Escape from Valn

 

Part- 8

The Dwarf and The Tower

          Stolid as a boulder, the fiery haired dwarf guzzled the spicy grätzer of his homeland as though he was merely inhaling the thick brew. The full-bodied taste of oak smoked wheat and dark roasted barley washed over his tongue, reminding him of the brauhauses of Grundliche Hohle, and taking him home, if only for a moment. He lowered “The Tower” wiping the excess liquid from his beard with the side of his arm. Beoric belched and smiled grimly as his eyes roved over the intricate details of the great stein in his hand. “The Tower” it was called, and rightly so for it lived up to its name in nearly every aspect of the word- it stood a full mug and a half taller than the usual flagons and completely resembled the edifice for which it was named. Its lathed form and graven sides were hewn and etched to look like the ivy strewn walls, windows, and arrow loops of an old guard tower- from its bottom all the way to the top where a lid of finely carved oak rested, forming the likeness of the conical roofs which generally adorned such structures. A tiny rivulet of dwarven ale ran down the side of The Tower, its probing fingers tracing the very design as it descended to the large stein’s base.

          Thumbing the lever to the ornately carved lid, Beoric turned the great mug up, gulping down the rest of its dark, spicy contents. As the last drop of grätzer spilled into his mouth, the young dwarf lowered The Tower back to the bar and motioned to Ortuck for a refill. The old barkeep had known Beoric for nearly three years, and had never ceased to be amazed at how much the young dwarf could drink without even the slightest impairment to his senses, speech, or general demeanor, and so, was more than happy to oblige. Grundliche Grätzer was a favored specialty that Ortuck always managed to keep on tap, especially since The Oaken Tankard saw more than its share of stout folk between the clans of Norgorad-Kam, travelers from Grundliche Hohle, and the many other settlements in between. In a swift motion of one who has serviced the people for many a year, Ortuck swept up The Tower and was off to fill it with the prized Dwarven ale.

          Beoric handed the old barkeep a handful of shiny gems as he returned with The Tower, a small stream of the dark, frothy brew trickling down the graven sides to drip onto the floor. The jewels were more than enough to pay for the grätzer, his meal, and the refills of the great tankard for not only tonight, but for every night for the rest of the week; however, the fiery haired warrior didn’t care, for he had been to The Oaken Tankard enough over the last few years, that he and Ortuck had become like old friends. As they exchanged their wares, Beoric offered the barkeep a grim smile, then nodded thankfully and turned to survey the tavern.

          His stern gaze roved over the tavern, taking in the spectacle of events that were happening around him- from the bard upon the stage whose music soothed the crowd, to the wandering knight who had seemingly tamed the petite thief that had been slinking amid the crowd, pilfering whatever items she seemed to find within her reach, his gaze absorbed everything that was going on in The Oaken Tankard. For a moment Beoric’s eyes wandered over to the mighty barbarian seated along the wall, his wolf-faced hood now resting upon his shoulders. The dwarven warrior took a few gulps of his grätzer as he studied the big man. He was nearly as impressed with the Engalean’s resolve as he was the human ingenuity behind the crafting of The Tower. The Northman paid no heed to the events going on around him and he seemed distant, as if lost in a state of reflective thought. Beoric Helmgar could sense a vague state of perplexity in the warrior’s demeanor, something that spoke of loss and determination which fueled the simmering fires in the Northlander’s icy blue eyes. The dwarven warrior allowed his eyes to wander once more, surveying the common room until he met the gaze of an elven woodsman seated at a nearby table. The elf’s calm nature set him apart from his comrades, who seemed to be reveling in the abundance of food and drink. With a grave nod of acknowledgement, he regarded the elf with respect, despite the usual animosity that was rumored to be shared between the two entirely different races. The elf nodded in return, raising his tankard in an old dwarven salute, an act that surprised the stalwart dwarf for he seldom saw that greeting outside of the dwarven realms, and even less from any of the other races that called Ursal home. Returning the gesture in a likewise manner, Beoric turned to face the bar so as to not give away the cheerless, if amused smile that had crept onto his face.

          Beoric Helmgar of the Clan Helmgarad took in a healthy swig of the Dwarven grätzer, swirling it around in his mouth as he allowed the events unfolding around him to mull over themselves in his mind. With a side-long glance in either direction, he homed in on a conversation at a nearby table, where the folk were discussing the weather, certain concerns of the times to come, and the omens that that seemed to be heralding in something that no one could quite put a finger on. Beoric felt it too- there was something in the air tonight… he wasn’t sure what; he could just sense it was there.

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Escape from Valn

 

Part 7

Warrior from the North

          The din of conversation was a dull roar as the giant Northman ordered a stein of porter- a thick brown ale rumored to hail from somewhere far north of Gottland and the Great Northern Forest- along with a hearty meal of venison stew and a bit of sweetbread. A thin cloud of pipe smoke hung lazily in the air, forming a light haze whose scent mingled with the aroma of fresh food cooking in the kitchen, as well as the smell of both fresh and stale ale, adding the sights and sounds that were the life of The Oaken Tankard. Ortuck, the tavern’s owner and general barkeep, mopped the fresh water from the sides of a wooden tankard, filling it with the rich, dark, and foamy brew before handing it to the big warrior, who merely nodded and handed him a fistful of coins to pay for his expenses, then turned and started toward an empty seat in the distance. Without warning, Falgor was forced to side-step to avoid colliding with a drunken patron who had staggered up to the bar for a refill. In the sudden, yet graceful evasion, the Engalean warrior inadvertently brushed against one of the nearby patrons- a traveling mage who had found the brief intrusion of his personal space to be outright offensive to his very being.

          “Confounded oafs,” he spat as he whipped about to see what had drawn him out of his concentration at such a dire time; “can’t a body get a moment’s peace without some brainless idiot knocking him about?” The mage turned to see the mighty Northman eyeing him dangerously and quickly bit his tongue to keep matters from getting any worse, though it did little to quell his ire. Fortunately, the barbarian only glared at him for a moment before he turned to continue on his way through the crowd.

          The skald’s enchanted melody swept over Falgor as he weaved through the mounting throng of patrons, soothing his travel worn body as he ducked, swayed, and dodged those who came too close for comfort while making his way across The Oaken Tankard’s common room to a place at a table, along the wall. He stepped aside, narrowly evading a pair of giggling maidens- too enraptured in their conversation to watch where they were going- only to find himself eye-to-eye with a fiery-haired, surly looking dwarf who was just settling into his place at the bar. The two gazed at each other for what seemed like an eternity, locked in a contest of wills to which neither was willing to yield, earning both dwarf and barbarian a grudging respect for one another. Each accepting the indomitable spirit that burned within the other; they broke away with a mutual nod of approval that defined no amount of weakness in either warrior.

          As Falgor ventured past the dwarf, his gaze fell upon an elven woodsman whose calm demeanor seemed completely out of place among his rowdy companions. The elf looked up from his mug to see him approaching and offered a nod of respect, to which he responded in kind; then continued on toward the vacant seat merely paces away. He could feel the eyes of various onlookers watching him as he passed, some marveling at his size, others wondering where he had come from, or what he was about, but most of those who watched him pass, found themselves drawn to the massive waraxe that was strapped to the Engalean warrior’s back, but if the constant stares of the persistent crowd of gawkers bothered him at all, it didn’t show. Falgor the Fierce- as he was more commonly known among his folk- just continued on his way, leaving them to wonder.

          Falgor reached up and drew the wolf-faced hood back, allowing it to fall upon his massive shoulders as he settled into a vacant seat along the wall, at a table, near the far end of the bar. He released a heavy sigh, thankful to be off of his feet and the long road, if only for the evening. It had been more than two months since he’d left his desolate homeland on a journey south, to the lands of Ursal, where he sought to track down the raiders who had invaded his village, butchered his people, and had taken the healthiest, strongest youths who would fetch a fine price in the underground slave markets, leaving the rest for dead. The mighty barbarian shook his long brown mane free of the hood, allowing it to fall carelessly about his face and shoulders, revealing the chiseled features of the warrior’s grim visage. He raised the oaken stein to his lips and drank deeply, draining the contents in a few short gulps, with only a small amount escaping the sides to dribble down his chin, dampening his forked and braided goatee. As he savored the last drop of ale, Falgor lowered the mug and relaxed, letting the soft haunting melody sink into his weary soul. The music eased his mind, relieved his sore muscles, and revitalized his spirit. He glanced up from his mug to see a young barmaid ambling his way through the crowd, bearing a tray of food in one hand and a pitcher of frothy brown ale in the other. Golden tresses tumbled over her shoulders in a glimmering cascade of purest amber as she leaned over to set both the tray and the pitcher upon the table. Without the slightest hesitation, she set to work deftly placing a bowl of steaming hot venison stew, a chunk of dark brown sweetbread, and a spoon of finely worked and turned iron before the mighty Engale, who said not a word, but offered a solemn nod and a grim smile of appreciation as she ministered to his needs- an act that garnered the big man a flirtatious smile from the young lass as she filled his stein to a thick, foamy head, of rich brown beer. With a toss of her long, deep golden hair, and a swirl of her skirt, the young barmaid was off, scampering back toward the kitchen- ushered away by the beck and call of the growing crowd of patrons.

          Falgor’s eyes followed the maiden until she vanished from sight amid The Oaken Tankard’s many customers, leaving him with the fleeting memory of her lush amber locks dancing seductively along her back. He allowed his gaze to linger in her general direction a moment longer, taking note that the skald had started a new tune that danced and bounced its way along the crowded tavern, bolstering the morale of all who heard its enrapturing melody, then he turned his attention to the piping hot meal whose very aroma tantalized his senses, reminding him of how hungry he really was. The mighty Northman offered a solemn word of thanks to the gods of his people and dug in, wincing slightly as the first few spoonfuls of hot stew stung his mouth. After a moment or so, he grew accustomed to the heat of the robust meal as he washed it all down with a few deep swigs of thick rich porter. As the warmth and satisfaction of the meal spread throughout his body, refreshing him, Falgor gave in to his thoughts and the dawdling melody that danced and swirled in the air, sending him on a recollective journey of the last few weeks.

          Falgor’s search for the invaders that ravaged his land had led him south, through the land of Norwin, and into the highlands of the Holmgrad Mountains where he found the charred remains of what had once been villages, much like his own, among the lands of the barbarians and Engalean settlers of the region. The people had been scattered and what few survivors remained behind were desperate, hungry, and highly distrusting of outsiders- an obstacle that brought Falgor into conflict with many of the warriors of the more defensive survivors. He had no quarrel with these desperate men, yet he could not avoid the confrontation if he was to get any information from the elders. Although the blood of a fierce warrior coursed through the mighty barbarian’s veins, Falgor was also driven by honor, so to keep from leaving the victimized people utterly defenseless, he only beat the various challengers into submission, before pursuing the elders for the insight on the invaders who raided their villages. Once the elders realized that Falgor was of no threat to them, they confided in him the horrors of the invading army and how they butchered everyone who could not seek refuge, taking only the healthy and strong children while putting the others to the sword. When the mighty warrior inquired about which way the invaders had gone, the survivors would always point southward, sending him further into the lands of Ursal.

          Within a week, the signs of the invaders’ passing had diminished, and the trail grew cold, yet determined to find the murderers of his folk, Falgor trudged onward. He soon left the Holmgrad Mountains, exiting just below a peak known to locals as Unklar’s Horn, and traversed the Feador Plains until he came to the shores of the Inner Sea. From there he followed the coastline until he had to deviate to get around a particularly nasty swampland known to travelers as The Drab Sinks. The unexpected detour led the mighty Northman to a seldom used road which took him further south and east until it met with a well used, if poorly tended, merchants’ road that led him south once more, away from the Inner Sea and into the lands of Burneviste before snaking eastward to skirt the edges of a vast stretch of untamed wild lands referred to by some of the other travelers as The Wilds. By his third day within the borders of the untamed lands of The Wilds, the icy cold bite of the bitter winter weather had begun to catch up with the Northman, letting him know that he needed to find a place to rest and wait out the coming storm. Later that day, Falgor had come to a fork in the road, bearing a crude signpost which detailed several locations that lay down each particular path. It was that very signpost that led Falgor to the town of Valn and The Oaken Tankard, where he now sat, pondering where the road might take him next in his search.

          Falgor took a draw from his stoup of ale and rolled it around in his mouth, considering his place and the gathering storm outside. No stranger to the harsh winter weather, the mighty Northman knew that he had a few days to think about his next move- for now, though, he just wanted to eat, drink, and rest.

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