She knew these mountains...the Mountains of Nlad. As a member of Lord Morg's Rangers she had ranged far and wide over them, through their forests and across their narrow valleys, seeking the evil creatures that hid within them; and who threatened travellers on roads like this one. She knew what lived in these mountains, probably better than any of her companions. This was no place for a nap.
But it all seemed to peaceful, now. A light mist blew down from the tallest peaks, partially obscuring the sun. The air was cool for August, but then it always was this high up. It would become warmer as they descended north into Milkland.
Before her walked and rode her companions, also seemingly relaxed. After what they had been through in Marnuk's Hold the past two months they had all earned a break. Chicken, Watney and Stiff, walking along, none saying much to the others. Chicken, as usual, was following, staying just ahead of Leslie, who was bringing up the rear. Stiff was a Thaumaturgist, now. Leslie thought back to the first night on the road with this party, when they had sat in the dark and talked. Now he was gaining some powers.
McTavish rode atop the waggon, snoring in a large, ornate throne that they had carried out of Marnuk's dungeon at his insistence. He was a well equipped dwarf, now, but he had lost something that no amount of magic or money could ever replace: his brother Angus. His younger sibling had found a pit in the floor and strayed too close to the edge. It crumbled, and he fell to his death. McTavish had cursed him for everything, but Leslie knew him well enough by now to know that he was devastated. Soon afterwards, McTavish had suggested that they leave Marnuk's Hold for other pastures.
Leslie's eyes moved to the head of the party and lingered there. The ranger Danarian led the way. Beside him walked the newest member of the party: the adept Niniae. She was a different sort than the warrior cleric Watney. She did not even carry a weapon.
Leslie did not care for her very much.
Apart from her relationship with Danarian, Leslie had fared well since joining this party. Now a scout, she had a magic sword, a magic shield and a suit of magical plate mail. Thinking back to her days in Lord Morg's Rangers, only the highest ranking officers were so equipped.
After McTavish suggested leaving Marnuk's Hold, there had been a discussion as to where to go next. A travelling minstrel had spun a tale of a ruin - the Death Dungeon - to the east of Nlad, filled with evil creatures and overflowing with loot. After some debate they had decided to investigate. A further discussion had ensued as to how to get there. The ruin apparently lay just beyond the eastern border of Nlad, between it and Riverland, along the Imperial Road. The logical route would be to travel south to Hork - capitol of Nlad - and then take the Imperial Road east. But most of that journey would have been through civilised lands, with little hope of action or adventure along the way. McTavish suggested instead that they travel north over the Mountains of Nlad to Milkland, then east through the horse kingdom of Amlad. After that was wilderness, until they came to Bridgewater, on the Mississippi River. Then a journey south along that great river to Riverland, followed by a short trek west. Stiff had reacted enthusiastically, for this route would take them close to what was left of the Empire of Saltar. Perhaps a side trip was possible? The others agreed that this would be the more interesting route to take. Leslie hesitated, for she had heard rumours of trouble along the eastern borders of Amlad, emanating apparently from the ruined city of Golgar, but McTavish had poo-pooed her, so she let the matter drop.
Rounding a curve in the road the view opened up before them. The Southern Road wended its way down a steep, narrow valley beside a small rushing river and into the gently rolling lands of Milkland. It was a peaceful land of farms and pastures, occupied by the halfling folk.
"Not much adventure ahead," said Watney, as if reading Leslie's mind.
"But lots of good beer!" added Chicken.
The day passed without incident and that night they slept in a small, simple inn at a crossroads.
The next day, August 4, 1341, was warm, overcast and humid. The dog days, Leslie thought, as they made their way across Milkland at a languid pace. Regardless, by afternoon they had reached the end of the Southern Road and turned east onto the Great Western Road. Leslie observed her surroundings with interest, for this was new territory to her. This was a land of small farms, well tended fields and pastures of grazing cattle. The people they passed along the way - almost all halflings - waved and exchanged pleasantries. In spite of herself, Leslie relaxed.
By late morning on August 5th they had reached Hobbitown, one of the major urban centres of Milkland. It was little more than a village by human standards, but the more senior members of the party had passed through here on previous journeys and soon they were ensconced in the common room of an inn called The Mug, being served an enormous lunch of ham, cheeses, barley soup, fresh breads, fruits and vegetables plus some of the finest mead that the young ranger had ever sampled.
They were later then usual in resuming their journey that afternoon.
Coming out of the inn and mounting up, they were confronted by an intersection. The Great Western Road continued to the northeast, while another Great Road, the Amlad Road, went east.
They paused to read the sign post:
The Great West Road: Northeast: To North End, Adford and Derextar.West: To Bilboburgh, Hambol Hollow and Westmarish.
The Amlad Road: East: To Burl Grav, Calamlad and Golgar.
McTavish looked up the Great West Road.
"That is the way to Su El," he said, "But this time we go to Amlad."
They turned down the Amlad Road.
By mid afternoon the next day they had arrived at Burl Grav: a small thorp on the Canabar River, which formed the border the between Milkland and Amlad. The party tarried for one more night in Milkland, staying at an inn called The Dancing Ogre.
The next morning they crossed the bridge and entered the Kingdom of Amlad. On this side of the Canabar was another settlement, also named Burl Grav, but a settlement of Men. Leslie eyed the wooden buildings and the wooden fort which took the place of a castle of stone and mortar, and was not impressed. Granted, there was not much of a threat to Amlad from the halfling lands but then the Mountains of Nlad loomed to the south. The Men of Amlad were another matter, though. She looked with approval at their great, strapping, muscular, hairy forms; their bright eyes and their sharp weapons. Amlad was a staunch ally of Nlad and for that she was glad.
They rode out of Burl Grav on the Amlad Road and headed southeast. The weather was hot but not uncomfortably so, the sky through the overhanging treetops of the Canabar Forest overcast. They rode all day and well into the summer evening, finally stopping to camp s short distance off of the road in the woods. Inns are uncommon in Amlad, Leslie realised, outside of the towns, though they passed a fair amount of traffic on the road.
The next day brought drizzle, plummeting temperatures and a strong taste of autumn in the air. By mid afternoon it was only 34 degrees and they were reaching for their coats and cloaks. They had come to Calamlad, the capital of the kingdom, only a few hours after breaking camp, at the edge of the Plains of Amlad. It was a bustling little town, again with buildings of mostly wood construction, surrounded by a palisade. They did not tarry, and soon were traversing the vast grasslands that formed the heart of Amlad.
That night the temperature dropped below freezing.
The party fell into a routine after that as they made their steady way across the plains. Up early, revive the fire, cook and eat breakfast, break camp and then ride all day with only a short stop for lunch. As the sun approached the western horizon they would ride off the road for a short distance and make camp again for the night in a hollow or along the bank of a stream. Light a fire, cook a meal, and then retire after setting watches. The weather remained cold for August though the sun did come out.
On August 12th in the afternoon they approached a crossroads which they learned also marked the eastern border of Amlad. Here they found an inn as well as an army barracks. Tired of sleeping outside in the cold, they called an early halt and took rooms for the night.
The Roadhouse Inn was plain but clean, and warm. In the common room that night they dined on the beefsteaks that Amlad was famous for, washed down with copious amounts of strong ale. The inn was a watering hole for the local garrison, so McTavish and Danarian bought a table of soldiers some pitchers of beer and asked them what lay ahead on the Amlad Road.
"Trouble," said one of the men, and his companions nodded. "Creatures has occupied the ruined city down the road, and they is preyin' on travellers. If ye take my advice ye'll ride hard an' fast an' not stop until you reach the forests on the far side of Golgar."
"Where ye bound?" asked another grizzled warrior.
"Bridgewater," replied Danarian.
"Then ye'll take the Saltar Road, which starts before the Gates of Golgar."
"Trade is down because of the raidin'."
"Is there nothing you can do?" asked the ranger.
The first soldier shook his head.
"We don't have the strength for a full assault," he replied. "Our hands are full just keeping them outside our own borders."
"What kind of creatures?" asked the dwarf.
"Trolls, orcs, gnolls and the like."
"Heh," snorted McTavish. "I hope we meet them!"
"A few who have made it through reported seeing undead as well...walking corpses and skeletons."
A few of the soldiers pulled out holy symbols and clutched them at this revelation. One or two more muttered prayers under their breath. The rest drank their beers.
"A few of us is thinkin' something evil's taken up residence in the old tower there. Like a priest or arch mage."
"I hope not," muttered McTavish, his confidence evaporating.
"What tower is this?" asked Danarian.
"The Tower of Golgar. Built by Saltar back when they ruled this area."
Stiff, sitting nearby with the others, perked up his ears.
"Ye'll know it when ye see it," said the first soldier. "Tall and black and indestructabable. Folks say it was made from something the Men of Saltar brought wit them from the stars."
"I'd like to see that," said Danarian.
"Oh, you will," replied the grizzled warrior, finishing his drink. "But if yer smart ye'll be content with seein' it from a distance!"
In the morning they pressed on, though it was raining steadily. The temperature had moderated, though. Off in the distance to the northeast they could just make out the cloud shrouded flank of first of the three Galdan Hills. It was more a mountain than a hill; its peak rising to some 12,000 feet. The Amlad Road kept well south of it.
By evening when they made camp they were due south of the second peak. The road had been deserted all day.
The next morning the rain came down in a torrential downpour. They ended up huddling under the waggons for shelter until it abated after an hour. Finally they set out under a dark and glowering sky.
Early on in the afternoon they arrived before the gates of Golgar.
Up until six hundred years earlier Golgar had been a major regional city in the Empire of Saltar. Located at the junction of two major roads on the eastern edge of the Plains of Amlad it had dominated the area, both economically and militarily. The region was administered and defended from the great black Tower of Golgar: a spire poking some one thousand feet up into the atmosphere at the base of the Galdan Hills. The city spread out to the southeast of the Tower and was surrounded by a tall wall of granite blocks. Then, Imrimil the Black Wizard descended on Saltar with his hordes of humanoids and other fell beasts. The Empire, already weakened by internal strife and constant attacks by humanoids along its northern borders, was unable to stop the Wizard from annexing one of its richest provinces, Nolthen, to the east of Golgar across the Mississippi River. The Empire collapsed until all that it held was the territory around its capitol, Atlantia, in the southeast. The Tower and city of Golgar were abandoned. Even the newly created Kingdom of Amlad to the west spurned the place.
Now Leslie sat on her horse before the closed Gates of Golgar and regarded the wall that separated her from the crumbling city within. Looming above, several miles away to the northwest was the Tower.
She had the feeling that they were being watched.
"Those gates don't look that secure," said McTavish from his vantage point atop his waggon. "Shall we take a look at the city?"
"That's why we came this way instead of through Nlad," said Danarian, walking up to the gate.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," said Chicken, loosening his sword in its scabbard.
"You have a bad feeling about everything," Watney replied with a bit of a chuckle.
"And they are usually right," retorted Chicken.
Watney did not answer him.
Staying mounted, Leslie also readied her weapons, keeping a close eye to either side and their rear.
Danarian was at the gate. Giving the massive valve a push, it would not budge. McTavish climbed down off of his throne and off of his waggon and walked over. Putting their shoulders to the gate they pushed.
With a grudging squeal of ancient rusted hinges it gave slightly and opened, revealing a gap of several feet.
On the other side of the gate, looking at them, were three large trolls.
"Uh-oh," said Danarian, looking up at their leering faces..
Suddenly there was a noise from above them, and a torrent of brown, stinking liquid poured down, drenching the ranger and the dwarf.
"Shit!" exclaimed McTavish, "I've been shat upon!"
"What was your first clue?" asked Chicken, spurring his horse forward.
Leslie looked up, to see two more trolls atop the battlement over the gate, holding empty buckets. They were grinning.
She took up her short bow and nocked an arrow as Danarian and McTavish waded into the battle against the trolls at the gate.
Letting her arrow fly, her intended target saw it coming just in time and ducked out of sight. His companion disappeared as well.
"Five trolls," she said as she drew another arrow. "We're going to have our hands full."
"Oh Great Tyr," prayed Niniae, "We seek your blessing in the coming battle. Lead us to victory."
There was no more to be seen of the trolls on the battlement above. The dwarf and Danarian were battling the trolls at the gate on the ground, with Chicken right behind them on his horse prodding at the enemy with a spear when the opportunity arose.
"Fire! Fire!" remembered Watney. "We must have flames to kill them for once and for all!"
He started fumbling for a torch in his saddlebag.
Stiff hung back, one hand in a pouch dangling from his belt.
Seeing no more targets for her arrows, Leslie hooked her bow over the pommel of her saddle and drew her bastard sword. At the same time the gate opened wide with a resounding squeal and four more trolls ran out.
The next ten minutes was a chaotic melee of flashing blades, jabbing spears, slashing claws and gnashing teeth. Watney, a burning torch in one hand and his hammer in the other, charged into battle beside Leslie and Chicken, while McTavish and Danarian tried to deal with the trolls at the gate. Stiff opened up with spell fire from a safe distance. Niniae prayed again and a great glowing hammer came into being, which she directed at the enemy.
Suddenly it was over.
Leslie stood gasping over a fallen troll, her body bruised and covered in bites, her blade green with stinking troll blood to the hilt. Watney hurried over with his torch and soon the body was afire, like its compatriots.
"How are we?" she said, looking around.
"All present and accounted for," replied Danarian, leaning tiredly on his Defender.
All had survived the battle alive, but everyone but Stiff and Niniae were hurting.
"I'm out of spells," said the mage. "And I don't want to be near this place come nightfall. We might have stirred things up."
McTavish looked longingly at the buildings of the city through the opened gateway but held his silence. With a sigh he turned away and limped back to his waggon and hoisted himself up onto his throne.
Soon they were all back on their mounts and riding away from Golgar. This time they turned south, down the Saltar Road. Ahead lay the edge of the Plains of Amlad, and beyond that the Dark Forest.
But their horses and mules were tired as well, and several bore scratches and bites, so they made poor time. It was nightfall when they finally reached the eaves of the forest and it was clear that none of them could go any further. Finding a secluded clearing a short distance off of the road, they made camp, ate a cold meal of dried meat, posted watches and went to bed.
It was two hours after midnight when McTavish poked Leslie awake for her turn on watch. She sighed to herself as she strapped on her armour and took up her sword. The dwarf, meanwhile, stripped down to his bright red woollen Doctor Dentons and immediately fell asleep.
Leslie went over to the fire and made tea. Holding her mug tightly, she then walked over to a clump of bushes at the edge of the camp and sat down under them beside Watney, who was also on watch.
"All quiet so far," he whispered.
Leslie sipped her tea and listened.
"Almost too quiet," she replied after several moments. "I don't hear any night sounds."
"They were there earlier," he replied. "Crickets and owls and things. Maybe it is just the late hour."
Leslie did not answer right away but sipped her tea for awhile instead.
"Perhaps there is a storm coming," she said at last.
"Maybe," said Watney, and then said no more.
Time passed slowly in the darkness, and Leslie fought to keep her eyes open. But something was not right. The forest was too quiet. She tried to recall if she had heard any stories about the Dark Forest but drew a blank. She was a long way from home, now. Amlad was closer, but the men of that land cared for little outside of their own grassy vales.
The horses stirred and one of them nickered nervously.
"Now what?" said Watney, as he started to rise to see what was the matter, annoyed because it was almost time for him to be relieved.
"No!" hissed Leslie in a low, urgent whisper, restraining him as she strained her ears. Then she heard it: a sound she knew and dreaded: the metallic clank of an ironclad boot.
"Orcs!" she cried at the top of her voice, as she shoved Watney aside and then rolled herself in the opposite direction. A spear thudded into the earth where they had crouched an instant before as the woods around the camp seemed to explode with howling, screaming orcs.
But the alarm had been given and people were already awake and scrambling for their weapons. McTavish grabbed Archmagl and crawled under his waggon, to find that Niniae was there already.
"Your trap door's undone!" advised Chicken as he swung his blade in a wide arc from a sitting position and chopped down two foes.
Danarian jumped over the fire and ran an orc through who was making for the horses.
Leslie found herself fighting back to back with Watney as a half a dozen orcs surrounded them.
Stiff appeared atop the waggon as he tossed a handful of sand at the largest concentration of orcs. Ten of them dropped, asleep.
"Hey!" shouted McTavish as he lunged forward and skewered another orc. "Get off my throne!"
Stiff obliged by disappearing again...only to reappear in another place a moment later to unleash another spell. Nine more orcs dropped.
With more than half their number down after only a minute or so, the rest of them broke and ran for the shelter of the trees.
The party set about the grisly task of killing the sleeping humanoids.
"They'll be back soon," said Leslie as they finished off the last orc. "I suggest we break camp and get out of here as quickly as possible."
"I'll second that," said Danarian. He was examining an orc-shield in the flickering light of the dying fire. Painted on it was a depiction of a dark tower. "Looks like Golgar, doesn't it?"
"Aye," said Stiff, coming over to look. "That was no roaming band of riff-raff. It looks like someone has taken up residence in Golgar and its tower and is building an army of humanoids. We must have stirred things up."
He laughed and walked away.
"More than we can handle," said Watney.
"We should let the authorities in Amlad know, though," said Danarian, tossing the shield aside.
"Write 'em a letter from the next town we reach," said McTavish, climbing into his plate mail, "'Cause we ain't going back past Golgar to tell 'em in person."
They set off a few minutes later. The forest was still too quiet. Leslie was sure that they were being watched from the dark shadows under the trees. They reached the road and turned right. Suddenly the forest seemed to explode again as a half a dozen trolls, surrounded by the remaining orcs, charged out of the underbrush.
"Argh, ride, dammit!" shouted McTavish, lashing his mules. The others needed no encouragement, and on their horses quickly outdistanced both the enemy and McTavish's waggon.
Suddenly the dwarf felt a tap on his shoulder. Looking over, he saw a troll standing behind him on the waggon, grinning fiendishly.
"Take this ye bastard!" he cried, drawing Archmagl and thrusting it into the troll's belly. The monster staggered back, tripped over the arm of McTavish's throne and fell into another troll who was just climbing aboard as well. Both tumbled off and landed on the road, as there was a dull roar and a fireball exploded right behind the waggon. There were shrieks and wails of agony as the orcs and trolls were engulfed.
"That's just about it for me!" said Stiff, as he spurred his horse and rode away as if the very devil were after him. Perhaps he was.
"Damn you mage!" shouted McTavish, "You singed my beloved beard!"
Behind them the trolls emerged from the smoke and flames, but the fight had been knocked out of them and their pursuit was half-hearted. They soon stopped and returned to feast on the bodies of the orcs, who had been killed in the blast.
The party rode hard for another two hours before they dared to stop again, their mounts exhausted. It was morning and they were comfortable that they would not be attacked again as long as it was daylight. Pulling off the road again, they unsaddled their mounts and went to sleep.
Six hours later they were back on the road but proceeding slowly, for the horses and mules were still tired. All the same, the miles went by and with each one that passed they relaxed a little more. They rode until twilight, then camped again. This time they lit a fire and cooked a meal, before posting watches and going to sleep.
The night was quiet and breakfast was much more relaxed. McTavish was making jokes again and Watney was grinning as they ate. The day was pleasant and they made better time, though they did not push their mounts.
Their peaceful reverie was shattered with a horrific bellow, as four enormous, bear-like creatures charged at them out of the brush at the side of the road. Like bears they were, but with the heads and beaks of owls.
Owlbears!
Leslie drew her spear and levelled it as she charged one that was making for Niniae. Watney turned around in his saddle and conked another with his hammer as it raked its claws down the flank of his horse. Danarian drew his blade and stabbed at the third.
Leslie ran her spear through the first owlbear as another hit her hard in the side. Leaving her spear embedded, she drew her bastard sword and turned on the latest attacker. Chicken rolled his eyes and moved to deal with the injured owlbear as Niniae squeaked and rode away to safety.
"Over here! Move it, Danarian! Watch your flank, Leslie!" shouted McTavish from atop his throne, where he supervised the battle.
Danarian took down his owlbear first as Stiff, keeping well away from the melee, unloaded a blaze of magical fire into the monster attacking Watney. The monster dropped and lay twitching in the road. Leslie finished off her monster next, and then trotted over to help Chicken.
Suddenly it was peaceful again.
"Want to camp here?" asked McTavish.
"There's a trail here," said Danarian, looking at the bushes at the side of the road, "And if we do camp here then we should burn those bodies."
"Trail first," said the dwarf, jumping down off his waggon and walking over. "Where is it? I don't see anything."
"Just follow me," said the ranger with a smile, and he led the way into the woods.
The path was faint but short, and ran for only a few hundred feet. It ended at a pile of moss covered rocks that the owlbears had evidently used as a lair. The area was littered with gnawed bones and scraps of dried flesh. In amongst the debris they found a scattering of small gems.
"All in a day's work," said Watney, as they walked back to the road. "Now, who's hurt?"