This page contains:
- Chapter 1-4 from Prince of the Elves
- My favorite scene from Prince of the Elves: “Moreau’s Ford”
- Second favorite scene: “Rescue in Heros”
- Chapter 1 from my spoof based on Terry Brook’s Magic Kingdom – Kindle only
Chapters 1-4
from Prince of the Elves
Chapter 1
The Druid suddenly opened his eyes, staring up into the oppressive darkness, which was so deep that it seemed to permeate his very skin; he could see nothing. The only sounds that reached his ears were that of his own breathing and, somehow, the resonating of his heartbeat. But where was he? He could see no stars, feel no breeze, hear no stirrings in the night. Continuing to gaze up toward the heavens above, waiting for inspiration, it took him a few spans of heartbeats to recall where he was: in the deep recesses, once used as a prison, of the Druid castle and under guard, lock and key. He lay there breathing. Though fully refreshed, rejuvenated and whole, it would take a bit before his mind cleared from such prolonged sleep. How many times had he done this? How many more times would he extend his life this way?
But what had aroused him? He waited; memories always initially stirred slowly after ten cycles of the sun of restoration. Again, he felt the agitation that had wakened him, the spell he had set to arouse him from the Druid Sleep if Daektoch the Black Mage exerted his malevolent power. Swiftly he rose, his long brown robes and mantle flowing behind him. He strode to the thick-planked door hung on heavy iron hinges, moving like a man of forty cycles though he was well over six hundred, and rapped twice. He then drew back the bolts that would allow the guard to undo the locks on the opposite side of the door; personal safety had a high priority when undergoing the Druid Sleep.
*****
It neared one-quarter of the moon’s course under the star-filled sky by the time Jerhad, unaware of how Destiny had resolved to change his life, reached the Rogue Stream. The Rogue, a cold mountain torrent flowing chiefly east to west between the southern Coastal Ridge and bordered on the north side by the Rogue Ridge, had its source in a mount known as Freemont and ended at the Mage River about one league north of Mildra. The icy stream emptied into the river in one last glorious display on its way to the sea, its waters cascading down over a cliff’s edge one hundred paces below to where there formed a small lake that was a summer, swimming hole for children and a favorite local fishing spot for Blue-gilled Trout and Red Perch.
The chill of its waters was a bit too keen for the adults.
Set upon a cloudless, velvety indigo sky, the silvery moon, risen well over the Coastal Ridge, lit the path enough so that he would not need to slow his pace. He stared up at the sharply graded cliff he must climb to get to the trail that followed the Rogue to Canon. By the snowmelt-swollen stream, cool crisp air refreshed the terrain from the course’s oppressive heat. Sounds of frogs, spring peepers and crickets mingled with the roar of the Rogue’s waters plunging into the Mage. The night made him feel alive as he reflected on how good things were at home and in his village, leaving him with a sense of security and well-being. This part of Frontmire had not known war, famine or plague in over five hundred cycles of the sun, and the Elves by nature were keenly aware of their fortunate state. At peace among themselves and their neighbors, the Elven villages prospered.
Wouldst thou be willing to do such, Jerhad? came the old man’s words to his mind, as a specter in the night.
How did he know my name? Jerhad was sure he had not told him. Again, he surveyed the opening in the forest, the trailhead of the path that would follow the Rogue between the mountains. Cutting straight east, he would save six settings’ journey. The track, treacherous at times and isolated, often could be void of traffic for more than a half-cycle of the moon. One fall, one misstep could strand an injured traveler indefinitely. Fortunately, his mother knew which way he went.
“If I’m not back in twenty settings, send cousin William to look for me,“ he had told her.
“Ah, ye gods in the heavens, Jerhad. Why can’t you use Sether Road? You could die,“ she complained.
“I’ll be fine, Mother. Just plan on how you’ll spend that gold you swindled from me,” he had taunted her.
Time in Frontmire, and the surrounding lands, was counted by the sun’s course from sunrising to sunsetting. This time divided into four quarters and each quarter again into four spans. The night was similarly divided but by the moon’s travels regardless of its phases. In that sunrising to sunsetting varied by less than one span per season, these divisions were fairly constant.
About three spans of the moon’s course into the night, with the ease of a prowling moor cat, Jerhad journeyed eastward along the path along the Rogue. The dense forest canopy dimmed the soft moonlight; he still traveled at a good speed, for the Elves were of a naturally keen vision at night, utilizing any scant light, managing significantly better than other races.
The mountain stream, its stiff current churning through a boulder-strewn trek, left a lingering, misty and cool air about itself. Mosses and ferns grew thick among the lichen laden Great Live Oaks, their limbs heavy with Strolling Moss and Witch’s Beard. In the winter, the mist became far too cold and penetrating to allow reasonable use of the trail, but for now, it provided a sweet relief from the course’s earlier crushing heat. He traveled on.
Near two-quarters of the moon’s course, he stopped to drink from one of the pure springs that were so numerous in southern Frontmire hills and mountains. In spite of the cool air, a light sweat covered him, and he was thirsty. He drank from the untainted stream, sat and ate a bit of dried fish and fresh bread. Ahh! But could mother bake bread!
Jerhad, now in his twenty-fifth cycle, was a bright young male (only the Humans referred to their males as men). Content with his life at home, helping his parents, he had few pressing responsibilities, which he mostly enjoyed anyway. In his idle time, he occupied himself hunting, fishing with his friends and together exploring the forests along the Coastal Ridge and up along the Mage River. As most young males of the Elven population, he was not prone to mischief, crime or malice but, like all Elves, enjoyed a close communion with the land they worked and inhabited and waters they traveled and fished. The Elves, regrettably, had long forgotten their heritage of magic after having relocated from northern Frontmire to the southern plains and had settled down, becoming a good-natured, practical-minded sober race with a deep enjoyment for life, their legacy of magic lost. Jerhad had an imagination keenly fueled by his grandfather who loved telling stories of the old times: of magic and Druids, Elves of long ago, of dragons and Dwarves. Throughout his lifetime, Jerhad had always hoped that these stories, somehow, were true.
He had not been back on the trail long before he began hearing rustling sounds in the brush behind him. Probably wolves, he thought, but they should not have been following him. It was not uncommon for the local pack of wolves to come out of the mountains to attempt raids on the grazing flocks on the hills above Mildra, on the eastern banks of the river. However, they had also long ago learned that an encounter with the Elves could prove costly. Longbows and fierce herding dogs wearing spiked collars, the only dogs kept by the Elves, often claimed more wolves than the carnivores did sheep. The predators took great measures to avoid the Elves while hunting.
He moved on, listening intently to the sounds about him as he journeyed up the tortuous trail. With certainty, he knew that something, and more than one, stalked him and was closing in. Jerhad grew nervous. Normally, he retained a very calm mind-set, cool in a crisis, but now, this started to get to him. Being alone and in the dark did not help. Neither did his grandfather’s stories of hobgoblins and weredragons. He attempted to maintain a steady pace and remain calm, but finally, nerves beginning to fray, he pulled his long-knife from its sheath, the handle moist from the mist, yet surprisingly warm. He looked down to discover that the central stone, of the six imbedded in the handle, the green one, esord in the ancient tongue (meaning foe-finder), had a soft glow to it.
“What the…?”
The movement behind him came swiftly! That was one weredragon story too many for him! He ran. The pursuit followed close, the whispering of bodies slipping through the undergrowth hot on his heels. Fleeing at a sprint, he quickly outpaced his pursuers, but it was not long before his breathing became ragged; though in good shape and used to strenuous activity, he was spending himself too fast. He knew he had to get control of the situation before he became exhausted, before he gave away any advantage. Veering off the path he jumped the stream, which only measured some two paces width at this point, and landed in a thick cluster of brush on the opposite side. His lungs burned, wheezing, as he knelt amid the shrubs, listening, waiting, his knife ready. Again, the Elven blade drew his attention; looking down, he saw the yellow stone, licri in the ancient Elven tongue (meaning strength or mighty), glowing also. The amber glow of magic spread up along his arm, embracing him, calming, strengthening. His breathing slowed and grew easy.
On the path across from him, dark sinister shapes materialized along side of the icy, frothing stream. They were of Human form, only small, like children, underfed children, speaking in a fast, high-pitched gibberish. Jerhad could see that they held long thin, crooked looking blades. The blades! They appeared to be the kind of weapons his grandfather said the Forest Gnomes carried. These folk were the right size, carried the right kind of arms and spoke a different language. But what would Forest Gnomes want with me?
The group of Gnomes parted, and to the edge of the rippling stream came a larger Gnome, his hands cupped before him and illuminated with an evil red light, his face with a pointed nose, dark, narrow, slit eyes, and widely spaced spiky, reptilian teeth, reminding Jerhad of a possum. The Gnome stared down into his hands for a span of heartbeats and then looked up directly into Jerhad’s eyes, a wicked grin crossing his face. Pointing to Jerhad and shouting a command, he sent the whole of the troop swarming across the tributary after Jerhad.
Again, Jerhad ran. This time he did not go far but pulled up behind a Great Live Oak, leaning against the gnarled tree that caused his enlivened fingers to tingle with the sensation of the coarse bark, quickly having lost the Gnomes in the dark. The knife pulsed to the rhythm of his heart’s beating, as his consciousness opened to a hidden instinct deep within him, arousing a slumbering power. It was as if another intelligence or knowledge possessed him. Yet it was him, something of an innate nature awakening: something buried in the fiber of his being that he had never seen, felt or been aware of before. It felt like coming home or waking from sleep.
With the ease of a moor cat, Jerhad leapt up three times again his own height, into the massive limbs of the tree. Again, he leapt up higher; his Elven mind reeled at what transpired as he moved along, guided by the instinct, propelled by this force. Away from the tree, he ran, down the length of the bough, until it began to bend under his weight, and then the Elf sprang to the next tree. Swiftly he scampered, with the ease of a squirrel chasing through branches. His eyesight cleared until he could see as if by the midcourse sun. The sound of the bubbling stream behind him echoed loudly in his ears as the splashing of Gnome feet broke through the water.
Finally he stopped, euphoric at the changes occurring within him. Fear forgotten, his breathing easy, he waited. Shortly, he observed the evil glow making its way toward him.
They’re tracking me with it! But how? Unconsciously, he reached within his tunic and drew out the old man’s pouch, the silver rune emitting a soft silver-white glow. Quickly he returned the pouch to its place within his coarse travel tunic. How did he know my name?
Jerhad focused his attention on the Gnomes who were dispersed in the forest below him. There were at least eighty, the number of a squad; he clearly understood he could not fight that many of them. From his tree top vantage, Jerhad observed as the Gnome leader tracked him with the luminescent orb. The wicked grin looked up at Jerhad, and then the Gnome barked some orders, sending his underlings scurrying about. The Gnomes piled dried branches around the tree while two others sprayed an oily substance from skins onto the pile, the oil’s stench reaching up to the Elf. Soon, a fire blazed at the tree’s base, flames licking at the bark, the branches continuing to be piled higher.
Ouch! A shock from the knife handle surged up his arm, as if trying to draw his attention. The Elven blade handle’s blue stone, urcha (flight or safety), glowed with an enchanting light that infused his eyes as he gazed into it. It made him feel light-headed, almost ethereal. Again, instinct took over. Standing, he casually walked to the end of the branch, which for some reason did not bend or even move under his weight. His mind rebelled. No! I’ll be killed if I drop from this height. Slowly, he surrendered, watching himself as if in a dream, and let himself drop forward.
******
Thogg, the Gnome leader grinned, his sharp, pointy teeth fully exposed and eyes wide with mirth; he was, after all, a good-natured fellow when things went his way. The Gnomes finally had cornered their quarry. Having been sent in search of the pouch by the puny second-rate wizard, Avenar, the Gnomes had been in search of it for many courses of the sun. The Gray-mage had been insistent that they retrieve it, quickly and unopened. Their mission must have been important; the mad fellow had even given them use of the orb from his staff, the source of his newer magic, to track the pouch and its contents. The wizard was far too paranoid to leave his magically cloaked hideaway to go after the pouch himself.
Having traveled one score of settings of the sun toward the western sea and then south, they had sought an old man who at first had been at sea and sailing north toward the Mildra area, as seen in the orb. The old man had been replaced by a young Elf, now revealed within; well, actually, all Elves appeared young. Since yestercourse, the pouch had again been on land and would soon be in their possession. Their prey had provided a good chase, and it would have been impossible to track him in the dark without the orb, especially when he had seemed to run through the treetops. Now, as the flames about the Elf’s refuge grew higher, it would be a short time to possession of the pouch.
The Gnome leader watched on with the deep self-satisfaction he had when things went his way. Then he saw Jerhad stand and walk to the end of the branch. The fool’s going to jump!
“How quickly we despair, my little Elf-friend,” he chuckled.
Jerhad let himself fall from the tree. Down he went. At least, that’s the word that came to mind. Like falling into his grandmother’s duck down pillow. He not so much fell as he glided forward above the treetops on the steep cliffs on the north side of Rogue Ridge, away from the stream, the wind rushing across his face and through his hair, filling, as it were, his lungs with life and vigor, a bracing energy coursing through his entire body and his mind in ecstasy. Magic, foreign to the young male, filled him, leaving his mind reeling in bewilderment. In his primary escape from the Gnomes, Jerhad had unwittingly made his way to the top of Rogue Ridge and now progressed toward the River Rain one league away and to the north. With his hearing still keen from the magic’s influence, he heard what had the tenor of cursing echoing from the Gnomes on the ridge. His descent increased in speed as he followed above the treetops, arms stretched out as if he were winged. Under the luminescence of the moonlight, he saw the river approaching. He circled once above the water, dropping lower all the time. He circled again as he approached the northern bank of the river, his mind stupefied with the unfolding events.
Water filled his mouth and nostrils before he knew what happened! Fool! He had not been paying attention and had landed in the river. Breaking up through the surface, coughing and sputtering, he swam the short distance to shore. Cold and exhausted, the magic seemingly spent, he dragged himself up onto a hairline’s breadth of a shore, crawled underneath the opened and exposed roots of a gigantic Majestic cedar, and he was asleep before the last of the Gnomes that were thrown from the cliffs by their raging leader had hit bottom.
The sun, with promises of making an attempt at scorching the land again by midcourse, had been up one-quarter course when Jerhad woke, trembling from cold, dampness and hunger. Climbing out from his shelter of massive roots, he looked about. Jerhad had never been to the River Rain, which was separated from Mildra by the insurmountably sharp cliffs on the north side of the Rogue Ridge and continued northeast in the same manner all the way to the Maring Sea some fifteen leagues east of Mildra; extremely few of the existing Elves had. Somewhere along this stretch of the eastern turn of the river, there was a village named Rain’s Bottom. The name, he had heard tell, had come from the constant flooding that threatened the town during the wet season, the rain and snowmelt accumulating to their doorstep. Yet the residents stayed on, Rain’s Bottom’s denizens a mixture of trappers, fishermen, hunters, soldiers, shopkeepers and assorted vagabonds. More so, they were mostly all human! Yet, this remained his best option to get help or find how to get back home. Whether to go upstream or downstream was the only problem to solve.
His stomach grumbled; he might as well eat first. He still had his pack, his knife, which he noted no longer glowed, and yes, the old man’s pouch, which after verifying he still had, he returned within his clothes where he kept it, hanging on an oiled-leather strand. Pulling a loaf of soaked bread from his pack, he decided that it definitely had the look of fish food to it, and so, he dropped it into the river. The wedge of cheese wrapped in a beeswaxed cloth seemed to have survived better than the soggy, smoked fish.
Well, I guess it’s cheese and sopped fish for breakfast! he thought as he sat himself down in a sunny spot, hoping to dry off his clothes and warm himself. Having eaten, he decided to set a couple of driftwood timbers afloat and ride down the river. The current seemed fast enough, and he was already wet. Drifting downstream would beat trying to blaze trail through the brambles that choked the riverbank. If Rain’s Bottom lay upstream, he would still eventually have an opportunity to stop at one of the many villages that lay farther downstream. The worse case scenario was that he could ride the river all the way to the east coast and make his way south from there.
Jerhad had been on the river for two risings and three-quarter courses of the sun when his raft hit a sand bar in a turn in the river. Using some rope that he carried in his pack, he had lashed the two large pieces of timber together to construct the craft; and then he had tied some fir boughs to the top, hoping to keep himself above the water. Finally, he secured a short log across the two longer ones to form a seat in the center of the vessel. From this lofty purchase, he alternated between the use of either a long pole that he had cut with his knife or a makeshift paddle. Once afloat, he managed to keep dry down to his knees, his pant legs rolled as high as they could be. He now had slept two nights in the bush along the river using his light tarp to form a shelter.
Securing his vessel with the last of his rope to prevent it from going off without him, the Elf sat on a rock on shore to eat from the rapidly dwindling supplies he had brought from home. Feeding himself by using his skills would now become a priority. There would be no berries or nuts to be found this early in the season, so he set about digging for familiar wild roots, which he could boil in the small hammered-tin pot he carried in his pack. The Elves were resourceful when traveling in the wild, usually carrying enough light supplies to be self-sufficient if necessary. Excellent hunters, fishers and scavengers of edible plants and roots, they fared well in the wilderness. Among their supplies could usually be found a few cooking utensils, a hook and line, twine for a snare, a light tarp for shelter and a bedroll. Many traveled with a longbow and arrows, which Jerhad had left behind, not anticipating this detour.
Soon, he had ten Red Perch on his stake, having used salamanders caught under rocks along the shore as bait. With flint and steel in hand, he soon had a fire burning. The perch, he skewered on sticks to cook; he preserved the rest by heat drying them on sticks that he stuck in the sand and by the fire. He boiled the roots to draw out their bitterness. After eating, he wrapped the remaining fish in Tannic Oak leaves to help preserve the fish and leftover roots. He decided to make camp here for his third night on the river, building another makeshift lean-to against a rocky overhang, lining the ground with pine and fir needles onto which he unrolled his bedding and settled down for the night. Spring water being abundant, he refilled his water skin. Now, he sat back against the sun-warmed stone of the cliffs where he camped, the emitting heat a welcomed sensation to his back. Removing a small tin from his pouch, he opened it and took out a short briar pipe and a leather of tobac. Fortunately, these had stayed dry in his earlier swim in the river. He packed himself a pipe-full, and, using the glowing ember at the end of a stick from the fire to light up, he sat back to enjoy a good smoke.
It was an old Elven custom to smoke, but as with wine and ale, it was practiced in moderation. It was said that the custom of smoking tobac had been adopted from the Dwarves. Rumor had it that the Dwarves grew the tobac that the Elves smoked, at least the best varieties. Merchant ships brought barrels of tobac to Mildra as an item to be used in barter and trade. The oak casks it came in were extremely well built and tightly bound with iron rings, the casks themselves were considered a valuable commodity. Jerhad sat back and drew a mouthful of the naturally sweet and aromatic smoke, allowing it to return from his mouth and up into his nostrils, savoring the fruity fragrance, relaxing as the sun set in the crimson sky to the west.
Jerhad had reflected on his experiences of the past few courses as he had drifted down the river. Again and again, he mulled them over in his mind: how he had met the old man that had sent him on this quest, how the Gnomes had then pursued him and how his knife had proven to have magic. The Gnomes would be tracking him again with the magical orb. It would prove difficult for them to get down the cliffs of the Rogue Ridge; he hoped that he had left them far enough behind as not to see them again though he did not believe it.
The Forest Gnomes, reputed as being nasty, underhanded and tenacious, should not have been encountered in these parts. Actually, aside from reputations, they normally dwelt at relative peace with their neighbors, but it was a fact that they were easily led into or hired out to do dirty work. They were not known for having any magic, which made Jerhad wonder all the more at what was amiss about this situation. He had to conclude that they sought the pouch the old man had given him, since they had no dealings with the Elves and had never been known to come this far south out of their home region in the eastern Mystic Mountains.
Jerhad again reflected on the events that had set this episode in motion: He had been lying half asleep under an ancient Silver Willow common to the southwest of Frontmire, a land mass forming a peninsula that approached being an island off the greater continent of Canterhort….
Chapter 2
Spring had taken hold of Mildra, the sun’s unseasonable swelter had slowed the populace to a halt as they waited for the Korkaran Sea‘s cool late course’s winds to bring relief; meanwhile, rest and inactivity ruled the midcourse. The small, empty docks along the harbor, abandoned due to the oppressive heat, awaited the fishing fleet’s return; crates and oak barrels lined the outside walls of the port’s few warehouses.
Jerhad had watched as an old, gray-bearded man in brown robes and mantle, bent with age and relying heavily on his staff, made his way up the road and ambled up the steep incline past Jerhad’s home. The lane was lined with wood-planked and fieldstone built homes, the cedar-shake roofs painted in a variety of bright colors that complimented the walls. Through the uncanny aura produced by looking out through eyelashes of barely opened eyes and the shimmering of the air that rose as a mirage from the sun-baked cobblestone street, Jerhad watched as the man neared. The whole scene appeared as a dream or vision from some distant past. The old man’s sharply angulated features, high cheekbones and long hawkish-beaked nose painted an almost sinister appearance. His short hair and long beard, both streaked with the gray of age, were gnarled and unruly.
When the man was almost past the house, he turned to Jerhad and in a firm, spellbinding voice spoke. “Hot. Is it not? Thou doest appear to be weathering it well though.”
His language and accent originated on the island of Parintia, which lay one sunrising and one setting off the southwest coast of Frontmire, the formal speech common to the Masters of Teaching in Parintian schools, the same speech that had also been used by Druids in ancient times, so legends had it.
“Yes,” responded Jerhad, turning onto his side and propping his head up on his arm, acquiring a long blade of grass to chew on with his free hand. “Very hot. Why don’t you get out of the sun and rest here in the shade for a while?”
Without hesitation, the old man, in his stooped posture, hobbled toward him. For but a span of heartbeats, it appeared to Jerhad that the old man did not seem all that old, but younger, and though not a large man, possessed of a muscular build, his gait perhaps deliberately slow rather than stiff. When from under thick, heavy brows the man looked up again, his eyes, clear, deep dark pools filled with knowledge and intelligence, met Jerhad’s. The aged man gazed as if peering into Jerhad’s inner being, searching his thoughts, his motives and fears. Flustered, Jerhad turned away; when he looked back, all he saw was an ordinary appearing grandfatherly figure. Funny…just an old man, he thought. Jerhad wondered why he had imagined that he had seen something else.
“I thank thee, mine son, for the offer of thine shade in allowing an old man to rest himself. Permit me to seat mineself beside thee. Mine name is Morlah. I hadst not been in this region in many cycles; it hast changed little. It hast been two risings of the sun since I came from Parintia to journey to Canon in the eastern mount known as Freemont. I doest seek to deliver a certain object to its rightful owner; however, mine journey across the sea didst cause mine old bones to ache, and now, I am in doubt of mineself as to whether I shouldst continue upon mine cause.”
Canon, a mountain city on the southeast end of Frontmire, was normally accessed through Mildra. The reefs along the south and southeast coastline of the peninsula made it unapproachable by ship or small boat, so those venturing there usually docked in the port in Mildra and went on by foot or oxcart on the road that followed the southern coast to Canon. A journey of eleven settings of the sun and one rising, Jerhad doubted the frail appearing old man could make the arduous journey along the old coastal road. At least not on foot.
“…and I didst wonder,” continued the old man, “if I couldst procure the services of one, mayest I say, more capable to the task: a younger man to make the journey in mine stead.”
A trip to Canon, mused Jerhad with interest; he had been lazing about for a quarter-cycle of the moon since the spring planting had been finished and while waiting for the gray tarpon to run the river: The tarpon swam into the bay and up the Mage River every spring to spawn. The village owned this as its foremost industry, selling smoked, pickled, sun-dried and fresh tarpon, for the tarpon, which choked the Mage in their spring run, spawned in no other river on the continent. In spite of the smothering heat, Jerhad had been feeling restless for something to do.
“…and wouldst offer such a lad four large golds for making such a delivery.”
“Four golds?” Jerhad came fully awake and sat up.
“Yes. Four large golds shouldst well compensate such an effort. And to provide incentive to see the journey through, the receiver willst also pay two large golds upon delivery of said item. Wouldst thou know of one willing and able to undertake such, Jerhad?”
Six golds was more than Jerhad could earn in a hundred courses of the sun. Heros, the Provincial Capital City, situated on the northeastern sector of the peninsula, minted two gold coins: the large gold, worth five times that of the small gold, which valued at ten silvers and the silver at ten coppers. If there had been any doubt that he would go before, it was no more. The road to fortune lay open before him. Following the trail along the Rogue Stream, he could be home again in about sixteen settings and one rising, and he could be on time to help his mother with the tarpon, which would not run for another fourteen to twenty risings. He always looked forward to the smoking of the fish, of which he had charge. The odor of hickory smoke mingled with the smell of the fresh fish was deeply ingrained in his memory from his earliest childhood.
Not wanting to appear too eager, and wondering if the old man might be hungry, Jerhad asked, “Will you take meat with me, old man? My father is at sea on a merchant ship and my mother is at her shop in the market, but I could find us some bread and cheese and cold spring water.”
“No. I must find one who willst execute mine errand and mayhapst find mineself aboard the MayBest. She doest sail with the tide this eve to return to the island,” declined the old man, fanning himself with a leafy branch he had found on the ground, the light breeze afforded by the leaves appearing to refresh him.
“I’ll go. I’ll go to Canon for you. Six golds you said?” said Jerhad, his excitement rising with each heartbeat.
“Yes, Six large golds. Four now and two upon delivery. These then art mine instructions if thou doest desire the task. Take this pouch to the innkeeper at the Blue Parrot Inn in Canon. He willst deal with it from there and pay thee thine two golds. Doest not open it, or thou willst forfeit the two golds he wouldst pay.”
Reaching into his sleeve, the old man pulled out a small pouch of a finely oiled leather. “See here, it is sealed with a silver threadwork. The pattern thereof is known to the innkeeper; he willst know if it hast been opened. Keep it safe, for it is precious and rare!” he finished in a whisper. He paused and stared into Jerhad’s eyes, punctuating his statement. Relaxing again, he continued. “Be of good speed. Now, I must depart.” Leaning heavily upon his staff, the old man rose. He reached under his mantle and removed a purse, a small, leather bag full of coin and closed by a rawhide drawstring at the top, from which he removed four golds and handed them to Jerhad. He handed the sealed pouch to the Elf.
“The moon willst be full tonight and the travel cool. Ja speed, young man.” He began to leave but then turned back.
“Hast thou a knife?”
“Yes,” said Jerhad unsheathing the long Elven blade, which hung on his belt, handing it to Morlah. To look at, Jerhad appeared very much like a human: tall and slender, with long, golden-blonde hair but with no evidence of a beard, which gave him a youthful appearance, very human except for his radiant-blue, almond-shaped eyes and his narrow almost lobe-less ears that finished in a near-point at the top. He was an Elf. Not of the Elves like the creatures of Faerie but the result of the mingling of them with humanoids that gave rise to Humans and Dwarves also, as legend had it. A rather large population of Elves, some two hundred sixty thousand strong, inhabited the length of the south coast. Many small villages and towns similar to Mildra dotted the countryside south of the mountains of the Coastal Range.
The blade Jerhad owned was one given to him by his grandfather upon his rite into manhood ten cycles of the sun past, at the age of fifteen cycles. It was, by any standard, an odd appearing knife. The double-edged blade measured about three spans long, two fingers wide and was made of, his grandfather claimed, steel forged with Elven magic, sharp enough to shave with had Elves had such need. Out of habit, as he had with previously owned knives, Jerhad had tried to sharpen the longknife, though it never really needed it, nor did it take to the stone to alter its edge. Though not gold, the handle was of a gold-colored alloy of wrought braid-like work interlaced with oiled leather strands. This made it a sturdy handle not prone to slipping and easy on the hand to work with. Peculiar to the handle was the row of dull-colored, acorn-sized stones set within: not gems or precious jewels but perfectly round stones, numbering six. These were encased completely within the handle so that they showed on both sides. They lay, from hilt to pommel, white, yellow, blue, green, purple, and black. There existed a setting for a seventh; however, the setting at the pommel remained empty. The polished rock was assumed to have been broken and fallen from its mounting. His grandfather had said it had been missing when he received the knife from his father at his rite; his grandfather’s father had said the same.
“A worthy blade for such a young man,” spoke Morlah to no one in particular as he turned it over in his hand and examined it.
It appeared to Jerhad that the man handled it with recognition and fondness. Morlah then exhaled deeply on the stones and attempted to polish them on his sleeve. Jerhad watched as the old man muttered under his breath.
Finally, Morlah said, “Well, methinks that I doest needs be on mine way. Ja speed!” Handing the knife to Jerhad, he departed, returning the way he had come.
Jerhad sat staring down the road long after the old man was out of sight, a bit puzzled over what should have been a reasonably normal encounter; but something was not quite right. Maybe it was just his imagination. Why would the old man pay such a high fee for a simple delivery? Had the old man looked younger for a span of heartbeats? He remembered Morlah’s eyes, the depth, the mystery that seemed to be hidden within. Jerhad’s father, Lewin, would say it was just his imagination stirred up again by his grandfather’s stories of magic and Faerie creatures. Maybe so….
“Great fortune!” he said aloud, coming to himself, examining the four golds in his hand. They were bright yellow coins bearing the image and inscription of some ancient emperor of Frontmire. Presently, councils ruled Canterhort and the Province of Frontmire, and the times of being ruled by an emperor were but a distant memory or perhaps even another myth. Four! No six golds to deliver a pouch to Canon? Two would have gotten it there.
Looking up Jerhad saw his mother approaching the house.
Catrina was of short, heavy stature for an Elf; handsome and slightly heavy in her facial features, some said that there was Dwarf-blood in her lineage. Her coarse, light brown hair, which she wore long and flowing as other female Elves, was unique among the populace who grew thin straight golden-blonde or platinum-colored hair. But few claimed to ever having seen a Dwarf, let alone know in fact that they were not another old wives’ tale. Though, they were said to live in a mountain, considered inaccessible from Mildra, just a few risings journey to the north. Catrina was a bright, excitable, hard-working woman and doting mother known throughout the village for her integrity and honesty. From her shop in the market square, she sold fish from the river, vegetables, and wares her mate brought back from his voyages. Lewin was the first mate on a merchant ship, whose voyages took him far throughout the inhabited world. He was rarely in port.
“Home early?”
“Yes, my dearest son. I sold most of what your father brought the last time he was home, and seeing that there is no fresh tarpon yet, I thought I’d close the shop,” she gasped, exhausted by her walk in the oppressive heat.
Remembering what he held in his hand, he exclaimed, “Look at this, Mother! Look at what I’ve got. Four large golds!”
“Ah, ye gods. Where did you get four golds?”
“An old man hired me to deliver this purse to Canon for four golds, and I get two more when I deliver it!”
“Ah, ye gods in the heavens, but what’s this?” She took the pouch into her work-worn hands, examining it as she sat back on her legs next to Jerhad in the cool grass. “Why the silver thread, it forms the ancient Elven symbol acrch.” Though most of the Elven population of Mildra did not believe the stories of Elven magic, many of the elder population had been, as children, instructed in the ancient tongue as well as the Elven Histories. These were no longer taught and, in these times, regarded as myth and superstition by most.
“What’s acrch?” The word unruly twisted itself on Jerhad’s tongue.
“Ah, heavens, this is a holy thing. You children don’t know any of your history or heritage! acrch is the most powerful of the Elven magic runes: that of Life and Health. It is the counter rune to balak, Death and Sickness. But where did you get such a thing?”
“I told you, an old man came by looking for someone to deliver it to an innkeeper in Canon. I would have gone for the four golds alone, but six! The old man spoke the formal tongue with a Parintian accent and said,” (Jerhad deepened his voice to sound like the old man), “Wouldst thou know one willing to do such, Jerhad?” He stopped, his mouth open. How did the old man known my name?
“What? Have you seen the soul of your dead grandmother? Why do you stand there with your mouth hanging open like that?”
“Ahh…nothing. I have to get ready to go. He wanted me to leave this evening. The moon is full and the night will be cooler for travel. My dearest mother, would you for one gold prepare me some bread, cheese and smoked fish for the journey while I get a water skin, extra clothes and a bedroll together?” How did he know my name?
“Ah, ye gods in the heavens. One gold for smoked fish! The neighbors will say my own son has to buy his food from his mother, and at such a price!” Then, with eyes narrowing, she grinned mischievously and holding out her hand said, “I’ll take that gold now if you don’t mind.”
********
Drawing the pouch out again, Jerhad traced the symbol acrch with his finger. The Elven rune of Life and Health, he spoke softly to himself. Why would Morlah have had this? He was human. Why would he be dealing with things belonging to Elven magic? Who was he anyway? He had come from Parintia. So he said. Did he hire me because he feared the Gnomes? Did he know the Gnomes would be looking for this? Questions. No answers.
Jerhad strongly suspected that the old man had done something to his knife, however. No, I’m convinced of it. Morlah’s breathings and mutterings did something to wake, or put, magic in the knife. His grandfather had said that the blade was forged of Elven magic. But how did Morlah know of it? How did he know where to find me? More questions. How did he know my name? Still no answers.
Exhausted from his travel, Jerhad bedded down in his shelter after piling sand over the dying embers of his fire, drawing his knife and examining it again in the twilight. For ten cycles he had owned it, yet he realized he had never known much about it. Where did it come from? Who forged it?
As a young Elf, it had simply been a prize and then a tool. Sometimes, he thought that the stones made it look more like a trinket. A few times he had almost replaced it with a less gaudy one, but he always ended up hanging on to it. It had, after all, been given to him by his grandfather, and on the course of his rite. He slid the blade under the blanket leaving it near his hand and quickly slipped into a dreamless sleep.
Jerhad woke just at the sunrising, as was his habit, quite refreshed and ate more of the perch and roots. Launching his raft out into the current with the use of the pole, he also threw a hook and line into the water in hopes of picking up some more fish as he traveled. It was half-course of the sun before he saw the first signs of habitation. At one point, he had seen the mossy thatch-roof of a cabin through the trees; his craft not being very maneuverable, he drifted downstream still. Later, he saw some trappers breaking camp along the shore, their canoes laden with winter pelts.
“Ho! Ho!” Jerhad shouted, waving one arm high in the air. “Which way to Rain’s Bottom?”
“Ya should be thar by three-quarta course at yo’ speed,” one hollered back. Then he was past them.
It was as the trapper had said. Just before the three-quarter mark, he rounded a bend in a widening of the river. The current slowed as the brown, silt-laden, snowmelt waters spread into an expanse of one-quarter league’s width. There ahead of him, on the north shore, was Rain’s Bottom.
Chapter 3
The Blushing Maiden was a large but quaint inn, one of the largest in southern Frontmire, and was situated on the main thoroughfare in Rain’s Bottom. The structure was a sturdy frame-and-plank, well-kept building, sitting on a stone and mortar foundation. Outside, it was overlaid with hand-hewn cedar slats, and the roof was made of slate shingles. From the roofed porch’s eaves hung a weathering oval sign, formerly painted in bright colors of brick-red, yellow ochre and royal blue, detailed with image of a young woman with fierce-red cheeks and the establishment’s name burned into the wood above her figure. The inn consisted of a large square structure with two wings branching out: one going straight away from the street, another running parallel to it. The building towered a full two stories tall in the wings and, where the Kline family dwelt, above the kitchens.
The innkeeper, dubbed Master Kline by his patrons, had piped water from a nearby spring, fed by the melting mountain snows, that kept the pitchers of serving beer ice cold with a constant flow, making it a unique experience in the drinking of fermented beverages throughout the country. Served cold, it was different than any northern ale that was always served warm. The ale was good. Brewed by the innkeeper, it was fermented with the finest grain and hops available.
Master Kline was a short, heavy man; some rumored it to be because he sampled his ale too often. But he was a sober, honest man who maintained a clean establishment: clean in that there were no vermin in the bedding and the kitchen was scrubbed thoroughly at each course’s end. The layer of sawdust, obtained from the local waterwheel-powered sawmill, spread on the floor at the sunrising, was swept out each night. Spittoons were emptied nightly, rinsed and redistributed throughout the serving area, though few tobac chewers actually ever hit them, hence the sawdust. He tolerated neither fighting nor prostitution in his inn.
His wife, whom he referred to as “Miss Molly” was a stout, happy, hardworking, nurturing, middle-aged woman. Master Kline would exclaim as she bent to draw bread from the ovens, “Oh, my heart! So much to love!” This never failed to get him chased from the cooking area, Miss Molly waving a large wooden spoon threateningly, though she actually never did strike him. Their son, Tom, did chores: heating water, keeping the ovens and stoves stoked with wood and providing his mother from the cellars with supplies she needed for cooking. Their two daughters, Marian and Kathleen, waited tables and helped in the kitchen.
The Klines worked hard throughout each course of the sun, except on the course of worship when the kitchens were closed and guests had to eat cold food left for them in the dining hall or fend for themselves elsewhere.
The inn boasted thirty rooms. For two silvers one could get a room; for two silvers and five coppers, a room and evening meat; three silvers, a room and three meals; and, two silvers got one a space for a bedroll in the stable loft and evening meat and break fast.
Stanton Farrell, a human of twenty-eight cycles, muscular, tall and a former soldier, sat in the corner of the Blushing Maiden inn, at some three-quarter courses of the sun. He had been nursing the same mug of ale since midcourse, as well as nursing a sullen mood, and he was bored. Since arriving in Rain’s Bottom four risings past, he had sat in this same corner of the inn’s dining hall from this same time and late into the evening, sipping beer and feeling misplaced. As of late, he had resigned from his post as Squad Leader of a scouting detachment in the Breezon Army.
Just before that, the army had been called out in response to Troll* raids out of the Blue Mountains and into the plains that encompassed the Breezon homesteads, farmlands and agriculture. Stanton left the army, ignoring the protests of his superiors and peers, having proven himself time and time again in the skirmishes against the Trolls, as well as throughout his military career. His squad, armed with longswords, had been assigned the task of running diversion for the cavalry by coming in a straight-forward horseback assault at the backs of the Trolls, thus distracting and confusing the slow-witted Trolls and allowing the cavalry to distance themselves and avoid being skewered by the great spears or brained by the huge maces. Casualties had been surprisingly light for both cavalry and Stanton‘s squad.
Yet, somehow, he had felt responsible for those who had been lost. Not that he could have done more, for he had driven his massive, battle-crazed war charger straight into the faces of the beasts and buried his sword to the hilt into the eyes of the Trolls before him, then turning to make room for the infantry to move in and clean up. Maybe his guilt over his men who had died was partially to blame for his leaving. He really preferred not to think about it.
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*Footnote
Factious and of volatile natures, these differ from the Rock Trolls of far away lands, who are intelligent, well organized and whose chiefs answer to a common ruler, the Gnonanock. In contrast, these Trolls of the Blue Mountains, known as Cave Trolls, are dull-witted; one might even say stupid, too stupid to feel pain. They have two passions: eating and fighting, in that order. Smaller than Rock Trolls, they stand a little more than a head and shoulder above most Humans or Elves. They weigh in at about two hundred stones, about one-quarter the weight of a cow, though their size does not seem to justify such mass. Considered somewhat slow moving, they nevertheless possess tremendous strength. Wandering the mountains hunting elk, deer or bear, their monstrous appetites motivate most of their actions.
Fighting within the tribes never involves weapons, but simply brute strength, thus injuries are usually relatively minor. Intertribal fights, however, frequently involve weapons. Fighting pertains to food or females, in that order. Often one tribe tries to steal another’s kill; these battles are bloody and deadly. For hunting, the Trolls wield massive spears some thirty spans in length and of one span’s thickness. These can be hurled with surprising accuracy at distances of fifty paces, making the Trolls efficient huntsman, if they can stop arguing long enough not to scare off game. In battle, they prefer short stone maces, which can cave in the skull of a Troll or bear in one blow and can also be thrown over forty paces with fair accuracy. Some Trolls also carry a short broadsword used to hack animal carcasses into parts for distribution. No one knows where they obtain the steel weapons.
On occasion, when two tribes with full bellies meet, they mingle without weapons being drawn. It is at times like these that they discuss the plains and the ready feasting of cattle, sheep, hogs and humans. Yes, they eat human flesh at times; though, they do not really like the taste for some reason, and therefore, humans appear last on their list of things to eat.
Such a meeting had triggered the Ten Cycle Troll War. Four tribes had simultaneously come up on some elk and had nearly killed the entire herd; there had been far too much meat to eat. After gorging themselves, they had fallen on their favorite topic, the easy plunder of the plains. So, off they had gone, down out of the mountains for a feast. The excess of elk meat that they carried with them permitted them to arrive at the plains without killing each other. Once out of the foothills, penned livestock kept their bellies full, keeping a temporary truce between factions. Other tribes, seeing the movement of so many Trolls, had followed until they numbered in the thousands.
Troops from the Human city of Breezon had intercepted them at the midpoint between the city and the wilderness. The fighting had been fierce, the infantry driven back by the Trolls for three risings of the sun to within sight of the city before food began running low for the Trolls, and their forward thrust slowed to a crawl because of internal fighting. Finally, the Trolls regrouped into separate tribes and scattered about the plains plundering livestock. It had taken a full ten cycles to drive them all back into the mountains permanently because, until then, as one tribe had been pushed back, another previously ousted one returned from another direction, looking for food and fight. Though slow to learn, they finally realized that far too much energy need be spent to get a meal, and hunger drove them back to their own territories; thereafter, they remained in the mountains. The war was over. Fortunately, they had long memories, which kept them from returning.
_________________________
Now, Stanton sipped again at his ale, long gone flat and distastefully hot.
Raised on a farm on the Breezon Plains as the only child of an elderly couple, Stanton had sold the land after his father’s death. His mother had passed on some six cycles earlier. Somehow, farm life had never been enough for him, and he had always dreamed of becoming a soldier; as a boy, he had wielded his wooden sword against many a fence post. He had stayed on for nearly one cycle after his father’s passing, tending the farm with the same fastidiousness that his father had. But then the time came, after a neighbor had offered him a generous sum for the land, that he woke up one rising at the age of eighteen cycles, knowing his farming life was over; he had left before the rising of the next new moon and headed straight to the Breezon Army barracks to become a soldier.
Since then, Stanton had spent his life in the Breezon Army, having served the mandatory four cycles for Breezon citizens and then staying on. Both men and women served in the Breezon Army: the men with weapons, the women with food provisions and care of the wounded. Both went out to the battlefield. Being a highly disciplined man, rising early every course of the sun to do weapons training, he had studied under some of the greatest swordsmen and Weapons Masters in the land.
Proficient with a longbow, a deadly aim with throwing knives and adept with the double-edged war-axe, Stanton preferred not to fight with the latter as he felt that the momentum of a missed blow left him far too vulnerable to counterattack. His weapon of choice was the longsword, which he felt allowed him optimal offense, maneuverability and defense. After the recent fighting with the Trolls had ended, Stanton decided that the time had arrived to try his hand at something else.
******
Stanton watched the door. Out of habit, he always sat with his back to the wall, a side effect of his training. Fewer surprises that way. He also made it a habit to monitor activity and traffic, especially when in a closed or crowded space. He thought it safer to always know what transpired about him, having made a couple of enemies over the cycles. He spotted Jerhad the very heartbeat the disheveled Elf walked in.
Jerhad stood in the open doorway of the inn, allowing his eyes to adapt to the dimmer surroundings; since it was still sunlight outside, the inn’s oil lamps had not yet been lit. As he surveyed the room, he noted that all the tables had already become occupied, as evening meat was being served, the rich odor of herbs mingled with the scent of cooking meats setting his stomach to grumbling for its emptiness.
The village had been bustling with activity as he had strolled through and up from the river. There had been many boats and small barges loading and unloading wares down at the dock. He had paused to smell the heavy sap odor as a caravan of oxen-drawn wagons, loaded with lumber cut at the local sawmill, headed east down the road that led away from Rain’s Bottom; the sweetish, pungent scent of newly sawn wood always reminded him, somehow, of baking bread. Several large groups of trappers congregated in the streets, discussing the winter’s catches and where the best prices for their furs might be had. The corndrippings flowed freely in many of these gatherings.
“Elf Boy! Hey, Elf Boy.” The words grabbed Jerhad’s attention as well as making him quite self-conscious in a room packed with humans, his hands slipping into his trouser pockets. He dropped his head a little as if trying to become smaller. No one took notice, however. As he looked around with upraised eyes but head still lowered, he saw Stanton signal him to his table.
“Hey, Elf Boy, pull up a chair. It could be a long time before you find room to sit in here tonight.”
Jerhad wove his way through the discord of occupied tables to where Stanton sat and pulled a chair for himself, sitting with his back to the crowd.
“Thank you,” he mumbled not sure of himself: not sure if he had been insulted by the human’s reference to his race. “The name’s Jerhad.”
“Name’s Stanton,” said the former soldier, reaching his callused, iron-like hand out to the Elf. They shook. “Well, this is a rare sight,” he continued. “I’ve heard of the Elven race, but I have never met one. Well-met, Elf Boy. You look like you crawled out from under a log. What have you been up to?”
“I guess that’s not too far from the truth,” replied Jerhad, glancing down at his travel-soiled clothing. “But I’m twenty-six cycles. Not a boy anymore, if you don’t mind.”
“Really? If not for your height, you wouldn’t look a course over thirteen cycles.”
“Did you call me over just to comment on my age or was there something else?” Jerhad said somewhat shortly and maybe a bit defensively.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just I’ve never met an Elf before. No, I meant to let you sit here if you want to take evening meat. No use one man taking up a whole table. And besides, maybe it’s time I start talking to someone other than myself. Will you be staying the night?” said Stanton, the Elf’s presence somehow stirring him from his brooding.
“That’s what I intended, but things look pretty busy. I doubt I’ll find a room now, and the inn down the street was full too.”
“You can get a space up in the loft and evening meat and break fast for two silvers; but if I was you…I’d stay clear of that tonight. You saw those trappers out there?”
Jerhad nodded.
“Most of them are honest men, but those filling their bellies with drink look like trouble to me. Been out in the mountains all winter. No drink, no women, if you get my meaning. Some of them didn’t do all that good trapping. They’ll be looking to make all that up tonight. The villagers tolerate them because their coin and furs are good, but tonight the doors will be barred and goods, daughters and wives tucked away safe.
“So here’s what we do. I could use a bit of interesting company. If you have a mind to, we can split the cost of my room. I think for one extra silver that Master Kline over there,” he tilted his head in the direction of the innkeeper who was serving roughly crafted tankards of cold ale over the counter, “…would throw in a pallet with a straw mattress and evening meat and break fast.”
The offer caught Jerhad off guard, not knowing if he could trust Stanton, not knowing if he could trust a…Human, not ever having had dealings with them before. The man’s black hair, matching and intense eyes and four-course old beard portrayed a threatening demeanor; the man seemed honest enough from the way he spoke, but then, he also looked like a hard individual. Jerhad did not think he would want to be caught having to defend himself against that longsword, which lay strapped to the man’s hip, or even barehanded against him for that matter. Being of a trusting nature, still wet to the knees, quite hungry and thoroughly exhausted from his trip down the river, Jerhad quickly took the path of least resistance, cast aside these thoughts and accepted the offer.
“Miss Molly, Master Kline’s wife, she runs the kitchen.” Stanton‘s thumb indicated the wall adjoining the cookery from which wafted savory smells through the opened doorway, setting the Elf’s stomach to an even greedier rumbling. “They tell me that folks come from leagues around to eat her cooking. They have a lamb stew seasoned with rosemary, all you can eat tonight, with some of her fresh bread and a bread pudding for desert. You’d be a fool to go elsewhere looking for grub,” he finished.
From that heartbeat on, for some unknown reason, Jerhad began to grow fond of Stanton; they went on talking about Mildra and its environs as the meal was served.
Master Kline, exuberant to have an Elf at the inn, called, “Miss Molly, come see wha’ we ‘ave ‘ere!”
Miss Molly stuck her head though the doublewide doorway that led to the kitchen. “I’ ‘ad better be extra ‘elp for me. I can’ keep up wi’ the orders, and the stew’s almos’ already all gone. Seems no one’s orderin’ anythin’ else…EEEEK!” she squealed with delight as her eyes lighted on the visitor. “An Elf! Well, well, well. A good ‘ello to you, my dear boy,” she continued as she bustled over to the table, her sturdy hips blazing trail for her between crowding chairs. “Why i’s been ages since anyone came ou’ of the south to visi’ wi’ us. Oh my, and we don’ ‘ave any rooms lef’ and I thin’ Tom said the lof’s full too.”
“No’ to worry, me love muffin. This fine gentleman,” he indicated, placing a hand on Stanton‘s shoulder, ” ‘as offered to share ‘is room wi’ Jerhad here.”
Miss Molly, a kind motherly woman, the grain miller’s daughter, had spent her entire life in Rain’s Bottom. Master Kline had been a trapper and had one course encountered Miss Molly in the street; he had abandoned his trapping life before the onset of the next fur season and bought the Blushing Maiden, which had been for sale for some time. Then slowly, he had befriended her father and then wooed her. They wed within the cycle and had spent the next twenty-three cycles managing the inn. Master Kline, with a reputation as an honest man, and Miss Molly, with her generous, loving spirit, besides being a fantastic cook (and with the miller’s financial backing) had salvaged and restored the dilapidated inn and turned it into a thriving little business.
“Oh, I’m so glad…bu’ what’s this? Kathleen, can’ you see tha’ this ‘ungry boy’s bowl is almos’ empty?” she said catching her daughter by the arm as the girl rushed past. ” ‘urry, ‘urry ge’im some more stew before i’sall gone.” Suddenly, she reached out and hugged Jerhad, drawing his face into her more than ample bosom. “Oh I’m so happy you’ll be visitin’ wi’ us, you dear boy. Now I’ve go’ to be back to the kitchen.”
Jerhad was glad, since it allowed him to breathe again.
“I’d wager you don’ know your friend ‘ere,” Master Kline said to Jerhad indicating Stanton, patting the former Squad Leader on the shoulder, “is a soldier from the Breezon Army. Very distinguished, too, I migh’ add.”
“Was a soldier!” corrected Stanton abruptly.
“No matter,” said Master Kline, dismissing Stanton‘s correction with a flick of his eyes. “‘e was ou’ fightin’ Trolls no’ twenty courses of the sun back. Gave tha’ vermin somethin’ to thin’ abou’ too. They a be thinkin’ twice afore they come ou’ of those mountains agin.”
“Trolls? You mean there really are Trolls?” Jerhad asked.
“There are really Trolls just like there are really Dwarves, Humans and Elves and Gnomes,” responded Stanton.
“I’s been sixty cycles since the last fightin’ wi’ the Trolls,” continued Master Kline. “They’d come ou’ of the mountains, eatin’ everythin’ in sigh’ and fightin’ an’ killin’ everythin’ an’ everyone. Made it almos’ all the way to Breezon, they did. Didn’ they?” At which Master Kline backhanded Stanton‘s shoulder as a prompt him to agree.
Stanton nodded but turned Master Kline somewhat of a sour look.
“Whole thin’ turned to a sor’ of war after tha’,” continued Kline, undaunted. “Army couldn’ ge’ to keep tha’ vermin to stay pu’ in the mountains. They called it The Ten Cycle Troll War. How long did i’ las’?” he asked of Stanton.
Stanton rolled his eyes, but Jerhad had seen the gleam of mischief in the innkeeper’s eye and knew that he was (as a Dwarf would say) “pulling Stanton‘s beard”.
When Stanton did not respond, just shaking his head, Master Kline continued. “Ten cycles I thin’ i’ was. Yeah. Tha’ were i’. Ten cycles,” he repeated casting a glance down at Stanton and a smirk crossing the innkeeper’s face, which went unnoticed by the soldier. Master Kline winked at Jerhad.
Stanton continued Master Kline’s tale, “Couldn’t keep them in the mountains ’cause by the time they got to Breezon, they had run out of a food source, and they took to fighting among themselves again. So, the whole lot of them broke off into their original tribes and spread out over the plains. Just as soon as the army drove one tribe back into the hills, another would return looking for something to eat. It took a…full…ten…cycles,” said Stanton glancing over to the innkeeper, “…to end it. And that is why they call it…The Ten Cycle Troll War,” he finished in a patronizing tone.
Master Kline smiled.
“However,” continued Stanton, becoming intent on the subject at hand, “This recent fighting with the Trolls was different. The Trolls were organized and even advanced in ranks instead of the frenzied wave that they’d come out of the mountains in during the Ten Cycle War. And, there was no serious fighting among them in their own ranks, and they marched straight for Breezon without turning the advance into the massive feeding that you’d expect.
“We hit them hard and fast using cavalry, which didn’t exist in the Ten Cycle Troll War. The cavalry’s speed makes them very effective against the Trolls, and by riding flanking maneuvers, attacking with steel-tipped lances, the Trolls can be stopped. The archers used arrows dipped in a paralytic poison. Then the infantry moved in and finished the work. We killed or maimed one-quarter of the Trolls out of the approximate five thousand this way. But then, they marched in ranks in a retreating maneuver back into the mountains. We harassed them all the way, but it’s unclear how they were able to organize like this. Totally out of character for Trolls. It appears though, for all purposes, that they’ve had their memories refreshed. Interesting though, Heros didn’t even respond to Breezon’s request for help.”
“Gnomes. What do you know about Gnomes?” Jerhad asked Stanton, his recent encounter coming to mind as Master Kline returned to his work.
“Why do you ask?”
Jerhad then recounted to him what had transpired on the Rogue Trail; except, he held back the part about the knife and his treetop flight. When he finished, Stanton sat silently for a while.
“You don’t believe me!” objected the Elf.
“Of course I believe you. I was just wondering why Gnomes would be found so far south, what they’d want with you and…I was wondering how one Elf Boy managed to evade a squad of Forest Gnomes,” he said, looking Jerhad straight in the eye.
Jerhad flushed with embarrassment, knowing Stanton had seen that he had held back part of his story.
“Finish up,” said the human. “I’ll show you to our room as soon as you’re done your stew.”
They left the dining hall through a door on the back wall and down a hall that went along the kitchen and into the rear wing, leaving behind the din of the main hall. They walked down the hallway, their feet treading the age-worn, axe-hewn, creaky plank floor, the knots in the boards forming smoothed disruptions in the surface. Jerhad and Stanton occupied a room on the first floor. Jerhad entered the small cozy room with Stanton following close behind. An oil lamp had already been lit, revealing one narrow bed set against the wall on one side of the room and, on the other side, a pallet with a straw mattress and extra blankets folded on top. Miss Molly’s influence of doilies, laced curtains and flowers on the table was immediately noticed by the Elf. Constructed of thick fir planks, both door and shutters locked from the inside, the door locking with a bar that came down on a hinge and the shutters with a metal latch.
The door closed abruptly behind Jerhad, and he heard the bar drop in place with a thud. He swung around to see Stanton staring at him intently, hands on his hips, standing between Jerhad and the doorway, determination inscribed upon his visage.
“All right, out with it,” Stanton demanded.
O ye gods. What a country fool, Jerhad thought to himself. Taken in by this character who now means to rob me, kill me, or both. He must be after the pouch. Jerhad could have kicked himself for having been taken in so easily, for being so trusting. Now, he would most likely have to fight for his life against this human. Though he had had some training in fighting, he knew Stanton outclassed him simply by the way the soldier carried himself. Nevertheless, he would not go down without a struggle. Slowly, he slipped his hand toward his knife. Stanton did not move.
“Alright, Elf Boy, tell me! I want to know what happened with those Gnomes and how you got away. You don’t hide things all that well. You’re not telling me everything!”
Jerhad sighed with relief, his muscles relaxing and his shoulders drooping down some, revealing his fatigue. It was not what he had thought.
There was a knock at the door. “I’s me: Master Kline.”
Stanton opened it.
“I jus’ wan’d to warn you to keep the door and window locked tonigh’. Normally we ‘ave no need of such thin’s. Bu’ the trappers are already causin’ trouble. Someone’s been killed in a figh’ ou’ in the streets. Mos’ of them don’ ‘ave a place to stay unless they pitch their tents. I s’pec’ they’ll be ou’ in the streets drinkin’ mos’ of the nigh’. Will you be needin’ anything else, me young friends?”
“I could use some water to wash with and a towel to dry myself,” Jerhad said wishfully.
“I’ll send Tom up wi’ some in a bi’. Break fas’ will be served from a span afore sunrisin’ to one span afore quarter-course. After tha’, there’ll only be coffee and lef’ over rolls while they las’.” He bid them good night and left.
Stanton dropped the bar across the door again. “Alright, how’d you get away from the Gnomes?” he insisted, turning back to Jerhad. “I’m not just curious, but this could be important. If the Trolls left the Blue Mountains looking for trouble and the Forest Gnomes are up to no good…. If there’s a common catalyst causing these problems, the Breezon leaders and army need to know about it.”
“Why do I feel like there’s going to be a lot more trouble before this is all over with?” asked Jerhad with a twist of his mouth.
So, they pulled up the two chairs to the table that was positioned near the window, sitting in the light breeze afforded them by the open shutters, and Jerhad told Stanton everything. Jerhad told Stanton about the old man, about the pouch with the Elven rune and how he had been hired to deliver it to Canon. He told the soldier of the ambush on the Rogue Trail. Finally, he told about the knife and how the old man had awakened or put magic in it, and how it had served him against the Gnomes.
“Can I see the knife?” asked Stanton
Without hesitation, Jerhad pulled it from its sheath and handed it, handle first, to Stanton who examined it for some time in silence. The Elf trusted Stanton, seeing Master Kline respected the man and that he had been someone of position in the Breezon Army. Stanton worked at the stones a bit with his own well-worn thick-bladed dirk to test how well they were set.
“You see they’re too big to come out of the setting. Grandfather said that the missing one was probably broken and fell out.”
Stanton handed the knife back. “Interesting piece of work. I’ve seen some similar work a long time ago, made by the Dwarves. Same kind of work, a wrought handle of braided metal strands and oiled leather woven into it, but no stones.”
“Grandfather says it was forged with Elven magic, so I doubt any Dwarf made it.”
“I’m quite sure it’s Dwarf work,” muttered Stanton, dismissing the Elf. “The Elven magic could have been added later…or even in the forging. And you say you’ve never seen the old man before? How did he know where to find you? How did he know you had the knife?”
“You tell me. I’ve been thinking about that for three courses. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It would have taken a wizard to waken Elven magic if he wasn’t an Elf himself,” said Stanton, his brow furrowed in thought.
“No, he was plainly human.”
“Or maybe a Druid!”
Chapter 4
There was a knock at the door. “I’s Tom Kline, masters.”
Stanton opened the door and let him in.
“I brough’ you a pitcher of ‘ot water, soap and towels. Mother makes the soap. Puts lavender in i’; i ‘ll make you smell like a girl,” he grinned, revealing a missing front tooth. “The basin’s under the bed an’ the slop bucke’. Don’ be mixing ’em up. Master Jerhad, Mother ‘ill ‘ave one of the girls wash your clothes and dry ’em on the racks by the oven if you give ’em to me now. The ovens’ll be ‘ot through the nigh’. Bread bakin’ starts a bi’ after three-quarters moon’s course. They’ll be dry long afore morn.”
Jerhad stepped behind the door and stripped down and, after wrapping a towel about his waist, handed the filthy clothes, which had made him look as if he had “crawled out from under a log”, to Tom; Stanton had laughed until his belly hurt when Jerhad had told him the truth about that. They took turns washing up and agreed that the soap did make them smell like “a girl.” The smell reminded him of his mother, and Jerhad longed to be back home. Stanton secured the door and window and trimmed the oil lamp, and both soon slept soundly.
Somewhere nearing three-quarter moon’s course, Jerhad woke to scraping noises at the window and immediately understood what it meant. More scraping. Then he heard the sound of metal on metal and that of the latch falling open. Jerhad tried to alert Stanton, but fear had closed his throat and all he did was let out a low-pitched squawk.
“Quiet,” whispered Stanton, his voice carrying from the darkness near the window.
It was then that Jerhad noticed Stanton‘s obscured, blackened form etched against the wall in the shadows by the window. The scene unfolded at a creep, as if in a dream. Jerhad pulled his knife, which had been in his boot, from its sheath; the handle glowed with an eerie lime-green light.
“Put that thing out!” Stanton hissed.
Jerhad wrapped his hands about the handle; a trace of green still showed through. The shutter slowly opened. As the dark outline of a man materialized in the window’s opening, Stanton stepped about and placed the tip of his sword to the burglar’s throat; the powerful smell of animal fat, skins and unwashed clothes made it obvious that it was a trapper.
“I think you should turn around and go back to camp.” Stanton‘s cold, hard voice made Jerhad shudder.
The intruder paused. Time stopped. Jerhad felt his heart pounding in his chest, and his breathing sounded loud and hollow in his ears. The man cleared his throat. From outside, there came whispers, urging the thief to hurry. Against the faint starlit backdrop of the window’s opening, Jerhad could see the silhouetted mountaineer, his long hair and unkempt beard and the motion of his chest’s rise and fall. Stanton stood like a stone pinnacle. The Elf swallowed against his dry mouth and throat.
Suddenly feinting to one side, the intruder lunged at Stanton only to find the sword piercing through his throat. His hands went up to his neck, gurgling and coughing sounds rose from his mouth. Stanton put his foot up to the man’s chest and pushed him back out through the window. There was cursing outside now as two more men rushed the opening. One was decapitated before his feet hit the floor while the other met the same fate as the first had. Outside, running feet were heard, distancing themselves into the night. Stanton hurdled the windowsill and pursued.
Jerhad worked his way to the oil lamp, fumbling in the dark and struck the steel and flint together, managing to light it. The blanched, blood-drained face of the beheaded trapper stared up at him, his eyes seemingly locked in a stare with the Elf’s as if in accusation, the human’s black unkempt beard a harsh contrast to the paled skin. Jerhad was near vomiting, for he had never witnessed a man being killed. Not only that, but the cold deliberate way in which Stanton seemed to have done it only made it worse. Sure, he had had to do it, or else they would have had their own throats slit; but still, it made him come close to upping his supper. The Elf went to the basin and splashed water, now cool, on his face. O ye gods in the heavens! His panting was shallow and fast as sweat beaded on his forehead. Two light taps at the door brought him about, knife ready. I seem to be as ready to kill as the next, he thought. The notion did not comfort him.
“Elf Boy! Open up. It’s me…Stanton.” As Stanton shoved his way in, he stuffed Jerhad’s now stiffly dried clothes into the trembling Elf’s arms. The smell of lavender soap in the clothes mingling with the thick sickly smell of blood in the room made Jerhad retch; his clothes indeed smelled like a girl’s.
Stanton dropped the decapitated head out of the window. “Move. We’ve got to get out of here. The other one got away. He’ll be coming back with reinforcements. These trappers stick together, right or wrong. You hurt one, you hurt them all. I’m not afraid of them, but we’ve got to get out of here before there’s a blood bath or they burn Master Kline’s inn trying to get at us. Let’s go!”
They hurriedly assembled and shouldered their packs together and took off down the hall, arriving at the kitchen where lights shone. They went that way. Miss Molly and Master Kline were in the process of mixing bread dough for the first baking.
“I’ve already explained to Master Kline what happened,” Stanton said to Jerhad as they entered the kitchen. Turning to Master Kline, he said, “You stay in the kitchen. It should be safe enough. There’s enough honest men among these trappers to see that nobody will be needlessly hurt. They’ll be looking for the Elf and me anyway. I’ll alert the village guard, on my way, and let them know there’s been trouble. That should take care of things.”
“I thin’ you’re righ’. We’ve seen i’ before an’ I reckon we’ll see i’ agin. Sure glad i’ was tha’ vermin tha’ caugh’ i’ this time rather than some innocen’ village folk…or me guests. One takes tha’ kind o’ thin’ rather personal, you know,” answered Mater Kline, drying his hands on a towel.
Miss Molly placed a sack into Jerhad’s hands. “You’ll be needin’ somethin’ to ea’; you both bein’ so thin and all.”
Master Kline slid the bolt and opened the back door, allowing Stanton to peek out into the night.
“The way’s clear. Thanks,” he said turning back and pressing five silvers into Master Kline’s hand.
“No! There’s no need for this. No, keep your coins, young man.”
“Oh, no, don’,” said Miss Molly, assisting her husband in refusing the money. “After all, an Elf visitin’…and these killin’s.”
“Shhh, bolt the door behind us. We’ve got to run,” replied Stanton, not allowing them to return the coin. The soldier and the Elf started out into the night.
Jerhad and Stanton fled through the darkness, making their way through alleys and backyards, heading down toward the dock as a mob of trappers rolled up the street toward the Blushing Maiden. The two stopped at the village guard’s quarters, Stanton sticking his head through the open doorway.
“Trouble up at the Blushing Maiden. Better get there fast.” He ducked out before any questions could be asked. Jerhad and Stanton waited behind the woodpile until several troops had been dispatched, and then they skulked off in the opposite direction, the Elf a disheveled mess of panicked energy, following the composed soldier. On the empty docks, the faint, early dawn lay on the horizon, pale.
“Where we going?” asked Jerhad, glancing back over his shoulder repeatedly.
“I don’t know about you, but I’m heading up river back to Breezon. I don’t figure they’ll look for me upstream. What are you planning to do, Elf Boy?”
“Well, I’ve still got this package to deliver. I gave my word. But now the whole thing’s turned dangerous, and I’m not sure how I’ll get back across Rogue Ridge to get back to the trail. Do I go back home or on to Canon?” He paced the dock with intent.
As Stanton untied a canoe from the dock, traps strewn on its bottom, Jerhad interrupted him.
”What are you doing? That’s not yours.”
Stanton turned and looked up at him from inside the canoe. “Figure it out, Elf Boy. There’s three of these canoes here along the dock that don’t belong to no one no more. You take one; I take one. Heck, that leaves one to be sold to give that vermin a half decent burial. It’s more than they deserve.”
Jerhad, agitated, anxious, looked around feeling quite lost. “I don’t know what to do.”
“Well, you can’t just stand there gawking…unless you want them trappers to tan your hide and nail it to the outhouse wall. Tell you what, I’m heading west: quickest way back to Breezon for me. You come along, and I’ll drop you off north of Mildra. You can lay low there until you decide what to do. You can get back on the Mage through the old Dwarf’s Pass. From there, you can go to Mildra…or Canon by getting back on the Rogue. By that time the trappers should be off our trail and you shouldn’t have any trouble.”
“Except for Gnomes.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot about them and that orb thing they’ve got. You coming? Can’t be sitting around throughout the sun’s course flapping our gums.”
Jerhad quickly climbed into the canoe, “borrowing” a paddle from the one next to them. Somehow, he intended to return it when he was done with it.
So, off they went into the still dawn, listening and watching carefully for signs of pursuit as the sunrising blossomed on the horizon; none came. All that was heard was the sound of early morning songbirds and the lapping of the river at the canoe’s hull. It could be a long time before anyone ever noticed the missing canoe, and if they had any luck, it was possible they had taken one of the dead trappers’ canoes and it might never be missed; that was probably asking too much.
It was midcourse when they paddled into a small cove mostly hidden from view with branches. Having decided on keeping to the north side of the river, assuming that the Gnomes would have difficulty crossing just anywhere, Stanton felt they would be safer. Stanton seemed to think it important to speculate on the likeliest way the Gnomes would get down from the cliffs.
“Would they have gone east, or west? If they followed you, Elf Boy, with the orb, they would go east, hoping to catch up to you downstream. That’s the likeliest scenario. Hopefully, it will be a while before you run into them again.”
They replenished their water skins at a nearby spring that fed into the cove and then ate some of yestercourse’s bread that Miss Molly had given to them, along with a few slabs from a wedge of a sharp-smelling goat cheese. After about one-quarter sun’s span they continued west on the Rain, rowing in silence, preoccupied with the possibility of pursuit.
“There it is,” said Stanton just before the sunsetting. With a powerful backstroke of the oar, he steered the canoe, which was riding almost within reach of the bramble that overgrew the riverbank, into a cove. “This is where I camped on the way down the river. We’ll hide the canoe in the bushes and make camp back in there a ways.”
“How did you come down if you didn’t have your own canoe?” asked the now composed Elf.
“I hiked the main trail to where it ends upstream about four risings west, at the Rain’s eastern turn. Then, I paid a trapper two silvers to take me the rest of the way. I also took over the chore of paddling while he finished off the last of his winter’s corndrippings and slept.”
Jerhad set about making a fire while Stanton used Jerhad’s tarp to erect a lean-to.
Later, as he reviewed Stanton‘s work, Jerhad lamented, “You only made it big enough for one.”
“That’s right. From now on, there’ll only be one of us sleeping at a time. We have Gnomes and trappers looking for us. One sleeps. The other keeps watch.”
Jerhad had not thought of that; he did not look forward to it either, having never spent an entire night without being in some kind of a bed or bedroll. But he knew that Stanton had cause, so he kept his protests to himself. They sat about the fire, their camp tucked between two large, blown down trees so as to keep its light from being too visible.
“First rule is, from here on, is to know where the other is at all times,” spoke Stanton, sounding as if he were drilling enlisted men. “Second rule is to cry wolf at a false alarm if you’re not sure about something rather than to die from not having cried out at all. Third, don’t get mesmerized by the fire and forget to listen to what’s happening or not happening about. No crickets can be as bad as cracking branches.” His speech droned on in metered measure. “Every watch, we do perimeter check at least five times. How are you at being quiet out there?”
“I can come up within twenty paces of a deer. Once, I did ten,” remarked Jerhad somewhat proudly.
“Good. No use doing perimeter check if everybody can hear you coming. When in camp, perimeter checks are done by sun’s course and by moon’s. Coming back into camp, you need to identify yourself. Can you do calls of any kind?” Stanton relaxed a bit from his military sermon.
“Do a real good cricket among a few others. Used to drive my mother crazy searching the house for crickets when I was a boy.”
“This is what you do then,” continued Stanton. “A series of three chirps, three times. Let me hear what you sound like, so I’ll be familiar with your call.”
Jerhad obeyed, doing a series of his cricket imitation. They must have been pretty good, for the crickets in the brush intensified their own chorus at the sound of the intruder.
“I’ll use the call of the nighthawk, you know the one who eats flying insects, like this….” He clicked out a series of calls. The crickets went silent at the sound of the nearby predator.
“If in camp or on perimeter check and you need to warn me, two sets of two calls. I do the same. If we have to run, you only take what’s at hand. Keep your knife with you at all times. The tarp stays behind. Don’t even cross over more than five paces out of the way for anything. That means supplies, food and water are always at hand, packed, ready to go. I’ll do perimeter check first and take first watch tonight. You get sand to put the fire out with each night when we light it, in case we need to douse it quickly. Get all gear packed and ready to move in case we need to run. More than eighty Gnomes, you said?”
Jerhad nodded, brow wrinkled as he still attempted to process Stanton‘s instructions.
“That’s a whole gaggle of ’em that’s for sure. We don’t attempt to fight unless they’re on us. If we need to run, try to stay together. Two sets of two calls to locate each other but not too often lest they catch on. If we get separated, go upstream a half-course of the sun. Leave rocks on the shore in piles of two sets of two, roughly every thousand paces, so the other will know if you’ve been there. The one following takes them down. After half of one sun’s course, stop and wait two risings. If the other hasn’t shown, assume the worse and go on alone. You got all that, Elf Boy?”
“Ahh. …Yeah. I guess so.”
“No! Don’t just guess so,” growled Stanton. “Get it straight, and get it straight now if you have questions. Your life will depend on it if any Gnomes or trappers catch up to us. More important, mine does too,” he said, his eyes like burning steel across the fire from Jerhad. “I’ve done this type of stuff for the last ten cycles of my life.” He stabbed the stick he had been toying with into the fire. “This is what I do. This is what I am. You need to trust me with this.” Stanton got to his feet and went to check the perimeter around their bivouac.
Not for the last time in the moon’s cycles to come, Jerhad felt as if he had enlisted in the army. He got some sand, piled it by the fireside, allowing a handful to trickle between his fingers, and packed everything. Having just finished, he heard Stanton signal; the crickets quieted for a span of heartbeats, and Stanton came back into camp.
“All clear,” Stanton said as he took his place on the log he had been using for a seat. They had not spoken much coming upstream, too preoccupied with the possibility of pursuit. “What was with that green light back in the room when the trappers attacked?”
“It’s like I told you with the Gnomes. It was green then, too.”
“Hmmm. Must be some kind of warning. I’ve never trusted or had any use for magic. Always heard it was like playing with fire, but let’s do this. When you sleep, leave the blade by your head so I can see it while on watch. It could be useful. When on watch, you keep it out in case it acts up.”
The memory of the attack back at the Blushing Maiden came back to Jerhad quite vividly. “Did you have to kill them?”
“Doesn’t sit well with you does it, Elf Boy? You were as green as your knife.” Stanton leaned forward, his face and eyes becoming hard again. The glow of the dying embers below his face accented his angular features and reflected a red dancing glow in his eyes, giving him a wicked appearance.
Jerhad gulped.
“Do you want to live, Elf Boy?”
Jerhad swallowed against his constricting throat, his mouth surprisingly quickly parching.
“Once these trappers have made their plan, they don’t back down. I knew this, yet I gave that first one a chance to do so. He chose not to…like I knew he would. The others made their choice known when they came through the window. What would you have done?”
Jerhad felt sick to his stomach.
“Alright, fire out. I’ll do another perimeter and take the first watch. I’ll wake you about moon’s half-course,” instructed Stanton.
Although he had fallen asleep from exhaustion upon lying down, Jerhad did not feel at all rested when he felt Stanton touch him and back off.
“When you wake me for change of watch, you might want to just poke me once with a long stick and stand back. Sometimes if I’m in a deep sleep I come up a bit fast. Some have told me ‘dangerously‘,” warned Stanton. He handed Jerhad a small piece of folded waxed paper containing pieces of root. “You keep this one. Only use it on second watch, or you won’t get to sleep at the end of first. It’s Fortis Root. Take one piece and chew it a bit, and then suck on it for the rest of your watch. You shouldn’t have any trouble staying awake. Remember: perimeter at least five times. And two sets of two chirps for warning. Don’t worry. I’ll wake up. Keep your knife drawn, but don’t rely on it exclusively for warning. We don’t know everything to be known about this magic stuff. And remember….”
Jerhad rolled his eyes and sighed.
” …no sounds in the night can be as bad as too many.” Stanton turned and crawled into the lean-to and slid into the bedroll Jerhad had been using. Jerhad did his best impression of a salute but quickly went to scratching his head when Stanton looked back.
“This is the best part of doing first watch — warm bedroll.” He turned over and went to sleep.
Stanton was meticulous in his goings and comings. Self-reliant and excelling at much of what he undertook, he had quickly been promoted in his military life, gaining the respect of his superiors and comrades. He had given himself completely to his career, and it was thought by some that he would eventually be promoted to Commander of the Army. It had soon become evident that he was a born leader and within one cycle had attained the standing of Squad Leader within the infantry. Later, he had been transferred to the cavalry, by his own request, and soon he had been advanced in ranking to Squad Leader of a mounted scouting detachment, having chosen to stay there even though he had been offered promotions. The army command left him to his choice because he excelled in this position, but they had warned that in the future he would be made cavalry captain whether he wanted to or not. He had enjoyed military life, for it fit with his disciplined character and his love of order and purpose. The army took the place of his lost family, and he had felt quite happy being a member of its ranks.
Jerhad retrieved a piece of the Fortis Root, placed it into his mouth and chewed; it was bitterly distasteful, his face contorting into a grimace, and he almost spat it out but then thought better of it. Deciding that he might as well check the perimeter, he set out; he looked at the knife in his hand: an enigma. What else could it do? Would it do the things it had done before? The green stone had warned him against danger twice now. Where had it come from? How had the old man known? How did the old man know my name? Questions. No answers.
Jerhad moved about the perimeter as Stanton had described it to him, his skills as a hunter serving him well, for often he went by crickets or peepers without them even breaking stride in their determined night songs. The tiny frogs he had always known as peepers had always sounded like what he visualized as a series of expanding circles, echoing in patterns: much like ripples from a stone thrown into a placid pool. Returning to camp, he settled in; all was well with the night. By then, he became aware that he was awake, more than awake! This Fortis Root was worse than Aunt Bettsey’s black tea that she brewed for courses at a time on her kitchen stove, before making a fresh pot; and the root did not taste much different.
For the rest of the night, he reflected on the events of the past few courses: the old man, the pouch, Gnomes, the knife, magic, trappers wanting to rob and kill him, Stanton. Stanton himself was an enigma. Friendly, warm, boyish at times, yet hard, calculated and capable of killing when pressed. Guess that’s what makes him a leader, Jerhad thought. The sunrising came without event, and Jerhad, returning from his last perimeter check, saw that Stanton was up and getting some food from the packs.
Oh, ye gods, he almost forgot! Jerhad sounded his identification signal and entered into the camp.
Without turning to look at him, in a threatening tone, Stanton said, “You would have been shot through with an arrow or stuck with a knife by your own men on your first rounds.”
That was the last time Jerhad forgot his signals.
They ate break fast in silence, Jerhad feeling a little uneasy at Stanton‘s hard response toward his negligence, yet understanding Stanton‘s caution. Jerhad simply was not used to this type of thing. Outings into the forest he had known in Mildra had no watch, no warnings, no detailed plans except for that of taking meat. Feeling as if he had been cast into a different world, one of Gnomes and magic, Jerhad longed for home. Home! He had not really thought of it since leaving; always, he had taken it for granted. Was it possible that he missed his mother’s carryings on? And he was also way off schedule for getting back. His mother would worry herself sick, and then cousin William would be sent out and not find him. “O, ye gods in the heavens,” he seemed to hear her wail. “My boy is lost. Eaten by a bear or dying in some forsaken ditch….”
“Let’s get moving. We’ll be walking from here. There are several portages ahead, good places for an ambush. We’ll stick to the forest. It’ll be safer and faster than the portages,” Stanton said. “I want to make the Milford Portage before dark. We’ll follow the river a while, then turn up the hills far enough to get us out of the undergrowth. It should be easier walking from there, even though it’s on a steep hillside. Tie your boots tight. You don’t want to be turning an ankle out here.”
Jerhad sighed and obeyed.
They gathered their belongings and set out. The going proved easy after they got away from the tangled undergrowth. By half-course of the sun, the heat penetrated the forest, and they climbed to the ridge top because the hill rose too steeply for them to continue on a parallel trek. Now steep as a bull’s forehead, the ridge was transformed into a face of moss-covered rock with small gnarled trees strewn about and growing out of crevices, clinging for life itself. The sun shone hotly on the hillside causing the shrubs to emit a strong perfume of conifer foliage. Large slides where rainwater and snow melt had collected, and the torrent had swept down the mountainside, engraved the slope, leaving what looked like a smooth steep path to the waters edge on the River Rain below. Large stones and boulders were strewn along the watercourse’s edge. The scene was magnificent while the distant sound of the rapids below could be heard as a soft soothing and continuous hiss. With their scent hanging heavily in the warm air, trees of some ten or fifteen spans’ width towered above them on the ridge top. The River Rain ran deep and strong with small falls and white rapids dotting the river, and songbirds flitted from tree to tree and filled the air with their chirping.
Ahh, so peaceful, thought Jerhad, a light breeze cooling his face.
“This is where we put distance on anyone following us,” Stanton said. “The portages really slow travel a lot when moving upstream.”
Later, they stopped for a brief meal, using up the last of Miss Molly’s bread and cheese; they still had other provisions that they had not opened, provided by the Klines. Not long after they had been on the trail again, they came to a towering peak of rock, stripped bare by wind and rain, snow still clinging to the very top between outcroppings and ravines. The hills on the opposite side of the river were shear precipices of stone.
“We’ll have to go around the north side. There’s a bit of a trail there we’ll need to use to get around these peaks.”
It took the remainder of the sun’s course to get around the imposing mountainous pinnacle and make their way back within sight of the Rain. Standing on top of the shear rock walls, they looked down on the river cascading through a series of turbulent, foaming rapids. Working their way nearer to the portage Stanton had wanted to reach, they set up camp.
They would spend two more nights traveling along the Rain.
The middle of their fourth course of traveling on foot brought them out on a cliff overlooking a spectacular waterfall whose waters dropped down ten-score paces onto massive boulders and then formed a small lake before continuing eastward toward the sea.
“That’s Barrett’s Fall: supposedly named after the man who discovered it too late and went over the edge,” yelled Stanton over the thunderous roar of the water. “There’s a wash that can be used as a trail a bit further on. We’ll go back down and join the portage around the fall and then go down to the bottom and cross under it. There’s a trail that goes under. It’s a bit hard going but manageable. We’ll camp a little ways upriver where the noise won’t be so loud as to prevent us from hearing intruders.”
Darkness had established the night when they finally made camp. The hiss of the distant falls permeated the night, and the starry sky glistened. Stanton had been right; the crossing under the waterfall had been hard going. The cliff that the falls went over jutted out beyond its base, forming a ten-pace deep expanse behind the ominously powerful and threatening curtain of water; within this expanse, there meandered a broken sort of trail among the rocks and boulders. Travel had been wet and slippery, moss and slime the predominant exposed surface, as they had gone along the track that went behind the ever-plummeting aqueous screen.
There was a cleft in the face of the cliffs, just above the portage, where they could safely make a fire without being seen. While Jerhad made camp, Stanton did first perimeter check. Stanton suddenly stood next to him, when Jerhad realized that it had not been a nighthawk that he had just heard; he tried not to act surprised. This was going to take some getting use to.
In one waxed paper wrapping from Miss Molly’s bag, Jerhad found some trail biscuits, a hearty roll that it was said one could survive on indefinitely and would preserve as long, if kept well wrapped. They were good too, sweetened with honey and spiced with coriander and a trace of cinnamon and clove and kept moist with hazelnut oil. Jerhad used his small cook pot and added some herbs and roots he had gathered from the forest to the venison jerk he found among the provisions. With this, he concocted a stew.
“When do we cross to the Mage?” he asked.
“We?” asked Stanton, idly crumpling dried leaves in his left hand and watching the fragments drift on the breeze. “We are not. You are. This is where we part, Elf Boy. I need to get back to Breezon. You have your errand to run. We part first thing at the rising. You south. Me north.”
Jerhad was surprised at how taken back he was by this; he had quickly gotten used to traveling with Stanton. He had known their association was temporary, yet he must have grown too comfortable having the security that Stanton offered.
“How about I hire you to come with me to Canon? It sure would be safer, for me, and I’d pay you two large golds.”
“That’s a generous offer, but I really should head north. We’ve probably left those Gnomes and trappers far behind. You’ll be fine.” It was evident that Stanton would not be swayed.
“All right then, how do I get across the ridge?” asked the Elf.
“It’s a bit tricky, but manageable. You head back down to the base of the falls at sunrising. There’s an old stone-paved road, we went by earlier, that leads west through what was once known as Dwarf’s Pass. The walls of the pass caved in during an earthquake a long time ago. It was abandoned, stopping all traffic south, on the west coast. If one is determined, he can climb over the stone rubble that blocks the pass. It’s been done. Most don’t think it’s worthwhile. With a bit of patience, effort and care, you’ll make it. From there, cross directly west on the road through the mountains. That’ll bring you to the Mage. You can walk or raft down to Mildra and decide what you’ll do from there.”
Mildra lay on the southwest coast bordering on the north of the Korkaran Sea and tucked between the hills that formed the Mage River valley. A little over eight thousand Elves, who made their living farming the fertile flood plains on the north side of the river, fishing and grazing sheep in the surrounding hills, populated the east side of the river. Even though a port that served the southern portion of Frontmire, Mildra was not considered significant. The major cities of Frontmire lay to the north and northeast; Heros the capitol was itself a major port, and Breezon, the next major city, was served by Port Oxzard.
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Scene: Moreau’s Ford
Jerhad continued to sleep fitfully throughout the course; Stanton had failed to rouse him even after several attempts. The Elf was feverish, his tongue and mouth dry, and he often cried out in his sleep.
Stanton worried. Having stripped Jerhad naked and examined him for any sign of a scratch the Elf might have taken from the foul creature, he found none. Later, still fretful, he had checked again even though he knew it would prove futile. A couple of times, he tried to put water into the Elf’s mouth, but it did not work. It only produced violent coughing and increased agitation. Finally, he gave up and let Jerhad sleep.
At sunsetting, the third course since Andreanna’s abduction, there came a soft knock at the door; Stanton opened it. There stood a small elderly lady; she was very wrinkled and deeply stooped over with age.
Suspicion slowed Stanton.
“Wait here.” He closed the door and returned with the Elf’s knife. He opened the door, saying, “Hold still.” He touched her with the blade. Nothing happened. What am I doing? Trying to use magic? I don’t even know what I’m doing with it.
“What do you want, old lady?”
“My name is Nan. I am the village healer. The innkeeper told me that your friend is very sick. I’ve come to do what I can.”
He thought for a span of heartbeats. If this continued, Jerhad would die, and Stanton somehow doubted that the Elf would wake on his own. Not much to lose. “Come on in and take a look.” With his head, he motioned toward the bed where Jerhad lay.
Nan went over to Jerhad. “Oh my! He’s burning up. He’s far too hot even for an Elf. Get Froman the host to get a bath of cool water ready. Quickly. We must cool him.”
Stanton hesitated. Should I leave the Elf with the old lady? He took a chance he hoped that he would not regret. A while later, they immersed Jerhad in the water.
“Not too long, or he will shiver and get warm again,” she cautioned. “Let’s take him back to bed.”
Once in the room again, she mixed some herbs in a bowl of water and heated the potion over a candle, allowing it to steam its vapors about Jerhad’s head.
“Can I ask what happened to him?”
Stanton shrugged. He told her everything.
“This is not good,” she gasped, shaking her head. “It is as I thought. The hurt is in his spirit not in his flesh. The magic was too much for him. The wound of the loss of the girl has made it worse. It is an injury of magic, which is infected with his loss. I have heard of such, but I had not seen it until now. I was not ready for this. I will return at the rising. Keep him cool. Soak him again if you must. I must go prepare if I am to save him.” She left.
Stanton stood at the foot of the bed, confused, lost. What had she said was wrong? Magic? He had warned the Elf not to play with it.
About two spans after the next rising, the old lady returned.
“I will need your help, boy. I was hard put to, but I found the herb I need up in the foothills during the night. I don’t want to waste time to explain. You wouldn’t understand or believe me if I did. Just listen. You must be strong. You must be willing to go where you have not gone before. It will be dangerous for you. You will need to master your fears. Your sword and skills will not avail. Only your strength of mind and heart will help you and the Elf. If you have love for him, that will help our cause also.” She pulled three dark green leaves from her pouch. Witch’s Dew!
“That’s poisonous!” protested Stanton, advancing around the bed to where Nan stood.
“Not when it is used within one-half course of its being picked,” she said. “But it is dangerous in how we use it. It might be better to be poisoned by it than to fail in the use we give it.” She crumpled a leaf and stuffed it into Jerhad’s mouth, Stanton’s hands involuntarily moving as if in attempt to stop her. She spread a blanket on the floor, and Stanton placed Jerhad on the blanket as the old lady indicated.
“Remove your clothes and lie next to him.”
“Are you crazy, old lady?” Stanton sputtered.
She went back, bolted the door and barred the shutters. Ignoring his protests, she proceeded to remove her own clothes. Stanton was overcome with embarrassment.
“Are you going to help?” she frowned. “I cannot do this alone.” Hesitatingly, embarrassed, he took off his clothes and lay next to Jerhad. Placing one leaf in her mouth and chewing it a bit, she handed the third to Stanton as he took up his position.
“You must be in as much contact with his skin as possible. You must hold my hand and not let go under any circumstance. You will know what to do when it is time. Be calm. Be strong. Conquer your fears. I know what I do, but as you have seen, I am old. It will be up to you.”
He put the leaf in his mouth and chewed.
“Draw close to him, boy. Give me your hand.” She lay on Jerhad’s opposite side.
Stanton began feeling queasy, feeling…poisoned. Drowsiness and darkness enveloped him as he voyaged down…down…down.
“Ah, there you are,” said Nan. “I thought for a span of heartbeats that you would not come.”
Stanton gazed at her; she was ageless. She could have been four, forty, or four hundred cycles. She was very lovely now but not in a sexual way; he saw beauty, honesty, integrity, healing and other things in her that he could not identify or describe. Her hair was silver in color and she radiated the same hue in an aura about herself.
“Where are we?”
“We are at the border of the land of evil dreams. Your friend has gone in and become lost. He is in trouble. We must follow and retrieve him. We will meet many evils there. They are dangerous to us only if we heed them. They are but dreams. Be of a strong mind, boy. It is your only defense, your only weapon here. All evil may be stayed by the knowledge that it is but a dream. If you forget, you will become lost in there also. If we become separated, remember where your body lies. You will find your way back.”
For the first time in his life, Stanton was truly afraid, desiring to run, almost frantic, not knowing what he could do without sword or knife. Normally, Stanton would be in control of every situation he placed himself in; now, he had no idea of what he was up against or what was required of him.
“Come. Time grows short,” urged Nan.
They walked into the darkness. Things moved about them. Something brushed against Stanton, making his skin crawl; he drew back.
“You are not listening to me, boy! These are dream beings. The more you notice them, the more real they will become, and the more power they will have to harm you. Then they will take you!”
“Have you done this before, old lady?” The term “old lady” was becoming a confusing oxymoron in his mind because of her present essential appearance.
“No.”
“What?”
“No. I was told of this by a Druid healer. She was very old, and I was very young. She chose not to use the Druid Sleep any longer and died.”
Fire and demons, thought Stanton. The goat leading the cow! He considered backing out. His body lay on the floor of the inn. He could go back. Slowly, feeling disassociated and disembodied, he perceived himself slipping toward his drugged body.
In the distance, he heard Nan say, “Have you no love for him, boy?”
Stanton stopped. Love for him? Then he realized how close he had become to Jerhad, and to Andreanna. How they had fought for each other, willing to lay down their lives without a second thought. Willing to die for each other, knowing it was right.
“I see you have come back.”
“Let’s get this over with. I don’t like this, old woman.”
“Neither do I, boy. Neither do I.”
“What about you? You don’t love him.”
“No, not the way you mean, but I am a healer. I love the essence of Life and Health wherever I find them in whosoever possesses them, even in those who have capacity for great evil. The Life within them is dear to me. I am a healer. I must preserve the thing I love. Therefore, I love him as I love you. It is mine to preserve Life and Health. Come.”
As they went walking through the darkness, the scenes about them became increasingly vivid. A child lay in bed crying for fear of the ravenous Trolls that hid beneath. Wolves with red eyes and long fangs chased a girl through the snow, who, though she ran and struggled, did not seem to gain ground. Long tentacles wrapped around a fisherman holding to the mast of his ship, terror widening his eyes and clinging to his visage, as if etched on a stone. A tentacle wrapped around Stanton’s leg and knocked him to the ground.
“Boy! Stop it!” hissed Nan. “It is but a dream. You are of a greater mind than this.”
Stanton shook himself as if to brace his thoughts, and the tentacle slipped into the water. They moved on, witnessing the dreams of the children of Humans, Elves, Dwarves, Gnomes and Trolls. Frightening dreams. Dreams of terror and darkness and fear. Dreams of Evil.
Stanton was wide-eyed with fears of his own.
“We draw near. Gird your thoughts, Warrior!”
“Why do you call me that?” he asked, stalling.
“I see you as you see me, as you are. Your life force has the essence of one who is a warrior by nature, not by training. It is what separates you from being a mere soldier. Silence! We arrive.”
Stanton heard Jerhad’s cries and sobs in the distance.
”Quickly! He has need of us.”
Stanton saw Jerhad running as if in slow motion, a black creature, like the one that had attacked them at Moreau’s Ford and wearing Andreanna’s contorted face, followed. Its fangs dripped with blood, and its claws tore at the air a hair’s breadth behind the Elf.
Stanton’s skin crawled; it was too much like it had been in the inn.
“Ignore it!” hissed Nan. “Do not give it existence through credence.”
Stanton closed his eyes and composed himself, breathing deeply, but noticing at the same time that he did not feel air moving into his lungs. When he opened his eyes, Jerhad and the creature were gone.
“We will not have many more chances, Warrior. Remember who you are!” she commanded him, as Jerhad came into view again, the creature pursuing closely, reaching for the Elf, calling to him.
Stanton braced himself and stepped in between the two, his back to the beast, feeling its cold breath on his neck, its claws brushing his skin.
“Jerhad!” he shouted, more so to compose himself than to get Jerhad’s attention.
“Stanton? Is that you? Look out behind you. Oh, no! She’s got you.”
Stanton drew a hair’s breadth from sheer panic, and he writhed in discomfort from the sensation of the beast at his back.
Then Nan’s face appeared before him in a mist, as if in another dream. “The battle is on, Warrior. Fight! Fight for your life. Fight for the Elf’s life. Fight now, or all is lost.”
“No! Jerhad!” He grabbed the Elf by the arm.
“Let me go, she’s got you. I’ve got to get away. No, Andreanna, no don’t!”
“Stop!” shouted Stanton even louder. “It’s a dream! Look around you. Can’t you see? It’s just a dream. You have to wake up. You’ve been in here four risings now. It’s time to wake up. Wake up, or you’ll be lost in here forever.”
“But I am lost, Stanton. Andreanna has been trying to kill me, chasing me…trying to devour me. And I don’t know where I am. She has claws. Her eyes are lifeless,” the Elf sobbed. “Ye gods, she’s behind you! Run, run for your life! Oh no, she’s got you! Stanton! No Andreanna, don’t,” he screamed, thrashing in Stanton’s firm grasp.
“Jerhad. It’s a dream. It’s not real. I’ve come to take you out. Listen to me. Please, Jerhad, please listen to me.”
Jerhad stopped abruptly.
“What did you call me?”
Stanton stood, confused.
“You called me Jerhad…. It must be a dream. You’ve never called me by my name.”
Stanton looked around frantically, locating Nan who stood off in the fog. I don’t know what to do, he pleaded with her with his eyes.
You’ll be fine. You have him. Lead him out, he heard her voice say in his mind.
“Behind you, Stanton. She’s got you! Oh, the blood. Stanton, she’s killed you. Andreanna how could you?”
“Jerhad, watch.” Stanton turned and stuck his arm into the Andreanna creature’s maw. She disappeared.
“Where did she go? Why is she doing this to me? I thought she loved me?”
“It doesn’t exist. It’s a dream.”
“There she is. Run!”
Stanton held him tightly.
Hold him with your heart also, Warrior, came Nan’s voice to his mind.
“Jerhad, friend,” he said softly. “It’s a dream. Let’s get out of here.”
Jerhad looked at him. “But if this is a dream and I wake up, Andreanna will be gone. It’s no worse in here than it will be out there.”
“We’ll find her, Elf Boy. We’ll find her, you and me, and we’ll make them regret they ever heard of us.”
“Really?” A change came over Jerhad, and Stanton saw him in his true essence. He released Jerhad’s hand and dropped to one knee, head bowed, fist to his chest.
“Yes, Sire. We will. I swear it, Elf Prince. I swear it.”
“What?” he asked, not understanding Stanton. “Alright then, I’ll come with you. Which way?”
“The inn at Moreau’s Ford. Remember? Our room, on the floor, that’s where we need to go.”
Stanton awoke just as the old lady finished putting on her clothes. She had covered Jerhad with a blanket. “He will sleep now. He will recover,” she smiled.
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Scene: Rescue in Heros
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