The Path of Poison: Chapter 25
The Path of Poison: Chapter 25
Previously…
On the long road to the port city of Farhaven, the party encountered trouble in a strange, ancient forest where Sepp and Skivor were trapped, but escaped with the aid of Manatarian sun-spirits. Now in the wide Voerlund country, the caravan approaches a new village…
Check out The Path of Poison sub-section for all previous installments
A Small Note:
In this chapter you will encounter this world’s terms for its cardinal directions. For ease of reading, they are explained below. Because this world’s sun has no set path, and does not have magnetic poles, the different lands have mostly decided on the following terms based on geography:
Seaward = North
Landward = East
Sandward = South
Coastward = West
It was a uniquely silent landscape, free of its eerie air it had let go of its breath to become wholly stoic and slumbering, its stark beauty shining through. The sheer ranges of steely crags drew the eye to their rugged contours, and the faint scent of heather which came on the wind enlivened the senses. The sun remained longer in the heavens than it had the previous days, and they used the opportunity for travel, never stopping, but only slowing here and there for the Dunmarrow to change guard and watch their charges who left the wagons to walk for a short while.
Back inside, Karmov was tending to his black metal longsword, running down its length a darkish stone, when he began to speak of his own accord.
“There was indeed something wrong back there, Sepp, yes.” He didn’t look up as he continued to work. “And it was in truth the Old Frost we called for the rightful rest.”
“So what was the problem?” asked Sepp.
“There was an old graveyard under the grass, and that whole span was…” he took a contemplative breath, “unquiet, as you might say. Our veterans set it to rights. However, its presence means there is likely a village or town nearby, but I have not asked and I am myself not familiar with this region.”
"Why didn't you just tell us? We wouldn’t mind." asked Barosh.
"Perhaps not. But most foreigners do not understand our ways, and some do not like them.”
“Why’s that?” Barosh leaned in.
“They believe we meddle where their gods tread.”
“But you’re just helping spirits rest, aren’t you?”
The Dunmarrow flashed a quick glance of mild surprise and perhaps appreciation.
“Undeath is abhorrent to us. We do not understand why the guardian god of this land, or its earthen spirits, do not intervene for the souls of its people, but the Serpent is oft distant in odd ways.”
“It’s a lot closer in Silverden,” said Skivor.
“Burial grounds are lively there,” Karmov replied, his eyes on his sword. “I have never understood this about Silverden.”
“Our dead remain with us for aid,” Skivor declared.
“Perhaps that is why the Dunmarrow have not set them to rest,” he said as he flipped his sword over to its other side.
Karmov sat back and after a moment turned to Sepp and Barosh.
“Have you been tending to your axes? Show them to me.” The northman glanced down at them with a frown as they were held out.
“Give them to me for a moment, if you would.”
They handed their hatches over, sharing a quick look. The Dunmarrow appraised the weapons, running his finger lightly along the sides of the blades, and grasping the hilts.
“You see they are rusting slightly,” he displayed the flat of Barosh’s axe. “Rust, it is like decay in the flesh. Withering and then rot. These suffer slightly.”
“How do we fix them?” Barosh enquired, his voice betrayed a mild confusion.
“Metals are from the earth, and the earth is alive. The metals can be said to be alive, in a sense. Dunmarrow bury old blades, you know. You must feed and clean them like living things with oils.”
“I don’t remember the smith who sold them to us mentioning that at all,” Sepp said as he looked down on the axe blade. “Remember him, Barosh?”
“The chatty old fellow, yeah.”
“Probably he believed you knew this.”
“Now that I think of it, the old farmer used to say stuff like that,” said Barosh, “didn’t know it was literal.”
“It was. They are companions like any other. Look after them, hmm?”
“I should have done so already,” said Skivor sitting forward. “Looks like a fairly rough iron, yes?”
“Indeed it is,” replied Karmov. “You know your metals?”
“Have to as a woodsman. Certain blades for certain trees, and all that. If there’s a village or anything close I’ll find them a smith.”
“What are you using, Karmov?” asked Sepp.
“It is an oilstone from Dunmarrow. It is very precious, and very rare.” The northman returned to working on his sword.
The land began to clear out and climb a little, and there appeared ahead the telltale smoke trails of a settlement. It revealed itself to sight as they closed in, rather imposing under the pale sunlight, with its tall double towers flanking the remains of a long, ancient gatehouse tunnel, and the remains of a ragged wall hugging the left side of the village as they faced it. The more gentle slope to the right, without a wall, housed something they hadn’t expected: a camp of about two dozen Silverden refugees.
Captain Karel sent out word they were to stop over in the village, possibly overnight. The Dunmarrow needed to stock up on rations quite badly, and the Baletorians had eagerly enquired to see if they might do some business with the people. This was considered reasonable. A number of town guard emerged with their commander and met with Karel to see to the wagons as everyone disembarked. Sepp and Barosh stood looking out of the sombre countryside. The forest on the hill was out of sight now, and frankly, with the sounds of warm village life wafting from beyond the old watchtowers, they scarcely had felt better in a long time. Off a ways down the gentler slope was a closed off section of tents—probably baths—and then further down, a wide stream with a water wheel and some long nets. Suddenly a hand was clapped on either shoulder as Skivor spoke up.
“Seva has gone to find a drink. Let’s go among the folk and see if we can’t learn aught ourselves, eh?”
By the looks of how the people in the camp moved about or rested, they had most likely been settled for some time. The place was circular in general shape, naturally, and consisted of several fairly sizeable but bare canvas yurts. Sepp took notice of the people as they wandered in. A lot of them were meditating. Suddenly an older woman of sharp features and dusky accents approached them and began to speak, but stopped as she recognized them as fellows from Silverden, and broke out into a warm smile.
“Oh we haven’t seen another face from home in over a month!” the woman said, eagerly shaking their hands. “Just when things seemed to be coming to a head! New but friendly faces, oh there’s an order to this, I just know.” She had an extremely southern, lilting accent.
The three of them were rendered speechless for a second. ‘An order’, Serpent’s Breath, they each thought, she was almost a Silverden stereotype. Sepp began, and immediately regretted, to speak, for reasons he couldn’t help.
“There’s a problem, miss?”
“Oh it’s the, what is it, the bur-yoman I’m afraid. Our canon has been having words with him.”
Sepp hadn’t a clue what she was talking about.
“We were actually wondering if you had any words from home,” said Skivor, “but you’ve been here longer than we’ve been on the road.”
“Indeed we have, that blasphemous fighting got as far north as you folks, has it?”
“Aye. About...I think it’s been about a week now,” Skivor looked to Sepp and Barosh for a confirmation he didn’t get. “Hard to keep track of time on the road like this.”
“Oh I know, we reckon it a little over a month ourselves.”
There was a pause.
“You know, you should speak with him, our priest. Canon Mirochel is our representative, as it were. If we can help our fellows on the road, or maybe if you were going to the bur-yoman with a message?”
They asked her to show them the way to the canon’s tent, but he was out, at which point the woman left them with a hearty good day. They found the canon a short ways off, helping two men set a fire under a large stew pot. It was a good thing to see, some canons were distant. Skivor stepped forward with his hand out.
“Canon Mirochel?”
“Yes?” The man looked up. He was younger than they expected, with a soft voice, a pursed mouth, and light eyes—must have had some Voerlunder in him. They widened upon seeing the trio. He stood up and took Skivor’s hand, who gave a short bow. Sepp and Barosh did the same. He was a priest after all. A ritemaster and scholar. “What is it I can do for you, my friends?”
“Well, canon, we’re just passing through, we’re part of a caravan,” Skivor said as he pointed back with his thumb, “saw you folks camped out here, thought we might talk. Learn anything you know about the village while we’re here.”
“Ah, I fear there’s little of use I can tell you! I know it is called Burovina, it was once a very large fortified keep, and it’s, ahem, it’s burgomaster,” he pronounced very carefully, “seems somewhat suspicious of us, perhaps because we are from Silverden, or because we are refugees. I understand taking so many of us in caused a bit of a strain, but we haven’t asked for much. I do wonder if he really expects trouble.”
“The woman we met mentioned things had been coming to a head?” Sepp asked. Again, unable to help it.
“Miss Belinka?” the canon asked with a knowing smile. “Well, I wouldn’t put it so dire myself, but...yes, the burgomaster and myself have had some words over burials.”
The trio exclaimed their sympathies.
“It was some leagues back, as we came around the hill to the landward, I can’t remember. We just want to bury our dead, but you know of course we do things quite different to how they are here, and...well, truth is, I think some Voerlund folk have funny ideas about what goes on back in Silverden.” Well, that was a problem. Sepp supposed ideas of custodian dead might sound a lot like ghosts to pretty much anyone outside of Silverden. Sure, the Dunmarrow didn’t even like it. But there had to be Silverden dead across the known world, right? Sepp had the flash of a thought that it would in fact be the Dunmarrow who would know about that.
“Say, canon,” said Barosh, “you didn’t happen to get any news about back home, did you? From travellers or such?”
“I’m afraid not. Most folk who come here come from out coastward or seaward, it seems. I’ve been meditating on the war much. It is a wrinkle of an older time, and will fall into order soon, of this I have no doubt.” The trio nodded graciously.
“Actually, canon, there is one more thing I’d like to ask,” Skivor said.
“Anything I can help with, friend.”
“Do you know if there’s a smithy in the village at all?”
The village was much closer to what they were used to. The ground was mostly bare earth, well maintained and free of puddles and sludge, but naked soil all the same. The houses were grey with odd peaked roofs and overhangs on many of their second floors. Some had little passageways connecting top floors to each other, and signs dangled from the undersides. The general layout was like a river delta, with the ancient gatehouse road splitting into four other winding paths with their own smaller splits. The smithy, so the canon had told them in detail, lay at the end of enclosing wall in its own small court, directly opposite the burgomaster’s tower—the remains of an old fortification chosen as headquarters. The current burgomaster had his fancies of being on the frontier, apparently.
The smithy consisted of a small interior shop beside an open, covered space, its roof the same peaked kind as the others. Under it lay the smiths forge, anvil, and assorted tools for the purification and refinement of ore. In the middle of this was a stocky, bronze-fleshed fellow with short cropped gold hair and amber eyes who was giving commands to five other workers who rushed about from kiln to crucible. The trio walked up to him, but the smith only glanced up once and grumbled.
“No orders. Too busy. Try tomorrow.” He spoke slowly for their sake, it seemed. Sepp took a step forward and spoke to him in Voerlund sounds.
“We’re just looking to oil two axes, that’s all.”
The smith stopped and looked up and chuckled.
“Aye, that got me attention. Afraid that’s exactly what we don’t have at the moment. Burgomaster’s counting on me to refit the whole town guard. Last barrel’s more than half gone, I’ve a pile of maille to get through, and we haven’t had a shipment of anything useful in weeks, so the answer’s still no, sorry lad.”
“All you need is oil, that’s it?”
“Unless you can tap it from the soil here for me I’ve got to get back to this before the blessed sunlight sets on me.”
Sepp gave a short bow, bid the man goodbye, and turned to Barosh and Skivor.
“You look like you’ve an idea,” said Barosh cocking his head.
“A little one, yeah,” Sepp smiled. “Look, we’re in need of a smith, he’s in need of a particular item, a whole bunch fellow Silverden folk are in need—there’s an order to this, don’t you think?”
“That canon put ideas in your head?” said Skivor.
“I’m just saying, some Silverden folk come in and help him out, looks good for us all, you know?”
“But where’s the oil coming from?” Barosh asked.
“Well...I don’t think it’s a coincidence we were just talking about oil back in the wagon.”
“Think those northmen will lend one of their stones?” Skivor asked with some measure of skepticism.
“Only way to know if I’m overstepping a boundary is...overstep it and ask.”
“Right! Time to strike while the iron’s hot!” Barosh said as he clapped Sepp on the arm.