The Bristling Boar Inn, Heremac. All Hallow’s Eve, XXX Storing, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven. Vespers.
Sir Will Garnfellow, Friar Sidrach Landry, Clement, Cynthia Carder, Hamral, Mendelor, St. James, Valerius, Coric.
Valerius draws himself up in his seat, tapping his index finger against the table.
“Oh, one last thing, Cynthia. The ogres’ fireplace—it did have a chimney, correct?”
Cynthia nods, “Aye, and a nuisance it was. Gnorrin, Glorrin, and Glogg never thought to keep the thing clean. In just the few months I was there, there were probably two fires.”
“Excellent,” says Valerius, abruptly shifting his attention away from the girl and to the rest of the company. “If we were to engage these brutes in a direct physical confrontation, I estimate our chance of victory to be favorable—modestly favorable. Of course, my calculus also predicts that at least two us would make an untimely visit to the Shining City.
“But if we were to use our heads a bit, our probability of success would increase tremendously, and inversely, our casualties would decrease. Now I’m sure that we all have many ideas as to what we should do. And I’m equally sure that some of your ideas are likely… somewhat… good. But before you all start, here are a few things that have occurred to me.
“First, we should only confront these ogres during the day. From my previous experience I know that they, like the ruck-men, can see well in the dark. And since we know that the rucks have trouble seeing in the sunlight, it would follow that the ogres might have the same handicap.”
Hamral nods. “We definitely want to fight them on our terms,” he says.
Cynthia laughs. “Those layabouts would stay up half the night with ogre-foolishness, and then sleep the whole day away.”
Valerius nods and continues.
“Second, we should attack the ogres from a distance, with ranged weapons. From what I observed, they employ no missile weapons themselves: and if they can’t reach us, they can’t harm us.
“Third, it would be wise to try to divide the ogres and attack them from ambush. The reasons for this tactic should be evident, but if you need me to explain, I will…”
“I’ve no bloody doubt of that, Valerius,” says St. James.
“What? Ah, most amusing. Though I fail to perceive how insulting me is productive. In any case, one way to disunite the ogres would be to block up their chimney with a sack full of dirt or snow or whatever. When the smoke fills the cave they will likely set to quarreling over who should go and unblock the chimney. Eventually the loser will come up the hill, and when he arrives we will deal with him as quickly—and as quietly—as possible. After that we can attempt to repeat the process or perhaps steal into the cave after the other two ogres have gone out looking for the first.
“Oh, and a few other things. Everyone should have some missile weapons—perhaps a few spears for you, Hamral; and a bow or whatever you think that you could use, Coric. Of course St. James may want to try out his special arrows. And Friar Sidrach, couldn’t you call on the Five to perhaps cast a blessed light on the eyes of these beasts, effectively blinding them? I could perhaps lend a hand in my own special way. And as a last resort, Hamral could consume the hyenanthrope potion: it could protect him from the ogres’ weapons.
“I have some pressing matters to which I must attend in the next few days. I suggest that the rest of you prepare to depart from Heremac in a week.”
The road to Eredy, VII Frostaire, Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven. After Nones.
Friar Sidrach Landry, Hamral, Mendelor, St. James, Valerius, Coric.
“This is just lovely weather, Valerius. Just lovely. I bet it’s not this cold in the Blackwell,” grumbles St. James, drawing his soaked hood further down over his face.
“I have nothing to do with the weather,” says Valerius. “At least, not this time.”
The road to Eredy has been long and hard. A blustery squall blowing in from the Channel has brought a bone-chilling drizzle. Light snow had fallen for three of the last four days, and with today’s rain the way is slow and treacherous.
“Ahem,” says Friar Sidrach. “While the weather is rather disagreeable just now, think my son, that soon we will be warm as toast in Eredy, with a nice ale in hand.”
“I wouldn’t mind an ale right now,” says St. James, “And Mags planted firmly… in my lap.”
The Friar laughs, and recites a common little verse:
“Western wind, when wilt thou blow?
The small rain down canst rain.
Fain that my love were in my arms
And I in my bed again!”
“I wish the hell that Clement could have come,” says Mendelor. “He was always handy with a song. So ne’er shall you find, should you search till you tire, so happy a man as the Barefooted Friar. Damn that Clement’s hide and the wench that’s whipped him raw.”
“I should be most glad not to be the barefooted friar on this day,” says Friar Sidrach. “Most glad. The ground is much too cold. If the rain is good for something, it’s to melt this snow.”
“Less talking, more walking,” says Hamral, swinging his sack on to his other shoulder and quickening his pace.
“By the Hammer!” exclaims St. James. “Without our Clement, even Hamral waxes poetic!”
Gwynnon village, east of Eredy. VIII Frostaire. Pentian Year Nine Hundred and Seven. Tierce.
Friar Sidrach Landry, Hamral, Mendelor, St. James, Valerius, Coric.
After a layover in Eredy, the party left early the next morning and marched through more cold drizzle to reach Gwynnon village in good season. The villagers, hearing that strangers are amongst them, issue forth from their mean hovels. Valerius and Hamral are quickly recognized, and soon Godan the smith, a village elder, approaches.
“Well met, sirs,” he cries, “Well met. It’s been almost a year since you drove off those rascals dressed as ruck-men. What brings you now to the village Gwynnon?”
“Greetings,” says Valerius. “As to our business, allow me to first introduce the rest of my retinue. This is Mendelor, woodsman; this is Saint James and this lad is Coric; and this is the Gerardian friar, Brother Sidrach.”
“Welcome, all,” says Godan. “And what of great Shakerly and gentle Clement? Will they be along soon?”
“I’m afraid not,” says Valerius. “Clement has been detained in Heremac, and Shakerly—he walks with the Five, now.”
“Ach, I’m sorry to hear that,” says Godan. “He was an odd fellow, but good-hearted. Now I ask you again, friends: what brings you to Gwynnon?”
“The ogres,” says Hamral, pointing to ridge a couple of miles east and north of Gwynnon. The view is obscured by drizzle and light fog.
“Those three?” exclaims Godan. “Nuggin, Noggin, and Ned? Good riddance to the lot of them, I say,”
“Have they been trouble?” asks Hamral, but Godan laughs.
“No, not really. They give us a few scares every once in a while. They sometimes try to steal one of our pigs, but we can usually drive the ogres off. They’ve come to learn that the men of Gwynnon village are not such easy pickings!”
Valerius squints towards the hill, perhaps looking for smoke.
“I discern little from this vantage,” he says. “Mendelor, can we reach that hill by noon?”
Mendelor cups a hand over his eyes and stares intently into the distance.
“Yeah,” he says. “We can get up there by noon. So what the hell are we waiting for?”
“Yes, what indeed?” echoes Valerius.