Travels through the Wild West: Books V-VIII (Epilogue)
- Thread starter Lazybones
- Start date
Rugger
Explorer
Ya'know....
I had gotten a bit behind, so I just sat down and got all caught up, and then I read the comments...the character development has been as good as, if not better than, the action! I'm not missing the action scenes at all.
Damn fine work LB!!
-Rugger
"I Lurk!"
I had gotten a bit behind, so I just sat down and got all caught up, and then I read the comments...the character development has been as good as, if not better than, the action! I'm not missing the action scenes at all.
Damn fine work LB!!
-Rugger
"I Lurk!"
Last edited:
Lazybones
Adventurer
The plot thickens...
* * * * *
Book VII, Part 9
The man known within the Black Network only as the Pereghost sat at his desk. The small room, with its walls of bare, unadorned stone, was decorated as an apparent tribute to military values. A number of heavy, functional weapons hung from pegs behind the desk, and the side walls bore a collection of old banners—some still bearing faded bloodstains still visible in the cloth—several dented shields bearing a variety of insignia, and a spiked helm that looked as though it could comfortably fit a giant. One thing stood out; at the end of the row of weapons hung a simple farmer’s tool, an iron hoe with a thoroughly rusted blade. Those who came here often remarked upon that incongruity, wondering at its significance. Some suggested that it indicated that the Pereghost had come from simple beginnings, and kept the tool as a reminder. Others argued that the hoe was a reminder that even a simple tool could be a weapon, in the hands of a man desperate enough to use it. In any case, the mystery remained unsolved, for like most of those who dwelled in the Darkhold, the man did not speak of his life before he had come to the Zhentarim.
The man himself looked somewhat incongruous in his chosen surroundings this day. Chain links were just visible peeking out from under his tunic, but otherwise his clothes were expensive linen lined with fur—even spring was cold within the Sunset Mountains. Today he bore a pen, not a blade, marking reports with a quick, efficient hand. Occasionally his angular features would twist into a scowl, but otherwise his face was as cold as the bare stone walls surrounding him.
He heard footsteps in the hall outside, and placed the report to the side just as a tall, powerful woman entered the office.
“Ah, Pelara, you have arrived at last. I trust your long journey was not too... tedious?”
The woman fixed him with a stare that contained hatred that she did not bother to mask. She was clad in plate mail that had been masterfully fit to her muscular form, and a wickedly spiked morningstar marked all over with spiraling runes hung from her belt. She held her helmet in the crook of her arm, revealing a face that might have been considered attractive, were it not painted with vertical stripes of color that gave her an almost garish appearance.
“You can save your false politeness, Traitor. I only hope that I am present when Fzoul finally sends your death order, so that I can watch you kick out your last moments on the end of the hangman’s rope.”
The Pereghost leaned back in his chair and regarded her. He did not relax his guard—he rarely did, and never in the company of the servants of Bane—but nor did he let the woman’s vicious comments incite him. In his youth, of course, such words would have driven him into battle, but age and experience had inured him to such petty tactics. And besides, it wasn’t as if he and Pelara hadn’t played this game many times before. They had known each other for nigh on thirty years, in fact had sworn fealty at Zhentil Keep before Manshoon himself, when both of them were young, arrogant, and full of vague but mighty ambitions.
“It is a pleasure, as always, to hear your fond endearments, Pelara,” he said. “If you are finished with your greeting, then, what orders come from our mighty leader this time?”
Her eyes narrowed to daggers, but she held her anger barely contained as she moved fully into the room. As she did, he saw the subtle signs about her person that he’d missed before, in the first clash of their greeting.
“Ah, so you’ve finally earned that promotion. Congratulations.”
“You can save your false flattery as well, Pereghost. Fzoul is not pleased with the news coming from the West. He, and many others besides him, wants to know why nothing has been done to respond to these flagrant efforts to discredit us. Slaving raids carried out in our name on villages barely a week from here, and the slaves vanish into the ether without a trace. The humanoid tribes of the southern spur of the Sunsets refuse to pay tribute, and reports are that they are mobilizing for something. Raids on caravans have increased throughout the region, and yet somehow the portion flowing east into the Network are lower than they’ve been since after the Time of Troubles.”
The Pereghost leaned back in his chair, and his jaw tightened. Few in the Zhentarim liked to remember those days, when Bane had disappeared and the Black Network became embroiled in a vicious internal struggle for power. Things had quieted down somewhat since that time, but there were still tensions. He himself, for instance, was right in the middle of one such fault line. Many, he knew, felt as Pelara did, considering him little more than a traitor, eager for the word that the time had come to cleanse Darkhold of its divisions.
But that time would not come soon, the warrior knew. His faction still had a lot of supporters in key areas, and in the face of this new crisis the Zhents would need all of the force they could muster.
“So, what would you have us do?” he asked, his voice level and almost casual.
His calm demeanor seemed to make the woman more angry, and she trembled with it as she slammed a mailed fist down on the edge of the desk. “You must act! You have a full legion here, sitting on their hands while the name of the Zhentarim is slandered.”
He leaned forward again, folding his arms before him on the desk. “And who would we strike against? Whoever is behind this, they have not been foolish enough to leave us a signed note, claiming responsibility.” In fact, he did have more than a little information, leads cobbled together from a variety of sources, but he wasn’t going to share anything until he found our how much she—and the Zhent leadership—knew. And there were the dreams...
For the moment, he kept all of it hidden behind a neutral mask, watching her.
“Our enemies are well known,” she said. “What of your... friends in Amn, in their towers?”
The Pereghost almost smiled. So, she knew nothing after all. He snorted. “The leaders of the Two Towers have reason to hate us, but the Cyricists lack the organization and the discipline to coordinate something like this.” But the dreams...
“Your loyalty to your oaths is admirable,” she said, mockingly. He met her gaze squarely. Both knew that he had been subtly tested in the last few months, but even his proven loyalty to the Zhentarim would not be enough to save him when it came time to purge the last of those still attached to Cyric from the ranks of the Black Network. He knew that day was coming, but there was nothing he could do about it; his ties to that master went deeper than even the binders that connected him to his current allies.
He shrugged dismissively. When that day came, he would deal with it; he had made his preparations.
“If you are too incompetent to ferret out those behind the slaving raids,” she went on, “at the very least you should send a punitive expedition out against these humanoids that defy the Network, and the bandits that think they can pluck our chickens without paying their proper tribute. If you let these transgressions pass, it will only encourage others to challenge us in the future.” She reached out and slid a heavy iron paperweight across the wooden surface of the desk. “I would have thought that a man with your background would have seen such an obvious truth.”
He held his tongue, although there were numerous retorts he could have used against such an argument. The armed forces in the Hold were depleted both from the infighting and those that had been siphoned off for the disastrous campaigns in the Heartlands from last year; he had only about five hundred regular troops left and perhaps a hundred more less-effective auxiliaries. Plus he knew that the leadership had to be aware of the reaction of the Lords’ Alliance to the recent raids; even his limited sources told him clearly that an armed response against them was very possible come summer. And finally, a campaign in the Far Hills would not be an easy one; the humanoid tribes that lived among the crags and ravines of the region knew every hiding place, every twist and trick of the land, and in many cases were dug into extensive fortified complexes that could virtually withstand a siege.
But he held his tongue, not so much because he was afraid of what the leadership of the Zhentarim wanted, but rather because of his dreams. They had been vivid of late, staying with him for long after he awoke. Just last night, he had dreamed of the armies of Darkhold marching out to battle, but without him at their head.
So he only sat there, his face a mask of false deference, even as Pelara stared at him warily. That deference made her uncertain, but she finally tugged a scroll out of her belt and placed it on the table before him.
“This places me in command of the military expedition that will depart from this fortress in three days’ time. Reinforcements will be sent to bolster the operation; a wing of flyers with a Skymage will be arriving before then, and will support the mission. In addition, I have brought a pair of underpriests, and a squad of veteran cavalry.”
Those last will be particularly useless in the mountains, the Pereghost thought to himself. But outwardly, he only stood, nodded, and replied, “Very well. I will have quarters prepared for you and your men, and will notify the quartermaster to expect the flyers as well. I am sure your expedition will bring great glory to the Zhentarim; you will find that the forces of Darkhold are up to the task.”
She looked at him suspiciously, but he had given her no further provocation to hang another insult upon. Finally she turned and left, her booted feet clapping loudly against the hard stone of the floor.
The Pereghost sat back down in his chair, a pensive look on his face.
Idly, he wondered just what it was that Cyric had in mind. Whatever it was, it looked as though it would be an interesting year for the Western Heartlands.
* * * * *
Book VII, Part 9
The man known within the Black Network only as the Pereghost sat at his desk. The small room, with its walls of bare, unadorned stone, was decorated as an apparent tribute to military values. A number of heavy, functional weapons hung from pegs behind the desk, and the side walls bore a collection of old banners—some still bearing faded bloodstains still visible in the cloth—several dented shields bearing a variety of insignia, and a spiked helm that looked as though it could comfortably fit a giant. One thing stood out; at the end of the row of weapons hung a simple farmer’s tool, an iron hoe with a thoroughly rusted blade. Those who came here often remarked upon that incongruity, wondering at its significance. Some suggested that it indicated that the Pereghost had come from simple beginnings, and kept the tool as a reminder. Others argued that the hoe was a reminder that even a simple tool could be a weapon, in the hands of a man desperate enough to use it. In any case, the mystery remained unsolved, for like most of those who dwelled in the Darkhold, the man did not speak of his life before he had come to the Zhentarim.
The man himself looked somewhat incongruous in his chosen surroundings this day. Chain links were just visible peeking out from under his tunic, but otherwise his clothes were expensive linen lined with fur—even spring was cold within the Sunset Mountains. Today he bore a pen, not a blade, marking reports with a quick, efficient hand. Occasionally his angular features would twist into a scowl, but otherwise his face was as cold as the bare stone walls surrounding him.
He heard footsteps in the hall outside, and placed the report to the side just as a tall, powerful woman entered the office.
“Ah, Pelara, you have arrived at last. I trust your long journey was not too... tedious?”
The woman fixed him with a stare that contained hatred that she did not bother to mask. She was clad in plate mail that had been masterfully fit to her muscular form, and a wickedly spiked morningstar marked all over with spiraling runes hung from her belt. She held her helmet in the crook of her arm, revealing a face that might have been considered attractive, were it not painted with vertical stripes of color that gave her an almost garish appearance.
“You can save your false politeness, Traitor. I only hope that I am present when Fzoul finally sends your death order, so that I can watch you kick out your last moments on the end of the hangman’s rope.”
The Pereghost leaned back in his chair and regarded her. He did not relax his guard—he rarely did, and never in the company of the servants of Bane—but nor did he let the woman’s vicious comments incite him. In his youth, of course, such words would have driven him into battle, but age and experience had inured him to such petty tactics. And besides, it wasn’t as if he and Pelara hadn’t played this game many times before. They had known each other for nigh on thirty years, in fact had sworn fealty at Zhentil Keep before Manshoon himself, when both of them were young, arrogant, and full of vague but mighty ambitions.
“It is a pleasure, as always, to hear your fond endearments, Pelara,” he said. “If you are finished with your greeting, then, what orders come from our mighty leader this time?”
Her eyes narrowed to daggers, but she held her anger barely contained as she moved fully into the room. As she did, he saw the subtle signs about her person that he’d missed before, in the first clash of their greeting.
“Ah, so you’ve finally earned that promotion. Congratulations.”
“You can save your false flattery as well, Pereghost. Fzoul is not pleased with the news coming from the West. He, and many others besides him, wants to know why nothing has been done to respond to these flagrant efforts to discredit us. Slaving raids carried out in our name on villages barely a week from here, and the slaves vanish into the ether without a trace. The humanoid tribes of the southern spur of the Sunsets refuse to pay tribute, and reports are that they are mobilizing for something. Raids on caravans have increased throughout the region, and yet somehow the portion flowing east into the Network are lower than they’ve been since after the Time of Troubles.”
The Pereghost leaned back in his chair, and his jaw tightened. Few in the Zhentarim liked to remember those days, when Bane had disappeared and the Black Network became embroiled in a vicious internal struggle for power. Things had quieted down somewhat since that time, but there were still tensions. He himself, for instance, was right in the middle of one such fault line. Many, he knew, felt as Pelara did, considering him little more than a traitor, eager for the word that the time had come to cleanse Darkhold of its divisions.
But that time would not come soon, the warrior knew. His faction still had a lot of supporters in key areas, and in the face of this new crisis the Zhents would need all of the force they could muster.
“So, what would you have us do?” he asked, his voice level and almost casual.
His calm demeanor seemed to make the woman more angry, and she trembled with it as she slammed a mailed fist down on the edge of the desk. “You must act! You have a full legion here, sitting on their hands while the name of the Zhentarim is slandered.”
He leaned forward again, folding his arms before him on the desk. “And who would we strike against? Whoever is behind this, they have not been foolish enough to leave us a signed note, claiming responsibility.” In fact, he did have more than a little information, leads cobbled together from a variety of sources, but he wasn’t going to share anything until he found our how much she—and the Zhent leadership—knew. And there were the dreams...
For the moment, he kept all of it hidden behind a neutral mask, watching her.
“Our enemies are well known,” she said. “What of your... friends in Amn, in their towers?”
The Pereghost almost smiled. So, she knew nothing after all. He snorted. “The leaders of the Two Towers have reason to hate us, but the Cyricists lack the organization and the discipline to coordinate something like this.” But the dreams...
“Your loyalty to your oaths is admirable,” she said, mockingly. He met her gaze squarely. Both knew that he had been subtly tested in the last few months, but even his proven loyalty to the Zhentarim would not be enough to save him when it came time to purge the last of those still attached to Cyric from the ranks of the Black Network. He knew that day was coming, but there was nothing he could do about it; his ties to that master went deeper than even the binders that connected him to his current allies.
He shrugged dismissively. When that day came, he would deal with it; he had made his preparations.
“If you are too incompetent to ferret out those behind the slaving raids,” she went on, “at the very least you should send a punitive expedition out against these humanoids that defy the Network, and the bandits that think they can pluck our chickens without paying their proper tribute. If you let these transgressions pass, it will only encourage others to challenge us in the future.” She reached out and slid a heavy iron paperweight across the wooden surface of the desk. “I would have thought that a man with your background would have seen such an obvious truth.”
He held his tongue, although there were numerous retorts he could have used against such an argument. The armed forces in the Hold were depleted both from the infighting and those that had been siphoned off for the disastrous campaigns in the Heartlands from last year; he had only about five hundred regular troops left and perhaps a hundred more less-effective auxiliaries. Plus he knew that the leadership had to be aware of the reaction of the Lords’ Alliance to the recent raids; even his limited sources told him clearly that an armed response against them was very possible come summer. And finally, a campaign in the Far Hills would not be an easy one; the humanoid tribes that lived among the crags and ravines of the region knew every hiding place, every twist and trick of the land, and in many cases were dug into extensive fortified complexes that could virtually withstand a siege.
But he held his tongue, not so much because he was afraid of what the leadership of the Zhentarim wanted, but rather because of his dreams. They had been vivid of late, staying with him for long after he awoke. Just last night, he had dreamed of the armies of Darkhold marching out to battle, but without him at their head.
So he only sat there, his face a mask of false deference, even as Pelara stared at him warily. That deference made her uncertain, but she finally tugged a scroll out of her belt and placed it on the table before him.
“This places me in command of the military expedition that will depart from this fortress in three days’ time. Reinforcements will be sent to bolster the operation; a wing of flyers with a Skymage will be arriving before then, and will support the mission. In addition, I have brought a pair of underpriests, and a squad of veteran cavalry.”
Those last will be particularly useless in the mountains, the Pereghost thought to himself. But outwardly, he only stood, nodded, and replied, “Very well. I will have quarters prepared for you and your men, and will notify the quartermaster to expect the flyers as well. I am sure your expedition will bring great glory to the Zhentarim; you will find that the forces of Darkhold are up to the task.”
She looked at him suspiciously, but he had given her no further provocation to hang another insult upon. Finally she turned and left, her booted feet clapping loudly against the hard stone of the floor.
The Pereghost sat back down in his chair, a pensive look on his face.
Idly, he wondered just what it was that Cyric had in mind. Whatever it was, it looked as though it would be an interesting year for the Western Heartlands.
Broccli_Head
Explorer
Yeah...I was wondering why Darkhold had become so silent after Semmnon defected. I see that you are going to be using them also.
I used them to great effect in my campaign to clean up and then occupy Iriaebor. Hopefully, I'll catch up with that session soon.
I used them to great effect in my campaign to clean up and then occupy Iriaebor. Hopefully, I'll catch up with that session soon.
Lazybones
Adventurer
Book VII, Part 10
An arrow knifed through the air, slashing down out of the sky to explode into the back of the surprised mountain ram. The creature bleated as it staggered off, but it barely made it a dozen steps before the effects of the deadly wound caught up with it, and it fell into a limp heap.
A hundred paces distant, the hobgoblin rose up out a smattering of brush that did not look as though it could have concealed a figure of his size. His composite bow was nearly as large as he was, formed of wood and horn and decorated with a smattering of dark colored feathers at each end. He was still young, even as reckoned by that warrior race, but he was both muscular and possessed of a smooth grace that showed in the way that he moved. He wore a mail shirt under plain outer clothes of grays and browns designed to help blend in with the sparse cover that could be found here in the rocky hills.
He gestured, and a trio of hobgoblins dressed in similar fashion rose up from behind the cover of an adjacent ridge and started toward the downed ram. The archer saw their looks, of course, and read them for what they were; resentment at his position of leadership over him mixed with an undercurrent of grudging respect for his skill. He kept watch while the trio moved quickly to where the ram had fallen, and set to work dressing the kill for speedy travel.
Hobgoblins were a fighting people, bred to the warrior life from their earliest years. They were also crafty and organized, talents which set them apart from many of the chaotic humanoid races that plagued the civilized lands of the Realms. The archer knew that the three under his command on this patrol would follow his orders, but understood their mistrust. For all that he’d been with this tribe for over a year now, he was still an outsider, and for all his abilities, still young.
The last two years had been difficult, a forging-fire through which he had come, tempered almost to the point of breaking. He’d grown up far from here, among a tribe that dwelled along the northern fringes of the Wood of Sharp Teeth. That tribe had been decimated by a group of adventurers from Elturel, who had discovered the mining operations and the trade in weapons that the hobgoblins had been involved in. Only a few of his people had survived, scattered to a life of wandering and privation. Most had perished, but something deep within him had given him the strength to survive, if only barely. By the time his wanderings had led him to this community he had the instincts and talents of a feral hunter, quick and deadly. He’d been allowed to live and even to work back up to the warrior ranks by the current leaders, even though the customs of his people could have led him to end up as a slave.
The hobgoblins returned, adding the remains of the ram to their already considerable burdens. This had not been his first kill of the day.
“We return,” he said, and the others nodded in approval.
They made their way up the narrow tracks that led deeper into the hills, up into the massive range of mountains that loomed up behind them. Those mountains looked utterly implacable, an impassive barrier. There were routes that led into the range, difficult routes at best, but they were not going quite that far this day.
As they walked, the archer thought more on his current predicament. All too aware of his tenuous position, he’d thrown himself into honing his skills in the last year, volunteering for scouting missions, working with the masters of blade and bow until his muscles cried out in protest. One advantage he’d had was that his newly adopted tribe was led by shamans, not by a warrior-chief, and rather than feel threatened by his achievements, the priests had praised him and encouraged him to cultivate his ambitions. Their leadership gave him other concerns, but he’d wisely kept his thoughts on those matters to himself.
The hunting party crossed another line of ridges and headed up a steep defile between two jagged-edged peaks. The trail, little wider than an animal track, didn’t seem to go anywhere as the cliffs to each side rapidly closed to a point, but as they neared the summit a sudden cleft opened onto their left in one of the cliff walls, and they ducked into the opening.
The narrow passage beyond the cleft was dark, deepening to a pure black as the walls above them closed in, but hobgoblins possessed excellent darkvision and they made their way deeper into the tunnel without mishap. The corridor slanted down and to the right before it opened onto a sprawling valley, a bowl embraced within a ring of surrounding peaks. There was water here, streams flowing down from a few of those mountains, but the game that had once been here was gone, long since sacrificed to feed the needs of the current owners of the valley.
The acrid smoke of the cookfires came to him over the wind, even before he caught sight of the camps. There were four such encampments, scattered in knots around the far edge of the valley. He led his companions toward the largest, but did not relax his vigilance. If anything, he was more alert, scanning the rocks for any signs of trouble.
Even so, he got little warning when a troll stepped out from behind a huge boulder beside the path. The creature stood over him, a good three feet taller than him and twice his weight, its expression ferocious as it challenged him.
“Smell meat. Give meat Larg, Larg let hobs live.”
The archer did not flinch, even though the troll’s slavering jaws snapped just a few feet from his face as the creature spoke. His companions had quickly adjusted, unlimbering their burdens while hands crept to weapon hilts. They were all veterans, skilled warriors, but knew that the vicious creature could probably tear them all to bits without working up a sweat. They did not speak the giant tongue that the troll used, but the archer understood, and replied in the same guttural speech.
“You touch me, priests not like. Priests call fire, burn Larg. Burn Larg good. Larg return to camp, priests bring food. Larg know rules. Follow rules, get much food and gold.”
The troll slavered, snapping its jaws in anger. But the hobgoblin noticed that the creature did not roar at him, and it was trying not to make too much noise.
Maybe it wasn’t as dumb as he thought.
He waited, and finally the troll stepped back into its hiding place. The look that the creature gave him dripped with pure hatred, but it did not attack as he and the others gathered their burdens and hurried past. They were not molested again as they made their way back to the camp.
“Glad to see you get back,” the sentry said as greeting. “None of the other forage parties have returned yet, and pickings have been getting slim of late.”
The archer gestured for the others to go inside, while he lingered for a moment outside. The confrontation with the troll had not been that much of a surprise, but he was curious if anything else had happened in the valley in his absence. “We’ve cleaned out the area,” the archer replied. “Game’s going to get scarce soon.” He cast a meaningful glance over at the other camps, and the sentry nodded.
“Them trolls are going to be trouble. The giants are too stupid to think of anything that the priests don’t put into their minds, but the trolls...”
“One accosted me on the way in.”
The sentry raised his eyes. “Garsham made an example of one a few days ago. Might be time for another lesson.”
The archer nodded. He turned to go into the camp, but before he did, his gaze traveled to the very end of the valley, where a sheer cliff face formed the farthest edge of the bowl. There, at the base of the cliff, difficult to make out if you didn’t know to look for it, was a gap in the stone. The gap was flanked by two vague forms, each well taller than the hill giants that shared the valley with them. The archer had seen them up close, and knew that the stone formations were huge statues, whatever details they had once borne weathered away by centuries of wind and rain. He had never gone through the gap into whatever lay beyond; no one in the camp had, except for the priests. But that was why they were here, of that he was convinced.
As if reading his mind, the sentry shot a quick glance around, as if to verify that no stray ears were about, then said, “He’s here, the human, meeting with the priests.” He shuddered, and it wasn’t from the cold. “At least he brought something to eat.” The hobgoblin warrior rubbed his hands together. “Pack mules, three of them. Butcherin’ them as we speak. Brought them boxes there, in the middle of the camp.”
The archer saw them, a half-dozen long crates that sat in an uneven pile. No one in the camp had gone near them; in fact, they seemed to be making a deliberate effort to ignore them.
I wonder what new twist those are hiding, he thought to himself.
He didn’t realize that he’d spoken his thoughts aloud until the sentry answered him. “Weapons, maybe, or supplies. Not that I’d likely want anything brought by him. Worse than the priests...”
As if he’d suddenly realized what he was saying, and to whom, the sentry stiffened, and turned back to his watch, holding his bow too tightly in a mailed fist.
But the archer’s attention had already shifted, and he barely noticed the guard’s careless comments. With a final absent nod to the guard, he turned and went into the camp. The plots and plans of the leaders were not his concern. But he knew that the sentry was right, that the little alliance that the priests had forged here was a fragile one, and that if something didn’t change soon, it was likely that blood would flow upon the barren rocks of this little valley.
His face was grim as he sought out the familiar outline of his tent.
An arrow knifed through the air, slashing down out of the sky to explode into the back of the surprised mountain ram. The creature bleated as it staggered off, but it barely made it a dozen steps before the effects of the deadly wound caught up with it, and it fell into a limp heap.
A hundred paces distant, the hobgoblin rose up out a smattering of brush that did not look as though it could have concealed a figure of his size. His composite bow was nearly as large as he was, formed of wood and horn and decorated with a smattering of dark colored feathers at each end. He was still young, even as reckoned by that warrior race, but he was both muscular and possessed of a smooth grace that showed in the way that he moved. He wore a mail shirt under plain outer clothes of grays and browns designed to help blend in with the sparse cover that could be found here in the rocky hills.
He gestured, and a trio of hobgoblins dressed in similar fashion rose up from behind the cover of an adjacent ridge and started toward the downed ram. The archer saw their looks, of course, and read them for what they were; resentment at his position of leadership over him mixed with an undercurrent of grudging respect for his skill. He kept watch while the trio moved quickly to where the ram had fallen, and set to work dressing the kill for speedy travel.
Hobgoblins were a fighting people, bred to the warrior life from their earliest years. They were also crafty and organized, talents which set them apart from many of the chaotic humanoid races that plagued the civilized lands of the Realms. The archer knew that the three under his command on this patrol would follow his orders, but understood their mistrust. For all that he’d been with this tribe for over a year now, he was still an outsider, and for all his abilities, still young.
The last two years had been difficult, a forging-fire through which he had come, tempered almost to the point of breaking. He’d grown up far from here, among a tribe that dwelled along the northern fringes of the Wood of Sharp Teeth. That tribe had been decimated by a group of adventurers from Elturel, who had discovered the mining operations and the trade in weapons that the hobgoblins had been involved in. Only a few of his people had survived, scattered to a life of wandering and privation. Most had perished, but something deep within him had given him the strength to survive, if only barely. By the time his wanderings had led him to this community he had the instincts and talents of a feral hunter, quick and deadly. He’d been allowed to live and even to work back up to the warrior ranks by the current leaders, even though the customs of his people could have led him to end up as a slave.
The hobgoblins returned, adding the remains of the ram to their already considerable burdens. This had not been his first kill of the day.
“We return,” he said, and the others nodded in approval.
They made their way up the narrow tracks that led deeper into the hills, up into the massive range of mountains that loomed up behind them. Those mountains looked utterly implacable, an impassive barrier. There were routes that led into the range, difficult routes at best, but they were not going quite that far this day.
As they walked, the archer thought more on his current predicament. All too aware of his tenuous position, he’d thrown himself into honing his skills in the last year, volunteering for scouting missions, working with the masters of blade and bow until his muscles cried out in protest. One advantage he’d had was that his newly adopted tribe was led by shamans, not by a warrior-chief, and rather than feel threatened by his achievements, the priests had praised him and encouraged him to cultivate his ambitions. Their leadership gave him other concerns, but he’d wisely kept his thoughts on those matters to himself.
The hunting party crossed another line of ridges and headed up a steep defile between two jagged-edged peaks. The trail, little wider than an animal track, didn’t seem to go anywhere as the cliffs to each side rapidly closed to a point, but as they neared the summit a sudden cleft opened onto their left in one of the cliff walls, and they ducked into the opening.
The narrow passage beyond the cleft was dark, deepening to a pure black as the walls above them closed in, but hobgoblins possessed excellent darkvision and they made their way deeper into the tunnel without mishap. The corridor slanted down and to the right before it opened onto a sprawling valley, a bowl embraced within a ring of surrounding peaks. There was water here, streams flowing down from a few of those mountains, but the game that had once been here was gone, long since sacrificed to feed the needs of the current owners of the valley.
The acrid smoke of the cookfires came to him over the wind, even before he caught sight of the camps. There were four such encampments, scattered in knots around the far edge of the valley. He led his companions toward the largest, but did not relax his vigilance. If anything, he was more alert, scanning the rocks for any signs of trouble.
Even so, he got little warning when a troll stepped out from behind a huge boulder beside the path. The creature stood over him, a good three feet taller than him and twice his weight, its expression ferocious as it challenged him.
“Smell meat. Give meat Larg, Larg let hobs live.”
The archer did not flinch, even though the troll’s slavering jaws snapped just a few feet from his face as the creature spoke. His companions had quickly adjusted, unlimbering their burdens while hands crept to weapon hilts. They were all veterans, skilled warriors, but knew that the vicious creature could probably tear them all to bits without working up a sweat. They did not speak the giant tongue that the troll used, but the archer understood, and replied in the same guttural speech.
“You touch me, priests not like. Priests call fire, burn Larg. Burn Larg good. Larg return to camp, priests bring food. Larg know rules. Follow rules, get much food and gold.”
The troll slavered, snapping its jaws in anger. But the hobgoblin noticed that the creature did not roar at him, and it was trying not to make too much noise.
Maybe it wasn’t as dumb as he thought.
He waited, and finally the troll stepped back into its hiding place. The look that the creature gave him dripped with pure hatred, but it did not attack as he and the others gathered their burdens and hurried past. They were not molested again as they made their way back to the camp.
“Glad to see you get back,” the sentry said as greeting. “None of the other forage parties have returned yet, and pickings have been getting slim of late.”
The archer gestured for the others to go inside, while he lingered for a moment outside. The confrontation with the troll had not been that much of a surprise, but he was curious if anything else had happened in the valley in his absence. “We’ve cleaned out the area,” the archer replied. “Game’s going to get scarce soon.” He cast a meaningful glance over at the other camps, and the sentry nodded.
“Them trolls are going to be trouble. The giants are too stupid to think of anything that the priests don’t put into their minds, but the trolls...”
“One accosted me on the way in.”
The sentry raised his eyes. “Garsham made an example of one a few days ago. Might be time for another lesson.”
The archer nodded. He turned to go into the camp, but before he did, his gaze traveled to the very end of the valley, where a sheer cliff face formed the farthest edge of the bowl. There, at the base of the cliff, difficult to make out if you didn’t know to look for it, was a gap in the stone. The gap was flanked by two vague forms, each well taller than the hill giants that shared the valley with them. The archer had seen them up close, and knew that the stone formations were huge statues, whatever details they had once borne weathered away by centuries of wind and rain. He had never gone through the gap into whatever lay beyond; no one in the camp had, except for the priests. But that was why they were here, of that he was convinced.
As if reading his mind, the sentry shot a quick glance around, as if to verify that no stray ears were about, then said, “He’s here, the human, meeting with the priests.” He shuddered, and it wasn’t from the cold. “At least he brought something to eat.” The hobgoblin warrior rubbed his hands together. “Pack mules, three of them. Butcherin’ them as we speak. Brought them boxes there, in the middle of the camp.”
The archer saw them, a half-dozen long crates that sat in an uneven pile. No one in the camp had gone near them; in fact, they seemed to be making a deliberate effort to ignore them.
I wonder what new twist those are hiding, he thought to himself.
He didn’t realize that he’d spoken his thoughts aloud until the sentry answered him. “Weapons, maybe, or supplies. Not that I’d likely want anything brought by him. Worse than the priests...”
As if he’d suddenly realized what he was saying, and to whom, the sentry stiffened, and turned back to his watch, holding his bow too tightly in a mailed fist.
But the archer’s attention had already shifted, and he barely noticed the guard’s careless comments. With a final absent nod to the guard, he turned and went into the camp. The plots and plans of the leaders were not his concern. But he knew that the sentry was right, that the little alliance that the priests had forged here was a fragile one, and that if something didn’t change soon, it was likely that blood would flow upon the barren rocks of this little valley.
His face was grim as he sought out the familiar outline of his tent.
Black Bard
First Post
Very interesting... So the hobs are in league with the the Cyricists in Amn, isn't it??
The heroes would be glad if only Cyric had plans for the Western Heartlands this year...
