by Chad Corrie
“You’re going to have to come with us.” One of the guards stepped forward, speaking Telboros plainly while keeping a steady eye on everyone.
“And why is that?” Cadrissa calmly inquired.
“Murder. There’s a dead man in the Musky Otter and we’re going to need some answers before you leave Altorbia.” Alara didn’t have the time, nor the desire, to give any answers. It wasn’t that she relished the idea of becoming a leader of some lawless band, but these were Elyellium. Harboring an escaped slave was one thing, but being a Patrious at this particular moment was quite another. Better to get through this as quickly and with as little trouble as possible.
“Well, I was never in the Musky Otter.” Vinder stared the lead guard down.
“And yet you’re keeping company with the ones reported to have committed the murder. Like the priests of Ganatar say: guilt by association.”
Alara found it odd the elf was quoting Gartarians, who worshiped the god of order, justice, and light, when they engaged in practices the exact opposite of such purposes.
Vinder pivoted toward Dugan. “I have told you how much I didn’t want any more trouble, right?”
“I think there might be some misunderstanding,” said Gilban, stepping forward. “What was done was an act of self-defense.”
“Not how we hear it,” said the lead guard. “And it seems there’s a few things more you’ll need to answer for.” The guard raised his sword at the priest. “Like what a Patrious is doing here so far from home. But you’ll have plenty of time to try to fill us in once you’ve been locked up for the night.”
“I’m not going back to a cell.” Dugan pulled his gladii free before anyone knew what was happening.
“Now wait a moment.” Alara moved to Vinder’s side, seeking cooler heads. In spite of her hood, she knew the nearby lamplight would make it clear to all who cared for a look that she wasn’t your average Elyellium. “We don’t want to cause any more trouble. We’ll just be on our way.”
“Not until you’ve answered some questions first.” The guard’s resolve was as solid as stone.
“We only acted in self-defense.” Alara was running out of diplomatic options to explore.
“You’ll have your chance to state your case at the trial.”
“Trial?” Cadrissa almost shouted. “I’m not going to any trial. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“We’ve been over that already.” The lead guard captured some new ground, leading the others behind him forward. “Now, are you going to drop your weapons and surrender peacefully?”
Alara knew the situation had unraveled past the point of being salvaged. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Vinder pull his axe free, and any lingering doubts vanished.
The guards rushed forward in an attempt to overwhelm them. Running to Gilban as she removed her bow from around her shoulder, Alara took a defensive position in front of him. “Try to keep behind me,” she said, pulling an arrow from her quiver. She didn’t want to kill these men—they were only doing their duty—but would defend herself and the others as best as she was able.
“We just need a path to the sloop,” she told the others. “There’s no need for a slaughter.” She let loose two arrows in rapid succession. Both plunged directly into a guard’s leg, causing him to collapse to the cobblestones with a collection of curses as she notched another arrow.
“I’m not making any promises,” said Vinder as the battle quickly engulfed them. From her defensive position, she watched the melee unfold.
Two guards rushed into Dugan’s path, and with two swift swings, his blades found some soft fields to plow, bringing each man to the ground though not taking their lives. At the same time, five guards faced off with Vinder. At first, he sought to bludgeon them with the flat of his axe, but after knocking the first to the street, he changed his grip and tactic. The next two he struck bellowed their pain and slumped to the ground, each clutching a bloody leg nearly hacked off at the thigh. Three more guards found their sword hands pierced by one of Alara’s arrows as Cadrissa finally settled upon a spell.
“Aston laree!” At the wizardess’ command a violent blast of wind tossed five more guards into a nearby lamppost, which toppled on them on impact.
“Get Gilban to the boat,” Alara ordered Cadrissa before letting loose another arrow, this one pegging an advancing guard in the shoulder and creating an opening for their escape.
“Come on.” Cadrissa was more than happy to comply. She took hold of Gilban’s hand and began darting through the chaos en route to the sloop. Gilban made an exceptional effort to keep up with Cadrissa’s running while she pulled him along like a wayward pup on a leash.
Alara’s eyes lost sight of them as she took stock of the remaining struggles. Vinder felled three more guards with a bloody slashing of steel. Dugan dealt death to two more who’d gotten close enough—one sword for each man. So much for not being a slaughter.
“Withdraw!” The lead guard’s command sounded like a curse. Each guard made their way back to town.
Alara slid the bow over her shoulder. “Come on,” she called to Dugan and Vinder, gesturing for them to make for the docks.
“You go on ahead,” said Vinder before hurrying back to the fallen guards. “I’ll be right there.”
“We need to leave, Vinder.” At the words, the dwarf froze.
“I’ll just be a moment.” His eye wouldn’t leave the clump of dead men.
“Now!”
The dwarf gave a small huff before surrendering his efforts, leaving the dead where they lay.
Chapter 12
Blessed be the human who seeks Panthora with a whole heart.
Blessed be the human who keeps to her ways.
Blessed be the human who honors her,
for in his doing he too shall be honored.
—A Paninian blessing
It’d been a few days since the encounter with the Midgard, but nobody had forgotten the horror it’d wrought upon the ship. Every so often, Rowan noticed the odd sailor nervously pondering the water. Whenever someone got close to the damaged sections, they kissed the pendant around their neck in hopes of staving off another ordeal. The dead from the battle had been dumped into the sea, a quick funeral wherein the captain and crew sang a hymn to Perlosa and Asorlok to care for the departed souls, guiding the sailors to their eternal reward. With no priest on board it was the best they could do, and none thought any less of it.
The crew had offered up a sacrifice of a precious ring and necklace before they left port, committing the items to the sea as a gift to the Mistress of the Waves, hoping for safe passage. They added a silver bracelet with the funeral rites, hoping to remain in the goddess’ good graces. Rowan didn’t hinder the ceremony, but he wouldn’t take part in it either. No one spoke about it one way or the other—some might have thought it an ill omen or a lack of respect, but Rowan had to be true to what he knew. If Panthora was his goddess, he couldn’t honor anyone outside of her.
Few repairs had been made to the damaged deck and rigging. As the ship was a merchant vessel, it carried more trade goods than materials for repair. Even so, the crew salvaged enough resources from boxes, chests, and barrels to patch the most ruined areas. There were still weaknesses in the pitted wood, and the sailors needed to mind their steps or risk finding themselves in the cargo hold with half the deck on top of them, but it would be serviceable until they made port.
Rowan had completed his prayers for the morning and was finishing off a stale biscuit as he studied the sunrise on the distant horizon. He was happier than he’d been in a while. It had taken a couple of days before he’d rid himself of the troubling thoughts and fears that had surfaced with the Midgard attack. His solution was to find some vault in the back of his mind, shove them inside, and fasten the door tight. With the incident now passed the self-doubt was behind him . . . and he’d keep it under lock and key until his mission was finished. And so far the decision had served him well.
Within a few more days he’d be in port and free to stretch his legs on Talatheal, which was poetically called “The Island of the Masses.” From his studies, he’d learned all manner of races lived there, selling their wares and practicing their diverse cultures and religions in a large melting pot. What knowledge he’d gained from his training was augmented by the stories he’d heard growing up. Many of these tales he’d learned with the other children of the Panther Tribe as they gathered around the feet of a gregarious adventurer named Erland Sorenson. He’d often go late into the night telling tales from chance encounters with those from the south. And most of those encounters involved elves.
Erland was a testament to the sturdiness of the Nordic race. Or perhaps he was just incredibly lucky to be alive—if you could believe the pedigree of his wounds. When he grew older, Rowan dismissed many of the tales as yarns created more from warm wine than actual experience. Now he was about to find out if Erland was truthful in at least some of his more grounded accounts.
A few days later, Rowan watched with anticipation as the Frost Giant finally maneuvered itself into the Talathealin port of Elandor. The boat would make repairs and then rest for about a month as its crew waited for the merchants to arrive, filling their holds to the brim while selling their current cargo in the process. He figured his journey into Taka Lu Lama should take him about the same amount of time, if not less. He planned for a successful return to a fully restored vessel, ready to head back to Valkoria. There really wasn’t anything that could go wrong. Not from what he’d constantly rehearsed over these last few weeks.
As the crew dropped anchor and prepared for unloading, Rowan paced. He watched the gangplank resting near the starboard side of the vessel, ready to be lowered once the ship had been properly secured. Almost immediately upon its descent, Rowan leapt off the boat and onto the docks. As soon as his feet touched the wooden planks, he moved briskly for Elandor’s interior. He was dressed in full leather armor, sword strapped to his side. He’d managed to stuff most of his belongings in a pack he’d swung over his back, leaving the chest with the rest of his items in his cabin. As he walked, he made a careful study of his surroundings.
Fishermen cleaned and gutted their catches, dumping the waste into the water as a motley collection of people happened by. Men and women—rich and poor—made their way through the narrow paths toward the inner gates of the city. Spices and perfumes were unloaded from far-off Belda-thal and elsewhere. As always, there were weapons, cooking utensils, bolts of fabrics, and buckets of fresh produce making their way to the central square for trade and purchase. There was also a mix of people about: elves and humans the most dominant amid the collage of flesh and fabric. But some shorter folks did catch his eye from time to time. They easily stood out among the taller people, and their pointed ears further defined them among the masses. From what he’d read and learned in his training, he thought they were halflings. And from what he understood, it was best if he just ignored them like everyone else was doing.
Elandor was the capital city of a powerful Telborian kingdom sharing the same name. It wrestled for primacy with its sister kingdom, Romain, to the south. Both claimed to be founded by the Telborians who had emerged from the ancient city of Gondad, which lay in ruins many miles to their west . . . or so the legends said. For centuries, Elandor and Romain had disputed each other’s claims of being descended from the ancient origin city, each setting up its own doctrine as to why it was right, which had led to more than a few wars and minor skirmishes. But in more recent generations, these conflicts had taken the form of healthy competition in seasonal tournaments between the kingdoms.
Rowan slowed his pace as he neared the gate, the wheel-rutted road now congested with merchant traffic. The people up ahead were held at the gates while guards checked for official documents, illegal merchandise, and other matters of pressing concern. Rowan stood in the line for what seemed like an eternity while exotic smells of sweet perfume and tangy spices tickled his nose. Once the guards looked him over and deemed him permissible, he was allowed through the gate. If he thought what he’d seen so far was amazing, he was astounded by what greeted him.
The streets were mazes of shops and stalls. Vegetables, meats, brilliantly colored cloth, weapons, and furniture crowded tables and windows. Everywhere he saw people hurrying about with their purchases—arms overflowing with produce and merchandise of all kinds. Commerce surrounded him on all sides, not unlike the ocean he’d just traveled.
As he wandered the streets, he took in all the strange merchants selling their wares. One was tall and slightly gaunt with a slender, frail look about him. It wasn’t until the merchant threw back his head in laughter that Rowan realized he was an elf. The pointed ears, previously hidden by straight black hair, protruded from his dark tresses.
Erland’s stories had depicted them as cold and vindictive, “a gaggle of weak-armed sissies who threw a good punch when you weren’t looking.” Yet Rowan couldn’t help but feel slightly entranced by the figure. The elf seemed ageless, almost eternal or immortal in his being. But even as words of praise for the elven merchant sounded in Rowan’s mind, another voice spoke inside him. It whispered that elves were weaker and less skilled in weapons than he was, that the merchant was probably a cheat in his dealings, and he wanted nothing more than to raid the world and make Rowan his slave.
The words were heavy and hard, scraping his heart and mind like a strong plowshare. He’d no idea where these feelings and ideas came from, but from someplace within they bubbled forth. He soon found himself looking at the elf not as a thing of beauty, but as a flawed gem in need of recutting.
As he continued staring at the elf, Rowan felt a nudge on his leg. Peering down he saw a dirty Telborian child dressed in rags with her hand around his coin purse. She looked no more than ten winters old, but the rough life she lived had aged her prematurely. Her eyes were ringed with thick black and purple circles, her skin sallow.
“And what do you think you’re doing?” he asked the young girl in her native tongue. His training had included the comprehension of all human dialects, both past and present.
Without speaking, the child bolted off into an alley. Rowan shook his head in sorrow as he watched her go. He wished he had time to help all the poor humans in Elandor, but he knew it would only detract from his mission. He reached for his coin purse to shift it to a safer location—away from prying fingers—and was shocked when he found there was nothing to move.
“Hey!” Rowan broke into a run. “Come back here!”
The girl, whether she heard him or not, continued darting through the maze of alleyways and tight streets. Although he easily gained on her retreating back, she somehow managed avoiding his grasping arms. As they ran deeper into the city, the condition of the buildings grew steadily worse until the housing was nothing more than rough wooden planks held together by crude nails and cracking plaster. Dead animals and nearly dead people huddled in corners and other areas where their pathetic and soiled frames wasted away.
The girl finally stopped at a dead end, her back shaking as she faced the stone wall. This allowed Rowan to catch up and put a hand over her shoulder, turning her to face him. Her cheeks were wet with tears. “I just need the money to eat,” she sobbed. “Why can’t you just leave me alone? I’m sure you have plenty more where this came from.”
Rowan stooped to his knee to wipe the tears away from her soiled face, cutting some clear stripes of flesh to shine through the grime in the process. “I’m not looking to harm you.” He adopted a mild tone. “But that’s all the money I have. It’s not even mine. It belongs to my order. I’m on an assignment, and I need it to complete my duties. If you return it to me, I’d be very grateful and give you what I can.”
He noticed as he spoke the girl gave him a strange look. It felt like she was looking through him, not at him. Suspicion took him further as her eyes darted over his left shoulder. He spun around, his blade in hand, prepared to defend against an attack. The block s
topped the descending club of a heavily muscled Telborian.
“Good work, Sally. Now go run off while I finish this up.”
Rowan faced the cutthroat at his full height while Sally dashed off. He was a large man, a head taller than Rowan and covered in a layer of street grime. His long hair was unkempt and greasy, and the bristly briar of his beard still housed particles of his last meal.
“You’re going to be a tough one, eh?” He grinned, revealing a number of missing teeth. “Well, I like to have fun once in a while.” He swung the heavy club again.
Rowan easily blocked the cumbersome attack by sidestepping to his left. With every downswing, the man exposed his left side, a weakness Rowan was more than happy to exploit. With a quick thrust, his sword slid into the man’s chest and skewered his heart on Nordic steel.
The man’s piggish face went placid and wide eyed in disbelief. Like a broken child’s toy, he tried raising his club for a final defiant swing. Instead, the oaken log fell out of his lifeless fingers. Rowan jerked his sword free, and the dead man fell to the muck-covered street.
“May you find rest in Panthora’s arms.” Rowan blessed the corpse before wiping his blade clean. He then began looking for a way out of the crumbling area of the city. He didn’t want to be around when the dead man’s friends came looking for him, and this sort always traveled in packs. He had no idea where the girl had run off to, dashing any hopes at recovering what was stolen. This wasn’t good. Not good at all.
While what the knighthood had given him might have been stolen, he did still possess a small pouch of personal monies in his backpack. The coin was intended for minor purchases or emergencies. He supposed having his funds stolen from him would count as an emergency, but the personal coin wasn’t anywhere near the amount that had been stolen. How could he hope to accomplish his mission with so little coin?
As he wandered the twisted back ways of the city, he assessed his situation. His shoulders sagged with the weight of increased understanding. He hadn’t even managed to be in Talatheal for one day—not even for one hour—before he failed in his mission. Without supplies and a guide, not to mention mounts, he would never find the ruins in the time allowed . . . unless Panthora provided a miracle.
