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Description
Shadows of the Forest

See now; a bar room, just like a thousand others from the Sea of Ice to the Southern Deserts. A low ceiling with heavy beams, stained black by two hundred years of wood and tobacco smoke. Battered tables, wheelbacked chairs and settles all of age darkened oak filled the floor. To the left a bar, backed by barrels of ale, beer and wine; pewter tankards hanging in a rack. Over the ancient fireplace opposite hung a stuffed stag's head which had seen better days, and on the walls old stage wagon timetables, a number of rusting swords and axes and several indifferent and flaking paintings. The light of the dying sun spilt golden through the leaded glass of the windows. In one of the recesses dozed the tavern's fat black and white patched cat. Somewhere a clock struck nine on a cracked bell. Smoke hung in the air like river mist on a frosty morning.

As he walked through the low doorway from the market place Colgrim looked around him, it was busier than usual for the time of day. He waved to Jotham, the landlord, a thickset, shaven-headed ex-pit-fighter in a leather apron who was pouring a jack of ale. Jotham nodded to the Sheriff Officer and handed the quart to Simeon, the letter writer, a thin-faced, grey haired man in a faded and stained jupon of cherry coloured broadcloth. Simeon wasn't drunk yet, but Colgrim would lay a gold to a copper he would be before the hour was up. Ah, yes, and there was Beitris, the harlot, in her red and orange silks, a goblet of wine in her hand, draping herself around a tall dark faced stranger in the robes of a mage. Colgrim was willing to bet the stranger's black beard and hair were dyed to hide grey, he looked the vain type; the robe and rings were just too ornate for good quality. A low roar drew the lawman's attention to a group of scale-mailed Dwarves at a table, swallowing ale as if it were going out of fashion, cracking off-colour Elf jokes and playing dice. He wouldn't have any trouble with them unless somebody else started it, Colgrim knew Dwarves. Another table held a group of men in the faded green tunics of Foresters, all locals, all law abiding. Tillingast, the head Verderer, a self important chubby faced blonde, shouted a greeting and he blew her an insincere kiss, a memory of a drunken beltane tumble several years ago.

In the corner by the fire Tobias, the local gleeman, was strumming on his mandolin and singing in a brandy darkened voice, trying to make himself heard over the noise of the customers. The Sheriff Officer listened as he gestured to Gwynneth, one of the tavern wenches, to bring him a beer and sat down at an empty table, hitching up his broadsword.

The gleeman was half-way through his rendition of the Mistaken Suitor and Colgrim was beginning his second tankard when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He looked round and saw Berdan, the Halfling peddler, usually a cheerful little chap but serious looking at that moment, perhaps even scared.

'Sergeant, Oi 'ates to bother yeou, but there is a Lady as wants a word. She does be in the parlour loike. Jotham told me to tell yeou.'

Intrigued, the Sheriff Officer took his tankard and wended his way to the bar parlour, a cheerful little room, used by visiting gentry and by merchants for private business. He wasn't sure what to expect; usually a noble with problems would go to his commander, the Under-Sheriff, Sir Valerey, if not the Sheriff herself, rather than a humble Sergeant like Colgrim.

He entered the bar parlour ducking through the low door and manoeuvring his sword so as not to bang it off the frame. He straightened and looked at the figure awaiting him. The first thing he saw was her robe, an unusual one he'd never seen the like of, it was the blue of a summer sky, hooded, trimmed with black and girdled with scarlet; almost he would have said it was the robe of an Archmage, but it wasn't. The second thing was her face, under a fringe of light brown hair it was finely boned with the slightly slanted green eyes of a Half-Elf. The full lips were set in an expression of habitual severity. Thirdly her figure, she stood perhaps five and a half feet tall and had the compact build of a warrior, which accorded well with the fact that she was wearing a sword on her left hip, a sword with a plain functional crosshilt, the more expensive version of his own. She spoke, a strange voice, it sounded as though she was not used to speaking.

'Sergeant Colgrim Etheridge, I presume. I am Felice Ui'Sihane. I require your assistance.'

The lawman was surprised, one didn't expect to find a legend here in Cloyne Bridge. The Blue Witch, no less, Rector of a famous school for Mages and Healers, celebrated bandit killer. Well, it explained the odd robe at least.

'Whatever I can do to aid you, Worshipful Lady, that I shall do,' he made her his best bow, 'what seems to be the problem?'

The Blue Witch seemed to meditate for a moment before answering, so that it was clear to Colgrim he was not going to be told any more than she thought he should hear.

'Are you aware that in the Forest some leagues to the North of Cloyne Bridge lie the ruins of the College of Oghma?'

'The ruins are fairly well known, Worshipful lady, but uhm... avoided by the locals. Adventurers go there sometimes, never heard of any making a profit from it. The Elves may frequent the place, I wouldn't know about that nor wouldn't to. It's no further than their city than from us though. Can't say I knew it was a school.'

'Ah... well a Scholia it was, some centuries since and as such it held a library and a scriptorium - no printing presses in those days. Well, some weeks ago a party set out for the ruins from Castle Gabhran. They passed through the Elven Kingdom and they... disappeared. From my inquiries here it would appear they haven't arrived. Therefore I require you as the Sheriff Officer to form a posse comitatus to search the Forest and the ruins.'

'Worshipful Lady, surely magic would be more useful in locating...'

'The Scholia is in an area in which magic does not operate. What is called a dead magic zone, Sergeant. And even were it not, the Forest has so many magic-users and magical creatures in it that divination becomes, shall we say, unreliable. No, a physical search is the only possibility. You have a week to form your posse Sergeant, by then the rest of my own party will be here and you will join us.'

___________________________________________________________________

'I don't like the sound of this,' said Merci Tillingast the next morning. 'What were a bunch of Gabhran soldiers doing this side the border? And...'

Colgrim cut in. 'We don't know they were soldiers.'

'We don't know they weren't, at any event! And as I was about to say, why would the Blue Witch be looking for them? She doesn't live in the Duchy of Gabhran. And why didn't she go to the Sheriff? That'd be the normal thing or the Lord High Verderer.'

Dean Whately, the local sorcerer, spoke, turning from the window his bearded face serious, 'the Blue Witch's school is in Travenhurst County and Maeve of Gabhran is also Countess of Travenhurst, so she's tributary to the Duchess. I would suggest she didn't go to the high-ups exactly because of the political dimension. Sergeant Etheridge has to comply, they might be obliged not to.'

'All right' said the Verderer 'I get your point but I don't like the idea of going anywhere near the ruins. And what about those bloody Elves? They ain't gonna want us too close to their bloody borders and they tend to warn you off with arrows.'

'That's why you're coming, you and your Foresters. Haven't you always said that you are the match for any Elf in woodcraft, Merci?' remarked Colgrim.

'Hmf!'

The three bent to the maps on the table, in the Sergeant's office at the town gaol.

___________________________________________________________________

to be continued...

Description
Shadows of the Forest

See now; a bar room, just like a thousand others from the Sea of Ice to the Southern Deserts. A low ceiling with heavy beams, stained black by two hundred years of wood and tobacco smoke. Battered tables, wheelbacked chairs and settles all of age darkened oak filled the floor. To the left a bar, backed by barrels of ale, beer and wine; pewter tankards hanging in a rack. Over the ancient fireplace opposite hung a stuffed stag's head which had seen better days, and on the walls old stage wagon timetables, a number of rusting swords and axes and several indifferent and flaking paintings. The light of the dying sun spilt golden through the leaded glass of the windows. In one of the recesses dozed the tavern's fat black and white patched cat. Somewhere a clock struck nine on a cracked bell. Smoke hung in the air like river mist on a frosty morning.

As he walked through the low doorway from the market place Colgrim looked around him, it was busier than usual for the time of day. He waved to Jotham, the landlord, a thickset, shaven-headed ex-pit-fighter in a leather apron who was pouring a jack of ale. Jotham nodded to the Sheriff Officer and handed the quart to Simeon, the letter writer, a thin-faced, grey haired man in a faded and stained jupon of cherry coloured broadcloth. Simeon wasn't drunk yet, but Colgrim would lay a gold to a copper he would be before the hour was up. Ah, yes, and there was Beitris, the harlot, in her red and orange silks, a goblet of wine in her hand, draping herself around a tall dark faced stranger in the robes of a mage. Colgrim was willing to bet the stranger's black beard and hair were dyed to hide grey, he looked the vain type; the robe and rings were just too ornate for good quality. A low roar drew the lawman's attention to a group of scale-mailed Dwarves at a table, swallowing ale as if it were going out of fashion, cracking off-colour Elf jokes and playing dice. He wouldn't have any trouble with them unless somebody else started it, Colgrim knew Dwarves. Another table held a group of men in the faded green tunics of Foresters, all locals, all law abiding. Tillingast, the head Verderer, a self important chubby faced blonde, shouted a greeting and he blew her an insincere kiss, a memory of a drunken beltane tumble several years ago.

In the corner by the fire Tobias, the local gleeman, was strumming on his mandolin and singing in a brandy darkened voice, trying to make himself heard over the noise of the customers. The Sheriff Officer listened as he gestured to Gwynneth, one of the tavern wenches, to bring him a beer and sat down at an empty table, hitching up his broadsword.

The gleeman was half-way through his rendition of the Mistaken Suitor and Colgrim was beginning his second tankard when somebody tapped him on the shoulder. He looked round and saw Berdan, the Halfling peddler, usually a cheerful little chap but serious looking at that moment, perhaps even scared.

'Sergeant, Oi 'ates to bother yeou, but there is a Lady as wants a word. She does be in the parlour loike. Jotham told me to tell yeou.'

Intrigued, the Sheriff Officer took his tankard and wended his way to the bar parlour, a cheerful little room, used by visiting gentry and by merchants for private business. He wasn't sure what to expect; usually a noble with problems would go to his commander, the Under-Sheriff, Sir Valerey, if not the Sheriff herself, rather than a humble Sergeant like Colgrim.

He entered the bar parlour ducking through the low door and manoeuvring his sword so as not to bang it off the frame. He straightened and looked at the figure awaiting him. The first thing he saw was her robe, an unusual one he'd never seen the like of, it was the blue of a summer sky, hooded, trimmed with black and girdled with scarlet; almost he would have said it was the robe of an Archmage, but it wasn't. The second thing was her face, under a fringe of light brown hair it was finely boned with the slightly slanted green eyes of a Half-Elf. The full lips were set in an expression of habitual severity. Thirdly her figure, she stood perhaps five and a half feet tall and had the compact build of a warrior, which accorded well with the fact that she was wearing a sword on her left hip, a sword with a plain functional crosshilt, the more expensive version of his own. She spoke, a strange voice, it sounded as though she was not used to speaking.

'Sergeant Colgrim Etheridge, I presume. I am Felice Ui'Sihane. I require your assistance.'

The lawman was surprised, one didn't expect to find a legend here in Cloyne Bridge. The Blue Witch, no less, Rector of a famous school for Mages and Healers, celebrated bandit killer. Well, it explained the odd robe at least.

'Whatever I can do to aid you, Worshipful Lady, that I shall do,' he made her his best bow, 'what seems to be the problem?'

The Blue Witch seemed to meditate for a moment before answering, so that it was clear to Colgrim he was not going to be told any more than she thought he should hear.

'Are you aware that in the Forest some leagues to the North of Cloyne Bridge lie the ruins of the College of Oghma?'

'The ruins are fairly well known, Worshipful lady, but uhm... avoided by the locals. Adventurers go there sometimes, never heard of any making a profit from it. The Elves may frequent the place, I wouldn't know about that nor wouldn't to. It's no further than their city than from us though. Can't say I knew it was a school.'

'Ah... well a Scholia it was, some centuries since and as such it held a library and a scriptorium - no printing presses in those days. Well, some weeks ago a party set out for the ruins from Castle Gabhran. They passed through the Elven Kingdom and they... disappeared. From my inquiries here it would appear they haven't arrived. Therefore I require you as the Sheriff Officer to form a posse comitatus to search the Forest and the ruins.'

'Worshipful Lady, surely magic would be more useful in locating...'

'The Scholia is in an area in which magic does not operate. What is called a dead magic zone, Sergeant. And even were it not, the Forest has so many magic-users and magical creatures in it that divination becomes, shall we say, unreliable. No, a physical search is the only possibility. You have a week to form your posse Sergeant, by then the rest of my own party will be here and you will join us.'

___________________________________________________________________

'I don't like the sound of this,' said Merci Tillingast the next morning. 'What were a bunch of Gabhran soldiers doing this side the border? And...'

Colgrim cut in. 'We don't know they were soldiers.'

'We don't know they weren't, at any event! And as I was about to say, why would the Blue Witch be looking for them? She doesn't live in the Duchy of Gabhran. And why didn't she go to the Sheriff? That'd be the normal thing or the Lord High Verderer.'

Dean Whately, the local sorcerer, spoke, turning from the window his bearded face serious, 'the Blue Witch's school is in Travenhurst County and Maeve of Gabhran is also Countess of Travenhurst, so she's tributary to the Duchess. I would suggest she didn't go to the high-ups exactly because of the political dimension. Sergeant Etheridge has to comply, they might be obliged not to.'

'All right' said the Verderer 'I get your point but I don't like the idea of going anywhere near the ruins. And what about those bloody Elves? They ain't gonna want us too close to their bloody borders and they tend to warn you off with arrows.'

'That's why you're coming, you and your Foresters. Haven't you always said that you are the match for any Elf in woodcraft, Merci?' remarked Colgrim.

'Hmf!'

The three bent to the maps on the table, in the Sergeant's office at the town gaol.

___________________________________________________________________

to be continued...