Thob and Strodno set out from the town of the amphibian-folk, following a spur of the big river northward through the hills. By nightfall they were close to Pepperdell; from the heights they could see across the flat fields below to another line of hills in the distance, and Thob made out the shapes of hamlets and another large town.
“That’s Trampledlearned,” said Strodno, “once the greatest human city around—and the place where this whole mess started.”
“Reckon there’s anyone left?”
“I don’t know. It was pretty ruined when I was captured there, six centuries ago. But there may be some survivors.”
The next morning they came to the gates of Pepperdell. The fort sat beside a deep stream, its high walls of ancient oak logs towering over the prairie.
The gates creaked open and Thob went in, hoping to see some friendly bearded faces. But there seemed to be no one around.
Just then, however, he heard a creaking and shuffling sound from an old bunkhouse. When he looked inside he did see some faces, though not bearded and not exactly friendly. Two dwarf women with long white hair stood in the house. They gave off a distinctly eerie aura:
Despite their spookiness Thob hailed them, meaning to ask for a drink, or at least for directions to one. The hags turned glassy, far-off eyes towards him, but made no reply.
Maybe they were deaf? But they seemed to notice him—at least they looked frustrated at his continued attempts to greet them. Strodno couldn’t get a word out of them either. She turned to Thob. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this place. These dwarves don’t seem quite… here.”
“Maybe we should take another look around,” said Thob.
They did so; Thob inspected the rampart surrounding the fort, and found, surprisingly, that it was scattered with books and scrolls of all kinds.
They were all written by the local residents, Thob guessed: Edzul Slingpuzzle and Kumil Figureboat. Some were records of the fort itself, but others were autobiographies. And when Thob read these, he learned the shocking truth.
Memoirs of their marriages six hundred years ago? Touchingly sentimental for the undead. He knew he had recognized that vacant look in their faces from somewhere. “Those dwarves,” he said to Strodno, “they’re bleak slayers. Must be.”
She corroborated his guess. “But why didn’t they attack us?” asked Thob.
“Maybe the necromancers who revived them are dead,” she said, “so they don’t have to do their will anymore. Even so, I’m not eager to hang around here anymore.”
“Me neither. Let’s get out before they change their minds!”
Leaving the haunted fort behind, they crossed the plains to Trampledlearned. The ruins of the city sprawled before them, shining in the evening twilight under a coat of snow. A paved road left the city on the opposite side, leading up to the north.
The town was as silent and dead as the others. They wandered the streets—Thob was, of course, looking for taverns—until nightfall, when they settled into one of the ruined houses to sleep.
As Thob rose with the dawn and stepped outside, he thought he saw something, a figure of some sort, off in the distance, but he couldn’t make it out:
After he had eaten and unfrozen the water in his waterskin, though, the shape was gone.
They approached the town keep in the early morning cold. Thob was expecting at most to find a few more books for the library. But as they drew near he heard noises inside:
He hoped it wouldn’t be more zombies. Unconsciously he directed a prayer to that effect to Egesh—and opened the door.
It wasn’t zombies. Nor, as best he could tell, necromancers. It was four living, breathing beings—although the oddest assortment of beings he had yet seen.
There was a Curledbolted’s demon, frail-looking and apparently friendly; a pale elf with green hair and a hook nose; a short, muscular goblin, with features like Strodno’s, and wearing some sort of cloth armor; and a plump but strong serpent man, carrying a spear and dressed in armor, including, for some reason, a boot on his tail:
“Goodness,” said the Curledbolted’s demon, “visitors? We don’t get many around here these days.” He squinted at Thob. “And a dwarf, no less? It’s been ages since I last met a living dwarf. I’m glad some have survived these hard times! What’s your name?”
“My name’s Thob. But you can call me ‘Thob the Mysterious’. I’m an undead hunter, you see.”
“Uh… of course. My name’s Fafire, and I am a holy sparkle of the Lady of Light, Islas Shimmerglimmer.”
“Islas? Who’s she?”
“You’ve never heard of the goddess of the day?”
“Until a few weeks ago I didn’t know what ‘day’ was… but that’s a long story.”
“Oh, please tell! Visitors are so rare, we hardly hear of things in the world these days… oh, excuse me. I believe some introductions are in order.”
The four creatures were all priests, of one kind or another. Fafire and the serpent man, named Cetha, were from the Coven of Light, once a prominent religion in the area. The goblin was named Ngokang; he was, by contrast, a “high umbra” of Kulur, the goddess of night. The elf was called Nemen, and he said he was the abbot of a distant monastery, the house of an order devoted to the True Honor of Palisades, goddess of forgiveness and mercy. Thob asked why he was so far from his home; Nemen, with sidelong glances at Ngokang and Strodno, said he had been forced out when goblins overran the region centuries ago. Thob then asked if he had left any family behind; the elf said he knew only a little of the fates of his children:
“Fourth eldest daughter? That’s a lot of kids.”
“Well, I’ve had a lot of wives.”
“It sounds like a pretty violent place, back where you’re from,” said Thob.
“The influence of the goblin conquest,” said Nemen. “They are… not exactly known for moral behavior—present company excepted, of course.”
Thob and Strodno gave the priests a brief summary of their adventures, and their goals. “Hmm,” said Fafire, “I don’t know of any brewers, sadly. But if you’re in the business of finding artifacts, you might keep a lookout for some relics the Coven has lost.”
“Oh? And where might this ‘fallen zombie’ be now?”
“Well of course he’s dead, that’s why he’s a zombie!” said Thob. “But
where is he?”
“I can’t say, unfortunately.”
“You should talk to Estrur,” said Ngokang. “He’s another priest of Islas. He’s been looking for some relic—a bit of a robe or something—and he might know where to look. Last I heard he was holed up in the catacombs here.”
“And where’s Doordark?”
“Under the temple,” said Ngokang. “Outside the walls to the north. You can’t miss it.”
Thob thanked the priests for their hospitality, and went out with Strodno to see if they could find Estrur—though not especially to help him find his relics. Thob guessed anyone who knew where lost artifacts were ought to know where the nearest pub was as well.
Author
Topic: Thob Goes to the Surface (Read 62256 times)