From: gdg019@cch.coventry.ac.uk (Ridley McIntyre)
Subject: STORY: RED (4)
Followup-To: rec.games.frp.misc
Organization: Pig Heaven, Coventry, UK
Date: Wed, 18 Nov 1992 16:33:04 GMT

                                   RED
                           by Ridley McIntyre

                                  - 4 -

                           26 Daethander 1222

They had arrived at the house of Liudolf Aldhawn in the mid-afternoon, after a
day of troubled travelling. Since leaving the site where they found the dead
bodies of a forester and his son, Keen, the irksome troll whom Catan had
befriended, had managed to harass Aifam, the pretty black-haired elf girl, to
the point of murder; but fortunately for them all, not beyond. It was Landers,
the human bounty hunter, who had stepped in on the argument and saved the day
once more.

 Keen had made some inane comment about how all the trees seemed the same and
how easy it would be to get lost again following that dumb elf, and Aifam had
made to hit him. The troll easily ducked under her back-hand swipe and the elf
girl settled at calling him stupid under her breath behind clenched teeth.

 Then Keen pulled out one of his small swords at the remark. "Troll I am," he
called defiantly, waving the blade, "Stupid I am not."

 Aifam looked at the troll's childish face with noticable hatred boiling behind
her dark brown eyes. The others stopped and watched silently as she calmly
winched back the string of her crossbow and nocked a thick bolt in the groove.

 Keen, seeing his doom unfolding in front of his widening eyes, sheathed the
sword, turned, and ran as fast as his troll's legs would take him into the 
forest undergrowth, disappearing quickly into the trees and the evergreen 
bushes.

 The elf girl grunted and uncocked the crossbow. Landers, looking hard into 
the forest, could see where the troll was hiding, crouched inside a holly 
bush. He crept up behind the troll and grabbed both of his little arms, 
twisting them behind his back.

 "One more comment out of you, Keen Dirqan, and we'll tie you to a tree for 
the wolves to feed on. Understood?"

 Just to make sure, the lanky man turned the troll around and lifted him up
into the air, holding him by the shoulders nearly a full foot off the ground
with poor Keen's feet dangling in space. He nodded his baby-faced head until
Landers finally believed him and set him down again. Not surprisingly, all
further comments from Keen were whispered to his friend, the ogre.

 Catan had had to listen to the troll's grumblings all the next morning at
breakfast, about how the elf was "out to get him" and how he wished he could
"stick a sword through her pristeen flesh". But once they were all on the move
again and the sun had brightened the autumnal Westwood Forest somewhat, Catan
could tell that the troll was fast forgetting the events of the previous day
in the mindless way that all trolls do, living entirely for the moment. He had
even forgotten the horrific scene of the woodcutter and his son, killed and
tied to the branches of a tree as a warning by goblins, and his temperament
was brightening up to shine in his usual good-spirited, talkative, and utterly
annoying little self.

 An attempt to jump up onto Catan's huge back for a free ride resulted in a
rather nasty clout around the head from the ogre, who was obviously unsure
of his strength at times. The bruise still hurt and glowed above the troll's
left eye when they came across the forester's house. With thoughts of good
food and a warm place to sleep, they made themselves known and the forester,
a thickly-built middle-aged man called Liudolf Aldhawn, eventually, after much
persuasion (and a peace-offering of the whole haunch of a deer that Aifam had
hunted during the day's travel), gave them shelter.

 They had been talking well into the night and all Catan could think about
was supper on the spit and in the fire-blackened cauldron. The aroma was
infuriating him. Desperately, he listened to the conversation to try to take
his mind off things, but his rumbling stomach was craving for the rice and peas
that he had finished that lunchtime; pangs of hunger raking deeper and deeper
into his gut.

 Liudolf's forest home was a treasure trove of books and ornaments from all
over Temiscamin and beyond. Aifam had looked through some of the collection
and noticed a leather-bound copy of the elvish Old World Songs, translated by
the great SpearDancer, who brought the four elf tribes of Saskia together
under the Kutenai Confederation. Here was a collection of great value,
indicative of the hours Liudolf had spent scouring the markets of Shelfield
and Falcon.

 Part of the collection hung on the wall above the hearth: two carved-bone
drama masks, their hollow eyes staring out at the travellers sat in front of
the fire. Landers took one look at them, and was reminded of the bodies he'd
discovered the previous day. Bile rose to his throat once more, searing his 
windpipe as he spoke.

 "So we were on the coach from Carroway Head into Shelfield when I discovered
that Aifam here was after the same bounty. We decided it was easier to work
with each other than against each other."

 Liudolf smiled. He was a tall, lean man with straight black hair and taught,
thoughtful features. When he smiled, his whole face changed into a new pattern
of lines and wrinkles. A face borne from hard work and toil. The same kind of 
face that Landers had first seen hanging upside down from the tree the day 
before.

 "You'll be glad enough for the company if you plan on going up against
Silthorn," he said in a voice like a broken glass jug. "He's taught his band
a lot. They'll do just about anything for him now. If they catch wind of you
coming after them, you'll need all the friends you can get." The lanky
forester took a corner of leather cloth and turned the haunch of venison over
the fire, being careful not to burn his roughened hand on the metal skewer.

 "What else do you know of Silthorn?" Aifam asked him.

 The forester's face turned circumspect. "I heard last time I was in Shelfield
that he had become the lover of an Adept. A powerful woman, they say. But
these are only rumours. Much hearsay was spoken about the man when he was
first captured."

 "True Adepts? This far south?" Steiff scoffed, standing up from the sturdy
ashwood chair in order to stretch his hardened legs.

 Landers raised his eyebrows to the forester. "It does seem a little far-
fetched, sir. If you don't mind me saying so."

 "Well, it's what I heard. And it doesn't surprise me so easily. Besides, if
she had weaved a charm over the goblins it might explain why he was taken in 
as one of their tribe so quickly, yes?"

 Aifam nodded her slender elvish head. "That goblin camp that you spoke of,
Liudolf; where is it?"

 "There is an old Leveran outpost in the Cinder Hills, where the River Sow
is just a stream. Their old leader used to trade firewood for fodder with
my father when I was a boy. That may be why they have left me alone. They
are not like the goblins of legends," he said, noting Steiff's raised brow.
"These aren't the same goblins that Temis the Great had to defeat in order to
civilise this forest kingdom. Nor the ones Emperor Hodene built a wall against 
to protect the Leveran Empire. They are quieter now, more subdued. They are no
longer even a nation; their tribes are just scattered bands of maybe forty
or fifty at most."

 Catan watched Liudolf's sullen face as he told the story of how the humans
had shattered a once proud and powerful race into a thousand shards, and how
these pitiful creatures had been forced to turn to raiding just to survive. It 
was as if the forester had stood back and watched the atrocity himself; unable
to act, and carrying the full burden of the blame himself.

 Finally, the ogre could hold back his burning question no longer. He raised
his hand as if he were a huge, lumbering child needing to be excused from
a history lesson. "Is that broth ready yet?" he asked. "I'm very hungry."

 The forester smiled his wrinkly smile again and lifted himself to his feet.
"Yes," he said. "And if you can bear to wait, hungry ogre, I'll fetch some
spoons." And off he went into the pantry.

(c) COPYRIGHT RIDLEY MCINTYRE 1992
-- 
                  Ridley McIntyre - Ronin Ironpig
*On a Flowery	     gdg019@cck.coventry.ac.uk          Space Trip!*
		 ---------------------------------
"The thing about Conventionalism is that it f**ks up everything" - Leon Hunt
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