Book One: Into the Gloaming

Chapter Two:  Of Orcs and Maidens

It’s strange, the things your mind chooses to register.  Or more to the point, the things you miss.  The man with the odd-looking eyes didn’t hear the metallic clank of the bolt or the ponderous sound of heavy oak scraping against stone.  Nor did the tap of steel against flint succeed in capturing his conscious attention.

No, the dreams were too sweet, too compelling.  Certainly far more preferable to the stinking, cold darkness that was his current reality.  But it was the swift crackling of fire springing to life and the smell of the burning pitch that pulled him back to the now.  Not yet, not already?!  He wondered to himself as his wits returned.

The man looked about him.  Still dark inside, still dark outside the window to his left, so dark he couldn’t even see the bars of his own cell.  He sighs.  It wasn’t supposed to end up this way, he thinks to himself.  Of course, that’s obvious enough.  If it was, I sure as the hells beneath wouldn’t have volunteered.

Out of the corner of his eye, the prisoner catches the flash of ambient light as it danced across the surface of a roughly hewn stone wall beyond the bars of his cell.  The slow shuffling of the ancient gaoler’s feet announces his return, and the jumble of earthenware signals that it’s dinnertime.  Better late than never.

The shuffling is uneven, uncertain.  He’s been drinking.  Again.  The prisoner counts his blessings, for the gaoler wasn’t nearly as chatty or…preachy at these times.  The company of another is often preferable to solitude.  But the presence of an intrusive and unyielding worldview gets stale very quickly.

The gaoler appears after a minute holding a basket in one hand and a covered lamp in the other.  He sets the lamp down on a bench that rests near the wall and pulls a plate with some food from the basket.  Walking over towards him, the old man sets the plate down, then turns to go without a word.

“My fare for the evening?”  Quips the prisoner.  Taking in a deep breath, he continues “Mmm, is that the succulent aroma of tender pork, crisp baked potatoes and savory brown gravy that I smell?”

“No,” replies the tired voice after a few seconds.  “Tis only sawbread n’ rainwater.  Same’s yester.  Same’s th’ morrow.”

The prisoner grimaces, not for ruining the imagery, but for the worse crime of failing to catch the sarcasm.  The old man turns to go about his business.  As he turns his back on the prisoner, the latter reached out through the bars and tries to lift the ring of keys of the gaoler’s belt.  He misses by a hair’s breath.  Cursing silently to himself, the prisoner pulls his arm back in and sighs deeply.

The gaoler, never the wiser, sets down a second plate in front of another cell, then turns and walks back to the outer room.  A few more sounds of shuffling are heard, then the slam of the gaol door, a bolt sliding back into place.  The prisoner looks down to his plate, trying to decide which the less unpleasant option was, partaking of the tasteless bread and slimy water, or simply going without.

“That was good try.”  Says a deep and heavily accented voice from the shadows.  “You almost had it that time.”

The prisoner successfully hides the fact that he was startled.  In the three days he has spent down here he had never heard a noise from the cell opposite of his, nor knew anyone else was in the dungeons.  It was so deeply cloaked in shadows, nothing could be seen within it.  He looks over to the second plate in front of the other cell, bathed in moonlight.  The prisoner would have to come out of the darkness to eat from it.

“I’d grab that bit of food before the rats think it was set out for them, if I were you.”  The prisoner says, hoping to catch a glimpse of this other fellow.

“My thanks.  But methinks I’ll save room for some of that pork.”

Try as he might, the prisoner cannot place the strange accent to any land he knew of.

“Your choice.  So,” He says, eating some of the bread. “From where do you hail, friend?”

“Here.  There.”

“Ah, yes.  Lovely places this time of year.”

“And you,” says the voice from the shadows. “Your skin tells me you are from Empire, or from south of there.  But your eyes, they bespeak of distant lands to east.”

“You are very observant, my friend.”  East.  Yes, let him think that.  “Yet you have me at a disadvantage, for all I see are shadows.”

“I am called Pyotr.  From Kislev, far to north of here.  And east.  Though not as far as your folk.  Deep within place you call Hinterlands.”

“I thought only orcs lived out there.”

“I am no orc.”  He responds, a hint of indignation in his voice.

“Nor did I mean to imply that you were.  I only meant to say that I am completely unfamiliar with any populations of men from that place.”

The man in the shadows grunts.  “Most are.”

The prisoner waits a few more seconds, expecting some sort of further explanation.  When it becomes obvious that no more is forthcoming, he speaks.  “My name is Seth, a minstrel by trade, formerly of Waterdeep.”

“And presently?”  Pyotr asks.

“Presently of this infernal hole, it would seem.”  Seth replies.

The man laughs softly, cut off by a hollow rattle of a cough.

“You do not sound well.”

“It is cold, and age.  And too much drink, or perhaps not enough.”

“I see.  How long have you been here?”

“This time?  Month, or so.”

“Ah, a frequent guest of this lovely bed and breakfast?”

Silence.

“So, what are you here for?”  Seth continues, trying to get a feel for this new man.

“A merchant.  He had loud mouth and soft skull.  Too soft.”

“Is he ok?”

“He is beyond pain now.”

***

The companions crawled slowly through the thick brush of a knoll that overlooked the road.  Jonas scratched at the bright red spot of skin under his right wrist.  He had somehow managed to crawl through a patch of mickelweed and was suffering for it.  Doing his best to ignore the nagging itch, he moves up next to the druid.

The sun is beginning to set in the west as they are facing north, overlooking the King’s Highway.  Aubrey points east to a small single mule-drawn cart driven by an old man laden with sundries.

“Yes, I see it.”  Whispers the druid.  The ranger then points to two trees directly across from them on the opposite side of the road.

“Two,” he whispers.  “And four, maybe five, in the ditches along the road.”

Pfren shakes his head.  “No, can’t see anything.”

“I can.”  Whispers the mage.

Pfren rolls his eyes.  Damn elf eyes, he thinks to himself.

“Keep searching,” replies the ranger.  “They are hidden well enough for an old man’s benefit, but otherwise not too skillfully.”

The druid keeps trying, but gives up after a minute when he feels the beginnings of a headache coming on from the strain.  “Well I know where they are…generally.”

“So what are we doing up here, anyways?”  The mage inquires.

Aubrey looks over to the elf.  “Surely you do not want to allow yrch scum to prey upon that old man?”

“Well, no.  Of cou…Aww.  Are you serious?  That old man is Viskothic, which makes him an enemy of ours.  Anyways, don’t we have a bard to save?”

Aubrey looks hard at the road ahead.  “I always have time to kill orcs.”

“Oh, great.” Replies the mage.

“Cheer up, Mir.”  Pfren says.  “Now you have an opportunity to test out some of your fire spells.”

“Oooh, your right!”  A large grin stretches across the elf’s face.

“No!”  Jonas whispers harshly.  “If that elderly man sees you wielding forbidden magics, he will surely call upon the church!  I was serious when I told you that you cannot use your magic here without dire consequences.”

“Aaand, if said ‘elderly man’ should…say…have a heart attack or something?”

“Mir…”  Pfren glares hard at the mage.

“Kidding…just…kidding.”  Mirzam’s spirits drop and he goes back to toying with a loose thread on his cuff.  What’s the point of bringing a wizard along if you won’t let him cast anything?  The elf thinks to himself.

“Let’s get into position.”  The ranger says.

“Wait,” Pfren replies.  “We should wait a little bit until that farmer gets closer.”

“Why?  That will only endanger him.”

“Not overly, and I think it’s best if he sees us killing the orcs.  It will increase his gratitude if he knows that he was saved from danger.  He’s less likely to ask any questions or worry too much about where we come from if we’ve just saved his life.”

The ranger nods approvingly.  “Good call.  Come, monk.  Let us get into position.”

Aubrey and Jonas scramble their way down the slope of the knoll.  The ranger disappears from view almost immediately and makes no sound as he moves.  Pfren looks over to the monk, hoping against hope that he doesn’t alert the orcs to their position.  But Jonas is surprisingly deft and quiet as he makes his way to the road.  He keeps low to the ground as he moves, to minimize the chance that the orc scouts in the trees will spot him.

Mirzam is looking down the road towards the teamster who has stopped his mule and shambled down to the side of the road to relieve himself.

“So what are we doing Pfren, ol boy?  Supervising?”

The druid takes the hint.  “Aye, they’ll likely start the attack before he gets back up on his cart, lest he try and outrun them.”

“Hmm,”  replies the mage “yes, I see what you mean.  Old mules pulling heavy loads are notoriously swift.”

The druid refuses to take the bait.  “Let’s go.”

The two scramble down the east side of the knoll, trying to flank the orcs who they know must already be on the move.  “I’ll play the lamb,” says the mage.  Before Pfren can respond, Mirzam darts out into the road about twenty paces away from the old man.

“Oy!  Oo’ goes thar?”  He says squinting at the mage as he was shaking himself off.  Mirzam does not even look at the human, he just puts up a finger in his direction, the universal sign of ‘yeah, wait.’  He is looking across the road to the opposite ditch, staring directly at an orc.  The orc seemed startled, not expecting to see anyone else on the road at this time of the evening.  Mirzam whistles to it in a taunting fashion, turning his head to the side as he pulls up the edge of his hood a bit so that the orc can see his elvish ear.

He winks at the orc with his right eye in an exaggeratedly coyish manner.  To a human, that might seem like a flirtatious gesture.  But the orc knew better.  All of their kind were told the old stories, of how the elvish god-hero Corellon put out the right eye of their own god, Gruumsh.  A myth, to be sure, one built around two actual champions.  But orcs, like men, seemed to have this habit of deifying their ancient heroes.

Mirzam could see the shock morph into rage on the orc’s face.  To seal the deal, he blows it a kiss, a reference to another legend Mirzam only half knew, but knew enough that the orc would not take kindly to it.  It was enough.  The orc, forgetting that he was supposed to be ambushing someone else, lets out a battle-croak and charges the mage.

The old teamster, tucking his valuables back into his breeches is about to start forward to confront these two persons in that “I’m an old man, I didn’t fight in the Big One just to come back and take no guff from you young pups” sort of way when claws dig into his shoulder and he is slammed roughly back against his own cart.  Standing before him is another orc, licking his rusty butcher’s knife.  The old man knew what it was in an instant.  He’d killed enough of them in his youth, or so he often claimed.

“Ello, gran’pa.”  The orc traces the tip of it’s knife down the old man’s chest, resting the point directly over his heart.  “Yous gots some nice suet to yous.  Me favorite part of manling.”  He flicks his purple tongue over cracked, ochre colored teeth.

“Boy, I’m gonna tells you this once…”  Says the old man, well practiced in the art of hiding his terror.  The orc cocks an eyebrow, showing amused interest in the promise of an old man’s empty threat.  But he never gets to tell the orc anything, as in a flash something large and wooden smashes into the orc’s temple, throwing it to the ground.  The old man looks from the orc to a younger man in a well-worn traveler’s cloak standing behind where the creature was, holding a rather large wooden cudgel.  The young man smiles and waves hello to him, before taking another swing at the downed orc.

Meanwhile Mirzam is trying to avoid the frenzy of stabs and slashes that come from his own orc, whom he managed to offend a little more then he bargained for.  It’s not the clumsy, wide swings that bother the mage, so much as the smell.  He must have been upwind before, but now the full force of it’s stench hits him.  The mage trips while stepping backwards and is driven to the ground.

“By all the nine hells, man.  Have you ever bathed even once in your life?”  He asks it in orcish.

“Aye, in th’ blood o’ manlings.  ‘Ow fragrant does elfsies bood smell, me wonders?  Me thinks to find out!”  With that the orc grasps it’s knife in both hands, raising them above his head, readying itself for a killing blow.  At that moment, Mirzam sees his opportunity to strike.  Leaping up and forward, he grabs the orc’s elbow with his right hand to block the knife’s decent and pushes his other onto the thing’s chest, just over it’s heart.

“Silme maika sil-macil bragol!”

At that moment, the fingers of his left hand erupt in a flash of silvery and blue-violet light, like that of a bright star, as magical missiles of pure arcane energy pulse into the orc’s chest.  It’s body convulses with each pulse, three in all.  It looks down at it’s own chest, then back up to the mage, fear and wonder in it’s eyes.  There is a faint smell of burning flesh and ozone, just noticeable over the thing’s own body odor.  It’s pupils begin to dilate as it slumps forward onto the mage.

 

 

Like Pfren, the monk couldn’t see exactly where the creatures were, but he had a general idea.  He had just reached the ditch along the side of the road when he spotted one of the orcs, crouched among the reeds and looking down the eastern stretch of the road.  Jonas peers around down both directions of the ditch.  The reeds are thick, but not yet very high and he thinks he can just make out another form to the west, about twenty paces.

He looks back to the first creature.  Almost immediately the smell of it reaches him, like rotting vegetation.  He has never laid eyes upon an orc before, only the crude pictures drawn in texts.  He had not read very much about the eastern hinterlands where they are said to come from and knew very little about these…people.  But one thing was for sure, the illustrations did not do them justice.

Marvelously hideous, the thing looked like a withered old man with putrescent greenish skin and a long, bent nose.  It was bald and had long, pointed ears.  They were tapered, like the ears of the elves that he had seen, but much longer and even more bestial looking.  The thing’s clothing was little more than rags and straps of leather, any color long since stained into a brownish-black.  It grasped a long, jagged knife in it’s left hand and was using the tip to scrape filth from beneath evil looking claws.

The monk looked at the creature’s immediate surroundings, trying to figure out how best to approach it.  The orc squatted in the ditch that followed the road, it’s feet submerged in the brackish water.  From his vantage point just past the wall of reeds and tall grass, Jonas can see the road immediately ahead, but little else.

He had just decided to move forward to try and catch the orc unawares when the stench of rot became stronger and nearly makes him gag.  A sharp trickle of pain slides along his throat as he felt the cold edge of a knife press against it.

“Hello sweetling.  My, what pretty, pink skin you has. Like a succulent little piggie it isss.”

The voice was soft and ragged, as if the speaker had suffered an old wound to it’s own throat.  The monk could feel a steely hand scrabble around his waist and chest, looking for weapons.  Finding nothing, it settles on his left wrist, wickedly sharp nails biting into his skin.

The stench grows intolerable as he feels hot, wet breath against his right ear.  Whispering now, his assailant says,

“Are you going to squeal for me, little piggie?  Squeeel…”

The thing starts to slide the knife back across Jonas’ throat, the edge biting harder into his flesh.  With horror, the monk realizes his throat is being slit.  Reflexively, his fingers close around a small potato-sized stone his right palm had been resting on and he smashes it up and behind him, right into where he thinks the orc’s face must be.

Éru must have been watching over the monk this day, for the stone found its mark, slamming right between his would-be murderer’s eyes.  The sudden attack stuns the thing, giving Jonas a few precious seconds, all the time he needed to grab it’s wrist and pull the knife away from his throat.

With the grace of a cat, Jonas twists around and slams the rock again into the creature’s temple, then once again directly into it’s face.  Over and over he smashes the rock as black blood and brown teeth splatter about the reeds and brackish water.

The orc never even had a chance to squeal himself, as he was dead by the third or fourth hit.  But the monk was so filled with fear and rage that he kept on hitting the thing, driving it’s skull deeper into the mud beneath the ditch water.  The only sound was that of bone cracking and the wet thumping of pulverizing flesh.

It wasn’t until the first orc tried to pull the monk off it’s fellow that he stopped pounding the dead one’s skull.  Without missing a beat, Jonas thrusts his left elbow backwards, right into the other orc’s lower sternum, winding it.  The orc falls backward into the mud with a splash and a painful “Oomph!”

The monk spins around again, lurching forward to press his attack on this new foe.  He grabs the thing with both hands by the collar and slams his knee into its groin.  The creature lets out a shriek as Jonas follows with haymakers to the face, holding it down just below the waterline with a hand on it’s throat.

The orc slashes wildly at Jonas, trying in a panicked frenzy to get him off.  But so fierce is the monk’s attack, that soon it looses consciousness, drowning in the shallow water of the ditch.  Yet still the monk continues to strike at it, oblivious to the druid screaming his name from behind.

A splash of water kicked up into his face breaks the monk’s battle-lust.

Stunned and bewildered, Jonas looks up, blinking repeatedly as his eyes try to block out the water from running into them.  An old man, the teamster they had spotted earlier on the road squats down in front of him from a safe distance away, peering at the monk.

“Ye kin only kill th’ thing once, boy.”  The old man laughs until Jonas stands and he can see the muddied robes and medallion of his order.

“Er, many pardons, Brother.”

Jonas, breathing heavily and sweating profusely, wipes mud and gore from his face.

***

The minstrel curls his fingers through the soft, auburn hair of the young girl beneath him. Sparkling green eyes laugh with shameless delight as she runs her hands over his body under their sleeping-furs. Seth was so glad to be home. The memory of those long, cold, dirty days and nights were being washed away, a quickly forgotten nightmare not forgotten quickly enough.

A banging on the door to his room sends a sharp pang of annoyance to the bard.

“Go away!” He yells.

Seth looks back to the girl, smiling wickedly.  “I’m busy.”

The banging does not stop, however, and turns into a metallic rattling and screeching, like a rusty metal gate. Seth suddenly remembers something, something left undone, something forgotten that he only now just half remembers.  A swift kick to the ribs reminds him more fully.

“Get up.”

It was not a yell, but a softly spoken statement with more steel in its tone then any battle-cry. Seth can barely see the bald man in black robes, standing in the corner of his cell, half hidden in the shadows. It seemed to the bard a fitting place for such a man.  Rough gloved hands grab at him, as the bard’s eyes quickly shut to the painful light of burning flame that drew near.

“Oh yes,” he quips. “Thanks for reminding me.”

Two Templars pull Seth to his feet, as a third strikes him hard in the face before attaching metal cuffs to his wrists. Their heavily engraved plate-mail is burnished to a deep gold in the torchlight.

“Time to go already? I was just in the middle of something.”

Seth smiles weakly through the pain, not wanting to give this black robed bastard any satisfaction. The priest belonged to the Justicarian order of the Dogma. Known as the Blackrobes by the masses, these inquisitor-priests were steeped in the lore of witchcraft and witch-hunting.

And where there were Blackrobes, the Templar followed. Holy warriors, these heavily armed and armored paladins served the Justicars without question. As they dragged the bard in chains out of his own cell, he looks over to the other one hoping to catch a glimpse of it’s occupant. But even in the daytime, the dungeon remains cloaked in too many shadows.

“Well, it’s been a pleasure, Pyotr. Perhaps we’ll have that ale sometime when this is all over.”

The Templar drag Seth out of the dungeons, lead by the black robed priest. The gaol door slams shut, bolts sliding back into place. Darkness and silence settle once more into the black pit of the dungeon.

“Yes.” Pyotr says under his breath. “I’ll save you seat on other side.” He coughs a little more before sliding back into blessed unconsciousness.

 

 

Daylight bores into the bard’s eyes as he is dragged out into the commons of the village.  The priest in black robes walks over to another two of his order dressed in the same manner.  Like most people, Seth has never actually seen a Justicarian Inquisitor till he ‘joined’ their company.  They all seemed to look alike.  Bald, stone-faced and pale.  Tall, lean, wiry with feverish, meaty looking eyes.

Even the vestments of their order looked cruel.  Heavily cowled black cloaks covered much of their bodies.  They wore black wool robes underneath, with black leather boots, gloves, belts and breastplates.  Their holy-symbol medallions reminded him of the one Jonas always wore.  But where his was tarnished bronze with multi-colored stones, these were highly polished silver, encrusted with blood-red gems that may very well be rubies.

This same ritual has played out several times over the last few weeks already.  After being beaten a bit as he is lead out, the bard is dragged to the center of the village’s square and dropped to his knees between the two rather large Templars who carried him.  Their armor was a highly polished silvery-steel, heavily engraved with ornate filigree and protective runes.  Underneath this was blackened chainmail and leather.  Most wore white cloaks with the symbol of their order, red roses entwined into the gold cross-wheel symbol of their god Éru.  Both had their two-handed swords drawn and held with the point on the ground, like you would hold a staff.  Another hand held each of Seth’s shoulders, lest he fall or try and run.  Not that he could.  His feet were always shackled, even in the cell.

One of the Justicars who were waiting outside pulls out a white vellum scroll and unrolls it.  Seth looks around at the circle of gathered peasant villagers.  A few were looking at him with hatred and loathing in their eyes, but most just looked terrified by the whole situation in general, and the priests in particular.

The Justicar with the scroll looks at the writing for a few seconds before reciting its words, the same words he has read to Seth in every village they had stopped at all along their route.  His voice carries with a volume that the bard could only envy.  He could not believe it was natural.  There was a glamour in that, he was sure of it.

“The patient before us stands accused for the crimes of witchcraft and devil-worship.  The seduction, fornication and defilement of innocent maidens.  The chanting of blasphemous lays upon forbidden compositions, and the invocation of black magics most foul and unnatural.

“This heathen of the pagan north has been sent forth into our blessed realm by his unhallowed masters to sow mischief and discord amongst the Faithful.  Even now, he yet refuses the supplications of penance and the forgiveness of the one and only True God, our Lord and Master, Éru the most Merciful and Compassionate.

“Behold the inevitable fate of all who would disregard His Law.  See his face, and forever know him for who and what he is.  Should he meet his just and most deserved end before abandoning his sinful ways and embracing the light, his torment and damnation shall be eternal and unending.

“In Nominae Domini  Éruvius Excelleciae.

“Amen.”

The priest rolls up the scroll and it disappears beneath his cloak as his unsettlingly blue eyes stare into Seth’s own.

“Do you now reject your ways of evil and darkness, accepting the Light and Mercy of our Lord?  Speak now.”

The bard cocks his head as he regards the priest.

“If I confess and embrace your god, will I be forgiven?”

“Yes.”  The Justicar’s tone gives Seth the impression that he truly believes in what he is saying.

“Will you let me go, then?”

“Only through the purification of flames will your soul be cleansed.  Your flesh is, however corrupted beyond saving.”

“Will I go to your paradise if I am saved?”

“All who are saved and come to the light may live out eternally in the blissful presence of our Lord, yes.”  The priest’s eyes are now feverishly bright and intense as they stare unblinkingly at the bard.  His voice almost trembles with fervor.  “Are you now asking for the forgiveness and grace of our Lord?  Though you are undeserving, as we are all, it is yet being offered to you still.”

“Well, that depends.  Will I be allowed to defile any of his ‘innocent maidens’ in peace, or will I still have to worry about you miserable eunuch bastards up there as well?”

The following silence is so palpable, it seems as if even the wind was not amused.  Hells, he thinks to himself.  I was hoping for at least a single chortle from this crowd.

“See the patient to his carriage.”  The now cold and hard tone of the Blackrobe belies the hints of loathing and seething, righteous hatred.

“Well what the hells is the point of paradise if its as boring and dreary as here?”  A mailed fist is the only answer Seth gets before he is sent back into unconsciousness.  The Templars drag his limp form to a flatbed cart and fixed his wrists to wooden stocks.  Mounting up on their own horses, the six Templar and Justicars ride south with their prisoner.

Most of the peasants disperse as soon as the Inquisitorial group rides out of town.  A couple of the younger ones linger a bit, watching the group as it makes its way south down the road.

“At’s too bad.”  Says one peasant to his fellow.

“Wha?”  Replies his friend.

“From wha I ‘ere, tha’ one was a mighty good picker.  Don’ get me wrong, I lov’ th’ ‘lard as much an any, but I sure as th’ ‘ells beneath us don’ love those blackrobed buggers.”

A reply is given to the young peasant in the form of a stiff cuff to the back of his head.

“Ye don’ need ta be lovin’ em, boy!  Ye jes’ needs ta be fearin’ em, is all.”

The old village elder stares hard at the two young men.  They were obviously not aware that he was still standing behind them.  Ever was youth so easily led astray by pretty sounds and flashy smiles.

“Now back to th’ fields with ya both.  Or OUR lard,” he points to a stone manner-house resting upon one of the rolling hills in the distance to the east, “that one o’er thar, eel’ be sendin’ ya to see tha’ picker in ‘ell soon enough.”

***

“Ach,” the teamster spits.  “Damnable arcs.  We took care o’ em in my day.  Pushed ’em right out of our lands, we did.  Pushed em right back to those ‘ellish ‘interlunds.  A pity ta see ’em comin’ back o’ late.”

The monk, sitting on the back of the teamster’s cart, winces as Pfren spreads some salve on the cuts to his ribs under his left arm.

“Hold still Jonas, I need to get it into the wound.”  Pfren talks in a low voice, not really comfortable speaking around the old man.

“Whar’d ye fellas say yer from agin?”  The old man asks, eyes narrowing at the druid.

“I am from Redleaf, originally, due east and a little north of here.” The monk replies.  “My friends are from…Northern Belgaer, just south of the wall.  The common tongue is different there.”

“Aye,” he responds, “so ’tis.”

“The man here” he nods to Pfren “is named…br..er, Droyn.  The other two are Aubrey and, uh, Eluard.”

“And wut brings ye Belgaer folk down this aways?”

The monk struggles for another lie, he neither likes the taste nor has the wits for such things.  “Uh…”

“We are travelling to see an old friend from our home who has taken up residence in Caer Mirabar, grandfather.  We were camped out on yonder knoll when…Eludar here…”  The ranger cannot help but smirk, “spotted those orcs making an ambush for you.”

“Eluard, Aubrey.  Get it right.”  Mirzam replies in perfect Viscothic.

“I thou’ you says they don’ speak our tongue o’er thar, brother?”

Mirzam simply smiles at the flushed monk.  “I am a scribe employed by our local lord, I speak many languages well.  I am paid to.  Aubrey here is my apprentice.  Though he wont be for much longer if he cannot even remember my name.”

“Har!  Ye larned folk ‘r all alike.  Makes no difference ta me, all th’ same.  Daffid’s me name, an’ ye all be ‘avin me thanks fer savin’ me ol’ hide.  Be a damn shame I git meself killed on acounts o’ thar kind, after all I be a seein’.  Be ye wantin’ a roof o’er ye heads tanight, tis’ the least I kin be a doin’ fer yas.”

The ranger starts to speak when Mirzam cuts him off.  “It would be rude of us to decline such a gracious offer of hospitality, grandfather.  We would be happy to accept.”

The druid finishes with the application of the healing salve and begins to help the monk bind up his wounds with bandages.  After carefully re-donning his robes, the monk sits in the back propped up on some bags of flour with Mirzam and Aubrey.  There is not enough room for all of them so Pfren sits up front with the old man.

“Tha’ be a mighty powerful strike ye be havin’ wit’ tha’ stick o’ yers, boy.”  The old man says by way of conversation.  “I be mighty thankful fer it, too.”

“Alas,” offers the mage, “Poor Droyn here is a simple healer, not fluent in the common Viskothic tongue.  The only leaves he turns still grow on the vines.”

“Ah, well, you be givin’ ‘im me thanks.”

“He says thanks, Pfren.”  The mage tells the druid in his own speech.

Pfren turns around to the mage.  “Aubrey already mentioned he has travelled here, but how is it that you can speak their language now, too?”

The mage just smiles, wiggling his fingers, to which the monk’s brow visibly darkens in anger.

Daffid notes the exchange and asks “What’d e’ say?”

“Droyn said he always wanted to be a Benejesuit, till he learned he couldn’t touch any more maidens.”

“HAR!”  The old man throws his head back in laughter and proceeds to tap the mule with his riding crop.  “On ye Berta!  Yer oats await!”

The sun has long since set and the gloaming deepens.  The fainter stars are just beginning to join their brighter fellows when they finally reach Daffid’s village.  The small hamlet is a simple affair, with a collection of about a half dozen thatched cottages surrounding a smithy and an alehouse.  The old man points to a manner house lost in the gloom.

“Thar be ol’  Lard Leofwin’s abode.  A well enough ol’ coot, as lards go.  ‘Is boy Ranulf’s a real bastard, though ye be not ‘earin tha from me.  A bastard who be makin’ bastards o’ ‘is own.  Like me dear Muriel.  Ach,”  the old man spits to the side of the road, “‘is blue-blooded mut ‘ad ‘is way wit’ me daughter, Isolda.”

“Do they live with you still?”  Mirzam asks.  He had hoped the old man lived alone, or at most with his old wife.  Too many people under one small roof might make needed privacy a delicate thing.

“Lil’ Muriel does.  ‘Er mother died in birthin’ er.  Me dear ‘ol wife followed soon after, takin’ by grief.  I ‘ope ye be understandin ‘n all.  I promised ye a roof, n’ tha’s what I be givin’ ye, but ’tis me barn ye be sleepin’ in tanight.”

Mirzam suppresses a sigh.  Goodbye soft pillows and blankets.  Still, the last thing he wanted was being in some tiny little cottage full of family members, poking around and asking questions.  And if any happened to see his ears or the rangers tattoos…

“Any roof is a good thing when you’ve been on the road as long as we have.”  Mirzam assured the old man.  “Soft hay beats hard stones any day.”

“Aye, me thanks fer yer understandin’.  It’s not tha’ I be no’ trustin’ ye, especially aft’ ye be savin’ me life.  It’s jus’ the waggin’ o’ tongues and nosey neighbers’ n’ all I be about.  I ad’ enough o’ that fer one lifetime.”

“More then understood, grandfather.”  Replies the monk.  “I will pray for your family tonight.”

“Aye, thank ye, brother.”

The cart rambles on by through the hamlet’s common square, past the noise and lighted windows of the town’s inn.  A wooden placard displays a rough painting of a rooster and a dog fighting over a tankard of ale.  Mirzam looks longingly at the place, but is not foolish enough to even voice his desire for something to dull the tedium that the night promises.

They ride past the town’s square and the companions can see a scattering of other isolated cottages about the rolling hills.  Even better,  thinks the mage.  They finally stop at a small and ancient looking cottage, this one even smaller then the rest, but made of strong timber with a low stone wall covered over in many places with vegetation surrounding the property.  A large wooden structure, likely the barn, rests out back, well behind the cottage.  Quite a few maples dot the area, with some weeping willows lined along a small stream behind the barn.

The companions help the old man unload his cargo and settle into the barn for the night.  Mirzam makes a number of exaggerated moans of ecstasy as he settles into the soft hay.  Daffid had brought out a small brazier with coals for warmth and had even provided them with a meal and some cider.  The mage looks over to the mule Berta and her bovine roommate.

“It’s a sad day indeed that I say this, girls.  But oh, this is the life.”  Within minutes, the elf is softly snoring.

Pfren just looks at the sleeping mage.  “You’d think he’d just finished plowing a whole field.”

“Maybe he’d have more energy if he didn’t insist on lugging his whole library around with him.”  Replies the ranger.

“Oh trust me, Aubrey.  He didn’t.”

The ranger just rolls his eyes and settles in between two bales of hey, closing his eyes.  The monk is climbing down from the loft, finished with his evening prayers as the druid finishes off the last of the cider.

“You should go easy on that, Pfren.  It is much stronger then it tastes.”

“I could do with something stronger still.  Like some mead.”

“I do not believe the inn would carry that, though you could ask the local lord.  Mead is quite popular with the nobility.”  The monk stretches out the kinks from kneeling for his devotions, winching when the pain of his injuries strikes him.

“Nobles in the Free Kingdoms drink mead?  Ha, that’s funny.”

“How so?”

“Mead is a farmer’s drink in the Blackmoors.  Only the wealthiest can afford something like ale.”

Pfren watches the monk as he rubs his calloused feet.  “We need horses.  We are moving too slow.  I had no idea these southern lands were so vast.”

“Southern?  Ah, yes, I guess they are to you.”  Reflects the monk.  “Still, it matters not.  Horses are expensive.”

“How expensive?”  Pfren asks.

“Silver at least.  Maybe even gold, depending on the breed.”

“Hells, we don’t have that much.  How does one go about making coin in the Kingdoms, anyhow?”

“You work for it.”  Jonas replies.

The monk throws the empty cider jug aside.  “So we should just march up to that ‘lard’ and ask for a job?  Maybe we could plow some of his fields.”  Quips the druid.

Jonas shrugs as he settles back into a bale of hay.  “Or you could chop off the heads of those orcs.”

At that the ranger’s eyes snap open.  “What are you talking about?”

“The orcs,”  Jonas repeats.  “They fetch a tidy bounty, assuming you want to deal with such things.”

“Jonas,”  now the druid is talking.  “What do you mean?  How much of a bounty?”

“I don’t know.  Probably about ten pieces of silver or so.”  He squirms a bit, trying to get comfortable.  The ranger and the druid exchange glances.  “Ten silver for the whole group?”

“No.  Each.”

“EACH!?”

The mage pops up at the sound of the druid yelling.  “Wha?  What?  Are we under attack?”

“Pfren,”  the ranger says to the druid, “settle down.  Jonas.  When were you going to tell us this?”

The monk is now sitting up, as startled as the mage.  “Uh…I wasn’t.”

“WHY?”

“Pfren!  I said settle down.  Jonas.  Why were you not going to tell us this?”

“I don’t know, what?  Were you planning on taking them into town with you?  There was hardly enough room for us in that cart.”

“There was enough room for the heads at least.”

At this the monk blanched.  “I…I was joking.  You…you don’t actually mean to do such a thing, do you?”

“As Pfren pointed out, we need money.  All we have is one bag of a few coppers left.  Plus whatever the three of you brought with you.”

“But how exactly do you expect to claim the reward?  I didn’t think you’d want to deal with…with…”

At this Mirzam drops back into the hay, closing his eyes.  Hells, he thinks, damn the cider…Aubrey looks over to Pfren, noting the flushed look on the druid’s face.  “Mirzam, get dressed.”

“But..but…I…”  stammers the monk.

“Jonas,” replies the mage from his makeshift bedding.  “Shut up.”

 

 

It was several hours before the ranger and the mage returned to the barn, bulging and bloody sack in tow.  The ranger was covered in blackish orc blood as he tosses the sack by the monk, more out of spite then anything else.  Mirzam also has a fair bit of blood on him, but doesn’t even look at anybody when he enters the barn.  He just walks in a daze towards his pile of hay and collapses, falling asleep instantly.

The monk is virtually trembling with fright at the sight of the ranger.  Aubrey stares at the monk for a good few seconds.  He looks over to the sleeping elf and the unconscious druid, then back to the monk, noting his terror.

“What is wrong with you, Jonas?”

“I…I…”  The monk is at the verge of tears.  The ranger puts his hand up to silence the stammering monk.  “You screwed up with the orc bounty.  I get it.  It happens.  But you are a man.  So why are you whimpering like a beaten dog?”

The monk is unable to respond, he is just sitting there frozen in terror.  The ranger’s senses tell him something is not right.  He looks around the barn, but does not note anything out of place.  He looks back to the monk, whose face is buried in his hands, sobbing.

“I…I’m sorry.”

The ranger looks at this Viskothic monk.  He remembers something from a few weeks ago, just before they left the Blackmoors when he saw the monk’s naked back as he was bathing.  He had wanted to ask about the scars.  They were flogging scars, he was sure of it, but so many…

“Forget it, Jonas.  Rest.  We still have a long journey ahead of us.”  The ranger turns to go.  As he walks out of the barn door, he stops.  “Jonas.  I don’t know what they did to you.  What your people did to make you this way.  But you must take hold of your fears, your pain.  You must learn to control them, or they will continue to control you.  If you do not, you may very well get us all killed.”

He waits at the door for a few seconds, just in case the monk wants to make a reply.  When he dose not, the ranger says “Go to sleep.  I will keep watch.”  With that he leaves, closing the door behind him.

***

The hour of the wolf finds the ranger in a moderately deep plunge pool at the base of a cascading fall far upstream from the barn, deeper in the hills.  The falls had carved out a narrow glen, a perfect spot to wash the filth of the night’s work from his flesh.  The place gives him a sense of comfort, it’s natural solitude setting his mind at ease.  It has taken awhile to wash off the stench of the foul yrch, especially from his gear.  He had just finished washing his face and hair, letting the waters of the curtain fall directly over him, and he was making his way back to the shore.

He pulls himself out of the waters, sitting on a flat rock that juts just over the edge of the pool.  He looks up to the band of stars that are visible from between the willows.  A few fireflies twinkle around the reeds of the shore, looking like little yellow stars themselves, strays from the celestial herd.  Aubrey closes his eyes, wishing he could sleep here.  But he knew he had to get back to the barn sooner or later.  Perhaps later, for he doubted any of his three charges would be up before midday.

His mind wandered over their entwined futures, turning in the orc heads, making their way to Caer Vallis, the capital of the Duchy of Viskoth, then…what?  That was where the bard was last seen.  But bards were too much like the minstrels of the Free Kingdoms they resembled.  They liked to wander, they liked to get into trouble.  Especially this one, it seemed.  This ‘Seth.’  He was said to be a half -blood of the empire, his father a Kushite or something, a knight.  The son of a Templar and an Elvish Spelldancer.  Aubrey himself knew what it was like coming from two very different worlds, but this struck even him as fantastical.

His mind drifted back to his companions.  The druid, the mage and the monk.  Especially the monk.  He didn’t dislike Jonas, he just couldn’t understand him.  Something had broken the man’s spirit, something long ago.  Aubrey wondered what the gods had planned for him.  He was strong of limb, fast, graceful even.  The man knew how to kill, though he seemed unwilling to embrace his skills.

This “brother” Jonas was a Benejesuit, a militant order of Dogmatic priests almost as famous as the Justicars.  Their strange methods of unarmed combat were well known in the Blackmoors, and held a grudging respect even as far as the Moonshaes.  Jonas seemed well trained enough on the face of it.  But it was not his martial skills that worried the ranger.

The way he dispatched those two orcs was both impressive and at the same time worrisome.  That was not the killer instinct, not a clean one, at any rate.  That was rage, pure and simple.  There was a ferocity to the man that seemed incongruous with the simpering weakling he saw in the barn.  He only ever seemed at real peace when he was in prayer or, like the mage, buried in his book.  It wasn’t even that big of a book, he’d must have read the whole thing many times over by now.  Yet always he devoured it as if it were something new.

The ranger rests his elbow on a knee, rubbing his temple with his fingertips.  All of this thinking was giving him a headache.  How much simpler it was back on the Moonshaes.  To hunt, feast and sleep.  He had long given up drink, finding he liked it a little too much, but now even a frothy ale from one of those stinking inns sounded like a luxury.

He looked up, something was wrong, something had changed.  Aubrey sat there on the rock, frozen, trying to place what it was.  Only the sound of the waterfall could be heard, several yards off on the far side of the pool.  Silence.  The crickets.  They had resumed their songs when he emerged from the pool after a few moments, but now they have fallen silent once more.  There was the faint shuffling of underbrush.  A shadow moved on the other shore.  Or did it?  Was it something, or just his overworked imagination?  He did not feel the peace of solitude any longer.

The ranger had just decided to slowly reach for his weapons when a voice spoke. A woman’s voice. No, not speech, singing, a soft melody befitting the dark woods. Not where the shadow moved, but from behind and to his right. The singing was getting a little clearer, signaling approach, before it stops suddenly with a gasp. Hells, he thinks to himself, I’m seen. But by who? Who by the gods would be out at this hour?

The ranger turns his head to look for the singer. No point in subtlety now, he was already seen. There, just beneath the fronds of a willow tree she stood, dark blond hair pulled back with a single braid. Wearing the woolen dress common of the peasants, she held a basket in one hand as she stared at him, herbs falling from her other hand gone dumb.

The ranger looks at the fallen flowers at the woman’s side. He arches and eyebrow. “Wight Orchids,” he muses aloud. “And what sort of Viskothic maid has any use for those?” The woman looks spooked as if to run. She backs up a step, saying “Why do you care what I harvest on my own lands?”

“I know of only one use for those things, and I do not know of any in these lands who would have such a use.”

The girl is swallowed up by the shadows of the willow. He had expected her to turn and run, yet she does not. “Who are you?” She asks.

“A traveler, nothing more, merely passing through…your lands.”

“A traveler…who wears the markings of a pagan etched upon his skin…I should be asking what sort of man would wear those?”

The ranger smiles, there is no point in lying now. “Simple. A pagan.” He keeps waiting for her to run, yet she does not.

“And do all pagans dress as…simply as you?”

“I was bathing. You interrupted, or found me, I should say.”

“And do I need fear you?”

“Funny question that. I have always found fear to be assumed of my kind by your folk.”

“So should I run?”

“If you wish.” He smiles, “though I’ve yet to meet a woman who could outrun a man. Well, maybe some of the men of these lands. But if you do not fear me, why would you?”

“My father is a powerful man. It is his lands upon which you trespass. He..”

“Your father? Are you Muriel, then?” His use of her name silences the girl for a moment.

“How…how do you…”

“Your grandfather told me. I am sorry to hear about your mother.”

“What do you know about my mother?!” The fear has been replaced by a rising anger in her voice.

“Only that I lost mine in the same way. You’re lucky. My father never forgave me.”

Only silence. The ranger sensed confusion in the girl, yet still she did not run. He turns toward her, to get a better look at this strange girl who did not seem to fear a ‘blue devil.’ The ranger stoops to pick up his breeches and cloak to dress.

“You are with those others, those people who saved my grandfather from the orcs?”

“Yes.”

“Should I tell my grandfather he is harboring pagans under his roof?”

“Should I tell your grandfather that his sweet little Muriel is gathering the herbs of a wood-witch?”

“You are mistaken sir, I am merely…”

“Perhaps it is best we both keep our little secrets from your grandfather. He tells me he has dealt with enough ‘wagging of tongues’ for one lifetime already. Are you going to come out from under that willow tree or should I continue to speak with the shadows?”

The girl hesitantly steps out a few feet into the starlight. He notes for the first time that her dress is not of wool, as most women of this land dress, but rather a deep forest green linen cloth. It seems her ‘father’ has not forgotten her completely after all. There is a bit of garland entwined in her honey-colored hair. “And what makes you think I am a woods-witch?”

“Well, let’s see.” Aubrey looks at the herb-basket carried by the girl.  “Apart from your crown of holly,” to which her hand reflexively touches the garland with a startled look.  “From where I stand I can see Sailchas, Hiam moss, Silrean, Arfandas, Boscone…is that Thalion? Tsk, tsk. I’m assuming that Tartec is for your grandfather, to let you go out in the middle of the night without having to worry about him being conscious enough to go asking you such annoying questions. And…Faghiu? My my, such an interesting choice of flower…for a maiden.”

“I simply like the way it looks!” The girl protests.

“As will any man who looks upon you after ingesting it. But it is the Wight Orchids that interest me the most.”

“You seem to know your fauna, pagan.”

“Aye, its part of my craft.”

“You are a woods-witch too? I mean…”

“No, a ranger, a guardian of your kind.”

“My kind? And pray tell, what are my kind?” The girl has taken a few steps closer, seeming to forget her earlier fear. She comes within touching distance of him, seemingly entranced by the markings upon his skin.

“The druids. They are like your priests, but who keep to the old ways. The ways of the forest and glen. They are highly honored amongst my folk.”

“You have seen druids?”

“I serve them.”

“And so, that means you serve…my kind?” The girl is within touching distance now, and he can smell the jasmine and other flowers she has bathed in. But there is something else, something carried on the breeze that captures his attention. He reaches out to the girl, lifting her chin with a finger. Lowering his head to her ear, he whispers “Do not be afraid, but we are not alone.”

Aubrey can feel the girl stiffen. “Make no sign of fear. Walk with me, we must return to your grandfather’s cottage.” With that the ranger reaches down and scoops up the rest of his gear, hastily donning his weapons. Her eyes wide with fear, he reaches under her arm and gently pulls her with him back down the path from which she came. They walk briskly, but not so fast as to denote alarm.

“I don’t suppose you have any Black Clover in there?”

“No, I have never seen it grow in these lands.” The girl’s voice is a little stiff, but she seems to be controlling her fear for now. They get about a quarter of a league when the ranger stops suddenly, turning to the girl, he pulls her in close to kiss her. Stopping a hairs breath from her lips, he whispers “Brace yourself.” At that moment, he pushes the girl violently to the ground and with the same gesture, pulls out a blade slung at his back and slashes wildly behind him. The blade strikes wide, but blind and the orc has time to side-step the blow.

“I thought we were missing one.” The ranger says in orcish.

“Aye, manling. An’ soon yer kind will be missing one as well.” He looks over to the girl on the ground and smiles, flashing filed teeth. “Or two.”

The orc lunges, stabbing at Aubrey’s stomach with his jagged, rusty longsword.  The ranger parries the stab, throwing an elbow out to catch the orc in the throat.  But it anticipated the move and grabs at Aubrey’s forearm, raking it with filthy claws.  The orc spins around, trying to get at the ranger’s right flank, slashing hard with it’s weapon.  But Aubrey ducks under the blow and comes up slamming his shoulder into the orc’s midsection, throwing it to the ground.

Without missing a beat, the orc kicks out a leg, hooking his foot behind Aubrey’s knee, sending him to the ground as well.  The ranger leaps back to his feet, throwing himself down on the orc, holding his blade in both hands to drive it into the orc’s body with the momentum.  But at the last moment the orc rolls away, causing Aubrey to shatter his sword on the rocks beneath.  A shard from his blade slashes at his own face, momentarily blinding the ranger with his own blood and stunning him with the pain.  Losing his balance, he smashes his forehead on the same rock that took his blade.

But the time he looks up, he can see the orc standing above him, it’s sword pointed at his face.  The creature just stands there, grinning hideously through blackened teeth as it gloats over it’s foe.  Suddenly he hears clapping from behind the orc, as the girl Muriel walks up from behind the thing.

“Well fought.  Well fought indeed.”  She says, looking at the ranger with cold, hard eyes.  “Did you think me so easily taken, savage?”  She looks to the orc.  “This one thought to trick me, to lure me out and have his way with me.”  Looking back to Aubrey, she says,  “And what were you planning to do with me afterwards, hmm?  Leave me to bleed to death in the woods after you took what you wanted from me?  Or perhaps your brutal notions of mercy would be delivered to me with that blade?”  Muriel takes out a slender vial from her basket and hands it to the orc, never taking her eyes from the ranger.

“Wat is thiss?”  It asks.

The woman looks at the orc and smiles.  “Power.”

Returning her gaze to Aubrey, she says,  “Your death will not be easy, no, not at all painless I’m afraid.  But relatively quick, I think.  You should thank me, for it’s more then a brute like you deserves.”

The orc looks at Aubrey with an expression between smug satisfaction and the ecstasy of revenge fulfilled.  It pulls the cork with its teeth and quickly chugs the vial.  Its eyes go wide as it feels the invigorating heat of the potion.  Aubrey can hear the creaking of the leather bindings on the creature’s blade handle as it tightens its grip.

“Yes.  Yesss!  Power!”  It says, with an almost ecstatic fervor.  The thing breaths heavily with excitement as it raises the blade, reversing it’s grip, readying for a killing blow.

“It’s true what they say about your kind, you know.”  Muriel says, picking up her basket.  “You are all as foolish as you are savage.  You should have never come to these woods.  You have only found death here.”

The ranger shifts his eyes between the orc and this Viskothic witch, trying to decide which one he should attack first, or if he even has time for that.  The orc steps forward to take the ranger’s head.  Muriel is still looking at the ranger, smiling.  It drops to it’s knees as the blade comes down.  The sword falls on the ranger, but does not pierce him.  The orc has dropped it, and is clutching at it’s stomach with both hands.  It tries to speak, but cannot, as frothy vomitus fills it’s mouth.

Muriel steps up to the orc and pushes it sideways to the ground with her foot, before it spews it’s filth onto the ranger.  It begins to convulse violently, gurgling in it’s death-throes.  Aubrey slowly looks from the dying orc to this not so innocent maiden.

“What was that?”  He asks.

Muriel cocks her head to the side as she regards the ranger.  “As I said.  Power.”  She stretches out her hand to him.  “Shall we go?”

She helps the ranger to his feet, still groggy from the strike to his forehead.  “And just so you know, there’s more then one use for Wight Orchids.”  She says, smiling.

To be continued…

***

S.E.F.A.