The Savage Caves - Chapter 4
The Savage Caves: Original Story by T.H. Lain
A Fan-Fiction Reimagining: Walthus Proudstump
Chapter 4
New Koratia, Current Year 575 Readying (Spring) 27, Earthday
Naull moved through the rolling hills of the hinterlands easily and at a calm pace. She knew the walk to Fairbye well enough and wanted to take her time. She’d made great time, setting a good rhythm as she drank in the scenery and took deep breaths of the fresh air. The countryside was beautiful; rolling hills covered in scrubgrass and little trees. There were a few small patches of wet ground and a couple of puddles but nothing she couldn’t just avoid. She could still see the tower from this far out, triumphantly cutting against the sky like a discarded giant’s sword. When she glanced back, which she did a few times, there was a sense of sadness mixed with feelings of happiness. She would miss Larktiss, she knew that. But she was free - finally free! To go and do and be whatever she wanted! She could run around in the forests or travel to the cities and meet strange people. She could trade spells with other wizards and hear tavern tales and - Ah! She could scream with excitement.
So she did. She let out a loud, long scream and threw her head back to enjoy the feeling of making her own decisions.
“No longer an apprentice,” she said aloud and smiled. “Naull, Mage of New Koratia.”
Or wherever she ended up. She would be happy anywhere!
Naull looked over the scrolls her Master had given her as she walked; potent magic, she realized as she skimmed the ancient language of dragons that most wizards used to pen their spells. It was a complex and looping script, one she’d learnt very quickly as a child. Tracing the lettering with her eyes felt familiar, like a book she’d read a hundred times before. Magic was certainly in her blood, though Larktiss had been quick to tell her she wasn’t a sorceress - he didn’t trust the untamed magic of those chaotic mages. Most wizards didn’t seem to. Naull had never met one and had only read stories of them. None of the stories were good; they painted sorcerers as dangerous, uncontrollable people who inevitably burned out because their magic destroyed them or they were killed to protect others from their power.
“Only a wizard could wield magic. A sorcerer was consumed by it.” She’d read that sentiment many times.
She decided that if she ever met a sorcerer, she wouldn’t fear them.
The scrolls in the case were some she was familiar with, having copied many of Larktiss’ spells in her last year of apprenticeship. One granted the nimbleness of a cat, another would reveal the magic of an item and its properties - though she would still need to study it to determine its effect. There were three with spells meant to protect the caster from extreme heat or cold, one that would create a sphere of unnatural darkness and one to summon a phantom horse for several hours. She was pleased - Larktiss had given her more than enough to use or sell if she chose. Spell scrolls were not easy to come by and though she could create them herself, it took time.
And money.
A slender wand was in the pack, its white wood clearly showing Larktiss’ mark. She’d seen him use the wand before and knew it could create missiles of force that would unerringly strike foes. The old man had said he’d gotten it from his days of travel, a gift from a war wizard. Larktiss’ claimed the mage made it for him for some service - wizards dealt in many different trades, including the gifting and exchanging of magical items. He wasn’t more specific about the war mage, frustratingly. She made a sucking noise through her teeth and chuckled softly.
“A wand of magic missiles, Larktiss? So very generous.” She gingerly placed the wand away.
The potions were healing draughts; she immediately recognized their red hue and light cinnamon scent. She wasn’t certain of their potency and had never actually tasted them but had read schematics of their form, function and even some of their creation. So often a formula for something was developed and simply copied by each subsequent crafter; knowledge passed down. Larktiss hadn’t made these himself, though, she knew. Only the divine magic of the gods could heal - unless Necromancy was involved; the manipulation of life’s energy and absence. Naull was fascinated by Necromancy.
She took another peek back at the tower.
A scream echoed out in the distance, drawing her attention immediately. She furrowed her brow, moving swiftly towards the sound as her eyes searched the little wooded hill she walked along. It didn’t come again but she knew there were small farm houses all over the place surrounding Fairbye. Though this area wasn’t heavily inhabited, there were certainly plenty of people who’d made homes for themselves here.
She might have stumbled onto something. Maybe a wolf pack or bandits. She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up and the thought was exhilarating. And horrifying. She’d never fought, really fought, with her spells before. She knew “The Duel Arcane”; ritual combat between wizards but she’d only ever practiced that with Larktiss and it was clear he had little interest in “magic of war”. He was a researcher and so was she, even if she did have some skill at such magics.
She crested an adjoining small, forested hill and saw a little farmstead below her above a hundred paces. Naull shifted her feet, feeling the unsteady and still soggy ground beneath her boots slip just a little bit as she strained to see. The area had been cleared of trees and only one or two old tree stumps, rather large from what she could see, marred the otherwise flat plains of the place. It was a simple, one story home with a common thatch roof and little connected garden area. A very basic fence surrounded this. A woman suddenly ran out of the small house, screaming. She had something bundled in her arms - a baby? No, no. It looked like valuables, from what Naull could tell.
But what is she running from?
The woman scampered into the treeline and was gone from sight.
A moment later, Naull saw what it was she ran from. A group of sheep had burst their pen and scattered around the home; several of them were laying on the ground, not moving - as if they were dead. She could see splotches of red on their white coats. The others dashed off, bleating and bumping into one another in a mad dash to get away from what chased them. Two little grey-skinned creatures a bit taller than human children hooted and screamed as they gave chase - astride the backs of massive, man-sized spiders. They were huge, massive creatures that the young mage had never seen before. The tower had its fair share of creatures; insects, pests and spiders aplenty. They were everywhere, especially the barn in the colder months. She watched over the course of a few weeks as one spider - she guessed it was one, at least - spun a large web at the corner of the barn. She was fascinated by it and had shown Larktiss. He’d explained what he knew of spiders and gently taken a piece of the webbing for a spell. One Naull was familiar with and had copied down in her spellbook.
She patted her satchel and drew the book out slowly, gently flipping through the pages to her spells of second degree. Wizards codified magic for ease of study and had done so for millennia according to Larktiss; spells of varying degrees possessed different levels of potency and this spell was of the second degree. Or was it magnitude? The terms seemed interchangeable to her. She found the proper page, distracted now by her search, and her eyes found the symbols and words she’d copied down years ago - before she even had the skill to cast such a spell.
She read the spell to herself.
“A wizard must take both hands, index finger and ring together in a steeple shape and hold them out in front of the chest. The other fingers are folded inwards, as a spider’s legs when dead. As the focus on the spell builds, the caster recites the words - ‘Aaraciin min da’lin, ethodranil’ - ‘The gift of the arachnid, bound’. The wizard removes the component, a bit of fresh spider’s webbing - spider’s web more than six months old will not suffice - and places it between the steepled fingers. Draw the fingers apart, creating a lattice shape with all fingers as you do and the web elongates. It will attach to all fingertips. With the dominant hand, the webbing now attached to the fingertips, point to the invocation’s place of manifestation and will it to appear.”
The diagram was clear and she remembered Larktiss’ comments on her penmanship as well as her skill at copying spells from his own spellbook; a practice common amongst Master and apprentice. Below listed the common duration, distance dependent on skill where the web might appear and a notation. The web requires an anchoring point or it will collapse and the effect will be ruined.
Naull looked up from her book, realizing her distraction, and saw one of the spider-riders catch a sheep; the large, brown spider had leapt forward and straddled the poor animal. The sheep was perhaps half the size of the giant arachnid. Its body was made up of a bulbous back covered in a grey-white fur that ran up to the base of its flat head. Long, spindly legs covered in the same color hair loomed over the bleating sheep as thick black fangs pierced the side of the herd animal. This drew a terrible pained scream from it. The sheep shuddered as venom flooded its body and the massive spider’s eight black eyes, set in two rows on its head one above the other, stared down at it. The goblin hooted loudly, swinging a small spear above its head. The small rider was wearing a small cloth cover over its waist.
Naull made a disgusted face at the death of the sheep.
She noticed it had red markings on its face and chest; it looked like paint of some kind but it was difficult to make out. She leaned forward a bit for a better look, her boots shifting slightly beneath her. The goblin looked thin, as if it hadn’t eaten in quite some time and its chest had red markings as well. There was a pattern to it but it was blurry. She craned her head forward, trying to see what it formed. A circle maybe? Or an eye?
“Oh, what is that,” she leaned further forward to see.
The ground beneath her boots shifted and she slipped, sliding on her pants down the muddy hillside. She rolled several times, tumbling end over end. Her arms flailed wildly and she landed at the bottom. The impact on her tailbone was hard and she yelped. She wiped muddy grass from her face and gingerly patted herself. Nothing broken, she thought. That was good. The goblin on the spider’s back had turned to see her. It carried a small, simple-looking spear in its hand with a point made from stone. The collective ten eyes of the creatures locked eyes with her. She froze.
This close she could see the markings.
Streaks of red clay ran down the creature’s thin face, two on either side. Six lines on the chest, starting thick at the edges and tapering in - like a mouth full of teeth. The little goblin, easily identifiable from her books on various creatures native to the Flanaess, looked incredibly thin. No wonder it was attacking the farm - it was probably starving!
Naull’s heart sank as she realized.
Oh. It was probably starving, she thought, her green eyes going a bit wide.
The spider’s black fangs shifted erratically back and forth, with its strange eyes drinking in the young mage only a dozen meters away. She could see the thick hair on its legs and body shift slightly in the breeze. The spider’s front leg shifted forward an inch and Naull gasped. The little goblin narrowed its eyes at her.
Naull leaned down to pick up her spellbook and the little goblin said something. She certainly didn’t speak the goblin tongue and couldn’t even begin to guess what it had said. It brandished a small stone headed spear at her and made a snarling face. As the goblin gibbered at her, the spider beneath it shifted forward and locked all of its eyes on Naull. They didn’t move but she knew; she was the only thing it saw.
Her first day of freedom and she was going to be eaten by a giant spider with an angry goblin on its back.
“I do not think so,” she said aloud. She saw her staff laying a dozen feet away. She couldn’t get to it fast enough. But that was fine. She didn’t need the staff, no matter what Larktiss had said.
She held up a thin hand and tried to make a gesture of “hold” but it didn’t seem effective; the goblin shifted low on the back of its mount and hissed something to the creature, squeezing its legs and pushing the giant spider forward - it padded across the ground almost silently and Naull’s face twisted up with displeasure.
She shifted the position of her hand and narrowed her eyes as the two creatures surged towards her.
“Oh, absolutely not.”
The wounded man heaved, his breaths coming hard and his face a deep red; Jozan was surprised he hadn’t passed out as he stumbled into the hamlet square and nearly collapsed at the priest’s feet. He’d knelt, trying to get the man to lay on his back but the shepherd was too agitated, too scared to listen properly. Every time he moved, the wound in his side oozed more dark blood onto his tan tunic. Regdar had pushed the crowd back and Bergur Tomah had left the gallows, hopping down awkwardly to rush over to the man.
Jozan was certain the large orator was going to fall as he jumped down but when he’d kept his feet, the priest was impressed. The flustered Bergur wasn’t much better than the constantly shifting man; he kept interrupting the shepherd as Jozan tried to ask him questions about his injury. The priest, annoyance rising, held up a hand and silenced Tomah.
“Burgomeister Tomah, be silent. I cannot hear this man over your questions and I cannot think with all of these people murmuring and I cannot help you,” he turned to stare directly into the eyes of the older man on the ground, “if you don’t sit still. Pelor’s sake, please. Just stop.” That seemed to work - the Bergur quieted, as did the villagers. The shepherd nodded, though his face had gone from the deep red of a difficult run to the pallid complexion of someone who was losing a good deal of blood. Jozan nodded, moving to shift the damaged tunic aside and spoke softly to the older man.
“This will hurt and I am sorry for that. But I need to see the wound.” He lifted the fabric and the man winced, like steam escaping a teapot, as he turned his face away. Hmm. That would explain the heavy amount of blood, the priest mused.
A large gash, half the width of Jozan’s palm, tore from the side of the man’s chest down to where his last rib was. The priest ran his hands gently over the sweaty skin and felt, looking at the uneven edges of the wound and speaking to the shepherd without looking at him.
“What happened,” Jozan shot a look to Bergur Tomah - the man must know the name of everyone in the town and Jozan raised his eyebrows as he waited.
“O-oh! Silas - he’s one of our sheep herders.”
“G-giant,” the man said between his shaking. “S-spiders.”
The crowd murmured a confused litany of questions. Regdar, who stood close by, furrowed his brow and spoke.
“Giant spiders?”
“H-huge ones, b-big as a horse! T-they came from the w-woods and - and - and,” he shuddered and the tremors seemed to steal away the man’s raspy and terrified voice.
Jozan looked towards where Regdar was standing. “Are you familiar with giant spiders?” The priest was at a loss; he'd certainly known spiders, they were practically everywhere but this wound wasn't a spider bite. It didn’t even look like an animal caused this wound. The edges of the seeping gash were jagged and uneven, as if a poorly made knife or weapon had made it. Regdar responded as Jozan pulled his waterskin out. He let the cool water flow over his hands and splash to the ground below. He needed to check the wound for debris.
“I've heard of big spiders but I've never seen them.” He shook his head. The murmur of voices around them repeated the word “spider” several times. “As big as a horse, though?” The warrior shook his head. “Maybe the blood loss is making him delirious?”
“Well, this wasn't done by a spider. Even if it was large enough to attack this man,” Joan probed the wound, the man whimpering as the younger priest gently pressed his fingers into the edges of the wound and picked a small piece of grey rock from it. “I’m sorry, Silas.” Bergur Tomah looked deeply concerned.
“Father-,” the man began and Jozan hushed him.
“Jozan. And this is Regdar,” he nodded to his traveling companion and the large man inclined his head. Bergur Tomah seemed to only realize now that the man was fully armored and had a massive blade at his side, though it was still sheathed. He looked even more nervous.
Jozan held up the small fleck of stone, blood lazily rolling down his hand as he felt the stone between his fingers. “There's no sign of poison - the man's heavy breathing and pallid complexion are from blood loss.” Jozan pulled a small cloth from his vestments with his clean hand, gesturing for Tomah to splash water over his blood streaked hand. The heavy man complied, though his hand shook so much it was a surprise he managed to wash Jozan’s own hand clean.
“You can tell just by looking?” Regdar asked.
“I spent much of my life in the cloister. I may not have much mundane skill at healing as a physician but I can recognize injuries; I had plenty of experience on the battlefield in service to Pelor.”
“You served in war, father?” The shaking shepherd asked Jozan. The priest nodded gently.
“Yes. And I can heal your wound, with His blessing.”
“Uh, hello? Has everyone forgotten that I was about to be murdered by this group of people?” Lidda’s voice was high and clear as she looked over the edge of the gallows. She'd positioned herself to sit, allowing her to shift her shoulders to a more comfortable position. As she looked over the wounded man, she shook her head. “It sounds like your village has worse problems than an innocent woman, fat man.” She sneered at Tomah and the Bergur scoffed, opening his mouth for a retort. Jozan stopped that, clearing his throat loudly. Tomah said nothing and Lidda let out a frustrated sigh. But she held her tongue.
“I do think this matter is more pressing, yes.” He commented, earning a smug smile from the bound halfling woman. She shifted her neck and raised her eyebrows as if to command Tomah to remove the noose.
“But that doesn’t mean you’re innocent, child,” he continued and turned to the shepherd. Lidda’s lip curled into a scowl and made a face that Jozan didn’t see. But Regdar did. The kneeling priest placed his open palm on the man’s side, seeing his eyes dart away in pain. “Hold still, please. I know it hurts but I must touch the wound to heal it.”
The man still shook but the tremors were considerably less. The entire crowd, including Regdar it seemed, stood in silence to watch as a priest of Pelor wielded his magic to heal the man. He put his other hand over the first.
Jozan steadied himself with a deep breath, letting the holy invocation slip past his lips as it had a hundred times before.
“By the grace of the Shining One,
Morning Lord and Keeper of the Day,
I restore you, in His name.”
A bright, golden glow like a small drop of sunlight caught within Jozan’s palms appeared and he closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the morning sun blossom into the heat of the high noon. The man beneath him whimpered but Jozan held tight to his side to steady him.
“The sun can burn, yes, but it is a lifebringer. Be at peace.” In the calmest voice he could muster, one he might use with a frightened child, the priest spoke again. “I will not hurt you.”
Golden threads of magic spilled from the edges of the holy light, shifting forward to enter the still seeping wound. They brought with them the intensity of heat but to the eyes of those that watched, including Jozan’s, the strands slowly began to draw the injury closed. They entwined with themselves, forming a shimmering lattice that pulled the skin together and closed it in the span of two breaths. Where the wound had been, only unbroken flesh was now - no scar, no trace of the injury save the dried blood remained. This flaked off easily, like old paint chips casually brushed away. The sensation that ebbed away from Jozan was one of elation. Healing the wounded, curing the sick. These were goodly acts and they felt good to do.
Jozan was certainly a man of doubts. But this he knew he was good at. This brought his heart joy.
He smiled at the man. “How is the pain now?”
The shepherd looked astonished at his body, an old hand coming to caress the skin where just a moment ago there had been a bleeding wound. He touched again, and again, seemingly bewitched by the lack of any pain or mark.
“I-I have no pain.”
“Good. Now, Silas,” Jazon said with seriousness in his voice. “Tell me what happened.”
He nodded and Jozan stood, the blood on his hands from the wound miraculously gone - as if the spell had caused it to disappear. The crowd murmured but kept quiet enough for Jozan and Regdar to hear the man’s voice.
“The hillock, just outside of Fairbye. There’s a farm, my farm, with my wife. We tend the sheep,” he nodded to Tomah.
“Yes. We have only a single flock and a few other animals. We rely on the wool of the sheep for our livelihoods.” He looked nervous as he said that. “Every one of them is precious to us. To all Fairbye.”
Jozan was not surprised that such a small hamlet only subsisted on meager trade and one trade good; it was the same in many smaller places. Sheep, pigs, barley, wheat. These little towns rarely had enough people or plentiful land to have much more than that. The priest nodded and pressed for the old shepherd to continue.
“I was attacked - we were attacked by huge spiders.” A person in the crowd had gathered a ladle with water and brought it forward. Bergur Tomah, still sweating heavily and red-faced himself, took the thing and greedily downed the entire thing in a single, massive gulp. He pressed it back into the hand of the confused looking man and demanded he return with more from the well. The man did so. This time, the Bergur allowed the shepherd to drink and he continued.
“Large as a horse and with goblins.” The crowd gasped, several people pulling their children closer and exchanging looks of concern. The word flowed through the gathering like a poisoned whisper. Goblin.
“Goblins? With giant spiders?” Jozan was at a loss. He looked to Regdar but the man seemed similarly confused.
“They rode them, the spiders. Two goblins and two spiders.” He nodded to Jozan. “I yelled for my wife but I don’t know where she went. I swung my staff at them, tried to keep the sheep safe but,” he trailed off and his worried eyes fell to Tomah. The Bergur gulped.
“What of the sheep, Silas? Are they sheep saved?” His voice was very serious and Jozan saw true fear in the man’s eyes. The shepherd shook his head.
“They killed two that I know of,” he said, looking away as if deeply ashamed by the admission.
Bergur Tomah sighed. “No, no. Every sheep is vital! Why did you leave them, Silas? You abandoned the flock! Why didn’t you,” he rose to his full height but Jozan matched it, suddenly aware that the portly man was taller than him by a head. He looked up at the indignation of the Bergur and leveled him with a withering look. This man seemed more concerned with the sheep than with the life of one of his people and that crawled over Jozan’s skin in the most upsetting way.
“Bergur!” He shouted and the other man went silent.
“Are you chastising this man for fleeing, when it very well saved his life? Would you rather he stayed and fought goblins and died attempting to protect your sheep?” Indignation filled Jozan’s voice.
“Not simply my sheep, Father Jozan. All of our sheep. The sheep are how we survive. Without them we are ruined, even the loss of one is felt keenly by all of us.” The gasps that followed confirmed this as the crowd looked horrified. Jozan scanned the gathered peasants and nodded his head. He turned to Regdar and the man’s face already told the priest he knew what was coming.
“Regdar,” he asked. “Do you think a delay of a day would cause too much issue with our plan?”
The gruff-voiced man kept his eyes as he replied. “No. I’m not expected anywhere but Volanth, further to the west, I had planned to visit a friend there but they wouldn’t know when to expect me.”
Jozan turned to the Bergur.
“Bergur Tomah, we’ll see whatever this situation is.” The man practically wept at that, his eyes sagging and his head shaking in agreement. His shoulders fell forward in relief as Jozan continued. “We’ll seek out the spiders and gather your flock, as best we can. I am no shepherd but Pelor’s grace guides me. We will help you.”
“O-oh, thank you. How can we thank you, Father?”
The larger warrior gave a sigh and straightened. Jozan said nothing but his eyes shifted over to the halfling woman, who had the audacity and confidence to kick her legs back and forth over the gallows as if she were bored.
Pelor’s light, the priest thought. He shook his head. Please let this be the right choice.
He looked over the group of farmers, searching for able-bodied people that might be of some use if they did meet with goblins but the entire crowd was either too young or too old. And their farming tools wouldn’t serve as weapons. Peasant militia were not known for their skill in battle, he supposed. He leveled his eyes on Lidda, who at first seemed confused by his gaze and concerned as realization spread over her face.
She shook her head slowly from side to side, mouthing the word “no” at him as she did so.
“We’ll take the halfling as well,” Jozan said after a long moment of silence. It wasn’t a request; it was a proclamation.
The fat man looked momentarily dumbfounded; shocked into a state of wordlessness that Jozan suspected might be a first for the quick-tongued Bergur. He furrowed his brow.
“But Father,” he said and Jozan cut him off.
“Jozan. Please.” He turned to Lidda and spoke to the entire group. “It will afford me an opportunity to properly question the woman - to discover the truth of the situation, so that real justice may be given. Pelor’s light reveals all lies.” He looked pointedly at the woman but the halfling’s eyes were unconcerned, if a little annoyed. “Otherwise,” he continued, shrugging his shoulders, “I would need to question her here and I cannot say how long that might delay us gathering the flock.”
Bergur Tomah didn’t allow the last word to finish before he quickly jumped in.
“Take her!” He nodded. “For Pelor’s sake, take her.”
“Yeah,” Lidda called from the gallows, still kicking her feet. “What the hells, let’s go get those sheep. I love sheep.” Sarcasm dripped off of the woman’s words so heavily that the priest was surprised that he couldn’t see it dribble down her small, dirt smudged chin.
Jozan got the distinct impression the woman most certainly did not like sheep.
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