Original Submissions
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Last Chance by Elvenchipmunk
Added on Feb 2, 2005A tribal elf comes of age, and learns of what life means in Zalanthas.
The deep red sun rose up into the pale pink, cloudless sky. The birds were chirping, the trees waving in the wind. Down on the ground, it was the start of a fresh new day for the village of Elrohir.
In the small, wooden house at which the elven child Isirin dwelled, fresh pastries, meat, beverages and other delicious elven food was being served for breakfast. Both Isirin and his father came to the table to eat. "Father, you do know what day it is don't you?" asked Isirin, the child of the family. All of the elves of Elrohir were required to learn both the language of the elves, Allundean, and the human tongue, Sirihish.
"Of course Isirin, how could a father forget when his son reaches adulthood. I have arranged for a ceremony tonight at the banquet hall to initiate you fully into the tribe," replied Khalin, Isirin's father, and most cherished relative.
"Did you get me a present father? You were gone for a few days last week, did you get me a present while you were away?" asked Isirin excitedly.
"You will have to wait and see, my son. I can tell you though that I have also arranged for a special trip for you and me into the woods after the ceremony tonight."
"Into the woods?" a grin spread across Isirin's pale face. "We're going hunting!"
Khalin couldn't help but let out a broad smile as he saw how happy he had made his son. "That's right Isirin, hunting. Now that you're an adult, I think you can take on the responsibility of hunting with me to be able to contribute to tribe." There was only Isirin and Khalin who were left in their family, as his mother was taken away by human raiders a while back, and Isirin was an only son. Because of this, the whole tribe contributed food, and by this way, the whole tribe was treated equally and given the same amount of food and equipment.
As they were finishing up their first meal of the day, Khalin said "Isirin, hurry up and finish your breakfast, we've a long day ahead of us. I must finish setting up the banquet hall for your initiation. I need you to go play with Havin, so there are no surprises that will be ruined for you."
"Yes father. I can't wait to tell Havin that I'm going to be going on a hunting trip," said Isirin proudly.
"Have a good time, Isirin," said Khalin as his 14 year-old son left the hut.
As Isirin was walking down the pebble-strewn road, he couldn't stop thinking about the hunt, and his present! What could it be? He wondered. The thought left his mind as he saw Havin, his best friend, playing out in his yard.
"Havin! Havin! Guess what? For my birthday, father's taking me out on a hunt! I'm gonna use a bow an' everything!"
"Really Isirin? You're so lucky. My birthday isn't until a long time from now. I wish I could go out on a hunt."
"You will when you're 14, you've still only got a year until you are. That's not too long."
"Ya, I guess you're right Isirin. Anyway, I got a few neat figurines that we can play with. Do you want to go and play with them?"
"Sure Havin. I haven't anything better to do until the initiation."
"Great! Let's go as soon as I get them from my room. One minute."
Once Havin came out of his straw-hued hut, a small bag in his hand, Isirin and him started on their way. After a little while, the pebble road gradually turned into a dirt path, and once they came to the place where they usually played, a small field, it was but a path of long grass.
"Let's get some to set them up on," suggested Isirin. Havin nodded his head and off they went around the field, picking up branches that had fairly flat ends. When they had both decided they had enough, they went back to where they started and began setting up the stands. Once he had fitted together his first stand, Isirin pulled a slingshot out of his jacket. "Hey Havin, put a figurine on that stand, and I'll try to shoot it."
"Alright, but if you miss, it's my turn."
"Alright, just load it up."
Having put the small wooden figure of a gith with a sword in hand inside, and set it gently onto the flat end of a piece of wood. Isirin picked up a few rocks, loaded one into his slingshot, steadied himself, pulled back on the string until it couldn't go any further, and let go.
Smack. The rock hit the figurine dead on, putting a large dent in it. Isirin watched satisfyingly as the figurine flipped off the wood, hitting the ground softly. He smiled at Havin.
"Okay, I get the next one", said Havin as he released an uncontrollable grin to Isirin. They did this for a few hours until Isirin's dad came down the path. "Isirin, have you not been watching the sun? It's time for your initiation", said Khalin with a hidden hint of happiness.
Smiling, Isirin said, "Alright, Havin, you're coming?"
"Yes, I wouldn't miss something like this."
"Alright then, follow me," said Khalin as he began on his way back up the path.
When they got into the banquet hall, a large building made from wood and bark, they went in through the two front doors, and in front of them was a big room filled with tables and tables of food. As they entered, all of the elves sitting at the tables, nearly all the elves in the village were clapping. They made their way to the front table, except for Havin who went to sit with his family.
Isirin's father started his speech. "Elves of Elrohir, tonight, we celebrate the 14th birthday of my son, Isirin." Khalin gave Isirin a quick smile before returning to his speech. "Now this is no ordinary birthday, because it is his fourteenth, he is now a man, but not officially, that is why we are here tonight." A series of hands clapping were heard, then all was silent as Khalin continued. "After tonight, Isirin will have been blessed by the gods of old, and he will be officially, a man!" More clapping non-stop, then Khalin gave the sign and all of the elves got up and headed over to the food.
At the front of the line, Isirin took all kinds of different food that had been made by different elves in the village. He started off by getting some steaming hot vegetables, delicious ginka pie, and a large steak of tandu. He finished off his plate by getting some honey-glazed horta fruit for dessert. He then headed back to his table and took his seat.
Once everyone had completed their plates, Khalin stood up, said a prayer, then the feast began.
Elves are not sloppy eaters at all, so there were forks, knives and spoons laid out at each spot, all made out of wood. After the eating was done, and the talking ceased, which took a while, as elves are not quick eaters due to their cleanliness, Khalin once again rose from his tree-carved wooden chair and cleared his throat. "Now that everyone has filled their stomachs, I would like to commence the initiation. Isirin, stand up please." After a slight hesitation, Isirin rose from his chair, nodding to his father. "Now, if everyone could bow their heads as I speak the initiation prayer." Everyone's faces pointed to the ground, including Isirin's, but not Khalin's. Khalin drew his scimitar, a finely crafted obsidian weapon with the symbol of a tree engraved into the blade. He placed it on Isirin's shoulders.
"Isirin, you are now adult, you now have many responsibilities. Do you promise to hunt for the tribe, to do your share in the thriving of this village of Elrohir?" Isirin nodded his head.
"Do you promise to not betray, steal from, or hurt anyone else in the village?" Another nod from Isirin.
"And you will respect your elders, whether you like their decisions or not?" Again, Isirin nodded his head slowly.
"Then, by the power of the gods of Elrohir, I hereby declare you a hunter of the village Elrohir!" said Khalin, his voice rising from beginning to end. All of the elves rose their heads and began clapping and cheering, Isirin rose as well, unleashing an uncontrollable smile. "Thank you father," he whispered to Khalin. Khalin ruffled his hair in return. "Isirin, I have a present for you when we get back to the house."
They entered the hut, Khalin hurrying to the lamps to light them, as it was pitch-black outside, only his lantern was helping them see. As Isirin entered, he saw, in the corner, a polished length of curved wood with a tight string attached, and a long bag made of animal skin with a strap on it. Smiling, Isirin said "A bow and a quiver! Thank you father! Will we try it out soon?"
"I've arranged for us to go hunting in the morning, Isirin. I've also arranged for you to be given your very own blade, and swordbelt."
"Thank you father. I can't wait!"
"Well, maybe go to sleep now, and we'll go test out your bow and scimitar in the morning."
Isirin ran as quickly as he could into his room, removing his clothing until he had only a pair of old shorts on, then climbed into his bed, a pile of animal furs on top with animal skins stuffed with feathers on the bottom. He was too excited to fall asleep right away, so he tried to stay up. The longer he did this though, the quicker he got tired and eventually fell asleep.
The next morning, Isirin awoke with a start. As he looked up, there was his father, all dressed in his hunting gear, a green cloak with his bow slung across his back, and his scimitar sheathed in his belt. "Isirin, get up, it's time to go." Isirin jumped out of bed, got on his cloak that was given to him the past night, along with some other hunting gear, and went to get his bow and quiver full of arrows. He grabbed a few pieces of bread and a cup of water, wolfed them down, and then followed his father out the door.
On the way to the hut where Isirin's new scimitar was being kept, he slung his bow across his back like his father, and strapped his quiver to his back as well. When they got to the hut, they picked up the scimitar from the rack where it was being kept, and it was given to Isirin, who sheathed it proudly on his belt after having looked it over admirably.
They left the hut, and made for the village gates, which were no more than ten cords tall and were fashioned into spikes at the top. The four guards there nodded to Isirin and his father on their way out, opening up the tall gates. When they were past the gates, they closed from the other side with a loud thud, and ahead of them, lay the forest.
The leaves on the tall trees of the forest ruffled in the wind, the light from the slowly rising sun reflecting off the shining surface of them. They entered the forest, following an old path deeper in. They were moving along the path slowly, keeping to the cover of bushes, their green cloaks camouflaging them.
"Over there", whispered Khalin, pointing just off to the right of the old, worn-down path. Isirin looked over slowly, nodding to his father as he spotted the four-hoofed mammal, a tandu, its brown hide shining in the morning sunlight. Khalin pulled an arrow from his leather quiver and nocked it onto his bow, as did Isirin. They slowly rose from their position behind the bush, now standing up to their full height, both of them aiming steadily at the tandu. Two arrows whistled as they flew through air at the tandu, killing it instantly as one of them hit its neck, and the other its body. Khalin smiled at Isirin as he said, "Good shot Isirin, that shot would've nearly killed him by itself". Isirin flashed a smile back at him.
They slung their bows across their back as they walked over to the body. Khalin drew a small knife, and then another, handing one over to Isirin. "Here, you start by cutting out the meat by its back." Khalin drew his scimitar, cutting off the tandu's head, blood spilling from it for a while. When it was stopped, he used his knife to cut off the hide carefully, and finished off by getting out the rest of the meat that Isirin missed. Khalin took all of the body parts on the ground, and tossed them into a large bag, which he threw across his back. "Let's get one more, then we'll set up camp for the night".
After looking for a few hours, they found a large tandu, shooting it down like the first. Again they walked over to the body, skinning and cleaning it up. When this was done, it had been a while since they had set out, and it was dusk. "We'll set up a small fire and tent here, Isirin". Isirin set up the tent as Khalin went around finding branches, starting a small fire once he was done.
Once the fire was ablaze, Khalin got out a couple of pieces of tandu, setting them on sticks. He gave one to Isirin who set it over the fire, as did Khalin, cooking it. "This is good, the others will be pleased when they see what we brought back", said Khalin after taking a large bite out of his piece of meat. "I didn't think there was so much meat on a tandu, father, I am glad we only need to kill a couple to last us a while", said Isirin as he too took a bite out of his meat.
"Yes, it is quite good for nature that we only need to kill two. Right now though, you need to get some rest", said Khalin, smiling at Isirin as he licked his greasy fingers.
"Good night father." Isirin climbed into the tent, snugly underneath his blanket. Khalin climbed in after the fire was out, did up the tent, and fell asleep beside his son.
The next morning, just after dawn, Khalin woke his son. "Isirin, time to head back. Are you hungry?" Isirin shook his head. "Alright then, let's pack everything up and leave", said Khalin as he left the tent, beginning to take it down. Isirin stepped out of the tent, rubbing his blue eyes. Once everything was rolled up and packed away, they began walking slowly in the direction of their village.
As they reached the edge of the forest, thick smoke could be seen rising up over the trees and into the morning sky. "Father! What is that?" exclaimed Isirin, in an almost panicked voice. "I'm not sure son. Follow me, quickly, we'll go see what this is about".
They reached the outside of the forest, and widened their eyes at what lay before them. The whole village was on fire, or already burned to the ground. The remains of bodies littered around the broken gates. Isirin collapsed to the ground, kneeling as he put his dirt-covered hands to his crying face. "Father, who would do such a thing?" said Isirin, tears beginning to trickle down his face. Khalin shook his head, dumbstruck.
"Isirin, we must gather our things from the house, and never come back here. Do you understand?"
"Yes father", said Isirin, nodding.
"Good, let's go in, but be careful, and try not to be seen, there could still be enemies within the village".
They entered the village gates, again under the cover of their cloaks. They quickly made their way into their hut, which was burned, but not badly. Isirin tripped on the body of an elf, putting a hand to his mouth and covering it to prevent vomiting. He quickly rose back to his feet and entered the hut behind his father.
They grabbed a few bags of meat, fruit, and several waterskins full to the brim. "Isirin, let's leave, we must head into the city of Tuluk, and maybe we can stay there for the night before heading elsewhere". Isirin nodded agreeably, still a little shocked by the sight around him. Dead bodies of elves he had known littered everywhere. Here and there, he could see the body of a human, their throat cut, or their body with a gaping hole in it, bearing the symbol of a blazing sun on their red and white uniform. Somewhere nearby, he could here moaning. "I..si..r..in..", said the voice, sounding quite scared. "Who is that? Where are you?" said Isirin, looking around him.
"Ov..er.he..re.. I..sir.in".
Isirin looked in the direction of the voice, and there was Havin, lying under the debris of a burned hut. "Havin! Hang on, father and I will get you out!" Isirin and Khalin moved over to where Havin lay, and slowly removed the debris from on top of him. Once it was all off, it was clear that Havin had been pierced by a sword in his chest. Thinking quickly, Khalin tore a piece of cloth from Havin's already torn, dirty shirt, and placed it on Havin's chest, covering up the wound. "There, it should heal in time, but there may be a scar there for a while", said Khalin, as he stood back to his feet.
"Havin", started Khalin, "Isirin and I were about to leave for the roundear city of Tuluk, it will be safe there for the night. Do you wish to accompany us?"
"Yes, I will go with you. I do not see much other choice", said Havin weakly as he rose from his position.
"Good, then let's go."
Just then a sword fell on Khalin, cutting him at the shoulder. "Father!" yelled Isirin, turning as he drew his scimitar just in time to block a blow from a human Tuluki soldier. The force from the blow knocked him off his feet though, and he had to jump back up quickly before the next blow fell. He raised his scimitar above his head, faking a swing to the right as he twirled around, cutting into the soldier's waist from the other side. His bone sword fell to the ground as the soldier of Tuluk collapsed, bright red blood pouring from his side and mixing with the brown dirt. Isirin finished him by cutting off his head, breathing heavily as he stuck his scimitar into the ground, his eyes filled with rage. He moved over to where the lifeless corpse of his father lay, a pool of blood circling around it. "Father..." Isirin fell to the ground, whimpering softly as he shut his eyes, dozing off into a deep sleep.
He woke later that night, opening his eyes quickly as he looked around him. Nobody was to be seen, and he was now under a pile of leaves just on the edge of the forest. He rose to his feet, looking around once more. This time though, he noticed Havin, sleeping peacefully underneath another pile of leaves, his injured chest relaxed. Isirin walked sleepily over to Havin, shaking him. Havin woke with a start, backing away before he realized it was Isirin standing overtop of him. Havin, we must head to Tuluk and seek shelter there".
"Isirin, the ones that attacked the village, who were they? I have seen them before, marching out in the wilderness."
"They were." begun Isirin begun, pausing for a moment before continuing, "I'm not sure who they were, but we best avoid any others, in case they wish to kill us."
Havin nodded, standing up. "Yes, we must go to Tuluk, I have heard that elves are welcome there, from my father". Havin slumped next to a large tree, shaking his head as he held back tears. "If only he were here now".
"If only this had never happened", said Isirin as he sat down beside his friend.
Hours passed as they sat there, alone, under the night sky. Isirin woke the next morning, standing up quickly as he moved over to a small bush, hiding behind it. He peered up over it, in the direction of the village. There he saw a pair of humans, rummaging through the corpses of the elves and men alike, taking what they please. What's wrong with them? Why do they not honor the dead? thought Isirin, slowly walking over to where Havin lay.
"Havin, wake up", whispered Isirin. "There's a pair of roundears going through the bodies of the dead, what should we do?"
Havin sat up, looking into Isirin's eyes. "Isirin, you must make a decision, do you want to be a killer? And take from them what they took from our elders? Or do you want to flee to Tuluk, and never come back. The decision is yours not mine."
Isirin grinned as he drew his scimitar, then his father's which he had taken to honor him, and keep something from him to remember him by. "I choose the path of the killer, and I will spill the blood of those that dared challenge our elders. Havin, will you join me?"
Nodding, Havin drew his swords he had picked up off the ground. "Yes, I will help."
They crept slowly across the forest floor, stalking the raiders' every move. Once they were close enough, Isirin unslung his bow from his back, and handed his father's over to Havin, as well as a few arrows. They both nocked an arrow, taking aim at the raiders who had now taken a seat beside the village walls. The arrows sung as they flew in the direction of the raiders, both of them hitting one of the raiders in the back, he fell to the ground. The other one turned around, seeing his dead partner, looking behind him as two tall figures in green cloaks rushed out of the forest, weapons drawn. He spat out the ale he had in his mouth, drawing his one longsword and picking up a small dagger from the ground.
Isirin charged to the right and Havin to the left, the raider nervously bracing himself as the two elves screamed, slashing at him. He didn't even have enough time to scream before his head was cut off and a large hole was cut into his body. He fell to the ground, beside the rotting body of his friend, a large pool of blood forming around them. The two elves sheathed their weapons, Isirin exhaling heavily as Havin sat down on the blood-soaked ground. "Now, we must go to the city, before a whole group of roundears come and kill us", said Isirin, riding to his feet.
They began heading in the direction of the city of Tuluk, and soon set foot inside the Harzen gates, just before early afternoon. "Halt, what is your business here in Tuluk, newcomers?" asked a large human with jet-black hair as he moved out into the middle of the road, blocking their path.
"My business is." Isirin paused as he saw the red and white armor that the soldier displayed, widening his eyes as he noticed a blazing sun etched into them. He turned to face Havin. "Havin, we need to get out of here, it's not safe". Havin nodded, and they turned around.
"Hey! You two! Stop! What is your business here in Tuluk! If you leave without giving an answer you will be killed!" Isirin and Havin kept walking.
"Guards! Grab them!" yelled the soldier, but the two elves had already left the gates. He walked over to the gates; the elves were not to be seen. Just as he turned his back, two arrows flew in from the forest, striking down one of the gate guards, and another two flew in and killed the soldier that had questioned them, piercing his neck as he collapsed to the ground.
At the edge of the forest, concealed behind a bush, Isirin and Havin ran west, eventually finding a hole in the ground of suitable size for the night. They both climbed in. After having unrolled the tent and entering it, their furs laid out across the ground, Isirin said, "Havin, what are we to do now? How will we get revenge on the roundears?"
"Isirin, we must seek aid from other tribes, unite as one, and maybe then we can challenge the roundears".
"Yes, we shall set out to find another tribe in the morning. Good night Havin".
"Good night Isirin".
They awoke next morning to the sight of a lizard, roughly one quarter their size, standing overtop of them, its chitin carapace dulled in the blackness of the hole. Isirin pat Havin on the back. "Havin, what is that?" asked Isirin, pointing to the lizard.
"Uh, I think it's a skeet, my father used to hunt them for their chitin. Yes, it's a skeet".
"Are they dangerous, Havin?"
Havin shook his head.
Nodding, Isirin rose from his spot in the tent, shooing the skeet out. With a grunt, Havin rose as well, clutching his chest. "Well, at least the bleeding has stopped, and I think it's being healed quite nicely", he said.
Isirin helped him up, then left the tent, rolling and packing it up. They left the skeet hole, continuing north until they found themselves on a white stone road. "The North Road", said Isirin, looking around. "My father told me about it. To the east, it leads into the city, and to the west, it leads into an area called the Tablelands, where another elven tribe lies. That is where we must go."
They left west, running along the road at a steady pace. They encountered a few skeet on the way, which they just left. They also saw a human riding upon a grey kank, whom they just ran right by, without saying a word. Once they came to the intersection where another road started, Isirin pointed down its length. "There, Havin. Down that road is where the tribe is. Are you ready? They may not help us".
"After what we've been through Isirin? I'm ready". They ran down this road, stopping when they came to the gates of an outpost. They walks inside, the elves around them staring. Isirin walked up to one and said, "Might you tell me where your chief is?"
The elf pointed to the north, where a large building lay. "Thank you", offered Isirin as he and Havin continued into the tavern. Once inside, Isirin asked again where the chief was. One of the elves pointed to the east, where a curtain lead into a small room filled with cushions. They walked into it, and there they found a large elf, with a hat made of feathers. As they neared him, Isirin dipped his head, and, after seeing Isirin, so did Havin. As he neared the chief, Isirin said, "My name is Isirin, and I am a child of the Elrohir. Our village." he paused for a moment, "our village was burned to the ground by soldiers of Tuluk. Now, we seek aid from you, and hope that you will gather your warriors and challenge the city with us".
A long pause went by, then, the chief spoke, "I have just spoken with the elders of my tribe using the Way, and, we have agreed to help you, and may there be peace between our tribes for years to come", said the chief, smiling faintly. Whatever of our tribe is left, thought Isirin. Havin turned to Isirin, smiling. "We will begin gathering our warriors, we will meet you at the northern gates of the outpost at dawn". Isirin and Havin dipped their heads before leaving the building, walking over to the gates, where they set up their tent.
At first light, Isirin and Havin were set, and so left their tent. Outside of it there were gathered over a hundred good warriors, all suited up for war. The leader of their army, an elderly elf with grey hair and green, brown and yellow warpaint, walked over to Isirin, dipping his head. "I am Karil of the Leaping Sands, chief of the army before you. You are Isirin are you not?"
"Yes, that is me. Are the warriors ready to leave chief?"
Nodding, the chief said, "Yes, we're all ready, shall we go now?" Isirin gave him a quick nod. "Leaping Sands!" Karil shouted, "you have been summoned here today to help a tribe in trouble! The evil roundears have burned their village! Killing their children, wives, brothers, fathers, sisters and mothers! This will not be tolerated! And so today, we leave the outpost for war! Let's go!" A series of cheers went up as they began the journey down the road, the clinking of bone armor sounding as they went.
Once they came to the North Road, Isirin, who as in the front, spotted a human riding a kank just north of there, coming towards them. He motioned for Karil to stop as he unslung his longbow from his back. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, nocking it as he aimed north. The arrow flew straight, knocking him off his kank as it his body. The man looked up just in time to see a face filled with rage, then his world went black. Standing over top of the headless body, Isirin sheathed his scimitar, unstrapping the kank. The kank, once turned free, ran off into the wilderness. The elven army soon moved up to where Isirin was, Karil nodding to him as he arrived. They continued on their way.
Tuluk was in sight, the gates crawling with soldiers armed and ready for battle. Isirin halted the army, turning around. "Elven brothers! Are you ready?!" he yelled.
A series of cheers went up as Isirin turned back to face the city. "FOR THE ELROHIR!!!!" he yelled as he charged at the city, his elven brethren following him. Havin at his side, he arrived at the gates, followed by over a hundred others. There the two armies clashed, Isirin at the front of the elves, and a few Templars at the front of the Tuluki's. Ducking as a Tuluki soldier swung a sword at Isirin's neck, he quickly leapt back up slashing at the soldier's neck, slicing right through it, his other scimitar cutting off the soldier's arm.
He looked around him, the elves were putting up a good fight, they might just win the battle. Then as he looked just to the right of him, there lay the body of Havin, twisted and mangled beyond recovery. Furious, he swung around his scimitar, cutting into the flesh of an unsuspecting Tuluki, who fell back, and was trampled by the sheer number of people. Twirling around, Isirin killed many soldiers, and was by now exhausted.
Up on the towers were now archers, firing at them unchallenged. An arrow hit Isirin, and blood began to spill from his chest where the arrow had struck. A soldier was advancing on him, his sword raised. He looked around him again, only this time all he could see were a few elves, and soldiers swarming in around them. Another arrows struck him, this time in his thigh. He grunted, that soldier was getting ever nearer. Then, he was pulled away from the soldier, who flew back as an arrow hit him in the face. He looked behind him; there was Karil, holding onto him by the arm. Behind Karil was a unit of twenty or so elves, bows unslung from their backs, firing with near-perfect aim every shot. The Tuluki soldiers around him were being cut down now, but the elves were reduced greatly in numbers, and so the soldiers fought on.
Karil pulled Isirin away from the battle where he lay beside the archers as Karil rushed back in, cutting ferociously with his bastard sword until he too, was cut to pieces by the Tuluki's onslaught. The soldiers then charged the archers, the last remains of the elves. They drew their swords, bracing themselves.
The soldiers hit them like water on rock, cutting them apart in nearly thirty seconds. There were around thre units of Tuluki soldiers left now, most of them wounded. They were now going around, looting the bodies. Isirin rose, walking over to the nearest soldier, and killing him in one, swift blow to the neck. This drew the attention of others, who rushed at Isirin. He dodged, blocked and parried with all his remaining strength, but he was exhausted. He collapsed to one knee, slicing at a nearby soldier's waist, inflicting a grievous wound. He raised his remaining scimitar up over his head, looking up towards the cloudless, night sky, the thin breeze in the air catching his air and swirling it around. He looked back down towards the soldier charging him, everything else fading away. A smile spread across his dirtied face. Then his vision failed, turning into blackness; his next words were never heard by a living being.
The deep red sun rose up into the pale pink, cloudless sky. The birds were chirping, the trees waving in the wind. Down on the ground, it was the start of a fresh new day for the village of Elrohir.
In the small, wooden house at which the elven child Isirin dwelled, fresh pastries, meat,...
Continue Reading...Sixty Crowns by Brian Tackle
Added on Feb 2, 2005A pickpocket tries to scrape together enough 'sid to heal himself from the mugging he'd received the previous night.
Two-Hands woke up, face down, when the sun burned deepest red. There was dried blood on his chin, and a splinter had found its way into the pulpy flesh of his thumb where it seemed to pulse with infernal malice in time with his heart. There was a smell like spilled beer, too long unattended, gone sun-bad and reeking. The dancing lights of Tankin's burned nearby from out the second-story windows like small beacons in the late evening gloom.
Then he spent the rest of the sunset inventing curses for himself.
His two good knives were gone. The shoddy one still pressed up against the small of his back in a leather thong. Waking and rolling over, its broken hilt had ground some spectacularly painful grits of sand into his skin. He picked out one grain and looked at it, marveling at its very un-round shape. He started thinking about how things should be a lot rounder, as a general rule. They don't cause so much pain that way.
The money was gone, too. The pay from last night's job squandered mostly on cheap wine and the dubious company of heavily painted women--but no, there had been some even after that. More like a lot. Twenty double hands of sid and two uncut ambers in a pouch. Little scrap of leather tie still wagging from his belt, the clean edge where it was separated from his person by a pair of scissors.
Robbed by tailors. Two-Hands wasn't in the mood for telling that to anyone in particular, least of all the early crowd at Tankin's. Better to nick the price of a healer and live out his shame in private.
He rolled to his feet, colours dancing in front of his eyes from standing up too fast. The sound of a flute echoed 'round Tavern Circle from the other side of the Gamehouse, the kind of slow somber melody you hear clerics trying to compose all the time. Older, lesser, broken world and all that. The southern sky was heavy with storm, somewhere between purple and black in the last rays of the sun. Jihae was just beginning to rise.
The easy marks were the Uptowners who strolled down into the Crater at night to catch a thrill or two, laughing and brazenly displaying their opulence to each other. For some reason they believed themselves immune from pickpockets' hands and muggers' knives because the Silver Grain had turned into an after-hours place for soldiers.
Two-Hands approached one of them.
"Oh, excuse me sir," Two-Hands mumbled.
Isela used to call them rags. Just bump into a rag, she'd say, and count the money later. Could never understand why she called them rags. He got sixty, though. Good enough. Didn't have anything to put the coins in, but he had them.
He maneuvered his way across the Common Market toward the stairs of the Crater. It was already full dark down by Tankin's, that far beneath street level. Above, he could see the rooftops of the Silver Grain and Rajasthan's water hole, still burning with a faint gold- red glow that threw black under the arabesque fluting.
Marching up the rough stairs to the Upper Commons, Two-Hands decided that his ankle was broken. He thought someone said you can't walk on a broken _anything_ let alone your foot. Felt broken, though. Lot of pain. Some of the sid in his hand slipped out between his fingers and smacked dully on the ground, and the light hit them all wrong and twisted Tektolnes' face into a leering grin.
"I hope your eyes fall out," Two-Hands said to the filthy urchin who snatched up the coins almost before the dust of their impact had settled.
"Yeah, well I hope you die!" the urchin yelled.
Somehow the childish insult stirred up intense rage in Two- Hands and he tried to grab the kid by the hair and toss him down the stairs. But the kid was young and quick, and he slithered away into the thin night crowd. Two-Hands reached aroundfor his dagger, the one that wasn't good, so he could throw it at the kid. But his hand was full of sid and while he was trying to figure out a way to hold both the dagger and the coins, the kid vanished out of sight.
Fifty-four sid. Still enough for a minor magicking. His chin had started bleeding again. He didn't remember getting hit on the chin at all.
There was some sort of rhyme about getting better and drinking water, he remembered. Who'd said that anyhow? Probably not Isela. She was tough, like they are when they grow up in the warrens, the sort that takes a good beating without even blinking.
Rajasthan's was right around the corner but Two-Hands passed it by and made his way across the Upper Commons, the Silver Grain catching his eye on the left. There was an unusually thick pack of peasants outside of Nenyuk-East who were being harassed by a white- robed Templar and some soldiers. Two-Hands pressed through and walked toward the South Bridge, wondering if he should stop and rob the crowd blind.
"Hey!" the Templar shouted.
Two-Hands decided to keep walking.
"Bring that man with the shriveled arm over here," he heard the Templar snap.
He thought he felt fingers brush his back, where the shoddy knife was, but he ignored it and kept walking. His feet padded on the unresilient stone of the bridge. A shadow passed across his eyes and a grunt came from behind, and a rattling crash.
Keep walking. Don't look back. Isela wouldn't look back.
He looked back anyway and saw a half-giant sprawled out on Agafari Street. The soldier's eyes had rolled up into his head and saliva drooled from his open mouth. His massive club was crushed underneath him in a crazy way, still clutched in a plate-sized hand. Further back, in the Commons, steel threw back the light of Jihae, blood red moon, slashing a downward arc through the air. A blue arrow protruded from where the giant soldier's spine met his brain, but it looked black under the moon.
Dusty alley closing in on both sides, shadow, a breath of cold, then flickering lamplight on Dark Moon Road. The heavy sound of armored footfalls. Two-Hands moved like the softest breath of wind, making no sound at all. "Ungh!"
The Yellow Star twinkled in front of Two-Hands' vision, and Kelvik's Eyes glared back at him. He heard: "Watch out, beggar!" And another one said, "Kruth, man, make way for Utep's soldiers!" A hairy, armored legionnaire stood over Two-Hands and spat in the dust. "Didn't you see us coming, cripple?"
Two-Hands picked himself up off the ground, brushing himself off. He tried to apologize but the soldiers had already rushed past and raced off toward the riot in the Commons. Someone howled a war cry in the distance.
One, two, three...As Two-Hands fumbled in the dirt for his dropped coins he noticed that Tektolnes had a crown on his head. Never saw that before. Funny how I never saw that before. Just a circlet 'round his egg-shaped skull, nothing more.
Okay, he thought, I still got thirty-eight coins. That's got to buy you _something_ at a healer. He figured he couldn't even see straight anymore. His chin was bleeding profusely. He was starting to feel an acute pain in his chest, and it hurt to breathe. Anything's got to be better than nothing.
Two-Hands knew There was this elf who kept a place in somebody's old cellar toward the end of the road. Her name was Oriphen or something. She was supposed to be able to do this leg-bone kind of ritual that would fix you up good. Two-Hands didn't like it when people went rousing up all that creepy totem-magick kind of thing, but he was hurting bad. Jihae was a lot higher in the sky than he remembered. There was dirt in his mouth.
There was this time a few years back when he and Isela had done a double-job for some Surif's son. The kid was almost in tears, this girl was the love of his life and her father wouldn't let them see her anymore because somebody squealed they'd got themselves spiced up good over Lim Ctul's or something. Son says, Just get me his belt, the one with the family crest on it. Plops down half payment in a thick sack, like double what Two-Hands got last night. So they said Sure, need a few days to plan. And the son just happened to forget to mention the ginka, which just happened to get a hold of Isela. Ginka like you see in the forest, and even the little savages don't go near it.
The dark houses flowing past, the street somehow moving itself under his feet in the direction he wanted to go. He was almost at the end of the road.
That smell, what he smelled near Tankin's, it was like that. Ginka just slid right out of the girl's father's garden, right out of _nowhere_ for Belar's sake, with this smell like spoiled beer. Later on he asked some merc at Tankin's what it was. Skin, he'd said. Ginka no like skin.
He knocked on the door. No answer. Windows blind.
It was Oriphen's place for sure. Or whoever lived in the house upstairs anyhow. He knocked again. His stomach lurched. A drop of blood beaded on the tip of his hacked-up chin and blobbed off, landing on the street. The dust sucked it up like some kind of thirsty beast. He thought he was going to vomit.
The door opened a crack and a ruddy light splashed out.
"Uaptal's beard, what happened?" one voice asked.
"Some beggar," said another. "Cripple. Look at him."
Two-Hands stretched out his arm, let the sid fall on the floor inside the house, flat glass coins pinging on the wood. He couldn't even talk, the pain in his chest bending him over with pulsing agony.
"That's not going to buy you very much," said the first voice.
"Sixty crowns," Two-Hands managed to whisper.
"Nah, it's not even thirty."
He remembered the poem then, the one about water. The one that Isela taught him when they were waiting for that girl's father to fall asleep that night.
O deeply healing pow'r like skillful hands Of surgeons, warding 'gainst the evil blight That Sixty Tyrants rained upon the lands, With love like water, cures and cleanses white And brings the mountains low with thund'rous sounds. One drink worth more than all their iron crowns.And maybe he said it out loud, too, because they stared at him for a moment, unbelieving, and then took him inside. And when he passed over the threshold he let her go, they let him go, and then they healed him.
-==)------------ Grig Del Acieur
(brian.j.takle@uwrf.edu)Two-Hands woke up, face down, when the sun burned deepest red. There was dried blood on his chin, and a splinter had found its way into the pulpy flesh of his thumb where it seemed to pulse with infernal malice in time with his heart. There was a smell like spilled beer, too long unattended,...
Continue Reading...Blood, The by Marko
Added on Feb 2, 2005A fight in an alley reveals the Blood.
Screams of rage and anguish resounded loudly through the dirty alleys, the clash of obsidian against bone twisted through the maze of alleyways and dead ends. The downtrodden denizens of the streets plodded on with their pitiful existence, not knowing nor caring as to the why or who of the fight. Every now and then, a ragged form would look up and listen, a twisted expression of perverse pleasure forming upon gaunt and emaciated features. Such is the way of the street: do not question, do not interfere, above all, do not get involved.
Cries of surprise followed by a flurry of squeals of pain announced something new, something different. A couple shuffling shapes paused, looking up, the cowls of tattered robes almost concealing the faint shaking of their heads. Do not get involved or it'll make you dead. The thought is tangible in the dank, stale air of the alleyway. One small figure, draped head to toe in a dusty, ripped robe dared to venture forward, creeping through the littered alleys.
The muffled thud of flesh hitting stone marked the scene of the fight. The figure in a dusty, hooded robe halted in a shaded alcove, strangely deserted. Before, on the street, lay three bodies, blood oozing out forming a large red pool. Around the bodies stood four cloaked figures, locked in the mesmerizing dance of death. Before his eyes, one more body thumped to the ground, blood gushing from an obvious gash in its back. One form on the ground stirred, an older man, hair white as lice, stained by the thick ichor of blood. The sudden silence in the alley was deafening to the concealed figure, as he watched the three remaining cloaked forms turn to regard the stirring man.
One stepped forward and knelt by the old man, sheathing his obsidian blades. Before the concealed figure's disbelieving gaze, the cloaked form gently assisted the old man to his feet. In a resounding baritone voice, the cloaked form said, "If ye e'er need help again, ask. We are here."
"Th..than...thank you," stammered the old man as he haltingly disentangled himself from the cloaked form. "The..they want'd m..me.. 'sid."
His hand waving dismissively through the air, the cloaked form said, "No need for thanks. This is our duty."
The old man paused from his slow, but definite limping away from the cloaked forms and turned his blood stained face around, "Th..the..then.. y..y..you musssst b..b.b..be Blood."
The cloaked form nodded once and turned to his companions. With confusion the concealed figured noted that the old man relaxed visibly and that his trembling subsided. Without haste the old man slowly on his path away from the three cloaked forms who had begun to strip the corpses of useful gear.
One of the forms looked up as the old man disappeared from view and looked directly at the concealed figure's hiding spot. In a quiet, reassuring voice the cloaked form said, "Come out, I know you are there."
Reluctantly the concealed figure emerged, the dim light of the alley bathing him in its soft embrace. Swathes of threadbare, dark brown sandcloth barely concealed his small, gaunt form. Spindly arms and legs poked out from the edges of the cloak's protective shielding, and a haunted, dirty face gazed out from beneath the hood.
In the dim light filtering through the alleyway the three stood tall and proud. Their bodies wrapped by long dark cloaks with deep hoods. Of the three, two held dark obsidian blades that faintly gleamed in the murky air. Of indeterminate race or sex it was easier for the reluctant figure to know what race they weren't, not half-giants nor were they elves for they were not tall enough.
In a faltering voice, the reluctant figure said, "Who are you? The old man said you were Blood... what?"
The one who had spoken to the old man stepped away from the bloodied scene by his feet. In a quiet voice he said, "We are the Blood. We watch over the alleys and do what we can to help the needy."
"When no one cares to interfere, we will," he continued, "Ours is the law of the street taken form. We patrol to keep the alleys safer than they were and protect the children of the street."
As he fell silent another of the dark cloaked figures spoke up, "When e'er we bin 'round tha' peeps they be feelin' saf'r 'cause we be watchin' out. We chase them elves an' trouble mak'rs right out or, if they be givin' trouble, we kill 'em. We 'ave our own place an' take care of our own. Ain't much... but t'is bett'r than naught."
The third figure looked over and spoke, in a soft, feminine voice, "We are the blades of street law. We are revenge, we are protection, we are life."
The third fell silent and the reluctant figure stood straighter, his gaze challenging yet uncertain. In a loud voice he proclaimed, "I have see what ya've done. I know what ya speak ta be true. I want ta be Blood."
The three remained silent as they exchanged looks and then finally the first said simply, "Come."
Screams of rage and anguish resounded loudly through the dirty alleys, the clash of obsidian against bone twisted through the maze of alleyways and dead ends. The downtrodden denizens of the streets plodded on with their pitiful existence, not knowing nor caring as to the why or who of the...
Continue Reading...Smiles in a Marketplace by Dawn Byrnes
Added on Feb 2, 2005An old Kuraci Regular reflects on his life.
Navan Tal applied pressure to the flint arrowhead he was knapping with a piece of carru antler, a few flakes falling away in precisely the pattern he desired. Weathered from years of Suk-Krath's rays, he was clad in worn carru-hide pants and boots, a cord keeping his white hair out of his aquiline face. Pale blue eyes narrowed as he held up the half-completed arrowhead to the sunlight to check for flaws. Finding none, he returned to his work.
The low wordless hum of hundreds of people trading and talking filled the marketplace of Luir's Outpost. Tribal elves in sandcloth argued with silk-clad Tuluki merchants, a few gypsies in their blue and white roamed around looking at the wares of Arabet nomads, all under the watchful eye of dun-cloaked Kuraci regulars. A similar cloak lay by Navan's side, worn by years of sandstorms and harsh usage, but he was off-duty today.
It has been a long time since I joined the Kuraci, he thought as he flaked the flint a little more. Many more years than I expected to see.
The reason sat in a more sunny part of the courtyard, patiently mending a brown muslin shirt. Ree was no longer young herself, tawny hair streaked with silver and sweet face worn by time and care. But her fingers moved as quickly as a younger lass's, and she still carried herself with that air of quiet competence she'd possessed since the first day Navan had met her in Allanak.
A long way from the brown aba of a T'zai Byn Runner and the city of the Highlord. Ree still wore the blue-stoned bracelet she'd had when he came, a gift from her first man, she'd told him. Navan didn't begrudge her the trinket because she wore the diamond nose-stud and the blue silk scarf, now faded by the passing of many years, he'd given her when they were joined. She had been the one to bring him into House Kurac all that time ago, when she was an apprentice merchant.
They'd had good years together. She'd made full merchant, he full regular. Neither needed nor wanted any more than to be comfortable and happy.
Ree looked up and smiled at him. Navan returned the gentle quirk of the lips, and she lowered her head and returned to her mending. "I'll give you diamonds and silk," he had promised when they had first become involved. It was one of the few promises he'd managed to keep.
"I'll give you children," she'd vowed, and kept it. Even now, their eldest daughter was patrolling the Silver Wheel, tall like her father and tawny-haired like her mother. Their other two daughters and a son served with the House too, as merchants and a guard. Their's had been a full life, and Navan found he didn't regret a thing.
With a content smile, he returned to his knapping, as the young ones bickered and bartered, under the eyes of the Kuraci regulars. It was their world now, and he was more than happy to let them have it.
Navan Tal applied pressure to the flint arrowhead he was knapping with a piece of carru antler, a few flakes falling away in precisely the pattern he desired. Weathered from years of Suk-Krath's rays, he was clad in worn carru-hide pants and boots, a cord keeping his white hair out of his...
Continue Reading...Hunters by Chris Morrison
Added on Feb 2, 2005A servant of the Dragon reawakens to walk the world again, leaving behind it a trail of death and destruction. Two tribal hunters begin to track the beast, intent on exacting revenge for their fallen comrades.
Crouched among the sparse bushes of the ocotillo scrub, Feng and his mate waited, their long spears held motionlessly upward like branchless trees. From far away a gortok bayed once, then abruptly fell silent. The scrub was still.
They waited for another hour before stirring from their fixed positions. Wordlessly, the pair shouldered their spears and loped southward through the plains.
The scene that met their eyes when they reached the place was a now all-too familiar one. Five wild dogs lay dead, scattered over a wide area of scrub. The still bodies were torn and mangled, flies already buzzing around the open wounds.
Feng whistled once, a short, terse chirp. His mate, Teera, came to his side as he pointed down at the ground. An oddly splayed foot had left its mark in the thin soil, clearly visible to the sharp eyes of the hunters. Past it, there were more marks; a disturbance on the moss of a rock, a twig lying at an odd angle. Their quarry was headed south, as it had been for days.
That night, huddled in the sparse wind shelter of a few bushes and rocks, they broke their silence of the day, their soft voices blending in with the slow movement of air across sand and scrub.
"Tribe mates spirits rest uneasy, Teera." Feng's face was invisible in the darkness as he raised his hand to his mouth, taking a bite from a hunk of jerky.
She nodded, quietly leaning into his shoulder. "Soon. We must find where it goes. Then, then we must kill it."
The only movement that could be seen was his jaw working on the tough jerky, but she could feel his disapproval "Know where it comes from, Teera-mate. That's enough. Fool vialdos disturbed it in the the bad place. If it goes somewhere, it is going to another bad place."
She nodded. The strangers had been fools, it was true.
"Soon," she promised.
The dawn sun blazed hot over the landscape, heat shimmers already distorting the distant mountains. Feng and Teera were already on the move, trailing their adversary.
The day wore away as the hunting pair trotted along, rarely having to do more than glance down to follow the creatures trail. Whatever it was, it was arrogant, not troubling to conceal its own tracks. Twice they came across spots that it had stopped to rest. It was just after noon that the ground began to rise, and the already sparse vegetation lessened as the soil grew rocky and hard.
"Soora, Feng," Teera said once as they paused, lightly panting, to examine a deep set of prints. "We are getting close."
Low cliffs and ridges were becoming evident as they came upon a change in the tracks. The animal had slowed, the character of its footprints seeming hesitant.
"It is searching," Feng observed.
It wasn't long until they found what it was searching for.
The land in front of the pair made a sudden dip, leading down into a ravine carved in the bare rock. The top of the ravine was more or less level with the rest of the land on both sides, and the dull red rock all blended together, making it nearly invisible from most angles. The tracks led straight down into the gorge.
They broke away from each other, each creeping along one side of the rough-hewn defile. Soon after, they caught sight of it, against the dead-end wall at the other end of the ravine.
The beast was a deep, dull black, a large dark blot against the red stone. It was pushing with its front two paws against a barely visible rectangular indent in the stone. With a growl of disgust, it settled back on its haunches, staring at the wall.
After a moment, the form seemed to shiver. Then, it slowly began changing.
Teera's low gasp must have been enough for whatever ears the creature possessed. It casually turned, obviously not fearing for its own safety, to regard them. All thoughts of killing the beast skittered from their minds as they saw its entire form; it bulked larger than any of the scrub-forest creatures they had ever seen near their home. Its bare skin, which at first seemed to be furred, was leathery and smooth. The only outstanding feature against the dark stone were the eyes, wide and large, with an unnatural blue color to them.
It opened its maw, emitting growling noise, and smoothly shifted to its feet, stepping forward.
Feng ran into the center of the ravine, his spear held at ready. "Run, Teera!" he shouted.
There was no time to think. She whirled and bounded away, scrambling over up the incline.
Feng lowered the tip of his spear, preparing himself.
He fought, but the effort was futile. The creature proved to be immensely strong, although its black flesh hung flacid from its bones. Its batting paws seemed almost playful, until it trampled over Feng's spear and left three long gashes across his chest, making him choke on his own blood. Ending its own game, the thing darted forward, latching its huge mouth over the man's left shoulder.
With a wild cry, a shape leaped down from the cliff above, its form wrapped around a spear. With the entire force of her weight on it, Teera's spear entered the beast's right shoulder, lancing down through its body into the sand below. The woman, stunned by her landing, sprawled across the black shape. Blood spouted around the spear, as dark as the animal itself in the dimming light, pumping out in thick gouts, as it fell to its side, viciously twisting its head back to snap at the narrow shaft. Its jaws instead found Teera's arm. Weakening, the beast nevertheless tore a great gash in her arm before its head fell to the sand, her blood mingling with the dark flow still trickling out around the spear.
Gripping the long shaft protruding from the monster's side, Teera staggered to her feet, her right arm held protectively to her chest. Paying no more attention to the dying animal, she went to her mate, gazing down at him.
In time, she wearily bent. Her hand strayed first toward the crumpled, torn figure of the man, then hesitated.
Grasping his abandoned spear, Teera rose to her feet. Without a backward glance, she set the spear on her shoulder, moving away. Within minutes, she was gone from the defile, gone into the scrub.
Behind, one of the last servants of the Dragon silently died. The wind softly sighed through the rocks, the only sound heard as the plains waited for dawn.
Crouched among the sparse bushes of the ocotillo scrub, Feng and his mate waited, their long spears held motionlessly upward like branchless trees. From far away a gortok bayed once, then abruptly fell silent. The scrub was still.
They waited for another hour before stirring from their fixed...
Continue Reading...Kuraci After All, A by Dawn Byrnes
Added on Feb 2, 2005A chance meeting in a bar changes the lives of two individuals.
"Ouch!"
The new Runner cried out as Navan Tal's bone practice spear delivered a sharp jab to his side, the worn leather of his carru-hide jacket little protection against a hard blow. He staggered back and Navan swept his feet from under him with a well-timed footsweep, sending him sprawling to the ground. Presented with a sword-tip at his throat, the sandy-haired half-elf spat a curse and held up his hands in surrender.
"Krath damn it, Tal, you're a Runner like me an' you still kick my arse!" he said as Navan helped him up. "Where in the name of the Highlord did you learn to fight like that?"
"Third-generation mercenary," the lean, silver-haired human replied calmly. "You learn things when both your parents are fighters, and your grandparents too."
"Quit boasting, Runner!" Sergeant Jali snapped, her age-roughened voice still able to carry from one end of the mess hall to the other over a crowd. "Get yer arse over here!"
The other Runners gave Navan sympathetic looks, because the knife-tongued Sergeant was about to make an example of him, like she'd done with so many cocky first-year members of the T'zai Byn. A joke that went around the Obsidian Fists was that Drov wouldn't take her because she was too mean to die. But oddly enough, he wasn't bothered. It would be good to have a test of his skill.
He obediently marched up to the other side of the training circle from her as she stepped in, lifting his spear in a brief salute. Jali moved like a sand-snake, quick and wiry and darting, but she had a tendency to raise her shield a little too high. Navan preferred the Nakki style because of his agility and speed, and hoped that it would be enough.
Jali returned the salute and blurred into motion a heartbeat later. Thirty years of being a mercenary had taught her every trick possible with blade and shield, but Navan had a couple of his own up his sleeve. Instead of parrying the blow from the sword, he stepped and spun at the same time, narrowly missing the lunge as he riposted with a slash that sliced the air. With a preferred weapon of a broad-bladed spear with sharpened edges that he used to slice as well as stab, he was just unorthodox enough to give the Sergeant a surprise.
"Not bad," she admitted grudgingly as she just dodged the slash, feinting with her shield. Navan ignored the feint for what it was - a standard Byn attack that he'd learnt during the past year - and swung his left-hand spear to catch Jali in the right thigh. While shields gave extra protection, they also weighed you down.
I'm actually matching her blow for blow, he thought as the bout progressed. Some of the other Runners cheered - unwisely, he felt, because Jali would have their heads on platters the next sparring session.
But years of experience and training overcame youth and talent. Navan found himself staring at the hatchet face of Jali as she leaned over him and grinned. "You'll do, if you don't stay so cocky," she told him. "Get up and get lunch, Runner. I'll see you at weapons' maintanence after you've eaten."
It was evening in the Gaj. A troop of T'zai Byn entered the tavern and made for ale and whores of both genders. Ree realised they'd been let loose for the weekend as she tallied the days in her head, and sighed. She had enough work to do without half-witted mercenaries bothering her.I hate this stinking, sand-infested city, she thought sourly. As an apprentice merchant for Kurac, she had little choice but to come here under Agent Errick, but she still hated Allanak. Some of that was her Tuluki ancestry, but most of it was an excessive dislike of sand. Though sandstorms plagued the Northlands, there was the Grey Forest and grasslands to break up the monotony of desert. Down here, it was either sand or silt, just about.
Ree eyed some of the brown-clad mercs despite her personal feelings about them, for the House was always looking for new recruits. A lean, white-haired young man caught her eye, most likely because of the short-hafted broad-bladed spears strapped to his leather pack. He wasn't too bad on the eye, she had to admit, with strongly aquiline features and long legs, but he seemed unimpressed by his companions' roistering behaviour.
Pale blue eyes met her grey-blue ones, and something passed through them. Ree recognised it as instant attraction, having felt it with her first man Kanan. At the thought of his name, the old wound in her leg started to ache. The gith attack that had cost her a position as an outrider for the House had taken her lover's life. They'd joined the House together at the age of fifteen. By twenty, he was dead and she was lame.
The mercenary - a Runner due to the plain carru-hide sleeves he wore instead of the striped ones full Byn members had - came over. "Hello," he said in a rich baritone. "I noticed you and had to come over."
"Is that a pick-up line?" she retorted instinctively, then winced. He laughed, assuming an expression of mock-hurt. "I'd never do that to such a beautiful lady!" he exclaimed dramatically. He was a real charmer, she had to admit.
By the end of the evening they were chatting like old friends. Ree felt comfortable with him, like she'd known him forever, and Navan apparently felt the same. If it wasn't for her self-imposed rule of never sleeping with a man on the first meeting, she'd've dragged him off to the dormitory and jumped his bones quicker than he could blink.
Wonder if I should mention the House's looking for guards, she thought, then sighed mentally. However attractive he was, she couldn't let that tinge her recommendation for him to join Kurac.
"I'd better go," she said reluctantly. "I've got work to do at dawn." He nodded, she said her farewells and left, wondering if she'd meet him again.
It was graduation day. Navan had survived a year of the T'zai Byn, yet for some reason, he didn't want to wear the single-striped sleeves of a Trooper. Perhaps it was the stories that pretty blonde woman Ree had told him about her life with House Kurac that made him want to see more of the world. He was unsure, and for him, that was new.
Sergeant Jali faced him squarely, her agate-grey eyes meeting his. "Stayin' or leavin'?" she asked bluntly. "You stay, you'll make Sergeant in about five years, I reckon. You go, plenty of private employers would take you if they don't hold bein' Byn against you."
"Not sure," he admitted. "All of my folks served with the Byn, but I've been speaking with this pretty Kuraci girl - "
"Ree Stone. Heard of her," Jali replied. "Tough bitch until a gith shot her kank from under her and speared her leg." The Sergeant shook her head. "Kuraci through and through, that one. She'll break yer heart and take yer purse as quick as any gypsy."
Navan felt slightly offended at Jali's description of the friendly, sweet-faced woman. The Sergeant was known for her bias against northerners, merchants and Kuraci, and unfortunately for Ree, the blonde woman embodied all of that. "I think that's my mistake to make, Sergeant," he replied with a salute, the last he would give as T'zai Byn. "I think that I will leave."
Agent Errick came in, rubbing his hands as Ree was mending her cloak. "We've got a new guard," he crowed. "Sergeant Balfus likes him, and has got him picked for special training." The pudgy Family member gave her a cheerful smile and tossed her a pouch. "I believe you persuaded this Navan into the House, Ree."
Ree caught the pouch reflexively. A couple of hundred 'sid from the weight and feel of it beneath the cracked leather. She smiled briefly. "I can imagine what Jali thinks about it," she chuckled dryly. She and the Sergeant of the Obsidian Fists had disliked each other since an argument about unstabled kanks in the main street of Luir's Outpost. Errick, who'd also met the hatchet-faced sellsword, shared her thin smile. He'd backed her up on that one, when she was still an outrider.
"She won't cause trouble," he assured Ree. "We're sending you and Navan up to Luir's. Haltha's wanting to come home - "
"Why, I can't imagine," Ree interrupted. "This place is a pesthole."
" - And so I'll have her and her eldest boy as assistants here," Errick finished. "You've got about a month to go on your training before you're a full merchant, Ree."
At least she'd finish it at home, with that oh-so-handsome Navan from the Gaj. Ree intended to show him the beauty of the Northlands - and some of the more exotic uses of spice.
She was a Kuraci after all.
"Ouch!"
The new Runner cried out as Navan Tal's bone practice spear delivered a
sharp jab to his side, the worn leather of his carru-hide jacket little
protection against a hard blow. He staggered back and Navan swept his
feet from under him with a well-timed footsweep, sending him sprawling...
Continue Reading...Brief Glimpse into the Mind of Kiveiji Ravinoste, A by Jason Adam
Added on Feb 2, 2005A merchant has a drink at a bar and discusses the state of the world.
"What be yer pleasure, stranger?"
Looking through the pale lighting in the tavern, I see a burly human, his face rough with new stubble. What little hair he has left is dirtied and matted. His tunic, despite the dingy apron he wears, is equally soiled. Just the kind of man you would expect to see tending bar in any small, rundown tavern on the outskirts of this trading village.
"Just a drink of the house ale, if you please. Looks like you could perhaps use the business," I say, softly chuckling and looking about at the two other patrons in the pub.
"Things aren't too bad, just gettin' started and all. That'll be three 'sid."
"Three!?" I carefully weave a look of anguish across my face, "but I've only four on me."
"Well, then you'll only be havin' one drink today?"
"Ah, but if perhaps the ale, and surely it is a fine brew, were two 'sid, I could have two drinks, while you my good barkeep would have four coins in your pocket!"
Folding his arms and huffing, a slight sneer crossing his face, he mutters, "Must be a merchant, come to make his fortune."
"Fine, two 'sid it is, ya stinkin' swindler!" he exclaims, throwing up his hands and grabbing a crudely carved wooden mug from a wall peg. After filling the tankard from an open barrel, he slaps it on the unfinished bar, spilling some of the ale from the mug.
I lay my two shiny black coins in the calloused, outstretched hand of the bartender, and take a swig. I was wrong, a fine brew it is not. However, I feign an expression of contentment, lest I be forced to give up another 'sid for the slight. Truly, on hot days such as this, even this swill brings some satiation, albeit at the expense of taste.
"So, w'ere ya from?" he asks me, cleaning a mug with a rag. Cleaning might not be the best term, as the rag itself does not look like it has been rinsed since the last Descending Sun.
"Why, from right here in Freil's Rest, of course."
"That may be, but you sure weren't born here, I can tell that much," he snorts, shooting me a smug grin.
"Ah... well, right you are on that," I nod in agreement, though it doesn't take someone of even mediocre intelligence to guess that I had not spent my whole life in this town. For that matter, not many of the people living here could claim such a thing, though whether or not that is a good or bad thing will have to be decided later.
"However, I have lived here some time," I raise my glass to him and take a deep gulp, setting the mug down on the bar just hard enough to give an indication by the sound that its current contents are almost depleted, "My mother was not from this area, though my father's family was here before the destruction, surviving it and the plagues."
"Hearty folk you come from then, to stick it out here. And yer mom?"
"She was a gypsy I am told, traveled all over, though I believe she originally hailed from Red Storm. I do not know her, according to my father she felt burdened by him and me, and left one night with her group, wandering away in the night and leaving me with my father. Anyone that tells you that mothers are full of nurturing compassion is full of gwoshi dung," I raise my glass again and take the last drink, placing the mug in front of me and pushing it slightly towards the barkeep.
Chuckling, he grabs the tankard and fills it again, placing it in front of me and turning back to cleaning the glasses. So far so good.
"My father, however, was a strong man. Not like yourself, but strong of wit and mind. And he wasn't too bad with a blade, either."
"A warrior of some type, then?" He nods, an approving look on his face.
"No, a weaponscrafter." I grin and wink.
Laughing, the husky bartender slaps the dirty rag over his shoulder, and leans a hip on the ale barrel, "Now I know where you get it from."
"Well, thank you my good man, that is the nicest thing someone has said to me today," I smile broadly, toasting my glass to him, "But my interest is not in weapons. You see, of all the things my father taught me, one was the most important lesson. He said, to truly make a fortune out of being a merchant, there is one thing we must thrive on."
I lean forward, overemphasizing my movement to show I do not wish to reveal this most treasured secret. Taking the cue, the bartender moves from the barrel and folds his arms across the bar in front of me, "And what is that, friend" he asks.
"Conflict," I whisper, and lean back.
"Conflict? That's yer great advice? Ha! Any merchant with brains enough to walk knows that with all the wars and fights, that there'll always be a need for weapons and armor and wood and such. I'm afraid if that's your great secret, you might want to keep it that way, or else you'll be laughed right out of the Rest!"
"Ah, but the conflict I talk about is much more subtle friend, a much more devious and deep-rooted conflict." I take a drink, a sly grin crossing my face. He stops his laughter and peers at me questioningly.
"Go on," he says, leaning forward to listen.
"Sure, wars are great for business, anyone knows that as you pointed out. But there are conflicts that are in the very nature of the soul. Take the noble houses for example. Why do they buy precious things? Is it because they like them, that they make them feel safe and at peace? No my friend, it is because they wish to show others just how much better they are than them. They are in constant conflict with each other, gracefully fighting a war with each other and the common people." I take another quaff, slowly wiping my mouth, pausing dramatically. This will perhaps be easier than I thought.
"But better yet, they are in conflict with themselves. Always striving to prove, to show just how great they are. Not by what they can conquer, but by how much they can acquire, how many nice things they can buy and surround themselves with. It is in our nature, even the Dasari gardeners feel a sense of pride if they discover a certain plant or use for an herb before any of their colleagues. Bards wish to perform better than any other; thieves strive to perform the perfect crime. Not to see if they can for themselves, but to show everyone else that they can!"
Nodding, the bartender says, "So your plan is to live off peoples' greed and envy?"
"Not only live off it, but to nurture it, to let it thrive, to foster it in people who have yet to experience the joy of having something your neighbor does not. Sure, I will focus on the wealthy houses, as they are the ones that can purchase the truly fine, valuable pieces of art and jewelry that will gain me the most profit. However, take a common resident, sell them something of not the best quality, but still fine in craftsmanship, and at a good price. But none of the other people they see daily has such an item, and suddenly you have a customer who wants more things. And then their neighbors start envying their possessions, and seek to gain their own. It can be as simple as an intricately woven basket to display often, a sparkling piece of delicate jewelry, or a finely carved set of wooden mugs."
I take my last drink, smiling and sitting back. The bartender nods approvingly, grabs the empty tankard and pulls the rag off his shoulder. As he begins his cleaning, I push myself from the bar and stand to take my leave. Quicker than my eye could catch, the bartender firmly grabs my left wrist with a rough, meaty hand.
"You forgot to pay your two 'sid, friend," he says, grinning broadly, revealing the fact that several of his teeth are missing or chipped, "Unless of course you want some of that conflict you've been going on about."
Curse the luck, I could have sworn I would get away with it. At least he is still only asking for two coins, so I might as well count my losses. Still a lot for me to learn, but I'm patient, "Ah yes, my apologies!"
I pull out two more obsidians and place them on the bar. With a short bow, I turn and leave the pitiful tavern behind. As I leave, I hear the bartender chuckling, "Smart man, he might just make it here after all!"
"What be yer pleasure, stranger?"
Looking through the pale lighting in the tavern, I see a burly human, his face rough with new stubble. What little hair he has left is dirtied and matted. His tunic, despite the dingy apron he wears, is equally soiled. Just the kind of man you would expect...
Continue Reading...How the Azia Got Their Stories by Sanvean
Added on Jan 26, 2005Adapted from a South African folktale, this is the tale of how stories came to Zalanthas.
Once upon a time and long ago, tesukrami, there were no stories in all of Zalanthas, for a Prince of the Djinni held them all, and kept them in a small wooden box with three locks upon it, away in his castle, beyond the great chasm to the north, and refused to let them go out wandering to be told and heard. And a boy of the Tan Muark, one of the Azia, decided that this should not be.
So he set out wandering along the road, and at length he came to the castle, and was admitted, and there he spoke with the Prince of the Djinni, and asked for the stories.
The Prince laughed at him, for he treasured his stories, but the Djinni are a gambling folk, and at length the boy persuaded him to make a wager. 'Very well,' said the Prince. 'I will give you the stories, but you must perform three tasks before I will even consider the notion. You must catch the Tembo with the Terrible Teeth, and the Hornets that Sting like the Fires of Suk-Krath, and the Rashani who cannot be seen.'
The boy's face fell, for these were daunting tasks indeed, but he nodded and set out. He went to his village, and from his mother, he asked these things: numut vines, and a hollow gourd, and three squash covered with honey before roasting.
First he went to the Grey Forest, into its green and shadowy depths, into its depths where there are halflings, and tembo, and cilops slithering in the shadows. He sat down in a clearing where tembo tracks clustered and there he began to tangle himself in the vines. And when the Tembo with the Terrible Teeth appeared to eat him, there he was, patiently coiling and uncoiling the vines.
"Before I eat you, and lick your bones clean," said the tembo. "Tell me what it is that you are doing."
The boy frowned, ignoring the tembo as he continued with his vines. "I am trying to tie myself up," he said. "In such a way that I cannot escape."
The tembo watched him for a few moments as he fiddled with the vines, and finally said, "You're not very good at that, are you?"
"No," the boy said in humble tones. "I'm not. Perhaps you might show me how it could be done?"
"Yes, yes," the tembo impatiently said. "Stand aside." And he took the vines and tied himself up so thoroughly that there was not a chance of escape, the vines so tight and thick around him that only his eyes could be seen.
"Very good," said the boy, for he had fulfilled his first task. And tugging the tembo along behind him, he went about his second task. He came to the place where the Hornets that Sting like the Fires of Suk-Krath were buzzing about, and he watched them for a while. He hung his gourd from a tree and then he gathered handfuls of sand and tossed them into the air. The hornets, thinking a sandstorm was rising, flew into the gourd for shelter, and soon as the last one had entered, he stoppered the jug.
"Very good," said the boy, taking up his angrily buzzing gourd, for he had fulfilled his second task. And he set out his squash beneath a tree and waited.
Before long, the wind whispered and the grass rustled, and he knew the Rashani Who Could Not Be Seen, the wind fairy, was there.
"Squash," her voice said. "My favorite food. May I have some?"
The boy pretended not to hear.
"Hrmph," she said. "Then I'll simply take some!" And she tried to take the squash, but the sticky honey held her fast, no matter how hard she tried to flutter away. "Very good," said the boy, for now he had fulfilled his third task. And he gathered up the tembo, and his gourd, and the squash with the Rashani still attached, and took them to the Prince of the Djinni.
The Prince scowled and frowned, but he was forced to admit that the boy had done what he had been asked to do. So he gave the boy the box. The boy bowed in courtly and elegant fashion, for the Azia have always been mannerly, and set back to his village. He was impatient to get home, and to show his mother how he had triumphed, so he began to run, the box tucked beneath his arm. And he tripped, and he fell, and the box went flying, the locks breaking open, and all the stories flew out, and scattered all over the world, and in this fashion, stories came to Zalanthas. But the best stories, they were in the bottom of the box. So the Azia still have those, and we tell them on occasion, tesukrami, and this is what makes us the best storytellers of all.
Once upon a time and long ago, tesukrami, there were no stories in all of Zalanthas, for a Prince of the Djinni held them all, and kept them in a small wooden box with three locks upon it, away in his castle, beyond the great chasm to the north, and refused to let them go out wandering to be...
Continue Reading...Templar's Sons, The by Sanvean
Added on Jan 26, 2005A templar beguiles three half-giants into believing he is their father.
Once upon a time, there was a templar, of the House of Sath. His name was Arylian, and he was altogether a generally unremarkable man, destined to remain in his blue robe, and whose only moment of note had been a conversation with Garrick of the Red.
Some of his lack of remarkableness he brought on himself, for he was a quiet man, and not given to flamboyant gestures or clever conversation. And his quietness did not reflect any sort of profound or philosophical ruminations, but rather was the quiet of a man who took life as it presented itself, with little wonder or appreciation. His appearance made up the other part of his lack of remarkableness, for he was, like most of the inhabitants of Allanak, dark of skin and hair, and not overly tall.
But the life of a templar has certain bonuses, such as the ability to tax people at whim, or to confiscate spice or coins or concubines, and with those benefits certain perils, such as assassination attempts by disgruntled merchants or members of the ALA. And after Arylian had seen the third of his fellow blues dead to poison or a quick knife, he decided he would try to avoid suffering the same fate by hiring guards. Good guards, loyal guards. And to this matter, he did lend a certain amount of thought and at length, arrived upon an idea.
He went to the slaving house of Borsail, and then directed the slave keeper that he wished to purchase three half giants, of a very young age. Old enough to walk, but not old enough to speak clearly. And when he had made his selection among the array of the best that Borsail had to offer, he went home with his new charges toddling after him.
For Arylian was clever enough when need held, and he had decided that the best ties are those of blood, or believed blood, and that if the giants believed him related to them, they would gladly enough serve him. So he set about convincing them, over the next few months, that he was their father.
"Look!" he told the giants, who he had named Tug and Toby and Teracitus, and touching his face. "Just like me, you have two eyes. You inherited those from me, your father! And two ears, and a nose, though mine is a trifle longer than yours. Does this not prove our relation?"
And the half giants, who were as simple minded as any other of their breed, nodded and accepted his word. As they grew older, he dressed them in armor, and had them trained to fight, and wherever he went, his three half giants trailed after him, solemnly following their sire.
There were uncomfortable questions at times, such as the fate of the giants' mother, but Arylian concocted a story of a beautiful giantess, with long dark hair that fell to her ankles, who had come from the shores of the Sea of Silt to fall in love with him, and who had died to an assassin attempting to kill the templar. The story grew over time and by the end, Arylian was half in love with his creation, whose eyes were blue, and lips were full, and who had a cleverer turn of mind than most giants. And every once in a while, Tug or Toby might slip, and call him father in public, but he discouraged that, pointing out that if assassins knew they were his beloved sons, that they might kill the half giants as they had killed the mother, in attempting to cause a templar pain.
On a hot day, when dust cloaked the streets and the beggars fought over the slightest sliver of shade, Arylian and his half giants went out walking. They paced the length of Meleth's Circle, and along Caravan Road, and near the gates, where the crowds were thickest, Arylian felt someone tug at his belt pouch, and turned just in time to see a lean, wiry elf tucking away the stolen pouch with one long fingered hand.
"Seize him!" he shouted, pointing at the elf, and the half giants did.
The elf pleaded for mercy, words spilling from his lips faster than sand grains being swept across a dune, and Arylian frowned and scowled and refused to listen. Telling Tug to continue holding onto the elf, he went in search of a collar and whip, for he meant to flay the elf's skin from his bones, and then enslave him for daring to touch the robes of a templar.
And so the elf continued speaking, trying to persuade the giants to let him go, in the name of kindness, and mercy, and various other opportunings. But Tug and Toby and Tericatus all shook their immense shaggy heads, solemnly and sadly.
"Father wouldn't like that," Tug said eventually, and the elf paused and looked at him, astonished.
"Father?" he said.
Tericatus pointed in the direction that Arylian had taken, and all three nodded their heads.
"How," said the elf, the words as slow as his thoughts were fast, "how could such a thing come to be?"
Tug leaned to whisper in his ear. "It is a long story. But he is our father. For proof of this, you have but to look at us, for do we not have two eyes, just as he does? And do we not have one mouth, and one nose, just as he?"
The elf's face cleared. "Ah!" he said. "My luck has turned. For here I came to Allanak, myself, searching for my three long lost brothers. Perhaps you've seen them? They are half giants, all fierce and brave, and each one of them has two eyes, and but a single nose...."
Astonished, the giants gaped at him and then one by one, they extended their arms and hugged him tightly, each shouting "Brother!" to the great astonishment of the passersby.
And when Arylian returned carrying his whip, and a collar, he found his giants gone, for the elf had persuaded them to come wandering with him, and where he led them, and where their bones lie, those three half giant templar's sons, no one knows to this day.
Once upon a time, there was a templar, of the House of Sath. His name was Arylian, and he was altogether a generally unremarkable man, destined to remain in his blue robe, and whose only moment of note had been a conversation with Garrick of the Red.
Some of his lack of remarkableness he...
Continue Reading...Phaerys by Sanvean
Added on Jan 26, 2005A wind elementalist, Alana, adopts an orphan, leading to further adventures.
Alana was sitting in Flint's, nursing a leather jack of ale and a small shot glass of whiskey, when she spotted the child. It had been a long trip up from Luirs Outpost, and she had been enjoying the swirls of conversation and mild speculation about the latest sighting of Mukareb flowing around the table of guards where she sat beside the caravan master, Yao. A flicker of light from the doorway caught her eye and she glanced over to see Teleri entering the bar and the girl just behind the swordswoman, fingers in her purse. She almost opened her mouth, with the half-thought, well, hell, Tel's got coins aplenty, she can afford enough to feed that starveling moving through her head to stop her lips when the other woman solved the dilemma of whether or not to alert her by reaching out without looking behind herself to snag the girl.
"That woman's got eyes in the back of her head. Damn spooky," Yao grunted. "'Nother drink, Lana, my dear? And I'll tell you, Lymon, you see Muk, or any other damn sorcerer for that matter, anywhere around when you go hunting, you turn around and run the other way."
Teleri, her grip firmly on the young girl's ear, pulled the waif around in front of herself. "Thieves," the silver-eyed woman said in her usual deliberate tones, "usually lose a hand for a first offense, here in Tuluk." She tapped the fingers of her free hand on the hilt that hung at her waist.
Alana watched the girl square her shoulders and return Teleri's steely gaze. "Brave, the youngling is," she murmured, shaking her head at Yao's offer. She flicked a braid out of her face, watching the other two stare at each other, then rose in one lithe motion, ignoring the other caravaners' sideways looks, to pick her way through the crowd to Teleri's side.
"Teleri," she said, abruptly. "Give her to me. She didn't manage to take any of your coins, so you can't really charge her with successful thievery."
The swordswoman gave Alana a look tinged with amusement. "Is this Alana, ever solitary, asking me to turn over a child to her? Getting lonely in your old age?"
Alana grinned at Teleri. "No, this is Alana, who spent an evening buying you ales in Red Storm when the weather was too bad to step outside in, and watched you fleece that poor fellow who offered to instruct you at swordplay."
Teleri gave her a grave nod, though her eyes were still amused, before she returned her attention to the girl. "I am going to let go of your ear," she said. "When I do, you will not run away. You will go with this kind lady who is apparently offering to feed you." She glanced at Alana for confirmation and when she saw the slight nod, she let go of the ear in question.
The girl didn't move, other than to raise a dirty hand to rub at her ear. She stared at Alana, who studied her in return.
She was a small girl, and the pointed ears that poked out from the tangle of matted curls that might be blonde, were the dirt to be removed, proclaimed that she had at least a fair portion of sidhe blood. Her clothes consisted of a ragged, too long tunic, belted with a length of black cord. The long toes of her bare feet twitched uneasily on the rough wood of the bar's floor.
Alana leaned her lanky frame over to speak to the child. "Have a name, youngling?"
The girl continued staring, silent. Then she lifted a defiant, pointed chin and touched the ragged scar that ran across her throat.
Alana gave her a courteous half bow. "Well then, little speechless, let me invite you to dine with me." She gestured at her table. Nodding her thanks at Teleri and turning on her heel, she walked back to Yao and the others, trusting the girl to follow her.
Yao gave her a wry look as the child slipped into the space between Alana and himself. "Never figured you for the motherly type, Lana," he murmured before signalling to the server for more ale.
"And some bread and fruit," he shouted over the bar noise as the barmaid acknowledged his wave.
When the food was brought, the child sat eying it until Alana made an impatient noise and pushed the loaf at her. Then the girl seized the bread and began eating with ravenous haste, washing it down with long draughts of ale.
"Should she be drinking that?" Yao said to Alana.
Alana shrugged. "My parents never stopped me from drinking ale."
He gave her a dubious look. "And your point would be? That if you want to become a skinny, longnosed windwitch, you should drink ale at a tender age?"
Alana flashed him a brief grin before turning back to watch the girl eat. "For that, you're paying me double next trip, merchantman."
He waved a dismissive hand at her. "Keep my caravans safe, witch, and you know I'll pay any price you ask."
Alana nodded slightly, her eyes not leaving the girl as the last of the bread vanished and a piece of yellow fruit began to share its fate.
She was at a loss in thinking where to put the girl that night, but at last she shrugged and beckoned the child into her own bedchamber, one of the rooms above the bar which Flint rented out, a small space with a bed and a wash basin. She sat down on the bed and rubbed the bridge of her nose, considering.
"Your choice," she said at length. "Bed's got enough room for two. But you wash first if that's your choice, since the linen's clean. Or you can take a blanket and sleep on the floor. I prefer men to children, if that's what you're thinking." She turned her back and began to tug off her boots, shaking sand out of them and curling her toes with a contented cracking noise. Far below in the bar, someone shouted something unintelligible.
She heard the tentative splashing of the girl in the water.
"We'll get you some less disreputable clothes in the morning," she told the wall.
A shy touch tapped her elbow and she turned. The girl was a little cleaner, but streaks of dirt still marred the brown skin. Alana reached for the piece of linen Flint called a towel and wet one end.
"C'mere," she said, and as the girl stood before her, she dabbed away splotches of dust and grime, working her way around old bruises. The scar across the girl's throat looked to be a knife wound, several years old. As she worked, she whistled a repetitive three note tune, an old song from her own childhood. She broke off as she put the towel back and took a tortoiseshell comb from her pack in order to comb out the tangled hair.
The girl winced now and then as a particularly difficult tangle hit the comb, but Alana was gentle and deft, coaxing knots and snarls out of the matted curls. "There we go," she said at length. The child turned to her and opened her mouth, tapping her chest beneath the ragged tunic.
"Phaer-rys," she croaked, in a voice as hoarse as an unused hinge.
Alana blinked a moment. "So you can speak," she murmured. "Phaerys, then. I'm Alana." She stood and reached for the child, lifting her into the bed. "Good night, Phaerys," she said to her. "Sleep well." The girl curled into the pillows and fell asleep with the speed of childhood. Alana sat in the windowsill, long into the night, watching the street and letting the evening wind stir through her fingers before she unfolded herself and lay down beside the child. She lay for a while, listening to the unfamiliar sound of someone breathing beside her before at last her eyelids grew heavy and sleep claimed her.
She woke in the morning to find Phaerys snuggled up beside her like a cat, warm and drowsy. Alana stretched and yawned. "Breakfast," she said. "Then we coax Yao into taking a day off to go shopping with us."
Although he pretended not to be overthrilled with the very idea, Yao insisted on taking the pair to the same tailor he patronized.
"Sandcloth has always suited me well," Alana grumbled, patting her leggings and adjusting the collar of her shirt, woven in a checkered pattern of dark brown and beige.
Yao threw up his hands in mock horror. "We can't all be exotic desert women who can carry off an unfashionable look with your style, Lana." He winked at Phaerys. They were walking along the Moonway, slipping through the crowds of tourists and travellers on their way to the Temples of the Elements. Here and there city guards eyed the crowds, making sure they moved along smoothly.
Phaerys reached a hand up to touch one of Alana's white braids, tied off with a bright wooden bead. "Pret-ty," she said, her voice almost inaudible over the noise of the crowd.
"She is, isn't she?" Yao said to Phaerys. "For a skinny wind witch, she's got a certain appeal, in my opinion."
"And now," he added to Alana, "You've got this exciting motherly thing going for you. It adds a little trace of the exotic."
Alana frowned at him, and his tone shook off its laughter and became serious.
"No, come on, Lana," he said to her. "You've always been the most solitary person I know. Do the job, drink an ale with the guards, and then vanish off the Wind knows where until you're needed for another job. Have you and I ever had the pleasure of a conversation of this length before? I think not. Adopting a child is the most human thing I've ever seen you do."
Alana shrugged. "I'm on the road too often for many ties," she said. She glanced at Phaerys. "Dunno what we're going to do about that."
"Well, you can't take her with you when you're acting as a courier," Yao said. "I tell you what, witch. I'll take half shares in the little one here."
She felt her eyebrow twitch upwards in a startled motion as she looked at the merchant. They'd known each other several years now, ever since he had first hired her to make sure one of his caravans, loaded with luxuries, made its way successfully to the seaport of Allanak, unhindered by bandits or storms. She knew he was one of the junior members of his House, unmarried, and had been raised in the Luirs Outpost. Her own tribe had come from that same area. Aside from that, she thought, looking at his dark blue eyes, the long drooping moustache shot through with strands of silver, the slight sardonic smile hovering on his lips as he returned her look, she knew very little about him.
"I've trusted you with my life several times on trips," she said slowly. "And you've laid yours in my hands as well. But are you sure you want this responsibility, merchantman?"
His chin dipped in a definite nod. "Think about it, Alana. Only time I go out of the city is with the caravans, which means I can watch her while you're off running the roads. And when I go off caravaning, you're there too, and another passenger, particularly a small one like this, won't make too much difference." He grinned more broadly. "Not like you'll have any trouble clearing it with the caravan master."
She nodded back at him, then looked at Phaerys. "This all right with you, youngling? To have Yao watching over you as well?"
The child glanced between the two of them and smiled her assent. Yao bowed to both before leading the way into the tailor's shop, where he insisted on buying Phaerys clothing of a finer quality than Alana's purse could have afforded.
"If she's going to be seen with me, I'm afraid I must stand firm on this matter," he said. "Put your coins away, wind witch." The tailor beamed at him as he tapped a length of deep blue brocade. "A short cape of that, I think, and use some of it to trim gloves to match."
"The child's going to be afraid to get dirty in something that fine," Alana objected.
Yao only smiled. "Then we'll commission another set of clothes for her to play in. And what about something for you, Lana? A skirt in which to go dancing with me?"
"The lady would look very lovely in this," the tailor suggested, pointing to a flowered silk. His face fell at the sound of Alana's snort of derison.
"Stick to re-outfitting the child, merchant," she said.
"We'll work on converting our skinny friend into a lady some other day," Yao whispered loudly to Phaerys as the girl giggled.
The first time Alana left on a courier run, leaving Phaerys behind, she felt a touch of nervousness. But the majority of her income came from these runs, no matter what Yao said about the amounts he paid her. Nobles and merchant houses often needed messages carried by hand between the cities, and no one moved faster or less obtrusively than a skilled wind witch, who could both make herself unseen and use magicks to speed her mount.
"Be good," she said to Phaerys as she prepared to leave the gates. The girl and Yao stood watching, seeing her off. "And you, merchant," she said to him.
He raised a hand in farewell to her, and she wheeled her riding lizard out the gates. She'd been asked to carry a letter to the northlands, a two day trip, which meant stopping at the grove of an old friend, something she normally looked forward to. As always, he was waiting to greet her.
"Emon," she said. The stocky, square-faced druid smiled as he took the reins of her lizard. He ran a hand over the beast's leathery yellow skin over a gash left by a branch, the skin rippling as it healed in the track of his fingers. The lizard nosed at him, its green eyes blinking sleepily.
"Safe journey?" he asked. They walked together toward the pool at the center of the grove. It sat in the middle of a copse of pymlithe trees, their elongated leaves rustling in soft cadences, a rhythm broken by the lilting cries of hunting ghants, moving somewhere out of sight. Several large boulders, overgrown with shaggy moss, sat at the pool's edges to serve as seats. Brushing road dust from her cloak, Alana gathered a palmful of cool water to touch to her lips.
"Yup," she said. "So, Emon, what if I told you I'd become a mother?"
He gave her a startled look. "I'd ask who the lucky father was, first, so I could spread the gossip all over the plains."
"No, no," she said, feeling her cheeks redden slightly. "It's an adopted child, really."
He glanced at the lizard. "Ah. I take it you're not carrying him or her in your saddlebags then."
She shook her head with a laugh.
He rubbed his chin, eying her. "Alana, I've always thought you didn't like children. Back when we worked together in Allanak, I would have sworn you avoided them."
She spread her fingers out, studying them, not looking at him. "Emon... I was the oldest of seven. And then my brothers were all killed." She touched a few of the beads capping the multitude of thin braids containing her moonpale hair. "My brother Deinol carved most of these." Her voice faltered a moment before she went on. "It's just been that every time I was around a child, they reminded me of my brothers. Then I looked at Phaerys, and for once I didn't see my brothers. I saw me. Ready to face the world and expect no quarter from it. There are some people you love from the very moment you first see them. Daughter of my heart, she is."
Emon ran a hand through his hair, watching her. "How did your brothers die?"
Alana sighed, watching the wind ruffle the pool's surface. "My nameday journey," she said. "I went out on it, came back to find the village burned to the ground, the folk killed by raiders. I should have been there."
"Why? So you could get slaughtered by the raiders too?" Emon gave her a quick half-smile. "Do you think your brothers would have wanted that?"
She returned the smile, shaking her head slightly. "No." She stretched her legs out in front of herself, using a boot-tip to flip a pebble into the pool. "It's funny, Emon. With Phaerys around, I don't spend as much time thinking about them. Too many things to see to for her."
He patted her arm. "Glad to hear it." He tilted his head to study her saddlebags. "I don't suppose you..."
"Ha!" she laughed, rising in order to rummage through the bags. "This is why you like my visits, druid. Because I bring you ale." She pulled out two stoppered clay jugs. "Flint's finest."
His smile was beneficent. "Ever kind, m'dear."
It was with a light heart that she set back to Tuluk, and her eagerness to see Phaerys spurred her to the point of not stopping, but riding through the night. The first pink light of dawn lit the city gates as she rode through them towards the House compound.
The yard there was unexpectedly busy, small knots of guards moving around, preparing for some duty. She wondered if a caravan would be leaving soon, and a smile lingered on her lips at the thought as she brushed past a sentry and ran up the stairs towards the suite of rooms Yao occupied. It would be pleasant to travel with Phaerys on the road, to be able to point out some of the sights and sounds, to take her to see Emon, who might be able to heal the scar that marked her throat and make it easier for her to speak.
The door was half ajar, and she pushed it open. Yao stood near the window, staring out into the courtyard. He turned as she entered and she gasped as she saw the bruises on his face, the sling holding his right arm.
"Lana," he said. "Lanay, I'm so sorry."
She crossed the chamber in three quick strides. "What?? She looked around. "Where's Phaerys?"
"We went out riding," he said. "I thought if she was to travel with the caravan eventually, she'd need to know how to ride. And we ran into Mukareb."
"You took the girl out riding in the country where a sorcerer had been sighted?" She grabbed his shoulder and shook him, ignoring his gasp of pain at her touch.
"Where?" she demanded.
"Near the edge of the Grey Forest, where it meets the chasm," he said. "But wait, Lana. I'm gathering guards to ride out there after him."
"No time," she hissed. And with that, she broke one of her oldest self-prescriptions, and summoned magic in front of someone else. Winds swirled in the chamber around her, sending the curtains and bedding flying as she reached out for Phaerys's mind and then flung herself into the wind's grasp, looking for her child. Yao's shout followed her. "Alana! No!"
When the winds parted, leaving her staggering, dizzy, she stood in a small clearing. Phaerys lay in a crumpled heap in its middle, and across from Alana stood a lean, brownskinned man, dressed in worn black robes, smiling at her.
"Alana, I presume?" he said. As he spoke, he gestured, and before she could react, she felt invisible fingers around her own, holding them still and unable to cast.
"Mukareb," she said, her voice grim.
He smiled again. "Why, yes. How kind of you to come. Though I must admit I was expecting you." He pointed at Phaerys's limp form. "Touching, your simulation of mother love. And so beguilingly predictable." With that, he pointed at her, hissing out three sibilant syllables, and she felt the air grow still in her lungs. Gasping, she sank to her knees, hands still immobilized, as the world broke into a thousand shards of blackness.
When at least the blackness began to break and she wearily swam back up to consciousness, she found herself sitting upright, wrists bound behind her around the slim trunk of a rough-barked callandra tree.
"Awake?" Mukareb said from nearby. Alana decided that she had previously underestimated how intensely annoying a constant smile could be. She watched as the sorcerer moved around the clearing, dragging dead branches into a sizeable heap in the middle.
"Phaerys?" she said, trying to look from side to side.
Mukareb shrugged. "Didn't need her. I let her run off into the forest. Easier to let the predators there dispose of her. We sorcerers aren't totally bent on wiping out every life we run across. You, on the other hand, my dear, are going to be very very useful to me."
She shook her head, trying to clear it. "Useful?"
"Surely, my friend, you know that as an elemental witch, your blood is full of that element's essence?" He licked his lips, a slight unnerving greedy flicker. "It's the component I need to take on some of that element's power myself. And you came so running so beautifully, so predictably into my hands." He laughed at her look of surprise. "Alana, the solitary. I knew you'd come looking on your own."
Alana shook her head again, remembering Yao's shout, the despair and anger in it. She closed her eyes, feeling warm wetness beneath the lids.
Mukareb's voice continued, relish in its tones. "So easy to take you, wind witch, when you try to carry all the weight on your back"
Another voice broke in. "She tries, but there's a few willing to help shoulder the burden."
Alana's eyes flew open. Yao, flanked by two guards, stood at the edge of the clearing, swords drawn.
Mukareb laughed. "Think to take a sorcerer with blades alone?"
"Funny," Yao grunted. "You seem more interested in flapping your tongue than weaving magics." He nodded to the guards, and the three advanced.
With a flick of Mukareb's fingers, a dark rift opened in the air in front of the sorcerer and from it dark tentacles roiled, reaching out. As broad a man's shoulder, their surfaces were covered with a tracery of jet scales, glistening wetly with an indescribable moisture as they moved with a boneless sinuosity. Blades flashed, severing the writhing limbs as they reached for the men, but for every one lopped, two more sprouted. One guard backed up, eyes wide and terrified, but his fellow stood staunchly by Yao, whose sword, even fighting left-handed, moved like a lacework of gleaming metal in the air between them and the rift.
"He's awfully good for a merchant," Alana thought dazedly. "Who'd have ever thought?" She felt something touch her wrists behind the tree, and then the cool caress of a knife, cutting away the bonds, strand by strand.
A tentacle moved unexpectedly sideways, eluding the flashing blades in order to seize the guard by the leg and dragging him towards the patch of dead blackness hanging in the air. Yao interposed himself, hacking at the tentacle, and its fellow seized him by the throat. His face purpled as the black length coiled around his neck, cutting off the air, but his sword continued to rise and fall, slashing at the rift itself.
The last bits of cords fell away and Alana pulled away from the tree, trying to rub blood back into her cramped hands, her legs weak beneath her. Mukareb spun to see her as a branch crackled underfoot and began to move his fingers in a spell but she spoke a single word, hands moving clumsily and behind his slight form, yet another space opened, winds howling, reaching out for him, pulling him into the eye twisting colors of that hole His arms flailed wildly, trying to catch something, anything as he was irresistably pulled backwards until he was gone, vanished, with the noise of implosion sounding like a shattering pot.
And with his disappearance, the tentacles winked out of sight, releasing Yao and the guard.
Alana turned, to see Phaerys standing beside the tree, knife in hand, a shy smile hovering on her lips. Then the child was in her arms, hugging her, as she hugged back, eyes searching for any sign of harm to this, her daughter.
"Well," Yao said from behind her. "I hope this has taught you something, wind witch."
Her lips twitched in a very slight smile before she turned to face him. "That would be besides never to leave one's child in the care of a scatterbrained merchant."
"Alana, I swear . . . " he began, then broke off as he glimpsed the laughter mingled with gratitude in her pale grey eyes. He snorted and reached to ruffle Phaerys's hair.
"I suppose the trick," he said, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. "is to make sure you stay near the merchant you've left the child in care of."
"I think the trick," Alana informed him. "Is not to try to underscore lessons when someone's already learned them. Particularly skinny, long nosed wind witches."
He smiled. "All right then. Let's go home."
Alana was sitting in Flint's, nursing a leather jack of ale and a
small shot glass of whiskey, when she spotted the child. It had been a
long trip up from Luirs Outpost, and she had been enjoying the swirls of
conversation and mild speculation about the latest sighting of Mukareb
flowing...
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