CHAPTER ELEVEN
15 Uktar, the Year of the Banner (1368 DR)
(art by Romy Jones)
A night’s stay with Maester Erris’ gnomes on the 13th does much to mend wounds (except for a few heads bumped on low ceilings) and spirits. A total absence of spiders and the undead makes for a welcome resting place...
While Amra and her party rest, Erris sounds out her gnome scouts, searching the grounds of the ruins as the magical mists dissipate. Firnous spends his time counting the money he won from his wager with the dwarf foreman, Wulfgar. Melly helps him make plans for his share...
After sunset, the gnomes return, and Erris shares the scant clues they found: a set of faint tracks suitable for an elf of Hadarlas’ size and gait, leading away from the ruins along Thundar’s Ride to the north. “He’s still on course,” Firnous declares. And so, two days later, saddlebags full with dwarven and gnomish rewards and supplies, the group finds itself approaching a small trade community, Hadarlas’ next stop: Boareskyr Bridge.
Amra looks down the trail at the village ahead. “This is not a happy place,” she murmurs. “Let’s try and be quick about our business.”
“What troubles you about it?” Imoen asks.
Amra glances at Imoen. “A god died here once.”
“Oh, *that*.” Imoen stares ahead at the tents, wagons, and more permanent structures arrayed ahead. “It doesn’t seem so bad now.”
“Time has passed. Even his taint fades in the face of the living earth. All the same...” Amra quickens her pace slightly. “Besides, we should hurry if we’re to rescue Hadarlas from whatever mischief he gets into next.”
“And I have money to spend,” Firnous announces.
Amra raises an eyebrow. “And what grand plans do you have, master Firnous?”
Horses are urged forward. “Depends on what’s for sale. I have a good sword already. But Melly is short for gear. If she’s going to stay with us, she needs to learn some survival skills.”
“Good thinking.” Amra turns to Melly. “In your work at the farm, did you ever hoe the field? Chop wood?”
“More hoe work than the other,” Melly replies.
“All right. A spear, then, I think,” Amra said. “And armor, of course, such as they have here.”
“I’ll look ridiculous,” Melly protests. “I don’t know anything about armor!”
“No one is born knowing such things. We can teach you.”
“I’ll look ridiculous,” Melly reiterates, more to herself than to Amra, but she doesn’t protest further...
The travelers ride across the bridge. Statues of Bhaal and Cyric look down from pedestals at each end of the bridge. Imoen gives the statue of Bhaal a long, frowning look as she passes.
Amra eyes the statue, too, then looks at Imoen. “Come on. Let’s finish our shopping and then chase our wayward scholar’s trail.”
“What?” Imoen sounds a bit dazed, but Amra’s words bring her back to herself. “Oh, yes. Certainly.” Soon the group reaches the far side. The outlines of a town wall are under construction, but at this point, even late in the year, the tents and wagons outnumber the sturdier buildings. A trio of men approach as they see the party ride into the makeshift commons.
Amra raises her hand in greeting. “Well met, friends,” she said to the trio. “We come to trade.”
“I see as more keen weapons than laden chests,” one of the men comments. A moustached fellow in his thirties, he sports armor in weight surpassing Amra’s own, and more than one scar.
“We have coin enough,” Amra promises with a smile. “Keen weapons, or one at least, are what we seek. And sturdy mail and food for the road.”
“For the road? Where are you bound?” his companion -- also armed, but more lightly armored -- asks.
“Towards Evereska,” Amra confesses.
“Evereska?” The moustached fighter steps around to Amra’s left, while the third man circles around to the far side. Suddenly, swords are drawn and aimed at the group. “Do not draw your weapons. Dismount,” comes the command.
Amra glares at the moustached figure. “The courtesy of these lands seems in steep decline,” she said coldly. “What offense have we given?” she asks.
Sparrowchaser bears Melly away from the bared sword-blades. Auravahinue holds his ground. “This is our community. Here we ask the questions,” the moustached man said. “But now, disarm yourselves.”
Amra sighs. “Which is it? Dismount or disarm?” she asks patiently.
“You risk the lives of your young friends by dallying, elf. Do both. Now.”
“Now I want the armor,” Melly murmurs.
Amra glares. “You would be wise not to threaten my friends again,” she said in a low voice. But she does unstrap her sword belt and lower it to the ground, then dismounts – standing close enough to the sword to make a grab for it if there’s further treachery.
Firnous makes a face, but he follows suit. He carefully lowers his sheathed sword to the ground. “Treat that well. It was a gift, and is elf-make, beyond that.”
“Either you are very bold, or very thick,” the moustached fighter said. Imoen unloads her own weapons. People begin to dismount.
“His boldness pales to yours.”
“They did not expect we would know of their errand,” one of the three men said the others. “You should not advertise yourselves, although we are glad you have.”
Amra sighs. “Hadarlas, I will have stern words for you,” she mutters in Elvish. “What is this about?” she asks innocently, in Common.
“She speaks his name!” the least scarred of the three declares. “Dismount, now. We will allow you to tie up your horses, so they do not drink from the Water. The beasts are not to blame for their riders’ errors.”
“Perhaps you can explain our error?” Amra asks as she takes Auravinhue’s reins in one hand.
When everyone has followed Amra in leaving horseback and the horses are secured (Auravahinue deciding to play along while Amra continues to talk rather than fight), the moustached man said, “We will not allow you to pursue the elf, Hadarlas.”
Amra eyes him. “Because you wish to protect him from a threat we don’t pose or because you yourself are chasing him for a reason I can’t guess?
“We are not chasing him. But we warned that others would be.”
“Warned by the good elf himself?
“Give up trying to ferret facts about his whereabouts from ours. We will not betray him to you by loose talk.”
Amra lets out an exasperated sigh. “We’re not trying to hurt him!”
“Well, of course you would say that!” the moustached man begins, but one of his fellows holds up a hand to stop him. “They are a motley group of assassins, of such is what they are, Barim. Perhaps we should hear their explanation first.”
Amra bites back her initial comment at the assassin line. “Our explanation... this may take some time.” She begins the story of the search for Hadarlas, trying to keep it as brief as possible. Humans are noxiously impatient, second only to halflings, after all.
“If your tale is true, then we owe you apologies,” the moustached man said. “I am Barim Stagwinter. My companions are Theskul Mirroreye and Ethtis of Scornubel. We are guardians of this community -- at least, we try to be.”
“Good day again.” Amra smiles, the slights forgotten, and bows her head quickly. “I am Amra Amariya. My companions are Imoen of Candlekeep and Firnous and Melly. We understand your caution.”
“We were given word that the elder Hadarlas was to be protected. We were warned that ‘perhaps elves, perhaps others’ might come after him to do him harm. You seemed likely candidates.”
“We do have a rascally look to us. At least these three do,” Amra said, grinning and gesturing at the humans. “How long ago was he here?”
“I am not rascally!” Firnous protests. “I’m a man of means, I’ll have you know!” (“Since two days ago,” Melly confirms.)
Amra ‘s grin widens.
“Perhaps two weeks?”
Amra nods, slightly reassured. “And which path did he take to the east?”
“There is some question regarding that.”
“Oh?”
“One of the merchants who stops here went east to Soubar,” Threskul said. “I do not know if you know it. It is a wretched place. The merchant returned here, proud of new wares he had traded for. Some turned out to be belongings of Hadarlas.”
“I know it,” Amra said distastefully. “It would seem that he made it to Soubar, then... Somehow. Does your merchant recall who be purchased the wares from?”
“Names are rarely given in Soubar, and when they are, they are often invented for the occasion,” Threskul said. “We have tried to trace the goods, but we have been... preoccupied.”
“How so?” Amra asks curiously.
“There are goblinkin in the area,” Barim said. “Individually, they are no more than a nuisance, but some of the bands are large and have monsters at their command. As the nights lengthen and the cold sets in, they like to go raiding. The merchants can offer little resistance on their own.”
Amra nods. “I understand. Have you been attacked by them this season?”
“Twice already. It’s why we’re trying to build the wall. There a fewer peddlers here this late in the season, but they need protection.”
“Perhaps I can help persuade them to move on and find honest work,” Amra said.
“They could come tonight, or they could not come for a month. If protecting Hadarlas is truly your concern, you might waste valuable time in safeguarding the Bridge.
Amra considers it, then nods – not happily. “You’re right. I wish I could help, though.”
“You could see if you can turn up any leads in Soubar,” Threskul said. “Our faces our known there, and we haven’t been able to spare the time away from guarding the Bridge to do more than visit for a few hours. You, however, are unknown there.”
“True enough. If I do learn anything, I’ll send word to you. And when I find Hadarlas, the same. He’ll know of your diligence.”
“That would be welcome. He sounds like a decent sort, and we were told his errand was important.”
“Did he tell you anything else of note?”
Threskul looks a bit embarrassed. “Well, you see... some of this is secondhand information. When he passed through, he barely spoke to anyone. We leaned of his plight through... a different channel.”
Amra raises an eyebrow.
“There is a woman who raises pegasi at her estate a few hours upriver. She has some standing as a wizard in these parts.”
“Indeed? What is her name?”
“Aluena Halacanter. Her lands are called Hearthglen. We have worked for her before. She wanted the elf protected.”
“Then we have common cause.”
“I wonder if Hadarlas wanted a steed,” Firnous suggests.
“If he procured one, that will make our own journey all the more difficult,” Amra sighs. She looks back at Threskul. “Thank you for your help. With your leave, we’ll take ours.”
Threskul said nothing for a moment, speaks a few words and gestures with a holy symbol of the god Tyr that he produces from within his cloak. He concentrates for a moment. “I sense no evil in you. Take your horses when you are ready. I can provide directions to Soubar, Hearthglen, and the try to find the merchant for you, if you wish.”
“I do, brother.”
“The merchant’s name is Porfar Bink. He should be in one of the tents here somewhere.” Threskul points to the cluster of merchant camps huddled near the incomplete wall.
“Thank you. And the directions?”
Finding Hearthglen amounts to following the Winding Water upstream without drinking it or falling in. A set of ancient ruins, called the Serpent’s Cowl, is not far off, and the Forest of Wyrms beyond that. Soubar lies south of the Forest, along the road that passes through Boareskyr’s Bridge.
“Thank you again,” Amra said. She gathers up Iralenmaska and straps it on again. “Now I’d like to see what Bink can tell us.”
“Certainly. Take your things and come with me.” Firnous and Imoen stoop to retrieve their own gear. Melly meanwhile contemplates the armor styles displayed by Barim and his companions.
“Firnous, why don’t you and Melly outfit her while Imoen and I carry on the conversing?” Amra suggests.
Firnous jingles his purse. “Excellent! Come on, Melly!” The two head off.
Amra smiles and then turns back to Threskul. “Lead on.”
It takes about fifteen minutes of searching through the haphazardly arranged tent community before Porfar Bink is located. He turns out to be a balding man of middle age and middle height. Both his tent and his wares are a mix of cheap rubbish and isolated goods of quality. Not destitute, neither is his luck or skill reliable enough for him to turn a regular profit of substance.
Amra nods in greeting to Bink. “Good day, master.”
“‘Master’ is generous.” Imoen clears her throat. “Sorry.”
Amra gives Imoen a warning look.
“Sorry!” Imoen repeats.
“You wish to buy something?” Porfar asks.
“Yes, but nothing tangible. We’re after information about some of your recent purchases.”
“I’d be happy to show you whatever you like,” Bink said, puzzled and a little threatened by Threskul’s presence.
“Your wares that came from the elf Hadarlas.”
“I stole nothing!” Bink immediately protests, his face a mask of defensiveness.
Amra holds up a hand to calm him down. “I make no accusations. I want to know who you bought them from.”
“I don’t know her real name. Everyone calls her the Dealer. She often has unusual items for sale.”
“How unusual? Is she a human?”
“She seems human enough. Quite attractive -- not that you yourself aren’t a pearl for the eyes, dear elf.”
Amra smiles patiently.
“As for her goods, rarely does she have commodities. In fact, rarely does she have duplicates. Most of the items she sells are one-of-a-kind -- for which she extracts a steep price. I confess I cannot visit her as often as I would like, for fear of depleting my purse.”
“Tell me where to find her shop.”
“Actually... she doesn’t have a shop.”
“Then tell me where to find her.”
Threskul adds his own stern glare to Amra’s. “She’ll find you. If she wants to,” Bink said quickly. “Tell weird Mag at the tavern that you’re interested. I’d prefer... I’d prefer if you didn’t use my name, though.”
“I think I can avoid speaking it,” Amra tells Bink. She looks around the shop, trying to spot anything that may have belonged to Hadarlas once.
Imoen tries not to snicker.
After a moment’s examination, Amra spots two items that might be relevant. One is a long knife, remarkably similar in workmanship to Firnous’ sword. Second is a silver pendant, emblazoned with a symbol of a moon surmounted by a rainbow-like gleaming -- an icon of Sehanine’s church.
“This and this. I’ll be taking them,” Amra said, pointing at the knife and the holy symbol.
“I will name you a fair price,” Bink assures Amra.
“Name it.”
“100 gold pieces for the sword, and I’ll throw in the jewelry for another 20.”
“Very well.” Amra digs in her coin pouch and hands over the price. “You’re lucky, master Bink. There are some of my kindred who would be less kind in this situation. If you ever find yourself in it again, give them what they want without question.”
Bink swallows nervously. “Thank you for your, um, indulgence!” He forces a smile and holds out an arm, as much as to say, “Take your leave. Quickly. Please!”
Amra looks around the store once more and then departs without another word.
Once outside, she gives Imoen a worried look. “I don’t like this.”
“I don’t like the fact that you paid him so much,” Threskul interjects. “Bink got better than he deserved, trading in stolen merchandise.”
“What bothers you most?” Imoen asks
“The payment is a trifle. If I had bargained, he may have made things difficult. What bothers me is this.” Amra holds up the pendant of Sehanine Moonbow. “I can imagine few circumstances which would lead any elf to willingly part with such a treasure.”
“An icon of his goddess? And a focus for his priestly spells, perhaps?”
“Why does it no longer hang from his neck?”
“Perhaps there is an explanation less dire than the one that jumps first to mind,” Imoen said without great conviction.
“Perhaps. Let’s see how Lord Firnous and Lady Melly are faring in their search for armaments,” Amra said, the troubled look still on her face.
Imoen nods. “I would not reliquish Tyr’s symbol while I still had breath,” Threskul adds. “I am most unwelcome in Soubar, but if you can find this ‘Dealer,’ my mind would be eased if I knew she had been ‘dealt’ with.”
“We shall see.”
Elsewhere amidst the merchant camps, Melly is being fitted for a leather coat, thick enough to serve both as protection against the cold and as light armor.
“It suits you, Melly,” Amra said, sizing the coat up.
“It’s... different,” Melly said, twisting and turning experimentally to the consternation of the leatherworker.
“We’re paying extra for decorative scrollwork,” Firnous said with less than total enthusiasm.
Amra puts a hand on Melly’s shoulder to stop her contortions. “Oh? What manner of scrollwork?”
Firnous rubs at the headache that’s coming on.
“Let me see!” Imoen chimes in.
“I’ll go look for a nice spear -- and impale myself on it,” Firnous said.
“Try not to break anything in your death thrashing,” Amra said absently.
“Always my plan,” Firnous said without looking back.
“He’s very wise. Now, tell me of this scrollwork, Melly.”