Ragnar left the cavern and rummaged around
Glasstaff’s sleeping quarters, going through the sheaf of paperwork he had
picked up and searching for treasure.
The evil wizard had made it easy for the
rogue. At the foot of Glasstaff’s bed there was a sturdy, unlocked chest
holding silver and gold coins, and a silk pouch containing gems and pearls.
Ragnar also picked up a pair of scroll tubes that he was sure Xylon was going
to want to take a look at.
Varien headed for the cistern in the nearby
chamber and washed the blood from his hands, muttering to himself and praying
angrily as he did so. The blood of enemy and friend alike washed away, but the
paladin did not feel the least bit clean.
As Ragnar exited the wizard’s chamber, he
saw Erwen standing in the corridor, arms crossed.
“Did you find anything in Glasstaff’s
room?” Erwen asked.
Hesitating only a moment, the rogue replied
in the affirmative.
“Excellent,” the druid said. “Are we going
to split it up?”
Ragnar nodded.
The rest of the adventurers were binding
their wounds and preparing for a journey back to town.
Xylon shared the mysterious note he had
picked up in Glasstaff’s chambers with the rest of the group. It read:
“L o rd Albre k,
M y s p ies in Ne v er w inte r
tell me that strangers are due to a rr ive in Ph a nd a l i n . Th e y c ould b e wo rkin g f o r th e d w ar ves. C a ptu re them if yo u can , k ill th e m if yo u mu s t , but d o n ' t a ll ow th em to upset o ur plan s. Se e t h a t a n y d w ar v en
m aps in their poss e s s i o n a r e d e li ve r e d t o me w ith haste .
I ' m co unting on y ou, l a rn o. Don ' t di sa ppoint me.”
There was no signature; only a symbol in
the shape of a black spider.
Xylon held up the empty map case he had
found at the ambush site. “Looks like whatever was in this case was valuable to
the Black Spider.”
“We should set a guard here,” Varien said.
“The townsfolk are going to need to get organized before the goblin raiders
start making incursions.”
“Droop help!” the goblin said. “Droop know
how to stand still and keep watch.”
“That’s fine,” the paladin said. “If you see
anyone you don’t know snooping around here, you run to the Stonehill Inn and
let us know.”
“Droop understand!” the goblin said,
cracking a smile and showing his chiseled teeth.
They collected the captured Redbrand and
forced him to carry the body of his dead leader as they made their way back to
town, eager to find rest. Xylon in particular was looking forward to renewing
his acquaintance with Elsa the barmaid.
It was just after sunrise when they arrived
back in Phandalin, leaving the ruined manor house behind. The town had not yet
awoken, though several farmers were already about their business in the fields.
Ragnar strung up Glasstaff’s corpse in the
town square, a respectful distance from the shrine to Tymora, goddess of luck.
He wrote up a list of Glasstaff’s crimes in illusory
script and pinned them to the wizard’s chest.
The rest of the party went to Barthen’s
Provisions and found Elmar Barthen just about ready to open for business.
“Oh, it’s you!” the trading post owner said.
“You’re going to want to come to the town
square,” Erwen said.
“Certainly, just give me a few moments to
take care of some business here,” Elmar said.
The trader soon met them in the town square
and stared, mouth agape, at the bloodied body of the dead wizard hanging there,
and the miserable-looking Redbrand ruffian bound and tied nearby.
“Well boys, I’m a little shocked,” Elmar
said.
“I know, we work fast,” Ragnar said.
“We found Glasstaff beneath the ruins of
Tresendar Manor,” Varien said, “and put an end to him and his Redbrand thugs.”
“Say, didn’t you say you wouldn’t discuss a
reward because you were worried it would get back to the Redbrands?” Ragnar
asked.
Elmar frowned at the rogue. “It’s a little
early for a hustle, but I see what you’re getting at.” He looked at the
wizard’s corpse again. “Well, the Townmaster’s going to want to hear about
this, at any rate. He’ll be quick to take the credit, I’m sure.”
“We’re going to rest at the inn,” Varien
said. “But we’re going to need your support later. Inside the ruins there are
provisions, weapons, and an alchemy setup you might find useful.”
“Also salt pork,” Ragnar piped up.
“This town needs fortifications,” Varien
said. “Do you have an armory, or sell weapons yourself?”
Elmar shook his head. “If it’s martial
weaponry you’re looking for, best to check in at Lionshield Coster. I mostly
outfit prospectors myself. I will talk to the Townmaster when I see him and
give you a shout once you’re rested up. You should consider tracking down my
friend Gundren and his brothers. They would be great assets in mounting any
defense of Phandalin.”
The adventurers headed to the Stonehill
Inn.
Erwen, a twinkle in his eye, peeled away
from the group and took the path towards the Alderleaf farmhouse. “No need to
spend coin on a room if I don’t have to,” he said.
Xylon went inside the inn and was
disappointed to discover that Elsa was not working that morning.
Varien and Theryn retired to their rooms.
Xylon wearily trudged upstairs to his room,
cast alarm on the hallway, and began
meditating, keeping the new magic items he had received close at hand for
further study.
Bob took Glasstaff’s ruined robes and
wondered if there was a tailor in town who could fix them up for him. Ragnar
said that sounded like a good idea and used prestidigitation
to clean the dirt off the torn robes. Bob and Ragnar visited a local
seamstress, who fitted the sorcerer to his robes and took an order from the
rogue for a cape complete with an emblem of Sune stitched into it.
While resting, Ragnar checked the
papers he had grabbed from Glasstaff’s writing desk. They consisted of written orders to
apothecaries and alchemists in nearby settlements for more
materials for his workshop. Ragnar noted that two of the letters, the first
addressed to an apothecary in Leilon and the second addressed to an alchemy
shop in Neverwinter, bore the signature “Lord Albrek” and indicated that the
deliveries should be made to the Phandalin Miner’s Exchange. Ragnar broke out
his forgery kit and modified the letter so that the goods would be delivered to
Barthen’s Provisions instead.
Reading the letters got the rogue thinking, and he pulled out
some of his own correspondence. He drew another rude cartoon and addressed it
to Zapford Clockdrive, and prepared a letter addressed to a blacksmith’s shop
in Baldur’s Gate that included a schematic of Clockdrive’s repeating crossbow.
Getting the letter to Baldur’s Gate was
going to be tricky, but the rogue figured the town’s postmaster, if there was
one in this one-horse town, could sort him out.
One by one the rest of the adventurers
arose from their much-needed rest and congregated in the common room at the
Stonehill Inn, where they were served brunch by a grateful Toblen Stonehill.
Word had, apparently, traveled fast about the group’s exploits in the ruins
beneath Tresendar Manor. They began sorting out their next steps over their
free meal.
Erwen sauntered in, fresh from a midmorning
rest against Qelline’s ample bosom.
Bob broke out his Dragon Chess board and
set up the game pieces on the table next to a pile of empty breakfast dishes.
“Feel like a game?” he asked the druid.
Erwen shrugged. “Sure.”
Xylon had attuned himself to his new staff of defense and had spent time
deciphering the mysterious journal he had picked up along with the notes on
Glasstaff’s desk. The journal had belonged to a dwarven adventurer named Urmon
and detailed the history of a place called Wave Echo Cave, and an agreement
known as the Phandelver’s Pact, sworn among dwarves, gnomes, and human
magic-users. Under the terms of the
pact, the dwares and gnomes would share a rich mine found in a wondrous cavern
known as Wave Echo Cave. In addition to its great mineral wealth, the mine contained great
magical power. Human spellcasters allied themselves with the dwarves and gnomes
to channel and bind that energy into a great forge, known as the Forge of Spells, where magical items
could be crafted. It was said that the Forge of Spells could imbue items with
powerful magical properties as a nearly limitless font of arcane energy.
Ultimately, the location of Wave Echo Cave had been lost to history after a
horde of orcs had swept down from the north, and a terrific battle involving
the cave’s magic energies resulted in its destruction. The dwarven adventurer
had spent years searching the Sword Mountains for the location of the legendary
cave, but had come up empty.
Xylon shared this information with his compatriots.
Ragnar had headed to the Phandalin Miner’s
Exchange in the southern part of the village.
The miner’s exchange was a trading post and
records office, home to a bustling array of prospectors and miners looking to
register claims and weigh ore samples. Presiding over the chaos was a
serious-looking human woman.
Ragnar patiently waited his turn in line until he could shuffle up to the
counter.
“Good day to you,” he said.
“And to you as well,” the woman said. “How
can I help you this morning?”
“Posting some letters,” Ragnar said,
pushing the pile of correspondence across the counter. Then, as casually as
possible, he said, “Suppose you heard about Lord Albrek’s execution this
morning?”
The woman’s eyes narrowed, and Ragnar knew
he’d said something that had rattled her. “Well,” she said slowly, “I had heard
that there was trouble on the streets last night and that someone had gone and
strung up the Redbrands’ leader, but that man’s name was Glasstaff, not ‘Lord
Albrek.’”
“Does that name mean something to you?”
Ragnar said.
“Well, there was a man by the name of
Albrek who came to town about two months ago,” the proprietress said. “But he
disappeared some time ago and nobody’s seen him since.”
“But you’re still accepting deliveries on
his behalf?” Ragnar pressed.
“He had business arrangements, yes,” the
woman said. She frowned. “And who might you be?”
“I’m the adventurer who cleaned up his
mess,” Ragnar replied.
“I see.” The woman eyed the stack of
envelopes before her. “You’d like these sent on the next caravan, I take it?”
“Yes,” Ragnar said. “A few items bound for
Neverwinter, one to Baldur’s Gate, and one to Leilon, I believe. So, any idea
of what Lord Albrek was doing in town?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” she said in reply,
and quoted a price for the mail.
He settled up with the trading post
proprietress, but couldn’t shake the feeling that she knew more about Glasstaff
and Lord Albrek than she was letting on. Ragnar returned to the inn just as the
rest of his group was considering sending out a search party for him. He shared
what he had learned at the miner’s exchange with them.
Elmar Barthen entered the inn and looked
around for the group. Spying them, he beckoned. “The Townmaster’s looking for
you,” he said, “over in the town square.”
A crowd had gathered in the town square by
the time the adventurers had gotten there. Near the hanging corpse of Glasstaff
was a heavyset man with the pinched face of a greedy banker, with jowls that
looked like fleshy moneybags that jiggled when he talked.
And talk he did. He was delivering an
energetic, if under-rehearsed, speech to the assembled throng of villagers. The
adventurers had missed his introductory remarks, but the gist of it was
something like this:
“Our town’s long nightmare is finally over,
with the death of the Redbrand leader Glasstaff and the scattering of his
mercenary thugs to the four winds, and lo!”—The obese orator pointed to the
approaching adventurers—“Here are our champions now, who bravely extinguished
the Redbrand menace, and did so without thought of material compensation-”
“Not so fast,” muttered Ragnar.
“Good people of Phandalin, please give a
round of heartfelt and well-deserved applause to our new heroes, the saviours
of Phandalin!”
The adventurers noted that while the
crowd’s response to their leader’s speech was lukewarm at best, they did burst
into polite applause, punctuated with a few hoarse huzzahs, at the mention of
their deeds beneath the manor.
The Townmaster invited the adventurers to
stand with him, and as they did so, none other than Elsa the barmaid emerged
from the crowd and placed a garland of wildflowers around the necks of each of
the adventurers.
Xylon gave the barmaid a cheeky wink, and
she blushed, lingering at his neck and shoulders a little longer that was
necessary given her ceremonial duties. Over Elsa’s shoulder he could see the
shrine of luck across the square. Standing before it was an elven female
dressed in subdued cleric’s robes, her arms crossed, giving him a look of measured
consideration.
Xylon shrugged and sneaked a peek down the
front of Elsa’s frock.
“Would that our town had a Key to the City
to give to these brave men-at-arms in recognition of their service to
Phandalin,” the townmaster continued. “I can only offer my thanks on my
people’s behalf, and invite you all to a banquet in your honour this very
night!”
There was half-hearted applause from the
townsfolk as the festivities began to break up. Glasstaff’s corpse twisted in
the wind at the end of the rope.
The townmaster turned to the group of
adventurers and extended a damp hand. “Harbin Wester, and it is a pleasure to
make your acquaintance.”
Varien shook his hand. “Townmaster Wester,
you have bigger problems on your hands than the Redbrands, and we need to-”
“Ah, but one problem at a time, yes?”
Wester winked. “Drop by the Townmaster’s Hall and we’ll discuss how you can
best be of service to Phandalin going forward. But thank you for taking care of
the Redbrands so thoroughly. Makes my job so much easier.”
Varien and Xylon exchanged an uneasy look.
“Sir,” Varien tried again. “This town is
under threat from goblin raiders, and-”
“Goblins? Pah!” Wester said, waving a hand.
“Mere background noise. You should be more worried about the orcs near Wyvern
Tor. Let me know if you’re willing to lend a hand to deal with them.”
Orcs? The adventurers thought.
Ragnar looked around. “What happened to the
Redbrand who was tied up here?”
Wester smiled. “He’s safe in our jail down
at the Townmaster’s Hall.”
The adventurers followed Townmaster Wester
back to the town hall, a building with sturdy stone walls, a pitched wooden
roof, and a bell tower in the back. Posted on a board next to the front door
was a notice that read “ REWARD-Or cs n e ar W yv ern Tor! Tho s e of a
mind to face the o r c menace s hould inquir e w ithin ." The notice borethe
town's seal and an indecipherable signature.
Wester sat down in a chair that creaked under his considerable
weight. “Now, what’s all this about a threat to the town?”
“Glasstaff and the Redbrands were just the beginning,” Varien
said. “There’s a conspiracy involving goblins who are ready to kill everyone in
town.”
“If you don’t do something, everyone in town will either be
slaves or meat,” Ragnar added.
“You need to fortify the town,” Varien said. “Build some walls,
stock up on provisions, and get ready for a fight.”
“Gentlemen, please,” Wester said. “Isn’t this something we can
talk over at tonight’s dinner?”
“We can’t wait for dinner,” Varien said. “You need us to sort
out those goblins right away.”
“Well, I can look into making some plans,
but really I think we need to focus on the good deeds you’ve already done for
Phandalin, and not some nebulous future threat.”
Theryn groaned. “Do you think you’re
qualified to run this town with that sort of attitude?”
“Good sir, I was elected Townmaster fair
and square,” Wester got out of his chair, his jowls jiggling with indignation. “I
will not have the honour of the town voters besmirched with accusations-”
“You know what? Maybe you’re right, maybe
there’s no impending threat,” Ragnar said, turning to Varien. “But what about
Thundertree? Those zombies are going to be trouble.”
Westin’s eyes were wide as saucers. “B-but
Thundertree’s miles from here.”
Ragnar snorted. “Ah, I get it, you’re not
malevolent; it’s just that you’re merely incompetent.” He drew himself up to
his full height and stared the Townmaster down. “For a moment I thought you
were in cahoots with Lord Albrek and not at all concerned with this town’s
fate.”
“What are you talking about?” Wester
stammered.
“I’m talking about how you’re going to do
the right thing and help us outfit an expedition to root out the goblin threat
once and for all,” Ragnar snarled. “Unless you’re so ignorant and blind that
you are willing to let the people of Phandalin die.”
Wester cringed. “Let me, uh-” his voice
cracked. “Let me get my chequebook.”
“Quite,” Ragnar said.
The rattled Townmaster led the adventurers
to Lionshield Coster,
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Linene Graywind,
the trading post master, walked over to greet the party.
“These gentlemen are going to field an
expedition to take care of some goblin bandits on the road,” the Townmaster
said. “See to it that their needs are met, and put it all on my account.”
“Townmaster, I think I’d prefer it if you
settled your bill up front.” The woman said.
Wester blustered for a few moments, then
sagged and placed a weighty wallet on the countertop. “I’ll be back later for
the change,” he said. Turning to the adventurers he said, “Do be reasonable in
your selections.” He bowed awkwardly and scuttled out.
“Ah, so our fair leader has found someone
to take care of the problems he can’t.” Linene said after the townmaster left
the trading post.
“Sounds like your townmaster doesn’t have
the confidence of the people,” Theryn said.
“Let’s just say that more than a few of us
are counting the days until the next election.” Linene said.
“Why do you say that?”
“Well, you’ve spent more than five minutes
with him, haven’t you?” Linene said sharply.
Varien smiled. “How did he manage to take
charge?”
“Well, when the town banker offers mortgage
relief to his supporters during an election campaign, you’d be surprised how
many farmers will line up to cast their ballots for him.” She said. “Now, let’s
cut to the chase and spend some of Wester’s money, shall we? What can I do for
you?”
The adventurers picked up some new armor,
javelins, knives, and, just for kicks, an overlarge maul that they didn’t even
use, but wanted to bill to the Townmaster anyway. Linene offered to keep the
maul under the counter in case they wanted it when they returned.
“I’m sorry I don’t have more armaments in
stock,” Linene said. “Our last caravan didn’t reach Phandalin, unfortunately.
If you happen to recover any stolen goods bearing the Lionshield mark, I would
gladly reward you for returning them to us.”
It took half a day to trace their original
route back to the ambush site. The dead horses had been pushed off the trail
and were beginning to rot in the heat of midday, and the burned pile of goblin
corpses had been disturbed by wildlife, the ashes and bones scattered about.
Erwen led the party along the goblin path
to the north, taking note of a snare and pit trap that his companions would
have missed had he not been there. The druid found himself growing more angry
and aggravated with each step into the underbrush as he pondered the treachery
of the goblins.
The group forded a narrow stream and
continued northwards.
Five miles from the scene of the ambush,
the goblin trail ended at a large cave in a hillside. The shallow stream they
had followed flowed out from the cave’s mouth, hinting at a subterranean source
of freshwater.
The cave’s mouth was screened by dense briar thickets. A narrow, dry path led
into the cave on one side of the screen.
It was the perfect setup for yet another
ambush, Erwen and Theryn both realized in the split-second before the thickets
twitched and a hail of arrows rained down on the adventurers.
Erwen shouted and his roar turned into a
canine howl as he wildshaped into Dire Wolf form, bounding across the stream
and leaping into the briars, heedless of the stinging shrubs. He landed in the
midst of three goblin archers, snapping at them and swiping his claws as they
began to panic.
Theryn leapt in after the druid, skirting
the bushes and striking one of the ambushers with his quarterstaff and a
well-placed heel strike.
Before the rest of the party could pull the
arrows from their armor and shields, the three goblins were dead, either torn
apart by Erwen-Wolf or their skull crushed by the monk.
The cave entrance loomed before the party.
Erwen-Wolf’s keen sense of smell picked up a familiar scent. He padded forward
into the cave, sniffing at the rocky floor.
Xylon handed Varien the Clockdrive goggles.
The paladin gingerly put them on and received a familiar blinding shock to his
eyes. Blinking furiously, he hefted his new longsword and strode into the cave.
The rest of the party followed suit.
Just inside the cave mouth, a few uneven
stone steps led up to a small, dank chamber on the east side of the passage. It
was filled with the stench of animals, and the party could hear savage snarls
and the sound of rattling chains.
Erwen-Wolf headed in first and came nearly
snout-to-snout with an enormous Dire Wolf, its hackles raised menacingly. It,
along with three mangy worgs, were chained up just inside their opening, each
length of rusty links leading to an iron rod driven into the base of the
stalagmite. The four animals began barking, snarling and howling with impotent
rage, snapping their jaws at the adventurers.
Erwen-Wolf dropped out of wild shape. “I
got this, guys,” he said, and cast speak
with animals.
“Which one of you is the alpha?” he asked
the animals.
“I am,” snarled the Dire Wolf.
“No you’re not,” the worgs sneered. “Ripper
is the Alpha, and you know it!”
“Would you like to be set free?” Erwen
asked the Dire Wolf.
“Free? It’s been a long time since I tasted
freedom,” the wolf replied.
To the rest of the party, this all sounded
like a whole bunch of barking.
“If we loosen your chain, you are free to
go,” Erwen said.
“Yes, that sounds great. Go ahead,” the
wolf said.
Erwen nodded at Ragnar, who got out his
lock picking tools and gingerly approached the Dire Wolf’s neck collar.
Erwen put a hand reassuringly on the Dire
Wolf’s snout.
“Come any closer and we’ll eat you and your
friends,” one of the worgs said.
Bob peered into the depths of the cavern
and noted that it narrowed to a steep fissure.
There was a soft clink and the collar opened.
“Thanks,” the Dire Wolf snarled as it
streaked out of the kennel cavern, heading towards the light and to freedom.
“Good riddance,” snarled the worgs. “He
smelled terrible.”
Erwen wildshaped back into wolf form and
headed back out to the main passage, the rest of the party falling in behind. The worgs howled and barked after them to no avail.
The main passage from the cave mouth
climbed steeply upward, the stream plunging and splashing down its west side,
cutting deep into the stony floor. In the shadows, a side passage led west
across the other side of the stream.
In the shadows of the ceiling to the north,
the most perceptive among the group could make out the dim shape of a rickety
bridge of wood and rope crossing over the passage ahead of them. Another
passage intersected this one, twenty feet about the floor.
Varien and Xylon decided to check out the
side passage, while Erwen loped ahead. The wizard turned to the monk, picking
up a couple of fist-sized rocks and casting light
on them. He handed one to Theryn and the other to Ragnar. “Put that inside
your lantern,” he told the rogue.
The party attempted to stealthily move
towards the bridge, but Varien kicked a pile of gravel into the stream as he
moved towards the side passage.
As Varien and Xylon disappeared into the
darkness, Theryn thought he could make out a humanoid shape partially hidden by
the bridge. Then, another rain of arrows began to find their marks.
Bob cast chill touch and a ghostly, skeletal hand reached out towards the
unseen attackers. The hand fastened itself to the bridge supports rather than
its intended target, and the wood began to rot.
One of the goblins blew a horn, sounding
the alarm.
“How high would you say that bridge is,
twenty feet?” Theryn asked as arrows struck the passage wall.
“Yeah, I think,” Bob hissed.
“Hold my light stone and watch this,” the
monk said, and began to nimbly scale the rocky cave wall.
Ragnar readied his crossbow.
Xylon and Varien explored the western
passage, finding it choked with rubble and containing steep escarpments,
separated by a narrow ledge.
“Give me a boost,” the wizard said to the
paladin, who obliged, getting the elf up on his own shoulders. Xylon scrambled onto
the ledge and braced himself.
With a crack, the ledge collapsed under his
weight. The wizard tumbled down onto the paladin as a rockslide engulfed the
pair, cementing their rocky relationship.
As the dust cleared, Xylon realized his
face was pressed into Varien’s armored codpiece in a most undignified fashion.
Struggling, he realized he was pinned by the rocks.
Theryn scrambled up the nearly sheer cave
wall, finding a toehold that allowed him to spring up onto the bridge, where he
landed next to two goblins armed with shortbows and one with a sword.
He shoved one clear off the bridge and
slammed it with his quarterstaff in mid-air, sending the flailing humanoid
straight down into the shallow stream where it broke its neck.
Erwen-Wolf howled at the goblins as Ragnar
lined up a shot with his crossbow. He fired upwards between the planks of the
bridge.
Theryn tried to block a swinging goblin
sword and failed as it opened up a bloody gash along his arm. He struck back,
knocking sharp teeth from the goblin’s mouth.
Bob got to a better vantage point and cast chill touch again. This time, the
spectral hand grasped the goblin ambusher clear around the throat, and the
goblin screamed in agony as its flesh began to blacken, bubble, rot and
dissolve, turning necrotic. It died, slumping against the bridge planks,
knocking one of them loose, to Theryn’s dismay.
The monk dispatched the last goblin.
Ragnar headed to the west passage and began
helping dig Xylon and Varien out from beneath the rockslide.
Erwen-Wolf strained to see beyond the dim
light of the cave mouth. His ears pricked up as he heard the sound of rushing
water. The passage was suddenly filled with a mighty roar as a huge surge of
rushing water poured down from above.
Erwen-Wolf was drenched, but dug his claws
in and withstood the torrent of water.
Theryn could only look on as Bob grabbed
onto the nearest stalagmite and was nearly swept away by the wall of water that
rushed towards the mouth of the cave.
As Ragnar helped the paladin to his feet,
the rubble-choked passage was suddenly filled with rushing water, inundating
the three adventurers.
Erwen-Wolf got to his feet and shook the water from his hairy pelt. The rest of
the adventurers, soaked to the bone, headed gingerly up the main passage as the
water level returned to normal.
Standing on the bridge above them, Theryn
took a moment to decide which direction to explore. He could smell a pungent
smell from the western passage, but he knew the rest of his party was moving
east, so he rifled through the dead goblins’ pockets before turning east and
making his way into the dark corridor.
Erwen-Wolf, Xylon, Varien, Ragnar and Bob
moved up some rough stone steps into a large cavern half filled with two pools
of water. A narrow waterfall high in the eastern wall fed the pools, which drained
out of the western end of the chamber to form the stream that flowed out the
cave mouth below. Low fieldstone walls served as dams holding in the water, and
one of the fieldstone walls had been knocked apart, causing the water to rush
out and nearly flush them from the cavern.
A wide exit stood to the south, while two smaller passages led west. The sound of
the waterfall echoed through the cavern, making it difficult to hear.
Theryn crept out of one of the western passages,
nodding to his comrades and pressing a finger to his lips.
Judging from the smells in this cavern, the
adventurers were not alone.
