"But you got in touch with Faerohc for me. Don't say Maldoch the Magnificent, proclaimed Keeper of the Fellow Races, Terrath's even-handed mover and shaker, is showing favoritism toward the Sea Elves.” The absurdity of that notion lent Hennario a flash of disturbing insight. “You sent word to Nhern, right?"
Mumbling into his beard, the spellcaster fidgeted. “Of course I did ... sort of ... actually, no."
"Maldoch, I trusted you!"
"More fool you,” J'tard derided under his breath, his abandonment to the Mdwumps springing to mind.
"I didn't want to risk tipping my hand,” barked Maldoch, restoring his shaky inscrutability with an upward snap of his head, the breeze ruffling his age-whitened hair. “Omelchor has devised a way to pinpoint my location wherever I use the caller spell. That's how he learnt of our scheduled rendezvous along the Fal'ke Tropicana. I won't allow him to block my plans in that way again."
"By denying Nhern and the Stranth, not to mention the harbors eastside, fair warning of these worrisome Goblin intrusions."
Meeting the peeved admiral's condemning glare, Maldoch advised him, “If they're on the ball they'll see trouble coming a league away and take appropriate steps to blunt those inroads. It's not as if the Goblins can disembark an unbeatable force. Space aboard ship is extremely limited. Even your cabin is scarcely bigger than an outhouse.” Unable to help himself, the sarky spellcaster added, “If you're that keen to issue warnings from the crow's nest, I'd recommend using airmail. But I hear seagulls make lousy postal carriers and pigeons refuse to fly over water."
Dissatisfied, Hennario waved a clenched fist in the inflexible wizard's face. “What's to stop me punching you in the nose right now and swinging about to make for Mer'ul?"
Looking past the Shipmaster's threat, Maldoch pointed with his staff to the briny blue. “At a pinch, I'd say them."
The sharp-eyed Elf glanced back out to sea and picked out three distant specks sail clear of the armada on a patent intercept course to tackle the dot of a ship they themselves detected bearing north on a westerly tack.
"I'll enjoy offloading you on Losther shores when the time comes.” Hennario glared at the wizard before snatching the tiller back off his helmsman and attending to the imperative task of staying out of the clutches of those Corsairs giving chase.
Celebrating his win with a jaunty smile, Maldoch was descending the companionway leading down from the sterncastle to the main deck and the captain's quarters below when J'tard's restraining hand on his bony shoulder halted him on the ladder.
"You don't act like the good wizard sometimes,” the reserved Troll quietly deprecated.
Shrugging off the condemnation, Maldoch said, “I'm not here to win popularity contests.” He then carried on down the staircase into the cabin, slamming shut the narrow door.
Leaning upon the tapered end of his mahtouk club, J'tard muttered through his tusks, “There's no danger of that ever happening."
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Chapter Thirty Four
The longboat pulled ashore. Maldoch jumped onto the gravelly, wind-scoured sliver of innocuous coast, his darting eyes automatically scanning the surrounds for hostiles. Save for a curious bull fur seal, a luckless suitor displaced from the eastern seaboard pupping beaches, sprawled on the pebbles before the thorns of driftwood footing a limestone bluff backdrop, the beach was empty. Grunting his approval, the wizard motioned for J'tard to throw over their travel packs and join him.
The seasick Troll had scarcely wobbled aground before those sailors crewing the longboat splashed into the lapping surf to push their beached vessel back out to sea. Thankful to have dry land underfoot once more, even if it could not be the reassuring feel of sand sifting through his toes, the relieved Desertlander cared little about the hurried departure of their water taxi.
"Whereabouts in Carnach have we landed?” he asked, dubiously viewing the sharp contours of a dark-rocked, mitered peak peeping over the flat crown of the glary marble cliff like a spying neighbor.
Glancing over his shoulder, Maldoch brushed strands of windblown hair out of his hawkish face as he watched the wallowing Elf ship slip anchor, hoisting sails for the return leg even as the afterboat rowed alongside to be roped and winched aboard. True to his grumpy word, Hennario disembarked his passengers with all possible haste in order to catch the homeward winds south of Iberic's Claw.
"By our departing captain's reckoning, we're roughly a hundred leagues due west of Gnome central. After scaling the heights it's a straight tramp from here over into Darkling Forest."
J'tard wordlessly accepted that two weeks of solid hiking lay ahead of the intrepid journeyers to reach Underland. He was not hazed. Thirsty Sandwalkers covered vaster distances travelling between the mapped oases.
Checking out the billowy, white clouds fluffing up the noon blueness, Maldoch urged, “We'd best be heading inland and find a place to hole up in before dark. When night falls in these parts, you don't want to be abroad."
J'tard duly followed the wizard making his way across the narrow beachland acting as the doorstep to the low bluffs. Disturbed by their approach, the seal surrendered his strip of coastal property to the intruders after deciding three really is a crowd. Fascinated by the seven-foot long behemoth heaving over the crunchy shingle toward the safeness of the surf in ungainly undulations of his scarred 400 lb bulk, the Troll was prompted to worry, “Not more giant slugs, I hope."
"There are worse creatures to fear in Terrath than Mdwumps,” stated the striding wizard.
The Troll wondered just what those might be upon reaching the line of salt-bleached driftwood piled at the base of the cliffs by previous tides. Scattered anonymously amongst the jumble of whitened branches was what appeared to be...
"Bones,” confirmed Maldoch, stooping to pick up and examine the implausibly large skull of an outlandishly sized rodent. Gazing into the eyeless sockets, he decried in a theatrical voice, “Alack, poor Garrich. I know him not well,” tossing the remains back into the pile.
Clutching the handle of his club tighter, J'tard muttered, “At least the boy's safe and sound back in Illebard. I'd be willing to trade places with him right about now."
Unpacking his rucksack, Maldoch unrolled a coil of Elven rope, arguably the lightest and strongest cord found anywhere on the continent. Tying one end about his waist, he looped the other about the unhappy Troll's wider midriff and tied it off, indicating that his muscular companion should lead the way up the cliff.
Searching out handholds in the treacherously crumbling limestone to the first ledge, the adventuresome Desertlander hauled himself up, complaining, “I have the nasty feeling that this jaunt will make my escapade in Jungular Forest seem like a picnic."
Glancing at the deserting bull seal humping his way into the surf, Maldoch rejoined, “The Sea Elves have a saying, J'tard ... ‘Life's a beach'."
—
"Keep swabbing my deck, shipmates!"
Ayron cast a resentful glance astern up to the ship's aftcastle, where the issuer of that order, a Sea Elf of Dwarf proportions, leaned against the warped railing fencing the quarterdeck. “We've been mopping this garbage scow of his from stem to stern for the entire voyage and it doesn't get any cleaner,” griped the disgruntled Forester, throwing a fresh bucketful of seawater across the grimy fir planks decking the leaky merchantman.
"Don't let Hombur hear you calling his girl a barge,” warned Garrich, putting his back into a fresh bout of scrubbing on the end of a long-handled mop. “You might hurt his feelings."
"The salty old seadog couldn't feel the cold,” returned Ayron.
Garrich did not dispute that. The skipper of Lady Luck could hardly be less elvish. Portly, overly fond of pipe tobacco and ale, Hombur openly adopted the looks and habits of the Dwarfs with whom he routinely traded. Such immergence in northern culture no doubt extended to their indifference to coldness.
Ayron continued to whine. “It's your fault we're in this pickle, Losther. Go
on a sea cruise, you said."
No argument there either. Garrich's plan to leave town had been sneakily simple: steal aboard a ship outbound from the Elf port in the hope they might escape Omelchor's prying magic. By chance, the pair stowed away on a cargo vessel part of a private venture convoy sailing for the eastern Dwarf outpost of Berhanth. Stashing themselves in the hold crammed with crates of precious amber secured next to stacked oaken lumber, Hombur's snooping first mate discovered the runaways on the second day out at sea. Brought to the captain's attention, whose remark, “My, aren't I privileged having the Losther and Lothberen that are the talk of Illebard aboard my humble vessel,” was undiluted sarcasm, the freeloaders were given the ultimatum to work their passage north or be heaved over the side to swim back to Elven shores. Considering the ship had already sailed five leagues offshore, it had been a clear-cut decision really.
All that transpired two months ago without Omelchor reappearing since. Uneventful weeks spent laboring as deckhands did not improve Ayron's disposition nor forge his closeness with Garrich into anything remotely resembling friendship. Goblin and Elf remained as incompatible as oil and water.
"Where outside Gwilhaire Wood are we?” muttered the Forester, staring miserably at the foreign coastline playing out off to port. Chalky bluffs, whitened by the midsummer sunshine, shone either side of the mouth of a broad inlet made deep by green swells.
"About two day's sailing from our destination,” supplied a helpful voice.
The stowaways turned as one to face Hombur descending the companionway from the castling to the main deck, his peg leg rhythmically striking the planking as he approached. Looking more Dwarven than Elven, he stood nearly as wide as he did tall—which was short for an Elf. Though the skies were cloudlessly clear and the weather balmy, the captain stayed habitually garbed from head to foot in heavy oilskins, broadcasting his dislike of sailing. Merry green eyes sparkled from a chubby face leathered by wind and sea.
Pulling back his concealing hood to allow his uncombed mop of red-gold hair a breath of freedom in the blustery headwind, Hombur made the observation, “At the end of which there'll be a parting of the ways for us, shipmates. Unless you want to sign on to crew the return leg."
"No thanks,” grouched Ayron, tossing his roped bucket over the side to draw up a fresh pail of saltwater. “I've had my fill of houseboat work."
Hombur shrugged. “Your choice. Neither of you have ever said why you left Illebard to ship north."
Garrich had been strenuously avoiding that issue. Not even Ayron was privilege to Omelchor's unearthly visitation. The frightened Goblin only alluded to a vague telepathic summons from Maldoch to journey upcountry by the fastest means necessary as the impetus for their hasty exit. What the Forester did not know may never hurt him.
"Business,” lied Garrich. “Tell me why you never swung about to turn us in."
"Simple business too, Master Goblin,” claimed Hombur. “I can't afford to lose four days ferrying around unpaying passengers. I've freight to deliver, then a consignment of pickled fish and northern lumber to pick up. In my line of work time is cargo and I can ill afford wasted days. I was also shorthanded for this voyage until you two conveniently popped up."
Grimacing, Ayron advocated, “I suggest you invest more time in the upkeep of this filthy hulk."
Hombur glowered back. “That's what you're doing, greensleeves."
Not only the name of his ship, Lady Luck was what kept her afloat. Way overdue for careening and caulking, the neglected merchantman harbored more leaks than a cook's vegetable patch.
"God, I hate the sea,” moaned Hombur.
"Why then are you are a sailor?” wondered Garrich.
"Lad, there are just two professions in Illebard: building boats or manning them. I ain't no shipwright."
"Cap'n, Fortune Hunter signals!"
Hombur glanced up at the lookout hollering from the crow's nest. The tailing ship in a flotilla of three, Lady Luck was the oldest and slowest of the lot. “What word?” he yelled back.
Interpreting the red and white checked signal flag fluttering from the stern flagstaff of the faster merchantman half a league ahead, the lookout reported, “You are running into danger.” Shading his eyes against the dazzling sunshine as a second code flag, a red square with a broad horizontal blue bar, was run up, he further relayed, “Altering course to starboard."
As Fortune Hunter heeled over on an eastern tack, Hombur swept his gaze westward. “Ship on the port side!” he bellowed out his alarm, angered by the lookout's laxness in not spotting the intruder.
Discarding his mop, Garrich rushed to the railing where Ayron was hauling his pail aboard. A lone square yard sail, illumining white against the emerald briny, could be seen bobbing in the near distance, plainly on a course of interception.
Setting his bucket on the deck, the unperturbed Forester ventured, “Pirates?"
"Or maybe Goblin corsairs,” added Garrich, his supposal more curiosity than panic.
"Them I can handle easily enough,” grumbled the merchant skipper. “It's the damnable Karavere Coastal Guard that's an anchor around my neck. That's one of their cutters making for us out of Sprinth Channel like a hooked swordfish playing out a line. I recognize the pennant flying from the mainmast."
"Is that a problem?"
"Only if you don't like being boarded and having your cargo confiscated, Master Goblin."
The youth was puzzled. “Why would Anaricans board an Elf ship?"
"Greed.” Hombur spat, dirtying his freshly mopped deck. “The coastguard's corrupt duke imposes a toll on all vessels sailing in his waters irrespective of nationality. We Sea Elves don't acknowledge Karaveren maritime law and outrun any attempt to exact that ridiculous levy. Occasionally a freighter gets caught and seized under the pretext of impoundment. The captured vessel is escorted to Port Karavere, whereupon her cargo is unloaded and sold at auction to the highest bidder, the illegal proceeds pocketed by the scurrilous nobility. Gwilhaire oak, the finest shipbuilding wood anywhere, is a rare commodity that fetches grand prices. Ship and crew are then released to return to home waters, pick up a fresh payload, and sail the gauntlet anew."
"Doesn't the Elf Queen formally protest such illegality to the Prince of Men?” Garrich put to Hombur.
"The Lothberen monarchy barely condones Illebard trade outside the waters of Galinorf Bay. So long as no Elves are harmed during the seizures, Merainor tolerates the activities of the Karaveren raiders. She's amused by the inconveniences we suffer."
"You speak from experience,” perceived Ayron, displeased by the milling of sanctified Elven oak.
"Two shipments in thrice as many months,” Hombur bitterly conceded. “I'm an owner-operator, Master Forester. This consignment is a make-or-break run for me. If I fail to ship home Dwarf goods this time, I'll have to scuttle my vessel. Repairs cost bartered goods. The old girl isn't much I know, but she's the only income I've got to support my two wives."
Goblin and Elf were stunned by the declaration. Hombur seemed the unlikeliest of bigamists.
"A missus in Nhern and a wench in Illebard,” the unabashed skipper elaborated. “I love them both, but their upkeep is crippling me.’ He slapped his wooden stump. “It's near enough cost me an arm and a leg."
Elven economics operated on the barter system, the trading of wares negating the need for money. Goods replaced hard currency, priced according to a carefully prescribed assessment formula based on comparative value. This extended to the “wages” paid the sailors crewing the merchantmen plying the limited trade route between Illebard and Berhanth; all inbound cargo ended up distributed between the crew upon reaching homeport, the lion's share taken by the captain. A prime example of profit sharing, the material wealth was divided as equally as practicable.
"I'm not prepared to lose a third shipment,” vowed Hombur. Cupping his hands around his mouth, he bellowed, “All hands, rig for action stations!"
Garrich passed a quizzical stare to Ayro
n, who knit his arched brow together, sharing the identical thought. This is no warship.
Indeed, the Lady Luck was not. Marginally shorter and beamier than the Illebard Squadron longships, cogs were the wagons—not the chariots—of the seas. Built for haulage rather than speed, these single-masted, double-ended, flat-bottomed merchantmen averaged a displacement of 200 tons. Hombur's old girl was a mere hundred tonner, and when laden with a full hold of cargo cruised no faster than an unrushed sea turtle. She proved no more maneuverable either, so the Elven freighter stood no chance of outrunning or outsailing the closing cutter powered by the following northerly.
While the dozen sailors scrambled to answer their captain's command, he fixed Ayron with an enquiring stare. “Master Forester, I have a favor to ask of you.” The Wood Elf nodded warily for Hombur to proceed. “I couldn't help but notice a longbow amongst your possessions. Are you handy with the weapon?'
"I am the Queen's Champion,” Ayron boldly declared, neglecting to mention he acquired that prestigious accolade only by default. “Are you wanting me to shoot at the approaching ship?"
Hombur smiled at the archer's perceptiveness. “Coastal Guard tactics are straightforward. The cutter will veer across our bows, using its wash to slow us down before coming about and drawing alongside. Her captain will seek permission to come aboard, after which grappling hooks will be thrown over, followed by a boarding party of marines. Then the obligatory arrests get made."
"What's the target?” pressed Ayron.
"With the wind running as it is, the cutter will angle down our port side ... that's on the right, for your benefit. I'd like you to distract her tillerman with a couple of volleys. Nothing fancy, just something that'll make him duck down long enough to delay rounding our stern. That should give me time to ready my surprise for them.” Seeing the archer mulling over his request, Hombur slyly enticed, “Do this and you'll not swab another plank for the rest of the voyage."
Not even batting an eyelid, Ayron complied with a sharp nod. “I could do with some target practice,” he said, hastening to the spot his belongings were stashed on deck, where the crew bedded down between watches at the base of the mainmast.
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