Amber flames lick at the blackened wood, every flicker of
light casts long shadows outwards causing the seated figures to appear like the
spokes of a massive wagon wheel.
Having drawn up the sleeping watch roster many
months ago Yorgan and Siliquie huddle into their bed rolls and bid Octavius a
good night.
As is the case on many a night the watch remains silent and
uneventful, as does Silaqui’s. However as the early morning rays start to
pierce the edges of the horizon, the sun casting their long fingers through the
trees, Yorgan catches the hint of movement on the wind.
With quick wits and focussed movements he ushers his friends
awake with the pointed end of a blade.
“I heard something amongst the tree’s.” Looking outwards he
tries to see through the gloom.
“It’s a man.” Silaqui whispers as her Elven eyes catch the
man’s shape more clearly than the inferior human eyes.
“Please help me.” The fellow utters before slumping into
their clearing, his travel worn clothes splattered with blood, his skin slashed
with fresh wounds.
After careful consideration Octavius comes to the uneasy
choice of using a valued spell on the stranger. Laying his hands on the
fellow’s injury Octavius utters several healing words and passes what strength
he can onto the man.
The wound remains open, blood freely flowing from the gash
onto the sodden ground.
“I don’t understand it, that normally does the trick.” He
utters in bewilderment.
“Perhaps remove his belongings.” Silaqui adds with hungry
eyes.
With the little consciousness the bewildered man has he
helps the group remove his gold ring, quiver of arrows and rucksack. Yorgan
quickly offers to hold the ring in safety, much to Silaqui’s chagrin.
Once again Octavius presses his hands onto the travellers
open wound, utters the ancient words, and as before nothing occurs.
“?” Octavius motions with an upraised eyebrow in a most
Vulcan way.
Having failed twice to heal the man a thought of slitting
his throat to end his suffering is quickly replaced with one of unusual
compassion, Octavius hastily, but expertly, manages to bandage the wound with
strips of the travellers own shirt.
In a dull tone the man utters with his last waking breath,
“Thank you.” And then falls into a solid slumber.
Karl sleeps as restless dreams fill his mind; a flurry of
images, tasks and faces dance before him as if he’s watching a grotesque play
being directed before a night black cloth. He watches as his dead friends swim
and leap afore him, the mansion map twirls and spins as if caught on a stiff breeze,
a mountain of gold and precious stones tumble from the pitch onto a stone
floor, as he extends his arm to grasp it he wakes.
Yorgan’s eyes watch as the visitor stirs from his slumber,
the wood fragment, he’s been working, now complete and carved into a reclining
figure of the prone man. “I thought you’d never wake.” He says while placing
the erotica into his rucksack, “You’ve been abed for near four hours friend.”
He says with a gentle wink.
Looking down Karl touches the bandaged wound, “You?” he asks
in a hoarse voice.
“No, Octavius.” Yorgan says pointing at the healer with the
knifepoint.
Across the clearing Karl notices a shadowed figure reclining
against a tree, a series of scrolls and books laid out across the bare lap.
“He’s learning his spells, and TCB.”
“TCB?”
“Taking Care of Business, if you get my drift.” Yorgan says
with another wink, this one more forced.
“My names Karl, thank you again friend.” He says trying to
rise, but quickly realising the pain is too much.
“I’m Yorgan Georgesmurfsson, that’s Octavius and somewhere
around here’s Silaqui looking for a damn bird.” He blurts without much thought
while looking about the clearing.
“How’d you come to be here friend?” A feminine voice calls
from the trees.
Looking up Yorgan and Karl notice the lithe figure of
Silaqui sitting nimbly in the crown of a nearby tree, her long legs hanging
freely down.
“Silaqui.” Yorgan says with much mirth.
Ignoring the banter, and eager to relay his tale Karl starts
expelling as much information as humanly possible. “We were travelling on the
road not ten miles north of here when bandits attacked. They killed my friends
and as I most skilfully despatched the last of the thugs I succumbed to this
nasty little wound.” He places his hand over the bandage. “With all the
strength I could muster I stumbled for what felt like an eternity only to fall
into your waiting arms.” Looking across at Yorgan he offers a return wink.
“And pray tell what were you doing on the road anyway sir?”
Octavius interrupts in a curt tone.
“We were in search of gold.” He whispers holding the word
gold on his tongue for several seconds.
Springing forwards Silaqui lands deftly besides the man, her
dainty shoes making little sound. “Gold?” she says ravenously.
“Why yes, several full moons ago we acquired a map from an
old vagrant woman, she claimed to have be a serving wench in a lush palatial
mansion. She told us a story of a secret tunnel and a lost treasure, having
become too old to seek it out and claim the prize she bequeathed it to three
strangers and wished us well.”
Without a thought he draws forth the fabled treasure map;
grubby with the passing of many years, the edges torn and the markings faded it
holds as much promise as he has expressed.
“I’d be happy to share the treasure with you, as a…” he
continues after a short pause, “thank you.”
“We’re in!” The three companions belch forth in unison, each
reaching out to grasp the map.
…
Settling into their bedrolls the group once again leaves
Yorgan to watch over their exposed forms.
Crack.
Crack.
Crack.
The sound of breaking wood and leaves enters the camp.
Acting quickly, in the group’s best interest, Yorgan drops his newly formed
erotic sculpture into the fire and hurls three lumps of basalt at his friends.
They wake abruptly.
Four wild bush goblins rage into the firelight as Yorgan
pulls his massive two handed sword from its scabbard, the gleaming shaft of
polished steel glints fire light through the woods like a beacon.
As quickly as she wakes Silaqui scales a nearby tree and
prepares to rain arrows down on the foes.
Blending silently into the shadows, Octavius vanishes from
the fray, his cowardice is acknowledged by the others with snide remarks and
sideward glances. Octavius ignores them and continues to blend into the woods
darkness.
With quick thrusts of his sword and much skill, as yet
unseen, Yorgan manages to dissect two of the beasts, their bodily fluids
spilling onto the ground in great swaths. The frightening creatures chatter and
yell as they drive forwards with the attack, their dull morning stars barely
marking the brave travellers.
After several sidesteps, and some dance moves that would
impress the great Glonar the Grandstander, Yorgan manages, with a little help
from both Silaqui’s sharp eyes and Karl’s less than agile hand, to despatch the
last of the aggressors.
Once again, without a thought for her safety and before the
foes have settled into their death poses, Silaqui leaps from the treetop and
starts to raid the bodies. Wildly she stuffs gold and silver, a javelin and several morning stars into her
rucksack, her fierce mind formulating a way to transport this wealth on her
trusty steed.
The others, unimpressed by her lust for shinny stuff, simply
settle back into their bed rolls, the combat and threat of danger a mere
distraction in their otherwise quite night in.
…
Having gathered much strength from his sleep Karl agrees to
break camp and the party moves out on the wings of the morning sunrise,
destination The Mansion.
Two days pass on the road, aside from mushroom picking and
the occasional stop to let Octavius “Meditate” the trip remains uneventful.
….
A tendril of grey smoke rises above the ruins of a once
prosperous town; the broken remains sit dappled in the gentle morning light.
Towering trees sprout from within the foundations of once rich homes and
popular taverns. Overlooking the desolation a single ruined house watches with
dead, broken windows.
“That has to be the mansion.” Karl utters while poring over
the simple blueprint, “It just has to be.” He says almost sounding as if he
doesn’t believe the statement himself.
“We should kill who’s making that smoke.” Yorgan says with
little emotion, his hard face almost frowning at the thought.
“Or we could just see who they are?” Octavious responds, his
demeanour somewhat changed from earlier times.
Lazily the horses take the four travellers through the
ruins, small drab birds dart in and out of the shadows while a single raven attempts to hunt them with his vicious black beak.
With a sharp whistle Silaqui calls the bird, “Come.” She
adds loudly.
The black bird flies over and lands deftly on her shoulder, the
corpse of a small sparrow still twitching in his beak.
“You have a pet now?” Octavious mockingly asks.
Looking across her nose Silaqui responds “yes” with a simple look.
The road soon forks and it becomes clear that the smoke is
fluttering from an abandoned fire; the owner’s bed roll, horse and simple
supplies remain behind, a clear indication that he intends to return to the
tumbled down inn that he’s calling home.
Using his knife Octavious gently flicks through the campers
bag “hello what have we here?” he says as he unearths a duplicate of their map,
“now this is awkward.” He adds while holding the scrap up.
Just then gentle whistling is carried on the wind to dapple
Silaqui’s pointed ears, with a thrust of her hand and the simple instruction, “go”
sends the raven onto the wind.
Wheeling above the party for several moments the black bird
suddenly turns towards the ruined keep and vanishes from sight.
“Now what elf?” Yorgan asks with a sideways glance.
“We wait for him to return with word.”
“You can speak to birds?” Karl asks enthusiastically, his
eyes full of fire.
“Can’t you.” She replies snidely.
Looking sheepishly away from the elf Karl moves to the
doorway of the ruined inn, the tumbledown sign still displaying the once proud
emblem of the Red Dragon Inn franchise.
“What if we just went up there?” Octavious asks doggedly.
“The bird will let us know who is there, then we will know
what plans to make.”
Nodding in agreement the three: Octavious, Yorgan and Karl
sit and watch as the remains of the fire crackle and burn.
Time passes and Yorgan throws some blocks of wood on the
fire to keep it alive, as he watches a shaft of elm hiss and burn the black
bird returns silently and perches atop a broken wall of the inn. Clenched in
its strong beak a swathe of gold and blue fabric, the creature smashes it on
the wall as it attempts kill the object.
“Here.” Silaqui utters while raising her shoulder in
anticipation of the birds talons.
It glides over and grips her coat, as she raises her hand
the great bird drops the strip of cloth to reveal a lion crest, dressed in gold
thread, a smattering of blood stains the corners while great drops of red
liquid spill from the birds beak.
“I think we have our answer.” Silaqui says nodding to the
bird.
