A CHOICE OF EVILS
A Tale of Mordecai Von Mortay, Hunter of the Undead
by Mickey Christian DeCicco (mcd74)
-=1=-
Father Albert picked his way carefully through the graveyard
in search of the paladin, Mordecai Von Mortay.
This portion of the graveyard was the oldest and little used, most of
the family of the dead having passed on themselves and been buried in the newer
annex. It was early on a clear, starry
night, on which the moon glowed bright and full. The paladin, unless otherwise engaged, could always be found
among the tombs and headstones at night.
Unlike most of the other paladins at the church complex, who rose with
the sun, offered their prayers, ate and exercised before many folk even
stirred, this one was different. He
rarely, if not pressed, stirred before dusk.
This was not because of laziness on his part but because of his
calling. He was a vigilant hunter of
the undead and the necromancers who often called them to do their bidding. Among those of his order, he was renowned as
one of the best at what he did. Some
called him obsessive. Many of the other
paladins offered him only professional courtesy; they didn’t like him or trust
him.
The common perception of paladins as tall, strong, handsome
men whose tongues were honey and paraded around in shiny, ornate plate armor did
not apply to this one. Von Mortay was
of average height and build, with rugged good looks. He had close-cropped brown hair in a military style, and sported
a goatee and moustache shaved close.
His angular face was often stubbly.
His most striking features, though, were his eyes. Sunken, with dark circles under them, they
were ash-gray. They saw things that
mortal eyes should never see, perceived things that would drive most men
mad. Many people who saw a walking
skeleton simply saw a walking skeleton.
Von Mortay saw the dark energy that drove the abomination, saw the
twisted wreck of a soul, or fragments thereof, that writhed and struggled to
break free; he heard the screams and wails of the damned as they tried to
escape from the horror of which they had become victims. Although his eyes were intense, he often had
to wear spectacles to read because his vision, from years of hunting in the
dark, was poor. He was only human,
after all, and they could only see in one limited spectrum.
His gifts were not in his looks, physique, or charm. Wise beyond his years and possessed of a
keen intelligence, Von Mortay was a scholar as well as a warrior. There was more to dealing with necromancers
and their undead than a martial approach could address. Dark mages who practiced the arts of death
were often far more learned than those who practiced elemental or protective
magics because of the precise processes and rituals involved in circumventing
mortality. They trespassed on the
property of the gods, and as such, great care was necessary. Because of his dedication to study and the
apparent favor he had from the gods, Von Mortay was also a more accomplished
spellcaster than his brethren, capable of wielding a greater number of and more
powerful magics.
Father Albert had an affinity for Von Mortay. He didn’t prance or preen like the other
paladins who called the church complex a home.
When he spoke, he spoke his mind with little heed for the convoluted
proprieties of court veterans. Albert
found his candor refreshing and appreciated the wisdom and reason behind Von
Mortay’s arguments. Other paladins,
especially those of the monarch orders, were mortified that Von Mortay was even
a paladin, let alone one with such renown.
Albert also felt sorry for Von Mortay. A genuinely kind and compassionate
individual who would sooner die for an innocent than see harm come to them, his
was a tormented soul that knew great sorrow and pain. Albert did not know why this was the case. He often prayed to the gods for some insight
but was met only with silence.
Apparently the gods were keeping their own counsel on this issue. He never came right out and asked Von Mortay
either; not only was it rude but, deep down, Albert didn’t want to
know. His curiosity was that of a
mentor for his student, the concern of a friend for one he cared for. Whatever trauma affected Von Mortay, it
drove him and energized him. His zeal
for his calling and his missions was driven by his dark past, as if he were
holding himself accountable for undeath itself.
Albert found Von Mortay in his usual spot. Seated on the wide rail buttressing the
steps of a large mausoleum, Von Mortay was studying one of the monastery’s
tomes and transcribing notes into a journal.
He was dressed in a utilitarian manner, in dark grays and browns. Shunning the usual plate armor, he wore
light, mobile leather and chain armor.
He argued that while plate was fine for dealing with goblins and
dragons, the howl of banshees and the touch of wights killed through armor, so
why bother with the bulk? His armor
deflected the clumsy blows of uncoordinated, mindless undead well enough, and
it was blessed. Von Mortay also had an
affinity for pouches and pockets, and had all manner of handy trinkets stuffed
in them. Although he tried not rob from
the dead, opting to leave valuable and often powerful artifacts to lie with
their former possessors, he often confiscated what he considered dangerous or
useful from the necromancers he arrested or killed. Placed next to him on the steps were his holy, treasured,
multipurpose warhammer and shield.
Strapped protectively to his back, however, was a longsword. Von Mortay didn’t demonstrate any great
proficiency with that type of weapon, but he protected this particularly
interesting specimen with almost paranoid care. Albert could feel something vile emanating from the weapon, an
energy that could only mean that the weapon was heavily enchanted, but by what
he had no idea. Von Mortay wouldn’t
speak of it, only that he ‘came across it’ in his travels and that its
enchantments had come in very handy in dealing with the undead. Trusting Von Mortay completely, he let the
matter drop. In hindsight, after the nasty
business he was about to send Von Mortay into, he would have forcibly confiscated
the weapon then and there.
Although Albert approached quietly, a stealthy man who, in
another life, had been an accomplished thief, he knew Von Mortay was aware of
his presence. The dead whispered to the
paladin, this much Albert knew. Most of
the paladins of Von Mortay’s order were gifted; some would say cursed, with the
ability to hear the dead. Von Mortay’s
“death perception”, however, was far keener than most. Albert stopped and waited for Von Mortay to
finish what he was working on.
“Evening, father,” Von Mortay said, not looking up from his
work. He paused to adjust the
spectacles he was wearing and continued to read. “What brings you to this grim venue this evening?”
The father approached, mounting the steps of the mausoleum
to peer down at the tome Von Mortay was studying.
“Interesting reading,” Albert said, “Brushing up on your
exorcism rites?”
The paladin looked up from his reading, his gray eyes barely
discernable from the glare of the bright moon on the lenses of his spectacles.
Von Mortay frowned.
“Ever since that encounter with the ghost children and the spirit of
their father, I figured there had to be a better way to exorcise a spirit than
simply banishing it. Perhaps a way for
me to be able to allow the spirit to join those of his children in their rest.”
“But there is,” the Albert said, having performed similar
rites several times. “I’ve done it
myself.”
Von Mortay cocked an eyebrow and pointed with his charcoal
pencil to the shorthand in his journal.
“With all due respect, Father, you’ve never had to do it on the
battlefield. These incantations I’m
working on will allow me to do your ritual quickly, efficiently, without all
the pomp and circumstance,” he cleared his throat, clearly aware of his lack of
subordination, “If it works, of course.”
He smiled, faintly.
“I’m sure it will.
You’re a bright lad; good at thinking on your feet while the undead are
trying to kill you,” Albert joked. Von
Mortay took it as such and grunted a chuckle.
“I think I’m done trying to figure it out tonight,” Von
Mortay said. Placing a marker in the
tome and his pencil in his journal, he closed both. “You have a dossier with you.
A mission?” Von Moray said, noting the satchel slung around the father’s
shoulder. The paladin stood, joints
cracking from sitting in the uncomfortable position he was in while
reading. He took off his spectacles,
wiped them with a tattered silk scrap, and put them away in one of his pockets
behind the armor.
“Yes, a minor one but something suited to your particular
skills.” Albert produced a document
from his dossier and looked it over. He
gave a copy of a map to Von Mortay, who studied it. “This is quite a distance, to the mountains?” he remarked.
“In the town of Marchland, here in the pass,” Albert pointed
to the destination marked on the map.
“There’s an abandoned keep. Some
kind of murder occurred there; apparently the master of the keep went mad one
night and slaughtered his wife, children, and most of his household staff, then
he offed himself. No one’s lived there
since then,” Albert said.
“And…?” Von Mortay said expectantly.
Albert glanced at the dossier again, scanning it with his
finger.
“The town itself is rather prosperous, despite its remote
location. Generations of brilliant
jewelers and gemcutters have lived there, managed to circumvent the dwarves in
both mining and gemology. Some of the
local dwarves actually work for them, strangely enough. Apparently they’re impressed with whatever
skills the gemsmiths there possess…” Albert looked at Von Mortay, who had
crossed his arms and was frowning.
Evidently he was not interested in an economy lesson.
“Well, the crux of the matter is,” Albert continued, “The
local keep is something of a fascination for the local youth. Spending the night there is considered a
coming-of-age ceremony among them, though the practice is forbidden by the
constabulary.”
Von Mortay, still not impressed, yawned.
“During the most recent visit to the keep, three young men
were butchered by some unknown force.
During the daylight hours, the local constabulary investigated and found
pieces of bodies strewn all about the keep, blood smeared in impossible
places. They’ve been unable to
establish a motive or a perpetrator.
One of the four young men who spent the night there is temporarily,
perhaps permanently, insane. He’s in a
catatonic state, falling asleep and waking with horrid screams. He keeps saying one word over and over
again.”
“And that word is?” Von Mortay said, his curiosity finally
piqued.
“Black. Over and
over again. Black.”
“So you want me to traipse halfway across the country to
investigate a haunted house?” Von
Mortay said. Albert looked at him with
surprise, but then recognized that it was one of the paladin’s poor attempts at
humor.
“Of course. What
else are you good for?” Albert shot back, glaring playfully at Von Mortay.
“Okay, I accept with honor, your Grace,” Von Mortay said,
bowing. “The details are in the
dossier?”
“Well, I just have basic information. According to the messenger, the local
constable, a Dairn Markham, would not release anything but the most basic
details out of concern for the family.
You are to go there and get specifics from him, investigate, and
possibly deal with whatever force initiated the carnage,” Albert paused,
considering. “I think I’m going to send
Braya with you. She needs the
practice.”
Von Mortay flushed, plainly embarrassed. Braya was both a cleric and a mage, and was
popular at the monastery. She was a
spry, easygoing woman, attractive and intelligent. She was a half-elf, one of a rare breed of people left on the
continent. Although, because of her
race, she was much older than Von Mortay in years, she was possessed of the
youthful hope and naiveté of a human in her least 20s. Because of her positive outlook, cheerful
and approachable demeanor, and extraordinary compassion, she was practiced at
ministering to the grief-stricken, which made her ideal for this mission. The parents of the slain and the survivor
would all benefit from her ministrations.
She would also serve to act as a buffer for Von Mortay,
hence the reason for his embarrassment.
The two were as different as night and day. Because of his dour and taciturn nature, Braya often tried,
unsuccessfully, to cheer the tormented Von Mortay up. Some of the lighter hearts at the monastery often joked that the
two were an “item”, although such relationships were rare for paladins, even
forbidden in some orders. When not
studying or ministering, Braya could often be found nipping at Von Moray’s
heels, offering amusing anecdotes or inspiring stories, trying to brighten the
darkness that surrounded the paladin.
Von Mortay tolerated her presence like a parent with its
child, although the two could sometimes be found deep in serious conversation,
poring over tomes in the library sipping carrobeet tea. They both shared an intense interest in
death magic and turning the tide of good against the scourge of
necromancers. Although she was not a
warrior by any means, Von Mortay offered her rudimentary training in arms for
self-defense when magic would or could not serve. In return, Braya helped Von Mortay hone his spell casting
ability, teaching him the proper incantations and prayers for magics geared
toward turning or destroying undead.
However, sometimes, heated arguments could erupt between them, kindled
and fueled by the dichotomies in their natures.
One of the reasons Braya appreciated and respected Von
Mortay was that he harbored none of the racist feelings inherent in many humans
toward elves and half-elves. Elves and
humans had historically hated each other intensely, the elves sealed off in
their secretive nations deep in the sprawling forests, humans constantly
raiding those forests for lumber.
Genetically compatible, circumstances often arose where half-elf
children would be born. For a brief
time, there was a mass exile from the forests for reasons that are known only
to the most studious loremasters. Elves
found themselves, desperate for refuge, fleeing from some unknown assailant,
enslaved by the humans. Although in
rare circumstances love would blossom between elves and humans, most half-elves
were products of violence.
When slavery was abolished, the surviving elves fled back to
the forests, the crises apparently settled by the warriors that remained. Half-elves were not welcomed by the elves,
and they found no haven among humans.
They became nomads, traveling in bands and surviving by thievery and
deception, developing a knack for both genuine and disingenuous fortune
telling. Half-elves survived in this
manner for several decades, until the horror.
Human hunters, thousands of them, began kidnapping half-elves and
ensconcing them in secret, hidden camps.
Here the half-elves were forced into illegal slavery, being worked often
times to death. Great care was taken to
either keep the camps hidden from the local governments, or hide the collusion
by the same governments. Eventually,
most of the half-elf bands known to exist were spirited away to the camps. No one seemed interested in helping them.
Worked day in and day out in various aspects of mining,
logging and construction, the half-elves did not prove themselves to be
proficient workers. The speed and
efficiency for which the camps were designed was not realized. Angered and dismayed by their commodities
not providing the paydays they had hoped, the administrators of the camps began
to devise sadistic punishments to “encourage” their charges to be more
efficient. It didn’t work. The camps’ investors began to pull their
funding. Faced with bankruptcy and the
threat of the camps closing, the administrators began to fear reprisals from
the public if the half-elves were released and spread the story of their
ordeal. Meetings were held, and it was determined
that the half-elves would have to be executed.
Dwarven engineers were employed to create machinery that would
facilitate mass executions and the subsequent disposal of remains. As dwarves do, they created a frightening
apparatus into which crowds of half-elves were forced. Their screams were cut off by gas pumped
into the facility, while their bodies met a grim and horribly efficient fate.
It was at this time that a veritable army of paladins of the
Humanist order, who felt that half-elves were close enough to humans to be
accorded the same respect, their followers, and fellow warriors consisting of
good mercenaries and sellswords, raided the camps with holy fury, arresting and
killing administrators and guards.
Rescued from their impending doom, but severely institutionalized, some of
the half-elves even fought on behalf of the camps, but were subdued mainly
without harm. It took years for
investigations and trials to be completed, by which time the surviving
half-elves had successfully been accepted and integrated into human society.
Braya was one of the ones who had helped free one of the
camps. A student at the time at one
Novelov’s more prestigious divination schools, she had been notified by an
acquaintance of the existence of the camps.
She made inquiries and found out that the camps were to be liberated by
the Humanist army, and quickly volunteered her services to the liberators. She stayed out of the front lines, using her
divination magic to help determine both offensive and defensive strategies for
the siege coordinators. When the camps
were secure, she went in. Although what
she saw were scenes of unimaginable cruelty and horror, her spirit shone
through like a beacon of light for those whom she helped counsel. She was shaken and horrified, yes, but even
the experience of liberating the camps did not destroy her spirit.
She sought the gods’ counsel regarding her place and her
duty as a half-elf, and eventually was guided to the monastery where she met
Von Mortay. Her good nature and
positive outlook was the result of years of self exploration and the absolute
joy that she hadn’t been fed into the cursed dwarven-designed machinery that
had consumed so many of her friends.
She felt that the gods had gifted her with her survival in order that
she might serve others with compassion born of suffering. Often regarded grudgingly by most humans,
Von Mortay accepted her heritage.
Perhaps it was because he was simply free of the natural prejudice, or
because his own past was as dark, or darker, than the one her fellow half-elves
had experienced. Like Albert, she had
considered questioning Von Mortay about his past, but had thought better of
it. Some secrets were better left to
those who kept them.
-=2=-
Mordecai Von Mortay sat astride his powerful warhorse
Daybreak, crunching through a foot of frost crusted snow in the foothills of
the Godfist Mountains. He and Braya had
traveled four days from the monastery, riding hard for the first two until they
came to the colder lands north. The
snow impeded their progress, so they took it easy for the second two. The going was especially difficult for
Braya’s borrowed horse, for she hadn’t one of her own. Further compounding their travel was the
fact that she wasn’t an experienced rider, and that she had to ride sidesaddle
because of her robes. The urgency of
their mission necessitated haste. They
rode along well-established roads between the monastery and the foothills of
the mountains, where the hamlet was nestled.
They had little to be wary of and did not need to be surreptitious about
themselves. Mordecai had jurisdiction
within the Andiron Territorial Protectorate country in which they traveled, and
his shield, prominently displayed on his horse’s flank, bore the symbol of his
order. Himself and Braya both possessed
official paperwork in case they were stopped and questioned. Marauding bands of orcs, goblins, and the
occasional lummox would scarce show themselves in ATP territory unless there
was an easy mark. There was no way they
would bother a fully armed and armored knight, let alone a paladin, on a
fearsome gray and black warhorse. The
only time they saw anyone on the road in the four days they’d traveled was a
four-man ATP patrol, riding the opposite direction from Von Mortay. They slowed a bit on approach. The commander, seeing the crest on the
paladin’s shield, simply nodded a salute.
He and his retinue continued onward.
It was early evening, but at this late season the moon was
already out. As usual, Braya was
passing the time ruminating, loudly, on some subject or another. Von Mortay paid her little heed. He tuned her ceaseless prattling out with
thoughts of his own. Munching on a bit
of jerked beef, he considered several things that had been bothering him about
the mission. He had accepted it,
knowing the terms of the contract and his responsibilities as an undead
hunter. But there were numerous other
outfits out there that could easily dispatch the entity Von Mortay suspected
was behind the attack. He was a member
of the Holy Order of the Mourning Shroud, dedicated to dispatching undead,
putting souls to rest, and destroying them outright when other possibilities
were exhausted. Other outfits included
certified knights who wielded holy weapons and artifacts called the Noble Dawn,
and less reputable ones like Death’s Hand.
That group was comprised of mercenaries who preyed on the fears and
superstitions of simple folk, using mostly fake or stolen holy weapons and
traps.
Any of these and a dozen more could have been contacted for
the job. Mourning Shroud was the best,
the elite. Why, for what seemed a
haunting gone terribly wrong, would they enlist the most expensive exorcism
unit available? While Mourning Shroud
and the monastery out of which it was contracted were indeed, on the surface,
charitable organizations, operational costs for such a unit were very
high. The monastery complex housed
multiple orders, and some paladins, especially the monarchic orders, had
expensive tastes.
But the contractors had paid well, excessive to the
operating cost of the mission. That
struck a bell in Von Mortay’s head. He
didn’t have much of a head for economics, but it seemed odd that they hadn’t
even bid the work. They send little
information and a lot of money, with no indication that any other agency had
been contacted for the assignment. Von
Mortay did not bring this up to Father Albert because he doubted whether Albert
knew either. The paladin was an
investigator at heart, so he would ask his questions when he arrived and draw
his own conclusions.
As these thoughts bounced around his busy brain, it slowly
dawned on him that Braya had, uncharacteristically, stopped talking. She had drawn up next to him and was simply,
casually, looking at him with those large, inquisitive green eyes. She chewed thoughtfully on her lip.
“You’ve got that…vacant…look again,” she said. “I was also wondering why we’ve
stopped. Are we making camp here the
middle of, well, nothing?”
Von Mortay suddenly became aware that Daybreak had
stopped. His horse for some time now,
Daybreak knew Von Mortay’s mood, and would stop when the paladin was too lost
in thought to be vigilant of his surroundings.
Although his exceptional intelligence had its benefits, often Von Mortay
would become so embroiled in his inner workings that the outside world simply
blurred out.
He shook his head to clear
it. He frowned at Braya. He knew that she would like nothing less, at
times like this, to take an axe to his skull to cleave the secret musings out
of his head.
“Well, are you going to share
with the rest of the class?” she asked.
A gust of wind blew a lock of her hair into her face. She rolled her violet eyes to look at it and
blew it clear with her bottom lip.
Von Mortay knew that Braya would only harangue him if he
gave her a cryptic answer. He didn’t
even quite know how to explain it. So
he just blurted it out.
“I think we’re walking into a
trap,” he said.
Braya’s eyes lit up.
“A trap you say? How
delightful,” she said, leaning closer to him.
He could have said that they were
walking into a dragon’s mouth, drenched in carrobeet sauce, and that annoyingly
unshakable spirit of hers would not falter.
“Please tell me what makes you think that. Or are you just being paranoid as usual?”
Steeling himself, Von Mortay told her what he’d been
thinking. While she often set his
nerves on edge, her mind was keen and her wisdom deep. He’d learned to appreciate her insight. While they approached life from two totally
different angles, they often came to similar conclusions when after considering
all the facts and angles.
The explanation took longer than
he’d expected. After several false
starts and some stuttering at her quizzical looks, he managed to lay out the
basics of what he suspected. Braya took
it in with a surprising lack of smart retorts.
In fact, the more he explained, the more introspective she began to
look.
When Von Mortay finished, he exhaled deeply and looked
ahead, waiting for her response.
“You’re right, it does sound
fishy,” she said finally.
Von Mortay looked at her, and found himself saying, “I am?”
Braya spurred her horse on,
prompting Von Mortay to do the same. As
they rode, Braya explained why she thought he was right, but also warned that
if they betrayed their suspicions, whatever trap they were walking into would
become more deadly. Von Mortay agreed.
“Before every mission I’ve ever
done,” Braya began, “I used my skill at divination to get some insight into
what I was walking into. We half-elves are
known for that ability,” she smirked at Von Mortay. “I didn’t want to addle your already
overactive imagination with what I divined before we left, so I kept a lid on
it.”
“What did you see?”
Von Mortay asked. A light snow
began to fall, spurred in all direction by a mild breeze.
“Another reason I didn’t say anything. I didn’t actually see anything. I studied bones, dice, and crystals, but no
visions came. Just a feeling, a gut
feeling, deep in those dark parts you know so well. There wasn’t anything concrete, so I chalked it up to
jitters. Traveling with you is enough
to give anyone the jitters.” She smiled
at Von Mortay, although what she felt was true.
Von Mortay considered her words,
and her feelings. Braya was right not
to say anything; Von Mortay would have factored that gut feeling into his own
apprehensive analysis of the situation.
He already knew that she would have performed some type of divination
rites before the mission, but he didn’t hold any confidence in fortune
telling. Too many variables affected
the outcome of every situation, and even if the gods did have divine schemes,
he didn’t believe that their plans were infallible.
“It does sound like jitters. I tend to spook people, even Father Albert
sometimes. Spookiness seems to cling to
undead specialists like a cloying odor; comes with the territory.” Now it was his turn to smile. His wasn’t a nice smile, but not
unpleasant. It was a simple,
reassuring, self-confident smile. Some
of the tension that had built during their conversation, because of both the
content and the cold, seemed to dissipate a degree in Braya.
“Well,” she said, “Let’s get
ourselves into trouble, then, and figure our way out from there. Unpredictability is something diviners don’t
often get to enjoy.”
-=3=-
They
reached the hamlet of Marchland on the eve of the fourth day of travel. It was well into the evening, and the sun
had already set behind the mountains to the north. The hamlet was nestled into the foothills of the mountains,
straddling the pass that ran through them.
The pass began on the far side, in the territory of the northern frost
shaman tribes, continued through the dwarf fiefdom of Taragazard, and ended at
the gates of Marchland. At those gates
were two bored-looking dwarves, whose apathy didn’t wane when Von Mortay and
Braya rode their beleaguered horses to the gates. Mordecai signaled Braya to ride slowly to the gates, so that he
may assess the guards. He learned from
his dwarf mentor, who trained him in underground survival, that the state of
guards usually reflected the state of the guarded. It was cold out, to be sure, the puffs of breath from beast and
sentient crystallizing in the air.
Dwarfs didn’t care about cold.
Considering what had happened here, and the town’s considerable wealth,
he’d expected more guards, or at least alert ones. Spurring his horse slowly to the fire the dwarves lingered
around, Mordecai noted the weapons these dwarves had. Several apiece, including axes and hammers. But both also wore sheathes that could only
hold gilchach short swords, highly specialized and valuable ceramic
weapons only dwarves, and people brazen enough to steal from them, used. These weren’t any gate-grumblers, as his
mentor called them. It was a show to
entice the unwary. The dwarves were
assassins, no doubt being compensated handsomely for their service to the
wealthy hamlet.
At their
approach, the two stirred to their feet and did their best not to look
concerned. That is, until they noted
that one of the riders was a half-elf.
Then they went rigid despite themselves. Dwarves hated elves, as most men did, and held no love in their
hearts for the half-breeds either.
Should a half-elf have approached alone, they would have been denied
entry at best, mutilated at worst. But
in the company of a human paladin, armed to the teeth on a purebred war
charger, they seemed inclined to stay their hands and mind their tongues.
“Dismount,
sar Knight, if you please,” the taller of the two said. The other contented himself with glaring
menacingly at Braya, who against anyone’s better judgment started making faces
at him.
Von Mortay
dismounted, a sharp reprimand on his lips ready for Braya, but stilled
himself. Show no weakness in either
oneself or an ally in the face of evident hostility. Braya would never learn that lesson, no matter how many times she
made faces to the wrong people.
“I have
business in the hamlet, here, sar?” Von Mortay said.
“Knafk,”
the dwarf spat out. Von Mortay wasn’t
sure if it was a name or the clearing of the throat. “Papers?”
Von Mortay
handed the dwarf the papers Albert had provided him; the request for assistance
from the town and his own identification.
They didn’t request anything of Braya, probably because if she rode with
the paladin, she was his problem and not theirs.
“So yar the
one the town sent for? Bad business
that.” The dwarf, presumably Knafk, said.
“Had the whole town in mourning for those kids. The one that survived not doin twell.”
“I’m sorry
for the loss of the town’s youth and the suffering of the families. May the Lady guide them safely their to their
rest.” Von Mortay said, the common prayer for the dead of the Shrouded Lady.
“Aye, may
their passage be safe and swift,” intoned the dwarf in automatic response. The dwarves did not have a god of Death, per
say. They believed that when a dwarf
soul departed the body, he took up a position predestined for them supporting
the Great Machinery, the Clockworks of the Universe. Their mechanical, alchemical, crafting, blacksmithing, and all
other dwarven pursuits, in the mortal life, were considered training for their
afterlife working with the Great Machinery.
“Might I
inquire, I’m assuming you’re a resident?” Von Mortay said.
“No, I
travel hereabouts from Taragazard, but I spend enough time in Marchland to know
its business. I’m protecting it after
all,” the dwarf said. The other had
still said nothing, neither had Braya.
Von Mortay stole nervous glances at the other dwarf, whose face was
reddening with anger as he was apparently now locked in a staring contest with
the half-elf. A fruitless endeavor;
half-elves rarely needed to blink except to clear detritus out of their
eyes. Dwarves blinked all the time
because their visual receptors weren’t nearly as keen as a human’s, let alone a
half-elf’s.
“Of
course,” Von Mortay continued, “what is the condition of the survivor? You indicated he wasn’t doing so well; how
bad is he?”
“Hant seen
em myself, but heard at tavern that he comatose all day and night. Sometimes he start howling fierce, you can
hear it over the tavern noise, only one word, high and wailing: black.” The dwarf spat on the ground in front of
him, then smeared a semicircle in front of him with his foot; a dwarf ward
against evil (that didn’t work, Von Mortay knew first hand.) “Hars yer papers back. PRAAK!
Open the gate.” Von Mortay went
to retrieve his papers from the dwarf as the other trotted off to the
gateworks. Braya was sticking her
tongue out at him behind his back.
Distracted, Von Mortay was caught at unawares when the dwarf, in one
swift and potentially deadly motion, grabbed him by the wrist and forearm and
yanked him down to dwarf-level.
“Don’t even
reach for a weapon, paladin. I offer
you a word of warning in respect for your station. Mind the half-elf. Not
only is she rude and disrespectful, she’s unwelcome in these parts, ye
ken?” The fire flickered in the dwarf’s
intense eyes. Von Mortay that right now
discretion was the better part of valor, and fought the fighting response instinct
rising in his blood. He was well aware
of the still-extant prejudice against half-elves, especially this far
north. Although they were all granted
citizenship under the Andiron Territorial Protectorate, this was border
country, straddling the ATP, the dwarf kingdoms, the witch-lords of the tundra,
and only the gods knew what else that lurked up here.
Von Mortay
inclined his head as a sign of submission. “Of course, sar Dwarf. I understand and will mind your
warning.” The dwarf released him and
handed his papers back.
“See that
you do. I don’t know why you weren’t
told so in the letter.”
“An
oversight, to be sure. They’d no way of
knowing I’d bring my companion.”
Not at all
satisfied but powerless to do anything (legal) about it, the dwarf waved them
on. The gate was slowly cranking open
as Von Mortay mounted his horse. He
rode in, Braya close by his side.
“What was
his problem?” Braya asked.
Von Mortay
looked to her, reminding himself of the warning and also of her value to him
and to this mission.
“You,
apparently,” he said, as the gates to
Marchland closed behind them.
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