Saltmarsh

1. The Reeve Thord Hragnelfsson
2. Sheriff Arinbjorn Helgisson

-From “Autumn, 1230…”

A terrible event has befallen the folk of Saltmarsh. Raiders from the south- Slavers from Andalor and their beastly allies, Gnolls of the Golden Savannah, penetrated deep into the Duchy of Kell to spread chaos and terror behind the borders therein. Even our village of Saltmarsh, so far north in the Duchy, was not spared their predations. Word of raiders moving north had reached us, but we hadn’t thought, in our wildest dreams, they would come this far north.

They struck from the woods like ghosts from legend, attacking with no warning, no mercy, no distinction of foe, striking old and young alike. A visiting friend of the village, Fydd, a dwarven merchant-warrior, helped save many, forming up our scattered defenders into an escort to guide as many of our people as possible to safety. Many were saved this way, brought to Star Mantle, an Elven settlement we have maintained a civil relationship with for many years. When the raiders thought to pursue, they quickly learned the error of their ways, and wisely chose to cut their losses before losing any more men to hails of arrows from an enemy they never saw.

Fydd and some of our warriors kept returning to the lands of Saltmarsh repeatedly to find as many stragglers as they could and bring them to Star Mantle. Eventually no more could be found- so they began to search for who was dead and who was captured, relying on the testimonies of the survivors to determine where to look. Over the next few weeks rescue forays became scouting missions, then guerilla attacks when the opportunities arose. They made it expensive indeed for the raiders to stay, and eventually the withdrew from our lands.

It was in these weeks that a young man rose to prominence among our warriors. Every foray, every sortie, every attack we engaged in, he was counted among those going and returning. Donjar Ironwristson was his name, and he carried nothing more than his leathers and his father’s hammer. He was a simple man, a boy, really, the son of the village smith, Halver Ironwrist. Strong of arm and spirit for one of his age, he was single-minded in the tasks before him. He did not judge others and was uncomfortable with praise given him. He was a man of duty, of doing what is needed. He did not see his actions as glorious or praise-worthy. Just as things needing to be done, nothing more.

When the raiders finally abandoned our lands, Donjar and Fydd led the efforts in rebuilding our home so that our people could return some semblance of home. Others struck out in efforts to discover how this happened, or to gain experience to prepare themselves if it ever happened again. Some turned their backs on our home, most stayed- whatever they needed to do to cope with the losses of this terrible autumn in our lands…

                                                                                                         Set down by the pen of Ulger Whitehand, a baker in Saltmarsh

-from “Spring, 1231…”

It was a tearful day when Fydd left us to finally continue with the responsibilities and travel abandoned during the time we needed the grizzled merchant warrior’s help. “Look to that lad, Donjar, if you have any questions about what to do next- he seems a decent sort to ask.” Fydd said as the road beckoned.

Donjar, young as he was, had a head more level than most coming through the recent raider crisis, and was always helping where he could, day and night. He would help in patrolling the lands, repairing buildings, making tools- anytime when one pair of hands wasn’t enough, the youth Donjar would be there to aid in whatever way was needed.

In the spring after the raids, another type of foe reared its ugly head and placed our lands in its sights: the tradesmen and merchants looking to make a profit from the desperate, the lowest of the low looking to make coin from those who have lost nearly all.

We dealt with them as best we could, but a few still lined their purses with what little we had left. If there was anyone who had trouble saying no to a bad bargain, Donjar would come to say no for them. His calm, dutiful outlook on things allowed him a sort of simple, no-nonsense cunning that took most of these charlatans aback. Their world of half-truths and hidden meanings allowed little in the way of straightforward duty and honesty, and most were ill-prepared for such vision.

There was one, though, that came to Saltmarsh, his cart laden with all kinds of goods and trinkets and charms and unguents. He was a gnarled, bent old man, with a staff and one glaring, darting eye, the other sealed shut with a patch- covered scar. He came to the inn and said “I seek this youth, Donjar, the Dealer of Saltmarsh. I have bargains I wish to strike.” He told us how he heard tell of this honest youth in Saltmarsh, with his simple outlook and honest manner of dealing, and wished to speak with him. We had seen this man’s cart and saw little we thought would interest Donjar. There were no tools or building materials, or feed or seed. We sent for Donjar and he came shortly after. He looked at the man’s wares and shook his head. “We are rebuilding our homes, and there is nothing you have that we can use right now. I’m afraid you’ve come at a bad time.”

He made to leave but the old man stopped him. “Are you sure, son of Ironwrist? Look carefully.”

Donjar humored him and looked again. His brow furrowed, and very soon he realized the village did need something of the old man’s: the cart itself. Our wainwright was still recovering from his injuries and we had very few carts and wagons left from the raids and having this cart could help a great deal in our efforts to rebuild. Donjar said as much to the old man. He was elated at the youth’s choice and invited him into the tavern to discuss the price. Donjar grimaced- he did not care for such bandying of words, but his home needed this cart.

They sat at the bar and no sooner did they get their first ale than Donjar asked the price outright.

But the old man was fond of talking, it seemed, and artfully engaged the boy into telling stories of the recent travails of our village. Many of us stayed to listen, to see what bargain would be struck. As time wore on into the night, there were fewer of us left to listen, until finally it was just myself to record what happened next.

The old man paid for the drinks, but Donjar only nursed along one, maybe two ales the whole time, whilst the merchant had many, many tankards. He seemed no worse for it, though, as sharp in wit and word as when he first sat down.

Finally, the old tradesman asked, “I suppose you are wishing to know what price I would accept for my cart, eh?”

Donjar’s eye narrowed in slight suspicion. “Aye, but just the cart.”

“But how would I carry my other things? In my gnarled hands?” He said with a mischievous twinkle in his one eye.

“I don’t know. But all I need is the cart.”

“Well, then, perhaps a good enough price will let me include my goods in the cart as well, hmm?”

“Perhaps. Name your price, merchant. I’ve already paid for some of it in half a day’s lost labor.”

“My, such devotion. Well then, here is my price… a thousand gold-”

Donjar choked on his drink. “What!?” He sputtered.

“Or… answer me a riddle.”

Donjar stopped. We exchanged glances, he and I, as if to ask if we had heard the old man right.

“A riddle?”

“Yes.”

Donjar’s brow furrowed in thought. “This is too easy, what’s the rub, here? If I fail to answer, I get nothing for the village. What are you to get out of this?”

The old man smiled. “Well, if you fail to answer correctly, there is something I get.”

“Do tell. What?”

“Your strength, serving me for a year and a day. You leave this village and become my drudge until that time has passed.”

I dropped my flagon and stood up. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. This youth was becoming a central figure in this village. To lose him that long would be a blow to everything we were trying to do here. He was a simple, straightforward young man, his mind was not like a trickster or a merchant, he was not cunning or wise in the ways of mind games. If he took this deal he would lose. We all would.

“The cart?” Donjar asked.

“Yes.”

“And its contents?”

“Yes.”

I went to the boy’s side and begged him not to accept this foolish contest. He held up his hand to silence me.

“I accept. Ask your riddle.”

I staggered back, aghast. What would we do now?

The old man clapped his hands and rubbed them in anticipation. “Good, my boy! Here is the riddle.” He stood from the barstool and rose to his full height, taller and straighter than I remember seeing him before, and when he spoke, the torches and lanterns dimmed and his voice, deeper than any I had ever heard before, whispered the riddle, yet still the sound carried to every corner of the tavern.

“Who is that shrill one, who rides a hard road, and has fared that way before. He kisses hard who has two faces and goes softer only on gold. Donjar, son of Ironwrist, think on that.”

Donjar stood and walked the floor a bit, deep in thought. The merchant had resumed his seat, looking like himself again. The barkeep and maids had fled, and we three were the only ones there, now.

“Your answer?” He asked.

“A moment or two, please.”

“As you wish. I like to be woken one candlemark after dawn, with breakfast ready. I’m fond of bacon.”

“Do tell.”

The merchant smiled. His air of self-assuredness was disconcerting rather than irritating. His certainty made me feel that he knew exactly what would happen before he even arrived in our village.

Donjar rested his hands on his belt, and his right thumb stroked the top of the nailing hammer in its loop there. I saw him smile, then. He threw a wink my way and returned to his seat. I dared to hope.

“Ah, I see you have an answer to my riddle already?” The merchant asked. “Well, then, are you prepared? For your year and such of servitude?” Donjar just smiled. Almost eagerly, it seemed to me. I saw the bent old man’s confidence waiver just the slightest bit. “Well… I believe we are-”

“A hammer.” Donjar interrupted. “The answer is ‘a hammer’.”

The merchant froze, completely. I could hear him breathe, nothing more.

“That is the answer, is it not? ‘The shrill one, who rides a hard road, and has fared that way before’ is the hammer upon the anvil, ringing out as it strikes, and many times at that. ‘He kisses hard, who has two faces’; hammers don’t strike lightly, and they usually have two different heads, or faces, depending on the type of work they’re meant for. ‘And goes softer only on gold’? Well, gold is soft, and it takes a lighter touch than what I’m used to working with, for certain. Does this answer your riddle, old man?”

“Quite so,” the merchant said, almost too quietly to hear. But we knew then that Donjar had answered the riddle true!

The old man drew himself upright and, instead of grumbling in defeat, beamed at the strapping lad and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done, my boy, well done, indeed! Allow me a moment to ready my cart for your claim and I’ll be on my way.” With that he turned and walked from the bar and out the door into the night.

I asked Donjar how he knew the answer. He said that riddles are just complicated ways of describing simple items. Think of the simplest possible thing that does what the riddle describes, and you’ll usually have the correct answer. Such a wise young man, I thought, as I followed him outside when he went to check on the cart and his winnings for the village. The old man could only have been there for mere moments before Donjar and I went to check on his progress.

But he was nowhere to be seen. The cart was there, but instead of a hodge-podge of goods and trinkets piled in the back it was empty. Instead, the items were divided up into many individual baskets on the ground around it, each with the name of one or more villagers scrawled on a tag tied to the handles. It would have taken many a man an hour or more to do what he had done in the few moments he was out of our sight. I exchanged a wary glance with the youth, and could see he was as shaken as I.

And it turned out that the items, every last one of them, was something we lost in the attacks we were still rebuilding from.

I have no explanation for this, but when asked, an elder villager said that the gods themselves would walk the earth to reward the worthy in their own, unknowable ways. I believe this is what happened.

Set down by the pen of Galder Gray-Eye, woodworker, and acting village alderman

(the event depicted above by Galder Gray-Eye was pretty much as described, but for one embellishment- Donjar did not answer the riddle correctly due to youthful wisdom, but instead because he had heard it before when he stayed with elves in Star Mantle for a brief time.)