They traveled along the sparsely wooded edge of the forest for the better part of a day. Near evening, they ran across a trail just inside the tree line. It wasn’t a road so much as it was trodden path of bare earth snaking through the forest, heading in a vaguely east-west direction. There were ruts in the trail, obviously made by a cart or wagon, but the path wasn’t well-trodden. Half overgrown with vegetation, there were points where the trail disappeared completely, forcing Randall to scout ahead until he picked it up again. Still, the sparse path gave him hope, which he latched onto like a drowning man latches onto a rope.
“Ah ha!” he said to Berry, “This trail has to lead to Paranol! It’s going the right direction, and I don’t know of any other cities or towns that lie near there. We’re going to make it after all!”
Berry reacted to the joy in Randall’s voice by lifting his head up and chittering excitedly. Then he stretched his arms and legs into a large yawn and curled up on Randall’s shoulder, purring loudly.
“You’re right,” Randall laughed. “It’s getting late. I’ll make camp here close to the trail. I think it’ll be safe. It doesn’t look well-traveled at all.”
And with that, Randall began the routine of making camp. After making a dinner of eel soup, along with Berry’s hilarious antics, Randall doused the fire, made a bedroll, and curled up to sleep.
Sometime in the middle of the night, Randall was roughly awakened by something prodding his shoulder. He was so tired from his travels that it took him a couple of moments to realize that it was the tip of a boot. Sleep fled quickly as Randall grabbed his dagger sheath and rolled out of his makeshift bedroll. He rolled smoothly to his feet and crouched in a low fighting posture, ready for anything.
“The boy’s got reflexes,” said the man who had been toeing him. “Whatcha think?” The man’s companion merely grunted in response.
“Hey boy, what are you doing out here, in the middle of nowhere?” the man asked, this time the question was directed at Randall.
“Sleeping, obviously,” Randall retorted sarcastically, trying to size his opponents up and shake the cobwebs from his head.
The man who had been prodding Randall with his boot was on the short side. He was probably an inch shorter than Randall. His hair was dark, long, and a little greasy. He had an equally long mustache, and a goatee to go with it. His hair was held in place by a leather cord acting as a headband. He wore a studded leather jerkin over his tunic, and had a dagger at his hip, which was still in the sheath. The hard lines of his weather-beaten face gave him the look of a fighting man. If Randall had been asked to draw a picture of a highway bandit, he couldn’t have done a better job than an image of the man standing before him.
His companion was more neatly kept. He wore a colorful hat, underneath which flowed long, clean hair that was so light brown it was almost blonde. He had no beard, but his mustache was neatly styled and waxed. He wore an equally colorful tunic and leather breeches. He didn’t look like a fighting man at all. He looked like he would be more at home in some nobleman’s court than tromping about the woods after dark.
Randall had a hard time imagining such an unlikely pair being robbers, but he couldn’t fathom why else they would be out here in the middle of nowhere. Nor could he think of a good reason for them to be accosting him in the middle of the night. Randall’s dagger was still in the sheath, but he kept a firm grip on the weapon’s handle. He couldn’t see any sign of Berry, but he didn’t dare take his eyes off of the strangers to look for him.
“Look, boy, I ain’t got time for your lip,” the man growled while resting his hand on the hilt of his own dagger. “Let’s keep things civil, all right? If we had wanted to kill or rob you, it would have been easy enough to do the job while you slept. So, I’ll ask again. What are you doing out here?”
No matter how roughshod the man looked, his logic was inescapable. They could have killed him if they had wanted to. Randall’s mind raced, trying to come up with a plausible excuse to tell the men. Randall had no idea if the news of his flight from Geldorn had reached the surrounding countryside, but he didn’t want to give these men any reason to be suspicious of him. For all he knew, they might think he was a robber himself.
Randall recalled Master Erliand’s advice when it came to lying: Tell a story people expect to hear. Since he had started this trip drilling on how to act like a caravan master’s apprentice, it seemed like a good idea to stick to the same story. Randall didn’t think he could invent a better one on the spot. He wasn’t that good of a liar.
“I’m sorry, sir,” Randall said. “I’m just awful scared. We were on the road when my master was killed two, maybe three weeks ago! I’ve been trying to find my way to Paranol ever since!”
Randall was surprised at how much desperation and anguish came through in his voice. He didn’t have to put on an act; the events of the last couple of weeks had strained his nerves to the breaking point, and he found himself on the verge of tears just talking about his problems with another human being.
“All right, boy, just calm down,” the man said gently. “We ain’t gonna hurt you none, so you’re safe. So, you’re ‘prenticed then? Just how old are you anyway? Twelve, thirteen? You look awful young to be a caravan guard to me.”
“Fifteen,” Randall shot back hotly. During the time he had stayed at Master Erliand’s house, he had forgotten that he looked much younger than he actually was.
“All right boy, don’t get your dander up,” the man said, a little steel returning to his voice. “So you’re fifteen, and your master was killed. Why don’t you tell me about it? Make me understand why you’re out here instead of back at home.”
“Master had taken me home to visit my family, and we were going to make our first caravanning trip afterwards. We were ambushed on the way to Paranol!” Randall cried, trying to weave as much truth into the story as possible. “Men with crossbows came at us, and I was forced to run into Black Eel Marsh.”
“You crossed Black Eel Marsh by yourself?” the man with the fancy clothes asked, incredulous, earning him a sharp look from the dark-haired one.
Randall started to answer when he was interrupted by the dark-haired man. “Your master was a caravaner then? What was his name?”
“Earl,” Randall answered. He felt nervous about giving Master Erliand’s cover name to these strangers, but he had no other name to give. “I…I never learned his family name.”
Both men started at the mention of Master Erliand’s cover name. The fair-haired one recovered first.
“He was an older gentleman, kind of portly?” he asked, and Randall nodded.
“That would explain how you made it through the marsh,” he said.
“Explains the reflexes, too,” the other said. “So, you’re Old Earl’s boy, eh? Hard to imagine him being taken in an ambush. How many did he get before they took him?”
“I..I don’t know,” Randall said. “I didn’t see. He just told me to run, and so I did.”
“Hah! The old fart’s probably still alive then,” the dark-haired one snorted, slapping Randall on the back. “He’s probably been in Paranol a week, wondering why you haven’t shown up yet.”
Of course! Randall thought to himself, brightening considerably. There’s no way that Master Erliand could have lost that fight in Geldorn! He’s probably still alive!
“Well, boy,” the dark-haired man continued. “I suppose introductions are in order. My name’s Brody. That there is Tobsen.”
The light-haired man, Tobsen, tipped his hat with a flourish.
“I’m…Randall,” Randall stammered. He briefly considered making up a name on the spot, but he rejected the idea. He just couldn’t think of one quickly enough to make it a convincing lie.
“Well met, Randall,” the man named Brody said. “We’re caravaners ourselves, on the way to Paranol as it so happens. You’re more than welcome to join us. Any boy of Old Earl is a friend of ours. When we get there, we’ll help you find him.”
> “Really?” Randall asked, his excitement rising. Things seemed to be going his way for once! Even if Master Erliand wasn’t in Paranol, these men might know where to find him—provided that he was still alive.
“Yes, really,” Brody chuckled. “I imagine it won’t be that much work to track him down. He’ll probably be at the first pub we stop at!”
Both Tobsen and Brody shared a laugh at this last quip, and Randall felt himself growing to like the two caravaners and the easy companionship they obviously shared.
“You look exhausted boy. Why don’t you get back to sleep and we’ll keep an eye on things out here.” Tobsen suggested. “We have a long day ahead of us still.”
Randall nodded. With all of the excited thoughts racing through his head, Randall was certain he wouldn’t actually be able to fall asleep. But he was exhausted, and sleep crept up on him while Brody and Tobsen built a small campfire. As they worked, they kept up a running conversation, their voices pitched too low for Randall to overhear.
As he dozed next to the flames, Randall reflected on how nice it was to sleep next to a big warm fire, a luxury he hadn’t allowed himself since going on the run. As he drifted in out and out of sleep, he caught a snatch of Tobsen and Brody’s conversation.
“The boy’s story’s got holes in it, Brody. And you know it,” Tobsen said, his tense voice rising above a whisper.
“Well, it seems to check out where it matters,” Brody replied. “We’ll know the truth of it all soon enough. Now keep quiet, or you’ll wake the lad.”
Randall tried to concentrate to listen to more of what the two men were saying, but the harder he concentrated, the more he found his mind wandering, dozing in and out of dreamland. Finally, he fell asleep completely, dreaming fitfully. Over the last couple of weeks, he had hardly dreamed at all. But with these two men standing guard, perhaps Randall felt safe enough to fall into a deep enough sleep.
His dreams weren’t at all peaceful, however. While he was on the run in the bog, Randall didn’t have the luxury of being afraid. He had to keep putting one foot in front of the other, not knowing if he would live or die the next hour, much less the next minute. Randall had no idea how much fear he had kept bottled up within him until it came boiling out of him in his dreams. In one particularly harrowing dream, Randall was being chased by a huge bog-wight while Berry sat on the creature’s shoulder, cackling and chittering. Finally, the pair trapped him with his back against a mangrove tree. Berry raised his spindly hand, pointing his finger while beginning to say the words that would practically turn him inside-out.
“Berry!” Randall cried out, and sat bolt upright.
“Easy lad!” Brody called from the campfire. “You’re all right! Nobody’s going to get you. Who the devil is Barry?”
It was mid-morning judging from the sun, and Brody was making breakfast of some sort. Tobsen was also sitting by the fire, lightly plucking a lute. Next to the minstrel was a man that he had not met the previous night. Randall knew that he couldn’t mention his traveling companion to these men. If Berry was some kind of fae, it would be better not to mention him at all, rather than drawing suspicion upon himself.
“Berry, not Barry,” Randall said. “You know, blackberries? I was picking them a few days ago when the bog-wights attacked me.”
Brody’s eyes grew wide, while Tobsen and the other man looked skeptical.
“You were picking blackberries when the bog-wights attacked you?” Tobsen asked, clearly disbelieving every word Randall had said. “Blackberries aren’t even in season!”
The other man continued to poke at the fire, seemingly ignoring the conversation. He had close-cropped hair, and was extremely muscular, with an upper body built like a circus strongman. Randall wouldn’t want to get in a fist fight with him, that’s for sure!
“I know!” Randall said. “That’s why I was picking as many as I could! I thought maybe it was just dumb luck to find some that were fruiting early! You don’t have to take my word for it! I’ll show you!”
Randall reached over and grabbed his traveling pack, jamming his arm deep inside looking for one of the few blackberries that he had left. He jerked when he felt something skitter across his forearm. Yanking his hand back and peering into the sack, he saw Berry curled up near the bottom of the sack, his eyes saucer-wide.
Randall paused for a long moment, almost giving his friend away, trying to figure out what to do next. Then he spotted the half-eaten blackberry in Berry’s hands. Reaching back in, he snatched the blackberry from the sprite and quickly closed the bag again so that the men could not see what else it held. Or hear Berry’s angry chittering protest at being robbed of his meal.
“See?” Randall said, indignantly, holding the berry for the men to see before popping it into his mouth. “Do you believe me now?”
“Well, I’ll be,” Brody exclaimed. “And you said you were attacked by bog-wights?” He cocked his head skeptically at Randall’s nod. “You sure it was bog-wights? What’d they look like?”
Randall described the horrific creatures for the men. He described their large, brutish frames, and their horrible, all-too-human features. He explained how they swarmed him as a pack, trying to get around him on all sides so that he couldn’t escape.
“But the worst part about them is the smell,” Randall said, gazing off into the distance as the memory washed over him. “It was like…like. It was like dead fish and caramel!”
“That’s bog-wights all right,” the large man said, turning to join in the conversation. “Can’t say as I can figure how a scrawny whelp like you survived a run in with the likes of them, though.”
“That there’s Declan, and don’t you take no offense at him,” Brody said. “He has a way of cutting to the heart of things, and he doesn’t much care if he steps on someone’s toes in the process. That’s a mighty fine asset to have when you’re negotiating.”
“So, how did you survive?” Tobsen cut in, still looking skeptical.
“I…I ran,” Randall said. It was mostly the truth.
“Bah!” Tobsen cried, setting his lute aside. “First you fled the bandits. Then you fled the bog-wights. How am I going to get any good songs out of your adventures if they all end in you running away?”
Randall blushed to the tips of his ears, while the other two men broke into boisterous laughter.
“C’mon, boy,” Brody offered, still chuckling. “Have a seat and get some grub in you.”
Randall gladly took the offered porridge and returned the favor by sharing his few remaining blackberries with the men, being careful to keep Berry hidden while digging them out. They tasted marvelous when added to the porridge, brightening an otherwise bland meal.
After breakfast, the four companions set out for Paranol. They traveled along the path that Randall had found the night before, confirming his suspicion that it led toward the city. Declan had driven a horse-drawn covered wagon to the camp sometime while Randall slept, and today it was evidently Brody’s turn to drive the vehicle. Brody invited Randall to ride within, and he eagerly accepted.
Randall was excited to see that the wagon was full of shiny knick-knacks and baubles. He was particularly in awe of a set of tiny glass sculptures. There were miniscule sculptures of dragons, mermaids, feathered serpents and all manner of mythological creatures. He couldn’t believe something so fragile and tiny could have such detail and vibrant color. His favorite by far was a sculpture no bigger than his thumb of a phoenix rising from its own ashes. The tips of its wings were such a vibrant red that it nearly looked as if it were sculpted from pure flame. It was a masterpiece.
Noticing Randall’s interest, Brody mentioned that the trio had just returned from Dyffryn, a large elven community deep within the forest. Randall was shocked nearly speechless at the casual mention of elves. He had only recently learned from Master Erliand that elves and dwarves actually existed, and now, here was a caravan driver casually mentioning that he traded with them!
“Elves?” h
e sputtered. “Elves live here on Tallia?
Brody broke into laughter at Randall’s incredulity. “You said you’re from Geldorn, right?” he asked before continuing at Randall’s nod. “Well, I imagine it’s a pretty small backwater. Most folks in the bigger cities are pretty accepting of the fact that there are elves on the island, even if they’ve never met one.”
“But hasn’t king Priess outlawed all magic on Tallia? How can they even be allowed to live here?” Randall asked, letting the ‘backwater’ insult slide.
“Well, there’s the rub, kid,” Brody said, matter-of-factly. “Making a decree and enforcing a decree are two different things. King Priess may not approve of elves on his soil, but Tallia’s a big place. Lots of it is still wild country; country no man is safe setting foot in. There’s plenty of places where the name of King Priess has never even been spoken, and even more places where he dare not send his men. So, just so long as the elves mind their own business and ignore humanity, King Priess is happy to do the same.
“The arrangement suits me fine.” Brody said, pointing to the back of the wagon where a pair of elegant woodcuts showed the scene of noblemen orchestrating a fox hunt. “We make a pretty penny selling elven artworks to a very exclusive clientele.”
“So, you trade back and forth with the elves all the time, then?” Randall asked. He imagined it must be exciting to spend such close company with the creatures of folklore.
“Only once or twice a year, actually” Brody informed him. “It’s not safe to spend much time around elves. Tobsen’s really the only one who deals with them, and he risks his neck every time he does it. We trade news and music to them for these trinkets. Elves are notoriously bored creatures, always hungering for the new and novel, which Tobsen attempts to provide to them.”
Well, that explains why a couple of obviously experienced caravaners would take up with such a fop, Randall thought to himself.
“We’ll travel from here to Paranol,” Brody continued. “From there, we’ll hit the other big cities all the way up to Port Medlin. There, we unload the last of our goods and load up on spices and other imports to sell on our way back to Dyffryn. That won’t bring us as much coin as the artworks, but at least we make money both ways.”
A Touch of Magic Page 18
