The Adventures of Larson and Garrett - A People Defiled

A People Defiled

Larson and Garrett Adventure the Tenth by Aaron Dennis

Published by www.storiesbydennis.com April 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The crew of adventurers left the chaos of Stormguard behind them. Their destination was Glennmoor, a once bustling farm town near the mountainous border of Faaltosk, yet recent reports from traders frequenting the capitol indicated the possibility of raids on carts and convoys. What frightened the traders the most, however, and what facilitated the gang's ability to seek work as mercenaries, were claims that the raiders were monsters, undead, White Wraith cultists, and even citizens of Glennmoor. Since recent tribulations had prepared Larson and his group, and Seanessy spoke to his dwarven mate in Stormguard, they secured work escorting several merchants and their horse drawn carts up the winding, rocky path towards the troubled town.

The merchants normally traveled with a hand picked guard, but after words with the dwarven contact regarding the tumultuous times, the head merchant, Senior Gonzalo, agreed to hire the crew of six, which included Larson, Garrett, Seanessy, Lyalla, Wilma, and Yoris; Mathew claimed the six of them were more than enough to enact his plan regarding the capture of Minister Parish, and for reasons unknown, the detective pulled Fortha and Charlotte from the bunch, so, for a paltry sum, which Mathew subsidized, Gonzalo agreed to let Larson's men tag along.

****

It had been a cool day, so near the foot of the mountains, and there had been no activity requiring the swinging of blades; once the sun set and the dark shadows swept over the road, the merchants found a flat expanse upon which to set up their tents for camp. Larson's crew eagerly approached the merchant guard to make casual conversation and learn of their experiences. A hulking, old man was their leader, a lifelong friend of the Gonzalos by the name of Cicatriz, which he claimed meant scar in his language.

"You are not from Ruvonia then, " Garrett asked him while plunking down on a flat boulder.

"The Gonzalos and I are from Ruvonia, yes, but our grandparents, also friends, were from a land far to the west, a place with many deserts; much heat there, or so I've been told."

"You have never been to your ancestors' home?"

The old man shook his head solemnly. The aspiring wizard fiddled with a charm that dangled from his neck; a gift Mathew had made for everyone in the crew to retard the effects of powerful magicks. It was a simple looking talisman of ivory.

"I, myself, am from Resborne, " Garrett volunteered, still thumbing at the talisman. "It's a trade hub near the southwestern borders of Ruvonia." Changing the topic, Cicatriz asked after Garrett's fighting style. Smiling and running a hand down his scaled vest, the fencer replied, "I am well versed in many forms of fighting, among them are fencing, archery, and spells, to which I've recently taken a liking." He then casted a protection spell to show the old man. Linear, purple filigree graced his armor, which drew scant glances from others. "One does not always know his enemies, and so one cannot rely solely on brute strength."

Gauging his size and the great sword strapped to his back, Garrett figured the guard captain a fierce, grizzled warrior. "Yes strength and numbers are often the way wars are won, " the old man replied.

"Strength and numbers as guided by the minds of cunning strategists."

The old man smiled back and patted Garrett's shoulder. They looked at the rest of the people around them. Some of the others-both merchants and guards-either helped to set up the tents, start fires, prepare food, or simply eyed one another the way warriors do-scrutinizing blades, armor, size, balance. Everyone seemed surprised to find a bunch of mercenaries wearing more than furs or leathers, but once more, Mathew had spared no expense and bought his men the equipment they needed to seize Parish.

Garrett eyed the guards under Cicatriz's command; they wore heavy furs over ring mail, which was customary in Faaltosk. A few had surrounded Larson. They liked his half plate, which consisted of thin, iron plates covering the vitals held in place by chains over chain mail and padded leathers. Larson commented on their weapons; flamberges, great swords-a favorite of his-mauls, some had throwing axes on their hips, and two carried spears, but none carried bows.

"We talkin' armor?" Seanessy butted in to the group surrounding the warrior. When the guards nodded, the dwarf said, "Nothin's finer than dwarven, scale mail. Humans can try an' craft their own, but a dwarven smith knows the secret ta' scales." He then moved his short limbs and twisted to reveal the mobility provided by a full suit of scale mail. "It's the way they heat an' cool the iron an' mix with it other metals; light an' mobile."

"Two things you're not, " Larson joked, bringing chuckles from the guards.

Frowning, Seanessy banged on his coolus, a helmet with a flange that extended a short ways beyond the face, saying, "I can work circles around you, ya' goat lover."

As soon as everyone relaxed, and the sound of chatter drowned out the buzzing of insects or howling of wolves from high up in the mountain crags, food was passed around. Lyalla fed and patted the horses while conversing with the women of the group, which were few; apart from Wilma and a guard called Doris was a merchant named Grace, and then the wives, daughters, and sisters of some of the traders. The four of them joked about the men, claiming astonishment over the fact that after a whole day of trudging up and down stony hills, no fights had broken out, yet Wilma and Lyalla were tense, and Grace asked after their safety.

"It's so hard to imagine the trade life becoming more dangerous than it already is, " she started and flung her flowing, gray hair over her shoulder. "My husband and I have had more than one run in with bandits, but this talk of monsters and possessed citizens is enough to send shivers up and down my spine."

Having been assigned to the crew by Mathew, Wilma was privy to their plan and to the knowledge that those possessed citizens were likely members of the White Wraiths. "It's probably just ghost tales and nothin' more, but ya' can never be too safe, " she smiled, weakly.

"It's hardly ghost tales, " Doris, the guard, rebutted. She was a haggard looking gal who carried a maul strapped to her back. "I got a friend that usually runs with Atello, the fruit trader, and she says there's been a lot o' trouble between the capitol and Owensbrook."

Lyalla and Wilma traded a look at the mention of Owensbrook. They knew there was likely as much trouble there as in Glennmoor, what with Lionel Owens being the one who attacked them back at the White Wraith house, but Dolf and the famed Griffin Knights of Ruvonia had flown to the western city to handle him. The merchants soon claimed a need for rest, which Cicatriz relayed to the group. A contingent of four was picked to take first watch, and Larson volunteered to help at that end.

Two hours passed by in relative silence. The warriors had snuffed out the campfires to keep anyone from seeing their position from far away. They paced around a bit, occasionally making vague remarks about the chilly air or the cloudy sky. One of them passed around a flask of whiskey.

When some stones fell from the northern cliffs, the guards froze on the spot. Gazing at the barren plateaus protecting their camp, they held their breaths, expecting trouble, yet a moment passed by. Nothing happened.

"Damned goats, " a younger guard murmured.

Some more stones fell then, and the dry sound of bouncing rocks made them edgy. Squinting up at the nearly black mountains, Larson reached for his axe. Noticing his anxiety, the others also drew weapons, but the young guard maintained it was goats. Something like a haggard groan resounded.

"That's not a goat, " Larson whispered.

More strained groans came from above them followed by more stones falling, and then someone from above and out of sight cussed and grumbled. "There's someone up there, " another guard said. A boot then poked over a stony protrusion; someone was climbing down the craggy wall. "Look, look, " another guard whispered, pointing.

"Is that people?" the climber bellowed. "You've got to help me."

"Who are you?" Larson called out.

His shout roused some of the others, who came stumbling out of their tents.

"My leg's broken. There are ogres chasing me, " the climber said as he eased himself onto a flat precipice about a hundred feet above the camp.

The claim of ogres brought about a degree of tension. The guards from Faaltosk claimed the ogres of their country were ferocious beasts not to be trifled with, while the guards from Ruvonia argued that ogres were the things of childish fantasies. They bickered back and forth until Yoris joined the group.

"Lyalla, ready your magic. I will retrieve him...ogres or no ogres, he is hurt, " the part orcish warrior said.

Wearing only leather pants and his tunic, the warrior of Akalabash scrambled up the mountain like an expert climber; he even used his bare toes to grip the rock. Upon reaching the flat expanse where the man was resting and cradling his injured leg, Yoris helped hip onto his back, and then the two started a slow descent. Upon touching the ground, while surrounded by everyone gawking, Lyalla eased the climber onto his seat, checked his leg, claimed it was not broken, but casted a healing hands spell to mend his bruising and lacerations. Standing over him, Cicatriz asked him his name.

"Thomas, " the man said. He stood slowly and turned to Lyalla, "Thank you so much for healing me, but you're not safe here. We must leave immediately."

"What are you doing out here?" Cicatriz demanded.

"I told you, I'm running from ogres."

Again, the crew squabbled about the likelihood of ogres. Cicatriz silenced them with a snap of his fingers and ordered Thomas to elucidate upon his tale. Shaking his head and huffing in exasperation, the man spoke.

"I'm just a traveler. I was trying to see what Glennmoor was like because I don't like living in Stormguard, but they wouldn't even let me into town. They have posts all around their city and a bunch of the town's men keep watch. Since I couldn't stay, I tried to buy some supplies for my trip back to Stormguard, but they wouldn't deal with me at all and threatened to beat me, so I left, but ran afoul of some ogres in the cliffs."

"What did they look like, the ogres, I mean, " Larson asked.

"What?" Thomas was taken aback. "They, they were big, burly creatures; I didn't stand there and talk to them!"

Wincing and looking away, Larson wondered about the man's credibility. "What color were they?" Cicatriz asked while eyeing Larson.

"Um, greenish, I guess, " Thomas replied. "Tough to say in the dark, but I think they were green, or brown, and very big with puffy, frog eyes."

His answer started a new argument about the reality of ogres, and the men from Faaltosk remained adamant that the description fit their sightings of the monsters. Eventually, the Ruvonians agreed it was possible that ogres inhabited the mountains. Larson's crew eyed each other. Frowns wrinkled faced.

"These people don't seem to get along all too well, " Garrett whispered.

"The guards might work together, but they be from different countries, " Seanessy announced, also in a whisper.

"Well, it doesn't matter much, " Lyalla said. "Thomas?"

"Yes?"

"When did you last see the ogres?"

"When I broke my leg. I jumped from a high rock to a much lower area to get away-they were nearly on me-but that was the last time I saw them clearly. After that, as I scrambled on, I just saw some shadows move here and there."

"Senior, " Cicatriz asked the aged, wiry man wearing a silken doublet.

The head merchant strode over to Thomas. "How many were there?"

"I didn't count them, " Thomas snipped. Cicatriz then invaded his personal space. Though Thomas was a bit taller than the guard, he was only about half as thick. "Um, maybe six?" he peeped.

"Can we handle six ogres, " Senior Gonzalo asked his man.

"I can maybe handle one."

"As can I, " Yoris added.

"We can whittle away at the rest, " Seanessy remarked.

"I'd like to see that, " Larson chuckled to Garrett, who smiled.

"No doubt he can whack one right in the noodle, " the fencer joked.

"Yer' damned right, " the dwarf howled.

"Yes, " Larson finally said. "We could handle six ogres, but do you want to run the risk? It's fine by me either way."

"You're all crazy, " Thomas disputed. "Six ogres can tear your carts to pieces and eat the horses while they're at it. We need to leave immediately."

"We will wait, " Gonzalo ordered, fiddled with the jewels on his wrists, and moseyed off to his tent.

"I suppose that's it then, " Cicatriz said. "Double the guard. The rest of you try to get some rest. Garrett and Lyalla, will you keep watch with us?"

The duo glanced at each other then nodded. Thomas was led to a tent for food, water and rest, and the eight guards discussed the best way to handle ogres. Wilma and Seanessy commented on their clumsy movement and said that taking out their legs was the key to success, but although they remained alert for hours, nothing presented itself, and they began wondering about Thomas's claim. Eventually, the eight guards were relieved by Yoris and seven others; some of them maintained Thomas was a liar.

****

The following morning, as the sun rose over the flat, southwestern horizon and the hawks and the vultures took to the skies, the travelers secured their gear, mounted their carts or horses, and started taking the precarious trails that wound into the mountains' base. Wilma had advised Cicatriz that the trail through the flatter extent away from the mountain was safer, but the old man replied that Gonzalo always took the mountain trail because attacks were only possible from their front. He also mentioned that it was one day shorter as they didn't have to wander south, out of their way, to avoid the cliffs.

Marching ahead of the caravan, the better part of the escorts kept their eyes peeled for a sign of danger; be it ogres, men, or undead. Larson fiddled with his new helmet, another spiked helmet, but since it was purchased from a general smith, it hadn't been tailored for his square head. Griping about it resulted in a witty comeback from the dwarf.

"Told ya' dwarven smiths is the way ta' go, " Seanessy chuckled. "O'course', I don't think there be enough steel ta' cover that mountain ya' calls a head."

Rolling his eyes and shaking his head as some of the guards chuckled at his expense, Larson admitted dwarven craftsmanship was indeed superb. "However, " he added, "Margol back in Xorinth can teach you dwarves a thing or two about working steel."

"Keep yer' eyes on the road, " the dwarf rebutted.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah."

The convoy trudged on, up, and down the rocky, hilly extent. The grayish mountains loomed ominously, and the heavy shadow cast down by the noon sun behind the peaks made the strenuous journey a little less miserable. Sometimes, the guards passed around flasks or chewed a bit of dried meat. Conversations regarding ogres kept arising. Frowning, Larson glanced around for Thomas and spotted him talking to a merchant on horseback. He seemed much calmer than the previous night.

"Hey, " Garrett called as he jogged up to Seanessy and Larson. "What do you think about those ogres?"

"I was just wondering about them, myself, " Larson admitted.

"I don't think we'll be seein' 'em, " Seanessy remarked.

"I'm inclined to agree, " the warrior nodded.

"Lyalla is convinced Thomas was telling the truth, " Garrett mentioned.

"And you, " Larson asked.

"Well...I didn't believe in kobolds until I saw them kill my friends, " the fencer sighed.

"You never mentioned that, " Larson said.

"Never felt it was necessary."

"Mm."

Garrett drew a long breath and looked overhead. Puffy clouds washed over the deep blue sky. Some of the clouds were very high and looked painted over a blue canvas; it was a breath taking sight, yet the fencer grew despondent.

"It doesn't really matter, but I think in this case we should be prepared for ogres. They certainly could live in the mountains, and the men from Faaltosk seemed convinced of their presence."

"I'm sure they're real, " Seanessy said.

"They may be, but I would think they could have easily killed an unarmed traveler...I'm just not sure his story adds up, but we're here to provide safety, " Larson acquiesced.

"Well, technically, we're here to enter Glennmoor unnoticed, " Garrett corrected.

"Speaking of, " the warrior mumbled, "Mathew wasn't exactly clear on the details."

The fencer peeked around then slowed his gait. Larson slowed as well, and Seanessy, who was practically running, slowed to a dwarven mosey in order to listen. Since Garrett felt no one was able to hear them over hooves and wagon wheels, he answered his compatriot.

"So far as I can tell, we're simply here to escort these merchants into Glennmoor. Once they're there, our contract is over, and we can parade around the city as tourists. As usual, we'll hit the taverns, shops, and temples, and see what's what."

"But we're s'posed ta' flush out Parish, no, " Seanessy asked.

"Yes, " Larson and Garrett said. Then, Larson added, "But flush him out from where, and do what? Where do we corner him, and how will we make him talk? We couldn't even see Owens without Mathew's magick; he nearly killed us."

"The detective kind of left that up to us, " the fencer said and pushed back his hair.

"You have a plan, don't you, " the warrior smirked.

"I do, but I won't talk about it now, " he trailed off, mysteriously.

Their trek rolled on in relative comfort. There were no monsters and no sights of other traders taking that particular trail. The others of Larson's crew mixed and mingled with current company, and spirits were high. Marching across the vast landscape of northern Ruvonia was indeed a wonderful sight. Between the northern, jagged mountains, the southern, rocky hills, the pleasurable weather, and the decent company, the adventurers nearly forgot their quest, or at least they were able to take the time to enjoy life. While Larson thought about his brother from time to time, he kept his troubles to himself. He suspected the others were doing the same, and decided to chat about something more amenable.

"So, " he started and cleared his throat. "Seansy, how's your wife feel about you traipsing all over the country while she's at home?"

"What's that s'posed' ta' mean?" he barked.

Raising his hands in a half shrug of disbelief, he said, "I mean; she must not miss your terrible attitude too much."

"Ya'd best be jokin', lad."

"Cool yer' forge, laddie, " Larson said, mimicking Seanessy's mannerisms.

"That's me line, not yers'!"

The warrior smiled. "Tell me about your wife, man."

"What's ta' say? She's tall, pretty, she can cook, she's a great mother–"

"Mother?!" Larson and Garrett exclaimed.

"Yes, mother! We've a beautiful, baby girl together!"

Laughing, they joked about what a child bred from human and dwarf must look like. "Well, she ain't got a beard!" Seanessy howled.

The others overheard and laughed. "Did, did you know humans and dwarves could mate?" Larson snickered.

"I did, " Garrett chuckled. "You'd be surprised how many people are half dwarven or elven. They don't always look like the other races; humans have a way of making their features prevalent...as much as the orcs do."

"Huh, " Larson mused.

The dwarf shook his head in aggravation. "I'd hate ta' see yer' child."

"Well, now, hold on, " the warrior said. "I didn't say your girl was ugly."

"Well, I'm sayin' yer' daughter would be!"

Again, they all laughed. Roaring laughter from behind them also ensued. They glanced to their rear. Apparently, the others near the forefront of the group enjoyed themselves just the same. Eventually, as the laughter died down, and feet grew sore, and knees grew tight, and bellies rumbled, they came to halt atop a propitious precipice overlooking the eastern meadows. The greening grasses a thousand feet below them danced, and as the zephyrs caressed the delicate blades, white puffs of dandelions cascaded over the expanse.

Once more, camp was made, except no tents were raised. Someone made a fire from some old wood pulled from a supply wagon. Larson's crew gathered a dozen or so yards from everyone else.

"How's erryone' doin'?" Wilma inquired.

"Traveling in armor is absolutely dreadful, " Lyalla claimed and plunked down on the ground. Garrett had talked her into purchasing a scaled vest like his own. She tugged at the padded seams by her armpits. "My gals are smooshed."

"Mf, oh yeah, " Garrett said and bit his lower lip, playing sexy.

The elf exhaled and shook her head. "You'll get used to it, " Wilma claimed.

"I certainly hope not, " Lyalla fired back.