A tense shroud of
silence enveloped the main hall of The Rusty Spoon.
Here and there,
patrons who had ducked and covered peeked nervously from behind potted plants,
upended benches, or whatever other cover they had managed to seek the moment
violence had ensued.
The bartender and
proprietress were behind the bar, and the remaining seated patrons who hadn’t
already fled were keeping their hands where the heroes could see them.
Xylon picked his
way through the scattered tables, pausing here and there to claim and drain an
orphaned mug of beer or glass of spirits. He arrived at the recently vacated
nobles’ table and picked up the goggles where they had come to rest. “I’ll be
holding these for safekeeping,” he slurred.
Ragnar, the
Dragonborn, bristled at this. He was intent on retrieving his goggles at the
earliest opportunity, but didn’t relish going up against a mage in order to do
so.
Varien asked the
rogue what he knew about “Clockscrew.”
Ragnar began
spinning his usual lies, explaining that he had been on the trail of the
elusive Clockscrew for many months in a quest to bring him to justice.
Varien thought it
was rather suspicious that someone calling himself Clockscrew had stolen from
an inventor named Clockdrive.
Xylon conjured
mage hand and had it slap the seated Clockdrive mercenary. “What’s so special
about these goggles?” he asked.
The mercenary
looked fearfully at the wizard. “I don’t know, I was just hired to retrieve and
return Mr. Clockdrive’s property. It was just business!”
An empty mug of
beer slipped off the edge of a jostled table and struck the flagstone floor.
The sound of shattering ceramic caused everyone still standing in the room to
jump.
Varien pointed
out that the mercenaries had targeted Clockscrew before the bronze Dragonborn
had fled out the window, but when the blue Dragonborn had entered the fray, he
had wasted no time in targeting the same mercenaries. Which didn’t make sense
if the mercenaries and the blue Dragonborn were technically on the same side.
Ragnar felt his
multilayered falsehood coming undone. “Fine,” he declared. “My name is Ragnar
Meseeks, and Mr. Clockdrive is a cheat who is trying to retrieve something he
lost to me fair and square. I won those goggles in a game of chance.”
The paladin was
taken aback by the rogue’s sudden turn of, well, if not honesty, then a more
coherent brand of logical dissembling.
Theryn surveyed
the wreckage of the dining hall. Mindful of the job waiting for them at the
Drover’s Gate, he said, “Well, as they say, the slowest lemur sleeps at the
bottom of the tree.” Picking up his quarterstaff, he headed out into the rainy
night, following the direction Sildar had gone off in.
The rest of the
party agreed that it was time to get moving. Xylon walked over to the bar,
grabbed a bottle, and told the bartender that Zapford Clockdrive would pay for
all damages.
“Wait, what?” the
Clockdrive mercenary said.
On his way out,
Varien noticed a small object that looked like it had been flung aside by one
of the dead mercenaries. It was a wooden case that, when opened, contained a
stylized compass. Varien couldn’t help but notice that the needle wasn’t
pointing north. He shook the device to no avail. Frowning, he exited the
tavern.
The tipsy elf
staggered a bit outside the door. Ragnar helped catch him from falling, and in
the process deftly pilfered the goggles from Xylon’s pocket.
Varien kept one
eye on the compass as the needle wavered.
“So tell me, what
do you know about these goggles? Did you ever try them on and see what they
do?”
“Well, they’re
supposed to be night vision goggles,” Ragnar said, unconsciously taking them
out and putting them on.
“Hey!” Varien and
Xylon shouted together.
Ragnar gave the
dial at the side of the goggles’ frame a spin as he fitted them over his eyes.
Instantly he felt twin bolts of agony blast his eyeballs, scattering flickering
pinpoints of light across his field of vision.
“Ouch!” he
shouted, yanking the goggles off by the strap and tossing them at the mage.
Varien frowned as
he watched the compass needle jump a few degrees to the left.
Serves you right , Xylon thought as he looked the goggles over. He
could sense that they radiated a faint magic. The goggles featured lenses of
heavy green glass in a leather and brass frame that was held together with
small rivets. A series of finely milled gears were set on either side of the
frame. A small milky white gemstone was fixed atop the frame.
“Ugh!” Ragnar said, blinking furiously to get the spots out of his eyes.
“Clockdrive’s the worst inventor in all Neverwinter!”
Varien started walking in a wide arc in the street outside the tavern. He
noted that the needle remained fixed on Xylon wherever he moved.
He told the wizard and rogue that they might have a problem. “Could
Clockdrive be tracking us with this?”
Xylon pocketed the goggles and took a look at the compass. It too had a
magical aura about it, but it would take more time for the wizard to inspect
the device.
Perhaps it was time to get out of the city after all.
The streets of Neverwinter were quiet this time of night, in contrast to
the contained bedlam of the Drover’s Gate. Roustabouts were working over dozens
of wagons parked haphazardly near Neverwinter’s busiest gate, loading and
unloading goods while draft animals hitched to the wagons complained. Deals
were being made by the flickering torchlight, and in the shadows cast by loaded
wagons, shadier bargains were being struck.
Theryn quickly recognized Sildar Halwinter, who was leaning up against
the side of a heavily laden wagon. Above him, standing on the buckboard, was a
stout dwarf, beard tucked into his belt, putting the finishing touches on
hitching a pair of bored-looking oxen to the wagon. Nearby, two horses were
tied up to a post, stamping their hooves in the wet muck.
Sildar gave Theryn a nod and called up to the dwarf. “Boss, this is one
of the candidates I was talking about.” He turned to the Monk. “Let me introduce to you my fellow traveler
Gundren Rockseeker.”
The dwarf jumped down, dusted himself off, and stared up at Theryn with
an appraising look. “Aye, Sildar mentioned you. We’re in need of a wagon-driver and guards for a
journey south along the High Road and we’re leaving in a hurry. The job’s worth
10 gold apiece. Care for a pint?”
The dwarf
produced a stein and reached up to unstop a strategically placed keg of ale.
Theryn politely
declined. Gundren shrugged and downed the drink.
Theryn scanned
the bustle of activity and saw the rest of the party making their way towards
him.
“Ah, here’s the
rest of them now.”
Sildar made
introductions.
“So it’s like
this,” Gundren said. “We’re hauling a load of goods down to Barthen’s
Provisions in a town called Phandalin a couple days’ ride from here. My
brothers Tharden and Nundro and I have stumbled onto something big down there.”
His eyes sparkled with dwarven avarice. “Escort the goods there safely, and
it’s ten gold in each of your pockets. What do you say?”
The party took
note of several mercenaries, dressed in the same garb as the ones at The Rusty
Spoon, arguing with members of the town watch. They climbed
aboard.
“Good men!”
Gundren said. “Looks like you have to be off in a hurry too.”
Gundren and
Sildar mounted their horses. Varien took the reins and the journey began.
The wagon and its
escorts moved south along the High Road. They traveled through the sparsely
wooded plains, encountering no trouble.
Sildar and
Gundren kept to themselves for the most part, although occasionally Sildar
would saunter over to give the driver unsolicited advice.
“It’s a straight
shot south on the High Road, and then a trip along the Triboar Trail to
Phandalin,” he said to Varien. “I have my own business out that way, and
Rockseeker here needed a bodyguard. Phandalin’s a bit of a rough and tumble
sort of place, and we’ve heard that there’s been trouble along the road.”
Xylon spent most
of his time analyzing the goggles and compass. He surmised that the goggles, a
hybrid of magic and artifice, could be used to simulate the darkvision that
many races, including elves, possessed as part of their nature. Inferior to the
real thing, no doubt, he thought.
The compass
appeared to be attuned to a user, who could use it to magically track an
object.
Varien asked if
more than one compass could be attuned to the same object, and Xylon figured it
was possible.
The journey
continued smoothly, with Gundren cheerfully passing out round after round of
ale from his keg.
On the second day
of their journey south, the wagon encountered a solitary traveller on the High
Road. Gundren and Sildar rode on ahead to investigate.
The traveller was
wearing a cloak that concealed his feature, but he could not conceal his small
stature. He was a Halfling druid on his way to Phandalin, and gave his name as
Erwen as he removed his hood.
Gundren
introduced himself and asked if Erwen would like to join the caravan. Mindful
of his sore feet, Erwen agreed.
Ragnar took the
opportunity to inspect the crossbow he had lifted from one of the Clockdrive
thugs. It was of good quality, and was fitted with a complex gear-driven system
that automated the bolt reloading process. “Now how could a hack like
Clockdrive produce something as nice as this?”
Around midday,
the wagon stopped for a meal. Gundren approached Varien and asked to speak with
him for a moment.
“Sildar and I
need to ride on ahead to take care of some business,” the dwarf said. “You just
keep on keeping on, and Barthen will pay you for your service when you deliver
the goods. We’ll see you in Phandalin.”
Sildar gave them
a nod. “We’ll be fine. I’ve handled more than my fair share of bandits in my
time.”
“What’s that?”
Ragnar asked from his seat on the wagon. “Are you leaving without paying us?”
Gundren frowned.
“Actually, Barthen at Barthen’s Provisions is paying out the money. But he’s
good for it, provided you deliver the goods.”
Ragnar pointed
the crossbow in Gundren and Sildar’s direction. “Why don’t you just pay us
now?”
Gundren put his
hands on his hips and glared at the rogue. “Are you implying that I’m not a man
of my word? You won’t find a more trustworthy trader this side of Triboar, I
can promise you that.”
Ragnar was about
to respond when Xylon cast sleep and
knocked him out.
“Right,” Gundren
said. “See you boys in Phandalin!” He and Sildar mounted up and rode off.
By the end of
that day’s journey they had veered eastward along the Triboar Trail, which was
a rougher, more uneven affair than the well-traveled High Road. The briars here
grew wilder and thicker, but the weather was tolerable and there was still beer
left in Gundren’s keg.
Ragnar had
awakened and felt refreshed, guarding the rear of the wagon with his trusty
crossbow.
Half a day into
the final leg of their journey, they rounded a bend in the trail and spotted
trouble ahead.
There appeared to
be two dead horses sprawled about 50 feet ahead of them, blocking the path.
Each of them had several black-fletched arrows sticking out of it.
Erwen let out a
cry and hopped down from the wagon with a sob of grief. He ran towards the dead
animals, tears spilling down his cheeks as he cursed this affront to nature.
Ahead of them,
the woods pressed close to the trail, with steep embankments and dense thickets
on either side.
It was quiet, save for the rustling of the wind through the trees and the
buzzing of cicadas.