Shield Maiden #1
“A few leagues from here, surrounded by old trees is is a hill buried beneath the forest,” Rodda said, “Built within this hill is the remains of Quasqueton, the fortress dungeon of two particularly successful, if rather enigmatic and sometimes hostile adventurers named Rogahn and Zelligar, the last two surviving members of Old Night Companion, or ONC,” Rodda explained. Out of the group, she was born in Winter Haven and had foremost knowledge on its local history, “The Old Night Company was established before Duke Stefan had created the Grand Duchy, back when Specularum was known as the Free City of Mirros and it was considered and backwater domain of the Empire.”
Leowyn nodded, “I’ve heard of the Old Night Company from my time living in Threshold. Rogahn is infamous for establishing another keep after retiring from the company, something that was entirely his own. I recall from some of the local washerwomen who did the keep’s laundry that it was there when Rogahn was approached by Zelligar to ride out again. This Quasqueton might be their second base?”
“It would not surprise me. Onatah here came upon some old maps in town that were stored in the village hall where some of the laborers had used to travel there. That’s why we’ve formed this party, to investigate the possible location of Quasqueton.”
“No one has seen or heard from either Zelligar or Rogahn for years. Hopefully they have moved on from this dungeon, or died off. The years have gone by, but they were formidable opponents,” Onatah noted, “I would have saved you regardless, but it is most fortunate that we did save you, Shield Maiden. We were hoping you would travel with us.”
“As your shield?” Leowyn asked.
Onatah nodded slowly, he was joined by the others, “That would be most helpful for our cause.”
“I have to go south to the Black Eagle Barony. This map is north from here? Why can’t you find another fighter to escort you there?”
“But we could use you for two purposes. One, you are at least tough as you survived your wounds for at least two days if not more. You also might know who attacked you and the wagon you were hired to guard on the road that brought you into our care. We could help you settle the score with the attackers,” Onatah said.
Leowyn frowned, closing her eyes as she tried to remember that terrible night that she was wounded. She had recalled she was traveling south from Threshold, working as a caravan guard for a pair of brothers hailed from the desert emirates from the north, the Raizuli Brothers they were called. They had traded in Threshold fine glassware and beads from Ylaruam. They offered swords made of folded steel, curved scimitar, falchions, and talwars that stood out against the common longsword and shortsword that the people of Karameikos were used to. The Raizuli’s carried with them silks imported from the Golden Realm of the Most Honored Khan, and even rich furs that came from the northern coast. What brothers lacked was a guide and a local who could vouch for their presence as honest traders and not thieves or charlatans. Leowyn served that purpose. She was well compensated to escort and lend her reputation and appearance as a native of Karameikos for the brothers. It had all gone to ruin and fire when a goblin raiding party had attacked the caravan. Instinctively, Leowyn touched her shoulder where she could still feel the flames from the burning caravan. The cries of the fallen and the laughter as goblins had grabbed what they could. Leowyn had taken a sharp blow to the knee and another to the head that had left her dazed, but ultimately alive. The goblin band had not cut the throats of the fallen, they were too eager to escape with what they had stolen, which permitted Leowyn to crawl away and ultimately be found by Onatah.
“It was a band,” Leowyn said, “I recall seeing their standard, the fish made of bones.”
“Scabberhorn Band,” Onatah said.
“How horrible,” Templeton added to the conversation. The harengon was wide eyed as Leowyn relayed her memories of those events to the assembled group, all except for Rodda, who tended the bar when the clientele had picked up. As soon as the last man had his cups in front of him filled with beer, she appeared again, cleaning a spare glass with the bar towel that hung from her apron and asked, “What did I miss?”
Leowyn blinked back hot tears and reached for her drink, “I need to avenge those men who trusted me. Even at the cost of seeing my beloved.” Leowyn had to repeat her story for Rodda second time
“Help us with Quaqueston, and as Onatah promised, we will help you deal with these miscreants,” Rodda said.
“The trail where I had found you is along the way to the fortress, maybe this will serve both our ends,” Onatah said, “Would you join us then?”
“At least as far as stopping these goblins. After that I would consider it,” Leowyn needed to repay the debt. Although she longed to ride south and get on the right track to find her betrothed, she was pleased that the help the rest of the party had offered would put her on the same track of avenging the Raizuli’s and anyone else that was lost in the caravan during that first trek.
Before they could leave, Rodda performed one more shift before she would be ready to kiss Vernor goodbye, gather her belongings, and then ride out again for adventure. All she had to do was wait for the others to get their gear as well.
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The party leaves from Winter Haven and travels north, the first stop was to Onatah’s hovel that was outside of town. Although he was committed to the party, and to the protection of Winter Haven, Onatah was a hermit who preferred his garden and solitude, much like Templeton, but even Templeton’s ‘barrow, the former Halfling hole that he had bought, was only a short walk from town and up a well trod path.
The party had also stopped by Templeton’s to pick up his and Leowyn’s gear, all she had left that was found near her was the shield she had discarded when she walked away dazed, and her sword which was missing one of the jewels that tipped the crossguard. Her travelers clothes smelled freshly laundered and her breastplate was given a perfunctory cleaning, but she could still see a bloodstain that made her wince. Other items were donated from the party’s belongings. A new, but used backpack, a beat up lantern, a few pints of oil, trail rations made of wafers, nuts, and dried fruit - what Templeton had to spare. Looking down at her longsword, testing its weight one more time, Leowyn sheathed her blade and walked back out to join the others.
From there, the party marched forth, ever a colorful menagerie of a shield maiden clad in shades of red and brown, her clothes had been cleaned by the fastidious Templeton, although some portions of her tunic and breeches had to be patched over with whatever spare cloth the Harengon had on hand.
Following Leowyn was another being clad in red, Onatah, whose white fur contrasted with the crimson habit that he wore, the skirt of his robe missing the ground by inches as he was held up by two bone colored hooves. Hanging from his neck was his symbol of devotion to that of Ixion, the Fiery Wheel. Also known as the Fire Lord, the Morning Glory, or the Sun Prince.
Leowyn spoke up, breaking from the marching order to walk abreast with Onatah, “Are you a true cleric of the Wheel?”
Onatah brushed his thumb on the symbol, shaking his head, “I am what my people in the Brokenlands call a Shaman, although some of my kin would draw on the darker aspects of the natural world to fuel their magic. I have always tried to stay in balance with the natural forces of the world. Of those forces, I was always drawn to the destruction and renewal of fire and the storm over the leaf and seed, thus,” Onatah lifted the wheel, “I honor Ixion of all the Immortals.”
“The Brokenlands? You are not from Karameikos?”
“My immediate kin are from these parts, dwelling in the forest, avoiding the founding wars when the first men fought the beastmen. We had our own dealing with those snapping jaws, but at the same time were aware that humans… they would not have cared for our clans, and we probably would have had conflict with the humans. Some of my folk immigrated from here into the mountains, seeking shelter within the hidden cities of the Dragonborn. I am the last in this region, and my knowledge of herbs and willingness to heal is what has allowed me to live in relative peace.”
Traveling behind the two, clad in a two-toned blue and bronze coat, was Templeton. He walked alone as Rodda was scouting ahead of the group, using her natural halfling talents of stealth to see a threat before they saw her. Templeton had possessed those same abilities, but two could be a crowd when it came to scouting. Like Onatah, Templeton was at home in the woodland regions. He never tripped over an exposed root or got caught on a vine. His fur covered paws were sure footed and tough against any exposed thorns that often pricked human skin. His ears flared up when he heard the first noise and touch Onatah’s arm, “Rodda’s coming.”
Rodda appeared at the end of the trail, putting a finger to her lips, “Scabberhorn clan have found a clearing with a wash for fresh water.”
Leowyn looked around, suddenly recognizing some of the trails that she crossed, “This is roughly the place where I was attacked. We were stopped at a wash when the goblins struck.”
After a pause with Rodda holding up her finger, she and Templeton were both cautious to any noise being made by the group, Rodda gestured with her hand for the group to follow her up a short incline to the last vestiges of the treeline. The sound of the washes babbling could be heard, broken up by the cursing and jabbering of goblin tongue, followed by the snapping of wood or the scattering of rocks.
At the top of the incline, the path sloped down out of the treeline into a grassy clearing where the last of the Raizuli supply wagons had ended up after the raid. There were a half-dozen raiders altogether, with another goblin sat astride a ragged gray wolf acting as the officer in charge, taking short pulls from a stolen flask as he watched goblins break apart the slim pickings of wagon frames for firewood, discarded and broken metal from chest hinges was piled to one side, with plans to melt the metal down and forge arrowheads for the goblin shortbows. While four of the goblins were preparing camp, two of the goblins had a detail to fill up waterskins and canteen in the cold stream.
“I don’t know what they are saying,” Rodda said.
“They are waiting for another group to join them for ranging,” Onatah said, looking at the others he noted, “Not all of my kin who went into the mountains stayed there permanently, a few came down and brought with them the tongue of the goblinoids.”
“Those are the goblins that attacked my caravan,” Leowyn growled, fingering her sword.
“You’re the only fully armored,” Rodda said, “I need to get in closer to use this.” Like many halflings, Rodda favored either a sling or shortbow, Vernor was the better bowman of the couple, Rodda carried a sling with a belt pouch at her waist dedicated to flat sling stones.
Leowyn nodded, “I’ll count to sixty, be careful going down there.”
Rodda nodded and used a rough cut trail through the decline to reach the flat outer plane of the clearing.
Both goblins that were filling canteens had not bothered to set a watch at the treeline. The caravan that they had struck was the first interaction with any humans since the past month. Boss Scabberhorn was well aware of the hated village that was close by, but that the humans knew to give the greater hills and cold marshes a wide berth in their travels, when those humans did move through what was claimed as Scabberhorn territory, they did so with a team of armed guards or stalwart adventurers that made raiding them too risky. The latest caravan were not native and only had a few poorly trained guards to put up a fight.
Rodda had gotten within sling range, slinking low and sticking to whatever brush or stone that she could find that concealed her approach. As long as she stood still, even those goblin eyes at her level never seemed to notice her. As she moved, Rodda mentally clicked off the seconds before Leowyn had planned to charge into the clearing to get her revenge.
At the incline, Leowyn slowly drew her sword, she too was counting. Looking on either side she could sense Onatah gripping his quarterstaff while Templeton’s fur covered fingers drew a symbol in the air as he softly chanted a spell of protection. For a moment, the symbol the harengon drew glowed in a soft scintillating color, as if he could conjure a rainbow with his fingers. The symbol pulsed once before it broke apart and the coloring filtered onto Templeton’s person before fading back into the normal coloring of his clothes. He had created armor that would flare when it was absorbing a blow from some future arrowhead or, immortals forfend, a sword that had gotten close to the normally nimble footed magic-user.
Rodda held her breath when she peeked around the corner and saw her eyes lock onto a pair of yellowing eyes that were surrounded by dark orange skin of one of the Scabberhorn goblins. For a moment, Rodda thought she detected a flicker of recognition, as if the goblin realized that there was no mere collection of bushes, but an actual humanoid watching him. She dug her fingers into her palm, the loop of her sling wrapped around her finger. She was ready to take a single goblin, but if he shouted off a warning, Rodda knew she would be in trouble.
“I’ve come back to avenge those who fell here!” Leowyn shouted at the wolf rider as she stepped out of the woods, drawing her longsword and hoisting her shield, “And this time I do not stand alone.”
Leowyn had drawn the goblin’s attention, so much so that when Rodda’s target shifted his stance to look up at the incline, Rodda stood up from the bush, sling in one hand, rock in another. Rodda her arm back and loosed a stone that sailed and struck the first goblin on the side of the head. The flat stone shattered through the leather helm the raider was wearing, smashing the side of the skull and dropping the goblin. Past the stream was the wolf rider blowing on a crude horn to signal the alerting the raiding party, not that the rider had to put in much effort, Leowyn was already charginging into the field.
Leowyn marched furiously as the goblins dropped whatever they were carrying to grab spears, clubs, and crude shields to face her. The wolf rider blew his horn again. Gutkut, the rider, was trying to signal other raiding parties in the area of the attack. He was poised to run if the first line fell to the adventurers. His eyes darted towards the flashing red and white of the minotaur that was charging behind Leowyn to meet the line.
What may have surprised the Shield Maiden, who only knew of one hedge wizard in her village, was that Templeton Paws was not one to frivolously use his magic Both the exact nature of the incantation along with the beads of will he used to power such spells were burned whenever he used them, requiring rest and study to acquire them again. He did carry a traveling stick, but that was for prodding the path ahead of him. He also had a dagger, but Templeton preferred using it to cut sweet berries from their branches. As Rodda began to sneak down into the clearing, Templeton had drawn his crossbow that he had stashed in his pack. Although it was mechanically complex, crafted by an arbalist living in Kelvin proper, the weapon was simple in use. As long as it did not break, the exact mechanics were pulling the trigger. Of course, simply pulling the trigger did not guarantee a strike home. The first bolt shattered one of the goblin footman’s shields, but the goblin still kept advancing unharmed.
It was Leowyn, filled with righteous fury that quickly fell two goblins, blocking blows and adding dents to her shield, thrusting with her sword that impaled one while cleaving another with a sweep. A third goblin who had lost his shield had tried to flank the shield maiden only to turn at the approaching shadow of Onatah’s and was struck in the jaw by the reach of the minotaur’s quarterstaff. Even though Onatah had a smaller frame for a minotaur, he was not one of the massive labyrinth lords that haunted the Black Peaks and Altan Tepese, he still towered over human men. A blow from his staff knocked the goblin to the ground, cracking the jaw and neckbone, leaving the orange skin blackened and purpled.
While Leowyn had not felt any blows test her armor, she did find her arm tiring from the initial blows that she had blocked from the goblins. The skirmish had bought Gutkut time to wheel the wolf and retreat up the path, blowing his horn as the wolf broke into a run for the shelter of the trees. Lacking a mount to give chase, Leowyn turned to be joined by the other members of her party.
“Our first skirmish and we carried the day,” Rodda said with satisfaction. She had taken life, but at the same time, she had an idea of what mercy these goblins had shown the caravan that had attempted to pass through.
“We carried it, but I wouldn’t count it as a day yet, Rodda,” Leowyn said, “I worry about where our rider is going and what he will bring with that horn.” She turned to see Onatah already walking a few paces in the same direction as Gutkut, lifting his muzzle in the air and taking a sniff, “The wolf was wet.” Onatah turned and looked at the others, “That means we can track him.”
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