above the flat plain on which the city stood. As Whitlock and Melann came just within sight of the city, traffic grew noticeably more congested as smaller paths joined with the road. People slowly traveled to and from the city in heavily laden carts and on fine, tall horses as well as on foot. Situated in the strategic mouth of Tilver’s Gap, the city watched over the only easy way between the Thunder Peaks to the south and the Desertsmouth Mountains to the north. Outside of the city, Whitlock and Melann passed a number of homes, most of them herders’ and horse ranchers’.
Tilverton had once been an independent frontier town. Now it was under the protection and rule of Cormyr, a powerful kingdom to the south and west. Fortunately, the hand of King Azoun IV was light and beneficent, and Tilverton prospered in the care of the city’s Lady Regent, Alasalynn Rowanmantle. The city offered thousands of people a home, safe behind high walls, safe against the dangers of the surrounding mountains.
The road took them past a stockyard that smelled of cattle and other livestock. Eventually the road wound to an open gate offering a means through the protective wall. The noise and smells of thick crowds rose above the wall as they approached. As the sun set, the city’s lights guided them easily along their path.
Inside the wall, the streets were alive with humanity. Dancing, colorfully dressed people frolicked in the street to the sounds of melodious horns and stringed instruments. Voices—some beautiful, some not, but all filled with emotion—rose from all quarters of the town, joined in song.
Midsummer had come, and both Melann and Whitlock had completely forgotten it.
This was a festival the siblings had taken part in many times on their own in Archendale. On this day each year, everyone celebrated life with wild festivities, food, wine, and music. Young unwed maidens would hide in the woods, waiting for their suitors to find them and propose marriage. The Long Night, as it was sometimes called, was a time of love and happiness, but it hardly fit into Whitlock and Melann’s current plans.
A guard, dressed in surprisingly severe plate armor, brandishing a spear in one hand and a turkey leg in the other, stood by the open gate. His helmet rested at his feet, along with his shield. Juice from his meal ran down his beard. When he looked up, wiping his beard, he saw Melann and Whitlock. The two remained mounted and looked at the festivities with wide-eyed surprise.
“You won’t find a room here,” he told them. “Inns and rooming houses are full-up. It’s the festival.” He shooed them off with the turkey leg and looked away.
They could barely hear the guard’s words over the music and singing. Whitlock leaned closer to the man, far to one side of his mount and shouted, “Isn’t there somewhere we can stay? Anywhere at all?”
The guard paused and stared for a moment. “Well, you could try the Flagon Held High,” he said, louder this time. “You can get something to drink there andask around about a room. Maybe someone will know of someplace.” He pointed with his turkey leg. “Follow the Street of the Sorceress until you get to Phorn’s Lane. You’ll find it.” With that, he took a hearty bite from the leg and turned back to watch the dancers in the street.
Melann had little interest in drink, particularly in comparison to her desire to find some information to help them find the Crypt of Chare’en. She looked to Whitlock and simply shrugged rather than attempt to be heard over the noise. He nodded a thank you to the guard. The two rode down the street, carefully avoiding dancers and merrymakers.
The Flagon Held High was a large tavern with new, smooth stone walls and fresh paint on the sign. The drinking, eating, singing, and dancing clientele had spilled out onto Phorn’s Lane. Like the rest of the city, the tavern that night bustled with all manner of patrons, rich and poor alike. Tilverton, as a
Tilverton had once been an independent frontier town. Now it was under the protection and rule of Cormyr, a powerful kingdom to the south and west. Fortunately, the hand of King Azoun IV was light and beneficent, and Tilverton prospered in the care of the city’s Lady Regent, Alasalynn Rowanmantle. The city offered thousands of people a home, safe behind high walls, safe against the dangers of the surrounding mountains.
The road took them past a stockyard that smelled of cattle and other livestock. Eventually the road wound to an open gate offering a means through the protective wall. The noise and smells of thick crowds rose above the wall as they approached. As the sun set, the city’s lights guided them easily along their path.
Inside the wall, the streets were alive with humanity. Dancing, colorfully dressed people frolicked in the street to the sounds of melodious horns and stringed instruments. Voices—some beautiful, some not, but all filled with emotion—rose from all quarters of the town, joined in song.
Midsummer had come, and both Melann and Whitlock had completely forgotten it.
This was a festival the siblings had taken part in many times on their own in Archendale. On this day each year, everyone celebrated life with wild festivities, food, wine, and music. Young unwed maidens would hide in the woods, waiting for their suitors to find them and propose marriage. The Long Night, as it was sometimes called, was a time of love and happiness, but it hardly fit into Whitlock and Melann’s current plans.
A guard, dressed in surprisingly severe plate armor, brandishing a spear in one hand and a turkey leg in the other, stood by the open gate. His helmet rested at his feet, along with his shield. Juice from his meal ran down his beard. When he looked up, wiping his beard, he saw Melann and Whitlock. The two remained mounted and looked at the festivities with wide-eyed surprise.
“You won’t find a room here,” he told them. “Inns and rooming houses are full-up. It’s the festival.” He shooed them off with the turkey leg and looked away.
They could barely hear the guard’s words over the music and singing. Whitlock leaned closer to the man, far to one side of his mount and shouted, “Isn’t there somewhere we can stay? Anywhere at all?”
The guard paused and stared for a moment. “Well, you could try the Flagon Held High,” he said, louder this time. “You can get something to drink there andask around about a room. Maybe someone will know of someplace.” He pointed with his turkey leg. “Follow the Street of the Sorceress until you get to Phorn’s Lane. You’ll find it.” With that, he took a hearty bite from the leg and turned back to watch the dancers in the street.
Melann had little interest in drink, particularly in comparison to her desire to find some information to help them find the Crypt of Chare’en. She looked to Whitlock and simply shrugged rather than attempt to be heard over the noise. He nodded a thank you to the guard. The two rode down the street, carefully avoiding dancers and merrymakers.
The Flagon Held High was a large tavern with new, smooth stone walls and fresh paint on the sign. The drinking, eating, singing, and dancing clientele had spilled out onto Phorn’s Lane. Like the rest of the city, the tavern that night bustled with all manner of patrons, rich and poor alike. Tilverton, as a
Similar Books
