Don Bassingthwaite - The Grieving Tree

The Barrel was alive with sound, the crowd of its patrons talking, shouting, and laughing, filling the air with the sound of strange languages-Singe picked out Orc and Goblin immediately, but could only guess that the booming tongue that occasionally rolled above other speech was Giant. The place was a rush of smells: musky and pungent bodies, stale ale, sizzling meat, even an undertone of blood. Dandra flinched at the odor.

“Not the Zarash’ak herb market, is it?” Singe asked her as they made their way toward the bar. She shook her head.

Somewhat to his surprise, no one had taken much notice when their group opened the outer door-the Barrel had separate entrances to the taproom and to the upstairs inn where they had taken rooms for what would hopefully be a short stay in Vralkek. Maybe, Singe thought, human-dominated groups weren’t such an unusual sight in the town after all. Maybe the patrons of the Barrel just didn’t care that much. Either way, so long as no undue attention came their way, he was happy.

“Ashi,” said Natrac, “I think you have some admirers.” He nodded toward a knot of goblins who were muttering among themselves and glancing frequently at the hunter. Ashi crinkled her nose and ignored them.

“It’s a good thing we don’t need to keep a low profile,” Singe muttered. He looked at Ashi. “Don’t worry. A reputation for strength probably isn’t a bad thing to have around here.”

He moved up to the bar. A female gnoll with one eye stood behind it. “Six,” said Singe, slapping down a handful of copper coins. He caught the gnoll’s eye. “We’re looking for a guide. The innkeeper upstairs said you could help us.”

The gnoll’s voice was high and barking. “He said you’d be coming down.” She gestured to an empty table, then turned to draw their ale. “Space to talk. Settle yourselves. I’ll send people over. Where do you need to go?”

“Tzaryan Keep.”

Thin lips around the gnoll’s dog-like muzzle pulled back. “Dangerous.”

“I know.”

“Sit,” she said, handing him the first two mugs. “I’ll bring the rest.”

Three chairs had been provided around the table. Geth moved to sit down in one, but Singe nudged him with an elbow. “Stand,” he said. “A chair for me, a chair for Dandra, a chair for the guide.”

“What?” asked the shifter.

“You’re a guard. You stand behind me and watch my back.”

Geth glowered at him. “It makes a tempting target.”

“Just watch it-don’t stick anything in it.” He gave one of the mugs to Geth then clacked the other against it. “Here’s to better luck than we had with Chain.”

When the gnoll barkeep brought the rest of their ale, she brought something else as well-a half-orc in worn and travel stained clothes. “Ryl,” she said by way of introduction, then departed.

The half-orc settled into the empty chair. Singe looked him over. Ryl seemed well-traveled and, at least by the standard of the Barrel, not particularly desperate. “So,” he asked him after a moment, “you could take us to Tzaryan Keep?”

“I could,” the half-orc said. “Easy traveling-dangerous passage. I’ve got a question for you, though. Is Tzaryan Rrac expecting you?”

“Not as such,” Singe told him. They’d worked out their plan during the voyage fro Zarash’ak. “But I’m sure he’ll be willing to talk to me. I want his permission to study the Dhakaani ruins near Tzaryan Keep.”

Ryl thrust out his jaw. “I can take you to within sight of the keep. I won’t go any further if Tzaryan’s not expecting you.”

“Fair enough.” There was another gnoll standing nearby, obviously waiting his chance to talk to them. Singe nodded to Ryl. “Stay in the Barrel. We’ll let you know when we’ve made a decision.”

The half-orc rose and made way for the gnoll. “I’m Kagishi,” the hyena-headed creature said. His voice was a whine. “I’ll work cheap.”

His clothing was frayed and heavily patched. The fur that covered his lean body was thin and mangy. An unstrung bow of Brelish make was slung across his back-along with a quiver that was completely empty of arrows. Singe felt Dandra take his hand underneath the table and give it a little squeeze of warning. He gave no reaction, but raised an eyebrow to Kagishi. “You know Tzaryan Keep? The ruins there?”

“Does Tzaryan Rrac know you’re coming?” Kagishi asked like Ryl’s echo.

“No.”

Kagishi flinched. “That will cost you extra.”

“You said you’d work cheap,” said Natrac.

The gnoll looked uncomfortable. “There’s cheap and there’s stupid.”

The reactions of Ryl and Kagishi were echoed by the next two guides to seek them out. A black-haired shifter who Geth took an immediate dislike to and a whip-like human both hesitated as soon as they learned that Singe’s party would be approaching the keep unexpected. The human offered to arrange for a runner to precede them and alert Tzaryan Rrac to their approach-a sensible and tempting offer. The shifter told them the same story of the House Tharashk dragonshard prospectors that they had heard from Bava and suggested that what they needed was more protection. By coincidence, he knew a number of others who would be willing to accompany them.

Geth bared his teeth and growled at him before he could even finish the suggestion. “Boar’s whiskers! Do you think we were born moonstruck?” He stepped around from behind the table, shifting as he moved-his thick body seemed to grow even thicker, his hair denser. “Get out of here!”

Their would-be guide bared sharp teeth as well. His hands flexed and what had been heavy nails grew suddenly into long, sharp claws. The two shifters glared at each other for a moment, the hair on their bodies bristling, then the black-haired shifter stepped back and swiftly vanished among a crowd that had barely even glanced at the confrontation.

Geth growled again, this time in satisfaction, and turned back to their table. He dropped into the third chair and looked at Geth and Dandra. “I assume he’s out of the running,” he said.

Singe nodded. “I think we’ve talked to enough now.” He twisted around so that he could see all of the others. “What do you think of-”

“There’s one more,” said Orshok. He gestured. Singe turned back around.

On the edge of the crowd stood a goblin. The short creature was looking up at them nervously. “Yes?” Singe asked him. “You need guide Tzaryan Keep?”

The goblin’s voice was thin and harshly accented. Singe considered him. He hadn’t thought of a goblin as a guide, especially in Droaam where it seemed that most of the population could and did swallow goblins whole. This goblin, however, carried a multitude of scars. He was clearly a survivor. Singe flicked his fingers at Geth-the shifter vacated his chair with a groan-and waved the goblin forward. “Who are you?”

“Moza.” The goblin hopped up into the empty chair, standing rather than sitting in it. Being at eye level with the larger people around the table seemed to take away some of his nervousness. “You need guide?” he asked again.

Singe nodded. “Yes,” he said, “we need a guide to Tzaryan Keep.” He skipped right to the information the other guides had asked for. “And no, Tzaryan Rrac doesn’t know we’re coming but we’re not trying to sneak into his keep. We’re walking right up to his door.”

“I hear,” Moza said. “What you want with Dhakaani ruins?”

Singe sat back, a little surprised. None of the other prospective guides had even blinked at his mention of the ruins-and certainly none had asked about the ruins before he’d even mentioned them. “How do you know about that?”

The goblin seemed strangely taken aback at the question. His nervousness returned, his eyes darting around the taproom briefly then coming back to Singe. He tugged on his ear. “I hear.”