Essence of Gluic

by Anthony G. Wedgeworth

After ensuring Bryus was going to live, Thorik and Grewen approached the scorched circle of earth left by the molten rock creature. Tenderly stepping out onto it, the area under the toe of Thorik’s boot cracked and sank down an inch. It was unstable, much like how Thorik felt at the moment.

  They both stood there and stared at the ground for several minutes before Grewen broke the silence. “Do you know what that was?”

  Thorik had been holding his hand tightly to his neck in an effort to stop the bleeding from the assassin’s blade. He also favored one leg due to the assassin’s cut into the other leg. “Yes, I’ve seen it before in Della Estovia. It’s most likely the red light that we’ve been seeing following us.”

  “I see, our assumed dragon following us from distant hilltops is really a glob of lava,” Grewen said.

  Thorik corrected him. “Grub.”

  “A grub of lava?”

  “No, Grub. I think it’s the creature’s name.”

  “You’ve met it?”

  “It’s Bakalor’s son. He was born while we were trying to escape.” Thorik rubbed his fingers against his forehead. “It’s difficult to recall the details. It happened so fast.”

  Bryus continued walking around the area in an effort to find a temporary arm, which would last him until he found a live donor. Meanwhile, Avanda began to bandage Brimmelle’s cuts from his confrontation with the assassin.

  Grewen pushed one of his toes down onto the location of Grub’s exit, only to find the ground brittle, as it broke off into shards of glass-like fragments for several inches deep. “Why would Grub be following us, and why would he be saving your life?”

  “Saving my life? It nearly killed me.”

  “No. It was a clear attack on the assassin. Bryus happened to be in the way. And once you showed signs of being alive, it vanished.”

  Thorik hadn’t even considered the idea. “I have no explanation.”

  “Thorik, did you make some type of pact with Bakalor in an effort to save Avanda and your own life?”

  “What? Why would you say that?”

  “Well, I don’t know anyone who has ever escaped from Della Estovia, and yet you did without any powers of an E’rudite or an Alchemist. And then when your life was threatened, one of Bakalor’s servants shows up and saves you. It’s a question that needs to be asked.”

  Thorik was shocked. “Grewen, how can you imply such things, after what we’ve been through?”

  “I’m not implying anything.” The Mognin grinned. “It’s a fair question which you are now avoiding.”

  “Avoiding? I’m not avoiding anything.”

  Grewen’s response was light-hearted and slow. “Then answer the question.”

  “I shouldn’t have to. You’re my friend. You should trust me.”

  “I never said I didn’t. It’s only a question, Thorik. You’re reading too much into it.”

  “If you must know, we didn’t make any pact with Bakalor, nor Irluk. I have no idea why they let us go or why they have Grub following us. I can’t for the life of me understand why they would protect me. I’m no one special. I have no way to help them even if I wanted.”

  “How about if you didn’t want to help them?”

  “What?”

  “What if you’re correct and they don’t expect you to help them?”

  “Then they are fools to let us go.”

  “No. Think about this. What can you do that others cannot?”

  “Activate my Runestones?”

  “That’s good. Anything else unique that you do that most others don’t?”

  “I record our travels in my coffer...or prattle box.” He quickly corrected himself.

  The term caught Grewen’s attention. “Prattle box?”

  “Yes, that’s what Bryus said it was. He informed me that he gave a set to the King’s twins.”

  “Ambrosius and Tarosius?” Grewen asked. “I would assume he would have given it to them before Tarosius changed his name to Darkmere.”

  “I don’t know. Are those the only twins in the King’s line?”

  “As far as I know,” Grewen answered after a moment of thought. “Is your coffer similar to the ones he gave them or is this actually one of them? Does it have any magical abilities? How did you acquire it in the first place?”

  “Slow down. I have no knowledge of any magic it may have. Years ago, a stranger to Farbank gave it to me during his visit. His name was Su’I Sorat.”

  Grewen looked up from the Num and to the Alchemist who was tugging on a limb from a short dead desert tree. “Bryus?”

  “Not now.” The man tried to snap off the trunk of the tree with his one arm. “I’m busy.”

  Grewen approached the Alchemist, reached down, and snapped the base of the stiff plant from its root system. “There. Now do you have time?”

  “No.” Bryus’ candid response often came of arrogant. “Break off all the side limbs so it’s a single stick.”

  Grewen complied by snapping the limbs off a handful at a time.

  “Be careful!” Bryus shouted. “That’s my future arm you’re recklessly ripping apart.”

  Grewen grinned at the statement as he continued trimming.

  “A little more off from that side,” Bryus instructed. “No, you fool. Leave that one alone. Take off the one next to it. I don’t want to look like a freak with an odd curled limb at the end of my arm.”

  “Sorry. What was I thinking?” Grewen spoke with a straight face but in a humorous tone.

  “Apparently you weren’t.”

  “Here.” Grewen handed the modified tree trunk to the spell caster. “Now, we’d like to ask you about something you told Thorik, in reference to a prattle box.”

  Bryus pushed the end of the thick stick up against his stub of an arm. The width of the stick was perfect, but it was made for the length of a Mognin arm as it dragged on the ground eight feet in front of him. “Hey, you big buffoon. Do you see an issue here?”

  Grewen chuckled at the sight. “No, is there a problem?”

  “Perhaps not if I wanted to use my arm to plow a field! Listen baby-ears, if you want my help on something, I suggest you shave a few feet of trunk off my arm.”

  Grewen began doing just that as Thorik arrived with his coffer. “I hear you gave the King’s twins prattle boxes.”

  “Smooth out the base,” he instructed the giant. “Yes. So?”

  “Are prattle boxes common?” Thorik asked, hoping he would say no.

  “They once were, but you don’t see them much anymore.”

  “How about this one.” The Num held up his coffer.

  Bryus reached for the wooden box with his right arm, only to recall not having a right arm. His left hand did a much better job in taking it. Opening it, he dumped the contents onto the ground before looking inside. “Ah, yes, here it is.”

  Grewen set the wooden arm near Bryus as he waited to hear his assessment.

  “Here what is?” Thorik frantically picked up his papers and writing utensils from the desert floor.

  “This is one of the prattle boxes I made for Ambrosius and Darkmere.”

  “This is one of those boxes? Are you sure?”

  Pointing inside, at the base of the box, he noted his name carved in the base.

  “Um,” Thorik mumbled. “No, this says Suyrb.”

  Bryus chuckled. “I know, it’s an old game, but you know how tradition plays a role in games.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Surely you know. It’s the same for prattle boxes as it is for prattle bottles or prattle clay pots.”

  Grewen and Thorik looked at each other with confused faces before they both replied, “No.”

  “Alchemist have used prattle devices forever. I just thought it would fun for the twins to each have a prattle box. It’s all fun you know.”

  “What’s fun?”

  “Writing a little note and tossing it inside.”

  “Yes, and then what?”

  “Then the pers
on with the other prattle box opens it up and the words flow onto their paper. That way when the twins were separated, they could write back and forth from anywhere.”

  “So, anything I write will be available to be read from any other prattle box.”

  “No, of course not, only to its mate. They are made from the same material and the spell is cast on both at the same time.”

  “It’s always two at a time?”

  “Well, doing one by itself seems pointless.”

  “What I meant was, are there some prattle boxes with three?”

  “Perhaps, but I only made two of these.”

  “But again.” Thorik was still confused. “It doesn’t say your name.”

  “Sure it does. You see the original inventor of the prattle spells signed his name backward as a joke so others wouldn’t know who created it. Ever since then, it has been a tradition to do so. Call it an inside joke.”

  Thorik looked at the name carved inside the box. “Suyrb is Bryus backwards.”

  “You’re a genius. How did you figure that out on your own?” the Alchemist sarcastically mocked.

  Thorik had learned to ignore Bryus’ patronizing tone. It was somewhere on the border of lighthearted teasing and condescending truth. Thorik brushed it off like normal. “So, where is the other one?”

  “How would I know? It was a child’s toy. Most toys are destroyed or lost by the time their owners grow up.”

  “But what if someone has the other one, such as Ambrosius or Darkmere?” Thorik asked, now concerned about someone reading all of his logs.

  Without any passion in his voice, Bryus told it like it was. “Then you have been telling them everything we’ve been doing; where we are going, when we expect to be places, and what we have done.”

  The thoughts rushed into Thorik’s mind of all the information he had recorded since they had left Farbank. “It would make sense if it was Darkmere. That’s how he’s known how to always stay one step ahead of us.”

  Grewen agreed, but gave another point of view. “Or perhaps Ambrosius has the other one and Bakalor and Irluk are hoping you will call him into their trap. Maybe that is why Grub is following us, to keep you alive long enough to lure Ambrosius to you.”

  “How would we know?” Thorik asked. “Bryus, are there any markings on these to say which one you gave to whom?”

  “Are you serious? I gave them to the King as toys for his children. Did I not already say this?”

  Frustrated with himself over the information he had written down and placed in his coffer, Thorik began to wonder what to do with the wooden box going forward. “So, if I write something to bring Ambrosius out into the open, and he does, then we fall into Bakalor’s trap. But if Darkmere has the other box then we’ve alerted him that Ambrosius is still alive.”

  Grewen added an additional scenario. “You’re also under the assumption that the other box still exists and that it is being used by someone.”

  Thorik nodded. “There’s only one way to find out.”