by RG Long
“Mr. Holve?” he asked tentatively. Since coming back from his exploration, Holve had not really said much. He, too, was staring into the fire.
“Mmm?” Holve grunted back. Ealrin could tell that he wasn’t really listening. Just lost in his own thoughts.
“How come these Ladis folks don’t like magic? Isn’t it a helpful thing?”
For a few moments, Holve just continued to stare at the fire. Jurrin looked at Ealrin, who shrugged, then put a hand on Blume’s forehead. She wasn’t feverish, just sleeping. He knew she’d be famished when she woke up.
Silverwolf had gotten to her feet, putting her blade back into its sheath and sharpening tool in a pouch. She took a step towards Holve, bent down, and kissed him on the cheek.
That woke him out of his reverie.
“What the...”
“Shorty asked you a question,” she said before sauntering out of the cave. “I’m gonna go find Serinde.”
Ealrin watched her leave. Before she left, she turned and gave Ealrin a little wink. She kept her promise. Even the assassin would be true to her word. Some of the time.
“Women,” Holve muttered, rubbing his cheek. Then he looked over at Jurrin. “Sorry. What was it?”
Jurrin stifled a grin and worked hard to arrange his face. Ealrin could tell that, if no one else was, at least the halfling was amused.
“Why do the Ladis folk hate magic, sir? Seems like an awful waste of something great. Looks like it saved our hides back there.”
Holve nodded and cleared his throat. Ealrin kept a hand on Blume’s shoulder. He had made her as good of a bed as he could. They had gathered some dry grass, then spread his coat over it before laying her on them both. The fire was keeping her warm enough for now.
“Ladis has a very complicated history with magic, Rimstone, and Speakers,” Holve said, returning his gaze to the fire as if contemplating his own words. “Many long years ago, Ladis was a land that was brimming with Rimstone and Speakers. They had three schools of the craft that would rival Thoran’s own academy on Ruyn. Some said Ladis was the birthplace of the art of Speaking.”
He let out a deep sigh.
“Then came Decolos.”
Jurrin coughed.
“The god? The one that priest woman told us about in ThreeWay?”
“God?” Holve chuckled. “Is that what she called him?”
Shaking his head, he looked right at Jurrin.
“Decolos was a man, just as any other. A thousand years ago he was the emperor of Ladis. He was a power-hungry maniac who saw magic as a threat to the throne of Ladis, and rightly so. He ruled with an iron fist and had a powerful army. The only ones strong enough to oppose him were the Speakers. So, he ended what he called the ‘Reign of Darkness’ and sent the continent into a religious fury.”
“He made himself into someone to be worshiped. A god among men. He claimed he was the descendant of a god. Rubbish. But the people were taught to fear the Speakers. They were taught to hate them. And in their religious observance of Decolos, they were taught that magic was evil. Thousands were put to death because they were Speakers. Those who had Speakers in their family were tortured or worse. Neighbor turned on neighbor, hoping that if they accused someone else of witchcraft, it would save their own family’s lives. And all of this happened with the blessing of, and the full credit given to, Decolos.”
Jurrin looked down at his hands. Ealrin could see the halfling had been worrying them while he spoke. Jurrin cast a wary glance towards Blume.
“I suppose that’s why you wanted to have Miss Blume hide her magic?”
“Exactly,” Holve said.
“Bah,” Gorplin said, folding his arms. “If that Deco fellow was just a man, and that Reign of Darkness business was a thousand years ago, why do people still give it a second pass?”
Holve shook his head again.
“Decolos lives on in his teachings, if not in his actual worship,” he said. “In Ladism, to Speak is to commit the ultimate sin and earn yourself a one-way trip to the Dark Lands in death, to be tormented forever. But to worship Decolos and serve him faithfully? Well, you’ll get to rule with him in death and look over your loved ones. Now tell me, which sounds better to you?”
“Bah,” Gorplin said. “They both sound like a fool’s ramblings.”
Holve shrugged.
“We’ve seen stranger things than what I’ve just told you,” he said. “But I know dwarfs like to believe what they see in front of them.”
Gorplin hit the end of his ax on the cave floor. A few sparks flew from its blade.
“Hear, hear,” he said.
“I can hear, hear you from a mile away,” Silverwolf said as she walked back into the cave. “Serinde’s coming back with something dead and some other things she thinks we can eat.”
The assassin rubbed her stomach.
“I would kill for a steak,” she said, looking down at their meager fire. “But I would also kill for much less.”
“You worry me something awful, Miss Wolf,” Jurrin said, rubbing his hands together and then warming them over the fire.
“Me, too,” came a weaker voice from Ealrin’s side.
They all jerked and looked over.
Blume was awake.
THEY SPENT THE REST of the day tending to Blume and making sure she was eating. Ealrin was always impressed with how much food the girl could put away after she had exhausted herself Speaking.
Then again, he was also impressed with the ability she had to Speak magic into existence.
If Ladis was a place that was hostile toward magic users, and Blume was continuing to struggle to keep her magic inside of her, they would have to find a way to get off the continent. Quickly.
Holve had said they would do well to rest before setting out again in the morning. This setting was going to offer them the best protection they could find within miles anyway. With the lizards potentially looking out in the jungle somewhere, the group decided that the possibility of the lurkers coming back up the cave tunnel was a threat worth risking.
Holve was also spending his time informing Blume how important it was that she keep her magic under control.
“You mean their entire religion revolves around not doing magic?” she said, the room now full with the smell of whatever it was Serinde had brought in.
Holve had inspected the lizard and said that it was edible. Ealrin had a much different idea about what was edible.
“They abstain from magic,” Holve said.
“And kill people who use it?” Serinde asked. Ealrin turned to her and could tell she was affronted by this. He still wondered about the elf. Sometimes she seemed so sad and absorbed in her own sorrows. At other times she allowed a sense of justice to rise to the surface of her sullen state.
It never stayed long.
Before Holve even finished his answer to her, she had folded her arms and set her face once again into a sorrowful look of introspection.
“They fear it because they worry they can’t control it. And they’re right,” Holve admitted. “Speakers have powers beyond that of any army. Our Blume here has shown us that before.”
He nodded towards Blume, who gave a half-smile as she tore into another bite of the lizard. Ealrin’s stomach was knotted up, but not from looking at the scaly flesh she was eating.
“But remember when she blacked out for weeks and weeks? We thought we’d lost her.”
The words poured out of Ealrin’s mouth, hot and stinging. He wasn’t sure why he was so frustrated, but it was all rushing to the surface of his self-control and breaking right through it. Maybe it was because he had known Holve to be a strategic man. Not one who would overuse any element in a fight, but always use what was necessary to get the job done. He had never known Holve to endanger someone when he himself wasn’t going to go through the same dangers.
Until today.
He had put Blume close to the brink. Sure, she was awake now, and feeling alright according to her, but how long
could she keep this up? What if every time they were in trouble now, Holve called on Blume? What if there came a time when she couldn't produce the results he sought? What if they couldn't get Blume the rest she needed?
What if she was found out in a continent that despises those who used Rimstone?
“What if we’re pushing Blume too far?” Ealrin continued, refusing to look Blume in the eye, instead turning his gaze towards Holve. “What if we are asking too much of her?”
“I can handle it,” Blume said through a mouthful of meat.
“No, you can’t!” Ealrin exclaimed. “I had to carry you across the frozen lake you made and up through the cave tunnel. Then it was hours before you actually woke up.”
He still couldn't bring himself to look at her. He still stared at Holve’s dark eyes, hoping to find reason there.
“Why are you pushing her so hard?” he asked.
The cave was quiet. Even the quick tongue of Silverwolf held back. Jurrin’s eyes were wide as he looked back and forth between the two men.
“I hope you can trust that I’m leading us well,” Holve said calmly.
Ealrin shot back, probably more loudly than he meant.
“But why at the expense of Blume?”
“Because she’s a talented Speaker,” Holve said.
“But she’s still getting used to... Whatever it is that’s happening to her now!” Ealrin shot back.
“I’m getting used to it,” Blume said. Neither Ealrin nor Holve said anything that indicated they had heard her.
“I’m the one who is familiar with Ladis and its customs,” Holve said in a voice that was rising, not in volume, but in authority. “And it is I who will decide how we’re going to get off this continent full of fanatics.”
“But Blume!” Ealrin began.
“Enough!” Holve shouted.
Actually shouted. Ealrin hadn’t heard the man shout, at least in his direction, since they had met two years ago. He had considered him a friend, a mentor, a father figure. But this Holve. This was someone different. Someone who Ealrin nearly didn’t recognize. The old man had fire in his eyes. Not for battle, though. Ealrin had seen that look in Holve before. He couldn’t really place what the look in Holve’s eyes was. It was almost like anger and sadness rolled into one.
Holve took a deep breath, then stood up. He looked down on them each, individually, before finally landing on Ealrin. He held his gaze for a breath, then turned to march out of the cave.
“I’ll take first watch,” he said. “You all get some rest.”
And with that, the man was gone, the conversation over, and Ealrin found himself breathing deep, heated breaths and feeling very hot. The heat had nothing to do with their meager fire.
18: Olma and Her Uncle
Olma walked forward.
It took every fiber of her being to continue her quiet trudge behind her uncle. They had been marching for days. Before everything had been stolen from her, she had been a talkative girl. Her parents had said that she was nearly impossible to keep silent.
Inquisitive and talkative.
That was who Olma was.
Before.
Her uncle hadn’t answered a single question she had posed to him.
“How long will it take us to walk there?”
“What will we do when we arrive?”
“When will we eat next?”
The last question was the one that was burning into her mind at the moment. Her uncle hadn’t spoken a word to her since they had left Fray, their village. Instead, he had handed her food and made small fires and set out bed rolls.
She guessed he was having a hard time with everything. Her dad was his brother after all. And now he was in charge of her. Their village was burned and destroyed. That was a huge weight to be on top of anyone.
Perhaps he just didn’t want to think about it.
So they walked.
The jungle scenery Olma had grown up with was beginning to change ever so slightly the further they walked. Trees grew further apart from one another. Larger and larger stretches of the sky were becoming visible through the dense jungle canopy. Olma wasn’t sure how she felt about that. The trees had always been over her head. They provided shade and protection and shielded them from the harsh rays of the sun.
“Will we walk until the jungle runs out?” she asked, not expecting an answer back, but rather just to hear words. They would be the first for her to speak today and it was almost noon.
Olma bumped into her uncle and let out a small cry of surprise. She had been looking down at the ground and had not expected him to stop.
“Ow!” she exclaimed.
“Shush.”
It was the first thing he had said to her since they had left the village. “Shush”.
Olma’s emotions were going back and forth from rage to sadness. She was this man’s niece, and the only word he could speak to her now was “shush”? Olma had cried herself to sleep each night, knowing full well that he could hear her before she finally drifted off from exhaustion. She hit trees with sticks and branches, furious at the lizards who had stolen her home, and her parents, and everything else from her.
She wanted to be comforted, to be taken care of.
She wanted her family back.
But all she had now was this man. Her uncle. Who shushed her.
Olma wanted to reach down, pick up a branch, and swing it at him. She knew she couldn’t do much harm to him, but it would make her feel better. Then she heard it, too. Voices.
It was treacherous to travel in the jungles of Ladis. It was for that reason that Olma had never been this far away from the village she was born in. Only traders, bandits, and wildmen went into the jungle to travel from place to place. The wildmen were feared as savages. The traders were praised for their ability to stay alive and always traveled with armed and armored guards through the jungle paths.
The bandits?
They were usually the ones who were rich off of plunder and stolen loot.
And Olma was sure they would love to find two travelers in the jungle by themselves, nearly starved and weary from their journeys so far.
Olma reached down to her belt and felt the handle of her knife there. She didn’t know how to use it very well. Her father was a skilled hunter, but she had always stayed behind with her mother, helping around the house.
The only lesson about blades she could ever remember her father teaching her was the one skill she would carry.
“Don’t ever throw your knife,” her dad had told her, after she saw him practicing throwing spears one day at a target. “Spears meant to be thrown should be. And if you have rocks that’s fine. But never throw your knife. You might miss. Then you’ll be without a blade and without a hope. Always hold your knife.”
She held onto the handle of her father’s knife with tight, sweaty hands. Her uncle made no move to hide or run. She looked up at the back of his head. He was turned to the left, in the direction of the voices.
“Should we...”
“Shush,” he said again.
Olma resisted the urge to use the knife on her uncle. Just then, she saw the heads of several men walking down an intersecting path through the jungle. They weren’t the wildmen her mother had told her about, and they didn’t seem like bandits. They were too well dressed, too well armed, and, in Olma’s opinion at least, too fancy looking.
Four men armed with metal spears marched out ahead of two wood covered carts pulled by strange creatures. Olma had only seen them once before, and she was much smaller than they. Large and gray, they had snouts like swaying limbs, ears the size of blankets, and white teeth that protruded out of their mouths at odd angles.
She liked them, but they also looked big and terrifying. She certainly didn’t want to be underneath one.
“Woah, there!” came a voice from behind the first cart. A man on a horse came riding around it. At first, Olma was taken with the fine fabric the man had for clothing. Long and seemingly unnecessary tr
acks of cloth spread from the man as he rode up next to them. The next thing that struck her was how strong the horse must be, to hold a man so large and muscular.
“What devils have you come across to be wandering the jungle alone?” he said, looking at Olma’s uncle. He cast a glance down at Olma. For some reason, she felt the urge to tighten her grip on her knife.
“And with such a young girl as well!”
Olma’s uncle bowed in respect to the merchant. She understood that this man might very well be their ticket to a nice meal, and, if they were really lucky, a ride to Arranus, though they didn’t seem to be heading in that direction.
“Our town, Fray, was attacked by the Veiled Ones,” Olma’s uncle replied.
“A sad fate,” the merchant replied. “And almost equally as sad is the fact that this marks the third village I’ve heard of being devoured by the lizards. I thought they had all been wiped out. Ah well. Best to travel well-armed nowadays, eh?”
With a wave of his hand, he showed them what they could already see. His caravan was, indeed, well-guarded and fortified. Behind the two carts were at least twenty men, then four more of the great beasts, each with a cart as well.
“It’s hard to get supplies from town to town,” he said, looking back at them with a smug satisfied expression. “But with the Traveling Blues, we make do.”
He tapped his fine jacket. Olma saw that sewn on it was a fancy looking blue bird, one that she had seen many times flying over the town. It never landed, as far as she knew, but always kept flying. Perhaps that was why this group claimed it as their symbol?
The man shook his head and put his hand on the elegant cap he was wearing.
“But where are my manners? Walk with us as we make introductions. It’s not safe to dwell in any one spot for long in these jungles, especially now that the Veiled Ones are about again. Who knows where they could be lurking. Walk beside me and tell me your tale.”
“Many thanks,” Olma’s uncle said. He turned and looked at Olma and nodded her in front of him. The caravan continued to meander forward.
“This little one looks exhausted! Please let her ride on the end of this cart. You and I will walk behind her.”
