by Wilson Harp
Horas pulled the axe from his belt and looked where Lendin was staring. “What is it?” he whispered.
“Put your axe away Horas; he readied an arrow when you pulled it,” Lendin whispered back.
Horas slipped his axe back into his belt.
“That elf means to kill us,” said Baldric. “And there’s not a blasted thing any of us can do about it.”
Horas scanned the darkness for what the others were looking at. He finally glanced up and saw the elf in what dim starlight filtered through the treetops.
“Hello there,” said Horas as he waved at the elf standing some twenty feet up on a branch that didn’t look strong enough to support a squirrel.
“What are you doing?” asked Baldric. “I don’t think he is in the mood to talk.”
The elf put his arrow back in his quiver and squatted low on the branch. He waved his hand in imitation of what Horas had done. He then leaped away from the branch, passed over the small party, and disappeared into the night.
“I think that was the elf that pulled us out of the goblin mine,” said Horas.
“Even if so, that was still unsettling,” whispered Baldric. “Move, boys, move, move, move.”
Lendin started forward again as Horas scanned the trees for more elves. Finally Baldric’s shoving and muttering pulled him out of his sense of wonder, and he followed the path that Lendin made for them. The darkness deepened as they traveled through the woods, but Lendin pressed hard, for once uncomfortable in the familiar forest. Horas once imagined the sound of breathing and a set of eyes following him. It took him a few moments to realize that the breathing was Baldric and the set of eyes was a brown owl scanning the forest floor for a meal.
They were starting to relax by the time they reached the High Road, but they pressed on with as much speed as they could manage without breaking into a panicked run. Finally they saw the Silver Sword Inn ahead of them.
“I don’t know about you two; but my purse is full of coin, and I’m going to enjoy the rest of the night,” said Horas.
“I think that’s a fine idea, boy. Plus, we can divide up the loot and see how much we made killing orcs today,” replied Baldric.
The smell of a burning oak in the fireplace and baked ham from the kitchens welcomed the adventurers as they opened the door to the common room. Horas was two steps into the warm, well-lit inn before he realized that, instead of the usual clientele, Croft seemed to be hosting an adventurers’ party. Val and Berni were at a table with Medrick. Master Orias, the wizard of Black Oak, was sitting alone in the corner. Croft was standing next to a table with Martel, Ermine, and the girl Mirari who had been a guest of Master Orias for the last month or so. Even Karl was sitting at the bar talking with Cassie the serving girl.
“All that’s missing is Donal,” muttered Horas as he started towards an empty table. He felt relieved when the eyes of everyone in the room stayed fixed on the door and did not follow him as he sat down. Lendin slid quickly into the chair next to him as everyone kept staring at the door.
Horas turned to see Baldric, looking like a child ready for a scolding, staring back at each table defiantly.
“Well,” Baldric cleared his throat as he began. “They’re alive, aren’t they?”
Ermine stood up and walked over to the dwarf. Baldric leaned away from her as she bent down and whispered something in his ear.
“You know that I wouldn’t do anything like that!” Baldric yelled as he grabbed his beard protectively.
“Next time it comes off,” said Ermine before turning sharply and walking back to her seat.
Once Ermine had settled herself back down, Baldric found a seat with Horas and Lendin. Croft excused himself to go back to the kitchen as several of the others went back to their conversations. Cassie started to walk over to Horas and Lendin’s table, but Martel waved her back to the bar and came over to their table himself.
“We heard a loud noise, and a pile of smoke poured up from the north about mid-morning. I take it that was your work?” asked Martel as he pulled a chair up to sit.
“Yes,” answered Lendin. “Our plan got a little out of hand.”
“What happened?”
“We… I mean Lendin, discovered that a large group of orcs had taken over Ronsell’s Cave as a camp. It’s a pretty well known cave if you ever hunted up in the north hills, so I knew that there was only one entrance and it had a natural chimney in the ceiling. So we decided to take some oil, pour it down on them and smoke them out,” said Horas.
“The plan worked?” asked Martel.
Baldric laughed. “It did indeed! Not only did we set them on fire and drive them out, the heat and smoke cracked some of the rocks in the roof of that cave and dropped the whole hill on top of them.”
Martel shook his head. “How many orcs were there, Baldric?”
“Maybe eighty or ninety, no more than a hundred at the most.”
“We had a plan of escape,” protested Lendin when he saw Martel’s face twist in frustration.
“Escape? What if they had a pack or two of hunting wolves?” asked Martel.
“I guess we didn’t think of that,” said Horas.
“You got lucky,” stated Martel flatly. “Was there anything else?”
“A human wizard,” said Lendin.
“He was wearing this,” said Horas. He pulled the bracelet of twisted leather strips out of his pocket. Martel held it near a candle and looked at the silver coin.
“I’ve heard of these bracelets; Calaran the bard described them to us in detail last night.” Martel tossed the bracelet to Orias, who had been watching their discussion quietly.
Orias looked at it and nodded. “This is what Donal described to me this morning. It appears that their suspicions are correct and the Cult of Cathos is behind the orc incursions.”
The door to the inn swung open and Donal walked in. He was bruised and cut in many places. Some of the blood was caked on him; other seemed fresh.
“Where’s Croft? Croft!” he called.
Croft came out of the kitchen and looked at the injured woodsman. “Magda!” called the innkeeper. “Bring your herbs.”
Lendin, Martel, Ermine and surprisingly Orias were at Donal’s side before Croft had finished calling for Magda. Donal was assuring them that he was fine as they helped him lie back on a table.
“What happened, Donal?” asked Orias.
“I went to bring Brother Cassil back here and… Lendin! Thank the divine you are safe.”
“I am safe, uncle, but what about Brother Cassil?” asked Lendin.
“He’s dead. I tried to save him, but there were four of them. Three of them fought me while the fourth went into his room and slit his throat. I was able to question that one for a few minutes, but he must have taken poison because he started convulsing and foaming at the mouth as I was getting answers from him.”
“Did you get any answers, Donal?” asked Martel.
“The tomb of Cathos is up near the Padash mountains, but they are more interested in Black Oak and the swamps.”
“When we rescued Karl, he said that the orcs were asking about the chamber of Kerin Kor in the ruins of Balcchor. Could that be what the cult is after?” asked Ermine.
Orias grabbed Ermine’s arm and spun her to face him. “The chamber of Kerin Kor? Are you sure that’s what he said?”
“Yes. Karl, come over here,” Ermine called to the young man at the bar.
Karl picked up his crutch and hobbled over to the table where Donal lay.
“What can I do to help?” asked Karl.
“When the orc tortured you, what did he ask? Use his words exactly if you can remember them,” said Orias.
“He asked me if I lived in Black Oak. I told him I did. He asked how many troops the town had. I told him we had enough. He burned me with some iron bands when I told him that. He said that we would never have enough troops.” Karl winced at the memory.
“It will be alright, son,” said Martel. “Just go
on, we need to know this.”
Karl nodded at the big adventurer and continued. “He then asked if I knew where Balcchor was. I said I did and that it was out in the swamp away from town. He nodded and then asked if I knew where Celedridum was. I told him I did not. He started beating me then and asked me over and over. I think he finally believed me. Then he asked me if I knew where the chamber of Kerin Kor was in Balcchor. I didn’t know, and he beat me until I passed out.”
Orias had closed his eyes and was shaking his head by the time Karl finished.
“What is it?” asked Martel. “What is the chamber of Kerin Kor?”
“It was a chamber of magic for the elves who tended Celedridum. Balcchor was built on the ruins of an ancient elven necropolis, and the chamber of Kerin Kor was where elven priests and priestesses would commune with the dead. The cult wants to find the chamber to bring back Cathos.”
“The town is in danger then,” said Donal. “The cult won’t want anyone interfering with their mission. They will poison the water, set fire to the town, or simply besiege it with an army of orcs if they can.”
Martel looked over at Horas. “Your act of foolish bravery may have bought us a few more days to prepare.”
“I’ll go warn the city,” said Lendin.
“No, not you,” said Donal. “You and Mirari must stay here under guard. The cult can make use of you if Calaran is correct. Val, you take Karl, Berni and Medrick back to Black Oak. Warn your father and have him make sure the town council understands the threat they are facing.”
“What about me?” asked Horas.
Baldric slapped the young man on the back. “You are an adventurer, boy. Now buy me a beer and I’ll fill you in on what you need to know about what that means now.”
A Thief in the Night
The innkeeper moved through his routine as Delacour watched. He had sent his barmaid to her bed after the last of his guests had wandered up the stairs, but he still wiped down the tables one more time. He was a man starting to see the effects of age catching up with him. His stomach was expanding and his hair was receding, but he still had a sharp eye. Sharp hearing, too. He stared right at where Delacour was sitting. The potion Delacour had drunk would keep him invisible as long as he didn’t move too fast, but he could still be heard. He had made this potion many times over the last decade, and it had never failed him. He knew as long as he didn’t move too quickly that he would be completely invisible. Even dwarves, who could see heat patterns in total darkness, could not see him when he was enchanted with his potion. After a couple of seconds the innkeeper started snuffing the candles on all of the tables.
Delacour glanced up at the large battle axe hanging above the bar. Croft, that was this innkeeper’s name, did not have it there just for decoration. He had used it on countless adventures. He had even snatched it down and held it menacingly the last time he had seen Delacour. As the light from the candles disappeared one at a time, the room darkened. Delacour found himself relaxing as the shadows deepened and the colors around him faded. He enjoyed the dark; he worked best in the dark.
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Delacour had been here for the last four nights. He had found a spot on a bench in the far back of the room, across from the kitchen door, where he could watch and learn. He had listened to the merchants and their warnings of increased orc activity in the hills to the north. The local farmers had talked about the lizardmen in the swamps and how the oncoming winter would drive them further south, away from the farms of Black Oak.
Two nights ago the inn had been cleared out, and Delacour had been delighted to see two of the men he was searching for enter: Calaran the elven Bard and Donal the woodsman guide. They had held a conference with Croft discussing their plans to find another of Delacour’s prey—an elf in the nearby woods. So far, Delacour’s men and orcs had failed to flush out the elusive elf, and here two of the men he most desperately wanted dead were going to do the job for him. He had lingered in the inn that evening waiting for them to return.
Instead a complication had come in the door. That cursed Martel had come in a few hours before sunrise. Ermine, one of his frequent companions, was with him. They had told Croft that some young upstarts had gone with Baldric to deal with a tribe of orcs to the north. Delacour had smiled at that news. Even the dwarf could not think to defeat over two hundred orcs and the wizard Eonium with only a couple of local sellswords. His spirit was further bolstered when Donal returned with news that the elf was in the wood and had given his name as Filvan Hawk. With the elf’s name, Delacour could have some of his wizards prepare a counter tailored to young Filvan.
Donal had left soon after arriving. They had determined what the cult of Cathos was planning and were working hard to prevent it. Delacour was impressed with the elven bard. He had figured out the plan, essentially, and had correctly identified those who needed protection. He would need to kill Calaran if he should happen to appear at the ritual. Even if he had the items required to free his master, he would still need to kill the bard. Delacour had slipped out right after Donal and made his way to his camp in the hills just north of the inn.
When he had returned that evening, things had taken a turn for the worse. It appeared that Baldric and the two youngsters from Black Oak had succeeded in driving off the orc tribe and killing Eonium. Delacour had grimaced as he thought of the work it had taken to convince the tribe to head this far south. He needed the attention of the town and of any adventurers in the area to be focused on the hills and mountains to the north of town. The rest of his plans were still moving ahead, though, and one piece of luck had been enough to make Delacour forget about the orc tribe.
Donal had been too late to save the feeble-minded priest in Gen, but he had warned Orias. The wizard’s tower was well protected, and Delacour had thought hard for days about how to enter. Then, this afternoon right as the lunch crowd was slipping back to work, the wizard, his apprentice, and the girl all had come into the inn—with the journals. Delacour thought it odd that he would leave the relative safety of his tower to come to the inn, but with Donal and Martel here, perhaps he felt he would be better protected. He was wrong. The journals would be in his hands tonight, and that was a task he hadn’t planned on completing when he had slipped into the inn this morning. The innkeeper had helped them move their stuff into the room that was second on the right, and they had come back down. The blue and silver bound journals were bound together by a strap of leather that Delacour was sure was enchanted in some way, but he could figure out the right way to release them when he got the chance.
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The innkeeper finished closing down the main room and opened the door into the cellar to put away the coins he had earned. Delacour knew that in a few minutes Croft would climb out of the cellar, look around, and then head back into his room to sleep. He wondered how the innkeeper would react when he found four of his guests dead in the morning. Delacour would like to burn down the entire inn, killing everyone inside, but he knew if he started a fire he would risk rousing those who slept. In the confusion that would follow, he might not be able to kill those he needed to. In fact, only the wizard would have to die tonight, but cutting the throats of Martel, Baldric, and that Ermine woman would take little extra time. The satisfaction of that would be worth a couple of extra minutes. It was a shame he couldn’t kill the girl. He needed her alive, at least until he found and killed Alinor.
Croft climbed out of the cellar and shut the door. He paused and looked back at the corner where Delacour was sitting. Delacour waited patiently for Croft to turn and close the door to his room. The innkeeper had good hearing; there was no doubting that now.
Delacour waited until he heard the lock on Croft’s door click into place. He counted to two hundred slowly and stood. Steadily and smoothly, he crossed the floor of the common room. He had developed his skill at deliberate movement for years. He was confident of his ability to move undetected. The floor of the inn wa
s hard wood, skillfully crafted and polished to a smooth shine by the feet of generations of patrons. Even as smooth and easy as the walk was from the back corner of the room to the stairs, Delacour took great care in where and how he set his feet. A normal stroll over to the stairs would have been about twelve steps, but he envisioned eighteen steps before he started. His foot fell on each mark precisely, and soon he was at the foot of the stairs.
The handrail was as smooth as the floor and for the same reasons. The stairs, however, were fairly new. People often ran upstairs, banged cases and trunks, and otherwise treated the wooden planks that lifted them to the second floor as cheap and replaceable. The planks that made up the stairs were a patchwork of old and new. Likely not an original board was left, and the most recent replacement was just a few weeks old. It was the planks of the stairs that caused problems for men like Delacour. The third step had an odd creak; he would avoid that step altogether. He had seen three men trip on the eighth step going up, and two men had misjudged the height of the seventh step going down. The serving girl and the innkeeper both stepped hard to the right when they hit the twelfth step, but Delacour was sure it was because the handrail was loose near the top of the staircase and they didn’t want to rely upon it to stop them from toppling into the common room should they trip and fall.
He took the time to plot out his ascension of the stairs just as carefully as he had plotted his movement across the floor. Slowly he walked up the steps, his hands careful to touch neither the wall to his right nor the rail to his left. He placed each foot carefully, as if stepping on upright pipes rather than thick, wide wooden slats. Slowly he transferred his weight from one foot to the one above it. After he had established his weight on the second step, he leaned forward and placed his right hand on the fourth step. Just as he had done with the first two steps, he slowly transferred weight from his foot on the second step to his hand on the fourth step. It was an odd acrobatic move, but one that would keep his body off of the third step and avoid the creak that would announce him to anyone who might be listening carefully.