THE MONKS OF IVALD
The people of Jutenheim spilled out of their homes and businesses to watch the expedition pass by. Most did so stoically, but some waved and cheered, and a few offered catcalls and taunts. Not once in the lifetime of any of the locals, save for perhaps the crone, did Jutenheim witness a large expedition set off over the great cliffs. It was an event, and one that caught them by surprise.
Children followed them through the streets, skipping along and laughing, wonder and excitement in their eyes. No fewer than a score of local men offered up their swords, wanting to join the expedition and share in the adventure, and no doubt, in the presumed spoils. Ginalli was inclined to take them on, to make up for the losses in manpower that they’d suffered, but Ezerhauten argued against it.
“They’re undisciplined, untested, and have no loyalty to our cause,” said Ezerhauten. “They will be far more trouble than they are worth, and may well hinder your noble purpose.” Fear of the last clinched it, and Ginalli turned them away.
The Jutens were accustomed to strange folk visiting their port, but they’d never seen anyone as large as Mason, the man of stone. Although he wore a hooded cloak and gloves that covered his stony features, there was no way to hide his great height or bulk. The people pointed and stared as he passed. Some named him an ‘ogre’, others a ‘jotun’ (their word for “giant”), while still others called him an ‘ettin’.
The Pointmen were at the expedition’s van; a few officers on horse, but most traveled on foot. Behind them came four more squadrons of sithians — all that remained of Ezerhauten’s stalwart company. Behind them, pulled by ten horses and driven by Teek the lugron, came Glus Thorn’s coach. Park Keld sat beside Teek in what Keld called the ‘place of honor.’ Before and behind the coach rode most of the expedition’s surviving wizards: Father Ginalli, Par Brackta, Par Rhund, Par Weldon, and Stev Keevis. Mason walked just behind the wagon. Behind him came a troop of lugron, some three dozen strong. Curiously, Korrgonn, Mort Zag, and Glus Thorn were nowhere to be seen. Presumably, they either rode within the coach, or else waited in Thorn’’s tower, across the great magical divide. The Rose was left only with its remaining crewmen and those others too injured (e.g., old Par Oris, who clung voraciously to life) or too ill to make the journey over the cliffs.
A steep, windy, and rather treacherous road carved into the rock brought the expedition halfway up the cliffside within a couple of hours. A gang of children followed them nearly half that far. The road ended at a flat area of about one acre in size that was notched into the cliffside. There sat the monastery. The building was stone and built directly into the cliffs. Its gates were of stone, steel, and wood. They stood closed. No one was about.
Rothmar and Frem rode at the expedition’s vanguard. “You’ll have to go on foot from here,” said the blacksmith. “There’s a steep path that continues up. It goes behind and over the monastery. It’s mostly walkable, with some difficulty. At some parts, you’ll need to do a bit of climbing, and I expect that you’ll need to use the ropes to haul up your baggage. Kordan will show you the easiest path; he’s been up to the top hundreds of times — a good lad.”
“You’ve been a great help,” said Frem. “It would have taken a couple of days to organize this caravan without your help. Thank you.”
“You’re most welcome, but it does not begin to pay the debt that I owe you.”
Ginalli walked over, Ezerhauten beside him. “What do you know of this temple?” said Ginalli to Rothmar.
Rothmar took his time in replying, eyeing Ginalli. Frem had warned the Juten about the priest. “It’s a monastery, not a temple, as far as I know, though I’ve never been inside.” He turned and looked at Frem as he spoke more. “The monks are a mysterious lot though they cause us no trouble. They rarely come to town for supplies and always keep to themselves. They’’ve always been that way. It was the same when my grandfather was a boy.”
“I’ve heard they’ve been to the valley floor,” said Ginalli. “That they can guide us, for a price.”
“I know nothing of that,” said Rothmar, “though it wouldn’t surprise me if it were true.”
“Tell the monks that I would speak with them,” said Ginalli.
“Tell them yourself,” said Rothmar. “For they know me not. Young Kordan will take you up to the top, if the monks don’’t. I go no farther.”
Ginalli’s eyes narrowed. “Then your service to us is done, Juten. What do I owe you for the use of the horses and for bringing us this far?”
“You owe me nothing,” said Rothmar. “Frem Sorlons has already paid me.”
Ginalli eyed Frem suspiciously and then walked toward the great door of the monastery. No doubt, Ginalli meant to get to the bottom of that remark when he had time. He didn’t like his lackeys making deals on their own with anybody, even when things worked out well. The trouble was, Ginalli’s mind always wandered to the crises of the moment, whether they were real, imagined, or inflated, and he forgot about the minor things of the past. That was his way. More likely than not, Frem would never have to explain himself, and that suited Frem just fine.
The monks would not open the monastery’s great doors. After a time, they agreed to permit entry of four visitors through a small steel door that stood to the side of the main ones. Ginalli selected Keld, Ezerhauten, and Frem to accompany him. Up until recent days, Frem wasn’t certain that Ginalli even knew who he was, but lately, he always picked Frem for some duty or other. That was good, mostly, for it put him in the know, but in general, Frem preferred a lower profile.
The door ushered them into a dark, narrow corridor that sharply turned this way and that before ending at the grand entry hall just behind the building’s main doors. There was no reason for those turns, save as a security measure, to box in anyone that broke into the place — a feature more common to a fortress than a monastery; not that Frem had much knowledge of monasteries. Several armored guards stood behind the main entry doors and eyed the group as the side corridor spilled them out into the entry hall.
That hall was huge. The ceiling, sixty or eighty feet high; the hall’s depth, at least twice its height. Great carvings dozens of feet high adorned the walls; great tapestries too. It was cool inside, and the air was fresh, not damp and musty as Frem expected. A breeze from somewhere carried through the place. The hall had few windows, and hence, was rather dark, rather mysterious. Frem did expect that.
A silent, nondescript monk in robes of dull brown led them to a hall off the main and seated them at a large wooden table. The room’s floor was of stone tile. The ceiling, high. Oil-burning sconces along the walls; paintings of varied skill between them — pastoral scenes of woodland and jungle. The tabletop was thick, carved from some huge, ancient tree — a tree far larger than any Frem had seen in Jutenheim. So they felled it in the interior, beyond the cliffs, Frem figured. That likely meant they had a hoist system. Perhaps they wouldn’t have to climb down to the valley floor after all; that thought gave Frem much comfort. He had no love of heights and no fondness or skill at climbing. Still, it was better than skulking in caverns.
“They deny us at the front door, then usher us through the servants’ entrance,” said Keld, bitterness in his voice. ““Then they don’t even offer us a refreshment? Nothing? As if we were dogs.” He shook his head; his jaw set; his clenched fists resting on the tabletop. Frem couldn’’t stand him; nobody in the company could. The wizards didn’t like him either. Except for Ginalli who valued him above almost anyone else. Why? No one could fathom.
Several monks marched into the room; several well-armed guardsmen with them.
“I am Brother Abraxon,” said one monk dressed in armor, a variant of a monk’s robe (but open at the front) atop it. He wore a sword at his hip.
“You are in charge here?” said Ginalli.
“I am,” said Abraxon. “We do not often host visitors in Ivald Monastery, especially not foreigners, but I’’m told that you plan to journey to the interior. Is that so?”
“It is,” said Ginalli. “I do not recognize your sigil. What god or gods do you follow?”
“We are adherents of the most holy Vanir — may their wisdom and insights into our future guide our every endeavor.”
“And may we follow our true path,” muttered the other monks and guards while placing a fist over their hearts.
“My apologies, but I profess ignorance of this Vanir,” said Ginalli.
“No apology is needed. Vanir is the name of a pantheon of gods whom we follow. Not a single deity. Alas, the Vanir are little known in the far northlands. Even our neighbors in Jutenheim follow the Aesir (rivals to our gods), so we choose to keep separate from them, and thus avoid clashes of faith, fortune, or philosophy.”
“Ah, that explains much,” said Ginalli. “I have great respect for the religious beliefs of others. I hope you do as well.””
“We do,” said Abraxon.
“I am glad to hear that, for my journey here,” said Ginalli in his smoothest, calmest, most lucid voice, “is one of profound religious significance. As you can no doubt tell from my accouterments, I am a priest of Azathoth, the one true…err, I—”
“You were going to say, ‘the one true god,’” said Abraxon. “We know the saying. We are schooled in the beliefs of many religions here. It’s part of our training. The remark would not have offended us.”
“Then you spoke true when you said you respected the beliefs of others,” said Ginalli. “Of this, I am grateful. I have heard that an ancient temple lies somewhere deep within Jutenheim. I believe this temple has religious significance to my order. My journey here is thus a pilgrimage to that temple, to learn the truth of things. To see it for myself. To know whatever there is to know about it. When I heard that there was a monastery or temple on these cliffs, I journeyed here at once, on the chance that this may be the temple that I'm searching for.”
“Alas, it is not. Members of our order constructed Ivald more than eight hundred years ago as a monastery dedicated to the Vanir. Ivald has remained a monastery, populated by the monks of our order, throughout all the intervening years. There is no temple here and nothing of Azathoth.”
“I thought as much upon our entrance. But do you know of this temple that I seek?”
“I recall stories of it,” said Abraxon nodding his head. “Though no one in my time has visited it, if even it still exists. For certain, it is long abandoned.””
“Might there be some writings about it in your records? Or some monk amongst you that has knowledge of it?”
“We must check,” said Abraxon. He called for their curator of records. A bespeckled man, olden and stooped, soon appeared, a large book under his arm. Neither his memory (which seemed razor sharp despite his years) nor his journal held any record of the temple, though, like Abraxon, he specifically recalled hearing about it, and spoke freely of what he knew. He explained that part of the history of Jutenheim was carried down by the monks in an oral tradition. Some portions of that tradition had never been written down. The legend of the temple, it seems, fell into that oral tradition. The old monk recalled several points about the look of the place, but none that told of where it was or what purpose it served. He promised to poll his brethren to see if any remembered more.
“Can you provide a guide?” said Ginalli. “To bring us safely to the valley floor and as far beyond as your people know? I would be most appreciative and I would provide a generous donation to your order.”
“We are familiar with the valley. Mayhaps we can arrange something. I must tell you that the interior of Jutenheim is a dangerous place even for well-armed men.”
“So I’ve been told several times,” said Ginalli. “We are well equipped to handle dangers.”
“I don’t doubt it, as you’ve brought a veritable army to my doorstep. Odd for a religious pilgrimage.””
“Not so odd when the journey is overlong and fraught with dangers,” said Ginalli. “We’ve lost all too many of our company since we set out from Lomion City.”
“And finding this temple is so important that you’d risk losing more? Maybe even your own life in this pursuit?”
“Once started, a pilgrimage must be completed,” said Ginalli. “It’s one of the prime tenants of my humble order,” he lied. “I could not divert from this path now, even if I wanted to.”
“Then we must help you,” said Abraxon. “If for no other reason than to foster the spirit of respect and friendship between our respective faiths. I shall speak with my brethren and we will discuss the best approach to speed you to where you’re going. We know a fair portion of the interior and we can provide copies of what maps we have. At a minimum, we should be able to tell you where not to look, thus narrowing your search. And you’ll need equipment: ropes, climbing gear, and more. Beyond anything you may have acquired in Jutenheim. Their boasts, notwithstanding, the Jutens know little or nothing of the interior. We’ve been there. We know what it takes to survive there. It will take some time to prepare the minimum of gear and supplies required, and longer for thorough preparations.””
“We must leave as soon as possible,” said Ginalli. “Tomorrow morning at the latest.”
Abraxon seemed surprised. “Much of what you'll need can't be prepared that quickly.”
“We are well equipped already,” said Ginalli. “But if you can supplement our supplies, we'd be most grateful. We'll make do with what we have and whatever you can provide in this limited time.”
“Very well,” said Abraxon. “We'll do what we can. My people will work all night if need be. We can make accommodations available for you and your men tonight as well. As to your donation?”
“Three thousand pieces of silver,” said Ginalli.
Abraxon smiled. “Plus expenses for equipment and supplies?”
“Yes,” said Ginalli.
“And have your men map the interior as best you can, adding to the maps that we provide you. As detailed as you can make them. Copies to us on your return.”
“Agreed,” said Ginalli.
“Done,” said Abraxon. “We have a deal.”
Hours later, they gathered again in the same meeting hall. This time, Glus Thorn joined them, as did several other monks. The monks laid a number of maps on the table.
A middle-aged monk called Brother Bertold was in charge of the maps and was the monastery’s resident authority on Jutenheim’s interior. “Getting up the cliffs will be a challenge,” said Bertold. “At a minimum, it will take a full day, but it may take two if there are any delays or mishaps. We can show you the fastest and safest route and lend you the use of ropes, pulleys, and small hoists that we’’ve set up to ease the journey to the summit. The good news is that getting down the other side will be easy. We’ve a few small buildings up there and a robust hoist system. In a matter of a few hours, we should be able to get your entire party down safe and sound, baggage included, with no risk at all. We use the hoists all the time to bring up crops and game.”
“Crops?” said Ginalli.
“We prefer to be as independent from Jutenheim as we can be,” said Brother Abraxon, “for the religious reasons I previously explained, so we grow most of our food in fields near the base of the cliff’s landward face. We also do a bit of hunting and fishing down there. The land is fertile and protected from the more dangerous parts of the interior by a wide lake and a large bog.”
“So we’ll find no immediate dangers on the other side of the cliff?” said Ginalli.
“None,” said Abraxon. “To be fair, we do see the occasional bear and mountain lion, but such will of course be no threat to a large party.””
“The bog, however, will be difficult,” said Brother Bertold. “Mosquitoes as big as your thumb. Alligators, poisonous spiders, snakes big enough to squeeze a man to death, some big enough to swallow you whole, poisonous plants, fever, quicksand. It’s a death trap. How bad it will be for you, I can’t say. It all depends on how much trouble you run into, and that is more luck than anything else. Without our help, it could be that you get lucky and your whole party makes it across the bog alive, or it could be that the bog takes you, one and all. But with this,” he said pointing to one of the maps, “your chances of success increase a hundredfold. This map marks three paths that we know to be reliable and safe. Several others are also shown that are unreliable — because they become submerged at times when the bog water runs deep.”
“How long to cross it?” said Ginalli.
“If good fortune is with you,” said Bertold, “seven to ten days. If you build rafts to cross the lake, you could cut that time down to five to seven days, but of course, it will take time to build the rafts. We’ve only a couple of canoes. Given the size of the lake, using them won’t save you much time. Figure ten days to get across either way.”
“Is there any chance that the temple could reside within the bog?” said Thorn. “Or be submerged within the lake?””
“We’ve never seen any structure within the bog, no ruins, nothing,” said Brother Bertold. ““If it had been there, we’d have a record of it, for the place is well mapped as you see. As for the lake, our oldest maps show it just as it is today. It’s probably been there thousands of years, so no, the temple cannot be there.”
“Can we go around the bog?” said Thorn.
“If you go east and hug the base of the cliffs, you can skirt it,” said Bertold. “You’ll be in the bog half the time, on rocks or solid ground the rest. It’s definitely a safer way to go, but it will add two or three days to your journey, assuming that you ultimately want to head south, which I believe you do. If your temple is out there, it must be to the south.”
“What is to the east?” said Thorn.
“Seven or eight days of hugging the cliffs will bring you to wide open fields where you can see for miles,” said Bertold, pointing again to the map. “Beautiful country, if you don’t mind the lions. We’ve been through that area a number of times over the years and saw no buildings. If you went that way, once you pass the eastern edge of the bog, you’d turn south. Another five days marching south, skirting the edge of the bog the whole way, would put you as far south as if you headed straight across the bog, albeit, you’d be many miles east. All told, that path adds two to four days to the journey.”
“But it’s safer?” said Ginalli.
“Safer in that you avoid most of the bog and its evils,” said Bertold. “But you have to spend several nights in the eastern fields. That means fending off lions during the night and mayhaps alligators from the bog as well.
“Unacceptable,” said Thorn. “We need a faster way.”
Bertold looked to Abraxon.
Frem caught that glance, as did Ginalli. “Is there a path that can bring us south faster?” said Ginalli.
“There is,” said Abraxon, “but it is dangerous as well.”
“Explain,” said Thorn.
“Beneath our underhalls are tunnels that lead down through the mountain. At the base of the cliffs, the tunnels turn south and east. They continue under the lake and the bog. There is a path that brings you out a day or two south of the bog.”
“And what is the danger?” said Ginalli.
“Besides the normal dangers of any deep cave or tunnel,” said Bertold, “of which there are many, the place is infested with black elves.””
“Ha! Black elves,” said Keld. “You jest; they are but figments.”
“Is that legend or truth?” said Ginalli.
“Truth,” said Abraxon. “They’ve made incursions into our underhalls more than once. No doubt, you’ve noticed that we run this place more like a fortress than a monastery. The black elves are the reason why.”
“The elves will kill you as soon as look at you,” said Bertold. “Once they—”
“Let’s say we get past the elves,” said Thorn. “How much time would this route save us?”
“It would cut your journey in half, at least,” said Abraxon. “Assuming that you don’t get lost, or pinned down by the elves.”
“I’m not interested in skulking through any more caves,” said Ezerhauten. He looked to Ginalli. ““I trust that you haven’t forgotten what happened in the tunnels below Tragoss Mor?”
“None that were there will ever forget that experience,” said Ginalli. “But these are different tunnels. And time is of the essence.””
“Why, if I may ask?” said Abraxon. “What do a few days matter, one way or another?”
Ginalli leaned back in his seat and paused, as if considering how to answer that question, or whether to answer at all. “Like all religions, ours has its rivals,” said Ginalli. “A group of men follow us on a ship called The Black Falcon. They seek to thwart our pilgrimage. They don’t believe that our mission is a spiritual one. They think that we’re on a treasure hunt. They’re trying to get to the temple before we do, to steal its riches. The trouble is, they won’t find any riches, for we believe that there are none to find. But they may find old scrolls, carvings, and religious relics that are priceless to us, but of no commercial value to anyone else. In their zeal and general stupidity, they’ll probably destroy it all. That would be a terrible loss to our faith. One that we cannot abide. Thus, we’ve been moving with all possible speed, to make it to the temple before these others can desecrate it. Every day counts. We must keep well ahead of them to avoid more conflict, more bloodshed.”
“Bloodshed?” said Brother Abraxon, a concerned look on his face.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” said Ginalli. “Our journey has been long and the criminals I mentioned have dogged our heels the entire way. They’ve caught up to us once already. We tried to talk to them, to explain that ours is purely a religious pilgrimage. But they wouldn’t hear it. Thugs and thieves every one of them; their minds fixed only on loot and slaughter. They attacked us. Tried to kill us — to murder us. Regretfully, much blood was spilled — which I will tell you is contrary to every belief that we hold dear. Only in self-defense may we fight. And that is what it was. If we hadn’t had the forethought to hire Lord Ezerhauten’s company for protection, we would have all been murdered. In the battle, we captured two of their number and are holding them still, humanly of course. We’’re taking them with us to the temple in hopes that if our enemies do show up, their fear of us harming the hostages (not that we ever truly would) may keep them at bay. We’ve no interest in another pitched battle. But as you’ve noticed, we’re prepared for it, if it comes.”
Abraxon nodded. “You’ve had a hard road on this pilgrimage of yours. I do not envy what you’ve been through. If good fortune is with you, the tunnels may prove an easier path. They should save you five days at least. And we can make certain that if those criminals show up, that they take the longer path. If they seek our council, we’ll lay out the same overland options to them as we just presented to you, save that we will remain silent about the path through the tunnels. We’’ll tell them that we helped you, as they’ll no doubt be able to find out from others, but we’ll say that you went down the cliffs and across the bog, but which route you took, you shared not with us. Acceptable?””
Ginalli nodded.
“Perfect,” said Thorn.