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Category: Greyhawk Novels
Grudger Tom, Sherrif, and the Tree Top Road
Chapter Seventeen of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
“Thanks be to Mother Beory! If not for you children, sure as seven hells, I’d be lying there dead with these me two fellas!” The survivor gestured toward his fallen companions.
“Tut, tut,” I drew up my steed alongside the man. “We are servants not of Oerth Mother such as the heathen adore but of the proper gods of Old Aerdy.” As an afterthought, I added with some reluctance, “And also, by some commission, Ehlonna, Lady of the Wood.”
He looked on me quizzically and then cast his eyes to Bruin. When his gaze fell last upon William, his face darkened with suspicion. “Whatever and whoever you serve, help me now to bury me kinsmen, these good men of the Geoff Lands, lest they be food for beast and fiend. I’ll raise a mound atop them ‘til me fellows return for their pyre. Then will I be on me way and leave you to your business.”
“No need to fear,” I assured him. “We too are Geoffmen and men of the March. I see by your colors, tunic and cloak, you are one of the duke’s bowmen. Perhaps a member of the Lea scouts?”
Friends or Foes?
The ranger gestured toward William, pointing at the goblin with his naked blade, “That’s no Geoffman nor man of the March! Nor are these woods fit for child and a little hobniz lad less they be slaves and sacrifices under the Goblin Trees.” Still brandishing the sword, he turned toward Bruin, preparing to face off with the big warrior, for he supposed him a flesh trader.
Continue reading “Grudger Tom, Sherrif, and the Tree Top Road”The Dawn Pool
Chapter Fifteen of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
While the wood remained lightless and black except the coals of Ivan’s meager fire we rose from where we camped down—happily not chained in unseelie dungeons to pay for our trespass. The violent wind of the night had travelled on into other lands but left behind its train of cold dragged down from the icy north. Ivan added sticks to the fire with the last of the drywood. So we hunched about those little flames, glad of what warmth they offered. My limbs felt stiff from chill; fingers and toes burned with the cold. In such manner I shivered through morning devotions.
“I am cold, and I am thirsty,” Myron mumbled. His mummy scarves, once more wrapped around his misshapen face, made his words difficult to discern, but I caught the ensuing taunt clear enough, “Speak to your gods, hobniz priest; work a miracle, and bring up a spring of water.” He crooked a finger at me.
I cleared my throat. “Tut, tut. Father Yoseffo, an elderly priest in Hochcoch, exercised such a gift, but my Lady has never yet granted such to me. I have not yet attained it,” I admitted. Myron dismissed my candor with a skeptical sniff.
“Breakfast or no, let’s do press on quickly,” Cirilli urged.
“The quicker we leave dark seelie wood, the better I like it,” Sir Belvenore agreed. The knight was already strapping on his heavy armor. “I’ve no love for any of this miserable wood, least of all this dreadful place.”
In short time, we had the weary horses saddled and mounted. Ivan led us along slowly lest we wander from the path and become lost in the Old Weald. In his left hand he held the reigns of his steed, and in his right, he held aloft a burning brand. The torchlight sent shadows playing among the trees to either side of the narrow road. Gnarled faces of knot, nob, and bark, long frowning in the darkness, now glowered at us from the broad trunks of venerable ash and oak. All the woods stood silent about as we passed. None of us dared speak a word aloud in the morning darkness.
The Dawn Pool
At length the cold and silent darkness softened to the grey halflight of Dimwood morning, and I discerned that, somewhere high above the thick overshading canopy the morning sun now looked down on the old eldritch forest. Presently, the air felt less bitter, and the breath of the horses no longer steamed. What’s more, the morning songs of birds, nesting high above us, made gladsome sound. All the wood seemed less oppressive, the darkness less heavy, and the air tasted sweeter. A mile or so further and we saw a sight strange to our eyes—a bright light that we scarcely recognized: a gleaming shaft of sunlight penetrating to the forest floor. We marveled at the shimmering column of golden light in astonishment. William blinked and squinted and declared, “I never!”
Continue reading “The Dawn Pool”Covert of the Old Weald
Chapter Fourteen of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly
“Lords! My lords!” William fell to his knees, bowing and scraping before us, still trembling for the fright of the battle. “I swear by head and hide to serve thee, for I owe thee my debt of featly. But for thee, those captains would have flayed me! The ogre would crush me! The troll would tear off my arms and legs. Those bears—their claws—and that terrible eagle too! I am your servant, William, by my life!”
“Swear to it against your own name! Swear by the ugly names of all your ugly jebli gods,” Myron menaced. “May hobgoblins ravage you, may bears maul you, may an ogre tread upon your torn corpse, may a roc carry your carcass away to feed its young, and may a troll grind his teeth on your bones if you prove false to us or do us any harm. Swear it now!”
Utterly in awe of our powers, the terrified goblin agreed to those stern oaths and swore them against his own head. Yet for all that show of fealty, none of us felt any need to unbind his wrists or grant him leave to go about as he would.
Wounds and Weals
Cirilli and I exhausted all our strength attending to Ivan, leaving Belvenore and Bruin without divine touch for their own wounds. In addition to Ivan’s sores, we had the matter of the woodsman’s horse. The troll’s great claw had raked the flesh and lamed the animal’s leg. The Backluni charger’s eyes lolled about, wild with pain. The animal staggered and stumbled, whinnying most pitifully. None could approach it to unsaddle it or remove the packs it bore. It seemed a kindness to release the poor beast from its pains, but Cirilli would not countenance it.
“Listen child. Is it meet for us to let the beast suffer?” Belvenore insisted. “Let me do the thing. She will scarcely feel the touch of my blade.”
Then rose Cirilli from Ivan’s side, drew near to the injured animal, whispered in her twitching ear, and calmed the poor beast. “She says she will suffer me to attend to her wound,” Cirilli explained. To my astonishment, the horse submitted to let her wash and bandage the torn leg.
“So she speaks horse now?” Bruin asked.
Continue reading “Covert of the Old Weald”Free Greyhawk Novel
Download a free Dungeons & Dragons novel set in the world of Greyhawk, the original campaign setting for the worlds greatest role playing game! Follow the links below to get your free e-book or PDF version of The Hateful Wars: The Saga of Kristryd Olinsdotter.
Download your free copy of e-book here.
I originally published this novel as a chapter-by-chapter serial at Greyhawkstories.com back in the pandemic years (2020-2021). Since then, I have revised the text, corrected a lot of errors, and collected all the chapters into one convenient downloadable file that will work on e-readers like Kindle.
Continue reading “Free Greyhawk Novel”Errand in Hookhill
Chapter One of Under the Goblin Trees
Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly and sequel to Against the Cult of the Reptile God.
574 CY
In the year that Prince Thrommel vanished, the news of his disappearance did not reach the court at Hookhill until winter. I know this to be so because, when the news did arrive, I happened to be at the court of His Most Resolute Magnitude Commandant Petros Gwalchen of the Gran March to deliver a report about recent affairs in the neglected Barony of Farvale. Rumors abounded, and, as everyone now knows, the strange circumstances around the kidnapping of the prince have never been satisfactorily resolved. The disappearance of the prince and the handsome reward offered for his return inspired many Knights of the Watch and heroes of Gran March to set their hopes on errantries. What is more, the arrival of the news was shortly followed with a specific summons recalling heroes loyal to Furyondy, including two of my companions, those respected veterans of the Troll Wars on the borders of the Pale and also Emridy Meadows, the half-elven brothers Llywain and Dorian. Fealty to the fifth of the Seven Families of the house of Furyondy obliged them to depart at once.
Now this turn of events I took sorely because I had hoped that they might accompany me back to Farvale and Orlane, guarding me for safe passage through the hazards of the Dim Forest. They assured me, “You have nothing to fear Father Tabor. You have the mighty sword of Sir Bruin and the competent dweomers of Myron the Glamorer. What is more, we are sure that the commandant will provide you a company of doughty knights back to Orlane.”
In the Court of the Commandant
My appointment with the commandant came on Freeday the last day before the week of Needfest. This unfortunate piece of timing forced me to keep the report and its corollary appeal as brief as possible, for the court was eager to dispense with business as preparations for the festivities were already well underway and the everyone was already swept up with the spirit of the holiday.
Continue reading “Errand in Hookhill”Company of the Silver Wolf
Jared “CruelSummerLord” Milne
“The Crown’s a sacred artifact to the gnomish gods, one that Kalrek could use to become the king of my homeland of Flinthold,” Airk said. “We defeated Kalrek and his minions, and then we learned that the Crown was in the Great Kingdom of Aerdy’s South Province. We traveled there to retrieve it and were caught in a plot to destroy the Iron League. We thwarted that plot and retrieved the Crown, but by then it was nearly the end of autumn. We need to sail to the Principality of Ulek to return to Flinthold, but we won’t find a ship traveling at this time of year. We’ll be staying until after Needfest and then we’ll take a ship to Ulek in Fireseek.”
“May we see it?” the first young man asked.
“What, the Crown?” Airk asked in surprise.
“It’s just a request,” the young man said. “We only want to look at it-we don’t have much use for mineral wealth.”
At first Airk wanted to refuse, but he realized the truth in what they were saying. Reaching into his pack, he pulled out an object and unwrapped the cloth covering it, revealing it to be the Crown of Arumdina.
The Crown was a masterpiece of gnomish craft. It had a beautifully tailored cap of pure sable fur, a golden circlet ringed with rubies and platinum arches each lined with two rows of diamonds. The spaces between the Crown’s half-arches were filled in turn with the images of a raccoon, a sable, a badger and a mole, each wrought in gold and bearing bright emeralds for eyes. The Crown’s monde was of platinum like the arches, topped by a piece of mithril crafted to resemble a battleaxe.
Despite his reservations, Airk smiled at the Raballah youths’ admiration of the Crown’s beauty.
“How does the Crown get its name?” one of the young men asked, looking from the Crown to Airk and then back again. “You said your kingdom is called Flinthold, didn’t you?”
“Arumdina is the name of the battleaxe wielded by Garl Glittergold, greatest of the gnomish gods,” Airk said, beaming proudly. “That mithril axe is said to be a piece of Arumdina, giving a powerful magical blessing to the gnomish king who wears it, and the kingdom he rules.”
The Silver Wolf trilogy is now four complete books. Which means it’s not a trilogy any longer.
The Company of the Silver Wolf originally developed online at Canonfire! as Jared “CruelSummerLord” Milne chronicled the adventures and developed the stories of his campaigns across the Flanaess. With the addition of his latest installment, For the Honor of the Crown, Milne brings the tale to its epic conclusion. Read the new installment, or start at the beginning. You can read all four books in the Silver Wolf series here.
Into the Abyss
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Forty-Six
Thomas Kelly
Hedvyg lifted the dagger, poised to plunge it into the queen’s heart. The Dengar dwarves turned their grey-bearded faces away, unwilling to watch the sacrifice. Dame Thresstone took three steps backward toward the open door. She scarcely dared to breathe.
“Hedvyg! The book for the life of the queen!” Bagbag offered. He slammed the book shut. It closed with a clap like thunder. “Take it! I keep my oath.” He latched the brass clasps and dropped the heavy tome amidst a clutter of parchments, books, and candles strewn atop a wooden table. The magical devilshine in the room flickered and faded away. The eerie swirls of color disappeared, and the all the illuminations returned to those of normal light cast by candles and lamps. The summoners circle which, until then, had slowly revolved at the center of the floor, also faded away as if it had never been there.
Hedvyg laid the dagger down upon Kristryd’s chest. The blade rested upon the finely-crafted ringlets of the queen’s mithril shirt. Moving slowly and cautiously, never taking her eyes off Bagbag, the witch rose to her feet. The expression on her ancient face indicated that she expected treachery. She edged her way to the table and warily crept up on the brassbound book. She glanced at it only briefly, lest Bagbag take advantage of her distracted attention and utter a spell. “The book should have been mine from the start,” she sniffed. “Drelnza wanted me to have it, not Gretyll.”
“Yes,” Bagbag agreed. “It should have been from the start. And now it is.”
Continue reading “Into the Abyss”Ceremonies
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Forty-Five
Thomas Kelly
“They fall back before us!” Bamadar roared. Jubilant and maddened with battle rage, he hacked his way forward into the thick press of goblins. Behind them the first light of morning already softened the dark sky. Kristryd risked a glance over her shoulder. Her eyes anxiously searched the dark silhouettes of turrets and towers until she espied a faint green light flickering and flashing in one of the high tower windows. Turning her attention back to the fight that boiled all around her, the queen’s eyes narrowed with concern. They had strayed too far from the protection of Hoch Dunglorin’s walls.
“Hold Bamadar! We dare not further! If they outflank us, we are cut off and the gates undefended,” she shouted. Her voice could not carry above the din of battle. I must signal them to fall back! Pushed along with the crush of the fight, she struggled to lift the horn of Celene to her lips. Before she could sound the note, a sudden eruption from the fight ahead abruptly reversed the forward momentum and sent Bamadar tumbling backwards and crashing into her. She fell to the ground with the heavily armored dwarf sprawled backward on top of her. As she disentangled herself, a mad blur in the darkness emerge from the goblin line. A half-score of hobgoblins pushed and shoved their way forward at impossible speed and with impossible strength. Charging like stallions, they passed by her as a rushing wind. So quickly they moved that eye could scarce follow their pace. They tossed aside goblins, orcs, dwarves, and gnomes that stood between them and the gatehouse. Before Kristryd could recover her feet, they were already leaping the makeshift wall the dwarves had placed across the entrance to the barbican. Bodies of dwarves went hurtling over the moat and cracked against the stone walls of the fort as if thrown by giants.
Continue reading “Ceremonies”Hail, Kristryd
The Hateful Wars: Chapter Forty-Two
Thomas Kelly
“The messenger has returned,” Bamadar announced. He had to shout to make his voice heard above the thrumming of rain on the oiled skin canopy stretched over the pavilion.
“Step in, Bammer, and dry your beard,” the queen summoned. The soggy soldier lifted the heavy fabric of the door flap and stepped into the dimly-lit pavilion. He shook his head and shuddered his shoulders like a dog shakes itself dry. Turning his attention to the thane’s table, he bowed before the queen. Kristryd reclined next to trueheaded old Bagbag. Her son Pegli sat on her other side. No others were present. “Well, you look comfortable and dry!” Bamadar observed.
“Don’t leave the man standing in the rain,” the queen scolded.
Bamadar raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You would have him enter your pavillion?” he asked for clarification.
“Before he melts or floats away,” she insisted.
Bamadar shrugged and stepped back out into the rain. A moment later he returned with the messenger, an equally soggy traveler, shivering with the cold. He stooped to enter through the low-cut canvas door flap. As the traveler stood to his full height, Pegli leaped to his feet in astonished disbelief. “Mother! That’s an orcblood!” he stated the obvious in protest.
“I recognize him,” Bagbag observed with distaste. He narrowed his eyes and sized the man up. “Claimed to be a Duchyman and a vinter.”
“Billy Locks of Gliddensbar, m’lords and lady,” the orcblood executed a quick bow toward the dwarves reclining at table. Somewhat self-consciously, he edged nearer to the hot coals burning on the open brazier at the center of the room. His pig-like eyes darted from face to face as he warmed himself. The glow of the hot coals burning cast a play of shadows which made his orcish features the more devilish.
“Mr. Locks has proven himself a servant most reliable,” Kristryd offered in his defense.
“One of your horse-flesh traders?” Bagbag asked with a dismissive snort.
Kristryd ignored him and focused her attention on the half-orc. “Were you able to deliver my invitation?”
Billy Locks nodded eagerly. “Yes, m’lady. That I did. Ol’ gundygut’s lonely ear went all atwitch with the news. He’ll take yer bait fer sure.”
“What’s this? With what have you baited the trap?” Bagbag asked.
“We are the bait,” the queen explained. She turned back to the half-orc, “How long before Hroth comes?”
“He’s gathered his headmen, and all the tribes too. They’ll be already on the march by now.”
“They won’t march in the rain,” Bagbag asserted.
“Oh, they’ll march in the rain, they will!” Billy Locks contradicted the wise loremaster. “Hroth’s promised plenty o’ spoils, and he tells them they’ll be wintering in Tringlee and Jurnre too.”
“Mother, what have you done?” Pegli asked wide-eyed and wary.
“How many does Hroth bring to the field?” Kristryd asked the spy.
“All of them!” the half-orc promised.
Continue reading “Hail, Kristryd”
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