by Peter Plasse
“I do,” said Andar. “To be honest, right now I’m more concerned about you. Look, son, I don’t want to pry into anybody’s personal business, but your father obviously has a problem with spirits, and it looks like it’s getting worse. I think you should come with us and spend the day, and then I think you should come home with us for a while. I’m not sure that you’re safe here.”
“Oh. Thank you, Mr. Gall, but I’ll be all right. Really I will. Besides, who will take care of him? Ever since Mother died, I have had to take care of him. Without me he would die, see? But thank you. Really. Thank you, but I have to stay here with him. Maybe I can go next time.”
“Are you sure, son?” asked Andar.
“Yes,” said Bramwith, trying to sound brave. “Yes, I’m sure.”
Andar nodded slowly, stroking his chin in deep thought. “Well, all right then,” he said. “Come Ubri. We need to be on our way.”
Later in the wagon, on the way home with a bountiful load of plain wood and Burnfast, Ubri asked, “Father, is there anything we can do to help Bramwith?”
“That is a very good question Ubri,” he replied. “And the answer is no. Nobody on Inam'Ra can help him until his father decides to help himself.”
“Then what will happen to him?”
“Either his father quits drinking, or his father will die. That’s it.
Meanwhile, Bram is going to have a very rough go of it, but there’s nothing we can do about it today. I’m going to talk it over with your mother.”
“Oh,” said Ubri.
“What will happen to him if Mr. Jebwickett dies?”
“Well, somebody would have to take him in. We could, of course, if need be. But it would probably be a relative. Doesn’t he have an uncle and aunt that live down by Soledad?”
“Uh-huh,” said Ubri.
“Well then, it would be up to them.”
“Mmmm,” said Ubri, and suddenly he felt very small.
Chapter 19
The last mile into the village of Round Lake proved too much for Norma Webb, who had to be carried by one of the Gnomes named Ettan Cooke. He carried her piggyback, stopping only to check to be sure she was breathing. Turman Pandieth had gone ahead to secure a place to stay. That left the two others, Mandel Ott and Seth Queslian. Mandel Ott stayed ahead of them, checking for danger, and Seth Queslian stayed behind to cover their trail. The Prince stayed tucked inside the blouse of Norma, and from the look of it he was still with them, but barely. His breathing was way too slow, and he had only nursed but a few times for the entire journey.
It was a taxing ordeal for Ettan Cooke as he fought to stay upright and keep moving forward, stumbling often now on rocks, branches, roots, and other irregularities of the trail, but he never once thought of giving up. Being charged with the care of the heir apparent to the throne was the most important task to which he had ever been assigned, and there was no way he would give in to the fatigue, the cold, or the lack of sleep on this harrowing journey. So he kept going, his head down, focused on the rugged pathway.
At long last they arrived at the shoreline of Round Lake. They were met by Turman Pandieth who eased out of the trees as silently as the mist moving in. No words were exchanged. He offered to relieve Ettan of his burden by gesture, but Ettan shook his head, “No.” He had come this far. He was not about to lie down on the final leg. Turman nodded and moved back towards the trees. Both Seth Queslian and Mandel Ott took up rear positions. While the journey was mostly over for the rest, it was far from the case with them, as they would now backtrack several miles to be sure that they had not been followed.
The small cabin appeared out of the fog all of a sudden, now directly in front of them. Over a half-mile from the lake, and completely enveloped by the dense tree branches, it was a place built with the intention of remaining undiscovered. No lake views here, nothing but a simple shelter from the elements and, hopefully, seclusion from those who were undoubtedly doing everything in their power to find them.
Turman entered cautiously. Ettan followed, taking note of the fact that the door opened without the slightest sound. Attention to detail, that was Turman Pandieth.
The heat from the small iron stove embraced him like a long lost love as he deposited his bundle carefully on a neat cot, fashioned from local ten-year growth and covered with many layers of soft bulrushes.
Right away they both knew there were big problems. The Prince was barely breathing, and his color was dusky. Turman checked for a pulse in his neck. “It’s there, but it’s weak,” he muttered. Ettan moved him out of the way and stripped the infant naked. “Move,” he said curtly, as Turman was still close enough to hinder his efforts. He then proceeded to give several slow breaths to the infant Prince, saying between each one, “He needs warm air.”
“Never saw that before,” said Turman, moving to the opposite side of the room to stay out of the way.
The Prince moved slightly, but did not open his eyes. Ettan persisted. He had seen this thing work another time some years before.
“You work on the girl,” he said, pointing her way.
“What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Same as we have done with the Prince,” said Ettan, “Get her clothes off. She’ll warm up faster. Then breathe for her to get warm air into her.”
Turman crossed back over the small room and promptly removed Norma’s outer garments. Then he started to do the same forced breathing as he had watched Ettan do. The two worked on things for several minutes. The Prince suddenly opened his eyes. “Hello, young Prince,” said Ettan. “Welcome to our resort on Round Lake.”
“Take over here, would you?” asked Turman. “I want to go check on the other two and around the perimeter of the cabin.”
What he wanted to do was go and do things that were expected of a fighting Gnome. In the arena of the healers, he knew he was next to useless.
“Of course,” said Ettan. “Pass me that blanket there. I’m going to set this little guy closer to the stove.”
“Not too close,” said Turman.
“Of course.”
“Make sure you take your wrap and some of the Burnfast mix,” said Ettan. “You won’t last an hour out there without it.”
Turman grunted. “I ran out of it hours before we got here.”
Ettan looked at him in amazement as he moved to the bedside of Norma. “How did you ever manage to make it?” he asked. “That’s impossible.”
Turman slid his sword up and down slightly to be sure it was loose in its scabbard, then donned his wrap and headed out into the cold. “Later,” was all he said before he moved out into the frigid evening.
Ettan continued to work on Norma. Several more minutes went by with no response. He could see the young Prince wiggling a little in his wrap. “Come on, Norma Webb,” he said. “Come on now. Wake up. Your charge has not eaten for a long, long time, and needs to be fed. Wake up Norma. Wake up!”
Nothing.
The Prince started to cry. A good sign to be sure, but Ettan was certain the reason he was crying was that he was hungry.
“Come on Norma,” he said. “You have to wake up. The Prince needs to eat.”
Several more minutes went by and the Prince began to howl. The minutes turned into hours. Norma remained lifeless.
Turman Pandieth, Seth Queslian, and Mandel Ott entered the cabin with a loud rattling of their weaponry, all stamping their feet. The chill of the cold night air
caused the Prince to howl even louder.
“No luck with the girl?” asked Pandieth.
Ettan shook his head, “No,” saying, “Any suggestions would be most appreciated.”
“Try putting him on the breast anyway,” said Seth. “She’s breathing on her own, right?”
“Yes,” said Ettan, “but barely. And she’s still terribly cold. Mandel, do as he says while I continue to try and get warm air into her. I think it’s our only chance of waking her up.”
Mandel scooped up the Prince like he
was a loaf of bread and crossed over to where Ettan was working on Norma. He gently pulled down the top of her under-jerkin and laid the infant beside her so that the nipple was touching his lips. He started to make sucking noises, so they pushed on the back of his head and he attached himself. Soon, he was sucking hard, and it seemed that they had triumphed at least as far as quieting him down. Whether or not he was getting any nourishment out of it was anybody’s guess.
In a short while he began howling again. Ettan inspected his mouth and gave a gentle squeeze on the nipple.
“She’s not making any milk,” he announced.
“Great,” grunted Turman. “Now what do we do? She needs to wake up. If she wakes up and drinks herself, she’ll make milk, and the Prince can feed. How do we get her to wake up? Ettan, why isn’t she waking up? That warm air thing you did with the Prince worked fine. Why won’t it work with her?”
“I’m not sure, Turman. We need some help here. If we don’t get some milk into him soon, we’re going to lose him.”
“How long?”
“Difficult to say. His crotch-cloth is bone-dry. That can’t be good. I don’t know, but I don’t think he’s going to make the night.”
Turman scratched his chin in thought. “Mandel. Seth. Cloak up. We need to go around the lake and try to find the old woman who supposedly lives there.” He shrugged. “Maybe she’ll know something. The thing is, we’ll have go through the swamp. We can’t take the chance of getting seen on the southern shore. And we won’t be able to use any light.”
Everyone in the room knew what these things meant. Going by way of the swamp in this cold meant that they might lose their feet, and going without torchlight meant that they might lose their lives to the creatures that were rumored to live there.
“Ettan, you will stay here and try to get her to wake up.”
As they were about to leave, Ettan crossed the room and removed the remainder of the Burnfast mixture from the pockets of his cloak. “Here,” he said. “You might need this.”
Silently, they eased through the doorway. Right from the start they knew it was a mission most likely destined for failure, but they also knew if they didn’t try, the Prince was lost.
But, one way or another, they were going to have at it.
Halfway through their meal, there was a knock on the front door. The heads of Saviar and Kerlix Murlis snapped quickly in that direction, while the children barely responded. Saviar jumped up, motioning for his wife to sit. He was thinking he might be able to convince the Trolls to at least lead him away from his home and do what they were going to do away from the children. To his surprise, when he opened it there was nobody there. He peered out into the night. He heard a voice that he did not recognize, say quietly, “Go around to the back door and unlock it, but don’t open it. Do it now.”
“Who is it?” he whispered loudly. “Who’s out there?”
When nobody answered, he softly closed the door.
“Should we do it?” he whispered to Kerlix.
She had already started for the back door, glancing over her shoulder with a look that said, “Of course we should do it, are you serious?” and, “Don’t be daft!” all at once. She did exactly as the voice had said. Nothing happened. Nobody appeared, nor could she see anybody as she stood staring intently out the small window beside the solid back door.
The children were wondering what was going on and drifted back to stand close to their mother. Several minutes went by and Saviar said, “Perhaps we are meant to finish our dinner. Let’s do that.”
Everyone returned to their places at the table and resumed eating. It was a very tense atmosphere to be sure, what with all that was happening, and the mysterious, secret voice and all. Still, Saviar made it a point to savor every word, every look, every gesture, every raised eyebrow, every frown, and every smile. He wanted to have these memories imprinted indelibly into his consciousness so that he could think upon them when the final moment came, and with the passage of every second he became more convinced that it was coming. “What a strange feeling,” he thought, “Knowing you are going to die soon, and knowing at the same time that there is not a thing you can do about it.”
His thoughts were interrupted by the back door squeaking open. All heads turned as one to see a large Gnome, clad in garments as dark as the pitch-black night from which he had come, entering the Murlis household. Then a second one entered, dressed the same. Their cloaks had hoods that covered their faces. Saviar noticed that they each carried the traditional short sword of the Gnome army but, unlike the Gnome regulars, these two wore theirs fixed to their backs. The larger of the two turned to face the Murlis household, took down his hood, and bowed low. “Good evening, Emperor Murlis, My Lady, children.”
“Daddy’s the Emperor now,” said Fabindora, “Now that Emperor Night is gone … ”
Kerlix held up her hand. “Not now, Fabindora.”
“My name is Fith Turgel, Your Majesty,” he said. “This is my brother Ath.”
Ath bowed to all. “We have less than half an hour and we will all be dead. Loquitar Coral will be dispatching his personal guard right about now. Get yourselves and the children dressed quickly for travel. Never mind cloaks, but make sure their britches are dark, as we will need to avoid being seen.”
Kerlix sprang into action, a whirlwind of activity. In no more than a few minutes she and the children were ready to depart. Saviar managed to get himself ready. Ath, meanwhile, slipped out the door and returned with cloaks for all.
“Put these on,” he said. He removed from his knapsack a bag of what looked like gruel. “A mixture made from Burnfast,” he said, pouring a large measure into both the inner and outer pockets of all the cloaks. Then he retrieved coals from the fire and deposited these in the inner pockets. “To keep us warm enough,” was all the explanation he offered.
“Where are we going?” asked Saviar.
“Away from here, Your Excellency,” said Fith. “Now,” he looked at the children. “We must move quickly, and we must move quietly. No talking. Does everybody understand?”
The children all nodded, little Jori with eyes as big as saucers.
Malance Venomisis was sick. And when he was sick, he got very angry. So far this day, three Trolls had been executed merely because of the foul mood brought on by his not feeling well. All of his servants were doing their best to avoid being in his presence, but some of it was unavoidable. He knelt over the huge gold-plated bowl and retched again, so hard that it felt like his belly was going to split wide open. When he had finished, there was a pause, and one of the servants swapped the bowl for another.
“Where is Uncutus Twit?” he screamed. “I called for him at least fifteen minutes ago!” He retched again, harder. The poor servant didn’t know whether to answer him while he was in such distress or to wait until he had finished. Either way, he reasoned, it put his own life in jeopardy. He decided to wait until the Emperor’s current episode of digestive upset had subsided. Then he spoke.
“We have called for him, My Lord. I am sure he will be here shortly.”
There was a temporary lull in the Emperor’s misery, and the servant asked, “Do you feel any better My Lord? Can I help you back into bed? Can I get you anything?”
“Yes,” said Malance. He felt like he was going to pass out. This had been going on for several days now, ever since that Troll had shown up and disappeared into thin air. In his weakened state he could hardly remember the encounter, and surely not his name, but at the moment he was only concerned with staying alive.
Suddenly, it occurred to him.
“I’m being poisoned,” he thought. “That’s it. It has to be that.”
The servant helped his Emperor to the side of his bed, not an easy feat as he was as limp as a dishrag, not to mention his size, easing him into it and fluffing his pillows.
“What is your name?” he asked the servant. The Troll had been one of his personal servants for years now, and the question came as a bit of
a surprise, but he managed to reply, “H … Holt, My Lord. Handroth Holt.
The room spun crazily out of control, and the Emperor’s eyes rolled back, twitching from left to right. His mouth opened for a brief moment, and his breathing seemed to stop.
“Demons! Sorcery!” he suddenly cried out. “That’s it. They have decided the only way they can defeat me is by using demons and sorcery. But I will defeat them. Watch. Ha Ha Ha. It will take more than their trickery to do me in.” He was talking to no one in particular, ranting and raving like a madman. “It must be that witch,” he mumbled, “whose place we have never been able to find, somewhere over by the Vargus Foothills. We will find her. I will find her, if I have to go there myself. Demons and sorcery! No, you spawn of the loins of the Overlord of the Underworld. You will not defeat me. Never. Never!”
He laughed maniacally for a long time, thrashing all about, then collapsed facedown with a grunt. He started to twitch violently, and it began to look like he was having trouble breathing as well. It appeared that he might be choking or something, and now Handroth Holt did not know what to do. He thought perhaps his Emperor was dying right in front of him. He climbed onto the bed and rolled him on his side to get his face off of the mattress and at least let him get some air. This is how Uncutus Twit found him upon entering the Emperor’s bedchamber.
“What do you think you are doing?” he shouted.
“I, I am sorry … Sir … ” Holt stammered. He realized how this must look, in the very bed of the Emperor, who remained oblivious to his surroundings. But then, his intentions had been completely honorable. “It looked to me like he was choking, so I thought I should turn him … ” he began to explain.
“Get off of that bed this instant!” he cried. “What gives you the right? Guards! Guards!”
Two burly guards rushed in.
“To the dungeons with him. Now. On the charge of trying to assassinate the Emperor, the attempt of which I witnessed with my own eyes. I will be down to interrogate him myself later. Stay with him, both of you, until I arrive. On the charge of high treason, we cannot allow for any chance of escape.”
