Chapter 8: Hostile Territory¶
| Chapter 08: Hostile Territory 5th of Pharast, 4710 AR | |
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Prologue - Elroy¶
A shield tells you everything about a man's judgment. Mine bears the hammer of Torag over a broken shield—a reminder that my father's reckless charge cost lives and stained our name. Today, that reminder saved me.
Four dire wolves surrounded us in the Greenbelt. Their teeth found me, and I felt my blood run. But the steel held. Raise the shield, plant the feet, give the others room to work—that is the Guardian's way. We abandoned the horses to buy our escape. I do not take pride in that. An animal's death for our lives is an acceptable trade, but not one I care to repeat.
We made camp at Fort Serenko, an old Brevic outpost now home to nothing but thylacines and rot. The marsupials fell quickly. Grotdor's fire ended two before I could close distance. Dravyn's lightning took the third mid-stride. I stood there with my shield raised while death flew past me on both sides. Perry called it 'efficient.' Rust sniffed the air and asked who was barbecuing.
The next morning brought a dead horse on a game trail—massive claw marks, broken legs, still warm. Rust looked skyward and did not look away for some time. We took the potions from its saddlebags and kept moving.
Then came the sycamore tree.
I have seen bodies before. Brevoy is not gentle to its outcasts. But I have never seen anything like this. Kobolds—dozens of them—nailed to the trunk, stripped of skin, tongues torn out, forks jammed into their eyes. The crows cawed at our approach as if we were intruding on their feast.
A hole at the base of the tree leads into darkness. Whatever dwells within wishes the kobolds to know fear.
Tomorrow we enter. My shield is ready. My father would have charged in without thought. I intend to be more careful.
Direwolf Ambush | Fireday, 5 Pharast 4610 AR¶
The wolves came again with the morning light.
Elroy planted his boots in the loam and let the shield take the blows. The first wolf—a scarred brute with a torn ear—lunged for his throat. Steel rang against fang. The beast snapped twice more, growing desperate, and on the third attempt its muzzle cracked against the shield's iron boss. It recoiled, shaking its head, and Elroy held his ground.
Behind him, the horses screamed.
Two wolves had broken from the pack. Perry's pony went down first—a gray blur of teeth and thrashing legs, the small animal's voice cutting off mid-cry. Elroy's horse followed moments later, a massive wolf clamping its jaws around the animal's neck and wrenching until something snapped. The creature threw back its head and howled, blood steaming on its muzzle.
There was no time for grief.
Elroy surged toward the wagon, seized Rust by the collar, and bodily lifted the goblin onto the wooden bed. Dog scrambled up after them, Rust shouting encouragement through bared teeth. Warmth flooded through Elroy's wounds as the oracle's power took hold—vitality spreading through torn muscle and bruised bone.
Grotdor was already moving, heat rippling from his hands as he sprinted for the wagon. A streak of fire carved through the morning air, catching two wolves in its path. The first caught the flames full in the face and stumbled, fur smoldering; the second danced aside, singed but still hungry.
Dravyn strode through the chaos with unsettling calm. Runes flickered at his fingertips as he shaped a spell meant to draw the moisture from living flesh—but the wolves' wild movements carried them clear. He raised one hand in a sardonic wave at the beasts and continued toward the wagon.
Perry reached the driver's seat and cracked the reins. The surviving horses lurched forward, hooves churning dirt. Behind them, he hurled a glass sphere that shattered against the ground, releasing a bloom of gray-white smoke that swallowed their retreat.
One wolf gave chase.
The pursuit stretched through the woodland, the wagon bouncing over roots and stones while the beast loped alongside, waiting for an opening. Elroy braced himself at the wagon's edge and drove his shield forward when the wolf lunged, catching it across the snout. Grotdor called out a warning as a fallen log appeared in their path—Perry swerved just in time. Dravyn hurled debris with a gesture, rocks and brambles tangling the wolf's legs. Rust produced a shrill whistle that made the creature balk mid-stride.
Then Perry reached into his satchel, withdrew a vial of something caustic, and threw.
The mixture splashed across the wolf's face. It staggered, pawed at its eyes, and collapsed unconscious in their wake.
Behind them, the remaining wolves fell upon the abandoned horse and ponies. The sound of feeding carried through the trees until distance finally swallowed it.
Recovery and Reconnaissance | Fireday, 5 Pharast 4610 AR¶
They emerged from the woodland onto open grassland, the Shrike River glinting in the distance. The party sat in silence for a long moment, catching their breath, taking stock of what they had lost.
Rust tended to Elroy's wounds properly once they stopped—cleaning, binding, letting his power do the deeper work. The guardian's color returned, his breathing steadied. Dog received attention next, a minor elixir from Perry supplementing the oracle's care.
They pressed on.
Shrike’s Cascade | Fireday, 5 Pharast 4610 AR¶
Shrike's Cascade announced itself before they saw it: a constant thunder that grew as they approached, until they rounded a bend and found the river plunging over a fifty-foot cliff. Mist hung in the air, catching afternoon light in shifting rainbows. The roar made conversation difficult.
Elroy studied the base of the falls, then gestured for a rope. Grotdor helped secure the line while the guardian descended through the spray, stone slick beneath his boots.
Behind the curtain of water, a hollow opened in the cliff face—barely large enough for a goblin, cramped for a man. Elroy squeezed inside and found a waterproof bag wedged against the back wall. He emerged grinning, water streaming from his beard.
When he climbed back up, Perry asked what he had found.
Elroy shrugged. "Nothing. Complete waste of time."
He divided the jewelry that evening: bracelets, brooches, ivory combs. Worth more than nothing.
Fort Serenko | Fireday, 5 Pharast 4610 AR¶
Fort Serenko rose from the failing light like a memory of better days.
The wooden palisade still stood, though the portcullis had rusted in place and wind whistled through gaps in the walls. A brass nameplate identified the ruin—once a Brevic outpost, now home to whatever had moved in after the soldiers left.
The party heard the creatures before they saw them: strange yawping cries that echoed from the central structure. Then three shapes emerged from the shadows—striped, dog-like things with jaws that gaped too wide and eyes that caught the torchlight wrong.
Thylacines. Marsupial predators that had claimed the fort as their den.
The first creature rushed Elroy, its hunting cry rising to a keening pitch meant to freeze prey in place. The guardian only tightened his grip on his shield. Lightning answered instead—Dravyn's spell cracking across the distance to catch the second thylacine mid-stride. The creature convulsed, and before it could recover, the wizard's glaive completed what lightning had begun. Steel punched through the animal's throat, and it dropped.
The third thylacine circled toward Perry, but the investigator had already raised his crossbow. A soft hiss of pressure, a measured squeeze, and the bolt took the creature in the chest. It stumbled. A chord of resonant sound from Rust staggered it further—the goblin's voice carrying strange harmonics that rattled bone. Then Dog was on it, jaws finding the creature's throat.
Grotdor ended the last. Fire gathered in his hands, condensed to a point, and flew. The thylacine burst into flame, dead before it hit the ground.
The entire fight lasted seconds.
Rust sniffed the air. "Is somebody barbecuing?"
They made camp within the fort's walls. Perry helped Rust secure the site, gathering supplies while Grotdor worked to hide evidence of their presence. The goblin's hunt produced ample provisions—enough for several days.
Perry's attempt to identify some local fungi as edible did not go as planned. He spent the next hour convincing his stomach that the mistake had been educational.
Elroy suggested haggis for the following day. No one argued.
Roc Sign | Starday, 6 Pharast 4610 AR¶
The dead horse lay beside the game trail, still warm.
Rust examined it while the others watched the sky. The legs were shattered—broken from impact, not attack. Massive talon marks scored the animal's back, deep furrows torn through hide and muscle.
Something had carried this horse into the air. Something had dropped it.
"Roc," Rust said quietly.
The party salvaged what they could from the saddlebags—healing draughts, coin, wine and grog and blankets—and moved on. They kept to the treeline after that.
Fey Grig | Starday, 6 Pharast 4610 AR¶
The clearing was too beautiful.
Sunlight filtered through the canopy in columns of gold. Fruit hung ripe and heavy from branches that should not have borne it this early in the season. The air smelled of honey and spring flowers, sweet enough to taste.
Perry noticed Dravyn's discomfort first. The wizard had stopped walking, his jaw tight, his composure cracking.
Then came the sound—loud, wet, unmistakably flatulent—that echoed through the clearing. Distant laughter followed, high and mocking.
"Penis, penis, penis!" the voices chanted.
Two tiny figures emerged from the undergrowth. They stood perhaps a foot tall, their lower bodies those of crickets, their upper bodies vaguely humanoid. One had eyes the color of fresh blood; the other's gleamed sapphire blue. A small, corgi-like creature accompanied them, its proportions not quite right for any natural beast.
Fey. Grigs.
Elroy stepped forward and asked about a ring—a wedding band taken from a woman named Svetlana.
The red-eyed grig cocked its head. "I don't have it. I might know something about someone who does."
Negotiation followed. The fey wanted payment—specifically, two of the silver amulets the party had taken from bandits. Elroy agreed.
The grig's information proved valuable. Southwest of the Shrike River stood a massive sycamore tree. Outside it, they would find piles of kobold corpses—victims of mitflits, diminutive fey creatures engaged in a war with the local kobold tribe. Either the mitflits or the kobolds possessed the ring.
The grigs faded as fey often did, their bodies blending with leaf and shadow until only two pairs of eyes remained—red and blue, watching.
"Farewell, travelers."
Then even the eyes were gone.
The Forgotten Cache | Starday, 6 Pharast 4610 AR¶
The lightning-struck oak stood alone on a low hill, its dead branches reaching skyward like a clutching hand.
A body lay at its base. Human. Male. A knife protruding from his back.
Rust confirmed the obvious: murdered, not long ago. The dead man wore the insignia of the Stag Lord's bandits—a silver amulet depicting a stag's head.
Perry circled the tree, studying its bark. One section had been broken away and hastily replaced. He pried it loose and found the hollow within.
The cache contained a spellbook—water-damaged but readable—along with a wand that radiated faint heat, a dagger of exceptional quality, a healing draught, and a plain silver ring. Not Svetlana's—no diamond adorned this one—but valuable nonetheless.
Dravyn claimed the spellbook and wand without comment. Perry took the dagger.
Whoever had killed the bandit had not known about the hiding place. Or had not bothered to look.
Camping near the Thorn River | Starday, 6 Pharast 4610 AR¶
They made camp again as darkness fell. Grotdor hid their fire; Perry and Rust secured the site. The goblin's forage produced less this time, but they had supplies enough.
Tomorrow they would reach the sycamore.
The Old Sycamore | Sunday, 7 Pharast 4610 AR¶
The Old Sycamore dominated the horizon long before they arrived—a massive tree, a hundred feet tall and ancient beyond counting, its branches skeletal against the gray sky.
The crows announced them.
Dozens of black birds erupted from the branches as the party approached, their cawing harsh and hungry. They had been feeding, and now their meal was interrupted.
The source of their feast became clear as the party drew closer.
Kobold corpses. Dozens of them.
They hung from branches. They were nailed to the trunk. All bore the distinctive gray-and-black scales of their kind. All had been mutilated.
Tongues torn out. Forks and sticks jammed into eyes and ears. Many stripped entirely of skin, their muscles exposed to rot and beak. The bodies swayed in the wind while the crows circled overhead, waiting for the intruders to leave.
At the base of the tree, a hole had been cut into the ancient trunk—an entrance to whatever dwelt within. The opening was sized for small creatures. For Rust and Perry, it would be cramped. For the larger members of the party, it would be worse.
Elroy studied the scene in silence. His shield bore Torag's hammer over a broken shield—a reminder of his father's reckless charge, of the lives that mistake had cost.
He would not repeat that error. Not here. Not against whatever had done this.
The party halted at the threshold.
Their first true dungeon waited below.