Quest SMASH

by Joseph Lallo

  “Don't thrash about like a gutted fish,” she said, voice stern.

  “But it's really cold!”

  “It's not cold. It is summer and this pond is warm. You are feverish.” She clutched him tighter to her.

  He felt her warmth – the only warmth he could feel in the freezing water and pulled nearer to her as well. His teeth knocked together and he hugged her so tightly that he feared for a moment he would crush her. When he went to loosen his grip, she pulled him closer. His face lingered over her shoulder, and he could feel her wet hair, hanging in tangles on the left side of his face. In spite of the chill, it felt good being this close.

  “I always suspected you were trying to kill me,” he said, “but I assumed it would be swordplay, not drowning, that you would do the deed with.”

  “If I were to truly try and kill you,” she said with fake annoyance, “I would certainly use a sword, if for no other reason than it would not involve me having to carry your overmuscled arse across a village to 'do the deed', as you so eloquently put it.”

  “Overmuscled?” he said, drawing back to look at her eyes. They were such a bright blue, catching a glimmer of the lamps hanging on the streets of Nalikh'akur. “You noticed.”

  She flushed and her face softened. “It would be impossible not to notice, being pressed against you like... like...” He could tell, even in his weakened state that she was searching for an appropriately insulting analogy. “...like this.”

  He felt her hand slapping him on the face and realized his head had lolled back and disorientation had taken him. “Please...please...wake up!”

  “You can stop slapping me now.” His voice was a whisper. He lifted his head and steadied himself, looking once again into her eyes and found concern within them.

  “Just... don't do that.”

  “I promise I'm not trying to.”

  Another giggle escaped her, then a slightly deeper laugh. She wrapped both arms around his neck to hold him upright and drew him close, keeping his head above water until dawn.

  Chapter 32

  After the sun came up, Curatio helped them out of the water. “Your fever is broken,” the healer pronounced with a smile. Cyrus could barely stand under his own power. “You should be fine for now.”

  “I'm hungry,” Cyrus said.

  “Let's get back to the inn and I think we can settle that problem,” Curatio said as he assumed a carrying position on Cyrus's left. Vara moved to his right and grabbed his arm, more gently this time. He looked at her, and she looked back at him, but there was no venom in her eyes. She blinked at his gaze and looked away first. They walked back to the inn in silence but for the groans of the two elves, who were still carrying most of the warrior's weight.

  “You could at least help us!” Vara's tone was all irritation, the moment of calm gone.

  “I'm trying,” Cyrus said.

  They deposited him in a chair at the tavern, where the owner proceeded to bring him platefuls of fresh eggs, beef, pork and chicken as he dripped on the floor.

  Vara looked at him with a cocked eyebrow as he finished his fourth plate. “I don't wonder anymore why you were so heavy to lift,” she said shortly after Curatio had left them to retire to his room upstairs.

  The warrior looked back at her with a sly smile. “I bet you couldn't go five minutes without throwing a verbal barb my way.”

  “I could and I have, in fact, over the last few days – largely during times when you were sleeping.” She smiled. “But I usually don't wish to defer such excellent ripostes to your often deserving statements.”

  “I rest my case – I don't think you could go a day without throwing some sort of jab my way.” He grinned.

  She feigned shock. “You assume because you lack the self-discipline to control your tongue that I do as well. I could easily go a year without verbally abusing you for being an incompetent oaf with poor habits in your swordsmanship and hygiene.”

  “Perhaps you could start with a week,” he said with a raised eyebrow.

  “I think...” she said, slowing the pace of her words, “a month would do nicely for a test, don't you?”

  “A month it is. But if I win, I want something from you.”

  “What's that?” Her brow furrowed, curiosity in her eyes.

  “I don't know yet. But traditionally, when you bet, there's something to wager.” He sat back in his chair. “We'll have to agree on something later; I'm too tired to come up with something creatively punitive right now.”

  The next days passed in an agonizing mixture of quick moments and slow recovery. The fever lingered for two more days, hampering Cyrus's ability to move about. As soon as Curatio had pronounced him healthy, he jumped from the bed, eager to go anywhere else.

  “You probably won't feel like yourself for a week or two,” Curatio beamed at him. “Glad to see you're feeling better, brother.”

  “Thank you. It can't have been easy to leave Sanctuary right now, especially with everything that's going on.” The warrior looked at Vara, who was reserved, but the ice normally present in her eyes had melted somewhat. Turning his gaze back to Curatio, he asked, “So, where do we go from here? I'd like to finish my mission in the Elven Kingdom.”

  Curatio raised an eyebrow. “For the last couple weeks J'anda and Niamh have been covering your absence. If you're feeling that much better, you could take over for them.”

  “I'm not opposed to you killing yourself in principle, but we just nursed you back to health.” The fire was back in Vara's eyes now. “You could at least do us the courtesy of waiting a few weeks before undoing all the good we just did.”

  Cyrus laughed. “There's only two weeks left. I could handle two more weeks of that schedule, given what's at stake.”

  “You're mad,” Vara said, pointing a finger at him. “Barking mad. Howling at the moon mad!”

  “I need to finish this,” Cyrus said, urgency permeating his voice.

  “Why?” she asked.

  “Because I feel this need to complete a task once I've started it. And before you answer,” he said, interrupting her already forming reply, “remember that you just wagered me that you could go a full month without insulting me. Calling me crazy was close to the line.” He wagged his finger at her.

  She looked at him through half-lidded eyes, considering her response. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it. Finally, she said, “Very well. But I want a lighter schedule that will allow you to take your time.”

  Curatio chuckled. “We can work something out. In any case, I'm needed back at Sanctuary to deal with the influx of new blood. Can I do anything for you before I go?”

  “Yeah,” Cyrus said. “What's the word on the weapons in Reikonos, Pharesia and Hewat?”

  “No idea about Hewat.” Curatio shrugged. “No one has contact with the dragons. We have a few people lingering outside the Citadel in Reikonos and the Museum of Arms in Pharesia.”

  “They keep the Scimitar of Air in a Museum?” Cyrus shook his head. “Elves are bizarre.”

  Curatio cast his return spell and disappeared into the burst of light that accompanied it, leaving Cyrus alone with Vara. “Back to bed with you,” she said in a voice that left no doubt that it was not a suggestion.

  “I've been in bed for days,” he said, irritable.

  “And you'll be in bed for a few more if you want to be able to travel in good order. Take a nap,” she said, “and later we'll work on getting your strength back up by going for a walk. We leave the day after tomorrow, and we have a long ride ahead of us.”

  They left the inn two days later, setting out on horseback at a pace Cyrus would have found more appropriate for walking alongside an elderly grandmother. “We're not going to push you to your limit,” Vara said. “I want you to be in good condition to talk to these potential recruits, else we might as well go back to Sanctuary.”

  “Fair enough,” the warrior grumbled.

  They settled int
o a silence that was only broken when Cyrus asked Vara a question. “I've heard about how busy things are back at Sanctuary but I haven't heard much about Alaric lately. How is he?”

  “Alaric is fine,” she said. “He was here, in Nalikh'akur. He came to check on you the day after Niamh left. We had...” her jaw tensed, “...a marvelous conversation, he and I.” She did not elaborate further.

  Three days journey south placed them in a town called Traegon. Filled with exquisite elven architecture, the city had towers and minarets on almost every building. They ventured into a local inn and found Niamh sitting next to J'anda, who was wearing an elven illusion. After exchanging pleasantries over drinks (“Ale for us, water for him,” Vara had told the innkeeper, pointing at Cyrus), J'anda and Niamh departed.

  They met with many elves that day, and Cyrus could feel his vitality return as he spoke, telling them of the direction Sanctuary was headed, and of the opportunity they had to be a part of that movement. He shook a great many hands while Vara stood back with her arms crossed. A few looked as though they wanted to ask her something, but none ever said what was on their minds. They left Traegon the next morning, southbound once more, this time heading for a smaller village only a half day's ride away.

  “When did you first start learning to cast spells?” Cyrus asked her in the midst of one of their increasingly common civil conversations.

  “All holy warriors learn to use basic magics early in their training with the Holy Brethren,” she answered. “I suppose it was somewhere in the first year or so after I began my studies.”

  “Holy Brethren?”

  “It's the paladin's version of your 'Society of Arms'. They train us in the Crusader's path from an early age.”

  “Hm,” Cyrus said aloud. “I wonder if I could learn any spellcasting ability. It'd certainly come in handy from time to time.”

  “You have all the magical talent of a silkworm. If you'd had any, it would have been identified by one of the magic-using Leagues and cultivated from childhood.”

  He regarded her with suspicion. “Sounded like an insult.”

  “No... ah...” she fumbled, “silkworms create a silk thread, you know. Spin it into fabric – it's really quite... magical.”

  He laughed at her, and she smiled at him. “You know,” she changed the subject quickly, “I admire the effort you've put into this recruiting drive; especially how much fortitude it must have taken to do this.” She shook her head in disbelief. “I doubt... no, I know that I could not have handled this as well as you have.”

  “It's not that bad; I haven't been in combat.”

  “No,” she said with a grimace, “you've been dealing with rubes, which is infinitely worse.” He shot her a look of confusion and she explained, “In combat, at least you get to strike down those who offend you. You can't kill a rube simply for being stupid, no matter how much you'd like to.”

  He laughed. “You're certainly not the patient sort.”

  “I would say that I have never been one,” she said with an air of sweetness, “to suffer fools gladly.”

  “The problem with that approach is that you so loosely define 'fool' to encompass anyone whose name isn't Vara.”

  She feigned shock, mouth comically agape. “That's simply not true! It would also encompass Alaric and Curatio.” The smile widened, mocking him.

  “I see. Then I suppose there's no room in your heart for a certain human warrior to join that definition.”

  “My heart?” She stuttered, a bit caught off her guard.

  He grimaced and cursed to himself. “Sorry, poor choice of words.”

  She seemed rattled by his comment, and they proceeded in silence to the next town, where they met with people throughout the day and at night retired to the inn, where they enjoyed a quiet meal next to the fire. Vara had removed her armor and was wearing her cotton pants and shirt. As she came down the stairs, the firelight glinted on her fair hair and a smile covered her lips, pushing up the edges of her mouth and making Cyrus realize for the first time that she in fact had very slight dimples in her cheeks. He rose to greet her, and kissed her hand in an oddly formal manner that brought a blush to the cheeks he had just been studying.

  They chatted pleasantly through dinner, avoiding any serious subjects. He got her to laugh three times, aided by a very good wine suggested by the innkeeper that came from elven vineyards close to Amti in the southern lands. By the end of the evening, the blush on her cheeks was permanent, and in his somewhat weakened condition, he too felt the effects of the spirit.

  “I think I've finally come up with an idea for our little wager,” he said with a smile.

  “Oh?” Her eyes bored in on his. “Do tell.”

  “I think that if I win, we do this,” his hands moved in a sweeping gesture to encompass her and the room, “again. Except next time, you have to wear a dress.”

  She frowned. “I have never cared to wear a dress.”

  He grinned. “I'm sure it interferes with your ability to swing a sword.”

  A small laugh escaped her. “In point of fact, it does.”

  “And if you win...?”

  “When I win, you mean? I haven't given it much thought. Perhaps I'll have you fetch my slippers in the morning and bring them to my bedside.”

  His grin grew wider. “So I'll be the first thing you think of when you wake up?”

  Her eyes rolled. “Alas, Brevis could not have come up with a more pitiful response than yours.”

  “I am feeling a bit short on wit lately.”

  She snorted, almost spitting her wine back into the glass. “Terrible, that was.”

  “I have to know,” he said after another sip of wine, “something that I've been wondering for months now...”

  “What is it?”

  “One of the other elves told me... that every elf knows your birthday and how old you are.”

  She pulled the glass to her lips, stalling. “Is that so?” she asked when she had returned the glass to its position on the table.

  “Yes, that is so,” he said, narrowly avoiding slurring his words. “So I asked... this elf, the one that told me that about you, and she said you're not royalty. What conclusion should I draw from that?” he asked with what he thought was an endearing smile.

  She met his smile with one of her own that twisted her mouth as she considered his question. “I think you should presume that elves are very funny people with a culture unlike your own and that putting together the pieces of the puzzle you just described would be very difficult... without further information.” Her smiled turned a bit wistful at the last.

  Cyrus regarded her in seriousness. “Would Alaric know the answer to my question?”

  She laughed. “Alaric might, but it would not be from me answering it. I suspect he and Curatio would have discussed that bit of elven trivia at some point.”

  “Elven trivia?” he said with undisguised curiosity, made all the worse by the heat of the wine. “Niamh said it was an internal matter, and you don't discuss it with...” he leaned across the table toward her, “...outsiders.”

  “Oh, Niamh said that, did she?” The hint of a smile graced her lips. “We're very private people, the elves. We keep a very intimate inner circle. What a human would call a friend, elves have a much deeper word for – covekan. It denotes an intimacy than humans can't experience because elven relationships can last millenia.” She sipped from her cup once more. “Our closest covekan are with us throughout our lives, and the bond that entails means that once someone is part of your inner circle, you can truly share yourself with them. There are no barriers to communication, no withheld thoughts.”

  “The elven version of a circle of friends, but more intimate?” Cyrus asked.

  “Yes. The fortunate human lives between eighty and one hundred years. In that hundred years you would meet literally thousands of people and have a few good friendships – but most of them would start in your twenties or so. A
quarter of the way through your life – and they take at least a few years to build true depth.” Her smile faded and her eyes became a bit lonely. “The average elf lives over five thousand years, some as many as six thousand. It takes over a hundred years for an elf to become covekan in the traditional sense of the word.” The light in her eyes grew dimmer still. “Imagine how close you could grow to someone in a hundred years.”

  “You never did answer my question about you,” he said.

  “My point is, elves do not let people into their confidence all willy-nilly. I hope you don't take it as an offense, but I don't think it's something I'm ready to discuss with anyone.”

  “So there's no one yet that is covekan to you?” he asked.

  She laughed. “No. As you pointed out, I am young by elven standards – at twenty-eight, I have not lived long enough to form that sort of attachment to anyone.”

  “By your very actions you seem to try very hard to discourage any sort of attachment at all.”

  “Yes,” she said, voice filled with regret. “There is that too.” She did not say anything for a few moments after that, but did not look away. She blinked a few times, then seemed to recover her newfound cheer. “So tell me,” she said, eyes alight, “what's this I keep hearing about a sword you're working on?”

  Cyrus was overtaken by a sudden coughing fit. “There are no secrets in Sanctuary, are there?” She shook her head. “It's just something I'm working on.”

  “You're blushing,” she said with great amusement. “You're actually embarrassed!” She stopped, perplexed. “Why would you be embarrassed?”

  “It's a grand quest, but it's ultimately fairly selfish for me to want a new sword so badly I'd try and drag our guildmates to some fairly dangerous locations,” he explained with a shrug.

  “I don't think it's selfish,” she said. “We all want things.”

  “Even paladins?” Cyrus grinned.

  Vara laughed. “Even the holiest of holy warriors wants something, although in most cases it's to complete their crusade.” Her eyes refocused on his. “If you're providing service to the guild, I don't think it's selfish unless you don't tell anyone what you're doing. Then you'd be very selfish to drag your comrades at arms into danger unknowingly.”