Beyond the Moons

by David Cook

  “Where, sir?” the giff asked. A cool breeze blew toward the waterfront, kicking up scraps of garbage that littered the street.

  “Anywhere we can find. All the inns are closed by now. Come on, let’s not stay here.” Teldin said dejectedly.

  The two set out to nowhere in particular, crossing through the twisting streets, working their way to the north of the marketplace. Even though it was late, there were a few people on the street. Some might have been thieves or worse, but they drew away upon seeing the seven-foot, hulking shadow that followed Teldin around. Still, the farmer noticed that many mote were simply poor, sleeping under makeshift tents or huddled around fires. Some of the men he saw were crippled, missing one or both eyes, a leg, or an arm. Survivors of the war, he assumed. Like himself, few of these men saw any benefit from the return of the gods and their healers.

  More disturbing were the others Teldin saw: whole families squeezed into little shanties, built in the shadows of grand houses of the city. Fitful coughs and whining cries came from these hovels. Refugees, Teldin guessed. The war had displaced so many people. Some of them had yet to return home. Others would never return, for their farms might still be in draconian hands. “This is war’s promise,” he sighed to himself. “We fought for these people, Gomja, and look what they got out of the great victory.” Right now, Teldin could not help feeling bitter. The giff looked at the farmer curiously, trying to understand the human’s attitude, but the sentiments were too foreign to the big alien. War was always a glorious endeavor in his eyes.

  Feeling thoroughly desolate, Teldin chose what looked like a quiet, dry corner. “We’ll have to sleep here for the night,” he grimly announced as he scuffed the garbage away with his foot. The giff looked at their quarters and gave an unconcerned shrug.

  “What then, sir?” the alien asked.

  Teldin kept at the business of clearing away some of the rubbish. “Tomorrow, the market. I want to be there when it opens in the morning.”

  “I hope we can get something to eat there,” opined the giff.

  Chapter Seven

  The morning was overcast and warm. A wet wind blew in over the sea wall, foreboding rain for the day. Indeed, the clouds made feeble efforts to that end, sprinkling fat drops haphazardly over the city. It was just enough to dampen the ground and transform the dusty cobblestones into slick grime. Teldin pulled his cloak tighter and wondered how it was that rain could be mud before it even reached the ground. It seemed as if every drop left a brownish smear on everything it hit.

  Bad weather or no made little difference to the merchants in the great market plaza. They were already in their stalls and hard at work, hawking their wares. The narrow aisles were clogged with cooks carrying baskets, young parents pulling squalling children, and impoverished students hoping for a scrap of stale bread. Ramshackle structures of wood and cloth marked the offices of established businessmen while simple straw mats rolled out on the ground were all the farmers needed to display their wares. “Make way! Make way!” the poulterer’s servant shouted to the crowd as he pushed a handcart filled with plucked and gutted chickens to his master’s stall.

  There was a government-imposed order to the whole place, run gleefully riot by the merchants’ entrepreneurial spirit. The supposedly straight rows of stalls thrust scattershot into the aisles as each vendor pushed his or her tables or mats farther and farther into the flow of traffic. The outer ring of the plaza was mostly food. Clustered around the street entrances were the fryers of hot breads, the boilers of dumplings, the sweet-sellers, and the soup-makers. The latter clinked spoons against bowls, trying to lure customers close enough to smell their wares, while the nearby sweet batters sizzled in hot oils. Old friends – the fishmonger from down the way, the leather cutter on the way to his stall, even rival cooks standing across from each other – traded jokes and gossip.

  Finally, past the grocers, butchers, coopers, clothiers, tinkers, rug dealers, and potters, the two reached a small aisle angled at odds to those around it. ‘just ahead, that’s Steel-Seller’s Lane,” was the answer the old tea merchant gave Teldin, pointing toward the gloomy row. The way was quiet when compared to the bustling activity of the outer regions, where the food stalls lay. The booths here were sturdy little shacks with louvered doors and curtains. The long eaves of the roofs grew into awnings that covered most of the narrow street. The sun, filtered through cloths of orange and blue, pulled up small coils of steam from the barely damp cobblestones. A few pieces of worn pottery and dull bronzeware were neatly arranged on the shelves of some stalls, promising greater treasures within. The curio market was still here, Teldin was satisfied to see, but it seemed much smaller now.

  Halfway down the lane, a pair of merchants sat on stools across from each other, their voices floating languidly through the silence. One was a human, broad and grossly fat, with the puffiness of his face visible even under his neatly trimmed beard. The man’s salt-and-pepper hair was thin and limp and hung from underneath his brimless leather cap. In one hand the merchant idly waved a fan, stirring away the flies that swarmed around him.

  His companion was a dwarf dressed in sturdy workman’s clothes of leather huffed as brightly as the gilt wooden sign shaped like an anvil that swung overhead. On his stool, the little goldsmith seemed no less tall than his human companion, but Teldin guessed the dwarf could not have been more than four feet high. A thick, curly, black beard tapered down to a point, dangling just above his waist, incongruously balanced by his sheared, stubbly scalp. The smith’s lightly tanned face was dominated by a flat nose, singed and smoked with the fires of the forge. Hands folded upon his spacious chest, the small craftsman let a long churchwarden pipe rest in his palms. At that moment, the dwarf was pointing the stem significantly toward the human trader.

  Teldin stayed at the mouth of the aisle, at first preferring not to venture into its gloomy recesses. “Let me do the talking, and I’ll get a good price,” the farmer cautioned the cloth-draped giff. Teldin’s words echoed louder than he wished down the avenue, causing the two merchants to notice their potential customers.

  Gomja’s brows beetled as he mulled over Teldin’s words. “Good price … You really mean to sell the cloak, don’t you, sir?” he asked in accusing tones.

  “Of course I do,” Teldin snapped, irked that only now the giff was going to protest. “How do you think I’m going to rebuild my farm?” The farmer could not help suspecting that the giff knew all along and only raised his objections now, when it was far too late to get rid of him.

  The merchants rose in greeting, both barely concealing their interest in the two strangers who approached. If alone, Teldin, tall and lanky in his frayed farmer’s clothes, would hardly have seemed a prospective customer to dealers in exotic wares, though the fine, black cloak that swung from his shoulders was unusual. It was the broad giant lumbering behind the farmer that piqued the tradesmen’s interest. With his face muffled in a thick, coarse blanket and pudgy, ashen-blue hands, the strange creature assured the merchants that the two customers were more than common rabble. “Greetings to you, sir, breathed the human as he rolled his obese bulk forward in a cramped bow. “Welcome to the shop of Master Mendel, myself who is before you.

  The fat merchant steered the unresisting Teldin toward his shop. “What is it you seek, sir? Perhaps a fine piece of crystal from the isle of Ergoth, or perhaps this brooch, said to have been made for the clan-master of Thorbardin himself?” As he named each thing, Master Mendel held up an intricate bauble or pointed to an exotic piece lurking in the shadows at the back of his stall. The merchant continued on, proudly enumerating his wares. At last Teldin was able to get in a word.

  “I’ve come to sell, not buy.”

  The tradesman’s manner instantly underwent a subtle change in tone as he shifted from selling to buying. The man’s eyes seemed to gleam brightly from within their deep folds of flesh as he evaluated Teldin’s character. “Indeed, and what would you have to sell that I might want?” He fe
igned polite disinterest, the first phase of any negotiation.

  “This cloak.” Teldin turned to the dwarven smith, who was still watching the pair with great interest. “I think it might be dwarven work. Perhaps you know?” Teldin held the fabric out for the dwarf to see.

  The goldsmith gave a snort of contempt. “We’re rock-eaters, boy, not tailors. We don’t make cloaks.” The dwarf tapped Teldin’s chest with the end of his pipe. In the background, Gomja tensed then relaxed when he realized the dwarf meant no harm.

  “No, that’s not what I meant,” Teldin corrected as he leaned down to show the dwarf the silverwork that hung around his neck. “It’s the clasp. It won’t open and I think it has some secret catch. That’s why I thought the dwarves had made it.”

  “Hmmmmm.”

  Mendel’s curiosity was suddenly piqued. The merchant knew his neighbor well enough to interpret the dwarf’s measured “Hmmms” as a sign of great interest. He tried to peer over Teldin’s shoulder.

  The dwarf now took the chain in two hands and pulled it close to his eye, dragging Teldin’s chin forward with it. “Hmmm,” the smith commented again. “Uh-hmmm.”

  Abruptly the dwarf finished his examination and hopped off the stool. “Not dwarven work, I warrant, but fine work all the same. Too small a thing for the gnomes. Can’t tell who made it.” Mendel, dealer in rare antiquities, raised a very interested eyebrow.

  “So you don’t know how to get it off?” Teldin asked with some alarm. He had been certain that the dwarf would know the trick, and all at once that hope was dashed.

  “No,” was the blunt answer.

  Teldin sagged. He was getting tired of defeats at every turn. Why couldn’t something just go right for once?

  It was Mendel the merchant who spoke from behind the farmer. “The fabric does not seem to be of much account,” he drawled even while fingering the dark, silky cloth. “If I get the cloak off, I’ll give you ten steel for the clasp.” The merchant pressed quickly to close the deal.

  “A hundred steel,” Teldin countered.

  Counteroffer followed counteroffer as the two men haggled over the price. Just as they were about to close the deal, the cloaked Gomja stepped forward and laid a hand on Teldin’s shoulder, as if to try to shake off the whole bargain. With a dark glare, Teldin warned the giff back, and, in the next instant, sold the cloak, or at least its parts.

  “Master Stonebiter,” the vendor asked of his dwarven friend, “if you’d bring some tools, we could free this young man from his problem.”

  Interested in the outcome in his own right, the dwarf quickly produced a sharp knife, the blade decorated with hammered silver coils. “This should do the job just fine.” With a quick step, he hopped back onto the stool and prepared to cut the clasp free. Gomja drew himself up to his most menacing height and stepped forward, one hand on his own knife. It was clear to Teldin that the giff was struggling to restrain himself, but whether the creature meant to protect Teldin or prevent the damage, the farmer had no idea.

  Just as the blade was about to touch fabric, Teldin closed his eyes, fearfully certain that the giff was going to do something rash – such as hurl the dwarf down the lane. He braced for the trooper’s onslaught. Instead, Teldin’s body was seized by a tingling blast that jangled every one of his nerves. The farmer’s eyes flew open in shock and his body involuntarily jerked and was flung backward until he crashed in a heap near the door to Mendel’s stall. There he sat dazed and gasping like a trout from a stream while the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to crawl up and down his scalp of their own will.

  Master Stonebiter had fared no better. While Teldin sat stupefied, the dwarven smith twitched and jerked about, hooting and hopping as if in the grip of some convulsive dance. The blade had dropped from his nerve-numbed grasp.

  An astonished Gomja and Mendel each hurried to their respective concerns. It took some time for Mendel to get his neighbor quieted down, and by the time the merchant succeeded, Gomja had Teldin back on his feet. “G – g – great Paladine,” stammered Teldin, “what was that?”

  “It was the Dark Queen’s curse!” shouted Stonebiter as he struggled to calm down the little tics and seizures that afflicted him. “The damn thing’s cursed.”

  Teldin shook his head to clear it. “I didn’t mean —”

  All at once, the two merchant’s eyes were wide and staring at a point over Teldin’s shoulder. Stricken by their horrified looks, the farmer’s heart leaped with fear. He spun about, expecting the worse, only to find Gomja standing there, uncloaked. In the excitement, the giffs head-cloth had slipped to his shoulders, revealing his broad, blue-gray jowled snout and pert ears.

  “By the horrors of the Abyss,” Stonebiter mumbled, “the thing’s a spy! Be away with you! Get on and go!” The dwarf scrambled for his axe. Mendel himself could only stand in the middle of the street, helpless and terrified. A thin, piercing wail of despair started to leak through his slack lips, slowly but steadily increasing in volume.

  Before they attracted any more attention, Teldin seized the blanket and covered the giff again. Mendel’s panicked whine grew louder, so the farmer skillfully guided his crudely cloaked companion out of the market.

  Following old landmarks, Teldin led the giff down the narrow streets to the waterfront. Having to duck out of sight of every passer-by made their progress painfully slow. It wasn’t until late afternoon that they finally reached a small, run-down tavern. A battered sign, announcing it as the Sea Steed, swung over the doorway. The noise of voices came from inside.

  “Just follow me closely and don’t say anything,” Teldin advised the giff. Gomja stood stiffly and gave a curt nod from under his blanket.

  Teldin was pleased to note that the Sea Steed had changed little in five years. The tavern was still small, but warm against the coo1 bay breezes. The embers of a fire flickered in the hearth. About half the candles on the chandelier were lit, dripping hot wax into the center of a scarred table. The rest of the furniture was equally simple, a few nicked tables, each with an oddly matched assortment of chairs and benches around it. The smell of smoke, salt, fish, and flat ale flowed out the door.

  Even though it was early, the place was not empty. Three of the tables were occupied, two by lone drinkers, the third by a cluster of five men in quiet conversation. The taverner half-dozed on a stool near the fire, one eye open to watch the customers. The serving maid was out of sight, probably helping the cook in the kitchen.

  As Teldin entered, those capable of it looked up and made note of the stranger without stopping their own conversations. Just as they were about to dismiss the new arrival, a shadowed form squeezed through the door behind him. All at once every voice went silent, all eyes trained on the giff. The innkeeper suddenly sat up, his eyes wide open.

  Teldin did his best to ignore the stares; he was getting used to them. Picking a table, he pulled up a bench and signaled the innkeeper. Gomja took another bench and sat. It promptly broke under the giff’s weight, dropping Gomja to the floor, but no one laughed. No one made a murmur. No one dared to. Embarrassed, Gomja gave it up and sat cross-legged on the floor; the table still only reached his chest.

  “Do you have rooms?” Teldin asked the innkeeper.

  The man nodded. “Upstairs, third on the right.” After a quick haggle, Teldin paid for beds and a pot of ale. As he and the giff drank, Gomja looked around the commons with wide eyes. The others in the room gave the pair surreptitious glances, trying to deduce just who or what the giff was.

  As Teldin was mournfully finishing his ale, one of the men at the other table walked over and stood opposite the farmer. While he was not tall, perhaps a half-foot shorter than Teldin, the stranger was heavily muscled. He was dressed in battered leather armor, crudely patched. The stranger’s face was broad, his nose squashed and broken in several places. Thick, black tangles of hair hung from under his leather skullcap, the type a warrior wore under his helmet. A businesslike knife hung at his side. There was something fam
iliar about the man, but, try as he might, Teldin couldn’t place him.

  The stranger stood, not saying anything, only studying the farmer’s face. “Teldin Moore, is that you?” he finally asked, leaning closer to get a better look in the gloomy light.

  “Yes,” Teldin answered warily.

  “By the damned gods! I knew it!” the stranger burst out. “Don’t you remember me? Vandoorm, Vandoorm of the Solanthus Light Infantry?” He spread his hands open wide in a gesture of friendliness.

  Suddenly the face and name connected in Teldin’s mind. “Vandoorm! Why – what – what are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in five years!” Teldin got to his feet and thrust out a hand to his old companion. The two warmly embraced, greeting each other as old friends should.

  Their salutations finished, Vandoorm looked at the giff, still sitting on the floor. “What the hell is this?” he asked softly of Teldin.

  “This,” Gomja said firmly and with some irritation, “is Trooper Gomja.”

  “He’s a … friend.” Teldin hastily explained the gill’s appearance. Gomja watched, waiting for any sign of suspicion from their visitor, but the story seemed to be accepted. Vandoorm, in turn, introduced his companions, four tough old campaigners like himself. In no time at all, Teldin and Vandoorm fell to reminiscing about old times. Hours passed as they ate, drank, and talked, until it was quite dark outside.

  Although fascinated by their tales, Gomja could barely keep himself awake. The conversation seemed to go on forever with stories, lies, and questions. Finally, Teldin stood and embraced his friend once more. “In the morning, then,” the farmer said as the two parted.

  “Indeed. I’ll be at the west gate in the morning,” Vandoorm gruffly said. “If you need work, show up. I can always use a good hand like yours.” With that, he and his companions left for the night.