The Bone Grinders

Session Two of GRNC 2 – The Bone Grinders

A GREAT NORTHERN CRUSADE ADVENTURE from Greyhawkstories.com

(Campaign Notes and Adaptation by Thomas Kelly)

Prelude

Sir Harrasin stands post near Grabford’s Morsten gate. He guards the encampment of the crusade from what terrors might come. Alert and wary, weary-eyed he stares into the third watch of the night. The hours pass. The undead fog rolls out again, blanketing all around the city under siege. Would a ghost or ghoul creep in those shadows, how should he know? Shadows gather about. Harrasin swings the torch back and forth, here and there. The flame and light casts them back; they recede into mist. He shivers in the chill damp air. Hours pass. Heavy eyelids. His head nods. The woman draws near. Estell. She moves through the dream, smooth-skinned, long-limbed, and alluring in all that finery, silk, and perfumed scent. She presses one slender finger to the dazed knight’s forehead. “Protect me always.” Yes. She must be protected. “Seek the Vetha.” He wakes with a start. He muses over the dream, “The Vetha is dead. We found her body. Dina is dead.”

Scene One: Round the Pyre

Morning roll call reveals three men missing. A quick search reveals three more corpses. Men murdered in the camp. Three bodies, bloodless and limp.

Each morning, more victims. Who can endure it? Fear stalks the crusaders. The morale of the men falters. The strong arms of the Great Norther Crusade hang limply at their sides. Always the damn fog and mist, the rain and the mud, the gnawing apprehension, the shadows and nightmares, and the wail of tormented souls from within the walls of the city under siege. Ghouls skitter about and gibber at the edge of the camp, pawing the dirt for bones and remains. By night, the pounding of orcish drums and blood curdling yells from within the walls. Who can endure it?

The bodies of the victims must be thoroughly burned lest they rise undead in the service Maskelyne or his dark master, the Old One. Such is the outrageous sacrilege of these dark days. They gather lumber and build a pyre. Crusaders and Knights of the Shielding surround the pyre to recite lamentation. Oily smoke stings the eyes. The stench of burning flesh turns the stomach. Oleini, shieldmaiden of the sacred order, recites a lament from the book of dirges. Flames mount higher, and up from the flames rise a dark plume of smoke.

A horse and rider approach. Iron shod hooves splash the mud. The Lady Katarina, mounted upon her charger, draws near. She dismounts and doffs her warrior’s helmet. Fiery braids spill out over her shoulders, red and unruly like the flames curling up from the pyre. Her keen eyes flash with dragon’s fury. No man meets that gaze. She solemnly charges her hero knights, round about her, “Take ye vengeance for this hurt. Hunt these blood-guzzlers before they kill again.”

“As for that, what vengeance can I serve up if I should find them? My axe bites not against undead flesh!” Sir Harrasin kneels before the lady.

“Nay. Unless your blade be blessed or enchanted! Take it to a smith. One that can ensilver it to bite the flesh of devil, demon, wearbeast, and undead.”

“Behold! I have blade that will bite well enough,” Sir Flynn boasts. “This fine weapon I took from the hand of the wraith, and sufficient is the dweomer enscorcerling it.” He proffers the sword to the lady commander of the crusade.

The Lady Katarina takes up his blade and examines the make and the steel. Round about she turns it. She eyes the hidden runes etched upon its shaft. She purses her lips as she considers their read. She returns the blade to Sir Flynn, “Have a care soldier man, lest an evil blade betray the one that wields it.”

Scene Two: Seek the Vetha

“Pirate! I need a smith. The Lady of Walworth bids me ensilver my axe,” Sir Harrasin says.

 “Come with us to that Atoli camp. You’ll find a smith among my kinsmen what will silver your axe and all your blades and sharpen your sheep shears too,” promises Captain Paddy Lash. “Danni and I are needing counsel of their Vetha on account my crew won’t weigh anchor without the word of a Vetha to read the auguries.” Captain Paddy Lash nods to Danni, his darkharad man-at-arms.

“Well, in that case, take all of us with you on your errand. All our blades need a silversmith if we must fight the dead. Beside that, I might like a word from a seer, myself,” Harrasin says.

But Flynn won’t go. He has no need of ensilvering or card reading or fortune telling or the trinkets of gypsies and tinkerers. Besides, he has turned his attentions toward wooing young Queenie, the burglar girl of Paddy Lash’s crew.

Oleini won’t go. She cannot leave the infirmary while her administrations be so needed by so many.

Twiggy won’t go. She also attends to the wounded, and she has no need to ensilver her shillelagh club. Only Mirdon the magician agrees to the adventure, “Yes! Take me with you. My heart rejoices to leave this miserable mudhole, even if only for a day.”

Wispy spirits lights beguile them from their path. They come upon the shell of a fallen tower where six of the walking dead still guard their station. No matter. Mirdon’s fiery spellcraft sends zombies to a second death.

Little must be said of their adventures thither. They pass from the noisome siege into the silent mournful countryside. They make their way among abandoned fields and farms of old Furondy that once prospered round the river fords. A pair of horsemen, cloaked and hooded, nearly overtakes them on the road. They conceal themselves as the riders draw near. Skeletal, undead, patrols of Maskelyne. The riders pass by but spy not the heroes.

“Your spellcraft has waxed great!” Sir Harrasin observes.

Mirdon grins. “I have need of more yet if we must face the vampires.”

The travelers pass the crossroads where stands a gallows and dangling noose. Many gravestones and faded placards record the names of men condemned.

Scene Three: The Atolai Camp

Passing on from that unhappy place, they come at length of hour upon the Atolai encampment beside a running river. Such wagonfolk follow the armies, encamp near their encampments, and offer their various services for the soldiers’ coins. Their carts and wains and wagon-homes circle about the Vetha’s tent. Children run out to greet the new arrivals with trinkets and goods, “A copper for the necklace. A copper for the scarf!” With a blur and flurry of summersaults and cartwheels, they ply the strangers for attention. Pickpockets circle like carrion birds. Long-haired strumpets lean out wagon windows.

“Here’s the smith to ensilver your axe and all your blades,” Paddy Lash motions to the smithy’s cart. “But you’ll pay gold for his silver.”

“Fair enough!” says Harrasin. He counts out the gold to the gypsy smith and tosses a few coppers to the children. “While we await the smithcraft, let me get some soothsaying with this Vetha woman, too.”

Paddy Lash, Danni, Harrasin, and Mirdon enter the tent of the Vetha. She seats them round about her table and serves them tea and biscuits.

“Here’s our coin. Please read our cards for a safe voyage. Our seer was slain by the bloodsuckers, and we have no one left to read the auguries,” Paddy Lash explains.

The matron takes a coin from Paddy Lash. Slips it into her purse. She rolls her eyes back into her head. She shuffles a deck of cards and lays them out face down before the Rhenee bargeman. She turns one over. “Behold! The Baker’s Dozen! You’ll not lift your anchor before you’ve finished the batch!”

“I don’t know that card. What’s the meaning?”

“Soon enough you’ll have your fill of it,” the Vetha says. “Look to it.”

The matron takes a coin from Danni the Darkhagard. Slips it into her purse. She rolls her eyes back into her head. She shuffles the deck and lays them out face down before Danni. She turns one over. “Behold! The Avenger! Your card is the hangman! Surely, he sleeps at the crossroads, beneath the gallows.”

“Never so cryptic were my sister’s auguries,” Danni complains. “A pity the loss of a silver coin for uncertain words.”

The matron takes a coin from Mirdon the Magician. Slips it into her purse. She rolls her eyes back into her head. She shuffles the deck and lays out the cards face down before Mirdon. She turns one over. “Behold! The Broken One. His mind is broken, but his spells are strong. Will he be fiend or friend? That I cannot see.”

“Who is this broken one? Fiend or friend?” Mirdon demands.

The matron takes a coin from Sir Harrasin. Slips it into her purse. She rolls her eyes back into her head. She shuffles the deck and lays out the cards face down before the Shielding Knight. She turns one over. “Behold! The Temptress. Be wary and be warned, but do not forget the bed in which she sleeps.”

Harrasin blushes, “It’s all foolishness. As I thought. There is nothing to any of it.”

“Let’s see if you don’t think better of me on the morrow,” the Vetha says.

Scene Four: Tale of the Mad Magician

The smithying is underway. They wait the remains of the day and most of the next. The blacksmith refires the blades with a touch of molten silver. Even Danni’s blades and harpoons get touched with the alloy. A true craftsman, he will not be rushed. “It does take much. Just enough to break the enchantment. Werewolves, wraiths, whatever else might show no fear of iron will learn to fear these arms soon enough.”  

While the smith pumps his bellows and beats his anvil, Captain Paddy Lash, Danni, Sir Harrasin, and Mirdon pass the time trading stories with the Atolai men. Mirdon inquires among the merchants, “Have you any old spell books or scrolls written in magical script? I myself am a collector, and I will pay for such.” The merchants bring him what items they have. He acquires a few odd scrolls at a fair price.

“Well, if it’s spell writing you want, go find the mad mage. He has scrolls and parchment books aplenty, I figure, and he will write you one too if you have the gold enough to pay him for the trouble.”

“Where is this mage found?”

“He’ll be found only wherever you chance to find him and none place else! On a time he putters about inside the city walls, or walks long the canal road. I’ve seen him sitting at the wharves staring out over the fords. Then he wanders all about the countryside and haunts these burnt out villages too.”

“And why is called mad?”

“The townsfolk tell he came up from Greyhawk City in his right mind to challenge the new Lord Grabford. A mage of a name. He stirred up the folk to take back their city. Well, the new lord saw to that soon enough.  Quick as Nimble Jack, he sent a terror called up from the abyss what to chase the mage down and scourge him with fire, too. That demon bared him and threw him down from atop the towers! Slew all his followers, too. Now the old fool knows not even his own name, nor when he comes, or where he goes.”

“His mind is broken, but his spells are strong,” Mirdon repeats the Vetha’s words.

Scene Five: The Old Mill

Way back from the Atolai camp, comes a woman on the road. Distraught of mind, wild with grief, she throws herself at the feet of Sir Harrasin. “Goodman of the Shielding! Mercy! Prithee! A son and a daughter had I, ‘til my husband sold them to the witches in yon’ mill, coin for pastries.”

“Mother, by my honor, I take up this adventure,” Sir Harrasin says. What else might a Knight of the Shield say? But no such honor knows Captain Paddy Lash. He lifts his eyes to yon’ mill.

Perched atop a promontory, frowning down upon the road, there leans precariously a dilapidated stone windmill topped with onion-shaped dome. It’s warped wooden vanes are stripped bare and no longer turn. Yet, a smoking stovepipe juts forth from the brick of the lower floor.

“I’ll not have of this adventure,” Paddy Lash shudders at the sight of the mill.

“Will you not? Any fool can see the read behind the Vetha’s card. I can smell it in the air. In yon’ mill will be your Baker’s Dozen,” Mirdon says. “If you want to lift anchor, have at it.”

Paddy Lash sniffs at the air. The sweet smell of oven pastries, warm from the oven, invites him thither.

Now Danni is keen for the adventure, eager for the fight. “Let’s see what there is to these pastry bakers.” He hefts his harpoon and sets off with brave Sir Harassin. Captain Paddy Lash and Mirdon follow close behind. Danni boasts, “Herein sure we’ll find the vampire and his wives, Belle and Estell, and I shall be avenged of my Dinah’s death!”

Not so.

Inside the windmill what did they find? Shall we tell all that befell them in that cursed place? Nay. Tell of the place is well known enough among those who adventure. Suffice to say three hags they find, Morgantha and her daughters, grinding children’s bones into fine flour. The flour they bake into pastries, little cakes, crisp and sweet. They load their dainties on a vendor’s card and push them cart through Grabford’s narrow streets, hawking in honeyed voice, “Dream pastries! Dream pastries! If a man eat of them, sweet is his sleep without terror of the night.” And much a man will pay in that haunted place for a taste of those pastries. So Morgantha and her daughters ensnare the sorry souls of Grabford’s starving sleep-robbed folk. When hungry folk can no more afford their sweets, they’ll pay their little sons and daughters. More bones to grind to flour. More pastries for the streets.

Wretched hags! Deceivers! Servants of Iuz, all three of them.

Danni leads the attack. Sir Harrasin follows at his back. Paddy Lash slinks along in the shadows. Mirdon readies his eldritch spells.

Oh! What mighty blows are dealt out there! And all of Mirdon’s flashing spellcraft too. A hag fights fiercer than dragons in a pinch, but too quick comes the harpoon from Danni the darkharad, the backstab from Captain Paddy Lash, the ensilvered knightly two-handed battle axe of noble Sir Harrasin, and all of Mirdon’s dweomercraft too. The hags flee. Pop. Pop. Pop. Vanish themselves away. Shift themselves from this Oerth to another world, lest they receive as their deeds deserve.

Now, what do you think is found in the upper rooms where Morgantha’s daughters danced round the gear shaft of the mill? Wooden crates, and in the crates, two children of the Grabford folk. A boy called Freek, seven years old. A girl called Myrtle, barely five. Both still alive. Near to have their bones ground to flour.

Another crate, much larger, Harrasin finds. Inside the crate, another crate—an empty coffin in a crate. “Robbing cemeteries to feed their bone-grinder mill!” the knight concludes. “Let’s get out of this place. Return these young ones to their mother’s arms.”

Scene Six: The River Crossroads

The hour is late. The afternoon darkens; for Sunsebb days are far too short. Haunted mists rise among the trees. Sore from the fight, heroes are eager to return to the camp before night.

“Look,” says Danni. “Didn’t the vetha say one sleeps at the crossroads, beneath the gallows? Well, here is the crossroads, and here stands the gallows and a dangling noose. Round about we see gravestones and placards with the names of those who sleep beneath Oerth—criminals and men condemened. Might be a vampire is one among them.”

“Is it not strange the Iuzian priests leave these graves to lie in peace?” Mirdon observes.

“Here’s the sexton’s shovel. Shall we dig up the bones?”

“Unlucky to disturb the dead! I won’t have part of it,” objects Paddy Lash.

“The hour grows late. We will want to be back to the encampments before an hour passes,” Mirdon says. “We can return on the morrow with our companions.”

The four men think not more upon it. They turn to make their way hither. But turning back momentary, Mirdon casts over his shoulder a fleeting glance at the frowning gallows and fancies a corpse hangs from the noose. Yes. In the gathering dusk, it seems to him that a the body gently pivots on the rope to face him. What devitrly is his? The face on the sagging head is his own.

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Sources, The Marklands, Iuz the Evil, The Adventure Begins, Living Greyhawk Gazeteer, Curse of Strahd

Read the whole series from The Great Northern Crusade