Extended absence

Note - I will be moving shortly and afterward may be going into the hospital for an extended time. I will try to post more material after the move but it may not be possible. Anyone wishing to receive story parts or game material posts via email can contact me at:

jasonzavoda@aol.com

The Spear That Roars for Blood - XL

XL

"Blindfold him," ordered the old dwarf.

"Yes, Duneyr," the young dwarf bent and tied a rag around Arawn's eyes. He had to help the ranger to his feet. The hound kept close to Arawn's legs as he was led hobbling away.

"Don't leave my sword behind!" Arawn called out.

"It's not going anywhere, don't you worry," answered Duneyr.

"I'm worried about it being taken, not walking off," Arawn said. He stumbled and nearly fell.

"You should worry about just walking," Fjalar, the young dwarf, told him.

"Fjalar, keep him from stumbling," barked Duneyr.

"I'm trying but he's tripping over his own feet," Fjalar complained. "I thought he said he was a ranger."

"My feet are injured," Arawn snapped.

"You will have more than your feet to worry about if you don't get moving," Fjalar gave Arawn a shove forward that knocked him to his knees.

,"Fjalar, none of that," Duneyr growled.

"Sorry, I just get sick of...," Fjalar began, but his words were drowned out by the gonging of a bell.

"What's going on?" Arawn called out, he felt a blow strike him between his shoulder blades and he fell face forward, his hand tied behind his back. He rolled so that his shoulder struck first and ended up on his back. Down the hall he heard the thud of feet as his captors ran off and left him lying on the floor.

In the distance he could hear the ring of steel and cries of pain, shouts and a laughing cackle that brought gnolls to mind. Something cold and wet ran across his face and then a slobbering tongue.

"Bleh!" Arawn turned his head aside to avoid the hound’s affection. "I'm not lying here like a birthday gift for some gnoll," he said, then pulled his legs up and brought his hands down, bent double, he drew his bound hands over his feet. Arawn tore the blindfold away, and looked around. They had not gone far from the edge of the pit. The dwarves had left his lightstone torch laying near the corridor’s end and next to it his sword.

They'd bound his hands with a thick twine, too tight for him to wriggle free, but left his keen edged sword for him to use. Arawn had to cut deep enough to break the twine and drew some blood with shallow gashes across his skin. He'd take repayment from that young dwarf’s hide, he thought to himself, then took off down the hall at an awkward gate.

The sound of fighting grew louder, another ambush was in progress as Arawn arrived upon the scene. The two dwarves who had captured him were busy firing into the bodies of some gnolls. Arawn saw the older dwarf strike a hairy chest with the bolt from his crossbow, the younger one missed and the shaft smashed apart against the stone ceiling of the hall.

The light from Arawn's torch turned both their heads, the dwarves looked at him with surprise, but the older one, Duneyr, threw down his bow and drew a broad bladed sword from a sheath at his side.

Arawn came rushing on, heedless of his injured feet and shouted out at the two dwarves. "Get Down!" he yelled.

The younger dwarf leaned back and pulled at the cord of his bow, he put a broad foot in a stirrup at its tip and whirred two small cranks on either side. The older dwarf turned back down the hall and saw a hobgoblin which charged them, a spiked mace raised to strike. Arawn lunged, his blade punched its chest and skidded across links of mail. The old dwarf struck low and drove up below the rings and deep into its gut. With a gasp the hobgoblin fell back, blood poured down and the foul scent of spilt bowels was in the air

The Spear That Roars for Blood - XXXIX

XXXIX

The bright light of the enchanted stone showed up a dark stain across the threshold of the secret door. Something or someone had bled out their life upon the floor between the rooms. Arawn bent down and looked closely at the blood and fragments of the door. Whenever it had occurred the door had been knocked down first, he turned a long blood-stained splinter over, the top was painted with a black smear, underneath the floor was untouched.

Arawn licked his finger and ran it across the dried blood, it showed as a dark greenish red, orc or some type of goblinkind, he wiped it clean against the cuff of his pants. He stood and shined the light into the hidden room.

It proved to be just a corridor, a tight fit as he stepped within, the ceiling brushed his head, but it was wide enough. Dwarf make, he thought. They never seemed to realize that men liked a little breathing space between their hair and the stone roof. The passage went at least twenty feet then turned abruptly to the right, at the bend the wall had been gouged out, a chunk of plaster made to look like stone lay smashed to pieces on the floor. The cavity revealed held the broken remains of a huge crossbow, perhaps triggered by the opening of the secret door.

"Draupnir's left some traps behind," Arawn said aloud, half talking to the dog but really to himself. "I will have to keep an eye out for more."

The right-hand turn went on and on then at the edge of Arawn's advancing light he saw a body on the ground, the old dog saw it too and growled. The hound ran ahead and Arawn came limping after as fast as he could manage. The light bobbed up and down and with each step it seemed as though another body could be seen.

The hallway was filled with orcs, dead several days at least, their corpses beginning to rot in the open air. Arawn counted the dead as he went along, sixteen lay slain and a blood trail, old and dry, lead further on.

He found no other dead, no men or dwarves or gnomes. The orc's bodies had been searched and some showed wounds from crossbow bolts, though the bolts themselves were mostly gone. He found one short wooden shaft that had shattered when it struck a helm, its head made of steel, piercing the crude iron that the orc had worn.

Their weapons lay where they had fallen or still tightly clutched in a death-frozen grasp, swords and axes, he counted only three that had dried blood along their cutting edge. These orcs had not died without a fight, but they had died, Arawn was glad to see. Their kind had not taken the bodies or looted the dead. It seemed unlikely that any others had passed this way.

Arawn stepped back down the hall. He put himself in place of the orc patrol. They had come walking down, then been attacked. The last orcs in the line lay face down. He checked their wounds, each had two bolts in the back, ambushed as Daghdha had taught. A flash of hope ran through Arawn's heart. Daghdha, perhaps his friends had made it to the mine.

"Where did those archers come from?" Arawn wondered. The thought of hidden doors and passages leapt into the ranger’s mind. He searched each wall behind the dead then along the corridor where the corpses lay, but he could find no hidden latch or lines along the stone where a door might hide.

"Draupnir's stoneworkers have hidden their secrets well," Arawn murmured. He gave a kick at a lifeless corpse and was rewarded with a sharp pain through his wounded foot. The dog gave an excited woof at the ranger’s antics and ran around his legs. "Calm down there old fella," Arawn sat on the floor and rubbed at his feet through his boots, the dog licked at his ears till he pushed it away.

The corridor led further on, it was either follow it to its end or turn back. Whatever secrets the walls held, they kept. "I wish one of you had carried a spear," Arawn told the bodies of the orcs. "I could use my walking staff."

Dog and man set off, Arawn kept his drawn sword in his hand and bent to check the trail of blood. The large drops became a pool, dry and smeared across the floor. A long, wide dark line showed where a body had been dragged away.

Their footsteps clopped and clicked on the stones and echoed from the walls. The light crept down the hall, a globe of light, dim grey at its edges. The corridor came to an abrupt end, the light showed walls, but only a dark space where the stone floor should have lain.

The room was a wide square, about twenty feet on each side, but it emptied into a black pit whose depths Arawn's light could not illuminate. The pit’s walls were rough unhewn rock, a natural crevice that sank deep down into the mountain’s core. Two hinged boards had formed the floor, now each hung from the walls, split open and flat against the crevice’s sides. Directly across a door was set, but closed, and below it, about a dozen feet, a dark opening in the rock face. Arawn's light showed a few feet within but revealed nothing else.

Arawn sighed, no way forward, he thought. He turned to go, but then the dog began to bark. A crossbow bolt whizzed by his head and sparked off the wall. Arawn dropped flat. He looked over the edge of the pit and saw a dwarf standing in the opening in the crevice wall. The dwarf was busy reloading a crossbow made of metal when an arm pulled him back beyond Arawn's sight.

"Hey!" called Arawn. "Hey! Don't shoot!"

The old dog growled, footsteps were coming from behind and across the pit, the doorway opened, a man and dwarf both armed with bows, looked out.

"I'm a ranger of Geoff!" Arawn called again. "Don't shoot!"

"Quiet down then," a voice hissed. "Don't turn around, stay where you are."

Arawn held onto the dog with both hands, he didn't want the brave old hound to charge the dwarves and end up being shot.

"Leave that sword on the floor," the voice said, "and that lightstone torch as well. Now turn around, real slow."

Arawn did as his was told, the dog struggled in his arms and barked.

"You're no orc at least," said the voice. Arawn saw two burly dwarves in mail. Each bore crossbows that looked to be made of steel. The dwarf that spoke was greyhaired and bearded, craggy faced, with a large red-veined nose.

"I'm Arawn, a ranger of Geoff," Arawn said again.

"So you say, Fjalar go bind his hands," the old dwarf said. "Don't cross my sights you fool," he pushed the younger dwarf aside so that his crossbow always kept the ranger under guard.

"I'm on your side!" Arawn complained.

The dog gave a growl at the young dwarf but Arawn bade him to hush.

"So you say again," the old dwarf shrugged his shoulders. "I will let Draupnir decide."

The Spear That Roars for Blood - XXXVIII

XXXVIII

The torch was sputtering, the cloth had almost burned through. Arawn had laced it tight with wire, but still bits of cloth dropped away. Over against the wall a small old fireplace was set and dark ashes filled its grate. Arawn put the torch beside it then cut the wicker seat from a broken chair. He lit it with the torch then broke some more of the chair and added the splintered wood. In a moment he had a small blaze going strong. The table legs he snapped off and laid across the grate, the old dry wood caught fire right away.

A dim orange glow cast pale shadows against the walls but did little to light the room. Arawn used a burning table leg as a poor-man’s torch. He set his staff aside and drew his sword. One goblin meant a dozen more somewhere near, the fire might bring them though the growls had not. He had to hobble, stiff-legged on his injured feet and knelt before the goblin’s corpse.

The skinny body was all bone and stringy muscle, its throat was gone but old scars crisscrossed its arms and face. The goblin wore a ragged pair of shorts and sandals made from thick scraps of hide. It had a wide belt and a scabbard for a knife, but nothing else.

Next to the fire the dog had curled up and gone to sleep. The hound at least was unworried by the goblin’s presence, but Arawn could not say the same. He gave a look out the door and down the hall. There were two doorways near the far end, just dark spaces along the wall, and out in the cavern nothing could be seen. The dark swallowed everything beyond the reach of the noonday light shinning in from the broken doors.

Arawn searched the room, it was mostly bare, but behind the bench he found a small dirty sack, a roll of stained and smelly cloth and a steel bucket overturned and shoved into the corner of the room. He used his sword to tip the bucket over and had to throw his arm before his eyes. Underneath a bright blinding light shot out. A light-stone enchanted by some mage to blaze away and never stop. Draupnir had such throughout the dark caverns of his mine, trading gold and gems for a wizard’s skill.

He dropped the torch, its smoking glow unequal to the enchanted stone. Arawn reached out blindly, one arm still covering his eyes and groped for the blazing rock. It felt rough beneath his hand and was not hot, but cool as any normal stone would be.

The room looked worse revealed by the bright light that Arawn held in his hand. The walls had been paneled in wood, the goblins or those who had been here before them, had gone to great lengths to mar it all. They had smashed holes, scraped crude letters in the wood, or sheared away pieces with axe or claw or sword.

All the chairs had been broken to some degree, the one table that had been left whole, Arawn had used for fire wood. A shame since so much kindling lay about.

It did not appear that any fight had taken place within the room. The defenders must have abandoned it before the gates had been breached. No wonder with only a single way in or out. The goblins blood, a dark greenish stain, was splashed across the floor and walls, but no other signs of struggle or wounds that bled, could Arawn find.

Sitting down upon the edge of the broken table Arawn fashioned a holder for the magic stone. He dropped it in a leather purse to keep the bright light from blinding him while he worked. It took him a few seconds to become accustomed to the dim glow of the fireplace once again. Then he broke off another table leg and carved out its splintered end. He made a shallow cup within the wood and tied the bright stone with the wire from his old torch. He had to dig it from the fireplace and let the metal cool.

"Dog?" he asked, "Coming with me?"

He stood on painful feet, but he was becoming used to how they hurt. He knew that to step in such a way with his right foot would cause a shooting pain, or if he put the weight too long on his left, then a dull ache would begin that shot up through his bones. Arawn walked with sword in hand and shuffled by with an awkward gait. The dog gave a wide yawn ending with a small yip then followed after, his claws clicking on the floor.

The hall outside showed more of the same scrawling, though these walls were made of stone. There must have been a dozen knifepoints dulled to make the marks that went from floor, up the walls and even across the ceiling of the hall. At the corridor's end two doorways were set almost side by side. The one was on Arawn's right, the other at the dead-end of the hall. He glanced into both doors first before stepping further into either of the rooms.

The right hand door showed a large room with more ruined chairs and tables. Huge racks for scrolls and books were tumbled down; a large desk had been left smashed nearby the door, a lidless trunk as well. Over this all were torn scrolls and parchment sheets, large books, ledgers for the clerks most likely, and broken glass. Arawn gave a tuneless whistle at the sight. These monsters had practiced surprising self-control he thought. Outside all was burned, and ash was what remained, but here, a single candle flame could have set the room ablaze and yet it was left unburnt.

He took a step inside and picked up a sheet or two, but they just contained lists of numbers and storeroom sheets showing what had gone and what had been replaced.

The last room had been an office, Draupnir's head clerk if Arawn remembered right. It too had been wrecked and looted, but only sparse bits of furniture and a few shelves had adorned it so now only a small layer of debris was scattered across the floor. But the back wall drew Arawn's eye at his first glance into the room. Wood panel had been set around the stone walls, a darker wood than the waiting room had held, but while marred throughout a large section of the panel had been pulled down as well. Against the far wall a hidden door had been set, discovered when the panel concealing it had been split by a sword or axe. Now this door, a stout iron-strapped oaken affair, was half-open, its lock and handle gone, a splintered fragment hanging from the surrounding frame.

"Is the entire mine like this?" he asked the dog. The hound wagged its tail but did not know the answer.

The Spear That Roars for Blood - XXXVII

XXXVII

In times past he had only been down this way once before. The huge space had been abuzz with activity, miners loading ore from carts into waiting wagons, people coming and going through the halls, clerks standing by recording what came and went, packages being unloaded and brought to the storerooms in the caverns beyond, but there was nothing but silence now.

There must have been a dozen doors around the cavern walls, from stout ones with bands of iron to light partitions made of slight panels. All had been smashed down. There had been a long set of stairs and a balcony that circled the cavern walls twenty or so feet above the ground, but it lay pulled down to the floor and empty squares showed where the doorways had been set above and now just opened up onto empty air.

Carts lay overturned and ore piled up on the ground to Arawn's right. A wagon had been flung against the wall above them and lay atop the iron tracks which the carts followed down into the mines. Chains and ropes had stretched down the sloping shaft where the carts were lifted from the depths, but these were broken, severed lengths were coiled like serpents along the track. The giant wheels which drew the chains were pulled from their housing and rested askew within their wood and metal frames.

Directly ahead, the storeroom doors, three large pairs that lead off to different rooms, were open, knocked down or hung loosely from their hinges. On his left there were two more doorways, one lead to the rooms for clerks and offices where the records were kept, where traders, merchants and visitors would wait to be called before Draupnir or his scribes or clerks. The other was a huge meeting room, a small tavern in itself, with tables, chairs, a bar and kitchen off to one side. Here the workmen from the stores, teamsters, clerks and most others working within the great cavern would sup and dine, talk and sing, gamble and carouse.

There was a greater hall below, within the mine, where Draupnir would gather all his folk. The throne room it was called, though Draupnir never played the king or lorded over those who worked for him.

The cavern had been lit by great enchanted crystals, hung far above, that always shone with light. Arawn's torch would not illuminate their fate but all was darkness up above, the crystals were destroyed or gone. The torch sputtered, fragments of the cloth fell off, Arawn turned to the clerks’ rooms. Somewhere inside there must be a candle or a lantern left intact, he hoped.




***

Broken glass was scattered all across the floor. It crunched beneath Arawn's feet while the hound padded next to him with care. The hall of clerks was long, but a doorway opened immediately against the left hand wall.

Suddenly the hound began to growl. The sound began at the back of its throat and rose into a bark, then jumped into the room.

"Wait!" Arawn yelled and stumbled after.

The room had been a waiting hall where merchants cooled their heels before Draupnir or his clerks would see them. Tables, chairs and a long bench had been thrown about.

The dog growled and wrestled with some dark shape beneath a table, it rocked and teetered as the struggling shapes fought and slammed against the legs. The table fell over with a bang against the floor. There was a screech, the dog had a goblin by the throat! It beat at the hound with small fists. Then the jaws snapped shut with a grinding crunch, the fists fell lifelessly away, the hound gave the body a final shake then dragged the body over and laid it before Arawn's feet.

"Good dog," Arawn rubbed the hound’s head, its tail beat against the floor.

The Spear That Roars for Blood - XXXVI

XXXVI

Beyond the guardhouse and the gate Draupnir had built a tavern and had it set against the western cliff. It was a long trek back to the town below and many lived here with their families year in and year out. The mine had become a village of its own. Next to the tavern were the stable yards and a smithy, though the mines held forges and workshops that could swallow the small building whole and have room for a dozen more. This above-ground smith worked on shoeing and wagon wheels and mending pots and frying pans, he had come from the workrooms of the mine but chose the open air instead.

The eastern wall held the general store which was surrounded by the gardens and a pond. No flowers grew here but herbs and greens to add some fresh food to the fare trucked in on back of horse or in a wagon’s bed, always days old when brought from town.

To the north was the great entranceway, the wagons would roll right inside and the ore would be loaded from cart to bed. Off to either side were wide stairs that lead up to dwellings carved into the mountain face. The humans could not do without the sight of sun and sky and the feel of air blowing free and not pumped in. Rows of windows looked out from the mountainside and, above the entrance looking down on upon the yard, was a great chapel of several gods. Pelor, who the humans worshiped, and Cuthbert as well, Garl of the gnomes, and Moradin of the dwarves, each held one corner and a separate hall, but all shared the central room.

Deep within the mountain’s heart the dwarves had a sacred temple honoring Dumathoin know only to themselves, and the gnomes had a shrine as well, to Flandal who's skin is steel, but set it at the great hub where all the shafts met and opened it to any who would ask for skill or luck or strength of hand.

***

The gate was thrown down, the wood splintered, the stones broken and the battlements fallen into the yard. Jagged-edged rock lined the entrance; all that remained of the wall. Inside the destruction was absolute, nothing had been untouched and very little remained standing. All the wooden buildings had been burnt, the miners built with stone but huts and sheds had been scattered about, now all that was left of them was ash.

The inn had its lower walls made of stone, but the two upper stories, it had been built higher over time, were made of wood, likewise the roof, though the beams had been covered with slate. Fire had eaten away the top floors and the heat had cracked the stones. The lower walls had caved in, and the stones that were left showed black with soot. The stable and smithy were just loose fire-stained rocks lying amid a burned area across the ground.

Inside the entrance way, the guardhouse door had been smashed to flinders, its interior was dark. Arawn did not go in to see what damage had been done, he could imagine well enough.

To his right the gardens had been all churned up, the pond was layered with a scum of ash and mud. The large storehouse was like the inn, broken walls around a pyre.

Arawn limped across the yard to the great central cavern. Huge wooden doors were beaten in, cracks rising from a shattered center where the crossbeam had been snapped in two, both were slammed against the cavern’s walls. No lights shown from within. The noonday sun did not illuminate much, just the first few feet, then a brief dimness and then the dark.

"Well Dog," Arawn said, "we will need some light in there, or at least I will." He took a splintered fragment from the cracked doors, long as his arm and sharp as a needle at one end, its edge curved like a blade. From his belt he pulled out a rag, a fragment of old shirt he used to clean his sword, it was dark with oil. He took a length of bandage and wrapped it first around the wood then secured the rag. A few sparks of flint and steel lit the tinder from the box and then the rag began to blaze.

"This won't last long," Arawn spoke aloud looking at the burning torch. He stepped inside the cavern with the dog still at his side. 

The Spear That Roars for Blood - XXXV

XXXV

It was a windy day, breezes howled through the narrow valley road and echoed from its walls. At times a stream trickled along between the cliffs and the dirt trail, but then the way would rise and the stream would disappear sinking once again beneath the ground. It was a bare path, wider than a wagon by a man’s length, but empty. Arawn had no place to hide as he followed it down toward the mountain’s base.

In times past Arawn had gone this way and found it stark but with a sense of strength and beauty. Today he was chilled by the wind and haunted by the ghostly voices calling in the breeze. Beside him the hound was all astir, its ears were raised and it darted looks up at the rising edges of the cliffs. There should have been sentries to greet them and wave them on, shouts to call back man to man to say that rangers approached. Draupnir would broach a keg of ale and have frothing mugs set out in the guardhouse by the gate, waiting for their arrival.

The road seemed longer than Arawn could remember, but he had never had to half-limp down before with stick in hand to help him walk. He had not planned it but the sun rose high as he sank lower between the rocky walls. The final turn was past and the way lead gently down, lit brightly by the noonday sun. Soon darkness would fall even while the sun settled in the east, the high straight valley walls cut the daylight short and made twilight last for hours before the dark of night.

A gate should block the way, he thought, but looking down the road he saw no sign but tumbled stones knocked loose and thrown about the yard. Most of Draupnir's mine was within the caverns at the mountain’s base, but he had a large open circle of land cleared before their mouth. The trail had run to a stone gate with a huge stout wooden door, big enough for wagons to pass in and out. Inside, a guardhouse was set and pathways went up through the cliff and followed trails to the sentry posts which lined both sides of the valley road.

Draupnir's miners were a tough mix, human, gnome and mountain dwarf. They took it in shifts to guard the mine and each was skilled with bow or spear or stone thrown from a sling. Bandits often tried the mine, or had until word went out that it was too tough a nut to crack. But they still tried, the wagons with the ore always went out with heavy guard and Draupnir kept no schedule that bandits could learn, he'd hold up a shipment till his nose felt it was the time to go. The old dwarf always said it itched when someone thought of taking what was his.

Arawn hoped that Draupnir's nose had proven true, maybe he smelled the giants coming.