“Ach. And you wouldn’t have to share it with anyone else if you smoked it while everyone else was asleep, would you laddie? Aye, tis true,” Ironhelm said.
“Why, I suppose that is true. Now, you will recall that we did not light a fire last evening because we were concerned that whatever was beating those war drums would see us. Hmm…I suppose those were probably Saurians after all, weren’t they? You were quite correct, Durm. Congratulations. Whatever the case, Ronias’ magical knife was stuck into the side of the tree so we had just enough light not to be tripping all over each other but not so much as to attract unwanted attention. I was most thoroughly vexed as a consequence, staring at my pipe in the dark wondering how to light it. Fortunately, I had this small pouch in my pack filled with these wonderful tiny red pellets. I keep them on hand at home to save me the trouble of lighting my pipe the old-fashioned way. A wizard in Barter’s Crossing sells them. They are marvelous things, really. All you do is take one and drop it on the tobacco. A second later it flares up and your pipe is lit.”
“Elementary magic,” Ronias said with a sneer. “Any third-rate trickster can construct such items.”
“Be that as it may, they are rather useful. I used one of them to light my pipe, and then strolled a very short distance from the camp but still inside Ronias’ insect barrier. I stood there in the near-darkness, puffing away for a few minutes and feeling really quite relaxed, at least considering the surroundings. I don’t know how they came up on me so quietly, especially since they are so large and what not. All I can surmise about what happened next is that something struck me in the head and knocked me right out because the next thing I knew one of those awful tusked beasts had me tied up and was lifting me over its shoulder. In the darkness I could see several of them, and they were leading the horses away along with yours truly. One of them carried a small, primitive little lantern in front of him. I could see the glow of Ronias’ knife some distance away, maybe a hundred feet or so. It took me a moment to get my wits about me and when I did I cried out for help. The filthy monster clapped his hairy paw over my mouth and they all lumbered off into the swamps at a most rapid pace. I thought I heard Jorn’s voice as they were dragging me off but I could only hope it wasn’t just my ears fooling me.”
“I kept looking back into the dark swamp, praying that you were following that bloody light and had not given up on me. The foul monsters never stopped to rest the entire time, and I grew quite weary of it all. Around daybreak they brought me to those awful ruins. What an ordeal! Hundreds of the bloody beasts turned out to see me, barking and howling and poking at me. Ugh. It is all most upsetting now to recall! You cannot imagine the stench, or the filth. They’ve no sense of hygiene, not to mention decent manners! None, whatsoever! They threw me in a filthy pit with the Saurian prisoners. I was terrified and wondering what the Saurians would do to me, but they barely looked up when I arrived. It was almost like they were half asleep. Looking closer, I noticed empty wooden bowls next to each of them. I leaned over one bowl, sniffing it. The odor was still pungent and medicinal. I inhaled deeply, and felt a little lightheaded.”
“They were drugged,” Ironhelm said. “Aye.”
“There would be many plants in such a place as the Nor Marshes from which such a stupefying tea could be made,” Ronias added.
“I’m not sure how they got the Saurians to drink the tea,” Flatfoot went on. “But, then again, no one ever said that Saurians were the brightest creatures around. When a bowl of black-colored and foul-smelling broth was later thrust in front of me, I pretended to drink it and so kept my wits about me. I was able to study those Saurians quite closely. You know, they let Saurian traders in Barter’s Crossing from time to time and I’ve seen them there on plenty of occasions as well as in combat more than once, but these Saurians were different. They each had red stripes tattooed on their cheeks.”
“Shamans,” Jorn said. “Now it makes more sense.”
“What does?” Ailric said.
“The Saurian attack during broad daylight,” Jorn explained. “Saurians always attack under cover of darkness unless they’ve no other choice. Those swampbeasts captured the Saurian high priests and were going to kill them. The Saurian attack was a rescue attempt. That also explains the attack on the far end of the ruins, across that deep stream. It never stood a chance, and I would wager the Saurians knew it.”
“Why launch an attack they knew to be doomed?” Flatfoot said.
“The idea was to divert the swampbeasts from the main attack,” Jorn explained. “Say fifty of the swampbeasts were held-up on the far side of the ruins fighting off the second attack. That’s fifty less swampbeasts by the temple that you have to fight through to get to your priests. It’s a good strategy, if you don’t care about throwing away the lives of your own troops. I wonder who eventually won.”
“Ach. To hell with both of them,” Ironhelm said.
“If I may resume my tale,” Flatfoot said. “We were not in the pit very long before a pair of the beasts showed up and dragged us all out. I pretended to be drugged along with the Saurians, and the horrid brutes seemed fooled.”
“So were we,” Jorn said, nodding.
“I put on a bloody good performance, didn’t I? They led us out in front of the temple and, amid all sorts of clamor, the swampbeast high priest proceeded to slowly cut out the hearts of the Saurians. Each time, he would let the bodies roll down the stairs towards the rabble below. It was a disgusting scene, I have to tell you. They pushed and clawed at each other in their madness to get a piece of each Saurian. I sat there atop the stairs watching it all, the high priest holding the still-beating black heart high above his head. Then I watched the bodies torn limb from limb and devoured right before my eyes. In spite of the horror all around me, a plan of escape gradually came into my mind. I had already cut through my bonds and had my knife in hand; my captors, of course, were unaware of any of that. A convenient gnome-sized escape tunnel would have been most helpful at that point but, alas, none were available. What was available, however, was the next best thing. I noticed the Guardian-built aqueduct. I also noticed the water steadily pouring out of it. My escape route had presented itself, after all. Remember that tree on the side of the temple which Ronias blasted? You may also recall that a few of its more slender branches reached right out over the aqueduct. I knew that if I could only reach that tree than I would stand a most excellent chance of escaping. I could scramble up its trunk, run out over one of the limbs, and jump right down onto the aqueduct. I could be off and running along the top of it before the monsters even knew what had happened. It would be the last thing they would expect! I doubt very much the lumbering things could even fit atop the aqueduct. At best they could feebly pursue me along the ground while I dashed along the top completely unhindered. They moved rather quickly through the swamps, as you know, but not nearly so fast as one could run along open ground. I would have surely escaped. Making it here, I would just assume you thought me dead and, having no means of finding you, would sneak my way back through the Glammonfore Gap. I would’ve managed it, I’m sure. A solid chance at a miraculous escape was thus before me. Timing was everything, however. When they dragged me forward and the high priest raised his knife. I stabbed him in the hip, right where it would immobilize him. I was about to make my dash for the aqueduct and get away when you showed up.”
“Hold a moment, laddie,” Ironhelm said. “How did you undo your bonds?”
“And where did that knife come from?” Ailric added.
“Removing my bonds was the easy part,” Flatfoot said, smiling. He savored their interest in his tale, pausing dramatically. “Gentleman…you must understand that in my former occupation I ran a frequent risk of capture by persons who are, shall we say, unsympathetic to my line of work. In order to counter this threat, I have designed certain, um, counter strategies. Allow me to demonstrate”
The gnome removed his belt, holding it up in front of him.
“This, by all a
ppearances, is but a normal belt,” he said. “It is even a bit shabby, not the kind of belt one would normally take the slightest notice of. The truth of the matter, however, is far different. For one thing, twenty Vandorian gold crowns are sewn within, as well as a small assortment of various gemstones. Even if I were robbed, no bandit is ever likely to ask for it. I would happily hand over my purse with all courtesy, secure in the knowledge that I have plenty of resources around my waist to finish my journey without care. One must also be careful to hand over enough coin so as not to anger a bandit, but not to hand over so many that you contradict your impoverished appearance and thus arouse his suspicion.”
“You’ve put far too much thought into this, laddie,” Ironhelm said.
“That is not all there is to this belt, either. There is a small wire hidden here for garroting prison guards if need be, and a few small hooks and shims which do a rather good job of opening locks were I ever chained up. I’ve practiced such escapes hundreds of times and now it’s really quite easy for me. The real surprise in the belt, however, is even handier in certain tight situations. Twist it in the middle exactly this way and…” With a quick twist of the belt, a small blade no larger that Flatfoot’s thumb popped straight up. “It is razor sharp, I assure you, forged of the finest Gnomish steel. Whenever one is captured, one’s hands are invariably tied behind one with some kind of rope. With this little blade can saw right through the typical rope in mere seconds. In the case of the swampbeasts they used some kind of dried vines which presented no obstacle.”
“And the knife?” Ironhelm asked.
“This knife?” the gnome said, a long thin blade suddenly in his hand. Its point was still covered in black blood. He produced a small cloth from his pocket and began to clean the blade as he spoke. “It comes from inside my boot, of course! I’m not some bloody amateur, you know!” He held up his foot for a moment for all to see. “These are shabby old boots, nothing particularly fine or interesting about them. Furthermore, they are gnome-sized. Almost no bandit would ever take them even if he needed boots, as they would not fit him. I spent a long time designing these, and I am bloody glad I did. There is a secret fold on the side which contains my knife, and another on the other side with a small assortment of lock picks and files. Inside is a false bottom, with an assortment of useful items in a pinch. I’ve got a small fortune in gemstones in the heel. A metal vial of magical healing elixir is also in there, along with a few of those fire-starting pellets and a coil of strong elf rope as thin as fishing line. In the other foot are some gold coins, a garrote, and a tiny blow gun with five darts tipped with a powerful knock-out poison. In short, anything useful in a capture situation which I could possibly think of is included in these boots. I can cut my bindings with the belt-knife, slay whomever I need to with the boot-knife, the garrote, or the blowgun, and pick whatever locks I need. If I require rope, I have it. And should I need funds, I also have them aplenty. Prepare for anything, I always say. Oh, and I nearly forget; there are a few small strips of cured beef tucked in here, too. Only enough for a snack, but I’d have cherished them on the walk to Glammonfore.
“There was this one time, I was thrown in the dungeon of some two-bit baron up in Brithborea. I’d salvaged some gold out of a local Guardian ruin, and this nasty fellow felt that he deserved a portion of my haul. The lion’s share, as I recall. The bloody ass threw me in his dungeon, if you can believe it! I was out free again the very first night and swiped a prized chalice from his hall as just compensation for my trouble. Thanks, in no small measure, to these boots and this belt.”
“I’m just glad we didn’t slow down your escape too much, laddie,” Ironhelm shook his head. “Aye, it sounds like you had everything well in hand.”
“Hardly! I thought I was doomed for a while there. But then it occurred to me that as long as I didn’t give up, I might very well make it through the dreadful experience alive. It’s always when people give up and decide that they don’t have a chance that they don’t make it. Attitude is everything.”
The dwarf shook his head again.
“If you say so, laddie.” Ironhelm said, rising. “As for me, I’ve had enough of this entire damned devil day. Wake me when my turn at watch has come.”
Twenty-Five
Jorn preferred the moors to the marshes.
He climbed at dawn to the top of the hill they were camped upon. All around him the landscape was draped in a thick blanket of fog, nothing but white in all directions. The magnificent desolation of the moors remained hidden from view. Underneath the veil, he knew, were gentle hills covered in grass and thick moss. Patches of purple heather added color, along the with the patches of dark rock and tangled shrubs clinging to the hillsides.
It was as though the soggy ground he stood upon was the whole universe, blank emptiness stretching out all around him. It was a world without size, time, or color. Was this what the afterlife was like, he wondered, a mind staring out into the blankness forever? Better to sleep, he supposed, the deep sleep from which there was no waking.
Turning, he worked his way back down the hillside to the camp. There was a fire going and a vigorous debate on what to do next was in full swing.
No one wanted to venture very far into the moors if they could help it, recalling Willock’s words about the strange goings-on whispered about in Glammonfore Keep. The woodsman proposed they skirt the edge of the hills all the way to the Teeth. They were very close to the edge of the hills, he pointed out.
“Ach. Skirting the edges would add at least two days to the trip, laddie,” Ironhelm pointed out. “Aye, tis true. Tha’s yet another delay.”
“But a necessary one,” Willock said. “The reports of wizards within the hills -”
“I wouldn’t be concerned about that,” Ronias interjected. “There is no secret council of wizards in these hills. That much I know. There may be a few recluses dwelling out there, but nothing which should deter us.”
“You are certain?” Willock said.
“I am,” Ronias said. “These moors are the safest place to be in this entire valley.”
“What of the reports?” Willock asked. “Lightning out of a clear blue sky!”
“It is wizardry, I will say that much, but nothing which should worry us,” Ronias said. “These hills are something of a…I suppose one could describe them as a sort of crossroads for wizards. And what better place to have such a crossroads than here in these moors, already taboo to so many servants of Kaas and yet only a day from Glammonfore Keep? I assure you, I wouldn’t suggest venturing any further within if I thought these hills the least bit dangerous.”
They ate a hurried breakfast of leftover venison and were soon heading off into the hills once again. Their spirits brightened as the sound of geese could be heard overhead through the fog.
“There is abundant game here,” Willock commented.
“The problem, as I see it,” Jorn said. “Is how to obtain enough food after we leave the moors.”
“We can deal with that,” the woodsman said.
“What did you have in mind?” Jorn asked.
“When we reach the edge of the moors, it may be worth stopping for half a day to hunt,” Willock said. “We could kill a few deer and then build a small smokehouse to preserve the meat for the rest of the journey.”
“A smokehouse!” Ironhelm exclaimed. “Ach! Should we be inviting attention with a column of smoke, laddies?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” Willock said. “We can smoke the meat overnight. I figure we’ll reach the far edge of the moors tomorrow around midday. Jorn and I will spend the afternoon hunting while everyone else builds the smokehouse in a few hours. We can cut peat from the moors and burn it all night. We’ll have plenty of food to last us by morning.”
“Good,” Jorn said. “We’ll do it. I love smoked venison.”
“You’d better,” Willock said. “Because that’s all we’ll be eating for the next week.”
As the day wore on, the fo
g burned away and they could soon see the distant tops of the hills around them. They made their way south deeper into the moors, cautiously watching for any sign of danger. By midday most of the fog was gone, only a few gentle wreaths of mist still hanging about the hilltops in a few places. Hill upon green hill stretched out, herds of the ubiquitous red deer grazing on every hillside. The Teeth of Kaas loomed large on the horizon above it all.
“That’s the pass, right there,” Willock said, staring at it intently. He could just make out the narrow cleft splitting the two towering peaks if he squinted. He took out his spyscope and studied the pass.
“My, that’s a bloody long way to climb,” Flatfoot commented.
“The sides are steep on either side of the pass,” Willock remarked, lowering the spyscope. “If the pass is guarded…well, it won’t be a simple matter to climb up and around it.”
“Ach!” Ironhelm muttered. “We’ll find a way. There never was a mountain slope that conquered a dwarf. Aye, tis true.”
____
“I wonder what their quarrel was,” Flatfoot said that afternoon as they walked along. He and Ailric walked side-by-side in the rear, only Ronias behind them.
“What quarrel?” the knight said.
“The Saurians and those bloody swampbeasts, or whatever the hell they’re called,” Flatfoot said.
“Who knows?” Ailric said. “Territory, perhaps?”
“No doubt,” the gnome said, still considering the situation. “Now that I think about it, my whole time with the swampbeasts, brief though I grant you it was, I saw no sign of agriculture of any kind.”
“They did not seem all that intelligent,” Ailric said. “I would’ve been surprised to see any farming or even basic animal husbandry among them.”
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 48