Although the victory had been ours, no one felt like celebrating. Seven circle members died, including a teenage boy. Five more were wounded. The community now had less than a dozen adults who weren't infirm, injured, or unable to pull their weight. Our best herbalist lay unconscious, blood seeping from her ears.
Having to bury the bodies didn't help the mood. There was barely any dry land near the hamlet to serve as a graveyard. A funeral required a half-hour-long trip with the corpse—of course, if the interred even left a corpse, instead of drowning in the muck or getting killed and eaten by some beast. Now we had to do that six times.
There was very little mourning because such a luxury is reserved for those with time for it. You have to be sure of your own survival to be sad about someone else's death. With so many villagers perished or wounded, the entire community's future was at stake.
That's why no one really was in the mood to be delicate with Morter, who turned out to be still alive. The warrior had fruitlessly tried to stand and run away but had only managed to make a few steps on her ruined knee. One good push ended her little escapade, after which she could only curse, kick and make toothless threats. For a moment, it looked like she would be killed there and now, but no one wanted to have to deal with even one more body. Those that still had some fight in them just kicked her until she stopped defending herself and dragged her to the foundry.
With Glain's help, I managed to clean and stitch my wound, which turned out to be less severe than it looked. I used my share of antiseptic herbs and wouldn't dare ask for more even if the herbalist was conscious. I was already on shaky ground with the circle.
The first thing we need to do is to Heal our wounds, as it doesn't seem like it's a perfect moment to Soujourn (Weak Hit, 5+1 vs. 6, 1). Health +2, Supply +3; the latter is not a problem because we have plenty.
Having dealt with my injuries, I tried to help the others, only to get spurned. Artiga, Maya's sister, could barely stand to look at me. Wylan straight out threatened to slit my throat when I tried to help him bury his wife and child. As I looked impotently as others took the bodies away, Glain put his hand on my shoulder and escorted me away from them.
"Do they really blame me?" I asked as we walked towards his hut.
"You shot their leader in the middle of parlay," he explained. "It had to be done, but some hoped to be able to avoid the fight."
"Even if we surrendered, what would have happened when they figured out we don't have what we seek?"
"What are you talking about?" Glain raised his eyebrows.
"When they caught me, it turned out that dead man wasn't their companion. It was a traitor who stole something valuable. Something precious to the Tyrant, enough that he decided to send those people after him."
"That offer of fealty was a ruse then?"
"I don't think so," I said. "They definitely thought he was going to give it to us. If we swore fealty, we would have been bound to return it."
"But he didn't have anything precious but this byrnie." Glain scratched his chin with the only hand. "You think that's it?"
"I don't think so. It's just a byrnie. It didn't seem different to what they wore."
"We should ask their leader. If she's conscious."
**
Fortunately, she was conscious.
The foundry, as we called it, was a glorified storage shed. After our exile from Thornhall, we had an actual blacksmith, but he was among the first to get ill and die. We helped build a bloomery according to his instructions, but he never got to use it. We tried to make some charcoal and work the iron we found in the bog ourselves, but it turned out to be too difficult.
Having been built on relatively dry ground, the foundry was the perfect place to store the few metal tools we had: mainly shovels, picks, and hatchets, stored neatly around the walls. Morter was sitting on the floor, both hands tied up behind her back. Another rope bound her legs to the anvil, occupying the center of the room. It didn't seem very secure, but it was a temporary arrangement.
She didn't look well. Her face was swollen in a few places, including the left eye and the visibly broken nose. Bloody, dried snot covered her upper lip because no one bothered to clean it. Her wounded knee was wrapped with a dirty rag to keep it from bleeding. At least someone had taken the arrow out, if only not to waste ammunition.
She looked at Mira, Glain, and I then spat.
"Fucking savages," she said. "I should have known talking to you was a waste of time."
"Hopefully not because we have questions," Mira retorted.
"What makes you think I'm interested in answering? Don't pretend you animals are going to spare my life."
"We could make you talk."
"You're welcome to try. I doubt this shithole has someone able to make me talk before I die."
"All right," Glain said. "We won't kill you. If you don't talk."
"Have someone hit your head, old man?" She snorted.
"We'll just leave you in the middle of the swamp. With no weapons, no armor, no food. Not even a knife to put yourself out of your misery. You're welcome to try to return home on your one working leg or hunt for food with your bare hands."
Morter's mocking smile disappeared.
"I can promise you a quick, relatively painless death if you tell us what we need," Mira touched her circlet. "So I swear."
Morter weighed her options.
"All right. Ask."
"What was what you were looking for?"
"You mean you don't know?" Her eyes bugged out.
"Would I ask you that if I knew?"
"But I thought..." She sighed. "A half of a crown."
Glain whistled. Mira got pale. I opened my mouth.
"THAT crown?" I asked. The Tyrant had claimed to possess two halves of the True Crown, a relic from the Old World. It supposedly belonged to the last king of our people, split by an assassin's ax. Finding both halves signified his right to rule the Ironlands. Complete nonsense, but some people bought it.
"How did the Tyrant lose one of the halves?" Mira asked.
Morter averted her eyes like a scolded child.
"He never had it."
"But he showed both in Thornhall! Was it a forgery?"
"No!" Morter shouted. "It was... Well, half of it is authentic, and why wouldn't that be enough? That second part disappeared a long time ago, and no one could reasonably expect to find it. So what if he pulled a little wool over the eyes of those that believe some dumb old prophecies? It was for a good cause!"
"But someone did find it. How?"
"I don't know! No one told me this! I only knew Rhoddri had it and was taking it to you. But he sure as hell didn't have it, and you don't have it, right?"
"I think I would have noticed a half of a golden crown." Glain snorted.
"Where is it then?"
I shrugged.
We Gather Information (Weak Hit, 2+3 vs. 2, 8). Morter knows what she seeks, but she's utterly clueless about where is it. On a Strong Hit, she would at least have a clue where to start. Momentum goes to +5, and we reward ourselves with a tick on our background vow's track.
**
"So his Crown is only Half-True," Mira said with dry amusement. "I wish we had known it back then."
"I wish we had it right now." Glain paced Mira's hut impatiently. "If that didn't turn the people against the Tyrant, nothing would."
"Can't we just tell them?" I suggested.
"It would be the word of an outlaw against the supposed king. But having the authentic piece? A completely different story."
"At least it could make people doubt him," the Overseer added. "But no point talking about this unless you at least have an idea where it could be."
"Could the basilisk take it?" I suggested.
"They don't do that. They're animals, after all. It didn't even nibble the body, so I don't think it swallowed a lump of gold."
"The more I think about it, the more I doubt the basilisk was what killed that Rhoddri," I said. "We just assumed that because it must have gotten wounded somehow."
"You think someone else killed Rhoddri, stole the crown, and then the basilisk came and ate them?"
"Why do we need to involve the basilisk at all?"
"I don't want to discourage you, but we have more urgent problems," Mira said. "Two of them, in fact."
"What do you mean?"
"First thing first, there is a bunch of the Tyrant's men that know how to get here. I really, really don't want them to return home because that means he will send more. Especially that they believe we have their Fake True Crown."
"That would be the True True Crown," I snorted. "The Tyrant has the Fake True one."
"Whatever." Mira shrugged. "The second problem is that the people are pissed off. There was a lot of death today, and someone has to be guilty, I guess."
"But you know what I did was necessary, right?" I asked.
"What I know is irrelevant. They'll come around eventually, but they need to see you solving problems instead of bringing them here. This is where we're coming back to the first problem."
"You want me to kill them."
"Yes."
"You know I got wounded in the fight, right?"
"I know!" Mira exclaimed. "But this problem really needs to get solved, and if I send literally anyone else, Wylan will probably stab you. While you're away, I'll tell them about the crown and beat into their dumb heads that surrendering without it was never an option."
I thought about it for a moment.
"All right. I'll even swear it. On that sword." I said, grabbing Kalidas' weapon.
As everyone's mightily pissed off at us, we need to Test a Bond again (Weak Hit, 6+1 vs. 10, 4). I love this roll because it's pretty symbolic: we did our best, but making everything all right was never an option. We acted without the community's consent, and some people died, which makes the rest understandably angry even though a fight was inevitable in the long run.
Mira is efficient and chooses solutions that solve as many problems as possible. The person everyone currently hates kills the runners and saves the community from being discovered? Great, and she gets time to work on them to be less angry. Qamar dies in progress? Tough luck, but at least she doesn't have to break up inevitable fights.
We make a new vow: Kill the Rest of Tyrant's Men. It's only Dangerous because the stragglers are trained fighters but disheartened, wounded after the fight, and possibly lost in the swamps. We Swear an Iron Vow (Strong Hit, 6+1+1 vs. 4, 1), which couldn't be more straightforward: find them, kill them, get back. Momentum goes to +7, which is a great start.
**
- Kill the basilisk (Dangerous, 2/10)
- Kill the rest of the Tyrant's men (Dangerous, 0/10)
- When you Secure an Advantage by taking a moment to aim, choose your approach and add +1.
• Trust your instincts: Roll +wits, and take +2 momentum on a strong hit.
• Line up your shot: Roll +edge, and take +1 momentum on a hit.
- When you Secure an Advantage by crafting arrows of fine quality, add +1. Then, take +1 supply or +1 momentum on a hit.
- When your supply is reduced to 0, suffer any remaining -supply as -momentum. Then, roll +wits. On a strong hit, you manage to scrape by and take +1 supply. On a weak hit, you may suffer -2 momentum in exchange for +1 supply. On a miss, you are Out of Supply.
Bonds:
- Glain, vilage hunter, Escape from something, Timid, Cautious, Wary
- Stilthouse, settlement in the Flooded Lands
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