Gorim chuckles to himself at the Mercenary's story. They always have this little twist it the end, always an invasion or some such. They always speak strongly of experience too, and so the Dwarf follows the order, slowly walking backwards from the sound of rapidly approaching hooves and muscle. He grabs his holy symbol, leaving his axe sheathed.
"Aaany second now..."
A dozen horsemen crest the hill at a thundering pace. Men in the uniform light armor of the king’s cavalry lean as they ride downhill. Their weapons are not drawn, but each soldier has a few weapons to choose from, positioned to be drawn at a moment’s notice. A wide gesture from the foremost of their formation splits the riders into two groups, which start to spread apart as they close in on the four. Nearly half in the flanking maneuver unshoulder the bows on their backs and watch the travelers carefully, but do not draw arrows just yet.
Now only a hundred feet away, the one giving orders bears down on Gwath, Henry, Gorim, and Quick, his expression stern and unreadable under his steel helm.
A patrol finding two half-orcs this close to the southern orc lands might look suspicious. If word of Port Elam has reached wherever their patrol began, they are likely on edge for another orcish attack as well.
'We're outnumbered, relatively immobile, and lack the magical means to expedite our retreat. We may have to bribe our way out of this one.'
"Gwath..." Henry Southgard starts to say, but the half-orc seems distant, as if lost in his own troubles. "Gorim, then. Behind me, let's see what this is all about."
He slowly approaches the cavalry commander, taking a moment to slowly unclip his falchion from his belt, hold it at arms length, and drop it point downward.
"Salutations! Who do I have the honor of addressing?"
Gorim approaches alongside Henry, nodding at the men as he does so, "Mornin'"
He straightens his beard then allows his hands to rest on his belt as he awaits to follow Henry's lead.
Quick sinks to a knee and raises his hands to show he is unarmed. I lose nothing o appear submissive. After all, the frost looks harmless enough...
The horses, at a fifty foot distance, circle the four. Those that do not hold bows over their laps tighten the grips on their spears. None of them appear to be eager for bloodshed, but all of them keep a wary eye on the four and the surrounding hills.
The leader of this group nudges his horse forward, stopping twenty feet away. He frowns at the crossbowman’s greeting. “Right. My rank will suffice, for now, stranger. You speak to a patrol captain. Tell me why you are out here, and where you come from...”
He glances suspiciously at Quick and Gwath with the last of his command.
“...or you will be tried for banditry. Or treason, if it is evident.”
"You'll find no evidence of treason, captain. As for banditry, we only commit it upon those who try committing it upon us. Our business was near the edge of your borders, for we were contracted to recover artefacts of intrinsic and historical value for an Elven scholar. Unfortunately, a looter found the shrine hours before we did, and now we track her to reclaim the prize she stole."
A few of the mounted soldiers look skeptical, shifting their glances from the four to the captain and back again. The captain himself remains stone-faced during Henry’s answer, and he is quiet for several more moments. Breaching the threshold of awkward pauses, he slouches in his armor with a sigh.
“Empty your packs onto the ground,” he orders. Gesturing to three soldiers, he says, “Search for evidence of their claim, or anything suspicious. His story has an odor to it.”
When he says as much, the cavalry archers casually let a hand rest on the bundle of fletching at their sides. As the three horsemen nudge their mounts forward, the captain turns an interested gaze back to Henry. He asks in a conversational tone, “Tell me, treasure hunter, when was the last time you were in town?”
Quick goes pale as Henry speaks so candidly about their sacred quest. Shut up, damn you. Competition with this lot will lose us the scale.
"In support of our claim, you will find a dragon statue and coins of great antiquity. I'm sure our cleric can tell you more about their provenance; that's one of the reasons he was initially hired. There is also a map to the ancient shrine."
Henry Southgard's rambling dies under the captain's gaze. He nervously scratches three-day-old stubble and continues.
"We set out from Port Elam three days ago, in the early morning. It was going to be a day-long journey at the least, and we wished to camp at the base of the Baldrin Heights before beginning our ascent. Scarcely two hours after we left town, we saw smoke rising from the port and were soon set upon by an advance party of Orcs."
The three soldiers reach the four and two of them stop near Henry and Gorim to search their things, while the third watches them for any trickery. The officer nods in approval at Henry’s compliance, peering at the holy symbol in Gorim’s hand. His face dawns with recognition after a moment, and he studies the trappings of the others. A few of the patrol riders glance at the captain at the mention of Port Elam, and he raises an eyebrow with his attention turned back to Henry.
“Aye, bad news travels fast. Redstone is swamped with refugees now, with more coming in. I’d be inclined to believe your story if you were coming from the other side of the heights.” He pauses, chewing his lip in thought. The soldier waiting for Henry to turn over his things stiffens and regards the mercenary warily. The captain continues. “I appreciate your openness, but I hear dishonesty in your voice. Something doesn’t sound right. I don’t want to arrest the lot of you, but I would face imprisonment or worse if I allowed traitors or spies to roam these hills freely.” As he says “spies”, he flits a meaningful glance at the two half-orcs.
A handful of archers bring arrows to their bows, but a gesture from the captain keep the strings undrawn and arrowheads pointed down.
“Do you want to try being honest with me?” he casually asks Henry.
Arresting the four and arranging an escort would be a hassle for the captain. It seems that he would rather contend with an overt enemy or complete an uneventful patrol, than waste time questioning dubious characters. Still, due diligence is part of the job.
Appalled that Henry would speak so freely of his god's sacred places, Quick leaps to his feet. Unable to contain himself longer, the young half-orc explodes at the mercenary.
"Would you hold your tongue blasphemer!? You speak of things you know nothing about. May Apsu strike you dumb for your impertinence."
Quick turns to the captain with a placating gesture.
"Captain." He swallows. "Captain, we were hired by a human philanthropist who set us on a most worthy quest that could well prove mankind's salvation. He was explaining this venture as Port Elam was attacked and he was slain. We escaped via the sewers and had to flee into the mountain for our lives. Upon realizing where we were, we decided to undertake the philanthropist's mission whereupon we came upon a sacred site most unexpected. A shrine dedicated to my patron: Apsu, Waybringer who guards his secrets most jealously."
Glancing darkly back at Henry, Quick continues. "My associate misspoke his station when he spoke of that sacred shrine, and I respectfully insist that we say no more on that score."
"Now, we track a dark elf to recover a holy relic in accordance with our aforementioned quest. Furthermore, I can assure you that we are no threat to land and sundry, and we have nothing but faith and devotion to our good king."
"Now please let us go on our way, we have nothing to interest you."
"Oh," Henry Southgard thinks as he tries to remember what their particular corner of the map of Vyren looks like. "We teleported further than we could have walked in a day. But how did the Drow... she teleported too. Red fire, I should have gotten a full night's sleep."
The bowman is halfway through outlining an explanation that the patrol captain might buy when he is blindsided by Quicks rant. A dozens expressions flit across his face, but by the time the young sorcerer has finished, he's adopted a thoroughly neutral tone.
"Right, you wanted the truth, now you have it," he says as he offers his pack to one of the officers. "Let's see if there's a difference between a lie you won't buy and a truth you won't believe."
|
Gwath exhales thoroughly as Quick spills forth all those many words out into the open air... He notes the passing glances from the riders - glances of hesitancy, fear, and judgement. He responds with a stoic and still face.
I am truly back in the world of the civilized, aren't I? Port Elam, and the sea before it, was as much an opportunity for work for any race as it was a limbo of culture. The harsh waves of anarchy and practicality that nested between Elam and the Korgrut Empire never gave Gwath much knowledge or concern for the doings of men and elves in their seemingly smaller, political worlds.
Which King is it again? Gladeus? No, that's not it...Thadeus is it?
Gwath decides it is best to let Henry and Quick remain the sole voices for the group, despite their so-far alarming approaches. No need to complicate things further - and to be honest, he isn't quite sure what he would say. This seemingly-straightforward job has evolved into something much, much more than what he signed on for...
The crossbowman notices one of the riders beside the captain give Quick an interested look when he mentions their dark elf quarry.
At Quick’s outburst, the captain twitches and resumes his composure immediately. He listens intently to the half-orc, and then the man, before nodding with tentative understanding.
“I see.” He gestures to the three soldiers, one of whom is opening Henry’s pack. The captain’s tone flattens, as one who endures routines and checklists. “Check their things for orc tribe markings, or anything else out of the ordinary. Along with the evidence mentioned earlier.”
After a few quiet minutes, a soldier holds up the dragon figurine, to which the captain nods. Easing into a conversational tone once again, the captain looks to Henry. “I assume your next stop will be Redstone?”
At this point, the rider with Henry’s things finds the map and contract from Moss. He squints as he skims it. The other soldier reaches for Gorim’s things.
Henry sees the rider's reaction and assumes it's mere skepticism. But then, perhaps not.
"I'd assume so as well, but only if the drow's trail leads us there. We believe that she is unprepared for the journey home, and will likely steal provisions where she can. But if Redstone is swamped with refugees as you say, we have little hope of finding her."
Gorim allows the soldiers'search, handing over the bag.
"Should we end up staying there a night, I'd be keen to seek out your horsemaster. It'd be good to train with another devout to Irori"
Some people have no poker face. The rider that catches Henry’s attention knows something about the drow they chase. He glances uncertainly at the captain, undoubtedly trying to decide if he should speak up and help these travelers under question.
The patrol captain nods knowingly to Gorim’s words. “I thought I recognized the symbol of your god. A wise man, horsemaster Prestor. Not a better rider in Vyren.”
“The city guard in Redstone will know of any reports of theft,” replies the captain, “a shame though, to have lost your ...relic.” He glances at Quick, pausing for any attitude from the religious upstart before continuing. “Speaking of reports, I’ll be taking your names and places of origin.”
The soldier searches and returns Gorim’s things without a problem, and then turns to Gwath to do the same. Peering now at the apple-sized wooden dice, the searcher of Henry’s pack turns the crossbowman a dubious look, waiting for an explanation for the images of torture carved onto each side of the dice.
Quick sulks sullenly during the search.
But I gave him the truth...why continue this humiliating interrogation?
Henry Southgard flashes a quick smile at the soldier searching his pack. "An ogre stumbled upon us when we ascended the mountain. We slew it, and I kept that to remind myself that we've done some good on this journey, if only by accident."
He turns to the as-yet-unnamed patrol captain.
"I am Henry Southgard, from the port of Lucien. I understand that you have many miles yet to travel and no time for questions. But the Drow has a day's start on us and we have few leads to find her in the crowds around Redstone. I simply ask you, have you or any of the men under your command heard of such a woman? Anything that could help us?"
The captain who-must-not-be-named shakes his head to Henry’s question, but adds. “Lucien… over the sea I reckon? And you are right that we don’t have much time.” He raises a meaningful look to those searching the possessions of the half-orcs.
After a look of hesitation, the rider next to the captain speaks. “Someone tried to break into the eastern stables last night. Used magic to enchant and terrify guards, is the story I heard. Night-blue skin, white hair, pointy ears? She didn’t succeed, but no one was able to arrest her. Something about the torchlight suddenly going out when they cornered her. That’s all I heard. A guardsman who was there would know more.”
When he is finished speaking, the captain shrugs. “Crime has been on the rise since the Port Elam folk came in. I feel sorry for the city guards.” He nods to Henry’s companions. “Priest,” his gaze shifts to Quick, “kid, I still need your names and wherever you come from.”
"Most call me Quick and I am not from anywhere." His sullen tone accentuating his sarcasm. What you get...dismissing honest answers...
"That's gotta be her..." mutters the priest to Henry.
"Gorim's my name. Gorim Coppervein. My family settled in Thanleniel, though I spend most my time travelin'".
"Thank you. You've narrowed our search considerably," Henry Southgard says when the soldier finishes speaking.
He grimaces when Quick speaks. "Adolescents are usually unruly, but the kid is the rule against which exceptions are proven."
The soldiers finish searching the things of the four, and return them to their owners. When Gorim introduces himself, the captain nods his thanks.
But the he lets out a sigh of tested patience after Quick’s reply. “Are you upset that I am not taking you at your word, son? Why should I? I am a stranger to you, as you are to me (and a suspect stranger, at that). It is a simple question, that requires a simple answer, Quick. From where do you hail?”
He looks to Henry, Gwath, and Gorim. “The rest of you are free to go as you please. Whether your young friend here goes with you or us is up to him.” The captain lazily clinks the iron manacles hanging from his saddle, but his casual tone and posture convey more a reminder than a threat.
"I meant it. I don't know where I'm from. My earliest memory was of the edge of the Spindlewood: up in the northwest corner. That was only 2 months ago."
The captain blinks at Quick, then shifts a glance over the other three before answering sternly. “Well, I can’t help you with that, kid. No one with less than eight legs lives in the Spindlewood. You could’ve just said you were from the vale, or the highlands.” With an annoyed expression, he gestures to his men, and the three mount up and the rest of the patrol straighten and tug at their reins, preparing to ride.
“Watch yourselves, and the road, travelers. If you’re going to Redstone Keep, expect similar questions at the gates,” he says to the four, “and if you want my advice, no thief on foot is gonna outrun four hooves.”
As though to emphasize his point, he wheels his mount around and spurs it to a steady eastward gallop. The rest of the cavalry follow close behind, dozens of hooves thundering over the grassy foothills.
"Thank you. May your mission be successful, and may Abadar watch over the land in these trying times," Henry Southgard says in parting.
The mercenary takes a calming breath as the patrol departs, pulls a cloth-wrapped brick of coffee from his pack, and eats a pinch of it.
"Kid, did I ever mention your religion or... or your god?"
"Why?" Quick asks morosely having quite forgotten his outburst at Henry's apparent betrayal.
"Because I didn't. I knew you'd lose your nut the moment I mentioned the massive cathedral dedicated to Apsu, and those men wouldn't have believed me anyway."
Henry Southgard takes a few calming breaths before continuing.
"We were hired by an elf named Moss to investigate an estate in the mountains; said estate was owned by a long-deposed Elven royal family that had draconic heraldry. A Drow thief came before us and looted something valuable from the family shrine, something we were led to believe that the, ah, the... the Andel family wouldn't pay us without. We're looking to reclaim whatever it is, probably a small brooch. Now, does that sound like a plausible cover story, or would you prefer to blather about Apsu and Zaal Vsok to everyone in Redstone?"
Why should we lie? Just tell them it's a confidential matter we'd rather not talk about?" Quick asks blinking.
"That's... No. It just doesn't work that way. You and Gwath are Half-Orcs in a country invaded by Orcs. You're traveling in the company of a foreign mercenary. Reasonable people will, at best, wonder if you are some sort of spy or advance scout. Practical people will realize that a dead, innocent Half-Orc is still better than a live Half-Orc spy. So, no, there's no such thing as 'your own business' in the current political climate. Our best hope for traveling the land unmolested is to have a consistent alibi that doesn't sound like a fairy tale. Zaal Vsok said that the worshipers of Apsu were all but extinct. How many people even remember that there were once dragon-worshipers in the land?"
Quick opens his mouth, then closes it waiting to hear more if he can.
"Exactly. There isn't any, except for a few scholars. Maybe you don't like lying, maybe Apsu has decreed that you let your faith shine as a beacon to others. But save the preaching for a time when people aren't willing to lynch you for the simple sin of being an orc."
Henry Southgard walks back to where he dropped his falchion, wipes the dirt and grass from the blade, and clips it to his belt.
"Everyone, make best speed for Redstone. We'll get in contact with the authorities first, try and get on their good side with the story about the Elven shrine, and then investigate the break-in. First priority will be to determine if Sheog has left Redstone, second priority is to re-kit for a cross-country chase. Gorim, Gwath, you two handle any questions. I'm in no shape for diplomacy."
When the party begins the trek toward Redstone, Henry draws close to Quick and whispers so that only the young sorcerer can hear.
"And one last thing. Do not ever call me a blasphemer. Or a heretic. I've heard that holier-than-thou claptrap from a man I respected a lot more than I respect you, and I won't stand to hear it from a not-quite-acolyte of a nearly forgotten god."
"'Apostate' is also off-limits, but you won't ever have reason to call me that."
Quick rolls eyes and shoulders at Henry, but says nothing. He only troops up to walk beside Gorim and leave the testy mercenary to himself.
Gorim nods at the mercenaries orders and keeps up his pace.
"He means good, Henry, though his approach at time is a little... rough..."
"That back there... about the memory. I don't mean to pry, but perhaps mediation could help? It'd take time, but with persistence I believe we could unlock your memories."
"Ah yes... there's always that..." responds the Dwarf, "If you were to choose to try glimpse back, Quick, we'd have to certainly exercise caution. The mind is powerful, and often buries things for good reason - though it could just as well be the doing of a spell. Tricky, really."
The Dwarf continues his pace, his eyes on the lookout for any hint of Redstone in the distance.
The dwarf, man, and half-orcs have some trouble finding the trail again, once it was stamped over by many hooves. In time, the crossbowman has them walking in the right direction. For the next two hours, the four travel over, under, and around hilltops.
Quite abruptly, the trail goes cold. Henry casts about for any sign other than footprints -broken branches, snagged clothing, but he finds nothing of the sort. The four begin to spread out in search of any hint to the now familiar bootprint they follow for many miles.
Henry’s search takes him a far stone’s throw from where the tracks were last seen, and he happens upon two things of note. Firstly, a worn, large flat stone makes a bare patch in the grassy foothills. Around it, grow short sprouts of holly, not quite mature shrubs. It would appear as an ordinary, mostly buried boulder if it were not for the rune perfectly etched onto its cold hard surface: जड़.
More importantly, the crossbowman spots the drow footprints among the holly, proceeding north.
'Funny looking rune...' Henry Southgard thinks, and then frowns. The word 'rune' is resonating in his head, drifting around in search of something to connect with.
"Gorim, you ever see anything like this?"
Gorim approaches the ruin.
"Fascinating," he utters, crouching for a closer look, "But I'm sorry to say, I have no clue..."
This is gonna bug me...
"Maybe it's... no..." Henry Southgard trails off. It's some kind of indecipherable script, but oddly familiar, a combination in itself that's stirring up half-formed memories. Somewhere, he's seen its type before, but the answer isn't coming to him. "Hard to think. Should have gotten a good night's sleep and had something decent to eat."
"Sod it," he says. "Leave it for someone else to wonder about."
With the Orcs and Dwarf behind him, Henry Southgard starts after the She-Drow's path. "It's a mystery I can live with. If only Gorim hadn't used his polyglot spell on that message from..."
The rest of the squad can just about hear the mental tumblers clicking into place. Before any of them can say anything, the crossbowman is back at the stone, trying to take a rubbing with the Sylvan message and a bit of holly bark.
The crossbowman completes the rubbing and suffers no ill-effects. Soon, the four are back on the move once more.
Despite their luck in tracking so far, another hour passes, and Henry again has trouble discerning the trail from the wild grasses and underbrush. Presently, the four have followed the serpentine path through the lows of the foothills. Before long they come upon a family searching the countryside for foragable foods. They wave a greeting as the four pass, and a suspicious look lingers on the half-orcs before the father turns back to his task. Not long after that, the four see another family in the distance, also searching for food in the rolling hills. Then an elderly couple, and then another family. Soon it is plain that these folk are refugees, searching for sustenance that does not cost them any coin. Some of them, when close enough to speak, seem pleasant enough, though the stress of the last few days is written on their faces.
Finally, the four reach the last of the foothills, and cross the wide expanse between the hills and Redstone Keep. True to its name, a single tower rises from the center of the town, masoned in large blocks of red-brown rock. From far away, the keep is stout in appearance with a base that would take up a city block in Port Elam. As they draw nearer, the red structure proves to be very tall, though disproportionate to its width. Beyond the Redstone Keep, buildings of wood and stone rise no higher than one or two storeys. These long-standing structures are ringed by a wall of stone, which stands about twenty-five feet high with an abundance of gates. Some of the gates are tall and quite wide, with an equally wide road leading to and from them. The small gates between are clustered with people on foot, sometimes pulling a beast of burden behind them, while the wider roads remain sparsely used by comparison. The use of the wide roads becomes clear when a patrol quite similar to the one encounters hours ago comes galloping up to one of the wide gates. The horsemen slow to a brisk trot as the great wooden doors are pulled open for them. Beyond the walls stand a ring of wooden buildings, clearly erected some time ago when the town began to expand somewhat. Most of these look to be homes with a storefront for the dweller’s livelihood.
Those who have been to the town of Redstone Keep before notice an addition: the wide swath of tents and lean-tos that choke the open land beyond the permanent buildings. It does not take long for the four to reach the fringe of these refugee dwellings, and already a few desperate folk see them and offer up coin and various trinkets in exchange for basic necessities. By this time, the tracks of the she-drow are lost in the many tramplings of dozens, if not hundreds, of feet over the fieldgrass. Their last discernable direction point toward one of the small gates nearby. The four, now among fellow survivors of Port Elam, are still about one-quarter mile from the gates and town proper of Redstone Keep. While the refugee camps are only a day or two old, the concentration of people and animals are starting cultivate an unpleasant odor.
Henry Southgard looks about and sizes up the refugees. "So far, everyone seems friendly..."
"That little gate," he thinks as his eyes follow the Drow's projected path. "Sally port? Might have been left open at night. Perhaps a posted watchman would have seen something?"
"Alright, no time to waste. First thing we do is... Hold on." Without a further word, the mercenary disappears behind a tent.
The season mercenary doesn’t notice any obvious new construction, but he did notice while on the high ground of the last hill, a surplus of cavalry patrols over many miles that surround Redstone Keep. His experience as a mercenary tells him that there are definitely recruiters working their way through the refugees, looking for a capable seat to fill a saddle or join the guard. Now that he is a bit closer, he sees guards on the walls and gatehouses, but these measures are most likely standard procedure.
A minute later, Henry Southgard wanders back around the other side of the tent, pouring hot coffee from a newly-bought canteen.
"As I was saying, the first order of business is to find out if Sheog is still in town," he says as he takes a sip of the coffee. The mercenary rolls the drink around his tongue, swallows, and gives the cup a doubtful look. Blending ground coffee with tree bark to make it go further was not unheard of, and certain trees could actually enhance the flavor, but this particular brew had an aftertaste like varnish.
Henry shrugs and continues drinking.
"We talk to the guards first, then shake down the locals for rumors. In addition to whoever is stationed at the stables, we should talk to whoever was posted at that entrance over..."
He stops under an awning and chats excitedly with an Elf. After a minute of hurried bartering in Elvish, he doffs his chainmail shirt and hands over a pouch of gold coins in exchange for a breastplate.
"Excellent. Doesn't provide as much cover as I'd like, but a good suit of Lorica Segmentata is hard to come by. Anyway, the thief seems to have entered Redstone through that sally port over there, so someone might have seen something. Maybe we can..."
Yet again, Henry plunges into the crowd. A full minute later, he appears from the other direction, carrying a bag of tools
"It bears mentioning that this isn't my first time in a refugee camp. If we get a description of Sheog, there might be a seer around here that can pinpoint her location. If we can't get a description, we still got her handwritten missive to work with."
"By the way, there's a gold piece to whoever finds a travel-sized percolator for sale."
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"I can tell you Quick and I may not be the best choices for your interrogators. From the looks we've been receiving... I'm not sure we should be here at all."
Gwath wonders if it wouldn't be better if the half-orcs head into the town proper and try their hand at the locals... Though they too may not receive them well.
"Gwath is right." Quick says, some sullenness still in his voice, though his mood had improved much over his few days of quiet. "An unassuming disguise might serve: a simple hood or something of that sort? That way, we can stay together and not ruin any diplomatic dealings."