…continues from Book #01, Chapter #08, Scene #05

Synopsis

Awakening from a restful sleep after their tiring journey back from the ruined keep the heroes seek answers to many questions on the history of the lands.

With natives of the Old Continent living and breathing before them their chance to discover the lore of old is within their grasp.

Cast List

Scene Length

This scene started on Monday 27th February 2012 and is expected to be completed by the end of Friday 16th March 2012.

Players are expected to be able to post at least once a day.

It was not long after the heroes had retired to their chambers that the sun rose slowly over the eastern horizon. Its strength bore down on the early morning mists, burning them away with ease and warming the land below them. For late Ches it was unusually warm and bright, but the inhabitants of Blackengorge did not mind. Their usual routines of farming and slowly building the town were lacklustre today, though, as the excitement grew about meeting the new arrivals in town, the ones that were claimed to be natives of this land, and the celebration for the heroes that had found them.

It would be some time before these ideals could be met, however, and the townsfolk went about their chores distracted, forever looking over their shoulders at the height of the sun to mark the passage of time.

The sun reached its zenith — a majestic yellow orb in a clear blue sky — and the excitement and fervour grew. There were no signs of activity at the inn, or at the temple, though. Skillet had kept the doors of The Bronze Lion firmly shut, allowing the adventurers to rest, and even the Temple of Pelor had ushered those away to the simple shrine near the marketplace to perform their morning ablutions rather than throwing open their doors to the morning sun as usual.

Once Tradden was seated Tymander cleared his voice, scanned the awaiting horde, and addressed the newcomers and in turn the heroes.

‘On behalf of Blackengorge, and indeed The Islands, I welcome you to our humble settlement. And for our heroes, a successful and thankful return.’

A cheer rose up from the crowd within the inn and even Kireth could not help but feel some swell of pride.

The council addressed each of the newcomers in turn, asking after their welfare first, and then turning to their professions and homesteads. From then on, the conversation appeared to turn into a long drone.

To Kireth it appeared little more than a show — the Council were not digging into any detail, simply getting the bare glimmer of information that would satisfy the swelling masses behind them and allow the newcomers to feel at ease. He sat back in his chair, his hood remaining over his face, and thought his own thoughts.

To Tradden, however, the show was enthralling — in turn the heroes were asked to describe their exploits, to which he took the fore, embellishing the story in places with howls, growls, and bellows in more or less the right places. Even the furniture did not escape his story — chairs and tables were clambered upon and the whole play resulted in a round of applause that reddened the young fighter’s face.

For Khalin the charade was frustrating — the Council seemed to have forgotten the plight of Rindall, and what other evil may still be out there. He was keen to see what maps and plans Sorrow had, and how they could find out more of these lands. He itched to be poring over maps and plotting their next move.

Zero was bored, there were no two ways about it. Tradden’s epic description of events had been amusing for a while, but the trappings and pleasantries of the welcome conversation were hideously tiresome. He longed to be in smaller company, without all of the necessary ritual and baggage that this meeting entailed.

The newcomers, Altair’s Talons as they had called themselves, seemed to be mildly amused at the whole event. Rhasgar kept a respectful posture and tone in any conversation, but Rangrim, Miri, Sorrow, and Aukan spoke little, keeping watch on the whole affair with wry smiles.

Tymander had enquired about the size and locations of the towns within the Vale and what goods and services they provided. His thoughts had immediately turned to the question of trade routes and the possibilities for mercantile exchanges for mutual profits. Tremak’s concern appeared to be centred around the temples and worship of the Vale and in particular where the heads of the various Churches were situated. He appeared to be appeased at the fact that Pelor played a prominent role within the area. Barghest seemed interested in the number of guards and able fighting men, and the lay of the land of the Stonemarch and the Cairngorm Peaks. Defending any caravan across these lands to the east would take many guards, perhaps that Blackengorge could ill afford.

After a while the conversation began to stilt. There were still many unasked questions, but there was a wealth of information that the Council had learnt. They excused themselves, thanked the Talons and the heroes once more, and retired to the temple to contemplate. Many of the townsfolk took this as an opportunity to greet the Talons, some nervous at shaking hands with Rhasgar or Aukan, but all expressing pleasantries and welcomes.

‘Thank Moradin that’s over,’ sighed Khalin, wandering across to the bar to get an ale. ‘Perhaps now we can get on with some real planning, eh? And perhaps work out what to do about Rindall.’

Tradden nodded in agreement, although he wasn’t totally sure what he was agreeing to, his attention mildly distracted as he looked for Caldring amidst the throng.

The temple was the largest stone building within the settlement and was impressive to say that it had only been erected only half a year hence. Candles littered the area, burning brightly and providing a soft warm glow now that the sun had finally set. Large tapestries depicting many of the stories of the Annals of Pelor hung down over the window arches that contained no glass — their alcoves curved towards the passage of the sun, skilfully crafted to capture the light of the reverent orb during the day, and to magnify and burn brightly at dawn, midday, and sunset.

Eight small cots had been erected within the nave, with some of the wooden benches having been pushed to one side towards the chancel. Two of the acolytes were in attendance, one of the women — Perissa, Khalin thought her name was — and one of the men, the older one, Arion. They were sat on the benches, with what appeared to be towels and hot water laid out on the floor beside them. One of the patients, the older male, was sat up with them, talking softly and slowly.

Five of the cots were still occupied it seemed.

The first held the woman that Zero had carried from the ruined keep. She looked ashen grey, laid there with a white blanket draped across her. A thin film of sweat covered her face and her breathing was ragged, her ample chest rising and falling in a chaotic rhythm. It was obvious to Khalin that she was in the throes of some fever, perhaps as a result of infection from the branding that covered all of the chests of the people they had found alive.

Khalin walked slowly onward, moving to each cot in turn, muttering silent prayers to Moradin for their return to good health. The second cot was claimed by one of the Talons, the halfling, Bekio, twin to Ulmo the deceased. He seemed to be sleeping comfortably and Khalin hoped he remained so — the grief he would suffer upon learning of his brother’s fate would be hard on him.

The third cot was occupied by the grey-bearded dwarf, the same that Khalin had lifted along the Old Road. He looked quite peaceful asleep and now that the caking of blood and dirt had been carefully cleaned away from his face by the acolytes, Khalin could see a familiar tattoo, that of a chain, stretching down from under each of his eyes running down his face under his beard and onto his shoulders. The warlord didn’t need to look to be sure that the chain continued down to the dwarf’s wrists, where the chain would join tattooed manacles. The same tattoo that the dwarf in the torture chamber had borne.

‘He may wake soon,’ the male Acolyte, Arion, said, interrupting Khalin’s thoughts. ‘I believe his fever is over, and through the grace of Pelor he is on the mend.’

‘Good news,’ replied Khalin, keen to speak to any dwarf he could find. His pace picked up as he headed across to the acolytes.

The final two occupied cots held the elf and the half-orc. The half-orc was ashen like the woman, but Khalin was unsure if this was a natural complexion, a racial trait, or from the effects of a fever. Neither was he sure whether the thing was a friend or foe. Caution bade him keep a respectful distance. The elf was whom he sought.

The elf appeared to be in quite a distressful state. Although wrapped in thin linens he was covered in great beads of sweat which poured off him like water, large stains growing on the white of the sheets. He convulsed in fits and starts, tossing and turning and belching out unintelligible spasms of noises like a madman. Khalin looked up at Perissa and Arion imploringly.

Arion shook his head. ‘He is not in good shape,’ the acolyte said with a low measured voice. ‘He has been like this since you brought him here. The brand festers and the fever grows.’

‘Damn!’ swore Khalin, fearful for the elf’s life but also disappointed with another avenue for knowledge closed. ‘Is there anything we can do?’

‘Pelor’s blessing is upon him. His Radiant Servant has seen to that. With time he will recover, of that we are hopeful, but at what cost?’ spoke Perissa.

‘Hmm, and how long,’ growled Khalin to himself. For a moment the dwarf felt helpless, alone, and unsure. Then, with a deep breath, he straightened himself up, gathered his wits and manners, and strode towards the acolytes with almost regal bearing to greet the older male at the acolytes’ side.

The man’s name was Lee-da-Gaar Khalin learnt over a short and stilted conversation. The man spoke Common, but with a thick accent that both the warlord and the acolytes found difficult to fully understand. It seemed that Lee-da-Gaar too found their speech difficult to interpret and so the exchanges were short, sometimes confusing, but very useful.

Lee-da-Gaar was some form of priest, loyal to Bahamut the Dragon, and had been studying within a monastic order up in the heights of the Cairngorm Peaks, in an area known as the Ironwalls, at a small temple named Sunderpeak. He did not appear to know any of the others that he had been imprisoned with, and was not a member of Altair’s Talons.

With many an interruption, clarification, and nod of understanding the tale of his incarceration finally made some sort of sense. His temple had been attacked, quite unexpectedly, by a huge black dragon and its army of hobgoblins, orcs, and worse.

The dragon was looking for something, interrogating those few that were still left alive, slaying them when the answers were not satisfying. Of those that remained after the dragon lost interest in the questioning, perhaps a half dozen only, Lee-da-Gaar was one. They were handed over to the hobgoblins, the Bloodreavers, and manacled together.

Some did not make it down the steep snowy slopes of the Ironwalls, their wounds from the battle taking their toll. Lee-da-Gaar was one of only two fit slaves for the hobgoblins to trade. A transaction that took place further to the west than the monk had ever been, pummelled half-conscious and thrown in a bamboo cage towed by horrific beasts.

Others had been added to the cages upon the way, some of those he recognised laid in the cots, but also more dwarves, a couple of goliaths and humans like himself. When they arrived at the broken ruins he thought the torturous journey was at an end, but he found that the torture had only just begun. The still-weeping brand of the circle and horns glowed a burning red upon his chest to prove his point.

He was thankful for his rescue and vowed, by Bahamut’s name, he would aid his rescuers in any way he could. A vow, it seemed, he did not take lightly.

Khalin thanked Lee-da-Gaar for the information and enquired after whether he would be joining the others at The Bronze Lion. Lee-da-Gaar shook his head, indicating that he needed to stay and meditate at the temple, to clear his head and understand the path forwards for him. Khalin respected the decision and made his farewells, requesting the acolytes to send word at any change in Gilmorril’s, or indeed any of the others’, status.

With that, he rose from the wooden bench, and headed back out into the night past the cots. He paused briefly at the elf’s, just to pat the man’s shoulder and utter another silent prayer to Moradin. Then he turned and started towards the nave door.

He was yanked back, much to his surprise, an iron grip of a bony hand around his wrist, tight and fast, cutting off the circulation. He whirled in pain and anger and saw the wide open eyes of Gilmorril staring up at him, a fierce flame burning within the pupils.

‘The horns!’ the elf shrieked at him, flecks of spittle cascading down onto the floor around the cot. ‘The horns!’

Then the flame died, the eyes closed and the body succumbed to sleep. The grip relaxed and the elf’s hand fell back to his side. The acolytes rushed over, water and towels in hand, but the elf had resumed his previous ravaged rest, as though the whole scene had never happened.

‘Gilmorril, wake!’ ordered Khalin, grabbing the elf’s shoulders but somehow fighting the urge to pick up and shake the elf. The elf did not respond.

‘We will send word, we promise,’ said Perissa, seeing Khalin’s perplexed look, ‘if there is any change. You look as though you need rest yourself.’

Khalin looked up and nodded at her, stroked his beard, and stalked off into the night and to The Bronze Lion, his thoughts cloudy and dark.

The rogue gave it a few moments, waiting until he heard voices from the front door. He could just about hear Lowfield, but Tradden’s voice was a little too loud, Zero thought, dismayed at the sheer amateurishness of it all. Still, the window of opportunity was here, so to speak, and he quickly clambered through the open portal and silently as he could.

As quiet as a mouse the rogue slipped through the window and into Lowfield’s back rooms. With grace and efficiency Zero began to scour the room with a methodical routine that had served him well on The Islands. Drawers, cupboards and even a wardrobe were checked quickly, both for content and for any other hidden compartments. The eloquently stitched curtains were fingered for secrets within their seams or objects hiding behind them.

However, all the rogue managed to find were a few sharp pins in the end of his fingers and the plain fact that Cornelius Lowfield liked to bite his fingernails whilst he worked.

With a little dismay that he hadn’t found anything, yet relief that he’d finished, he slipped back out of the window, wandering round to the front of the building to greet the still barking Tradden, and a slightly perplexed tailor.

When Khalin came down for breakfast on the morrow he was surprised not to find Zero and Tradden already there. He could have sworn he had heard the pair readying themselves earlier in the morning. Perhaps they had gone out for some fresh air. No matter, the dwarf would busy himself with the ample provisions that Skillet seemed to magically find from nowhere. More breads, cheeses and cold meats, as well as fruits, that the little halfling appeared to be able to produce in abundance without fail.

He was the only one down there, the Talons still resting in their rooms, perhaps a little wary of all of the attention they had received the previous day. Still, none of the food would go to waste…

Just as he was about to tuck in, a runner arrived from the temple. It was the little Greenwood girl, Jocelyn, with news of the old dwarf. He had woken!

Thanking the girl and grabbing a hunk of bread, Khalin jumped up and headed out into the morning air, his short powerful legs pumping in a fast walk towards the temple.

Inside the nave the dwarf had indeed woken and was supping on a bowlful of broth that the acolytes had prepared. Whether Perissa and Arion had kept a vigil all night he was not sure, but they had been replaced by Dania and Maxwell, the younger pair.

Under his beard Khalin’s mouth grew into a broad smile as he saw the dwarf looked to be in much better shape.

‘Hail, and well met!’ he declared, offering his arm to the stranger.

The dwarf turned slowly and looked up, a weariness in his eyes. He stood and took Khalin’s arm, grasping the forearm tightly and holding on with gusto.

‘Hark! Borik Glintshield at your service,’ he replied in croaky Common, with a guttural edge.

‘Khalin,’ the warlord started before a short pause. ‘Khalin Grundokri, at your disposal.’

He had readied himself for any retort. The lessons he had learnt from Rangrim and Rhasgar had been short and sharp, but the last two evenings’ thoughts had brooded within him. He was prepared to show his own deeds and prove his worth through his own actions, they would speak louder than any centuries-old myth of his ancestors.

The eyes of the old dwarf seemed to widen for a moment and he quickly looked away subconsciously. The grip on Khalin’s arm did not waver, though, and stayed solid for a few moments more.

The pleasantries concluded, Khalin quickly offered answers to Borik’s questions on where he was and how he had gotten here. The acolytes had prepared him with news of The Islands and Blackengorge’s place in the world and he had had a fair few minutes to contemplate and digest this information. Gradually, however, the warlord turned the conversation around to Borik’s plight, and how he had come to be at the ruined keep.

Borik had been at a mine in the Cairngorms, to the north, not far from Timbervale when orcs and hobgoblins had attacked. Many of his kin had been slain, but some were dragged off and thrown into bamboo cages. The story seemed familiar, the journey across the Stonemarch, the torture and branding. Khalin felt an anger welling up inside him at the lives that the priest in the ritual chamber had ruined.

Khalin considered asking Borik about the tattoos he bore, but felt that it may be too intrusive at such an early stage.

‘What of Hammerfast?’ Khalin asked, changing the subject somewhat.

‘I have not been there in many a year, since I last paid my respects,’ the dwarf replied. ‘It grows in riches and commands the east of the Vale.’

‘Then it stands!’ whispered Khalin to himself. ‘I would see it myself!’

With his curiosity sated, for the moment, Khalin offered to escort Borik to The Bronze Lion, to partake in breakfast. The old dwarf agreed, and the pair thanked the acolytes before returning to the inn.

When Khalin returned to The Bronze Lion he found it a hive of activity. Sorrow and Rhasgar had taken over one of the big oak tables and had stretched out a number of parchments, held down by tin tankards. They were debating furiously, jabbing their fingers, or in Rhasgar’s case, claws, at various points on the parchments.

Tradden and Zero were nearby, likely having had some input to Sorrow and Rhasgar’s debate. The young fighter seemed a little sheepish and Zero kept firing him stern glances after sucking his fingers. What the pair had been up to Khalin really did not want to know.

Most surprisingly, however, was that Kireth was now downstairs, although he appeared aloof and set to one side in his darkening robes with his hood drawn up even though they were inside. He looked cold somewhat, although Skillet had stoked up a good fire.

The warlord pointed out the names of people to Borik and ushered the old dwarf into a seat near a table holding the remains of breakfast. From the other side of the table Aukan grinned at them both and helped himself to another large portion of bread.

Miri and Rangrim sat close to the goliath seemingly waiting for Sorrow and Rhasgar to finish their discussion as though this happened frequently. Khalin nodded at the pair and headed over to the large oak table.

Spread out across its surface were five or six parchments, some old and faded, some new and crisp, all simple line drawings. Khalin’s heart began to beat faster and faster. These were maps! He almost fell against the table as he moved quickly to get a better look. Yes, they were maps! He scanned them quickly with, what he believed, a trained eye, drinking in their detail.

The parchments to the right of the table were crisp and new, depicting large mountain ranges to the left and right, and forests at the top and bottom. Sprawled within the centre were spidery roads and the clear signs of towns. His breath racing, he decided this was the Nentir Vale.

On the left hand side of the table were the older, more faded parchments. Their level of detail was slim in comparison, with only a few markings, including a rolling set of hills and then forests and cliffs narrowing into a gorge. Upon the hills were inked a pair of dragons in an intricate design.

Sorrow noticed Khalin’s interest and halted her debate with Rhasgar.

‘This is the best we have,’ she began pointing to the left of the table. ‘Details of the west are fairly sparse, as you can tell. I estimate we are here,’ she pointed to the very far left of the parchments. ‘About two dozen leagues from the western foothills of the Cairngorms.’ She traced her finger up the gorge, over the rolling hills and the dragons and to the left of the more detailed mountain range in the centre of the table.

Khalin nodded. From what he had already gathered — the simple maps from the hobgoblin chieftain’s quarters and what Altair’s Talons and Borik Glintshield had told him — the lay of the land was starting to make sense. Sorrow’s hand moved back towards the rolling hills and began to tap up and down on the dragons.

‘Here, though, lies our major problem. If, and it’s a big if, we manage to cross much of the Stonemarch without drawing down a raiding party of orcs, or a band of hobgoblins, we might run into these.’

‘We don’t have any choice,’ Rhasgar interrupted. ‘We must get back, if only for Bekio’s sake. His brother must be buried in Winterhaven. Aiming due east, for Kiris Dahn, and then coming around the south of the Cairngorms into the Vale is the shortest and probably safest route.’ His finger traced a line from the gorge east towards a dot of a town or city a couple of leagues south of the bottom tip of the western mountain range, the Cairngorms. ‘There’s no other sensible way through the mountains at this time of year.’

‘We were captured once following such a route,’ Sorrow replied. ‘I would not welcome that a second time.’

It was obvious to Khalin that the exchange had been heated at times, each with their own opinion on how to return home. He wished he could offer some insightful response.

The young fighter handed over the stick and she carefully examined it with delicate fingers for a while in silence.

‘The carvings are exquisite,’ she finally offered running a slender finger down the length of the shaft, ‘and the feathers appear to have withstood the ravages of time. The black ones are from a raven, if I’m not mistaken, the lighter coloured ones might even be from an eagle. The carvings back that up, I suppose, the beak here certainly seems to be hooked like an eagle’s.’

‘What’s it for?’ enquired Tradden, entranced by her lilting voice.

‘I believe it helps focus the energies from the ground and the trees and all around us, a primal power. Someone trained, or perhaps even just gifted, in drawing power from the land around us and channeling it, such as Aukan, would find such an item useful.’

‘Aukan?’ questioned the young fighter.

‘Yes. He’s a warden — he uses the powers afforded him to become one with the lands and stop all in his path. As gentle as he is, when his rage builds up against those that may defile the lands he is a one-man army.’

Sorrow handed the stick back to Tradden, wiped her hands on her leathers, and headed out of the shadows and around to the front of the inn. Tradden followed in step, almost tripping over himself in his impatience to catch up.

The trail ended at a glade, serene and beautiful with tall slender trees and a large pool of clear, crystal water sprinkled with broad lily-pads. Willow trees grew at the side of the water and their long loping branches swayed in the gentle breeze. Tradden was overcome with a sense of calmness and tranquility, and his breath, puffing after the quick walk from the town, settled into a slow and steady rhythm.

At the edge of the water was a small rock cairn, a posy of dried flowers at its feet. Tradden drew near and squinted at an inscription beaten into a small bronze plate attached to one of the rocks.

Aukan marched ahead, seemingly knowing where he was headed, with Tradden behind, desperately trying to keep up. The trees were getting closer together and brambles lay upon the ground snagging and clutching at the young fighter’s heels. Aukan, however, seemed unperturbed by the undergrowth and his long legs kept a steady rhythm that Tradden struggled to match.

After fifteen minutes or so the goliath stopped and looked from side to side as if getting his bearings. Tradden, puffing and panting by now, came up alongside, bending over and clutching at his knees to catch his breath. The walk had been short, but for some reason it had taken the wind out of his sails. He raised an arm and was just about to speak when Aukan beat him to it.

‘We are here,’ the goliath said and stepped forwards into an area clear of trees.

‘Where?’ wheezed Tradden and looked up to see where Aukan had gone now.

Sun bathed the undergrowth with a dazzling light at it reached its midday zenith. The clearing was circular, the trunks of the surrounding trees forming its perimeter in an orderly fashion, and it drew his eyes towards the centre with an unnerving dizziness. The brambles of the surrounding wood encroached into the clearing but were then supplanted by some huge, thick, black vines. They curled around the clearing, menacingly, as though a snake constricting its prey, black and twisted, large thorns protruding from their hideous sides at regular intervals.

Tradden touched one of the thorns as he moved towards Aukan to judge its sharpness, and was greeted with a sharp shaft of pain, blood trickling from his finger. The cut was long, deep and wide although he had only touched down with the slightest pressure. Putting the finger in his mouth he vowed not to touch another.

‘Where are we?’ he asked, suddenly feeling cold and chill.

‘Your barkeep,’ replied Aukan, not taking his eyes off whatever he could see within the clearing, ‘he said there was one here. I didn’t dare to believe, but it is true.’

‘One what?’ queried Tradden, a little puzzled and not for the first time. ‘A bloody prickly vine?’

There was a low rumbling growl from the goliath that grew in volume and it took Tradden a few moments to realise it was a laugh. He joined in, weakly.

‘No, no,’ said Aukan eventually. ‘A circle. Look past the vines and you will see.’

Tradden frowned, not seeing. Then, as he looked closer he could see them. Large white rocks, jutting out here and there under the vines and brambles, weather beaten, pockmarked and rough. They ran round, parallel to the tree line, in a wide circle, with a central stone, more polished and smooth than the others, in the centre atop a shallow mound.

The young fighter shivered convulsively nearly grabbing a vine, and certain pain, in his haste. He steadied himself, however, without the need of a handhold wondering what the queer feeling meant.

‘Let me see the stick,’ Aukan commanded, turning to face the young fighter.

Tradden looked up at him. The goliath’s gaze was penetrating, his eyes bore into him, almost menacingly Tradden thought. There seemed a shadow around the goliath’s frame, black and fluid, stretching out past aeons and wrapping Aukan in a living blanket. The air grew cold and stale, still as ice, the taste of rotting vegetation lingering in the roof of his mouth. Tradden thought he was going to pass out. Meekly, he held out the stick and the goliath snatched it from him, pushing the frail human away with an almighty shove and roaring with laughter.

The young fighter fell into blackness.

He came to cradled in Aukan’s huge arms.

His head throbbed wildly and his cheeks and neck were wet with cool water that the goliath was carefully trying to pour down his throat.

‘Steady, there,’ coaxed Aukan softly. ‘You’ve had a little tumble.’

Tradden flinched and his arm started to move towards his shoulder for his sword before he remembered he had not brought it with him. ‘Fool!’ he thought, Khalin would not be impressed.;

‘I think you managed to poison yourself on the vines,’ the goliath continued. ‘You went quite a funny colour before the life drained out of you. Good job you missed the rest of the vines on the way down.’ He chuckled. ‘I think you would have been quite unwell had I not grabbed you. How do you feel now?’

Tradden still wasn’t sure what had actually happened, it had felt so real. The headache certainly was real though. ‘Lousy,’ he replied through a thick mouth.

Looking up, he could see that the sun had moved quickly across the sky and was now just over the tree line. He’d been out for a couple of hours at least. Shakily, he rose to his feet, steeling himself against any further dizzy spells. When none came he breathed out and relaxed and the headache started to ease.

The air in the circle was sweet and cool, the gentle breeze blowing away any lingering sense of nausea. The cut on his hand had stopped bleeding and a thick crust of blood had already started to congeal. He would get that seen to as soon as he got back to town. As he looked at his hands he noticed he no longer held the stick and worriedly looked around for any sign of it. Aukan held it in his hands. The huge goliath saw Tradden staring at the item.

‘You gave this to me just before you feinted,’ Aukan suggested. ‘An interesting item, something that well matches this circle here I believe. It’s watching and waiting.’

Why did everyone talk in riddles? Tradden thought. ‘What, the stick?’ he asked.

Aukan looked at the stick and then across the stone circle. ‘Both,’ he answered. ‘They’re both waiting for something and watching for it. The stick is a totem, a device for one connected with primal energies to expand and channel their power. This one soars above the land on wings of sight, blessed by the feathers of ravens and eagles, circling, and watching for something to return.’ The goliath looked up into the skies as he spoke and crossed the heavens with an upraised arm. ‘The circle waits here to be discovered and to be put to use once more.’

Tradden didn’t feel as if he were much the wiser. ‘You said you didn’t believe there would be a circle here. Why?’

The goliath moved closer to the young fighter and lowered his voice, acting almost surreptitiously. ‘Our legends tell of a series of stone circles tended by druids long ago, protecting the land and…’

There was a snap of a branch nearby and both Tradden and Aukan glanced across the circle. A black-robed figure strode out into the vined area, its hood drawn up over its face. Not for the first time did Tradden feel himself reach for a non-existent sword. It looked across at the pair and pulled down its hood. It was Kireth!

‘What in the gods’ names are you doing here?’ quizzed Tradden as Aukan rose, passed the totem back to him, and became the silent giant once more.

‘One might ask the same of you,’ replied Kireth in a whimsical drone. ‘I am taking in the airs,’ he continued aloofly. ‘I have not been well.’

Tradden looked at him closely. He did look a little peeky — his face looked pale and withered and bags hung under his eyes as if he had not slept since he had returned.

‘You still don’t look well, are you sure you’re alright,’ Tradden asked, noticing Aukan head back towards the direction of the town from the corner of his eye.

Kireth’s eyes seemed to light up playfully with his comment.

‘Oh, yes,’ replied the wizard, smiling at the young fighter. ‘After my walk I feel much better.’

A smile grew on Kireth’s lips as he studied the boy. Somehow, it unnerved the lad.

‘Yes, well,’ he stammered ‘We’d better be getting back, hadn’t we?’

‘Indeed we should,’ Kireth replied, the smile never leaving his lips. ‘Do lead the way.’

Hesitantly, Tradden took one last look at the overgrown stone circle, and then started the slow walk back to town with Kireth in tow behind him. After a few minutes he realised what had unnerved him so much.

He couldn’t remember the last time he saw Kireth smile!

The journey back to town was uneventful, although largely silent. Tradden rubbed his sore hand from time to time and tried to engage Kireth in conversation, but apart from the occasional monosyllabic response the mage seemed not to be one for talking much at this point and the young fighter gradually gave up the losing battle.

By the time they reached the West Gate Tradden’s hand was aching and the tips of his fingers were tingling quite badly. He mumbled some apologies and headed over to the temple, as Kireth strolled towards The Bronze Lion.

To his surprise, Rhasgar and Miri were there. Word had reached them whilst Tradden was at the glade and the stone circle — Bekio had awoken.

The little halfling looked tired and pale, but most of all he looked sorrowful. There was no doubt that Rhasgar and Miri had been here to let him know the news of his twin. Bekio appeared tall to Tradden, perhaps half-a-head again taller than Skillet, with black spiky hair that increased the perception of his height. He’d had time to dress, in dark cloths emblazoned with embroideries of mystical runes and sigils, perhaps more to impress than serve any real function. Now, he stood to one side of the temple, Miri’s arm supporting him and Rhasgar offering soothing words.

Tradden nodded over to the trio, hoping that his quiet respect would show his sympathy for the little man, before seeking out one of the acolytes to clean and dress his hand.

With the acolytes still busy with the needy, Gilmorril the elf, the lady, and the half-orc, it was left to Beltak to see to Tradden. The scribe professed to being a less-than-adequate healer, but Tradden had seen the man perform miracles in battle and was more than happy for Beltak to treat him. The scribe took one look at the cut and surrounding inflammation and asked Tradden if he had been at the stone circle. When the young fighter nodded, Beltak left him alone for a moment to get some salves and pastes, returning with some small pottery jars, the contents of which he spread over the wound recanting prayers as he worked. Tradden felt a soothing warmth spread across his palm as the cut began to close before his eyes, a dark purple ichor spilling out and dripping onto the floor.

‘Valino brought me back some of the vines from the circle,’ Beltak had explained whilst he worked. ‘Vile things, black and twisted, and their thorns were razor sharp like talons of some strange beast. You could almost see the poison dripping from them. It was less than a day before they withered and died, crumbling in upon themselves until they turned to dust. We’ve warned most people to stay away from them, I’m surprised you went over there.’

After only a few minutes Tradden’s hand felt much better — the pain had eased almost completely and the tingling sensation had gone. An angry red scar in the shape of a crescent was all that remained for now. He flexed his hand, he would have no problem holding a sword which relieved him somewhat. He thanked Beltak and stood to return to The Bronze Lion.

Khalin finally managed to sit down and grab a small bite to eat. The last couple of hours in The Bronze Lion had almost been stifling.

He’d managed to understand Rhasgar’s and Sorrow’s plans for how they may return to the Nentir Vale and committed to memory the maps they had in all their detail. He also felt he had been some use to them, offering suggestions on how they may attempt to avoid any hobgoblins or orcs or even the dragons. He wasn’t sure which way the offer had been made, the offer from Khalin and the group to accompany the Talons to assist their safety, or the offer from Rhasgar to take Khalin and the group along with them to see the Vale, but the warlord didn’t mind, the offer stood, and he was edging on acceptance.

Then the messages started.

First it was good news — the halfling Bekio had come round at the temple. The Talons were delighted, but their excitement tempered when they realised they had to bear the news of Bekio’s twin, Ulmo. Rhasgar and Miri offered to go and tell him, the others agreed, and they left for the temple.

The subsequent messages were still running around in Khalin’s mind and he wasn’t sure what to make of them at all.

The runner that had come from the temple waited until Rhasgar and Miri had left and then offered Khalin a note, sealed with an inscription of a burning sun, the symbol of the Church of Pelor. The note requested, perhaps even demanded judging by the tone, that the group take a letter of introduction, in utmost secrecy, to the head of the Pelorian Church in the Vale. Khalin had passed the note onto Zero, but the rogue just shrugged with indifference. The warlord wished that he had the counsel of Kireth, but the wizard was nowhere to be found.

Another message was relayed not moments later, but at least this one was in person. Tymander Small, head of the Blackengorge Merchants Guild, small as it was, had entered The Bronze Lion and asked to speak with Khalin. The two had sat at a table where Tymander had expressed his desire to formalise trade routes with the Nentir Vale, to bring much required goods into Blackengorge and to help the town grow in size. Perhaps with trade another ship could be funded and built, and the exciting news returned back to The Islands.

Khalin could see many of Tymander’s points and even offered up some of his own, but was startled to find that Tymander thought that a wagon laden with goods from Blackengorge would be the best opening gambit to open up trade relations. He argued the point about a waste of resources if the expedition ran into trouble in hostile country, and that the town could ill-afford to send even two of its oxen, but the enigmatic Council member would not be swayed. He left to allow Khalin to consider the offer.

Just as Khalin thought his day could not get any more complicated he was approached by Jason Henrikson of the guard who held a letter for any governor of any city within the Vale with a request to send guards and fighting men for Blackengorge to help build and strengthen the town.

The dwarf was gracious with all the messengers but was clever enough not to make any firm commitments either way. He needed to talk to Kireth, and Zero and Tradden as well. He would not make any decisions without their agreement. He still brewed over the puzzle of Rindall, and that of the so-called ’spy’ in Blackengorge. He had also yet to talk with Gilmorril. Disappearing off to the east on a journey fraught with danger and with no timescale for return was exciting and what he had always yearned for, but the loose strings that played on his mind in this little town still had their own pull.

The warm bread and cheese from Skillet’s larder held no real comfort and it was with some relief that Khalin saw Kireth return to the inn, followed only a few minutes after by Tradden. The warlord gathered them and Zero close. A time to make decisions was nigh.

A new realisation dawned over the warlord as he wiped another film of foam from his moustache. If the group were to journey to the east laden with goods, then he would need to sort and direct the logistics. He drew a heavy sigh. In his youth he had dreamt of conquering the Old Continent, of exploring its furthest reaches and re-uniting ancient clans and kinsmen. In the short time he had been here he had found a dark cloud nestling above his own clan name and was now going to be spending his time worrying about how many goods could be safely stowed away on a ramshackle cart pulled by a pair of stubborn oxen. So much for the adventuring life!

‘I’ll go see Tymander,’ he suggested after a few moments’ contemplation. ‘I’ll let him know we accept his request, and Barghest, and Tremak. I suppose they’ll need a little time to sort out a wagon and determine the supplies for trade.’

With another small sigh of resignation he rose from the table, made his farewells, and headed out into the evening air.

Within the hour Khalin had accepted the requests from the Town Council personally, bearing three sealed envelopes — one with the seal of the sun, one with the seal of a shield, and one with the seal of a rose — along with the promise that a wagon would be built on the morrow, ready for leave the day after. Tymander himself would oversee the selection and loading of the wagon with trade goods, and would see to it that the group, including the Talons, would have provisions and rations safely aboard to match their expectations.

His work completed for the night, the dwarf looked wistfully over at The Bronze Lion, before heading up to the temple. Just in case.

The day had been the most exhausting for Kireth since his return to Blackengorge. The long walk he had undertaken had certainly refreshed him somewhat, but now he was tired and aching. The ordeal from the ruined keep and the chill of the portal had taken much out of him, perhaps too much, and his road to full recovery would be long and arduous. It would only be a matter of a day or two before they would be setting off into the wilderness once more, and he must conserve his energies for the journey.

With a pleasant smile he stood up, making his excuses, and headed off up the stairs into his room, locking the door securely behind him. As he turned from the door he looked over to the bed. His head cocked to side slowly as he drew down his hood. There on the pillow, standing out in harsh contrast to the white of the sheets, was a single violet flower. A hyacinth, perhaps the first of the season.

The rogue had managed to get himself fairly merry on Skillet’s wine and was half-contemplating another stint in the rafters with his crossbow. The other half of his mind was telling him to go and get some fresh air, though, to clear his head and prepare for the journey ahead. The two sides raged in battle for what seemed an eternity and at last the sensible side won, the lack of female company in the inn tipping the balance. He lurched upwards from the table without so much as a by-your-leave to Tradden and swayed out of the door.

The cold evening’s air hit him quite hard, trying to blowing away any befuddlement but bringing on a dull ache in his head. He hadn’t really thought about where he was going, just to get a bit of fresh air. He wrapped his cloak around him and began to walk around the central plaza, following the round cobbled path in a wide circle whilst he thought.

Thoughts didn’t come easily. As soon as one fleeted to his mind it danced away just as quickly. He would have to cut down on his wine intake. He was even starting to see things — a figure off in the shadows, bent over as though hobbled and old, something in its hand. A weapon? He staggered closer, trying to work out what it was.

He didn’t see the shrine of Pelor, though, sticking up straight out of the ground at the edge of the plaza. As the figure moved away into the blackness he tried to follow and connected head on with the wooden frame. For a moment he stood there, dazed. Then he keeled over to the side landing on a carpet of white. As he drifted off into a forced sleep his last thoughts were on the comfortable bed he lay in. ‘Oh, snowdrops, how lovely,’ was all he thought before blackness took him.

Tradden felt rather alone. Khalin had gone off to talk to the Town Council, Kireth had gone upstairs presumably to sleep, and Zero had lurched out of the door via a long and winding route. He had slowly finished his wine, sorting his thoughts and desires, but now had need of some company. The Talons were engaged, deciding on how best to travel back to the Nentir Vale — along with us, Tradden hoped — and the others they had rescued had already retired for the night. Even Skillet seemed unusually busy.

He shrugged and headed out into the growing night. Perhaps he’d wander past Caldring’s, just in case she was back from the tower.

There was no sign of Zero outside, nor of Khalin. In fact everything was very quiet. He was a little surprised how dark it had gotten — perhaps they’d spent a little too much time enjoying themselves in the inn and time had passed them by. It had also grown cold. His breath stood out starkly against the moonlight, large clouds rising and dissipating into the air.

He wandered, rather aimlessly truth be told, across the plaza, more or less in the direction of Caldring’s smithy. He knew she wasn’t there — no smoke rose from her small chimney and his heart sank a little. He decided to turn back and call it a night. He turned about and had to jump back in alarm!

Standing behind him, appearing silently and out of the blackness somehow, was the old crone that had accosted him with flowers once before. She held out another bunch now, pushing them towards his face, their stark whiteness almost glowing in the moonlight.

Tradden tried to move to one side, but the crone, Yolanda he remembered, matched his step and thrust the flowers towards him once more.

‘Pheasant’s Eye daffodils,’ she croaked, her voice croaking and aged. ‘Nice flowers.’

The thrust came again like a sword cut.

He fumbled in his pockets for some coppers, but only found a silver. ‘Here!’ he offered, pushing the coin towards the old crone like a shield.

The coin was snatched and the flowers roughly transplanted before Tradden could refuse. The old crone held him with a steely glare.

She began to speak, sing perhaps, her voice cracking and wheezing as she spoke:

At the end she pushed Tradden’s elbow upwards and the flower heads squashed against his face. The young fighter exploded into a fit of sneezing.

When he recovered, the old crone was gone.

Zero had awoken upon the grass, near the small shrine with a start. The morning sun burned through the shrine’s hoop aligning almost precisely with its angle, the spring equinox only just passed. The Light of Pelor had favoured him, waking him before too many people were up and about to notice his presence.

The light, although too intense to begin with, enforcing the rogue’s headache, had gradually warmed him up, bathing him with its beauty and washing away his sins. When he actually moved, instead of the pains he expected, he had none. It was if the light itself had leant him strength and cleansed his body. Quickly, he had risen and scampered back to The Bronze Lion before anyone really noticed.

Tradden had already breakfasted and left, probably pining for the smith Zero thought with a wry smile. Some of the others had not risen, but Khalin sat to one side readying his pack.

‘We’re not going until the morrow,’ Zero called out to the dwarf.

Khalin looked up, regarding the rogue with some mild amusement. ‘Then maybe that will give you time to get cleaned up?’ he jested, nodding at Zero’s clothes, covered in grass and snowdrop petals.

‘Yes, well, got to, uhm, ’test’ them before we head out into the wilderness, eh?’ he responded, brushing some of the petals away onto the inn floor.

‘Oi!’ piped up a small voice. ‘I only swept that an hour ago!’

It was Skillet, armed with a vicious looking bundle of cloth. The diminutive figure stared at Zero for some moments. Zero stared back, but it was no good, there was something quite disconcerting about staring at a halfling that had made up his mind to be awkward. The rogue gave in, as gracefully as he could, and bent down to pick up the detritus.

‘Hmm,’ scowled the halfling, ‘anyway, this is for you.’

When Zero got off his hands and knees Skillet presented him with the bundle of cloth. ‘Little Alicia Lowfield brought them round. Said they were all part of the price you paid. Looks like you might need them.’

Skillet dropped the bundle into Zero’s hands, sniffed once, loudly, turned on his heels and walked back over to the bar.

‘You can finish tidying before you open it, though,’ he continued, before disappearing off into his fabled back room.

Zero kicked the remaining few petals under one of the nearby tables, always keeping an eye on the door of Skillet’s room, and then unfolded the bundle. His heart leapt with joy. There, unwrapped to see, were three more outfits all as skilfully made as the first — wonderful colours and delicate embroidery snaking its way down the sleeves and across the chest.

He held one up with pride. At least you got your money’s worth in this town!

Khalin turned his attention from the vain rogue back to his own pack. He’d packed and repacked it a couple of times, trying to find the best combination and order for the items he wanted to take on the journey east. Tradden and Zero seemed to be more concerned with jaunting around the small town rather than preparing, but they were younger and maybe that was their own way. Kireth had not been down from his room yet, and perhaps he was preparing for the journey in his own special way also.

He was still frustrated that there had been no word from the temple on Gilmorril’s condition. He had ventured up to the temple the night before, after the decisions on the journey had been made. However, the elf was still in the grips of fever, convulsing and sweating profusely, and no closer to recovery. He’d asked for a runner to be sent to him, whatever the time, day or night, if there was a change in condition, but none had yet arrived.

None of the Talons were yet downstairs, all sleeping off the excesses of the previous night no doubt. If they were the heroic group they claimed to be they would be ’all business’ today, preparing for the journey and ensuring their heads were clear for the morrow. There was no harm in the feasting and drinking from last night. Who knew, if there really were dragons out on the Stonemarch, it might be their last chance to enjoy themselves thoroughly.

Neither had Khalin seen much of Borik or Lee-da-Gaar. The old dwarf was probably still fast asleep, snoring no doubt. The monk was likely meditating in his room, or was out in the sunshine stretching and practicing bodily moves that were bring slight guffaws from the town guard.

‘Where were his weapons?’ they had asked as the monk slowly went through practice rituals of arm and leg extensions. ‘How’s he going to fight a goblin at that speed!’ they had laughed.

To his credit, Lee-da-Gaar had not even acknowledged the guards’ taunts, let alone retorted to them. Perhaps he’d not even noticed, judging by how much concentration he had placed on his practice.

As he strapped the final buckle across his pack and slid the leather strip into placed he sat back. He was prepared. He was ready.

As lunchtime turned to afternoon there was an unexpected visitor at The Bronze Lion. Beltak, the scribe, appeared at the threshold, panting slightly and looking flushed. He scanned the common room until his eyes fell upon Kireth and approached the mage almost reluctantly.

‘Master Kireth, may I speak to you, please?’ he asked quietly. ‘Alone.’

Kireth looked at the others and then without a word nodded towards the stairs and headed to his room. Opening the door for Beltak and ushering him in, he took a quick look down the corridors and then closed the door behind them both, uttering a few syllables. The lock clicked.

‘The past few days have been most exhilarating,’ the young priest began at pace, whirling to face the mage. ‘Just finding people from the Old Continent would have been special, but to find out that they have towns and perhaps even cities is incredible.’

Beltak looked up at Kireth with a broad beam on his face. It was obvious that the scribe could barely hide his excitement.

‘I have spent some time with Sorrow, the, uhm, tiefling, and she has tales of wonder to tell of the ancient days. Her songs and sonnets will leave me with many tendays of work. Look,’ he continued, thrusting some parchments towards Kireth’s face, ‘I have written most of them down as she spoke and will begin to collate and cross-reference them as soon as I can.’

Kireth politely declined to read the parchments — he was sure that he would have time at a later date. There was obviously something more that the scribe had to tell. Beltak paused, waiting for Kireth to read the notes, then withdrew them when it was obvious the mage would look at them later.

‘But, the most interesting tales have been from Lee-da-Gaar,’ Beltak continued, desperately trying to keep Kireth enthralled. ‘It seems his order at his temple, Sunderpeak Temple in the Cairngorm Mountains,’ the scribe’s voice seemed to relish talking about places that in his dreams he only hoped existed and now were quickly becoming a reality, ‘they had records, albeit sketchy, of some of the history prior to the Downfall. It seems that even here on the Old Continent after the last battle history was hard to keep except that which was passed down orally.’

Beltak was into his full swing now. Kireth hardly had to say a word, just nod and smile every once in a while, and drink all of the information in.

Beltak took Kireth’s general silence as a good sign. The mage was listening. He rushed out his next words, each one rapidly tumbling from his mouth into the next — it was almost difficult for the mage to keep pace.

‘Lee-da-Gaar tells of a great battle to the west, perhaps where the Gorge Wall stands now, where the ’Ruler of Ruin’ drove his horde against King Elidyr and crushed the ’Flame Imperishable’. The King was slain and his Last Legion, his King’s Guard, fled in terror. The details are thin, but Lee-da-Gaar believes that the records themselves have more detail — just the basics of history were taught. Oh, if I could just get my hand on these annals! Perhaps you could visit this temple with Lee-da-Gaar, help him reclaim it, and bring back the records?’

The mage was silent for some moments, thinking along all the paths of possibility. Beltak took this as a sign of indecision, and pressed his point.

‘I looked deep within our own annals on this subject once more, once I had Lee-da-Gaar’s transcription. I wanted to cross-reference some of our own records, but, uhm,’ the scribe began to look very sheepish. ‘I think I might have mislaid some of the old parchments, though, in my haste from previous study. I cannot find them. His Radiant Servant will be furious!’

Kireth’s head jolted upwards and he caught Beltak’s eyes. The young scribe seemed fearful of the consequences of his actions, scared perhaps. The mage’s mind was decided.

‘Then perhaps it would be best for you to accompany us, then? If you wish to raise your favour with His Radiant Servant, what better way than to shed the Light of Pelor on the histories and annals of old first-hand?’ offered Kireth.

Beltak had not expected this, even with Tradden’s request earlier in the day. He didn’t feel that Tremak would allow it.

‘B-but, His Radiant Servant, he wouldn’t allow…’ he started.

‘You just leave His Radiant Servant to me,’ smirked Kireth. ‘Meanwhile, you should start packing. You have a long journey ahead.’

As Beltak left The Bronze Lion he held the door open for one of the guards. In uniform they were a rare sight in the inn, Valino’s orders very clear on that matter — only off-duty. Somehow this seemed to be official business.

Khalin looked up and studied the boy. He’d memorised most of the guards’ names even in the short time he had been in the town — it seemed quite natural to the warlord to do so after many outings with the Border March. It was Robin Drakesmellow, one of the youngest of the guards, although quite a soldier already according to his strict sergeant.

Robin looked around the inn, seeking someone out. Spotting Khalin, he wandered over slowly.

‘Afternoon, Master Khalin,’ he began with a broad countryside accent after removing his helm.

‘How can we help?’ replied the dwarf, always keen to assist the guard.

‘I’m looking fer Master Tradden an’ Master Zero if it be all the same,’ Robin replied, looking past Khalin’s shoulder at the youthful pair, who suddenly exchanged worried glances.

Khalin was a little disappointed. With guards’ business, he hoped to be the first one to be asked, but these two? What had they been up to? He moved to the side, allowing Robin to get a good view of them, and frowned at them himself.

‘I’d like you to ’company me, if it please you,’ Robin requested with a firm, if uncertain tone.

‘What’s all this about, Robin?’ asked Khalin with a slight note of disapproval in his voice aimed at the pair of humans next to him.

‘Oh, it be the smith, sir,’ replied the guard. ‘Says she wants, er, woulds like Master Zero to come and see her at the tower, like.’

Tradden’s face brightened when Caldring was mentioned, but then flushed red when he realised she’d asked for Zero and not him. The rogue just smiled and winked at him.

‘Says that the tall one better come an’ all.’

Tradden went redder.

Khalin relaxed and looked over at the pair once again. ‘Well, go on then,’ he commanded like a parent scolding his children. ‘Don’t keep the lady waiting!’

Zero breathed out as the anxiety flooded away and the space was filled by curiosity.

‘Indeed,’ he proclaimed, swirling around to face Robin, his cloak brushing irritably over Tradden’s face. ‘Lead on, young man. Come on, tall one, we need you for the rowboat!’

The rogue chuckled as he followed Robin out of The Bronze Lion, with Tradden sulking behind.

Kireth came down the stairs into the common room just as the door to the inn was slammed shut by Tradden. He saw Khalin sat alone at a table, his head in his hands shaking it slowly from side to side.

‘Where are they going now?’ enquired the mage.

‘The Tower, to see the smith,’ replied Khalin, looking up. ‘Those two are going to be the end of me!’

‘Indeed they may,’ agreed Kireth, ‘but not, I fear, today.’

The mage paused for a moment, as if to say something important, but then turned towards the door. ‘I will be out for a short while, I have business at the temple. However, I am ready for the journey tomorrow now.’

As Kireth left, Khalin grumbled into his ale. ‘Well, that’s alright then, isn’t it?’

Zero sat in the prow of the rowboat like a lord. Occasionally he wafted his arms about showing off his newly embroidered clothes and gesticulating at Tradden to either slow down or to speed up.

‘What in the nine hells does she want you for?’ Tradden had asked as they had climbed into the wooden boat at the boathouse.

‘Well,’ mused the rogue, ‘they all crack in the end, don’t they?’

In truth, Zero was quite unsure what the smith would want with him, but was quite intrigued. He’d not been to this fabled tower before and was quite enjoying the ride through the mists. For once it was nice to have something slightly unnatural and exciting happen and yet knowing that there wasn’t a hideous monster lurking at the other side.

As the rowboat snaked up onto the shingle of the island, Zero was already leaping off like a seasoned buccaneer. It was left to Tradden and Robin to tie the small wooden craft up to the post that had been rammed down into the beach.

‘This way,’ ordered Zero, pointing up the beach towards the dim outline of the tower through the mists and setting off with his head held high.

‘We know,’ muttered Tradden under his breath, finishing the knot of the rope and following Zero up the slope.

Tradden caught up with the rogue just inside the entrance of the crumbling ruin, leaving Robin to his duties out on the island. The broken tower stones and rotting crates were still strewn around the interior, only the area around the trapdoor leading down into the chamber below was ordered and cleaned.

‘I love what she’s done with the place,’ Zero beamed.

‘She’s done wonders,’ Tradden scolded, suddenly feeling quite protective. ‘Come on, we need to go down here.’ He headed across to the trapdoor and lifted it up revealing a blast of warmth from the softly lit chamber below.

‘Hmm, down, always down,’ mumbled Zero, but followed the young fighter into the depths.

Caldring had indeed worked wonders. Even since the short hours that Tradden had last been here more of the forge had been cleaned and restored towards its former glory. The young fighter wasn’t sure where the elven smith found the time or the energy.

The bookcases had been repaired and moved to the far side of the chamber, a thin metal protective plate covering the front like a door. The worktables had been cleaned and all of the small pieces of intriguing metal arranged and laid out in ascending size order. One of the tables was clear except for the strange thin-metal frame that Khalin and Tradden had found. There was no sign of any soot or dust except for on the smith herself. Anvils of various sizes, and even some of strange shapes, were arranged to one side, small tools and hammers laid upon them ready for use. Next to them were small baths of liquids, maybe water, maybe not, resting next to a number of freshly hewn blocks of stone from the mine to the north. Behind the stone, next to the forge grate were three wooden mannequins, all bare except the last which held a gleaming mail shirt adorned upon it. The grate to the main forge was closed.

Caldring, covered in soots and oils and crusts of charred leather, stood before the forge grate, her back to the entrance and the men. She turned when she heard them approach and Tradden immediately saw the fresh cuts on her face, as though she had been clawed at by a beast.

‘I hear you are good with your fingers?’ she questioned, looking at Zero.

The rogue broke into a smile and nudged Tradden with his elbow. ‘See? Cracked,’ he whispered.

Tradden took an involuntary step forwards. ‘Your face,’ he mumbled, ‘what happened?’

‘A minor setback, that is all,’ Caldring replied. ‘My fingers are not as nimble as some. I would have asked Skillet, but I would prefer to leave all of my valuable items where they are, rather than be on display in his back room. Therefore, I called upon you.’

It was Tradden’s time to smirk. ‘Second to a halfling, eh?’ he whispered into Zero’s ear.

Zero frowned. ‘So what exactly is it that you’ve asked me here to do?’

The smith strode across to one of the worktables, the one with the thin-wire device. She picked it up effortlessly, it was obviously extremely light. She held it out for all to see.

‘This,’ she said. ‘I think I’ve figured out what it is and how to use it. However, as you can see,’ she pointed to a couple of loose wires that had sprung to one side, ‘it has suffered some damage when it has been down here. I tried to repair it, but the wires snapped back, cutting my face. I need someone with an expert touch to re-assemble it.’

‘And that’s where I come in, I suppose,’ grumbled Zero, his enthusiasm dampening with the thought of the mundane.

‘What does it do?’ asked Tradden his curiosity, conversely, beginning to pique.

Caldring became more animated and engaging as she started to talk about the frame. ‘It wraps around the stone blocks like these,’ she pointed at the freshly hewn stone. ‘It’s enchanted, some quite powerful magic from what I can tell. Note that the blocks are the same size as the ones brought back from the Gorge Wall. With the right heat applied to the frame whilst it is wrapped around the block it will impart some of its magics, searing the block and bestowing an aura of protection upon it.’

Her eyes were positively glowing whilst she talked of the craftsmanship of the wire frame and of the processes involved.

‘If we can mend it, I think I can reproduce the protective stones. Whoever created this was a great smith!’

‘And how do I help mend it?’ asked Zero, doubtful that he should be involved in such craft.

‘It appears to be quite simple, if you have the dexterity and patience,’ the smith replied. ‘You need to be near the heat to allow the wire to become supple, and then you just need to lever these two broken pieces here under the others. It sounds simple, but I’ve tried a few times and cannot do it.’

Caldring turned and pulled the lever to open the grate to the forge. Zero took a step backward as the huge metal door slid to one side, freshly oiled and greased to avoid any sound. The heat that flooded into the room surprised him.

The smith casually walked towards the forge and into the heat and laid the wire frame down on the giant anvil within its gaping maw. She looked back at Zero expectantly.

‘You expect me to go in there?’ he shrieked.

‘Go on,’ Tradden urged, nudging Zero forwards from behind, starting to enjoy himself. ‘Nothing to be scared of.’

‘I’m not scared!’ retorted Zero. ‘I just, uhm, work best under certain conditions, that’s all.’

The rogue cautiously walked towards the forge, grimacing slightly at the heat. ‘You coming?’ he asked Tradden.

‘Me? Erm, no, I’ve got to stay here, uhm, to look after things.’

The rogue frowned at the young fighter and ventured closer to the heat. It certainly was stifling and he had no idea how Caldring could stand there apparently unaffected. Beads of sweat started to break out on his brow.

He joined the smith at the giant anvil and turned over the wire frame in his hands. It certainly was light, much lighter than he expected. Whatever metal this was, it certainly wasn’t common.

Slowly the rogue turned to business — the transformation was invisible to those around him, but Zero was starting to become very proficient in his skills. He could slow and steady his breathing, keep his hands and fingers rock solid, and he could spot the tiniest imperfection or loophole in a mechanism with his sharp eyes. With a few minutes study, all thoughts of the heat gone whilst he worked, he had worked out how to fix the device.

He pulled out a small delicate tool from his pack and set to work.

He pulled the prongs to one side and tried to lever them back in but to his surprise they whipped back in a sharp motion and slashed across his palms. Blood welled up on his left hand and began to drip down his wrist.

‘Ow!’ he bawled, alerting Caldring and Tradden to his plight.

‘Don’t get blood on the mechanism, or the forge!’ Caldring shouted and sprang forward with an oiled rag that she wrapped around his hand before any blood could spill onto the floor.

‘Bloody thing,’ Zero spat, annoyed at the contraption. ‘Thanks for your concern.’

Tradden held his gloved hands up to show the rogue with a twinkle in his eye. ‘Ladies gloves,’ was all he said. Zero did his best to ignore the taunt shrugging off the smith and going back to work once more with a determination to try to fix the thing even if it killed him. He selected a different tool, and tried again.

This time the wires slid perfectly into place and the nestled snugly under one of the main supporting wires. As they clicked into place the front of the wire frame fell out like a cage door and Caldring gasped in delight.

‘Yes!’ she cried, ‘you’ve done it.’ She grabbed hold of the rogue and kissed him roughly. With an embarrassed look she then backed off and took the wire frame cage over to one of the stones, wrapping it around one of them with glee. It was a perfect fit.

Zero stepped out of the intense heat into the slightly cooler work area. Tradden stepped forwards and pulled the lever to close the forge grate. Producing a handkerchief from nowhere Zero mopped his brow and then removed the oily rag from his hand that Caldring had given him, and swapped it for the clean handkerchief.

Caldring continued to work upon the stone and wire cage without speaking.

‘Ahem,’ coughed Tradden. ‘Erm, what happens now?’

It was some moments before the elven smith replied.

‘Oh, yes. Erm, well I have many days of study here to complete the investigations into this stonework. You can see why I can’t come with you to the east. There is too much to do. Even Sorrow seemed reluctant to leave this place, it held so many mysteries.’

‘So, that’s, uhm, it?’ the young fighter asked politely.

‘Er, yes,’ Caldring replied. ‘Thank you very much for your help.’

‘And, er, what did you ask me here for?’ he continued, his voice hopeful.

The smith looked at Tradden as though trying to understand why he was still here. Then a realisation dawned on her and she shook her head. ‘Of course,’ she started, moving across to the mannequins with a bound. ‘Here.’

She took the mail shirt from the mannequin delicately and held it out for Tradden. It was the Eladrin chain that had previously been half-finished. It now looked more or less complete.

‘I consider it my prentice piece for this forge. Your own armour is, well, pathetic in comparison — I’ve no idea where you bought it. Some pawn shop in the Rookery I imagine. There are only so many repairs it will take. If you keep getting hit like you appear to do so, then you won’t make it to the east. I’m sure this will offer some well-needed protection.’

‘You finished it?’ the young fighter asked, incredulously. ‘Without the items you needed?’

‘It’s not perfect, by any means, but it is solid armour and will serve you well. There is something of this forge within it — please show it to the best smith in the Nentir Vale, and tell them of this forge. They will be able to see it in the metal and the reforging if they are worthy. When you return, and I hope you will, I will finish it. I promise.’

Tradden’s heart lightened as he took the armour. Not only did it gleam and ripple in the soft light, but Caldring hoped he would return!

‘I thank you from the bottom of my heart for such a gift, but I sense that for now this is farewell, dear smith,’ he said eloquently, with a small bow. ‘May our paths cross again soon.’

‘Good luck on your travels,’ she replied, watching the young fighter for a few moments before kissing him awkwardly on the cheek and then turning back to her work.

Tradden turned lightly on his heels and strode across the workshop. As they headed back towards the stairs Zero grumbled at him. ‘So you get a brand new set of armour and I get a bloody hand, eh?’

It was the young fighter’s turn to gloat.

‘You can row back, too!’ he said to the rogue as they headed back up the stairs. When they reached the top he looked at Zero slyly. ‘I guess they all crack in the end, eh?’

When Zero and Tradden stepped in to The Bronze Lion Kireth had already returned and was sat near the fire with the glimpse of a smile upon his face. Khalin perched at the other end of the oak table, his head buried in parchments with maps and inventory lists, scratching his beard and grumbling. Borik, Lee-da-Gaar, Rhasgar and Sorrow were sat around him, assisting him in place names and features of the area. The rest of the Talons were on an adjacent table, leaving the preparations to Khalin and Sorrow, a few of the villagers joining them in a drink.

As they approached the table Khalin looked up and noticed Zero’s bloody handkerchief still wrapped around his palm.

‘What have you been up to now, m’lad?’ he asked, almost exasperated.

‘He should have been wearing some nice leather gloves,’ Tradden chirruped, sliding down onto the bench next to Sorrow in what he hoped was an athletic, heroic, and surreptitious manoeuvre. He winked at the tiefling and showed her his gloves. She didn’t seem overly impressed.

‘Aren’t they lad…’ she started.

‘Yes, the finest leather,’ the young fighter interrupted quickly. ‘Would have saved old nimble fingers here a cut had he been wearing some, I’m sure.’

‘Helping Caldring with important business,’ Zero piped up, ignoring Tradden’s taunts and answering Khalin’s question. He slumped down onto the bench and then waved his good arm in the air for a moment. Skillet appeared almost magically behind him. ‘A wine, good man,’ he said to the halfling. ‘Medicinal, of course,’ he added with a wink at Sorrow.

There was a long sigh from Khalin and the dwarf shook his head slowly before returning to the parchments.

‘So,’ Khalin started, his focus back on the task at hand, ‘the Draxes and Kaden Small say the wagon will be ready tonight. Kaden has all of the fastenings forged, it’s just a matter of bolting them onto the wooden framework. The wheels are already completed he says, they’ve been tyred and the axle is already fitted. The iron tyre will help on the rough cobbles, he thinks, although it may be quite loud. The oxen have been fed, so they’ll be ready to be harnessed in the morning.’

‘Tymander says he’ll have all of the goods loaded and secured just after sunrise and I’ve arranged for ten days of supplies for the thirteen of us. There’s the Talons, us, Lee-da-Gaar, Borik, and Beltak.’

At the mention of the scribe Khalin looked up at Kireth who continued to appear to be amused with himself. The mage had not discussed what he had said to Tremak, merely that Beltak would now be accompanying the party to record their heroic deeds.

‘We’ve also arranged for a secure and respectful place for Ulmo’s body on the wagon,’ he continued, looking up at Rhasgar who nodded. ‘Borik here is a capable drover, so will lead the oxen — one other can sit on the front plate with him in turns for a rest. Our full packs can go at the back of the wagon.’

Rhasgar and Sorrow nodded.

‘With the wagon we have no real choice except to follow the Old Road to the Gorge Wall Gate and then see how direct it takes us east. With any luck it will take us directly to the southern tip of the mountains, about two dozen leagues from here.’

He paused for a moment, grabbing one of the scrolls and laying it out. On the map of the Nentir Vale he pointed to the mountains on the left-hand side of the parchment. He drew his finger down to the bottom of the mountain range.

‘At the southern tip of the Cairngorms is Kiris Dahn — a ruin,’ Khalin said, looking up at Sorrow for confirmation. ‘From here we can head northeast into the Vale following the road over the Gardbury Downs to Winterhaven, another dozen leagues or so.’

He rolled up the parchment slowly.

‘With the wagon we’re only going to be moving half a dozen leagues or so a day. We’ll need to rest the oxen and the going might be slow on the Old Road. Assuming we don’t bump into anything untoward we should get to Kiris Dahn in four or five days, Winterhaven in another couple of days after that.’

‘And if we do bump into something untoward?’ questioned Kireth from the far side of the table. The group all turned to look at the mage.

‘Well, we’ll just have to deal with that, won’t we?’ smiled Khalin, obviously eager to be off. ‘Aecris has stood idle for a few days — I’m sure it will be happy to teach some more hobgoblins some manners!’

This drew a rousing cheer from the assembled group, echoed back from the other table with the rest of the Talons. Flagons were raised and a toast was proposed.

‘I’m not sure it is hobgoblins I am concerned about,’ muttered Kireth to himself as the others congratulated themselves and turned once more back to the fire.

With plans laid and a long journey ahead of them the majority of the travellers made for an early night. The thought of setting off just after dawn with a sluggish head and weary body did not appeal. The road to the Nentir Vale was long and perilous and they all knew that they needed their strength and wits about them.

Kireth was the last to retire for the night, the mage’s pale face gleaming in the firelight as he sat half in the roaring light and half in the darkness of shadow. Skillet watched him from behind the bar, not fearful but cautious around the wizard. Kireth didn’t appear tired, merely waiting for the show to begin on the morrow, drinking whatever strange brew he concocted himself, herbs, spices, and other ingredients mixed within one of Skillet’s less-potent wines. Through his fingers within the folds of his robes he absentmindedly passed trinkets he had picked up on the journey on the Old Continent so far; a small bone scroll case with parchments picked up along the way, the small worthless amulet carved with the spiraling circles, the skull-cap of the broken wand from the ritual chambers, the small tomes of the half-mad elf, Helvec, and another, now cleaned of mud, that led his way. What other trinkets would he find along the path to the east, what other powers would he gain?

With a nod at the halfling behind the bar he rose from his seat, the fire seemingly giving him no warmth tonight. As silent as a ghost he climbed the stairs and retired to his rooms, now ready for the travels ahead.