When the ballad was over, Strom stood up amid his companion's clapping, approached the impromptu stage Tassif was on, and bowed before him. He said, "This night we have been entreated to a miracle for it can be nothing but miraculous that I, a tavern hound all my life, no longer revere the entirety of Dwarven musical works as ill tempered, but rather that I now love the entire concept of their opera!"
Tassif returned the Half-Elf's bow and sat nearly speechless for a rare moment and then said, "Then my words and chords have succeeded more than I had dreamed they would."
Tassif did sing his new ballad once more but then pressed on to recite a poem about courage from faith. As he spoke, the night air started to grow cold and seep into the dining hall. Durrock sipped the newly poured dark purple ale before him and said, "Ah, yes, this is how varzzmi ale is to be drunk; in the cool night air by a fire and to the sounds of heroic poetry."
"I am glad you approve of it, Durrock," replied Bourne. "I had this wine brought in especially for you. I have heard that Varzzmi mushrooms are grown only in deep dales and caverns of ancient beginnings and that only Dwarfish brew masters can truly ferment them and distill the libation properly, but I managed to get a few bottles reasonably. I was hoping the vintage would be acceptable to a son of the Deep Lands."
Beneth had been sipping on a small mug of the wine as well and chimed in, "It certainly does take some getting used to. I actually was not aware that it was made from mushrooms until now."
Durrock shrugged and leaned back in his chair, then he said, "It is. I was well over ten lustrum in age before I truly began to appreciate it in earnest. You see, the young Dwarfs grow up drinking the bachna, uhm, the leftovers from the brewing. A Varzzmi mushroom harvest is divided into two sections, one is slowly fermented, the other more quickly then distilled immediately. Alcohol absorbs water, as you all may know, so the heavy liquor is used to pull the thin waters from the slowly distilling kegs of ale to reinforce the beverage within. Only a master brewer can do this properly and the distilling must be done at a very deep depth, otherwise the ale becomes thin and bitterly sweet. We call the left over liquids the process creates bachna, and it is not wasted on any but the young. This ale was prepared well and drinks well. My compliments to both your good fortune at finding it and mine for drinking it now!"
In fact, the cask of wine had been expensive but Bourne knew how strong it was and had seen otherwise respectable Dwarfs drink crates of it in one sitting. This is the result he was hoping for with Durrock. Drunken Men and Dwarves alike keep no secrets. But, if he was to be interrogated, it would have to be soon before he slipped into a coma-like slumber for he was quaffing quite a lot of the ale, even by Dwarven standards.
To keep the conversation going, Strom asked Durrock, "Have you no liking, then for any Wood Elven libations?"
Durrock thought for a moment and replied, "I have a liking for a great many wines and ales, Wood Elvin, Fair Elvin, human, or otherwise."
"What of Mountain Elf berry wine?" asked Strom with a smile.
Durrock shook his head, "I offer no offense, Half-Elf, but mountain berry wines are some of the few things I have no pallet for. Their sweetness and dry aftertaste are not made for Dwarven mouths to feast on."
Strom continued, "You offer no offense to my cousin nor I, sir. I agree that Wood Elves to be more pragmatic in their distillery techniques."
"Are you and Beneth truly cousins then; same grandfather and all?" asked Durrock.
Strom shrugged, "Well, we are both from the Woodland tribes so we are certainly cousins at some level. I simply use that term to instill a well placed notion of kinship."
"Ah yes, something I know well," Durrock muttered between sips.
The feasting and drinking continued for some time. Bourne made certain that Durrock's tankard was, at all times, full. Soon the Dwarf became very talkative and very drunk. He started recounting his early days of adventuring and the reasons behind him becoming a Ranger.
Bourne had been listening intently and had hoped that an opportunity to out any of Durrock's secrets had come at last. He said quietly, "So are you now a freebooter in earnest or do you align yourself with some great cause?"
Durrock took another long drink from his mug and said, "Both and neither. Politics is game of power struggles for the ambitious and stupid. Money is the poor man's source of power and happiness is the blind pursuit of all the rest. I have been very fortunate to have aligned myself at one time with the great powers of this realm. I have found that the best of them are just as corrupt as the worst of them, only with broader goals in mind."
"What do you mean?" asked Strom, "Broader in what way?"
"Well, take happiness, for example. This Dark Lord fellow whose name invariably comes up around your name, Bourne; he is interested in his own happiness which he derives from his own sense of purpose and accomplishment. On the other hand, his main detractors, oh let us say, the great Tha' Morlla de Avet, enemy of the Dark Lord and champion of the so called 'Light', derives his happiness from slaughtering the Dark Lord's devils and, thus, allowing the common man to be happy. Which is the more perverted of the two?"
Bourne was taken back a bit, "I am not sure putting their goals in that light is accurate enough for me to comment on. Avet is a great hero and The Dark...."
"Oh, not so great. He is an arrogant ingrate with delusions of sainthood," Durrock belted out. This got the attention of everyone in the room.
Leena asked almost wide eyed, "You know Avet? You have met him?" Durrock just nodded and took another quaff of the thick brew. "The Dark Lord would pay you handsomely for whatever you know about him. I am sure of that," Leena said with a touch of awe in her voice.
Durrock shook off that comment and replied, "Yes, well, my lady, I could probably also make a decent living dancing in the street or begging, but I that is not a lifestyle I would care for, if you take my meaning."
Leena said, "I do and I am glad. There are some issues one must simply take one side or the other of."
"Clearly," Durrock said flatly and then was silent. It was obvious that the Dwarf's last moment of seemingly clear thought were, in actuality, massive inebriation rapidly setting in.
The silence hung in the air growing louder and louder. Leena, Tassif, and Beneth talked on for a bit about honor and morality for Durrock's comments had intrigued them all. As they spoke, Durrock seemed to almost fall asleep and merely sat in his chair starring at his goblet. Before the conversation could crescendo, Durrock seemed to come fully to life and blurt out, "Yes! One side or the other! No turning back, not on some matters. Curse it, you make your bed and you lay in it kill the traitors... with my axe!" Fortunately, as Durrock had begun to imbibe heavily even before the first course of the meal was completed, Strom had seen fit to move his great axe out of hand's reach. Durrock now fumbled for it and managed to knock over his goblet, which was all but empty. After a pregnant pause, he continued, "At any rate, I worked with his uh, Holiness some time ago. He valued my unique skills underground and I thought he could bring glory and honor to my name. Instead, I quickly realized Avet is about Avet and not about other people's fortunes."
Bourne made to laugh this outburst off and clapped his hands loudly, "Tassif, I believe our companion Durrock needs a soothing lute to stay his slaughter of more ale!" Strom chuckled at this but all were mindful of Durrock's words.
Tassif played, Leena played hostess, and Strom kept the remainder of the evening's conversations light. Bourne listened intently while Beneth kept a spell at the ready. If Durrock was a jester in the deck, he might now become a knave instead.
The dark woods along the northern roads to and from Norec and her surrounding cities were home to many inscrutable highwaymen. Gangs of bandits as well as individual thieves lay in wait ready to descend upon caravans, individual travelers, or any creatures that might appear to possess anything of value. Further south, the tracks of land between cities was not a lawless wilderness like they were around Norec proper. Constable
s were set up every few leagues to patrol the roadways and dales with as many toll collectors in place to pay for their services. But, despite all attempts to civilize the wilds of the North, bandits marked the roads as that land's toll takers. Many would argue that the bandits tended to be cheaper to pay for than the constables were.
Bards and Troubadours sung many, many tales about Highwaymen of great fame and repute. A Poet of any skill could rattle off endless hours of lyrics about lusty bandits who defeated overwhelming odds, crushed oppression, and won the Mayor's daughter in the end. The reality behind their songs was less romantic, however. A robber did not have to be well known to strike fear into his prey. A good robber did not have to be ruthless to pry gold from caravan masters' unharmed hands. A great robber did not have to kill wagon drivers or rape women to become famous. All a master robber really needed was a good patch of road to make use of, a flexible getaway plan, a few trustworthy men, and a very fast horse. Being able to dodge the occasional lightning bolt, fireball, and ray of frost helped, too. All in all, it was a sordid and unsavory way to make a living. But, for some with no other tangible skills, it was a decent living. One could suppose that could be said about the Bards that glamorized them as well.
Cerif was a good robber. He had once been a mediocre assassin and, before that, a miserably bad second story man. He had climbed his way up the steep, treacherous ladder of success to become just well known enough in his respective field of endeavor to have earned the title of "Dread Highwayman". What this translated to was that he would most likely be either retired and living in relative luxury in five years or very, very dead.
He had the foresight to have had a fairly defensible hideout fashioned for him by some disreputable journeymen. It was located in the low lying hills between Norec and a few of the smaller towns nearby with access to no less than three of the major roads in the area. In reality, it was little more than a cave with a makeshift drawbridge built onto it but it was well camouflaged and it did have a cleverly built escape tunnel that only he knew about. A bandit could do much worse for himself. Cerif really only felt safe there because he kept most of his men on constant patrol around the base of the hill. So far, no one had breached his fortress defenses. An early retirement still looked like a possibility for him.
The night drew on at length. Cerif had spent the dusk hours gathering information from some of the nearby towns' children. They worked cheaply and they could get closer to departing caravans than most anyone else. It looked like the next few days were going to be lean. He decided that he could make due with a rest and had resigned himself to spend some time trying to finish a chapter of his epic poem. He had been working on it for some years now and felt it to be a part of himself. His passion for the work often consumed him. Of course, the poem was about his life and triumphs.
There was the sound of voices at the mouth of the cave and then a loud thud. Suddenly Dane, the man Cerif had patrolling the entrance, was shoved back into the cave mouth. Dane made to draw his secondary weapon but the large figure that followed him slapped it out of his hand. A fast, low push kick threw Dane back several feet slamming him into the cave wall. Dane did pick himself up by his own volition some moments later, but it was done only very slowly and with great effort.
The large figure held up a torch at face level and said, "I asked this buffoon to announce me three times. I suspect there are some holes in his training concerning proper etiquette."
Cerif was on his feet with his short sword at the ready. He saw the figure's face just in time to stop himself from triggering one of the many traps he had in place in his cave. With a grimace he said, "Moornam. Do come in. Since you are not given over to making social calls and charity work is not within your repertoire, I must assume that you want something from me."
Moornam set the torch down and replied, "Naturally." She looked around the cave floor for a moment then said, "Is this a good place for me to stand to receive the full brunt from your traps?"
"A little to your left would be a better in actuality," Cerif quipped. "Very well, come. Sit," and he motioned towards a chair on his left hand side. Cerif then motioned to Dane that all was well and that he should leave the two of them alone. Moornam approached the chair, studied it briefly, and then sat down on it lightly. Trust, she knew, was a two way street.
"Wine? Let us see, I believe you are referred to as 'Huntress' now, if I am not mistaken?"
Moornam shook her head slightly and replied, "No thank you. Business first. Yes, I have earned that title and wear it with some alacrity. But, I see that the days since we worked together have been fruitful for you as well."
Cerif shrugged and said, "Fruitful... well, yes. Not as much as I had hoped but, then you cannot rush success. It tasks the gods' patience." He let a dull, brief moment elapse before he spoke again. He hoped that his dramatic efforts would put more of a spike to what he had to say next. "I have had two sets of visitors in the past few days; men from the Norec Thieves' Guild. They search for news of your whereabouts."
"That is probably because I slaughtered a few of Fain's collectors. They died like the pigs that they were."
Cerif took a swig of his mead and found that he had nothing to add to that statement. But, he did say, "That would explain their urgency at finding you. Oh, you have nothing to fear from me. I take orders neither from Norec nor the twin cities. Whenever someone enters my lair, they do so only as my guest, not as my lord."
"As it should be. To come, then, to the point of this visit, I am in need of your men."
"All of them?" asked Cerif as he poured himself another goblet of mead [and made to put his epic endeavor away].
"Yes, I count nine outside, plus you makes ten men. That should be adequate," she said flatly.
Cerif sank back into his chair and looked thoughtful for a moment. Then, he said, "What about Peln and the others? There was a good sized group of you last I heard. And, what about that smaller fellow that was following you around like a love sick pup... uh, Maeven I think it was?"
"They are all dead or retired to easier lives. Maeven died in my arms not a fortnight ago. Hunting men for money is as hard a business as one can be in." She felt a sadness well up inside her. It seemed like she missed her companion more each day. He may not have deserved a better end but he deserved it later in life.
Cerif sank even further back into his chair and replied, "I am sorry to hear that. However, we are highwaymen, not assassins. I don't think these boys of mine would be of as much use to you as they are to me." They eyed one another for a brief moment but there was no tension between them. Cerif felt safe in his lair and Moornam was unconcerned about her general welfare. After all, she knew that it took a great deal of killing to do her in. Out of curiosity he asked, "By the way, did you have any trouble slipping past my men?"
"None," she replied, which made Cerif frown a little. True, Moornam was a very skilled assassin but still, he thought that he had trained his men better. Then she said, "I am getting ahead of myself. I do need your men to help me kill one or two very dangerous people, but I need them as bowmen only. Each would have one or more of these," and she pulled out a thick, red arrow from a belt quiver. Cerif's eyes grew wide when he saw it. He knew a fireball arrow when he saw one and he knew how devastating just one of them could be.
"How many of these do you have, if I may ask?"
Moornam smiled slightly and said, "Over a score. I got a good deal on them."
Cerif took his gaze off of the arrow to look into her eyes. "Who'd you kill to get them?" he said with a slight laugh.
"The shopkeeper Quintag of Vinion. I had not wanted things to come to that but the fact that I already owed him a couple of thousand rilks sort of forced the issue. I am in no mood to be lectured to right now." Cerif's chuckling came to a quiet end. "Did I mention that one of these men I hunt carries a talisman of great import?"
Cerif shook his head and said, "No, you did not but I am listening."
Moornam explained to
him a little of the history of the Wereguard Mace stone that she presumed Bourne to still have. If she had found such an item, she would never entrust it to someone else and she knew for a fact that it had not been delivered to the Lady Druces before Bourne had departed from Norec.
Her discourse ended with the words that she knew would win her command of his young troops, "Since it is valuable to more than one party (despite its curse), I thought I would open the bidding for it at two hundred thousand rilks, although I expect a clean one half million for it." Cerif's face went blank and his mouth dropped open. Moornam repressed a smile and further added, "I will cut you in for half of the gem but the bounty on Bourne is to be mine alone."
"Yes, certainly, but back to the gem for a moment. Won't twenty-some-odd fireball blasts destroy the gem and everything else in the immediate area?"
Moornam picked up the wine flask offered to her before and drank straight from it. "I do not know anything that could endanger a relic like that. If the Royal Paladins could not destroy it, I have no fear of doing so myself. This is good wine by the way."
With a small nod of his head, Cerif seem to come out of a dream and replied, "Uh, yes. We got it from a Halfling caravan just last week. You'll pardon me, I was just thinking about whether I should purchase a castle on a tropical island or buy the mayor-ship of my hometown. Two hundred thousand rilks certainly would open up my horizons a bit."
Moornam asked, "Fifty thousand for your men?" Cerif nodded. "That is generous, but I would have thought that you would likely sell this lair to one of them for at least ten thousand."
Cerif laughed an excited laugh for the first time since he could remember. "By the gods, Moornam, you always were one step ahead of everyone else. Now I remember why I always liked you!"
The next morning's sunrise brought unwelcome light into the manor. Bourne was first to rise but his two closest companions were not far behind him. They met in the kitchen, closed its thick oaken doors, and spoke with soft voices about the preceding night's events. Beneth, in particular, seemed to be having a hard time getting his eyes to adjust to the daylight. He sat beside the warm stove with his back against the wall and tried to clear his head.
Tales of Fantasy, Fables, and Fiction Page 18
