Olgin joined them there as the sun was going down, and the six dined in companionable silence. Breygon and Lyra both found themselves noticing an odd occupant of one of the busy tables: a dark-skinned, white-haired woman of obvious Shadelven origins, surrounded by a coterie of ladies-in-waiting and hulking bodyguards. Their attention was diverted, however, when a half-dozen elderly dwarves shambled out of the shadows, led by an extraordinarily ancient and decrepit dwarf bearing a traditional iron tambour.
The tale of what happened next is recounted in one of the synopses given the Party after the event.
Tenscore faces, tenscore stories; but that night, they all had one thing in common: they had come to hear Harwéac, the venerable and world-renowned Dwarven chanter. Word had gone around that the old fellow was on his last pilgrimage from the Deeprealm to Vejborg, to visit Leif Ironfist, his old comrade-in-arms, upon his deathbed. It was said that he had sworn that on this, his last journey, he would sing of nothing but the deeds of his friend, and of their blood-brothers long dead, and their many triumphs and sorrows. Such was the rumour of Harwéac’s skill that those who came to listen were content to hear whatever tale he might choose to tell.
A door opened at the rear of the tavern, and the roar of conversation faded into chatter, and then to a low murmur. The old dwarf appeared from one of the inn’s guest rooms and shuffled into the firelight, accompanied and assisted by a trio of apprentices – each of them a virtuoso in his own right who could have made his fortune in the wider world, had he been willing to leave the side of the Master. At the front of the room, near the hearth, Harwéac settled his old bones slowly into a tailor’s seat on a simple chaff-filled cushion laid on bare stones, while his assistants formed a standing semi-circle behind him. The instruments they held were strange to most of the onlookers: a set of iron bars riveted to a heavy metal frame, and played with tiny bronze hammers; thin-walled stone bowls with covers of animal skin stretched and tightened with thongs; a long, narrow horn that wound around and around the player’s neck, gradually forming into a gleaming, hammered bell, engraved with intertwined serpents and dragons. Harwéac himself bore nothing more than a simple tambor of hide stretched on an unadorned wood and metal frame, and a broad bronze striking paddle, worn smooth and gleaming by long use.
Silence fell; a respectful silence formed in equal parts of anticipation and curiosity. None of those in the tavern that night had ever heard Harwéac’s voice before; nor was there any who had failed to hear his name. Into the well of that silence, the ancient dwarf, without a word of explanation or introduction, plunged like a spelunker bent on exploring caverns and subterranean vistas never before seen. With short, arrhythmic strokes of his bronze rod on the taut skin of the tambor, he evoked a slow, deep rumble, as of long ages spent beneath the Earth. Almost imperceptibly, he joined his heavy voice to the song of the drum, layering words onto the rhythm like the tumble of stones against the deep heartbeat of a mountain.
Ic áwrecan ymbe æðeling;
æðeling isengrǽg, ísenheard
Isenfýst, carlmann, gástberend, gumþegen,
Isenfýst, ceorlmann, guma Ekhanni
I-Esu yrfeweard, I-Esu gástsunu,
Isenfýst, gígantmæcg,
ǽgðer fréond, gebróðra mé.
Ic áwrecan æscþracu, níðweorc, gárgewinn;
Ic áwrecan æsctír, gúðsweord átǽsan...
(Editor’s Note: This is the song Léoð ymbe Isenfýst, “The Lay of Ironfist”, which may be found in the Tales of the Wyrm, and has been published elsewhere on this blog.)Those in the audience familiar with the speech of the Deeprealm heard the words, and understood them; those who did not merely listened, spellbound, captivated by the rhythm. No one attempted to render the words into the Common Tongue, for any translation could only cheapen the Master Chanter’s incomparable composition.
Thus it ran, and the audience was captivated by every word, locked into an involuntary, inescapable embrace by the Master’s rumbling eloquence. Such was the power of his song that none noticed when his accompanists joined in with horn, drums and bells; these remained far in the background, the merest hint of honey-glaze layered imperceptibly upon the incomparable confection of Harwéac’s masterpiece. In his words, they saw the incomparable beauty of the precious gemwork of the Underfolk; felt rivers of gold flowing through their fingers; and heard the slow, unbearably heavy heartbeat of the Mountain.
One of the farmhands, a dolt named Dellrimple, who passed his days shovelling horseshit for one of Varlgant’s overseers, had never learned a single letter of the complex Dwarven tongue; and yet the next day, the stablemaster overheard him muttering the exact words of Harwéac’s ballad under his breath; in a tuneless baritone, perhaps, but with an accent that would have marked him instantly as a denizen of the Deeprealm. And yet he had no idea what he was singing. Such was the especial magic of Harwéac Hargóin, Gamolfeax-láruw, the Great Teacher, Master Chanter of Nondelvin.
None knew how long the song lasted; they only knew when it was over, because Harwéac was sitting still and silent, his hoary head bowed nearly to his breast, the plaits of his long, silvery beard lying coiled on his knees. The muted thunder of the tambor had faded, and the hall held its collective breath. No one moved; all were hoping that it was merely a pause, but they knew that it was not, for they could see that Harwéac had spent himself for them. For the briefest of moments, each man and woman in the audience felt as though the Lantern had been extinguished forever, and all would henceforth be doomed to live in eternal darkness; and at the same time, none feared any darkness that could produce such a singer as this.
A vast sigh gathered, and from more than one eye, tears fell like silent rain. Two of the Servants of Vara were praying, eyes cast down, their lips moving soundlessly; the hobbit adventurers stood spellbound, the purloined purse forgotten on the floor between them; and even the regal Shaldelven maiden sat motionless, a stunned but appreciative smile fixed upon her glistening lips, while her retainers blinked owlishly, as if emerging from a deep slumber.
So sat they all – until the Master Chanter’s spell was broken by a sudden, deep-throated cheering and thunderous, one-man applause. The half-Orc caravan guard was an ardent aficionado of all things musical, and liked a good tune, especially one with martial overtones. Harwéac’s song was, in his educated opinion, the finest thing ever written or performed since the dawn of time. Never one to refrain from physical expressions of approval, in a moment he was capering and clapping wildly, his matted hair swirling around his scabrous head, and saliva flying from his fangs as he swung his half-eaten lamb shank in glorious tribute, forgetting his badly-accented Common in his excitement, and yelling, “Multe, multe, mai multă!” in his barbarous mother tongue.
Harwéac raised his head and smiled at this heartfelt tribute from such an unexpected quarter. He nodded acknowledgement and thanks at Krumlich’s frantic gestures and grunts of approval. The half-Orc’s antics quickly lifted the awed paralysis gripping the crowd, leading first to laughter, and then to cheers and applause. One of the old dwarf’s assistants leaned down and whispered in his ear; Harwéac shook his head slowly and motioned to be helped to his feet. The horn player took the old dwarf’s other arm, and the trio began to shuffle slowly back to the guest room.
The third assistant, bearing his rack of bells, waved for silence, and the crowd, and even Krumlich, gradually subsided. “Many apologies,” the dwarf said, his deep voice thickly accented, “but that is all for tonight. The Master is very tired, and tomorrow we must resume our travels. He thanks you for your most kind welcome, and has asked that I wish you, as we say in our tongue, hléowne ysen, ælceald ýð – ‘hot iron and cold mead on the morrow’.” With that, the fourth dwarf bowed and followed the other three to the back of the inn, pursued by thunderous applause.
* * * * *
After the Dwarves had left the dining hall, Olgin bid the Party good evening and left. Lyra, hoping to find out more about the mysterious dark spectator, approached the Shadelven woman, smiling her way past the bodyguards. Before she could speak, however, the dark elf fixed her with her gaze and stopped her in her tracks; and Lyra simply stood, dumbly fascinated, while the Shadelf gathered up her entourage and returned to her suite.
While this was going on, Gwen slipped out of the crowd, snagged a look at the registry behind the front desk, and located the room that had been rented out to Oras Rathorn. The lock on the door was no match for her nimble fingers, and she was inside in two shakes of a manticore’s tail. Some hurried rummaging yielded a few maps, several books and Rathorn’s cloak, then she slipped back out in silence and returned to the Party.
They spent the night at the Chapter House under Olgin’s eye – all except for Bjorn, who luxuriated beneath a down-stuffed tick, and fell asleep looking forward to the traditional Zaran fried breakfast, and another decadent rosewater bath, on the morrow.
* * * * *
The Town of Ganesford
1. Sweetvale Tavern (Link Weathers: Average, Cheap)
Very pleasant fellow, caters mostly to farmers and travellers. Average quality, low cost. Remembers Oras Rathorn and party; they turned their noses up at his accommodations.
2. Traveller’s Rest Inn (Mance Mandrill: Good, Expensive)
Supercilious, officious, very busy; greedy. Very nice accommodations but three times normal cost. Remembers Oras as a reliable paying customer with a large party (Wizard, Apprentice, Factor, three geographers). Still has a lot of Rathorn’s dunnage locked up but won’t release it until back-lease is paid on rooms and supplies provided to the party (225 gp).
3. Smithy (Elgor Nale)
Taciturn but not unpleasant. Mostly does tools. Not good with weapons or armour, but covers up inability by being gruff. Wife is Selma Nale, very attractive; haunts the town’s bars and flirts with anything male (inevitably results in conflict with husband). He remembers Oras Rathorn; provided him with a dozen picks, mattocks and shovels, and two wheeled carts.
4. Tollhouse (Liam Trotter)
Enormously fat and cheerful; talkative but forgetful. Doesn’t remember anything. For a bribe, will forego recording names and crossing dates, as is his duty.
5. The Ford and Bridge
Ford is 2’ deep, easy for horses and wagons, not too hard for pedestrians, hard for small creatures like hobbits. If it is raining, difficulty level rises. There are nets spread 20’ downstream to catch anyone who loses their footing.
6. Fish Smokehouse (Llanor of Erdallen)
Exudes stench of smoked fish, but quality is high and it will keep indefinitely. Llanor is an ex-member of the Watch, and will provide any serving member with a week’s worth of dried fish rations free of charge. But boy, does he smell bad. He remembers Oras; sold him 6 barrels of smoked Giltscales a month back.
7. Miner’s Guildhouse (Guild Captain Rauf Toldner)
Rauf Toldner is a retired hard rock miner from Lucky Lode; he still has contacts there and has heard rumours of trouble in the mines. He knows Rathorn quite well; asked for “every experienced miner I could lay my hands on”. Thought Rathorn was a fool; he offered meagre pay and “a share in the profits”
8. Mining Supplies Store (Parag Sakonure)
Parag is a Half-Elf from Celenora, a long way from home. He is reasonably friendly but expects money up front; Rathorn cleaned him out and still owes him more than 500 gold for tools, rope, torches, lumber and so on.
9. Merchant’s Manor (Lars Telchin)
Telchin is a grasping, greedy absentee landlord who normally lives at his castle in Bitterberg. His manor is usually empty and locked; there is only a 20% chance per week that he will drop by. His Seneschal, Yancey Mealerger, comes by a few days in advance to open the place and air it out.
10. General Merchandise (Lars Telchin, owner)
The store is run by Ulgric Bugbane, a half-orc Warrior 6 who keeps this job to remain respectable (nobody messes with one of Telchin’s people) and pay the rent. He lives here, receives shipments of goods from the north, and sells them to all comers. He is rude , uncouth and likes teasing people, but hasn’t had to fight in quite a while. Any violence against him will eventually result in a visit from some far worse people on behalf of Sieur Telchin.
11. Gane’s Tankard Tavern (Alonon Payne: Good, Expensive)
Alonon Payne runs a good, but overpriced, establishment. The gentry come here to impress each other; smarter folk go elsewhere for better food at lower prices. He remembers Rathorn, who had a standing account at the Tavern, and whose tab (for fine brandies and delicacies) stands at 181 gp, 9 sp and 4 pennies. Rathorn's room is at the front of the lower floor, and has not been disturbed (except by the bucket boy) since Rathorn last slept there a week ago. It contains his maps, a large number of journals and books, some cash, and his cloak.
12. Market Hall
A large, open-walled timber structure with a thatched roof and room for two dozen market stands. Open on weekday mornings for food market; Great Market on Sian Barraj. Most common equipment items can be bought on the weekend market day.
13. House of the Hand (Gyle Fanwaith, Cleric 8, Vara)
Gyle Fanwaith is a competent cleric and an expert healer; he has three 2nd-level apprentices. One of them (Eloan Wood) was at Rathorn’s camp last week to treat a worker who had had a large stone crush his foot. Wood thinks that Rathorn is a tyrant and a fool.
14. General Store (Danik of Dunholm, Halfling)
Danik of Dunholm is a clever businessman that sells excellent quality goods and specializes in hard-to-find items. He will report that Rathorn owes him 200 gp for spell components, but will add that “It doesn’t really matter, since I made twice that off him in profit already”. One of the ingredients he provided was a special mixture of earth, sand and loam in small silk bags (Spellcraft DC 15: “Move Earth” components).
15. Malryn Olgin (Retired Fighter 11)
Olgin is a retired fighter who is living off his earnings and enjoying his retirement as a hunter, general problem-solver and local celebrity (he is famous for having killed a giant bear with a tree branch some years ago). He is also the local Superior Brother of the Brotherhood of Wyrms. This is the fellow that the exiled Watchmen are expected to contact. Olgin will treat them as seasoned professionals, explain the codes, rules and benefits, and order them to investigate the rumours that Toldner, Guild Captain of the Miner’s Guild, has heard about in Lucky Lode. They are also ordered to pick up a brace of fine stallions in Bymill and bring them back to Ganesford, before delivering them to the house of a noblewoman and friend of the Order in Ellohyin. But more on that when they return with the horses.
16. Leatherworks (Eldred Wainstik, leathercrafter)
Eldred Wainstik is an associate of Sharoom Pardo, the Bornhavn leathercrafter. He contracted with Rathorn for a variety of leather products, and is still awaiting payment on a bill of “several hundred crowns.”
17. Meat Market (Olgar and Olga Thorssen, butchers)
Fair merchants, who have never heard of Oras Rathorn. But they do have kin in Søby, south of Ellohyin, who operate a cattle farm – and last week, a herd of cattle being driven south to Ganesford (and supposed to go on to Bymill) went missing on the Nordvej, somewhere between Steenby and Ganesford. They theorize that a band of Orcs may be running a cattle rustling operation somewhere in the hills.
18. Hardin’s Hammer Tavern (Tug Wylkyn, ex-miner; very rough, very cheap)
Tug Wylkyn is a retired Warrior 4 who served 20 years in the Guards in Ellohyin. He knows the city like the back of his hand, and has contacts in the Elloyhin underworld. He runs a very rough, very cheap place that the local miners like. The rumours about the Phoenix Mine at Lucky Lode have reached this tavern; one or two of the patrons will tell a tale that arrived only this week, about a miner’s corpse being found, bitten in half at the waist.
19. Shrine to Vara (small)
This is a small, one-room shrine built out of the local limestone, with a thatched roof. It is maintained by Fanwaith and his apprentices, and like all shrines to Vara, it contains a large, carved stone vessel of water that is Blessed daily, and that petitioners toss coins into (at any time it will contain 1d100 copper, 1d20 silver and 1d4 gold pieces). It is not policed or patrolled, but during day there is an 8 in 20 chance that someone will be praying here (the chance drops to 1 in 20 after dark). This is a Consecrated location for Vara, her Servants and her Avatars.
20. Leagor of Ellohyin – retired expert historian (K-Hist 22), Reeve of Ganesford
Leagor is an elderly human who lives for books. Once the Chief Librarian to the Count of Ellohyin, he gave up his sinecure a decade ago and built a quiet home here on the banks of the Sweetvale River, filling it with fine furnishings and books. He is compiling a comprehensive history of Zare, and is presently writing Volume 16 (volumes 1 through 15 are available at the Bookbinder’s, for 100 gp per book – each one takes a month to read, and will give the reader +1 Knowledge-History). His knowledge is encyclopaedic, to the point that it is difficult to keep him from diverging into tangents. He knows Oras Rathorn, but dismisses him as “an amateur – a typical wizard, more concerned with twiddlings and twinklings than actually KNOWING anything.” They squabbled over an ancient book in Leagor’s possession (the Varata Ikivanha Maailma, a Draconian text, the “Book of the Ancient World”). Leagor will part with it for 1000 GP (Oras offered him that amount, but promised only 250 gp in advance and the remainder “in a few months”). Studying the book uninterrupted for 1 month will give the reader an inherent bonus on Knowledge(History) checks of +5.
21. Scrivener’s Shop (Iltoeyna Paloyina, Elven Expert Calligrapher 16)
Iltoeyna is an Elvish calligrapher, magnificent with the pen. She hired the copyists to produce Leagor’s magnum opus, and illuminated them herself. She also produced a number of detailed maps of the banks of the Sweetvale between Ganesford and Bornhavn for Oras; he still owes her “more than 100 gold” for the work.
22. Bookbinder’s Shop (Royaur Desfitylna, Elven Expert Bookbinder 14)
Royaur is an associate of Iltoeyna’s, and a solid devotee of Leagor’s writing. He has nothing but praise for the sage, and shares his contempt for Rathorn’s “lack of historical knowledge.”
All save one – one maiden stayed she,
Bjorn took the wagon, with the comatose Ankallys aboard, to find the Temple of the Hand, and made the acquaintance of Gyle Fanwaith, Priest of the Healing Hand, and his acolyte, Eloan Wood. They advised Bjorn, much to their regret, that they did not have the skill or power to restore Ankallys’ mind, but they further informed him that the Fist of the Allfather in Bymill stood high in his church’s hierarchy, and could no doubt perform the necessary rites. In the meantime, they agreed to take Ankallys under their care while the Party was in Ganesford.
“Here’s what I want you to do. Travel west, up the valley, until you get to Bymill. There’s a horse trader there, name of Varlgant, and pay him for two stallions he’s holding for me. They’re a gift from the Brotherhood for a noblewoman in Ellohyin, north of here a ways. She’s done us a service and we always pay our debts.
* * * * *
