The fighter nodded and stiffened in his saddle. He wanted to draw his sword, even dismount in order to be ready for whatever was about to happen but was smart enough to know that riding into this sort of scene with naked steel might only make things worse. Still, he could feel his skin tingle and his senses hum with heightened attention.
The villagers were all facing the same direction and listening to a voice still too distant for Regdar to make out. He quickened his horse’s pace and heard the word “…guilty!” followed by a rousing cheer from the assembled villagers.
The peasants were facing a crudely constructed gallows on which stood a rotund man dressed in a shimmering silk coat. The man was sweating profusely in the afternoon sun, his hair wet and unkempt. Though the coat was expensive and well tailored, it was obviously old and made to fit a much smaller man. A little girl was standing next to him. Regdar could barely see her head sticking out over the heads of the crowd.
“Hang the bitch!” an old woman shrieked—answered by another ear-ringing cheer from the mob.
“The little girl?” Regdar said, turning to Jozan and beginning to reach for his greatsword.
The priest held up a hand, and Regdar stopped.
“That’s no child,” Jozan said. “They mean to hang a halfling.”
Regdar turned back to the gallows, and as he moved closer still he saw that Jozan was right. Standing next to the portly orator was a halfling woman whose tiny build made her look like a human child. She wore elaborate leathers and had her long, auburn hair tied tightly back. Her hands were bound behind her, and a noose dangled limply from around her neck and was tied to the top of the gallows.
The fat man strutted back and forth on the platform in front of her, waving his hands in an attempt to quiet the still-cheering crowd.
“Good citizens!” the man shouted, and the crowd quieted just enough to hear him. “Good neighbors, we are not murderers here. The halfling woman who calls herself Lidda has been accused of thievery of a most egregious sort—one count after another—”
“What’s a count?” a man yelled from the crowd.
This brought about another round of cheering from the assembly, and it took long enough for the round man to quiet them that Regdar and Jozan were able to ride to the edge of the crowd. Only a few people on the edges of the mob noticed them, but they all recognized Jozan as a priest of Pelor and bowed to him in the accepted manner.
Lidda rolled her eyes, and Regdar was amazed at how relaxed she seemed. He got the distinct impression that the woman had been in this situation before.
The crowd quieted a bit, and the fat man was just about to say something when the halfling called out in a clear, unwavering voice, “I will devote my life to finding the true thief. I will clear my name and the names of my family and friends, the names of my acquaintances both personal and professional, and will endeavor to repair any damage done to this fair hamlet by the heinous deeds of this brazen criminal. This I swear, by the three heads of the hydra at the center of the stars!”
Regdar felt his breath catch in his throat and realized that the whole mob was similarly silenced. The halfling was glancing from villager to villager, moving only her wide, nimble eyes.
“Oh,” another old woman growled, “let her swing already!”
There was a burst of laughter and applause from the mob, and the fat man in the old coat threw up his hands, his chubby fingers wrapped into tight little fists.
“What are the charges?” Jozan asked in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the crowd.
The rotund orator stopped just before shouting some order or proclamation, and when his eyes found Jozan, he visibly reeled. The man almost fell on his face in his rush to bow, and Regdar watched as every head in the unruly mob turned to look at Jozan.
Regdar was horrified by the sudden attention of the lynch mob, and his hand went to the pommel of his greatsword. He was convinced the villagers would turn on them, but they froze, all eyes glued to the priest. Most of them sketched slight bows and whispered to each other that Pelor had sent a priest to bless the hanging. Regdar doubted that was the case. He took his hand off his sword.
“The charges?” Jozan asked again.
The fat man, obviously flustered, called out, “A priest of Pelor! Come to bless today’s justice!”
The crowd applauded but with a measure of reluctance this time.
Jozan called back, “Pelor does not bless lynchings, Mister…?”
“I am the burgher here, Father,” the fat man replied. “Tomma is the name, sir.”
Jozan rode forward slowly, the crowd parting before him. Regdar stood his ground and seemed to go largely unnoticed by the villagers.
“What has this woman done,” the priest asked, “to deserve a death sentence, Burgher Tomma?”
“Ah,” the burgher replied, obviously delighted to recount the charges. “The halfling has stolen numerous items of personal property from numerous goodly townsfolk and farmers on numerous occasions, good priest…?”
“Jozan,” the priest said. “But that you could hang her numerous times then, Burgher.”
The crowd was split as to whether or not to cheer that, and the resulting confusion made Regdar smile.
“Thank you, Father,” Lidda said. “Maybe you could just smash my head in with your mace and get it over with.”
A man in the crowd shouted, “Do it, Father!”
A few of the women gasped, and Jozan turned on the man, his face a cold mask. Regdar had never seen Jozan look like that before. The priest was more than angry, he was mortified—struck momentarily dumb with rage.
“Um…” the burgher said.
“There is a justice in the world,” Jozan said, his voice clear and steady, “that is greater than the rule of the mob. If this woman is guilty of a crime, let her be judged in the proper venue. Let her meet her accusers, and let her have a chance to defend herself before her neck is snapped.”
“See,” Lidda said to the burgher’s back. “I told you you can’t just string me up you fat f—”
“Hold your tongue!” Jozan commanded. Regdar was impressed by the fact that the accused did indeed silence herself. “You may still swing, child, if you’re as guilty as they—”
“Help me!” a wild, panicked voice screamed from the other side of the crowd. The mob of villagers turned, and this time Regdar drew his sword.
The crowd reacted as one, bowing in on one side as if something had struck its edge and bent it back. Regdar, from astride his horse, could see a boy, no older than fifteen, rushing into the crowd and being held on his feet by a pocket of concerned villagers. The boy was a mess, drenched in sweat and covered in dirt. His clothes were torn, and he held the broken half of a shepherd’s staff.
“Spiders!” the shepherd cried.
Regdar slipped off his horse, scanning all around for any sign of whatever it was the boy was afraid of—spiders or otherwise. He saw nothing threatening, and for safety’s sake he sheathed his sword before he got to the boy’s side. Regdar reached out and helped a few of the villagers lower the shepherd to sit on the hard-packed dirt of the village square.
“Get him some water,” Regdar said to one of the villagers, a young woman who appeared to have her wits about her while the others were still caught up in the tensions of the moment.
The woman rushed off for water, and Regdar crouched next to the shepherd. There was a disturbance in the crowd, and Jozan pushed through the parting farmers to join Regdar at the boy’s side.
“Is he injured?” the priest asked.
Regdar examined the boy quickly and saw no blood or any sign of injury beyond a few scrapes. Jozan was looking at the boy even more closely, so Regdar didn’t bother to answer.
“Spiders,” the boy gasped, not looking at anyone in particular. “Big, huge, brown spiders… I’ve never even heard of spiders that big.”
“Are you injured, son?” Jozan asked. “Were you bitten by any of these spiders?”
The boy blinked and met Jozan’s steady gaze. He was shaking. “Am I dead? Are you Pelor?”
“Hey!” the halfling called. “Can I go now?”
The crowd responded by screaming “No!” at the top of their lungs. Regdar’s attention was torn between the mob and the shepherd.
“No, son,” Jozan told the boy, “I’m not Pelor. Just a humble priest anxious to hear your tale.”
“Spiders,” the boy repeated without pause. “They attacked the sheep. They bit one apart and dragged it away in pieces, then more came and attacked another one… and I got the hell ou—sorry, Father. I ran away. I don’t think they were chasing me. I can’t… I can’t…”
The boy began panting, hyperventilating.
The fat burgher came through the crowd, a pungent stench following him, and he rushed to the boy’s side. “Gurn,” he said. “Gurn, my son, is the flock safe?”
“Poppa?” the boy replied, though he could hardly breathe.
Burgher Tomma put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and asked, “Is the flock safe, son? Are the sheep safe?”
“Big… giant… spiders… attacked them,” Gurn answered. “I don’t know how many were… taken.”
“You let them—” Tomma gasped, his pudgy face draining of color so that Regdar thought they’d need to send someone for water for the burgher.
The woman appeared with a cup of water and handed it to the shaking boy. Burgher Tomma took it from his son and drank it down greedily, the fat man gasping for air along with his son.
“Not the sheep,” he said. He looked up at Jozan, his eyes pleading. “The sheep are our whole lives. Without them, we have nothing. The whole village depends on them.”
Gasps and whispers pulsed through the mob in waves, and Regdar watched all their faces go as pale as the burgher’s. Regdar had been to villages like this one—villages that depended on one herd of livestock or one field of crops for their entire existence.
“Regdar,” Jozan said, “have you heard of spiders big enough to carry off a sheep?”
Regdar nodded and said, “I’ve heard tales, but I’ve never seen one.”
Jozan stood and turned all the way around, scanning the crowd. “Are you expected in New Koratia?” he asked Regdar.
Regdar shrugged. “I had intended to see my mother,” he said, “but she wouldn’t know when to expect me. Why?”
“Burgher Tomma,” Jozan said, “we’ll see to these spiders for you.”
The fat man sagged with relief, and his eyes puffed and filled with tears. “Oh… oh, Father. How can we ever thank you… you and your man…?”
Regdar wasn’t quite sure what he was hearing, but it sounded suspiciously like he had just volunteered to ride off after giant spiders to save someone else’s sheep. The crowd appeared horrified and relieved at the same time, and none of them looked like any use in a fight.
“We’ll take the halfling with us as well,” Jozan told the burgher.
The fat man looked at him as if the priest had suddenly sprouted green fur and a bug’s antennae.
“It will afford me an opportunity to question her thoroughly,” Jozan said. “Otherwise I will have to question her here and deal with your spider problem in a few days’ time.”
“Take her,” Burgher Tomma gasped, forcing a smile. “For Pelor’s sake, take her.”
“Yeah,” Lidda called from the gallows, “let’s go get those spiders, darn it. I love sheep.”
2
Naull ran a hand through her short, straight hair and sighed. She had prepared the spell that morning, along with four others, and it was a simple matter of tracing a pattern in the air in front of her with one finger while whispering a series of arcane syllables to make the magic real. She sat at a rough oak table in the dining room of her mentor’s tower and let the magical energies flow through her fingers, through the words that slipped off her tongue, and onto the leather pouch on the table in front of her.
There was no flash of lightning or explosion of fire, but Naull could see the air over the table sparkle for the space of maybe the blink of an eye. There was a wide tear in the bottom of the old pouch, and as the sparkles faded, the tear closed. In the time it took for Naull to draw in a single breath, the pouch, which her mentor had assured her was older than Naull herself, looked as if it had been newly made.
She clicked her teeth together and looked over at the little room’s only window. It wasn’t really so much a window as an arrow loop—a thin, vertical sliver of light no wider than one of Naull’s slender hands. It was sunny outside, still a few hours before dark. She heard wind blowing through leaves beyond but couldn’t see the trees. The dining room was a good hundred feet up the tall, slender tower that was the secluded home of her mentor, the wizard Larktiss Dathient.
Naull stood and crossed to the window. She peered through the thin opening and out into the warm air. Below were the well-manicured gardens that kept her busy in the spring and fall. Beyond was a small forest, rolling hills, and the world she had seen so little of in her eighteen years.
The fresh air felt good, at least, and made her feel less sleepy. She knew she shouldn’t be tired, but boredom could do that to you, and Naull was crushingly bored. She rubbed her stiff neck, and her hand brushed her right ear. This made her realize that she hadn’t put on her earrings that morning. Her hair was cut short, well above her shoulders because it was easier to take care of and didn’t get in the way of her spellcasting and other duties. She wore a man’s tunic and breeches for the same reason.
The window faced west, and she knew that somewhere over the horizon was the city of New Koratia. She might look ridiculous there with her boy’s haircut and man’s clothes, but at least there would be something to do there, people and things to see, some kind of life not limited to learning how to use something she was never permitted to use. There might be—there would be—men.
She heard the door open and didn’t turn around.
“Staring out the window again?” Larktiss asked, his voice dripping with overstated disapproval. “I’ve brought the heavier needle.”
Naull pressed her face into the thin arrow loop and said, “It’s done already.”
She closed her eyes and listened to the old man shuffle over to the table, pick up the magically mended pouch, and throw it back down again.
“There was a reason I asked you to fix it with a needle and thread, Naull,” he said.
She took her face off the stone but didn’t turn around.
“I want to leave,” she said.
“We’re going to have this conversation again, then, are we?” the old man asked.
Naull turned to him, and her hands went to her hips. She started to say, “Larktiss—”
Her tone made her feel instantly guilty, and she took her hands from her hips and shook her fingers to keep from clenching them into fists.
“You’re not a prisoner here, child,” Larktiss said. “You know you never have been, and you never will be.”
“I don’t want to just leave, Larktiss. I want you to understand why I have to go.” She looked at the floor. “I want your blessing.”
“And you’ll have it,” he replied, “in due time.”
Naull couldn’t stop her hands from curling into fists, but she kept her arms at her sides. “I have been a good student,” she said. “I’ve done everything you’ve ever asked me to do. I can’t stay here forever.”
The old man smiled, showing yellow teeth. His face was as kindly as ever, and though Naull usually found his easy manner and deeply lined, wise face comforting, sometimes she thought he looked like the world’s kindliest jailer. His white hair—what was left of it—was as disheveled as always, but his long, brown robe was immaculately clean. Naull returned his smile.
“I never said you had to stay here forever, Naull,” Larktiss said. “I do wish I could tell you precisely how much longer you should stay, but magic is not an exact science. It’s more an art. You have learned the most basic elements of the craft, but
you lack both experience and an understanding of the nuances. A young mage with your limited abilities and your seemingly limitless self-confidence—” with this his smile was gone all together, and his soft face went hard—“could be more dangerous than—”
“If I lack experience,” Naull interrupted, “it’s because I’ve hardly left this damned tower in the last six years. I have learned your lessons and mended your pouches and darned your socks and fetched the water…. Is that the sort of experience you had in mind?”
The old man looked disappointed, and Naull had to look at the floor again.
“I don’t want to hurt you, Larktiss,” she said, “and I don’t want to defy you. You have taught me well and treated me better. I don’t know where I would be if you hadn’t taken me in. I owe you more than I will ever be able to repay, but…”
“But your wisdom has outgrown mine,” he said, his voice unusually weak.
She looked at him and sighed. “No, Larktiss, my wisdom hasn’t outgrown yours, my… curiosity… ambition… I don’t know. I have outgrown this place. I need to be around more than one person, for Boccob’s sake.”
“I know,” he said, looking at the floor the same way Naull had. “I have had other students. They have always come to me, just like you, and told me that it was time for them to leave. I let them go, the same way I suppose I’ll let you go. At first it was because I thought they were right, then because I couldn’t convince them that I was right. Either way, they left to see the world and experience its wonders and dangers. I watched all of them from here, unable to do anything but observe.”
The old man stopped talking and stood. Naull could hear his old joints creak. He looked at her with sadness drawing the corners of his eyes down. Naull felt her eyes fill with tears.
“I’ve had twenty students,” Larktiss continued, “including you. Do you know how many of them are still alive?”
Naull didn’t answer.
“You,” he said. “Only you.”
She drew in a breath and stood there, arms at her sides, a single tear rolling down one cheek.
[Dungeons & Dragons 01] - The Savage Caves Page 2
