Henry Southgard stares at Quick for a long moment, and then turns back to Gorim. "You were about to say something?"
"Well err... it's a bit messy, this orc business. Their leaders don't live all that long with rival tribes always at their throats. There's not much to go by, but some likely candi-"
Realising he's rambling, and his voice battling somewhat with the wind, Gorim cuts to the chase, "'Borgruth the First Cleaver' lasted longer than most, but that was some time back. Not sure how he went out, but he could lead. He did so for 10 years."
Quick stumbles and nearly falls at the mention of Borgruth the First Cleaver. He stops, hands on knees, like he's catching his breath.
"Alright..." Henry Southgard mutters. "Assuming the orcs were after Moss, it'd be a tough job to link us to him and pick our trail out from the refugees. We're probably safe for now."
"Though, why would any sane leader lead an army over a mountain pass for one person?"
"Isn't the King ill? It makes more sense if this were a test of might rather than a manhunt."
Quick is still breathing harder than usual, but he does his best to come off nonchalant.
"There were too many of them to be a simple raiding party, but there weren't enough of them to hold off the King's army. Then again, you're right. If the King is ill, the Orcs would see that as weakness."
"What if the Orcs are after the Silver Scale?" Henry asks as he pulls Moss's journal out of his pack. "Moss said that others were after it."
"It's possible. Unlikely, even. However, we cannot let that happen. We should make camp soon and see what the journal has to tell us."
Henry Southgard flips to the map, and then glances at the pass.
"Right. Give me a minute."
By the map and their rate of travel, the group might have two more hours of marching through thick snow and hard stone before reaching the higher pass between the two peaks ahead. Then the map shows the path to take a turn to the south. The illustration isn’t forthcoming, but it looks like a series of narrow switchback ledges up a cliff face after the turn. The switchbacks continue up the side of a particularly high mountaintop, ending at the mouth of a dragon. Scrawled in Moss’ hand near the opening in the cliff, says Use caution! ‘Dragon’s Price’ will be required here. Never found an explanation of a ‘Dragon’s Price’. It is likely a hole in the rock, or a cave, carved into the shape of the toothy maw.
"Not too far from the peaks," states the Dwarf conversationally, gazing upward.
He'd taken notice of Quick''s reaction to mention of the First Cleaver, it'd be hard not to... though perhaps right now would not be the best time to pester the young half-orc.
|
"Aye, not too far," agrees Gwath. Having been watching their surroundings from the back, Gwath is ignorant to the younger Half-Orc's reactions and blindly stumbles forward in his words.
"You know the ship I worked on - The Silver Cleave - was named after that Borgruth, I think. Or maybe it was another Orc. Well, the Orc's weapon really..."
Gwath notices the squawking of his black parrot companion nestled in his pack at that moment. He is freezing and looks exhausted. As the rest of the troop marches on, Gwath stops and kneels, letting the bird out of the pack. The creature knows a few words and Gwath, a bit bittersweetly, decides to send the bird back.
"Home. You know the way. And if Port Elam is still overun, then keep safe in the woods. The way we're going, I can't keep an eye on you well enough."
The bird hops and squawks for a few moments, reluctantly perhaps, then takes a dive off the path and glides to lower and safer lands. Gwath stays for a moment, watching, then quickens his pace to catch up with the company.
"There's a cave up ahead that we can reach by nightfall. Looks like somebody had the time to carve it into the mouth of a dragon."
A powerful gust of wind obscures the peaks and Henry Southgard waits for the snow to subside, turning back to see the way they'd come. The mountains disappeared into the distance, even though it was less than a day's journey to the foothills. Marching an army across a mountain range was daring; marching them back into the range to hunt for a shrine was insanity. Unless the army was a diversion to draw attention away from a pack of trusted warriors-
'Paranoia,' Henry admonishes himself. Nine chances out of ten, the Orcs were completely incidental to Moss's quest. The Kobolds too were likely just migrating. There was only one other party confirmed to be looking for the scale.
Drow. It sounded Elven all right, but it brought childhood fables to mind. The kind of fables with gnarled forests and malevolent fae and ancient gods slumbering.
Which was, of course, hardly anything to go on. That had to be it. He could plan for Orc raids and Kobold traps, but some fairy-tale character that ensnared minds and spoke in black tongues? Dwelling on it would only inspire more terror.
Henry Southgard nods approvingly at Gwath as the half-orc catches up, and then launches back into the topic at hand. Or, rather, wanders.
"What powers does the Silver Scale have? Could an Orc chieftain be after a 'Fountain of Youth'?"
"It likely has no powers: it's just a scale. My skin is not magical despite my use of magic. It is the same with dragons."
"That is not to say the scale doesn't have power. Or perhaps it is now a mighty shield or some such."
"The real point is that it is a sacred relic, and it should be with people who honor it. It is not to be used for personal gain."
"People have found alchemical uses for all sorts of materials. In Lucien, we saw everything from Pegasus feathers to powdered otter hair. I don't find it hard to believe that a scale from something as rare and powerful as a dragon could be potent itself... and if it isn't, people will believe it anyway."
"And speaking of belief, the scale is like a saint's fingers or jawbone, right?"
"Nothing so religious. It is a promise, but you wouldn't understand. You think only of money."
"'You wouldn't understand,'" Henry repeats. "Funny. That's Elven for 'I don't want to talk about it', but you don't look like an elf."
"Best try making me understand, because we're going to have to settle it sooner or later."
"The way I see it, mercenary, you'll do anything for a few coins including using any information I may have. I am not going to hand you yet another way to sell your honor. Wiizaan."
"Whore."
The four trudge through the thick snow and howling winds, drawing nearer to the gap between the twin peaks. The harrowing weather continues to test the endurance of the artifact seekers.
The snow obscures their vision of their immediate surroundings, until they come upon a short rock face about one hundred feet away. A surveyor’s eye would estimate the height of the cliff to be about thirty feet high, and its absence from Moss’ copy of the map ages past suggest a shift in the stone of the mountain in recent centuries. The map
The movement of the mountains appear to be settled; the cliff is safe to climb, icy handholds notwithstanding.
On the sides of the cliff, the stone rises up to form the shoulders of the great peaks, not lending an easier path around the rock face. The wind keeps most of the rock exposed, with snow only gathered in potential hand and footholds, and the snow drift mounded at the base would soften a fall, should anyone slip.
The steep march and the chill winds take a toll on Henry Southgard.
With numb fingers, he pulls the map out and looks back and forth between it and the cliff, as if sheer disbelief will banish the rock wall into nonexistence.
"There's a special level of Hell reserved for cartographers," he mutters acidly as he sets down his backpack and stuffs the map into it.
Somehow, without removing his parka, the Mercenary takes off his chain shirt and discards the armored kilt.
"First one up," he says as he throws a coil of rope over his shoulder. "Throw the rope back down for the others."
Gorim's feet plough through the snow. He remains careful to keep track of the others in the obscuring gusts.
"We're climbin' ovah this thing?" Questions the Dwarf, standing beside the Mercenary. He glances briefly at the map, spotting Henry's cold hands.
He purses his lips whilst observing the height, nodding ever so slightly as he processes the situation.
"Gwath, Quick', we doin' okay?"
Shivering through chattering teeth, Quick says "It's cold..."
Quick progresses a small smount before getting stuck. "This is not working."
Determined, Quick lunges for a new hand hold and falls lightly to the snow.
"Do we have any pitons?"
"Deft bastard, aren't ya?" Henry laughs in spite of himself.
His fingers fail to find purchase on the cliff, and he backs off, massaging feeling back into his frozen digits.
Seized by a sudden thought, he squints at the top of the cliff, wondering if there might be foliage or sharp rocks at the top.
"Hold on, Henry. Pass me those hands."
The Priest rubs his hands together, blowing onto them to further warm their touch, then gently grips Henry's.
"That oughtah do it".
"You too, Quick'"
"Right, let's get up this thing..."
The Dwarf scans the rockface for his angle of approach.
"Nope"
"Maybe if I..."
"Gah!"
Failing this, Gorim follows Henry's gaze toward the top, hopeful.
Quick smiles as warmth seeps back into his hands. "Apsu bless you Gorim."
Face set, Quick looks to the climb once more.
"It seems I can get to here, then I get stuck..."
Quick lunges for the next hand hold again...
...and once again, is forced off the rock face. More slowly this time, he makes his way up the first 5 feet again.
"Nice!" Henry exclaims as the positive energy rushes up his arms. Warmth and feeling returns to his digits and a dozen aches are banished.
"If you could bottle that, we'd make a fortune."
"I'm thinking that if we tie a rope to a battle ax, we could throw it up there and get it hooked on something. If it works, it'd be easier than just scaling the cliff bare-handed.
After musing over the rock wall before him for a bit, the half-orc realizes two things: they are surrounded by knee-high snow, and when packed hard enough, snow can be firm enough to walk on. If everyone worked together, and used most of the snow around them, a ramp could be built to make this a ten foot climb, rather than thirty. With any luck, the ramp could reach the very top of the cliff.
"How long will that take? We need to get out of thie weather."
"Shouldn't take too long. Get your falchion out and see if you can cut the snow into chunks.
Quick shrugs and does as he's told.
Once the four get moving, they make quick and efficient work piling the snow around them into a walkable incline. Building it higher and higher, the ramp rises up to a mere few feet away from the top of the cliff when they decide the construction sufficient. Most of the dark rock around the ramp is exposed and contrasts starkly with the white mound, though in this weather the stone will not remain bare for long. Marching up and onto the clifftop, the crossbowman gathers up his rope and the four continue onward toward the pass ahead.
Gorim remains focused, his eyes set on the pass ahead.
"Almost there, lads! Let me know if thah cold gets to yah!"
Digging and shaping the snow leaves Quick numb to the bone and shivering.
"Hard work. Keeps a body warm," Henry Southgard says. Then he looks over at Quick. "Or at least it ought to. Let's get to shelter."
"Aye, it seems... delicate. We'll step in if it gets too much." The Dwarf observes them both for a moment, whilst rubbing his hands together, "It'll pass soon, I hope."
"Anyhow, best sort these shakes of yours".
"There we go."
"Hold, on Quick'" says Gorim, pressing through the snow.
"That'll do for now. Best get tah this shelter though, I don't have too many of these left".
The labor involved in the ramp-building helps the four forget the freezing wind, until they return to their endless task of plodding through thick snow. Time seems to stop altogether, and every step makes nary a difference in this world of buffeting, howling wind and icy flakes nipping at any exposed skin. That is, until a momentary lull in the hampered vision reveals the four to be marching on the snow between the towering mountain peaks!
The natural corridor is a channel for wind and snow, and soon a distinct turn to the south is spotted up head. If the map is correct, around the bend rises a switchback path up the face of a cliff. Atop there, awaits the stone dragon maw.
What cruel, sadistic god would design a world where snow could pile up deeper than an inch? Henry Southgard's face feels like it's been nicked by a hundred razor-sharp blades.
Jaw set in a grinding grimace to keep his teeth from chattering, Quick plods along. Just keep moving...
Gorim just about manages a grin when he realises their location. They're between the peaks. It shouldn't be much further...
"Almost there," shouts the Dwarf, "Don't lose track of one another!"
His eyes dart between the members of the group. They're not looking too healthy. He'll be healing them each one more for the day, but perhaps no more. That shelter better be getting close.
"Just keep moving. Once we get to shelter, I got a treat for all of you."