Child Of Storms (Volume 1) (58 page)

              “And the knife?” Ironhelm asked.

             
“This knife?” the gnome said, a long thin blade suddenly in his hand. Its point was still covered in black blood. He produced a small cloth from his pocket and began to clean the blade as he spoke. “It comes from inside my boot, of course! I’m not some bloody amateur, you know!” He held up his foot for a moment for all to see. “These are shabby old boots, nothing particularly fine or interesting about them. Furthermore, they are gnome-sized. Almost no bandit would ever take them even if he needed boots, as they would not fit him. I spent a long time designing these, and I am bloody glad I did. There is a secret fold on the side which contains my knife, and another on the other side with a small assortment of lock picks and files. Inside is a false bottom, with an assortment of useful items in a pinch. I’ve got a small fortune in gemstones in the heel. A metal vial of magical healing elixir is also in there, along with a few of those fire-starting pellets and a coil of strong elf rope as thin as fishing line. In the other foot are some gold coins, a garrote, and a tiny blow gun with five darts tipped with a powerful knock-out poison. In short, anything useful in a capture situation which I could possibly think of is included in these boots. I can cut my bindings with the belt-knife, slay whomever I need to with the boot-knife, the garrote, or the blowgun, and pick whatever locks I need. If I require rope, I have it. And should I need funds, I also have them aplenty. Prepare for anything, I always say. Oh, and I nearly forget; there are a few small strips of cured beef tucked in here, too. Only enough for a snack, but I’d have cherished them on the walk to Glammonfore.

“There was this one time, I was thrown in the dungeon of some two-bit baron up in Brithborea. I’d salvaged some gold out of a local Guardian ruin, and this nasty fellow felt that he deserved a portion of my haul. The lion’s share, as I recall. The bloody ass threw me in his dungeon, if you can believe it! I was out free again the very first night and swiped a prized chalice from his hall as just compensation for my trouble. Thanks, in no small measure, to these boots and this belt.”

              “I’m just glad we didn’t slow down your escape too much, laddie,” Ironhelm shook his head. “Aye, it sounds like you had everything well in hand.”

             
“Hardly! I thought I was doomed for a while there. But then it occurred to me that as long as I didn’t give up, I might very well make it through the dreadful experience alive. It’s always when people give up and decide that they don’t have a chance that they don’t make it. Attitude is everything.”

             
The dwarf shook his head again.

             
“If you say so, laddie.” Ironhelm said, rising. “As for me, I’ve had enough of this entire damned devil day. Wake me when my turn at watch has come.”

Twenty-Five

Jorn preferred the moors to the marshes.

He climbed at dawn to the top of the hill they were camped upon. All around him the landscape was draped in a thick blanket of fog, nothing but white in all directions. The magnificent desolation of the moors remained hidden from view. Underneath the veil, he knew, were gentle hills covered in grass and thick moss. Patches of purple heather added color, along the with the patches of dark rock and tangled shrubs clinging to the hillsides.

It was as though the soggy ground he stood upon was the whole universe, blank emptiness stretching out all around him. It was a world without size, time, or color. Was this what the afterlife was like, he wondered, a mind staring out into the blankness forever? Better to sleep, he supposed, the deep sleep from which there was no waking.

Turning, he worked his way back down the hillside to the camp. There was a fire going and a vigorous debate on what to do next was in full swing.

No one wanted to venture very far into the moors if they could help it, recalling Willock’s words about the strange goings-on whispered about in Glammonfore Keep. The woodsman proposed they skirt the edge of the hills all the way to the Teeth. They were very close to the edge of the hills, he pointed out.

“Ach. Skirting the edges would add at least two days to the trip, laddie,” Ironhelm pointed out. “Aye, tis true. Tha’s yet another delay.”

“But a necessary one,” Willock said. “The reports of wizards within the hills -”

“I wouldn’t be concerned about that,” Ronias interjected. “There is no secret council of wizards in these hills. That much I know. There may be a few recluses dwelling out there, but nothing which should deter us.”

“You are certain?” Willock said.

“I am,” Ronias said. “These moors are the safest place to be in this entire valley.”

“What of the reports?” Willock asked. “Lightning out of a clear blue sky!”

“It is wizardry, I will say that much, but nothing which should worry us,” Ronias said. “These hills are something of a…I suppose one could describe them as a sort of crossroads for wizards. And what better place to have such a crossroads than here in these moors, already taboo to so many servants of Kaas and yet only a day from Glammonfore Keep? I assure you, I wouldn’t suggest venturing any further within if I thought these hills the least bit dangerous.”

They ate a hurried breakfast of leftover venison and were soon heading off into the hills once again. Their spirits brightened as the sound of geese could be heard overhead through the fog.

“There is abundant game here,” Willock commented.

“The problem, as I see it,” Jorn said. “Is how to obtain enough food
after
we leave the moors.”

“We can deal with that,” the woodsman said.

“What did you have in mind?” Jorn asked.

“When we reach the edge of the moors, it may be worth stopping for half a day to hunt,” Willock said. “We could kill a few deer and then build a small smokehouse to preserve the meat for the rest of the journey.”

“A smokehouse!” Ironhelm exclaimed. “Ach! Should we be inviting attention with a column of smoke, laddies?”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Willock said. “We can smoke the meat overnight. I figure we’ll reach the far edge of the moors tomorrow around midday. Jorn and I will spend the afternoon hunting while everyone else builds the smokehouse in a few hours. We can cut peat from the moors and burn it all night. We’ll have plenty of food to last us by morning.”

“Good,” Jorn said. “We’ll do it. I love smoked venison.”

“You’d better,” Willock said. “Because that’s all we’ll be eating for the next week.”

As the day wore on, the fog burned away and they could soon see the distant tops of the hills around them. They made their way south deeper into the moors, cautiously watching for any sign of danger. By midday most of the fog was gone, only a few gentle wreaths of mist still hanging about the hilltops in a few places. Hill upon green hill stretched out, herds of the ubiquitous red deer grazing on every hillside. The Teeth of Kaas loomed large on the horizon above it all.

“That’s the pass, right there,” Willock said, staring at it intently. He could just make out the narrow cleft splitting the two towering peaks if he squinted. He took out his spyscope and studied the pass.

“My, that’s a bloody long way to climb,” Flatfoot commented.

“The sides are steep on either side of the pass,” Willock remarked, lowering the spyscope. “If the pass is guarded…well, it won’t be a simple matter to climb up and around it.”

“Ach!” Ironhelm muttered. “We’ll find a way. There never was a mountain slope that conquered a dwarf. Aye, tis true.”

____

             
“I wonder what their quarrel was,” Flatfoot said that afternoon as they walked along. He and Ailric walked side-by-side in the rear, only Ronias behind them.

             
“What quarrel?” the knight said.

             
“The Saurians and those bloody swampbeasts, or whatever the hell they’re called,” Flatfoot said.

             
“Who knows?” Ailric said. “Territory, perhaps?”

             
“No doubt,” the gnome said, still considering the situation. “Now that I think about it, my whole time with the swampbeasts, brief though I grant you it was, I saw no sign of agriculture of any kind.”

             
“They did not seem all that intelligent,” Ailric said. “I would’ve been surprised to see any farming or even basic animal husbandry among them.”

             
“True enough,” Flatfoot said. “The horses were valued to them only as food. I also saw with my own eyes that they eat Saurians after ritually sacrificing them.”

             
“I see. So…what are you trying to tell us?” Ailric asked. The knight had grown used to Flatfoot’s rambling way of approaching topics, and knew just how to help him get to what he was trying to say.

             
“The swampbeasts were not at war with the Saurians over control of the marshes,” the gnome said. “The swampbeasts, I do believe, are but wandering raiders.  I contend that the Saurians settled in the swamps a long time ago and this group of ‘swampbeasts’ came in only recently and starting preying on them. They took up residence in the ruins, perhaps even evicting the Saurians who may have been living there.”

             
“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn said from up in front, casting them a sly grin. I don’t know how you can conclude all of that, Sal. Surely you can provide us with reasons in support of these assertions!”

“Ach! Must you, laddie?” Ironhelm groaned under his breath.

              “Oh, but indeed I can,” Flatfoot said, pretending not to hear the dwarf. “I have several pieces of evidence to support this belief. First, there is the aqueduct.”

             
“What of it?” Ailric said.

             
“It was functioning,” Flatfoot said. “After all those centuries in the swamps, yet it was still functioning perfectly and delivering cool and clean water to the very heart of those marshes. Someone kept up on repairs, kept it clear of debris, and kept the water flowing. Do you think it was those hairy monsters? Before you answer, I ask you to consider their weapons: Crudely formed clubs. I grant you that these weapons are effective given their great bulk, but would you not agree that any creature intelligent enough to keep that aqueduct running over the course of centuries would also be sufficiently smart to develop better weapons to use? Everything about their camp was so crudely-formed that I cannot believe they were responsible for keeping the aqueduct running. No, the swampbeasts came from somewhere else, perhaps the mountains.”

             
“Their thick fur would serve them well in the high mountains,” Ailric added.

             
“Indeed. Whatever the case and wherever they came from, they are not – strictly speaking, mind you – swampbeasts,” Flatfoot said. “That leads me to my next question. Namely, are the beasts perpetually nomadic by nature or did someone, or some
thing
, chase them out of their ancestral hunting grounds in the mountains and down into the marshes?”

             
“That’s a fascinating question,” Jorn said.

             
“You son of a bitch,” Ironhelm muttered, glaring at Jorn.

             
“I’d hate to see what could chase those things out of the mountains,” Jorn said.

             
“Ach! It’s all useless talk,” Ironhelm grumbled. “We survived the damned bloody things. I don’t give a gruk’s ass where they came from or why they were there.”

             
“Well, that’s just rude,” Flatfoot said. “We were merely discussing –”

             
“What’s that?” Jorn said, interrupting. He pointed off to the right, near the edge of the moors a few miles away. Atop one of the hills was something very tall and straight sticking up above the rolling terrain.

             
They all stopped, squinting and staring.

             
“It looks like some kind of structure,” Flatfoot said, his sharp gnomish eyes focusing on the object. “It’s a tower, and an awfully tall one at that. Yes, most definitely.”

             
Willock studied the object through his spyscope before lowering the instrument and handing it to Jorn.

             
“Never doubt the eyesight of a gnome,” Willock announced, handing the spyscope to Jorn. “It’s a tower, all right. Damnedest thing to see, so far out here.”

             
“I am beginning to see tha’ this whole valley was once anything but the wilderness it is now, laddies,” Ironhelm said, shrugging. “Aye, tis true. But I’ll wager it’s nothing more than an old watchtower. Aye, nothing to concern us in the least bit.”

             
Jorn peered through the scope at the distant tower. He recognized its slim profile as well as the lack of any ornament or windows along its entire length.              

“I’ve seen this tower before,” he announced.

              “Wha’ do you mean, laddie?” Ironhelm said.

             
“You’ve seen it, too,” Jorn said, tossing Ironhelm the spyscope. “Go ahead. Take a look. Don’t you remember? Five years ago, on the road from Falneth to Loc Goren. It was across the lake. This tower is identical in every detail.”

             
Ironhelm took a brief look, handing the spyscope back to Willock.

             
“It could be a similar tower, laddie,” the dwarf said, shrugging. “Aye, but I doubt it very much. Tha’ tower in Linlund is, um, a good seven hundred miles from here. This is just the ruins of some Guardian watchtower. Aye, tis true.”

             
“Grang’s balls!” Jorn said. “Come on, let’s take a closer look.”

             
“Ach! Tha’s a waste of time!” Ironhelm said.

             
“We are heading sort of that way already,” Jorn said. “Besides, it might give us a little shelter for the night. Don’t tell me you’re not a little curious.”

             
“Curiosity!” Ironhelm growled loudly. “Ach!”

_____

             
The sun was low on the horizon as they arrived at the base of the tower. It was at least a hundred feet tall, formed of smoothly-fit slabs of gray stone all the way to the top. The tower was a perfectly-shaped cylinder barely ten feet wide. It looked so thin it might blow over in a strong wind, yet it retained a certain appearance of solidity.

They looked it over carefully as they approached. A single opening at its base was the only marking along its surface except for a series of small window slits going up its entire length. The opening was a man-sized rectangle leading within. It reminded
Jorn of a lighthouse, except where the beacon should have been at the top was a flat roof.

             
Cautiously approaching the silent edifice, Jorn watched for any movement from within. He saw nothing besides its dark silhouette against the setting sun.

             
“It’s just like the tower in Linlund,” he whispered.

             
“Indeed, Linlunder,” Ronias said, smirking. “It is
exactly
the same, down to the tiniest detail.”

             
The elf rose and began walking through the grass towards the lonely spire. The others paused, glancing at one another. Jorn shrugged his shoulders and set off behind the elf. The rest followed cautiously.

A minute later they stood in front of the tower, Ronias approaching the entrance. The elf paused, running his hand along its edge as he peered within.

              “There’s a watcher nearby,” he said. “We can take shelter within the tower tonight. He’ll be along by morning, though, if not long before then.”

             
“Ach! No damned riddles!” Ironhelm snapped. “Who or wha’ is this, um,  ‘Watcher’?”