3. William Morrison - beginnings

William Morrison - beginnings


  • //UID: Sethan tr'Rial
    //Charname: William Morrison.

    Prelude:

    In the dim pre-dawn light, a thick blanket of fog covers the Uthgardt encampment. A few campfires burn fitfully, struggling against the damp.

    A man threads his way through the encampment with a sure, quiet step, though the clan's yurts are little more than looming shapes in the fog. Water droplets from the fog glisten in his hair as he walks, making it seem more than usual like the spun gold of its color.

    Never a big man, Hakon is nonetheless a highly skilled hunter, and no few brawls have occurred between other clansmen hoping to be included on one of his hunts. His feet find their way across the uneven ground as if on their own, his mind focused on the hunt of the day to come.

    …and so it is that a momentary thrill of fear runs through him, when a slim hand is laid on his arm, stopping him in his tracks - a thrill that returns stronger a moment later, when he realizes whose hand it is - that of the wise woman.

    Hakon listens carefully, as she explains that the hunt today will be different, if he is willing to take her advice...

    Though he had never been there before, Hakon found the base of the trail easily from the wise-woman's instructions. He was reasonably certain she had never been here before either, but with her... one could never be sure. He -was- sure of this much: the wise woman had never been wrong since she came to the clan - not once... and one ignored her advice at their peril.

    The sun was low in the sky as Hakon led the hunting party up a series of switchbacks, breathing easily despite the demands of the steep trail and the distance the hunting party had covered since dawn. They had run all day through lands that had seemed unfamiliar nearly from the beginning, and had seen no one.

    Hakon had not told any of the other men in the party of the wise woman pulling him aside that morning. He had not told them of her instructions to hunt far beyond their normal range, nor of her cryptic instructions.

    What you seek, you will not find; your prey, you will not desire; your prize, you will not kill.

    Many of the hunters still distrusted the wise woman who had simply arrived out of the mists six months earlier, the morning after Old Svala died, and had moved into the old woman's yurt without so much as a word.

    She had worn the trappings of a wise woman, but looked as though she had no more than twenty-five summers… except for her eyes - when she was giving advice, those held the sadness of ages.

    Hakon shook his head as he remembered Chief Toki going into the wise woman's yurt to confront her, after she first arrived. He had come out a short time later, pale as a ghost, and forbidden anyone to go near her. For two days, the wise woman did not come out of her yurt - then a stone turned under Chief Toki's foot as he walked through camp, he fell and hit his head on a rock, and died. When Thormar became Chief, his first ruling was that the wise woman should be treated as any other wise woman. She began coming out of her yurt then, and if she was odd and spoke seldom, her cures always worked, and her advice was always good. Hakon shivered, not from the cold. Her advice was good, but often resulted in some sort of violence when followed - and refusing to listen usually resulted in death, and always in terrible misfortune.

    Hakon's full attention came back to the present as he neared the top of the hill. Behind him, he could hear the low tones of the some of the men as they grumbled. They had seen no game, were far from home, and this was unfamiliar territory.

    Hakon held up his hand, as he spotted a bit of bright color at the side of the trail. The other hunters stopped and watched, as Hakon moved to it, and picked up the ragged square of cloth. The cloth had once been fine silk, but was now snagged and cut, stained with oil, and in some of the cuts, impregnated with metal filings.

    Hakon readied his bow, even as he warned the other hunters “Hssst – bandits.”

    Hakon moved slowly up the trail, steel-gray eyes searching the ground as he did so. It wasn’t long before he found more signs of the bandits – discarded bits of armor and equipment, all of goblin make.

    Just as he was about to warn the others, a shift in the wind brought the faint sound of goblin war cries from the other side of the hill.

    With Hakon at their head, the hunters moved swiftly and silently over the top of the hill, to find themselves looking over the site of an ambush. A section of road below, was bordered on one side by a steep cliff, and on the other, by the hill they were standing on.

    Goblins had made short work of a caravan below, and had begun picking through the spoils. The goblins must have surprised the guards, as none of the attackers had died, and there were few injuries.

    The surprise was just as total when the hunters attacked, and the battle over nearly as quickly.

    Hakon led the hunters down into the carnage their bows had wrought, and motioned for the hunters to spread out. “Spread out. Search for survivors.”

    The caravaners and guards were dead – the goblins had been quite efficient in that regard.

    Hakon scanned the hills while the others searched, to make sure the ambush was not repeated yet again.

    From one of the wagons, Bryn called, “Hakon! You’d better have a look at this.”

    Moving to the wagon, Hakon peered inside, as Bryn gently prodded a pile of silks with a spear butt. A head popped up out of the silks as he did so, and Hakon found himself looking into the most beautiful blue eyes he’d ever seen…

    _That’s how Hakon told it to me, many years ago, William. Of course, the eyes were mine. His men found the goblin camp and returned with much booty. Hakon brought me to my uncle, in Valls, where the caravan had been bound, a journey of several days.

    Though I hardly knew him, I loved him - and I think he loved me too. My uncle gave him a small purse of gold and sent him away, then married me off immediately, so no one would know I was ‘damaged goods.’ I never saw Hakon, your grandfather, again.

    It became obvious soon after I was married that I was pregnant, and more obvious once your Evan was born, that the child was not my husband’s.

    I went from being the Lady of the House to being barely tolerated, in the course of an afternoon.

    Of course, they could not make the matter public without ridicule, so nothing was said, but things were hard – for me and for your father. Perhaps you will not blame him so much if you understand how hard it was for him. He inherited only because my husband had no other sons – though it was not for lack of trying on my husband’s part. Evan was taught to despise me, and to value only power… and he learned his lessons well. After my husband died, Evan inherited, and married – and for a time it seemed as though that would redeem him. Your mother, Leah, was a kind and graceful woman, if not overly pretty, and Evan loved her dearly.

    Jared and Trentin were born, and Evan even began to be kind to me again… and then Leah died bearing you. Things changed almost overnight. Evan again became cold and distant, and you got the worst of both worlds. You had inherited Hakon’s hair and eyes, and much of Leah’s looks and manner, otherwise. Evan could not see you without being reminded of one or both.

    I protected you, but I was too frightened of what might happen if I pushed too much. Mine was an old story by then, and Evan would have lost little by putting me out on the street, as he threatened to.

    Small wonder that you became a pawn in his schemes to gain greater power... first as an extension of himself, and later when you proved to have little aptitude as a merchant, as a bargaining chip to be married off to gain the status of a noble house.

    My greatest hope for you was when you rejected what Evan and your brothers embraced... and I will admit to having aided you in skipping your lessons more than once, by sending those looking for you to where they would not find you.

    I am sorry I did not do more, or tell you more before this before now. I let my fears rule me. I set this down now, as I have nothing left to lose – I am dying, and I have just had a visitor who tells me that Hakon is dead.

    She is a strange young woman, but kind. She says she saw you in the mountains, and that when she left you, you were well.

    She offered to see my maid, Marta safely to the other side of the mountains, to deliver this letter to you, and some things that belonged to Hakon as well.

    With all my love,
    Althea_


  • Reviewed, XP pending


  • The following is in the neatly lettered hand of a scribe from Norwick, hired by one William Morrison.

    _I want you to take it all down, just as I say it. Every word. None of this prettying things up and making them ‘flow better’ as I know some of you scribes do.

    Why aren’t you writing?

    Tht’s better._

    Just about a year ago, I was living near Valls, in Damara. Kossulter, a merchant of Valls, believed I was sniffing around his daughter (I wasn’t – the girl was pretty, but had a temperament similar to her father’s, which should have warned me). To get away from both of them, I was only too happy to take the generous commission he offered to carry a message across the mountains to Peltarch. That was my first mistake.

    My second mistake was in trusting the maps he provided. By my second day in the Giantspires, the weather had closed in, and I was thoroughly lost.

    My third mistake was not being prepared enough for the weather. Before setting out, I spoke with men who claimed to have made the journey across the mountains, and made my preparations based on their advice. Though I did not know it then, they were all just spinning tales. Hmm… well, all save one – and he admitted to delirium and snow blindness for the last part of his journey, so I discounted much of his story, to my loss.

    _My fourth mistake? Well, I’ll let you decide if I made one and when. No more questions though, until I am done.

    Where was I? Oh yes. Alone, lost, and ill prepared for the weather. Each bad by themselves, together they were a recipe for disaster._

    By the end of my second day in the mountains, I had been dodging giants for nearly a full day, more by luck than skill. They usually seemed to be looking the other way when I came upon them, which allowed me to work my way around them unseen.

    As well as I was doing with the Giants; I was doing that badly with the weather, and then some. The wind had picked up, and the snow was coming down so heavily I could barely see a few feet in front of me. Worse than either was the cold. It was far worse than I was prepared for, and I had to don my leathers to cut some of the wind. My feet were nearly frozen through my boots, and though I had gloves and had wrapped those in rags, my hands were numb. I knew it was time to admit failure, and head back for Valls in the morning.

    I knew I had to find a place to make camp out of the weather, or I wasn’t going to make it through the night. In fact, I wasn’t keen on my chances of making it regardless, but I wasn’t about to give up. So there I was, stumbling through the snowstorm looking for a place to camp while trying to keep alert enough not to walk right into a giant, when I heard it:

    Someone yelling for help.

    What? No, you’re right. I wasn’t in much condition to help anyone, but I couldn’t just ignore it. Didn’t I say ‘no more questions until I was done?’ Right.

    So, unlimbering my bow as best I could with numb fingers, I started running through the snow as best I could toward the sound. Suddenly, I realized I was running through an encampment of some kind, with huts covered in skins…

    _Eh? No, you may not write that as ‘yurts,’ and I don’t care if that is the right name for them. When I saw them, they were huts covered in skins.

    Gods! If I had interrupted her as much as you’re interrupting me, I’d still be up there. I hired you to write, not ask questions.

    Her who!? Do I need to hire a different scribe? Well then, I’ll go to Peltarch if I have to. Now be quiet, and you’ll find out ‘her who’ – at least as much as I know, anyway. Good grief. I’ve no idea how bards put up with this.

    All right. Now where was I? Oh yes – running toward the sound of a cry for help._

    The encampment had obviously been attacked, as there were bodies everywhere – all from the defenders. Some had been struck down as they ran, others looked to have put up a fight, but they had all ended alike… all this I saw at a glance as I stumbled past them. The …yurts themselves were all smashed or burning.

    As I reached the end of the encampment, there was a brief pause in the snowstorm, and I could see much further ahead.

    Directly ahead of me were several bags dropped by the attackers. I could see the glint of metal spilling out of one in the light from the burning yurts. Just beyond the bags though, was a sight more precious to me at that moment than any bag of gold – a pass that appeared to lead straight down out of the mountains.

    All that I saw in a glance – for to my right was a giant, attacking two of the defenders. Another defender was already face down in the snow in front of the giant.

    Thinking on it after the fact, I suppose I was being offered a choice in that instant. The giant’s back was to me, and I could have taken one of the loot bags and run down the trail to the pass without being seen – or ignored the loot and just chosen escape.

    At the time though, I didn’t see as I had a choice. Numb as my hands were, it took three tries before I was able to nock an arrow. I let fly at the giant, striking it squarely in the back. Given the conditions, that was probably one of the finer shots I have ever made.

    The arrow got the giant’s attention just as he struck down one of the remaining two defenders. He roared, turned, and charged me. Weaving in and out of the yurts, I got off one more shot at him (which missed badly) before he was on me. Close up, I could see the giant had already been badly wounded before I arrived, and a good thing it was. I dodged his first blow, and stabbed upward into his belly just in time to catch his return stroke. The impact threw me several feet away, and for some minutes I lay bleeding in the snow, unable to rise. The cold was a blessing just then, as I’d likely have been in a lot more pain if I could have felt anything at all. I always thought that dying would hurt more than that.

    My last memory for some time was of hearing the snow crunch under a footstep, and seeing a fur clad figure standing above me, silhouetted against the flames.

    I woke some time later warm, lying on my back in a cave, near a small fire. I busied myself for some time watching the smoke drift near the ceiling and slowly make its way out the cave entrance. Wind whistled outside the cave, and occasionally a cold gust made its way inside. Eventually, I realized I was lying on a bed of layered furs, with another thrown over me. It occurred to me that I should be in lots of pain but wasn’t, and that this place didn’t look like any outer plane I’d ever heard of. Right about the time I decided I was probably alive, I drifted off to sleep.

    I woke to the sight of a figure standing over me, swathed in white fur from head to foot. Cold air fell off it in waves, and powdered snow fell from the furs covering its arms as it pulled back its hood to reveal the face of a young woman. She said something in a gutteral tongue, and waited for an answer.

    It took a short while for me to realize the language sounded much like the few words of the Uthgardt language my grandmother had taught me as a child. I had time…

    _Eh? My grandmother? Well, she always spoke fondly of the Uthgardt. Family legend has it that she was in a caravan that was rescued from orcs by a band of Uthgardt warriors. She was married off almost immediately after the caravan returned and had my father soon after, so there has always been some speculation about…

    Ah! You’ve done it again! No more interruptions now, I’m serious._

    So, I had time to ask (in common – I’ve no head for languages) if she was Uthgardt before she put her hand on my head. I remember thinking it was cool and soft, and then I was asleep again.

    When I woke, she was squatting across the fire from me. “You are feeling better, yes?” she asked.

    I sat up, owned that I was, and thanked her. That was when I realized she was speaking unaccented common. She smiled “No, you are speaking my language. I am a wise woman, and have no patience for trying to understand the grunts you call speech.” She briefly waggled her fingers at me so I would get the idea.

    I asked about the giant.

    “Dead,” she responded. “You slew him.”

    I told her I was sorry for the loss of her village and the members of her clan, and asked about survivors.

    Her face set into an expressionless mask. “There were no survivors. I warned Cholakht, but he would not listen. They were not my clan though, any more than you are. I have no clan.” She looked down, and then murmured something I did not hear clearly.

    Now I had never before met an Uthgardt, but my understanding was that their wise women were crones – while the woman before me looked to be not more than twenty-five, and was beautiful to boot. With all the tact of a man who has nearly frozen to death, nearly been killed by a giant, and just woken up, I said as much, then was immediately horrified at what I’d said.

    She looked a bit taken aback by the question, and then laughed as I stammered an apology for my rudeness.

    She moved to another pile of furs across the fire, sat, and curled her legs underneath her. “Let me tell you a story,” she said, her face in shadow, and eyes unreadable.

    “When the gods were younger, and the world warmer, before the clans, and before the time of Uthgar and Beorunna, my people lived far to the west, on an island. We were warriors even then. There were villages, towns and cities, and a different warlord - the strongest warrior in the area - ruled each. Some of these warlords were sworn to other more powerful warlords, but each ruled his own place with a free hand. Some ruled their people well, and protected them from wild beasts, raiders, and the warriors of neighboring villages. Others were tyrants, worse than the threats from which they were supposed to be protecting their people.

    I tell the tale of the Warlord Modoq, the Tyrant of V'stokh, and of Maqda, his doom.

    Before the time of Modoq, V'stokh was a medium sized fishing village, not far from a city in the place now known as Rethgaard. There were no pirates in these days, and so bordered by the sea on three sides, and Rethgaard on the fourth, the people of V'stokh became complacent and weak willed. Knowing that any enemy would have to come through the city to reach them, the people of V'stokh began to rely more and more on Rethgaard for defense and protection. In time, most of V'stokh's inhabitants became farmers and craftsmen, and few followed the path of the warrior. Into this village was born Modoq. While growing up, Modoq discovered that he was far stronger and faster than his fellows, and he reveled in the power of being the strongest, to the regret of those smaller and weaker than he. When he was old enough, he became a warrior, and left V'stokh to fight in the wars of other cities and other places.

    So strong was Modoq, and so skilled in battle, that he was in great demand among the powerful warlords. Unlike most warriors of the time, Modoq served many warlords in succession. While at war, Modoq's cruelty to the enemy was an asset, but once the battles were over, the same cruelty and maltreatment, especially of the weak and helpless, could not be allowed. Each warlord soon realized that Modoq could not be allowed to remain in his lands when there was no war, and it was not long after the battles were over before Modoq found that he was unwelcome in the warlord's hall, and left to find another battle.

    In the fullness of time, Modoq returned to V'stokh late one evening, a veteran with many battle honors, but welcome in no other place.

    Modoq entered through unguarded gates, looked at the peaceful village, and knew he had at last found his place. He walked directly to the well at the center of the village, turned toward the largest house on the square, and called out in a loud voice. 'Ruszhe! Come out! I, Modoq, challenge you for the position of Warlord!'

    A crowd began to gather, and Modoq repeated his challenge. After a few more minutes, Ruszhe, the Warlord of V'stokh, came out of his house. The Warlord had treated his people well, but was long past his prime, and in another village, would have been replaced many years since. In a tired voice, the old Warlord asked what it was that Modoq wanted.

    Modoq laughed and said. 'I want your place, old man, and everything that goes with it - all that you have. I will fight you for all of it, and I will kill you.'

    Ruszhe replied that he would give Modoq all that rightfully belonged to the Warlord without his having to fight for it.

    Modoq laughed again, and sprang upon Ruszhe with such speed and ferocity that the Warlord was quickly overwhelmed, and fell to the ground with many wounds. And Modoq said. 'Your place, and all else you could willingly have given me, would not truly have been mine while you still drew breath.'

    Ruszhe looked up past Modoq's looming shape, and spoke his death curse too softly for anyone but Modoq to hear, 'One such as you will never have anything that is truly yours.' Before Modoq could do anything more, the light in Ruszhe's eyes dimmed for the last time, and he died. Only Modoq saw that the light in Ruszhe's eyes had been the reflection of the stars from a tiny break in the clouds – a sign that his curse had been heard by the gods. Those watching mistook Modoq's howl of rage for the tribute to a fallen foe that it was not.

    On the following day, Modoq swore the customary oaths to protect the people of V'stokh, and took Ruszhe's place as Warlord.

    It was not long before the people of V'stokh began to feel the weight of Modoq's rule. The few remaining warriors and any others with enough spirit to protest his actions, were killed immediately upon raising any objection. For the rest, their daughters, livestock, and goods were all subject to Modoq's depredations, and their very lives depended on his whims. Modoq's attentions could be averted temporarily with sufficiently large 'offerings', but that offered only a temporary respite, and when the offerings could no longer be paid, those who could not pay suffered doubly from Modoq's anger. In a village that had grown so used to peace, there were now none left who knew enough of the warrior ways to seriously challenge Modoq. Thus things stood at the end of the first year of Modoq's reign.

    Maqda, the widow of Ruszhe, was an old woman when Modoq turned her out of the Warlord's residence. She was given shelter by the baker, and delivered bread to the villagers to earn her keep. On the anniversary of Ruszhe's death, she heard the laments of yet another family who had lost a daughter to Modoq's appetites.

    Maqda made a decision at that moment. No single life was more important than removing Modoq. As she delivered bread that day, Maqda spoke to each of the villagers.

    On the following day, Modoq called the people together to celebrate his first year as Warlord. The people gathered in the square, and watched as Modoq stood on the steps of his house and bragged of his triumph. A man from the crowd asked if he could give Modoq a gift, and the Warlord, flattered, agreed. The man approached, and even as Modoq noticed a strange look in the man's eyes, the father of the girl he had taken the day before plunged a knife into the Warlord's left side between the plates of his armor. Modoq bellowed in pain, tore the blade from his side, and killed the man with a single blow from his own knife.

    The crowd was silent.

    Modoq looked up from the blood welling between his fingers to see the widow of a man he had killed a month before, climbing the steps toward him with a kitchen knife gripped in her hand. This one he killed before she could strike.

    The crowd was silent.

    Next was the village smith, a heavy hammer held loosely in his remaining hand. The smith did not even try to defend himself, but instead committed fully to the attack, content to die, so long as he could strike. He too died, but not before crushing the ribs of the Warlord's right side.

    The crowd was silent.

    Modoq looked up at the crowd again, ignoring the next villager already climbing the steps, unable to comprehend how this was happening. The crowd all had the same look in their eyes as had the first attacker, and the Warlord suddenly realized that all of them were armed. Modoq killed them until he could no longer see clearly, and though his body bore dozens of wounds, still he stood, and still they came.

    Finally the Warlord stood amid a sea of bodies with his knees locked, unable to lift his weapon for another blow. The widow Maqda stood before him, that same look in her eyes, knife poised to strike. Modoq looked up at the sky, hoping the stars would bear witness to his last curse, but the clouds hid them, and breath failed him. Even as the knife descended in his mother's hand, Modoq realized what it was that had changed in the eyes of the villagers: They had remembered that they were warriors.

    Maqda turned, and as she walked from the now dead village, her back straightened, her step strengthened, and her face lost the marks of her age. The Lord of Battles had honored her for her courage and sacrifice, to walk the land and advise her people. Maqda swore she would have none of it and cursed His name. So He cursed her in return, such that she must give advice, asked or not. If the people took her advice it would serve his ends – and if they did not, they would suffer horrible misfortune.

    So ends the tale of Modoq."

    We both sat in silence for a long time after that, before she got up and pointed out what had survived of my gear. Unfortunately, my bow was smashed, leathers shredded, and my sword broken, but she gave me sturdy staff and some furs to travel in. Though she said nothing, it was obvious she wanted me to gear up and be ready to go.

    As I picked up the last of my gear, there was a hand on my shoulder. “William,” she said, as she pulled me around to face her. Her eyes were deep wells whose depths I could not see. “Take my advice. Go down through the pass you saw last night, and make your home in the lands on the far side. Do not return to Valls.”

    A deep sadness came over her face as I put my hand over hers for a moment and told her I would do as she asked. Then the moment was broken and she looked away.

    We stepped outside and walked back to the encampment. The fires were out, and snow had covered all the bodies of the defenders. The giant’s body was a half-covered mound behind one of the yurts. The bags of loot I had seen the previous evening were gone.

    I stood awkwardly, trying to find a way to say thank you and goodbye. Instead, I asked what had become of Maqda.

    She looked away and murmured, “That tale is not done yet. Farewell, William.”

    I bade her goodbye, and started down the path to the pass. I had only gone a few steps when a thought struck me and I turned back… only to discover a blank wall of rock behind me. No path, no village, just mountain going up into the fog.

    I turned back because I realized I had never told her my name.