Cavern Of The Witch

Cavern of the Witch

Aranthir IV

In all his years, Nuys had had better days, he reflected. First, a sudden springtime downpour stranded him under an old willow tree two miles from any village. To make things worse, he had been found crouching under the tree by four ornery Blackcloaks who were equally unhappy with the rain. Helplessly, the old peddler watched as they tore through his pack and cart in search of anything with which to amuse themselves.

"I paid four coppers for that!" Nuys complained as the lead Blackcloak, a tall, burly man with a thick red beard and a Hyrthanian accent, pulled a bottle of white wine from the cart. The man uncorked it with his teeth and gulped down a third of it. He spat it into the wet grass.

"Bah, that's five coppers too much for this piss!" he threw the bottle against a rock, where it broke open. The men laughed at Nuys' helpless expression. "What else have you got in here?"

A short and fat Blackcloak with a thin mustache drew out a long knife from his belt and slashed open Nuys' leather pack. Rooting around inside with his fat hand, he drew out a necklace of seashells, two gold rings, and a bronze statuette of an owl.

"Oh, these are nice," the man said. He stuffed them into his pocket with a smirk. Nuys' shoulders sagged with defeat.

The Blackcloaks tore through his cart, gorging themselves on what bread and wine he had brought with him and stuffing their pockets with trinkets. Nuys thought to slink away, but everywhere outside the shade of the willow tree was being drenched by a torrential downpour.

It was then, looking out over the rainy fields above the sea cliffs, that he spied a rider approaching from the west. The figure was hooded and cloaked, moving with purpose along the muddy road, entirely undeterred by the rain. Nuys pulled his cloak tight around him as the rider neared and from behind him, he heard the Hyrthanian Blackcloak call out.

"Halt there, traveler. You're needing inspecting." He hiccupped on his stolen wine as he put a hand to his sword's pommel. The rider stopped before the tree, rain pouring down around him. His horse seemed strangely unbothered.

"I should say you need inspecting, the way you're going through that man's cart," the rider replied coldly. "Doesn't the king pay you enough to keep you from robbing common folk?"

"Robbing?" the Blackcloak snapped. His eyes narrowed and his companions abandoned their plundering to draw up close to him. "You'd better not talk to the Realmsguard that way. Who are you anyway? A common vagabond? A bandit?"

The rider pulled his horse around to face the Blackcloaks. As he did, Nuys spied a sword hilt over his back. The rider stared down the Blackcloaks from beneath his hood. His eyes were strange, and they almost glittered in the darkness of his hood.

"I am no bandit. You would recognize your like, no doubt. I am a traveler on the road, nothing more. Though you would do well to return that man's things and compensate him for what you destroyed."

The big man spat. "I don't take orders from you."

"Advice, not orders," the rider said, his hands dropped to the saddle horns.

"Fuck your advice. Get down from there and submit to inspection. There's been smugglers all along this road," he added.

At least he bothered to come up with a justification

, Nuys thought sourly.

"Smugglers?" the rider theatrically looked up and down the coast. "Oh what? Sheep? Mud?"

"Smugglers are those who don't pay the king's tax," the fat Blackcloak snarled, waving a knife in the rider's direction. "And there's a toll on this road, too."

"Do you take payment in lead?" the rider asked. His hands snapped up from the saddles horns and panic went through Nuys as he realized the man held a wheellock pistol in each hand. The snap of the wheels clicking just barely preceded the roar of the guns. The fat Blackcloak died standing, while his Hyrthanian companion screamed and clutched his arm.

The rider holstered his pistols and drew two more from his belt. The other two Blackcloaks bolted, one for the rider, sword at the ready, and the other for his horse. Nuys scrambled for cover behind a rock. From his safe place, he saw the rider fire again, or try to. His pistol failed to spark in the wet, so with a shrug, the rider instead drew out his longsword and slid expertly from the saddle. The Blackcloak reached him in a frenzied panic and steel rang against steel. The newcomer was more than a match for his inept foe. He blocked a clumsy overhand attack and clove at his foe's legs. The blade connected just below the man's brigandine coat and his legs gave way.

Instead of finishing him off, the rider turned towards the fleeing Blackcloak. Shielding his pistol from the rain with one hand, conjured a wisp of flame from his fingers and applied it to the touchhole of the pistol. The shot struck the man square in the back and he splashed from his horse into the muddy field. He returned the pistols and drew a dagger from his belt.

"I serve the king," the wounded man at his feet hissed, propping himself up on an elbow to look into the rider's face. "Strike a member of the Realmsguard, and you'll hang. Family too, if you've got 'em."

The rider was unimpressed. "The penalty is indeed severe," he agreed. "So why should I leave you as a witness?" He stabbed the man in the throat and watched as he gurgled away the last of his life's blood. The Hyrthanian leader was all that remained.

"Please," he begged as the cloaked rider approached him. "I have money. I'll pay. Spare me the knife, and I'll tell everyone bandits attacked me. I'll say you helped drive them off, you'll get a reward! I'll recommend you to the king himself, just please, spare me!"

The rider shrugged. "I'll spare you the knife, at least."

He exchanged the dagger for his last pistol and put the muzzle to the man's forehead.

"Please, I have gold," the Hyrthanian whispered one last time, a hand raised in surrender.

"I know," the rider replied. The gun sounded, and then there was only the sound of the falling rain.

"Sorry I couldn't save your things," the rider said after a moment of silence.

Stilling his shaking hands, Nuys crawled out from behind the boulder. He looked over the carnage around him and swallowed hard.

"I thank you for the assistance anyway." His rescuer bent over the corpses, whispering a prayer to the God of the Dead. He finished and went to each corpse in turn while Nuys waited in silence.

"What is your name, peddler?" the rider asked when he had finished. In the shade of the willow tree, he threw back his hood and Nuys saw that he was of elven blood. He was tall and slender, with dark brown hair, pointed ears, and green eyes that glittered in the gray light of the clouded sky. He wore two pistols on his belt, along with a pair of daggers, and a longsword over his shoulder. Underneath his cloak he wore a leather jerkin over brigandine and riding pants. His boots were worn by the rode and the stirrup, but of fine quality and make.

"I am Nuys," the peddler answered slowly. He averted his eyes from the elf's piercing gaze and instead went to his cart to save what he could.

"Nuys," the elf repeated, pulling his horse close under the tree. He reached into his heavy saddlebags and produced a powder horn to reload his pistols. "I am Aranthir," he continued. "I was on my way to the village of Richfield, which I'm told is just up the coast."

"It is," Nuys confirmed. "I've been there before and was hoping to make it before the rain caught me. But, as you can see..." he trailed off, waving his hands uselessly at the drenched fields around them.

"You were caught by more than rain," Aranthir went on. He finished loading the pistols in his belt and turned to those in his saddlehorns. "Were there more of these Blackcloaks?"

"No," Nuys answered, trying his best to stitch up the torn bags in his cart. "They have a barracks up the coast at Mathel, but out here they depend on the hospitality of the locals."

"I thought as much. I did not think to encounter them out here. Usually, they stay near the big estates. I suppose these took a liking to the local sheep." The elf chuckled to himself as he nudged a corpse with his boot.

"They told me they were looking for smugglers along the coast." Nuys pointed across the field to their south, where the grass ran for two hundred yards before dropping a hundred feet or more into the storm-wracked sea below. "The king's new tax on salt has brought smugglers from far away to ours shores."

"Always hungry for gold," Aranthir remarked. "Let's get your cart sorted."

Together, they repacked as much of Nuys' goods as they could, stitching up the bags and emptying the pockets of the dead. Aranthir took more powder and shot from them, but left their other weapons. When they had finished, the rain had at last relented, changing from a deluge to a soft, quiet rain. The elf mounted his horse, his head scraping against the willow's branches. "We can make the village in time for a good rest before nightfall. Come on, I'll guard against anymore bandits."

"Are you a lord's man?" Nuys asked as he seated himself in the front of the cart.

"Just a mercenary. I've been on my own for the winter. I was heading east, toward Sparras, when I heard of a discovery in this little village."

"I have friends in Sparras," Nuys said with sudden concern, "Is there to be trouble again?"

"The duke is quarreling with the lord mayor of Archbridge, who has sought King Petarr's protection. The Regents of Calinad will surely contest the king's intrusion into their affairs. There will be lots of work for a soldier, or a peddler. I heard the White Sisterhood has already begun gathering their companies from as far away as Broidha."

"All that is over my head," Nuys brushed aside the politics lesson, "but King Petarr always needs soldiers." He looked at the bodies behind them. "Four more of them now."

The half-elf snorted.

"Blackcloaks are no soldiers. Besides, I've already done enough work for him. I'll see to this village and its secret, then on to Sparras and wherever that may take me."

"We live a similar life on the road, you and I," Nuys said. Their horses reached the muddy road and continued along it. Somewhere in the misty hills ahead of them lay the village of Richfield, where they hoped to find shelter. "When I heard that the villagers had uncovered something here, I knew there would be many flocking to see it.

"What have you heard of this discovery?" the elf asked as they trotted down the muddy road under a light rain.

"These winter rains washed away part of the hillside, revealing a cavern complex beneath the earth. They say it is cursed, but some have already gone inside. The villagers tell of a powerful witch who lived in these parts long ago, and they say this is her tomb, or perhaps her lair."

"Indeed, though it hard to tell what is truth, what is mere superstition, and what is pure fable cooked up to draw adventurers such as myself."

"I suppose you intend to look inside it?"

"I do. It is not the first old ruin that I've explored and won't be my last unless it kills me."

"Have you found anything in these ruins before?"

"Oh yes. Gold, magic, moss. The rewards are endless."

"Well, if you have anything you would like to sell to me before you head off to the markets in Sparras, I'm sure I can find a way to make it worth your time."

"Perhaps. We will see."

They rode on in silence, listening only to the rainfall and the sound of their horses trotting through the mud. They passed from green pastures to recently cleared fields. The beginning of the planting season was at most two weeks away, and already the peasants had been busily preparing. At last, the white plaster walls of the village came into view through the gray mist, and they rode into the village's open square.

Curious about their new guests, a gaggle of villagers ventured into the square. At their head was the aldorman Farrin, an old man in a black wide-brimmed hat, a dark cloak, and the sash of office across his chest. Behind him were a half dozen other villagers in their rainwear, all with searching looks across their faces. They looked at Nuys with indifference, for he recognized them all from his past stops in the village. But they looked upon Aranthir with suspicion and awe, for elves rarely called in these parts.

"Hello again," Nuys called, "It has been too long since I have called upon you. I heard of the find you made recently and decided to make my way here."

Farrin pulled his cloak tight around himself. The aldorman and the others spared Nuys little more than a second glance. Villagers never liked peddlers much. For an insular, provincial folk who dealt almost exclusively with friends, cousins, and neighbors and rarely traveled more than a day's walk from their home, a stranger like Nuys who traveled between kingdoms and dealt in monetary transactions rather than an exchange of favors was someone who could not be trusted. Villagers did not deal in coins. Coins were what the king's tax collectors squeezed out of them, what bandits and soldiers stole from their village, and what traveling merchants demanded in exchange for baubles and trinkets.

But today, they were more concerned with the alien stranger he had brought into their midst. The elf sat tall on his horse, the butts of his pistols visible under his cloak and the hilt of his sword jutting out above his shoulder. From under his rain-soaked cloak, two green, glittering eyes pierced the villagers down to their very core.

"Who is this?" the aldorman asked. He pulled himself up to his full height as he looked the newcomer in the eye, but Nuys could see that Farrin was shaken.

"I am Aranthir," the elf answered. "I have come to see your cavern."

"Are you a sorcerer?" the aldorman asked, "we are just humble folk---"

"You need not be concerned," the elf replied. "I am not here to trouble you. I will see about the ruin and then be on to Sparras."

"He's a good sort," Nuys put in, though he suspected the villagers would not put much stock in his assessments. "He drove off a group of Blackcloaks who robbed me by the roadside."

The villagers exchanged looks amongst themselves.

"Drove off?" Farrin asked hesistantly.

"There are four bodies on the edge of town, beneath the old willow tree overlooking the sea cliffs," the elf replied. "I've no concern for their burial, but they should be hidden lest any of their companions discover them. The village will have use for their horses as well."

"Dead then? All of them?"

"All of them. If you make their bodies disappear, the king will have to conclude that they died of the weather, bandits, monsters, or just deserted. The village need not fear reprisal."

"I will have them buried in the morning," Farrin replied. "It will be dark soon." He turned to the others. "Who will give our guests hospitality tonight?"

"I will," said Gaithas. Nuys knew the man from his past stays in the village and preferred his hospitality to the others. He smiled to himself as Gaithas and his wife Narra led Aranthir toward their house. Behind them, the other villagers dispersed into the rainy evening.

After stabling their horses and unloading Nuys' cart, Aranthir and Nuys were ushered into Gaithas' house. Narra had cleared a space before the hearth for them. Aranthir was arranging his things for the night when a young woman, blonde and slender, entered the room with two bowls of stew. She gave the stew to the peddler offhandedly, but approached Aranthir with a look of awe.

She wore a simple green dress with a lace collar and bit her lip nervously as she handed him the stew.

"Would you like some cider?" she asked. "My aunt and uncle make it in the back. People from all over swear by it, say it's the best they've ever had? Would you like me to get you some?"

"That sounds lovely," Nuys said, though the young woman's expression clearly demonstrated that she had not been talking to him. Nonetheless, she quickly ducked out of the room. Nuys chuckled to himself.

"The girl's sweet on you," he said. Aranthir nodded.

"She's likely never met a half-elf before. They all have so many questions."

"Does it make it easier? To attract women?"

"I've never been a human, so I can't tell you. But it does seem that way."

"I used to be quite a sight for the women," the peddler went on, though the half-elf was occupied with his stew. "But age comes for all of us. Though for some more slowly than for others."

Aranthir said nothing, quietly eating his stew until the girl returned. She carried two bottles of cider and handed one to Nuys with a small smile. The other she held in her hand as she sat down across from Aranthir. Meeting his gaze, she held the bottle out to him.

"We had a good crop last year. Uncle Gaithas says this will be some of the best cider he's made in his life."

Aranthir took the bottle with a nod.

"What's your name?" she asked after a pause.

"Aranthir. What is yours?"

"I'm Essie," she said, "it's nice to meet you."

"I can tell you have questions, Essie." He met her eyes and she nervously averted them.

"You are really an elf?" she asked.

"Only half. My father's side was elven, my mother's side human."

"Where did you come from?" Essie crossed her legs, put her elbows to her knees and rested her chin on her hands.

"I was raised in Ildranon, far to the east. I spent time in the colleges there before I left to wander the lands."

"Ildranon?" she said the unfamiliar name to herself. "I don't know that place. Is it lovely?"

"It has its charms," Aranthir replied. He had finished his stew and set it aside. "It is set on a hill, overlooking the fields and vineyards around it. The mountains are visible on a clear day, and in the fields between them are the colleges and their cloisters."

"Why did you leave?"

Aranthir smiled and shrugged.

"The wanderlust took me," he said. He smoothed out his cloak he was to use as a blanket and rearranged his pistols. "I left to become a mercenary, which seemed like a good idea at the time."

"What is the life of a mercenary like?"

"It is often solitary. I go from realm to realm, following the call of war. When there is no war, I find some rich man who will pay to get a thing done, or I do as I have done now, go in search of adventure myself."

"You've come to see our ruin?"

"I have," Aranthir replied. "What can you tell me about it?"

At the edge of their conversation, Nuys was inching closer. The old peddler craned his neck forward to hear, but both Aranthir and Essie ignored his eavesdropping.

"The shepherds found it after a heavy rain. The hillside washed away and there it was, a big, black, yawning cave mouth where the grass used to be. Some of the others have gone inside, but Gaithas and Narra forbid me to. One of the other girls said she has used the cave as a place to entertain boys." The girl blushed slightly.

"How deep does it run?"

"We do not know. There is an entry chamber, then a door. We've not been able to open the door."

Aranthir nodded. "Where is this cave?"

"Follow the stream to the north until you pass the fields and reach the sheep pastures. The cave is in a gorge in the hills. There will be shepherds in the pastures who can guide you." She studied his expression while Nuys lay down across his bedding behind them. "Will you go there in the morning?" Essie asked.

"I will. Felitharna willing, I will be able to open the door and uncover the tomb's secrets."

"What do you think you will find inside?"

"It's hard to say. Could be treasure, could be nothing at all."

"Is it true that elves can see the future?" Essie asked, leaning in close with wonderment.

"Sometimes. It is a rare talent among the People, and a fickle one at that."