Chapter 1: Baysil the Lame, Cleric

Baysil ignored the pain of his twisted leg, an ache he'd lived with until he seldom spared it a second thought. A hint of movement beside the trail was only a squirrel, peering at the ragged band from behind the bole of an oak. Scolding angrily, it dodged back in time to escape a shrewdly hurled sling stone.

"You'll have to be quicker than that, Thief," Kletta jeered.

Elm shot his fellow Thief a venomous look. Less than three and a half feet tall, the Halfling looked almost a child among the Company. Kletta, a Human woman a few inches taller and a couple of pounds heavier, could pass for a young girl when it suited her purposes.

"I don't see any squirrels hanging from your belt," he countered. "Not even a rabbit for our dinner."

"Quiet, you two," Baysil ordered, alert for any sign of danger. "We don't know what might hear us. You're not walking down some back alley in Pordigran, you know."

Truly they were a ragged lot, he mused. Ragged, and poorly armed. Six Humans; three men and three women. A Dwarf and a Halfling; both of them men, though with Dwarves it was difficult to be sure. Darrick, Baysil's fellow Cleric; a Half Elf. The tenth of their company was Burdock, the half breed Halfling.

"I'm a Quarterling," he'd jest when asked how a Halfling could become an apprentice Magician. A scant few inches under four feet, he was still taller than Tarr, the young woman who was their other Spell Caster.

The track they followed was little more than a game trail. Only where it cut through low ridges did it betray that it had once been a broad and level highway. Even there the centuries had taken their toll, and several times in the past few days they had taken short cuts over ancient rock slides where the track now looped in lazy detours.

"How much farther to this precious town of yours?" Elm's voice was surprisingly deep and resonant. Both Thieves wore only leather armor and caps, and the short swords they carried were little more than daggers. Neither carried even a wooden shield.

"We should reach there late tomorrow," Darrick answered in his lilting voice. Over six and a half feet tall, lean and fine boned, he had coarse red gold hair. Merry eyes gleamed from under tip tilted brows, and delicately pointed ears proclaimed his kinship with the Elven Folk. "Look ahead through that break in the trees. We'll camp tonight at the foot of yonder ridge. Then over the top and down the other side, and we'll be almost there. You'll see the smoke of their fires, and well before dark we'll be under a dry roof and drinking something better than cold water."

"Aye, lead us to a warm fire and good brown ale." Kargh the Dwarf was short but brawny, a few inches under four feet tall, and the short sword at his belt seemed a mere toy. "We've marched long under this pesky sun, and brook water washes away only the topmost layer of dust."

His complaint was good natured enough, but the next moment the scowl behind his beard reflected thoughts that were far from pleasant. From his position at the rear of the column Baysil heard only Kargh's tone of voice and was pleased that the irascible Dwarf was in a good humor.

The sun was low by the time they made camp. Rabbits and squirrels were spitted on green twigs, and soon the smell of smoke mingled with more savory odors.

"Roast rabbit and cold water," a tall and lanky soldier in patched chain mail chuckled, probing between her teeth with a handy splinter. "Not a proper meal after a long day's march. Tell us again of this town we seek, friend Darrick."

"It's there, Anji," he told her. "Though you flatter it unduly when you call it a town." Darrick sat at ease with his back to the trunk of a tree, his face turned away from the fire. "Even 'village' might be too grand a word, but so it is called on the old maps. Its people call it Shurrud, and like all of this land it has seen better times."

Baysil sat stiffly erect while the others lazed about the dying fire, letting nerves and muscles unwind before they sought their blankets. The night sounds of the woodland rose softly from all around, then fell silent.

"Ready your weapons!" The Half Elf's voice was almost a whisper in the darkness. "Something's out there, and I'll wager it means us no good."

Anji cocked their only crossbow and laid a bolt in its groove. Furdick, another of their soldiers, nocked an arrow to the string of his short bow. The others loaded leaden slugs into their slings, while the two robed Spell Casters stood stiffly alert somewhat to the rear of the group.

Bartan, their fourth fighting man, tossed an armload of dry twigs on the fire. They sputtered for a moment, then flared up.

Eyes! Low to the ground, reflecting greenish sparks from the light of the fire. Five gaunt timber wolves slunk back from the sudden glare, silver gray fur over corded muscle. They snarled as they circled and closed, but these victims were ready for them.

One of the robed figures chanted a musical phrase, fingers twining in a complex pattern. An outflung hand, a harshly barked syllable! Two wolves stumbled, sliding on their bellies in the dirt. Anji's crossbow snapped its bolt at the lunging shadows. An arrow and a flight of sling missiles followed. Then it was short swords and maces against gleaming fangs. Yells, snarls and yelps of pain echoed under the trees and fell silent.

Anji gripped a gashed arm where fangs had reached past leather gauntlets. She shook off Baysil's ministrations.

"No, see to Furdick. I'll be all right."

"Darrick's working on him. Let me bandage that arm." He nodded to where his fellow Cleric bent over a fallen soldier. Blood pumped from deep bites on arms and legs, subsiding to a trickle as Darrick ran his hands over them and chanted a healing spell.

While wounds were being ministered to, the two leather clad Thieves moved silently among the fallen wolves. Heavy saps snuffed out what life remained, and the bodies were dragged closer to the fire.

"Toss some more wood on the fire." Bartan, somewhat older than the other soldiers but a good man to have at your side in a tight spot, knelt over the bodies. His dagger was well honed and soon the pelts were spread taut on frames of green branches.

"We can sell these when we get to the village," he explained. "We're going to need all the coin we can scrape together. Our pay from guarding that caravan won't stretch far enough to buy us much in the way of better weapons."

"Good thinking." Furdick looked up sourly from inspecting his wounds. "We'll at least get something for our pains."

"We'll get more than that." Kletta grinned, easing off her leather armor. "Anji was bitching about rabbit not being enough to keep us on our feet all day. Now we've got more good red meat than we could eat in a ten day."

She laughed at the expressions on several faces, bending down to slice off a haunch of wolf. It wasn't just Anji who looked askance at the steaks that sizzled over glowing coals, but they all fell to when the meat was done.

"Wolf steak for breakfast!" Kargh grinned through his beard the next morning, wiping away grease with the back of a hand. "That should give us something to march on. Now for ShurrudVillage and some of that good brown ale!"

"Ale, at least," Anji answered him. "How good, only the Gods could say."

"Gods or Demons, as long as it's ale." He shouldered his pack, scattering the fire's embers with a booted foot. "What'll we do with the rest of this offal?"

"Leave it," Baysil ordered. "No need to fear what may come nosing around. We'll be behind walls this night, with no fear of what prowls outside."

The morning was cool and damp, making worse the pain in Baysil's leg. Low clouds hid the sun, and a raw wind whipped about their ears. The trail snaked up the side of a wooded ridge, and by the time they reached the top they were thoroughly warm from the exertion.

"There's Shurrud," Darrick pointed a long arm. "And smoke from at least three farms between here and there. A puzzle there aren't more. This land looks rich enough to support a dozen or more farms."

"I'll take your word for it," Kargh snorted, his eyes squinted against the bright sunlight. "All I can see is trees and mist. I guess this land could have been farms once."

None of the others could see what the Half Elf's keen eyes picked out so easily, and soon the valley was hidden again as they strode easily downward through clumps of trees. They kept to their usual marching order. Trouble had a habit of pouncing when least expected, wild beasts or wilder men.

Anji walked at the head of the column, her crossbow ready. Bartan and Kargh followed, slings to hand. Behind them the cloaked figures of Tarr and Burdock were a promise that at least a modicum of Magical power was at their command. Furdick and Darrick guarded their flanks against attack. Elm and Kletta followed, seeming always to walk in shadows as they padded along in their soft half boots, slings at the ready. Last came Baysil the Lame, his uneven strides never far behind.

"This used to be a farm." Bartan pointed out a tumbled line of stones that might once have been a fence, an overgrown mound of rocks that could have been a chimney. "Long since, I'd guess."

"Long since, indeed," Darrick agreed. "Too far from the village for safety during the Times of Troubles. Too far even today, for that matter."

Baysil repressed a shudder. Two hundred years ago, or three, or five, this had been a steading where children played in the door yard. All had been orderly, with rules a man could follow to improve his condition. Now only foxes played here, and not even ghosts were left to wail beneath the trees.

They passed other ruins, pausing about noon in an abandoned orchard to chew cold meat washed down with spring water. The gnarled fruit trees were just coming into flower, and budding leaves touched the branches with pale green. It was a welcome change from the starkly bare oaks and prickly evergreens along their path.

"Smoke ahead," Anji warned some time later.

"A farm," Darrick confirmed. "Stoutly defended. We'll find no welcome there."

As they broke out into the open a horn sounded, weak and sour. Men and beasts scrambled frantically from fields rank with weeds. Before they could do so much as call out a greeting the farm looked deserted. Then the horn sounded again, strong and true, and Baysil caught a faint echo drifting back down the wind.

They marched on. The next farm was still, windows shuttered and doors tightly closed. The next farm was the same, and the next. Baysil thought that they might well have been moving through a deserted land but for the horns that called ahead and fell silent. He nodded approvingly as they walked. The warning system at least bespoke a degree of organization among these people.

"I don't like it," Furdick grumbled. "They'll think us outlaws, and brew us an over hot welcome."

"There's the road behind us," Kargh laughed, a sardonic rumble behind his beard. "You're welcome to take it. I for one will chance their welcome."

"I too," Baysil agreed. "Though a well behaved outlaw band might not be all that unwelcome in so remote a village."

The track widened, plain to see where it was rutted by the wheels of innumerable farm carts. They passed yet another farm, its buildings the usual mixture of stone and timber, strength and sloppy workmanship. Only a short way beyond, a bend in the trail revealed a half finished palisade, the gaps protected only by pointed logs that lay scattered about at random among the weeds and bushes. Heavy gates swung back at their approach.

"Who are you, and what brings you here?"

The soldier who faced them over a leveled crossbow was imposing at first sight. His plate armor gleamed even in the misty rain, and his sword was long and sharp. It was only later that Baysil realized that he was a few inches below average height, almost exactly five feet tall, and painfully thin. Behind him clustered a dozen or so villagers, hanging back fearfully and clutching a makeshift assortment of weapons.

"We are but poor travelers, seeking a night's lodgings," Darrick answered, his hands uplifted with empty palms forward. "We come in peace."

He had coached the others carefully in proper behavior, and they stood quietly with their hands in plain sight. For a long moment the tension mounted toward the breaking point, then the armored fighter lowered his crossbow.

"You may approach." The soldier's voice quavered as the tension eased, and Baysil realized that they faced an old man. "Pardon our caution, but few travelers come here. Most of them are not the kind we would welcome."

The crossbow stayed cocked. There was a stir as another armored man pushed forward, taller even than Darrick, but almost skeletally thin.

"You are a Priest?" A mace hung at his belt, and his shield bore the eight fold Arrows of Chaos on a field of black.

"I am." Darrick swung his shield around so that it showed his device, the Rayed Circle of Law on a field of gray. "Though a mere acolyte. I am Darrick, called Elf Kin, and these are my companions."

"Be welcome, Darrick. I am Doomarr, Priest for this village of Shurrud and all its people. I would have you meet Janrick the Fierce, Knight of Shurrud and responsible for its defense." He turned to the villagers who had crowded around, his voice a harsh croak. "Be off! You can gawk all you want this eve at the inn."

Once through the gate, the road became broad and straight. Another road crossed it at right angles in the center of the village, the intersection widening into a broad plaza. In its center loomed an ancient temple, its six faces oriented to the cardinal points of the compass. On their left as they entered the plaza a faded and mis hung sign proclaimed an imposing two storied building to be the 'Inn of the Happy Hippogriff'. On their right, on beyond the temple, squatted a rural store.

Janrick the Fierce mounted broad steps to the porch at one corner of the inn. "Open up, Urvache!" He pounded on the scarred door with the boss of his shield. "Here are travelers, wishing to rest and refresh themselves."

He hammered again on the massive door, and scraping noises told of bolts and bars being withdrawn. The sounds abruptly stopped.

"Who... Who's out there?" The voice was high pitched, fearful.

"Come on, Urvache. Open up! It's me, Janrick. You've got guests. Paying guests."

"Paying..." The bars slid back and the door was almost wrenched from its hinges, so urgently was it swung inward. The innkeeper stepped back hurriedly as they trooped in on Janrick's heels, beaming at them as though they were royalty.

"Come in, come in. You must be hungry and thirsty. WIFE! Put more food on the stove! We have guests for dinner!"

At one end of the L shaped common room, only dimly visible in the light that filtered in through slits of windows, a door popped open. Outlined against the lighted kitchen, Baysil saw a skinny old woman peering suspiciously out at them.

"What's that you're shouting, you old... Oh! Oh my! Eight, nine, no, ten guests. Oh dear me!" The door swung shut, and the hasty clanging of pots and pans drifted back to them.

"Now, Gentlepersons, what is your pleasure? We've good brown ale here. I know it's good. Brewed it myself, Ha Ha! Or good red wine straight from the vineyards of Pordigran the MostHolyCity. '73 vintage it is, a good year."

"One mug of ale for each of us," Darrick commanded over the sudden clamor of voices. "That'll be enough to cut the dust from our throats. And no more until the evening meal."

Baysil sipped his ale. As he expected, it was somewhat thin and sour. He listened with less than half his attention as Darrick bargained with their host for food and lodging, wondering again just how he came to be here.