Chapter 17
The wind and rain raked across Gorm’s face, stinging his red, raw skin. Spring on the Plains of Aberreth brought a uniquely damp variety of misery. Bitter cold and biting rains swept down from the eastern Ironbreakers. The weather chilled travelers to the bone, but still allowed enough of a thaw for the roads to become a soggy, dismal bog.
The mud was thick enough to slow even the Elven steeds. It sucked at their hooves as they plodded along through the rain, and their riders wore the vacant grimaces of a funeral procession.
“Are we going to set up camp soon?” Burt shouted from the vicinity of Gorm’s boots.
The Dwarf glanced down. The Kobold was clinging to Patches’ back, a thick clump of fur in each of his paws. Both rider and mount were dripping water, and they looked skeletal with their fur clinging to their wiry frames.
“I’d not camp in this muck,” said Jynn.
“The bannermen and refugees found a way,” said the Kobold, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. Behind them, the camps of heroes, soldiers, and civilians fleeing toward Andarun were marked by the sputtering cookfires.
“All the better to make for Haertswood,” said Gorm. “I don’t want to cross paths with any of Handor’s men.”
“I don’t think any of these soldiers care about trying to arrest us at this point,” said Laruna.
“Aye, but I’m sure they’d like to have six horses,” said Gorm. “Last thing we need is a bunch of bannermen decidin’ to kick off a career in banditry by robbin’ us.”
“Not everyone on this road is going to turn to banditry,” said Laruna.
“And not everybody on the road will return to Andarun, either,” said Heraldin.
“Us included,” said Gorm. “We’ll figure out where to go next once we find Thane and Kaitha. But tonight, we’ll take shelter in Haertswood.”
“Haertswood, a field, a forest, whatever!” barked Burt. “I don’t care where we stop, as long as we get there soon. It’s more cold and damp than an ice hag’s armpit out here.”
“Ye could have ridden in me rucksack,” Gorm told the Kobold.
“I thought I’d like the independence of making my own way and carrying my weight.” Burt shook some of the water from his head, leaving his ears jutting out at odd angles. “Turns out, I was wrong.”
“Fair enough,” said Gorm. “But it was your choice, and ye ain’t getting in and soaking me bags now.”
“It’s not my fault!” whined the Kobold. “We never had a mount for me before. Now that the wizard got me one—”
“We found a dog,” said Gorm.
“What’d you think Kobolds ride? Tiny ponies?” asked Burt. “My ancestors have been riding wolves for countless generations. And Patches here is practically a wolf.”
Patches barked and wagged his tail at the mention of his name.
“He’s a dog,” said Gorm.
“He’s a wonder of sorcery,” said Jynn. “By all rights, he should be dead.”
“The same could be said of most of your father’s associates,” said Heraldin.
“True,” said the wizard. “But Patches isn’t undead. He’s in the prime of his life. It warrants further study.”
“So long as you do it somewhere dry,” grumbled the Kobold.
“We’ll be in Haertswood soon enough,” Gorm said. “We should see the lights of the town any minute.”
That seemed to satisfy Burt, or at least quiet him, and Gorm surmised that was as close as anyone ever got to pleasing the Kobold. They rode on for another half hour, willing their horses to trudge through the muck as the gloom darkened.
“Any minute now,” Gorm said, peering into the murk. “We’ll see those lights.”
“We should have seen them by now,” said Laruna, squinting into the darkness.
“Look,” said Heraldin, pointing.
A patch of blackness was barely visible against the surrounding gloom, a dim skyline rising through the mist and rain. As the heroes drew closer, the buildings of Haertswood took shape. It was quickly apparent the town gates were nothing more than a tangle of twisted iron and burnt timbers. Dark banners dangled from the ruined walls, painted with a strange shape. When they reached the walls, Laruna conjured flames to illuminate the strange heraldry.
Gorm peered up at a recognizable silhouette emblazoned against the crimson fabric. “Char Guz’Varda?”
“It looks like him.” Laruna maneuvered her conjured light along the contours of the portrait.
“Especially since they wrote ‘Char’ beneath it,” said Burt, pointing to Shadowkin glyphs beneath Char’s face.
“But what would the Guz’Varda be doin’ here?” Gorm asked.
“I’d say that’s fairly obvious.” Heraldin peered through the gate as he dismounted.
Gorm felt a pain in his chest. “No, they wouldn’t… I mean, the Red Horde would, but not the Guz’Varda Tribe.”
“We can’t be certain there’s a difference anymore,” Jynn said softly.
“We’ll ask the locals what happened,” said Gorm. “There’s got to be somebody left in town.”
Heraldin peered down the street. “There’s some bodies left in there, but that’s a bit different.” The bard grunted as Gaist nudged him in the ribs.
“Come on, then,” Gorm said.
Cautiously, the heroes made their way into the desolation. The streets were vacant, save for the crows feeding on the remains of a few bannermen. The buildings that still stood had broken doors and shattered windows. The entire city felt like a mausoleum for the ruined Heroes’ Guild office at its center.
“I just can’t imagine the Guz’Varda attacking the guild like this,” said Laruna.
“I can’t imagine anyone successfully overrunning a guildhall,” said Jynn.
Gorm’s stomach knotted at the idea. “Come on,” he sighed. “Let’s get out of the rain. We can find somewhere safe and dry to sleep.”
“They’re making camp in the guildhall.” Mortus clambered down the side of a ruined building to join the other assassins.
“Uh, good.” Garold Flinn was glad for the darkness as he tried to maintain eye contact with the doppelganger.
Mortus dropped to the ground. “I counted five, but the ranger could be scouting, and… what?”
“Yarr, nothing,” said Captain Jones, looking away.
“No, seriously, what?” demanded Mortus. He put his hands on his hips, prompting groans and winces from the other assassins. The doppelganger wore the form of a middle-aged Halfling, and little else.
“Can’t you put on some clothes?” Deathbloom asked, staring at a patch of sky above their heads.
“I didn’t bring any outfits this size,” snapped the doppelganger. “Nobody said I’d be scouting ahead. I assumed that floating golem thing would do it.”
“The mechanical gazer?” said Udina the Raven. A nearby barrel jolted at the mention of the device, humming and chittering as iridescent light shone through its boards.
“We can’t be usin’ that flyin’ bilge rat if we don’t want them to hear us comin’,” said Captain Jones.
Udina gave the barrel a kick, and it fell silent. “All the sprites can’t keep quiet with their targets this close,” she said.
“Which brings us to the matter at hand,” said Mr. Flinn. “Fortune continues to smile upon us. We have stumbled upon a city with no witnesses. And given that Ingerson’s party has arrived alone, tonight presents an unparalleled opportunity to complete our mission.”
The assassins looked at each other with bloodthirsty grins. Weapons were drawn. “Arr, let’s get to it, then,” said Captain Jones.
“Ah, but first, if I may, let’s run through the plan again.” Mr. Flinn set his satchel on the ground. “Mortus, watch where you’re pointing that thing.”
The doppelganger put away his spear with a muted, “Sorry.”
Flinn handed Mortus a bound parcel from his pack. “Now, if you’ll go get changed, and also dressed, we’ll start with Udina.
What is your role?”
The noctomancer sighed. “I’ll use a shadow step spell to get close fast and eliminate the party’s bard. Which seems a waste of my talents, frankly. I mean, just about anybody could assassinate a bard.”
“And yet, nobody has managed to yet,” said Mr. Flinn. “Don’t underestimate Heraldin Strummons. Next, Deathbloom?”
“Once the battle is joined, I’ll set four of the war golems on the mages.” The Imperial assassin flashed a handful of throwing daggers. “I’ll strike once they’re distracted.”
“Good,” said Flinn. “And Captain Jones?”
“Yarr, once we board them scurvy dogs, I’ll—”
“Perhaps without the seafaring metaphors,” interrupted Mr. Flinn.
“I spent many a coin and many an hour working with my publicist on this personal brand, and I’ll not throw it overboard for the likes of you,” said Captain Jones.
Flinn rubbed his temples. “Very well. Just make it fast.”
“I’m to find the ranger and run her through,” said the assassin. “Or at least duel the scurvy wench until Udina comes to help.”
“Be sure to check the outskirts of the camp,” said a deep voice from behind them. A tall, dark-skinned Imperial stepped into the alley, clad in dark leathers and wearing a crimson scarf over his face. “She’s not with them now, and we don’t need her sniping from the surrounding buildings.”
“Indeed not, Mortus,” said Mr. Flinn, smiling up at the likeness of Gaist. “And your role?”
“I’ll try to kill the bard before Udina. The weaponsmaster will stop me. I’ll keep him busy until Deathbloom can come and help me finish him off.”
“And do not forget to stay silent,” said Mr. Flinn. “One word will give you away, and if any two heroes gang up on any one of us, this will not end well. And speaking of endings, what do we all do once the rest of our job is done?”
“Converge on Gorm Ingerson.” The assassins chorused the well-rehearsed command.
“Exactly. It will take all of us to end him,” said Flinn.
“Arr, but we save the final blow for you, right?” offered Captain Jones.
“What?” said Flinn.
“You know, we all kind of weaken him bit by bit, and then you get to finish him off,” said Udina.
“We assumed that’s what you wanted,” added Mortus.
“Now you see, this is why clear communication is so important,” said Mr. Flinn. “If you have a chance to kill Gorm Ingerson, you take it. Don’t hold back anything for anyone, least of all me. With any luck, the Dwarf won’t see me at all.”
“What, really?” said Deathbloom.
“I thought you’d be fighting him once the battle joined,” said Mortus.
“And risk provoking a berserker into a battle rage? Of course not!” said Flinn. “Why do you think we brought the other eight combat golems?”
“So, what will ye be doin’?” asked Captain Jones.
“Don’t worry, captain.” Flinn drew his crossbow and cocked it for effect. “I’m sure I’ll be of some use.”
The other assassins didn’t seem convinced.
“If you say as much.” Deathbloom sounded reluctant.
“I mean, I suppose that would work,” said Mortus. “But you and the Dwarf having a big rematch after he took your hand…”
“I guess I just assumed you’d be going for, you know, the poetic justice,” said Udina.
“Ah, no,” said Mr. Flinn. “We are paid killers, not storytellers. Our job is to be fast, efficient, and lethal. Justice is irrelevant, and there’s nothing poetic about it.”
Hand-scrawled verses and related notes flashed by Gorm’s eyes as he flipped through the Second Book of Niln. The words on the pages blurred together, perhaps because of the dim light cast by the old lantern sitting next to him in the abandoned office, or perhaps because of the dampness gathering at the edges of his eyes.
“Give me something,” he whispered to any god listening, mad or otherwise.
Inger had raised young Gorm in a world of absolutes. Something in the Dwarven soul values certainty above anything else. When Gorm left the clanhome so many years ago, he had done so with a bag full of provisions, a purse full of gold, and a head full of convictions so deep they might as well have been engraved on the inside of his skull. Most of those beliefs dealt with who was good and who was bad.
Time, knowledge, and experience had eroded most of Gorm’s ideas and opinions. His interactions with the Guz’Varda Tribe had washed away the last vestiges of his old prejudices. After working with Zurthraka Guz’Varda, Gorm had reached the happy conclusion that there were no inherently bad people, no monolithic group that could be described as uniformly evil.
Now, staring at the ruins of Haertswood through the windows of an abandoned guildhall, Gorm was confronted by the other side of that revelation.
There were no good people, no innocent townsfolk to save. Today’s victims were tomorrow’s monsters. His heart ached for the people of Haertswood, yet his head knew that by now the survivors of the raid were already filing quest paperwork in Aberreth. The next atrocity was already in motion, and it would prompt another, and another, and another.
If there was a way out of the mad cycle of violence, Gorm couldn’t see it. In desperation, he’d turned to Niln’s scriptures for direction.
They were uniformly unhelpful.
He found himself reading the prophet Epath’s second book. Even among the Al’Matran prophets, a famously ill-adjusted and inscrutable group, Epath managed to stand out as particularly obtuse. His second book somehow managed to be even more nonsensical than his first.
She will not know what she still knows
She will not see what she can see
She speaks in riddles that we may
Dwell in the same darkness as she
In the margin next to the verse, Niln had scrawled a note with a fast, loose hand.
Destiny cannot be known. And so I cannot find my answers. Asepth, chapter 4, verse 8
“I need answers.” Gorm’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I need help.”
On a whim, he flipped to the passage of Asepth’s first book that Niln referenced in his note.
The Seventh Hero descends and rises
With a blade ancient and unbloodied.
His wrath will smite the smoke and shadow
Yet he shall lament the lack of hot beverages.
There was another of Niln’s rushed notes next to the passage.
I have nothing but the All Mother’s prophecies. Sehick, chapter 3, verse 17
“Useless,” said Gorm. He switched tactics, and tried reading through the Book of Gerd. Gerd’s writings were the most understandable to Gorm, mostly because Niln had left out vast swathes of the book when transcribing them. Entire passages were omitted, with a small footnote like “The next fourteen verses describe the common features of spider anatomy. —N” or “Herein Gerd discusses the politics of bakeries. —N” Chapter six was omitted in its entirety, paraphrased with a concise remark: “Olives again. Entire chapter. —N”
Unfortunately, even removing the most incomprehensible parts of Gerd’s text didn’t render the rest of his scriptures useful. Much of his remaining work consisted of commandments for the handling of ceremonial incense; a common theme was that acolytes shouldn’t sneak behind the sacred altar to smoke it. Even Niln had apparently steered clear of Gerd’s writing; beyond the descriptions of his omissions, the high scribe had left just one note in the prophet’s book.
It was next to a passage in the seventh chapter that shifted suddenly from commandments on observing holy days into several depressing verses.
In darkness all the people dwell.
In endless night, all light has flown.
Blindly they toil and rest, buy and sell.
Darkness is all they’ve ever known.
Near the edge of the text, Niln had scrawled a hurried, insipid note.
That is why you must carry a torch.
The tome bounced off the far wall with a deep thud. Gorm waved a frustrated hand at the prone book; as far as he could see, Niln’s scriptures were only useful for projectile therapy. He rested his head against the wall, breathing heavily.
He hadn’t fully caught his breath before remorse overcame him. The scriptures may have been unhelpful and full of nonsense, but that just reminded Gorm of the inept priest who wrote them. “I’m sorry Niln,” he muttered as he gathered the pages back up. “It’s just… the whole world’s fallin’ apart, and the party feels on the edge of the same.”
He wrapped the book in a neat parcel and tucked it into his rucksack. “I hoped there would be something in there… some teaching, or anything…” he muttered. “I… I don’t know how much more we can take. One more setback may be the end of it all.”
Unfortunately, while the Second Book of Niln was woefully short on words of encouragement, the mathematical proofs of the philosopher-scientist Nove had much to say about the universe and its timing.
Gorm, like many residents of the northern Freedlands, held on to an old folk belief that the manner in which an individual wakes up holds omens of what sort of day he or she could expect. Rising to the scent of baking bread was a sign someone dear was due to visit, while waking with a crick in the back meant that you were sure to meet an enemy, and a bobbinjay’s song first thing in the morning was a sign that a good fortune would find you.
Over Gorm’s career, he had discovered several other varieties of such omens. Ravens cawing in the morning signaled that death was near. Regaining consciousness in a dungeon usually meant that some villain or another would soon divulge their nefarious plans. In later years, he’d found that waking up with a hangover was a sure sign that he’d be drinking that day and passing out that night. And then there were all the smaller horrors that only a professional hero endured in the morning: monstrous slime dripping on the head, tentacles gripping at one’s bedroll, a frantic Goblin to the face, and so on.
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