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but I will also return at dawn and give you until midday to study this proof. Maybe you'll write a book that will put Eradmenes to shame, eh?"
“Dawn is not a civilised hour for a man of letters. But no matter, this is weakest promise I’ve heard since my last attempt at reparations with the second wife. Even if you should return tomorrow, the opinions of a boy little more than a child are not ones I put much credence in.”
"Secret knowledge a few centuries old sounds well worth the little time we've spent this morning, doesn't it?"
“Still, your claims are intriguing. Offer me this evidence immediately, or at the very least the gold you owe, or suffer the consequences forthwith.”
Sleer does not look very intimidating as he makes his final threat. In fact, he’s reclining in his chair, sucking noisily on the final bottle of beer whilst idly scratching his midriff.
Sleer chokes on his last dregs of beer, sending most of it slopping down to join similar stains on his robes. For a moment he stares suspiciously at the bottle, even going so far as to make a quick count of the number of beers he’s already despatched.
“No, no. Not nearly enough for that to happen again,” he mutters quietly to himself. He turns his attention back to what Delkaneth has revealed to him.
“Well I never. You’ve suddenly become a much more interesting twerp. Still rude, and absolutely rather cheap, but the youth don’t value learning as they did. You, my accursed friend, at least hold an interest in knowledge, even if you don’t recognise its true worth!”
“We have an accord. I’d gladly spend some time studying this . . . malformation . . . of your body. As I said, dawn is too early, but come back when the last cock stops crowing* and we’ll make a full inspection of this freakery.”
On leaving Sleer Huddlegrew’s hovel, Delkaneth makes his way back towards the centre of town, backtracking along Rundul’s Tree until it turns into Pyesen’s Plot. Ahead he hears the sounds of a swordfight going on in the street. Beyond a small knot of onlookers enjoying the duel from a safe distance, he’s surprised to realise his fellow Chelaxian Pellius is one of the combatants, and locked in a deadly duel with an old greybeard wielding a blade in each hand.
*A commonly used expression in northern Avistan, referring to an unspecified time in mid-morning, the general consensus putting it at some point after nine o’clock.
As Pellius and Tharkon battle it out, the shutters of a nearby residence swing open. Through the window peer a pair of shrivelled old ladies, who regard the fight with interest.
“My money’s on the young fella,” observes the slightly more wizened of the pair.
“Tstch! Shouldn’t be,” responds the other “Unsporting it is, using magic in such an engagement, plus he's nearly half the age of the other!”
“Oh, come now Damaelle. You’ve been reading those romances from Vellumis again. Such courtly chivalry has no place in the real world. A scrap’s to be won by whatever means necessary. Desna’s wings, we know that’s the truth in the Freedom Town. Besides, I like his hair.”
“Pish and starch! Hair that white shouldn’t be found on a young man. Hells knows what dark sorcery he’s practiced to afflict himself thus. And anyway Brathilda, who are you to lay judgement on my books? By the eyes, you can’t even read!”
As the two crones squabble, the battle continues . . .
Bleeding profusely, the magus pulls all the stops and decides to harness his last energy into an all out attack.
But the second after that goes through his mind, Pellius realizes that he has to be careful when casting the spell to not get hit and worse have his spell ruined.
Moving in such a way as to protect his hand gestures, the magus wills forth energy and suddenly his blade crackles with blue arcing sparks.
The magus then ducks low and strikes with his longsword once discharging his spell and then a quick second thrust to finish the assassin.
Tharkon’s too preoccupied by the threat Pellius poses to watch his back, and it’s doubtful if he even sees Delkaneth coming before the axe falls. By a stroke of luck, a sidestep to set up a feint against Pellius takes him out of the direct line of the axe’s head; instead the haft delivers a solid clunk just behind the ear.
Tharkon totters, dropping sword and dagger in the process, then slumps to his knees in the muddy street. He retains consciousness, more or less, but his eyes are unfocused as he realises his defeat has come.
"Looks like you're luck has run out old man. The rest of the reinforcements are right behind me so better drop 'em and surrender. Now."
Wordlessly, he raises his hands in surrender. Somewhat beat to the punch, both Bonegrit and Pyotr arrive at the scene a few moments later, coming from different ends of Pyesen’s Plot.
Tharkon’s too preoccupied by the threat Pellius poses to watch his back, and it’s doubtful if he even sees Delkaneth coming before the axe falls. By a stroke of luck, a sidestep to set up a feint against Pellius takes him out of the direct line of the axe’s head; instead the haft delivers a solid clunk just behind the ear.
Tharkon totters, dropping sword and dagger in the process, then slumps to his knees in the muddy street. He retains consciousness, more or less, but his eyes are unfocused as he realises his defeat has come.
"Looks like you're luck has run out old man. The rest of the reinforcements are right behind me so better drop 'em and surrender. Now."Wordlessly, he raises his hands in surrender. Somewhat beat to the punch, both Bonegrit and Pyotr arrive at the scene a few moments later, coming from different ends of Pyesen’s Plot.
Pellius steps back for a second, his hand arcing with sparks ready to be transferred to his blade. The magus sighs and drops his spell and almost looses his blade in the process. Pellius leans heavily on his longsword and murmurs a prayer of thanks to the Lady.
He then turns to Del, "Watch him, closely. My spell won't kill him and will take the fight out of him. We should tie him up. Real good. That man's a fighter. You got this, right?
The magus then sheathes his blade and goes about trying to assess the worst of his wounds. He sees Pytor and Bonegrit come around, "How's Dierik?"
Delkaneth swiftly trusses up the greybeard, removing a boot to reveal a blotchy grey and distinctly malodorous sock beneath. Tucked in the inside of the boot is a finely balanced dagger .
Besides the scabbards for his weapons, a number of pouches dangle off Tharkon’s belt. A purse contains twenty-one copper pieces, a single platinum piece minted in Vigil, and three clear gemstones with a slightly yellowish tinge. Pellius recognises these as more beggars’ diamonds.
In addition, a hand crossbow hangs from a cord and nine quarrels are contained in a small leather case. There’s also a burlap sack which contains four tiny, sealed pottery cups each about the size of a tumbler. A different symbol marks the lid of each of cup; an eyeless fish, a double tiered mushroom and identical coiled centipedes on the last two. The potion is full of a murky brown liquid; floating inside is what looks to be the claw of a bear.
Finally, Tharkon wears a much-repaired chain mail shirt. Of the blades he used to battle Pellius, the swordbreaker dagger looks to be of masterwork quality, whilst the longsword is a battered, ancient specimen. The notched scored against Pellius’ savakeen blade is but one of many.
Bonegrit's stride slows as he approaches the assembly of familiar faces inside the circling throng of decidedly less familiar faces. He eases the tension of his bow string between gloved fingers, calmly returning the swan-fletched rosewood arrow to his quiver that had only moments ago been intended for the venerable fellow that was foolish enough to ambush his current friend and employer. Trusting to Delkaneth's handling of frisking the old man down, his eyes are drawn to the picture-label potteries and vial of what is no doubt poison. Such a realization confirmed a gnawing worry that has gripped the half-orc since he set off on a merry chase after the assassin. Bonegrit's feet carry him into the conversation just as Delkaneth poses the question about their employer's state of being.
"This washed up codger put a bolt in Dierik's chest before scampering off down the street with his scrawny tail 'tween his legs. By the look of it now, the thing was likely poisoned." Bonegrit's gaze is not one of worry or despair, but contempt and a promise of prolonged retribution should his suspicions prove correct. He kneels in front of the subdued assassin so that his eyes are inches away from the older man's, brows furrowed and scowl deepening.
"So tell me, dog; how much grease did Rosenholt lay in your palm before setting you to this fool's errand? What kind of poison did the coins of a coward buy?"
Pyotr's heavy iron-shod treads cut up the packed earth of the road, as he approaches the scene. Pellius and Delkaneth had the would-be assassin well in hand, the old man bleeding from multiple cuts to the face and head.
"How's Dierik?"
"So how's you meet our friend here anyway? And whats wrong with Dierik??"
"This washed up codger put a bolt in Dierik's chest before scampering off down the street with his scrawny tail 'tween his legs. By the look of it now, the thing was likely poisoned."
"He will survive the wound. If poison has taken hold, however..." Pyotr lets the implication hang in the air.
"So tell me, dog; how much grease did Rosenholt lay in your palm before setting you to this fool's errand? What kind of poison did the coins of a coward buy?"
"Rosenholt!?" Pyotr chokes on his surprise.
"So tell me, dog; how much grease did Rosenholt lay in your palm before setting you to this fool's errand? What kind of poison did the coins of a coward buy?"
The slight chatter of Tharkon’s teeth is audible as Bonegrit presses in close, though it’s likely more to do with the frost of Pellius’ spell than fear of the half-orc.
He masters his lips and manages a surprisingly candid reply to Bonegrit’s question.
“Ten coins of platinum, and five beggars’ diamonds,” he replies “A fortune large enough to quell my qualms. As for the poison, I’m not sure of the name, but the principal ingredient stems from the crushing of the upper gills of a black twincap mushroom. The coma comes on quickly, and though the death itself is lingering, it’s reckoned rather inevitable by most.”
On Black Twincap Mushrooms
Twincap mushrooms are incredibly rare, diminutive freestanding fungi with a slender central stalk. Whilst most toadstools are topped by a flaring cap, this mushroom actually has two; the stem continues through the flesh of the lower cap to flower into second, slightly smaller cap above.
Twincap mushrooms only form in areas frequented by corporeal undead. Besides a need for recently sloughed but already rotting flesh as a vital nutrient in its fruiting cycle, some evolutionary quirk, yet to be understood by even the most learned scholars of necromancy or mycology, causes their spores to germinate more reliably in close proximity to negative energy.
It’s a common misconception that the poison created from the mushroom is without cure or antidote. In truth, the antidote is curiously immediate. Whilst the gills of the toadstool’s upper cap are the source of the poison, the gills of the lower cap can be used to effectively counteract it.
"Seen the likes of this stink before. Called 'em Rotcrowns, but they fit the description. Two caps on one fungal stalk; grow mostly where the dead don't fancy sittin' still. Not an easy poison to fix, either. Better hope someone knows more than we barkin' do about the stuff or we may be out of a job soon." Bonegrit shoots a glance to Tharkon as he says the last part. "And you'd better hope so too. Dierik doesn't survive your special delivery, you're gonna get a goodbye twice as hard as his, codger."
"Unless you want to redeem your worthless life and give us an antidote?"
“I don’t have the antidote,” replies Tharkon “Though if you I can tell you where you can find it. Let me walk away from this, and I’ll give you the information. I can swear to you that you won’t see my face or my blades again.”
"Give us the antidote, and we will allow Dierik to pass judgement upon you, as is just and proper. Otherwise, we can hand you over to the Sharpes... the man who assassinated their friend and guest on the very threshold of their estate."
"I can't imagine they would be pleased to let such a slight pass."
Pellius staggers on, leaning heavily on his sword. "C'mon, let's head back to Dierik. Hopefully, I can get some healing by our Desna priestess." He again looks at his wounds, "I'm all for going into the woods but I won't be much help like this."
The magus clears his throat as if wanting to expel out his wounds, "Let's leave with our prisoner well in hand and see to Dierik. We'll regroup and figure out what to do from there. C'mon, let's go!"
"We can hand this cowardly dog over to Santrian and his men. We need to impress upon them the necessity not to take vengeance. Sooner or later, we will drag the truth from this... mercenary." Pyotr roughly drags Tharkon to his feet. Kicking aside his liberated boot, Pyotr frog-marches the assassin towards the town square, his one socked foot squelching in the mud.
Grunting an ascent to the proposed course of action, Bonegrit slides to the back of the party and readies an arrow for the aged assassin should he decide to be a fool and make a run for it. A brief shake of his head accompanies a bleak thought from the ranger. Shoulda never came here. Beginnin' to see why Grimspur spoke against it so firmly. Beginnin' to see why I listened up until now. It is not the Freedom Town that visits such calamity, however. It is of Vigil—of Lastwall; a knight's pride and nothing more. More dangerous than every horde of the wastes put together, though wrapped up in burnished steel and brilliant banners behind a wall of flowery words. Knights vexed Bonegrit.
None of the onlookers seem to have any particular motivation further than having a ring-side seat to a pitched battle of blades. With Tharkon defeated, they begin to drift away.
“The greybeard’s lucky they didn’t just run him through,” one can be heard to say to his companion “Mercy’s not a common sight in the Freedom Town.”
The two old dames continue to observe, but now their conversation falls to whom’s the more handsome, Delkaneth (“looks rather sickly”) or Pellius (“the white hair’s unnatural”) and whether they’d have ever considered bedding a half-orc in their younger days.
The quartet make their way back to Freedom’s Square. Firmly strongarmed by Pyotr, with the others watchful and weapons-ready about him, Tharkon makes no effort to flee.
Re-entering the plaza, their hopes drop as they see a small knot of people gathered at the sight where Dierik fell. Their employer is still prostrate, but now unconscious. Santrian has pulled up his master’s tunic, and whilst the puncture caused by the crossbow quarrel has vanished following Pyotr’s application of healing, a foreboding mauve stain has formed underneath the skin, spreading from the navel to the right armpit.
“He was fine, he was speaking to me, trying to rise, then, then” distraught, Santrian relays the events to the returning adventurers, “he began to choke, he couldn’t form his words, and he passed out.”
Santrian turns to Tharkon, his face clouded with anger, turning almost the same colour as Dierik’s torso.
he snarls “What poison did you use on him? If he dies, I’ll tear your entrails out with my bare hands.”
Tharkon makes no response to this threat, and Santrian turns back to his comatose friend with an agonised sigh.
he shouts.
Kelya is not in the Square. Attending Dierik are Second Master Santrian, Crinkles Cupporchin the chef (a handcart of provisions for the caravan lies abandoned not far away), several other men and women from Dierik’s crew, and a small number of local bystanders. Amongst this latter group is the ratman, his jezzail now slung over his back. The matte-black colour of the leathers he wears might suggest a uniform, albeit a stained and dusty one. Pinned to his chest is a small badge, enamelled white, an obelisk set over a star. The ratman is talking earnestly to another fellow, the same aging individual you saw in conversation with Dierik and Santrian on entering the Freedom Town.
The ratman approaches the adventurers and their captive.
“I am Marshal Oswald, responsible for upholding the laws of the Freedom Town. You may hand your prisoner over to me.”
Bonegrit grimaces at the ratman's demand. He hasn't considered the introduction of the town's authorities. Fortunately, the ranger seems to know his place for the moment, and keeps his tongue in check and cheek. He hopes Marshal Oswald's own intentions do not hinder Dierik's recovery, but elects to let one of the humans do the talking. Instead, Bonegrit kneels down next to Dierik to examine the exposed wound.
It had been years since Grimspur's notably brief lesson on "Rotcrowns" and what maladies could be derived from the fungus. Those same years shrouded Bonegrit's memories in a fog of forgetfulness birthed through lack of relevance. The poison was so rare he never thought to encounter it in his travels. And here it confronts him, coursing through the veins of newfound friend and employer. "Hold his shirt up here, Master Santrian. Let's take a look an' see how bad it is. And Gozreh's bluster! Can we get him out of the muck already?"
“What did you do to him you filthy scoundrel?” he snarls “What poison did you use on him? If he dies, I’ll tear your entrails out with my bare hands.”
Tharkon makes no response to this threat, and Santrian turns back to his comatose friend with an agonised sigh.
“Somebody find Kelya!” he shouts.
Pyotr gently, but firmly, separates Santrian from Tharkon, putting his significant frame between the two. "Delkaneth, the vials, if you please?" Pyotr opens the burlap sack, pulling the four vials. "Crinkles, take these to Zriorinta quickly. This criminal says that he poisoned Dierik with an infusion of the 'black twincap mushroom'," he presents the vial that shows the pictogram matching the description. "Hopefully she and Kelya will be able to craft an antidote."
The ratman approaches the adventurers and their captive.
“I am Marshal Oswald, responsible for upholding the laws of the Freedom Town. You may hand your prisoner over to me.”
"I greet you Marshal. I am Pyotr the Unwelcome, swordsworn of Vigil," Pyotr pushes Tharkon down to his knees in the mud, and raises his ungauntleted hand displaying the swordmark. "Before we transfer our captive to your care, I would have your parole that you will not visit justice or punishment upon him until this matter is resolved to either Master Ironcoffer's or Second-Master Santrian's satisfaction." He looks to where Dierik lies on the ground. "We hardly know the extent of his crime."
Dierik is unconscious, and the poison has taken hold. Already Bonegrit can see Dierik’s eyeballs flickering beneath their lids as he enters the fevered nightmares that haunt the victims until they succumb. There’s no sign yet of the rotting reek that emanates from the victim as his still living organs begin to mortify within the body, but that’s very much a sign of the final stages of the poisoning.
With alacrity Crinkles’ grabs the little ceramic pot of poison and begins to organise Dierik’s men into search parties to track down Zriorinta and Kelya. They scatter in different directions in order to find the two women as quickly as possible.
Pyotr turns to Marshall Oswald.
Marshall Oswald’s nose wrinkles with distaste as Pyotr displays the Sword Mark. Although it’s hard to tell, Oswald appears old for a ratfolk; there’s grey on the fur around his jowls. His black and beady eyes are deep-set, with heavy grey bags of skin beneath them.
He hesitates, then glances back at the old man he was conferring with, who stands a few paces behind him, black tunic, thin white moustache, balding head and all.
“Considering the circumstances of the offence,” interjects the man “Perhaps the perpetrator can remain in the hands of Dierik Ironcoffer’s party until the resolution of the matter. They definitely have a certain entitlement given what has transpired.”
The man looks down sadly at Dierik. “Let them determine the assassin’s punishment. If there’s anything left of him afterwards, he can be returned to us and tried for breaching the peace of the Freedom Town.”
“Courthrin, there’s no precedent for this,” protests the Marshall, but he’s silenced with an impatient wave.
“This is the Freedom Town. We’re the ones who’re free to set the precedents.”
Second Master Santrian nods his head vigorously at this ruling, holding out his hand to Courthrin. “Thank you,” he says.
Tharkon blanches at this exchange. It seems he was expecting a different sequence of events, and some of his confidence has been diminished with the news that he’ll remain in the hands of Dierik’s allies.
"Thank you, sir. And to you Marshal," Pyotr nods to the ratman and the other gentleman.
"Stand up," Pyotr grabs Tharkon by the collar pulling him to his feet. "I doubt you will enjoy Callum's ministrations. He and his men are fiercely loyal to your victim. Put escape out of your mind. Confess your crime, give us the antidote... it will go much easier on you."
Confess your crime, give us the antidote... it will go much easier on you.
“Confess my crime?” responds Tharkon, exasperated “Of course I committed the crime, I shot Dierik in plain sight of everyone here! And I told you before, I don’t have the antidote – but if you let me walk I’ll tell you where it can be found, on a soldier’s honour.”
Pyotr approaches the older man. "Your judgement does you credit, sir. I am Pyotr the Unwelcome. Though I've found the Freedom Town to be more accepting than most. I have the honor to meet...?" Pyotr pauses for the man's introduction. "And you, Marshal. Your intervention was timely, if not ultimately effective. I am honored to meet you as well."
Pellius is relieved that the local lawman has given up his claim on the assassin. This was the time for the man to talk if they ever wanted to save Dierik. He nods his thanks to the ratman while keeping an eye on the prisoner.
The magus looks at Tharkon and spits on the ground, "You caused enough trouble already. I don't think you have any bargaining chips left. You'd best start telling us what you know if you want to keep working."
The blond man combs back his hair with one bloodied hand. It was clear that his wounds would not go away and he would not rest easy this night. he approaches Pyotr, "How about it soldier? can you call on the Lady's blessings for me?"
Both Chelaxians put a little pressure on Tharkon, but the old greybeard refuses to buckle.
I don't think you have any bargaining chips left. You'd best start telling us what you know if you want to keep working.
“My bargaining chip is that I know where an antidote can be found. I’ve played my part in this, and the gods may yet damn me for it. With haste, there might be a chance for your master. All I want is to walk away from this.”
“This big one,” Tharkon nods towards Pyotr “He seems to take pride in his Sword Mark. If he swears I won’t be harmed, that my possessions are returned and that I’ll be given leave to walk away with my hide intact, then I’ll tell you where an antidote for the poison can be found. I’ll even draw you a map of how to get there.”
Marshall Oswald ears flicker; he’s obviously listening intently, but makes no protest at the prisoner’s plea.
I have the honor to meet...?
“Courthrin Sharpe, one of the founders of the Freedom Town, and one of its leaders too.”
By Courthrin’s age, he must be one of the original members of the Sharpes Gang, the outlaws who founded the Freedom Town over two decades past. He holds out his hand to Pyotr.
And you, Marshal. Your intervention was timely, if not ultimately effective. I am honored to meet you as well.
Oswald, meanwhile, twitches his wrinkled nose and gives a slight nod of greeting to the half-orc.
A shout carries across the plaza, announcing Kelya’s arrival. Her long legs carry her swiftly to Dierik’s side, Crinkles hurrying along in her wake. She settles onto her knees beside Bonegrit and inspects Dierik’s condition as Santrian agitatedly recounts what happened.
“This is not a poison I’m familiar with. With Desna’s aid I can slow the venom, maybe halt it completely. Bonegrit’s right, this muck isn’t a good place for him to lie. Crinkles, let’s get him onto that cart and back to camp.”
Still panting from his dash across town, Crinkles and some of the drovers set to work unloading the produce from the handcart so it can serve as a bed for Dierik.
“My bargaining chip is that I know where an antidote can be found. I’ve played my part in this, and the gods may yet damn me for it.”
"If Master Ironcoffer dies," Pyotr counters, "we will most assuredly give them their chance."
“If he swears I won’t be harmed, that my possessions are returned and that I’ll be given leave to walk away with my hide intact, then I’ll tell you where an antidote for the poison can be found. I’ll even draw you a map of how to get there.”
Marshall Oswald ears flicker; he’s obviously listening intently, but makes no protest at the prisoner’s plea.
"I'll not trade away the certainty of the Lady's justice for the possibility of a cure. How can we even trust this antidote to be genuine?" Pyotr looks towards to Santrian, trying to gauge his reaction. "Tell us what you know. If Dierik survives, it will count in your favor."
I have the honor to meet...?“Courthrin Sharpe, one of the founders of the Freedom Town, and one of its leaders too.”
If there is any onus on the Sharpe name, it is lost on Pyotr as he grasps the man's hand without hesitation. "A boon to this place, no doubt, to have such leaders."
Pyotr turns to Delkaneth. "You mentioned a hermit. One who guards the headlands of the Path? Once we hand this dog over to Callum, shall we make haste to find him?"
As Pyotr passes Pellius he places a hand on his shoulder.
Bonegrit growls lowly as Tharkon voices his own conditions. "Barkin' up a tree you have no chance of climbing, codger. I breathed it before and I'll breathe it now: Ironcoffer passes, and I swear by all the foul teeted Gods and then some you'll be suffering a farewell harder than any've had the misfortune of meetin'."
His grimace sour as a lemon, Bonegrit finishes hoisting Dierik onto the cart before wheeling on the aged assassin. "You wanna live? No gripes from me. I get it. And if Dierik lives, yer lungs can keep suckin' in air." The ranger steps closer to Tharkon at this point, his ire raised and brows furrowed as his offer sputters out angrily. "Ain't nothin' but a sword in the hands of a coward. Tell ya what, blade... I'll sweeten the deal. Take up a new contract: put end to the Knight-coward what hired you and I won't sniff you out and bury something sharp in yer guts after we let you go. Hells, I might even let you keep your reputation."
Perinde speciosa sunt, non omnes quidem.
Tharkon seems little phased by threats in a language he doesn’t understand. A looming half-orc however, is a different matter. Rattled, Tharkon’s bravado diminishes further.
Tell ya what, blade... I'll sweeten the deal. Take up a new contract: put end to the Knight-coward what hired you
“And the bounty is my freedom?” he queries “Bah, with my reputation you can do what you please. I’m too old to quibble on something so worthless. Very well. I’ll tell you about the antidote, and I’ll draw you a map. And soon as the ink is dry, you let me go, return my gear, and I’ll take those blades back to Haisnar Rosenholt, point first.”
Beneath the wiry grey eyebrows, Tharkon’s eyes dart from adventurer to adventurer, then from Santrian to Marshall Oswald. The sheriff remains silent.
"Do we have a deal?" Tharkon asks.
Beneath the wiry grey eyebrows, Tharkon’s eyes dart from adventurer to adventurer, then from Santrian to Marshall Oswald. The sheriff remains silent.
"Do we have a deal?" Tharkon asks.
Pellius is fuming, "A deal? You attempt to kill our commander. We catch you. We fight and you lose, despite cutting me up good. So now we are supposed to let you go? You walk away whole?"
Pellius gets on the man's face, "No, no deal!
The magus continues, "Here's what we are going to do. We are going to find this antidote by our own means. And you will remain in the custody of Dierik's men. Oh, and you better start praying because your refusal to help will at the very least cost you your sword hand. Should Dierik die, you follow swiftly along."
He turns to the caravan's guard, "He's yours for now. See if you can get creative and make him talk. If he does, only break his hand."
"C'mon Del. Let's go talk to this herbalist of yours."
"What a wretched and cowardly cur! Follow a map of your devising? Shall we run to ground the 'star-tailed hare' as well?*" Pyotr twists one of Tharkon's arms around behind him, and begins walking him towards the caravan's paddock.
He nods to the two Freedom Town officials. "Good day, Marshal. And you," Pyotr fishes around for a title that fits, finally settling on, "Founder."
*Vigil expression for "wild goose chase".
"Aye!" Pellius nods as Pyotr takes his queue.
Still limping from the ordeal he turns to Del on the way back, "Del, have a look at the cur's belongings. Maybe they are valuable. In any case, he's not getting them back. If he's lucky, he'll be allowed to come back to town in his breeches. He deserves no less than his master."
The magus then talks to Kelya on the way back, "My lady, I know you should save your strength to aid Dierik but perhaps there is some left for me. I want to do my best to help Dierik as well and I'm afraid I won;t be much help in my current health condition. If you can spare it, I can use a bit of healing."
Led by Bonegrit and Kelya, Dierik is hoisted into the handcart. Crinkles and some of the other men shoulder the sacks of potatoes and kegs of ale that have been shifted to make room for their catatonic master. Bidding their farewells to Courthrin and Marshall Oswald, the group begin their careful, disquieted return to camp, Santrian holding Dierik’s limp hand as they wheel him over bumpy, rutted way of the Ruin Road, the Second Master’s face tight, white and pinched with worry. Dust has stained Santrian’s monocle, but the usually fastidious major-domo hasn’t even the concern to wipe it clean.
Firm in Pyotr’s arm lock, Tharkon is dragged along with them. For a while he’s quiet, no doubt disheartened that the possibility of a swift release has been quashed. It isn’t long before he tries again.
“I understand you want to see justice done, but you don’t have time to linger on my fate if you want to save Dierik Ironcoffer. The coins, the gems, keep them, the last of my humble fortune paid out as reparations for the damage I have wrought. I only need my weapons and your leave to be on my way, and you’ll have the map to the antidote.”
They pass through the Ruingate, the laagered caravan is encamped on waste ground but a bowshot from the town. The tinkers who’d gathered in the morning have all dispersed. It looks like one of Crinkles’ runners has already reached the camp with his ill news, for Callan is galloping to meet the party on an unsaddled horse.
The old guardsman can’t quell a cry of dismay as he sees Dierik’s limp body in the handcart. Callan leaps off the horse, landing smoothly despite his twisted leg. Kelya and Santrian tear through a hurried account of what befell in Freedom’s Square, and Callan curses fervently at length.
After taking a moment to stare closely at Dierik’s somnolent, expressionless face, he crosses to Tharkon and immediately strikes him across the face. The blow’s hard enough that it would have dropped the greybeard were Pyotr not holding him. However, Callan follows up with not another fist, but instead a barrage of oath-filled questions. The gist of his interrogation covers much the same ground as the adventurers’, with much the same results. Tharkon continues to defiantly refuse to provide any information on the antidote until his release is guaranteed.
As the party enters the camp, Callan orders Tharkon secured. The greybeard is pushed onto his behind and pressed firmly against the wheel of one of the Sixbulls, whereupon his arms are tied outstretched to the spokes of the wagonwheel with strong hemp rope.
“Leave him there for now,” orders Callan, turning his attention to the comfort of his Trail Captain. Second Master Santrian retrieves an ornate, two pronged iron key from a chain around Dierik’s neck and uses it to unlock Dierik’s personal coach. With some difficulty, the Taldan extricates the poles and cloth of a frame tent so large and grand it looks like it shouldn’t fit the dimensions of the carriage that contains it. As the crew set about erecting the marquee, Pellius speaks to Kelya as she attends Dierik.
I want to do my best to help Dierik as well and I'm afraid I won't be much help in my current health condition. If you can spare it, I can use a bit of healing.
Kelya assesses Pellius’ injuries, seemingly noticing them for the first time. Her gaze then sweeps over the others, lingering on the fever-stricken Delkaneth.
“You all look a little beat-up. Once again I might add. Gather around me.” With Desna’s holy symbol dangling from a chain wrapped around her fist, Kelya utters a swift prayer to her goddess. Like it did after they returned from the Keep of St. Lymirin, golden light shines out to touch the wounded men.
Whilst Pellius, Pyotr and Bonegrit immediately feel more hale, Delkaneth gains no relief from his ailment, nor does prostrate Dierik lying in the handcart beside them seem to garner any benefit.
Soon the tent is ready – it’s almost as large as the common room of a small tavern, and Dierik is transferred inside.
“Gather some furs, some water, and some flowers to sweeten the air,” instructs Kelya to the men as she sets about making Dierik comfortable.
The day is not far from done; it’s somewhere between four or five of the clock, with about four hours to nightfall. The headwaters of the Path River and the small wood that grows there is not far from the laager, perhaps ten minutes on horseback or half an hour at a brisk walk.
Hearing the yell behind him, Bonegrit ambles over to Delkaneth to lend assistance to Deramil's own efforts. The sense of worry and fear washing over the camp affects the animals poorly—they can always tell. He attempts to soothe the same emotions that threaten to bleed over into the beasts they need to bear them to the hermit's dwelling. When he has finished securing Amiro's saddle and bridle, he turns to Delkaneth, a grim look somewhere between concern and anger gripping his bestial features. "I'm with ya. But we may wanna give the old dog's offer some considerin'. Dierik's not got awful long yet to live, and his map may be the only way to keep Ironcoffer breathing."
Pellius, who is taking care of Signior and adjusting his saddle bags, nods his head, "No way to tell if he's lying. Maybe it's part of his tactics to inflict the poison and delay the antidote. In any case, we can't trust him."
The magus flexes his muscles and winces at the pain, "C'mon, it's time we earn our pay and find this hermit."