Journey to the East


Portuguese Carracks off a Rocky Coast by Joachim Patinir

In ancient times, the world was divided between two forces: light and dark. In the east, races such as men, elves, and dwarves lived in wealth and prosperity, defending the light from Malkuth, the dark lord of the west. With his enslaved thrall-armies of ratmen, orcs, goblins, lizardmen, gnolls, and other savage, beastly races, Lord Malkuth would invade the eastern lands from across the sea, looting and plundering all across the continent. His armies would be resisted and expelled every time by a coalition of the valiant peoples of the east, and the would-be conquerors sent back to the west. However, some of these great overseas expeditions returned not with gold nor jewels, but knowledge; scrolls and manuscripts that contained the amassed teachings and gathered wisdom of the east. Slowly but surely this knowledge was translated, interpreted, and disseminated among the slave-races of the Dark Lord, who grew more and more discontent with their tyrannical master’s rule. Eventually, this simmering discontent blossomed into insubordination and disloyalty, and finally bore the fruit of full-blown rebellion. The formerly enslaved races cast off Lord Malkuth’s yoke, slaying the wicked despot and executing or exiling the vile necromancers who empowered him. The newly freed peoples of the west entered a golden age of art, culture, and innovation that lasts until this day.

Chapter 1

The ratman sailor, Captain Skarbol Gallico, looked out from the deck of the Rhea Nostrum at the placid, blue seas, which just a day earlier had been a tempest of crashing waves, roaring winds, and torrential rain. The veteran sea-rat had seen his fair share of storms, even traded cannonballs with an enemy ship right in the middle of hurricane back during the Gallo-Breighzean wars. His Gallian countrymen began calling him “The Storm Warden” while sailors in Breigh would whisper his name to scare their pups before bedtime. This time, instead of coming back to port a war hero, he was lost in the middle of the ocean. A rogue gust of wind blew a blast of sea spray into his face, interrupting his introspection.

                “Yavin, can we catch that wind?” shouted the captain. Yavin, Skarbol’s first mate, finished tying up a large rope and approached the captain.

                “We’re trying to, but by the time the rigging’s all set and the sails are in place, the damned wind has changed direction again. Certainly doesn’t help that the second mast broke off in the storm.”  The Rhea Nostrum, an impressive trading carrack commissioned and operated by the renowned, Norvuk-based orc merchant Graccus Agrippa, had certainly seen better days.

                “Alright, just keep the sails pointed east, that’s our best bet for now.”

                “Aye, captain.” The sea-rat saluted, and scurried back to his duties. Skarbol scratched his furred chin, trying to puzzle out the situation, as a burly, green-skinned man with a large under-bite emerged from beneath the deck.

                “It seems we haven’t moved an inch since last night. Have you at least figured out where we are, Captain Gallico?” The well-dressed orc merchant interjected, with a hint of impatience.

                “Well, the trade winds are being especially uncooperative, master Graccus. As for our position, we checked the astrolabe before dawn and our latitude says we should either be west or east of port Bahal. If we’re west of Bahal, then we should be able to pick up a westerly, ride it east to port, then resupply and make repairs there.”

                “And if we’re east of Bahal?”

                “If we’re east of Bahal, we’ll have to ride a westerly and pray that we can catch a trade wind eventually. “The captain’s voice lowered, his confidence wavering at the uncertainty of the situation. Graccus sat down on a nearby crate, and joined the ratman in contemplation. Skarbol was reminded of something and turned to the orc.

                “I apologize about the cargo, some of it was lost in the storm. I imagine this delay has set back your profits.” Skarbol said. The orc waved his hand dismissively at the captain’s comment.

                “It was a poor growing season, our spice plantations didn’t yield much of worth anyway. The rains were so heavy this year that most of it was rotten by the time it was harvested. I’ll have to divert funds from our mining operations out west to make up for the loss, but I’ll manage and you’ll get your pay. The life of merchant is fickle, captain. If I had wanted regularity I would have joined the army.” Graccus chuckled at the thought.

                “Well, we have enough supplies left on the ship for a few weeks, but if the winds aren’t favorable we may have to ration them out to last a month or more.” The sound of a commotion arose from beneath the deck, interrupting the conversation. After several minutes of muffled shouting and the sound of fighting, an exotically-dressed and well-armed gnoll emerged from below.

                “Excuse me, gentlemen. I had to break up a fight between some of the men, it appears that one of them had been drinking more than his share of rum.” The hyena-man remarked with a strange accent.

“Well, if it isn’t our esteemed guest, the renowned Baladur ibn Malik, prince-turned-mercenary of the deserts of Al-Brasilia. Surely there must be a reason that you grace us with your presence, your majesty?” Graccus cocked his eyebrow and smirked as he spoke, eliciting a sideways glance from Skarbol. Baladur, completely oblivious to the merchant’s sarcasm, wandered to the edge of the ship, casting his gaze towards the horizon and breathing in the sea air.

“I overheard your men discussing the ship’s bearings last night, captain. These are uncharted waters, no?” Skarbol responded by motioned his hands with uncertainty and shrugging slightly.

“We’re not sure yet. Depending on our longitude, we could be anywhere from Teal Bay to the Eastern Sea, and factoring in other factors like currents, wind speed, water temp-“

“So then, here we are in parts unknown, mere moments away from happening upon an undiscovered isle, surely! This is exactly why I offered my services to you and your vessel, fine gentlemen. The chance of dueling with pirates and privateers, yes, but also the opportunity to have daring adventures in strange, new lands, hunt dangerous, exotic beasts, and romance beautiful, foreign women!” The gnoll prince drew his elegant, scimitar and pointed it aloft, catching the sun’s gleam in its blade. Graccus rubbed his temples and groaned.

“By the prophet, he’s been like this for the entire journey. You’ve been spared for the most part being up here, I’ve had to listen to this drivel for days. What does he think this voyage is, a trading expedition or an incursion to the Beastlands?” Baladur noticed the sun reflecting off of his sword begin to dim, leading him to turn and look towards the setting sun. One of the sailors shouted from atop the ship’s rigging:

“Looks like a storm’s brewing, captain!” Skarbol and Graccus looked out across the placid ocean and saw grey clouds beginning to gather on the horizon. Captain Skarbol pulled out his spyglass and peered out at the distant storm.

“Yes, looks like another thunderhead. These warm waters spawn the damned things like dandelions. You two head below deck, we’ll try to avoid it as best we can.” Baladur sheathed his sword and descended back into the ship, and Graccus followed behind him. Skarbol barked orders to his crew, punctuated by the sound of far-off thunder. Dark, translucent sheets of rain could be seen beneath the fast-approaching clouds in the distance.

Gale-force winds and overwhelming torrents of rain battered the Rhea Nostrum, while 10 foot waves caused the ship to lurch back and forth on the turbulent seas. Sailor rats scurried across the ship, tying and untying ropes, adjusting the remaining sails, and resisting the onslaught of the tropical storm. Captain Gallico’s voice grew hoarse shouting orders over the cacophony of wind, waves, rain, and thunder. Even in the chaos of the raging tempest, Skarbol could tell that he had lost some men to the waves. The thought of search or rescue barely even crossed his mind, for he was experienced enough to realize the foolishness in risking so many lives to save just one or two. Skarbol knew that, unlike many of the enemies he had faced in the past, the sea took no prisoners. He looked out through the blindingly thick sheets of rain, hoping to see some kind of path to safety, yet was faced with the last thing he wanted to see. A rock materialized from the gray void ahead, and the ship was headed straight for it.

                “EXPOSED ROCK ON THE PORT SIDE, TURN STARBOARD!” Shouted one of the sentries. Two sea-rats struggled against the rudder’s control, turning the ship right at an agonizingly slow rate. The captain’s claws dug into the boat’s wooden frame, and he clenched his teeth.

                “BRACE FOR IMPACT!” The sentry yelled. The vessel just barely grazed the monolithic stone jutting from the tumultuous waves, gouging the port bow and sending everyone on deck reeling. Skarbol struggled to get back on his feet, with his vision blurry and his head spinning. Just as he regained his senses, he heard a muffled voice shout:

                “ROCK! STARBOARD!” The thundering sound of splintering wood filled Skarbol’s ears and everything went black.

                Light pierced through Skarbol’s eyelids, and the sound of seagulls squawking slowly aroused him from unconsciousness. The captain sat up and rubbed the side of his face, still sore from the impact that had knocked him out. As his eyes gradually adjusted to the daylight, he scanned his surroundings to try and piece together what had happened. Many of his sailors were mulling around the deck, alongside the passengers from below. A few were injured, and others were attending to the wounded. Skarbol spotted his first mate, and called for him.

                “Yavin, how long have I been out? It seems like the ship isn’t sinking, but we’re not sailing either. What’s going on?”

                “Well captain, we hit a patch of rocks during the storm last night. Did a number on the ship, but by some kind of miracle she’s still afloat. No way in hell she’ll be sailing anytime soon, though. There’s gashes in the hull and we don’t have enough wood left to patch them.” Skarbol took a deep breath and digested the information.

                “Where are we going to find wood in the middle of the ocean?” the Captain muttered.

                “Well… about that.” Yavin turned his head to look at something out of view, prompting Skarbol to rise to his feet. He saw a sprawling coastline, covered with lush, tropical trees, and overshadowed by an imposing plume of smoke rising from a distant volcano. Skarbol squinted and rubbed his eyes, taking in the almost unbelievable sight before him.

                “I think it’s safe to say we’re east of Port Bahal. There’s nothing on our charts at this latitude, especially not an island this big.” Yavin stated matter-of-factly. Skarbol steeled his resolve and regained his authoritative composure.

                “Well, we better assemble a landing party. We’ll need axes and rope for timber, blades and muskets in case we run into any local wildlife.”

                “May I suggest we bring along some trinkets and valuables? There may be some amenable natives willing to trade for supplies or rare goods.” Graccus interjected.

                “Looking to make up for your losses, Agrippa?”

                “I’d rather try and make a profit out there than sit here and twiddle my thumbs while you stumble around in the jungle.” The orc merchant asserted. Graccus and Skarbol both felt someone slap them on the back.

                “Well then, when are going ashore?” Baladur asked.

                Four rowboats sailed from the marooned Rhea Nostrum, snaking through the rocky outcroppings towards the shoreline. They carried several armed ratmen, a handful of orcs, and few gnolls, along with tools and some make-shift wagons. Skarbol stood on the first rowboat, scanning the tree line. He could have sworn he saw movement earlier, and was on alert for the possibility of an ‘unfriendly’ welcome. The rowboats dug into the sand, and the sailor-rats began unloading the wagons and equipment onto the beach under Captain Gallico’s supervision. The gnoll prince stood to the side, hand on the pommel of his sword. He caught the faint sound of leaves ruffling in the jungle behind them, and moved cautiously to investigate. Prince Baladur stealthily pushed aside vines and ferns, his predatory, yellow eyes piercing through to foliage, looking for any signs of movement. He discovered the vague outlines of several crouching figures, deftly camouflaged within the brush and poised for attack. Fortunately for Baladur, they were focused on the unaware sailors on the beach and not the gnoll warrior sneaking up behind them. Baladur slowly crouched down, and pounced on the nearest opponent. With extreme grace and dexterity, he incapacitated his target and held his sword to the mysterious person’s neck to prevent the rest from retaliating. The commotion alerted Skarbol and Graccus, who immediately rushed towards the source of the noise. The would-be-assailant that Baladur held hostage thrashed against him to no avail, as the rest raised primitive-looking wooden bows. They were completely foreign-looking to the gnoll, resembling scrawny, earthen-skinned orcs with pointed ears. They shouted at him in an unknown language, as Skarbol, with a musket in hand, and Graccus arrived to try and defuse the situation.

                “Telowak ech arteo!” The mysterious native captive shouted while struggling in vain against Baladur’s grasp.

                “Dammit, what the hell are they saying?” Skarbol yelled, aiming his musket at the belligerent bowmen.

                “Telowak… ech… arteo…” Graccus repeated to himself. “This sounds familiar…” Graccus raised his hand and spoke. “Nid alowek, ein golgecha unuluwa nich eo teche.” Skarbol’s eyes darted between Graccus and the natives, his musket at the ready, while Baladur held his blade close to the hostage’s neck. After several agonizing seconds, the bow-wielding strangers slowly relaxed their bowstrings. “Malik, lower your blade. Slowly.” Graccus said softly but sternly, maintaining eye contact with the natives. The gnoll prince hesitated, but reluctantly lowered his scimitar. The native captive, whom he now recognized as a woman, rushed to her compatriots and retrieved the bow which she had dropped upon being ambushed. One of the natives, a male this time, stepped forward from the rest. He was adorned with feathers and stones in all the colors of the rainbow, clearly marking him out as someone of importance.

                “Graccus, what language are they speaking? I recognize it not as any language of the spice isles or the southern lands.” Skarbol inquired in hushed tone.

                “It’s not a language of the isles or the south, it’s the tongue of the ancients, or at least a very distant dialect of it. The language of the first texts.” Graccus said, the weight of this revelation being clearly conveyed. Skarbol’s eyes went wide, and he quickly inquired further.

                “You mean the ones that the Dark Prophet warred with in the Dark Ages? The people of the west? I thought the Eastlands were a myth, the creation of overly imaginative scholars and delirious sailors.”

                “Well, Captain, I guess they weren’t quite as mythical as you thought.” Graccus stepped forward, and faced the apparent leader of the native cohort. They conversed for several minutes, stumbling often as they tried to communicate through the same language, but separated by several thousand years. Graccus, a skilled student of linguistics (a valuable trait for a merchant to have), was eventually able to gain an adequate grasp of the disparate dialect and communicate basic concepts comfortably. After an even longer exchange of words, Graccus held out an open hand. The native leader looked at the orc’s outstretched palm, with a contemplative look on his face. Finally, he reached out and grasped the merchant’s hand and they shook. Graccus turned to his companions with a pleased look.

                “Well? What did he say? What did you discuss?” Skarbol said, with a hint of impatience at having been left in the dark during the entire ordeal.

                “What else, Captain Gallico? I made a deal. Let me explain: These – well, they refer to themselves as Bren-elf, I think bren translates roughly to ‘wood’ but I’ve no idea what elf means – they believed that we were raiders from the north that have been attacking them recently. Thankfully, I was able to ameliorate this misunderstanding, and convince them that we were but weary travelers who were caught in a storm at sea. Once their chieftain realized our benign intent, he invited us to a feast where we can discuss terms for an agreement; they provide us with what we need, and we give them what they need. A mutually beneficial transaction.” The orc merchant explained with great satisfaction. Skarbol furrowed his brow and rubbed his chin, clearly unsure about the proposition.

                “I’m not sure I trust a bunch of strangers who were just about to turn me and my men into pin-cushions.” Skarbol replied. One of the sailors from the shore, an experienced sea-rat named Jorbund, parted the jungle foliage and approached Skarbol.

                “Captain, we’ve got a problem. These trees, they’re too soft to repair the ship. We’ll need to look inland for some stronger wood if we’re to patch the breaches in the hull.” Skarbol’s brow furrowed even harder, processing all of this new information and attempting to synthesize it into a plan of action. After a good minute, Skarbol exhaled sharply and came to a conclusion.

                “Fine. Graccus, Baladur, and I will go with these ‘wood-elves’ and break bread with them, perhaps they can lead us to a better source of wood. You, Jorbund, gather Yavin and some other experienced crewman to accompany us and tell them to bring the carts, tools, and muskets. Everyone else will stay here and watch the ship.” The sea-rat saluted and scurried off.

                The party of about twenty stranded westerners were led by the small band of wood-elves through the dense, tropical underbrush. The group came upon a clearing in the woods filled with huts, surrounding a large, central structure. The huts were surprisingly intricate and well-constructed, despite being primarily made of wood, mud, and leaves. The central structure was made of volcanic rock, in the shape of a monolithic pillar with a cavernous gathering room at the base and a large fire pit in the center. Many of the village’s inhabitants emerged from their homes to gawk at the strange visitors. Their skin was smooth, hairless, and tan, adorned with ritualistic markings and paint. They had ashen hair on their heads, pointed ears, and bore almost no resemblance to beast-men like ratfolk or gnolls. They wore clothes made from animal skin, skillfully woven with plant fiber and decorated with colorful feathers and beads. Despite their primitive environment, it was clear these people were masterful craftsmen. The chieftain stopped and turned to Graccus, asking him to leave their weapons at the entrance of the village. Graccus translated the request for Skarbol and Baladur. Baladur was accepting of the request, respecting the tribe’s hospitality by honoring their customs. Skarbol was more hesitant, but ultimately agreed as well. The chieftain then led the party to the central gathering place, and bid them to relax while they prepared the feast. Many of the elves approached the foreigners and tried to interact with them. They admired their strange dress and metal armor, and a few mistook the rat-folks’ fur for clothing. The chieftain entered the room after most of the tribe had gathered in the center of the village, and talked at length in a language unknown to most of the westerners. Graccus translated the important bits, relaying that the chieftain was telling his people to be kind to the guests and that the gods had blessed them with a great opportunity for trade and friendship. The wood-elves brought heaps of food on large palm leaves and carved wooden bowls, alongside alcoholic drinks in large clay pots with small, concave leaves to drink from. There were all kinds of tropical fruits, various meats glazed with some kind of sugary syrup, and roasted roots that smelled of sweetbread and butter. Skarbol tore off the roasted limb of an unrecognizable animal, tentatively sniffing it and taking a small bite. The meat tasted fresh and delicious, the perfect combination of salty and savory. He poured some of the alcoholic drink into a leaf and took a swig of it, finding it quite strong and surprisingly sweet. He looked up and saw Baladur across the room, consuming obscene amounts of food and alcohol while sparring with some of the sailors. Graccus was sitting in near the center, talking and laughing with the chieftain between sips of the sweet drink. The rest of the night was a blur of drinking, eating, laughing, and a few scuffles (mostly between the westerners, while the natives simply enjoyed the entertainment).

                The next morning, Skarbol woke up and gathered the men, after which Graccus briefed them on the plan going forward.

                “I talked with the Chieftain of this village, and we reached a comprehensive agreement between our parties. They will provide us with rations and one of their scouts will lead us through the jungle to a grove on the other side of these mountains, his people call them the Huatl Famau, where the trees grow hardy and tall in the shadow of the great volcano to the north, Collos Nyd. In return, they ask for 12 muskets with gunpowder and ammunition, 5 crates of assorted spices, and 18 pieces of gold. The expedition will only take 4 or 5 days, and when we return we will fulfill our end of the bargain.” Skarbol nodded as Graccus explained.

                “So, this ‘guide’ will lead us to the wood, we harvest it, come back, and then exchange goods?” Skarbol summarized.

                “Well, there’s a catch. You see, apparently the winds only blow away from the coast for half of the year, and in about 6 days those winds will reverse.” A small commotion spread through the sailors. Skarbol’s face darkened.

                “Well then, we better get going. It’ll take us a day to repair the ship, so we need hurry.” Skarbol asserted. As the westerners gathered and prepared their equipment, Graccus introduced the guide, who turned out to be the female wood-elf from the day before.

                “This is Faeowyc, she’s an experienced tracker and knows the area well. She will lead us to the grove on the other side of the mountain. I’ve taught her a few rudimentary words and phrases in our tongue, and for any I will act as translator.” Faeowyc looked stepped forward, draped in tanned animal hide, woven plant fiber, and carrying a bow and quiver. Her hair was ashen-colored, with long, pointed ears nestled within it, and her eyes were a bright, emerald green. Her skin was an earthy, grey-brown, a color similar to the wood of a healthy, youthful tree. Her face was stoic and reserved, until her eyes fell upon Baladur and an expression of nervousness shot across her face. She stepped behind Graccus slightly, as if trying to put someone between her and the gnoll swordsman. Graccus chuckled and raised his eyebrow at Baladur.

                “Well, it appears you’ve made an impression on the young lady, Prince Malik.” Graccus turned to Faeowyc to reassure her. In the ancient language, he said:

                “Do not be afraid of this one. He is a warrior, but he is more inclined to drinking and dancing than fighting.” The orc’s words seemed to cause the wood-elf to let her guard down slightly. The rat-folk finished their preparations, and the party set off into the jungle.

Chapter 2

            The group of roughly twenty ratmen, an orc, a gnoll, and a wood-elf trudged through the jungle underbrush, the tall trees covering the ground floor in a dim shade. Insects buzzed and strange birdsongs echoed throughout, reminding the westerners of the spice islands but even more foreign and exotic. Graccus walked alongside Skarbol, explaining to him the geography of the area that he learned from the chieftain.

            “This tribe, the Izilfren, lies on the seaward side of the Huatl Famau Mountains, situated in the middle of the Famau Peninsula. We need to get to the northeast side, but in order to get there we need to pass through the mountains in the south; there are no paths across the mountains or along the coast to the north. Once we cross over to the eastern side of the mountains, we need only follow the coast to our destination.”

            “A peninsula, eh? So this is merely a part of much larger landmass?” Skarbol inquired.

            “The chieftain didn’t know much beyond the peninsula, apparently this is the only tribe in this particular area. Other than the raiders from the north, he mentioned some peoples to the south, but refused to divulge anything further.” Graccus explained.

            “Hold!” The wood-elf guide shouted, in the little of the western language she knew. She bent down and looked closely at the dirt path ahead, noting faint animal prints in the earth.

            “Ue rocatiel.” she said, turning to Graccus.

            “A what?” Skarbol asked. Graccus rubbed his chin, remembering what he had been told at the village.

            “A rocatiel, some kind of jungle predator. I remember the chieftain warning me of them, we’d best be on alert until we reach the other side of the mountain.” Some of the ratmen started looking around nervously. Skarbol tightened his grip on his musket.

            “Come on men, let’s get moving. We need to reach the eastern shore by tomorrow if we want to make it back in time. Besides, the sooner we get off this mountain the sooner we don’t have to worry about monsters prowling the jungle.” Skarbol commanded. The party continued trudging uphill, through the unknown landscape.

            As the sun was beginning to set, they reached a large, flat clearing on the side of the mountain, with a sheer cliff to the south where they could see over the trees for several miles.

            “Stop. Camp, night.” the wood-elf guide uttered, in a stilted accent.

“Seems a good enough place to rest for the night.” Graccus agreed. The party began unloading their supplies, placing their rifles in a pile against a large rock, and started preparing the camp. They gathered some leaves, sticks and twigs for a fire, and unpacked the provisions they had brought with them. They brought out smoked meats, the peculiar, fruity alcohol in leather pouches, and fresh fruits (the relatively short distance of their journey meant they didn’t need to worry about them spoiling), and passed them around the large fire they had built in the center of the camp. After having his fill, Skarbol wandered off by himself to look out from the cliff side. He saw immense stone structures in the distance, silhouetted by the bright colors of the sunset sky, resembling the stone structure he had seen in the Izilfren village but of a much greater scale. He figured that these must be the peoples to the south that the Izilfren chieftain was referring to. As the sun continued to set, and the bright orange sky faded into a pale twilight, Skarbol’s focus was interrupted by the sound of rustling leaves nearby. He turned his head and noticed something moving in the foliage, drawing him in close to investigate. As his eyes adjusted to the fading light, he could just barely make out two, refractive points of light in the darkness of the underbrush. The moment he could make out the large, hunched figure those reflective eyes belonged to, the thing pounced and tackled Skarbol to the ground. The entire camp was alerted by the sound of screeching, gnashing, and clawing, but before they could reach their weapons the beast leapt into the center of camp and let out a might roar. It had four muscular legs with talon-tipped paws, a long, cat-like tail, golden fur with black splotches, and a large pair of wings with brilliant, multi-colored feathers. Its head was bird-like, adorned with equally colorful feathers and a menacingly sharp beak.

“Rocatiel!” Faeowyc shouted while rushing to get to her bow. The ratmen scrambled to avoid the swiping claws and gnashing beak of the terrible beast, as Faeowyc tried to reach her weapon. She was too late, as the rocatiel caught notice of her and pounced towards her. She reflexively shut her eyes and held her arms up, but the claws and biting didn’t come. She opened her eyes to see Baladur, lit by the bright, orange light of the blazing fire, holding the beast at bay with his bare hands. In a display of strength unbelievable to the wood-elf, the gnoll prince twisted the rocatiel’s torso and slammed it onto the ground, disorienting it long enough to reach his scimitar. The beast was back on its feet in moments, swiping at Baladur with its claw and cutting the side of his face. He covered the wound with his hand, taking notice of the freshly drawn blood, then drew his sword with fury. He evaded a second swipe with surprising grace, and thrust the tip of his blade into the rocatiel’s front paw. The creature howled in pain and anger, rearing up on its hind legs and towering above everyone. Just then a loud blast rang out, and the creature’s chest burst with blood, and it fell to the ground. Captain Skarbol stood resolutely behind it, injured but on his feet, holding a smoking musket. The beast staggered and writhed in agony, making horrible noises until it slipped and fell off the cliff, disappearing into the forest canopy. Skarbol dropped the musket and fell to the ground, exhausted. They checked to see if anyone had been wounded, and luckily it was only Skarbol and Baladur that had been slightly injured. Skarbol was lightly bruised and scratched, while the wound on Baladur’s face was only a minor laceration, which Faeowyc treated with a stronger alcohol she had brought with her and a soothing paste made from strongly scented leaves. Graccus noticed something on the ground where the scuffle had taken place, and reached down to find a large talon, cut from the beast’s paw by Baladur’s strike.

“Here” Graccus said, tossing the claw to wounded gnoll.

“A trophy for the valiant hero, risking life and limb to save a maiden from the rampaging beast.” Baladur smirked in response, and sighed contentedly. The rest of the night was uneventful, albeit far less relaxed than it had been previously. Many of the westerners missed the relative safety of the village or the ship, their true homes across the sea being such a distant thought that it barely crossed their minds.

            The party continued their trek the next day, and after a short while they had reached the pass through the Huatl Famau Mountains. It was an unassuming gap in the rock, about six feet wide and ten to twelve feet deep, and draped with vines and shrubbery. They stopped at this threshold to rest and reinvigorate themselves with food and drink. After finishing their brief respite, they embarked through the small crevice. They had to pass through it single-file, and fortunately the carts they brought with them fit through as well. The rest of the trail downhill from the mountains was much faster, and they managed to reach the coast before sunset without any complications. The coast on this side of the Famau Peninsula was much rockier, and the sea somehow seemed to be a lighter color than the ocean in the west. A warm breeze blew from the sea, carrying exotic scents from undiscovered lands beyond the horizon. Faeowyc scanned the lands below, where the land gradually sloped down from the mountain and met the sea, looking for a suitable place to camp for the night. She spotted a small cove, and pointed it out to Graccus and the rest of the group. They descended down the last foothills of the Huatl Famau, and settled in as the sun set once again on a foreign land. They made sure to place their muskets in a place where they were readily available, having learned their lesson from the night earlier. They once again prepared a fire and brought out their provisions, but this time with a clear feeling of uneasiness and caution hanging over the entire party. Skarbol was standing on the beach, away from the camp, admiring the creeping twilight shining on the rolling waves of the ocean and the wet rocks of the sea-cliffs. His past experiences had seemingly been unable to break his habit of solemnly staring off into the distance. Graccus trudged through the sand to reach the captain, and joined him in silently sea-gazing for a while before speaking.

            “Faeowyc has assured me that she believes there are no more Rocatiel in the area, or anything else for that matter. That musket shot likely scared off anything within a few miles.”

            “I believe her.” Skarbol agreed. “But nonetheless I’m having the men on a revolving watch throughout the night. At the very least it will help them sleep better.” The sweet, salty wind wafted gently forth from the foreign seas.

            “This land is quite beautiful.” Skarbol admitted. “Wild and dangerous, yet alluring all the same. I can imagine our ancestors looking upon this land in those ancient times and coveting it, fighting over it, like urchins with a precious ring.” Graccus and Skarbol stood in silence for a while longer, watching deep-blue, star-filled blanket of night overtake the sky.

            The next morning the party began their march northward along the eastern coast. The Mountains were much steeper on this side of the peninsula, casting an imposing presence on the group as they continued their journey. As the day progressed, they reached a relatively narrow isthmus, where the beach gave way to rising sea-cliffs. They were corralled into the narrow coastal passage, with a sheer cliff to their left and a long drop into the sea to the right. The party navigated the precarious trail, with the occasional loose rock-fall raising the tension even further. Eventually, the isthmus began to widen again and the sea-cliffs descended back into sandy beaches, much to the relief of the weary travelers. The sand here was black, a symptom of Collos Nyd, the volcano that now loomed overhead in place of the mountains. It was an ominous sign that they were close to their destination, which lie on the far north-east corner of the peninsula. There were no more trees dotting the mountainside, just the occasional bunches of grass and shrubs, as well as large, volcanic rocks jutting out of the sand like natural monoliths. A thick fog had rolled in from the north, and the dark plume of smoke from the volcano blotted out the sun. Ash fell lightly from the sky like black snow, and the entire landscape appeared as some vivid and disturbing vision of the underworld. The most eerie quality was the silence; Even the sound of the waves had become muffled by some trick of the atmosphere. All they could hear was the sound of their feet crunching and shifting in the darkened sand. If one looked too much into the dense fog hanging over the water, they might have seen shifting shapes of things that may or may have been there, drifting in and out of sight. Then, from within the depths of that impenetrable fog, they heard the pounding of drums in the distance.

            “Shekelesh” Faeowyc said with a grave tone.

            “Sea raiders” Graccus echoed. They could hear shouting in some unknown language, followed by a deep, bellowing horn. The shape of sails and longboats could be made out in the almost-opaque fog, which were quickly approaching the shore. Scattered arrows began hitting the sand, signaling the raiders’ intentions. Skarbol immediately scanned the surrounding area and determined a plan of action.

            “Quickly, retreat to the rock formations away from the shore! Push over the carts and use them as cover! Get in a linear formation, affix bayonets, and prepare to fire!” Skarbol barked at the bewildered ratmen, who quickly began carrying out his orders. They scurried further up the beach and threw up the carts, creating a semi-circle of barricades between the rock formations and overturned wooden carts. The ratmen lined up behind the barriers, their bayonet-tipped muskets pointed towards the shore, while Graccus, Baladur, and Faeowyc stood behind them. Several long-ships landed on the sandy beach and dozens of warriors wielding clubs, axes, and spears began pouring out of them. They spoke in a sharp, guttural language, contrasted by the elegant albeit exotic tongue of the wood-elves. They were swarthy and olive-skinned, covered in dense body hair reminiscent of the orcs. They carried bronze shields covered in red markings, and wore helmets and breastplates made out of bronze, unlike the tempered steel of the ratmen’s armor.

            “We have limited shots.” Skarbol shouted to his men. “Don’t fire until you know you’ll hit your mark! Make every shot count!” The deep bellowing of the horns rang out once again, and the sea-raiders began charging up the sand while shouting savagely. Time seemed to run in slow-motion, and several agonizing seconds passed before a loud crack rang out. One of the raiders fell onto his back and the rest hesitated for a moment, reacting to the unfamiliar flash of noise. The fallen raider’s breastplate was punctured straight through, and blood was pouring from the wound. The raiders continued their assault on the make-shift barricades, as more shots rang out and more raiders fell to the ground. Even Faeowyc was firing arrows behind the barrier, aiming for weak points in the enemy’s armor since she couldn’t outright pierce it. More boats landed on the shore, and even more of the bronze-adorned warriors joined the assault. The raiders were inching closer and closer, and their numbers began to outpace the ratmen’s rate of fire. Skarbol realized they would need to change strategies quickly. They needed to go on the offensive.

            “When I make the signal, charge over the barricades and engage them in melee combat! Pierce their armor with your bayonets!” Skarbol bellowed, unsheathing his cutlet. Baladur unsheathed his scimitar, and even Graccus prepared two flintlocks he had stowed away for emergencies. One of the raiders managed to get close enough to hurl a spear over the barricade, narrowly missing one of the ratmen. The time had come for the bayonet charge.

            “CHARGE!” Skarbol roared, followed by the roars of his men as they leapt over the make-shift fortifications with bayonets in hand. The raiders were taken aback for a moment, as the ratmen charged forward and engaged them. Axe and shield clashed against bayonet and sword, shots rang out, and the chaos of battle consumed all.

Graccus took potshots at stray raiders with his flintlocks, but while he was reloading he was tackled by a behemoth of a man and the weapons were knocked from his hands. Graccus scrambled to his feet, and saw the immense raider. He wore less armor than the rest, with his chest completely naked, a masked helmet that hid his face, and carrying nothing but a large, wooden club. He was tall and heavy-set, yet his large body was rippled with muscle. The hulking man smashed his club into the sand with a loud thud and shouted menacingly in his foreign speech. Graccus dusted the sand from his clothes and cracked his knuckles.

            “I am foremost a merchant and a scholar, but I am no stranger to a round of fisticuffs with common ruffians!” He charged the giant man, who swung his club but was too slow to hit his target. Graccus dodged the club strike and landed several punches straight into the raider’s gut, sending him stumbling backwards. The giant raider tried to swing his other arm to hit Graccus, but the orc raised his arm and blocked it, and then retaliated with a straight jab to the raider’s face. The hulking raider recoiled in pain, his bronze helmet dented, while Graccus shook his hand in discomfort from the rather foolish act of punching metal armor. The giant man dropped his club, then charged at Graccus with his bare hands, his eyes crazed with fury. Graccus and the giant man grappled for several seconds, their arms locked and teeth clenched. Graccus managed to twist one of the man’s arms, giving him the opening he needed to grab the back of his opponent’s head. He dug into the sand with his foot, and drove the man’s head straight into his knee with a loud clunk. The imposing warrior staggered backwards, and shook his head to regain his bearings. Gracchus quickly raced to grab the giant’s dropped club, and brought it to bear against his foe. The giant warrior charged at him with a crazed howl, but Gracchus swung the massive hunk of wood just in time to collide directly with the attacker’s head. With a loud, resounding noise similar to a ringing bell, the imposing man was knocked flat onto his back, lying unconscious in the sand. Gracchus slung the club over his shoulder, then looked over at a number of raiders who had seen his fight. The men then panicked and began running back to the main group, dragging the unconscious giant with them.

                        “Why, I feel like a regular barbarian!” Gracchus said, bellowing with laughter before rushing back into the fray.

            Baladur danced across the battlefield with his curved blade, deftly parrying blows and delivering them in kind. One of the raiders swung an axe at him, and easily caught the weapon with his sword, forcing it out of the attacker’s hands and forcefully kicking him onto the ground. Another swung a massive club overhead, but Baladur swiftly dodged the blow and slashed at the warrior. This pattern repeated itself as the gnoll warrior-prince carved through the hordes of enemies. However, one of the raiders had managed to sneak behind Baladur in the carnage, and readied to plunge his spear straight into the gnoll’s back. The raider charged forward, spear pointed at its target, and Baladur reacted too late to deflect the blow or evade the attack. Suddenly an arrow shot into the raider’s neck, and he fell to the ground just short of skewering the gnoll’s defenseless back. Baladur stood still for a moment, shocked and confused at what had happened, before looking up to see Faeowyc, with just a hint of satisfaction on her otherwise stern face. She pulled the arrow from her mark and fired it at another raider who was trying to sneak up on the two, after which Baladur cracked a smile and turned to continue cutting down the attacking warriors.

            Skarbol raised his cutlass to deflect an axe-blow from a heavily armored raider, covered head-to-toe in layers of bronze plating. The warrior moved slowly, but try as he might even Skarbol’s steel sword couldn’t completely pierce the attacker’s protection. It reminded him of the knights of his homeland, who rode into battle on armored horses and wore elegant plate-mail that covered every inch of their body. The captain cursed his luck at having lost his flintlock in the fray of battle. The raider swung his oversized axe and Skarbol ducked to evade it, knocking his hat off and just barely avoiding a grisly death. Skarbol thrust his cutlass into the enemy’s chest, but the blade simply bounced off the heavy armor. The raider shoved Skarbol to the ground with his axe-handle, and raised his weapon. Skarbol shuffled backwards just in time to avoid the warrior’s downward strike, lodging his weapon in the sand. The disoriented ratman struggled to his feet, looking for any weak points in the enemy’s armor. The raider let out a war cry and charged forward. Skarbol shook his head and rolled to the side, trying to think of a way to defeat his adversary.

            “Catch!” Skarbol turned to see Graccus, tossing a flintlock pistol in his direction. He caught the weapon, and turned just as the warrior had readied his axe for another swing. The ratman aimed his pistol and fired, piercing the thick armor of his assailant and striking him square in the shoulder. He howled in pain, dropping his axe and falling to his knee. The battle was interrupted by another bellowing horn, and Skarbol’s heart dropped as he thought of even more enemies arriving. However, instead of reinforcements, the raiders began to retreat back to their boats, carrying their dead and wounded with them. The armored warrior looked at Skarbol, before struggling back to his feet and hurrying back towards the boats. The defenders didn’t pursue the retreating raiders, and simply celebrated as the longboats cast off from the shore and sailed away, back into the fog. Skarbol sat down in the sand and closed his eyes, letting out a relieved sigh. They had won.

            “What are the damages, Yavin?” Skarbol asked his first mate.

            “We have several men with light wounds, and only three with more serious ones. Two of them can still walk, but the third needs to be carried until we can get him a brace for his leg. Also, I’m sad to say that two men died in the battle, Jorbund and Gavrel. The others want to give them some kind of burial, at least as well as we can under such difficult conditions.” The first mate relayed.

            “We are on a limited schedule.” Graccus said tentatively. “What do you say, Captain?”

            “If not for the sacrifice of those men, we would not be able to continue this journey at all. They will get a proper burial.” Skarbol said bluntly. Graccus smiled reassuringly and Yavin saluted with an

            “Aye, captain.” They buried the two fallen ratmen beneath a cairn of black volcanic rocks, as a monument to both victory in the Battle of Collos Nyd and the two ratmen who lost their lives to achieve that victory. The entire party stood before it in silence for a while, then resolutely moved on to make the most of the remaining daylight.

Chapter 3

Just as the sun was beginning to set, the party at last managed to reach the seemingly mythical grove that lie at the end of their journey. Immense, hardwood trees pierced the fog, growing in soil nourished by the volcano’s past eruptions. In comparison the jungles from the days before seemed mundane; this place was lush in a way incomparable to anything they had ever seen. It was neither muggy nor swampy, but cool and damp, like it was eternally just after a large thunderstorm. The air was incredibly clean, especially compared to the ash-choked air beneath Collos Nyd’s shadowy smoke-plume. They set up camp in this verdant paradise, not even needing to open their provisions much as there was already a seemingly endless amount of ripe, plump fruits wherever they looked. If the blackened, blood-soaked beaches of Collos Nyd were the underworld of the condemned, this was the afterlife of the virtuous. The party went to sleep with full bellies, knowing that they had, at the very least, found what they had spent their entire time in this land looking for. When they began work the next day, the ratmen immediately ran into a problem; most of the trees were simply too big to cut down with the tools they had. Instead, they had to seek out smaller trees, likely saplings, which fortunately turned out to be of no less superb a quality as the rest.

“If I had the time and materials, I would strip down every plank of the Rhea Nostrum and replace it with this wood.” Graccus said, gazing in awe at the magnificent trees. Faeowyc sat back and watched the ratmen work, chopping the trees down and then further chopping them into transportable logs. It reminded her of the way ants would strip plants of their leaves, thoroughly and methodically. It bothered her a bit, but she quickly dismissed it as she remembered the great courage they had shown in their fight against the raiders yesterday. They had filled the carts with enough wood to repair the ship and then some, and the day had barely even begun. As much as they wished to stay in the idyllic grove for longer, the party bade farewell to the misty paradise and began the long journey back across the mountains.

The return journey was largely uneventful, much to the relief of the weary travelers. They had had quite enough adventure for a lifetime, let alone a single voyage. The wood-elf village received them warmly, relieved that they had survived their journey despite their hardships. When the chieftain had learned of what happened between them and the raiders from the north on the slopes of Collos Nyd, he personally addressed Graccus, who translated for the rest of the westerners.

            “There are no words in my tongue that can express my gratitude towards you all. Our village would not have been able to defend ourselves from a raid that large… what you did that day likely saved many of our lives, and the lives of many other bren-elves whom may never know your names. You have the undying gratitude of me and all of my people. Thank you.”

The Chieftain tried to refuse the westerners’ goods they had been promised as per the trade deal, as he believed they had already repaid them double what had been owed by their service. However, Graccus would not renege on his end of the bargain, saying:

  “A merchant always pays what is promised. No exceptions.”

They completed repairs on the Rhea Nostrum and were ready to set sail just two days before the winds would stop blowing away from the coast. According to their navigation charts, they should be able to catch an easterly once they had gotten far enough into the ocean, meaning they would soon be home, back to familiar lands. The entire Izilfren tribe had come to the shore to watch them embark, and brought gifts for them to take back to their homeland. They felt it was only fair, after the heaps of goods they had been given, which to the westerners may have been worth very little, but to them was almost priceless. Skarbol had even taught some of them how to use the old muskets they had given them. The chieftain shook all of their hands one last time, as they boarded the small boat which would take them away from this land for seemingly the last time. Before leaving, Baladur approached Faeowyc who was standing off to the side. She was stern-faced as usual, but the gnoll could see the sadness in her eyes at seeing her companions leave.

“I will not forget you” she said, using what little of the foreigner’s tongue she had picked up. From one of his pockets, Baladur pulled out a small pendant, encrusted with jewels. It was an icon of his family’s crest. He wordlessly placed it in her hand and left, not wanting to prolong the painful farewell. Faeowyc stealthily wiped a tear from eye while his back was turned.

The westerners boarded the Rhea Nostrum, whose sails were raised and quickly filled with a lively easterly wind. The ship sailed off, eventually disappearing over the horizon. The seas were placid, yet the ship was consistently driven by a determined westward wind. Skarbol spent most of the return voyage gazing out at the sea and the clouds, as he was often wont to do. At one point they passed a small island that didn’t appear on any charts or maps. Baladur suggested they send an expedition to explore it, to which Skarbol replied that he was welcome to take one of the landing boats and explore it himself, but that he shouldn’t expect the ship to be there when he returned. Baladur did not pursue his idea any further after that. After two months at sea, and more than four months since they had embarked on their unintentional voyage across the sea, the Rhea Nostrum had finally reached a known port. It was a small, unimpressive fishing town about 50 miles north of Norvuk, but to the weary crew it meant only one thing: home.

Epilogue

Skarbol sat in a palace garden in his homeland of Gallia. It had been over three months since they had returned from their fantastical voyage across the sea, and word had spread all over the western world. Graccus had written down all of his experiences and published it, more than making back his losses from the failed mercantile venture that had landed them in that far-off land in the first place. Baladur had returned to his homeland of Al-Brasilia to the south, but quickly grew restless and began looking for more opportunities for adventuring. As for Skarbol himself, he was summoned to the capital for an audience with the King and Queen of Gallia, King Wendyl III and Queen Erin of Baske. Apparently, they had been enraptured by Graccus’s accounts of the east, and wished to enquire further with Skarbol himself. Being a loyal Gallian citizen, the captain simply couldn’t refuse. So, here he was, waiting to be summoned to the royal court. A servant emerged from the large, painted doors to the court, and beckoned Skarbol to enter. He followed him, walking through a long corridor lined statues and paintings of famous heroes and kings of the ratfolk. Ferros the Black, Horatus the Great, Wendyl the Navigator, and so on. Finally they reached the court itself, a magnificently decorated room packed with royal advisors and servants, with the King and Queen themselves seated in the center on golden, jewel-encrusted thrones. The servant bowed and quickly left, leaving Skarbol alone in the presence of the royals. The captain bowed, and the King gave him permission to speak.

“Your Majesty, I hear that you desire to hear about my journeys. What is it you wish to ask?” The King smiled and waved his hand dismissively.

“I know all about your journey from the orc merchant Graccus Agrippa of Norvuk, Captain Skarbol Gallico, ‘The Storm Warden.’” Skarbol looked confused.

“Excuse me Your Majesty, then why have you beckoned me here?”

“I want you to lead another voyage to the east. You will have three of the finest ships available and you may pick your crew from the finest sailors in all of Gallia. Money is not an issue, all funding will come from the state coffers. Well, Captain Gallico? Do you accept? There are no doubt countless other captains in Gallia, nay, all of the west who would be more than willing to accept this prestigious offer.” Skarbol was stunned. He regained his composure, took a deep breath, and said:

“It would be an honor, Your Majesty. When shall we set sail?”

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