The Path of Poison: Chapter 26

Previously…

On the long road to the port city of Farhaven, the party encountered trouble in a strange, ancient forest but escaped with the aid of Manatarian sun-spirits. Now they have arrived in a new Voerlund town, where Sepp seeks to aid the Silverden refugees living there in a matter of burial…

Check out The Path of Poison sub-section for all previous installments

See the previous chapter for a simple guide on this world’s terms for its cardinal directions

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Their first task was to locate Karmov or Dorach, or someone who knew where they were. But where to start, they discussed among themselves? The caravan was the best bet. There was a good chance the Dunmarrow were all gathered together. Ah, but they were out gathering supplies, were they not? Indeed, as the trio trekked back from the blacksmith, down the long, winding main street of the town—a fair walk—they found a number of Dunmarrow trading for food and other supplies in the market square. None, however, were the brothers. From a distance, the three of them found that the northmen sort of blended together in a most curious manner. Something about the stark black armour and bloodless skin seemed to obscure them. Only upon closer inspection did their features seem to define themselves, as if from a fog. The majority had the same hair, too. Almost certainly intentional. Think you killed one in battle, someone looking just like him turns up again, or appears to anyway.

It turns out the brothers were both stationed back at the caravan. Alright, first task complete. Now was the matter of convincing them to part with an oilstone. Four of them were gathered about the caravan, looking tough, hands resting on sword hilts.

“There are a number of your people here, Sepp,” said Karmov, “they dwell just yonder on the slope.” He pointed back with his thumb. Sepp began to mouth words, not having really thought of a good way to ask what he wanted to ask.
“That’s, ah, that’s actually—well, we had a question, or a favour to ask. It’s about the refugees.” Sepp related in several short, halting sentences the whole issue of burials, Silverden reputation, and the blacksmith. “So...I, or we, were wondering if we could borrow one of those oilstones you were using. To help the blacksmith. See, the idea is Silverden people—and Dunmarrow!—the idea is foreign folk coming and helping out, and maybe helping those refugees in the process.” The brothers exchanged a quick glance, and Karmov went silent. He met Sepp’s eyes, and held them for a moment. Sepp’s glanced away quick under the steel gaze of the northman, who flashed a grin and gave a deep chuckle.
“I suppose that can be arranged,” said Karmov as he whirled about and entered the wagon behind him. “But we will speak of this to the captain,” came his voice from inside the wagon, “and should he will it so, I shall be the one to carry them, and too, I shall accompany you. As I said, Sepp, these,” Karmov spoke hopping from the wagon with a decent-sized leather-lined box under his arm, “are quite rare, and they are priceless.”

Captain Karel was found quite easily, he was nearby, negotiating with a merchant for long haul food supplies. Karmov and Skivor explained the situation this time, and the lot of them were somewhat surprised when the captain gave a thoughtful frown and said “That seems to me a good idea. We will be staying the night, and it would be well to right this burial matter.” With Karel’s blessing, Karmov gave a proper bow and head off into the town before asking Sepp in which direction the blacksmith lay.

On the walk back to the far end of the wall, it was interesting to watch the reactions of people as Karmov led the way. His hand rested lightly on the pommel of his sword, and he wore a swaying mantle over a sleeveless shirt of clanking chainmaille and a black brigandine, contrasting sharply with his colourless skin and hair. Mostly people stared as far as they could, not daring to follow his movements. Sepp noticed a few people exchanging glances, or whispering. While their presence didn’t send every street aflutter, more folk than he expected gave notice to the northman’s presence. It was a curious experience to see their reputation first hand like that, and he’d actually seen them fight. But then again, he had only seen them fight beastmen, not other people. Sepp hoped he would never have to.

At last, the blacksmith was gained. The sky had dulled just a bit, and chances were it would continue steadily from this point on. Longest day they’d had in a while, was what Skivor remarked. As they entered under the smithy roof, the smith himself looked up and stopped dead first as he saw Karmov, and then cocked his head as he saw the returning Silverdenners. Sepp approached the fellow with Karmov.
“I thought we might offer a bit of a trade. If you can oil our axes, we’ll let you borrow these Dunmarrow oilstones.”
“I will be watching, of course,” the northman added quickly. The smith set his tools down and came forth with a slight trepidation in his steps, and Karmov opened the box under his arm. Twelve small, rounded, darkish stones with wavering patterns sat in a small layer of oil they had exuded. The smith’s eyes lit up, but the Dunmarrow standing over him was what stopped him from reaching out.
“May I, sir?” he asked.
“You may,” Karmov rumbled. The smith gave a short laugh, and called over his two helpers, instructed them to take a stone each, and get to it.
“You folks came along at the right time,” said the smith, rushing back to his work table, “a little darker out, don’t you think? Really thought I’d have to wait for a new batch. Here, whose axes need seeing to?”
“Ours, please!” said Sepp with a smile, amused at the sheer enthusiasm in the smith’s tone. Barosh came forth and gave a simple greeting, handing over his axe as well.

The blacksmith sat back at his work bench and apprised the weapons.
“Let’s see here...Voerlund make, aren’t they?”
“They are, we bought them back in, ah, it was Saumark wasn’t it?” Sepp turned to Barosh for confirmation, who nodded in assent after a second’s thought.
“Saumark? Oh, that’s a ways off. I take it you’ve been on the road long, then?”
“We have. We reckon it about...sevenfold days or thereabouts, it’s hard to keep track, you know?”
“Aye, I bet it is.” Sepp watched the smith as he worked the blade of the first axe, how he carefully ran the oilstone in a certain way along the edge, and then how he ran it further in, making the stone exude oil more in some places than others. After some minutes of quiet, Karmov spoke up.
“I cannot help but notice, smith, that you know well the use of an oilstone.”
“Oh, that I do, sir,” said he as he continued to work, “this isn’t the first time Dunmarrow have come through. Sure, I’ve even mended some of your folks’ weapons.”
Karmov only slightly betrayed that he was in fact quite impressed.
“Then you must be counted among our friends.”
“I hope so, sir, I understand it was something of an honour. Always liked you Dunmarrow folk, very polite!” chuckled the smith as he flipped over one of the axes and worked the other side.
“Anyone from Silverden ever give you trouble?” Sepp tried to make it sound humorous.
“Silverdenners?” The smith glanced up with a smirk. “I don’t believe they can be rude! It’s against their faith!” The smith seemed to also be trying to maintain a light air. Skivor could be heard to chuckle. Barosh had given up and was looking about the immediate vicinity.
“I wish it were so!” said Sepp.
“Ah, but you folk are so holy! At least those poor people near the gates seem to be.”
“Oh, well, I think they’re from much further sandward than us. It is different down there. Honestly, the people here don’t seem that different from how it was back home.”
“From just over the border, aye?”
“We are, yeah.”
“So that war’s reached that far?”
“It has.”
“Serpent’s Breath—mind me language—that’s awful to hear, son. Feel bad for you folks. Can’t rightly believe such a land would have wars like that.”
“Silverden, it, uh,” Skivor began with a stutter, “in the past, it had nobles. Became venerates, long ago. Some still think like they are nobles.”
“Ah, I see,” the smith nodded, and took a minute to finish one of the axes, setting it on a sheet of opaque wax paper. “Well, I can only pray it rights itself soon, especially with that burial business going on here. Don’t mind saying I don’t rightly understand that. I mean, pff, talk of ghosts and things, doesn’t sit right with the locals.”
“Ghosts? Nothing like that, no-” Skivor began, sounding a bit heated, but Karmov cut him off.
“I can assure you, smith, pay no heed to rumours of ghosts or wandering spirits. After all, we Dunmarrow would know of such things.”
“But,” asked the smith, stopping and looking up, “you don’t mind me asking, what’s all this I hear about spirits sticking around and such?”
“Well,” said Sepp. “it’s our ancestors, they kind of...continue to aid us in little ways, here and there, they run the land, maintain the order. We call them custodians. They’re a bit like your landwights, actually, only more kin than neighbours.”
“Odd it may seem to you,” added Karmov, “and odd it may seem to even us Dunmarrow. But stranger still to you both would be the rites of my homeland, or of the mountain Baletor, or the grave-cults of Minosmiir.”
The smith let his wide gaze wander for a second, before saying “Well, I’m inclined to believe that coming from a Dunmarrow. No offense, of course,” he said meeting the eyes of the trio.
“None taken,” Sepp said with a smile. “Sure, I still don’t completely understand landwight shrines myself!”
“Ha! That’s fair,” the smith grinned as he set to finishing the second axe. He lay by the first one then, and said it would be best to wait a few minutes while the oil really soaked in.

With some measure of reverence, the smith held a lantern close to the glistening blades, running the side of his little finger along the flat a few times. After setting his lantern down, he picked up the axes, held them out hilt-forward, and Sepp and Barosh took them and replaced the hatchets into their belts. “Now, how goes that maille, boys?”
“Last shirts just finished now, boss,” said one of them.
“See that?” said the smith. “Those stones are a miracle. The armour doesn’t take so long, it’s the weapons that need the work.” He collected them up and placed them gently into their leather-lined carrier, which Karmov set under his arm again. “Here, I know it was a trade and all, but I still feel like we owe you folks. You really did me a favour here…” The smith sat back on his stool for a second and scratched his face in thought. “Tell you what,” he said looking up, “I’m delivering these pieces to the burgomaster before sunrise. How about you folks come with me, I bet we can sort out that burial business. Would be good to hear from meself, yourselves, and yourself, Dunmarrow, if you can.”

Sepp would have jumped at the chance, but stopped himself. He was not exactly in charge of their situation. He turned to Karmov, and asked with more than a little trepidation: “When do you suppose the caravan leaves tomorrow?”
The northman gave a sort of side glance down to Sepp, which hid his slight grin.
“I will speak with the captain when we return. This involves the dead, after all, hmm?”
Relief that even he was surprised by rushed through Sepp.
“Thanks, Karmov. Ah,” he turned to the smith, “where can we find you in the morning, then?”
“Oh, just come back here, the burgomaster’s tower isn’t far off. He’ll be looking over the work himself. He’s a character, you’ll like him!” They said their goodbyes then as the smith prepared to close up shop for the day. The sky had been growing noticeably darker in their time with the blacksmith, and it was decided to head back as soon as possible, inform Karel, and then find out where Seva had went.

The town was full of long shadows as they returned to the caravan, where the captain was addressing some of his men. The somewhat meagre town guard were about lighting numerous lamps as the twilight hardened. Karmov listened in on the harsh Dunmarrow tongue before announcing himself, and the captain hailed them as he turned around.
“How went your mission of goodwill?”
“The trouble about it was veiled in rumours of spirits, captain.” The captain grunted.
“I think we set it straight,” said Sepp, “but we couldn’t have done it without Karmov.”
“What needs be related is that the blacksmith requests our presence before sunrise,” said Karmov, “we are to go with him in delivering his work to the burgomaster and set right these misconceptions over the burials.” Karel’s gaze shifted about in thought. He gave a sharp huff of decision.
“For the sake of the dead, you may go. But delay not in the morn, the sunlight is not on our side. Also, we are pitching our tents with the Silverden refugees, the town has little space for lodgers and we are too many. Make sure to get much rest for tomorrow, I wish to make up for some lost travel time.”

With their debrief successful, the trio bid Karmov farewell and thanks, which was returned with a short bow. One of the other northmen told them that Seva and the Manatarian merchant could be found in a nearby public house, the Drakeman’s Hut, from which it seemed they had not emerged. The trio found it quick enough, and once beyond the rather impressively carved hanging sign, which bore the exaggerated features of a slain drake, they found Seva and Saror even quicker. It was a large circular building with a tall round ceiling intersected by a dozen criss-crossing wooden beams from which lanterns hung, lending the place a soft, warm glow. Seva, the Manatarian merchant Saror, and three Voerlunders, two men and a woman, seemed to be having a great time, judging by the multiple overturned tankards on their table, and by the uproarious laughter.

“Silly girl,” mumbled Skivor, “she’ll regret that tomorrow.”
“Did she regret Viner’s Night?” asked Barosh with a grin behind his words.
“She did not,” replied Skivor, with a mere hint of a chuckle behind his own.
It was then that she saw them approach, and enthusiastically waved them over. The Voerlunders moved aside to let the trio pull up their own chairs.
“We,” she said with a big smile and an arm around Saror, “have become favoured patrons.”
“I can see that,” said Skivor, surveying the mess of a table.
“We’ve been on a mission of goodwill today,” said Sepp, “and we have some news.”
“Oh, we have news, too,” said Saror.
“Barman told us, no room in any of the inns, so we’re camping with the other Silverdenners tonight,” Seva said between gulps of a drink.
“Well, that was our news,” laughed Sepp.
“But what was your mission!” asked Seva with a pat on Sepp’s arm, slightly more forceful than she had likely intended.
“So, the refugees are having a problem with a burial, you know-”
“Oh! Wait, we were talking about that with our friends here!” Seva turned to the Voerlunders who seemed incredibly amused at the whole ordeal. “I am sorry,” she said in an awkward Merchant’s Tongue, “your names, I cannot say them.” Saror leaned in to help out.
“Kharvi, Hermeska, and Keino, we had a long discussion!”
Which name belonged to which Voerlunder, though, the trio feared they may never actually find out. Nevertheless, one of the women said then in a much clearer Merchant’s Tongue: “Your friend Seva,” with especial care taken to say it correctly, “told us so much about your ancestors, the burial—it’s so beautiful! We have a friend who works under the burgomaster, I think we can help, and we would be honoured to have them here! All that talk of ghosts and things, it is not right.”
Sepp began to laugh, and Barosh followed, mostly happy to understand a conversation today.
“Sounds like you had the exact same day as us!” he said to Seva, and then to the Voerlund woman in Merchant’s Tongue, “We were actually talking with the blacksmith about all of this, we’re meeting the burgomaster in the morning to try and convince him of the burial.”
“Then you shall have some help!” she said.
“Ah, speaking of this,” said the man in Voerlunder, “it would probably be wise to retire.” The other woman laughed, and the one who had spoken nodded in agreement. Night had settled in. Smiles and short bows were exchanged amongst everyone as the three Voerlunders got up, dropped some lustre coins on the table, and made their ways home.

“Well,” said Seva, “I don’t know about you boys, but I’m quite comfortable here! Share a drink and tell me how you got on with the blacksmith.”
The tale was thus recounted once again in between some snippets of local lore the women picked up from their Voerlunder acquaintances, whose chief detail was that the town had been a single massive fortress long ago, and was called Buromark. Some time passed, and even the rather cosy public house started to feel a bit cold. Seva, and then Barosh, said they wouldn’t leave until they were made to, and when that time came, Skivor planted two goldleaf notes on the table and ushered his friends from the building before they could say any more.
“Now that seemed like a good day,” said Barosh. “I really need to learn more Voerlunder, though.”
“Aye, it did, though we have yet to speak to the burgomaster. We should return to camp and tell that canon the good news,” said Skivor.

Sepp agreed silently, and thought to himself, honestly, I'm always glad of a task that doesn't require hexes.

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