The Improbable Adventures of Scar and Potbelly: Ice Terraces of Crystal Crag

by Brian S. Pratt

  She thought a moment, then shook her head. “Nope.”

  “Are you in charge?”

  She shook her head again. “No. That would be my father, Master Collins.”

  “Ah. Where might we find him?”

  Jerking her thumb toward the kitchen, she said, “Back there. He’s getting the evening meal on the fire.”

  “Can we speak with him?”

  “If you like.” She gestured for them to proceed to the kitchen.

  There they found an older version of the girl cutting potatoes while a middle-aged man set skewers with large hunks of meat on the spit over the fire.

  “Excuse us,” Potbelly said. Directing his attention to the man he asked, “Would you be Master Collins?”

  “You got it. Been Master Collins now, what, three years?”

  “Four, dear,” the woman said. “Ever since your father passed during that blizzard.”

  He flashed the woman an irritated look, as any married man will do when corrected, then turned back to Scar and Potbelly. “How can I help you?”

  Pointing to the girl sweeping the foyer, Scar said, “She said you might know of a couple horses that we could purchase?”

  “That depends on how much you’re willing to pay.” Setting the last skewer in place, he began to turn the handle that would rotate them and spin the meat over the fire for an even cook.

  “We don’t want to be cheated,” Scar warned.

  “It’s not about being cheated,” he replied. “No one in Alsworth has extra horses. So in order to purchase two, and there aren’t that many here in the first place, you will need to offer more than you normally would.” He looked from one to the other before adding, “Everyone needs their steeds and if they sold those they have, they would then need to travel to Castin to get more. And shouldn’t they be compensated for their inconvenience?”

  “Okay, we get it,” Potbelly said. “Now, do you know of anyone with two, who for the right price, might be willing to sell?”

  “I have two out back as a matter of fact.”

  Scar’s eyes narrowed. “How much?”

  “How much are you offering?”

  Bristling at the thought of being taken advantaged of Scar was about to say something to jinx the deal when Potbelly said, “A hundred golds?”

  The man laughed. “My time is more valuable to me than that. Say maybe two hundred…each.”

  “What?” exclaimed Scar. His hand went to his hilt and Potbelly placed a hand on his to prevent him from drawing it.

  “We have no choice,” he whispered. He held onto Scar’s hand until his friend calmed.

  “Shall we say a hundred twenty-five each?”

  “Perhaps I could part with them for a hundred eighty.”

  Potbelly got him down to a hundred forty-three each. He produced two gems. “Will you take these?”

  The man took the gems and held them up to the light. “Very nice,” he said as he gazed at first one, then the other. “Yes, very nice indeed. You have a deal.”

  “Robbery,” mumbled Scar.

  “Not now,” urged Potbelly.

  Master Collins called one of his workers to come and take over the rotation of the skewers while he led Scar and Potbelly out the back to the stable.

  The horses in question had seen better years, but were still far from being put out to pasture. Both were stallions, one a strawberry roan the other a red.

  The innkeeper threw in the bridles and saddles for which Potbelly was thankful. He knew Scar was on the edge and having to pay additional for them may have pushed him into doing something reckless and stupid.

  Once saddled and mounted, they thanked the innkeeper and headed east out of Alsworth.

  The hours flew by as they made quick time along the trade route. Ruts lined the road and traffic upon it was a little better than sparse. Wagons loaded with goods, riders and a few groups of those on foot came and went as the day drifted toward dusk.

  By the time the sun hit the horizon, Alsworth was long behind them. Questioning travelers coming from the east revealed that the next inn was still hours away. They opted to ride on through the night until they reached it. A gibbous moon rose just before the world grew dark so keeping to the road was less problematic.

  It was full dark when the lights from the inn and dozens of campfires scattered about the area came into view. Several caravans camped in the field adjacent to the inn, their men taking their ease around the numerous fires.

  The inn itself was lit brightly. From two poles out front hung lit lanterns that bathed the area with light. A boy loitered out front and when they approached, came forward.

  “See to your horses?” he asked.

  Scar eyed him suspiciously. “What are you going to do with them?”

  “Certainly not steal them,” he assured them. “My ma runs the inn and if you plan to stay the night, I will be happy to take them around back to the stables.”

  Potbelly exchanged glances with Scar. “I’ll wait here and you see about this.”

  Scar nodded and dismounted.

  The boy took hold of the reins even though Potbelly remained in the saddle. “Just hold up a bit.”

  Nodding and grinning, the boy kept reins in hand as Scar entered the inn.

  A few moments later, Scar emerged. “He’s on the up and up.”

  Potbelly swung down and grabbed his bags. Scar came and did the same.

  “Here,” Potbelly said, flipping the boy a copper. “See they get fed.”

  “Oh, yes indeedy,” the boy replied, catching the coin. He then led the horses around to the back.

  They dined in the common room, drank a bit too much ale and then after a few feats of skill against other patrons, headed to their room. With the exertions of the day, and mead dulling their wits, sleep found them swiftly.

  The world was still dark when voices from outside intruded upon Scar’s sleep. He did his best to ignore them, but when he heard one of them mention, “Garrock,” he bolted up in bed.

  “…until the morning after next,” a voice said. “And if you find them, kill them and take the map.”

  “You got it, boss.”

  Scar went to the window and reached it in time to see a large group of riders take off to the east leaving four riders at the inn. The rider in the lead was dark haired, dressed in chainmail and had a double-headed axe slung across his back. Garrock!

  When the four riders dismounted and headed for the inn, he woke Potbelly.

  “Trouble,” he said, shaking his friend.

  “Hmmm?” a sleepy Potbelly said.

  “Garrock was here.”

  That snapped him awake. “Here?” he asked. “When?”

  Scar pulled on his boots. “Just now, outside. He took off down the road but left four men here.”

  Potbelly grabbed his trousers and hurriedly got dressed.

  “Do they know we’re here?”

  Scar shrugged. “I don’t know. Probably not, else they would have all stayed.” Buckling on his sword belt, he said, “They know about the map.”

  “How can that be?”

  “Has to be Tork.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Who else could it be?” Scar replied. “He was the only one in Castin who knew what we were about.” His face turned stony. “I’ll kill that old man.”

  “He might have told him we were going to Cara, too.”

  “Well, that was the direction in which Garrock and the rest of his men departed.”

  Noise still came from the common room below. People made merry though the bard had long since packed it in.

  “There are four.”

  Potbelly glanced to Scar and nodded.

  “We make for the horses and don’t stop for anyone.”

  Scar slung his pack over his shoulder and nodded. He moved to the door and cracked it open. Not seeing anyone in the hallway, he opened the door and left the room.

  A lone lantern hung on a peg at the landing, its light illuminat
ed most of the hallway.

  “Come on,” Scar said and stepped quickly toward the stairs.

  At the landing, he peered down to the ground floor. A man stood at the foot of the steps; whether or not he was Garrock’s man was impossible to determine.

  Then while they were deciding whether he was or not, three men joined him at the steps and together, they started up to the second floor.

  “Back to the room,” Scar urged and they hurried back down the hallway, through the door and closed it until just a crack was left for Scar to peer through.

  The first man appeared at the landing. He paused and when the others joined him, two continued on up to the third floor while the other two moved down the hallway toward them.

  On the way, they paused by each door and jiggled the handle. If the door opened they briefly peered in and if it was locked, they put their ear to it for a few moments.

  Scar closed the door and put a finger to his lips. He very slowly threw the bolt then motioned for Potbelly to accompany him to the window.

  “They’re checking the rooms,” he whispered. “Two on this floor…” He paused when the handle of their door jiggled. It continued for a couple seconds, then it stopped. “The other two are on the floor above.”

  Scar opened the window to its fullest and then looked down. Being on the second floor, they had a little bit of a jump before reaching the ground. “We leave now and we might make it to the stables without them noticing.”

  Potbelly nodded. “Let’s go.”

  Handing him his pack, Scar slipped out the window, dangled from the sill for a moment, then let go. He hit the ground, rolled and came up on one knee, then motioned for Potbelly to toss their equipment.

  Once the packs were down, Potbelly scrambled through the window, hung by his hands, then dropped to land by Scar.

  Scar handed him his pack and they raced around to the stables.

  The stalls were full up and it took a moment to locate their steeds. They were in a large stall with four other horses. Shelves along the back held their saddles and tack. As they saddled their horses, they cast glances to the stable’s entrance. Potbelly saddled his first and led it to the door. There he kept eye on the courtyard.

  “Anything?” Scar asked as he joined him.

  Potbelly shook his head. “It’s quiet.”

  Swinging into the saddle, Scar said, “Let’s hope it stays that way.”

  “Let’s hope,” Potbelly agreed as he got on his horse.

  Scar led the way. Leaving the stables, they made for the road. No sooner had they left the courtyard than, a cry echoed through the night. “There they are!”

  Kicking their horses into a gallop, Scar and Potbelly flew down the road.

  They ran full out for several minutes before a side road branched off to their right. “This way,” Scar said as he turned into it.

  The road continued straight for a short span before it began to wend its way through the hills. Scar brought them to a halt once the main road was out of view.

  “Here,” he said as he slid from his horse and handed Potbelly his reins. He then climbed the nearest hill. From there he looked out over the road.

  After a few moments, Potbelly asked, “Anything?”

  Scar kept his gaze on the road. Then came the sound of fast-approaching horses. From out of the night four horses galloped down the main road. They passed the branching road and continued on out of sight.

  He waited a few minutes to make sure that they would not return, then climbed down and joined Potbelly.

  “I think they believe we are on our way to Cara.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  Scar turned to him. “If Tork told them about the map, then he most likely told them where we were heading. After all, how did they come to be so quick on our heels?”

  “You have a point.”

  “We can expect the trade route to be watched.”

  “I would if I were them.”

  “Exactly,” Scar agreed. “We’re going to have to find another way to Cara.”

  “We can’t return to Castin and charter a ship.”

  Scar shook his head. “No. He’ll for sure have his men on the docks. We’ll have to go overland.”

  “Let’s follow this road until daybreak,” Potbelly said, “then see about working our way through the hills.”

  “Going to take a while,” Scar said. “But it may be the only way.” He swung up on his horse. “Let’s go.”

  For hours the road steadily climbed into the higher elevations. Although by that time calling it a road was being very generous. It had diminished into more of a game trail. The sparse light coming from the moon created deep shadows that at times, obscured the way to such an extent that they pushed forward on nothing more than faith that the road even continued beneath them.

  When the moonlit, sparkling waters of a mountain tarn appeared through the trees, they decided they had gone far enough. Steep banks dropped fifteen feet or more to the waters below. A somewhat level area overlooking the water proved to be a suitable place to camp.

  Scar worked on starting a fire while Potbelly scrounged for small sticks and dried moss for kindling. Once the fire had caught and the smaller sticks burned, they gathered stones for a fire ring and a supply of the larger, fallen branches.

  “The fire’s a risk, no doubt,” Potbelly said.

  “True, but we are far from the road and I doubt if they would bother coming up here.” Placing more fuel on the fire, he watched sparks burst and rise into the air. “If I were them, I would lay in wait for us at Cara.”

  Potbelly nodded. “I wonder if Tork told them of Matlin?”

  “Doubt that,” Scar replied. “Matlin’s a friend of his from what I gathered and he wouldn’t want to land Garrock on his friend’s doorstep.”

  Chuckling, Potbelly agreed.

  “In the morning, we’ll see if we can’t find a way east through these mountains.”

  “And there is no reason we actually need to set foot in Cara,” Potbelly said. “All we need to do is find the old wagon trail heading up into the mountains. If we circumvent the town, we should come across it.”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “Let Garrock cool his heels in Cara while we go get the map and the treasure.”

  Laughing, they watched the fire, made plans of what to do with the treasure once they found it, and waited for the sun to rise.

  -6-

  When the sun climbed from its nightly rest, they took stock of the situation. Of the trail they followed to get there, or thought they had followed, there was no sign. The rolling hills they had originally fled into had turned into mountains with steep canyons and flowing valleys.

  The Sorba Sea was nowhere in sight, mountains they had passed through now blocked it from view. They had a rough estimate where Cara lay and knew it would be a long couple of days slugging it out through the back country.

  To the east, the land dropped dramatically into a valley, beyond which rose another ridge just as steep and foreboding as the one they were about to work their way down. Trees lined the slope like soldiers on a parade ground; tall, straight, and packed together.

  A large rock protruded from the top of the ridge and they stood upon it as they sought the best way to reach the valley floor.

  “Not going to be easy,” Potbelly observed.

  Scar shook his head. “No, it won’t. But nothing for it. If we’re going to do it, it would be best if we got started.”

  They headed out and forged through tree limbs and closely packed undergrowth. Not long after beginning their descent, they encountered a game trail which provided them with slightly easier passage. It serpentined its way for an hour until reaching the banks of a stream. There it ran alongside it all the way to the bottom.

  The stream joined a river that carved its way through the bottom of the valley. They forded the water where the river widened after a bend and left the game trail behind. Once again, they slugged it out
amongst the branches and bushes.

  Midway up the eastern slope they encountered a small clearing. A wisp of smoke rose from ashes within a fire ring.

  Potbelly dismounted and knelt by the pit. He used a stick to stir the ashes revealing a collection of small embers.

  From horseback, Scar surveyed the campsite. He saw a single area about the size of a bedroll where the grass had been compacted. “Looks like it was one man.”

  Stirring the ashes a moment longer, Potbelly said, “Left near sunrise best I can figure.”

  “I would agree.”

  A quick check revealed a set of footprints followed by those of either a horse or mule had departed in a general, northerly direction. Except for the rustling of the breeze through leaves, the forest was quiet and still.

  Then Potbelly caught a whiff of a rancid odor; it drew him to a cluster of bushes some distance from the clearing. A swarm of flies buzzed around a pile of recently skinned carcasses.

  “Trapper.”

  “He’d know these mountains, then,” Scar observed.

  “Yes,” agreed Potbelly, “but do we have time to find him? Even if we did there is no way to know if he’d be willing to act as a guide.”

  Scar nodded. “For all we know, he might be a friend of Garrock’s.”

  “Let’s keep on as we have and if we run across him…”

  “See if he’ll help us get to Cara,” Scar finished.

  They left the clearing behind and continued up the eastern slope of the valley.

  After a bit the forest thinned somewhat and the going was easier. Trees with thick trunks towered hundreds of feet in the air creating a canopy that blocked the sun almost entirely. The underbrush dwindled beneath the forest cover.

  Shadows had grown long by the time they crested the ridge. At the summit the trees thinned a bit and they were able to get a good view of the other side.

  “Damn,” groaned Scar.

  The far side of the ridgeline descended gradually for a ways before coming to a drop off a hundred or more feet in height. Five streams flowed to the edge and over to cascade down to the valley below.

  To the north the ridgeline meandered for miles before disappearing behind the trees. Heading south would prove no less easy as it looked like the terrain was little more than gorge and steep ridges.