The Heart of Silver sailed slowly into the harbour. On the prow, stood Geroedt Ferhand. As the ship docked, the enchantments of the previous owners handling most of the work, his eye was drawn upwards to the blackened mast. He couldn’t help but grimace, they should have known better than to trust that damned fool Draco. A sea-hag matriarch’s territory, left unmarked on his map, had cost them half their sails.
Ashton had been worse. He’d hated the frontier village even before the sorcerer had been eaten by the dragon hatchling they’d been tracking.
But now they were back to civilisation, and fast on the heels of Caudor. The dwarf-lord and his retinue had been headed this way, and Geroedt had many questions to ask the elusive traitor.
“We’re finally here!” he called.
“I know!” shouted back Domros, climbing the stairs from below. The merfolk was tall, even by the standards of his own people, nearly obscuring Rosber, who walked behind him.
Rosber was a mage of modest proportions, dressed, as always, in the uniform of his former conclave. The cloth was unfailingly clean and the buttons polished to a shine, with one of the few spells known by the disgraced wizard.
A town guard in an ill-fitting chain-mail shirt slouched towards the ship. “Welcome to Oldline. Name?”
Geroedt carefully made his way down from the prow. “Captain Ferhand of the Heart of Silver.”
“Purpose of travel?”
“Trying to find an old friend. Heard a rumour he was passing through.”
The guard nodded. “Perfect. There have been issues with smugglers as of late, so the baron is running a curfew for the next two weeks. Anyone about past sundown will be detained.”
“Of course, we can easily take care of our business quickly.”
The guard nodded once again. “Enjoy the town, or what’s left of it.” He turned and began walking back to the hut on the shorefront.
Oldline was a small place. The buildings seemed to huddle together on the small patch of green land between the coast and the rising mountains of the isle. Slightly distanced from the town itself stood the barons estate, a rundown mansion that looked down on the town below. Close by, a second pier jutted out into the still waters.
Several boats were docked, mostly small fishers but with two merchant vessels paused on the way to somewhere else. Above, indignant gulls reeled in the air.
Domros’ voice broke him from his contemplations. “So, what’s the plan?”
“His ship isn’t present,” said Rosber, “We delayed to long with the hatchling. He’ll be long gone by now.”
“Fine.” Geroedt sighed. “You two ask around. I’ll pay my respects to the baron. Who’s in charge here?”
Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.
“You think I’d know you northerner's noble houses?” said Rosber.
“You think I know you human’s nobles?” said Domros.
Geroedt repressed a groan. He’d work something out.
The road to the mansion was paved, but not cared for, and large weeds poked up between the flagstones, leaving bursts of purple flowers here and there. Some kind of crawling pea-flower? He really needed to learn more of the flora of the north.
From close-by, the baron’s house showed signs of recent repairs. Nevertheless, the old building was clearly still in poor condition.
The door opened before he could knock. “You are here to speak to the master?”
Geroedt opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted- “Follow me.”
Baron Greydale, whose first-name hadn’t been uncovered in his brief conversations with the townsfolk, was a greying gentleman with a pronounced limp.
His office was in a state of good repair. Papers littered the velveted desk, with some scraps straying onto the floor. Geroedt, however, was distracted, eyeing the laden bookshelf beside the desk. It was a veritable treasure trove, having so many books in this region.
The baron turned from his work to regard him.
“Welcome captain. What business brings you to trouble me?” His voice was soft, but stern.
“I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of Theran Caudor, my lord. He and his entourage should have passed through a few days ago…”
“Aye, they did.”
After a moments silence, Geroedt decided no further news was forthcoming. He tried again.
“Do you have any information you can share? Its important I find him soon.”
“No.”
Geroedt watched the baron closely. There was a slight hitch to his breathing that seemed to hint at an injury.
“If I might be so bold, are you hurt? I am a healer, myself.” Well, it wasn’t technically a lie, if still a statement that would make Domros roll his eyes.
“I am. It will heal in time, you do not need to trouble yourself.”
“May I see?”
The baron raised his tunic to reveal a festering wound in his side, the flesh rotted and twisted in what seemed to be a crude facsimile of a burn.
Oh shit. There were necromancers nearby.
Reaching up to the amulet around his neck, he cracked one of the wooden pendants. Green light sprang from the runes carved along its edge, and the wound slowly regained colour, as the vital energy flowed forth.
Geroedt considered what he’d just done. Domros would criticise him for helping without a quid pro quo, while Rosber would chide him for wasting a spell.
The baron seemed taken aback, his carefully schooled demeanour shattering, if only for a moment. For another second, he seemed deep in thought.
“Not all of the dwarves left yesterday. One set forth to explore the dwarvish ruins at the base of Emendale. As far as I know, he has yet to return.”
“Now be off, I have work to do.”
Geroedt Ferhand Human Artificer Lv 1 HP: 10 Defense: 16 Speed: 10
Strength:
Dexterity:
Constitution:
Intelligence:
Wisdom:
Charisma:
12
14
14
16
8
12
Skills:
Deception: 3
Stealth: 4
Medicine: 5
Slight of Hand: 4
Boons:
Abilities:
Arcane Engineering
Spellcasting