Let me try to set this down in an orderly manner - though thinking of order in the shambles of what was the White Widow dining room is laughable. So much has changed, as I knew it would, once we embraced the absurd notion of defying DuChamp. But it is hard to believe that even the Corporation could have cognizance of us so soon after our conflict with their agents in the swamp. It has barely been a matter of days, and their party would hardly have been counted overdue yet, much less any investigation launched. But that means that the developments in Grelsh are coincidental... it is too much to consider; let me just record the events.
We had made camp just off the Crespin Road and passed what we thought was our last night away from home. Rorick and Urik spent much time by the firelight discussing the ancient system of - magic? power? force? - that apparently infuses The Reaper, the weapon we seized from the DuChamp agents, and also, we assume, the Death Machine that the Corporation is seeking in the vicinity of Grelsh. Apparently, this ancient thaumaturgy lies at the root of our current understanding of magic and has associations with both ethical considerations and the warmaking cultures. I have tucked Rorick's notes in the overleaf.
Looking back now, I remember thinking that conversation was for the historical-minded; I had no idea how soon I would be brought face to face with its current application.
We broke camp this morning, knowing that we could reach Grelsch before nightfall. It turned out that we never reached Grelsch at all. We were intercepted by one of the Town Guard, Santos by name, still some hours away from Trades Meet and the Widow. He told us that he had been waiting for us for several days and related two incidents, along with instructions that he said came from the lady Pasha.
The first news he gave us concerned an attack on the Grelsch lumberworks - not the hidden mill operated by the Stealer's Guild, but the official facility not far from town. Santos said that shortly after we had left town for the swamp, the mill had been attacked by a man breathing fire - breathing, or spitting, or at any rate somehow spewing fire from his face. He had killed the miller and several laborers before being killed himself - and it had take a score of guardsmen (nearly the whole contingent) to dispatch the villain. Santos said that an examination of the body revealed that the killer was a townsman - a local man - whose body had been cut and branded in a manner similar to the Witch Doctor Urik, with strange symbols.
This mystery had startled the town, of course, but close behind had come another terror: a ship had appeared in the harbor and three DuChamp "diplomats" had disembarked. They had gone to see Nackle in his town house. The Crespin emissaries, Helion and the rest, had joined whatever discussion was going on, as perhaps had the priest Releford, and maybe others. No one had come out of the house after going in, with the exception of Pasha, who appeared to be running the day-to-day activities of Grelsch for Nackle as this... negotiation? ultimatum? stand-off? ...went on. And according to Santos, it was still going on - or at least, he had not been relieved of his duty and that indicated to him that the status quo held.
For Santos's orders were to intercept our party - me, Urik, Rorick, AppleRabbit, Zinna, and young Ecgbert - and by all means prevent our return to Grelsch while DuChamp had a presence there. These were the specific and explicit instructions of the lady Pasha acting for Nackle himself. Pasha had let out the entirety of the White Widow Inn, and that was to be our refuge: we should wait there until she contacted us in person. According to Santos, it was imperative that we not return to town, although the reasons for this were beyond his ken.
The situation presented a conundrum: we had no idea what was going on, although the arrival of DuChamp agents in Grelsch was clearly bad for us no matter how the sand settled. Were Nackle and Pasha trying to protect us from DuChamp by hiding us? Were Nackle and Pasha trying to protect themselves from DuChamp by hiding us? Were Nackle and Pasha delivering us to DuChamp in exchange for something? We had nothing on which to base our reckoning, and no way to gain more information without already making a choice - perhaps a wrong choice. - to violate Pasha's instructions and enter Grelsh. Santos was insistent that the danger of our entering Grelsch was far greater than any intelligence we might gain. We considered trying to contact Cavendish of the Stealer's Guild, but could think of no safe way to do this.
We made our way north as we pondered this; even the idea of quitting Grelsh completely was raised, only to be dismissed. Leaving would not get us closer to understanding the mystery and identifying possible threats against us, and in any case, Ecgbert was insistent that he find out if his family was safe. He pressed Santos on this matter and obtained the guard's word that he would check on them himself. In an odd turn, Ecgbert also gave Santos a note for Pasha... I thought it seemed unusual at that time and even called Rorick's attention to it. Clearly, I will never get a chance to ask Ecgbert about it now, but it would be a good thing to keep in mind when we speak with Pasha.
Urik and Apple seemed to want to make some stealthy approach and camp near town elsewhere than the inn; Zinna was torn by her desire to go home and her fear of being poisoned by the food in the inn (Iris's dream had impressed her greatly); Rorick wanted to sleep indoors; and Ecgebert just seemed dazed. In the end, it was more by fatigue than by consensus that we found ourselves heading toward the White Widow; fatigue and the curiosity to find out who was protecting us or laying a trap.
We came to the Widow near nightfall and all was as Santos described: the whole place had been cleared and Mariah was waiting for us inside with a great meal cooking, to judge by the smell. We could spy Trades Meet in the distance; I could see Took and Burden closing up their stalls for the night, along with some of the other merchants, and the usual local urchins were playing in the nearby fields. My half-finished cabin off by the creek seemed to be still standing; the only unusual feature was the addition of a closed sign on the inn to keep travelers away.
Santos turned us over to Mariah and left for town, once again promising to contact Ecgbert's family and exhorting us to stay out of sight until Pasha arrived. We settled into the dining room with Mariah, thankful to be off the road. She apprised us more of the situation in Grelsh, including the detail that the man who destroyed the mill had been found to have a huge hole in his forehead - apparently he did not breathe fire but weirdly emitted gouts of flame from this hole in his head. It sounded like no beast or demon I had heard of. Mariah also told us that town life appeared to be running as usual, if a little more sedately, with DuChamp in town; the focus of sentiment seemed to waver between fear and resentment of the Corporation and the knowledge that it was their intervention that kept the Rashemi slavers from attacking the outpost. For although it had many trappings of a town or city, it was good not to forget just how remote Grelsh is; its remoteness has indeed been one of the reasons I have remained here so long, but it does create a vulnerability.
After a bit, we sat at a table pulled next to the free-standing hearth and Mariah made to serve us. We might have been a bit too relaxed, but perhaps not; Zinna, at least, was still quite nervous, checking the windows on the south, east, and west every so often, and walking out onto the west porch to look north toward Grelsh, since that view was blocked by the kitchen wall. It turned out her alertness was for naught: an ambuscade did come, but the stealth and suddenness of our attackers was such that even vigilant Zinna was caught unawares.
It began with several things seeming to happen at once: I felt a strange tingling in my ears-- I saw Mariah's face go wide with shock as she dropped a tray of crockery in fright, and the plates made no clatter as they fell to the ground and smashed-- several loosed arrows flew across the room, some, at least, striking Urik-- and the fireplace blew great gouts of flame from every opening, scorching us where we sat. We were obviously at the center of a coordinated crossfire: a quick glance through the smoke and flame revealed an orcish ambusher at each of the three sides that had windows, and who knew who else was making mischief for us outside.
The battle was joined; I called C'hallah to me, using hand signs as well as voice, for I still knew not whether just I had been rendered deaf or if greater magic was afoot. We sprang for the invader at the west window; I saw AppleRabbit crawling through the rubble toward the fire, Rorick and Ecgbert engaging at the west window, and Urik and Zinna counter-attacking at the south. After that, I was much too preoccupied to note much of the battle.
C'hallah and I clambered through the window after our foe; he made a fighting withdrawal as we stuck at him, pulling us away from our comrades. He was nimble and quick and managed several shots with his bow, dancing just out of reach of The Reaper. My new weapon betrayed me with its quality: like a fresh mount suddenly given to a rider used to a slow camel, the power and speed of the magic armament seemed just beyond my command and I landed fewer strikes with this great device than I would have with my battered old sickle. C'hallah was more effective and the brave ape took grievous injury as we fought.
We struggled on the porch for what seemed like hours, although I am sure it was merely minutes. I was dimly aware of the sounds of conflict from within and from the south side of the inn. At some point Rorick's bird joined my fight against this orc, allowing me to land what I had hoped would be a killing blow, but that luck was not with me. Victory came from another quarter: out of nowhere, the hostess Mariah appeared and fetched the orc a clout on the head with a heavy frying pan, dropping him like a sack of meat.
It would have been ridiculous if it had not been so desperate.
Rorick arrived on the scene at about the same time, but he was hugely enlarged, having learned the magicks of the Corporation agents from the swamp while we on the road. He thundered past us, not fleeing any enemy, but rather assessing my security at a glance and heading toward the door to go back into the inn and our comrades. I wanted to take a moment to thank Mariah - I could have kissed her, and where would I have been then‽ - but Rorick's urgency reminded me the battle was not mine alone, and I raced back to the window I had climbed from. The site that met my eyes chilled my desert blood.
Zinna was dancing her blood dance with an attacker outside on the south porch, but inside was a disaster. Urik was down. Apple was down. Ecgbert was down, and standing above him was some sort of orc priest, obviously an ally of the soldiers we were fighting, with a dagger raised for a killing blow on the helpless farmboy.
Too far to engage, I screamed and taunted the priest, hoping to attract his attention away from Ecgbert and onto myself. He laughed at me. Rorick tried to close on him, but his bulk made it hard for him to maneuver and the priest felled him with a gesture as he approached. I moved close enough to try to disarm him with magic, but once again the northern sun did not come to my aid - Gurzil watches the jangwa but his sight must not reach Grelsh. The priest shrugged off my feeble, fruitless spellcasting and brought his weapon down. In an instant, Ecgbert's life was over and our short association had come to the end I had warned him off. So soon, so soon.
I lament now, but in the moment all went red and I charged the priest. I might not be here to write this had not Zinna, finished with her own fight, joined the skirmish, waving me back and dispatching the mage with the brutal efficiency that has served us so well against so many foes.
As quiet settled, only Zinna and I stood among the fallen bodies; Mariah and C'hallah entered the inn - now looking more like a pig butchery - from the relative safety of the porch. Ecgbert was too far gone for any remedy; I attended to my comrades, rousing them while Zinna made sure that our foes were treated to the same fate as our fallen spearman. He looked to have died fighting; perhaps that provides some meaning to the inevitability of his demise. Farewell, Ecgbert; may Wihinam welcome you to her oasis eternal if you do not find yourself in your people's paradise.
Urik awoke bellicose and somewhat disappointed that the battle had been won (if I can use that word) without him. AppleRabbit was distraught at the loss of Ecgbert, and prepared his mortal remains with great reverence, although she still had a mind to help C'hallah with his wounds. Rorick, as usual, had kept his wits about him and set us to cleaning up as best we could.
When she had put out the fire at the start of the fray, Apple had seen two devices in the ashes of the fireplace, and she recovered and shared them now. (Rorick had found a rope on the north face of the inn and it was clear that the items had been dropped down the flue as part if the ambush.) The first was a ring that apparently was the source of the magical silence that had enveloped us; I learned that it had been effective in impeding the spellcasting of my comrades in the inn, which no doubt was its purpose. The other artifact had been some sort of globe, broken now, but still showing the etchings of Nil and Ter from the ancient alchemy. My guess is that this apparatus somehow magnified the effect of air on the fire in the hearth - it did not create fire, but magically increased the fire, the same way a gentle breath will cause glowing tinder to wrapped in flames.
But those are all minor details. Perhaps I linger on them because the bigger scene - the picture I cannot erase from my mind - is so ghastly. This is what I have tried to warn my comrades of. This fight is not a game, not an adventure. DuChamp is as powerful as they are evil: this is a rebellion, and the most elementary form of rebellion, paradoxically, expresses an aspiration for order. We will wage a grim struggle to restore order and in the end none of us will survive it any more than Ecgbert. It is absurd, but accepting the absurdity of everything around us is one step, a necessary experience: it need not become a dead end. It can arouse a revolt that can become fruitful.
I must go attend to Mariah and comrades. I hope Pasha gets here soon, so we may begin to get at some answers.
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