Previously: Freelance Historian Esmeralda and her companions have stumbled upon a shipwreck in the middle of a forest--far from any large body of water. While investigating it, Seymurh--called Skullsquasher by some--acted as a human battering ram to access the captain's long-sealed chambers...
"Like I said: crude but effective," said Merrick when he joined me in the chamber.
"Indeed." My voice was muffled by my sleeve. The chamber was rank with the smell of decay and our entrance had stirred up the dust of untold years. It felt like I had sand in my nose and throat. It was black as pitch--no light penetrated anywhere--and my eyes could not adjust to the inky darkness. Merrick's soft voice was to my right and immediately behind me and I heard Seymurh's rasp somewhere across what I assumed to be a relatively small chamber. "I think it would be safe to light a torch. Do you have one?"
"I can see well enough," Seymurh answered.
"Not exactly," Merrick said. "Although I can be of some assistance." He mumbled a few words that sent a queer shiver across my back, like someone had tickled it with a feather. I heard a soft pop and a low hiss and gradually, the room came into focus, lit by a dim, steady globe that rolled around on the top of his staff.
I nearly gaped at him. Was he a member of the Maedrum? He hadn't mentioned it yet--not that we had had a whole lot of time to share our stories. Evidently, he thought sharing the fact that he served on the Ministry of Human Preservation to be a safer secret to share than his knowledge of the Wild Arts. Interesting.
"Well, that helps." I let the other questions go unasked, for now. I was familiar with the existence of the Maedrum but had never met any that counted themselves among that group (although several claimed falsely to be). Magic was not as prevalent now as it had once been, but there were still some who practiced it and uncounted powerful trinkets left behind by their sect. I was in possession of one, a Traveling Stone, but was loathe to use it because I did not know how long its energy would last. I didn't want to find an inert piece of red rock around my neck when I needed it most. Merrick's staff could have been something of the like; the energy could have been contained in it and not his mind. Still, it was worth investigating later.
Now, I turned my attention to the chamber, such as it was. The violence that had wrested the ship from its native environment and deposited it in this forest left its mark inside it, as well. Nothing stood recognizable as any type of furniture--wood was scatter about splintered and formless. There were a full dull metal cups and rotting debris left indistinguishable by age. Tubes of thick wax lay against one wall where remnants of some type of work station still existed. A desk, perhaps. It was near that that Seymurh stood, probing the bones of man. Nearby was a fractured wooden heap that might have once been a chest of some sort. The dead captain's personal effects? Certainly possible.
"Pretty," Seymurh said, pulling a jewel-encrusted saber from the human wreckage. The blade looked sharp still, although flecked with the passage of time. Seymurh held the jeweled hilt close to his eyes and poked at the red and green stones with a thick finger. "But not very heavy. An artisan's blade, but practical enough if he knew how to fight with it."
Merrick was going through the scrolls that had somehow survived, holding his wavering light up to the mildewed parchment and mouthing what word he recognized. I turned my attention to the trunk, for that's what that heap of wood turned out to be. It's solid construction allowed it to survive the bizarre journey better than anything else we had seen so far, although the brass hinges were torn and bent. I pulled away the soft wood and disturbed a colony of wriggling insects longer than my finger, nearly as thick as a branch and with more legs than I cared to count. A small hill of brownish coins caught the flickering light and I bent to pick up a medallion that was square in shape with an empty round indentation at its center. Touching it made the tips of my fingers pulse with a not entirely unpleasant sensation.
"Here's a name," Merrick said. "I think." He bent in closer, rubbing his eyes. "Hangore? Hanford? No, that's not quite it. Harfigorn. It looks like Harfigorn. Does that mean anything to you?"
The medallion was immediately forgotten. I ignored Seymurh, who was busy sifting through the coins. "Harfigorn? Are you sure?" I crossed the chamber and peered at the parchment. The ink was faded in spots and distorted by moisture in others but I had to agree with Merrick's translation.
"Bones of Barnok," I breathed. Suddenly, the chamber did not seem so stifling. It seemed cold and damp, indeed, and I felt a sense of dread grow in my belly. "Have we found the final resting place of Harfigorn, the Merciless?"
Up next: Yes. Yes they have.
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