During the day, he would walk towards the city keeping a good pace. He could have moved faster, but he didn’t want to put himself into such a rush that he failed to see an ambush before it was too late. Savall had said this road was rarely used, but that didn’t mean some desperate gang of bandits, or even a few members from one of the other cells, weren’t out here watching the road for wayward travelers. So far, his fears were unjustified, not even the animals seemed concerned with his passing. As the sun began to sink into the horizon, he opened himself to the magic. With his enhanced hearing, he listened for the sounds of water. There was never a shortage of lakes or streams in the forest, and he would follow their sounds to the source. Using his fire orb spell, Tartum only had to see an animal, and he had his meal for the night. Anything he didn’t finish, he brought with him and nibbled on during his journey the next day. To protect himself from anything that might try to sneak up on him while he slept, he used his Wall of Force spell to erect a magical barrier around his camp. He slept lightly and was up with the sun, more than ready to be on his way. He was enjoying his impromptu outing, yet he was looking forward to getting back and showing Rashlarr what the ring could do.
Looking at the sun, Tartum watched it begin to dip towards the horizon, calling an end to his third day of travelling. Looking down at himself, Tartum found he was quite dusty and opened himself to the magic. He immediately heard the sounds of water; judging by the sound there was a lake nearby that he could use to wash himself. He was about to make his way towards the sound, when a new sound caught his attention; splashing. Someone or something was in the lake and was either swimming or drowning in the water. Retrieving a copper rod from his pouches, Tartum crouched down and silently made his way towards the lake. He didn’t hear any conversation, but as he got closer to the lake, he could make out the unmistakeable sound of a cooking fire. The wind changed direction, and he could make out the smell of boiled fish. Not the most appetizing of scents, but it was absolute proof that people were nearby. Tartum fought the urge to blindly approach them. The voice in the back of his head urged caution, and Tartum agreed. He crept up to the edge of the lake; it was there he made out two figures swimming in the water.
He watched them from behind the cover of the trees that lined the shore. The figures were no more than twenty yards from him, but he didn’t blieve they could see him. One was a man around thirty years of age. The other figure, Tartum thought was a boy due to his height, but one look at the size of him let Tartum know this was a dwarf. He had only ever seen one before at a circus Elizabeth had taken him too. He recalled the dwarf had beaten an ogre into submission over a gem he had thrown into the ring. He made special note to not underestimate the short one. The two men seemed to be bathing in the lake and after a few minutes the dwarf and the man exchanged words in hushed tones. Tartum could hear them clearly enough, but had no idea what language they were speaking. He had little time to debate their discussion as they both turned in the water looking his direction.
“OI! Whom ever be in the bushes, step out! It’s not polite to be peaking at a man during his bath!” the dwarf called out. Tartum was horrified and slammed himself up against a tree. He couldn’t believe they had seen him! He had been very careful to stay hidden from their sight.
“OI! You, there! Behind the tree! Step forward, before my friend and I misinterpret yer curiosity for something else and get upset!” the dwarf called out again. Humiliated, Tartum slowly stepped out into the open. He still held his staff, but it was at his side, and he currently didn’t have the self confidence to use it. He was completely mortified by the fact that he’d been seen.
“BAH! I was hoping you’d be a woman!” the dwarf said. He voice was gruff and had an accent that reminded Tartum of Ecker. The dwarf strode from the lake and quickly redressed. His compainion eyed him for a moment, and after seeing Tartum wasn’t a threat, continued his swim. Tartum stood there, like a child waiting for further instruction.
The dwarf, now fully dressed, hefted a large broad axe across his shoulders. The axe was almost taller than he was; the blades were heavily etched with runes, unlike anything Tartum had ever seen. He assumed there were runes used in runic magic that he had heard about from his mentors. For a moment, Tartum forgot his humiliation, as he took a few steps towards the axe to get a better look at the runes etched on its face. The dwarf’s laughter brought him back to reality and stopped him in his tracks. His sudden halt only served to increase the dwarf’s laughter.
“Bah! Come over here, boy! I’m not going to harm you! Not unless ye give me more of a reason than simply spying on my bath!” he said through his laughter. After issuing his invitation, the dwarf walked over to the pot that hung over the fire and began stirring it. His demeanor was meant to indicate his guard was down, but Tartum noticed that even with all his posturing the dwarf always kept at least one eye on him. The knowledge that the dwarf was concerned about his presence gave Tartum back some of his lost confidence.
With more brazenness than he felt, Tartum walked towards the dwarf. He had never been so close to one before and found himself staring at him. He was very short; at most, Tartum guessed he was four feet tall and just as wide. His chest and shoulders were incredibly well defined. Tartum could tell this dwarf was no stranger to physical labor, judging by the corded muslce that ran through his body. His hair was light brown, long and bushy; it ran down his cheeks and blended into his beard that was equally as long and bushy. He had it braided in a knot that ended midway down his belly. He wore a brown leather tunic with trousers to match, but his boots looked to be made of stone. They looked to be solid granite, yet when the dwarf moved he might as well have been barefoot. The grace and agility he managed with such footware shouldn’t have been possible. Tartum saw more unidentifiable runes on them and assumed it must be runic magic. His pulse began to race at the possibility he might be able to glean some information from this stranger about these runes. He wished he had scribing materials with him so he could copy the runes! As he approched the dwarf, he slipped on a pair of long leather gloves and turned to face him. Holding up a hand, he suddenly looked very dangerous and instictively Tartum readied his staff.
“That’s far enough, lad…state yer name and yer business here. This be a lonely road to be traveling. Especially all by yerself…” he said.
With his senses enhanced by his magic, Tartum could hear the dwarf’s companion getting out of the lake and flanking him. He wasn’t sure how to respond. The truth sounded crazy, but he had the feeling if they caught him lying it might cost him his life. Not seeing anyway around it Tartum sighed.
“My name is Tartum Fuin. I’m heading back to Saroth after journeying to Rebirth. I found it destroyed. I apologize for sneaking up on you. I was tired and dusty and sought the lake. It wasn’t until I was almost upon the lake that I heard you both splashing around. I hid because I wasn’t sure if you were hostile or not. To be honest, I’m still not positive. I mean you no harm, but know this, I’m a caster, and if I have to I’ll kill you both where you stand. Allow me to get the water I seek, and I’ll leave you both in peace.” he said. The calmness in his voice did not match the panic rising up inside him.
The man behind him barked laughter, and a large grin appeared on the dwarf’s face. The man walked past Tartum just out of range of his staff. He walked past the dwarf and began putting his clothes back on. The man was as tall as Tartum was but far better muscled. Tartum assumed whatever labor the dwarf was accustomed to, the man was familiar with as well. His body was a mass of muscle and strength. His face was clean shaven but his hair was thick, long, and black. It hung down to his shoulders and seemed to annoy the man to no end. He kept violently brushing it back, as he got dressed; it made Tartum wonder why he didn’t just cut it off. Shifting his attention back to the dwarf, Tartum saw he was watching him with an amused grin on his face.
“Well said, Tartum Fuin of Saroth! I be Varnar Rockmoulder of Windswept Keep and that meaty slob is Thorinnson Vr
ok, but most people simply call him Thorn. His name is as big of a mess as he is!” Varnar said with a chuckle. The big man called Thorn made a rude gesture at Varnar as he finished dressing. His clothes perfectly matched Varnar’s minus the axe and stone boots. In fact, Tartum saw no weapons on the man what-so-ever. Before he could wonder about that, Varnar began speaking again.
“We just came from Saroth ourselves; we were delivering some of our wares. We’re smithies, lad! The best Saroth as ever seen! Or at least I am, Thorn’s work is so sloppy, I’m surprised the king bothered paying anything for it at all!” Varnar almost spat his comment at Thorn. If the man heard him, he gave no indication. He simply sat in front of the camp fire and drank steadily from a wineskin he had produced.
Varnar looked disgusted, “Bah! Perhaps one day, you’ll amount to a decent smithy in a human town, but you’ll never match the skill and artistic ability of a dwarf!”
This seemed to catch Thorn’s attention as he grumbled a retort. “What human could?” His voice was deep and reminded Tartum of gravel being ground into sand.
His comment seemed to soften Varnar’s demeanor. The look on his face went from disgust to resigned acceptance. “Aye, lad, that is a good point.” he replied. Looking back at Tartum, it almost seemed like he’d forgotten he was there. Shaking his head, he fixed Tartum with a stubborn look. “Well, lad, you may as well join us for the night. The sun will be down soon enough and it’ll be good to have someone to talk to that’s not trying to drink himself into oblivion!”
Without waiting for him to reply, Varnar turned around and walked over to the pot that hung over the camp fire. Tartum stood there leaning on his staff. The dwarf was everything he had expected him to be, and his companion, who he assumed was some sort of apprentice, was everything he hadn’t. To be invited to stay the night in their camp was unexpected, but after almost three days without any company, Tartum found himself feeling a bit lonely. Shrugging, Tartum walked over to the men and sat down between them. Varnar grinned through his beard and tossed Tartum a wineskin.
“Have a little taste of my home, caster!” Varnar said.
Tartum pulled the stopper off and took a whiff of it’s contents. The scent it emmitted was clearly alcoholic, but he also detected hints of barely, wheat, honey, and corn. It was definatly a strong brew, but the scent alone had his mouth watering. Taking a sip, Tartum was shocked at how smooth the drink was. The flavor reminded him of beer mixed perfectly with wine and honey. Usually when he drank, the liquid burned as he swallowed and left him fighting the urge to puke. This was the polar opposite of anything he’d ever tasted before. It slaked his thirst and warmed his entire body. Taking another pull from the wineskin, Tartum savored the flavor. It was easily the most delicious alcoholic beverage he had ever tasted. With no small amount of regret he tried to return the wineskin. Varnar waved it away as he produced another wineskin from his pack. Tartum was thrilled!
“So ye know our story, lad…Why don’t ye tell us yers?” Varnar said, as he spooned out the boiled fish stew that was inside the cook pot and handed him a bowl. Taking a sip of the broth, Tartum’s mouth became ablaze. The stew had been spiced so strongly that even his lips were on fire. Tartum almost dropped the bowl in his rush for a drink from his wineskin. The smooth liquid inside instantly quenced the fire burning in his mouth. A cold sweat formed on his brow; Varnar and Thorn laughed.
“A bit strong for you, eh, clothy?” Thron grumbled. Taking his bowl, he stared at Tartum as he poured half the bowl down his throat. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he looked triumphantly at Tartum and smiled. Tartum winced as Thorn ate; he thought his stomach must have been lined with iron to withstand the fire he must be feeling. Varnar laughed and clapped Thorn on the shoulder. Shifting his attention to Tartum, he rolled his eyes.
“If mah stew be too strong for you, pour some of your drink into it. It takes away much of the bite.” he said. His voice had regained its disgusted tone.
Tartum thought about taking Varnar’s advice, but he doubted that would earn him this man’s respect. He knew that if he was going to have a chance to learn anything about rune magic from Varnar, he would need to endear himself to the dwarf. Steeling himself, Tartum replaced the stopper in his wineskin and picked up his bowl. Giving Thorn a contemptious look, Tartum tipped his bowl into his mouth and began drinking the firey stew.
The bowl poured pure pain and fire down his throat. His body begged him to stop, but Tartum refused. He saw this as a test; if he failed, then his chance to learn anything from Varnar was lost. If he passed, then there was every possibility he would come away from this chance encounter with a new understanding of magic. He drank until he could take the pain no longer. Deliberately, he slowly lowered the bowl from his mouth keeping his gaze fixed on Thorn. He wanted the man to know he wouldn’t be beaten. His entire body was on fire, his vision was blurred, and he was having trouble breathing. He wanted nothing more than to douse the flames inside him with the liquid in his wineskin, but his pride refused to allow it. He would sooner die than let himself show weakness in front of these men.
Thorn met his gaze with a stern one of his own. The men stayed locked in that gaze for what felt like an eternity. Tartum began to sweat profusely, but still, he refused to allow himself the relief the wineskin offered. His entire world was agony. He was finding it hard to think; he had resorted to reminding himself he would not break. It was all he could do to stick to his resolve.
Varnar burst into laughter, which prompted Thorn to smile and thrust his wineskin at Tartum.
“Drink, friend! Quickly, before you burst into flame!” Thorn said to him. Tartum took the skin but refused to drink. He wasn’t sure if it was a trick or not. It had been his experience no test was ever passed this easily. A look of concern formed on Thorn’s face.
“Tartum, it took me months to develop a tolerance to Varnar’s cooking. If you don’t drink soon, there’s a chance the spices he uses will eat through your stomach and kill you. What good will all that pride be, then?” he said. His tone was serious and was all Tartum needed to hear.
With the haste of a burning man, Tartum ripped the stopper off the skin and drained half of it into his belly. The drink in Thorn’s wineskin was much stronger than what he had in his own. While it did the job of putting out the fire of the stew it left another, more familiar, burn inside of him that let him know he would be drunk very soon.
Lowering the wineskin, Tartum wiped his mouth and handed it back to Thorn. Laughing, Thorn took it back and drank deeply from it. Varnar was beside himself with laughter. Finally getting a hold of himself, he leaned over and gave Tartum a shake.
“Yer balls are made of solid stone, lad! Never have I seen a human drink as much of my fire fish stew as you without passing out! I be damn glad to have met you, Tartum Fuin!” he said. Tartum detected nothing but sincerity in his voice and allowed himself to believe Varnar’s words.
Varnar leaned over and dumped the remaining contents of Tartum’s bowl out. Tartum saw he had finished almost all of it, and his stomach turned at the memory. Varnar refilled Tartum’s bowl, but before offering it back to him, he reached into his pack and pulled out two small leaves. He crushed them in is powerful hands and stirred them into his bowl. With a grin, he handed the bowl back to Tartum.
“The leaves take all the bite out of the stew. It should be fine for you to eat now.” Varnar said. As Tartum took the bowl, Varnar began eating his own.
Tartum was wary of eating anymore of the stew, but he didn’t want to offend the dwarf. He still needed information from him and felt he had done well with his previous test. Taking a quick sip from the bowl, he was stunned. The stew was now flavorful and delicious! There was not so much as a hint of fire in it now. Ravenously, Tartum finished the contents and looked up to find Varnar and Thorn looking at him.
“Yea, I perfer it that way too.” Thorn grumbled as he finished his dinner.
Varnar scoffed, “BAH! Humans! Ye have no clue what good eating is!�
��
It was Tartum’s turn to laugh now. The way these men acted, led Tartum to believe they had been companions for some time. The way they bickered at each other was entertaining, to say the least, and the bluntness of their words was refreshing. Tartum decided to take a queue from their demeanors and cut right to the point.
Setting his empty bowl down, he looked at Varnar, “So Varnar, tell me about your axe. The runes upon it are amazing; although I must admit, I’ve never seen their like before.” Tartum said.
Varnar’s demeanor charged from jovial to proud. Hefting his axe onto his lap, he gazed upon it affectionately, as he lovingly ran a gloved hand across the blades.
“This, lad, was me father’s axe. His father, my grandfather, made it for him during the great guild war. It was with this axe that me father cut down his greatest competitor and solidified our status in Windswept Keep. He handed it down to me shortly before he died almost two hundred years ago. The haft is made of the strongest steelwood and the blades aren’t metal; they be shaped dragon scales. Me grandfather used the teeth of the beast to file down the scales himself. It took decades to finish and years more to add the runes that keep it sharp and light. Me father once said the Great King himself offered a fortune of gold, gems, and metal for the axe. Me father refused…Wealth is a glorious thing, lad, but this axe is as much a part of my family’s heritage as my own beating heart. Never in your life will you see a finer weapon. It was good of you to notice.” Varnar said. The entire time he told the story of his axe, his gaze never left it. Tartum thought he understood that bond between a man and his weapon. He remembered how he felt when his staff was taken from him.
The Jade Mage: The Becoming: Volume 2 Page 23
