by Wilson Harp
Medrick felt guilty to be relieved that his friends were alive and well. So many bodies lay unmoving in the streets and along the buildings. A stray arrow came near where he stood, and he realized that his shield had fallen at some point. He quickly recast it. When he was finished, he noticed that Master Orias was climbing a set of stone steps toward the top of the wall. The wizard moved as if he were injured, but Medrick knew that his master would not let some pain stop him. He wove the wards that would shield his master from attacks by the barbarian diviners by the time Master Orias reached the top of the wall.
The intensity of the magic started increasing again. Master Orias was hurling spell after spell down into the attackers, but it seemed that just as much magic was coming back at him. Medrick was able to keep the wards and shields up even with the fast pace of the magic battle.
Medrick noticed that the sky was starting to lighten in the distance. It wasn’t quite dawn yet, and he realized that it was the dark clouds that had suddenly formed not far from the town that were dissipating. He was concerned that the diviners had somehow manipulated the weather, but he didn’t notice any ill effects.
The barbarians had given up on getting through the gate, it appeared, and they were starting to put crudely constructed ladders up against the walls. The men who had been set to guard the gate were ordered up on the walls to push away the ladders with their spears and polearms. Medrick shuddered as he watched their dangerous work. Pushing a ladder back would make you a prime target for an archer or even a diviner. But the town guards and militia kept at it.
Horns sounded in the distance, and Medrick strained to see as far down the road as possible. Another dark mass was rushing toward the town and the sound of the battle changed pitch once more. He hoped that these were not more reinforcements for the barbarians, but he felt his stomach twist as he thought of how long the fight had already gone on.
Dozens of guardsmen and militia lay still along the streets, and as many were being treated by the handful of healers in the town. Medrick looked up at the stars and quickly calculated that it was still an hour before sunrise. The battle had raged half the night, and it looked like it would continue for some time.
The threads of magic shifted as Medrick looked back at the battle. He cast the ward against acid again for Master Orias, but the diviners had shifted their assault to the crowd of men coming behind them. The horns he had heard a few minutes earlier echoed again, and he could see the shadows of the barbarians besieging the town move toward the shadows of men coming down the road. Soldiers from Gen? Already? Perhaps a messenger had been able to get through the barbarian horde, but surely if someone had they would have had to travel through the swamps to the south. The wall of mountains to the north drove people through the High Pass, and while some people tended sheep on the slopes north of town, it was much too dangerous for a fast rider at night.
Maybe someone did get through the swamps. Medrick cast the ward for fire on Master Orias, although the wizard was not being targeted by magic as the barbarians turned to face their new foe. The young apprentice then looked to the south. He wondered how long it would take to travel through the swamps to Gen. Days, not hours, from what he had seen.
He was about to turn back to the wall when a flash of purple light appeared in the distance. A column of black and purple cloud suddenly grew and spread over a vast area of the swamp. He cast the spell to communicate with Master Orias.
“Master,” Medrick said. “To the south. Something is happening.”
Master Orias stepped behind a defensive buttress and looked to the south.
“It has started,” Master Orias said. He voice sounded like he stood right beside Medrick. “That is where they will try to free Cathos from his prison.”
“What will we do, master?” Medrick asked.
“The battle has turned against the barbarians. It will continue for a while, but they are trapped. I am safe enough for now. I will stay and help destroy the diviners, but you go to the tower and get our gear ready. I want to leave the west gate before the sun has completely risen this morning.”
Medrick looked back at the battle and grimaced. Leaving now would mean more men of the town would die. Maybe Val or Berni, even. But he knew what Master Orias had told him about Cathos. If they were to stop the cult, they had to leave soon. The ritual had started.
Through the Swamp
Martel carried the heavy pot out to the well behind the inn. It was Magda’s solid iron stew pot, and it was incredibly heavy even for the large warrior. As roughly as he felt worked by his friend Croft, he knew that Baldric was suffering even worse. He heard the dwarf coming up behind him and stepped quickly away.
“You better move, you lazy…” Baldric trailed off in half muttered Dwarven words.
Martel knew enough of the Dwarven language to be certain that Baldric still blamed him for his predicament. He watched as the dwarf dropped the cast iron stove that Croft had insisted be taken out for a good scrubbing.
No one could have moved that stove by themselves, but Martel had once let slip to the innkeeper that Baldric had a magic belt that gave him incredible strength. Croft used that knowledge to force Baldric into moving the heaviest items and equipment from the burnt out kitchen to the well behind the inn. Part of it, Martel was sure, was because Croft liked keeping Baldric in a foul mood. The dwarf was entertaining to watch as he held in his famous temper. Another part of it was he wanted Baldric to pay off the half keg of beer he had drunk after the attack on the inn.
Martel could not even imagine how Baldric had gotten himself sealed in the keg, or how the dwarf had managed to not drown. When Croft pulled open the lid, Baldric was sitting down in beer up to his chin drinking from a leather jack he normally kept on his belt. Croft said that he was buying the whole keg, which started an argument.
Baldric insisted he should only pay for the half he drank, while Croft pointed out that no one would buy beer that a dwarf had bathed in. They met at a point of agreement when Croft agreed to coin for the half he had drunk and labor for the other half. Baldric was not allowed a sip of it, though, until he had done the work Croft required.
Somehow, Baldric didn’t hold a grudge against Croft. But he did hold a grudge against Martel for Croft finding out about the belt.
Martel stretched his back and looked at the equipment already hauled out. Magda, the old cook who Croft had inherited along with the inn, was shaking her head as she examined the damage the fire had done to some of her heavy utensils. The Padashite barbarians had almost succeeded in burning down the inn in their raid several hours before, and they had destroyed much of the kitchen along with Magda and Cassie’s rooms. Cassie was in the front room helping Croft move tables outside so that the blood from the attack could be washed off of the floors and walls. Blood would stain wood, even ancient timbers like those, unless it was cleaned right away.
Baldric came back from the kitchen with a large box held above his head. It was filled with cans and sacks that Magda had set aside in hopes of salvaging some of the pantry.
“That’s the last of it,” the dwarf said as he carefully set down the box. “No thanks to you.”
“I’m sorry, Baldric,” Martel said. “How many times will I need to apologize?”
Baldric eyed Martel like he was appraising the price of a fine piece of jewelry.
“How many apologies is that?” Baldric asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe ten?”
“It doesn’t quite feel like ten, but you would know better. Ten is not near the final number, though. You have a lot of apologizing ahead of you, Martel.”
Magda chuckled and shook her head at the quarrelling adventurers. She was a sly one, Martel had discovered. Her keen ears and sharp wit allowed her to measure up any visitor to the Silver Sword Inn with just a few snatches of conversation overheard.
Martel looked up at the sky in the east. Thin bands of colors were starting to announce the coming dawn. He walked around to the front of the in
n and looked for Kimil, one of the barbarians left behind by the Battle Lord Kragdin.
“Have you heard any reports of the battle?” Martel asked the barbarian when he found him.
Kimil was directing some of his men in piling up the bodies of the Reytrus tribesmen who had attacked the inn. Only the appearance of the Mondroth barbarians, the mortal enemies of the Reytrus, had prevented the destruction of the inn and the death of everyone inside.
“I still hear our horns blowing on occasion. They don’t signal retreat or a cry to rally for a final stand. That bodes well for our chances,” Kimil said.
Martel looked down the road to the east.
“You worry for your woman?” Kimil asked.
“She’s not my woman,” Martel laughed. “She is a very good warrior and we have traveled together for many years.”
Martel shook his head. “I do worry about her, though. She was badly wounded and she has to ride through the lines of the Reytrus in order to reach Gen.”
“She may have been wounded, but she rode that horse like a master. And the horse looked fast. I think she will reach the city safely.”
Martel nodded. “I hope so. We need to hear news if we are to act soon.”
Kimil stepped over to Martel and looked to the eastern sky.
“Sind, one of our diviners, said that a great battle was coming. She said the Mondroth would play their part.”
Martel looked at the tall barbarian. “I think you may have already. We are going to stop Cathos from being brought back into the world. When our friends arrive, they should have news about where the ritual will take place.”
Kimil looked at Martel with a frown. “Don’t you know?”
“Know what?”
Kimil pointed to the southwest. Martel saw a pillar of darkness rising from the swamp. Purple lightning flashed through it.
“When did that happen?” Martel asked.
“About two hours ago. It hasn’t grown for quite a while. I may not wield magic or speak to the spirits, but that looks like a place where something very evil is taking place.”
“I believe you are right. But we must still wait for the others.”
Martel kept looking at the column over the swamp as he headed for the front door of the inn. When he reached the front, he saw Croft on his hands and knees scrubbing blood from the floor.
“Croft, can I have you look at something?” Martel asked.
Croft stood up and walked over to Martel. The big warrior motioned the innkeeper to look to the southwest.
“Divine save us! That is right over the ruins of Balcchor, isn’t it?” Croft asked.
“That’s what I reckon,” Martel said. “If Delacour and his cult have already started the ritual…”
He let the statement hang in the air.
“Maybe the army wasn’t sent to stop Gen from rescuing Black Oak; maybe it was sent to slow down Donal and Calaran from getting to the swamp in time,” Croft said.
“I think me and Baldric should start getting ready for a smelly, wet march.”
Croft grunted in agreement. “At least you can travel light, less than half a day’s march and then whatever is at the end,” the innkeeper said.
“The end of what,” Baldric asked as he came over to where the two men were talking. “I noticed Martel had disappeared from the lash of the slave driver you call a cook, and I told her I needed to ask you a question.”
Croft pointed to the large pillar of black hanging over the swamp. The sun was starting to cast its first morning rays over the land, and one had just struck the evil looking cloud. It was as if the pillar had decided to grow blacker to make up for the light that offended it.
“Well that is not what I would want to see on any day,” Baldric muttered. “But especially on a day that I think might take me right towards it.”
Martel sighed and turned back into the inn. “I’m going to get my armor on and prepare a small kit. I’ll get a kit ready for Ermine, too, in case she makes it back and is up to going.”
Croft walked to the stairs with his friend as Baldric followed.
“I’ll keep her here if she isn’t up to going,” Croft said. “I just wish I could go with you.”
“No you don’t, Croft,” the dwarf said as he walked by the innkeeper. “You just think you want to die with us. But you will be glad of your oath in a few months.”
Martel glanced back in time to see Croft grimace at his greataxe hanging once again above the bar. He knew it had not been an easy decision for Croft to give up adventuring, but it was the right one. He knew that the innkeeper hated to see his friends head off without him one more time.
Martel went to his room and pulled all of his armor on. He strapped on his knives, his sword, and the extra mace he carried and picked up his shield. A small fifteen-pound pack slung over his back, and he could walk at a good pace for hours on end. He went to Ermine’s room and prepared her items as best he could.
As he was taking the last of the gear down to the front of the inn, he heard some commotion outside. He looked out the window and saw a group of riders approaching. Ermine rode at the front of the group on the gray mare she had acquired during the night.
Martel hurried out to where the riders would turn into the front yard of the inn. Several of the barbarians with Kimil watched them cautiously as they approached.
“These are the friends we were expecting,” Martel told Kimil.
The barbarian waved his hand in a certain way and the other barbarians relaxed their stances. Martel set down the gear he was carrying and waved the riders in.
Ermine dismounted as she reined in. “Good, you have my armor out. I was afraid I would have to run upstairs for it.”
Donal slipped out of his saddle and looked at the inn. “Croft has some work to do to get her back together, it looks like.”
“Indeed,” Martel said. “Were you able to get Namos?” The other horsemen had entered the yard, but the wizard from Gen was not among them. Nor was Calaran.
“The Reytrus are besieging Gen. Namos was needed there. He won’t be coming. He had thought to catch up with us, but…” Donal pointed to the pillar.
“It will be over before he can get to the ruins, I suspect.” Martel said. “Where is Calaran?”
“He left us a couple of miles back,” Donal said. “He headed into the Shadowmist Wood to find that wild elf.”
“I think the elf helped us last night,” Martel said. “There was a brief cloudburst over the inn that helped stop the fires.”
“And the Mondroth have joined you as well,” Donal said looking at the gathered barbarians entrusted with guarding the inn. “Good to see you, Kimil. I trust Kragdin is fighting the Reytrus at Black Oak?”
“Good to see you, Donal. Yes, Battle Lord Kragdin is at Black Oak. We hope to destroy the Reytrus down to the last warrior and diviner.”
“Lendin!” Cassie cried as the young serving girl ran from the front door of the inn. The pretty redhead threw herself into the arms of the embarrassed young woodsman.
“Your nephew seems to be surprised by his ownership,” Martel said with a grin. “I bet he never realized she had acquired him.”
Mirari and Horas walked wide around the couple. Lendin tried to set Cassie back on the ground, but she kept pushing herself into his arms. She was telling him all about the horrible attack and kept saying over and over that she was scared for him.
“I don’t think Lendin will be heading into the swamp with us,” Horas said. It was obvious that he had given up on the fight for Cassie’s attentions.
“So we are ready to go?” Donal asked.
Baldric walked over to the group, his heavy chain armor and helmet on. His shield and warhammer hung on his belt. “Let’s get this done. Bad enough to tromp through a swamp, but let’s not dither about it as well.”
Ermine shrugged her shield into place and tightened the strap with her teeth. Martel knew that her arm must still be hurting if she was cinching the straps up so tight. There
was a good chance that Ermine would never take the shield off and she knew it.
“Let’s go kill this wretch,” she said as she headed toward the black pillar in the distance. Mirari nodded sharply and ran ahead to march with Ermine.
Martel noted she was wearing a blue dress that looked like it was made of silk and lace, but the way she carried herself was as if she wore a full suit of plate armor.
Horas looked around at the others and then shrugged as Baldric motioned him forward. The young man and the dwarf were alike in many ways, thought Martel—both fairly new to the adventuring world and both of the opinion that you couldn’t be hurt if you just hit the other guy as hard as you could. They followed the women at a steady pace. Ermine and Mirari were moving faster, but once they hit the swamp they would slow down for the rest of the party.
“Uncle Donal,” Lendin said. He was looking up from the mop of red hair that seemed to be trying to smother him. “I think I may sit this one out.”
Donal smiled at his nephew. “I expect Croft could use some help around here. Take care of that girl, Lendin. She seems to want to take care of you.”
Cassie frowned at Donal and then went back to smiling at Lendin.
“Calaran will catch up?” Martel asked Donal as the two of them started toward the swamp.
“Probably much faster than any of us can imagine,” Donal said.
Martel picked up his shield and slung his bag over his back. A little food, several water flasks, some torches and sundry other items he always found useful while adventuring were all secured into that old leather bag that he had carried with him since he was a youth.
The ruins of Balcchor were about eight miles southwest of Black Oak, which made them about ten miles from the Silver Sword Inn. On flat ground, the group could be there in three hours with enough energy to fight. On flat ground, they could take horses and be there in an hour. But the swamp would take time—mostly crossing from ridge to ridge, hillock to hillock, but at times wading through water.