Cicadas, the 23rd of Lost Speed, 4E 201

“Usborne? Is it really you?” said Darleen on seeing them as they walked into the Leaping Giant.

“No, I’m Max!” Usborne looked at Kharla and grinned. “Just kidding!” He turned back to the innkeeper. “Darleen! I…it’s good to see you. It’s been…a long time.”

They’d ridden back after they left the Ratwee, all except Kharla who’d given her horse to Usborne. The pace had been leisurely though, so she’d easily kept up. Most of the journey had been taken up with Mell and Usborne talking about books. Mell had been thrilled to learn he was an author not only of scholarly works but also of a few historical romance novels.

“It’s good to see you, too, Usborne,” said Darleen. “It’s been too long, old friend. Too long. You made it, safe and sound.”

“Yes, quite safe…though a little saddlesore. Not been on a horse for years. Oh, and thanks for not filling them in on the details of that ‘incident’ on the 30th of Fastfall,” said Usborne, winking.

Darleen gave the old man a knowing look. “No problem.”

“Welcome back!” said Draloth to Kharla, Ti’lief and Mell.

“Hey, did you arrest any criminals?” asked Eilgird.

“No,” said Mell. “They were all killed.”

“Even better!” said Eilgird. “Nasty criminal scum!”

“Right,” said Darleen. “Come on, we can talk down below.”

The Blade innkeeper led them down to the safe room and then turned to speak to Usborne again.

“I assume you know about the…”

“Oh yes! Dragonbore! Indeed, yes. This changes everything, of course.”

A wide-eyed Thral came bounding down the steps. “Orc lady!”

Kharla grimaced as the big Nord hugged her. “Yes, all right. Usborne, this is Thral, Thane of Whiteruin, and the Dragonbore.”

Usborne nodded at Thral. “Greetings, Thral, Bane of Whiteruin! A Nord. As it should be, of course. Now, there’s no time to lose. We must locate…let me show you.” Usborne looked in his shoulder bag, rummaged around in it for a while, and then pulled out a book. “Ah, here it is!” He placed the book on the table, opened it, and pointed to a page. “You see, right here. It mentions an old Blades’ base known as Ski Haven Temple. It’s also the location of Alun’s Wall!”

“Alun’s Wall? What’s that, Usborne?” asked Darleen.

“It’s a wall upon which is inscribed the sum knowledge of dragonlore. A hedge against the forgetfulness of centuries,” explained the old man.

“Wait, there’s a hedge as well as a wall?” asked Ti’lief. “Is there a garden too?”

Usborne frowned at the Cat. “No, it’s just a saying…Anyway, its location was lost, but I have found it!”

“And this helps us how?” asked Kharla.

Usborne sighed. “The ancient Blades knew about Alun’s return. The lore recorded on the Wall is part history but also part prophecy. It may tell us how to defeat Alun.”

Kharla nodded. This was information she’d need if she was to slay the big black dragon that had bested her at Helga and High Healthspa. “And where is this Ski Haven Temple?”

“Far to the west.” He put a finger on Darleen’s table map. “Around here.”

“I know that area of the Reich,” said Darleen. “It’s called Craftspire. It’s occupied by the Foreshorn. Dangerous territory. It won’t be easy to get to.”

“Is there an inn near this place?” asked Kharla.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

***

Usborne sat looking dazed on the handcart attached to Bessie. “Oh my, that was quite...interesting.”

Draloth had found the unused handcart in Riverweed and fixed it to Bessie. It provided some extra space for Darleen and Usborne to hitch a ride on the Sprint. Of course, it would also provide more room for loot in the future.

Darleen said nothing about the experience of sitting in a handcart tied to a cow on the outskirts of Riverweed one moment and then in the heart of the Reich outside a remote inn the next. She just got right on with business. “Right, the path to the north through the hills is the one we need. It bends westward and we’ll be in the highland above Craftspire in no time. We can be there before dark I reckon.”

Thral walked into the inn.

Kharla looked at Darleen. “He just needs to wet his whistle. These Sprints build up a thirst…”

They managed to extricate Thral from Old Holdon—the name of the inn—surprisingly fast, due to the Nord being very put off his drinking by the presence of a patron who seemed to be a ghost.

The path to the land overlooking Craftspire was covered quickly with no incidents except for a mine owner warning them about entering his mine because it’d been overtaken by Daughtr who were having some kind of a rave or party below. A guard had been posted at the entrance, though whether this was to keep people out or to keep the Daughtr in wasn’t clear.

Kharla looked down over the area of the Reich Darleen had called Craftspire. Two stone structures flanked the river and, between them, lay a network of wide wooden walkways dotted with large hide tents. Several Bretons dressed in earth-toned clothes, adorned with various rings, bracelets, anklets, and necklaces, mostly made of carved bone, walked the bridges or idled about the tents or stood upon the stone structures. All had the front part of their head shaved.

“When I was growing up my mother told me these ‘Foreshorn’ Bretons were an apple short of an apple dumpling,” said Mell.

“That may be so,” said Darleen, “but they’re not to be underestimated, especially their leaders and patrons.”

The Foreshorn patrons are the dreaded Hugravens, a twisted fusion of witch and raven, with an old cabbage and a sprinkling of rat droppings thrown in for good measure. The Hugravens claim their victims by means of a crushing hug with their long, powerful arms. Foreshorn leaders are strong warriors, but also gifted with certain qualities by the Hugravens by way of a rite in which the Foreshorn has his brain removed and replaced with the brain of a bird (traditionally the sinister and intelligent raven, but often the Hugravens opt for the less expensive sparrow). These leaders are called Birdbrains. They often exhibit keen sight and even a limited power of flight if they flap their arms fast enough during a favorable wind.

“I think we need to be on the far side,” said Usborne, pointing to the stone structure on the other side of the river. “That entrance at the top of the steps is my guess,” said Usborne.

“It couldn’t have been on this side of the river, could it?” said Draloth. “That would’ve been too easy!”

“I can’t see any way around. Even if we were on the other side, there’s no avoiding the Foreshorn,” said Darleen. “It looks like their annual craft fair is in progress. We could pretend to be customers, here to buy their handmade wares, but we’d need to go across no more than two at a time…”

“Well it sounds better than fighting them all,” said Usborne. “I’m really too old for all that these days.”

Kharla and Thral were the last two to cross. The descent was too steep for Bessie so Eilgird had doubled back to the mine and asked the guard outside if he wouldn’t mind keeping an eye on the cow for her for a little while.

Kharla watched as the pair before them, Eilgird and Mell, reached the steps on the other side of the river. They’d come up with a cover story to explain why Eilgird was dressed as a Whiteruin Guard—she was Mell’s bodyguard. And Mell, being a Breton like the Foreshorn, would most likely be accepted by them. An Orc and a Nord were going to have a harder time of it, which was why they were going last, in case it all went sideways.

Kharla scrambled down the drop to an area of ground just out of view of the Foreshorn, Thral following. At the base sat a stone table with a dead giant splayed out upon it. They hurried forward past a small hide tent from which strange noises came. Squawking and muttering sounds. Then they reached the stone structure. Steps led up but they ignored these and walked out nonchalantly onto the wooden platform and into the view of the Foreshorn.

A sandwich board sat on the bridge. It read ‘Craftspire Fair — Inspire your craft by visiting our handmade craft tents today.’ Kharla and Thral were getting strange looks now, so Kharla stopped at the entrance to one of the tents and randomly picked up a handmade product from a wooden table.

“Do you like it?” said a Breton woman dressed in furs, her ears riddled with bone rings.

Kharla looked down at the object in her hand. A small bowl-shaped drum.

“It’s made from Orc skin,” the Foreshorn added.

Kharla put it down and carried on.

“What’s this?” came a high-pitched yet cruel voice.

Kharla turned to see huge gray-pink arms wrap around Thral’s arms and torso. He dropped his warhammer and struggled against the powerful limbs.

“This one’s strong, yes. Pretty too. Hard for Boutiqua to crush, but not impossible. No!” came the voice from behind the Nord.

Thral struggled and turned so that Kharla now saw the hideous creature that had embraced him. In addition to its sinuous yet strong arms with clawed hands, it had the legs of a bird and the face of an old woman and feathers sprouted from its head and various other places on its grotesque body. Kharla knew what it was. She’d heard the descriptions before. A Hugraven.

It was hard to tell if Thral was afraid of the Hugraven’s deadly embrace or simply annoyed. Whatever the case, Kharla didn’t think much of their chances. She fell back toward Thral as dozens of Foreshawn, weapons drawn and shouting “For the Reich!”, closed in on them…