Author's Note: I've come mighty close to scrapping this whole lifeless, uncooperative chapter. [Insert cuss words here. Ahem. Pardon my Illuskan. Now that I'm about done, I think I've figured out what's wrong—this chapter's terribly short on dialog (which is what I love to write) and action (which I have a love/hate relationship with, LOL). But I can't figure out a good way around it so…let's soldier on, shall we? Feel free to drop me a scathing review. I promise that the next chapter is packed with both action and dialog!

Chapter 15…The Katalmach

The trip to Old Owl Well was tediously uneventful. Their guide was lean and dour and rather small for a human, little taller than Carona. Her name was Chule. With her worn, weathered face, she could have been any age from a hard-lived forty to a well-preserved seventy. Something about her—the way she never wasted a word or a movement—reminded Carona of Daeghun. Chule had little to say, preferring gestures over words, and she placed the welfare of the donkeys over their riders' comfort or safety. She also seemed to rate the donkeys' intelligence considerably higher than her employers.

Considering that they were deliberately headed into orc-infested lands, Carona conceded the point.

Carona had never actually seen an orc but there were several half-orcs in the guild—big scary bruisers sporting tusks and an abundance of body hair—and she had always been careful not to cross them. Moire had clearly despised them and stuck them with the lowest or most dangerous tasks. They could not safely retaliate against Moire but they could and did take out their resentment on others, particularly on those who showed traces of elven blood. Given how intimidating a half-orc was, she expected a full-blooded orc to be nightmarish.

Khelgar tried to cheer her up with tales of bloody clashes between orcs and his clan until she and Neeshka begged him to stop.

Accustomed to walking wherever she needed to go, Carona had always rather envied those who rode. Now she learned the reality of uncomfortable saddles and the ache of seldom used muscles. Still, they could never have carried their gear as well as the water they needed on their own backs. And she had to admit that these animals were clever, placid and even friendly. She didn't know if the stubborn temperament of donkeys was exaggerated in the common lore or if their gentleness was from the influence of Chule and Elanee. She'd now have to think twice about calling Cormick a stubborn jackass. 'Stubborn Harborman' was much more accurate.

Ever since her talk with Cormick, he and Lorne had been much on her mind. Although all three had grown up in the same village, their early lives had been quite different. How much those differences had shaped and defined them, she couldn't say.

She had been raised by a man so engrossed by his own grief that nothing else was quite real to him, or so it seemed to Carona. She had only uncomfortable guesses about why he had accepted responsibility for her when he took no solace from her presence. His home had been chill and silent. Daeghun had met all her material needs—she had never gone hungry or ragged or slept cold, and he taught her the skills she would need to survive on her own. He had meticulously done his duty by her and if (as she had once told Cormick during one of their arguments) she had had enough of duty to last a lifetime, the flaw was perhaps as much in her own character as in his stoic example.

Like her, Cormick had been orphaned during that long-ago attack on West Harbor. Only Tymora's luck or the hand of some other god had kept the monsters that killed his parents from sniffing him out of his hiding place as well. He was taken in by his three unmarried and childless aunts, who doted on their young nephew. The aunts were rich by West Harbor standards—their land was farmed by tenants and they lived off the tithe and (rumor had it) a stash of gold that had been laid down by an adventurous ancestor. As proof of their wealth, they had an astounding number of books, a whole shelf full, almost as many as the wizard Tarmas. Cormick had been allowed to read them whenever he wished. Carona had envied his good fortune with all the fervor of her youthful heart.

According to Lewy Jons, Carona's source for village gossip both new and old, many heads had been shaken over Cormick's rearing. 'No good will come from spoiling and coddling the boy' seemed the general consensus but the pessimists were proven wrong. Despite being petted and lavished with every luxury the aunts could devise; despite never being whipped and never given chores, Cormick grew up to be as hard-headed and hard-working as any Harborman could wish.

Lorne, in contrast, had been raised in village-approved austerity. After his dad disappeared Lorne had become the head of his family, running the farm and caring for his mama and three young siblings at the tender age of thirteen summers. He'd been a big strapping lad, tall as many a man in the village. His mother, Retta, clung to and depended upon him in a way that Carona found odd and almost uncomfortable to witness. Although she had lived in West Harbor since before Carona was born, Retta had come from Neverwinter and she was still considered a newcomer by the village, soft and incompetent like all city folk. It seemed natural to the villagers that Lorne, young as he had been, should take charge.

Lorne and Cormick had been rivals since their earliest childhood. The stormy relationship that developed between them when they reached their late teens had been regarded in West Harbor as an unexplainable oddity, a little joke of Sharess perhaps. The two youths had much in common—their physical prowess and competitive spirits stood out—but Carona had thought it was their differences that formed the attraction. She had caught glimpses of the zealous passion hidden beneath Cormick's stolid exterior and she had also seen the insecurity behind Lorne's bluster.

In some ways, Lorne had been a very typical Harborman—large, strong, and more than a little obstinate. He was moody, though. When he was happy, one couldn't ask for better company but he had a wild and unpredictable temper and no more control over it than a small child. His anger rarely erupted into words but in actions—a thrown boot or tool, a backhand or a shove, and sometimes worse than that. And afterwards, he might be sweet or caressing but never apologetic. He would rarely mention or even acknowledge anything he had done in a rage. Sometimes Carona had felt there were two men inside him and one was an angry, brutal and silent stranger that even Lorne himself feared.

They had been desperately poor in those days when they had first come to Neverwinter, and that had brought plenty of frustrations. Watchmen perennially groused about their pay but at least they took home honest coin now, not the scrip they'd been issued during the war. Few merchants had accepted scrip and with food in short supply, they could charge as they pleased. The three of them would have starved if Carona, with the skills she'd picked up from Lewy Jons, hadn't spent her days breaking into plague-emptied houses and taking what could be sold or traded. This fact she nominally kept hidden from Cormick, who was unwilling to believe that the pay he worked so hard for was only good for privy paper.

Lorne had never handled idleness or frustration well. After Cormick threw him off the Watch, Carona often saw the wordless brute lurking behind Lorne's eyes. Lorne had quickly given up looking for work, not that there was much to be found. The one time she rather diffidently suggested he return to West Harbor, his reaction had been almost frighteningly intense. That was when she realized that the competitiveness between him and Cormick had not abated, on his side at least.

Cormick was working long shifts and Carona soon found excuses to be out on her own, away from Lorne and his peevish temper. She finally lost what little patience she had left when she returned to find that Lorne, no longer able to cadge drinks by flashing his Watchman's cloak, had gotten drunk on what remained of the household coin. He'd been in a maudlin state but that changed the moment Carona cursed him and asked what they were supposed to eat for the next ten-day.

Nothing had made Lorne angrier than being in the wrong. What happened next was all too predictable but like Lorne, she had been angry and frustrated and unwilling to back down. She had been so tired of being the only practical member of their ménage. Cormick could have used his position as Watch sergeant to help them all. Instead, he put his hand in his pocket for every beggar that crossed his path. And Lorne had been content to let her take full responsibility for all their day-to-day needs. As much as she had later laid Lorne's fate at Cormick's feet, she knew deep down that she shared the blame. They had all made poor choices.

Carona shook off the unpleasant memory, for their destination was finally in sight.

According to Chule, Old Owl Well had once been a sleepy trading post until razed by orcs. Now it was a war camp, swarming with Greycloaks. The place pulsed with activity, most of which seemed to require a lot of shouting and swearing. Some of the soldiers were training with weapons and others were piling stones to make crude walls around the perimeter of the camp. After their days of quiet travel, the racket was astounding. By her side, Elanee winced.

The well itself was an artesian aquifer that had been dug out a bit and lined with cut stone. It was neither as large nor as impressive as Carona had pictured it, but at least the water was pure and clean. The well was assigned a full-time guard, charged with ensuring no one fouled the water, with the additional responsibility (it seemed to Carona) of harassing those travelers he thought had an unsavory look about them.

Chule took charge of the donkeys and Carona sought out their contact, Karina. The four of them attracted a great deal of attention in this mostly human and mostly male setting and Carona cringed at her own lack of foresight. Accustomed to Neverwinter where the races mingled more freely, she had almost forgotten the reaction of Fort Locke's soldiers to the tiefling's exotic appearance. She gave Neeshka an apologetic look. Neeshka raised her brows with airy nonchalance; feigned, judging by the twitch in her tail. The well guard had not allowed her to fill her water skin for fear she might 'taint' the water; Khelgar had had to do it for her and his wisecracks had not eased the situation.

When Carona finally tracked down their contact, she had to endure Karina's snide comments ('I see the circus is in town') as well as her litany of complaints about the camp, the food, the weather, and the incompetence of the Greycloaks. She was already kicking herself for not entering the camp quietly and alone but getting dressed down by a complete stranger did not set too well with her. At last Karina relented and handed over the forged papers claiming she was here at the Council's behest, to escort the Waterdeep emissary back to Neverwinter.

"Be convincing when you show them to Callum," were her parting words. "Unlike just about everyone else here, he's no fool."

Commander Callum was indeed suspicious and worse, he had no news of the emissary. All they could do was to wait for the return of his scouts, he told them. When Carona asked how long that would be, he gave a curt shrug.

"However long it takes," he told them. "Go make yourselves useful."

Khelgar had been pleased that a fellow dwarf had charge of the camp—until he introduced himself to the commander. "Khelgar Ironfist," Callum had said, looking him up and down with a fishy eye. "I've heard of you," he said with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. He then took pains to remind them that those who brawled in his camp would lose their water privileges. Khelgar stiffened and was uncharacteristically quiet for the rest of the day.

"This is just great," Neeshka grumbled. "I love this place already. We're at a well, and they won't let us have enough water for a bath. And look where they told us to camp. Right smack in the middle of Orc Alley."

Neeshka was right, Carona realized. They'd been told to pitch their tents on the outskirts of the camp where the walls were the weakest.

"Quit your whining," Khelgar said. "Surely you're not afraid of a little orc or two."

"A little orc? No, I'm afraid of a great big orc, the kind that has lots of friends with great big axes. And breath worse than yours, Khelgar. I hear they hit this place just about every night."

So they waited. Orcs attacked that very first night and they were every bit as scary as Carona had imagined. Callum's skepticism abated somewhat when he realized just how handy having a tiefling and a druid on watch in the camp were for his defenses, and he became downright friendly after an evening spent with Khelgar playing some esoteric dwarven game which involved throwing hammers, shouting, and copious amounts of ale. Not friendly enough to offer them any men or material assistance when his scout finally returned with news that the emissary's guard had been slaughtered and Issani taken by orcs. But he did offer them access to his maps and his sincere best wishes for finding and recovering Issani.

"What do we do now?" Carona asked Karina. "Should I take this news back to Neverwinter?" she added hopefully.

"Go find him, of course. There has been no ransom demand and that suggests that the orcs have their own use for Issani, so you must find him and quickly." And that was the extent of her advice.

Chule not only flatly refused to accompany them out of the camp; she also refused to let them take any of 'her' donkeys.

"Few things orcs like better than good donkey flesh," she said. That was a long speech for her. She added, almost under her breath, "Except for killing fool adventurers."

Carona had to share her pessimism. The simplest solution would be to report Issani's death but she had already gently probed Karina and knew she would not back them up. Surely it was a fool's quest for the four of them to comb these orc-infested mountains but she suspected that returning to Neverwinter empty-handed would be suicide of a different flavor. She'd seen enough of Karina to know she'd be quick to paint their failure in the worst possible light.

What she wanted more than anything was to wash her hands of the whole business. What did she have to go back to in Neverwinter? Would anyone care if she never returned? Maybe she should dump Daeghun's cursed shards down the nearest orc-hole, take the donkeys and push on to Yartar. Perhaps she could change her name and sign on with their thieves' guild, the Hand of Yartar. Or maybe she could hire on with a caravan headed south to Waterdeep. Presumably the Night Wings would take her back.

She sighed and pressed her hand against the packet of shards hidden in her tunic. The time might come when she had to give them up but perhaps not just yet.

Callum's scouts had provided them with the location of Yaisog Bonegnasher's clan hold. Although not exactly friendly to non-orcs, he had been known to make deals. Callum suggested they try approaching him and negotiating for Issani's release. How they were to gain an audience with the clan leader without getting killed first was, he said, up to their initiative. He also seemed to assume that the Council had provided them with enough gold to buy the emissary's freedom. (Karina had laughed heartily when Carona suggested she advance them coin for this purpose.)

The various orc tribes were united under an exceptionally powerful and charismatic leader, Logram Eyegouger. This did not bode well for the Greycloaks and perhaps explained some of Callum's irascibility. It was rare for so many clans to work together, an uneasy and unstable state of events, but when it happened, the orcs were a dangerous force indeed. In fact, the Greycloaks might have already been swept away by the orc horde except for the presence of some unknown band of humans who were also attacking the orcs, keeping them disorganized and wary. They were led by a man known to Callum only as the Katalmach, an orcish term for berserker.

"If you can make contact with this Katalmach, perhaps he will have news of Issani," Callum said. "For all I know, Issani may already be under his protection. It is strange that we have received no demand for ransom. Surely the orcs wouldn't have taken him so deliberately without knowing his value, not just to Waterdeep but to Neverwinter as well."

Finding a war camp led by some crazed vigilante who clearly didn't want to be found didn't seem like a great plan to Carona. But it sounded better than dropping in on the orc tribes and trying to strike a deal—particularly since they had nothing of value to trade for Issani. And it sounded a lot better than Khelgar's plan, which could be summed up as 'kill them all'. Carona was beginning to realize that taking a dwarf into the territory of his racial enemies was not the smartest move she could have made.

Callum's scouts had only a vague idea where to find the Katalmach but that was all Elanee needed. With her ability to see through the eyes of hawks and other creatures, locating the camp didn't take long. Getting to it was a more difficult matter. They traveled during the day, when the orcs laired up against the bright mountain sun. At night, when the orcs were active, they slept (or at least rested uneasily) in the most hidden spots they could find.

It was close to dusk when they finally approached the Katalmach's camp, not the ideal time of day for strolling into a group of suspicious berserkers. Not knowing what reception to expect from these strangers and remembering the Greycloaks' distrust of non-humans, Carona decided to enter the camp alone. She was fairly confident that Neeshka could slip into the camp and release her, if it came to that.

When she approached the nervous sentry (who looked no older than fifteen), his reaction was about what she had feared. He drew his scarred club and brandished it in her face.

"Hey now," she said, stepping back and holding out her open hands. "There's no need for that."

"Who are you? How did you find us?" He looked anxiously down the trail behind her as if expecting a horde of orcs at her heels.

"I'm here to talk to your leader."

"What do you want?"

"I just want to talk." She gave him a guileless look that he returned with suspicion. "Look," she said. "I'm not here to cause trouble for you folks. I need some information. Maybe some help."

Strangely, that worked.

"Fine then," he said. He beckoned for her to precede him. "But you'd better be telling the truth. If you aren't, he will know."

The camp itself seemed in a highly defensible location, set in the cleft of a mountain, and backed by a cave. The Katalmach's troops were outfitted worse than even the Greycloak recruits at Old Owl Well, wearing bits of mismatched armor and carrying weapons that ranged from farm tools to clubs to axes that had no doubt been taken from orcish hands. That they had survived so long against so many orcs was impressive, but when Carona was taken before the Katalmach, she began to understand how they might have done so.

From what she had heard at Old Owl Well, she had been expecting someone roughly the size and temperament of Lorne Starling. Although the Katalmach was a tall, broad-shouldered man, he was no giant. He had long, rather shaggy hair and a thick black beard but that was the only touch of the barbaric to his appearance. He was dressed neatly and plainly in a heavy chain shirt with a dark surcoat over it. A well-worn hammer hung at his side. His eyes lifted when Carona approached—cool blue eyes that held a keen assessment. Suddenly Carona had no trouble believing those eyes could see straight to the truth.

"I found this woman skulking around the camp," the sentry said dramatically. His voice cracked a little in his excitement. Carona turned and gave the boy a look of mild outrage. Skulking? If she had been skulking, he would never have seen her. For a moment she could have sworn she saw a twinkle in the leader's eyes.

"Thank you, Anri," the man said quietly. "You may return to your post."

"Are you the Katalmach?" she asked.

"I have been called that," he answered in a low, pleasant voice. "My name is Casavir. Who are you and why have you been…skulking…about my camp?"

Of their own accord, her lips turned up into a smile. Although Casavir didn't smile back, the look he gave her was pleasant and warming. She couldn't figure out how he did it. There was something about him that drew the eye and it was more than simple good looks.

It seemed like frankness would be the key to earning the Katalmach's trust, so after calling in her companions, she told him of the missing emissary they sought. As it happened, his scouts had seen Issani taken, or so they believed. They had witnessed the attack on what must have been Issani's guards by orcs from the Eyegouger clan but by the time Casavir's men arrived in force, Issani had been gone.

"Do you know where these Eyegougers can be found?" Carona asked. His eyes met hers for a long moment and that feeling of cool assessment intensified. Neeshka, who had been hovering by her elbow, suddenly coughed and moved away.

"I do," he said. "We can discuss our next steps in the morning after I have had time to think on it. For now, it sounds like supper is ready."

'Our next steps'? Was he planning to help her then? Carona gave him a puzzled gaze. He gestured towards the trestle table that the cooks had set up so they could pass out the food.

The food was plain and not exactly abundant but it was still a treat to eat a hot meal. Carona was interested to see that the camp did not consist of warriors only—there were families here as well and some of the children were quite young. She was also interested to see that the children were served first and that they ate with something that approached quiet decorum, often eyeing the Katalmach as if seeking his approval.

"This is not what I expected at all," Neeshka whispered in her ear and Carona nodded her agreement.

Unlike Commander Callum, Casavir had directed Carona and her friends to set their bedrolls in the most protected part of the camp, near the cavern where the children slept. Perhaps this was simply so he could keep an eye on the newcomers but she doubted that his thoughts were so devious. This was the first night in many in which she had not had to stand a late watch, and she should have slept soundly. Instead, after dozing uneasily, she jerked awake, heart pounding and senses stretched in search of danger. The camp was quiet.

For a moment she just sat there in her bedroll with her head on her knees and her mouth terribly dry. She slipped on her boots and went to the cook fire, where she found a pot of tea sitting in the ashes, ready for the sentries. A girl in her mid teens was idly poking at the fire. She gestured for Carona to help herself to a mug.

"Bad dream?" the girl asked. Carona gave her a sharp look but the girl's face was so open and candid that she nodded instead of denying it.

"Lots of us have them," the girl said. "Even him." Carona followed her gaze to the silent figure kneeling in the darkness near a boulder. It was the Katalmach. His eyes were closed and his face almost inhumanly peaceful. He had been so still that she had not known he was there.

"He prays for us," the girl confided. "Keeps us safe. The gods listen to him." Her expression held trust and something close to awe.