In Which Our Hero Rescues a Gnome and Finds a Statue

July 9th, 1885

The town of Stillwater appeared, after the past week of marching through sticky, humid temperature and the occasional flurry of summer rains, like a paradise upon the gods green earth. I, Virginia, Maggie, Sally, Gillian, the ever faithful Dogmeat and the members of the Stonecutter clan who had decided to emigrate back to the Wheel Clan all trudged into town stinking of long travel and the still omnipresent smell of zombie. As we came to stop near the central statue that marked the middle of the town, watched by all the gathered villagers, I turned to face Herod Iron Heart.

“So, again,” he said, his voice anxious behind his beard. “I am sorry about all the nonsense involving the zombies and the reanimated dogs and the insane golem and-”

I mutely pointed off to the east.

The dwarf we had been sent to deliver nodded, turned, and hurried off with the rest of his clansmen.

A gentleman in the uniform of a Tarantian constable walked slowly over towards us, eyeing the party that did not immediately set off for the Wheel Clan’s hidden stronghold. He opened his mouth, clearly about to ask a question, but I raised a grime splattered hand. “I don’t want to talk about it,” I said.

The only member of our party that seemed happy with their current state was Dogmeat – and that may have had something to do with the sheer number of bones he had gotten to play with while in the depths of the Stonecutter clan’s mines. The constable shook his head slowly, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“The Bleeding Rose has beds and baths for a few crowns,” he said. “With hot water, too.”

“Oh praise Nasrudin,” Virginia groaned as the constable took his leave.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

Virginia kicked me in the shins.

The innkeeper himself – a blustery faced, balding halfling – looked quite askance at the lot of us until I laid out the golden coins that I had. They were becoming an increasingly motley example of the financial practice, as several bore the bespoked icon of the Wheel Clan, several were ancient Black Mountain coins, and the rest were a combination of Tarantian and Caladonian mintings. However, each weighed about the same, and they had a salubrious effect on the halfling, who held out a set of keys to us.

Something small wriggled in the back of my mind – a half remembered thought. It was only once I took the key did it spark in my mind: “Oh! Some months ago, an older human woman with hazel eyes, a facial scar and the robes of a Panarii priestess must have visited. Has she remained staying here?” I asked, recalling the descriptions of the Elder Johanna that Virginia had given me. Virginia started at the mention of her mentor – clearly, she had forgotten as I had that Johanna had said to seek her in Stillwater in the telegram we had received months before.

The innkeeper’s eyes brightened. “Ah! You are Virginia?” he asked, looking at Virginia, who nodded quickly. The innkeeper held up a single finger. “Beg pardon, I must retrieve something from the lockboxes.”

He turned and scampered into the back rooms. As he did so, I murmured to Virginia. “Seems we missed Johanna again.”

Virginia nodded, her eyes impossible to read. The halfling emerged from the back of his inn and brought with him a thickly bound red book with a clasp that was sealed with a tiny key. Held against the cover with his thumb was also an envelope, sealed in wax. He held both to Virginia, who took them with a quiet thanks. Thus equipped, we all headed back to our rooms. Feeling absurdly bashful, I entered into the room I had acquired for Virginia and I, trying to ignore the salacious smile sent our way by Sally Mead Mug. Once within, I took stock. The room defined rustic and pleasant – bringing to mind the room at the Shrouded Hill’s inn. Though, unlike that, this room lacked corpses.

Virginia shucked off her traveling coat and tugged off her chain mail, wearing only her cotton undershirt and her leather leggings. “So, uh, what does the letter say?” she asked as she walked into the rear of the room, where an iron wrought tub sat, already filled with water. She put her finger into the water and hissed with happiness and pain both, jerking her hand free. “Piping hot.”

“Who gets the bath first?” I asked.

“Oh, uh ... you!” Virginia said, her cheeks darkening.

“Nonsense!” I said. “You’re my bodyguard. Shouldn’t you ... bathe ... first?”

“That is poppycock and ... and folderol!” she said, flipping one hand. “I can’t protect you in the bath!”

“And I won’t have you catching a cold after I soak all the heat out of that bath,” I said. “This is the mountains, you know.”

“In July?” Virginia crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m afraid I must insist, sir, you get the bath first!”

“Absolutely not,” I said, setting the book down on the bed. “I offered it, and it would be priggish and ungentlemanly to simply take the honor from you. After all: Ladies first.”

“Oh, I’m a lady now!?” Virginia asked.

“ ... yes?” I blinked.

“I mean ... like ... I’m...” Virginia spluttered. “Fine!” She grabbed her shirt and tugged it over her head with some fierceness, throwing it directly into my face. It was rich with her scent – unfortunately, her scent included the now week old gore of several zombies she had decapitated while delving in an underground dungeon. I tugged it from my face and threw it to the ground in time to see that Virginia had sunk up her chin in the bath, her knees drawn almost to her nose. Her hair had been frazzled by the progress of her shirt, giving her a wild-woman look to match the peevish glare she sent my way, which contrasted sublimely with the poorly concealed look of bliss that came from soaking in a piping hot bath. She groaned quietly as I sat upon the bed, opening the wax seal on the letter with one fingernail. I tilted the envelope and found more than just a folded piece of paper covered in cursive scrawl: There was also a tiny golden key with a death’s head motif on the bow.

“What does it say?” Virginia called from the bath.

“Give me but a moment, old girl,” I said, using a thumb to open the letter up and hold it before me. I tilted it to catch the light from the oil lamp in the room.

V.

The men trying to kill you seem to be the remnants of the Molochean Hand, who, long ago, were assassins for the Order of the Dead (Derian Ka). I found this ancient but incomplete text concerning their history ... they don’t seem to be bad fellows, perhaps just a bit misdirected. Things are too dangerous right now ... I shouldn’t have even had you come here. I’ll find you.

-J

I finished reading it aloud to a loud snort from Virginia. “Not bad?” she asked, sloshing in the bath slightly. “What, pray tell, do these fellows have to do to be villains? Kick puppies? Drown kittens in the bathwater?”

I chuckled. “Well, let us see what we can see...” I said, lifting the book and checking the spine – only to find that the lettering had worn away to indecipherablity. I pursed my lips, then tried the key on the clasp. A faint click sounded and the book opened before me and I saw what the Elder Johanna had meant by ‘incomplete.’ Large swaths of the book were illegible – the page eaten away by time, or damaged by water. I turned even these useless pages with great care, not wanting to harm the tome anymore than it already had by time. At last, I came to some text I could read – and began to do so aloud.

... lost histories of the Molochean Hand. Their separation from the Order of the Dead was always a mystery, but translations of the scroll of Trellian, First Assassin of the Hand, have brought to light their enigmatic reasons for leaving. A half-torn excerpt from the scroll reads...

“ ... and the writings of the great Necromancer were found by me, and his madness and abominations were made clear, and I threw myself to the ground with great sorrow and gnashing of teeth. How evil were the men to whom we had pledged our hearts and our swords? I vowed to make war, and we set ourselves upon them and the Gray Legions on the plains of Vooriden, and we broke them, but were also broken upon them. My heart burns...”

Obviously, there were doctrinal differences between the Derian Ka and their order of assassins. The ‘great Necromancer’ referred to is obviously Kerghan the Terrible, after whose death was formed the Order of the Dead. The ‘writings’ that Trellian refers to are unknown, but its been surmised that they were some sort of personal journal or log book. One of the scrolls of Trellian also refers to ‘ ... the master’s place of dark secrets set among the stones...” which may or may not have referred to Kerghan’s lost laboratory, spoken of cursorily in both the writings of Belaak and Ysered.

The final page showed the drawing of a human’s face – lantern jawed and sunken eyes, with a perpetual sneer on his lips and a mop of unruly hair tied back into a pony tail. Beneath it was the inscription: Kerghan the Terrible, before his execution.

I closed the book and Virginia and I sat in silence, our thoughts dark.

“Well...” Virginia said. “This Trellain fellow at least seems to be a good chap. Anyone who stands against something called the Order of the Dead is a good one in my book.” She chuckled nervously.

I stood and began to pace, letting the book lay on the bed. “Trellain the First Assassin, I must remind you.”

Virginia tensed in the bath, her fingers gripping onto the wrought iron edges. Her voice grew soft. “Yes. Well. We’re none of us saints, are we?” she asked, her voice soft.

I looked to her – from my vantage point, I could see her slipping slowly lower into the bath, her hair seeping into the water. She closed her eyes, and for the moment, only her face was visible above the water. For just a moment, I could see only her face – the liquid reflecting the light of the oil lamp as it had become silvered. Virginia looked deeply at peace at that moment – and yet a deep, intense horror filled me. I had to say something, to break the momentary illusion: “Indeed.”

Virginia lifted her head, nodding quickly. Her hair, slicked back and soaked, looked nearly raven black, rather than the normal chestnut hue she was normally had. “Ray...” She brushed her fingers through her hair, her eyes unwilling or unable to meet mine. “T-There are some things that happened to me, some things I should tell you...” She shook her head. “They happened because I was a fool. Or a coward. Or...” She sank deeper into the water. “Burdens like mine don’t go away. They always come back, to collect what is due them. Someday, the balance will have to be paid.”

Silence hung in the room.

“Virginia,” I said, my voice soft.

Virginia ducked her head forward – and I saw her looking purely and utterly miserable. My past as a bandit was not unstained by blood. But, by and large, I had done my best to simply take gold, not lives. I wondered if her past was nearly so clean. And seeing her misery decided me. I stepped to the side of the bath, then knelt down. I placed my hand on her shoulder, squeezing. “You need not tell me a thing, Virginia. I can wait to hear.”

Virginia sent me a watery smile. “Thanks,” she said.

Quietly, she added: “You smell really bad.”

I dunked her beneath the water.

The next morning dawned and I left Virginia to lay in bed, a satisfied smile upon her lips. I headed down to the common room in the inn and put in a request for some breakfast for me and my compatriots. Seeing other travelers who had come to Stillwater, I ambled over, then took a seat at the common table, striking up a conversation with a half-elven woman, who quickly told me her name – Maria – and her reason for coming to this town – hunting in the Glimmering Forest. This led to me telling me her what had brought me here: The hunt for the route to the elven city of Quintarra.

“There’s an elf in town who knows the exact way, I believe,” she said, sipping on a cup of piping hot coffee. “Myrth, he lives north of the blacksmith, he’s from Quintarra.”

“Ah, my thanks,” I said, smiling to her.

Thus equipped with fresh intelligence, I set out with Virginia at my side, once she had been fortified by a stiff cup of sweetened coffee. We set to the middle of town first, and here, I actually got a chance to survey the statue that made the center of the town so easily found. It was a hideous, wrought iron statue in the shape of a humanoid figure with a pair of antler-like horns, a wide, squat face, and broad shoulders that looked fit to give a half-ogre a run for their money. At the base of the statue was the name: The Stillwater Giant.

“Ah,” I said. “Like in H. T. Parnel’s Museum!”

“So, I’m beginning to doubt the veracity of H. T. Parnel’s Museum,” Virginia said, her voice dark.

I took a glance about the center of the town and spied the local blacksmith. He was a human gentleman with a clean shaven face, a furrowed trio of scars across his scalp, as if some kind of beast had struck him a glancing blow from overhead, and muscles slabbed atop a growing shroud of girth. His hair, which grew in patches around his scars, was sleet gray. Despite his advancing years, he swung his hammer with a steady rhythm, beating out a brilliant red blade upon his anvil. He quenched the blade in a pail of oil – filling the air with hissing and spitting sounds as I approached.

“Good day,” I said, my hands sliding into my pockets.

The man looked at me with the skepticism I was used to. But he did incline his head in a very faint nod. “How might I do you for, greenskin?” he asked.

I sighed. “I heard that an elf lived nearby – a Mr. Myrth?”

“Aye, I know him, he’s four houses that way,” the blacksmith said, pointing with his finger. “Why you looking for him? Does he owe you money?”

“Oh, no, no,” I said, shaking my head. “We’re seeking a route to Quintarra.”

The blacksmith nodded once, then drew his sword from the oil. He looked at it, and rather than the look of pride and contentment I expected, his face instead twisted into an irritated frown. “Whatever is the matter?” I asked. “That’s a fine blade. My friend, Magnus, has told me something of the forging art, and that is somewhat dwarven in the make ... quite an accomplishment for a human blacksmith, isn’t it?”

“Aye, it is,” the blacksmith said. He set the sword down. “But it is the fifth half finished sword I’ve made this week – do you know why people come to Stillwater?”

“The giant?” I asked, jerking my chin to the statue.

The blacksmith spat. “That poppycock,” he said, scowling. “Leave it to Stanley to talk up a delusion and drink and get tongues wagging across Arcanum about it. The Stillwater Giant is fake. Made up. Fairy tales. Nonsense. How many times do I have to tell this to tourists from Tarant and naturalists from Caladonia and knights from Cumbria?”

“A few more times may do the trick,” Virginia muttered to me. I stifled my chuckle.

“People come to Stillwater for her swords,” the blacksmith said. “For Richard Leeks’ work. That’s me.”

“A pleasure,” I said, bowing my head to him. “And very fine swords they look.”

Richard grinned at me, showing he was missing a single tooth. “The forging’s half the work, greenskin. The other half’s putting spells on them. A revolver might kill a man from a dozen yards off, but only a magick sword will slay the undead. Plus, there’s mages aplenty who still want a bit of steel to hold them safe when they’re outta mana. The Caladonian Guard want a full shipment to give their Dragoons.”

“A strange kingdom, buying magick swords while building machine guns,” I said.

“If you ask me, Arland’s got the way of it.” Richard said. “I hammer on steel. That’s basically what those factories in Tarant do. But my steel gets magicked and can serve a point. And that won’t stop me from hunting game with a rifle, or riding on the railroad. Pretending there’s any sense to ignoring half the world and pretending the half you staked out is the best part is just blind foolishness, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Hear hear!” Virginia said, quite forcefully. She shot me a significant look.

“I don’t ignore your magick talents, Virginia,” I said.

“Oh, no. You just refuse to take advantage of them,” she said, a distinct grumble in her voice.

“Believe you me,” I said. “If I could make your healing spells work more often, I would.” I patted my chest.

Virginia laughed and I jostled her shoulder.

Richard was looking at us with a faint suspicion. The gleam in his eyes reminded me, in a way that months in the wild and in dwarven catacombs did not, that most of the civilized world viewed the relationship between Virginia and I as a direct threat to the proper order of things. A good half of the hatred and bile piled upon my head had less to do with the orcish part of my blood and with the human part. The idea of a human woman consorting – willingly or not – with a green skinned man was loathsome to many. I felt a deep sadness settling over my good mood and contrived to hide it by asking Leeks: “So, you need these blades magicked?”

“Aye, yes,” Leeks said. “But the mage who does it hasn’t visited since Monday.”

I frowned. “Have you gone to his house to check?” I asked.

“And get turned into a toad?” Leeks snorted. “Cyrus is a crazy old gnome, I’m not about to risk that.” He frowned. “Say...” He looked suspicious again, his eyes boring into Virginia, who seemed to become aware of his thoughts and was glaring back at him in a way that seemed designed to clearly announce her feelings about me. And so, once more, I headed off at the pass.

“Then might we?” I asked, smiling.

“If you would, I could see about giving you one of the swords,” Leeks said, his voice brusque as he looked at me.

“Capital!”

Virginia and I set through the town to find Mr. Cyrus’ home. This was easier said than done, for the old wizard had taken to the habit common to wizards throughout the millennia and built his home as far from the center of town as possible. As we stomped along, Virginia fumed, grumbling under her breath: “Small minded bigot, red nosed teetotal-ing, puritanical-”

I held up my hand. Virginia stopped, her mouth snapping shut. Her hands gripped the hilt of her magick sword as she saw what I had seen: For both of us were standing before the small house that had once been Cyrus’ home, and both of us could see that the front door had been shattered inwards. The lock was broken and the interior of the house was dark. I strode forward, drawing my revolver with my free hand. The two of us advanced towards the door, and when I peeked inside, I saw that the bed had been tilted over, the table had been smashed in half, and the wall was scorched with what appeared to be serious magickal discharges.

“Sir!” Virginia called out.

I turned from the door – and saw what she was pointing down at the ground, where thick footprints had stomped down the grass. Very large footprints.

“Stillwater giant?” I asked.

“Giants are supposed to be fifty feet tall!” Virginia hissed. “And extinct.”

“We’re currently on the hunt for a missing dwarf tribe captured by a two thousand year old elven megalomaniac,” I pointed out as I started to follow the footprints. “Hunted ourselves by an ancient cabal of assassins who once served the first Necromancer.”

“That’s irrelevant, sir!” Virginia called after me – before hurrying to catch up.

The two of us made our ways deeper into the mountains, where the thick summer growth and underbrush made tracking the large creature and their stolen gnome fairly easy. Here, there was a scrap of cloth caught on a branch. There? Another brush crushed into paste. After a mere ten minutes of walking, Virginia and I came to a narrow cave sunken into the side of the mountains. Virginia lifted her hand to create a shimmering glowing orb in the air, illuminating the interior of the cave. It was dotted with bones – most of then animal in nature, but a few looked close to human. All had been cracked open by great big teeth, and the bone marrow had been sucked from them with gusto. At the very back of the cave was a small gnome, tied up with his hands and feet bound, his mouth filled with a crude gag. He wriggled upon seeing us and we both ran forward.

Kneeling down, I yanked his gag off and Virginia began to cut the bindings. The gnome – Cyrus, I presumed – coughed and spluttered once his mouth was free. “Thank the gods!” he gasped out, his eyes wide. “That bastard finally went and did it!”

“Who did what?” I asked as Virginia cut his feet free. Cyrus stood, then immediately fell. I caught him before he could crash face first into the ground and stood, helping him keep his feet. His face was a mask of pain, and I could see why: His fingers and his feet had turned nearly black with the loss of circulation. Virginia began to press her hands to his side, and healing magick flowed through his body. As the magick did its work, Cyrus explained his predicament.