Forging of a Knight

Chapter 2 of 14

Chapter 2

Eight days into his journey, Qualtan reached the Woodworm Ports. Lush plains of rolling grasslands and budding hills fragranced by wild plants became slowly dotted with old, rotting homes and litter-filled streets. What had been a solitary journey on lonely roads accompanied by the sun and moon was now shared by a growing number of carriages and merchants. By the time he had reached Salarza, one of the main cities of Woodworm, movement had slowed to a halt. Aurelus had warned Qualtan of the Ports and for good reason. Woodworm was known as a place of ill repute. Controlled by a hodge-podge of petty barons and merchant lords, the Ports were well known as a place for distribution of illegal cargoes through a network of smugglers, mercenaries, and pirates. Every vice could be found here for a price. Tolerated as a free haven by surrounding nations (mostly because of their own use of its illegal services), it had become a sanctuary for all sorts of criminals and rabble. Guilds of thieves and assassins were prevalent here, most notably the League of the Sharpened Dagger, the Society of the Red Sash, and the dreaded Association of the Black Garter, known beyond the Ports for their expertise with poisoned weapons and the use of the garrote. Lawlessness and kidnapping were common here, and it was said a secret slavery ring eagerly searched for likely prospects to be sold to a variety of paying customers, both human and non.

As the crowds ebbed, Qualtan passed through the guarding gates of the city’s outermost wall. The streets were muddy after a recent rain, and wagons struggled in the muck. Qualtan was immediately taken aback by the sight before him. The bodies of six humans and one orcne were hung on a platform; a token warning to any who entered that offended the ruling bodies or their infamous secret police. Half-naked children poked at the swaying shapes with sticks, while others threw rocks at the large, black birds that feasted on graying flesh. Looking about, Qualtan was nearly overwhelmed by the frenzy of the scene. Parties of soldiers from foreign lands passed by, en route to unknown wars. Tradesmen of all sorts plied their trades. To his left, Qualtan could see row upon row of barges and galleys from a variety of countries and nations loading and unloading crates of unknown treasures. Qualtan stopped his horse to observe the great sea beasts, resting in their piers between long journeys.

Eventually, a group of sailors yelled at him to pass by as he was in the way. Continuing on, Qualtan was amazed at the number of humanoids that seemed to co-habit here, apparently accepted by all. In addition to companies of elves and dwarves, there were bands of orcne led by darksome humans. The crowds made way for some head of state, surrounded by armored guards and a trailing ogre bodyguard that sniffed and growled at staring passersby. Qualtan was shocked to see a troop of docma, savage creatures with heads similar to those of dogs’, saddled on giant wolves towing carts full of pelts and fur for trade. The young warrior had never seen such beasts before and stared in surprised awe. Two of the docma looked back, baring teeth and gripping their spears in a show of bravado. The riotous pushing and shoving within the great crowds, in contrast to the calm quiet of Littlebig, had Qualtan feeling slightly panicked. He opted to ride his horse off to one side, away from the sea-hugging main avenue, towards its inner roads. Surely, he thought, there was an inn somewhere that could offer a little less chaos! That hope proved difficult, as although the majority of the crowds were bent on congregating around the incoming ships, the inner paths did little to ease his concerns. Dark, crumbling buildings sat occupied by lone, hooded guards sitting by barred entrances. Goats and pigs cajoled in the streets. Dusty, somber men emerged from drinking establishments. Shouts and cries seeped out from a windowless shack, but when two bearded men slammed open its doors to hurl a drunken patron out into the street, Qualtan could see the women dancing on tables inside. Tiring of his search, he eventually decided upon an inn that seemed somewhat reputable. A frothing, yellowish pitcher emblazoned on a creaking sign bore its name: the Golden Tankard. As Qualtan stabled his horse, a group of seeming adventurers passed him on their way to gathering their own steeds. He observed the group’s members: a tall, robed gentleman leaning on a wooden staff, a clean-shaven warrior encased in striking silver armor, a female elf, nearly hidden from view within a purple hood. Thinking perhaps he had an opportunity to meet others similar in journey to his own, he hailed them. They merely stared briefly and looked away. Somewhat disappointed, Qualtan paid for a room and stretched out on a clean, wooden cot.