"C-Canthus, welcome to Faerie!"
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Shantu raised its blood-spatlered head as the distant call came to its upraised ears. The displacer beast spread its lips in a snarl of challenge, returning once again to tear at the bloody form of its victim. The sharp, driving fangs tore into the unicorn's flesh to rip away another chunk of meat.
The wound in Shantu's flank still caused the beast searing pain. The snapped horn of the unicorn remained wedged at the base of the monster's tentacle, and all of its efforts to knock it free had only succeeding in driving it deeper.
The deathbringer crouched possessively at the side of the kill. It growled at the surrounding woods, a rumbling challenge to any who dared dispute the beast's claim. Shantu was king of the vale! King of death! And the king would tear the life from any usurper.
But even the king has a master, and now the summons from that master came once again into Shantu's black head. The beast growled and backed away from the bloody corpse, raising its head once again to snarl its challenge at the heavens and the earth.
With a last lingering look at the torn, mangled carcass, Shantu the displacer beast turned back to the woods and disappeared. Its gait was slow and awkward, since the biting pain of its wound raged anew every time the beast's right forepaw touched the ground. The horn stuck out from the shoulder, wedged between two bones. Limping, Shantu started the long trek commanded by its master.
It ran to the north, for it had been ordered back to the Darkwell.
The massive lodge of Grunnarch the Red had been specially adorned for the Council of Winternight. The plunder of a lifetime of raiding was hauled from cellars and sheds, from storage and from use, to decorate the rough-hewn log walls of the great councUhouse.
Now the lords of Norland entered and took their seats at long tables, heavily laden with food and drink, amid splendor such as rarely seen by the men of the north. From the ceiling hung three crystal chandeliers from the master
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craftsmen of Amn. Tapestries and silkworm rugs of exquisite workmanship, the plunder of many raids along the coast of Calimshan, decorated the walls.
The tables themselves were covered with golden and silver finery梡lates, platters, and goblets of precious metal from as far as Waterdeep and other ports along the Sword Coast. Candles perched gracefully in the chandeliers, and several massive fires set in huge fireplaces cast a golden light across the gathering that was only partially obscured by the growing haze of smoke in the air.
For a long time, the feasting proceeded with good humor and great appetite. Boars and sheep and heaping platters of fish were all consumed in turn, as were keg after keg of smooth, imported wine and whiskey. Finally, as the last of the meat was reduced to clean-picked bones, Grunnarch the Red pushed back his thronelike chair and stood.
The Red King, as was his right and custom, sat at one end of the rectangular lodge, at a table on a platform somewhat higher than the main floor of the room. As he stood, his red beard bristling and his equally scarlet mane flowing smoothly about his shoulders, he became plainly visible to all the men in the lodge. Slowly their conversations died as they waited to hear why their liege had summoned them for the unusual winter council.
"Lords of Norland and the north, warriors of my country, I greet you at a time of grave importance, a crossroads in the history of our people on these isles.
"Norland is the greatest nation of the north, the leading light among those of us who have come to the Moonshaes in the past centuries. Yet in the recent past, we have suffered gravely for the errors of our neighboring kings, for the wrongful war we were compelled to fight by a force beyond our understanding!"
The hush was complete now, as Grunnarch's surprising words sank into the ears of his listeners. Rarely would a man of the north admit a mistake, even in the confidential council of his closest friends, and here was their king stating that they had made an error before the assembled lords and fighters of Norland!
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"! have just returned from a kings' council with an ally of great standing, a wise ruler who was once our enemy. He has guided his people with good judgment and rare compassion. I shall declare before you all that he is now a friend of the North.
"He is a man who came to my rescue, and the rescue of my crew, only minutes after we would have claimed his ship as a prize. Then he offered the hospitality of his keep, the comfort of his food and wine, and the repairs to see our ship safely home."
A quiet rumble began to spread through the hall, for those of Grunnarch's men who had returned with him from Corwell understood of whom he spoke. Disbelief spread through the room as they shared this knowledge, in whispers, with their neighbors.
"Our ally, a king who will be my friend unto death, is King Tristan Kendrick of Corwell, High King of the lands of the Ffolk!"
The whispering died in sudden shock, and then the growing murmurs of outrage became audible, growing quickly in force and articulation.
"What madness do you say?" demanded Eric Graybeard from his seat at the king's own table.
"My brother fell in battle at Corwell!" proclaimed Urk Bearstooth, also at the Red King's table. "You cannot ask me to forget a bfoodquest!"
Grunnarch stood impassively before them, allowing their rage to run its course. He remembered Taggar's prophecy and hoped the old cleric was right, as he had been many times in the past. A messenger to the council such as the one Taggar had foretold梡erhaps even one of the men seated before him梒ould offer valuable words at this time of emotional torment. But no one voice rose above the tumult, and it began to appear to Grunnarch that the rage of his followers was growing in fury, not dying away.
"Silence!" His command rang through the lodge and, within a few seconds, was obeyed by all.
"You speak of bloodquests, and madness, and a tradition of war! I ask梟ay, demand梩hat you look where these tra-
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ditions, where our warfare and raids and plunder have gotten us! You know that the fish are dying in our waters! You know that our own brother, Thelgaar Ironhand, was slain by a Beast which then used us梱ou and me梐s tools to achieve its own foul ends! Can it be that. . ."
Grunnarch stopped, seeing the door at the opposite end of the lodge burst open. He immediately thought of the prophecy and the messenger Taggar had predicted. Could this be the messenger?
He saw a trusted warrior, a man who had served the Red King for twenty years, standing there with his face flushed and his jaw hanging slackly. The man, the king remembered, had been assigned as lookout over the bay for the duration of the council.
"Speak, man! Why have you interrupted us?"
"Your kingship," the man stammered, his voice barely a croak. The others in the room turned in astonishment, amazed at the impudence of the intruder. "S-Sailing into the bay, even now approaching the docks ... It's .. ." His voice trailed away, and he looked pleadingly at his king.
"Tell us!" roared Grunnarch the Red. "What manner of ship do you see? What flag does it fly?"
"No flag, sire... no flag at all. And it is桰 should say it isn't ..." His voice died, and it was clearly a great effort to speak. "Sire, it isn't a ship at all, though it sails across the water with speed and purpose.
"It is a castle!"
The gradual descent to the shore of Myrloch passed easily for the companions. The snow crunched underfoot, packing into a solid path for the second and subsequent companions, and once again the group alternated the lead.
Once they passed another of the great, smoking fissures that commonly marred the ground of the vale. This one, a gaping slash more than a hundred feet long, issued gouts of colorful smoke and noxious gas, but not as constantly as did the freshly formed crevasses. They skirted the gap carefully, giving it a wide margin and noting that it must be a
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source of heat, for the snow had melted back from the edge on all sides.
Finally they stood upon the shore of the great lake, amid snow-covered boulders. The dark water lapped at the fringes of the stones, in stark contrast to the whiteness of the land all around them.
Dead fish floated, belly up, along the visible length of the shore. Long tendrils of sick-looking weeds snaked through the water, brown and putrid in visible evidence of the pollution. Robyn turned suddenly away from the lake, unable to look at it.
"Yuk!" Newt commented, hovering over the water and looking down.
"Let's go" urged Tristan. Even he was repulsed by the look of this lake that had, all of his life, symbolized pristine natural beauty. "This way."
He led them to the right, following the shoreline but remaining a short distance from the water to avoid the rocks that prevented easy passage near the lake. As it was, they were able to pick a relatively smooth and unobstructed path.
"Look. Sticky stuff!" It was Yak who called their attention to the water after they had walked along the shore for half a mile or so.
"What is that?" lavish wondered aloud, seeing the patch of black slime atop the water that had caught the firbolg's attention.
"Looks like more tar." Tristan stepped to the water's edge, but he didn't need to touch the stuff to confirm his identification. "It seems to be seeping up from the bottom."
"Let's go!" Robyn's voice, nearly a shriek, startled them all. "Let's get away from here!" She started into the lead, desperate to escape the growing evidence of desecration.
Finally they made out the gaunt outlines of leafless trees, a dark line on the horizon before them. The scene was heart-breakingly bleak, but Tristan found it a relief to have some kind of physical goal before them梐nything but the awful monotony of the snow-covered fields and blackened water that had surrounded them for so long.
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And, too, he knew that somewhere within those woods awaited their destination.
They all quickened their pace unconsciously, and gradually the distant mass of the forest became individual trees. The wood was as bleak and desolate as any other in the vale. Even the snow covering the branches of the trees did not alleviate the bleakness of the scene. If anything, it served to highlight the death of the forest.
Tristan again took the lead, heading toward the wood on a path that veered slightly away from the shore, when he heard Robyn approach from behind.
"Do you feel anything strange?" she asked.
He stopped and looked around, wondering what she meant. His eyes were drawn to the forest, to the still trees and the barren, snowy ground. As he stared, he felt a prickling along the nape of his neck.
"Yes, I do. It's like something is staring back at us from the woods."
"I feel it, too. I don't know why, but the feeling is very strong. There's something there!"
"Should we change our course?" he asked, wondering where they could go instead.
"I don't think so. We're getting too close to the well now. We'll just have to go in with our eyes open."
And our swords loose in their scabbards, thought the king, though he said nothing out loud. The feeling of being observed, that an unknown presence lurked in the woods, grew stronger as he resumed the march. He felt terribly exposed here on the flat, open ground, but he could see no ready alternative to approaching the forest, so he led the companions on.
They moved still closer to the woods, until they had to crane their heads to look up to see the tops of the trees. Every tiny branch was now visible in sharp relief, and they could see the falling snow sifting down far back into the uncannily still forest.
"Look . . . behind us!" Robyn's cry of alarm whirled the king in his tracks, and his heart sank as he looked up into the sky.
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"It's the deathbirds! The whole damned flock!" shouted Pavvldo, breaking into a run.
Indeed, the ghastly predators soared eerily toward them, gliding silently below the layer of clouds. The companions' concentration on the woods had proven to be a tragic mistake.
"Run! Tb the trees!" Tristan shouted, drawing the Sword of Cymrych Hugh in the same instant. He urged Robyn, Tav-ish, and Pawldo past him. Newt hovered at his shoulder and Yak spun beside him, shaking a hamlike fist at the sky as the creatures dropped into a shallow dive.
"Hurry!" Tristan cried, stumbling after his companions. The trees did not offer perfect safety, but they would provide some protection against the swooping flight of the predators. He sprinted through the snow that now seemed to clutch his boots with pernicious intent, striving to drag him down. Desperately he raced on, casting a look back over his shoulder at the flying monsters.
In his heart, he knew that they wouldn't make it to the woods.
Once again Hobarth walked the dark passages between this world and the next, following the contours of the planar fabric that allowed him to enter in one place and emerge in a different location when he returned to the Realms.
In this particular instance, he crossed from Oman's Isle to Gwynneth, into the kingdom of Corwell, and finally to the town itself. He returned to the prime plane on the outskirts of Corwell Town, near dusk on a chilly wintery eve.
Of course, the sahuagin and the legions of the dead would take longer to make the same journey, but not too terribly much longer. And when they arrived, he would be ready.
He found a town that was friendly and warm, with pleasant fires burning in the hearths of most of the wooden cottages of the Ffolk. Several larger buildings made of stone commanded the waterfront, and the whole community was surrounded by a pitiful little wall, no more than waist high.
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Hobarth found a small tavern called the Inn of the Great Boar. The place was warmed by a pleasant fire, and he went inside to rent a room. He thought it would be pleasant to sleep in an actual bed for a change, and in truth, the weariness of his travels had begun to weigh heavily on him.
Hobarth enjoyed watching the Ffolk of Corwell going about their petty tasks of barter and purchase, consumption and labor. How they would regret their foolish complacency! In a few short days, their lives would change irrevocably梖or those few that survived.
