The Path of Poison: Chapter 15
Previously…
The party left the Voerlund town of Saumark in the company of a Dunmarrow wagon, and after fending off an attack by a colossal drake, Sepp came to terms with the reality of the dangerous power he carries. Now, during a lull in the action, the party get to know their companions…
Check out the Chapter Index for previous installments
The rest of the day was, to the immense relief of the caravan, nice and quiet, although some of the Dunmarrow kept an eye on the horizon. A few stops were made at certain intervals to water and feed the animals, as well as the people, but the mercenaries suggested keeping a consistent pace. As the sun began to sink, they made a last push for progress on the road. They had come to the foothills of a larger range, which rose grey and foreboding in the early dusk, while the undulant road was a deep green, and laden with thickets. On one side of the road they found a narrow but deep stream from which a chill water was taken. Nothing but the rugged open country of Voerlund surrounded them now for miles, but the dim lights of the last village presented themselves in the far distance if one squinted.
At last, they stopped for the night. Darkness was settling heavily across the landscape, blotting out nearly everything but the camp, and far off the tall hills were indistinct in the twilight. Stars were beginning to shine, though they were yet weak. The Dunmarrow had extra camping supplies, something Sepp and the rest of the party suddenly realized they had utterly forgotten while even in Saumark. But their minds had been on other things, they reasoned. They were provided with the option of sleeping in a wagon, or taking a simple lean-to, really no more than a little pitched cover over furs on the ground. They were graciously accepted by everyone, to the surprise of Sepp, though Barosh did, quite of his own accord, offer Seva the wagon to herself. Bless him, he thought. But she was quite adamant about a night under the stars. Sepp had guessed Skivor, much like himself who had spent many nights in the rough, wouldn’t mind, but hadn’t figured either Barosh or Seva as ones for it. Full of surprises, they were.
The Dunmarrow were to keep watch in turns. Once the sun had departed, they assumed a more stern attitude, were terse with their talk, and relaxed their demeanour but little at an evening supper of stew, prepared by one of their number, but assisted by Seva who added some much needed flavour to what had been shaping up to be a rather lean meal. It was during that meal, sitting on blankets around a well-tended fire, they all learned where the remaining six merchants were from. Four of them were from Baletor, the “crossroads kingdom” as it was widely known. They were of that exotic eastern aspect, with rich, dusky skin and sharp features, but bearing a tinge of Voerlunder that made their eyes a dark gold or amber, but not quite like Silverden eyes. They introduced themselves in turn as Angsho, Vilur, Thes, and Karpolo.
“Mm, oh yes yes, Baletor, beautiful city. You have never seen?” Angsho asked of the group in a faltering Merchant’s Tongue. That old trade language was alas highly mutable, and acquired changes from region to region, border to border. It made conversing with Silverden people somewhat awkward. Didn’t stop them from chatting away, though.
“I always wanted to visit,” said Seva in a likewise uneasy language, glancing up once from her stew. Sepp remembered, with a slight pang of memory, that she’d said as such to him some days before. Funnily enough, while preparing a meal. He didn’t form the words or the thought, but felt in himself the hope she wouldn’t leave with them. He was rather fond of this group.
“Ah, you must see! On the mountain, the old town,” Angsho was having trouble finding the words and gestured as he spoke, “great, very great, it is above the new town, and has fine places. Uh, guildhalls, art—and music!
“What is in new town?” asked Barosh.
“Ah, new town is very, how you might say, alive, also.”
“The new town, mm, not good for foreigners,” said Thes with a nervous chuckle. “Many streets, it is over half the mountain! Many old places, forgotten.”
“Mm, but beautiful temples of Oros! Strong faith in new town.” Vilur chimed in.
“Oros, Imaal, the Flame, ah, even World Serpent!” Karpolo had been counting on his fingers, and looked with bright eyes at the Silverden people around him as mentioned that final deity.
“Many fine temples, yes, but Baletor culture is the old city, above!” Angsho retorted.
“Yes yes, but glad you are that they have such fine temples for blessings, they are felt far indeed to have helped battle the wyrm, eh?” said Karpolo as he glanced with a smile around the group.
And then one of the other two merchants said in half-jest: “It was a fine day, even though it is winter, it must have been Sun’s guidance!” She had introduced herself as Saror, from Mul Manatar in the east—not as far east as Baletor, though she bore a similar aspect. The last merchant was a thin, shortish fellow from Voerlund who had remained quiet, save for a curt thank you for the food. He was introduced by Saror as Baruch, to which name Barosh piped up but only received a slightly awkward smile from the man in return.
“Ah, Oros welcomes the Sun and Stars on the mountain!” the Baletorians had taken the jest as intended. “They must have known the peoples were in danger, eh?” Now that made Sepp wonder, though he didn’t say anything. After a moment they then found themselves in the slightly awkward silence of strangers suddenly thrust into close quarters.
“Has anyone visited Dunmarrow?” Sepp took the initiative. One of the mercenaries gave a short laugh like a bark.
“There are no reasons for outsiders to come to the Clanhold,” he said in a rather clear, though accented Merchant’s Tongue as he set his empty bowl down. “Dunmarrow is a cold, grey land, with cold, grey tomb-cities, and we keep them jealously. We come to you, instead.”
“I once visited Dunmarrow,” said Karpolo, raising a finger. “For business with elders.” Sepp and the others had learned a bit back in the wagon, before the drake shook everything up. The two brothers, Karmov and Dorach, hadn’t exactly sold them on that distant, frigid land of endless graves, but they way they spoke of Dunmarrow, it was clear their hearts were tender for it.
“What did you think of it?” asked another mercenary. They had been sharing quick glances with something almost like mirth in them.
“Ah, it is beautiful, in its own way, of course.”
“It is not like Baletor,” came the reply with a wry smile.
“Not many places are,” the merchant said with an ever so slightly nervous laugh. “But the taverns, good times, and,” he added swiftly, “I believe Dunmarrow people are the finest storytellers. Great memories of long ago.”
“Would like to hear some Dunmarrow stories,” Barosh interjected with an entreating tone.
“Maybe another night, hmm?” a gravelly voice spoke from behind them then—Karel, the mercenary captain, loomed half in shadow. “The men need to be alert, not lurking in their memories.” At that, the captain gave a nod, the mercenaries downed their meals, bid goodnight, and went to their stations.
It wasn’t long before people began to drift away to their lean-tos. Sepp was one of the first, feeling the exhaustion of the day suddenly weigh upon him. He didn’t sleep immediately though, but watched with half-closed eyes the merchants perform their small, night time rituals. The Baletorians stayed up for a while, and then in their own time and individually, faced what he assumed was the direction of their mountain home, raised their left arms above their heads, set them back down, and then bowed slowly, before quietly retiring. The Voerlunder simply went to bed, although he did make a kind of sign about his head and shoulders, pointing first at his head, then curving past his left should, across his chest, and to the right shoulder. Sepp wondered if it was a northern World Serpent thing, he certainly hadn’t seen it before, and his father had never done so either. Maybe it was a charm of some kind. He would try to ask, if he could make not seem awkward.
But the Manatarian interested him most. She stayed up alone, and gazed at the stars by the campfire. They were spread across sky in numberless profusion now, sometimes in long shimmering sweeps, sometimes sparsely spaced but themselves large, with great splotches of dark between them, and some were in loose, swirling clusters. They lent a calm, silvery glow to the benighted landscape. Sepp didn’t know much about the Manatarian faith, save that they apparently worshipped the Sun and Stars. He watched her as she tossed a small lump of something into the flames that smoked in a heavy, thin trail. She looked quite intently into the flames, and then slowly followed the smoke trail into the sky, where she gave a sigh, and then left to sleep.
He had been watching the others too long to notice if any of the members of his group had their own little night time rituals. But truth be told, Silverden was different than most, they didn’t have prayers or chants or mantras, they had meditations. You were supposed to think on the coils of the World Serpent, how they were in everything—how they were everything. How you were meant to live in accord with them, in accord with the order they represented. Unlike in Voerlund, the Serpent for them was a kind of spirit that was everywhere, or at least that’s how visiting venerates explained it. Silverden didn’t even really have temples, they had shrines in nature, places that were just different to everywhere else, in look or feel. Places they say you could sense that great truth had led to the birth of Silverden as its own nation. There had been a lovely, tranquil shrine back home, near the village, a copse of low trees with boughs that burst with more leaves and flowers throughout the summers than anything else around it. His father he had taken a few things from it for medicines a handful of times, he didn’t dare do more. Didn’t seem right, apparently. He hoped the shrine was still standing.
Sepp supposed then he had been somewhat lax in his meditations. He hadn’t been raised particularly strictly, but he had been raised as a healer, and so knew there was some meaning to the way things were. There was an order to it, and knowledge of that order had benefits, like curing illness. He always did find some measure of dim awe in thinking on it all, especially when one could go to a shrine and see it for themselves. No better time than now, he thought, and besides, he had no tongue for prayer. So he lay back, and let his eyes wander across the stars—the shining scales, they say—and thought on how the Serpent was, in some way, in everything that had happened today, and whether or not far off gods really had come to his aid.