experienced no hostilities. We rested in villages and hamlets when we could, but for the most part spent the cold nights camped under the stars.

It was a difficult and dreadfully boring journey but eventually after many days and with only a minor, and fruitless side trip to Thessingcourt (I had intended to present myself to the Baron but he was not holding court during Burn), our party arrived at my beloved Montfort, sans Ship’s Cat, who stayed in Thessingcourt.

By the time we could see Montfort the air was already thick with the sickly aroma of honey from the surrounding apiaries. Montfort was famous for its honey and more importantly the mead that it produced.

The town itself was nestled in the meeting place of the great river Arinas and its tributary Cel. Although the land itself was flat other than the hillock from which the town got its name. Over one hundred years ago, before the Convocation of Gerech had ravished the lands ‘cleansing’ it of heretics, there stood a modest tower that acted as a sentinel for the river traffic. Now not even rubble remained. Stone was a valuable commodity and it had been stolen from the site over the years to help with constructions of the expanding town.

As we approached the first of the timber buildings of the town proper, a nasally voice called out to us, “Hail travellers! Welcome to Montfort.”

A wiry man sat in the shade of a house, his chair leaning back against its wall.

“Thank you.” I said, as I rode up to him striking my most regal pose.

“That is a splendid mount sir.” Said the man, commenting on the stead I had purchased in a hamlet many miles before. “But unfortunately I’ll have to ask for ten sickles for its entrance to town and another three for you and each of your companions.” He added with a sly smile.

“Really? You Kerik,“ I had recognised my tax collector in the instant I heard his whining voice, “tax me, Sir Gerard d’Montfort?”

So startled was he that he leapt from his comfortable seat, sending his chair tumbling to the dust.

“My lord! Please forgive me, I, er, must be suffering from the intense heat.” He bumbled in apology.

“Ha ha.” I chuckled good naturedly, “Have no fear Kerik I appreciate your vigilance.”

I reached into my coin purse and threw him the appropriate coinage to cover the tax. You may think I am mad for paying my own tax, but my reasoning was simple. Firstly I will get most of it back, and secondly, my companions were also forced to pay tax after following my own example. I can afford none charity, after all, lording over a town sucks significant expenses.

Word spread quickly, I know not how, but before we had travelled half way along the main thoroughfare there were townsfolk peering out of the windows and children laughing and cheering as they ran alongside my party. Before long there was quite a procession following us.

We rounded a corner at the Drunk Duck, a fine establishment where I had enjoyed many a mead, and I saw my mayor, Hallkel, a tall and lanky man, well past his fortieth year, fussing over his coat and studiously brushing at his sleeves.

“My lord.” He said bowing low. “What a great and unexpected pleasure it is to see you back home.” He was not much one for toadying, and he had been a faithful and trusted advisor of the family for many a year, so I graciously accepted his words.

“Thank you Hallkel. It is good to be back.” I said.

Whilst my companions took quarters at the Drunk Duck I spent the rest of the afternoon with Hallkel discussing with the affairs of Montfort, with Kerik discussing the financial state of the town and also with Valgerd the captain of the few guards I kept and the peasant militia.

Hallkel confirmed Isabella’s rumours that barbarians had been sighted in the lands of Treville directly north of Montfort, although none had been seen on this side of the river.

He also spoke of the unusual reports that children had been kidnapped by the denizens of the forest. Some farmers had even been found naked and with no memory of their own abduction by the wicked beings of the forest depths.

Further, the tales mothers told their children to frighten them off venturing into the forest, were still being told. Strange lights and music were often seen and heard on the eaves of the great woods. It was all nonsense of course but as I sat an listened I displayed a face of thought and care.

Montfort was essentially surrounded by forest. North and also east across the rivers, the trees continued for what would be several days walk. Even to the west and south, passed the tilled lands of Montfort lay more forest.

The news that was most disturbing was that of bandits who had raided both the river trade and the merchants’ wagons on the road to and from Thessingcourt. They had caused cessation of trade to and from Montfort due to the fear that merchants’ guild had over their stock and, to a lesser extent, their guild members safety.

My first order of the day was to send out trackers into the woods to see if they could find any sign of either the barbarians or the brigands. My theory being that if they could find the bandits lair then I could resolve that problem and then ease the fear that kept merchants travelling through Monfort and hence be able to once more tax their goods.

Moxadder and Argonne joined the contingent of five trackers that left Montfort the next morning. They each travelled in a separate direction with instructions to travel one and half days into the forest, before returning by a different route.

The next three days passed quickly. I, for the most part, saw townsfolk that requested my audience and dealt with more affairs of the town. Although one evening I did manage to communicate with Isabella by using the scarf she had sent me. Unfortunately she had no news of barbarians, and had only heard rumours of the bandits. They were yet to cause impact to the one inn in Treville.

The trackers found little in regard to the brigands other than older tracks, but Moxadder and Argonne both had interesting stories to tell.

Argonne had found many very recent barbarian tracks on this side of the Arinas. This raised my fears somewhat as it was the first notification that I had had that they were so close to Montfort, if not already past it.

More interesting was an encounter that he only narrowly escaped. On the evening of his return journey he had sighted a flickering flame in the forest. He carefully crept up to a clearing in which the blaze had been lit and saw strange beings from myth and fable.

Three huge brutish men, at least ten feet tall and weighing over eight hundred pounds, sat around the fire and spoke in some strange bestial tongue. They wore crude clothing made of animal hide, and one even wore a horrible necklace of skulls. Argonne’s description very much fit the tales I had heard of a race of Giants that lived in the mountains north of Guerney. Not only was their very existence a shock, but the fact that they were in my lands was possibly even more puzzling.

Quite wisely Argonne decided to avoid any contact with them, and he made camp elsewhere that night. The next morning he once again surveyed their camp, but had found that they had already gone. Further investigation showed that they had indeed come from the north and were heading roughly south east.

As always Moxadder’s news was somewhat suspect, but it ended up being the only real information that I could use to track the brigands.

Not only did he find fresh barbarian tracks, but also recent tramplings of the sturdy boots of men. Of course I was somewhat sceptical after he revealed that he had found them after he had experienced what I could only call a drug induced fantasy.

On his first night away from Montfort he swore that he was visited by glowing fairies that tried to tempt him with promises of the flesh. Whilst we all thought it a complete fabrication he brought back with him a strange bone spear that was etched with Faerie markings that Zhontel recognised. He had found it the next morning, not far from his camp site, amongst a group of naked and very dead humans. It appeared that not only had they been seduced but the smiles on their faces showed that they had at least enjoyed their last moments. However the most interesting thing was not the confirmation of an old wives tale, but the fact, according to our very dubious source, that two of the corpses bore the same tattoo of a demonic skull that symbolised Orsa Terminus. It seemed that the bandits in the forest very no ordinary roughians and thugs. They were agents of the Dominion.

 

[Haraash Saan]

It was a bright a warm morning on the fifteenth of High Summer when the Hydra set off to learn the origin of the dead men that Moxadder had found. We crossed Cel with the rising sun just beginning to creep over the seemingly endless forest.

Moxadder was quick to find the corpses, now somewhat ravaged by the forests animals, but discernable in any case. The smell was most foul and I left it to Argonne and Moxadder to try and find any tracks that they had left.

“This way.” Waved Argonne as he rose from ground on which he had knelt and inspected.

I hurried off quickly, thankful to away from the stench of the corpses. Not even my kerchief could mask the vile smell.

A few more hours past whilst we slowly followed the dead men’s trail until, with darkness slowly washing over the surrounds, we discovered a stone wall. It was as good a place as any to make camp, and with the light almost gone we had little choice.

The new day revealed that we had camped against the outer wall of an ancient ruin. After a brief search Zhontell revealed that it was Elfish in origin, although he knew not for how long it had stood, nor when it had been destroyed.

Curious though I was we had a more pressing agenda, so once again Argonne took the lead and we marched off through the trackless forest.

During the days journey Moxadder often scampered off this way and that, looking at various shrubs and trees, and occasionally scratching up some dirt. He was looking for various berries, tubers and roots that he no doubt hoped would provide him with another concoction to experiment with. It really was quite remarkable that he was alive. The amount of herbs and poisons that I had seen him readily, if not eagerly, inhale or ingest was incredible.

However his activities did provide some unexpected information. A half hour after our midday break had concluded his head popped up through the branches of a small shrub and said somewhat sulkily, “This is odd. There aint no berries or nuthin’ ‘round here. All the plants have been picked clean.”

Argonne looked up from the path he had been following, “Means that someone lives close by. They’ve been harvesting.”

As soon as he said this we became suddenly wary. Swords were loosened and arrows were nocked. No person in their right mind lived this far into the forest, so it could only be the brigands. We were close to our prey.

Once again we set off, although this time there was no idle discussion as there had been. No, now we were alert and each one of us were listening and looking for any trace of the brigands.

An hour or two before dusk Argonne broke our silence.

“You don’t see that everyday.” He spat out in surprise.

I followed his gaze off to the right and saw three massive skins that had been spreadeagled and nailed between several tree trunks. Stupefied at what could have done this to three huge creatures we wandered over to further inspect them.

They looked very much to be the remnants of the giant creatures that Argonne had seen a few days earlier. Moxadder found that signs of a recent battle, maybe only a day old, between the three giant brutes and a massive number of barbarians. There were some crude broken weapons strewn about a large area that had the vegetation flattened by both the large feet of the giants and the hobnailed boots of the barbarians. Eventually Mortec found twelve burial mounds each with a small totem that I recognised were those used by the barbarian folk.

After his first campaign to the wilds of the north, Absquith had brought me back one such totem that had been worn by a barbarian that he had killed.

Our curiosity sated, and feeling a little relieved that the hordes tracks had continued due south, we moved back to the trail we had been slowly following and continued our own journey.

At mid-morning the next day we were once again stopped. This time it was Zhontell that called to cease the march.

“I can smell smoke burning a little ways to the south.” He said, eyes closed and head tilted back a little.

“Oh yeah. I smell it now.” said Argonne. “We had best go investigate. You lot wait here for us.”

It sounded a prudent plan, they were the two most useful scouts, discounting Moxadder who had been smoking something all morning. It may be the brigands, so it was worth further investigation.

An hour later Argonne returned bringing news of an old woman living alone in a cottage. He had left Zhontell there to further question the crone, and come back to report the situation.

“She’s the one that has been gathering all the berries and such.” Argonne said.

At least we did not have to be so watchful for brigands. It seemed that we had been mistaken and we were not as close to them as we had thought.

Whilst they had been away a steady drizzle had started and we were all rather irritable and miserable, so there was no hesitation in deciding to go and see the old lady ourselves.

Soon we stood huddled around her small cooking fire trying to dry our sodden clothes.

She was a weather beaten little thing who was a very long way past her prime. “Come, have shum shoup.” she said with a smile that revealed toothless gums.

Whilst I declined, after my ordeal in Halfast I was still a trifle suspicious of food I did had not seen prepared, the others heartily accepted her kind offer.

After my companions had had their fill, and incidentally drained the previously full cauldron we set about questioning our host.

As it so happened she had secretly left Montfort many years ago after “troublesh in Montfort.” There had been a death and she, Yasmina and her sister Imelda had been implicated. Yasmina, the eldest decided to flee the town and therefore assume guilt, so that her sister could live an unhindered life.

She knew nothing of the brigands, nor the barbarians. “No one ‘ash come calling exshept for you and occashionally my shishter. Perhapsh you could ashk the Foeldiansh. They ushd to live shum three daysh from ‘ere but I ‘aven’t sheen them for a long time. Sho I don’t really know if they are shtill there or not. But if anyone can ‘elp they will be able to.”

The rain eventually cleared and we once again set off, after thanking Yasmina for her hospitality. An hour or so later Morgan approached me and whispered, “Gerard have you see the large orange and black cat?”

I had no idea what the Fastendian was talking about and told him so.

He quietened me with a sharp “Shh” accompanied by a finger across his lips.

“I don’t want Strav to here about the cat. You know what he gets like.” Said Morgan softly.

How could I forget the incident with Grecha the dwarf’s cat? I could still see the harmless creature nailed with a crossbow bolt to the wall of the dwarf’s home.

“Well what about this cat?” I questioned.

“A few of us have seen it over the last day or so. It is as big as the lion we poisoned during the Baron’s trials. We think it is following us. We must be cautious. If you do see it let everyone bar Strav know.” He said.

Most unusual. I would have to keep an eye out for the cat. I certainly did not want to become its dinner.

The rest of the day and indeed that evening passed uneventfully, however not long after we commenced the days travel we arrived at the crest of a small hill. It afforded us the luxury of our first real look at the massive expanse of forest before us. As far as the eye could see there was a sea of green, rippling like waves in the light breeze.

“What’s that?” queried Morgan as he pointed off to the east, a little off the route we had been taking.

I squinted but could not make out what it was that he was gesturing to.

“That’s smoke, that is.” Said the eagle eyed Argonne. “There you can see a column of it yonder.”

Again I peered off in the direction that was indicated, and again I could see nothing, however the others grunted affirmation.

Our curiosity was peaked and we were hopeful that we would find the bandits that we sought near the source of the smoke so we changed course and trekked once more through the wilderness, this time toward the smoke.

Several hours passed before Zhontell scented the ash smell of smoke. “We are near.” He said. “Perhaps another hour, not more I wouldn’t think as the wind is not strong enough to push the smoke further.”

Soon the smell of the fire was obvious to all. We decided to send Moxadder forward to scout the lay of the land and see what it was that was burning.

We waited maybe ten minutes before we heard our unreliable friend emit a high pitched squeal. “Don’t shoot me!”

Then chaos erupted.

 

[Haraash Saan]

Quick as a flash my friends’ weapons were drawn and they charged off through the trees to aid Moxadder.

I entered a clearing to see my companions in close quarters with several armed men. Just beyond them was the source of the smoke, a huge pyre had been built and the smoke that it made wafted across the battle field.

My rapier was in my hand in an instant and soon it joined the fray. Whilst I cannot recall much of the detail of the encounter I can say we eventually triumphed and took three captives.

Two were poorly clothed, they wore simple woodsman’s garb, and were armed with hatchets. The other man wore a suit of leather armour and had wielded a short steel blade. It was he we questioned first.

As it so happened their group was a company of brigands headed toward the Montfort – Thessingcourt road to work their mischief. However they themselves were assailed by a large group of barbarians.

Moxadder confirmed that the barbarians had indeed been at the clearing as there were several wicked and crude blades not the make of any that a civilised man would carry.

The bandits had been outnumbered and quickly tried to cut their losses by fleeing. The ones that we had just fought had returned this morning to burn their dead. Hence the pyre.

Upon hearing this news and realising exactly what it was that had been burning all this time I gagged a little and quickly fixed a kerchief across my nose and mouth. I doubt even Todesmagie knew what breathing in the dead would do to someone.

Unfortunately for us our questioned captive became less helpful when we asked for details regarding the bandit camp. Try as we might he would yield no more information, so Argonne took matters into his own hands, well his axe’s blade.

Before any of us could even think to protest that evil axe had plummeted upon the man’s wrist and severed his hand. I was too shocked, in retrospect I know not why, to act, however Morgan quickly assessed the situation and acted to cauterise the wound in the hot ash at the base of the fire.

The man screamed in agony as the heat seared his wound, the pain so great that he passed out.

“So, are you two going to be helpful?” said Argonne with a cocked eyebrow to our two conscious prisoners.

Two hurried mute nods gave him the answer we all wanted. They told us that they were Foeldians, worshipers of nature and peaceful folk that lived in the forest. Some months before their leader, Hermaeon, had returned from a trip to Thessingcourt with several new ‘friends’. These ‘friends’ were revealed to be brigands and in time, with Hermaeon’s blessing, they had introduced their friends into the Foeldian community.

Such was the trust that the Foeldian’s had in their leader that none openly questioned his motives, but it became apparent very quickly that their lives had changed to be that of outlaws and bandits.

Soon they were being organised by Hermaeon’s ‘friends’ into groups like the one that we just defeated to raid the roads and rivers north of Thessingcourt. Whilst the Foeldian’s disliked their new life they accepted it because their leader had sanctioned the activities.

However not three weeks ago Hermaeon disappeared and Korb, the leader of the newcomers had assumed leadership of the Foeldians and they began to realise that somehow Hermaeon had been tricked with false promises.

One of the newcomers that Korb had brought with him was a man named Saeff. I knew him from the courts of Thessingcourt. He was a weasel of a man, barely tolerated by most in the court as he was the bastard son of Sir Gwan of Stowmarket and some whore that he bedded. Stowmarket was the most immediate lands to the North East of Montfort, and the town there was significantly larger than Montfort. Sir Gwan, a fierce knight of Baron Mendus, had died several years before on the steppes fighting the barbarians, and it is said the his wife Lady Gyda, also a knight of Mendus, slew the chieftain that had slain her husband and caused the rout of the barbarian tribe. Since his fathers death, Saeff had become even more ostracised by the nobility. Lady Gyda would not have him in her keep at Stowmarket. So he fell in with some ruffians and eventually was seen as one with some talent in the arcane arts and trained by the great court wizard Lamron. That was the last I had heard of Saeff, but it appears that his fall from society had continued and that he had ignored the redemption offered to him by Lamron.

Many of the Foeldians secretly left the camp to start afresh elsewhere, but to put and end to their manpower leaving the bandits held the remaining Foeldian men’s families prisoner and forced them to continue their evil work.

So distrusted had the Foeldians become that they were blind folded when they left and returned from the camp. The bandits camp was a series of caves that held a lake that in turn fed a stream that exited the caves’ mouth, yet Ty and Ob, the names of our remaining captives, knew not the specifics of its location.

We bound them, unsure as to what to do with them. I pitied them somewhat. They had just been used and their families threatened and had no love for their present predicament. I could not blame them for the thievery that had been taking place, but I longed to meet Korb. He had an appointment with either the hangman’s noose or my blade.

Meanwhile Moxadder had continued to search the battle field and found only one thing that was interesting. It was a map! It had been tucked into the shoe of one of the well armed corpses. Not surprising really that Moxadder found it.

It was a small piece of hide that had been crudely drawn on. However it gave us enough information to set off at once. We changed our heading to back to the south east and made our way to a stream that had been marked on the map as one that ran from cross on the map marked ‘Caves’.

We camped, Ty and Ob in tow (the handless prisoner had died during our conversation with the other two), by the running water. I was exhausted and quickly fell asleep with the sound of water splashing over rocks echoing into my dreams.

I woke in the darkness of the early morning to the crack of thunder overhead. Even as I rubbed my eyes the rain started to come down.

It was a miserable mornings travel, for the storm did not pass until after midday, but we were glad when it did. We were all thoroughly sodden and drenched. Only Argonne, who had begun to whistle a tune, seemed to be chirpy with our situation.

Not long after the rain had passed to wash some other part of the forest clean, a huge black and orange cat walk straight across our path. It and we momentarily stopped. We stared at it and it stared right back.

Strav broke the eerie scene by choking a cry out. “Cat!”

The spell seemed broken for it bounded away into the forest with Strav in hot pursuit screaming all manner of angry obscenities.

“I’ll get him.” said Argonne as he too joined the chase.

I hoped he meant Strav, that cat looked as though it could tear them both to shreds. An idea that was proven soon after.

Mortec and Morgan chose to investigate where the cat had wandered from and found a mauled corpse of a trapper that I recognised as one that serviced Montfort. He was a long way from Montfort lands, but it looked as though he had got more than he bargained for when he tracked the cat that was to be is ultimate prize.

We waited perhaps an hour before a frustrated and still angry Strav was escorted back to us by Argonne. Thankfully they did not manage to find the cat. The consequence of course was that we had to put up with his cat curses for the rest of the day.

A good nights sleep was again not forth coming. A scream, Argonne’s, woke the entire camp and quite possibly the entire forest just after midnight.

 

[Haraash Saan]

We found him soon after, charred, burnt and in shock. He mumbled something about being attacked by something from within a tree.

“Arms came out of the tree!” he spouted excitedly. “They tried to drag me into the tree but I managed to fight them off.”

“Then a horrible tree like face with fangs came from within the tree and tried to maul me!” he continued.

I do not doubt that the others felt the same as I, Argonne was hysterical. It had been his watch, and there was no doubt that something had happened, but nothing he had said so far sounded plausible.

“But just as it launched itself at me again a huge lightening bolt struck the tree sending me sprawling and totally destroying the tree and hopefully the thing in it.” He said breathlessly.

Just as I was about to pacify and calm him in an attempt to ease his delusions Moxadder spoke.

“Sounds to me like a Tree Troll.” He said in a rare moment of clarity. “I heard me about them. Real nasty buggers. Best keep our eyes open for it. I doubt that lightening would have fried it.”

Even as we tried to get more information from the Fastendian his eyes glazed over. He was back in his happy place.

An uneasy night followed. Nightmares of wicked trees trying to catch me as I ran through a forest consumed my mind.

I was exhausted when I woke, but relieved that only my mind had tried to torment me.

At midday we found the source of the stream. The map had been right!

A large pool had formed underneath a waterfall that spewed forth from a cave mouth some fifty feet above the water. This was the bandit’s lair! Or so we thought.

As we peered at the landscape before us a strange little blue creature popped out of the water next to the waterfall, fish in his mouth, and scampered up the slippery rock face before disappearing into the cave.

My first thought was that it was some strange pet of the brigands. As was to be proved later I was not entirely wrong.

We watched the cave and its environs for two hours and saw no more sign of life.

There was no obvious path to access the cave and the sheer cliff above it allowed us no entrance if we were to climb the hill that it sat in.

“I’ve an idea.” Said Mortec slyly.

And so he did. He had discovered some time ago that a ring that he had fancied and taken as part of his share of Rumscully Jack’s treasure was one that enabled its wearer to walk over water!

He suggested the Moxadder borrow the ring, use it to cross the pool and try to make his way up the cliff, then drop a rope down for the rest of us to climb.

It was a sound plan with only one catch. There was no way I was going to swim in some unknown pool, filled with who knew what.

The others, full of empty sympathy suggested that I act as the rear guard. Taken aback at their lack of respect I huffed away and tried to find another way up to the cave.

I found a worn animal track, to narrow for a human, that seemed to wind its way up from the right hand edge of the pool, to somewhere near the cave mouth.

With this new news I hurried back to the others to find that, to a man they had already taken Mortec’s damp route. Even as I looked Strav clamoured over the edge of the cliff. He stood for a moment as if assessing what was before him, blew the horn he had taken from the booty of Rumscully Jack, and charged into the cave!

Something was happening, but from my vantage at ground level I could not see. Nor could I hear over the pounding of the waterfall.

There was nothing for it. I had to swallow my pride, and private fears, and braved the waters. I stripped down to my undergarments, strapped my rapier to my back and strode into the chilly waters.

I shivered involuntarily as the water soon engulfed me and I swam as best as I could to the dangling salvation that was the rope.

The water itself was refreshingly cold. There was no imagined slime or grasping plant, but I still paddled with apprehension. I would be much happier with earth (or rock) under foot.

The roar of the waterfall crashing against rock and water alike was deafening. The rope swayed, moved by the force of the falling water, as I groped for it. My grasping hand closed, once, twice, three times on air until finally I managed to clutch it.

I hauled myself slowly out of the water, and managed to prop my legs against the rock wall. Hand over hand I took care to check my grip each time I pulled myself up the rope.

Even as I child I had never been a climber. I had not ever had a need to climb. Perhaps that is why I felt strangely invigorated by such a simple thing. I could feel my lungs puffing and my heart pounding within my chest. My arms felt knotted and I felt alive.

In short time I stood at the cave mouth, covered with dirt that clung to my saturated undergarments although at that moment I did not realise it for I now understood why Strav had charged into the cave.

Even though there was the remnants of a strange fog still licking at their heels, I could see that my comrades were hard pressed in combat. Mortec, Strav, Argonne and Zhontell stood toe to toe with a huge monstrous tree like creature and a huge wolf! The Forest Troll, for that is what I took it for, towered over them, and even as I witnessed the spectacle it struck Argonne with a mighty blow that crashed him against a wall. Morgan already lay in a pool of blood at its feet!

I felt something within me stir. I was furious! Even now I know not why I felt the rage that I did. Was it the mortal peril that my comrades faced? Or perhaps it was the contempt I felt for myself for not being here with them earlier? Whatever it was it woke some strange power within me.

I strode forward and cried out words I did not understand, and unconsciously thrust forward my palm. A jet of flame shot out from it and struck the troll in the chest with such force that the massive creature stumbled back, fighting for balance as it slapped its chest trying to put out the flames that now encased it.

My comrades wasted no time! They renewed their efforts and began hacking and slashing it with great gusto seeking to gain the advantage.

Mortec, perhaps sensing that Morgan was losing his fight for life took the opportunity to lay his hands upon him whilst mouthing some ancient prayer to Todesmagie.

Morgan’s eyes flickered open and in an instant he had leapt to his feat, sword in hand and delivered the killing the thrust that penetrated the trolls bark-like skin so much so that the sword was buried to the hilt in the beast and was ripped from Morgan’s hand as it fell backwards.

The wolf, seeing the troll downed, fled past the blades of my comrades and disappeared out of the cave mouth.

“Come back ‘ere!” screamed Moxadder from behind me.

I spun quickly, for I had noticed him before. He had been in the shadows of a natural passageway fighting (judging from the three corpses) strange little blue creatures like the one we had seen crawl out of the pool.

Now I saw Moxadder running, screaming toward the edge of the waterfall. He was in hot pursuit of one of the creatures. However it took no heed of the height of the cliff and dove straight off to plummet into the waiting pool below.

Such was Moxadder’s determination and catching his foe that he almost followed suit, but managed to catch himself even as he slipped at the lip of the rock. Instead he sated himself with more cursing.

I discovered that my comrades had encountered several of the large wolves and the blue creatures in the caves and had been attack by them. Whilst the combat raged the Forest Troll had appeared from a corridor had had decisively swung the confrontation in our opponents favour. Thankfully I had arrived when I did to tip the ultimate balance to our advantage.

Although my companions questioned me ad nauseam I could not satisfy their, or my own, questions about what it was that I had done to cause the flame. There was no doubt that it was magical, but it was almost as if I had been acting without will. I would have to query Isabella about the strange event. If I could learn how to control it, I would have a powerful weapon at my disposal.

 

[Haraash Saan]

We spent several hours searching the cave system. It was not brigands lair as we had guessed. Within what was the Forest Trolls adobe we found several crumbling pillars that were etched with strange runes and words. Argonne surprised us all when he translated it for us. He could not explain how he could read the ancient texts but he was positive that he read them correctly and they identified this place as a place of worship for Foeld.

Whilst that was a curious discovery in itself, more interesting was the contents of the troll’s larder. Other than various mauled animals, birds hanging from hooks, fish that had been strung up and barrels of vinegared wine, we found a man. More amazingly we was still alive, and given that one of his legs and been literally torn off.

There were more surprises to come. The prisoner was none other than the Foeldian leader, Hermaeon. After tending to his severe wound, including more blessings from Todesmagie, and removing the unusual poultice that was in place on it, we managed to hear his tale.

Several weeks before, during the middle of the night he was woken from his cot in the bandits’ caves by a gag being shoved into his mouth. He fought his assailants back but his resistance was short lived. A whack to the back of his head was the last thing he felt before walking in bright sunlight by the edge of the pool, now bound and trussed like a pig.

From there he had been taken by the Forest Troll and kept, starving, in the larder until this very morning the troll had decided to tear his leg from its socket and devour it. He regained consciousness when he heard our fight with the troll and its minions.

Even though Hermaeon had been so grievously injured he was more than willing to answer all our questions regarding the his old home.

The route to get there was quite simple. The map we had followed had deliberately set a false trail that would lead us to this cave, however it also contained information that would lead us to the bandits.

In the centre of the map was a circle marked with the word ‘Menhir’. That marking indicated a large rock that stuck out from the earth and was used by the Foeldians as a landmark to guide their way home. For their own home, more caves, were located only three hours due east from the menhir.

He even sketched a map of the cave system of the bandits on the dirt floor of the larder. It showed the main entrance, trees that were used as sentinel posts and even, perhaps most importantly, a hidden entrance to the caves.

We quickly formulated a plan of attack on the bandit lair. Under cover of darkness we would avoid the guards in the sentinel trees and use the hidden entrance to gain quick and unnoticed access to the caves.

Once inside we would murder, for there is not other word for it, the brigands that slept in the main chamber of the ground floor, for there was a lower level where most kept their quarters. Once that foul work was done we would reassess our next course of action.

We reasoned that twenty bandits that were asleep on the upper level could be nullified quickly and quietly by the Hydra, but for the others perhaps another plan would be required.

That evening, for it had taken the rest of the day to search the troll’s home, question Hermaeon and slowly gather our possessions and carry them up the ridiculously narrow track I had found earlier, we freed Ty and Ob from their bonds and reintroduced them to their former leader.

Their joy was quickly replaced by anger at the betrayal that had been suspected but was now confirmed. The Hydra had just managed to recruit two more willing bodies in our fight against the brigands.

There was one cavern in the cave complex that seemed to have been unoccupied, so it was there that we bedded down for the night.

When we woke Strav had his own tale to tell. His watch during the previous evening had been somewhat exciting, well for him in any case. The large orange and black cat had appeared at the edge of the pool, and after lapping some water (whilst Strav was fumbling for his crossbow and a quarrel), it sat down and watched the entrance to the cave.

Strav had felt it too good to be true, so when he finally and loaded the bolt he took careful aim and let it fly. The satisfying, to Strav in any case, howl of pain signalled that his aim was true. And with that the cat bounded off back into the forest.

The morning had also revealed that a storm was once again pelting the forest with rain, so we felt no great urgency to move on from the dry cave.

A few hours into the day Morgan returned to our cavern, he had been on watch at the cave mouth, and said “The cat’s back.” And with a glare at Strav he added, “And it is limping.”

What did this cat want with us? Why was it watching us?

Even as these thoughts crept into my head I saw Strav scrambling once more for his bow.

“Stop him!” I cried, “He will do more harm than good.”

But it was too late, Strav had already dashed to the cave mouth, bow and quiver in hands.

We arrived moments later, just as he was once again loading his mighty crossbow, only to see the cat give us one last look before hobbling into the forest.

“Damn!” cried Strav as he snapped a bolt in his hands, such was his frustration that he had not been able to loose another shaft and the defenceless feline.

His anger made me happy. I saw no reason behind his actions. The cat had done nothing to us, and if anything it was a curiosity that was worth investigating further.

As we turned to head back into the cave the rain stopped and the sun burst through the clouds. We could finally continue our journey, this time heading toward the menhir.

Hermaeon would not be left behind so Argonne quickly fashioned a stretcher and Ty and Ob acted as its bearers.

Several hours after departing the Forest Trolls cave, Morgan called out, “There!” and pointed, “The menhir.”



And there it was, no more than one hundred feet off to our left. A giant rock, fifteen feet high, protruding out of the ground. We saw that it was in the centre of a clearing and was covered by vines that also radiated out from its base. Underneath the vines that enshrouded it there were glimpses of bright silver. Like metal reflecting in the sunlight.

We all had moved into the clearing and Argonne had decided to take a closer look at this unusual monolith. As he stepped onto the vines, he cried out in surprise. The vine on which he had trodden on had whipped around and grappled his leg. Even as he tried to free himself he was suddenly lifted high into the air, almost directly above the menhir!

 

[Haraash Saan]

As one the bows of the Hydra were nocked, shafts were loosed into the vines. Unfortunately they seemed to have little effect, for the vines at the base of the menhir scrambled away and cleared a space. They revealed a most unusual sight, if the vines actions in themselves were not unusual enough. A strange plant like maw with large spikes stretched out of the gap that the vines had made and snapped enticingly at Argonne, who was still being swung about by the vine that had grabbed him, and then it let go!

Argonne fell straight toward the gaping mouth and in one giant bite he was gone. I watched wordlessly, feeling useless. Zhontell however was not. Instead of looking on dumbfounded like I was he leapt into the writhing mass of vines. He dodged, hurdled and tumbled his way through them until he stood over the great mouth that had swallowed our companion.

It was insane! There is no other way to describe it. Zhontell began to flail at it with his fists. Suddenly Moxadder and Morgan were right there with him, each attacking with dagger and sword respectively.

Inspired I shook myself free from my stupor, threw my bow down and leapt into the fray. However my grand plan for aiding my fellows was thrown into chaos as I was immediately faced with a vine that intended not to grab me but smash me against the earth.

Again and again I thrust and slashed at it with my trusty blade. As I fought I could see the ongoing battle at the plants mouth. Whilst Morgan and Moxadder were attacking Zhontell had managed to open the great orifice, reach in and wrench out Argonne! As he was pulled free, the hand that Zhontell had clasped transformed before my eyes. Fingers became feathers and where Argonne’s hand and arm once were was now a wing! Suddenly from the mouth of the planet a great eagle flew out and to safety beyond the reach of the vines.

I saw no more as the vine that had engaged me renewed its attacks and I had to use every bit of my agility and luck to dodge its flurry of blows. It reared up in front of me. The vine, as thick as a Halfastian wresters arm, slammed down hard but I just managed to leap backwards before it thundered into the space I had just vacated.

I took a moment to gather myself before once again entering the fray when I saw that miraculously the brave Zhontell and Moxadder had feed themselves from the plant. Zhontell stood calmly to one side, appraising the situation, whilst Moxadder sat hunched and bleeding from several gashes he had sustained from the bites of the plants mouth.

Where was Morgan? An immediate answer was forthcoming. He was now trapped in the vines grasp.

Above us the great eagle screeched and swooped, but just before it landed its talons morphed into boots, and the rest of it followed suited, transforming into a man. Finally as its beak opened once more they transformed to lips, and its head to that of Argonne.

“Release my companion!” commanded Argonne.

I glanced quickly to see who he was addressing. It was none other than our feline observer, the orange and black striped cat. It prowled through a strange and thickening fog that began to spring up around us.

Stravarious too caught sight of the beast and let out a triumphant holler. “The cat! It’s mine!” he screamed. But as soon as he uttered his ecstatic cry the fog thickened and surrounded him.

“Damned fog!” he wailed, “Can’t see the cat! Where are you kitty? Strav’s got a present for you!”

“Release my companion!” demanded Argonne once again. The cat, now only five feet from him, turned its head as if to consider him and the vines ceased their strangling grip on Morgan. He slumped to the ground and sucked in precious air.

What was this cat? It controlled the plants and the called forth mysterious mists. It made no sense to me.

Further to the peculiar situation, the cat then gently grabbed Argonne’s sleeve in its mouth and pulled him toward the menhir. As they both approached the vines that had covered the mighty menhir slid away to reveal it in all of its glory. The huge rock stood defiant encased within twelve bands of bright white metal.

Argonne was transfixed, his eyes wide with an excitement that I had never seen before. He reached out to touch one of the bands.

Morgan, at last satisfied that he could breathe again, cried out, “Don’t touch the bands!”

But it was too late! There was a loud crackle and the band that Argonne touched emitted a violent blue spark. Argonne screamed in pain and fell backward, grasping his burnt hand. I could see that it actually smoked such was the energy that had struck him.

“It is the symbol of Gerech! Twelve lines of white!” continued Morgan.

He was right of course. Gerech’s symbol was a hub that radiated twelve white arrows. I should have understood the significance all along. This menhir had been trapped from some reason by the Gerechian Convocation over a hundred years before.

We had all been struck dumb by what we were witnessing, but Morgan’s cry had alerted Strav, who had been calling out to the cat all along, and given him a direction to travel through the mists.

He appeared, like an apparition, mist from the thick fog that had enshrouded him clinging to his frame. The cat was his target. He saw it instantly. Strav’s arm rose quickly and from his fingers came a green crackling light like lightening. It slammed into the cat before it could react. The huge feline was thrown to the ground with a thud.

“No!” cried out a shocked Argonne.

Strav, ignoring the woodsman’s order, cackled manically to himself, “Puss, puss. Come to Strav. I so would love you to come to me.” As he strode forward he stepped through the vines that had been stilled. Suddenly they once again came to life! In an instant they had Strav entangled in their grasp and had him spread-eagled so tightly that it looked as though his limbs would be torn from their sockets.

Then I reacted. “Wait!” I commanded to the cat, who had now staggered to its feet.

“He offers you no more harm. Leave him be.” I continued, hoping against hope that I could reason with the orange and black striped beast.

It turned its attention to me for the first time. I felt a bead of nervous sweat roll from my forehead down to my cheek. And then its gaze moved back to Argonne.

Strav, although unable to move, no longer seemed to be in any harms way. The vines had eased their grip so that he was no longer in any obvious pain. But he was completely immobile, which was the perfect position for him in his current state of madness.

“We must break the bands.” said Mortec “Once we do that, I think everything will become clear.”

I could see nothing wrong with the thought. If the Gerechians had sealed the rock then it was most likely something that was used against them. And in my opinion then that is no bad thing. Bloody Gerechians. As for Strav, he could wait. He could do no harm where he was.

Argonne tried his axe, a branch as a lever and countless other methods, but the bands stood fast. Eventually night fell and the exhausted Argonne joined the rest of us.

We had been talking amongst ourselves, too excited by the days events, while Argonne had whacked away and Mortec tinkered with some strange gadget.

Argonne found no respite though for we bombarded him with questions about his transformations, although his answers were in no way useful at all.