HORROR ON THE HILL
Fort Gaston. The end of the Trader's Road.
Perched along the banks of the mighty River Shrill, this isolated frontier settlement was the last stop on the caravan routes. The mile-wide river was all that separated the Fort from the shadowy bulk known only as the Hill, a land of nameless terrors and ancient legend.
The fog-shrouded crests and densely wooded slopes of the Hill rose four hundred feet, looming ominously over the tiny settlement. On clear days, the Hill's rocky cliffs could be seen jutting from its bulky mass, but the view was usually obscured by gouts of steam that seem to rise from outlets on the Hill itself.
This mysterious mountain has long been rumored to shelter bands of vicious monsters. Only the awesome waters of the Shrill have prevented the monsters from invading the undermanned fort. Several groups of brave and hardy adventurers have crossed the river to explore The Hill's summits and face the wicked monsters, but none of these bands was ever heard from again.
Now a new group of eager adventurers has met in one of the inns at Fort Gaston. It is here that the adventurers discuss their own daring plans to explore the dangerous mountain.
Deft Bladehaft walked stiffly out of the back room of the Lion's Den Inn, running his fingers through his tangled mane of black hair. It had been a long and uncomfortable night sleeping in the back room on a straw pallet, surrounded by other wayfarers, some of whom snored loudly. It had cost the fighter one silver coin for the privilege, and he hardly felt it worth the cost. Now his ankles itched fiercely. He wouldn't be surprised if the place was infested with fleas or bedbugs. It was a bad start to an important day, and Deft hoped that wasn't a bad omen.
The man stood five inches shorter than a full six feet, and his body was lean and muscular. He was fully clad in his adventuring gear, which consisted of a chain mail shirt, and a long sword in a sheath strapped across his back. He wore sturdy, leather boots and a green, hooded cloak. Across his back was strapped a long bow and quiver of yellow-feathered arrows. He carried his bulging backpack, which contained food, water, and other items necessary to the life of a professional adventurer.
The common room of the Lion's Den Inn was filled with many worn benches and tables. A bar ran along nearly the length of the northern wall, and a large fireplace sat in the center of the western wall. Candles and oil lamps hung from the rafters or the walls, but these were never lit during the daylight hours. The place smelled of smoke, sweat, and alcohol, which Deft conceded to himself was a typical smell for an inn, even for such a backwater place as this.
The common room was quiet and empty now, this early in the morning, but Deft heard someone whistling and bustling around in the kitchen behind the bar, most likely the innkeep.
The previous night, the inn had teemed with sweaty, drunken locals. Deft had parked himself on a rickety stool and the bar and talked with the innkeep most of the night, learning what he could about this mysterious Hill, and the summons the fighter had read back in his home town of Verdun that had sent him this far south down to the frontier and Gaston's Fort.
As far as the summons, the innkeep, whose name was Norbert, had said that the nephew of a local dwarf priest had gone exploring over on the Hill, against his father's wishes, and had not returned. The dwarf's name was Sir Ganth Glintspear, and it was he who had sent out the summons to the neighboring towns. His aim was to raise a rescue party as soon as possible, cross the Shrill River, and rescue his nephew. Deft had asked about the reward, an incredible five hundred gold pieces, and Norbert had assured him that the dwarf was good for it, coming as he did from an ancient, noble, and rich family. Deft hadn't revealed that he would have joined this expedition even if the payment had been nil. A lot of people seemed to think the fighter's sense of morality and honor was a running joke, and they loved nothing better than to tease him about it.
The innkeep had told fantastic stories about the Hill, saying that a bubbling lake of lava lay below its craggy surface. He had also told horrid tales of man-eating ghouls that prowled the Hill, ceaselessly searching for victims. Norbert had figured this was the reason none of the adventuring parties who crossed the Shrill ever returned. The innkeep had pointed to a corner of the common room, where an old man with white hair sat alone at a small table, calmly drinking from a clay mug.
"That's the Old Timer, we calls 'im. He knows all about the Hill. Go talk to him."
Deft had done just that. They had drunk together for an hour, and the fighter had wisely paid the tab, to keep the old man's memories flowing. He had heard all kinds of fantastic and dubious stories from the mouth of the Old Timer.
"Many centuries ago, an old monastery was located on top of the Hill. Now there graveyards of that abandoned place are haunted by the spirits of the long-dead clerics."
"A fire-breathing dragon lives in the caves beneath the Hill."
"A band of slave-trading ogres is using the Hill as a base for forays into the civilized lands."
"An evil magic-user lives on the Hill. Her house appears to be a small hut, but in reality is an extravagant palace where she keeps the tortured souls of all who have trespassed on the slopes of the Hill."
"A huge bugbear army is entrenched on the Hill, waiting for orders to begin a massive assault on Fort Gaston."
By the end of the evening, his head was spinning, and not just from the plethora of tall tales. He had stumbled off to bed, collapsing on one of the dirty, available pallets in the back room.
Deft went and sat at one of the tables near the fire, which was blazing brightly. He put his gear under the table, and wondered when the others, if any, would arrive. The summons had informed all interested parties to be present at the Lion's Den on this morning, one hour after dawn. That time was fast approaching.
As the fighter waited, he heard the sounds of something frying in the kitchen, and soon smelled the delicious aroma of eggs, bacon, and coffee. Soon, Norbert appeared, boisterously wishing him a hearty good morrow. He quickly set the largest table in the common room with mugs of coffee and ale, a basket of warmed bread, a bowl of apples and pears, three different wheels of cheese, a crock of steaming oatmeal, a platter of smoked bacon, and a covered pewter bowl presumably containing the eggs. Deft's mouth began to water. He hadn't had this good a breakfast in years.
Without waiting for any other adventurers to arrive, the fighter set to, and had just finished up his meal with a flourish when the door to the inn opened. Deft looked up into the faces of a female human and a male goblin.
The woman was about his height and slight of build, with large, lovely green eyes. Her hair was reddish brown, and shaved nearly to the scalp. A scar ran across one corner of her forehead to her eyebrow. She was clad in a cuirass of leather, and a short sword and two daggers hung from the belt at her waist. Fine boots of the softest leather adorned her tiny feet.
The goblin at her side was tall for a goblin, almost three and a half feet. His skin was a dull orange, and his watery eyes yellow. He had no hair, and wore a perpetual hangdog expression on his froglike face. He was clad in simple, gray commoner's garb, with a belt at his waist from which hung several bulging pouches and a dagger. He clutched a gnarly staff in one long hand, which he now leaned upon as he surveyed the interior of the inn.
They both wore packs on their backs, which marked them as travelers. The woman's eyes swept the room quickly, ending on Deft's face. She strode forward confidently, moving with an easy grace. Her eyes locked on the fighter's eyes, and her hand shot out across the table as she reached it.
Deft wiped his greasy hand on his breeches and rose, extending his hand to the woman. Her grip was strong and hard. Her lovely eyes seemed to bore into his soul.
"You Ganth Glintspear?"
"No, I'm not. I am Deft Bladehaft of Verdun, at your service. Ganth is the dwarf that is looking for aid. Are you here answering his summons?"
The woman laughed. "Maybe! Won't know the answer to that until I know if the offer of five hundred golds is legitimate. Seems too good to be true. And you know what they say about that."
The goblin grinned and nodded his head. He spoke in a squeaky, whiny voice. "If it seems too good to be true, then it probably is."
The woman smiled down at the goblin. "That's right, Runt. That's our credo, or at least one of many. This is quite the spread! This dwarf seems to have gone all out. He's got to be rich. But we'll find out, won't we?"
The pair went to the table, returning soon with their plates full. They sat next to each other, across the table from the fighter.
"By the way, my name is Bloom. And this is Runt. We're from Evreux."
"Pleased to meet you. Bloom is pretty name. I've not heard that one before."
"Well, it's short for Blue Monday, but no one calls me that." She grinned menacingly. "No one who wants to live a long and happy life, that is."
The fighter laughed nervously. He couldn't tell if she was joking or not. She seemed a tough customer, but it could be mostly for show. Although anyone brave enough to seriously entertain the thought of going over to the Hill had to be either tough, insane, or notoriously stupid. Deft wondered which category he fell into.
The door opened again, and the fighter looked up. A dwarf entered the inn, presumably the one who had sent out the summons, Sir Ganth Glintspear. He stood a little over four feet tall, with a medium-length black beard and short black hair that he wore combed back from his forehead. He wore a cuirass of Ganth armor, and leaned on a mace, the head of which was carved into the shape of a huge fist. In his left hand he carried a round, black, wooden shield, decorated with the device of a green dragon head. Around his neck hung a round holy symbol, depicting a pair of hands. Deft recognized it as the symbol of Ametrine, the Mother Goddess.
Bloom and Runt turned around to regard the newcomer. He spoke from the doorway in a loud, gravelly voice.
"I am Sir Ganth Glintspear, cleric of Ametrine and Knight of the Order of the Green Dragon. I am he who sent out the summons. Are you here to respond?"
"We are," Deft said, rising again from his chair. The dwarf stomped over to them on his heavy boots, and introductions were made all around. The dwarf wasted no time in getting his breakfast, and he plopped down on the seat next to Deft. He stuffed his face while he talked, nearly choking in the process. Every now and then he washed down his food with a hearty pull from his clay mug of ale.
"So, my new friends, I have called you all here to offer you a job. You see, my nephew, Gareth, got it into his fool head last week to steal a boat and go across the river, to explore the slopes of the Hill. Now, it is not entirely his fault. His moronic friend Cullen probably talked him into it. Gareth is a fine young lad, he is just easily impressionable, among his other faults. Now, you all might think this is some picnic or Holyday stroll, but I assure you it is not. If you do not know about the Hill, then I shall be happy to tell you all about it. It is an evil place. No one who has ever gone over there has ever come back. And I mean no one. I am not exaggerating when I say that. So I have little hope for my poor nephew, but I must at least try to learn his fate. The Hill is rumored to be infested with undead, bugbears, ogres, and a hideous magic-user who likes nothing better than to roast people alive and eat them. That is why I am offering the sum of five hundred gold pieces to the group who helps me brings back the body of my nephew, either dead or alive, or proof of whatever fate has befallen him.
"To get across the Hill, I have a boat down at the docks that we can use. The river is a mile wide, so a boat is the only way to get there and back again, unless you want to try swimming. We shall be leaving this morning, in an hour, if you three are amenable to the terms. I just want to wait to see if more adventurers shall be joining us. Three was not the number I had hoped for. Now, I can answer any of your questions. I have some of my own, as well."
Bloom grinned disarmingly at the dwarf. "My dear Master Glintspear, if no one has ever returned from an expedition to this Hill, then how do you account for all these rumors of bugbears and such?"
The dwarf glared at her, nearly choking on a mouthful of eggs. "Well, I do not believe all these rumors are true. Most of them are probably nothing more than tall tales. But whether they are or not, the fact remains that nobody who has gone across that river has ever returned. At least not to Fort Gaston. I should know. I have lived here all my life."
"Perhaps they left by another route," said Deft. "I find it hard to believe that no one has ever returned. Although I was talking to an old man last night they call the Old Timer, and he told me some pretty incredible stories."
"I don't know what is across the river," the dwarf said softly. "The only thing I know for sure is that my kin has gone across to the Hill, and he has been missing for a week. I am going over there to find him, alone if I have to. But I would rather have a band of stalwarts at my back. Speaking of, what are your qualifications? What are you, Bladehaft, a bard or something?"
The fighter smiled. "No, I'm afraid not. Just a simple fighter. But I have experience in the ways of my blade. I've been adventuring in these lands for the past five years."
The dwarf nodded, seeming satisfied with this answer. His blue eyes went dubiously to the woman and the goblin.
"What is your profession, Bloom?"
The woman grinned. "Oh, you know. A little of this, and a little of that. Most recently, Runt and I were hired scouts for Nanterre."
Ganth frowned. "Scouts? What were you scouting?"
"Oh, this and that."
The cleric cleared his throat with what sounded like a hoarse growl. "I understand perfectly. You and your friend are thieves. I figured I would dredge up a few with my generous offer of gold. Are you experienced?"
"Very. And Runt here is a magic-user, not a thief. He's experienced as well, belonging to the Third Circle of the Conclave of Magic-Users."
The goblin nodded and grinned at the dwarf. Deft found himself wondering where the goblin had come from. There were a few civilized tribes of goblins east of the river, and this Runt presumably came from one of them. Otherwise he would have been slain long ago. Most people believed the only good goblin was a dead goblin. But this one was a magic-user, so he had more value than most of his fellows. The fighter wondered what he and Bloom had in common, since it seemed they had adventured together before. It was an interesting puzzle the fighter looked forward to solving.
"What kind of a name is Runt, anyway?" the dwarf grumbled.
"It's just a nickname, I assure you," the goblin chuckled. "It's what Bloom calls me. My real name is Runggo."
"I never had a nickname," said the cleric. "I don't want one."
The group fell silent, getting second helpings while Ganth focused on finishing his first. The dwarf finally signaled the end of the feast with a long, unapologetic burp. He wiped his mouth with a hand and wiped it on his breeches.
"I am off to the front gate, see if any more stragglers have wandered in and perhaps lost their way. When I return, we shall be on our way to the docks. Be ready."
Deft nodded, watching the dwarf stomp across the common room and out the door. The fighter turned to Bloom.
"I guess we're the only ones brave enough to show up for this rescue mission."
"Or stupid enough. But we'll stick with brave. Anyway, I'm more than willing to risk my life for five hundred gold pieces."
"But you won't get five. There are three of us, so we'll each get a third of the total."
"That's nearly two hundred golds for me," Bloom smiled sweetly. "But you forget, if this Hill is as dangerous as these yokels around here make it out to be, some of us might not return. The less that return, the larger my own share of the reward grows."
Runt, who had been delicately sipping some coffee, nearly choked. His yellow eyes bulged and watered fiercely. He stared up at Bloom with a frightened expression.
"Surely you don't wish that I might not return? My dear Bloom, I thought we were closer than that!"
"Relax, Runt, I was only kidding. Of course you and I will make it. But Deft here…" she ran her eyes across his body, as if sizing him up. "I don't know. It will be interesting to see."
"We'll all make it," the fighter growled. "These tall tales and stories are just that. You said it yourself. If no one has ever returned from the Hill, then where did all these rumors come from? From the minds of the folks living here in Fort Gaston. There's probably nothing over there at all, except a lot of trees and steam. Ganth's nephew and his friend are probably camping out over there, having the time of their lives. You'll see."
"Yes, I will. Most definitely."
The cleric soon returned, his face troubled. "I regret to announce that you are the only ones who answered my summons. We shall just have to make do, I suppose. I certainly hope you three are as experienced as you claim, for your sakes as well as fine. Have you ever battled monsters before? How many kills do you have under your belts?"
"Enough so that I'm not concerned about what we might find over there, if anything," said Bloom. "Don't worry, dwarf! We might be few in number, but we'll get the job done. I guarantee it! I'm not about to blow my chance to become rich!"
Deft walked over to the dwarf and put his hand on the cleric's shoulder. "I've killed dozens of monsters, Ganth. Bloom's right. Don't worry. We'll find your nephew. You're in good hands with us."
The cleric glanced up at the fighter and scowled. "I certainly hope you are right. But there is nothing further to do about it. We must leave. Time is wasting."