Yeah, I was thinking about writing in a scene where I go back and wipe out the three sailors left behind in Tanaroa, but I ultimately decided against it.
I can say that both Elly and Varrus are important to the upcoming plot. But will everyone make it to the Well of Worlds? Stay tuned...
* * * * *
Book III, Part 22
It took two hours for them to reach the lower reaches of the mountains, and three days to reach the summit.
The steep slopes of the mountain consisted of aged volcanic rock, and rose up at least a thousand feet above the surface of the plateau. The rock was pocked and uneven, and not too difficult to climb, and there was even a trail of sorts up the near face, allowing them to reach a point about a third of the way up by the end of the first day.
After that, however, it got much more difficult. Their efforts at finding an easier route—a lava chute or tunnel, or some other means of entry—failed, leaving them with only a nearly sheer course up the sides of the mountain. With clear reluctance, but few other options, they pressed on, the words of the matriarch of Tanaroa sounding in their thoughts.
Benzan took on a leadership role during the climb, with his particular skills in that realm. His fingers could find cracks when others saw only blank stone, and the magic in his sword allowed them to bypass several particularly difficult areas. They headed up in stages, using their rope to move from one ledge to another, fortunate that the uneven face of the mountain offered them plentiful ledges and crevices where they could rest and recover their strength. They spend the second night on one such ledge, huddling together against the biting chill of the wind. Their rest was interrupted once by a disturbing tremor that shook the mountain for almost half a minute, but other than that nothing unusual occurred. Dana expressed a fear held by all of them; that the pteranodons or the wyvern, or some other flying creature would happen upon them while they were climbing, exposed on the side of the mountain. But their luck held, and as the third day began they continued their wearying climb.
That day was the worst. By noon they had reached the snowline, and the rock upon which they climbed became slick with ice. Luckily they were nearing the summit, and they encountered fewer vertical climbs, but even so it took the entire afternoon to reach the crest. They were still crawling along the slick rocks when the sun set, and Cal called upon a magical light to help them make their way into a deep cleft that was at least partially sheltered from the cold wind.
They were bone tired from the climb, and clouds above hid the moon and stars from view, but they dared not remain there. The interior of the mountain was a great crater that opened before them, its contents hidden in the depths of the darkness. Benzan thought he could make out trees below, however, so they started down despite the hazards of traveling at night. Luckily the climb down was far easier, and they used a pair of Cal’s sunrods to drive back the encroaching darkness. They pressed on for several hours, until the bare snow-covered rocks gave way to trees and soil, then they staggered into a clearing, built a hasty fire, and crawled into their blankets and went immediately to sleep. Lok remained awake to keep watch, warding his exhausted companion with a stony gaze that penetrated deep into the surrounding night.
* * * * *
When the morning came, the storm to the east had apparently passed, as the skies above the crater were clear as far as they could see. They were in a highland forest, and the ground sloped sharply down ahead of them, with the thick boughs of trees visible as far as they could see. Benzan volunteered to take a look from above, and before any of them could comment he’d grasped his sword and shot up into the interlaced foliage above.
“He’s going to get himself killed one day, rushing off heedlessly like that,” Dana said. Cal only shrugged—Benzan was… Benzan.
The tiefling disappeared up through the network of branches at the tops of the trees, and a long minute passed before he returned, levitating back down to where the others waited.
“The crater’s pretty big,” he began, “several miles across, at least. There’s a lake that fills up most of the eastern half, and the forest takes up most of the western half that I could see. I did see one other thing of note, though—a village, looks like, on the western side of the lake.”
“Any people about?” Lok asked.
“Too far to make out clearly,” Benzan said. “Plus, I didn’t want to stay up there too long, in case someone spotted me. Wouldn’t want to rush off heedlessly and get myself killed.” Dana flushed slightly, but she didn’t respond.
“Let’s make for that village, then,” Cal offered, and they struck camp, soon making their way down the steep slope into the heavily forested depths of the crater.
* * * * *
The village of Mantru was used to dealing with hostile threats, as no place on the Isle of Dread could ever be considered truly safe. On this bright and sunny day, however, with the storm that had just passed already a memory, the little community seemed placid and peaceful. Its fifty or so inhabitants were an industrious folk, and as the morning passed into afternoon they went about their work busily. The men rowed tiny outriggers back and forth on the lake, bringing back fish for the evening meal or for the enclosed holding pens along the lakeshore, while others toiled in the vegetable plots that stretched out behind the large communal huts that served as shelter for the villagers. Young women ground maize into the meal used in most of their dishes, while the older ones repaired garments and watched the children that ran around the walled compound with boundless energy. To those carefree souls, the day was a never-ending game, and work something to be dodged with a passion that was nearly an art form. On the steps of one of the huts a small cluster of community elders passed the day in intense conversation, debating at any given moment any one of a thousand topics.
In short, it was a day like any other, but this day the peace of the village of Mantru would be interrupted by the appearance of outsiders, strange folk the like of which existed only in the oldest stories of their people. The community was not caught unawares, as the forest was always watched closely, if not as intently as they watched the lake and the island just visible far across its surface to the northeast. In addition, some had remarked seeing strange lights the night before, flickering along the crater rim, a clear portent of change.
Not that change was always bad, but the people of Mantru were used to things being the way they had always been, and they were wary of anything that threatened the peace of their community.
The men of the community took up their weapons and met the strangers while they were still a fair distance from the walls of the village. There was a moment of tension, there, as the strangers bore many weapons, and they did not speak the language of the people of Mantru. Some of them wore unusual skins of metal, and otherwise represented a dizzying variety of sizes, colors, and styles of dress. Their spokesman was a small man, who at first the warriors mistook for a child. The small man spoke with authority in his voice, however, despite his meaningless words, and the warriors exchanged confused glances, uncertain how to deal with these outsiders.
Fortunately, however, Fano and Umlat, drawn by the alert, quickly arrived to restore order to the situation. Fano, the talking chief of the community, showed the age of his fifty years, but a fire still burned in his eyes and the grip on his spear was still strong. Umlat, however, walking beside him with the aid of a village youth, was ancient and bowed. He was by far the oldest member of the community, granted long life through the beneficence of Oloron, the divine Lord of the Skies. That longevity came at a cost, however, and now Umlat’s body was a fragile shell, carrying him only reluctantly toward the confrontation between the village warriors and the armed strangers.
The strangers saw the two elders approaching and waited patiently, making no hostile moves under the watchful eyes of the warriors. They showed proper deference to the talking chief and the ancient priest, at least, and Umlat called upon the divine power of Oloron first in a ritual blessing, and then to grant him the power to understand the strange speech spoken by the outlanders.
The meeting lasted for some time. The strangers asked many questions, to which Umlat responded with answers and questions of his own. One of the strangers, a young woman with an injured hand, called upon the power of her own foreign god to allow her to understand the elder’s words, so a dialogue of sorts was established between the two sides.
By this time most of the remaining population of the village had gathered at the wall, fearful for their brothers and husbands and fathers that were confronting the strangers. They could not hear what was being said, but they saw the sun glint off of the weapons and metal skins of the strangers and felt an unease based on things they did not understand. Their fears eased slightly, however, as Umlat finally raised his hands in the ritual gesture of welcome, and the strangers were escorted to the main gate of the village. While still cautious, curiosity replaced fear for many, and they crowded in to get a good look at the strangers, and their unusual costumes. Several looked like children, but turned out to be miniature people, like adults in every way except for their size. Another seemed entirely unreal, his skin like stone statues that the gods had carved in ancient days, covered in a thick skin of metal that blazed in the light of the sun. One of the children even ran up to touch that one, to the sudden horror of his mother, but the stone-creature only laughed and waved to the amazed child.
The strangers seemed friendly, or at least not hostile, so the villagers followed the lead set by their elders and welcomed them into their community. Umlat let the people satisfy their curiosity, but soon was leading the strangers toward the boats along the sandy shore of the lake, so that they could travel to the council hut that stood on thick logs a short distance above the waters of the lake a short distance offshore.
The villagers nodded to themselves at the wisdom of the priest’s course. The strangers would be brought before the chief, who in his wisdom would decide how the village would deal with their sudden appearance in their midst.
* * * * *
“Well, they seem friendly enough,” Benzan commented, as the old man led them to the boats and indicated that they should head with him toward the large hut that stood up on stilts a short distance off in the lake. The boats were rather small but sound, fitted with outriggers like the large craft they’d taken from the raiders… had it only been a tenday since then? They were eventually able to squeeze into the boats, and rowed out to the structure out on the lake. Only Fano, the old warrior who’d been introduced to them as the “talking chief,” and Umlat, the venerable priest, went with them, leaving the rest of the villagers watching them from the shore of the lake.
“They’re showing a lot of trust, letting us into the village like this, and then bringing us to meet their chief without an escort,” Dana said as they approached the small wooden “dock” and the ladder that led up to the council hut, careful to keep her voice down so that the priest would not overhear.
“Perhaps,” Cal replied. “But something tells me that Fano and Umlat are pretty capable, for all their years. And I’m not sure, but I think that one of the ritual blessings Umlat made back there included a divination, an augury or some similar spell.” He looked at Ruath, who nodded.
“And of course, this might still be a trap,” Delem said, his voice almost a whisper.
“I don’t think so,” Cal said. “But keep your eyes open, as always.”
Fano helped them steady their boats as they disembarked on the small wooden platform abutting the hut’s thick support poles. Umlat had already headed up the ladder, moving more quickly than his advanced age would indicate. The “talking chief” waited until they had all made their way up the ladder, then he followed them.
The council hut was apparently made up of one large room, well crafted despite the fact that the natives did not appear to have any knowledge of metalworking. Raised slats along the walls let in plenty of light, revealing the only contents of the room: a few woven mats on the plank floor, and a small stone table upon which rested a small carved idol.
“We bring strangers from a faraway, o chief of the people of Mantru,” the cleric said as they entered, his words translated for the rest of them by Dana. The duration of her spell was fast approaching its end, so they hoped that the interview with the chief would not last long.
“Where is he?” Delem asked, as he and the others looked around the empty interior of the hut.
“Maybe he’s invisible,” Elly suggested, but Cal had realized the truth. “It’s the statue,” the gnome said in an undertone. “The statue’s the chief.”
“What?” Benzan said, a look of confusion crossing his face.
“Just don’t say anything stupid,” Cal added in a covert whisper. “We can’t afford to alienate these people.”
Fano had entered the hut, and with a deep bow to the idol crossed the room to kneel on a woven mat laid at the side of the table. Umlat gestured for them to sit, which they did, then he turned toward the idol, then to Fano, bowing each time.
Fano took a deep breath, raising his arms to the heavens and then bending forward until his forehead touched the plank floor of the hut. He repeated this motion several times, each time speaking a ritual phrase of invocation in his own language. Once that ritual was completed, he bowed once again to the idol, and then turned back to face the companions. The companions realized what “talking chief” meant when Fano addressed them again, his voice altered to sound deeper and more sonorous.
“I am the chief of the Mantru,” he said. “I speak to you through this vessel. Why have you come here, and what do you seek among my children?”
Benzan covertly rolled his eyes, but he didn’t say anything. Once again, Cal served as their spokesman, relating the barest outlines of their story to the two elders—and the stone idol. In the course of the conversation Dana’s spell expired, but Umlat and Fano kept the interview going, the priest using gestures to convey the questions he wished to ask. The ancient priest seemed particularly curious and sharp of mind, asking them questions about where they had come from, the people of Tanaroa and the other southern villages, their encounters on the rest of the island, and their purpose in coming here. Umlat’s own magic lasted throughout the interview, for he seemed to have no difficulty understanding what any of them said. He in turn translated for Fano and the “chief”, and Fano would intone questions of his own in the voice of the spirit of the statue that Umlat in turn would put to them through gestures.
Ultimately over an hour passed, and the companions began to feel a little hungry and tired. Finally, although his eyes betrayed the fact that his curiosity had not been fully slaked, Umlat turned and nodded to Fano. The talking chief made a final pronouncement, which of course none of them could understand, and then he conducted another series of ritual bows before he stood, “himself” once again.
Umlat made it clear that the adventurers were still welcome, and invited them to remain with them, to eat and take their rest. As if on cue the companions could smell the rich odors of roasting food drift over to them across the lake, and when they left the huts to return to the boats they could see numerous villagers working over firepits dug in the sand of the beach, preparing a feast. The smell reminded them of their hunger, and they were surprised to see that the sun was already starting to set, another day already nearly gone.
“What do you think?” Benzan quietly asked his companions, while they were waiting to head down the ladder and return to the boats tethered below.
“We play it by ear, as always,” Cal said. “These people seem genuinely friendly, though, if a little quixotic in their customs, and we can use the rest.”
“What about the Well of Worlds?” Delem asked. They had asked the priest and the “chief” about their destination—it had been one of their first questions, even before they had entered the village, and it had come up several times in the meeting with the “chief”. While the canny priest had dodged the question each time, not betraying any knowledge of the place, Delem had seen something flash briefly in the old man’s eyes when they mentioned it, a deeper understanding kept carefully hidden.
“Well see tomorrow, when Dana can use her spell again,” Cal said. He had seen it too, but he was willing to give the people of Mantru the benefit of the doubt, for now. And maybe, if necessary, Delem’s magical charm might also be useful in finding out what they needed. “Be on your guard, all of you,” he cautioned, then put on a smile as Fano gestured that it was the gnome’s turn to head down the ladder to the boats below.