Aranthir

The Hoard of Ghorad Gul

The Hoard of Ghorad Gul

Aranthir XIV

Aranthir XIV

Long were the winter nights that closed in about the city of Sparras. Though the first snows were yet awaited, there could be no doubt in the mind of any observer that the cold and dark season had arrived. The people of the city shouldered heavy cloaks and went about in tall wooden shoes when the streets turned muddy. Dawn came late, dusk came early, and noon felt like midmorning, casting a gray pall over the great city for many long months.

Yet the people fought back with an incredible display of light. From almost every window and doorway shone the lights of candles, torches, lanterns, lamps, hearth fires, and forges. The people of Sparras were a prosperous and industrious folk and as winter laid its heavy blanket over them, they gathered around the fires to drink, take in the year coming to a close, and make the best of things.

The innumerable taverns of the city played host to this celebration all season long. The ale and wine flowed freely, songs filled the air, and meats crackled on the open fires. All within the city's long walls, and without, in its vast suburbs, the people warded off the cold and gray with a nearly unending series of festivities that they could afford only through the legendary wealth and prosperity of their beloved city.

Sparras spanned the banks of the Tarrim River, with the bulk of its districts on the north side and its south wall lying a few hundred years from the south bank. Long ago, the city had been founded on the site of a ford that rose in the middle of the river into an island still known as Market Isle. However, the former site of the trade that had birthed Sparras was now flown over by one of its proudest monuments, the Winged Bridge. This enormous structure rose from one bank and arched over the river to touch gracefully down on the far side, high enough in the middle that even large ships could sail beneath it. The street that cut down the bridge's center was walled by shops and overhung by garrets such that it had been many years since rain fell anywhere on its length.

The Winged Bridge did not, as its name implied, remain upright on its own accord. Instead, it was held up by great stone pylons, each of them climbed by buildings that clung to their sides, rising from Market Isle to the bridge street, so that someone might enter an establishment at street level and exit the same establishment on the bridge.

The most famous of these establishments was an inn known as the Pegasus. The Peg, as its regulars loved to call it, rose from its riverside piers where fishermen arrived all the way through eight winding stories to a rooftop overlooking the city. Its main room, on the fifth floor--street level for the bridge--was on one early winter's night a crowded affair.

A newly arrived merchant's wagon train occupied most of the room, a rowdy affair of men pleased to be back in their home city after a year roaming the roads of Selunia. Drinks and stew were ordered and yet never provided in large enough quantity, calls for more drowning out the shared laughter and tales of the men at long last taking a deserved rest.

Elsewhere men crowded around tables, sharing news in a score of different tongues. Packed into a room smokey from pipes and cookfires, they diced, played cards, sang, drank, and paid for their food and drink in coins stamped with the visages of thirty different kings and princes while the owner and proprietor of the inn, a graying matriarch named Helba, ordered the staff about in a practiced and desperate campaign to satisfy her many guests. She passed between the tables, taking orders from customers and giving orders to her family and servants, before stopping at a crowded by rough men in soldier's tunics.

"What are you lot doing here?" she demanded. "Haven't you heard there's to be no war?"

"Perhaps," said the oldest of them, a one-eared, seven fingered man taller than a tree and broader than a barn. He puffed on a pipe held in his three-fingered hand and regarded the redoubtable innkeeper. "Perhaps not. The duke calls for soldiers, the guilds call for soldiers, and," he paused, plucking his pipe from between his teeth, "Most portentously,heis here."

He pointed the still smoking pipe across the room toward the wall overlooking the river. There, a crowd surrounded two men hunched over a gaming board. The shorter player was a shopkeeper who kept a tidy bookstore a hundred yards from the Pegasus' bridge street door. Graying, nebbish, and bespectacled, he was a regular guest in the inn's taproom after sundown, always polite, always profligate.

Yet it was the man across from him that attracted the attention of Helba and the mercenaries. He was tall and slender, yet still muscular. He was handsome, as evidenced by one of the Pegasus' regular working girls hanging off his shoulder during the game. Fair skin and green eyes shone from between a fur hat and thick coat, the former hiding what Helba knew to be the distinct short, pointed ears of a half-elf.

"Where he goes, trouble follows," the big mercenary said. His men nodded and murmured in agreement.

Helba's eyes narrowed.

"You've got that right," she muttered. Squaring her shoulders, she blazed a path across the room toward the half-elf. The crowd parted before her and she stomped her foot on the floor to get the players' attention. The creaking of the old floorboards drew the bookseller's startled look, but the half-elf did not look up from his game. Instead, he moved a piece forward; an aggressive move.

"Your move," the half-elf said, and only then turned his eyes to Helba.

"What are you doing here, Aranthir?" she demanded. The half-elf smiled.

"The Pegasus seems a fine place to wait out the winter. I thought you might take that as a compliment, for I found your hospitality most agreeable last time."

"I bet you did..." Helba scowled. "My Ella's married now, you hear? So keep that silver tongue of yours to yourself."

"And she was not married then, so no harm was done," replied Aranthir. "Besides, I've got someone for the night already." He reached up and patted the arm of the girl on his shoulder. Helba's scowl deepened.

"For tonight," she remarked skeptically. "The winter is long."

"Indeed," replied Aranthir. "Perhaps a glass of wine to help it go faster?"

Helba stared him down, then turned and made for the kitchen. Aranthir returned to his game. His opponent was better than he had judged, though he still managed to find a way to win. It was a fortunate thing he had opened aggressively, for had the game gone on any longer the bookseller might have turned the tide.

They shook hands over the result, and the bookseller suggested another game. Over the encouragements of the girl on his shoulder, Aranthir made to reply, but when he looked up, something caught his eye. Two women had entered the tavern, both armed and armored for war. They had quickly surveyed the room and set their eyes on him. Aranthir sighed, shooed the bookseller away, and swept the game pieces aside. He had a feeling he would not be playing again tonight.

Beneath the table were his effects, a travelers' pack, a longsword, a curved bow and a quiver of twenty arrows, his brigandine coat, and his sallet helm. At his waist he still wore his trusty dagger. He watched the two women approach, wondering whether he should put his armor on before they arrived, but waited too long and they soon stood over him.

"Aranthir of Ildranon?" asked the taller of the two, a blonde woman with an arquebus slung over her shoulder and a broadsword at her hip. She wore a jack coat of dark red with sleeves covering her upper arms, a piece of armor characteristic of local work. Her face was not unattractive but was marred by a red scar cutting from her left eye to the back of her jaw, though it seemed old enough not to bother her. Standing a step behind, her companion was a dark-haired woman bearing an arbalest, rapier and buckler, and heavy pack. Despite her profession, she had a sweet look to her pretty, unscarred face and a nose ruddy from the cold.

Aranthir pushed his chair back from the table and looked up at them. He rested one hand casually on the dagger in his belt, but he did not fear violence from these two. The blonde one looked at him with impatience, the brunette with undisguised interest. He leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers.

"Yes?" He arched an eyebrow, wondering how long his glass of wine would be in coming.

The blonde presumptuously sat down in the recently vacated chair. Her companion remained standing.

"I am Zymre, this is Rionne. We want to hire you."

That was unusual. Aranthir studied them both for a moment, wondering what their game was. Neither face betrayed it, and he decided to ask.

"For what? I am quite settled in for the winter and have little intention of leaving the city."

"Are you familiar with the legend of King Rymnir?" Zymre asked, and Aranthir shook his head. She looked disappointed.

"Rymnir was a king of Stoneshield some centuries ago. He fell out with some of his kin, and his treacherous relations paid a dwarf in the royal bodyguard to do away with him. This man, Ghorad Gul, did as asked and was rewarded with a great hoard of gold. However, the gods punished him for breaking his solemn oath to guard the king and wherever Ghorad Gul fled, misfortune followed. At last, deeming the gold to be the source of his curse, he abandoned it in a hillside tarn where it has lain since."

"And you want me to find this gold for you?" Aranthir asked, at last sighting a serving wench with his wine. He smirked, for watching over the wench's shoulder was Ella, Helba's youngest daughter. He was going to enjoy the winter here in Sparras.

"No," replied Rionne, unaware of the approaching wench. "We know where it is. We need your help in breaking the curse."

"Curse-breaking is a dangerous business," he said mildly, accepting the serving wench's wine with a smile. He then smiled over her shoulder at Ella, watching from the bar. She winked at him, something that brought him no small amount of amusement. "Especially when the gods have laid the curse. Mortal sorcerers are not so difficult, the curses of the elves are more than a trifle, but the gods are not to be crossed no matter what."

"We have heard tales of your skill," Rionne put in eagerly, almost in a fawning manner. Aranthir smiled. The woman hanging on his shoulder put an arm around his shoulders possessively.

"We need a sorcerer," continued Zymre. "And you are the best one around."

Aranthir was not sure of that. He knew the names of a half-dozen sorcerers in or near Sparras who would know more curse lore than him. But none of them would stir themselves to go chasing legends.

"How do you know where to find this cursed treasure?" he asked, sipping on his wine. It was a good vintage, but he knew the Pegasus stocked better. Helba was spiting him.

"We have a map," Zymre replied. Her hand made the slightest motion toward her belt, where Aranthir divined that she had the map stowed in a scroll case.

"I also have maps. What makes you think this one shows the way to this treasure, and not some other treasure? Or just a pond?"

"We have a map," she replied. "It was no small trouble getting this from the buyer, for many other interested parties are seeking it, which should explain our haste to be out of this city."

"Who did you buy it from?" Aranthir asked, his suspicions aroused.

"A slimy little fellow at the Lucky Throw named Bertholdt. He seemed quite certain of its value."

Aranthir rolled his eyes with a sigh. "That sounds like his work. The map is worthless."

"We showed it to a sage who verified it."

"What sage?"

"He goes by the name of Adelos and studies at the University. You know him?"

"Not him, but Bertholdt. He's a charlatan, a thief, a fence... you name it. The man gives scoundrels a bad name. He likely needs the money to bribe his way out of hangman's noose, or else wanted the map off his hands before the real owner came calling."

"He also had this." She held up a gold coin, stamped with the image of a crowned dwarf. Aranthir furrowed his brow in interest. He held out his hand and Zymre put the coin in it. Aranthir brought it close to his eye. It looked real enough.

"Well... I believe that Bertholdt might have found the one truthful bone in his body. How much did you pay for this?"

"Too much to go after it with anyone less than you," answered Rionne. "What do you say?"

Aranthir mulled the offer over, sipping his wine.

"Where is this tarn?"

"The Bone Hills. It is a ride of perhaps eighty miles. I hope you have not pawned your horse for the winter?"

"No," Aranthir replied, deep in thought. "No, I did not. He's with the stablemaster for the winter." He turned the coin over between his fingers. Eighty miles there and back surely meant he would see the first snowfall of winter from outside rather than a warm bed. But the glitter of gold shone in his mind's eye warmer than any fire.

"Good," Zymre smiled. "We have ours there, too." She leaned in closer, almost conspiratorial. "If we are going to leave, we should leave tonight."

"Right now, in fact," added Rionne. Aranthir cocked an eyebrow and lifted his gaze from the coin.

"And why is that? It's already dark outside."

"We are not the only party on the trail of this treasure."

"Bertholdt said this was the only map--"

"A likely story," Aranthir snorted.

"--but some of our former companions have heard the tales as well. As this is the only map, they will come looking for us."

"Former companions?" asked Aranthir. "The Sisterhood?"

"Aye, our former captain Gydda, her lieutenant Nennia, and a motley crew of other mercenaries. They were all drinking at the Lucky Throw and the taphouse across the yard from it when news of the find had arrived. We made the first offer on the map and escaped while they argued, but they will surely be coming after us once they pick up the trail."

"So we should leave the city as soon as we can," said Rionne again. "We know the captain of Northgate. He'll let us break curfew for half a mark."

"By the light of the full moon we can ride all night and the following day to reach the village of Colchorm, where the map begins."

"Can your horses handle that much riding?" asked Aranthir. Zymre shrugged.

"They will last until we have the gold. Then we can buy better steeds for the return journey."

"The Bone Hills are good horse country," Rionne added. "The duke's favorite stallion is from a stud farm near there."

"Let me see the map," he said, and behind him he felt the whore hanging off his shoulder shift in consternation.

"Don't go," said the girl on Aranthir's shoulder. "It's so cold outside, and there's a warm bed upstairs waiting for us."

"Find your coin somewhere else, wench," snapped Zymre. "He has a treasure to find."

"Nothing has been decided yet," said Aranthir, sipping pensively on his wine. "I want to see the map."

"You can bring your friends if you like," the whore offered in growing desperation. "I like to bed with girls."

Aranthir had heard the line before, but was reluctant to believe her. She was loathe to lose a paying customer and willing to say whatever she needed to say, but Aranthir found himself more interested in the two mercenaries. He had had enough tavern strumpets for a while. With Ella's husband working close by all winter, the mercenaries' proposition seemed attractive. He held out his hand and Zymre cautiously produced the map and handed it over.

He spread it out before him and screwed up his mouth in thought. Treasure maps were always a difficult thing. Most of them were fake, they were almost always cryptic or enciphered, and usually poorly drawn. Sparras' grand duke employed a crack team of land surveyors, but whoever had drawn this map was obviously not one of them.

It was a crude depiction of what was presumably the hills above the village of Colchorm, with a trail leading up from the village's mill, past a series of poorly illustrated landmarks to a pond lying in the saddle of two hills. It was labeled with writing in a strange hand and script, presumably that of the map's original author. The old script, which Aranthir recognized as an archaic form of the language of the northern dwarves, was then itself annotated in a newer hand that decoded and translated the older labels.

He was not wholly convinced, but the lead seemed strong enough to merit a few days' search. Aranthir was the veteran of a few treasure hunts, and this one was starting off better than usual.

"Perhaps the hoard has been found after all," he said, setting aside his now-empty cup of wine. Zymre smiled in triumph.

"Begone, wanton," she snapped with a dismissive wave of her hand. The working girl retracted her arm from Aranthir's shoulders and stormed off in a huff.

"She's a pretty one," mused Rionne. "She won't have any trouble finding another customer tonight."

"What about the curse?" asked Zymre, showing no regard for the whore she had dispossessed of a customer. "Are you confident you can break the curse?"

"Confident enough to try," replied Aranthir. He thought it fortunate that earlier in the day he had decided to refill his stores of spice for the winter. The sorcery required would surely consume more than he had ended the year's campaigning with. "The curses of the gods resist the machinations of mortals, but perhaps the gods have tired of their game over the centuries."

"Wonderful!" Zymre beamed, and her Sister shared her pleasure. "Then let us not waste any more time."

She started to stand, but Aranthir stopped her with a raised hand.

"Before we set out," said Aranthir. "We should discuss terms."

"They seem simple enough," replied Zymre. "We have no intention to cheat you, nor do we think that we could were we so inclined. We propose to share the spoils evenly between the three of us. Does that seem fair."

Aranthir tapped the golden coin she had given him against the table in thought, then nodded. The White Sisters smiled.

"Then we should get moving." Aranthir stood, then offered Zymre the coin, but she shrugged.

"Keep it. Call it an advance."

Aranthir shrugged himself, then pocketed the coin. He stood and gathered his things. He donned his brigandine coat, slung his pack and bow case over his shoulder, then belted on his longsword and tied his sallet to the sword belt beside it. When he was finished, he found the two White Sisters staring at him rather impatiently, and offered them only a shrug.

Zymre nodded curtly, though Rionne gave him a little smile, and they began to press their way through the crowd toward the door. Nearing it, and pushing his way past a fast merchant too deep in his cups, Aranthir suddenly slowed to a halt. The door swung open, and four rough men pushed their way into the Pegasus' common room.

They wore fur-lined caps under kettle helms, their thick coats clearly showing their hauberks underneath. Each man wore a long knife as his waist, and others carried larger weapons in their arms. Zymre stopped at the sight of them, her hand dropping to the broadsword on her hip. Rionne fingered the buckler and blade she carried as well, and Aranthir stepped up to whisper in her ear.

"Perhaps we should leave by another way. The dockside entrance, perhaps?"

Rionne shook her head. "Our horses are stabled on Bridge Street. Either way, they will report back to Gydda and have the rest of them on us as we leave."

"Then these men are known to you?"

"Through no failing of my own, yes. They are some of Gydda's... friends from the gambling den. They want the map."

She spoke true, for the lead man pointed a finger at three of them and barked "hand it over!" in a voice that promised violence if he was not obeyed. The guests seated at the tables around them turned to look and, recognizing a fight about to break out, they began to shift away.