THE MONKS OF THREADWOOD ABBEY - PT 2
After she'd finished
emptying her stomach, Malora took a proper inventory. She had her cloak and the
knife in her belt, but not her blades. They'd missed the knife, concealed in
her left boot, but had taken everything else. As she searched the campsite, she
found a half-full waterskin leaning against a tree. An oversight on their part,
or perhaps a version of mercy. Malora didn't know and didn't care. She was too
angry.
There was no evidence
of where the monks had gone. She was no tracker, but she knew concealing the
trail heavily-laden pack animals and her own horse would have left behind was
no easy feet. Whoever they were, the monks knew their woodcraft.
Swearing, she grabbed
the wineskin and headed down the road. In the distance, she could see a thin
column of smoke rising above the trees. A farm, perhaps. Or some woodsman's
hut. Hopefully, a source of help.
* * * * *
The farmer, who had
begrudgingly given his name as Essen, watched Malora like a hawk as she
recounted her tale. He stood in the
doorway of the little farmhouse, a pitchfork in one calloused hand, his gimlet
eyes boring into her. Behind Farmer Essen his wife stood, a poe-faced woman in
a dirty apron, clutching a pair of meat cleavers. From the way she held the cleavers, Malora
thought the woman was probably more dangerous than the man.
"You got robbed
by the Black Monks," said Farmer Essen, when Malora had finished her tale.
"So you know
them."
"We know of
them," said the farmer's wife.
"They don't bother
folk about here too much," said Farmer Essen. "Nothing worth
stealing."
"You should go to
Treeport," said the farmer's wife. "Talk with Lord Terret."
"Will he
help?" asked Malora.
"More than we
will," said the farmer, bluntly.
Malora took a deep
breath and held it for a three-count before exhaling.
"How far is
Treeport?"
"Straight down
the road," said Farmer Essen. "Half a day's walk."
"You can't miss
it," said the wife.
Malora nodded, turned
and left without another word.
* * * * *
The farmer's wife was
right. Treeport was impossible to miss.
On the west coast of
Nur, Malora knew there were trees so large that it would take twenty grown men
with linked hands to encircle the trunks. The tree that rose before her would
have taken two hundred men to circle its base.
It was colossal, the
obvious product of divine grace or arcane magic. The sheer scale of the tree was enough to
make her doubt her senses. It was visible some distance away, but the landscape
here played curious tricks with the eyes so that the size of the tree was
difficult to grasp until you drew closer.
The town of Treeport
sprawled around the base of the tree, languishing in perpetual shade. As she
drew nearer, however, Malora saw that the town was not restricted to the
ground. It had spread into the branches of the tree itself, a meandering
collection of small structures. They perched on the branches of the tree,
connected to the ground by a series of cunning counterweight-like elevators,
and to other branches by gently swaying rope walkways and ladders.
As she approached the
town, she noted that there was no wall surrounding the ground-based settlement.
Instead, a ring of orchards seemed to delinate the borders of Treeport, with a
single wide road leading to and from the community.
There was, she noted,
a guardhouse set up beside the road, and a boom gate to block access if
necessary. As she approached the gate, she spotted a watchman lounging on a
wooden bench, in the shadow of the guardhouse.
He heaved himself up as she approached.
"Well met,
traveler," he grunted. "Welcome to Treeport."
If he was discomfited
by her drow nature, the guard gave no sign. She wasted no time with
pleasantries.
"I need to report
a crime," said Malora.
The guard frowned.
"What sort of crime?"
"I was robbed on
the road, half a days journey from here, by a band of thieves."
"Can you describe
them?"
"Human,"
said Malora. "Dressed like monks, all in black. I understand the locals
call them the Black Monks."
The watchman's
expression soured. He turned and spat into the dusty road.
"We know of
them," he said. "You'll want to talk to the sheriff. He'll want to
hear your story."
"Where do I find
him?"
"Probably in his
office at the Lawhouse. Go straight until you come to the square. The Lawhouse
is on the left side. Ask for Elkedren."
Her heart sank a
little at the Elvish name. Most elves liked drow about as much as humans liked
tieflings. Nevertheless, she pushed on.
As she followed the
road into town, dusty dirt gave way to cobblestones. The buildings around her
seemed primarily mercantile, although she could smell a tannery and what she
assumed must be a smithy somewhere nearby.
There was a surprising
number of people about, more than she would have expected for a town of
Treeport's size. Most were human, but she spotted others as well. Wood elves in
buckskin and feathers haggled with a knot of leather-clad rock gnomes. A
sour-faced dwarf carried a heavy iron chest on his back, swearing with every
step he took. A trio of human women, Priestesses of Elleru, strode down the
street in their dark green gowns, trailed by a gang of curious children. A
halfling man sat on a stool, outside a jeweler's shop, nodding pleasantly at
passers-by and inviting some to enter the store and sample his wares.
She came to the
square, although plaza might have been a better word. It was large, dominated
by a large stone fountain carved in the likeness of a tree. The water tumbling
from its stone branches served as leaves.
To the left was the
Lawhouse, as the watchman had described. However, directly ahead of her, past
the fountain, was the trunk of the huge tree. Its dark wooden surface had been
shaped and altered to house a Temple of Elleru, which might explain the tree's
odd size. And to her right was an all-too familiar sight, a Temple of Abasha,
festooned with banners of gold and red and sky blue, the doors adorned with the
goddess's golden blade.
Malora turned her back
on the temples and hurried across the square's gray stone tiles toward the
Lawhouse.
Compared to its
neighbors it was an ugly, utilitarian building. Three stories tall, apparently
made of undressed gray stone, it sported narrow windows and a pair of stout
iron doors, dwarven-made if she were any judge.
Stepping through those
doors, Malora found herself in a dim chamber. Meager light slipped through the
arrow-narrow windows, but did little to dispell the gloom. There was a gray stone counter in front of
her. Seated behind it, his head bent over a ledger, was a man in a watchman's
uniform.
"I'm looking for
Elkedren."
The watchman glanced
up from his book. His brows rose in surprise. He nodded to her left.
"Through that
door. His office is at the end of the corridor. Knock hard. He's probably
asleep."
"Thank you."
She turned and pushed
through the door that she hadn't noticed. A steady white light illuminated the
corridor, radiating from a wooden chandeleir hanging from the ceiling. There
were a number of unmarked doors along the corridor. At the end of the hallway,
Malora found a door with the words, Sheriff's Office, painted in neat white
letters on its surface. She balled up her fist and pounded on the door.
"It's open!"
shouted a man. "Come in!"
Malora pushed the door
open. The room on the other side was small, but neat as a pin. There was a
pot-bellied metal stove in one corner. A pair of stout wooden chairs were
arranged near it. Wooden shelves lined one wall, containing a collection of
wooden boxes and woven baskets. A threadbare rug covered the floor. A single
candle burned in a wall sconce.
Seated in one of the
chairs was a man. He was tall, even sitting, and lanky. His hair was pale
blonde, receding from his forehead in a widow's peak. The man's face was lean,
with prominant cheekbones and a sharp chin. A golden ring gleamed in the lobe
of his left ear, and he wore buckskin trousers and a linen shirt. He regarded
Malora with watery blue eyes.
"You're the sheriff?"
asked Malora.
He nodded, a clipped
dip of his head. "I'm Elkedren. What do you want?"
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