Legends of Belariath

The Quest For The Baron's Silver

Zophiel - Second Parchment Knife

Zophiel was practicing his lapidary skills in the lower workshops of the Guild of Signet and Song when he heard the news. He could always count on his fellow guild members to supply him with curious bits of gossip to help pass the sometimes-tedious hours of his practice sessions. This particular day, however, proved to bear more interesting news than most. It would seem that a nearby baron had lost quite a bit of valuable silverware and wished to see it returned. He made no reply to the relatively loquacious dwarves who were working at a nearby forge, pausing occasionally between hammering out sheets of gold to comment on the latest tidbit. Rather, as he polished yet another pearl for a necklace he was preparing to make, he thought on the irony of what he had planned. It was only fitting, he decided, that a thief should help recover the baron’s lost silver. Of course, if he had done the job, he would not likely have left a trail that could lead back to him. But the very fact that this whole affair had already become such a hot topic of conversation led him to believe that the culprits were not particularly bright, or careful for that matter. All the better.

Waiting until nightfall had proven to be all but interminable, and so he compromised with himself and decided to head out at dusk. When he left the guildhall, the sun was making its lazy descent toward the horizon, and the sparse blanketing of clouds across the sky allowed for a rather striking sunset. However, Zophiel’s mind hardly registered the panorama. Instead, he scowled dubiously at the clouds. If they thickened, it would certainly help mask his movements in the night, but if they broke, the rain could prove troublesome. He sighed and shook his head, cursing inwardly for allowing himself to be distracted by these details which were far beyond his ability to control. Perhaps hiding in this small town had softened him, dulled his wits and skills, he mused silently as he strolled out of town at a leisurely pace. He walked northwest through the village, careful to maintain his usual gait, lest any onlookers think this were something other than just another night for him. He made his way out of Nanthalion and into the forest, following a series of game trails he had come to know fairly well. An outdoorsman he was not, but in the months since moving here, he made a point of familiarizing himself with the woods north of town, between the settlement and the inn whose reputation had drawn him from so far away. His own cabin lie not too far north of the inn, and this was no coincidence by any means. Already familiar with this little bit of wilderness, it was a fairly simple matter for him to memorize a route from his home to town, using only interconnecting game trails and patches of clearing. The road was far too public for him to prefer traveling.

And so it was that not long after leaving town, he found himself at the doorstep of his humble cabin. He unlocked it and slipped inside, from the gloom of night to the deeper darkness of his dwelling. With only a little fumbling about –it seemed his latest guest hadn’t pushed her chair in completely after breakfast- he got a lantern lit and carried it with him to his bedroom. He set it aside and quickly pulled out his studded leather. After strapping it on, his bracers followed, along with a more practical sword belt. He placed his pouch of coins in a small nook under a floorboard beneath his bed, not wanting their jingling to interfere with his attempts at stealth. In its place on his belt, he put an empty pouch to use for carrying whatever loot he managed to appropriate. After making sure his rapier and stiletto were sharp, he set out. He was hungry, and so on his way out paused to grab a handful of roasted nuts. He munched them quickly as he proceeded from his home, circling around to the east before veering northward again. It both gave him time to finish his snack and kept him from inadvertently leaving a direct trail from his home to wherever he might be heading. What was it the dwarves had said… a few woodcutters who dropped off some lumber earlier in the day had apparently spotted some suspicious-looking goblins a good distance to the north. The recollection of this rumor made Zophiel smirk. What goblin wasn’t suspicious-looking? Just the same, it was a lead, and if it proved true, he could have his business concluded by dawn if he made good speed. Which, checking the deepening gloom, he was not doing at all.

The approach of spring had led to a thawing of the snow, which made the ground muddy. Since he was trying to leave as little in the way of a trail as possible, avoiding the worst of the mud had prevented him from making any sort of straight path north. He paused and considered this, then decided to take to the air. He chanted softly and concentrated on the symbol of power that harnessed the energy of flight. Keeping that symbol in his mind’s eye as he finished the incantation, he felt himself lift slowly off the ground. He soared up carefully, gently pushing aside boughs of pine needles as he ascended. Once over the tree line, he drifted north, moving at his usual walking speed, lest his miss an important clue that could lead him to the alleged encampment of burglars. Nonetheless, he progressed much more quickly now that he could move in a straight line.

A biting chill blew across the treetops, eliciting a wince and shiver from Zophiel as he continued northward. A native of a much warmer climate, it seemed he would never grow accustomed to the bitterness of the winter in this land. He drew his cloak more tightly about himself as he continued forward, silently praying to his god that his reconnaissance would soon pay off, and he could dip back into the relative warmth under the canopy of limbs and branches below.

Not quite what he had hoped for, he felt himself beginning to descend rather abruptly, and not at all of his own volition. It seems his concentration had faltered, and his flight spell had failed. He threw his arms out wide, kicking simultaneously with his legs as he sought to break his fall through the branches. For all his flailing and thrashing, it was ultimately his cloak that spared him a painful and perhaps ultimately fatal meeting with the ground below. He really needed to find some sort of spell to help with these unexpected descents. Of course, what he needed even more was to extricate himself and get down from his tree before the commotion drew the attention of any scouts that might be in the area. He extended his arms slowly, straightening his legs and moving them about to try to find purchase of some sort. The seconds stretched impossibly long, but finally he found that there was a solid branch beneath his right foot, and he could even settle a good amount of his weight on it. With the added leverage, he managed to find a branch overhead that was still pliant and strong, thus offering a handhold as well. He unclasped his cloak, shivering as another gust of wind tore its way through the treetops to torment him. Abandoning the cloak, it seemed, would be out of the question with the night threatening to grow even colder.

With painstaking care, he abruptly shifted his weight, spinning on the ball of the foot that was balanced on a branch and pulling with the hand that gripped a bough just over his head. He twisted with the movement, bringing his free arm and leg swinging closer to the trunk. Unfortunately, the abrupt movement was more than the branch above could bear, and it snapped with a dishearteningly loud crackle in the crisp night air. Zophiel quickly abandoned it and flung his hands forward, grabbing at the shadows of another branch closer to him. Grateful for his leather gloves, he gripped it tightly and slowly pulled himself closer to the trunk of the great tree. As he caught his breath from the unexpectedly harrowing experience, he noticed that the fall of the branch above had also taken his cloak with it, bearing it to the ground as it clattered against several other branches on the way down.

His relief, it would prove, was doomed to be short-lived. Just as he let out a quiet sigh, he caught the light of a torch coming from up ahead. Two pairs of boots crunched the ground underfoot, and the guttural exchange between the approaching figures left little doubt in Zophiel’s mind about who might be approaching. It only took a moment before he had confirmation. As the torch-bearer and his companion rounded a corner, he caught sight of their greasy black hair and warty, oily skin. He wrinkled his nose disdainfully, but his disdain turned to a scowl of frustration when they spotted his crimson cloak. He sighed inwardly, resigning himself to losing the cloak as he molded himself back against the tree’s trunk. The long shadows of the branches between him and the scouts would easily obscure him. He doubted they’d climb the tree, or spend too much time looking about. It’d be easier for them to count their blessings and return to wherever they came from with his cloak. Fine as it was, clothing could easily be replaced, he reminded himself. Then, he saw the glint of his brooch off the light of the goblin’s torch. His eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. That brooch was a gift. The second gift he’d ever been given. He’d be damned if he let some filthy goblin lay a hand on it.

Fingers moving quickly and lips forming the syllables that would call forth the effect he desired, he stared intently down at the ground behind the pair. Completing the spell, he cut a vertical line in the air before him, then stepped forward into it. The bough creaked underfoot, drawing the goblins’ attention up toward the trees. The one holding the torch raised it higher while the other, who had been reaching for the little leaf-shaped mithril broach, paused in the middle of grasping at it to cast his gaze up into the branches. Zophiel, however, was not up there any longer. Standing behind the two now, he drew his stiletto and stepped forward, thrusting it quickly at the would-be looter. The surprised goblin didn’t stand a chance. Just as the torch-bearer saw his companion sag forward and heard the surprised gurgle he made, Zophiel was drawing his rapier to finish off the other goblin. He was not to be nearly so lucky, however, as the wretched thing reflexively swung his torch toward the suddenly-appearing foe, forcing Zophiel back a step. He narrowed his eyes and sidestepped around his opponent, putting a thicket behind him to prevent any potential friends of this goblin’s from sneaking up on him. The goblin, sneering, drew a crudely-made short sword and waved it in an attempt to be menacing.

The ensuing fight was frenzied and determined on both sides, as neither combatant knew if the other had allies nearby, or what else might be drawn by the sounds of the conflict. The two exchanged blows, little more than scrapes really, but ultimately Zophiel proved the victor. The goblin, while not nearly as skilled with a blade, felt a much more immediate fear for his survival than had the human, and so fought with wild desperation. Fortunately, he had tired himself out quickly that way, and so it was a simple matter for Zophiel to dispatch him. Having no time to waste, he snuffed the torch out in a bank of snow, then tossed it far away. He retrieved his cloak and dragged the two bodies off the small trail and into the underbrush, one on either side of the path. Just as he was considering his next move, he saw two more points of firelight approaching and cursed silently. He moved further from the trail and clambered up into a tree, stretching out across a low limb to see who was approaching. Two more pairs of goblin scouts tromped through the underbrush, alerted by the combat as Zophiel had feared. He grinned wryly as a thought occurred to him. If he could direct their attention toward the goblin lying bleeding on the far side of the road, he might be able to turn them completely away from him. He chanted quickly, before the goblins might have been close enough to hear, and motioned toward the far side of the little forest path. There were sudden crashing sounds, as of someone running quickly through the underbrush. The noise receded, sounding farther away every second. The goblins, not bothering to investigate any more closely, turned in that direction. One of the torch-bearers whispered to his companions, then turned away from the other three, moving along the trail to Zophiel’s left as the remainder of the two groups of scouts pursued the fading noise into the deeper gloom of the forest.

Zophiel counted to twenty, then slipped down from his perch and padded along the trail, following the torchlight ahead but staying well clear of the illumination it cast. He kept the goblin just out of sight, tracking him easily enough by the torch alone, trusting that the wretched little thing would lead him back to their encampment. After all, something had to go right this evening.

Indeed, after what felt like an hour of stalking through the woods, the encampment’s blazing fire shone through the trees. Doubting they would leave the entrances to the clearing they occupied unguarded, Zophiel diverted from the path to let the goblin continue on. He crept quietly, keeping low to the ground and moving with the steady patience of a predatory animal, he neared the edge of the clearing. He crouched low between two broad oak tree trunks and called upon another simple spell he learned at the great tower. So long as he remained in this spot, casual observers would pay him no heed, and since the trees shielded him from the sight of the guards at the nearest trails that fed into the clearing, he felt safe enough to assess his situation. Before proceeding, he knew he had to tend to the injuries he sustained in his fight with the goblin. Though really only flesh wounds, their annoyance might distract him at a crucial moment, and that was not acceptable. He quietly tended them with the healing blessing of his dark god, gritting his teeth against the searing agony his patron inflicted as a price for the act of benevolence.

With that concluded, he surveyed the clearing. Three entrances to the clearing from paths through the forest, all guarded. There were bushes between the trees elsewhere, and while he was grateful to them for the cover they provided, he knew he could not likely sneak through them. Brittle as they were yet from the winter, they would doubtlessly crunch and crackle in the wake of his passing, alerting anything with ears of his presence. There was no other way around the issue, he decided. He’d simply have to magically step around them. That was one obstacle, but there were more to consider. Where was the treasure? How well was it guarded? How would he escape if his presence were detected? He watched and thought. There were five tents in all, arranged in a sort of semi-circle around the fire. They helped to shield the firelight from the two trails opposite the one Zophiel had been following. If he were to guess, he would surmise that those two trails led most directly back to Nanthalion, at least by foot.

His stomach growled angrily, and he pursed his lips in annoyance with himself, so impatient to be underway earlier in the evening. Knowing he had nothing to eat, he resigned himself to remain still and simply watch, trusting that an answer to his dilemma would present itself soon enough.

His decision to spare the goblin that he had tailed back to the encampment paid off soon enough, however. After being detained and interrogated by the guards –apparently they were angry that he returned so quickly from his patrol shift and thought he was trying to shirk his responsibility- he trotted toward the largest tent. The goblin disappeared from Zophiel’s sight when he entered the half-ring of tents around the fire, but he could spot the elongated shadow as the creature moved. Words were exchanged, but he couldn’t quite make them out. Then, there was commotion, and the goblin retreated quickly from the tent. There was another figure with him, Zophiel could tell from the second shadow cast, a much larger and more imposing figure it appeared. The second goblin staggered around the lip of one of the far tents and shouted at the guards. He gesticulated wildly, and at first Zophiel feared the goblin might be a spell caster. Spotting the glimmering, finely-crafted chalice in the goblin’s right hand, he concluded that it wasn’t magic, but rather intoxication that had motivated the exaggerated gesturing. He smirked with satisfaction as one guard from each of the posts moved away to follow the returned scout, who was moving back into the forest along the path from which he had come. The large and thickly muscled, but thankfully drunk, goblin turned around and went back into the warmth of his own tent, and Zophiel saw his opportunity.

Acting quickly now, he called forth the same spell he had used to waylay the pair of scouts he encountered earlier. He disappeared from his vantage between the two oaks and reappeared between two tents, the larger one to his left. He crouched low and skulked toward the front of the tent. A lone figure stood guard, looking bored and sleepy. And why wouldn’t he? This far from the edge of the clearing, he didn’t have nearly as pressing a need to remain alert as the outer guards did. Zophiel chanted as he stepped around the corner, and just as the goblin perked upright and turned to face the sound of the human’s voice, Zophiel gestured to him and completed the spell. The goblin, already weary from the boredom of his post, succumbed easily enough to the seductive allure of the magical euphoria promised by the spell cast at him. His expression changed from one of surprise to dumbfounded bliss, and he slumped on the ground, setting down his short-hafted spear to stare down at his hand as he waved it slowly back and forth over his lap. Zophiel strode forward confidently, stepping past the befuddled goblin and pushing aside the tent flap.

The acrid stench of unwashed goblin assaulted his nostrils as soon as he stepped inside, the very air feeling greasy with the filth of the tent’s sole occupant. In better light, Zophiel noticed that the goblin wasn’t as large as he originally thought, but was simply rather heavily armored. He sat, slumped, torso and legs covered in chain, an ill-fitting helm perched awkwardly atop his head. For all his intoxication, the goblin came to attention quickly enough. He cried loudly and cast the silver chalice aside, spilling crimson wine across the matted, disgusting pile of pelts he used as a bed, at the same time throwing the knife he was using to cut up his roast hare.

Zophiel winced and staggered back a step as the knife sank into his shoulder, lancing arcs of pain down along his left arm. He gritted his teeth, focusing the pain into anger as he spat out a guttural curse, the harsh inflections of the spell a petition to his god to sap the very strength from this infidel’s undeserving husk. The goblin, in the midst of rising and barreling forward to tackle Zophiel and pound him into the dirt, lurched and stumbled as a dark bolt of energy lanced from the human’s fingertips to strike him in the chest. His muscles atrophied, and suddenly the armor he wore became like a lead anchor, his muscles unable to support its weight. The charging tackle ended in a staggering tumble that Zophiel managed to sidestep easily enough. He tugged the knife from his shoulder and threw it to the ground, walking over to the chalice as his opponent flopped drunkenly about, slowly squirming free of the oppressively heavy armor he wore. Wasting no time, Zophiel crouched and brought his good hand to the wound, knowing that his arm would prove useless if he were caught in a fight. Gritting his teeth and snarling as the pain, stronger than before, stabbed at his shoulder joint, he fought to keep control of the healing spell as it worked its way through him. Finally he dropped his hand away, panting heavily from the exertion. The wound was tender and still bleeding, but not nearly so deep now. Hardly perfect, but he noticed the improvement already. He picked up the chalice and slipped it into the empty pouch he carried with him. Surely this finely crafted work of silver had belonged to the baron. It was the only particularly valuable object within immediate sight, after all.

As he watched the goblin shuffle his way free of the chain mail that held him in bondage, Zophiel grudgingly helped himself to a bite of the rabbit. While burnt, it was sustenance, and his hunger had only gotten worse amidst all this activity. He tore off the hind leg the creature’s grubby fingers had not sullied and bit off the meatiest hunk of it. He then tossed the remainder aside and chewed quickly, trying very hard not to think about the ashen taste of the overcooked meat, and trying even harder not to wonder how filthy the cook’s hands had been.

A good portion of his waning energy restored by the respite, he moved to the back of the tent and tugged at the bottom, to no avail. The stakes were pegged too tightly into the ground, and he could tell that the material the tent was made of was far too thick for either of his weapons to cut easily. He turned to the tent’s entrance as he heard shuffling footsteps outside, and noticed the flap lifting. The goblin he had left dazed outside stepped in, scimitar drawn, only to stumble over his superior’s flailing body. To the goblin’s credit, he regained his footing quickly enough and managed to raise his blade to parry Zophiel’s leading thrust. The goblin rushed ahead, seizing the momentum of his swing to bring the blade around and up, threatening Zophiel’s head with the curved end of the sword. Zophiel shuffled back and angled his stiletto up to deflect the blow, pushing it down to skitter harmlessly off of his studded leather. Judging his opponent’s competency with the scimitar, Zophiel knew he had no chance of defeating him before more help arrived. Fleeing out the front seemed to be his only option, he concluded as he ducked under a surprisingly fast swipe of the blade. He heard fabric tear behind him and grinned.

The goblin leader, meanwhile, had finally managed to free himself of his armor, helmet cast off in the process. He stood, wearing only chain leggings, hobnailed boots, and whatever filthy rag might be under the metal armor. Zophiel saw his situation worsening quickly and knew he had to act fast. He stabbed forward in a feint that allowed him to position himself back at the tear the scimitar-wielding guard had cut into the tent wall. Anticipating that his opponent would seek to prevent the more nimble human from flanking him by making a downward swipe that would cut off his maneuvering, Zophiel prepared to dodge the incoming blow. As expected, the goblin swung downward, stepping into the swing to ensure that his opponent remained trapped. Unfortunately for the goblin, he cut another slit in the tent flap, from the first horizontal one almost down to the floor. Zophiel shifted his weight and ducked low, rolling through the hole created by the goblin’s cuts just as the raging leader picked up a nasty-looking club.

In an instant, he was on his feet again and glanced around quickly. One guard from each of the perimeter posts was advancing, though only the nearest concerned him. Zophiel had time for only one more spell, and so he once again drew upon his acquired ability to fly, conjuring the symbol as he spoke the words. A crossbow bolt whizzed by his face, missing him by a scant inch as he rose higher into the air. He turned to face his assailants as he willed himself backward. He twisted away from the next bolt that zipped past, but in the process inadvertently lined himself up with the third. Taking the shot in his right thigh, he grunted from the pain of the impact, but forced himself to stay focused on the symbol that allowed him to remain aloft. Drifting back and higher, he was skimming a yard over the trees and quickly moving beyond the goblins’ line of sight before they were ready to line up another shot.

He turned to face the direction in which he was traveling and veered to the right, angling away from the path many of the goblins had gone down previously. Likewise, he couldn’t trust the other two trails nearby to be safe, as they were doubtlessly watched by roving patrols as well. When he found a small, sheltered glade far away from any of the game trails, he drifted lower, landing on his good leg and favoring the injured one. He sat carefully and gripped the crossbow bolt. Gritting his teeth and pursing his lips to remain silent, he jerked it out and cast it aside. He sighed heavily, knowing what was to come, and beseeched his god to mend the wound, heal the damaged muscle so that he could regain some utility in his leg.

Several minutes later, after pausing to let the pain clear from his mind, he was moving again, picking his way carefully through the forest. With one shoulder and one thigh aching and sore from injury, he knew he was in no condition to stand against a pair of scouting goblins. He also knew that he had to get to safety before sunrise, or any pursuit they might send would find him easily enough.

As fortune would have it, he staggered to the inn, having circumvented his home altogether, as the first hint of false dawn lightened the sky above. He made his way to his room, still reserved though seldom used of late, and after magically locking his door, he collapsed unceremoniously in his bed.

He awoke late the next morning, his gnawing stomach warring with his bladder for priority of attention. He saw to the needs of both in short order, sparing only a few moments to mend his torn garments and clean himself. After the refreshing meal, he made the journey to the baron’s estate, under the hazy light of an unpleasantly overcast day. He walked through the woods, trusting the roads even less now than usual since he was delivering a stolen item. The last thing he needed was to be harassed by goblins, or worse, imperial soldiers. At the edge of the estate, he paused to magically purge the muck and dirt of his hike from his clothing, and then drew out the silver chalice and strode forward, brandishing the valuable item openly as he approached a guard and requested an audience with the baron. He was ushered inside, under escort. After one of the baron’s servants confirmed that the chalice was indeed one of the stolen items, Zophiel was ushered in to deliver it to the baron directly and was thus granted his reward.

With thanks to Zophiel

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