The Forge of Gramarye

Aranthir IX

"This must be the place," said the elf. She and her three companions stood at the lip of a ravine, looking down to where the river below ran just before the mouth of a cave. The cave's entrance was tall and narrow, stretching perhaps twelve feet up the opposite face of the ravine, but standing perhaps only three feet wide.

"It'll be a tight fit," one of the three men with her. He was no older than thirty, with reddish brown hair that reached his shoulders and a well-groomed mustache. He wore a jack coat and splinted breeches, with a sallet helm hanging from his belt. Beside the helm hung a slender broadsword and its companion rondel, and thrust through the belt were a pair of wheellock pistols. The man bore a scare across his right cheek, and presently he rubbed it thoughtfully. "I don't know how we will be able to see in there."

"Sorcery," replied the tallest of his male companions, as the slender half-elf moved up beside him. The half-elf was tall and muscular, beneath a sallet helm and cuirass. He wore a longsword and poignard on his belt beside two wheellock pistols of the same make as the red-haired man's. He shifted a heavy traveling pack on his shoulders. "I can make us a light to see, but whatever lives in there will be drawn to us."

"We can we expect?" the red-haired man asked with a twist of his lip. The half-elf shrugged.

"The entrance wasn't hard to find. Something must be keeping the locals out of there."

"Like these bandits you've had us watching for?" the third man grumbled. He was a short man nearly past middle age and wore a battered coat of brigandine with an open-faced barbute. His worn face was scarred on his right jaw and above his left eye. He squinted his brown eyes as he peered skeptically into the ravine, then back to the forest that surrounded them. "We haven't seen anything out here but beasts and trees."

The greenery of the forest stirred in the soft breeze, but beyond the babbling of the ravine's stream, they could hear only the birds and their own words.

"They're out there," the half-elf replied sternly. "I can smell them on the wind."

"Aranthir speaks truly," the elf woman added, cutting off a sharp retort from the other mercenaries. Her eyes narrowed. "They are close. Perhaps they watch us even now."

"And how can you know they're bandits? They might be hunters, woodsmen, or just kids playing in the trees."

"They're elves, Malgran," replied the redhaired man. "They know things. Now shut up and get a rope ready for us to climb down."

"That tree, Janguld," said the elf. "It is the sturdiest." The redhaired man nodded and removed a thick rope from his pack. He and Malgran went to the tree, leaving her at the ravine's edge with Aranthir. The two of them stepped closer together, their pointed ears on alert.

"How many of them do you think?" she asked softly, and Aranthir shrugged.

"It is hard to tell. The birds have gone quiet to the south and to the southwest. At least two groups, likely four or more in each group. I cannot say how well they're coordinating but battle against one will surely bring the other down on us."

"I am unconcerned about battle," the elf said. She tossed her long golden hair, bound up in a single lock by a silver chain and jeweled pins, over her back and took a heavy book from her pack. "Once we get into the cavern, we will no longer be their concern."

"I am not so sure. In any case, once in, we must find our way back to town once we're done."

"The river makes a convenient guide," she replied. Aranthir stifled a sigh. He respected her drive, but the elf woman's dismissal of obstacles had proved a problem ever since he had signed on to her expedition. The other mercenaries were impressed by her, but he had spent more than one night wishing he had found another employer instead.

"Ilytha!" called Janguld. The elf's ears, standing out tall from her golden hair, twitched at the sound of her name. The two of them turned to see that Janguld and Malgran had fastened a knotted rope around the trunk of a sturdy oak. "We're ready to descend." Malgran scowled and spat into the dirt.

"Good. I've waited long enough," Ilytha replied. She settled her pack about her shoulders and straightened her white robes that were somehow still unsoiled despite a long journey through the wilderness. Janguld threw the rope down into the ravine, where it landed in the shallows with a splash. Gritting his teeth, the redhaired mercenary took the rope in both hands and slowly began to descend the rocky walls.

"Stay on your guard," Aranthir warned the other two. "We're far from Bruscair, and this is bandit country."

"So you keep saying," Malgran grumbled before following Janguld over the edge.

"You worry too much, Aranthir," Ilytha said with a smile. Aranthir sighed to himself. The elf woman looked so beautiful in the sunlight. They stood in a pool of sunshine that broke through the trees, and the blue in her eyes danced as delightfully as the gemstones on her collar.

Is that why I put up with her?

he wondered.

Or am I still conditioned from my youth to obey elves?

She seemed to notice his look and her mouth crooked upward in a bemused smile. Without a word, she stepped past him and she grabbed the rope in both hands, hiked up her robe and dropped gently over the edge, leaving Aranthir alone at the top of the cliff. With practiced ease, she abseiled to the ravine's floor in little time.

At the top, Aranthir sniffed the air. Even under the forest canopy, the air was thick with the smells of summer. Somewhere nearby, a honeybee buzzed about. His nostrils detected the lingering scent of Ilytha's perfume, but also the rank smell of men living in the woods for too long. They were close. He cast a sharp eye over the trees and furrowed his brow.

Close, but not quite here,

he thought. He grabbed the rope and jumped over the edge.

Five men watched from the woods, their sunworn faces just peeking through a screen of leaves.

"There they go," said the lead man, a broad-shouldered giant of a man in a padded jack. "Down into the river."

"Old Stinky oughta make short work of them," snickered another. Two more of them laughed together. "Make toothpicks outta their bones, 'e will."

"I hope he leaves me an ear from the elves," snickered the giant's shadow, a wiry man in a black gambeson and open barbute. "I've got me necklace to add to." He lifted a tattered string around his neck that was adorned with a dozen grisly trophies. "I've been looking for an elf for a long time now."

"Wait and see, the boss says," cautioned the giant. "Elves are always trouble."

"Tarnilaen take all elves," spat a handsome young man in a green cloak. "Let me crawl to the edge, Drabent. I'll put 'em facedown in the water with me bow!"

"Keep it together, boy," warned the giant. "Elves are always trouble."

"Trouble's the name of me bow..." the young archer grumbled. "Shoulda killed five miles back, when we first saw 'em."

"I agrees with the lad," said another man. "Riling up Old Stinky will come back on us, mark my words."

"I'll mark your teeth if you don't shut up," the giant growled, and his companions fell silent. "Good. Now, we wait and watch the show. Old Stinky never disappoints, eh?"

The bandits nodded as one and Drabent the giant smiled. "Let's grab a spot afore it's all over, then."

Aranthir alit in the rocky shallows at the edge of the ravine and quickly drew his sword. Janguld and Malgran had already done the same, but Ilytha approached the cave mouth with only her book in her hands.

"Mistress," Aranthir hissed, "We still do not know what is inside." She turned to face him and smiled a haughty smile.

"Fear not, Aranthir. I can handle myself. Perhaps more importantly, I will survive to pay you at the end of all this."

"If that were true, why waste so much silver on the three of us?" Aranthir muttered a charm and yanked on the rope. It untied itself and slid down the slope into a neat coil for him to restow in his pack. He then turned to take the lead from Ilytha before anything came rushing out of the cave.

"It was weighing me down. Now, if I let you take the lead, will that assuage your fears?"

"At least somewhat," Aranthir admitted. Sword in hand, he turned to face the cave mouth. With the others safely behind them, he produced a torch from his pack and lit it with a spray of sparks from his hand. The warm orange of the torchlight licked at the cave mouth, which seemed to drink the light from both torch and sun. Torch held high and sword at the ready, Aranthir advanced.

Stepping inside, he held his breath while his eyes adjusted. The interior was dark, but his elven vision let him see all the same. The walls were of granite, covered in thick green mossy and carved by rivulets of water that flowed from above. The cave sloped away into darkness. The earthy scent of the underground was overwhelmed by a foul stench that assaulted Aranthir's nose as soon as he stepped inside. He choked back a bit of bile and steeled himself.

I have smelt worse,

he told himself. If he thought it enough, it might become true.

He took a step forward, and something crunched beneath his feet. He looked down and recoiled at the sight. A carpet of bones stretched from the mouth into the cave's depths, yellowed and broken. Great teeth had carved long grooves in skulls, and other bones had broken cracked in half or outright shattered by some mighty force. He felt his lip curl in disgust, and the others crept up behind him.

"Ugh, what is that smell?!" Malgran retched, but Aranthir silenced him with a harsh glare and a finger to his lips. He turned and looked into the depths of the cave. Nothing stirred, and he at last felt safe enough to answer the question.

"Bones," he whispered over his shoulder, casting his torch about to illuminate the macabre sight.

"Say a prayer for the less fortunate," Malgran whispered.

"And hope they stay dead," Janguld added. "I am ill-equipped to deal with the undead, loremaster."

Ilytha knelt to study the bones with a curious eye. "Broken, gnawed on, shattered. These might represent decades of fortune seekers here, but it seems more likely that the occupant of this cave hunts, then drags live prey back to its lair to devour them. We must be dealing with something intelligent."

"And deadly," Aranthir muttered, checking the soles of his boots. "You're sure this forge is worth it?"

"Among the three of you, I should hope that you most appreciate the potential here, Master Aranthir. Did you not here tell of the forge's power when you were at the College in Ildranon?"

"I've read many tales. The forge was lost an age ago, and we persevered all the same. I cannot say the same for these poor souls. Why should we inflict upon ourselves what the cruelty of fate inflicted on them?"

"If not for the power of the forge," Ilytha answered somewhat testily, "Then think of the silver I'm paying you. Surely it will buy you some good wine and a woman or two."

"Wine and women," Aranthir sighed. "Are all that keeps a mercenary going back into battle. Very well. If you're so determined to make a meal of us, let's get this over with."

He took a step toward the tunnel leading deeper into the earth and stopped. The air had grown fouler, and the bones trembled beneath his feet. "It's coming," he whispered. "Back outside where we can maneuver!"

The others rushed for the exit, while Aranthir backed slowly, his eyes on the tunnel. The rumbling beneath his feet grew louder, dust began to rain from above, and the carpet of bones clacked together. Slowly, a shape began to emerge from the darkness. It was tall, half again Aranthir's height. It lumbered forward on two legs and long, crooked arms hung by its side, dragging behind it a heavy tree trunk club. Yellow eyes glared forth from the darkness, and Aranthir felt his stomach tighten.

It shambled forward into the light and Aranthir could see its green and gray mottled skin and long, oily black hair that hung down its back. More of the hair grew in patches beneath its arms and between its legs. Cruel tusks jutted out from its jaws, dripping bile as the troll emerged into the cave. It fixed its baleful gaze on him and snorted in derision. The troll took another step forward and shouldered its club. Bones crunched beneath its feet. The foul miasma in the chamber doubled in strength and it was all Aranthir could do to keep his stomach in check. He stepped backward out of the cave mouth, pausing only to cast a magic snare at the mouth.

In the ravine outside, the others waited. Ilytha held her sword, a slender thrusting blade, in her hands. The jewels in its hilt glittered in the sun. She nodded to him as he retreated from the cave mouth, hoping to draw the troll into the open where it could be surrounded. Aranthir cast aside his torch on dry ground and drew a pistol from his belt. Janguld held a pistol in his hand as well, sword at the ready. Malgran readied a flanged mace in both hands. Already, beads of sweat were forming on his brow. Aranthir paid them little mind.

The entrance to the cave shook as the troll emerged, one wide, warty hand covering its face from the sun. A huge, hairy foot stomped down inside Aranthir's magical snare, and strands of sorcerous energies snapped tight around the troll's leg. It snarled in surprise and turned its yellow eyes to the ground.

Aranthir leveled his pistol and pulled the trigger. The wheel spun and sparked, the flashpan burst into flame and the pistol roared. A puff of white smoke poured from the muzzle, followed by a gout of flame. The shot flashed through the air faster than even Aranthir's elven eyes could follow and struck the troll in its left elbow. There was a spray of blood and bone that spattered the cave wall. The monster howled in pain, and Janguld fired his own pistol.

The second shot struck the troll in its potbelly, drawing another burst of blood. The troll snarled with rage, its wounded arm hanging limp by its side. Two eyes, yellowed with hate, latched onto Aranthir, who shoved his spent pistol into its holster and drew his second. The troll lunged forward, the tree trunk club raised high overhead. The snare strained against the ensnared leg, but the strands were not enough to hold the enraged troll back any longer. The snare snapped and dissipated, releasing its energies with a loud crackling and a spray of sparks.

Aranthri leapt aside as the tree trunk came swinging down at him. The club struck the rocky bottom of the stream, sending up a spray of water and rock chips. Aranthir scrambled up onto a large boulder and readied his pistol.

With the troll's attention fixed squarely on him, his companions were freed to attack. Ilytha darted forward and plunged her blade into the back of the troll's knee, then slashed upward in a maneuver designed to hamstring it. But the troll's skin was thick and leathery, and though the blade plunged in half a hand's length, it could not cut. Malgran met with more success as he lunged it and swung his mace against the troll's kneecaps. There was a terrible crack, and the leg buckled. The troll sagged into the dirt, but as it did, it seized Malgran's arm with its wounded limb and pulled him close. The terrible jaws opened, and a cloud of yellowish-green breath oozed into Malgran's face. The mercenary cried out as he struggled in the monster's grip. He shut his eyes and mouth as a defense against the foul breath, but could not shut his nose.

Ilytha came to his rescue. The elf darted around the troll's kneeling form and stabbed it in the cheek. It snarled and swatted at her with the club, but the nimble woman withdrew from his reach just in time. Aranthir hopped down from his rock and approached the troll with his pistol raised. Another shot from Janguld struck the monster in its back, evoking another howl. Its grip loosened, and Malgran skittered free, clutching his freed arm in pain. The troll whirled on Janguld, who holstered the pistol and readied his broadsword in both hands. It tried to rise to its feet, but the injured leg failed it and it collapsed to the ground again. Janguld advanced on it, then retreated from a furious strike of the club. The errant blow hammered a boulder in the stream, splintering the head of the club, but the troll paid it little mind. Instead, it stared daggers at Janguld, bile dripping from its jaws to splash sizzling into the water beneath it.

From behind it, Aranthir rushed the last few yards and jammed his pistol against the troll's skull. It started in surprise, but it was too late. The pistol sparked and fired, and the shot tore through the troll's head and out its eyesocket. It spasmed and slowly slumped forward into the water, its thick red blood rushing into the clear stream.

"Well done," Ilytha congratulated as she stepped up to the monster's corpse. She nudged it with her foot, and the body twitched. In response, she plunged her blade through its ear and twisted. "Perhaps this will inspire some confidence in you at last." She drew the sword out and wiped it clean.

Aranthir sighed. He looked from Ilytha to Malgran, who was still holding his arm.

"I think it's broken," he whined, and Aranthir sighed again. He stepped over the corpse and crossed to Malgran.

"Let me see it," he commanded, and the other man held out his arm with a wince. Aranthir pulled back the sleeve and inspected the injury. "You'll be fine. I'll cast a spell for the pain, but there's not much more to be done."

"God's blood," Malgran hissed. "That bastard's a strong one."

"Not anymore," muttered Janguld. He also nudged the troll's broken form with his boot. Then he perked up. "Well, into the cave now?"

Aranthir murmured the words to his spell, and the red, raw flesh of Malgran's arm soothed itself. The man stopped his anguished writhing and his breathing slowed. "There," Aranthir muttered. "Better now?" Malgran nodded.

"Now that that's done with," Ilytha sheated her blade as she talked. "Into the earth we go."

"Well, that's something," muttered Drabent.

"I'll miss Old Stinky," said the archer.

"I'll miss picking through the carrion outside his cave for scraps and coins," grumbled the shadow. "But I won't miss the reek of his shit."

"What do we do now, Drabent?"

"You two go back and report to the boss that the intruders killed the troll. See what he wants to do and, if he's undecided, send us reinforcements. Feltham, get to a watch position with that bow. Alvard, get us a rope down into the ravine."

"And what do you mean to do?"

"Yorven's band was supposed to be heading them off to the north. I'm going to find him. If they can kill a troll, the three of us don't stand much of a chance. We need Yorven's gang."

Feltham nocked an arrow to his bow and stole forward to the edge of the ravine. Alvard turned to look up at Drabent. "Are we going to kill them?"

Drabent frowned. "We'll see. There's a ruin in that cave, and spoils to be found, I'll wager. But I see no reason in taking the risks ourselves. We'll let these newcomers do the hard work, then take what they find."

Alvard smiled. "Why learn new tricks when the old ones still work? We're going to be rich, Drabent."

"Apliss willing. Come on, let's get moving."

"You're sure this is the place?" Janguld asked. He raised his torch to shed light on the cave's moss-covered walls. The stone was rough, but showed signs of having been worked.

"Something was here once," Aranthir murmured. The stonework was unfamiliar to him, but he could not rule out that this was the place Ilytha was looking for.

"It is as I saw it in my dream," the elf said, her voice tinged with reverence. "The Forge of Gramarye." She smiled, and Aranthir felt his own lips broaden sympathetically. "This is the place."