Flald 3-10, 653 DR: The evil witch dead, Adjeryx makes potions to heal the ailing adventurers. Expedition into the countryside near Darzon. A dead man at the base of a tree. Group stays at the farm of Rekjur and protects his home from Grū in the night. A night in Pydor. Crossing the Iridir Rin. The capital City of Boronon. Valus is given instructions.

Continued from The Road to Boronon.

Malídor, 3 Flald 653

The crumbling stone tower stood on a hill’s top, peering through the forest leaves that hid it from the surrounding countryside. Once a manor keep, the tower had looked down and across rolling fields now overgrown and flooded when the dam burst decades ago. Even now she could almost see the piled stone fences scattered beneath the still dark water. Where horses once were stabled now stood an herb garden surrounded by branching trellises where wind chimes rang. Before the Yrūn came to this place, the tower was an outpost for Dwürden soldiers. They stood atop its rounded walls looking South toward the unseen shore, waiting for the Yrūn to come.

Adjeryx took a deep breath and opened the door. The sunlight was not kind to her haggard form and she walked with a great weight upon her bones. The long days of Weaving and brewing were over. This morning, the group would be leaving her for points unknown. Peace and quiet would return to the hidden hilltop and she would finally be able to study the treasures brought from the lair of Waranyx. Poor Waranyx. Was she really dead after all this time? She had been too busy with the potions to think much on the old bitch. It didn’t seem possible that the hag was really gone. She bid farewell and fair travels to the adventurers and watched them leave her circle. Despite their restful stay they were tired and weary from walking, and moved with the steady but numb rhythm of people with a long road yet to travel. She had often wondered about such people, about what forces or ambitions could drive them to wander into the world, a stranger to all they would meet. Looking at her ancient walls, she felt pleased with the choices she’d made. Rubbing her wrinkled, bony hands together, she returned inside to look through her new treasures.

There was a fork in the southern woods with an old and weathered wood sign. The top arrow pointed to the South and West and read in the Davran script: “Boronon”. The lower arrow, which dangled loosely from a rusted nail, pointed South down the other fork and read: “Eromir”.

Footfalls along the road were not uncommon. They were not as common as the gentle strong beat of hooves or the creaking of wooden wheels, but not unheard. Uncommon were the closing sounds of approach. The breaking of sticks, the swish of leaves and branches as someone neared. They came very close. Two arrived looking and searching through his things, violating his remains. He stared at them. They looked at him and wandered away. O, the humiliation of death. How long had it been? One year. Two? How many snows had there been since the Ortor took his wife screaming from his side while the other two dragged him to this tree. How many hammer strikes had he counted as they drove stakes into his shoulders, pinning him against the bole? How long had he heard her screams so clearly, until she was silent. He wanted to tell someone where they’d taken her, but no one crossed the road for days. Not that he could have told them his tale. The next to find him had only wanted the stake. Without the stake, his corpse collapsed among the weeds and the roots.

The travelers rested along a country roadside under the heavy branches of an old tree. They unrolled their beds, chewed on traveling tack and warmed their hands and tired feet by a small fire. Not soon after making their camp they heard hoof beats and the wheels of a wagon nearing along the road. Over a rise grew the glow of a lantern, swinging from a hook. The wagon stopped and a local man called out. Tressta approached the traveler and they spoke for some time of the coming night and cold. Rekjur invited the group to his home, back the street a bit. It would be better than sleeping on the roots of a tree. After they gathered their belongings they followed behind the wagon back along the road they’d come. In a few minutes they turned down a steep path and around some trees. Behind the hillside they found a walled farm with three buildings. Rekjur knocked on the large wood gate. A boy opened the latches and welcomed everyone inside.

Young Jorn threw open the heavy kitchen door and ushered the strangers into the house. They were rough looking people, all looking weary from travel. Kalanda was not comfortable with her new guests but knew she must attend hospitably to the visitors. She set her daughters to making beds and preparing plates for dinner. Jorn seemed excited by the people he saw, bristling with weapons. These were not decent folk. They were barbarians, probably mountain people bred fighting Ortor and worse. How could Rekjur be so careless inviting these people into their home? He was a good man, and she knew he meant well, but… Then there was the woman, a beauty among them, who spoke the most wonderful Taládic. She felt charmed, elated, and fearful at the sound. She’d heard a priestess in Pydor speak like that once. It was fancy-speak and while she had always wished she would one day learn to speak so eloquently, it was also the tongue of the oppressors. She threw herself into her work, hoping Rekjur would finish in the barn and come inside.

Kalanda served them all warm dinners with plenty to spare. There was never a shortage of food here. She eyed Tressta carefully. Would she report their good fortunes to her people. Would the collectors come in the autumn? Tressta spoke mostly with Rekjur who was better with strangers than herself. He enjoyed the company of travelers, people that could tell him of places he would never go, could never go. All family men dreamed of unfettered lives and Rekjur was no different. He wanted to hear everything. It was a while before she realized that the children were listening too; their eyes were wide with wonder, trying to imagine the high mountain passes and the Ortòri warriors laying slaughtered in the snow. Kalanda ushered them to bed. All but Ellisa would go. She didn’t want to go to sleep. She cradled the frightened young girl and led her upstairs to her bed. The poor girl had been having terrible dreams and didn’t want to sleep. As they went up the old steps she could hear Rekjur explain to the travelers about Delra, a friend of Ellisa’s who’d been dragged off in the night. She knew that Ellisa heard it too, but the young girl gave no hint of notice.

Later, after Rekjur had his fill of stories and “dice-and-chips”, the weary travelers were shown to the empty bedrooms. Only guests, usually Rekjur’s Darzon cousins, used those rooms. When the family had been larger… No, she promised herself she would not dwell on those things. One son lost of four children did not make her a bad wife. Kalanda sat near the fire stitching. On the table near her rested a wooden trinket that the one named Dammon had carved while the others were talking. It was a perfectly wasted effort, a small ball of wood bound within a triangle. He said that it would help with Ellisa’s dreaming but she knew he was no witch. Kalanda could smell hexes, and there were none about him. She smiled thankfully when he went to bed but had no intention of using the object. After brushing the wood shavings into the fire she noticed that one of the warriors had come downstairs and sat across the fireplace from her. His named was Jak. He had told the more tales than most of them and seemed overly exuberant in his tellings. Men who spoke loudly worried her. They were hiding something. Jak had learned some Taládic words from Tressta in their travels, but Ezmìric was not Taládic. He tried to talk some to her, but mostly sat with the chair leaned against the wall listening and watching the fire’s flames, his spear in quick reach.

Amdor, 4 Flald 653

A strong, strong smell. A smell that filled the nostrils with promise; the promise of feasting. Racing and racing, faster and faster. Aching muscles pulled heavy bone harder and harder through the small plants. The ground stretched out beneath. Stop. Smell. Another approaches. Another smelled the feast. Again moving faster and faster. The smell of burning and of food, food and burning; not burning food. Never burning food. It saw me. Stop. Smell slow and long. Only the food saw me. Only the food. The other was closing faster and faster. It was not cautious. It would perish. Again moving, faster and faster than before. It was near. The smell was very near. What was this? A wall? Forward, slam! It moved but not by much. Claws rent and tore the wall to shreds. Splinters of plant and noise. The noise that this made. But still only the feast saw me. Through the wall there was a light. A curious light. The glow of fire and the determined yells of others. How do they know? How could they know if they did not see? They raced around the corner with their crafted claws and they cut and they carved into me. Their weapons were strong and their cuts deep, but nothing eased the hunger and the aching. What was this? The smell was fading. My blood, everywhere. It was fine. All would be well. These things repaired themselves in time. I am only delayed in my hunt. But wait. A flame. A fire is brought toward me. Why? Why do they stop me? Why do they do this to me? They must not understand. They must not conceive the… A new pain shot through my flesh, and my muscles, and my bones. It was a pain I have never known. It was the last pain I would ever feel. They have ended me. I would never see the City again.

Tressta stood over the Grū heaped before her; her slender blade bathed in the monster’s stinking ichor. She felt her shoulder and the holes and the blood where the monster’s mouth had closed upon her. She had stood up to the monster and prevailed. Jak stood across from her and smiled. What was that? Was this the reason he did it; this wave of exhilaration that was shaking her. She looked further inside and found her composure. There may be more about, she thought. She looked around but could see only the pitch blackness of night over the compound walls. Dammon exited the house with a burning log from the kitchen fire. They worked together to build a bonfire away from the buildings. Saldus and Jak dragged the Grū bodies to the fire and watch as the putrid green smoke issued forth. Both Rekjur and Saldus become ill from the stench.

The morning. Another sleepless night was behind them. Ellisa now knew that the monsters were real. They had come for her and these strangers, these wounded strangers that had fought them off. Jorn had seen their blackened corpses on the fire early this morning when he went to tend to the cow. He said they were larger than a man and more grotesque than anything he had ever seen. She listened to his words but said nothing. She knew what the monsters looked like. She’d seen them many times before. Before breakfast she prayed that Ottar would take her dreams away. Every morning she prayed this. Today though, for the first time, Ellisa thought it might just come true.
It was summer and it was raining hard. Korjand stood with his mates grumbling over the bean stew that was their breakfast again. They were weak from marching, all of them. Eromir was far behind them. There was talk that they’d never see their farms and their families ever again. That was nonsense Korjand thought. How many soldiers had he met that told him that they called young men to march around the countryside and then sent them home again. The generals had taken the game further this time. They had armed them with pikes and short swords and given them a few watches of training. The only casualty would be Garex, who’d tried to spear a boar. When he missed the boar it had gored him. A dozen “soldiers” had descended on the animal with their swords. Garex had fumbled for his blade but it was strapped to his back-sack; like everyone else’s. From that day forward, everyone wore their sword on their belts, in easy reach.

So it rained and the men grumbled. They had a right to be upset. The Ortor didn’t come into the lowlands in the summer. There was no reason at all to be here, but here they stood. Then came the sounds of horses from North. Marching orders. The men who gave the orders rode on horses. The man who arrived through the trees wasn’t Uljan. He was another man with a metal chest and a fine spear in his hands. He introduced himself briefly as Ðr. Culjux of Boronon and barked that the Taldànyr were moving east. Here? He told us to grab our pikes and swords and to follow him quickly. An army from Kelamir would be attacking from the north, we would be charging from the South. As we were moving he explained the rules of engagement. We were not to kill Ðardram and nobles. They would be taken by our own officers. I listened, but I did not agree. Ðard or not, if someone came at me I would run them through with seven feet of wood and iron. For the first time, Korjand wondered if he’d ever see Eromir again.

When they broke through the trees and looked out across the rainy field he saw a line of soldiers arrayed to the West. They held poles with banners of all colors, snapping in the wind. Before them armored Ðardram rode back and forth along their ranks, shouting commands or encouragement; the words were lost in the wind and rain. This was war. Korjand looked around at his mates. Each of them were also looking at each other, sizing-up the Ezmìri force against the enemy’s. If the army from Kelamir arrived the Taldàni soldiers would be outnumbered, but even that did not sit well with Korjand. There was something he was missing. A watch later, a horseman arrived from the East to talk with Ðr. Culjux. Culjux thanked the messenger and sent him back the way he’d come. After a moment’s silence, the Ðard rode before the militia and grinned. The Kelamir army stood in the trees across the field. Their numbers, he explained, were twice ours. At that many of my mates cheered but I did not. Twice our number, I thought. How could that be? Eromir was larger than Kelamir. But it must be true. Why would the Ðard lie? He explained that we would march onto the field in formation. He explained that they would attack with archers, followed by calvary, followed by the main charge. This was the way of battle. Everyone grew grim at the thought of this, but no man stayed behind when we marched onto the field. A hundred strong we lined ourselves in two rows across the field’s breadth; and not until the first volley of arrows buzzed toward us through the gray sky did some look to the sides and wonder, ‘where was the army from Kelamir?’. As many of our mates cried out and sank to their knees and backs under the arrow onslaught, I was not bothered by the lies and the fact that the army of Kelamir did not arrive. There was something more that was wrong on this day. Something else.

That is when we heard the humming sound and could see the lines of weeds being crushed toward us, and the plants and shrubs between them being mowed to the ground, leaves and branches spinning up into the air above. Yrūn are curious animals and do not always recognize evil when faced with it. Those with their wits dropped their pikes and fled the formation. I and the others stood and faced the invisible menace, wondering dumbly what it was that could reap the field so cleanly, and not connecting that thought with the wonder of what it might do to a man, or line of men. The humming and mowing grew closer and louder and louder. As it met the first line of men blood and limbs spiraled about in a wave of blood and bone and screaming. In the next instant, it was my turn. But then it stopped; it’s blades and gears visible in the bath of blood and flesh, but choked into immobility. Somewhere across the field a distant horn sounded and the Taládan broke into two lines charging across the field and around the awful machine. Culjux hurriedly assembled his remaining soldiers into two lines of pikes perpendicular to the machine’s bladed face as the archers with their hunting bows fired into the charging army. Nothing would stop them. How could one hope to stop the creators of weapons like these?

Two watches from the home of Rekjur the group came upon the rusted ruins of a weapon of war, not dissimilar to one they’d found buried seasons ago in the Telàbran Plain north of Oð. Rekjur spoke about visiting the rusting item many times as a child and always wondering what it was once for. Though measuring some forty feet in length it was noted by the hinges on each end that more may have been chained together.

Kalanda served them another meal when they returned. She was thankful to these people for saving her family but could not escape the thought they’d brought this evil with them. These types of things did not happen to decent folk. Decent folk should share the company of decent folk, not adventurers. Despite her feelings she was gracious and did all the chores she could find to keep herself occupied for the remainder of their stay.

Wōdìndor, 5 Flald 653

The next morning, something wonderful happened. She went into the girls’ room and found Ellisa sleeping soundly, smiling. Quietly she ushered the other children from the room and closed the door. After breakfast Rekjur bid the visitors goodbye, they would travel through Darzon and on to Pydor. Long from here, she thought. Finally, all could return to peace.

Iyldor, 6 Flald 653

Traveling.

Irídor, 7 Flald 653

Traveling.

Roydor, 8 Flald 653

Salryx rubbed his back. Oh, it was sore. He watched the people crossing the bridge at Pydor. Most paid no attention to the old fisherman. As he stood watching, his tongue darted in-and-out through the gaps in his missing teeth. He smiled at those that smiled at him. He even tipped his straw hat at the ladies that glanced in his direction. No one looked at him for long. When they became aware of who or what their eyes had found, they would quickly look away. That was okay with Salryx. He knew he was ugly, and knew he could learn a lot about people by the way they reacted to him. This morning however, something new happened; a group of foreigners walked over the fine stone bridge. Among them was a beautiful woman, perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He looked at her and secretly prayed that she would see him. That he could meet her eyes, if only for a second. But as they approached he felt suddenly ashamed of himself and turned away from the group to stare sadly down into the river far below. He listened to them walk passed behind him, and thought for sure he’d heard her voice, just a word or two. But when he had steeled himself for a closer look and turned, they had passed and were well on their way. Salryx stood there, rubbing his back. As the watched the heavily armed group marching toward Boronon, he wondered what her eyes would have looked like. He wondered if she would have even looked in his direction, before looking away.

Sūdìdor, 9 Flald 653

Traveling.

Talídor, 10 Flald 653

Following a night at a travelers’ wayside, the group reached the City of Boronon by afternoon. Tired from days of walking through rolling countryside, the foggy port city seemed to promise warm beds, hot meals, and much-needed drinks. By early evening they found a suitable inn at the Port District. Saldus excused himself for a bit and took his son into the streets for some unusually sudden business. Dammon’s curiosity spurred his familiar into the streets behind the two warriors, to discover what business the two might have in this foreign port. Ezíkus meanwhile stayed at the inn, greedily ingesting as much stew as he could be served to warm his old frail bones. Ezíkus knew he was not strong enough to return to Oð, but hoped that his faith and duty would one day carry him home. When Saldus returned to the inn, he ate quietly and went to bed. Valus arrived a bit later and sat and sang and played and drank with the others. The more he drank, the more he shared of the evening’s activities. He explained that his father was sending him home from here. He vented his frustration that he would not be able to see the great City of Taldàna even though he had traveled so far and hard. He sulked that he alone would be going home when everyone else in the fellowship would be continuing forward. He had proved himself a man but was still being treated like a boy. When pressed further he explained also that Saldus had commanded him to return with word of the High Lord’s men, who had perished in his name, and to carry back the tale of their heroism and their fates to their friends and families. This point he was unable to argue and so had agreed to do as his father bid. Seldom had there been a man so aggrieved at the promise of returning home after so hard a journey

Continued in Stone Wings of Boronon.

Characters

• Dammon Shroudson
• Jak of Cænden
• Tressta Drynsval
• Adjeryx
• Ðr. Culjux: dead
• Delra: dead
• Ellisa
• Ērēus of Amra
• Ezíkus of Roð
• Familiar
• Garex: dead
• Jorn
• Kalanda
• Korjand: dead
• Tamran Ottar: dead
• Rekjur
• Saldus Greymane
• Salryx
• Valus ur Saldus

Played: 07 Dec 2001