Sodas, the 17th of Lost Speed, 4E 201

Rolof pointed west to the mountains where, thrusting above snowy peaks, sat an old Nordic ruin. “See that up there? Teak Halls Barrow. I never understood how my sister could stand living in the shadow of that place…I guess you get used to it.”

They’d journeyed some distance, the cave long left behind, encountering no one. The path now dipped down toward a river.

“You all right?” Kharla wasn’t much for such talk, or talk at all comes to that, but the Breton girl hadn’t spoken a word and looked like she’d swallowed Ninnyroot.

Ninnyroot is a bitter-tasting plant that also (and very annoyingly) emits a noise not dissimilar to that of someone playing the triangle both very loudly and very badly. It is named after Ninny, the name of the mortal realm or planet upon which the continent of Tamarind exists. Skewrim sits in the northern part of that continent. The two are colloquially referred to together as the “‘rim and the ‘rind”. I’ve no idea who comes up with these things.

The Breton girl looked up. She wore the garb she put on every night for the light display in the big top: a dusty blue set of hooded wizard robes that had been converted into a dress. “I’m sorry, I’m feeling kind of down.”

“Why’s that?” asked Kharla.

“It’s how I always feel.”

Kharla hadn’t spoken to her at the circus, but the girl always looked sad. Kharla had even seen water coming out of her eyes on more than one occasion. Crying it was called. Kharla never participated in this practice. Maybe Kharla could cheer her up? “What’s your name? I’m Kharla.”

“Oh, my name’s Mell. You…you worked at the circus too, didn’t you?”

Kharla nodded. “Yes, that’s right, Mell.”

“Cleaner, wasn’t it? Or person who mucked out the stables?”

“Uh, no. I guarded the nightly takings.” Why did everyone think she was a cleaner? What kind of cleaner goes around in a banded iron cuirass, hefting a spear, and with two Orcish axes hanging from their belt? She did miss her axes and spear.

Mell frowned. “Money. It doesn’t make you happy, you know.”

Kharla had heard others say that, though she was still working on being in a position to put it to the test.

“So what does make you happy, Mell?”

Mell looked up at the sky. “Rainbows…sometimes.”

“Ah, right. You know, I heard one of those big-city scholars that have nothing better to do with their time tried to weigh a rainbow.”

“Really, what did he find?”

“That is was pretty light.”

Mell gave her a blank stare. Clearly, humor wasn’t going to cut it with this young girl. And that was Kharla’s best joke. Actually, it was her only joke. She had little interest in such things and only remembered it because she’d recently heard it. She hadn’t laughed either, to be fair. Notwithstanding this, she determined that she’d find a way to make this girl laugh or at least smile.

“Ti’lief thinks that was an awful jest,” came the Cat-man’s voice from behind.

“Kharla wasn’t talking to Ti’lief,” Kharla retorted and the Cat-man fell silent.

“Those are the Guardrail Stones,” said Rolof pointing to three stones to their left at the point where the path swung around a bend to follow the course of the river. Each had a hole at its top. “They stop carriages landing up in the water if they take the bend too sharply. Saved quite a few carriages I hear. Drivers not paying attention, I guess. The Guardrail Stones are three of thirteen ancient standing stones that dot Skewrim’s landscape. Go ahead, see for yourself.”

The origin of these magical Standing Stones scattered throughout Skewrim is lost to us. They are attuned in some way to the thirteen constellations, as depicted on their engravings, but anything beyond that is mere speculation. Two theories have developed over the course of time. The first is that they were part of some god’s necklace (hence the holes in the tops of the stones), lost when said god tripped over Tamarind’s highest mountain, the Thrill of the World. The other theory puts forward the view that two gods were playing some board game, with Skewrim as the board and the stones as the playing pieces, and got bored of it.

Kharla and the others went over to the stones to investigate. On closer inspection she saw a constellation on each stone. One depicting a warrior, another a mage, and the final one a thief.

Kharla touched the one with the warrior on it and the stone made a rustling nose, the constellation lit up, and a ray of light shot up into the sky. This elicited a gasp from Mell who looked up at the beam of light with awe. Well, it was a start to lifting the girls’ mood, thought Kharla.

“Warrior, good! Those stars will guide you to honor and glory,” said Rolof.

“You what?” said Kharla.

“The Guardrail Stones enhance any natural talent you have. Not sure how it works. My dad led me down here when I was a just a boy and I chose the warrior stone too.”

Kharla turned toward him. “Maybe you should have told me that first?”

“Ah, where’s the fun in that? It’s more of a surprise this way.”

Kharla grunted. If Rolof pulled something like that again he was going to find out firsthand what a surprise was.

Then everyone wanted a go. Mell was first. She touched the mage stone and watched all the pretty lights spread across the constellation engraved in the stone, and then watched fascinated as the beam shot out the top and disappeared into the sky. She did it again for good measure. Ti’lief touched the thief stone and the same thing happened. He did it once and then took out a cloth and started cleaning some cobwebs off the stone. Then Thral’s warhammer came down on the warrior stone and the structure broke in two.

“Thral beat warrior!” the strongman exclaimed.

Rolof stood with his mouth open staring at the cloven stone.

“Thral!” Kharla scolded the Nord strongman. “Not good. Not good at all!”

Thral seemed upset. “Not good?”

“No, not good,” Kharla confirmed.

Thral hung his head.

“Maybe someone from this village can repair it?” Kharla asked Rolof.

Rolof shook his head in disbelief. “Right, come on let’s get to Riverweed while the path is still intact. Remember, this isn’t Torncloak territory. If we’re ahead of the news from Helga we should be fine, as long as we don’t do anything stupid.”—everyone looked at Thral with some concern—“If we run into any Impeccables, just let me do the talking, all right?”

They hadn’t followed the path alongside the river for more than a hundred paces before Kharla heard a howl followed by two dark-furred wolves leaping out of the bushes onto the path before them. Kharla and Rolof cut them down with little effort.

“I’m glad you decided to come with me,” said Rolof to Kharla as he wiped the blood from his axe on his torn cloak. “I’m not sure I could have dealt with two wolves.”

Kharla thumped him on the upper arm.

***

They were nearly at the gate to the village when Kharla saw the Frostboot Spider come sort of lolloping up in the periphery of her vision. Her warrior reflexes, already heightened in readiness from the wolf attack, kicked in and in one fluid motion she buried her axe into the spider’s head with its two eyes as it yelped.

“What the…?” Kharla exclaimed as she looked at the crumpled body on the floor. Someone had tied some furs and branches to a dog and painted both dog and foliage white to make it look like a Frostboot Spider.

“Oh dear,” said Rolof who stood staring at the dog. “Let’s just put that under the bushes for now. I’ll deal with it later.”

After hiding the dog, Rolof led them through the Riverweed gateway somewhat sheepishly. “Looks like nobody here knows what happened.”

“That’s what I find in a lot of villages,” Draloth said.

“I mean about what happened in Helga,” Rolof added.

“Oh right,” said Draloth.

“Come on,” Rolof urged, “Gertrude’s probably working in her lumber mill.”

“A dragon, I saw a dragon!” insisted an old lady from her porch to a young man in the road.

“What? What is it now, Mother?” said her son.

“It was as big as the mountain,” his mother continued, “and black as night. It flew right over the barrow.”

“Dragons now is it?” her son asked. “Last week it was a Spriggan that turned out to be a tree, and the week before that an Ice Wraith that was no more than a cloud of dust from the mill. And we won’t mention last month when you mistook the blacksmith in his fur cloak for a Werewolf.”

“You’ll see! It was a dragon! It’ll kill us all, gobble us up, burn us to ash, and then you’ll believe me!”

Kharla moved out of earshot as Rolof led her and the others off to the left toward the river and the mill.

“Gertrude!” Rolof shouted as they moved around the back of the mill.

A woman in a green dress looked up from her labor. “Brother! Maria’s mercy, it’s good to see you! But is it safe for you to be here? We heard that Oldthred had been captured…Are you hurt? What happened?”

"Gertrude... Gertrude, I'm fine. At least now I am."

"And who are these? Your comrades?"

"Not comrades yet, but friends. I owe them my life, in fact. Is there somewhere we can talk? There's no telling when the news from Helga will reach the Impeccables..."

“I thought you ended that relationship over a year ago?”

“No, not the woman, the outpost.”

“Ah, I see. You're right. Follow me."

Gertrude led Rolof and the others to a more secluded spot next to a wide tree stump near the river. “Rod! Come here a minute. I need your help with something."

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

“What is it, woman? Steven drunk on the job again? Or is he off playing that lute again in hopes of composing the perfect sonnet for his sweetheart?” Rod’s voice boomed back in reply.

"Rod. Just come here."

A man in a creased and somewhat stained white tunic appeared on the lumber mill’s platform above. "Rolof! What are you doing here? Ah... I'll be right down."

"Uncle Rolof!” cried a young boy as he came and grabbed Rolof around the waist. “Can I see your axe?” he asked as Rolof ruffled the boy’s hair. “How many Impeccables have you killed? Do you really know Oldthred Torncloak? Is it true that a Torncloak is worth four Legion soldiers in a battle? Are Torncloaks really so tough that they go sleeveless even in the north? Is it true that a greatsword swings faster than a battleaxe, and a warhammer is the slowest of all? Can—”

"Hush, Freddy,” said Gertrude. “This is no time for your endless questions. Go and watch the south road. Come find us if you see any Impeccable soldiers coming."

"Aw, Mama, I want to stay and pester Uncle Rolof!"

Rolof squatted down by his nephew. "Look at you, almost a grown man! Won't be long before you'll be joining the fight yourself and driving your captain up the wall with all your questions and pranks."

"That's right! Don't worry, Uncle Rolof, I won't let those soldiers sneak up on you without pranking them real hard!"

Freddy left to go watch the road, eagerness on his little face as he ran. He didn’t see Thral and ran straight into him, bouncing off the large Nord’s massive leg and falling to the ground. The boy got up and looked at Thral. “You’re new around here, so I’ll go easy on you, but don’t get on my bad side.”

And so saying he skipped off and Thral watched him with a confused look on his face.

"Now, Rolof, what's going on?” Rod said as he approached. “You lot look pretty well done in."

Rolof sat down on the stump. “Ouch!” He stood up sharp nursing his backside and looking down at the stump where he saw a particularly spiky handful of Tundra Cotton.

“Ah, sorry about that,” Gertrude said. “Freddy must’ve stuck that to you when he hugged you. He did it to Rod last week and several people in the Leaping Giant Inn a few days later.”

Rolf brushed the spiky plant away and examined his uniform. “I think that’s torn my cloak.” He retook his position on the stump. “I can't remember when I last slept...Where to start? Well, the news you heard about Oldthred was true. The Impeccables ambushed us outside Dankwater Crossing. Five to one. We never had a chance. Like they knew exactly where we'd be. That was... two days ago now. Then we went to Helga—”

Rod frowned. “Wait, I thought you finished with her—”

“The outpost, not the woman,” Gertrude and Rolof repeated in unison.

“As I was saying, we stopped in Helga this morning, and I thought it was all over. Had us lined up to the headsman's block and ready to start chopping."

“The cowards!” Gertrude spat on the floor. Ti’lief looked disgusted with the woman.

"They wouldn't dare give Oldthred a fair trial. Treason, for fighting for your own people! All of Skewrim would have seen the truth then. But then...out of nowhere...a dragon attacked..."

Gertrude’s eyes widened. "You don't mean, a real, live—"

"I can hardly believe it myself,” Rolof interrupted. “And I was there. As strange as it sounds, we'd be dead if not for that dragon. In the confusion, we managed to slip away. Are we really the first to make it to Riverweed?"

"Nobody else has come up the south road today, as far as I know," said Gertrude.

Rolof nodded. "Good. Maybe we can lay up here for a while. I hate to put your family in danger, Gertrude, but..."

"Nonsense. You and your friends are welcome to stay for as long as you need to. Let me worry about the Impeccables.” Gertrude turned to Kharla and the others. “Any friends of Rolof are friends of mine."

Ti’lief showed an array of feline teeth in what must have been a smile.

“We are most grateful,” said the Dark Elf. He pulled unsuccessfully at the dried spittle still binding his hand and arm fast. “I don’t suppose I could inconvenience you for some soap and warm water?”

“Of course, erm…” Gertrude looked at the Dark Elf, her eyebrows raised.

“Oh, Draloth Incando, a merchant by trade, at your service. And the Orc is Kharla Ironback, the Nord strongman here is Thral, the Khapiit is Ti’lief and this,”—he indicated toward the Breton girl standing next to him—“is Mell Onkoleah.”

“It is good to meet you all. I am Gertrude. My family founded Riverweed a few generations ago. We run the lumber mill here. You must all be tired, you can rest in my house, but I must ask something of you. Riverweed is defenceless. Someone needs to get word to Jarl Baldgoof in Whiteruin so he can send some guards. He’ll believe someone who was at Helga, who saw the dragon. Obviously, Rolof cannot go as it would be too dangerous for a Torncloak what with there being some Impeccable presence in the city.”

Rolof smiled. "Thanks, sister. I knew we could count on you."

"I ought to get back to work before I'm missed, but... did anyone else escape? Did Oldthred..."

Rolof raised a hand. "Don't worry. I'm sure he made it out. It'll take more than a dragon to stop Oldthred Torncloak."

Rod looked at Kharla and the others. "Right, I'll let them into the house and, you know, show them where everything is..."

Gertrude frowned. "Hmph. Help them drink up our mead, you mean." She looked around. “You know, I’m surprised that Stomp hasn’t come to greet you, Rolof. You know how that old dog is always so pleased to see you. Anyway, good luck, brother. I'll see you later.”

Kharla frowned and looked at Rolof.

Rolof smiled nervously at his sister. "Ah, right…well, er…don't you worry about me. I know how to lay low."

Gertrude went back to her work as Rolof and the others followed Rod.

“I told you my sister would help us out,” Rolof said to Kharla and the others as they made their way through Riverweed.

A Wood Elf chopping wood on the side of the road stopped and looked at Kharla as she passed. “Hey, did I see you talking to Steven?”

“Uh?” responded Kharla, frowning.

“Maybe not. Maybe…never mind. But I would stay away from him if I were you.”

“Right,” Kharla grunted and left the Elf behind.

“Excuse me,” said the young man who had been talking with his elderly mother when they’d first entered Riverweed.

“Yes?” said Kharla.

“Did I see you speaking to Vandal?”

“Who?”

“Vandal, that ugly Wood Elf?”

“No, he was talking to me. I wasn’t talking to him. Anyway, who are you?”

“I’m Steven. Vandal thinks he can woo Caramella Vicarious away from me. She’s already mine, by proxy, I keep telling him.”

“Not my problem.” Kharla left Steven standing there as she caught up to the others who were making their way to the side of the village that edged the mountains.

***

“Please, take anything you need,” said Rod after they’d entered the home at the back of Riverweed.

And so they did. Kharla found herself a second axe, some more arrows, and a mug of mead. Mell took all the potions she could find as well as the home’s only two books. Draloth grabbed an empty sack from the floor and started taking everything he thought he might be able to sell, which was just about everything left in the house except for the food and the furniture, the former of which began to be consumed by Thral in vast quantities. He’d obviously built up quite an appetite with all that warhammer swinging. Ti’lief, meanwhile, started rearranging the furniture and giving the house a good clean. Rolof just sat down and went to sleep. Rod looked on somewhat shocked, no doubt wondering if there’d be anything left by the time the visitors left.

It wasn’t long before Thral had also fallen asleep. The strongman snored loudly as the bed he lay sprawled over, his feet on the floor, creaked beneath his weight.

“Rolof don’t like those Impeccables. Can’t say I blame him. What about you?”

“I’ve other things to mind than war, but I’m no lover of the Legion or their Empire. But Rolof has more cause to hate them than me.”

Kharla drained her mug. “How so?”

“Rolof used to be friends with Hadvar.”

“Oh, you mean Hasvar. He was at Helga. There seemed a great anger between them.”

“Aye, that there is. But Hasvar is Hadvar’s brother.”

Kharla frowned and put her mug down.

“You see Var, Rolof’s childhood friend, disappeared and was thought dead. So the parents decided to call their new son Var, after their dead son. Then Var, the original one, turns up. Seems he had bumped his head falling out of a tree and couldn’t remember who he was for over a year. He’d wandered north to the city and had survived by a combination of begging and selling worthless items to guilt-tripped visitors.”

The room lit up as Mell conjured some orbs of light in the corner, each a different color. It seemed to cheer her up. Well, not to the point of smiling, but the downcast mouth was a little less downcast. Kharla had seen her displays at the circus, though often from a distance or through the canopy’s canvas. She was very good.

Rod looked at the display briefly, eyes alight like a little boy, then turned back to Kharla. “Anyway, so Var comes back and his parents are delighted but then decides he doesn’t want to stay because he doesn’t like Var, the second Var that is, Var the Younger if you will, and so he leaves. In order to avoid confusion, the parents call their youngest son, the one who stayed, Hasvar and the older one, the one who went, Hadvar. Make sense?”

“Not really,” said Kharla.

Rod carried on anyway. “So Rolof kind of got upset with Hasvar because he lost his childhood friend a second time. And then of course that only got worse when Hasvar joined the Impeccable Legion.”

“And what happened to Hadvar?” Kharla asked as Ti’lief dusted the pictures on the wall behind them.

“Ah, now you see that’s what really turned Rolof against the Legion. When Hadvar found out that a tree had been the whole cause of all his woes, he swore to take up a profession cutting the blighters down. A sort of arboreal vengeance, I guess. Anyway, he became a tree surgeon but took things a little too far. He was arrested by the Legion for ‘gross breach of etiquette’ after cutting down a rather fine oak that was a particular favorite of the Legion for hanging and then displaying convicts. He got ill in prison and died there. Hadvar was Rolof’s friend, but Hasvar, alas, a foe. Rolof feels he betrayed his brother as well as the Skewrim itself. We had to keep them apart even before the Uncivil War started.”

“How much do you think this jug will go for?” asked Draloth, holding up a copper pitcher that had been sitting on the top of a cupboard. “Never mind, I think I have it.” He scribbled something down in a thin leather-bound book and placed the jug into his burgeoning sack.

The door opened and in walked Gertrude. “Is everyone rested? Did you decide who was going to get word to Jarl Baldgoof?”

No one replied.

Kharla stood. “Guess I can go. Are there any horses in Riverweed?”

“Nah,” began Rod, “only a cow, though it’s quite big. Probably could even put up with your Nord’s weight. Belongs to the blacksmith and his wife but I’m sure they’ll be willing to part with it to protect Riverweed. Besides, if I have to let go of the entire contents of my house I’m sure they can surrender their second income.”

Kharla screwed up her face. “I’m not riding a cow.”

Draloth perked up at the mention of the beast. “I’ll take the cow!”

“So you’re coming?” Kharla asked.

“Yes, I can sell off this junk,”—he held up the sack of items he’d collected from the house—“at the General Goods store in Whiteruin and invest in some quality merchandise to build up my wares again after the Empire confiscated all my previous stock.”

“I’ll come too. I like to keep moving. It’s one of the reasons I joined a traveling circus. Sad staying in one place too long.” Mell sent her balls of light up to the ceiling where they popped out of existence in an explosion of color.

“Ti’lief likes the idea of going to Whiteruin. He will find more houses there than in Riverweed, yes? That is good for Ti’lief.”

Thral belched and sat up from the bed. “Is there more food in city?”

“Yes, Thral,” Kharla replied.

“How we get there?”

“We’ll follow the signposts,” Kharla said.

Thral frowned. “Signposts are going to city too?”

Kharla shook her head. “No, the name is written on the signposts on the road.”

“Thral not read so well.”

“Yeah, don’t worry. You can just follow us,” Kharla said.

Thral smiled and fell back onto the creaking bed again.

“You can’t miss it anyway,” Gertrude added. “It’s the capital of Whiteruin Hold. Jarl Baldgoof still hasn’t declared for one side or the other, so at least you won’t run into any Impeccables along the way.”

“Did Oldthred really murder the High King?” Kharla asked.

“Some say murdered, but it was a lawful challenge in the old way. Oldthred called him out as a traitor to Skewrim and used a particularly offensive insult. The boy dropped dead on the spot. Not used to such things, you see. Brought up too soft.”

“So Oldthred is now High King?”

“The true High King, but the boy Toerag left a young wife, Elusif. She’s seldom seen, but she’s Jarl of Solicitude now and has a counterclaim to Oldthred as High Queen of Skewrim. A claim that the Empire is of course fully supporting, but she’s nothing more than a puppet.”

***

By the time they’d drained Rod’s last barrel of mead—which wasn’t very long with Thral in the house—they were all ready to leave. Draloth, now free of Frostboot Spider spittle, had packed his newly found wares on the cow.

“So you think I should join up with Oldthred Torncloak?” Kharla asked Rolof as they and Gertrude stood on the porch watching Rod instruct Draloth on the fine art of using a goad.

“Too right. We could use some good Orc warriors like you to help free Skewrim. You’ve seen the true face of the Empire today. We’ll show those faithless dogs who this land belongs to! Come find me at Windfarm, Oldthred’s capital, when you’re done in Whiteruin.”

“I wonder what it means? The appearance of that dragon, I mean.” Gertrude said.

“If anyone will know, it’s Oldthred,” said Rolof.

Kharla looked at the Torncloak. “You think Oldthred knows where the dragon came from?”

“Well…maybe not. Dragons haven’t been seen in Skewrim for an age or more. But wherever that dragon came from, and whatever it wants, Oldthred will get to the bottom of it. You can count on that. Besides, you have your own score to settle with the Empire now. And with that dragon.”

That was true, thought Kharla. And she would settle them both. By Malarkey, she would.

Many of the Orcs worship Malarkey. God of malicious games, foul curses, and fine cheeses. The history of this Deirdra is confused and unreliable, with external sources in violent disagreement. Perhaps it would have helped if the Orcs had written more things down instead of relying solely upon an oral tradition coupled with a propensity for forgetting to then tell their children said oral tradition. Getting Kharla to even sit down and tell me her account was like pulling teeth. And Orc teeth at that.

And as the five of them finally left, cow in tow, Kharla turned and mouthed “Sorry about the dog” to Rolof as he stood on the porch waving them goodbye.