White Plume Mountain

The skin was resplendent with claws, tail, a black nose, and teeth that would have done credit to a crocodile. Its grin shone bright as firelight caught across the huge, bared fangs.

Polk had followed the Justicar around the wagon and stared at the wolf skin in unstinting admiration.

“Now that’s a fine pelt, son!” The teamster planted his fistson his hips as he examined the fur. The thick black guard hairs were tipped with fiery red. “What kinda fur is that?”

The Justicar slapped his helmet on and fastened the straps. The man swept the wolf pelt across his shoulders and settled the diabolical canine head over his helm. As he donned the skin, a dark red glow seemed to spark inside the animal’s eyes.

“He’s called Cinders.”

The heavy black sword jutted horizontally through the big man’s belt. He settled it in place, scanned the campsite, and rose soundlesslyto face the trees.

“I have to work now.”

“Exactly! We all do, son-that’s life! Fact of the matteris, we all have to toil!” Polk followed in the Justicar’s footsteps, dogging himall the way into the woods. “That sword now, that’s real pretty, a nice wallhanger. No good for a sword fight, though. You need a real two-hander-sixfoot long and thick as your leg! That’s the thing for a sword fight!”

“Sword fights are for fools.” The Justicar looked briefly ata holy symbol slung about his neck then slipped it underneath his rawhide cuirass. “If the enemy gets a chance to hit back, then you’re doing somethingwrong.”

With one hand on the wolf-skull pommel of his sword, the Justicar turned to stare at Polk. “Stay here. Sit still. I have to work.”

Polk thought about it, but the Justicar’s words had offendedhis heroic soul. He let the man stalk in sinister silence off into the brambles and then jumped up and followed him.

“Not hit back? Not hit back?” The teamster gulped,trying to encompass the enormity of his outrage. “No fights? Steel to steel, managainst man? Well, that’s not hero talk!” The teamster walked pace bypace with the fuming Justicar and energetically waved his hands. “The thing youhave to understand is heroes. Knowing how to be a hero is… well,it’s the difference between being an average man and a great man. Onceyou understand how to be a hero, then the world’s at your feet! You can’t be ahero if you don’t square off and face ’em man to man!”

Polk lifted his chin, setting himself square against unseen enemies. He speared a lofty glance toward the Justicar.

The black pelt seemed to fade and shimmer against the brambles. Big canine fangs grinned with malevolence as the Justicar turned slowly around.

“Shut up. Go back to the wagons.”

“And leave you in the woods all alone?” The teamster gave afirm, competent shake of his head. “You’re addled, son. It’s clear to me thatyou need advice. I’m just going to have to look after you and stick to you likeglue.”

“Fine.”

The Justicar planted a brotherly hand upon the teamster’sshoulder, smiled, then felled him with a massive left cross. Polk crashed through the brambles and lay amidst a maze of stars. Astonished, the man stared about himself at woods that suddenly seemed devoid of life.

A steady rustling and crackling in the blackberries sounded like footfalls. The teamster lurched to his feet, cradled his jaw, then staggered toward the nearby stream. Though the clinging brambles and trees masked most of the light from the caravan’s fires, he could see a tall figurewalking steadily toward him. The teamster made to call out and then balked as he saw the glitter of chain mail and the gleam of a huge two-handed sword.

Towering above the brambles, much too tall for a man, the creature stepped into the uncertain firelight, spreading a vast, dark shadow against the woods. The monstrous figure turned, saw Polk, and pelted straight toward him with his sword raised high. The teamster froze in terror, half raised his hands, and then blinked as nearby leaf litter erupted from the ground.

A feral figure exploded from the underbrush.

A black sword whipped upward as the Justicar rose, cutting his target across the jaw. A second swipe followed, hacking through the enemy’smidriff and driving out the creature’s breath in a savage mist of blood. Thefigure folded in two, its head thudding from its shoulders as the black sword scythed down in a single fluid blur.

The monster’s huge body thumped to the earth. Fully nine feettall, the ogre’s corpse still twitched as it sprawled at Polk’s feet. It had allhappened in a split second of near silence. The Justicar crouched over his victim, his wolf skin snarling with bright, silent fangs. His black-bladed sword dripped blood-and then quite suddenly the man was gone.

“Holy Fharlanghn!”

The teamster sat down, staring at the severed head that lay an arm’s length from his side. The bestial head had jutting fangs and wassmothered in warts and horns. As he stared at the thing in fright, Polk suddenly heard the whole forest rustling with the stamp of armored feet. He shrank back against a tree and stared in panic at a night that suddenly boiled with enemies.

A second ogre parted the bushes with its spear, saw Polk, and gave a predatory snarl. It yelled in triumph and lunged toward the teamster.

An instant later, the creature was struck from behind. The Justicar’s black sword hammered down in a two- handed blow, making a sound likean axe thumbing into waterlogged wood as it split the creature’s shoulder andsheared through its spine. As his target fell, the Justicar planted a foot on the corpse’s neck and wrenched his blade free.

From the woods nearby came a shout. Someone had finally heard the sounds of combat. Wiping his blade, the Justicar turned and fixed the stunned Polk with a glare.

“Stay here.”

The man turned, the wolf pelt shimmered, and he was gone. Sandwiched between two corpses, Polk the teamster slowly scrubbed his hands through the leaf litter and nodded to himself in a daze.

“Yes, sir. Never interfere in another man’s work….”

* * *

Trigol City’s law officers moved with exaggerated distaste asthey tiptoed through the alleyway. A foul strew of blood had painted the walls like a bizarre piece of art. Scattered parts of bodies lay all over the street, and flies buzzed thick and fast across the offal. Most of the victims seemed to have been slaughtered from behind.

Three officers advanced slowly forward, keeping their faces covered from the stench with their cloaks. The nearest corpse stared back at them with an expression of sheer terror etched onto its face.

The victims lay as they had fallen. Some had been slashed. Others had been hurled forcibly into the alley walls. Each and every one of them had taken a deathblow from a heavy sword. The corpses lay twisted in a frenzy of terror, as though more than their lives had been ripped from them.

“Sweet Pelor!” One officer stood and carefully examined anoutstretched hand that held a dagger. The hand lay at least three feet away from its original body. “What in the name of the Abyss did this?”

Hovering at the alley entrance, a small boy stared in horrified fright. The boy’s father pushed the lad quickly back out of view andkept himself well away from the blood-spattered cobblestones.

“We heards them fighting, the lad and me, heards themfighting a while after sunset.” The man bobbed his head as he spoke, lookingleft and right like a terror-stricken bird. “Screaming like fear itself, theywere. Kept screaming for nigh ten minutes till it was done.”

At least a dozen men lay slaughtered in the alleyway. Dark clothing, hoods, cloaks and sheathed weapons had been scattered like chaff. One law officer rolled over the torso of a corpse, dislodging a storm of flies. The dead man had a pocket in his cloak lining that contained several thin strips of birchwood.

“Sir? Birch.”

Flat birchwood strips could be wormed through cracks in doors and window shutters to lift latches free. A cursory search of the bodies turned up climbing hooks and ropes, lockpicks, and chisels.

The senior officer pondered. This had been a very large party of burglars. Trigol was blessed with three