13th of Sage’s Vigil, Year of the Horde
For the first time in two weeks, I have dined well, drunk ale, bathed, and slept in a warm and comfortable cot rather than on a roof or the rough floor of a stone cellar. My companions and I, at last, have escaped from the death-plagued streets of Phirul. What is more, we have managed to bring with us, safe and well, Geoffrey Alderman and all of the survivors from the Golden Gryphon, as well as the redoubtable Samantha Heward and her son Jason.
How we got from that nightmare to our present safe and secure accommodations at a Tamarian military encampment is as strange a tale as any that I’ve reported, involving Viggo, goats, mud, more Viggo, and a well-deserved punch-in-the-face. Like all such tales, it is best told in order, and heard around a roaring fire and with a fine pint or three of Harry Hephalump’s Honeydew Mead in hand. I well remember my father and Uncle Filbert telling such stirring tales at the Gibbering Githyanki on cold winter’s nights, as everyone gathered around. I hope one day they’ll tell this one too.
This, as they say, was how it was. Following our successful efforts to secure the Temple of Erathis and its surrounding walls, gates, and compound, Thor, Dirock, Viggo and I set out to return to the survivors and plan their relocation. On the way, we took a quick detour back into the kruthik tunnels, so as to make sure the beasties wouldn’t trouble us when we brought everyone to the Abbey. Our scouting confirmed that the creatures had reestablished their lair much deeper than before, and there was no sign that they had returned to their old haunts near the crypt and under the barn. Reassured—and not anxious to confront the hive-queen—we left them alone.
Back at the Golden Gryphon, the news we brought was greeted with much joy. Everyone was anxious to leave the roof upon which they had been so uncomfortably perched for the space, security, and supplies afforded by the church compound. Thor inspected the rope bridge that the survivors had been working on, made a few modifications, and pronounced it ready for use. We would attempt to ferry everyone from roof to roof across the several city blocks between us and Andy’s Armoury. From there, we would have safe access to the sewers below. To be doubly sure it would all work, we would fastened an additional safety rope around each person as they crossed—despite Viggo’s grinning assurances that he could easily hook them with the grapple andretrieve them from a fall, as he done to me so painfully a week earlier.
As might be expected, our first attempts to put all of this into practice ran into a few hitches. Once or twice the attachments slipped, never disastrously so but enough that we took extra care from then on. Panros Gyrokopta froze part way across several times and eventually admitted to a fear of heights, but was successfully urged on by his wife and children. Glenys Strolls insisted at one point that we all return to the inn so that she could fetch the shopping that she had been carrying that fateful day when the zombies assaulted the city, but the glowering expressions of Thor and Dirock rapidly dissuaded her from her folly.
All told it took four days to ferry everyone to the armoury. Once there, it was a much simpler affair: down into the cellar, into the sewers, and then up through the kruthik tunnels to the safety of the abbey itself. The green fields, orchards, garden, and thick stone walls of the abbey complex were certainly a welcome change in everyone’s eyes. The following day, we also made our way to Heward’s General Store to retrieve Jennifer and her son Jason. They were surprised and happy to see us, for they had feared that we had succumbed the zombie onslaught. Both were transported from building to building by rope lines to the safer location of abbey, together what useful supplies we could carry from their shop.
With our new location secured, and guards and lookouts posted, we took the risk of ringing the mighty abbey bell in the hopes of attracting the attention of other pockets of survivors. A column of smoke (sadly, from the funeral pyre comprised of the dead bodies of the abbey brothers) also clearly marked our location. To our dismay, a full day passed with no response from anyone. Could we be the only ones alive in the city? In all Tamarin? In the world?
With the survivors now relocated the the Abbey of Erathis, we resolved to set off on a deeper exploration of the city. We were contemplating how best we might do this, when Viggo approached, scratching his head. “Is goats, I think. Is goats. Stinky notdead people not bother goats. Maybe if we tie goats to wagon…”
Several of my companions raised their eyes at Viggo’s odd idea. Thor spoke up first: “Achh, Yoo’re balmy frae tay much sun, ye stoatin lumberin’ tree-hugger! They’ll rip ye tae shreds.” Dirock agreed, “I think, Viggo, that they crave only human flesh, and not that of the beasts and fowls of the fields. You see, it is only by consuming that which has borne a soul that they satiate their dark lord’s bloody hunger.” Kiira surreptitiously twirled her finger in the air beside her head as she nodded in the ranger’s direction, while Noctuz suppressed a grin.
“No, is goats! Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr, they show Viggo this. It is Raven Queen’s will that they be borned at gate, and Viggo save them from being crushed by ices and rocks of druuuuyd.”
Dirock either knew little of the Prophecy of the White Goat, or was annoyed at mention of the Raven Queen. In either case, he dismissed Viggo’s comments with the wave of his hand. “No, it is plain to those of us who have studied the ways of the divine and demonic that that neither goats nor that other god have anything to do with this. Nothing at all.”
It was apparent that further debate would get us nowhere, and so I contrived a simple experiment: Viggo would be rendered invisible to undead by The Abzurian’s enchantment, and then ride one of the horses we had nursed to health outside of the gate. If it attracted no attention, Dirock was right.
No sooner was the invisible ranger out of the gate, however, when a half dozen infected came rushing towards his mount. He galloped back in, and we slammed the gate shut behind him.
“Is goats, I say.. Arnold, is goats! I think maybe smelly not-dead people think goats is like big fat demon-of-dead.” Dirock nodded in reluctant agreement. “It seems I am wrong. And it is true that the goats do resemble Orcus himself, as well as the Exarch and Hierophants of his cursed cult… it cannot hurt to try the ranger’s theory.”
As a next step, therefore, I slaughtered one of the poor creatures, and donned its bloody goatskin, before ascending atop the outer wall of the abbey compound. That didn’t work either, for my presence immediately set a nearby zombie clawing in my direction.
“No, Arnold, you need baa-goat not-dead for not-dead-smelly peoples,” Viggo added helpfully. “And Viggo thinks it best if they not see you, for you no look like big fat demon, just like little skinny felszerzet.” To prove his point, he fashioned himself a simple head-to-foot cloak out of a bedsheet from the abbey, and used a length of rope to fashion a rudimentary goat-leash. Despite our protests, he then strode out of the abbey gate and into the city square.
The zombies turned towards him. They then ignored him, and went about their aimless shambling. He whistled a sailor’s ballad, and tried to dance a jig beneath the sheet. Still nothing. It worked!
With this discovery, we now had a possible way of reaching the city walls and gates. We fashioned four bedsheets, plus a spare, and roped five goats for use as our escorts. Noctuz and Kiira offered to remain behind to watch over the survivors. With some trepidation, the ranger, dwarf, cleric, and I set forth early the next morning, hoping that this odd combination would work as well for the four of us over a longer period as it had during Viggo’s brief foray.
And work it did. We walked through the streets as if invisible, the zombies ignoring us or even moving aside to clear our path. After almost an hour, we finally reached the east gate. It was open, and the gatehouse abandoned. No guards—living or dead—were anywhere to be seen. Oddly, the area outside the gate, beyond the city, seemed to be knee deep in mud. There was no natural explanation for this. Rather, it seemed more likely an arcanely-created moat of sorts.
Our first order of business was to secure the gatehouse and lower the portcullis, so as to prevent any of the infected from escaping. I wanted to continue along the city walls, securing each tower and gate in turn, but Viggo’s sharp eyes had spotted something a few hundred paces distant in the morning mist–a stone wall, beyond the mud, encircling the city. We shouted out to its ramparts, and even waved our ever-burning torch to signal any that might be there. There was no response.
Viggo was growing increasingly frustrated by it all. “Viggo sick of this place of smelly not-dead people. Viggo sick of stupid Phirul guard, who no guard Phirul at all. Viggo sick of stupid Phirul wizards, who say ‘Oh look at me! Me mighty poof poof wizard of Spellstorm, but me afraid of not-dead stinky peoples!’ Viggo think Phirul have idiots for chief. Viggo bet stupid Phirul chiefs all hide behind stupid stone wall and stupid wet dirt with knees all shaky like baby pikkelyes kutya!”
Uttering a string of Kuzian oaths that even made my experienced halfling ears burned, he opened the sally-porte of the gatehouse and started to stride through the mud. There was no stopping him, only joining him, so we all followed, leaving the goats safely tethered behind us.
We had made it about half way to the wall (and the stream of curses from Viggo had hardly begin to subside) when the ground began to shake. Arising from the mud before us were three earth elementals, likely conjured or summoned as part of some defence against the zombies.
“Hello!” I shouted, “it is us, the heroes of Phirul… could you call off your pet elementals, please?”
My entreaty was cut short by an stoney fist from one of the creatures that might have cracked my skull had I not defly leapt aside. Our skills honed by weeks of fighting the undead and other foes, we sprung into action against them as one, beating them down with sword, maul, hammer and sling while I continued to call out in increasingly exasperated tones.” “Hellllooooo… by Lilly Arlinfrum’s sweet twisted knickers would you call these damn things off? Is this any way to treat the prophet of the white goat and his hero companions.. you blathering idiots… stop this!”
My appeals had no effect. Our weapons did. Within less than a minute, we had disassembled the earth elementals.
“For frak’s sake you mangy pollocks, we’re friends!” I shouted even louder, my tone reverting to the earthy maritime patter of the Laughing Skua as my anger grew. With this, another, even larger elemental arose from the mud. It was a good 15 feet tall, and had a large ruby-coloured gem where its face might otherwise might be. It looked at us, and I thought I could hear the buzz of distant voices from within it. I wondered what it would take to pry that gem off.
“Who are you?” A single human voice emitted from the gem, by some arcane magiks.
“I’m Arnold Wurzel, and these be my fellow survivors from the zombie armageddon that is Phirul.. and who might you be?” I mustered as much politeness as I could, under the circumstances.
The buzz grew louder, and I thought I could make out several voices jabbering excitedly at once. Finally, the gem-faced elemental spoke, or was spoken through, once more.
“Follow me.”
It set off toward the wall, and so did we. As we approached, we could see knots of Tamarinian soldiers (recently-levied, by the looks of their young years and ill-fitting armour) pointing to us excitedly. We were met by a sergent and a dozen men-at-arms, who escorted us to a military encampment and what appeared to be the tent of a senior officer. As we trudged along, I told the young (and impressionable) soldiers all I could about Viggo, the Prophecy of the White Goat, and our general heroism and deservingness-of-rich-reward.
A man in a resplendant uniform met us. “I am Tanoes Paran, Captain of Quarantine Camp 2. I’m told you claim to be survivors from the incident? Do you have authorization to be in the quarantine zone?”
“Claim? In-see-dint? Uthory-zay-shun?” I could tell immediately from Viggo’s tone that it was all too much for him. With a bellow, he slugged the officer hard in the jaw, knocking him stumbling across a footlocker and then down hard onto the floor. Dirock looked outraged, although whether it was at the haughty officer or my rough ranger friend I could not tell. Thor chuckled. “Guid a body, viggo.. althoogh Ah woods hae bin tempted tae kick th’ wee pipsqueak in th’ gonads insteid!” Almost immediately, the guards drew their weapons, and we were surrounded by a ring of steel.
As I would later tell Viggo, it reminded me as nothing quite so much as the dramatic final confrontation scene with the tiefling tax-collector in Edgar Stoat and the Banal Cult of Faceless Bureaucratic Functionaries. Rather than share that thought out loud, however, I thought this rather more the time for diplomacy.
“I’m sorry for that, Captain Sir.. it is the traditional greeting of the Kuz Valley when one has spent two weeks in a city swarming with slavering flesh-consuming infected undead denizens of hell, especially when one has seen little sign of the city guard, the city wizards, help, assistance, or even signs of life. Or perhaps you missed the great giant bell we sounded, and the huge bonfire pyre burning these past days?”
Captain Paran silenced me with a wave of his hand. “Keep them under close guard, sergeant. I must consult before I determine the fate of these ruffians.” He then strode off angrily, rubbing his jaw as he did so. For my part, I plied the soldiers with us with yet more tales of the Prophecy of the White Goat, and Viggo’s historic role in saving the city. Several snuck furtive touches of his bearskin cloak in apparent awe.
A short while later, Paran returned, accompanied by an important looking mage, and another man dressed in browns and greens. The mage, I would later learn, was none other than Koraldo Dankin, Cela of First Dawn Fort and the ranking mage of the quarantine zone. The rather more affable fellow in the earth tones was a senior druid (Tasther, the senior Druid of the West I believe), judging from his long tangled beard, and the several squirrels cavorting around his sandaled feet. They asked us many questions at considerable length, but finally seemed convinced of our story. The guards were told to sheathe their weapons.
We were brought food and water, and asked what else we wanted while the news was sent back the the capital. We answered in unison: to be allowed to return to the abbey, and bring Kiira, Noctuz, and the survivors to safety. Upon my recommendation, Dankin and an expedition accompanied us (complete with their own complement of goats), and set up a teleportation circle on the abbey grounds. This allowed our group to teleport out safely, and for military reinforcements to teleport in. The cleansing of Phirul had begun.
And so this phase of our tale ended. We are, it seems, to be taken to the capital, to tell all of this to the King himself. I hope too that a fine reward awaits us. I’ve also had the satisfaction of having seen “The Prophecy” take root among the soldiers and commoners, assuring my friend Viggo of a justly-earned place in history. Before we left, one young recruit even pressed into my hand six simple bone carvings that he had made of Viggo and the goat (looking rather more jovial than I remember at the time), one for each of our group. Together with my enduring friendships with many of the survivors, that memento remains my most treasured possession from that dark time—marking, as it does, the bonds I had formed with my companions, and the birth of the Company of the Ivory Goat.
