#50: Confrontation

The camp is astir with restless energy.  Actual sleep is fitful and does not come easily—Nobanion’s reproach, whether a hallucination or dreamlike vision quest, still stings and I have to shake my head to regain focus.  “You brought it on yourself, fool,” I mumble to myself quietly.  Though it felt like hours, only a few minutes have passed since settling in for the night.

When I look up, I can see Vargmenni staring at me intently, likely disturbed by my disquiet.  Frode is away from camp on a patrol of the area, and she seizes the opportunity to draw close.  Using a rapid combination of gestures and shared words, she tries to communicate something that eludes my understanding.  Frustrated, she holds up a hand with three fingers and points to the cave.  “Vargmenni, Zeb, Aros... escape?” I ask tentatively, not sure I comprehend.

She shakes her head vigorously and gestures again, indicating that it wasn’t an invitation to escape—she was instead trying to explain that there were three “small men” that I assume from the context to be dwarves.  Her next statements are too broken and come too quickly for me to fully understand, but my best guess is that she’s trying to indicate that there are many dwarves in the hills.  “Frode fight... all,” she says gravely.

I repeat her gestures and offer the word “dwarf,” hoping she’ll understand.  She pieces together my meaning and I follow by stating “dwarf... Zeb’s friend.”  She is clearly as frustrated with her limited ability to communicate as I am.  She gestures again to the hills and the many dwarves that inhabit them, then points to Aros and the other warriors.  “They will die,” she says gravely.  Frode’s warriors are no match for the dwarves of these nameless hills.

“Zeb, Vargmenni escape?” I ask, gesturing to the cave.

She shakes her head, pointing instead out into the hills. She grabs my shoulder, pulling me close to speak something quietly.  “Zeb, Vargmenni escape... no return.”  She rises suddenly, turning away from me and begins walking slowly back to the other side of camp.  In the distance, I can see Frode returning, which explains her sudden departure.  The other warriors seem disinterested in our conversation, though I can see Gola watching us from a nearby fire—my doubts about her remain.  I do not understand her relationship to Frode, but know that it would not end well if Gola were to become involved in any way.

Frode stalks into the middle of camp and orders Baln to tend to Harka, issuing a single, harsh command.  “Okt!”  Despite Baln’s help, however, Harka seems in no condition to walk, let alone fight.  I contemplate attempting to evaluate Harka’s wounds and perhaps heal them, but the desire to gauge Frode’s reaction to the warrior’s current disability stays my hand. 

Before the situation can escalate, Aros distracts Frode, pointing at tracks on the ground.  Though I am not able to understand their words, it seems likely that they are trying to ascertain how many dwarves there may have been and where they may have escaped.  Aros’ composure in this situation stands out, the warrior addressing Frode more like an equal than a superior.  Signs from the camp are clear that it was a large group of dwarves—a dozen, perhaps a score in total, mingled with tracks from a small horse or pony. 

Frode’s disinterest in the actual cave opening seems off to me, especially considering that the defenders may have fled into it.  I grab a burning brand from one of the fires and approach the cave entrance, more curious to see if Frode will stop me than actually finding anything within.  As I turn my back on the camp, I get the feeling that his eyes are on me the entire time, though he doesn’t call for me to stop.

The cave opening is tight for someone man-sized—Aros would certainly have to bend over, I would have to stoop at least a little.  Nothing can be heard from within, nor are there any scents or anything else that seems out of place.  I spare a glance back at Frode and I can see that I have his full attention, and somehow that satisfies me.  I need it to be clear to this man that I am not a prisoner or subject to his whims.

I feel a prickle in the back of my skull which causes the hairs to raise on my neck, not dissimilar to some of my interactions with magic before.  The sensation is fleeting.  If it is indeed spellcraft, it seems that I have shrugged off any effect.  I turn suddenly to glare at Frode, trying to see if it was he that was attempting to ensorcell me.  There is no indication that he had actively cast a spell, but I do see Frode take a single, small step back as if surprised.  I smile at the shaman menacingly.

The moment is interrupted by Vargmenni, who calls out to Frode from across the camp—I cannot discern the meaning of her words, but there is a surprising amount of force behind whatever it is she is trying to communicate.    Frode replies curtly, ending the exchange, whatever the subject matter may have been.  Satisfied with what I have learned thus far both about the cave and Frode, I return to the fire.  There is a palpable sense of tension, a feeling that everyone is waiting for something to happen.  Frode is the only one who seems above it all, oblivious.

“Are we in danger?” I ask Aros suddenly, knowing he will not understand.   He reacts predictably, arching a brow in curiosity.  I call out to Vargmenni, putting more force behind my words than usual, more a command than a request.  “Vargmenni.  Danger?  How do you say?”

She blurts out the word klevta in response before very quickly turning away.  I ignore her, and any reaction Frode may have to my questions.  “Aros, Zeb, klevta?”  I try to use inflection to indicate that it’s a question.

Aros shrugs and does not answer, instead turning to Frode, to whom he repeats my question.  Frode issues an exaggerated laugh in response, gesturing around to the hills, repeating the word.  “Klevta, klevta!”  He waves his arms in a wild, almost uncaring manner, as if indicating that we are surrounded by false danger.  His response reinforces an absolute sense of confidence and only serves to create more tension in the camp.

Refusing to yield the conversation to Frode, I step to confront the shaman and demand “What is the plan?” gesturing in turn to the hills and to the cave.  “Return to Tovt?” I ask.

“Zeb, seft,” he replies, pointing to the cave.  There is a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

I turn to Vargmenni and ask her to explain his meaning, not sure if seft means he intends for me to investigate the cave further or whether Frode intends for us all to go together.

She points toward the cave, her face betraying some fear or uncertainty.  “Seft is cave,” she explains hesitantly.

While I briefly have my attention turned toward Vargmenni, Frode steps towards me, issuing his command again.  This time his meaning and tone are both clearly a command for me alone.  “Zeb seft!” he says more forcefully, this time shoving me towards the cave.

I stumble for a moment and regain posture, making no other move or reaction except to glare at Frode.  Reaching over his shoulder, Frode unslings his massive sword and thrusts it into the ground, repeating his command once more.  “Zeb, seft.”

I pause for a long moment, contemplating the many, many ways I can possibly react and the potential repercussions of each course of action.  Frode’s eyes nearly glimmer with barely contained violence, as if begging for me to try and fight him.  Instead, I turn my back on Frode wordlessly and walk back toward the fire.

Frode tears his sword from the ground, advances toward me and takes a huge cross-swing at my back.  I instinctively fall forward a few steps, feeling the air of the blade inches from my exposed skin.  “Coward!” I scream in defiance, drawing my only weapon—a small, rusty blade.  Aros and the others look on in shock.

Having seen the shaman in combat, I know him to be wild and reckless—my knife is no match for his blade.  My only hope is to neutralize him entirely.  I scramble to my knees, calling upon my faith.  Frode recovers quickly, raising his sword and charging towards me.  His second slash does not miss, tearing through the meager protection provided by the hide slung across my shoulders, cutting between two ribs.  Blood burgeons from the wound, though thankfully it was not deep enough to puncture organs. 

I raise my head in time to see a torrent of flame issue from an enraged Vargmenni, who holds her hands out before her.  Frode is engulfed by the flames, caught off guard by Vargmenni’s betrayal.  The tension is shattered, however, as there are cries from amid the camp which cause us all to turn. 

From beyond the hills a winged shape comes into view approaching our camp at an extraordinary velocity—even at this distance, it is clear that it is a massive reptile with long neck, spined wings, and a whipping tail.  I ignore the creature entirely, instead completing my prayer, clasping my hands before me to form a small, collapsing cage with my fingers.  I growl as complete the gesture and Frode is caught utterly off guard, paralyzed by my enchantment.

As the others in camp flee to the nearest cover, I ignore the dragon’s approach and climb to my feet.  Stepping forward, I stoop to grab Frode’s sword in both hands, lifting the enormous blade.  Frode, unable to move, stares at me with glassy eyes filled with rage.  “For you, Nobanion,” I utter as I bring the heavy blade down on Frode’s neck.  Cut cleanly, his severed head rolls away from the shaman’s carcass.

The white wyrm, nearly forgotten, swoops over our camp, scattering the warriors as it sails past.  As my gaze follows it, I see shadowy forms emerge from cave fleeing into the hills—two larger forms, presumably dwarves, as well as a smaller figure, perhaps a child.

I recognize the need to capitalize as much as possible on the chaos of the situation.  I call out to the warriors, “Aros, Baln, seft okt!”  I find Vargmenni, calling for her to translate.  “We must go to the cave.  Grab Gola, Harka!  Go!”

Vargmenni, having witnessed my ruthless assault on Frode, steps forward and spits the words “Bad magic!” before turning to join the others.

As the dragon disappears over the hills, the warriors finally seem to understand my commands and begin to execute them.  I take a moment to appreciate the fleeing creature.  “Illusion,” I mutter to myself, admitting that I was totally convinced for a moment that we were all going to die.  From the corner of my eye, I can see Aros’ eyes following the fleeing dwarves—when he turns away, it’s as if the warrior made a conscious decision to remain with our group and not pursue them.

While the others scramble to safety, I reach down to grab Frode’s head, thinking to wrap it in the small hide and take it with me.  Despite my best efforts, it resists my efforts to lift it, and for a moment my stomach sinks. Whatever fell magic is contained within Frode’s implanted “teeth,” it functions even now. 

I drop to a knee, and with my rusty knife begin the bloody work of carving the stones from Frode’s jaw, removing handfuls of teeth as they are sliced from his gums.  The process is not quick, and before long my chest and arms are covered in the shaman’s blood.  I examine the handful of teeth, satisfied to see the two dark stones among the rest, and stoop to cut a small pouch from his belt into which I stuff everything.

The site of Frode’s massacre is strangely serene.  As the others huddle within the dark cave, I watch the in the direction of the dragon’s flight.  When it is evident that there is no threat, I return to the others.  I ignore the gaze of everyone save Aros, pausing only to ask Vargmenni to translate.

“I am not evil,” I say, laying my knife on the ground before Aros.  “Frode was evil.”

Vargmenni translates, adding “Frode... bad magic,” pointing to her teeth as she explains to Aros.  If there is judgment, I am not able to see it in the warrior’s eyes.  Finally, Vargmenni turns to me and says, “No return.”  The context seems to indicate that she feels Frode was past the point of no return, and it seems as if Aros is in agreement.

Aros finally begins speaking and issuing orders, though I do not comprehend.  Vargmenni explains, “Return to Tovt, avoid hills, outnumbered.”

I nod in assent, but don’t want to leave the situation as it stands. “I need Aros to believe me,” I beg her to translate.  “I am not evil.”  Another brief conversation ensues.  Vargmenni finally says, “Frode attacked, Zeb defended.”  Vargmenni’s next words are surprising.  “Aros lead tribe now.”

“Good,” I say with a smile.  “Aros leads.  Zeb will follow.  Tovt okt, let’s go!”  We take to the hills, leaving Frode’s bloody corpse behind.  Aros and Baln lead us skillfully, avoiding any threat, whether dwarves of the hills or other predators.  In the early morning light, we can see the thatched roofs and plumes of smoke from Tovt’s hearth fires in the distance.