Sunday Evening, Fireseek 2, 591 Common Year

That night proves to be a chilly one. Wisps of clouds cover the thin sliver of the waxing greater moon called Luna, as well as the smaller aquamarine moon, Celene, that is already losing the fullness it enjoyed during the week of Needfest. Ragnbjorn and the brothers pull the canoe up onto the banks of the Javan River, and easily hide it away amidst the reeds and brush. Together they lay down tarp and set up the four-man tent that Ragnbjorn keeps packed up in the canoe. Ragnbjorn decides against a fire, lest there be more Amedi warriors or worse things wandering about. Each of the three takes a three-hour watch so the other two can rest. Ragnbjorn takes the first watch, Indranil takes the middle watch, and Lorindel is assigned to the last watch. Though the half-elven brothers do require sleep (unlike their elven brethren who simply enter a trance state) they do not require as much as humans so taking the middle and last watches are not that much of a hardship for them. In addition, they have learned some of the elven tricks of maintaining a state of restful alertness.

Using the thin fishing line from Ragnbjorn’s fishing tackle Indranil runs a single line roughly six inches off the ground in the open spaces between the bogs, trees and large clumps of shrubs. Each line is tied to a small tree or large shrub that has been bent back (like stringing a bow). If someone trips on the line it will releases the tree/shrub with a loud sound. Essentially it is an early warning that someone (or something) is approaching the camp. No damage would be done unless someone is supremely unlucky to catch the straightening tree in the eye.

After eating a cold tasteless meal of trail rations Indranil takes one more look around camp to make sure everything is secure and hidden. He then makes a final pass along the perimeter 40 yards out from camp checking on the perimeter alarms. Lorindel joins him in this, trying to recall whether there is anything in the area that might be a threat to them. But this is far from lizardfolk territory, and when they passed through before they found no sign of any other threats, though of course that does not mean there aren’t any, just that they didn’t spot any. Satisfied that no one can approach from the marsh side they return to camp. Indranil enters the tent and lays down still wearing his armor and carefully placing his weapons within easy reach.

With a smirk, Lorindel returns to making preparations for sleep. To the others he says, “This spot should make for a peaceful rest. The ground is firm, yet soft enough. We will need to sleep in our armor and be ready for the creatures in these woods. Best to sleep with one eye open and our bows strung and nocked.”

“Indeed,” says Ragnbjorn as he exits the tent to take up his watch.

Indranil is tired to the bone from the long days of paddling through the endless sloughs and marshland scouting an inland passage for the King and Prince. He feels sure sleep will take him quickly. However he lays awake anxious, finding sleep slipping far away from him as he ponders Lorindel’s earlier question on his preference for which race he prefers. He is embarrassed to admit to himself that contrary to his wise words on the pettiness of label and the need to belong and be accepted that he too yearns to feel part of something: part of a tribe, a village, a race. The pain of separateness is actually deep in his being and drives him to live apart from those he feels he can never be accepted by or fit in with. He justifies his separateness with his work. As a ranger it requires him to be gone for long periods of time and gives him reasons to leave again soon after arriving – as if his job makes it okay to be alone.

After awhile, Lorindel, who also remains awake, says, “I was thinking about what you said earlier, and I agree with you brother. The distinction between man and elf is irrelevant. Perhaps there is no need to make a choice, but the societies of men and those of elves have. We are pitied by the elves, our brothers even. By the humans, we are not truly seen as men, but half-men.” Lorindel glances over at Ragnbjorn, whose shadow can be seen through the flaps of the tent. He is within earshot, but makes no indication that he is listening. In fact, he is as still as a boulder.

Lorindel looks back to Indranil and continues, “It is our fate. Take the lowliest of all the civilized races, that unfortunate beast born to man and orc. Shunned by his tribe and reviled by the humans, yet are we any different? Wishing will change nothing, I know, but unless we become hermits, this is our reality. Perhaps you’re right. Perhaps my thoughts are wasted on needless worries that only serve as distractions from our mission. When our surroundings are different, maybe we will again broach this subject.”

Lorindel gestures to where Ragnbjorn sits outside the tent, in a jesting tone he says, “Not ol’, Ragnbjorn. He judges others simply by their actions; and those he hasn’t had a chance to judge, he doesn’t trust.”

Indranil replies, “Yes brother, it is one reason I like Ragnbjorn so much. He does not judge us by our blood but by our actions. He is wise beyond his years and station. He is easy to be around.

“Funny you bring up the subject again as I was laying here pondering your earlier question. I must say that being compared to those half-orcs is not a comparison I like to have made of us. I fear this will be an unresolved part of our life. What do we do? Not have a family of our own to spare our children such painful questions? Or perhaps we are a new breed entirely? Some say the elves are diminishing and man increasing. I fear this is a knot that cannot be untied and must be born. Let us sleep. Our watch will come soon enough.”

With that Lorindel turns over to sleep. Indranil’s mind, however, wanders to another of his favorite subjects to worry over, Just who and what is Ragnbjorn? While he trusts Ragnbjorn with his life and considers Ragnbjorn his master and mentor. He feels like there is more to him than meets the common eye, as is a lake that is deeper than one can swim and touch the bottom in one breath.

Indranil tries his breathing techniques but even that fails to quiet his mind on this night. He finally gives up halfway through Ragnbjorn’s watch and decides to get up. He slips out of the tent, careful not to wake his brother, and quietly walks over to where he sees Ragnbjorn sitting silently watching the Javan River flow and the wisps of cloud play the dance of veils with Celene as if it is seducing the sun to return and warm her.

Indranil whispers, “Evening tides to you Ragnbjorn. I find sleep evades me tonight. The chirping of the crickets in my mind will not let me rest. May I join you?”

They sit quietly comfortable in their silence. Then Indranil asks Ragnbjorn, “Ragnbjorn tell me about your childhood and growing up.”

Ragnbjorn, always taciturn, grunts and says, “That’s a little personal don’t you think? Bah, there’s not much to tell anyway. I’m from a family of landless knights in central Keoland. We came to homestead in the Dreadwood where we could carve out a little plot for ourselves, with the gracious permission of the elves there of course. Growing up I fancied that taking service in the King’s Rangers might bring a bit more glory than just serving in the cavalry as a regular knight. I’m sure the same is true of many of the rangers in the Dreadwood. If we manage to kill the right beastie creeping out of the marsh at the right time before it can get into Keoland, then someone might notice and our reward would be a more respectable plot in a more civilized part of the country. Ha! Didn’t ever quite work out that way, but I’m not sorry for it. I’m proud to serve my country and my king. I have a beautiful wife back home in the Dreadwood keeping our forest manor warm for me in between these little jaunts. I have three children that I’m mighty proud of. A daughter, Yvonna, well married to a wealthy merchant in Saltmarsh; my older boy Fingol, who’s a bit daft but a good ranger nevertheless, probably wandering about out here himself; and finally my youngest Arngeir, who’s probably near to finishing his ranger trials as we speak, and a brilliant one he is. I love them all, I’m proud of them all. I long ago realized that the gods have blessed me far more than I could ever have imagined – peaceful country estate or not.”

After a moment’s pause he continues, “I couldn’t help but overhear you and your brother talking. I have every confidence you two will find your place in this world. You’re both fine young men.” He laughs, “You’ll both turn out to be great heroes I’m sure, whatever your bloodline. And of course you may not realize it having spent so long traipsing through these backlands with me, but there are enough half-elves and descendents of half-elves all around Keoland that there are probably enough to form a whole nation for yourselves. Many, also, are the noble houses that have more than a little elvish blood in them. You’ll both find a worthy place for yourselves I have no doubt.”

Suddenly Ragnbjorn holds up his hand to silence Indranil and then points out to where the perimeter alarms were set. Indranil hears it too – raspy guttural voices whispering to each other out in the fog. In fact Indranil is amazed that Ragnbjorn can even hear it. He seems almost preternaturally attuned to everything in the environment. The voices just as suddenly stop. Ragnbjorn takes up his bow and indicates with a gesture that he will hide in the reeds near to where the canoe is hidden from where he can observe the whole clearing unseen.

Indranil moves quickly into the tent and wakes Lorindel with a gentle shake. Once Indranil has Lorindel’s eye he rapidly signs the situation using ranger battle sign: hand held like a blade on forehead: threat near; cupped hand to ear: noises heard; hand points towards where he heard the raspy guttural voices; hand held up with fingers spread apart: spread out and move to over-watch positions; fist to chest: leader (Ragnbjorn) and points to where he will hide in the reeds near the canoe and finally points to himself and then up in the cypress tree above the tent where he will be hiding. Ranger battle sign is a silent and efficient means to communicate and takes no more than 30 seconds to provide Lorindel a complete situation report and all the tactical information he needs to act.

While Lorindel awakens and the brothers confer, Ragnbjorn makes his way quietly over to where the canoe has been hidden. He moves like a ghost. Indranil’s acute senses hear him, but he doubts any human could have. Ragnbjorn carefully turns the canoe back over and puts his pack into it softly, and then maneuvers it as quietly and carefully as he can back to the edge of embankment. If their camp is invaded and they need to make a hasty retreat, they will be ready.

Indranil scurries up the cypress tree overhanging the tent site and wedges himself into a crook in the branches. Securely positioned and nearly invisible from below, he strings his bow using only one hand while simultaneously grabbing an arrow from his quiver over his shoulder and nocking the arrow in the string. Stringing a heavy long bow one handed is no simple task for an untrained bowman, but Indranil makes it look easy. In fact if asked he would say it was simply a matter of leveraging his body: a knee, a hip twist and a quick flex of his body. The actual trick was hooking the bowstring one handed and is more a feat of dexterity than strength.

He then checks the rest of his weapons, like a mantra, once learned then repeated without thought; dagger clear, sword clear, bow strung, quiver full, armor on. And in his mind the rhyme he learned as a young ranger:

Low To High
Nothing Gets By
Left To Right
Watchers Delight
Shoot First Shoot Last
Threat Be Past.

Indranil feels his blood begin to sing with the rush of battle sense and potential combat. His mind becomes still and his awareness expands to hyper alertness. He keeps his eyes constantly moving because at night a person can see more through their peripheral vision and perception of movement than looking straight on. He keenly listens for more indications that something is approaching. He also casts for animal sign to see if he could use their senses to augment his own.

Lorindel makes way to the other side of the clearing heading towards the other cypress tree and among the reeds, hoping the rush of the river will help to mask any sounds he might make. His shortbow is strung, arrow nocked and ready.

They wait. Ready.

As they wait, no sound comes from the perimeter alarms. That means nothing though. They could have been seen and bypassed any number of ways. As they peer into the night mists, illuminated only by the silver crescent of Luna and the smaller but fuller blue glow of Celene they can hear the haunting ethereal song of the whippoorwills and the guttural trill of the leopard frogs. The singing and trilling grow louder and more incessant by the minute, as though warning of some impending calamity. All at once it stops. All is silent. For a moment an unearthly calm descends upon the camp, and then red eyes shine out of the darkness close to the ground. Another pair of eyes appears right on the heels of the first. A moment later and the thin shadows of their owners can be discerned in the fog, creeping along on awkward gangly limbs. A snuffling and almost human muttering can be heard. Then the stench carries over, the smell of rot and decay, the smell of an open grave under moss draped cypresses in the misty moonlight.

The foremost creature, rears up on its haunches about 25’ away from the tent and sniffs the air. From its outline they can see that it is more human in shape than it seemed at first, though they can still only make out its red eyes shining in the dark and the silhouette of its painfully thin limbs and torso. The other continues creeping up to the leader. They are both facing towards the tent. Then an owl screeches; it is Ragnbjorn’s signal to attack!

Ragnbjorn’s first shot with his longbow strikes the first creature in the chest causing it to howl in agony. As it thrashes about in pain, Indranil’s arrow sails past and is lost in the bogs beyond the clearing. Lorindel’s shaft however finds its mark in the beast’s chest not far from Ragnbjorn’s, causing the creature to renew its unearthly caterwauling. Then both creatures lope towards the cypress tree from which the last arrow sped. Lorindel, however, has already moved on to the nearby brush, where unseen and unheard he nocks another arrow and prepares to once more fire and run for a new hiding place. Ragnbjorn’s second arrow embeds itself in the leader’s left leg, and the creature collapses in a heap, mewling piteously. Lorindel’s next shot catches it in the throat and it falls into the mud, still and silent at last. The other hears Lorindel’s retreat into the deeper brush and starts after him with a snarl, but Indranil’s second arrow catches it in the back of the head and it too falls lifeless to the ground. For a long moment no one moves, and a deathly stillness falls over the clearing. Then there is a break in the clouds overhead; the moons and stars shine down what light they can on the fog enshrouded embankment. The whippoorwills and leopard frogs again take up their song, and the natural rhythms of nature seem restored.

Ragnbjorn hoots again, this particular call signaling that all is clear. He steps away from the cover of the reeds and strides over to where the beasts lay dead. Lorindel comes out of the underbrush and stands over the creatures, an arrow still nocked and ready. Indranil swings easily down from the branch he was perched on, drops lightly to the ground, and walks over to the others. Ragnbjorn, shortsword and dagger drawn, nudges the creatures’ legs, as far from their teeth and claws as he can, but they don’t move. In the blue moonlight of Celene, they look like impossibly emaciated feral people, naked except for being caked in mud and slime, one male and one female. They are hairless, with sharp elongated teeth, especially the canines. Indranil and Lorindel, with their elvish night vision, can see that their pupils are a dull red, no longer shining with their earlier uncanny illumination.

“Humph,” says Ragnbjorn, “some kind of undead probably. I guess I’d better take back a trophy to Westkeep for the priests, so they can tell us what it is exactly.” He then kneels down and hacks off the head of one with his shortsword and pops it into a sack, which he ties off. They notice that the creatures do not bleed exactly, but instead thick sluggish dark green ichor oozes from their wounds and evaporates with a nauseating stench in the cool night air.

Ragnbjorn’s grisly chore complete, he stands and gazes at the bogs. “Well, I’m not going to sleep anymore tonight after this. I want to know where these came from and if there are any more of them. This is too close to Westkeep to just pass over.” He turns back to the brothers and says, “I know you two can see well enough at night, and I have a little something here that will let me do the same.” He pulls out a small vial from one of his many pockets and thumbs the raised seal to assure himself that it is the right one. “I say we break camp, pack up the canoe so that it’s ready to go in case we need to hightail it out of here in a hurry. Then we track those things back to wherever they came from. If there are no more of them, then that’s well and good. If there are just two or three others, I think we can take them out ourselves if we can get the drop on them. If there are more than that, or no way of being sure, then we’ll leave, and report what we found when we get back to Westkeep. We can lead a team of clerics and paladins back to the site later and let them clear it out. In any case, I want to be back here and on the river heading to Westkeep by dawn. Any objections?”

Lorindel says, “Ragnbjorn, I agree that a scouting mission is in order. Those beasts didn’t seem concerned at all about stealth, so it shouldn’t be difficult to track them back to whatever pit they crawled from. If it’s only a few more of them, we should clean it up just fine. Otherwise we’ll do as you suggested, and report our findings back in Westkeep.”

Indranil says, “I agree. We must be careful though, as these creatures seem unnaturally strong. The leader took four shots to kill and the other only went down with a direct headshot. These are no easy beasts to kill. I would hate to encounter a large group of them with just the three of us. We should burn these vile carcasses before we leave for Westkeep. Who knows what diseases they will breed.”

Ragnbjorn grunts in the affirmative at that but says, “We’ll do it when we get back. If we burn them now, it will just draw the attention of others, if there are any others.”

Indranil turns to Lorindel, “I don’t know what they are but did you feel the world and all that lives go still when they approached? As if their presence was anti-life? It chilled my bones brother.”

As Ragnbjorn quaffs the potion, Indranil says, “And Ragnbjorn be careful with those potions you drink – your manhood may fall off!”

Ragnbjorn laughs and drinks up. “Well since I got it from your father’s people, I’ll be taking it up with them when I get back to the Dreadwood. I’ve probably had enough kids for this lifetime anyway.”

The three then start packing up their gear and loading the canoe.

After everything is packed up, the three set out. Ragnbjorn leads and it is no hard task to track the creatures’ spoor through the mud and reeds and around the bogs until it reaches higher ground. It takes almost an hour but the trail finally leads through a stand of oak beyond which lies what looks like a long low mound.

Suddenly Ragnbjorn points with his chin to a tree about 10 yards away and slightly to the right. Lorindel and Indranil see it, red eyes glinting in the dark as another one of the cadaverous creatures crouches by the trunk of an oak, as though waiting for them. Ragnbjorn quickly lines up clear shot and lets his arrow fly, the creature yelps as the arrow hits it in the right foot just as Indranil and Lorindel move up through the oaks for a clear shot and let loose their shafts at it. Their arrows smack into the trunk as the creature ducks back behind it. At the same time, two more of the howling beasts charge into them from their hiding places behind the other oaks. Unfortunately, Indranil finds himself fending off both of the snapping and snarling ghouls. One of them even manages to get past his guard and sinks its teeth into the leather of his cuirass before he shakes it off. He realizes it won’t be long before they succeed in tearing into him with their teeth and claws. The one Ragnbjorn had shot joins its brethren, leaping out from behind the tree despite its injury to snap and snarl at Ragnbjorn and Indranil. Lorindel, who was standing just behind and to the right of Ragnbjorn backs off and fires a shot at the ghoulish creature menacing the elder ranger, but the shot goes wild.

This ambush was exactly what Indranil was worried about. He wished now he had argued to leave immediately to report back to Westkeep returning with the clerics and paladins. Ragnbjorn can be incautious and impulsive at times. Indranil doesn’t hold it against him as Ragnbjorn is usually right and more than capable of dealing with most anything the Deadwood and Hool Marshes could throw at him.

There was no time for wool gathering however as battle was upon them and they were fighting for their lives. This time they might have bitten off more than they could chew and they were in great danger of being overwhelmed. Indranil was cut off from Ragnbjorn and Lorindel and fighting two of the ghouls.

His sword forms master had once said, “Fighting multiple attackers is easy, just fight one at a time.” His sword master had also gone on to say that in a multiple attacker scenario the single fighter can’t play defense. It needs to end in one or at most two strikes per opponent using over-powering speed and violence of action. Offense is critical when dealing with multiple attackers as you only have a chance to deal with each one once.

Indranil immediately rid himself of his bow once the creatures charged within his effective shooting range. The bow by itself is a poor weapon, only good against a bumbling drunk to knock them on the head. Against these undead creatures it was useless. He threw it at the farthest ghoul and drew his sword while shifting to the right in order to put one attacker in front of the other; now he had to face only one. He figured from the short battle back at camp that anything less than a head strike would not kill the ghoul. In a battle this fast and ferocious he would indeed have no time for defense as his sword instructor had said.

Indranil with a battle cry of “Honor!” immediately launches an aggressive attack on the ghoul facing him with a fierce cutting downward strike from the high guard position towards the ghoul’s neck. Unfortunately the wretched thing leaps back in time to save itself.

Behind Indranil, Ragnbjorn drops his bow behind him. If it were any other bow he would have thrown it at the charging ghoul to trip it up, but not even in such dire straits would Ragnbjorn casually cast away a composite longbow crafted by the famed elven bowyer Faremlas with a heavier than usual pull for his own prodigious strength, or at least the strength he had in his prime. With practiced speed and surety, Ragnbjorn drew the longsword cast for him by the famed dwarven swordsmith Drimli, and brought it crashing down on the ghoul before him, slashing into its still extended right leg though it succeeded in pulling its head away. Undaunted, the ghoul leaps at Ragnbjorn again, biting and rending at him with a fury. It is thwarted by the ranger’s shirt of mithril worn under his traveling clothes, though it does succeed in leaving some shallow scratches at his neckline with its filth encrusted claws before Ragnbjorn shoves it away and puts it down permanently by cleaving in its head.

Lorindel races off to the left past Ragnbjorn and his foe, and is finally able to get a clear shot through the trees at a little over 20 paces at one of the ghouls attacking Indranil. His shaft sinks into its practically fleshless left leg and it howls in outrage and turns its sunken red eyes on Lorindel and begins limping towards him as fast as it can. Lorindel backpedals away from it and lines up another shot, this time sinking his arrow in the ghoul’s heart. This proves to be disruptive enough to disperse the dark energy animating the creature and it collapses and moves no more.

Unfortunately for Indranil, though he succeeds in slashing the last one across the chest with his blade, it ignores the wound and slams into him before he can bring his sword back into position to ward it off. It sinks its fangs into his side, in one of the spots not fully covered by his leather cuirass. Then Ragnbjorn is there, slashing it in the back and kicking it away from him. From either side of the last ghoul, Ragnbjorn and Indranil begin hacking and cleaving at it with their longswords until it too has fallen, reduced to nothing more than a broken quivering heap of decaying flesh and swiftly evaporating dark green ichor. When the twitching finally ceases and the nauseous ichors that are the effluvium of the necrotic power that had lent it a twisted parody of life are at last dispersed, they turn away to survey the mound beyond the tree line.

“Anyone hurt?” asks Ragnbjorn rubbing his own scratches with his left hand. Indranil was bitten, but Lorindel received no wounds from the creatures. “Well then, looks like we came out of that one relatively unscathed. Still, we’d better have the clerics check us out Indranil as soon as we get back to Westkeep. These wounds could be infected. Best we boil some water and clean them out when we get back to camp. I have some herbs we can use to make poultices. Sorry boys, I thought we could creep up on these things, but they still got the drop on us. Well, since we’re here and nothing else is jumping out at us, we might as well see what there is to see. Let’s spread out and move up to that mound soft and easy. We’ll use battle sign from here on and keep to the cover of these trees until I’m sure there’s nothing else waiting for us.”

Lorindel offers a brief yet firm grip of reassurance on Indranil’s shoulder and a nod of understanding to Ragnbjorn.

Indranil, however, feels far from sanguine about Ragnbjorn’s new proposal. “Ragnbjorn you can’t be serious! Do you not see that we were almost bested by just three of these disgusting creatures? I fear that potion you took has addled your brains and given you false courage. We still know nothing about them, where they came from or if there are more of them. If we come upon another pack of them – or worse yet their nest – if will go ill for us. I say we leave immediately and make haste for Westkeep bringing the head you collected to the clerics. We can investigate fully when we return with the clerics and paladins in a full hunting party.” Indranil turns to Lorindel and asks, “Brother, what say you?”

Before Lorindel can answer however, Ragnbjorn says, “Indranil, watch your tone with me. You seem to be forgetting who’s in command of this mission. It will be a cold day in the fourth hell when I turn and run from a pack of naked savages, even if they’re undead ones! We’ve come this far, and I at least am going to take a look at that mound. That’s probably the source of these things. A poor ranger I’d be if I didn’t take a look before reporting back, especially after tracking the first two attackers this far. If there were anymore, I suspect they’d have already joined in on the ambush. Now your objection is duly noted. As I said, we’ll take a look at the mound through the cover of these oaks. If it seems clear, I’ll go out there and take a look around. You two can cover me from here. I at least want to know if this is the source or if they came from further off. Okay, Lorindel, do you have any sage advice you’d care to share with me?”

But once more before Lorindel can answer, Indranil interrupts to say, “Moradin’s Balls Ragnbjorn. Take it easy. I know you’re in command. I would follow you to the gate of the Nine Hells if you asked. That said; what kind of ranger would I be if I did not share my thoughts with you?”

Ragnbjorn, sighs and says, “Indranil, your advice is most often sound. I don’t object to your advice. But your comment about my brain’s being addled was a little too flippant don’t you think? I appreciate, however, that I led us right into an ambush; for that I do apologize, and so I will not take what you said as an affront to my honor.”

Indranil continues, “I fear that we have only scratched the surface of this new threat. There is something not right about the sudden appearance of these undead creatures. Perhaps it is some new mischief from the Scarlet Brotherhood? I agree further investigation will benefit the King and Prince. I will do as you say but let us be cautious and approach this carefully.”

“That was my thought as well Indranil,” says Ragnbjorn. As for Scarlet Brotherhood involvement, they have not as yet used the undead against us, but I wouldn’t put it past them, especially if the rumors that they worship the dark god Tharizdun are true.”

Lorindel finally gets a word in. “As Indranil suggested, we must approach cautiously and without sound. Toe-to-toe with those beasts is not how I wish to dance,” he finishes with a wink.

Indranil recovers his bow and wipes it down with his oiled-wool cloth to clean the debris and such from when he threw it at the ghoul. He rechecks the bow-string and nocks a fresh arrow with a heavy bodkin point; the better to penetrate a skull. Satisfied his bow was in good condition he was prepared to follow Ragnbjorn and provide cover along with Lorindel.

The three move up quietly to the mound under the cover of the oaks. The mound is a few paces away from the tree line and only a few feet high, but several yards long. Ragnbjorn holds up his hand for all to stay put, spread out among the trees, bows drawn, arrows nocked. Nothing stirs. After awhile, Ragnbjorn moves slowly out to the mound, keeping as low to the ground as he can. Once there, in a low voice he begins murmuring, “In the name of Beory, Oerth Mother, show me, your humble creature, the way clear of all snares and traps.” He then makes a circular gesture with his right hand and then he crouches still and silent for a long moment, moving his head almost imperceptibly slowly in order to survey the entire mound. Satisfied, he creeps up the side of the mound and peers over into the area beyond, and again begins his slow survey. After many long minutes of this, he gives the brothers the all clear signal and then motions for the brothers to join him at the mound.

Indranil follows, careful to maintain separation to make sure he can cover Lorindel and Ragnbjorn.

Lorindel also follows Ragnbjorn, doing his best to match his path. He maintains a distance of at least 10′, so in the event combat breaks out he will have enough distance to allow for skirmish. Lorindel also periodically shifts his glance from the mound to Ragnbjorn to Indranil.

Once everyone is spread out on top of the mound, peering down over its edge at the level ground beyond, Ragnbjorn holds his hands up with his left fingers lying atop his right fingers, palms up. Then he causes the fingers to fall away from each other, indicating a pit trap, and points to two places on the other side of the mound. From this vantage no more creatures can be seen, but what lies beyond is almost as terrible. The misty moonlit field is a charnel ground, upon which are strewn many broken bones, and here and there a skull can be seen. The ground all around is churned up, as though the ghouls had been digging up these bones and any other grisly trophies they could unearth. From the size of the skulls and the more intact skeletons, some were children or perhaps halflings, such as were consigned to a ghetto in Westkeep during the Scarlet Brotherhood occupation. Here and there can be seen arrowheads and crossbow bolts. Eventually, Ragnbjorn waves his hand to the brothers and all three make their way, as slowly and silently as they can, back to the cover of the tree line. From there they make their way stealthily, but more swiftly than they came now that they have done with tracking, back to the canoe.

Ragnbjorn breaks the silence once they are back within sight of the camp, “That was no cemetery. That was a mass grave. You two were still in training, so you weren’t here when we first took Westkeep. After we had secured it we soon heard stories from the survivors of the occupation and from refugees from other parts of the Hold of the Sea Princes who made it through the marshes to Westkeep. Any who had opposed or even might have opposed the Scarlet Brotherhood during their occupation were dragged away by their Amedi troops. Sometimes they were dragged out of their homes at night by the orcs and hobgoblins who also serve them. These people were never seen again. They simply disappeared. Now we know where at least some of them may have ended up. When we return I will inform the prince, and we will guide the priests of Heironeous and St. Cuthbert back here to collect the bones and bury these people properly and insure that their spirits are at rest. For now, you two keep guard. I will have to take the risk of boiling some water and preparing poultices for my scratches and Indranil’s bite. I want to do what I can to stave off infection. As soon as I am done, we will get out of here. No need to wait for dawn. We can all see where we’re going well enough now that I’ve taken that potion. It won’t wear off for some hours yet.”

Indranil sat slumped on the ground. The charnel grounds had sickened and saddened him. He could not understand the atrocities that had occurred. Why would anyone do that to others? That was proof that evil does exist. With that thought he was filled with a burning commitment to fight against evil whenever and wherever it existed. This is my purpose and why I have dedicated myself as a ranger.

He looked over at Lorindel and asked, “Brother, are you OK?”

“Only just,” is all Lorindel manages to choke out, thankful that he had only eaten a light meal. After barely managing to hold down the contents of his stomach, he continues, “Disgust heaped upon criminality for so many to die because of the fears and insecurities of madmen, only to be desecrated by these abominations. It sickens and enrages me.”

Indranil then gets up and walks over to where Ragnbjorn is working and begins to help him. As they work he says to Ragnbjorn, “Master, I watched you approach the mound and you muttered some words and made some signs which seemed very much like a spell. I have seen you do several things on this journey that make me wonder if you have skills far beyond a common ranger. I wonder if you are in fact part wizard! What say you?”

Ragnbjorn looks up at Indranil and says, “Get your cuirass and your shirt off. I need to clean that bite and apply the poultice to it.” As he does this, Ragnbjorn says, “I’m surprised your master didn’t teach you about it when you were an apprentice. Maybe some don’t. They don’t want their apprentices to get ahead of themselves. But if you last out here long enough, your bonds with nature will become, well, a deeper unity than most humans ever feel. This, shall I say, mystical bond, will eventually empower you with the ability to call upon the power of the natural world. That’s why rangers pray or at least contemplate the natural world in silence for an hour every day, usually at dawn. Many of us find a patron god or goddess, in my case Ehlonna of the Forests, or Ehlenestra as the elves call her. She presides over the forests and woodlands and personifies the beauty and goodness of nature. There are others who prefer the more uncompromising Obad-Hai, a Flan god who makes few concessions for human needs when they clash with the natural world. There are darker gods of nature as well, but you won’t find any of the King’s Rangers directing their devotions to them. Others, like my son Fingol, are devoted to Fharlanghn the Dweller on the Horizon, god of travelers. Then there are a few who just directly commune with the natural world and seem to be granted access to divine power all the same, though that doesn’t strike me as being as much fun as having a beautiful goddess to devote oneself to, but to each his own. In fact, that reminds me, after we finish dressing our wounds and move downriver a bit, we’ll pull over to shore again and we can sit and pray together as the sun rises. Lorindel can stand watch, he can say his own prayers later, but he is not a ranger and so it is not as crucial that he maintain these disciplines as we do.”

After hearing Ragnbjorn’s explanation Lorindel exclaims, “This is great news. A bowman of your caliber enhanced with favors from the divine. I am as anxious to see where your path leads as much as my own.

Then Lorindel asks, “Ragnbjorn, how bad is the wound? Is there any signs of infection?”

Ragnbjorn shrugs his shoulders and grunts as he puts his healing kit away. “We won’t know until sometime tomorrow I’m guessing. If we come down with fevers then we’ll need the help of the priests. Fortunately, we should be at Westkeep by noon; or a little thereafter.”

Indranil says, “Ah you are a cheerful one Ragnbjorn! Your confidence and assurances make me feel much better now! But the thought of a pint of Pulsch Brown, or would any of you dare to try a shot o’ the Kragg, later this day makes me feel great!”