Smoke in the Hills – Part One

A stack of trenchers occupied one corner of the table, piled high with peach pits and shriveled apple cores. To one side of the heap, running the length of the table where it butted against the wall, a half dozen or so empty wine and ale bottles formed a neat line. The bottles loomed over a drift of papers, some full pages and others mere scraps, which spread out over the rest of the table in some half-coherent arrangement. In the midst of these notes was a quill, a bottle of ink, and a precious book lying open in the center.

Comillas surveyed all this, half in satisfaction and half in trepidation. He sipped cold tea from the cup in his left hand and sighed. There had been far more tea than ale or wine over the last… week? Two weeks? Tea was a stimulant, and this had been weary work. He held the results in his other hand: a single sheet of paper. All his days of isolation, all the gold sunk in that rare book, all the refilled teapots, the meals brought to his room, the cost of the room itself–all had gone into that one sheet of paper. On it was a mandala, a visual aid which might give a student of the arcane access to a single spell. Might.

This mandala was Comillas’s own creation. The volume lying open on the table was not a spellbook, only a treatise on the relationship between divine and arcane magic. It was common knowledge that the gods of the old empire, the so-called “Arcane Gods,” were a source of both. But other cults existed that did not worship those gods, not even under some local variation. His friend, the dwarf Santiano, belonged to one. Comillas believed–perhaps it is better to say he hoped–that the divine magic of these cults might also be replicated by arcane magic, just as with the more traditional gods.

So he had studied for days on end, sketched plans, designed this mandala, and studied that in turn. That key was now lodged firmly in his mind. If he was right, it should give him access to a particular spell. If.

Comillas sighed again and set the paper down on the table. He had been cooped up far too long in this cramped little room. He needed to stretch legs and feel the sun on his skin. He needed company. Worse, that lost bottle of wine had been an Ardol vintage that stirred in him a longing for distant mountains. He needed gold so he could get out of Aykenberg, out of Regenwald, across the endless sea of grass to the distant west and cities of stone and splendor. He needed a job.

The restless mage threw on his coat and checked a pocket for his spellbook. It was safe where he left it. Then he flung the door open, striding toward the stairs, nearly trampling a maid in his rush to reach the outside world. He muttered a hasty apology and told her they could clean the room, that he was done working and would be out until the evening. The startled maid nodded her understanding, and he was off once more, fairly flying through the common room and out the door toward the stables.

“Appaloosa,” he barked, tossing a token to the young groom lounging idly on a stool. The boy started, then bowed and rushed off to get Comillas’s horse.

The mage hummed as he waited, a traveling song about the cities on the front range of Ardol. Halfway through a verse extolling the many virtues of the ladies of Il Kenyon, the groom emerged with a leopard-spotted mount. Comillas was up in the saddle in an instant, trotting away down the streets of Aykenberg toward the northwestern gate. The good citizens of that royal city, most halflings, made way in consternation for this madman singing loud and off-key, with his gaze locked on the middle distance, at a hoped-for future that did not yet, and might not ever, exist.

The hills beyond Aykenberg are grim and broad, like great barrows for some ancient race of giants. Shrubs and small trees dotted their side. Here and there, atop the hills, a grand house stood sentinel over herds of grazing cattle. The halflings of Regenwald had always raised cattle, and these were the heart of their country. Now and then Comillas spotted a cowhand watching as he passed along their road. Rustlers had been busy this year, and they were wary.

He crested a hill. Below him stretched the long valley of a clear river, dividing this range of hills from the next. Lofric, a fellow adventurer he had partnered with many times, was working for a rancher in the far hills, hunting rustlers and other, more bestial predators. Comillas knew where that ranch house lay. It was along a branch road, just out of sight beyond a bend and atop a lower hill. But as he scanned the valley, something caught his eye. Out west, where both road and river grew small before twisting and vanishing from sight, there was a column of smoke on the horizon. A dark column.

Uneasy, he turned onto the branch road and followed it down to a shallow ford. A single king’s guard, a whipcord-thin halfling nearly as tall as dwarf, gave a distracted greeting as he approached. His eyes were also on the west.

“Do you know what that is?” Comillas asked.

“We sent riders half an hour ago. No word yet.”

“Could it be a brushfire? Some cowhand forgot to dowse the coals before riding out in the morning.”

The guard’s eyes flicked to him for a moment, assessing. He felt a twinge of embarrassment, as he realized what the halfling was looking for–the marks of a foreigner. His question had revealed some ignorance.

“Not in cattle country,” the guard said.

“I see. Gods keep you.”

“Gods keep you, stranger. Safe travels.”

The appaloosa splashed her way across the ford and Comillas tried to turn his mind back to the road, to Lofric and the next job, and how much gold it would take to make the journey west. But that column of smoke kept intruding. It was a lot of smoke.

His unease grew as he left the road and took a path uphill to the ranch. He could hear commotion ahead. A woman was screaming. He nudged his horse into a faster gait, up the slope and in sight of the big house. What he saw only added to his confusion.

The whole property was decked out for a party, streamers and bunting rippling in the breeze, a small stage, now empty but clearly intended for a band, and the smell of meat rising from a smoker. Women and children were gathered in a tight knot by the house while men gripped weapons and moved about as if searching for a threat. A pair of halfling cowhands, mounted on those small, lithe horses their folk favored, pulled up in front of Comillas.

“Did you see ‘em?” One barked.

“How could he see ‘em, they went the other way?” said the other.

“Who?” Comillas asked.

“Goblins,” the second hand said.

“Goblins? There’s no goblins for a hundred leagues.”

“Well, there are now.”

Comillas kicked his horse back into motion. Her ears were up, head high. She was nervous too. He drew near the crowd, trailing the two cowhands.

The crowd was more halfling than not, but there were humans scattered among them, and a dwarf or two, most of them men. Probably they were the rancher’s hirelings. The boss himself was up on the porch, watching some men carry a swooning woman in fine dress–his wife?– into the house. The door shut and the boss whipped around, finger pointed at the biggest human in the crowd, a tall, broad-shouldered brute with a shock of blond hair.

Comillas had found Lofric.

“You’re a tracker,” the rancher said. “Track ‘em! You bring my daughter home safe and quick, an I’ll give you a hundred head of cattle. My best!”

“I don’t want cattle,” Lofric said, a northern twist coming out in his voice.

“What do you want, land? I’ll give you half my acreage. You’ll be rich!”

“Passage to Ardol,” Comillas said, raising his voice over the chatter of the crowd. Everyone turned to look at him. Lofric’s face broke into a grin.

“Who are you?” the rancher demanded.

“A spellslinger with a cool head,” Lofric answered. “Safe passage to Ardol for both of us. That’s my price.”

“Done! Now quit standing around and go get her!”

A boy ran up to Lofric with a dun gelding in tow, already saddled. The big man’s sword and shield hung from the saddle, and a second boy came up with mail and gambeson. Lofric shrugged into them, tossed each boy a copper from his saddle bags, and mounted up. Comillas joined him as he turned his back on the crowd and kicked the horse into a canter.

“Where are we going?” the mage asked as the house receded behind them.

“Goblins just raided his barn. People noticed, so they grabbed his daughter, held her hostage so they could get away.”

Comillas chewed on that.

“It’s pretty cold,” he said, “Bargaining with a man for the life of his daughter.”

Lofric laughed. “You bargained! I would have done it for free.”

That was probably true. As a matter of fact, he had to have sent those boys for his horse and gear before the rancher demanded his help. But a charitable sellsword was the least interesting thing about the situation.

“Goblins in Regenwald?” Comillas asked.

“Goblins in Regenwald,” Lofric answered, leaning from his saddle to double-check the tracks.

As they rode off into the hills, Comillas couldn’t help but grin. It was good to be moving again.

 

The story continues in part two.