On the road / Tarn’s adventures
„Don’t die in pain, don’t go to sleep,
fold your hands behind your head,
listen to quiet beat of the stars.
Live head over heels, straddle,
blindly on the road,
and you’ll grasp wings of darkness in your fist…“
Gnu, Blindly on the road
There will be trouble again, thought innkeeper Kellaner, when the dwarf came in.
When the light of the tavern framed his stature, Kellaner noticed, that at his nearly five feet he is quite tall for his kin. He didn’t look youn nor old, nevertheless – when talking about dwarves, one does not know for sure. At first glance he's had a rough ride, at least judging by his scuffed leather jacket. He had gaiters of an indeterminate color tucked into his abraded and muddy boots. The knapsack on his back gave him a slightly more robust appearance. Diagonally behind the rucksack he had a pole tucked, about three feet long. He removed a simple hood of strangely stiff canvas from his head and tucked it behind a wide belt. Now that he could see his face better, Kellaner noticed that his brown beard had been trimmed so it didn't even reach his chest. He had met several dwarves before, but this one was quite different.
For now, the bearded one was looking around for an empty place to sit. That evening, the Blue Jug Inn on the King's Road sheltered about a dozen guests from the windy weather, more than the usual average. Even so, he saw quite a few empty tables. Looks good so far. The pub staff didn't pay him much attention, that was much more than he expected. From some places he was chased away with shouting, being adressed as a foreigner.
Finally he headed to the bar, because everything is always decided only whether he will be served.
"What will you have, sir?"
"Beer and hot water," the dwarf rasped. The vocal cords were obviously on a holiday after several days of travel. His rough palm landed on the bar with a thud and several Erundil coins clinked.
Alright, maybe there’ll be no trouble. Weary traveller was best type of guest. If he had money.
The innkeeper raised one eyebrow:
„Imperial copper coins… hmm, better than nothing. Those that I don’t know I don’t serve for an axe.“
The dwarf looked confused. But I don't have an axe… He stopped in time before he said it out loud. Kellaner watched him stare at the coins and remain silent.
"We're already in Gorion," he explained, misreading the dwarf's shock. "But don't worry, erundilian coppers have actually the same value as local money. It's okay.” He started filling the new tankard. The little guy just nodded. "I'll give you back some change. Or maybe you would like something to eat?”
Headshake.
So the innkeeper gathered five coins together and left the rest lying. As the foam rose to the desired height and Kellaner placed the full tankard on the counter, he noticed one of the guests standing up. Oh crap, there will be trouble after all...
Owain, the merchant's son, had been a regular for several months. And he always had the biggest spend. Unfortunately, he also liked to fight from time to time. Kellaner was turning a blind eye to it, because in spite of occasionally repairing a few chairs and buying new clay tankards it still paid handsomely for him.
The dwarf, with years of trained instinct, sensed a change in the atmosphere. He turned around.
A tall man with a starting belly and a bald head approached the bar with a confident step, grinning.
"Who do we have here? Can you even reach the beer, gnome?”
The dwarf stood silent, only returning his gaze. He moved one foot slightly aside. No one noticed that he had simply put himself in an advantageous position. He now had the bar on his right side and was facing Owain.
The pub became somewhat quiet.
"Are you deaf? Or stupid?”
The dwarf checked the innkeeper with side eye. He knew that they usually have a baton or similar weapon under the bar, but he had also experienced a ball crossbow. The innkeeper, on the other hand, leaned off from the bar and apparently was not going to take any action. That meant that he didn't want to get involved, or, and that would be even better, that he hadn’t any arrangement with the brawler. He probably already had a few adventurers and knew it wasn't worth messing into their business.
The dwarf grabbed his beer and took a deep drink. Most of the guests waited anxiously. He just calmly put the tankard back on the counter, still holding it. He slowly wiped the foam from his beard with his left hand. All the time he never took his eyes off Owain.
"Beer’s good."
Owain expected a completely different reaction. Inventing a new insult, he leaned even closer. He noticed that under the facial hair the dwarf's face was marked with thin scars from slashing weapons. One stretched across his left cheekbone and the other on his right jaw nearly hidden under the beard. But it still wasn't ringing a bell for him.
„You…“
He didn't think up any insults, maybe because he already had five pieces. He was just provoking with a look. Meanwhile, the little bearded man reached for his drink and took a swig again. When the nudge came, he was expecting it.
Disappointment overtook the agressor. The opponent usually staggered and spilled the drink after being pushed. But now almost nothing happened. Owain felt as if he had pushed a boulder - the victim only slightly bounced, two inches back and forth. None of the people around knew that they had just witnessed the famous unyielding fighting stance.
The dwarf serenely put down his beer. Before the provocateur could think of anything new, he grabbed him by the collar with his left hand. Owain couldn't react in time and had to lean forward even more. He wanted to attack, but suddenly he had no room for it. The tunic was painfully strangling him and his position prevented him from stretching and striking. The dwarf took a little step forward and now saw all the guests and the innkeeper. No one could get behind him (now). He pulled the brawler's face close to his.
"I've already wiped my ass today, so I don't need you," he hissed just low enough for only the attacker to understand. Owain read his stare and was finally beginning to understand how much he had misjudged the target. The dwarf's dark gray eyes reflected weariness, anger and contempt. The last most.
The dwarf, on the other hand, read in the brawler's face that he understood. That the dwarf could obliterate him with a single blow. In addition, a hit with a split tankard can leave a lasting memory on the face.
But the dwarf knew that fighting would not be a good entrée if he wanted to stay here and even overnight. The guests were overwhelmingly of human origin, which was understandable. The dwarven kingdoms of Fingor to the north and Thornal to the east were hundreds of miles away. So he let go of the attacker's shirt by the neck. Before Owain straightened up, he quickly grabbed his shoulder instead and said as loudly as his still parched throat would allow:
"If you've had a problem with a dwarf and he's around here, I'll come get him and hold him while you smash his gob."
He took a swig again and continued:
“Many of ours are scumbags and bastards…but so are some of yours, of hobbits, or anyone else. You find varmint everywhere."
The provocateur tried to wriggle out of the "friendly" grip. At that moment, a chubby black-haired woman in an apron came out of the kitchen with a full plate of steaming dishes. Noticing the stance of the couple at the bar, she frowned and headed towards them. She placed the tray on the bar and put her hands on her hips. She was sturdy and obviously fearless. She gave Owain a look sharper than a butcher’s knife and started:
„The day before yesterday wasn’t enough, you ramhead?“
Owain turned his eyes to the innkeeper, avoiding confrontation with the angry waitress.
„Kell…“ he started with a sorry tone.
„It’s okay, we were just getting acquainted,“ the dwarf took advantage of the situation and used a pleasant intonation. „I’m called Tarn.”
„Owain,“ the defeated strained through his teeth and finally freed himself from the grasp of steel fist.
Meanwhile, the guests started shouting at the barmaid, demanding their orders. So she grabbed the tray of food but gave Owain one more stabbing look. He just quickly glared at Tarn and returned to his place.
Meanwhile, the innkeeper brought the jug of hot water. Tarn mumbled his thanks and headed for the nearest free table with his hands full. The guests stared at him for a moment longer. However, soon they began to be concerned with their drinks and the murmur of the pub was heard again.
The dwarf unwrapped a small pouch from his knapsack, took two pinches from it and dropped it into the jug.
"We won't suffer any crap here," came a sudden voice from beside him. Tarn turned his eyes to the waitress. He suspected her gruff tone was just a protective husk.
“It's just herbs, ma'am. Don't be afraid.” After all, everyone knows that no drugs are used in water - moon dust is rubbed into the gums and Khadgar hashish is smoked. But he preferred not to say it out loud. She nodded anyway and stopped frowning. No one had ever called her "ma'am" before and it flattered her.
It was actually the first time she had met a member of his race. Although adventurers used to come here quite often, they weren't usually of his kind. “Will you have dinner too, precious sir?”
She visibly melted. Under the influence of cooked food smell all around him, he changed his mind.
“A piece of hot meat and bread, will that be enough?” he said, dumping the remaining money on the table.
"Sure." She even smiled.
"And hiding for the night under a roof somewhere on straw would also be possible?"
She nodded.
Before she could move away to get the food, Tarn said, "And thank you for that brawler."
"Some people just don't like anyone..." who was different, she didn't finish.
"I don't like spilling blood, I prefer beer."
She sized him up with a curious look before finally going to get the order.
Tarn unwrapped a linen cloth and soaked it in the herbal concoction. Then he tried to roll up his jacket and tunic as inconspicuously as possible and placed the bandage on side of his chest. Anyone who spied on him would not have noticed any visible injuries. However, the herbal mixture was good for healing the ribs.
(At the same time, he thought about the phrase "drink for an axe". How can someone give it up and not know if he'll get it back - just to get a drink? He probably wouldn't have had a problem with it for exchanging another thing, but he couldn't even imagine voluntarily giving away something so intrinsically his. But drinking on a tin, he knew that.)*
*
When he was full, he called the innkeeper.¨
"Would you know of a job? I can chop wood for you, for example.”
Kellaner shrugged. Forests were sparsely scattered throughout the Gorion highlands, and it was usually several miles to travel for fuel. "It's not a problem to chop. But to gather him, that is.” By standing up to Owain's provocation, the dwarf earned his respect. "You move around a lot and it's hard to get around without a cart. Besides, the wild animals are hungry,” he sneered to mask the sincerity of the warning.
It was Tarn that shrugged now. The inn was evidently the only refuge in the wide area, and he was already fed up of sleeping in the wilderness, even though he was an experienced adventurer.
"Two nights' sleep and free food if I bring you and chop one smaller tree?"
Kellaner suppressed a smile at the thought of the little guy carrying the whole trunk.
"Depends on how big it will be..."
Tarn nodded.
"Deal."
***
When the waitress walked past the hayloft near the stables at dawn, she no longer saw the little guest there. He didn't show up until before noon. They saw him as he pulled logs and smaller branches on a skid made of two strong branches. The pile of wood reached over his head. Kellaner's jaw almost dropped. The dwarf had to go all the way to a more distant wood south of the inn that wasn't as well-traveled—that meant he was hauling his load three miles. Alone, without a waggon.
“So how much, inn? Three days of food and sleep? I'll split and chop it yet, don't worry."
The innkeeper just nodded. With such a supply, he did not have to deal with firewood for another month.
*
The waitress secretly watched the working dwarf. The fact that he took out a dangerous-looking double-edged axe blade from somewhere in his backpack was unusual, but not strange either. Only when he put it on that stick he was carrying on his back. Only then did she notice that there were small spikes sticking out of the wood at one end, like nails, protruding only about a quarter of an inch from the shaft. He placed the blade on this end and then twirled it. When he then grabbed this tool, or rather a proper weapon, halfway with one hand and began to chop the wood, her eyes widened. He wielded the thing like it was just a small hatchet, even though it was almost as tall as he was. "Diligent guy," stated the innkeeper laconically, as he had just arrived.
"I'm on my way," the brunette quickly replied, realizing she'd been peeking longer than she originally intended. Kellaner could have reprimanded her for idleness, but he just waved his hand.
He wasn't ¨blind and could see well that Tarn was forced to breathe slowly for a moment after each slash. He is injured... Innkeeper's respect has increased even more. Tarn's help would came in handy, and he needed to see if he would stay longer. So far, the deal itself was more advantageous for him, and he quickly calculated that it would be necessary to extend the stay of this guest as much as possible. In addition, if the dwarf needed rest, it was obvious.
"Rest my friend," he called to the dwarf. "Don't hurry, it is still the month Calmober." It was true, the harvest month had just ended.
The dwarf lowered his axe and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
“Tell me rather, what are the rumors from the northern roads? I haven't had time to ask you yet," continued the innkeeper. Tarn leaned his axe against a log and folded his arms across his chest. He can't know I'm a fugitive... Fingor is far away... well, I'd better be careful anyway.
“A couple of patrols and one imperial courier in Erundil. No reports of robbers or assaults. But even before the border - about two days from here - the howling of gorlaks could be heard before dusk." “Aye, gorlaks. Disgusting vermin.'
"Tell me that," Tarn snapped, pointing to his forearms, which were white with countless criss-crossing scars from the sharp claws of the small creatures. "You fought them… and survived…?"
"There were a dozen of us, five only survived."
The innkeeper nodded approvingly. "Well, nevermind, those bastards don't concern us anyway, the imperials will have to deal with ‘em. After all, they guard their borders well."
“You think? When they let slip me?” His tongue was faster than his head again. He realized too late what he had revealed about himself. Despite this, he still raised the corner of his mouth in a smirk.
Kellaner shrugged. “As far as I know, they always let adventurers go without a problem. They just pay some tolls.”
So I'd rather not mention how much I saved by not going on the road.
"And further north? Are the barbarians still messing with the Empire?” Kellaner inquired further.
“Not openly, but it's dangerous near the marshes. I myself have met the westerners. They don't have anything against our people, but they attack the imperials on sight."
It was obvious that he had exhausted the subject. He gripped the axe again and set to work.
***
By evening he was done.
When Kellaner tried to hire him for another job, Tarn refused. "I want to be in Thornal by the first snow."
The innkeeper's face showed disappointment, but he nodded.
"What can I expect when I head east?" inquired the dwarf.
“Plains and sometimes villages, like here. Nearest in that direction is the town of Thos. The roads are good - here in Gorion, the security in the region is mainly taken care of by the White Shields. These knights of the order know how to deal with bandits and monsters. Just further to the southeast, be careful around Bluewood. There it is good to always be behind the city walls or at least the village palisade for the night.'
¨XXD
Tarn nodded. But the innkeeper added:
"Bluewood can be bypassed from left or right. Both roads are around the same length, only about fifty miles. Either way, you will then come to the Diamond Road. That's the name of the great paved way that leads from the southern border with Zalos across the whole kingdom north to Thornal and supposedly beyond.'
The dwarf raised an eyebrow. Kellaner sensed the unspoken question, he had already answered it hundreds of times to more than one pilgrim.
“The elves in northern woods are mining diamonds. It is very old. But above all, you are safe on it."
He took a breath and added: “Better watch out for the southeast from here. After a few miles the knolly landscape rise into so called Cloud Hills. They are not vast, but insidious. The fog never completely dissipates there. Basilisks and death are hiding in it.”
"Then surely everyone avoids that place..."
"You'd be surprised. From time to time there are adventurers who dare to go there. It is said that there is an ancient treasure… Well, no one has come back from there yet. Also, something or someone is making a horrible, inhuman screeching noise.”
"I'm definitely not going there. Thanks for the warning.”
He grabbed the axe again. But his curiosity was strong:
"And what is it that's wailing over there?"
"Nobody knows. But the sound is not natural. It gives chills down one’s spine.”
***
During the evening at the tankard, Owain unexpectedly joined him.
"Hello. Tarn, am I remembering correctly?” He reached out his hand for a handshake in human way. After a moment's hesitation, Tarn squeezed it. With a welcoming expression, the merchant raised his tankard for a toast. Tarn's tankard clattered loudly against it.
"They say you'll be leaving soon," Owain stated.
Tarn shrugged and nodded.
“I just wanted to give you a little advice. Also as an apology for… for yesterday.”
He did not wait for the dwarf's reaction and continued immediately. “Don't trust Kellaner. He said he gave you advice about the trip, but maybe a wrong one.”
Tarn became wary. "They say there are some dangerous rocks nearby..."
"Where did he advise you to go?"
"He said just not turn to southeast, but those Cloudy Hills can be recognized from a distance by the fog."
“See!” Owain slapped his palm on the table. He stopped and looked around, but the sound didn't attract anyone's attention. He continued more quietly.
“The Cloud Hills are to the northeast. Most pilgrims bypass them from the south. If you were going east and happened to go a little north, you'd just walk into them.”
He said nothing and just hypnotized the dwarf with his gaze, testing his reaction.
Tarn closed his eyes. Is it possible that the innkeeper wants to lead me to doom? He didn't want to believe it.
"Good. Thanks."
Owain rose with a farewell, leaving him with new uncertainty.
Tarn certainly had a lot to think about.
***
After a dozen healing bandages over two days in comfort, Tarn regained his strength. That evening was his last at the inn, he was about to leave in the morning. In the afternoon he lounged on the straw, and then loitered in the courtyard of the inn. But a light, persistent rain started, and he had to move under the roof.
As he entered the inn, he saw three small figures at the nearest table. He froze.
They belonged to his kin.
The dwarves were talking vividly, each with two tankards in front of him – one already finished and the other just started. The youngest of them had already spotted him and motioned to the others to turn around. The meeting could not be avoided.
"I see you," he began with the most aloof dwarven greeting. He still couldn't know if the vengeful Trognir and his henchmen had tracked him down after all.
The two younger ones looked confused and just responded unisono with a general “Be greeted.” The third, who was the oldest of them by the length of his beard and the depth of his wrinkles, widened his eyes and responded: "I see and welcome you."
He made sure to make the formal dwarven greeting sound more cordial than it should. Tarn noticed. The old dwarf had his beard braided into three gray braids. He invited him to sit with them. Tarn reluctantly accepted the invitation. The middle dwarf immediately waved for the barmaid to bring another drink. "We're a long way from Fingor, brother," smiled the old man, who recognized Tarn's origins by the greeting and for some reason was pleased.
"Aye. I've come a long way,” Tarn replied.
"My name is Narbr, this is Khími and Dyrgir." They were wearing work clothes and in the corner he noticed bulky rucksacks with tools including pickaxes. They didn't look like Fingor agents tracking him down. More like journeymen on the road journey.
„Tarn.“
He found that the company of his kind was ultimately quite pleasant for him.
"Where are you headed?"
"To the empire. They say few people want to work in quarries there.”
The old one added: "We know that there is still interest in Erundil limestone. And it will be easier than mining through the hard granite back here in Thornal.”
Tarn nodded. Skilled craftsmen can find work anywhere.
"And you? Do you belong to the stonemasons, jewelers, or blacksmiths' guild...?” guessed the talkative Narbr.
"Soldier. I was."
The old dwarf nodded and took a drink. He waited for Tarn to speak, but Tarn just drank in silence. So he stated: "You'll surely find a job soon enough."
He didn't ask any further. Despite his uncommunicativeness, they accepted him in an unspoken agreement into the fellowship of that table and that evening, and the three of them mainly talked among themselves. Tarn learned of the harvest festivities held in nearby Thos the week before and some local gossip. But after two tankards he got up and said goodbye, he needed a good night's sleep for the journey.
He still wanted to check the innkeeper. He walked up to the bar and pretended to be a little more drunk than he was:
“Where did you say I should go to get around those weird mounds? To the southeast?”
The innkeeper paused for a moment: "On the contrary, to the northeast! They are in the southeast.” He further explained to him how he would know the way by the tall maple tree that grew near the inn and the crossroads.
Tarn watched his expression closely. He seemed sincere. So it was more like Owain trying to confuse me... He just nodded his thanks to Kellaner and went to sleep in the hayloft. For a moment he wanted to deal with the bloke, but then he just waved it off.
Actually, it wasn't surprising of Owain that he wanted revenge for being humiliated in front of the whole pub. It's not just people who are petty. He himself had experienced dozens of fights between dwarves over minor matters.
***
Although he liked to sleep longer, he knew he had to leave on time. And he also learned to leave without witnesses.
The sky was already lightening, but the sun was not visible at all. The landscape was shrouded in a gray mist during the night. The crossroads was only about a hundred paces from the inn. The hefty maple was its impressive dominant feature. By the relative position of the inn and the tree, he tried to determine the correct direction. The fog wasn't too thick, but the building looked only like a darker blob from here.
Occasional wagons and pilgrims did not tread deeply on the stony plain. It was not very visible in the mist among the sparse tufts of grass.
"Rust on it…," he cursed out loud now. Standing with his back to the maple, he double checked the inn's position. He put his knapsack on his back, tucked the axe shaft behind it, and strode off.
He proceeded slowly. On the one hand, he was checking the chosen direction, on the other hand, he was trying to follow the hardly visible path. However, he soon lost it. No wonder, no milestones were here. And what appeared to be a strip of trampled land, after a while, merged with the surrounding landscape. Even from the sporadic bushes and boulders, it was impossible to tell where the path led.
He tried to follow the position of the sun instead. But the low clouds did their camouflage trick again. It was not at all clear where the scattered rays were coming from.
So he decided to wait. He hadn't walked a mile yet. He put his knapsack on the ground, sat on it and rested his head on his hands. Well, it will shine again and dissolve the fog. But even after an hour, the weather did not improve.
Another hour later, he understood that there was no point in waiting any longer. The morning fog became an autumn gray blanket. He knew this - low clouds would cover the sky all day.
So he took the axe head out of his knapsack and attached it to the shaft. With such poor visibility, he had to be prepared for anything. He set off in the original direction, or at least that's what he estimated. He tried to perceive the terrain around him as good as possible. As soon as he felt it rising, he turned to go downhill or at least stayed on level. Because the landscape was full of small hills and boulders, it was not easy and his route was twisting like snake loops. He only had a rough idea of the original direction. He knew that he was going approximately to the east, but due to obstacles or the rise of the terrain, he sometimes turned significantly to the left and to the right.
Around midday the sun peeked out for a moment as a pale disc in the all-embracing gray. He adjusted his course a little, veering a little south. Unfortunately, the fog didn't thin out a bit. He estimated he had walked about five miles, his traveling pace significantly slower than usual. But if he had already gone round the ominous hills, he could not tell.
Luckily the pain in my ribs stopped, he was calming himself down at least with something. He gritted his teeth and marched on. Whenever he felt the terrain rising, he changed direction.
***
It didn't sound like a wail, nor a scream. It was at the same time a roar, a hiss, and a mixture of tones so strange and obnoxious that it made one's hair stand on end. But the worst part was that it was impossible to determine where it was coming from. Definitely more from the left than the right, but if it was more from the front or the other side, the echo distorted it. However, the sun hid again and he could only guess its position.
I'm straying. And just in those accursed hills. Morurg's Hoof!
Tarn stopped. The landscape has practically not changed. Low grass covered stony knolls, sometimes sticking out in tougher tufts. Here and there grew low tough bushes. Perhaps only sporadic boulders at first started to become more frequent. But mainly the atmosphere has changed. It carried a strange smell that he had not yet been able to identify.
He suddenly realized that the fog had thinned a little. He looked around. He strained his eyes to see the slightest outline of anything. And he saw something. To the left he caught the line of a larger, darker shape.
It was a rock. He took a few steps and came within ten fathoms of it. Dark brown stone with lighter veins rose to about four times his height. Its surface was full of sharp, crooked protrusions.
Tarn slowly moved on to what he guessed was an east direction, axe ready for battle.
The ear-ripping sound screeched again. And once more it was difficult to determine from which direction and distance.
He thought about finding a cover and waiting. But if he really was in the Cloud Hills, it was wiser to continue on to get around or cross them as quickly as possible. Looking back, he realized he wouldn't be able to find his way back. Who knows how many similar rocks he passed in the fog on the way here.
The outlines of other rocks and hills began to emerge from the fog. They were approximately fifty fathoms apart. Wide passages made it possible to see possible danger in time, but on the other hand, they did not allow to hide quickly. He decided to stick close to the rocks. It's good to have your back covered, especially when you're expecting an attack from toothy monsters.
Visibility began to decrease again, he could now only see about twenty fathoms. The strange smell that he had only faintly smelled before now grew stronger. And again there was that wailing sound that defied description.
What in the world could make such a noise?
His hands, which had been holding the axe for a long time, did not hurt, he was trained to hold it tightly for hours. He was just passing through a wide gorge between a white-brown rock on the left and a rocky wall on the right when he heard a hiss behind him on the right. He turned and pressed against the rock. He heard a soft stomp and something hissed again. He held out his axe. Then he saw it.
Basilisks don't have a petrifying stare. It was just taken wrongly. They are simply so repulsive in appearance that most people freeze in horror and revulsion at the sight of them. A few quick reptilian steps and a truly paralyzing attack with a poisonous bite are then very easy.
The creature was only about three feet tall, but its paws were spread wide, and with its tail it might have been fifteen feet long. The scales on various parts of his body went from gray over yellow to purplish hues. Its leathery crested reptilian head was particularly hideous, its insidious eyes blinking an unhealthy yellow-green. He ran through the center of the passage between the rocks. Tarn had his axe ready. However, the monster ran past and didn't seem to register him.
Tarn cautiously moved on, his back almost scraping the rock.
How come it didn't notice me?
He knew that lizards tend to have good hearing and smelling. The fact that he didn't move certainly helped him. But he didn't understand how the basilisk could not smell him. He ran over to the opposite rock to continue east.
Of course he only guessed the direction. He crept past four more rocks and through three passages in the maze before he heard another basilisk. And just as he was running to another rock wall, he saw it.
He didn't know if it was the same one as before. It emerged from the mist directly in front of him, about ten fathoms away. Tarn still had his axe at the ready, even when running he drew it almost immediately. Changing direction slightly, he jumped aside and swung it just as the monster came within range. The basilisk was used to its prey being practically motionless. Gray bit down deep into his stinky neck. The creature gurgled and tried to attack again from the side. However, the severed muscles did not obey him and Tarn was able to dodge to the side and back again. The monster was moving with its injured head from side to side, gathering strength for another attack. But then a lightning-fast slash came from above, cutting through the skull and crashing it to the ground. A convulsion shook the basilisk and it died.
"Ugh," spat the dwarf. He wanted to wipe the axe from the hideous brown blood on the reptilian body, but the ugliness of the scales and the basilisk stench made him find places with thicker grass instead. He had to find a few, but it was still a better option.
He moved on, again trying to hold on to the rock walls or at least the sides of the hills he passed. Then he saw an indeterminate pile a short distance from the rock. As soon as its outline appeared in the mist, he knew what it was. When it emerged as whole, the whiteness and lines of bones and the lines of clothing and armor confirmed that he had found the remains of the unfortunates who had also entered the rocky hills.
He could recognize three skulls among the remains scattered over several square feet. So the monsters overpowered some little party. Tarn looked around to see if he could find any valuables. Everything metal, even the scattered coins, was covered in a strange multi-colored layer of corrosion. Tarn stared at it in astonishment for a moment before realizing that the caustic basilisk saliva had caused it.
"Poisonous foul of shit..." A few extra gold could have been useful.
About half an hour later and the strange smell grew even stronger. The rocks spread out, and Tarn looked out on an open space at least a hundred fathoms wide, its far edge lost in mist. However, the terrain was bumpy and the grass had completely disappeared. Yellow-white wisps of smoke rose from long, narrow cracks.
Am I approaching the gate to Olgerd's realm or what…
He started to walk around the smoking patch to the right, scanning the other side for rocks or other shelter. At that moment the unnatural squeal was heard and very close to his ears. It was coming from the left, from the north. After a few moments the sound died down again and nothing happened. Tarn continued walking, and as expected, crooked silhouettes of rocks began to emerge from the mist on the far side.
Just then the air behind him moved with a powerful gust of wind and the other followed close behind. The stones crunched as if something heavy had fallen. Before Tarn could turn, a booming voice called out:
"So someone managed to get here."
A few paces ahead he saw a huge brown colossus covered in scales.
By Ingar, a dragon…
It stood on two widely spaced legs equipped with arm-long claws. He towered so high that his head was almost lost in the mist. His front legs were relaxed along his body and his back wings were loosely folded.
Tarn backed away slowly, not knowing what to say. He knew of dragons that they were the ancient enemies of all humanoid creatures, but mainly of dwarves since the event a thousand years ago. But the fact that they can speak was not mentioned in any legend. No one from Fingor had seen a real live dragon for hundreds of years.
"And only just a dwarf..." muttered a voice that sounded like a mountain moving. He lowered his head to get a closer look at Tarn. An emerald eye larger than a human head flashed within the dark scales. Even though his heart was very deep in his pants, Tarn held out his axe. He gathered all his courage and strained through his teeth:
"Feel free to eat me, but expect me to knock your tooth out when you do it!"
The dragon jerked its head back a little, then snorted, causing the dwarf's hair and beard to fly. Then he made a deep, gurgling sound, and Tarn realized it was a dragon's laugh. He took another step back and swung with Gray menacingly. The scaly turned his head a bit as the axe suddenly caught his attention. He bent even lower and focused his large eye on the weapon. Then with an ambiguous “Hmmm…” pulled his head back.
Tarn hesitated. He didn't know what to expect. Will the dragon pounce on him the next moment? Will it burn him first with fire or acid breath? Will it rip him apart with its massive claws? Little did he know that the dragon recognized one of the few alloys that could actually harm him. Also magically altered. However, he did not show it.
“Why did you go to this place?” he finally rumbled.
Tarn, expecting an attack, was surprised by the question.
"I got lost. In the damn fog.”
"Really?"
"No, I guess I feel like venturing into the cursed rocks alone and fighting basilisks when I've been trying to avoid them," he snapped.
"Those little creatures have to eat something too, you know."
Tarn shrugged. He was glad they were now feeding on one of their own instead of on him.
“So you're not looking for any treasure?” continued the dragon.
"What would I do with him? I already have a heavy backpack. Do you see a wheelcart anywhere?' The dragon just turned its head and stared at him with its other eye.
"So you're not going to eat me any time soon…?" Tarn began suspiciously.
“Hmmm… probably not. Now I just don't feel like it."
He has kept the fact that he practically no longer lives on meat to himself. In addition, he began to enjoy the little guy's company, he just didn't want to admit it yet.
"And what are you doing here?"
"I live here." The roar of the dragon's voice made the dwarf's guts flutter.
Tarn looked around.
"Clearly. It's just… I've never heard of dragons in Gorion. Actually, not even in known kingdoms. You are thought to live only far north.”
The dragon just watched him in silence. Tarn couldn't tell if the look had some unspoken meaning, like just think over or what an idiot you are.
Tarn, despite being more than ten times smaller than the legendary creature, partially abandoned his fear and adopted a scathing tone.
"Are all dragons this secretive?"
"Are all dwarves this rude and nosy?"
The dragon just stared at him despite his teasing reply. Tarn returned the look. They stared at each other wordlessly for several moments.
Then something unbelievable happened.
The two representatives of the species, who couldn't possibly be more different, laughed at the same time.
"Okay, I guess it's not worth hiding," the dragon relaxed. "I'm already older and I've found a good place to live in these rocks."
That was hard to believe. He shrugged.
"I had no idea dragons let out such a terrible howl."
“Neither dragons nor basilisks. But you will hear for yourself, in a moment.”
Tarn had a question in his eyes.
“Just a second… maybe cover your ears, this one tends to be particularly strong. Five, four, three, two, one…”
The whole area vibrated again. Tarn obeyed and covered his ears. He had to confirm that the sound was the loudest he had heard today.
"What is it?" he asked as the surroundings finally fell silent.
"The earth. Gases are trapped beneath it and are escaping through cracks,” replied the thundering voice.
Suddenly it made sense. And by a strange coincidence, the sound was so menacing and alien that it caused fear rather than curiosity to the vast majority of beings. Everyone thought it was created by some monster. A monster was based here, but still...
"But how did you know when…?"
"I've been here for many, many years, so I have the geyser intervals carved deep inside."
Tarn just shook his head.
The conversation with the titanic being was an experience of a lifetime, but Tarn needed to continue his journey. He wanted to find refuge in nature at least until sunset, if not another inn. He opened his mouth to ask about the way out of the misty labyrinth. But the ancient mind guessed the dwarf's thought, and the dragon spoke first: “Yes, I can show you the way out. It's about if I want to…”
He paused for a moment to add emphasis to the sentence.
"I'm not interested in getting the word out that I'm here. My little helpers can handle the occasional party of adventurers. But if someone organized a larger expedition to hunt me down, the basilisks might not be able to handle it."
Precious dragon scales alone would make people willing to kill each other. And according to legend, dragons always have a great treasure with them. Crowds of adventurers and possibly armies would flock here.
"I would have to spread my wings and move somewhere else. And I don't want that."
"Then I'll find my own way," snorted the dwarf. "I even managed your little 'watchmen'. A few of them didn't notice me at all.”
He was undoubtedly able to control basilisks in some way. But there were none near him, that was strange.
"That's right, you did." The dragon thought. "Perhaps the sulfur fumes have damaged their smelling over the years…"
Again he lowered his huge scaly head and fixed his piercing eyes upon him. "You know what? We'll make a deal. I will not rip you apart, instead I’ll show you the way. And for that you will keep silent about knowing about me.”
The dragon took a breath. He obviously hesitated with next sentence.
“The hot ground around the geysers and the gases themselves do me good. On the joints. I really don't want to leave.”
Tarn scratched his beard. He couldn't believe his ears. Of course, such an agreement was advantageous. He would be a fool not to agree. Still, it was strange how the dragon suddenly switched their roles and assumed position of suppliant. After all, he couldn't feel threatened by him...
"Good," he nodded.
Whether Tarn really wanted to honor such an agreement was another matter. Not that he cared a bit about the monstrous creature. Hundreds of years ago there was an event where a multitude of dragons ravaged all of Nyatar. The destruction was stopped mainly thanks to the dwarven race inventing alloys hard enough to pierce their scaly carapaces. Most of the dragons were wiped out and the handful that remained flew to the northern wastes. Since then, dragons have become mortal enemies to the dwarves.
But now that was just an echo of the past. Tarn had already recognized that, at least in this case, he was dealing with a wise and not all-destructive creature. A few moments ago it looked like he was going to perish - in fact, the danger still lingered. But the dragon's personal charm was simply overwhelming. Despite his menace, he was radiating an aura of majesty and respect - and not just because of his size.
The dragon's face changed and Tarn realized it was a smile.
"I know what you're thinking. How about making an oath?'
Damn, how does he do it? And how does he know that when a khuzd vows, it has the weight and strength of granite?
But he didn't mind. It was still a small price to pay for life.
"Good. Do you have a name, mighty dragon?”
“I do. Given what you want to commit to, I can tell you.”
The name sounded and vibrated. R was three times louder, and some other letters neither humans nor dwarves could pronounce or write. Still, it sounded roughly like: "Fersaedor".
"I, Tarn of Greyrock, swear never to reveal where Fersaedor resides or what can be found in the Cloud Hills."
The dragon snorted contentedly, a ring of smoke coming out of each his nostril.
He didn't lie about several things. He was truly ancient. And that's why he didn't want to have unnecessary injury, even if it was the smallest. He no longer healed as quickly as hundreds of years ago. He pointed his claws a little to the left behind Tarn's back.
“The basilisks won't bother you anymore. If you keep that direction, after a while you will find some pretty big holes in the rocks. I'm sure you'll be looking for a place to sleep.'
"Thank you, Fersaedor."
He tried to say the name with as true an accent as possible, just like when swearing. The dragon smiled sincerely at his attempt, as of course it was far from correct pronunciation.
"Goodbye, Tarn."
The dwarf waved in greeting, though he was aware that it probably looked ridiculous. He backed up a few paces before turning his back on the dragon. Even so, he looked back every few steps before the legendary creature was shrouded in mist.
"Maybe we'll meet again..." added the dragon in a quiet voice. He scratched his lower abdomen. A claw removed a bit of dirty brown coating on the scales and the spot shone with bright bronze.
*
After another hour or so of wandering through the fog, niches began to appear in the rocks. They may really looked like only "holes" to the dragon, but to the humanoid beings they were decently large caves. Tarn chose one of the highest. The sun must have been already setting because the light was fading. The remaining weak rays colored the fog an unhealthy yellow.
“Brrr!” Tarn snorted as he unfolded the blanket. He didn't make a fire, there was almost nothing to make it from - wood from the sparsely occurring bushes would only create smoke. But there was still calmober, so that meant no freezing nights. Although he had already managed sleeping in frost and without frostbite.
He wrapped himself in a blanket and fell fast asleep despite the surreal experiences.
*
He awoke shortly after dawn. Low clouds still covered the landscape, but they were rolling in clumps. Tarn packed up his meager gear and stepped outside the cave. On the western side, the clouds were impenetrable. Looking to the east and south, however, a color other than white and gray flickered through the wisps of fog. He rejoiced and began to climb down from the rock.
He wondered why the dragon suddenly turned like that. The thought had been bothering him since yesterday. Then he realized it - he remembered Fersaedor's look at his weapon. He removed the axe from his back and examined it as he walked.
"Did I forge you so well that a dragon would frighten you, Gray?" This was unexpected but wonderfully satisfying. He had no idea that there was a completely different incident behind it, which he chose to almost forget.
After a few minutes of walking east, the rocks and hills began to lower and the clouds broke. He saw the long ridges of the low Goryon hills. The sight of shades of forest green had never seemed so beautiful to him.
It should only be about fifteen miles to Thos now, he remembered. He will certainly be able to do this by the evening. Without fog, he will easily find the road. And if things go well, he'll cross the borders of Thornal within a week.
He started pacing forward in good spirits.
**********************************
Translation explanations:
* this is maybe the hardest idiom to translate – we have a saying “to drink for an axe”, and it originates from poor craftsmen who didn’t have money, so they hacked their axe into one of the beam supports of the inn, bartering beer for the tool.
“to drink on tin” means to drink until unconsciousness.