Darkwater

1. Darkwood

Chapter 1

DarkwoodSide Ho!” - The big man bellowed as he raced

past me, his coach loaded down with anything imaginable. He

could’ve been hauling carrots or carrying gold. On the North Road,

caravans traveled regularly and you never knew what were the

contents of the mammoth wagons.

For three days now the caravan drivers had

been shouting at me. I have yet to understand why. You could feel a

caravan coming for miles, then hear it roaring down on you and

finally smell it coming. If all that swayed no person from moving

out-of-the-way, what makes them think screaming “Side Ho” would?

From each caravan, I have also heard every possible form of

profanity and disparaging remark screamed over the noise of the

carts passing. I guess they have never seen a woman walking alone

on the North Road. Though I find it impossible that everyone but me

owns a horse or has the coin to book passage on the convoys headed

to greater profits.

Caravans were wonderful when I was young.

Living in a small town like Overwatch, the caravans were both a

lifeline and our only break to the boredom of settlement

living.

Caravans that rolled into town would bring

all sorts of new sights and smells and wonderful treats to try.

Often loaded with new foods, such as Chark, which is a wonderful

deer jerky from the Sapphire Dwarves of Kinghold. Or sometimes they

had this flatbread with all kinds of spices in it, which came from

the City of Silver. Although I don’t know how that’s possible, as

the Elven city closed to outsiders before my birth. But my favorite

came all the way from the Tinker gnomes across the mountains and

into the great forest. It was a wonderful treat. The cookie was

soft and had cinnamon in it. Though we rarely got more than one, I

know I could have eaten a hundred in a single sitting.

The best the caravans brought were the

Songweavers. The Songweavers who would bring us tales of the

outside world far beyond our tiny little hamlet they would sing

beautiful songs about warriors and heroes and lovely elf maidens.

They would spin stories about great dragons or wars and even the

dark elves of the underworld.

My favorite story I only heard twice from

two separate Songweavers so each version was a little different.

But it was the story of the nine gifts from the gods given to the

first nine tribes, before the Devastation when humankind was just a

speck on this continent.

I remember the story well, although some

details are a little fuzzy. The story goes that nine tribes were on

Xenkur. The human Wolf clan, the Gold and Silver elves, the Ruby

and Sapphire Dwarves, the Halfling tribe, the Rock and Tinker

gnomes, and the Orc Blood tribe. The gods gave each tribal leader a

special magical gift. I don’t remember what gift went to every

tribe. I remember the Silver elves received a crown worn on the

head of the leader and the Ruby dwarves, a shield. The other gifts

were a sword, armor, robe, a staff, book an amulet and a belt.

It's the stories, I think, that caused me to

want to leave home and venture out to find something other than our

tiny little town with petty little people.

What were fond memories as a kid of the

caravans rolling into town is now nothing more than a pain in my

backside as I slog down this lonely road. Now the caravans are a

long thunderous barrage of flinging curses, flying mud and hurling

horse droppings.

Another shout of “Side Ho” and I was back

from my musing. I’d be glad when done with this road, but I still

had at least three more days to walk until I reached my hometown of

Overwatch. I’m tired of walking, tired of the cold and I’m tired of

the North Road. I wanted a hot meal and warm bed and someone to

wash the mud, horse dung and whatever else this road kicked up on

me out of my clothes.

It was getting late and it was getting dark

I felt I should try to find a place to hole up for the night. I’d

done well so far, to avoid any problems on the road. When I made

camp, I would stay only on the edges of the forest as close to the

road as possible.

You see, the North Road cut through

Darkwood, woods so thick it cuts out all but the strongest of

sunlight. However, the name didn’t come from the density of the

trees its name came from what walked through the forest. The story

goes the woods are full of the undead, spirits, and ghosts and all

manner of evil. I’m not sure the stories are true, but, just to be

on the safe side, I would camp close to the road and light a large

fire. I felt uncomfortable at night and I would hear a twig snap or

a strange moan and my imagination would run away, but I saw nothing

I called a ghost.

This evening did not differ from the other

nights I had spent on the road. Two caravans went by throughout the

darkness. I would sleep for an hour or two and then wake up and

stoke the fire go back to sleep for two hours and that would

continue until the sun came up. It was colder, probably because it

was farther into the forest and the trees kept it cold at night.

This may have also contributed to the strange dream I had. I

remember no great deal of the dream, but I remember that I meet a

dwarf or maybe it was a gnome in the forest. I’ve always believed

dreams were just the way your mind sorts through whatever it's

collected during the day, though I have met no dwarf or gnome on my

travels. Garvin, a wizard at the Academy, who would talk about

dreams, said that dreams are a warning of what will happen. But

then again, Garvin was a little bit out there on the pole, some of

his ideas were just too hard to swallow.

Tonight’s fire was blazing and the warmth of

it felt good on my face. I’d choked down bitter-cake and washed it

down with the last of my water. I sat there, chilled in some parts

of my body and hot in others. That was the role of a fire, part of

you is too hot and the rest frozen to the bone. So I rested there.

Tired and cold, staring at the newly gained spell which appeared

this time on my right forearm.

Lightly rubbing my forearm, the tattooed

magical energies still stung a little if I touched it. I still

marvel and yet don’t understand the way magic works. It seems a

simple course: learn a few words of magic, practice hand gestures,

maybe learn how to use a trinket or fetish if the spell needs one

and something simple becomes something incredible.

I did not mind the mystical energies of

various spells branded on your skin much like a tattoo. What

bothered me was you never know where the spell will appear. What if

the secret symbols appeared somewhere on your face. You’re branded

as a spellcaster the minute somebody sees you. I don’t think that

would be good. I’ve always thought the best way to survive this

world is anonymity. I have three spells tattooed on me. A better

way to say it is they are burned into me.

When a caster studies and learns a spell,

the energies used are emblazoned on the caster’s body much like a

tattoo. The more magic you learn, the more tattoos on your body. At

some point, you run out of skin and you can’t learn any more

spells.

The first invocation I learned when I

reached the Academy was a spell of levitation and it appeared on my

left shoulder. The spell of levitation is easy to learn. It has

only a few secret words and just three hand symbols and there’s no

trinket or fetish for it. It only floats me about six inches off

the ground, but I think it could be a handy little spell. The

second I learned was how to read magical writing. That tattoo

appeared on the back of my right thigh. The third I learned and the

one I gained right before leaving the Academy is a powerhouse. I

learned how to form and project a lightning bolt out of thin air.

It's a complicated spell needing several hand movements and magical

phrases. It also needs the use of a thin piece of silver almost the

size of a needle. That tattoo appeared on my right forearm and

still almost a week later is sensitive to the touch.

A caravan races by and shatters me out of my

reminiscent trance and back to reality. The chill ran further into

my bones so I put another log on the fire. Tired, need to get some

sleep and would love a hot meal.

✼✼✼✼

I awake early; the sun is just peeking over

the horizon. What woke me up? It's not an owl or a coyote, sounds

like a mix of the two, strange low crooning that almost sounds like

a wailing. A part of me wants to just follow the sound and moving

around would take the chill out of my bones, stretch my muscles,

but the sound is coming from inside Darkwood. The sun is streaming

its life-giving face over the horizon and into my campsite now. I

can explore the forest during the day; nothing could happen during

the day. I will take a lit torch just in case. Even though it's

daylight, it appears murky inside Darkwood.

The leaves crunch beneath my boots. I snap a

twig, I break a branch, I’m probably making as much noise coming

through the forest as the caravans do on the North Road. All the

while that sound never gets louder or quieter. It feels like I

never get close enough to change the volume of the sound. The

forest feels claustrophobic; the darkness feels like it's all

around me, sending a chill down my spine. Or is it the cold or

whatever’s making that noise?

I’m afraid to go further, but what is that

sound? I don’t understand why a sound would be so interesting. It’s

calling me. That’s not the right way to put it. It’s almost like

it's whispering.

I realize it is stupid to chase this unknown

into the middle of Darkwood. This is the story you would hear from

a SongWeaver and at the end the storyteller would say “…and she

died.”

The further I go chasing the noise the more

I know this is a bad idea. Now the Darkwood has added a scent

ingredient to my wandering. I have smelled that before. That’s the

odor of death. I assume ghosts don’t smell so it's probably just a

dead animal.

That’s the problem with death. It all stinks

the same, whether a hunter returning with a deer or the

slaughterhouse in Overwatch, it's the same odor. The gods would’ve

done us a favor if they made everything smell differently when

dead. If that were true, you’d know whether to search or not.

Scents’ getting intense now. Still, that

noise doesn’t change. It must be right around here somewhere. There

are no birds in the sky overhead so whatever’s dead has been gone

for a while.

Peering over a large log downed ages ago, I

see what is producing the fumes, but it is not an animal. Animals

don’t wear clothing. It’s a young small human or maybe an elf. It

would help to know what killed this person, but it just reeks too

much to search. Anyway, it has been here a while. There’s little

left but bones, garments and a satchel. I don’t recognize the

clothing. The chemise is a light blue color and the pantaloons are

white. I don’t know who would be wandering around Darkwood in these

colors. It isn’t someone who's a woodcutter or a hunter. They wear

colors that blend into the forest; this color stands out brightly.

It looks like formal wear.

Now I’m not a big fan of robbing the dead,

but there might be something useful in that satchel. “The gods have

mercy on me,” as I lean over to pull the satchel from the arm of

the corpse. It would be a better idea to search its contents by the

safety of my campfire. The strange sound keeps on but I’m not going

any further, my torch is burning out and it is so dark under these

trees it would be wise to head back to the campfire.

As I make my way back to my fire, the

strange sound fades. Was it the ghost of that dead person leading

me to it? Leading me to find this satchel? I chalk that idea up to

lack of sleep and shoddy food rations.

“Hard, chilly one this day.” My head spins

toward the fire. Fear rises in my throat. Thoughts sprint through

my mind of being high-jacked, ripped apart, raped, thoughts so

horrible, I shake my head to clear them. I feel my stomach turn

over and I sense vomit.

I see a small man sitting by the fire

enjoying the last of my food. Leaning back on a log, he is relaxed,

at ease with his surroundings and my approach. He looks as if he

could be someone’s grandpa.

From the way he’s dressed—brown wool

britches, laced boots up to his knees, a brown leather vest bloated

with every possible tool, belts crossed his waist and an

uncountable number of pouches and bags lining his belly. And every

manner of gadget hung from his belts. It's clear that he’s a Tinker

Gnome. The blacksmith Beror that lives in Overwatch dresses the

same way. These two men could be twins. I wonder “Do all Tinkers

look alike?”

Shocked and stunned I didn’t know what to

say. I’m sure I looked silly just standing there with my mouth

open. I mean I had seen no one walking on the road or even riding a

horse until right this moment. I’m familiar with caravans going by

but no one ever stopped. I immediately looked around for a cart

with a broken wheel or a lame horse but saw nothing.

“Me names Penker Tuboniss Coldlock, Son of

Clenkkat, Heir of the Green Tinker Clan, but you can call me Penn”,

I’d felt I’d find you here.