CHAPTER VIII
Bunker led the way, his notched axe drawn. His eyes blazed. He was ready to fight, since Jhenta had miraculously rescued them from the basilisk, and then managed to lead them back to the Crystal Room, where they found Aendar waiting with the others. The paladin had somehow acquired a map of the underground ruins, and he passed to the Bunker. They expected a fight, but the mysterious umbrae had done their work for them, it seemed. They passed an entire company of orcs, lying dead and shriveled. Many of them were equipped with picks and shovels- strange gear for raiders, but Bunker didn't bother to ask. He, like the others, wanted only to escape Maskyr's dungeon before it became their tomb as well.
The surviving adventurers emerged, begraggled, into the sunlight. Bunker shaded his eyes, trying to regain his bearings aboveground. The great ship- like hill of Maskyr's Bluff lay to their right- they must have emerged somewhere south of the village itself. That meant the road lay somewhere behind them. The cave tunnel must have some enchantment about it, to have avoided discovery.
Carine and Andryl came next, understandably shaken yet obviously glad to be on the surface again. Both cast frequent glances over their shoulders- not at the strangely introspective Aendar, but rather at the battered Drannamon. He had received a dangerous wound, which Aendar had patched with a hasty field dressing. The ranger insisted on carrying the unconscious Shalea himself, though he paled and staggered from the effort. Andryl and Bunker would have carried the girl between them, allowing Drannamon to lean on Aendar for support, but the woodsman refused. He slowed their hasty exodus.
Jhenta brought up the rear, carrying their last torch. She'd been strangely quiet during their ascent- understandable, given how close they'd all come to death. She cried out, pointing, and covered her mouth with one hand.
"What's the matter?" Bunker asked. Two corpses lay there in the brush, humans. Their bodies were butchered, and their swords lay in the dirt, dropped from lifeless hands. They wore unusual purple cloaks. "This is not the work of the Guardian," Bunker said, searching the ground for clues.
"Get out of there," rasped Drannamon. "You'll mar the ground, and make any tracks harder for me to read." He gently laid Shalea on the ground and went to examine the find. "This is strange," he said, holding up a tattered purple veil. "What bandit chief uses this as his color?"
"Can you make out anything else?" Bunker asked.
Drannamon shrugged. "An orc killed them, from the look of it." He gestured at the brush and the wounds on the two men. "There are other signs, though. Blood, for one. I might be able to track the creature." The ranger bent down to more closely examine the ground, but then he collapsed.
"Easy lad," Bunker said, rushing to his side. "That's a mighty gash on yer head there." He looked back at the others who were waiting around expectantly. "No need to exert yerself now. We're in no shape for a cross- country trek, let alone another fight. We can chase orcs another day. Right now, we've got to get ourselves patched up." He placed a hand under Drannamon's arm and helped him to his feeet. They both looked back at Shalea, lying unconscious.
"You're right," Drannamon said. He stooped and lifted the girl in his arms. The others were standing around like they were in a daze, even Aendar. "Can you lead us back to the inn, Bunker?" "Right," the dwarf nodded. "I think it's this way."
***
A crowd had gathered outside the Wizard's Hand, so Lhullbannen did not at first realize his three missing daughters had returned. The dwarves had finally arrived in Maskyr's Eye, but not in the way anyone had expected. They came as refugees, not as merchants. The mountain heights were swarming with orcs, and wolves, and giants. Already, rumors were spreading that a black dragon prowled the dwarven halls.
The human merchants flocked out into the square to see them, but when they realized that these dwarves came not to sell but were fleeing their homes, a riot nearly broke out.
Lhullbannen stood on the steps of his inn, surveying the scene before him. His old friend, the guardsman Aarrisson, stood beside him, but Maefi remained inside, clutching little Jhesycha. Lhull had gone inside to get his great axe from his attic trunk, and now he brandished the thing menacingly overhead. "Silence!" He bellowed, trying to restore some sense of order. "Be quiet, everyone. Let us hear what the Stout Folk have to say." He glared a challenge at the knot of dwarves huddled together at the foot of the stairs.
Finally, one of the dwarves took it upon himself to act as their spokesman. He came forward and bowed to the burly innkeeper, who he took to be the leader of the village.
"I am Beniah Stonebeard," he said. His mastery of the Common Tongue was halting but fair. The dwarves of the mountains did not often mingle with other races. At his belt, Beniah wore a great horn, tipped with silver. The very horn which had announced their arrival- or their flight. He confirmed most of what had already come to Lhullbannen's ears- a horde of orcs had fallen upon the dwarves and driven them from their mines. "We left many kinsfolk behind," he said sadly, "and not all of them dead. But the orcs were in great numbers, and we could not win back across the field of foes to save our friends." He sighed, and unconsciously rubbed the axe-handle which hung from his belt. The blade was missing, and the haft was broken. Most of the dwarves there were still as stones. Some of them, probably women, though it was hard for Lhull to tell, sobbed quietly. "We fought our way here, gathering whoever we could find. Their archers and wolfriders hurt us badly, but we pressed on."
"As dwarves always do," Lhullbannen said, a hint of sympathy in his voice. "Tell me, Beniah Stonebeard, are the orcs following you?" Every dwarf nodded.
That news chilled the hearts of the gathered listeners. The dwarves' tale caused quite an uproar among the visiting merchants, who began to pack up their goods. The villagers for the most part remained calm. Stoic and resigned to their danger, the men and women of Maskyr's Eye would stand and fight. Though it had been many winters since the last orc horde had boiled over from the mountains, the lore of Maskyr's Eye was full of tales of valiant death and desperate defense.
"Folk, hear me," Lhullbannen said. "Everyone of fighting age must arm themselves. Aarrisson is our appointed guardsman, so he is in charge." He began outlining a plan for the defense of the village.
"Those few among us who are able to fight will aid you," said Beniah, "but many of us are very old, or very young. We are craftsmen mostly, or miners. We were able to bring little of armor or weaponry." He looked over at the human merchants, many of whom had brought their own guardsmen with them, for protection on the road. They were already packing their carts and preparing to flee. "Will you not aid us?"
Most of the merchants simply averted their eyes, or glared mockingly at the fools who thought they could weather an orc horde. "This is your fight," one said, "not ours. We have already wasted precious time coming here. Now, we find that not only is there to be no Hornmoot, but we are expected to lay down our lives for a plot of horse dung? Returning empty-handed will be sore enough for us. The loss of income will be grievous. If we stay and fight, what is there in it for us? Only the prospect of more losses, not to mention the threat of mortal danger. No thank you." The others muttered their agreement, and hastened to be on their way. The dwarves made no response, but the men of Maskyr's Eye grumbled loudly at what, to them, sounded like cowardice.
One merchant raised his voice above the din. "I came all the way here from Cormyr," he said. The other merchants, most of them Sembians, sneered at him. "In my country, too, we suffer from orc raids." He gestured at the villagers, dwarves, merchants and guardsmen. "Together, we have a sizeable force, enough to guard our flanks, if we moved quickly. We could assemble a caravan, and march out of here."
More than one villager liked that idea. "Where would we go?" We have no king to protect us like you do in the Forest Kingdom."
"Well," the Cormyrean stammered. "I dunno."
The Sembians snickered, and even a few of his own mercenaries grinned at the naivete of their employer.
Lhullbannen did not laugh. "I thank you for your offer, merchant of Cormyr. Your bravery does you credit. But we cannot abandon our homes." Some of the dwarves shifted uneasily, but said nothing. Most of the villagers nodded in agreement. "Will you stay with us and fight?"
For a long moment, the merchant calculated his odds. A hundred guardsmen, some bedraggled dwarves and a score of villagers with pitch forks against an orc army. "Alas, I cannot." He looked at his feet. "But any folk who choose may travel with me, under my protection, such as it is." The other merchants had distanced themselves from the young Cormyrean, leaving only him and his six men-at-arms.
Lhullbannen shook his head, saddened. He knew his folk stood little chance, even if every dwarf and every merchant and all their guardsmen and retainers stayed and fought on behalf of the vale. But Maskyr's Eye had weathered such assaults before. Won or lost, they'd always returned, and rebuilt, and persevered. The long cemetery behind the Temple of Chauntea was testament to that.
He was a former adventurer. He knew he stood little chance if orcs came in numbers like the dwarves described. But he was the only one in the village with experience in war. He knew his death would bring further pain to poor Maefi- that was why she was huddled in their bedroom, instead of at his side. He regretted he would probably die while three of his four daughters were missing. He would lead this battle, and he would give his life to save the village that had been so good to him. He only wished Sshansalue, his former companion, was still there. She had given him warning, but he had not believed it. The villagers all looked up at him expectantly.
"Will no one join us in this fight?"
"We will!"
Lhullbannen could not see who had spoken. The voice came from the back of the crowd, but the villagers parted. At the far end of the square was a group of about seven - six humans, and perhaps a dwarf. From his vantage point across the square, Lhull could not make out their faces, but he instantly recognized their type. Adventurers. Fortuneseekers. Troublemakers. They'd come into his inn, or those like them, enough times for him to know. He could spot them a league off. He'd once been like them.
As they came closer, the crowd parted to let them through. Lhullbannen could see that most of them were wounded, barely able to walk. Typical. One of them was even carrying a smaller companion in his arms. No doubt they'd demand healing first, as well as food and lodging and money the villagers didn't have. Lhullbannen wondered how they had gotten those wounds. Had these adventurers been up in the Giantspikes, and perhaps run afoul of the orcs? He narrowed his eyes. Or were they instigators, perhaps meddling somewhere men should not go, and brought down the wrath of the mountain gods on his unsuspecting village?
The villagers began to murmer, and Lhullbannen peered more closely at the approaching group. They didn't have the look of seasoned mercenaries, but any help, any willing sword, would be welcome. Then, he heard Aarrisson gasp beside him, and point. From above, he heard Maefi suddenly scream in her bedchamber, and they all heard the thump-thump-thump of his heavy wife running down the stairs. Lhullbannen was puzzled. She never moved that quickly unless-
The adventurers halted, a dozen paces in front of Lhullbannen. His two eldest- Carine and Andryl- stepped forward. His heart leapt. They looked pale, and dirty, but they were alive. He was about to smile when the doors to his common room burst open and Maefi burst out, still clutching little Jhesycha in her meaty arms. "My lasses! They're home!" Maefi bounded past him and gathered Carine and Andryl in her arms.
Bunker led the way, his notched axe drawn. His eyes blazed. He was ready to fight, since Jhenta had miraculously rescued them from the basilisk, and then managed to lead them back to the Crystal Room, where they found Aendar waiting with the others. The paladin had somehow acquired a map of the underground ruins, and he passed to the Bunker. They expected a fight, but the mysterious umbrae had done their work for them, it seemed. They passed an entire company of orcs, lying dead and shriveled. Many of them were equipped with picks and shovels- strange gear for raiders, but Bunker didn't bother to ask. He, like the others, wanted only to escape Maskyr's dungeon before it became their tomb as well.
The surviving adventurers emerged, begraggled, into the sunlight. Bunker shaded his eyes, trying to regain his bearings aboveground. The great ship- like hill of Maskyr's Bluff lay to their right- they must have emerged somewhere south of the village itself. That meant the road lay somewhere behind them. The cave tunnel must have some enchantment about it, to have avoided discovery.
Carine and Andryl came next, understandably shaken yet obviously glad to be on the surface again. Both cast frequent glances over their shoulders- not at the strangely introspective Aendar, but rather at the battered Drannamon. He had received a dangerous wound, which Aendar had patched with a hasty field dressing. The ranger insisted on carrying the unconscious Shalea himself, though he paled and staggered from the effort. Andryl and Bunker would have carried the girl between them, allowing Drannamon to lean on Aendar for support, but the woodsman refused. He slowed their hasty exodus.
Jhenta brought up the rear, carrying their last torch. She'd been strangely quiet during their ascent- understandable, given how close they'd all come to death. She cried out, pointing, and covered her mouth with one hand.
"What's the matter?" Bunker asked. Two corpses lay there in the brush, humans. Their bodies were butchered, and their swords lay in the dirt, dropped from lifeless hands. They wore unusual purple cloaks. "This is not the work of the Guardian," Bunker said, searching the ground for clues.
"Get out of there," rasped Drannamon. "You'll mar the ground, and make any tracks harder for me to read." He gently laid Shalea on the ground and went to examine the find. "This is strange," he said, holding up a tattered purple veil. "What bandit chief uses this as his color?"
"Can you make out anything else?" Bunker asked.
Drannamon shrugged. "An orc killed them, from the look of it." He gestured at the brush and the wounds on the two men. "There are other signs, though. Blood, for one. I might be able to track the creature." The ranger bent down to more closely examine the ground, but then he collapsed.
"Easy lad," Bunker said, rushing to his side. "That's a mighty gash on yer head there." He looked back at the others who were waiting around expectantly. "No need to exert yerself now. We're in no shape for a cross- country trek, let alone another fight. We can chase orcs another day. Right now, we've got to get ourselves patched up." He placed a hand under Drannamon's arm and helped him to his feeet. They both looked back at Shalea, lying unconscious.
"You're right," Drannamon said. He stooped and lifted the girl in his arms. The others were standing around like they were in a daze, even Aendar. "Can you lead us back to the inn, Bunker?" "Right," the dwarf nodded. "I think it's this way."
***
A crowd had gathered outside the Wizard's Hand, so Lhullbannen did not at first realize his three missing daughters had returned. The dwarves had finally arrived in Maskyr's Eye, but not in the way anyone had expected. They came as refugees, not as merchants. The mountain heights were swarming with orcs, and wolves, and giants. Already, rumors were spreading that a black dragon prowled the dwarven halls.
The human merchants flocked out into the square to see them, but when they realized that these dwarves came not to sell but were fleeing their homes, a riot nearly broke out.
Lhullbannen stood on the steps of his inn, surveying the scene before him. His old friend, the guardsman Aarrisson, stood beside him, but Maefi remained inside, clutching little Jhesycha. Lhull had gone inside to get his great axe from his attic trunk, and now he brandished the thing menacingly overhead. "Silence!" He bellowed, trying to restore some sense of order. "Be quiet, everyone. Let us hear what the Stout Folk have to say." He glared a challenge at the knot of dwarves huddled together at the foot of the stairs.
Finally, one of the dwarves took it upon himself to act as their spokesman. He came forward and bowed to the burly innkeeper, who he took to be the leader of the village.
"I am Beniah Stonebeard," he said. His mastery of the Common Tongue was halting but fair. The dwarves of the mountains did not often mingle with other races. At his belt, Beniah wore a great horn, tipped with silver. The very horn which had announced their arrival- or their flight. He confirmed most of what had already come to Lhullbannen's ears- a horde of orcs had fallen upon the dwarves and driven them from their mines. "We left many kinsfolk behind," he said sadly, "and not all of them dead. But the orcs were in great numbers, and we could not win back across the field of foes to save our friends." He sighed, and unconsciously rubbed the axe-handle which hung from his belt. The blade was missing, and the haft was broken. Most of the dwarves there were still as stones. Some of them, probably women, though it was hard for Lhull to tell, sobbed quietly. "We fought our way here, gathering whoever we could find. Their archers and wolfriders hurt us badly, but we pressed on."
"As dwarves always do," Lhullbannen said, a hint of sympathy in his voice. "Tell me, Beniah Stonebeard, are the orcs following you?" Every dwarf nodded.
That news chilled the hearts of the gathered listeners. The dwarves' tale caused quite an uproar among the visiting merchants, who began to pack up their goods. The villagers for the most part remained calm. Stoic and resigned to their danger, the men and women of Maskyr's Eye would stand and fight. Though it had been many winters since the last orc horde had boiled over from the mountains, the lore of Maskyr's Eye was full of tales of valiant death and desperate defense.
"Folk, hear me," Lhullbannen said. "Everyone of fighting age must arm themselves. Aarrisson is our appointed guardsman, so he is in charge." He began outlining a plan for the defense of the village.
"Those few among us who are able to fight will aid you," said Beniah, "but many of us are very old, or very young. We are craftsmen mostly, or miners. We were able to bring little of armor or weaponry." He looked over at the human merchants, many of whom had brought their own guardsmen with them, for protection on the road. They were already packing their carts and preparing to flee. "Will you not aid us?"
Most of the merchants simply averted their eyes, or glared mockingly at the fools who thought they could weather an orc horde. "This is your fight," one said, "not ours. We have already wasted precious time coming here. Now, we find that not only is there to be no Hornmoot, but we are expected to lay down our lives for a plot of horse dung? Returning empty-handed will be sore enough for us. The loss of income will be grievous. If we stay and fight, what is there in it for us? Only the prospect of more losses, not to mention the threat of mortal danger. No thank you." The others muttered their agreement, and hastened to be on their way. The dwarves made no response, but the men of Maskyr's Eye grumbled loudly at what, to them, sounded like cowardice.
One merchant raised his voice above the din. "I came all the way here from Cormyr," he said. The other merchants, most of them Sembians, sneered at him. "In my country, too, we suffer from orc raids." He gestured at the villagers, dwarves, merchants and guardsmen. "Together, we have a sizeable force, enough to guard our flanks, if we moved quickly. We could assemble a caravan, and march out of here."
More than one villager liked that idea. "Where would we go?" We have no king to protect us like you do in the Forest Kingdom."
"Well," the Cormyrean stammered. "I dunno."
The Sembians snickered, and even a few of his own mercenaries grinned at the naivete of their employer.
Lhullbannen did not laugh. "I thank you for your offer, merchant of Cormyr. Your bravery does you credit. But we cannot abandon our homes." Some of the dwarves shifted uneasily, but said nothing. Most of the villagers nodded in agreement. "Will you stay with us and fight?"
For a long moment, the merchant calculated his odds. A hundred guardsmen, some bedraggled dwarves and a score of villagers with pitch forks against an orc army. "Alas, I cannot." He looked at his feet. "But any folk who choose may travel with me, under my protection, such as it is." The other merchants had distanced themselves from the young Cormyrean, leaving only him and his six men-at-arms.
Lhullbannen shook his head, saddened. He knew his folk stood little chance, even if every dwarf and every merchant and all their guardsmen and retainers stayed and fought on behalf of the vale. But Maskyr's Eye had weathered such assaults before. Won or lost, they'd always returned, and rebuilt, and persevered. The long cemetery behind the Temple of Chauntea was testament to that.
He was a former adventurer. He knew he stood little chance if orcs came in numbers like the dwarves described. But he was the only one in the village with experience in war. He knew his death would bring further pain to poor Maefi- that was why she was huddled in their bedroom, instead of at his side. He regretted he would probably die while three of his four daughters were missing. He would lead this battle, and he would give his life to save the village that had been so good to him. He only wished Sshansalue, his former companion, was still there. She had given him warning, but he had not believed it. The villagers all looked up at him expectantly.
"Will no one join us in this fight?"
"We will!"
Lhullbannen could not see who had spoken. The voice came from the back of the crowd, but the villagers parted. At the far end of the square was a group of about seven - six humans, and perhaps a dwarf. From his vantage point across the square, Lhull could not make out their faces, but he instantly recognized their type. Adventurers. Fortuneseekers. Troublemakers. They'd come into his inn, or those like them, enough times for him to know. He could spot them a league off. He'd once been like them.
As they came closer, the crowd parted to let them through. Lhullbannen could see that most of them were wounded, barely able to walk. Typical. One of them was even carrying a smaller companion in his arms. No doubt they'd demand healing first, as well as food and lodging and money the villagers didn't have. Lhullbannen wondered how they had gotten those wounds. Had these adventurers been up in the Giantspikes, and perhaps run afoul of the orcs? He narrowed his eyes. Or were they instigators, perhaps meddling somewhere men should not go, and brought down the wrath of the mountain gods on his unsuspecting village?
The villagers began to murmer, and Lhullbannen peered more closely at the approaching group. They didn't have the look of seasoned mercenaries, but any help, any willing sword, would be welcome. Then, he heard Aarrisson gasp beside him, and point. From above, he heard Maefi suddenly scream in her bedchamber, and they all heard the thump-thump-thump of his heavy wife running down the stairs. Lhullbannen was puzzled. She never moved that quickly unless-
The adventurers halted, a dozen paces in front of Lhullbannen. His two eldest- Carine and Andryl- stepped forward. His heart leapt. They looked pale, and dirty, but they were alive. He was about to smile when the doors to his common room burst open and Maefi burst out, still clutching little Jhesycha in her meaty arms. "My lasses! They're home!" Maefi bounded past him and gathered Carine and Andryl in her arms.
