“Sumber Hills. Elven forests, tribal folk scattered through the wilds, and enough farmland once you hit civilization to remind a body somebody’s still interested in eatin’. Speakin’ of civilization…”
We rolled into Red Larch. Little town stretched out along a road that looked older than most of the folk walkin’ it. The Swinging Sword Inn appeared to be the main attraction unless your tastes leaned toward sleepin’ on a common-room floor. Across the road sat the Helm at Highsun, which seemed likely to separate a traveler from his coin just as efficiently.
The Helm was dim, copper lanterns throwin’ warm light over worn wood and tired faces. Nice place. Honest wear on it. Not the sort of establishment that spent time pretendin’ to be somethin’ it wasn’t.
Shared a table with three strangers: Talon, Gaerrors, and Verdigrix. Drinks got poured, introductions got made, and I started wonderin’ about my choice of company when one of ’em stood up and hollered, “Who else is here for glory?”
Never trust a man huntin’ glory. Usually means he’s liable to get everyone else killed lookin’ for it.
Folks were mutterin’ about a fire over at the inn. Plenty of drink-fueled excitement around us, but nobody seemed too concerned. Barmaid mentioned a half-orc caravan guard named Zomith who’d recently been fired and taken up serious negotiations with a bottle. There was talk of a dwarven delegation from Mirabar gone missin’. Strange travelers. Stranger weather. Our barkeep, Garlen Harlathurd, wasn’t exactly spreadin’ panic, but he wasn’t dismissin’ concerns neither.
He pointed us toward the local constable, Harburk Tuthmarillar, should we fancy stickin’ our noses into local troubles. Also let slip there was a more common-type establishment for drinkin’, gossip, and apparently haircuts called Gaelkur’s. Small towns are peculiar.
Had a drink with Zomith. Learned she’d crossed paths with the Mirabar caravan north of town, and whatever happened there hadn’t been pleasant. Before she got to the useful particulars she wandered off, leavin’ us with more questions than answers.
Headed north toward the caravan buildings, then turned for Gaelkur’s. The streets got quieter and rougher around the edges. After another one of Verdigrix’s public announcements to anyone willin’ to listen, Constable Harburk found us at the bar. Pleasant enough fellow. Didn’t seem inclined to believe every ghost story floatin’ through town, but he’d be mighty grateful if somebody dealt with the bandit problem. Offered twenty gold pieces. Wasn’t much. Wasn’t nothing.
Before long we found ourselves listenin’ to a shepherd named Greenboot spin tales about freshly dug graves with no names attached. Claimed we’d find ’em twelve miles east along Cairn Road if we cared enough to look.
We spent the rest of the afternoon gettin’ the lay of Red Larch. Bought pickles from a market vendor because somehow that seemed important at the time. Ended the excursion with a rough map of town and enough local gossip to sink a ferry.
Talon led us to the Allfaiths Shrine where we met Imdarr Relvaunder, a holy man of some stripe. Talked about the shrine servin’ two faiths under one roof so caravans and townsfolk alike could get their prayin’ done without too much fuss. Sounded practical, which is generally how you know religion’s bein’ handled correctly.
By then night had settled in, so we returned to the Swinging Sword. Three stories tall and downright welcoming by frontier standards. The kitchen had burned down recently, so meals were bein’ cooked outside in the yard. The proprietor, Kaylessa Irkell, was a sturdy woman with the look of someone who’d outlived every fool who’d ever tried to cheat her. She shared brandy, stories, and rumors in roughly equal measure.
Dark happenings in the hills. Fel magic. Folks nervous and gettin’ more so by the day.
When I asked about Aelin, or “Gold Work” as some called it, she leaned in and spoke of Lance Rock. Claimed an evil presence was settled there and figured most of the town either didn’t know or preferred not to discuss it. She offered fifty gold pieces for someone to investigate.
Now that sounded more like honest work.
Lance Rock sat south of town and eight miles west.
The evening closed with a Dragonborn performance that was considerably more entertainin’ than I’d expected. Earned us a free night’s lodging, which made him worth keepin’ around.
Next morning we ate breakfast and headed southwest toward Lance Rock. Could see it from a distance, a stone spear thrust from the granite earth. Reached it near midday. At the head of a game trail stood a sign:
“Come no closer lest you become beset with that which afflicts me. The Lord of Lance Rock.”
Never a comfortin’ sort of message.
We followed a ravine down and found a cave mouth. The smell hit us first. Death has a way of announcin’ itself.
Inside lay a dead man stripped down to his breeches. About fifty feet in. Past him the cave widened, and that’s when two corpses chose to introduce themselves by droppin’ debris onto our heads.
Talon and Verdigrix moved quick enough. The zombies lurched forward with spears and axes, all enthusiasm and no talent. My crossbow put the first one down. Gaerrors punched a hole through the second. Verdigrix finished the matter with his handaxe. The sort of conversation undead are best suited for.
Beyond lay a high-domed chamber. In the center stood a stone dark with old stains nobody wanted explained. We followed a narrow western passage into a cavern shaped like a star. Three more zombies waited inside. One dressed like a bear. One like a jester. One fancied itself a noble lady. The dead have peculiar tastes. They paid us little mind until Verdigrix stepped closer. Then everybody got busy.
Bear went down first. The lady followed. Gaerrors took a hard hit before we finished off the jester and put the whole unhappy performance to rest.
And somehow, I got the feelin’ the real trouble was still waitin’ deeper in that cave.
