It’s NaNoWriMo so you get my D&D Kinslayer Chronicle saga. Here’s part 2.

Chapter 1 – The Way Home

 

When the Crossroads breached the border of the Kingdom of Janogradt, they split at the foot of the rolling Hadzar hills. Janogradt is a dry, unforgiving land, but those hills served to channel the rain waters through their small valleys and create the only fertile land beneath the Fyrste’s eyes. However, much of it was not given up to farmland. For there nestled the burgeoning Naupstern forest, a woody expanse known for its particularly vicious growth.

 

The trees are said to embody the people who settled in this northern stretch of land. This forest is tall and strong, capable of weathering the bitter cold that comes sweeping down from the distant mountains. But despite the wood’s hardiness, its branches are a sharp specimen. Growing from its dark body are leaves with a curious prickly design sharp enough to draw blood from a touch that keeps visitors at arms length.

 

To say that not many make the travel through Janogradt would be an understatement.

 

And yet, there was the soft pound of boots upon the uneven stones following the wending end of that greatest of trade routes. The stones were foreigners to the earth and the land of Janogradt raised its defences. The ground buckled beneath, the earth expanding and contracting over the seasons with the frigid winds that drove over them even now despite winter still many moons away. The smoothed stones rose and dropped in precarious bumps. Few wheels wove across their surface and fewer hands had ever taken to the road’s care. Now, pieces tumbled into the weeds and short grass along its side as nature attempted to wrestle the invading force from its side.

 

The lone traveller paused, holding high his walking staff. Dangling upon the end and swinging in the wild breeze on a rusty chain was a storm lantern. Its unblinking gaze cast over the shadows of the nearby land. The lowest of the hills had begun to arise around him. The sparsest of copses clung to their edge, offering a mild buffer for the contemptuous air. But it was a welcome change from the long expanse of bare rocky nothing he’d crossed. Sight of those trees signalled he was getting close.

 

He pulled his cowl tighter about his chin, hoping to keep the invasive wind at bay. He gazed into the distance, judging the soft warm glow in the shadows. Despite the seeming lack of civilization, he had already been robbed – twice – on this journey. The first time he thought he’d been clever by keeping only a portion of his wealth in his purse while hiding the rest throughout his satchel. The idea had been that if his thieves were satisfied with what they found in the likely spots they wouldn’t search as thoroughly through the rest.

 

Course, they then took off with his horse and supplies so he ended up losing even more in replacing them when he finally reached a town. After the second robbery he began to realize that it would have been better keeping his fortune in a safe location far from this rugged land and just taking the first loss for what it was worth.

 

At this rate he’d actually be the pauper he tried to appear as and all his business with sorting through coins between ink pots and purse would be so much wasted time.

 

But if there was one blessing about reaching further north on the Crossroads, it was that even the bandits preferred to not nestle amongst these unforgiving lands. Thieves, it seemed, had more sense than travellers.

 

So, he suspected the glow in the distance was little more than the first of Janogradt’s farmsteads. However, given the land’s reputation, he didn’t think he’d receive a warmer reception than he got from the brigands. Thus, with the guttering light of his storm lantern, he stepped of the badly deteriorating road and continued on the uneven scrub clinging to the side. Each step was a precarious balance over sharp rocks and weeds. The soles of his boots were worn thin from the long journey and each pained step hurt more than the last. He leaned heavily upon his staff as he moved, trying to alleviate as much weight as he could.

 

With his unsteady gait, the satchel strung about his back began to beat irritatingly into him. He could hear the contents rattling inside and he gave a small prayer that his bottles didn’t unstopper and ruin his fine parchment. He also hoped his quills didn’t break with the jostling. All his implements were worth far more than the measly collection of coins he kept but no bandit would ever recognize their value. He couldn’t afford to replace them both now, neither with the coin or time he had left. Few places would carry the materials he would need, especially in this forsaken land.

 

But still he pressed onward. For if there was one thing worth the risk to his tools, it was what they were used for.

 

As the glow grew larger, the traveller reached up and began to draw the hood over his lantern, dimming its sides until he had but a narrow shaft to guide his progress. He kept a wary eye on the other light. Through the gloom, a simple wood structure seemed to meld into being. It was a low, squat building, partially bored into the ground. The roof was large, like a long and floppy hat pulled down over a young girl’s head. It also sloped at an unusual angle as if to hide itself amongst the jagged, spear-like trees growing around its side.

 

The house stuck from the side of the hill with much of the land cleared about it. The soil grew a squat, fern-like plant also unique to the region. It was the primary food stock of the kingdom’s cuisine, most others ill-suited for the northern climate and the short seasons between frigid winters. But this fern had adapted and grew quickly in abundance when these hills were said to weep instead of being watered from the sky.

 

The rest of the ground was dotted with large, craggy boulders removed from the main farm but ringing the property in a natural fence. Even in the dark, the traveller could see the soft, slightly off coloured mosses that grew outside of the growing season and provided the other staple for these stubborn folk. Much of it was scrapped off and used to feed their animals, but many wanderers returned from Janogradt with horrific tales of the cuisine the locals cooked for themselves from the stuff.

 

And that worried the traveller almost as much as a third robbery.

 

Hand falling to the waist bag holding what little of his food he still had, he hurried along in the dark. He stumbled and fell more than once. He twisted his ankle amongst the dark holes but not badly enough to stop. As the glow from the farmstead came and went, he began to breath easier. His mind lingered briefly on what would warrant someone being awake at this hour.

 

Once he felt secure enough, he stepped back to the road. His feet seemed to relax with the worn stones underfoot once more and he felt an unexpected cheerfulness take over. A small tune came to his lips and he began to whistle as he went. The wind pulled through the thickening trees on either side. Their branches groaned with his melody. Their reaching tops bowed gently in his passing. Their thick trunks began to create a barrier from the cold and he could feel a warmth return to his fingers that he’d nearly forgotten.

 

So wrapped was he in his contentedness that he didn’t realize he hadn’t unveiled his lantern after his stealthy passage. His vision limited, he didn’t catch the movement from the darkness nor did he hear the approach of footsteps until they were practically upon him.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

He nearly jumped from his clothes, swinging his staff wildly. The light crossed over a large figure and in shock he dropped the walking aid. It clattered against the stones, somehow the flame keeping alight and casting a long glow over a pair of thick, charred boots.

 

The shadow paused for but a moment before stepping forward. The darkness seemed to clutch and pull as the dark figure bent, grabbing the stick and raising it aloft again.

 

Reflexively, the traveller raised his hands.

 

“I don’t have much,” he pleaded. “Please, I only wish to make my way to Talarheim. I don’t mean you any harm.”

 

An arm brushed briefly into the beam raised accusingly against the traveller’s face. He flinched, squinting as he watched the hood about his lantern slowly pulled back. What he say in the illumination was not what he expected.

 

What first appeared as a mountain of a man wrapped in wild pelts was little more than a simple woman. She drew back the hood of her cloak, revealing a large collection of auburn hair done up in a curious mound that had given him the initial impression of height. The bulk of the cloak had added substantial mass to her figure, likely the thickness of the garment a direct relation to the coldness of the wind.

 

However, the one thing that hadn’t been dispelled by the shine was the large weapon upon her arm. Though she pulled it within the folds of her cloak after realizing the harmlessness of the traveller, she couldn’t fully hide the strange construct wrapping around her forearm and protruding past her fingers. It looked like a mechanical crossbow somehow mounted on her wrist but significantly deadlier.

 

Noticing his gaze, she simply shook her hair and subtly adjusted her stance to shift the contraption behind her body.

 

“A curious greet,” she said lightly, “it appears you’re not from around here stranger.”

 

“I am not.”

 

“Then no doubt you aren’t aware of the dangers of being out this late.”

 

The traveller smiled despite himself.

 

“Do not worry for me, little lady. I have braved much in coming here. The roads are not what they used to be. Not with the great trade with Etreria having long since dried up in these parts and the guard stations given over to occupation by bandits or animals.”

 

“I don’t mean simple banditry,” she replied. Before she could say more, her ears seemed to prick at some sound in the wind and she turned, slowly casting the lantern over the clinging shadows of the trees surrounding them. In that change of the wind, the traveller caught a curious odour. It was strong and pungent, a strange acrid mix of burnt flesh and only the Vanir knew what else.

 

But with the wind came even stranger sounds. Something scuttled in the darkness. Twigs snapped and cracked in the gloom. Perhaps it was all his imagination, but for a moment the traveller thought he heard an ominous clicking.

 

When last she looked back at him, her face was grave. She had clearly made some decision and grabbed the traveller roughly by the arm.

 

“We should see you indoors.”

 

He made to protest but the wind kicked up again. This time, the trees bowed before its indomitable passage. Detritus caught in its gust, a dizzying whirlwind of scratching dirt and slicing leaves. The landmark Naupstern forest released a biting whirlwind upon them and he caught the woman quickly pulling her cloak tightly about her like a tortoise retreating into its shell.

 

The traveller had no such preparations. He grabbed for his cowl, pulling the hood as far over his face as he could. But this merely exposed his hand. He could feel the sharp cuts as the leaves tore about him. The wind seemed to enfold them as if it searched for a weakness in their protection. His clothes tugged upon his body, trying to pull him away the centre of the path. And then, just as it had begun, the wind began to die and he released the hem of his hood to watch the leaves scatter and whirl across the ragged stone path.

 

His new companion stirred, cautiously emerging from her thick cloak. Pieces of leaves protruded from its surface as if she had suddenly donned a great vestment of quills. The staff light raised, the lantern casting its warm pool of light over the traveller. She frowned and gave an urgent pull upon his arm.

 

“Come, this way. I know a place. We should get you inside before the storm gets worse.”

 

And in that brief ray of light, the traveller hazarded a look at his hand.

 

The flesh was bright red, thin cuts running in a wild pattern over the skin. Blood seeped to the surface like a sticky, warm glove upon his fingers. A few leaves stuck from his skin like tiny arrows. And as his worry began to pass, the throbbing pain from his ravaged hand tore up his arm..

 

The tugging upon his arm drew him quickly down the road before he could begin to wail in agony. He wasn’t aware of their passage, pulling his wounded limb close to himself and applying what pressure he could to alleviate the stinging. At one time he reached to pluck the needles from his skin but his companion swatted his hand away and told him they weren’t far.

 

The trees groaned again, heralding the coming of another gust. But this time, his companion was prepared. Just as the winds descended upon them, she pulled him close, burying his face deep into the fabric of her cloak as she seemed to wrap about him like a mother swaddling a child. The wind slammed into them like a tidal wave, but she held. He heard the lantern clattering in the gust and the prickling of the assault as it pierced through his robes. The leaves clattered against his satchel and he thought he heard the telltale sounds of them burying deep into the wood.

 

As the pressure against them subsided, she pulled herself away and dragged him with even greater urgency.

 

He barely noticed the thickening forest and rising hills growing about him. He could hear the great wood groaning beneath the weight of the storm. And the further they went along that road, the more numerous the homes became. But they were all dark, thick planks of dark wood drawn over their windows and heavy curtains of fabric unrolled before the doors. Soon, stone walled buildings emerged from the gloom. In the swinging glow of the storm lantern he could see the foreign rock scratched and marked all across its surface.

 

She led him to one of those stone structures. Unlike the other buildings, this one had been constructed wide and tall, clearly of foreign architectural design. Windows lined the upper floors, a few boarded with the local dark wood. The rest appeared to be grudgingly decorated with the shutters adoring the rest of the village as if the owner had finally abandoned a stubborn attempt to assert a cultural dominance.

 

Clanking in the wind over the door was a wrought iron sign, dented and battered despite its recent make. A stylized swan had been wrought, it’s long neck stretching down and under it in a gesture that the traveller couldn’t decipher. His escort, seeing his curious glance at the image, merely shook her head.

 

“Pay it no mind.”

 

She leaned against the thick door, her hand darting out to test its latch. Pressing her shoulder against the wood, she grunted as she opened the door. The latch clanked and the door groaned as it scrapped across the wood floor inside. She opened a crack wide enough for them to enter. Beckoning for the staff, she held the lantern aloft and slipped inside.

 

The traveller took a moment to peer into the gloomy depths. He knew not what awaited him within but as he heard the trees creaking once more, he knew it couldn’t be worse than what was coming outside. Whispering a silent prayer, he slipped across the portal.