Forgotten Realms 1. A Simple Merchant

**Disclaimers:**  

The Forgotten Realms, their lands, cities, cultures, races and Gods, are property of TSR/WotC (and I suppose, now, Hasbro) and the wonderful talents of the setting's original creators.  I am making no profit from my use of this setting in a story.

 The Shieldmaster's Guild of Everlund and its leaders are property of my dear friend Graboz, an evil DM who's been torturing my little group for years now.  I have received profit from my use of _his characters—if you call XP profit.  ;)  Everything else is mine, including storyline, main and secondary characters._

If you would like to use Graboz' or my own little inventions, please request permission.

~~S. Arallion

****

**The Machinations of a Goddess:  A Simple Merchant**

**_The North:_**_ Twenty miles north-west of Everlund_

The sounds of a trading caravan were oddly soothing, Phinneas thought to himself as he jotted down notes from his last transactions in a large (for him) ledger.  It was sort of a constant murmur in the background—the echoing rumble of steel-shod wheels over the dusty road, the gentle chime of harness bells, the deeper clunk from the draught-horses' mouthing of their bits in boredom, the thud of their heavy hooves and the patter of the riding-horses' lighter ones, and the continual chatter that ebbed and flowed along the line from the conversing travelers.  

It was all fairly new to him, still.  He'd been traveling with the caravan off and on since it left Waterdeep fourteen months ago, and although his inexperience no longer elicited guffaws from the humans who ran and guarded the caravan, there was always room for improvement.  At least he'd managed to befriend the horses that drew the wagon, which meant that they no longer bothered to test him by spooking at the slightest provocation (butterflies, the glint of sun off of a lake 40 meters away, the wind in their ears).  He'd never actually had them run away, but the moments of jumpy, wide-eyed, snorting nervousness were more than adequate to place that experience on his list of "Things Not To Try".

With a tiny sense of regret, he acknowledged the growth of that particular list as he traveled further from Waterdeep.  However, he realized that even having such a list in his mind in the first place distanced him from his kindred.  Perhaps it really had been best that he be the one to travel with the merchants.  Perhaps that was why he felt more relaxed, listening to those traveling noises, than he ever had in the city.

Phinneas came from a well-established clan of gnomes living in Waterdeep, known throughout the region for their finely-crafted jewelry and exquisite gem cutting abilities—and their intricate pranks.  In short, he came from a perfect gnomish family unit (including twelve brothers, six sisters, and innumerable aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces and nephews).  Despite the size of the family, however, Phinneas knew of only five members, besides himself, that had ever left the city.

To be honest, he knew that he himself wouldn't have chosen to leave had it not been absolutely necessary.  The trade to the North was rich in gems and precious metals, so naturally the family found it advantageous to establish more direct contacts in some of the Northern cities.  Phinneas was an excellent gem cutter himself, and a good book-keeper, but there were better, and he had no immediate family to leave behind—therefore, he was the obvious choice to go.

The gnome reflected upon his progress through the North so far.  It had been extremely fruitful—surprisingly so, considering that the population in the North (most notably the humans and dwarves) was often thought to be barbaric, close-minded and wary of other races.  It probably helped that he was quite tall for a gnome—over 4 feet—and that he usually projected a quietly businesslike demeanor, which reassured humans and dwarves alike that he wasn't going to do anything traditionally 'gnomish', such as tucking powder-snappers into their cash boxes when they weren't looking.  Some of the samples of the family's wares that he had brought had already been sold to the more enthusiastic contacts, and now his reputation appeared to be preceding the slow-moving caravan, at least in the major cities.  They barely had to set wheel on the paving stones before someone was knocking at the small wagon's door looking to speak with him.

 He didn't imagine that anyone would be doing that at the next city they were headed for, however.  Everlund, according to other merchants they'd spoken with, was at this time almost a sort of overgrown fort, due to its tenuous position on the edge of the Evermoors.  Luxury items were just that—luxuries.  It was more likely that they'd be interested in purchasing weapons and armor there than in purchasing Phinneas' wares, but it was as good a place as any to spend a night out of the wagons, hearing the latest news and sharing a pint of ale with the locals.  And, he'd heard there was a mage tower there, and mages were often interested in pretty baubles that they could use for their magic, so perhaps the stay in Everlund wouldn't be a complete loss.

The ledger lay forgotten in Phinneas' gnarled hands as he absently watched the horizon, lost in his musings.  The evergreen-carpeted mountains were a russet-gold against the darkening sky, reflecting the sun setting behind them.  He jumped, almost knocking his spectacles off as the caravan master's horn blew, signaling the end of their journey for the day.  

"I'll take care of the horses, Scrounge," he offered, setting his ledger down on the wagon seat as the halfling who had been driving pulled the wagon into its assigned position.

The halfling climbed down from the wagon and stretched his legs with a pained expression.  "Owwww," he grimaced.  "No matter how hard the humans try, they still can't seem to make a decent halfling seat."  

Phinneas grinned.  It was true.  It was also true that no matter how good the seat was, Scrounge (a nickname, not the halfling's real name) would still find something to complain about after a long day of driving.  "You'd best go back and ask Tala to take care of that for you," he replied blandly, with a nod to Scrounge's stiff legs.

Scrounge sighed.  "Oh, I would, but she's probably in the midst of making dinner, and if I bothered her I'd be hurting worse than now.  You're sure you've got the horses?"

"I'm sure," the gnome chuckled, hopping down from his perch and starting to unhitch the team.  Scrounge waved gratefully and disappeared behind the wagon.

The wagon they all resided in and worked out of was somewhat of a monstrosity.  It was the size of a normal human's wagon, but had been retrofitted at some point to house "the little people", as the halflings and gnomes were often dubbed.  It had two levels inside, a lower living/work area and an upper sleeping area that could fit eight comfortably.  Both levels had several round windows that looked like oversized portholes, which were covered by wooden shutters when they traveled.  Phinneas could hear the shutters thumping against the sides of the wagon as they were opened to make the wagon seem a bit more like a residence.  

Needless to say, with all the extra woodwork inside, it was a bit more massive than it appeared—so, where some of the human wagons only required one horse or an ox to pull, theirs required two medium draught horses.  It was slightly embarrassing, really, especially when there were only three of them using the wagon.

However, Phinneas would be the last to complain.  Now that he, Eloise and Melody (the horses) had come to an understanding, it wasn't difficult to take care of them.  He had the money to pay for the extra feed, and it was well worth the grooming time to be able to work on things inside the wagon in the evenings.  Now, if he could just convince them to stop nibbling at his hair when he was taking care of them—he was never quite certain if they were fully aware that the green of his spiky hair was different from the green of the grass or not, and sometimes had a creepy feeling that if he wasn't careful, he might accidentally get scalped.

With the horses fed, watered, brushed and secured, the gnome hopped back up on top of the wagon to retrieve his ledger.  He sat there for a moment, enjoying the crisp air and the bustle of travelers completing their evening chores.  A campfire was being started, and two bards, a human and his half-elven wife, were beginning to tune their instruments for an impromptu concert.  They called it rehearsal, but the quality of the music was as fine as any concert Phinneas had heard in Waterdeep.  Amazing, really, how lucky one could get out on the road.  Putting his feet up on the rail, he relaxed for a while to the soft voices and rippling harp notes.

"Good eve to you Master Gnome," a gruff voice called cheerfully.  

Phinneas turned to see one of the caravan guards getting up from blocking the wheels of the supply wagon next to them, dusting his hands off on his trousers.  He had an unfamiliar weapon strapped across his back—a wicked-looking double-headed axe.  "And to you, Master Cullen.  Are you expecting some trouble tonight?"

The guard shrugged, shifting the unaccustomed weight on his shoulders.  "I hope not, I sincerely do.  There've been rumors of Orc raids in these parts recently though.  The caravan master's told us not to take any chances.  He'll probably be giving everyone a rundown on the situation at the campfire tonight."

"May your shift be uneventful," Phinneas wished honestly as the guard prepared to leave camp, his relaxation stolen for the moment with thoughts of all the horrible stories he'd ever heard about Orc raids.

"Oh, I'm sure it will," the guard laughed.  "After all, we're only a few hours from Everlund.  That's a bit close to civilization for an Orc."

That wasn't necessarily true, Phinneas decided, watching the guard disappear into the trees.  Orcs weren't gnolls, to be frightened off by a little fire.  From what he'd seen of the small half-Orc population in Waterdeep, if they thought they had any sort of advantage at all, 'civilization' would not be a barrier.  

"Oh Phinneas!"  

Still frowning with dark thoughts of Orcs, the gnome popped his head around the side of the wagon, finding himself face to round, cherubic face with Scrounge's wife, Tala, who had leaned out a window to call him.

"Eek!" The woman jumped back, startled.  "My gracious, what a horrible expression to greet me with, dearie."

Phinneas laughed sheepishly.  "Eh, I'm sorry, Tala, I wasn't thinking.  What did you want?"

"Well, I was going to ask you if you were interested in joining us for dinner," she grinned, blue eyes sparkling.  "But I think that's a moot point now—a grumpy expression like that on Saamish's face means he's hungry enough to eat all six meals at one sitting."

Now that she mentioned it, Phinneas was rather hungry, although Tala's meals usually were far more than he could handle.  The halflings were forever under the impression that he was underfed (although Scrounge was quick to finish off any leftovers once the gnome assured him that he was full).  He _was_ thin, but he chalked that up to being taller than average—the normal gnomish mass was just a bit–_stretched—on his frame.  "I don't think I'm quite _that_ hungry," he demurred.  "But yes, certainly.  Thank you for the invitation."  Tala's cooking was a good sight better than the standard caravan fare, and he still felt privileged to be invited to join them, even though it was more often than not since he'd rejoined them in Silverymoon._

"Well, then, it's almost ready, so come on back here."  She disappeared back inside.

Phinneas collected his things and climbed down from the tall wagon again, walking around to the back where a cleated ramp gave them access to the interior.  The delicious scent of stew greeting him as he opened the door made his nose twitch, causing Tala to giggle delightedly.  

"You see, I knew he was hungry, Saamish," she winked at her husband, nudging him in the ribs.  

Scrounge grinned back at her, rolling his eyes.  "Did I ever say I thought he wasn't?  I was just hoping for an appetizer, love."  Tala dissolved into another fit of giggles and began unsteadily ladling out the stew into their bowls.

Phinneas tucked away his ledger into a cubby and claimed his bowl and some bread from the table.  While the halflings sat at the table, he usually sat on a stool at his workbench.  He simply wasn't quite comfortable at the table, as his knees tended to get wedged in underneath—but that never deterred any of them from enjoying the dinnertime company.

The stew was magnificent, as Tala's meals usually were, and both Phinneas and Scrounge told her so at length.  Phinneas found room for seconds, miraculously, but he had to fend off Tala's ladle as she tried to ply him with thirds.  Scrounge, of course, devoured 5 bowls in the time it took Phinneas to eat two and was still looking around for more.  For the life of him, Phinneas couldn't figure out where the halfling put it all.

As they sat comfortably in candlelight afterwards, enjoying an interesting after-dinner drink that Tala had found somewhere in Silverymoon, a light knock came at their door.

Scrounge stretched, ran a calloused hand through his curly brown hair and looked at the other two curiously.  Receiving blank looks in response, he opened the door.

A tall caravan guard peered inside, and Phinneas was suddenly reminded of his earlier conversation with Cullen.  "Meeting at the campfire in ten minutes," the human said, not unkindly.  "Everyone should be there.  Don't forget to douse your candles before you leave."

"What's that all about?" Tala wondered.  Usually she stayed behind to watch the candles during a meeting, as it was fiendishly difficult for any of them to get the candles lit again, but it was unsafe to leave them burning in the wooden wagons.

"I almost forgot," the gnome sighed.  "Cullen was talking about it this evening before I came in—something about rumors of Orcs."

"Orcs?  This close to Everlund?" Scrounge sounded disbelieving.

"We'll find out soon enough," Phinneas shrugged, his tone calming the halflings somewhat.  At times, they did seem to respond to the fact that he was older than they were by almost a century—but not very often.  "It's better to be prepared, at any rate.  We can bring our drinks, I'm sure, so they won't go to waste.  What is this stuff again, Tala?"

More than willing to be distracted, Tala launched into a description of the hot beverage, which was rich and sweet with a creamy texture that she was certain came from a particular kind of nut oil.  They pulled on warm cloaks and blew out candles, closing up the wagon and converging with the rest of the camp on the fire in the center of their circle.  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If they had expected the meeting to be reassuring, they would have been disappointed—however, most of them had been through similar situations before, and took it in stride.  Orcs were nothing to laugh about, but the caravan was prepared if something did happen.

Tala examined the long, curved dagger she'd been given doubtfully as they returned to their wagon.  It was as big as a sword in proportion to her 2-and-one-half-foot stature.  "What am I to do with this?" she asked rhetorically.  "It's enormous.  I can barely lift it, let alone stick an Orc with it."  She made an effort to swing the blade and nearly toppled over, laughing at herself.

"Maybe you could lay it on the ground and they'd step on it," suggested Scrounge, earning himself a quick boot in the rump.

"Let's hope we don't even need to worry about it," Phinneas remarked, unlocking the wagon for them to enter.  

After they finally managed to get the candles lit again, it was time for Scrounge to go out and assist the watchmen.  He'd volunteered to go during the meeting, because he was able to move around quietly and hide more easily than the others.  Mercifully, no one had appeared interested in asking how he'd gotten so skilled.  Phinneas himself had only an inkling of what Scrounge did—he described his profession as 'acquisitions manager'. That led the mind down a certain path, but Scrounge never seemed to be in trouble with the law, so either he was perfectly legit or extremely good at what he did.  It didn't much matter to the gnome, really.  As Scrounge slipped out the door with a jaunty wave, he waved back, hoping that the halfling's efforts would be unnecessary.

Tala exchanged a glance with Phinneas and pulled out her work for the evening—she made most of the money for the halflings, with intricate silken embroidery and beadwork that even the elves of Waterdeep were enthusiastic about purchasing.  "Well, I do hope he's running around out there for no good reason at all," she sighed, echoing the gnome's thought.

As she tuned into her work and the wagon grew silent, Phinneas looked at what he'd originally planned to do for the evening—he'd pulled out a couple of polished stones that needed cutting— and realized that it was probably a bad idea.  With only half of his mind on the work he'd probably break the little gems in two with a careless tap.  Instead, he pulled out a sheet of parchment and a stick of charcoal, planning to sketch out some ideas for upcoming projects.  Even if they were the furthest thing from his mind, at least he couldn't ruin anything while he kept his hands busy.

The candlelight flickered shadows across the page as his hand moved the charcoal aimlessly, drawing simple patterns.  The dwarves he'd caravanned with from Mithral Hall to Silverymoon had told raucous and bloody tales of orc encounters.  He wondered how many of them were embellished; deciding that most _had_ to have been.  Then again, perhaps they weren't…

Blinking, he looked down at the parchment—his third sheet of attempts.  To his surprise, he saw something he recognized.  Although he didn't remember consciously drawing it, the symbol of the Goddess of Trade, Waukeen, winked up at him from amidst the charcoal scribblings.

Phinneas was not by nature an openly religious person.  His family home in the North Ward of Waterdeep had a chapel dedicated to Waukeen, but he seldom attended any gatherings they held in her honor.   His personal devotions consisted of creating items of greater worth out of items of lesser worth, and that had always sufficed for him.  

When it wasn't only himself in the equation, however, he found his thoughts on the matter to be a bit fuzzier.  Like it or not, he cared about his traveling companions, and if there was a possibility that religious formalities could help them this night, he had to put forth an effort.  

"Tala?"

"Mmm?" She looked up at him, blinking to focus.

"This might sound silly, but… I have a feeling that we should be praying to Waukeen tonight."

She actually looked relieved, setting the embroidery on the table with a clatter of beads.  "I was wondering the same thing, dearie.  You'll have to forgive me though, I really don't know any of the formalities."

Phinneas grinned at her nervously.  "I don't remember much either.  I'm not sure there are very many where Waukeen is concerned."

Tala's round, cherubic face turned to him expectantly, the candlelight burnishing her golden hair to the color of sunset.  With a start, the gnome realized that she expected him to lead the prayer, and he shot a worried glance heavenward.  "Hopefully, it's the thought that counts," he muttered, and then began carefully phrasing his prayer, one hand resting on the parchment where unbeknownst to him, the sketched symbol glittered faintly.     


	2. A Bit of Leverage

**Disclaimers:**  

The Forgotten Realms, their lands, cities, cultures, races and Gods, are property of TSR/WotC (and I suppose, now, Hasbro) and the wonderful talents of the setting's original creators.  I am making no profit from my use of this setting in a story.

 The Shieldmaster's Guild of Everlund and its leaders are property of my dear friend Graboz, an evil DM who's been torturing my little group for years now.  I have received profit from my use of _his_ characters—if you call XP profit.  ;)  Everything else is mine, including storyline, main and secondary characters.

If you would like to use Graboz' or my own little inventions, please request permission.

~~S. Arallion

****

****

**The Machinations of a Goddess:  A Bit of Leverage**

**_The North:_**_ Twenty miles north-west of Everlund_

Later that night, Phinneas stretched out on his cot trying to convince himself that it was all right to fall asleep.  Both he and Tala had stayed awake far later than they normally would have, working until their eyes were dry and red and their skills were suffering.  Tala set aside her stitchery with frustration and went up to bed as the depths of night settled in.  Phinneas had finally given up on his own work as the candle burned down to its lowest point, dragging himself unwillingly up the steep steps to the upper level of the wagon.  

Now he lay in the darkness, the small round window next to him open and unshuttered so that he could look outside.  The camp was still except for the night guards.   He wondered if others were having as much trouble sleeping as he was.

It seemed like hours passed as he watched the guards flickering in and out of the firelight as they walked their rounds between the wagons.  Their movement seemed to blend into a sort of silent, metered dance—slow, because there were often minutes between the times the guards passed by, but very regular.  The guards would appear to the left, pass over to the right by the campfire, then another would appear from closer left, walking to the right, and so on.  So when something appeared from the right, in the shadow of a wagon, and did not immediately walk on, Phinneas' sense of order rang a warning bell in his mind.  

He sat up with a start, peering out into the camp, but nothing was there.  It was quiet as ever.  Realizing that he must have actually managed to doze off for a moment, he lay back, grumbling softly to himself.

The entire wagon shook as something huge slammed into it from the left side.  He heard Tala's shriek as she woke up, and then the caravan's warning horns began blowing, and the tame campfire in the center of their circle roared into a huge bonfire as their resident sorcerer enhanced it.  Seeing Tala's wide eyes looking at him expectantly in the reflected firelight shocked the gnome into movement, and he grabbed her hand to pull her downstairs.  

Another crash, and the wagon lurched violently to the side, throwing both of them against the wall.  Phinneas would have skidded all the way down the stairs were it not for Tala's sturdy grip on his hand and the steps above her holding him in place.  Taking a cue from her stance, he crawled down the stairs backwards as if descending a steep ladder, and then helped steady her as she followed.

"That doesn't sound good," Tala yelped as a third crash was followed by the sound of splintering wood.  "I think we'd better get out of here."

"I agree," Phinneas shuddered, wondering if he should look to see what it was before they tried to go out the door.

"No, not that way." The halfling grabbed his arm as he looked towards the door.  "This way, if we're quick."  She threw open the window on the other side and gave a quick glance out.  There was nothing dangerous to be seen on this side.  "Come on!"

As she leaped out the round window, they both saw another wagon across the camp shake and scoot sideways with an impact similar to those they were experiencing.  The strong oaken spokes on the wheels which had withstood the harsh roads of Faerun for so long crumpled under the new, twisting strain, and the wagon toppled over onto its side, giving them a clear view of what had accomplished the deed.

With one look, Phinneas had added yet another item to his list of "Things Not to Do"—being involved in an orc raid.  Unfortunately, it was a bit too late, and he was right in the middle of it despite himself.  Three enormous Orcs raised their heavy axes in triumph as they stood astride the fallen wagon, bellowing something in a strange tongue that sounded like a cross between goblin and Dwarven to the gnome's ears.  The enormous ropy muscles of their arms and legs shone green in the firelight, and the great fanged jaws gaped with a distinct underbite.  Their ragged leathers bore a crudely dyed insignia, implying that they were part of some sort of organized force, but the rabid enjoyment they seemed to be taking in destroying everything they saw belied any appearance of civilization.

A pebble hit Phinneas in the hand.  Yelping, he looked down to see Tala glaring at him fiercely.    
"Get _out_ here," she hissed, darting a glance behind her.  "Ours is going to do that too, any moment now!"

Without a second thought, the gnome slithered out the window, and not a moment too soon.  Another crash rocked the sturdy vehicle, making it lurch sideways.  He and Tala dashed away from the range of the wagon as its wheels also snapped, causing it to crash to one side, leaning precariously but not quite tipping over.  Outside, they could hear the caravan's horses screaming in fear, the growling of beasts, and the clash of weapons from within the camp.  

They headed for the shelter of another wagon closer to the campfire, and scooted under it to hide and get their bearings.  Every direction they looked, orcs and caravaners appeared to be fighting, and the battle was not turning in the caravan's favor.

"What can we possibly do to these horrible creatures?"  Tala muttered, pulling off her soft leather belt and wringing it in her hands.  "They look as hard as rock."

"Did you bring the weapon they gave you?" Phinneas asked worriedly.

"No, but that thing was more dangerous to me and my friends than it would have been to my enemies.  I'm better off with this," she stated, holding up the belt, which was now recognizable as a soft leather sling.  "Not that it will do much against these beasts."

"Well, we were told to keep out of the way if fighting started, so I suppose this is as good of a place as any unless the orcs tip it over."  The gnome pulled an odd looking metal cylinder out of one of his deep pockets and begin pouring a black powdery substance into it that made Tala wrinkle her nose.

"What is _that_?"

"Gunpowder," the gnome replied abstractedly, concentrating on his work.

"Which is….?"

Slipping a metal slug into the chamber and closing it carefully, Phinneas showed her the pistol—a strange contraption that his grandfather had put together after returning from a trip to the Southlands.  "Like a sling without needing to move your arm.  It's a lot noisier, but it hits harder too."

The halfling touched the cold metal and shivered.  "Ugh.  I think I prefer my sling."

Phinneas shot her a quick grin before returning his attention to the limited area they could see from under the wagon.  It appeared that the caravan's spellcasters were finally getting organized, as explosions resounded from around the camp, followed by a shower of sparks that fell to the earth like a strange snowstorm around them.  Orcish yells and cries of pain could be heard, and cheers came from the merchants.  But the tide didn't seem to turn for long, as the orcs redoubled their efforts to destroy the things that had hurt them.

"Look, over there in the trees," Tala pointed out in a whisper.  "Is that Saamish?"

The gnome squinted through the wisps of smoke that floated along the ground.  Whatever was perched in the tree was too small to be an orc or human.  It could very well be Scrounge.  "I can't tell for certain," he replied softly.  "Not without giving away our position."

"I'll try," the halfling woman warned.  "If it _is_ Saamish he'll recognize the signal."  She pursed her lips and gave a strange, creaking sort of whistle that pierced the din of battle but sounded like the call of some startled bird or insect.

The figure in the tree shifted position, possibly to look their direction, but didn't come down.  A moment later it was obvious why, as a pack of three orcs trundled into the center of camp, looking for more things to break.  Despite Phinneas' prayers that they continue on, they stopped near an adjacent wagon and began growling at each other in Orcish, as if undecided as to where to go next.  They were so engrossed in their argument that they failed to notice two humanoid shapes detach themselves from the shadows and approach from around the wagon.

With a sickeningly wet ripping sound, one of the orcs fell to the shining blade of an elf merchant.  The other two prepared to fight, but the axe of one of the caravan guards laid open a huge gash across one's ribcage and it dropped its weapon with a bellow.  Howling in fury, the last orc batted futilely at the combined attacks of axe and sword as the two fighters began methodically shredding it to pieces.

The orcs' cries brought attention to the fight, however, and help came in the form of a long, black-shafted arrow that buried itself in the elf's side.  He fell to the ground, and the orc that had shot came forward to finish him off.  The human was left to fend off the other orc's attacks alone, and the orc's greater strength was taking its toll.

A buzzing sound like an angry wasp shot from the trees on the far side of the campsite, and the orc standing over his elven prey sprouted a short arrow from one of its eyesockets.  It let out a confused whimper and fell forward, narrowly missing the elf that had managed to squirm out of the way.  The other orc hesitated for a moment, and the human managed to clobber it with his axe hard enough to drop the creature to the ground.

"Nice shot, Scrounge," the human called, as the shadowy form slipped out of the tree it had been concealed in.

"How goes the battle?" Scrounge trotted over.

"Not well," the guard admitted, limping over to check on his elven comrade.  "Elhuandil, are you all right?"

The elf grimaced, holding the end of the arrow still as he looked up.  "I would be better without this extra appendage," he replied lightly.  "Do you think you could remove it for me?"

"Hmm… not a good idea," the guard muttered, examining the wound.  "I could break off the shaft, though, for now."

"Better than nothing," the elf winced, preparing for an unpleasant experience.

Under the wagon, Phinneas grabbed Tala's arm, hard.  "Is that thing still moving, or is it just me?" he hissed, directing her attention to the second fallen orc.  At this point it was obvious—the creature was getting up, despite the fact that part of its guts were still left on the ground.  With a burbling growl and a bloody glare, it struck down the human with terrifying speed, throwing him several feet away from the elf and causing the arrow wound to split wide.  

"No!  Saamish!" Tala shrieked as the orc turned its malevolent attention to the only creature left moving.  

"Tala--!" Phinneas tried to grab her foot as she slipped out from underneath the wagon, but missed.  "Damn it…" Scrounge would kill him if she got hurt.  He scrambled after her, not knowing what he could possibly do, but determined to do something.

The orc took one of Scrounge's barbed arrows in the face and howled in annoyance, trying to beat down the dancing halfling who was just barely avoiding the heavy blows.  Its annoyance was compounded when Tala set herself a few feet out of range and began pelting it with sturdily slung rocks—every time it moved towards one or the other of the halflings, it was stung from the opposite side.  It lurched back and forth, stomping and hitting awkwardly at the irritating creatures, but they simply dodged and came back.

Finally the orc gave an infuriated howl and started swiping back and forth with its heavy mitts.  A mistimed leap, and Scrounge hit the ground hard and stopped moving.  A small trickle of blood began to widen into a pool under his head.

Tala's horrified scream drew the orc's attention, as she dashed beneath the creature's swing and fell to her knees at Scrounge's side.  Instead, it kicked at them both, sending the two tiny forms flying.  Dazed, blood darkening her sun-gold hair, Tala continued to crawl back towards the motionless Scrounge, whimpering unconsciously in pain.  The orc watched for a moment, then heaved its arm into the air to deliver a killing swat to the vermin that tormented it—and howled in pain as its paw slammed full-force down the length of the elf's longsword.

The impact of the orc's swing drove the hilt of the sword into the ground, which was where Phinneas had wanted to put it in the first place, although he'd not quite managed it.  He let go quickly as the orc flinched backward, pulling the sword along as it was lodged tightly among the bones of the orc's hand.  

The orc stared at its impaled hand in disbelief for a moment, then pulled the sword free.  When it turned back to its prey, it opened its jaws wide in a roar of anger, but instead of an orc roar, an explosion came.  The orc looked faintly surprised as it dropped to its knees, then fell backwards with a thud, twitching.

"Nice shot," the human's voice came weakly from a few feet away.  

Phinneas glanced over to see the guard watching him, his leg bent at an impossible angle underneath his body.  "As if I could miss at that angle," he growled bitterly.  Tala's whimpering sobs were still painfully clear, and Scrounge remained ominously silent.

The guard didn't take offense.  "I think it's over."  The sounds of battle had faded.

"Where is everyone, then?"

"Don't worry, they'll be coming," the guard replied soothingly.  "There are probably many as hurt as your little friends, here.  You're very lucky."

The gnome gritted his teeth in annoyance, determined not to snap back, although he thought the guard should have known better than to turn his back on a wounded orc.  He moved wearily over to the halflings, determined to do what he could for them, although he only had a very basic knowledge of healing.

Tala didn't look up as he sat down hard across from her.  She held Scrounge's head in her lap, bent over him like a little guardian angel, her tears dripping down onto his face.  When Phinneas reached out to touch her shoulder, she looked at him, but her eyes were unevenly dilated and she couldn't seem to focus.  

"Tala, you're hurt, you should lay down."

"No!" she snapped, eyes going wild.  "I'm staying right here.  Saamish wants to leave, but I won't let him.  I won't!"  Her normally gentle voice escalated frantically.  "You hear me, Saamish?  If you go, I go!  I won't let you leave!"

Phinneas scooted over, grabbed her shaking shoulders and pulled her into a tight hug, muffling her cries.  They still couldn't be sure that more orcs weren't nearby.  "There, there," he muttered absently, patting her hair softly, taking care to avoid the spots that he knew were bruised.  "Saamish isn't going anywhere right now.  With a little care he'll be just fine."

She turned slightly to peer up at him.  "How do you know?"

Phinneas blinked again.  How _did_ he know?  For that matter, how did he know where Tala's wounds were, hidden as they were beneath her thick blonde hair?

_It is because of me that you know_, a female voice spoke in his mind.  _If you care to do more, there will be a cost, of course.  There is always a cost._

"I think the battle stress has gotten to me," he mumbled.  

Tala put one small hand comfortingly on his arm.  "I know you'll take care of us, Phinneas," she sighed weakly.

The gnome winced.  When she put it like that…. 

_What must I do?_

_Promise to serve me_, the voice came again, encouragingly, accompanied this time by an image of a golden-haired, golden-skinned woman seated on a throne of jewels.  Her form shifted between the races randomly, now elven, now human, now halfling, but obviously she was far beyond and above any one form.  She looked at him in halfling form, her head tilted curiously in a fashion reminiscent of young Tala, who was slumped in his arms.  

The gnome shivered.  _But…__ I already serve you, Lady Goddess_,  he thought carefully.  

_Not like this_, the voice chimed softly, bell-like.

Phinneas had a sudden image of himself preparing to make the first cut into a new gem… always the most nerve-wracking moment he had to deal with in his craft.  That one cut determined the placement of all other cuts, and thus was the basis for the quality of the final, finished jewel.   It appeared that Waukeen had just offered him a very big chisel. 

A large, no-nonsense section of his mind roared with laughter at the idea that his life could possibly be considered a gem of any sort.  The fanciful notion hung on, however, pointing out that if the more logical side had any better ideas on how to deal with this dilemma, it could speak up at any time.  Unfortunately, the logical side was far too busy trying to figure out why a Goddess was bothering with him in the first place to come up with anything remotely useful.  Phinneas groaned and rubbed his head wearily.

_Why me?_  He figured that if he could get that question out of the way, perhaps he'd buy more time to consider.

The Goddess waggled a finger at him coyly.  _Now, now, you should know that's not how it works, dear Phinneas.  I have my reasons, and I assure you they are perfectly logical_. 

The gnome winced.  _But--_

 She raised an eyebrow impatiently, her form turning faintly catlike, complete with twitching tail.  _Are you saying that you don't wish to save them?  For they _are_ dying, you can see that for yourself_.

Opening his eyes, Phinneas looked quickly down at the two halflings' faces.  Tala was breathing shallowly, and Scrounge's face was beginning to take on a grey tinge.  _Are you doing this to them?_ he thought sharply to the Goddess, not really caring if she took offense or not.

_Not I_, her thought tinkled like a shower of crystal.   _The monstrous Orcs are to blame there, but it is time that is sealing their fate.  You must decide quickly_. 

Phinneas looked again at his two traveling companions and muttered a few choice curses in Draconic, that being the best language for cursing that he'd ever encountered.  He knew what his decision had to be, he just hoped that he and the Goddess wouldn't regret it later.

_My, such language_, Waukeen chuckled, the sound a shimmer of falling coins.  _I take it your decision is made?_

_You mean you don't know?_ Phinneas thought, confused.

_I know, but you must say it,_ the Goddess' thought came, with a fond undercurrent.  Irritated, Phinneas shook off the feeling of having just been patted on the head.

_I am your servant, Lady Waukeen,_ he thought tiredly, but it was heartfelt.  He couldn't bear to see his young friends depart the world so soon.  _Now what?_

The return thought came with a distinct sense of self-satisfaction.  _Now place your hand on the dark one's head and sense where the skull is crushed_.

Phinneas did as he was told.  A strangely cold sensation spread through his hand as it hovered over the wound.

_Now lift the bones._

_What?_

_You heard me._ The voice was amused.  _Hurry now.  Envision the broken bones slipping back into place_.

Phinneas concentrated as hard as he could on the pieces that he knew somehow were out of place, but nothing happened.

_Don't scowl so much, child, you're scaring them._

The gnome exhaled gustily in frustration, flexed his hand (which was already becoming stiff and sore) and tried again, thinking about coaxing the bones back into place rather than forcing them to return.  Like recalcitrant horses that needed a little grain to urge them back to the barn, they finally began to move and knit together under his ministrations.  First one, then the next, then the next—and underneath them, the softer tissues that needed a cooling, gentling touch to spark life into them again and avoid the dangerous swelling that would have killed the little halfling.

Phinneas drew his hand back slightly when he felt the warmth of the Goddess' power recede.  The worst of Scrounge's wounds appeared to have been healed, leaving only the flesh-wounds that could be easily cleaned and bound by the caravan's medic.  The halfling's breath came deeply and easily in the regular pattern of sleep.

_You see, you do have a gift for this_, the Goddess' voice chimed in his head with soft laughter.  _On to the next.__  She is not as sorely wounded but she needs help to awaken_.

Phinneas felt as if he were going cross-eyed from the amount of internal conversation and introspection he was being forced to engage in.  He set aside his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose for a moment, stemming a headache, then touched Tala's pale face, searching for the wound she bore.  He could sense a separation in her shoulder, probably from where she had hit the ground after the orc's kick, but no damage to her skull.

_Ah, you look for superficialities_, the Goddess chided him, leaning forward on her throne and gazing at him intently.  _Remember that there are more damaging things in the world than those forged of earth to draw blood_.

It was a very odd feeling, to be stared at by a being that had taken form only in his mind, Phinneas thought.  Especially one who continued to speak in riddles that she seemed to expect him to understand.  More damaging than weapons?  Were orcs poisonous or something?

The logical part of his mind finally woke up and boxed the fanciful part around the ears for wasting time.  Of course, it wasn't physical damage that was dragging Tala into unconsciousness.  She was in shock.  For all their years of adventures together, she and Scrounge had never actually been in serious danger, or at least not enough to cost one of them their lives.  _Idiot_, he told himself fiercely, and used the Goddess' power to cover the halfling in a silken cocoon of warmth, touching her shoulder lightly to ease the strained tendons while she recovered.  

I _didn't say it_, the Goddess responded to his comment, sitting back in her throne and looking quite smug.

Tala's eyes flickered as the initial rush of warmth drained away.  She looked up in confusion, blinking blue eyes sleepily.  "Phinneas, I had the strangest dream….  I dreamed we were being attacked by orcs, and there were golden elves and cat-people… and—Saamish?"  She had realized finally that they weren't in their cozy wagon, and that part of her dream at least had been true.  But sitting up to look at her husband sleeping peacefully in her lap, it was difficult to believe any more of it.  She clutched Saamish tightly in a hug. "Saamish, you're all right!"

Scrounge mumbled something, clasping her hand, and then started to snore.

Phinneas sat back with a grin and rolled his eyes, picking up his spectacles again.  "Same old Scrounge," he quipped laconically.  

Tala looked at him sidelong.  "I don't remember much… did you actually heal us?"

"At the expense of my soul," the gnome sighed dramatically.  "You two appear to have doomed me to a life of clerical servitude."

The woman snorted mirthfully.  "I suppose I should wish Waukeen luck, then."

"Hey!" 


	3. More Ridiculous Heroism

**Disclaimers:**  

The Forgotten Realms, their lands, cities, cultures, races and Gods, are property of TSR/WotC (and I suppose, now, Hasbro) and the wonderful talents of the setting's original creators.  I am making no profit from my use of this setting in a story.

 The Shieldmaster's Guild of Everlund and its leaders are property of my dear friend Graboz, an evil DM who's been torturing my little group for years now.  I have received profit from my use of _his_ characters—if you call XP profit.  ;)  Everything else is mine, including storyline, main and secondary characters.

If you would like to use Graboz' or my own little inventions, please request permission.

~~S. Arallion

****

****

**The Machinations of a Goddess:  More Ridiculous Heroism**

It wasn't long before Phinneas' new, albeit meager skills were pressed into service.  The caravan's medic, although no cleric himself, knew which wounds he could deal with and which wouldn't heal without the added blessing of a deity.  Even a touch seemed sufficient to hold most of the major wounds, to Phinneas' surprise.  It was clear though that the caravan would proceed no further without assistance—the horses were scattered and many wagons were damaged, and the people who had the best chance of fixing them were required to stay still and quiet lest they re-open their wounds.

The only wagon horse that remained in camp was Eloise, the more cantankerous of the two horses that had pulled Phinneas' wagon.  The ominous red stain on the mare's hooves hadn't come from any wound she bore—she didn't look harmed save for a few scratches here and there.  The bard told a rather wild story of the horse's deadly rampage through a group of orcs, which most found difficult to believe, but Phinneas wouldn't have been surprised to find it true.  Eloise's hooves were the size of dinner plates and each one was about as heavy as Scrounge would be if he were sopping wet.

And so it was that the newly initiated cleric of Waukeen found himself offering to ride on through the night to Everlund, urged on by a slightly unwelcome sense of duty—and the fact that no one else was willing or able to ride their only horse.  "I can't do any more here," he said to fend off those who were concerned for his safety or that his skills were still needed in camp.  "I can't heal any more, and I can't protect you, so the only thing left for me to do is to go find people who can, right?  Besides, I'll be fine with this monster to carry me," he finished with a grin.  Eloise stomped one platter-sized hoof and flicked her ears, giving him a reproachful look.

The horse seemed to enjoy a break from pulling the heavy wagons, and although she was unused to carrying a rider Phinneas' weight was negligible on her back.  They fairly flew through the trees, following the main road in the starlight so that the mare would have no problem seeing.  The orc raid seemed to have frightened away any other predators, too, because the only encounters they had were with a few deer and a thoroughly disconcerted fox who stopped dead in the middle of the road, forcing Eloise to leap over him.

It was pre-dawn when they clattered up to the massive gates of Everlund.  Torches were visible on the walls, but there was no immediate challenge.  Phinneas wondered what exactly one had to do to be noticed running up to a walled, guarded city in the early morning.

"Hoy, the city!"

No response.

The gnome sighed, wondering if knocking would do any good.  

Just then Eloise's ears pricked up, as if hearing something beyond the gate.  She let out an earsplitting whinny and started prancing, nearly unseating her rider.  

"Who goes there?"  The gruff voice came from atop the wall.

Phinneas rolled his eyes, trying to settle the mare.  At least she had gotten their attention.  "Phinneas Pharloffersen.  I'm from the merchant caravan that's supposed to arrive tomorrow from Silverymoon.  We were waylaid by orcs--" Apparently that was enough for the guards because the gate was already beginning to open.  Eloise clopped inside without urging.

The courtyard inside the gate was dimly lit and well defended.  A large human approached them, his weapon slung across his back within easy reach, but he looked friendly.  "Well met, master Gnome.  If you wouldn't mind waiting here for a moment, we'll send word to the Shieldbearers about the situation.  Please dismount and we'll take care of your horse for you."

The gnome looked down…. Way down.   Why had he never noticed how excruciatingly _tall_ this blasted horse was?  "Ah… I'd love to.  I'm just not sure I'm able to at the moment…"

A young, wiry-looking guard dressed in leathers stepped forward from the shadows, seeming to understand Phinneas' plight.  He held out a smooth-skinned elven hand to assist the gnome in dismounting.  

Phinneas accepted the hand gratefully as he slid off of Eloise's broad dun back.  However, his legs appeared to have forgotten their purpose in life, and as soon as he touched the ground he found himself abruptly sitting down with a yelp.  

The elf looked at him with amusement, as his expression must have been rather startled.  "First time riding?"

"No, but I can count the times I've ridden on one hand, and none of the beasts were as huge as this one," Phinneas grimaced, struggling to his feet.  The elf assisted him to a bench, smiling, and there were other chuckles from the shadows, but they were chuckles of understanding—all of them knew what it was like to be saddlesore.

The elf brought him a cup of spiced wine, and Phinneas sipped at it slowly, beginning to realize how exhausted he was.  Across the courtyard his horse was munching happily on a flake of hay, but she heaved a gusty breath every once in a while as her coat steamed in the chilly air, and he knew she must be equally exhausted.  He wondered if he'd be expected to ride back to the caravan, winced a bit at the thought, and then felt guilty for wincing.  

A moment later he felt a cool hand on his forehead, and looked up with a start.  

"Ah, good, you are all right.  I was worried that I'd need to send for our cleric." The voice was mellow and cultured, and sounded relieved.  Phinneas rubbed the bleariness out of his eyes and tried to focus, as the voice continued.  The speaker was another elf, pale-skinned with slightly ink-stained fingers that told Phinneas that he was probably a mage of some sort.  Next to him stood a very young-looking, but old-eyed human in somewhat hastily donned armor.

"My name is Elandrix, and I'm part of the Shieldbearers' Guild here in Everlund.  The young stormcloud next to me," he gestured to his left, where the stern-looking young man stood, "is Stengar.  We've gathered a few people to come assist in bringing your group in, but I need more information to know what supplies are necessary.  Do you think you can help with that?"  

Phinneas shook his head to clear it and sat up.  "I can try, I suppose," he sighed.  "Do you have parchment or something that I could write on—I'm afraid I'll start repeating myself if I don't write it down."

The elf's lips twitched slightly, but a strip of parchment and a writing stick appeared in his hands.  The gnome listed aloud the things he could anticipate as being needs, and wrote them on the parchment—including clerics to heal those who were gravely wounded by the orcs, and more horses and/or carts to move the 30-odd people still left and their goods, since most of the wagons were beyond immediate help.   Elandrix and Stengar then disappeared for approximately fifteen minutes, to return with a few carts, two bleary-eyed wizard acolytes, several well-armed riders and a small string of extra horses.

"I'm sorry to have to ask this of you, but I'd like you to return with us. You can ride in a cart if you wish," Elandrix said apologetically.   

 "I assumed as much, and no need to apologize.  You obviously have no idea how happy the idea of not having to ride a horse right now makes me," Phinneas adjusted his spectacles and stood up, absolutely certain he could hear his muscles cursing him in a variety of languages.

The elf grinned at him, handing him up into the lead cart seat with a blanket to wrap around himself against the cold morning air.  The gates creaked open in the rapidly increasing light, and they were off.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The journey back to the camp took a bit longer than it had taken Phinneas to get to Everlund.  The carts slowed them down considerably, and the riders, although anxious to help, knew that sacrificing their mounts' energy for speed now was foolish.  Phinneas was able to take a catnap in the cart, which restored him somewhat, and allowed him to spend a little time examining their rescuers.

From the way they rode, it seemed that the young man Stengar was at least nominally in charge.  The leather clad scouts on their light horses continually returned to him after their forays out into the surrounding woods.  He rode up front with a grim demeanor, straight and alert, as if expecting orcs to charge out of the trees at any moment.

Elandrix, on the other hand, rode with the serene air of someone out for a weekend stroll in the royal gardens.  However, Stengar would occasionally drop back to speak with him about something after the scouts returned, and then ride forward again, leading Phinneas to surmise that perhaps this was a sort of 'training mission' for the young man, and that Elandrix was probably far more alert to their surroundings than he appeared.

"Do you have questions, master Gnome?" The elf had reined his horse in to ride next to the cart.

Definitely more alert than he appeared.  Phinneas stretched, with a rueful smile.  "Well, yes, I suppose so.  For one, I'm curious as to why a mage such as yourself would wish to come out on a salvage mission."

Elandrix sighed.  "Actually, this salvage mission concerns me quite a lot.  Your caravan was carrying a load of items from the mage tower in Silverymoon.  If they'd been taken by the orcs, it would have been very bad luck for us, I'm afraid."

Remembering the dull, brutish expressions on the orcs' faces, Phinneas shook his head disbelievingly.  "I don't think these orcs could have even figured out how to hold a wand, let alone how to use one."

"Perhaps the ones you fought could not have, but there are certain orcs that do have that skill," Elandrix replied, settling the reins more comfortably in his gloved hands.  "At any rate, the fact that you were attacked this close to the city implies that the orcs may have known of your cargo and were anxious to keep it from us."

The gnome's eyebrows raised in confusion.  "Then—orcs don't make a habit of attacking caravans?"

"Orcs usually attack anything that they think they can win against," the elf said with a wry smile.  "But there's usually a fairly large 'trouble-free' zone around Everlund.  It's rather dangerous for them in these parts."

At that moment, Stengar rode back to converse quietly with Elandrix again.  The pair moved away from Phinneas' cart, but the gnome's sharp ears were still able to hear much of their conversation, even without concentrating.  As he'd expected, the young leader was relaying information that he'd received from the scouts, and telling the elf what he thought it all meant.  Elandrix would point out a few things the man hadn't thought of, and then Stengar would ride back up front to make his decision.  

Elandrix nudged his horse back over to ride alongside the cart.  "Where were we?" he said brightly.

"I think you were just about to tell me more about the Shieldbearer's Guild," Phinneas suggested dryly, with a glance forward to Stengar.

Elandrix followed his gaze, and blinked.  "Ah, I should have known.  The legendary gnomish hearing," he smiled.  "Where should I start?"

"How about… the beginning?"

The elf gave him a sly smile.  "That's a long while back."

Phinneas shrugged wearily, with a gesture to the slow, measured pace of the carts. "We probably have some time."

"Not quite that much time, I'm afraid," Elandrix chuckled.  "I'll tell you the basics, though.  The Shieldbearer's Guild was created about 100 years ago.  Everlund was much as it is today— a gateway for all merchant trade near the High Forest, close enough to Silverymoon to serve the needs of that city, and the final stopping point for caravans going south from Mithral Hall.  

"Unfortunately, its location also made it a very dangerous city to live in.  Orc raids had become frequent and bloody, and the city's proximity to the depths of the forest gradually awoke other, more dangerous things.  The local militia, called the Army of the Vale, was mostly composed of civilians, and though it was more than adequate to control the occasional bar brawl or fire, it was woefully ill equipped to deal with the savage monsters that lived outside the gates.  For a short period, the city actually found itself under siege, unable to send or receive goods, and unable to help those who blithely approached the gates.

"It was at that time that a group of adventurers took it upon themselves to break the siege on the city.  Having heard the tales of Everlund's plight, they came in fully prepared and destroyed over half of the force that infested the area.  The orcs fled back into the forest, and the trade route was opened once more.

"After that, the core group of adventurers settled for a while, continuing to drive off the orc scouting parties to assure them that Everlund was still well protected.  Soon they became an integral part of the town's defense, and the leader of the Council of Six at that time suggested that a special guild be formed, purely for the purpose of taking care of special tasks that the militia could not do.  This included keeping the area safe for travelers, investigating strange occurrences that could affect travelers to Everlund, and training new adventurers to follow in their footsteps.

"Thus began the Shieldbearer's Guild, and thus it continues to this day," the elf finished, then smiled ruefully, rubbing his throat.  "A tale told better in the comfortable surroundings of a pub, perhaps.  This cold air is drier than I expected."

Phinneas dug around in the bundles tucked in near his feet in the cart.  "I know I saw a wineskin in here somewhere… if it was for me, please feel free to have some.  If I drank any, I'd fall asleep immediately." The strap caught on his gnarled fingers, and he tugged it forth gently, uncorking the skin and sniffing.  It was definitely an elven vintage, although he couldn't tell the quality.  "Here it is."

Elandrix accepted the skin gratefully and took a sip. "Ah, thank you.  You are gracious to share, master Gnome."

Phinneas raised an eyebrow congenially.  "Please, call me Phinneas.  And it is after all, your wine, master Elf.  Besides, I believe you may need it.  Your answer has raised more questions."

The elf glanced at him and chuckled. "Has it indeed?  By all means, continue, then."

"Were you part of the original group that came to Everlund, or were you already in the city?  

"No, no.  I was already there, a representative of my people in the local mage tower.  The human mage from the adventuring party approached me a few days after they arrived to discuss the creation of magical items, and he introduced me to their leader at the time." Elandrix gave a self-deprecating shrug.  "Apparently they felt I might have something to contribute to the guild as a member.  I must admit it's been quite an invigorating partnership thus far."

"I'd wager that you contribute a bit more than just 'something'," Phinneas surmised.  He was beginning to gain an understanding of the personality of his dry-witted, loquacious companion.  The elf was certainly not one to put himself forward, but he displayed a mellow confidence that calmed and encouraged those around him.  In addition, he was quite approachable—an excellent foil for the gruff and serious young Stengar.  Speaking of whom—

"Perhaps it's none of my business," the gnome began diffidently, "but I couldn't help but notice that young Stengar there seems to be in charge of this mission.  Yet he continues to come back and check his decisions with you.  Is he in training for some leadership position?"

Elandrix looked up the line to the stiff back of Stengar and nodded, his tone amused. "You did notice, then.  Yes, Stengar has been with us for a few years now, and he's shown great promise.  He may even be in line for leadership of the Guild, eventually.  Even so, he's still young, and despite his amazing tactical skills he doesn't always catch the subtle nuances of signs the scouts bring back.  So, he runs his information by me whenever he has a question."  The elf smiled.  "I've noticed that he's been doing that a bit more often on this trip.  I imagine it's because the last time we faced orcs, he made an error based on a misinterpretation of facts and we almost lost some people.  The boy is so blasted lucky, though—we still managed to defeat the orcs and came away relatively unscathed."

"Sounds like a good person to have on your side," Phinneas mused, chuckling.

"Oh, indeed he is," Elandrix replied, taking another sip of wine and recorking the skin.  He regarded the gnome beside him curiously.  "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions now, Phinneas?"

Phinneas hesitated, wondering what a master mage like Elandrix would possibly want to know from him.  "Not at all," he responded finally.  After all, it wasn't as if he had anything to hide.

If Elandrix noticed the gnome's bemused look, he smoothly passed over it.  "I am curious as to your purpose in visiting Everlund.  We don't see many of your sort on the trade routes, let alone accomplishing such heroic deeds as riding alone through the night to fetch help for a stranded caravan."

Phinneas waved off the 'heroic deeds' comment with a laugh.  "In truth, I wouldn't be here at all except that it's for my family, and no one else wanted to do it.  I'm making contact directly with vendors and traders in the main Northern cities to improve our trading status in this area."

"And your family is…?"

"Pharloffersen," the gnome supplied, remembering that he'd only told his full Common name to the guards.  

The elf looked at him sharply.  "Waterdeep?"

"Yes.  I'm surprised you've heard the name."

"I'm surprised I didn't guess before.  Your family has a rather—ah, shall we say—'distinctive' accent when speaking Common.  No offense meant," Elandrix finished, with a rueful glance.

"None taken," Phinneas laughed.  "There are worse things to be known for.  So you've met members of my family before?"

The elf's eyes twinkled.  "Yes, and purchased some of their wares.  I've never had gems take an enchantment so easily.  So you are saying that there may be a possibility for more direct trade in Everlund once your mission is complete?"

"Well, that depends."

"On what?"

"If there's a gem-seller in Everlund who's willing to handle sales for us.  As far as I've heard, there isn't one who won't make the prices unreasonably high with markups."

"Oh." 

The crestfallen look on Elandrix's face was almost comical, and the gnome hastened to reassure him.  "That doesn't mean that we couldn't negotiate something with your mage-tower, however.  I've already set up a special contract with the tower in Nesme, and Everlund _is_ on the way to Silverymoon.  You have both precedent and location working for you."

Elandrix's grey eyes twinkled again.  "Well, I suppose that would be the next best thing to having a Pharloffersen shop in the city."

Phinneas blinked, puzzled.  The statement hadn't seemed to mean quite what it said on the surface, but he was too tired to figure out what the elf was getting at.

"How did you end up being the one to come to Everlund for help?" The elf abruptly redirected the conversation, causing Phinneas to rein in his thoughts abruptly to try to focus on the question.

"I was the only one left with a horse readily available, who was fit enough to ride hard, and not necessary for tending the immediate needs of the caravan," the gnome answered honestly.  He caught Elandrix's speculative expression and waved his hands emphatically.  "No, it had absolutely nothing to do with any 'adventuring spirit'.  I'm a gem merchant and an artisan, no more, no less.  I only went because it was necessary."

Elandrix raised an eyebrow as if wishing to ask more questions, but just then Stengar rode back again, a businesslike expression on his face.

"Your caravan is just around the next bend, friend gnome," Stengar informed them.  Receiving a pointed look from the elf, he seemed to make some attempt to add a smile to the stern expression on his face, but the mix merely served to make him look a bit ill. 

"Er… thank you," Phinneas managed to reply, stifling a chuckle.  He supposed that the young man might get better at looking friendly with a little more practice.

Elandrix sighed after Stengar nodded, turned his horse and rode stiffly back to the head of the line.  "I do sometimes wish that he'd had a slightly happier childhood," the elf muttered.  "A friendly smile would add a great deal to his leadership abilities."

The elf's recognition of his protégé's foibles started Phinneas chuckling again.  "He definitely takes his role seriously.  Yet, as long as you're around, I get the feeling his gruffness may be more of an asset than a weakness.  I've always held to the adage: 'if it's not broken, don't fix it'."

Elandrix laughed.  "My dear Phinneas, I do believe you have a point."

When they rode into the merchant's camp, several of the mounted warriors immediately moved towards the makeshift trailer where the seriously wounded travelers lay.  Phinneas pulled his cart to a halt and looked at Elandrix questioningly.

"Clerics," the elf said, with a surprised expression.  "You didn't expect us to forget to bring healers, did you?"

Phinneas was a little embarrassed.  Of course clerics could wear armor, just as warriors did, and it made sense that they would on this sort of expedition.

To his relief, now that he'd brought aid for the caravan, his part in the adventure seemed largely over.  Stengar and Elandrix were questioning the caravan's leaders about the events of the previous night, the mages were sorting through the rubble of the damaged wagon that had carried their precious cargo of items from Silverymoon, and the clerics were tending to the wounded in a manner far superior to anything Phinneas thought he could have done.  He watched them for a while, hoping to learn something about what they did, but their methods were extremely stilted and formal.  Phinneas couldn't quite envision Waukeen appreciating that sort of 'adoration'—she seemed to prefer a more individual expression of faith.  When Tala and Scrounge approached him with joyous enthusiasm, he left his observations with a great sense of relief.

He spent a lot of time with them sorting through the mess of their own wagon.  When it had keeled over to one side, most of the contents of cupboards, shelves and boxes on the other side had made an abrupt exodus to the floor.  The ensuing chaos of fabrics, silken thread, tools, gems and metal bits had to be gently separated and carefully sorted, which took great patience, but they were in a much better position than others whose wagons had been completely destroyed.  

After they had loaded the majority of their belongings and wares into a cart, they helped others load carts and the repairable caravan wagons.  Even with everyone helping each other, it was midday before most of the travelers were ready to leave for Everlund.  Phinneas was again placed in charge of the cart that held his and the halflings' possessions, and to his surprise, the mages had loaded their wares there as well.  

Hopping up onto the cart seat, Scrounge looked back into the cargo area, practically drooling with enthusiasm.  "Look at all this _stuff_," he whispered to Tala and Phinneas.

"Don't touch any of it, Saamish, or you'll be eating half-portions for the next year," Tala warned.  "We don't want the cart to blow up on us, do we?"

"Aww, dearie, they can't be all that dangerous.  Anyway, I'm just looking," Scrounge said innocently.

Tala grabbed his ear and made him turn around to face forward.  "Yes, I know your 'just looking' look, and I don't trust it at all.  You're staying right here with me."

Phinneas snickered, earning himself an elbow in the ribs from Scrounge, who had obviously been hoping for some support.  He knew better than to cross Tala when she was meting out discipline on her husband, though.  

They trundled down the road for about an hour, the trip much merrier now. Music wafted back from the bards' wagon, and the merchants who weren't sleeping chattered excitedly to each other about their adventure—now that the immediate danger was behind them.  Phinneas told the halflings about his experience with the town guards and the Shieldmasters' Guild, and then of course he had to explain what a "Shieldmasters' Guild" was, and soon he was wishing he hadn't let Elandrix make off with the wineskin.  One of the well-armed clerics was wandering back and forth with water, however, so the three borrowed a skin from him.

Soon after that, Phinneas passed the reins to Scrounge.  The two hours of sleep he'd managed to get in the morning were wearing off.  He stuck his feet up on the splash-board and leaned back in the seat, and before he could even think about how difficult getting to sleep would be, he was asleep.

He awoke to the familiar chatter of both his halfling friends, and another voice that he recognized.  Slitting his eyes open, he caught a glimpse of copper fur and grey fabric.  Sure enough, it was Elandrix's horse, and cloak.  And why on earth was Tala babbling on and on about their encounter with the orcs?  He couldn't quite stifle a sound of dismay.

"Aha, you finally join us," the mage observed with a chuckle.  

"Sorry, Phinneas," Tala gulped.  "I didn't mean to wake you."

The gnome rolled his eyes and sat up.  "Not a problem," he muttered, wincing as his body complained about being subjected to yet another torturous position.

"Your friends here were telling me what happened to the three of you last night," Elandrix said blandly.  "It appears there is a bit more to you than meets the eye, master Gnome."

"Not much more," Phinneas said briskly, not meeting the elf's sharp eyes.  How was he to talk about the strange experience he'd had after the battle when he didn't even understand it himself?  He realized that he'd avoided thinking directly about what happened, for the most part.  It still didn't seem quite real.

Tala was having none of that, however.  She reached across and thumped him on the arm.  "Fine time to be modest, dearie.  It's your contribution that kept us alive.  So there."  The outburst brought laughter from Scrounge and Elandrix, and turned Phinneas' ears pink.

"Well, you'll all be staying in the city for a tenday at least.  You might consider sharing your experience with one of the churches, Phinneas.  Perhaps they could provide some insight."  The elven mage smiled and took his leave of them to ride forward in the line.

"Oo, look, we're almost there!"  Tala stood up in the seat, followed by Scrounge.  

The walls of Everlund rose before them in the long shadows of evening, more imposing by day than they had been in the dark of night.  It took them another half hour to reach the gates, and it was dark by the time they had settled their wagons into warehouses for the night.  When they finally reached the inn they were staying at, the merchants barely had enough energy to climb the stairs to their rooms, let alone answer questions as to why they were so late.  The stories would wait for another day.


End file.
