by RG Long
It was in the leather bound book that Ealrin sketched Good Harbor on the second page. The first had one note:
"Remember from this point on. Elezar."
After writing a short passage about being found, Holve, Roland, the Rusty Hook, the thief and Everstand, Ealrin began to write about and sketch The White Wind, the boat on which he sailed currently.
The White Wind was a fine vessel, nearly thirty paces long and ten across. Its main mast was taller than most trees Ealrin had seen on the island, with two more that rivaled it. Felicia, its captain, had said that once she had been used for war, but now, with the Southern Republic no longer expanding its borders and the goblins fighting among themselves, it was tasked with the more mundane: like transporting cloth and other goods from the mainland to Good Harbor and ferrying back those who could afford the toll.
It was a fine day for sailing, Ealrin thought.
Many of the crew had busied themselves with their tasks. Though they were mostly male and human, there was a large measure of respect, and perhaps a bit of fear, for Felicia Stormchaser.
She was an imposing woman standing a head taller than Ealrin. Her jet-black hair fell down past her waist, tied up in a single braid. Her piercing green eyes surveyed the horizon around her as she steered the ship from its helm. With her rough and salty voice she barked orders that were obeyed without question. Men flew to follow her command. No one gave her a glance that bespoke of looking down upon her for the gender she had been blessed with. She was the captain of the White Wind. The chaser of storms. It was quite the impressive sight to see, Ealrin thought.
Yet for being found shipwrecked, he felt odd. His legs didn't respond well when the boat rocked to one side or the other. The things Felicia would yell to a crewman were foreign to him. Shouldn't he know which side was port and which was starboard? Or how the rudder worked? Or in what fashion the masts were made?
None of these made a path through his fog. Only more questions. If he was a sailor, why had he lost all knowledge of sailing?
It was extremely frustrating. He took his mind off his wonders by getting to know other members of the crew and by practicing his sword skills with Roland. The journey from Good Harbor, which was on an island in the Southern Republic, to Loran, the major port city of the country of Thoran, was four days worth of sailing with the wind being strong and true.
In the first two days, Ealrin made a point to talk with people aboard the White Wind, and was never lacking to hear a good story from them. Captain Felicia had with her some of the most traveled sailors in the continent.
There were four dwarves with beards down to their shoes. Admittedly, that meant that their hair was only the span of your arm but still impressive. They hailed from a place they called Dun Gaza. In dwarven tongue, the word before a city tells them how important the city is. It can describe a mining colony or a forge city, where metal is shaped and formed into weapons or other things useful to the mountain dwellers. Apparently those are the only two types of dwarven cities there are, so Ealrin was informed. Dun meant that it was a large forge. If it were a smaller forge city it would be Cardin, but a Grandun would mean it was the biggest forge city on the continent. Grandun Krator was where these dwarves were off to. Apparently Dun Gaza had completed some great task and they were to inform their masters of it. Grandun Krator rested in the heart of a mountain between Beaton and the Goblin Maw. That mountain range, Ealrin was told, held more dwarves than men in the three countries of Beaton, Thoran, and the Southern Republic combined. Ealrin wasn't sure if this was prideful exaggeration or the truth. Either way, he was interested in the stories these four had about goblin wars, great weapons of war forged in their city, and other stories. Mostly they were about fighting, or weapons they had used in fighting. Or the weapons they had created that were held by some great dwarf or another, and used to kill scores of goblins. They took pride in their handiwork, Ealrin could tell, but more pride in what their works accomplished.
Also on board were two elves. It was hard to tell whether they had a dislike for only Ealrin, or a dislike for everyone in general. Granted, these two obeyed their captain without question, but it was obvious that they considered themselves on a higher level than the rest of those aboard the ship. Still, they were glad to share their stories with a captive audience, and Ealrin was more than willing to listen.
As far as they knew, only a handful of elves actually lived on the continent of Ruyn. And those that did were Woodlanders. Long ago in elf history, there was some event that split the elves into three different lines. The Woodlanders lived on both the continent of Ruyn and Redact. They claimed two woods as their home, one in the Southern Republic, and another in what was referred to as "The Northern Wastes." Ealrin didn't think such a place warranted a visit, but he would very much like to meet the elves of the south if he could.
Something happened which had made the Woodlanders move from where they had originated: the faraway continent of Irradan. A second group of elves lived on that continent and claimed it as their home. Some humans lived there, Ealrin was told, but it was predominately an elven land.
When he asked about the third line of elves, Fi-Dash, the older looking of the pair, simply said, "We no longer speak of those who have sold themselves to the flames of darkness." Giri-hon, the other, younger looking elf, simply turned his eyes from Ealrin and looked, instead, at his plate of food.
And that was all they would tell him.
They were all taking a break for a noon meal while Ealrin was hearing about the elf's history. Holve came walking past with his empty plate and kicked at Ealrin.
"That'll do on your history lessons today, young swordsman. It's time to practice again!"
Aboard the White Wind, there were three acceptable times to not be waiting for the next command from Felicia: During a meal that Felicia had instructed be given, during weapon's practice which Felicia had advised they do, and whenever Felicia was asleep, which Ealrin had not yet seen her retire to her quarter's for the last two days.
And after the noon meal was weapon's practice for those on board. Everyone heartily enjoyed this time of the afternoon, though Ealrin a little less than everyone else.
It was a sight to see all the varied weapons of the different members of the crew, especially between the various races.
The elves fought with two swords, though they both also carried a bow around them as well. The delicate swords were only the length of one's forearm, but the elves struck out at one another with such precision, swiftness, and ferociousness that Ealrin knew better than to doubt their deadliness. He only hoped he would never cross blades with a Woodlander. They were adept fighters.
The dwarves, on the other hand, were not as precise as they were relentless. Instead of fighting with thin and seemingly delicate blades, they preferred anything that was stout, heavy, and most of all, big. Two of the dwarves carried maces with spikes on their heads that were taller than they were. They wielded them with both hands and could easily smash apart a barrel with one solid blow. This only occurred once on this voyage before Felicia came down on them harshly for such waste: the barrel had been filled with provisions and the offender, Farin, had been ordered to clean up the mess and go without the evening meal. Ealrin found out later it was best not to irritate a hungry dwarf.
The other dwarves chose to fight with a giant ax and a formidable looking hammer. Dwarven fighting first involved throwing yourself into your enemy in hopes of knocking them down. Though the average dwarf grew no higher than four feet tall, their girth and muscle gave them plenty of weight to throw around. A head-butt from a dwarf would make anyone's day much worse. If the first blow knocked you down, the second was sure to be the heavy end of whatever weapon they wielded. Your demise would be messy, but swift.
There were two others on board who were neither human, dwarf, nor elf. A curious creature called a Skrilx. For all intents and purposes, it resembled a cat. Not the kind that haunts alleys, however, for it stood on its hind legs
and indeed, had the very posture of a man. This particular Skrilx indeed had the muscular tone of a very big and well-trained warrior of a man, but its face, its fur, and its tail was quite animal.
Ealrin was not sure if his kind spoke, for this one didn't say a word. It obeyed Felicia without question or pause. He was her first mate. Roland said that the Skrilx were a proud race, but a dying breed. This was only the second one he had ever seen. Felicia would often say his name: Urt. He carried a giant spear that was three heads taller than Ealrin. Urt was ferocious looking and bested any other living thing in combat on the ship with ease. Ealrin thought better than to offend him.
The last and most curious thing on board was in fact just that, a thing: a suit of armor that moved and walked and fought and talked but contained nothing. Of course, Ealrin had not checked to be sure the thing was empty, but it offered him up the information willingly.
"Fear not me, nor the suit that contains me. I am spirit, though I once had flesh as you have. That was before my body was torn asunder, struck down and defeated. Instead of passing on, as others do, my spirit lingered here, on this temporal plane. A mighty wizard, who passed on many years previous, bound me to this armor. Though I have not found any method by which to pass from this world to what lies hereafter, I have committed myself to the service of the great country of Thoran, as the wizard who bound me hailed from this land. You may call me, Edgar."
Ealrin couldn't imagine which would be odder to a passing stranger: a giant feline walking upright as a man or a suit of armor that contained no body.
This entire crew was a hodgepodge of adventurers. The remaining humans all had stories: some were from Thoran, some from the Republic, and two were from the land of Beaton, which had only one enormous city, resting on the shores of a glimmering sea.
This voyage had done wonders to take Ealrin's mind off his current state, and allowed him to learn many different things about the land of which he had no recollection or memory.
And if it were not for the stories, it would be for the practicing fighting techniques. Roland, though he carried several weapons, preferred a one handed short sword to all the various options he carried with him.
"I'd prefer not to run short when the time comes and fight with what is at hand!" said Roland after Ealrin had finally asked him about his collection. "Though, if given the option, I'll use this blade before any other. It's never done me wrong!"
The blade itself was quite beautiful. Inlaid into its steel, which was strong and could cut a cloth in two if it were dropped above it, were various dwarven runes that Roland said were magical. It kept the blade unusually sharp and strong. The handle was meant for one hand and was covered in beautiful black leather. The dwarves on board said it was one of the finest they had seen, though they were unsure of its maker. Roland certainly wasn't going to tell anyone.
"Now if I told you where I got this sword, you might go get a fancy one yourself!" he had said to the dwarf, Arin, who had asked him where it originated from and got its name. A dwarf could always trace a weapon by its name, for a dwarf would name the weapon after himself, its intended use, and its place of origin.
Ealrin had no weapon of his own, save the small knife Elezar had given him, so Roland allowed him to try out all of the others he had collected. Though Holve proved himself to be adept at handling a spear, the handle of a spear felt odd in Ealrin's hand. He didn't know where the end of it would be at any moment and couldn't get a solid strike with one. He left the spear fighting to Holve. The hammers and maces and axes of the dwarves felt odd. There was too much weight at the end of the weapon for him to handle. He found himself lodging the weapon into the wood of the ship and unable to retrieve it before he was struck by his opponent and on his back.
So Ealrin, instead of trying his luck with a bow from the elves, decided to take up the sword. Of his options from Roland, one in particular stood out to him. It was a sword that could be used with two hands if the bearer so chose, but it’s weight was not so much that it could not be used with a single hand either. Ealrin enjoyed being able to switch between the two at a moments notice, as defending and striking sometimes required one or two hands, depending on the situation or the foe. And instead of a slender blade, this particular sword had a blade that was the span of a hand across. Finally, the blade’s end did not have a pointed tip, but instead had a rounded edge. To think that it wasn’t sharp was a mistake as Ealrin found out inspecting the weapon. His finger still bled from the cut as he readied himself again to face against Roland. The cloth he had wrapped around it kept the blood at bay while he focused on his foe’s attack.
Again and again, Ealrin and Roland sparred with one another. It was easy to see that Ealrin was outclassed in every way by the seasoned swordsman. Whenever Ealrin expected him to swing his blade left, it somehow came from the right. Instead of blocking a blow that was coming from above, all of a sudden, Ealrin found himself being smacked with the flat side of Roland’s sword. It was infuriating to him, and so with every blow he demanded another attempt.
On the second day of constant sparring, the crew had gathered around to watch the two facing off against each other. Most were yelling for Roland to teach the young Ealrin a lesson he wouldn’t forget, the dwarves had taken sides with Ealrin, grunting out advice or howling whenever they saw an opening in Roland’s defense. Seeing as how most of their advice was “Barr! Just tackle him!” they actually weren’t very helpful.
Though Ealrin’s sides and arms were tired and his legs were sore, after the last meal of the day he finally landed a blow on Roland.
As his blade fell and finally smacked Roland against his exposed ribs, the crew fell silent for a moment, surprised that he had finally scored a hit.
Then the whole crew stood up to cheer for Ealrin. In taking his eyes off Roland for the momentary praise, he found himself knocked to his back and looking up at, once again, the man who had been teaching him hard for the last two days.
“Well done Ealrin, but don’t take your eyes off your foe. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself on your back!” He let out a hearty laugh and offered out a hand to help Ealrin up.
“I was so surprised I actually landed a blow on you,” said Ealrin truthfully, taking Roland’s hand and rising to his feet. He was beginning to feel like he would never actually get through Roland’s skilled defense.
“That’ll do, sailors,” said Felicia, who was still at the helm, Urt dutifully standing at her side. “Get the ship ready for the night and the first watch.”
The night was divided into two different shifts: sundown to high moon, high moon to first light, and then everyone was expected to be up with the sun. Ealrin’s shift wasn’t until high moon, so he went to lie down. Only two or three crew members kept watch over the White Wind while it sailed at night, so that everyone else could get a decent night’s rest. If they could sleep on a boat, that is. The dwarves complained the whole time that sleep was meant to occur on the solid earth, and not on the shifting tides. Ealrin had agreed at the beginning, but he was now getting used to the rocking, and the shifts of being at sea.
As he lay in his hammock in the crew's quarters, unable to sleep for the horrible dwarves snoring, he wondered how his slight improvement in swordplay would serve him in the future.
He would learn all too soon.
12: Ceolmaer the Elder
His eyes shot open, and he sprung from his bed so fast he felt dizzy. Ceolmaer was old, and the quick movement was unfamiliar to him. It took a minute for him to catch his breath, and realize that he was wet with perspiration. He reached to the side of his bed with a groan for a towel to wipe his forehead. Knowing that sleep would not return to him easily, he slowly swung his legs to the edge of his bed. His feet touched the cold tiles of his tower suite in the capital of The Southern Republic. He had to shift over in order to place his feet into the fur-lined slippers.
Being the head elder of the entire country had at least some advantages.
Ceolmaer stood up and
wrapped a robe around his frail frame. He was having more and more nightmares recently, and he figured they wouldn’t stop until he could somehow convince the three major races of the Southern Republic to find peace between themselves.
Then again...
How in the world was he going to get them to agree to peaceably unite when there continued to be these smaller skirmishes between them? From all over the southern peninsula, reports came of elves being attacked by dwarves after exploring the forests around the dwarven mountains, humans attacking dwarves who they claimed were mining illegally from their surrounding mountains, and elves who were shooting down the caravans of men who came too close to Talgel.
It wasn’t always like this.
Ceolmaer was old enough to remember when the three races lived in peace with one another. There were no fights between them. Well, at least not like these brutal ones that were being reported recently. Perhaps there had always been disagreements.
But war?
Surely not, Ceolmaer thought.
He walked past his bed and around to the balcony of his high tower suite. The doors were solid wood and carved with the symbol of the Southern Republic: three triangles facing downward, all supporting the one above it.
The original intent of this design had been to show how each race of the south could learn to depend on one another, as well as a warning. The triangles were precariously placed on top of one another. To move one of them ever so slightly would send the whole thing toppling down. Ceolmaer had always been aware of that balance, and the need to maintain it.
It had been a goblin war that had united the three races against a common enemy, and saw the formation of the current country called The Southern Republic. How long could that republic last against senseless violence?
