The Oilskin Packet

 

The Stag and Stalker Inn had more rooms and better food than most inns in a village this size, Naull allowed. She stripped off her clothing and gave everything but her weapons and component pouches to the innkeeper's wife, a stocky woman with a motherly disposition who went by the nickname "Lexi" and who was willing to do some laundry. After a brief wash in the water basin, Naull flopped down naked on the bed and tried to sleep.

But sleep came slowly, especially considering she, Regdar, and Ian (the latter two shared a room across the hall) had been awake for more than twenty-four hours.

Forget preparing any spells today, she thought, but comforted herself with the knowledge that she shouldn't need any here.

They last stayed at the Stag and Stalker the night before departing to ambush the orcs, and they learned of the trade wagons only an hour before setting out. Now she had a chance to enjoy the room and couldn't do it.

What's wrong with me? she wondered.

Naull thought of the night's events, of the loss of Trebba and Yurgen, and of everything else that happened. It bothered her that she couldn't put it all aside and sleep, despite her grief and sore muscles. That usually meant she was forgetting to attend to something. Sitting up with a sigh, she pulled her pack to the side of the bed and drew out her spellbook.

As long as I'm up, she thought, I may as well review a few things.

Even the methodical study of magic didn't relax her mind. Magic fascinated her, of course, and she'd bought a few new spells before leaving New Koratia. Wizards trained their minds for order and discipline to cast spells. Usually that meant she could fall asleep in moments if she wanted to, just by concentrating.

She wanted to, but she couldn't sleep.

Naull rooted through the rest of her pack. Regdar had the sack of plunder from the orc lair, and there was nothing particularly remarkable in it. She had the bead they found, though, so she looked it over. It was black and hard and she knew it was magical, but it didn't look sinister. She fumbled through the rest of her pack until she found the folded letter from the village leaders, the one that brought them here in the first place.

Something in Naull's mind jumped. She looked at the letter, carefully preserved in an oilskin packet. It never hurt to have the client's own written word when trying to enforce a contract, she knew. She started to open the packet, then she realized that the object on her mind was not the letter, after all. Turning the packet over, she examined it.

Plain. Brown. Slightly rough from wear and long use. Showing signs of much travel. The letter inside was certainly not the first thing this parcel ever contained.

That's it, she thought. The half-orc!

When she and Regdar searched his gear for anything suspicious, they saw a packet tucked into the inside of his chain shirt. She hadn't paid much attention at the time, but she did notice that the packet had some sort of symbol on the side. Naull tried recalling it to her mind. She concentrated.

The sun? she thought, frowning.

Her brow furrowed as she discarded that idea.

A tongue of flame? That was it. It had some sort of fire-symbol on the outside.

She tried to remember what they did with the chain shirt. Regdar had taken the half-orc's weapons back to his room, but the shirt... they left the shirt on the shelf in the cellar.

Naull hopped out of bed and strode over to the door. Luckily, she stubbed her bare toe on a chair leg and hopped back, or she would have walked out the door completely naked. For some reason she thought briefly of Alhandra and the attention Regdar had given her.

He'd notice me then, she thought.

She felt herself blush, foolishly. She and Regdar were partners and friends. He'd seen her naked before, and she him. There wasn't much room for modesty on the road, or in a dungeon. Still, her cheeks grew warm as she limped back to the bed.

I'll just wait for my clothes, she thought, lying down. Lexi will bring them, then I'll go get the packet.

She stared at the ceiling, breathing deeply.

An hour later, the door to Naull's room opened a crack and the innkeeper's wife laid the wizard's cloak, breeches, and tunic on the chair without coming inside. She could hear the light snoring and quietly wished the wizard a good day's sleep.

 

 

Sides of beef, cured hams, and wheels of cheese hung from the rafters of the stone-lined root cellar beneath the Stag & Stalker. Alhandra saw barrels of wine, spare crocks, and stores common to many inns she'd visited in her travels. The half-orc lying sprawled on the dried rushes spread across the floor, however, was new to her experience. She looked around in the dim light and ran her fingers through her short hair, pulling her headband off and wiping the back of her neck.

"It's all a bit new," she muttered.

Alhandra trained for fighting evil and killing monsters, but she hardly expected her first adventure without a higher member of the order to be so fraught with controversy and intrigue. She was glad she'd met Regdar, Naull, and Ian. They seemed to know what they were doing, and she very much appreciated their support out by the barn. But uncertainty nagged at her, a familiar, if unwelcome friend. She wondered when she'd be rid of it.

She rested on one knee beside the prone half-orc and soaked the headband in the water basin. The two towels she'd brought down were filthy with blood, mud, and dust. She didn't want to bother anyone for more, now that the half-orc was nearly clean. It was obvious he'd spent more than a little time in the desert to the south. Dabbing at the half-orc's wounded eye she saw that it wasn't permanently damaged, but there definitely would be a scar.

Without warning, the half-orc's eyes opened and met hers. For one wild moment she was fascinated. One eye was blue, the other brown. Both bulged in their sockets. One long-nailed hand grasped her wrist firmly while he used the other to prop himself up. She didn't move to resist him.

"Where?" the half-orc growled. His dry throat made his voice crack, but Alhandra couldn't believe it would sound much different otherwise.

"You're safe," the paladin assured him.

The grip on her wrist didn't relax, however, and the half-orc's mismatched eyes stayed locked on her own. Perhaps "safe" wasn't a good enough answer.

"Where?" he repeated. There was no anger or fear in his voice—at least none she could detect—but there was insistence.

Alhandra looked pointedly at his hand, then back at him. She didn't want to give him the idea that he intimidated her. Even though, lying there weaponless and nearly naked, with her wearing her armor and her weapons, he shouldn't.

There's something about him, she thought, but she did not relent.

After a moment, the half-orc released her wrist and used his other hand to rise into a crouch, fluidly, as if there was no effort involved at all. He sat in that crouch easily, but his leg muscles were tense as if he was ready to spring. The paladin moved carefully and slowly, never looking away. She reached for and found a small wooden cup and filled it with water from a pitcher, then offered it to him. The half-orc sniffed at the water before accepting it.

"You're in the cellar of an inn—the Stag and Stalker."

The name obviously meant nothing to the half-orc, but his eyes darted across the walls and the ceiling. Fixing briefly on the stairs, with the door closed at the top and the single, small window with shutters sealed, they came back to Alhandra's face almost immediately.

"The inn is in a small village called Durandell," she continued, watching him.

That got a reaction. The half-orc's bulging eyes widened and he put the cup down. Clear water dripped down his rough chin and onto his gray throat.

"Do you remember what happened to you at the farm?" She didn't like bringing up the subject, but felt it was better to address it now.

The half-orc nodded slightly, but he didn't speak. Alhandra searched his face for some reaction, but he showed none.

Curious, she thought.

"Were you coming here?" she asked.

Shrugging, he picked up the cup again. It was empty. Alhandra broke eye contact and retrieved the pitcher. When she looked back, his eyes were downcast. She filled the cup.

"You're going to have to answer eventually, you know. The villagers don't mean you harm anymore." Alhandra believed that, despite how close things had actually come. "Evil humanoids—"

Alhandra stressed the word "evil"— "have been raiding them recently. Orcs, specifically," she added.

Again, the half-orc didn't react. He drank more water, slowly, and when she offered him the pitcher, he accepted it and filled the cup a third time without speaking.

"They want to know where you come from, what you're doing here, and what your intentions are."

When that elicited no response, Alhandra felt her patience wearing thin.

"They'll also want to know who you are."

"Krusk," the half-orc said simply, putting down the pitcher and the empty cup.

He looked at her again, but without the steady concentration of before—no, not at her, she decided, behind her. She looked in the direction of his gaze.

"Ah," she said, rising to her feet. Krusk stayed put, in that uncomfortable-looking crouch. Alhandra took a few steps toward a large ham hanging from the ceiling. She examined it and determined it was thoroughly cured. "I don't suppose Eoghan will mind," she said, drawing out her knife and cutting into the meat, "as long as I pay him for it later."

She sawed off a large chunk of meat, then did the same with a cheese nearby. She looked around and decided that Eoghan didn't keep bread in the cellar. She walked back to Krusk and sat down, handing him the food.

The half-orc attacked it diligently, without a knife. His uneven teeth made short work of the tough ham. Alhandra let him eat, fearing he might choke if she tried to make him talk at the same time. She poured him another cup of water.

As he finished, she said, "Outriders from the village found you, collapsed by a stream. I guess they did this—" she moved her hand toward his bandaged scalp, and he didn't flinch—"but you had more than a few wounds, and you were obviously dehydrated."

"Found a spring," he said.

"You collapsed in it. One of the outriders drove the wagon that brought us here," she added, though he didn't seem to care that she had this information. "You might have died out there, anyway."

A curious expression came over Krusk's ugly face then, but Alhandra couldn't quite interpret it. She decided to probe a little further.

"If you'd been left alone much longer, you would have died, wouldn't you, Krusk?"

The half-orc shrugged but looked defiant. "I survive," he said.

There was a trace of anger there, but Alhandra didn't think it was directed at her, or the outriders who'd found him, or even the villagers who'd tied him up. He made a show, however, of picking up his cup and filling it with water again. She supposed it was his way of trying to change the subject.

"You survived," Alhandra agreed, "but you're stuck here, unless you answer some questions. Eoghan—the innkeeper, the one who agreed to bring you here—he's as much of a leader as this village has. He won't be satisfied with just your name. He'll want to know more."

Krusk started to shake his head, spilling a little water on his chest. He looked down and dabbed at it, then his head jerked up in shock. He started looking around the room wildly and stood up. He narrowly missed smashing his skull on one of the crossbeams in the cellar's ceiling, but didn't seem to notice.

Struggling to her feet, Alhandra asked, "What's wrong? What are you doing, Krusk?"

Dropping the cup, Krusk spun in place. He looked almost comical, examining both himself and his surroundings. The villagers had stripped him down to his torn and stained breeches.

"Where?" he asked finally, looking at Alhandra with fear and pleading in his eyes.

"I told you—" she started, but he shook his head frantically, patting himself with his big hands.

"Where my things?" His voice sounded guttural and his diction almost unintelligible.

He's becoming frantic, she realized.

Alhandra walked quickly to the shelf where Krusk's dirty tunic, patchwork chain shirt, and other gear were piled. He sprang toward her when she lifted it up. Again, he nearly clipped his forehead on a beam, but he ducked as he moved this time.

Krusk grabbed at the chain shirt and Alhandra let him have it, backing away. He tossed it in his hands and something moved.

"Your weapons are upstairs," she offered with a hint of warning.

Shaking his head, Krusk stuck his hand down the front of the chain shirt and came away with an oilskin packet. Emblazoned on the flat side was what looked like a gold and red flame. Krusk dropped the chain shirt immediately and fumbled with the thong on the packet.

Alhandra slowly stepped forward. Krusk looked up and held the packet away slightly, so she stopped moving.

"What is it, Krusk?" she asked in a soothing voice.

He seemed to try to relax, but he didn't put the packet within her reach. When he shook his head, she frowned.

"You're going to have to tell me something, Krusk, or I, or someone else, will have to take it away."

The look that came over Krusk's face nearly made Alhandra reach for her sword. She fought the urge, though, thanking Heironeous that none of the villagers saw the half-orc glare angrily that way. If he'd been awake enough to do that at the barn... she drove away the thought.

"I'm just telling you, Krusk. You have to cooperate, at least a little, or there will be trouble. You don't want to have to fight a whole village, do you?"

For a moment the half-orc looked like he might, but then his expression shifted back to its neutral but wary state.

"No," he said.

Alhandra moved back toward the pitcher and away from the stairs. If Krusk wanted to try to escape, she couldn't offer him a better chance.

Better to find out now, she thought.

But the half-orc rejoined her on the rushes. This time he sat down cross-legged, with the packet in his lap.

"All right, we might as well start with what you were doing at the edge of the canyon—and in the desert before that—and go from there."

Krusk spoke haltingly, and Alhandra knew he didn't tell her everything, but he told her of his flight from Kalpesh, the gnolls, and the death of his friends. The sunlight peeking in through the cracks of the window's shutters faded to amber by the time he finished. The darkness echoed the feelings in Alhandra's heart.

"A whole city sacked, and for—" she stopped.

Krusk had deliberately avoided mentioning anything about the contents of the oilskin packet he still held in his lap, but he had no guile. She knew this Captain Tahrain gave up his life, the lives of his men, and perhaps even the lives of everyone in Kalpesh to keep this packet out of his enemy's hands.

And what an enemy it was.

She shuddered internally, as if someone had poured cold water down her spine. If Krusk had described the marauding commander accurately...

"A blackguard," she mused with more than a little irony. "A devotee of Hextor."

She shook her head and looked away, thinking of her trainers, her mentor, and the fact that this was her first quest away from the guiding arms of the Order of Heironeous.

Well, they never said the life of a paladin would be a dull one, she thought wryly. Or long, for that matter.