by Wilson Harp
“I don’t like boots,” Delacour said. “And my shoes are custom fitted to me. They won’t come off.”
Martel just rolled his eyes at the bickering. “Let’s get going. I want to get this job done and get paid.”
The three started out into the swamp, carefully picking their way from hillock to hillock. A few times Martel pointed out to the others a pool deep green in color and warned them to keep an eye out for more signs of the swamp worms.
After about a half an hour, they heard a frantic thrashing just beyond their sight and drew weapons. As the noise continued, they slowly made their way to the top of the rise and looked over. A crane was stuck in a pool of deep green goo and was frantically trying to get away. A large white worm, looking almost like an enormous grub, crawled out of the goo and up the crane’s leg. It was only a few violent seconds later that the crane lay twitching on the ground and two more worms were joining in the feast.
Martel motioned them to continue.
After crossing two more hills, and being especially aware of the dangers of the pools, they spotted a group of toads. Their throats shone a bright red through the misty haze that signaled the end of the day in the swamp.
Martel took out his large fishing net, and Delacour readied his sling. They slowly approached the small hill, at one point wading in water as high as Baldric’s chest. When they were about twenty feet away from the closest toad, Martel motioned at Delacour, who whirled his sling about his head. With a resound crack the stone found its mark, and the toad slumped forward dead.
Martel moved around to the side of the hill and threw his net at three other toads. Two of them were tangled in the device and started jumping to free themselves. All three adventurers moved in to use short clubs, or in Baldric’s case his warhammer, to kill the toads.
Suddenly, one of them sprayed a red liquid at the approaching men. The acid immediately burned through the hemp rope of the net, and the toad went bouncing free into the swamp. Baldric, with spots of acid burning on his beard, leaped forward and crushed the head of the toad that was still trapped.
“Blast it!” screamed Delacour. He was on his knees in the muck holding his left hand in front of his face. His right hand was pulling his water pouch from his belt.
Martel had thrown himself to the ground when the toad had spewed the acid and was slipping and sliding as he tumbled his way to Delacour.
“Don’t dip your hand in the swamp water!” he called as he finally got his feet and starting reaching for his own water pouch. “You will get an infection.”
“Hurry,” whimpered Delacour. “I can’t get my water, and it burns like fire.”
Martel had his water pouch open and was pouring water over Delacour’s hand a few seconds later. Delacour was in great pain. His palm and fingers had already lost most of the skin and a good part of the flesh as the water poured over it.
“Baldric, bring the gloves. Maybe they will help with the pain,” Martel said.
“I have a healing salve that might work,” Baldric answered as he headed over to the men.
A few minutes later the salve had done its work. Delacour’s hand was still a mess, burned and opened below the skin, but the pain had subsided to a bare twinge. They wrapped his hand with some clean linen cloth from the backpack. Satisfied that Delacour was out of danger and patched up as well as they could get him, Martel and Baldric went to work on getting the acid from the toads.
Baldric put on the enchanted gloves and carefully cut into the first dead toad. He quickly found the acid glands and put the first bottle on the ground. He removed the stopper with the control word and carefully cut a small incision into the gland, holding it right above the bottle. The gland more than filled the bottle, so Martel started setting out the other bottles for the dwarf to work with.
Each toad had four acid glands, so Baldric filled the six bottles easily with the two toads.
“Good job,” Martel said as the dwarf finished stoppering the last bottle.
“Took way too blasted long,” Baldric said looking up at the sky. “It’ll be dark before we get to the horses.” He started wrapping the bottles in their fur packaging again.
Martel nodded as he started making sure they hadn’t left anything around the area. “Yes, but it’s only a couple of hours from the horses to the inn, so we will sleep comfortably tonight.”
Delacour came back from scouting out their return path. “A large pool of worm goo is now on the other side of that hill,” he said pointing from the direction that they had come from.
Baldric handed him two of the wrapped bottles. “Great, wandering around a swamp in the middle of the night,” he muttered.
“We are only about two miles from the edge of the swamp; we will be out of it in no time,” Martel said, helping Baldric wrap up the rest of the bottles.
Delacour pointed over to another hill just to the east of where they were. “There is a dry gully over that hill that runs almost a full mile to the north. If we take that, we should be real close to the ridge within twenty minutes.”
“Excellent,” said Martel as he placed two bottles in his belt pouch. “I hope Croft has some roast pork left over for dinner.”
“And I could use some more beer,” Baldric said as he stuffed his two bottles into the top of the backpack.
The three settled their gear into place and started back to the ridge separating the Lower Salt Swamp from the Willow Bog. Twilight was fading, and it was still a good hour before the moon would cast its light onto the land, so they walked a little more cautiously than they normally would have. They had reached the next hill and started around to the dry gully when Delacour suddenly froze.
“Do you hear that? Like a clicking?” Delacour asked Martel.
Martel stopped for a second and listened. “No, I don’t hear anything”.
His hand went to his sword as he listened again. The only thing he heard was the buzz of mosquitos and other swamp insects, the croaking of toads and frogs, and the squishy sounds of Baldric’s footsteps a dozen or so paces away.
He turned back to Delacour and was about to ask him where he had heard the clicking from, when suddenly there was a sharp yell and heavy “glop” sound.
“Baldric!” Delacour yelled as he ran to where the dwarf had rounded the hill.
Martel drew his sword and was only a step or two behind the quick rogue.
Martel saw Delacour running in the gully a few steps ahead of him, when suddenly his leg felt frozen into place. He had jumped down into the gully and was stuck knee deep in some sort of liquid. He could see despite the dim light that there was a dark greenish shade to the liquid, and he knew it was the worm goo. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the backpack sitting on top of the goo and his dwarf friend’s hand sticking above the surface.
Delacour slowly walked back over towards Martel. He was walking on top of the goo and not sinking in. “A shame, I was hoping you would land in a place that was a little deeper.” He said, careful to stay out of reach of Martel’s sword.
“Delacour, what do you think you are doing? Get me out of here! We have to save Baldric!” Martel bellowed at his betrayer.
“No we don’t,” said Delacour as he walked around Martel and cut the backpack loose from the dwarf’s back with his belt knife. “A pity I won’t be able to get those gloves back, but Namos will understand, and with four bottles of acid, I’m sure he will call it a win anyway.”
“When I get out of here, I am going to cut you to ribbons,” Martel threatened as Delacour shouldered the backpack and turned to the north without another word.
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Delacour couldn’t believe his luck. His shoes had been taken from a wizard he had killed several years ago. They were enchanted so that the wearer could walk on the surface of any liquid at will. He had allowed them to get muddy and dirty in the swamp until he could come up with a plan to lead those two idiots into some goo and take the bottles for himself.
He would ha
ve waited until the worms killed Martel and fished out the bottles later, but he was afraid Martel would remember he had a dagger strapped to his arm and decide to leave all three of them dead in the swamp with a single throw. He had seen Martel throw that dagger before and knew he was capable of it.
Maybe in a month or two he would go back to the swamp and hunt down that gully and see if the bottles were still intact. The gloves should be fine, too, unless the worms ate them along with the dwarf.
The backpack was much heavier than he had realized, but he couldn’t leave it behind if he was going to tell his story convincingly.
Poor Martel and Baldric, they had slipped down a hill and landed in a pool of goo obscured by some brush. He had been lucky and landed on the backpack a mere foot away from the goo’s edge. The worms were on Martel and Baldric before he could act, so the only thing he could do was get the backpack and come back to the inn.
Yes, that would cover for him nicely.
The ridge was further than he thought, and he came upon it a good hour after the moon was up. He realized he must have angled further east than he intended, and it took him another hour of struggling with the heavy backpack to find the ruins and the horses to the west. He secured the backpack on Baldric’s horse and mounted his own. Then slowly picking his way among the willow stands, he started looking for the trail north.
He eventually found it and headed towards the inn. A look at the moon told him it had to be near midnight, and with two horses to lead he knew it would be near dawn before he reached the inn. Once during the night his hand started burning again, so he stopped and searched the backpack for the dwarf’s ointment, but couldn’t find it. Another time he didn’t notice that the trail had split, and he followed the wrong path to an old burned out farmhouse.
Finally the sky started announcing the dawn, and he could see the high road in the distance. Both he and the horses were weary from the night’s travel, but the sight of smoke from the inn’s chimneys as the disc of the sun broke the horizon renewed their energy and speed.
Delacour pushed open the door to the common room and stepped in. Croft was stacking wood near the fireplace, but otherwise the place was empty and quiet.
“Delacour. Glad to see you, but where are the others?” Croft asked the filthy, exhausted man.
“I’m sorry Croft, they didn’t make it out of the swamp,” Delacour said. He was so exhausted he didn’t have to act more distressed than he was.
Croft sighed heavily and helped Delacour over to the bar. Delacour lifted the two wrapped bottles out of the backpack and added the two from his belt pouch.
“Looks like your hand has been injured,” Croft said as he drew a mug of beer for the battered adventurer.
“Yes, and it’s starting to burn again. Would you have any healing salve?” Delacour asked.
“Yeah, let me go get some from Magda. You just rest and have a drink,” Croft said as he went into the kitchen.
Delacour took a drink of beer and then unwrapped the bottles. He wanted to make sure they were whole and undamaged. As he finished examining them, Croft came back into the common room with a pot of ointment and a small plate of cheese and sliced apples.
“Let me see the hand,” he said as he set the food beside the bottles.
Delacour held his hand out while starting to eat the food. “Thank you, I am starving.”
“I heard your stomach rumbling as you came in,” Croft said as he removed the bandages from the injured hand. He winced as the burned and tattered fingers came into view and gasped as he saw the palm. Delacour kept his eyes away from his injuries and focused instead on telling what had happened. By the time he was done with his tale, Croft had applied the salve and rewrapped his hand with a fresh bandage.
“Namos will have his acid, it looks like,” Croft said sadly. “But what he will have paid isn’t near the cost of it.” He looked at the four bottles sitting on his bar. A glint caught his eye, and he looked out the window of his inn.
Delacour nodded. “I agree. They were good friends and will be sorely missed.”
“Were you expecting company?” Croft asked staring out the window.
Delacour frowned and looked out the window. There, stepping out from around the large elm, were Martel and Baldric coming towards the inn. Covered in mud and muck, Baldric was helping Martel limp slowly along.
Delacour whipped his head around towards Croft and was surprised to see the solid innkeeper holding an axe in his hand. The axe that had been hanging above the bar just a moment before.
“You have two seconds to head out through the kitchen. Those bottles stay on the bar, and the horses remain behind,” Croft said calmly.
Delacour hesitated for a moment, and then realized he had no chance against Croft and his axe. He leaped from his chair and burst through the kitchen door.
A few seconds later the door to the common room banged open, and Baldric was charging in with his warhammer in his hand. “Where is he!” He yelled loud enough that Croft knew all of his guests were now awake. “I will beat him into a pulp and feed him to those worms!” he shouted as Martel staggered through the door behind him.
Croft reached up and hung his axe above the bar.
“You let him go, didn’t you?” Martel asked as he took in the backpack and bottles on the bar.
“I made a promise Martel. I can’t break it, not even for you,” Croft said as he started towards the kitchen.
Martel dropped into the first chair he could find, and Baldric finally sat at the bar.
Croft came out of the kitchen with a full platter of food and set it beside Baldric at the bar. He went around and started getting beer for the dwarf as Magda came out of the kitchen with her leather bag of healing supplies and started towards Martel.
“How did you get away?” Croft asked.
“I used the two bottles of toad acid to free myself, and by the time I made it to Baldric he had already pulled his head and arms out of the muck,” Martel said.
Croft stared at Baldric as he handed him a mug. He had seen horses fail to free themselves.
Baldric shrugged. “Dwarves are strong.”
Martel laughed. “Especially when they have a belt that gives them magical strength, right?”
Baldric gave him a dirty look. “Do I tell all of your secrets?”
“No,” Martel smiled. “No, you do not. I’m sorry my friend.”
“Alright then,” Baldric picked up a piece of cheese and popped it into his mouth. “Saw the little sneak’s horse out front. That should pay for our stay here and the cost of our cleaning and patching up.”
Croft nodded. “I’ll have Cassie get a couple of baths ready, and there is a healer at the shrine of the Divine in Black Oak who can come and heal what Magda’s herbs cannot.”
Martel looked at the bottles on the counter. “Looks like we will do pretty well after all. Namos will have his acid, we will have our money…”
“And I have the name of someone I can hit with my hammer the next time I see him,” said Baldric as he set down an empty mug.
The Goblin Mine
The door to the inn opened, and in walked a slender young man with a bow in his hand and a quiver at his waist. He gave the room a cursory look and then walked over to the bar.
“Good morning, Croft,” said Lendin.
The innkeeper was busy cleaning the brass candlesticks that adorned the common room tables in the evening.
“Good morning, Lendin. Off to hunt today?” asked Croft.
“No, I’m waiting for some friends; I thought they would already be here,” Lendin replied.
Croft looked at Lendin and saw the tight leather jerkin. It had been patched up from a nasty slice an orc sword had given him along his left side. “I thought you had given up adventuring,” he said in a questioning manner.
“I have,” Lendin chuckled. “I don’t want to have adventure or danger. Wolves and bears are close enough to that for me, and I see them plenty when I am out hunting.”<
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Lendin was an excellent hunter and was starting to make a decent living at it. He still helped in his father’s cooperage, but the venison stewing in the inn’s kitchen came from Lendin. Croft was glad to pay ten silver coins for such fresh meat.
“So who are these friends you are waiting for?” Croft asked.
“Karl, Val, and Medrick.”
Croft nodded, he knew all three young men. Karl and Val were brothers just one year apart. Their father was Bartimus, a guardsman for Black Oak. Medrick was originally from Loramund. He had recently become an apprentice to the wizard Orias. Orias had stopped by the Silver Sword Inn when Croft had reopened it for guests last fall and introduced his newest apprentice.
“Looks like your friends have arrived,” said Croft, setting down the candlestick in his hand and picking up the next one.
“Sorry we were a bit late, Lendin,” said Val as he came through the door.
Lendin turned to face his friends. “I just got here myself.”
“Medrick was getting some last minute instructions from Master Orias, and Karl would still be picking out loaves of bread if I hadn’t made him just grab a couple and move on,” said Val as he crossed the room to where Lendin was standing. He was dressed in a leather vest and wore a short sword at his waist. His wooden shield was small and round, the type that the guardsmen in Black Oak carried.
Karl and Medrick came into the inn as Val sat at the bar. Karl was wearing a leather vest and a small metal helm that barely covered the tops of his ears. He wore a heavy mace on his belt and had a good sized pack strapped to his back. He also carried a square wooden shield banded with iron. Some of the merchant guards from Loramund carried shields like that. Croft assumed that Karl must have bought his shield from one of those guards. The innkeeper had seen both Val and Karl practice with their father and the other guardsmen, and they were getting pretty good with their shields and weapons.
Medrick was dressed in stout woolen breeches and a nice, but not opulent, linen shirt. He wore a wide brimmed hat and had an assortment of pouches hanging from his waist.