The cold rain of a lingering winter blew in from the sea. The few shivering souls still working the docks late that evening hustled to finish their tasks, eager to get home to the warmth of a fire. The Ruby Clipper had made port this afternoon, and most of its crew had disembarked, yet a few still labored to offload the last of the cargo. The damp and blustering wind chilled the workers but had little effect on two shadowy cloaked figures, one tall and thin, the other short and stocky. This mis-matched pair of stoics trudged past the clipper and continued along the darkened wharves of Stihlport. They were used to the oppressive weather, having just spent several weeks escorting a trade caravan from the north. In their line of work, discomfort and exposure to the elements was far from uncommon..
The pair left the creaking ship behind them and stepped into the glow of an oil lamp mounted to the stone façade of a warehouse. A clattering wooden sign swung from chains above the doorway. The sign read “Wright Way Distribution – Bontelan Wright, Proprietor.” The taller of the cloaked figures peered around furtively, a habit born of his suspicious nature. His eyes, deep in the shadow of his hood, glinted faintly in the lamplight. His stocky companion shouldered past him and pulled the door open.
They peered into a small office lobby. No one greeted them. They wordlessly stepped into the room’s warmth and hung their damp cloaks on pegs near the door. The two had spent so much time in each other’s company during their last assignment, that there was little left to discuss, particularly after an unfortunate incident which had tarnished an otherwise trouble-free, albeit wearisome outing. They took seats just inside the door and silently awaited the arrival of their employer. The tall man drew a dagger and dragged a whetstone across its blade, while his eyes moved over every inch of the sparsely furnished office. There was a fire in a stone hearth, a sturdy oak desk, and an iron door which lead to the warehouse proper. The other member of the pair was a stout fellow with a bearded face and a placid demeanor. His lips moved in a silent prayer and his fingers grasped a small circular medallion hanging froma silver chain around his neck.
It was not long before the door banged open, a mountain of a man strode in. Steel armor rattled, and heavy boots stomped, thudding on the wooden floor. Water dripped from the notched blade of a huge battle axe, a dented helm, and a shield which had endured more than a few nasty blows. The short, bearded fellow glanced up with an expression of mild curiosity, his prayer momentarily interrupted. His partner, however, was on his feet in a blink, the keen blade of his dagger thrust forward in warning.
“Back off, big boy. Who are you?”
The newly arrived man’s eyes widened in surprise for a heartbeat. Then his stubbled face broke into a wide grin, and his voice boomed forth in a hearty greeting.
“Hail and well met, my friend! I am Sartan, the Juggling Jester of Javelins, the Swashbuckling Swordsman of Strife, the Bodacious Behemoth of Battling Battleaxes, the P…”
“Stop, stop, stop. That’s enough. He gets it!” a voice rang out from behind this “Sartan” character, “Now get outta my way so I can get in out of the rain, you damned oaf!”
The interrupting voice was that of a lithe elf clad in grey and green. He shoved past the bulky Sarta, and his grey eyes blazed with exasperation at his towering companion. He shook water from his mane of blonde hair, and then halted at the sight of the dagger-wielding man who stood before him. The man pivoted toward the elf, pointed the blade at him and demanded, “Are you Kilgore’s men?”
The elf exchanged a look with Sartan, and turned to the black-clad blade-wielder. “Never heard of any ‘Kilgore’. Now, why don’t you just put your little knife away. We’ve dealt with tougher blokes than you, and we have been doing precisely that for weeks aboard ship. Now, we’re wet, cold and tired and would like to get warm, get paid, and get out of here for a drink or two. You OK with that?”
The silence stretched and simmered, then was broken by a gruff voice. It spoke kindly, but with measured certainty. “You speak wisely, good elf. Sorvad, kindly put aside your blade. These are not agents of Kilgore’s gang here to trouble us. No, the Lord Divoc tells me that, like us, these are defenders of the good and the just. Brothers in arms.” This heretofore silent figure rose to his full four-foot stature, and held out a sturdy hand in greeting. “I am Mishok, dwarf of the mountain clans overseas, and servant of Divoc the Benevolent and Wise. This is my colleague Sorvad, a good but cautious man. Like you, we have only just arrived from long weeks of travel, and we are weary. You will surely excuse the somewhat… apprehensive… stance of my partner. We have had some recent trouble with the local banditry.”
The elf took the proffered hand in a firm grasp and replied, “I am Cycek,” he replied with mock formality, “ranger of the elven realm of the Whisperwood in the north of these provinces. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Sorvad, his eyes still shifting between the elf and the armored warrior, reluctantly sheathed his dagger. At that moment the iron door behind the desk swung open and Bontelan Wright entered the room.
At a glance, Bontelan Wright seemed an unassuming man, yet he carried himself with a confident demeanor that filled the room. He was somewhat rotund and not particularly tall. He was beyond middle-aged, yet it was difficult to tell how far beyond. His bald head was ringed by a fringe of close-cropped greying hair, and his face was clean shaven. All four of the travelers worked for this man, yet it was their first time in his physical presence. He cast an appraising gaze at them and spoke with a polite, yet commanding voice.
“Welcome to Stilport, gentlemen. Please, do sit down.”
They did so, and Mr. Wright continued.
“I would like to commend all of you for your fine work. Sartan and Chichek, this was one of the few journeys the Ruby Clipper has completed entirely without incident since the autumn. There were few fights. No incidents of theft. And happily, no need to take up arms and defend against piracy. You have either been the finest or the luckiest security officers in my employ for a long time. Either way, you have earned the agreed upon fee and more. I believe in rewarding exceptional results, thus you will receive a bonus as a token of my gratitude… and as an incentive to make yourself available for additional projects.”
Sartan raised a huge fist in victory and would have whooped with delight, had not Chichek elbowed him in the ribs, to pointedly caution him against outbursts. Mr Wright went on.
“Sorvad, Mishok, I understand that you handled yourselves quite skillfully in the field as well. You routed a brazen assault by an infamous and dangerous group of bandits. You saved an important shipment from almost certain loss. It is regrettable that there was loss of life.” He paused, with a thoughtful look upon his face, and Mishok bowed his head. “But,” he continued, “that is the risk of banditry. Those who partake it such acts have their reasons, sometimes good reasons, but they know the consequences of attempting to take by force, that which is not theirs. And Kilgore’s band displays little of the honor that many thieves hold dear. I believe your consciences are clear. You too shall receive bonuses in recognition for your good work, and the risks you took on behalf of Wright Way Distribution.”
Sorvad remained impassive, while Mishok nodded his head in quiet gratitude.
“I do not, at this time, have additional work, but I expect to in a few weeks. However, as fate would have it, another situation has presented itself… one for which you are not only well-suited, but also, I believe… available.”
This drew the focused attention of the four mercenaries, as the prospect of a lucrative new assignment is wont to do.
“This morning, a messenger arrived from the office of the mayor of Shadowfurst. Anton Strongbow. He is my friend and he is in need of help. He knows the – degree of competence – of the individuals I employ, so he sent this request for assistance. I can assure you, he will pay handsomely. You see, it his daughter. She has gone missing. His town constables have had no success in their investigations, so he is seeking someone with more specialized talents. You have shown your worth as capable operatives, and so I would like to send you to Shadowfurst immediately with my recommendation. It is your decision to make, but if you choose to pursue this referral, I will supply a horse to carry your gear, and I will arrange for lodging tonight.”
The four glanced uncertainly at each other, gauging each other’s receptiveness to this “referral.” Bontelan continued, as if it had been decided. He spoke as one used to commanding.
“You will be the guest of Mr. Fullmer at the Wandering Fool. It is a reputable inn on the west side of the city, away from the distraction of our portside entertainments. I realize this may forestall any well-earned revelry you may have intended. But urgency demands that you forgo such things and make travel preparations this evening, so that you are ready to leave tomorrow, first thing. It will take you three days on the road. So visit the general store. Visit the outfitters. You are professionals, and you know the supplies you will need to be effective at your work. Then, get some rest. You will be traveling west out of Stihlport. You can hope for easy travel at first, but it will get wilder as you head inland. And you have already encountered some of our local banditry. You will need to stay sharp. And the mayor, understandably, urges haste. He hopes to meet with you – the investigative team – three days hence. What do you say?”
Mishok, the dwarf, was the first to his feet. “The mayor can count on Mishok of the Mountains to act in accordance with his mandate from Divoc. Of course I will do what I can to assist in the safe return of the mayor’s daughter.”
Chichek then spoke up, “So we are to travel three days through, as you say, “wild” country, and endure possible bandit encounters, all on a referral? You have made it clear that we would be working for Mayor Strongbow. Not for you. So we have to hope that he chooses to employ us once we get there. We could very well travel all that way, and find that the girl has returned home of her own accord. Or, he has already hired other “operatives.” Seems like a risk that may not pay off.”
Bontelan was a man used to discussing such business arrangements. “Yes, ” he replied, “That is the risk you take. There is, of course, no guarantee. However, the alternative is just as uncertain. You may speculate on the emergence of other employment prospects. But who can tell? As I have said, I have no immediate assignments available myself. There are other employers in Stilport, although I daresay few that will recognize your value as tangibly as I.” With that he dropped four jingling felt pouches of coin upon the desk. “As independent agents, you are each welcome, and indeed encouraged to pursue opportunities and seek fortunes where you will. But, I had hoped my “bonus” might encourage you to view Wright Way Distribution as a well-paying client, and one that is loyal to its preferred contractors such as yourself.”
Sartan stepped forward and grabbed one of the four coin pouches. “We’ll do it!” he boomed.
Chichek nodded his head in agreement as he too took his pay. “Mr Wright, you raise a good point. Count me in, and thank you for your generosity.”
Mishok reached up and took his coin pouch. He pulled the draw string, opening the pouch, and withdrew a single gold piece. “This one is for Divoc to use to further his own ends.” He placed it on the counter. “May the next soul through this door, take what Divoc has placed before him, and use it for the betterment of this troubled world.”
Sorvad slipped his pay off the counter and into the folds of his cloak without a sound, as if performing a magic trick, such was the subtlety of his instinctive sleight-of-hand. He may have spirited away Divoc’s gold piece as well.
Mr. Wright moved to his desk and dipped a quill in an ink well. He scratched out a few words of instruction on a sheet of parchment, signed his name, and then folded it into an envelope. He dripped molten red candle wax upon the envelope, and sealed it with his mark, a stylized “BW” monogram. He handed the envelope to Mishok and bade him show it to Fulmer at the Wandering Fool. Then he shook the hands of all four travelers, bade them farewell, and directed them back out into the night.
The outdoors had not gotten any dryer or any warmer, so the four quickly decided to forego any side trips to the markets and instead proceed directly to the Wandering Fool with all possible haste. This proved to be a wise choice, for it was a long walk to the outskirts of town. By the time they arrived, they had sloshed through the sloppy streets of some of the most unsavory-looking neighborhoods they’d had the displeasure to visit. Stihlport, like the other cities in the Western Overseas Royal Provinces, was falling into ruin. The Provinces were a story of boom and bust. They had once enjoyed the care and attention of the crown overseas. The goods and riches discovered here were siphoned off to the enrichment of the nobles within the Kingdom. But when the gem trade in particular ran dry, the Council of Dukes who administered the provinces, and even the Queen herself, turned their backs. The investment was no longer deemed worthwhile. So the provinces had to labor on with a lack of investment, or even military support. The cities began to decay, whereas banditry and smuggling thrived. Such was the state of the decaying port city the four travelers found themselves slogging through on this cold, wet, spring night. Their moods had almost uniformly soured during the course of their trek across town. Even the jovial Sartan and the unperturbable Mishok were muttering under their breath.
Nevertheless, all of them felt their spirits lifted by the whimsical sign that greeted them outside the Wandering Fool. On the peaked roof over the door stood the jaunty figure of a jester constructed of brightly painted sheet metal. Its legs were mounted on squeaking axes and they spun crazily with each gust of wind. Welcoming lamplight glowed from within. The door opened, and a genteel man with a thick mane of white hair leaned out and beckoned them indoors.
He introduced himself as Fullmer and led them immediately upstairs to comfortable rooms where they could dry off and get warm. Once the travelers were refreshed, they returned to the otherwise empty common room, where Fullmer joined them around the table. A true hospitality professional, Fullmer had seen to it that the kitchen, ordinarily quiet at this late hour, would prepare a warm meal. The food was plentiful and was accompanied by welcome tankards of ale. More than one of the guests remarked that this was in fact better than a night of debauchery in some portside dive. The four adventurers chatted amiably with their host and shared stories of the road. They were also sufficiently experienced in their profession to recognize a good source of information when they saw one. So, they asked Fullmer questions that they thought might aid in their investigation.
Fullmer confided that he was an old friend of Bontelan Wright, and is always happy to provide his operatives, even independent “contractors” such as themselves, the highest-quality accommodations possible. He was also happy to provide whatever assistance he could in terms of information or advice. With that he offered them some cautions. He acknowledged that travelers along the road were always at some risk of banditry. “There are those bandits who operate in the shadows,” he said, “mostly smugglers… traffickers in contraband. They will seek to avoid detection and seldom pose a problem to wayfarers. Less common, but by no means unheard of are the brigands who will waylay travelers, and take their belongings by force. Some travelers have indeed lost their lives as well as their belongings in ill-fated confrontations with such folk. You chaps looks like you can take care of yourselves. Just the same I advise that you take care to avoid such encounters.”
Sorvad chuckled and placed a hand on the dagger hilt that protruded from his belt.
Fullmer continued, “You are also traveling in the first blush of spring. Many creatures are emerging from the period of stillness. All are hungry and some are aggressive. I suggest you don’t stray from the road. Keep a watch. You may encounter other travelers… farmers, and merchants, transporting their wares. I suggest you stick together for mutual safety if you can. But don’t delay. The more quickly you arrive at your destination, the better. Two days west from here you will come to a small settlement. That will be Duskhaven… a day’s travel outside Shadowfurst. There is only one inn there, but it is happily a fair one. The Duskhaven Den will be happy to have you for the night. It is frequented by travelers spending their first night on their journey east from Shadowfurst to Stilport, or like you, their final night on their way to Shadowfurst from Stilport.” He concluded with a wink, “Tell Stiletta that Fullmer sends his regards.”
With that, Fullmer bade them good night, and began clearing away dishes. The weary adventurers thanked him and headed upstairs where they would enjoy one of the last peaceful nights of sleep they would have for some time.
The next morning, Fullmer was there to wake them before dawn. It was difficult to be truly angry with the man who had treated them so kindly the previous night. Nonetheless, it was with much grumbling that they gathered their gear, donned their armor, strapped on their weapons, and stepped outside into the cold misty darkness. They were introduced to Sylvester, a placid horse who would bear their gear, and help ease a journey that would otherwise be on-foot. The four travelers expressed their thanks to the host of the Wandering Fool. Sartan tipped his helmet to the mechanical jester with the spinning legs, and the four set off.
They traveled west on the Mountainbound road. The first hours of their trek were cold. The rain had tapered from a soaking downpour to a frigid, penetrating mist. Small homes and country lanes dotted the gently rolling hills west of Stihlport. By the time the first dim glow of grey morning crept into the sky, the homesteads and fields of grain were replaced by stands of trees. They pressed onward and the forests grew denser and wilder. And older. They encountered not a soul. To pass the time, they told stories of past journeys, and dangerous assignments.
Sorvad related the tale of the bandit encounter from just two days prior. He and Mishok had been escorting a trade caravan from Mill Harbour in the north. They had spent several weeks in the company of wagons which labored over rutted, ill-maintained, and sometimes snow-covered roads. The dismal cold of a lingering winter seemed to have suppressed the expected bandit activity, for they had nearly made it all the way to Stihlport before encountering any trouble. The caravan stopped at a clearing near a creek just a day short of their destination. The drivers of the wagons were tired of being on the road, and were resting in anticipation of one more day of hard travel. Dusk had fallen, and with it had come a cold mist. Like spirits, the bandits emerged from the mists without a sound. One moments all was shrouded in silence, and then next, all was thrown into chaos. There were no threats and no demands. No offer to parley. The stealthy marauders simply swept in and attacked, throwing cart drivers to the ground, bellowing invectives, and beating down any who offered resistance. This was a well planned, and ruthlessly executed raid. But the raiders hadn’t counted on the specialized skills of this particular caravan’s guards. If the bandits were at home in the shadows, Sorvad was even moreso. He swiftly moved unseen among the attackers, and wreaked havoc with his rapier, delivering wounds that few would live to remember. He quickly routed the bandits. Those who were able to flee did so, and the rest lay bleeding in the mud. Mishok, meanwhile, sought to protect the chief driver of the caravan, and there alongside the lead wagon, he found him. The frightened man lay prone beneath the boot of a black-clad figure who loomed over him a scimitar. The dark bandit leader raised his gaze and glowered at Mishok. He sneered, and raised the sword to strike down his helpless prisoner. Mishok spoke a word of prayer to Divoc, and found the means to bring down holy fire. Mystical flames descended and lit upon the startled bandit leader. He shrieked, dropped his sword, and batted at his burning cloak.
Sorvad then stepped out of the shadows alongside his companion and locked eyes with the bandit. “Kilgore, I might have known,” he muttered.
“You! Traitor to the guild!” the bandit retorted. Then with a smoldering glove, he snatched up his fallen scimitar and bounded into the fog, disappearing with the surviving members of his band.
His tale concluded, Sorvad explained to his rapt audience that yes, he himself was once affiliated with the Thieves Guild. He was acquainted with, and had in fact worked a few jobs with this particular bandit leader. Kilgore was an exceptionally violent sort, lacking any pity for those whom he brutalized and robbed.
Following the attack on the caravan, Mishok and Sorvad had chosen to not pursue the fleeing Kilgore. Mishok had insisted that they attend to the dead and wounded bandits, and of course, see to the well-being of the rest of the caravan. Sorvad would have gladly left the fallen bandits there to rot. The caravan broke camp and continued down the road, driving into the night and through the next day, before arriving that evening at the office of Bontelan Wright.
he tale of the bandit confrontation was fresh in the travelers’ minds when they themselves stopped and set up camp. The forest had grown dense around them, and best they could find was a small clearing… little more than a wide spot in the road. It was cold, damp and uncomfortable. A far cry from the restful night they had enjoyed at the Wandering Fool. But they were no strangers to discomfort. Nor were they oblivious to the dangers of the night. They wisely had their ranger, Cycek, take first watch, and it was not long before his keen elven senses detected stealthy movement in the woods to their rear. He quietly got to his feet, crept toward the disturbance, and confirmed his suspicions… it was men, not animals, sneaking toward their camp. He returned to wake the others. They stirred from slumber quietly and instinctively knew trouble was afoot. Sorvad and Cycek rose and melted into the woods to take defensive positions in the shadows. Sartan and Mishok stood their ground at the edge of camp, ready to confront the unwelcome company. They did not have to wait long. Four men emerged from the trees. If they expected to find unwary victims, they were sorely disappointed. They were instead met by two imposing, well-armed and armored warriors prepared for battle. The newcomers came up short. The uncertainty hung in the air for a heartbeat. Then one of them strode forward, his head held high, and demanded, “Turn over you valuables, now, and we will let you live. Refusal means death!” Sartan’s blunt reply carried a hint of a laugh, “Screw you! No way! We’re not giving you anything.” Mishok recognized the scimitar and the scorched clothing of this haughty brigand. The dwarf spoke up, “I suggest you leave, Kilgore. You scarcely walked away from our last meeting. Put aside your evil ways. Leave us in peace.” Kilgore’s face bore a wide-eyed look of recognition which rapidly distorted into a sneer of contempt. He raised his sword and had barely taken a step when an arrow thwacked into his shoulder. He swore and whistled… hailing his own men to come forward to fight. They did so. It was a short, fierce battle. Arrows flew and weapons clashed. But Kilgore and his men were no match for the four adventurers. All four bandits fell to blade, hammer, and arrow.
The woods fell quiet, and the four mercenaries examined their handiwork. This was not how they hoped their day would end. But they lived a life that entailed scratching their meager existence from whatever rewards they could glean. So they set about searching the bloody bodies for valuables. They had little sympathy for violent thieves who made a living accosting travelers in the night. Nevertheless, Mishok said a quiet prayer for their souls.
They turned out the bandits’ pockets and packs. They inspected and took whatever weapons looked serviceable or salable. They took a fair amount of good-quality travel rations. They divided up a small cache of blue/green gems. They also came upon some rather unusual items, including a burlap sack containing a bundle of mandrake root, a number of greasy black candles, and two glass vials of an off-white powder. They carefully stowed the vials away until they might have a chance to inquire into the identity, properties, and value of their contents.
Finally, they decided that this would no longer be a safe place to stay. Who knows if the dead bandits might have allies lurking in the woods? Worse, who knows what might come sniffing around at the scent of blood. They dragged the bodies off the road and into the forest. They kicked dust and gravel over the blood that had pooled on the road. Then they set out back the way they had come, alert to the possibility of additional pursuers. They found none, and within an hour, the travelers again found a tolerable place to get some rest. They set no fires. They pitched no tents. They sang no songs and told no stories. They simply set a watch, slept in shifts, and got the rest they knew they would need for another day of travel.