by David Cook
Out on the wharf, the day’s activity was slowly winding down. The tide was out, revealing slimy, green muck on the pilings. Porters, sweating miserably in the hot weather, stowed the last of their cargoes while a few seamen finished odd jobs on board, such as patching sails, splicing hawsers, or tightening rigging. Here and there small dories bobbed alongside larger vessels as men inspected and scraped hulls. Most of the ships were lightly manned, the crews ashore for one last night of revelry.
The clerk’s directions were good and Teldin had little trouble finding the Silver Spray’s pier. He walked down the dock slowly, studying the flags that hung limply from the masts. About halfway down he found the vessel he sought. The green banner fluttered weakly in a passing breeze, showing the arching silver wave that was its owner’s coat of arms.
The Silver Spray seemed aptly named. The ship was a caravel of carefully balanced proportions. Although broad of beam, the ship’s width was offset by the length of her keel. The arching prow and the intricately carved sterncastle lent an image of grace. More surprising was the hull’s color. The vessels around the Silver Spray with their brown and black hulls, looked dour and sluggish compared with the gleaming bright, silvery ash wood used for the Silver Spray’s planking. The ship’s fittings were polished to red-gold, brass, and silver highlights. The figurehead, a cresting wave, was freshly painted blue and white. The three masts’ sheets were ready for tomorrow’s sailing.
Even Teldin, a landlubber, felt a sense of awe rising in him as he looked upon the ship. He wondered if he really could get passage aboard such a fine vessel. Biting back his feeling of intimidation, the human strode up the gangplank. A lone sailor’s figure sat on the deck, its back to Teldin.
“Excuse me. I have heard your ship is sailing to Sancrist,” Teldin hailed in his best manner. He stood on the gangplank, uncertain whether to go any farther.
The sailor casually turned about, until she could see Teldin over her shoulder. He tried not to gape but hardly had expected a woman to respond to his call, much less an elven maiden. Long, fine, ashen hair fell over one eye. The other, finely shaped and pale gold, scrutinized Teldin. “You’re a human,” she finally commented in the Common tongue. Then, in a burst of nimble grace, the elf leaped about and to her feet, as if to show that she could do it. She moved lightly, barely making a noise while strolling across the deck to where Teldin stood.
The elf was small and thin, her legs long, her waist narrow in a delicate balance of height and slimness, much like the few other elves Teldin had seen. The elf’s straight silvery hair hung loosely over her shoulders, covering the distinctive sharp-tipped ears of her kind. If she was a sailor, her skin was bizarrely pale, almost translucent. The lips, nose, chin – all her features except her eyes – were thin. The simple leather and linen clothes she wore barely disguised her femininity. That in itself was a major contrast to the other sailors Teldin had seen.
The elf woman stood at the edge of the deck and made no attempt to invite Teldin aboard. “If we sail to Sancrist, what business is that of yours?” she asked coldly.
Teldin tensed. “A friend and I need to get to Mount Nevermind. We’re looking for someone who will take us as passengers.” The farmer could not suppress the proud defiance in his voice, especially since the elf’s words came as such a challenge.
“You’re a human. This is an elf ship.” The sailor turned to leave as if that explained it all.
Anger rose within Teldin, and he walked farther up the gangplank. “Where’s your captain?” he demanded. “You’ve no authority to turn me away.”
The elf wheeled around, her eyes hard. Only the faintest shimmer of golden light showed through her narrowed lids. “I am Cwelanas, the mate. For you, that is as good. But if you want to talk to the captain, I will summon him.” The elfs words were cold. “Wait here. Do not step on board.” The elven mate disappeared down the companionway at the head of the sterncastle.
Teldin waited nervously at the edge of the deck, uncertain whether he had just ruined any hopes of getting to Sancrist. There was still a chance, if the captain was any more reasonable than the mate. It was not a possibility that filled the farmer with confidence. He wondered what he could say or what he could offer that could possibly make a difference. Teldin’s fears were interrupted by voices from the companionway, which he could barely make out.
“I do not like him, father,” spoke the woman’s voice. Teldin’s heart sank as he recognized her.
“You do not like any human, Cwelanas. I will meet with him and decide. Perhaps he will be different.” The second speaker sounded like an older man. His tone was calm and reasoned, a contrast to the mate’s fiery temper. As quickly as he had lost heart, Teldin regained his hope. Footsteps sounded on the stairs.
“My mate tells me you seek passage,” spoke a soft yet firmly commanding voice. Teldin feigned a small start of surprise and turned to the speaker. Slightly stooped with age, the patriarchal elf captain still stood taller than his daughter. Long arms, seeming little more than skin over bone, dangled from the bottom of a near-sleeveless robe. The elf’s face was tight and drawn, the skin so translucent that Teldin could almost see the old elf’s cheekbones, even the sharp crease of his nose, through it. The elf captain’s hair was white and silky thin, hanging in a long fringe around the top of his balding head. He was, for Teldin, a stork-man, glistening pearly white with a sharp-beaked face. His daughter, the mate, stood on the stair slightly behind him.
“Yes – umm – Captain,” Teldin answered, genuinely startled. The farmer had not known elves could look so old. He moved to take a step forward.
“Stay.” The captain held up his hand, an order for Teldin to move no farther. Confused, the human froze. The old elf seemed to glide across the deck to the gangplank, his feet moving like water over the boards. “Forgive me for not inviting you aboard. By the custom of my people, if you step on my ship, I am bound to accept you. Now, where is it you seek to go?” The elfs tone was cold and imperious.
“Mount Nevermind,” Teldin answered nervously.
“The Isle of Sancrist, then.” The old elf captain appraised Teldin through half-closed eyes. “And why would you seek a nestful of mad tinkers?”
Teldin stopped, uncertain whether he should answer the captain’s question. He opened his mouth but was cut off.
“Never mind.” The captain dismissed the question before it was answered. He slowly drifted away from the gangplank, as if his interests were already being pulled elsewhere. Unconcernedly staring away from the human, the captain continued, “I apologize for my dau – my mate’s behavior. Please understand that a seaman’s life is difficult, especially in your human ports. She finds it much more comfortable to remain on board with me. I am Luciar.” With an unpretentious flourish, the captain turned and bowed politely to Teldin. “And you...
“Teldin Moore of Kalaman, sir,” the farmer hurriedly offered as he awkwardly bowed in return.
The captain mulled the name briefly. “Why come to my ship?” he finally asked.
“The harbormaster said you were sailing to Sancrist,” Teldin patiently explained.
“‘Even as the last of leaves falls, so shall I count them,’” murmured the old elf, quoting from some source Teldin did not know. “He spoke truth, but not wisely. Did he not say this was an elf ship?”
Teldin nodded. “Yes, sir, he did.”
“And he warned you that elves would never take you?”
“Perhaps he said something like that,” Teldin allowed, “but I didn’t choose to believe him.”
Cwelanas, standing behind her father, made a face as if to bite Teldin. Her teeth clicked sharply together and her eyes were half-closed with dark contempt. Although Luciar certainly heard her, he paid his daughter no attention. “And what do you believe?” the old captain asked.
Teldin hesitated, then, in a rush, he remembered the awful charnel house the neogi had left behind at Liam’s farm. Drawing himself up straight, he boldly spoke, “It is
important for me and my companion to reach Mount Nevermind. It is a duty I owe a friend.”
The elf captain stepped closer. “Brave talk for one so young. Why should I take you aboard?”
“I can pay,” Teldin offered. “A little, at least.”
Luciar politely turned away so as not to laugh in Teldin’s face. His daughter reddened, reckoning the human’s words as an insult. Bristling, she made ready to spring to Luciar’s defense, but before she could act, the old elf held up a single bony finger to restrain her. In gently biting tones, he admonished the brash human before his deck. “If your precious pieces of steel had been all I ever wanted, then this would have been concluded long ago. We elves ask for more. Could you lead my shipmates in a merry jig? Dance them until they are spent? Hold them enthralled, like the rooted willows, with the playing of your pipes? Do you know the lays of the lost dreamings? Would you even climb the mainmast to bathe in the golden waters of the sun?” A sorrowful tone crept into the old elf’s voice. He turned and hobbled across the deck to the stairway, now moving like one afflicted by great age. “I cannot take you. You have nothing to offer me,” Luciar called as he disappeared down the companionway.
Stung at the old elf’s rebuke, Teldin made to follow. “But I must —” As quick as a blur, the human found his way blocked by Cwelanas, standing catlike before him, a long dirk in her hand. She smiled fiercely, waiting for him to move. “I told you, human,” she purred triumphantly, “this is an elf ship.” Teldin thought better of a fight and reluctantly turned and plodded back down the gangplank. He fumed to himself, the lunatic elf captain, and his arrogant daughter.
Chapter Twelve
Teldin found a niche in the shade, away from the afternoon sun and away from the elf ship. The distraught farmer folded his lanky body and settled into a quiet doorway to brood. Sitting on the stoop, his chin resting in his hands, he watched the legs of pedrestrians go by, not even making the effort to look up to see the faces that connected to the boots, shoes, and sandals that clicked across the cobblestones before him.
Teldin must have made an appropriately pathetic sight, for several of the passersby stopped long anough to toss a coin from the purses at his feet. In his dejection, Teldin barely noticed the small coins that grew before him.
Behind the huddled farmer the door creaked open. “Go away! Get out of my door, you worthless beggar!” A hail of swats came down on Teldin’s head. Scrambling up from where he sat, the yeoman escaped the wrath of a plump woman standing in the doorway. “And take your filthy money, too!” she screamed, kicking the coins at his feet.
“And to think I protected your kind in the war!” Teldin viciously shouted at the shrewish woman. Her face, previously flushed with indignation, drained pale as she felt the rage that boiled out of the lanky beggar on her stoop. “Damn you all to the Abyss!” the farmer snarled, baring his teeth in an animalistic grimace. He took a shaking step toward and towered over the short woman. The terrified woman trembled before his assault, then slammed the door in Teldin’s face before he might spring to the attack.
As he stood in the street, Teldin realized he was far from alone, for circle of gawkers had gathered behind him. Embarrassed by the outburst, he scooped up the scattered of money, then became embarrassed by that, too. He had not come to Palanthas to beg. Pride in honor said to throw the money away; common sense urged them to keep it. Common sense won, and Teldin hurriedly but the money into his purse, all the time muttering, “I’ll never get to Mount Nevermind,” as he counted the coins. The onlookers unconsciously drew back lest the beggar be a madman.
Such was Teldin’s mood that he forsook what little caution he had exercised all day, little caring to note any suspicious characters. Thus, as he left the side street, he failed to notice Brun One-Eye and another of Vandoorm’s mercenaries watching from among the small crowd gathered at the homemaker’s door. With a nod, Brun and his companion began to follow Teldin at a safe distance, stepping into a merchant’s stall or a shadowed doorway each time Teldin even casually looked about.
It wasn’t until Teldin had reached the smaller back streets where the foot traffic thinned out, that he sensed something odd. There, between the half-timbered houses that jutted over the street. Teldin became aware of strangers behind him. He turned in an attempt to catch whoever followed him, but the yeoman’s only reward was a shadow disappearing down a side street and a thunk of a door quickly closing. A cat came out of the alley and quickly padded across the road. Still suspicious, Teldin continued on, turning the corner and out of sight.
*****
Stepping out of the shadows of a doorway, Brun hissed softly for his companion. The man poked his head out of the alley and, seeing that it was all clear, hurriedly joined the eye-patched warrior. The two fell into a huddled discussion, Reaching the corner, Brun carefully peered around it, then urgently waved the other forward. Down the lane, Teldin was nowhere in sight.
*****
With his back pressed against the rough stone of a courtyard wall, Teldin watched Brun and his companion still at the corner. The farmer, suspecting he was being followed, had slipped through an open gate into a small courtyard beyond. The early evening sun gave long shadows to the high walls, and it was from this deep gloom that Teldin watched, peering carefully through the barely ajar gate. Teldin instantly recognized Brun; the man’s wild hair and eye-patch were absolutely distinctive. The other man he vaguely knew as one of Vandoorm’s men. Their faces showed puzzlement as the pair cursorily scanned the street, not noticing the slightly open gate. Brun gave a sharp command, then led the other man down the way. The farmer shifted and watched them go.
After waiting for a minute or more, Teldin finally ventured back into the street. He looked both directions as he decided which way to go. “Always better to swing the first punch,” Teldin mused aloud, remembering the advice grandfather had given him when he was young. Grandfather had also said, ‘Don’t be fool, boy,’ advice that made sense right now. “I can go back to the inn, or I can follow them,” Teldin whispered to himself, weighing his choices. Common sense said to go back to Gomja – he had already made another close escape – but that choice did not satisfy him. Another part of him urged him to follow Brun. After all, Teldin thought, how much longer could he keep getting away? It would be a great advantage knowing where Vandoorm was; it would make the deceitful captain that much easier to avoid.
Teldin let his curiosity overrule his good judgment. He would follow Brun back to the spider’s web, just to know what and where to avoid. That decided, the long-legged farmer sprinted down the lane before his newfound quarry escaped.
At first, Teldin thought the chase was getting him nowhere. Brun and his stooge seemed to wander almost aimlessly, casting about like hunters searching for a lost deer trail. It was all Teldin could do to keep from losing them and still stay hidden. The pair constantly doubled back or separated, forcing Teldin to move quickly to keep his plans from failing. After more than an hour of searching, as the narrow streets descended into darkness, the pair seemed to give it up. They moved purposefully, no longer taking the time to peer up every alley or circle around blocks. Emboldened by hiss success and the increased darkness, Teldin followed closer, Finally, well into dusk, he was close enough to hear small bits of the pair’s wind-borne conversation.
“Vandoorm won’t like …” spoke the smaller of the two.
“I don’t care … Vandoorm can go …” came bits of Brun’s snarling reply. “… whole thing isn’t …” The two rounded a house and Teldin lost the conversation.
When he finally peeked around the corner, Teldin found that the pair had reached an old, run-down section of the harbor. They were headed along a deserted quay with a tumble-down collection of abandoned storehouses and drafty shanties to one side and crumbling piers to the other. Small fishing dories, some barely seaworthy, bobbed on the black, sewage-rich water and thumped against rotting pilings. Teldin ignored the thick smell of dead fish and waste, slipped behind a row
of old lobster pots, and crept close enough to hear more.
“Why does Vandoorm … meet here anyway?” griped the nameless mercenary. The two were standing just on the other side of the wooden traps, their backs to Teldin’s hiding place.
“Shut up, and don’t … questions,” snapped Brun. “It’s where … our employers. My guess … they want to know …” The rest of Brun’s words were drowned out by other voices. In the dim light from the nearby shanties, Teldin could barely see the short, swaggering figure of Vandoorm leading a small band of men, no more than ten of his original score. The farmer noted with no small satisfaction that more than a few hobbled painfully. Confident that he couldn’t be seen, Teldin pressed himself forward against the damp traps, trying to hear as much as possible.
“Hail, Brun,” called Vandoorm. “What luck?”
“We saw him, but he lost us,” Brun answered glumly. “He was down here, by the waterfront.” Vandoorm swore, naming Brun’s ancestors in a blistering tirade.
The one-eyed mercenary bristled. His hand went to his sword and he took a step forward, only to be restrained by his companion. “I don’t remember you holding him well, either.” Brun sneered. The words brought Vandoorm’s rant to a halt. The lame men behind the captain tensed, their eyes hard and narrow.
“Do not speak about thing you don’t know,” Vandoorm icily reminded Brun. “Good men die – you do not.” The captain slowly circled Brun, never taking his eyes off his lieutenant. Brun, under Vandoorm’s and the others’ withering gazes, seemed to shrink.
“We’ve learned something at least,” the one-eyed warrior boasted in defense. “Our goat said he was going to Mount Nevermind – on Sancrist!” Brun, puffed up with his tidbit of information, strutted toward Vandoorm.
“Sancrisssst?” a new voice spoke with prolonged syllables. The speaker’s whispery call echoed through the dark waterfront. “Gone to Sancrissst he hasss?”
All the mercenaries save one wheeled to face the mysterious speaker. Swords flashed as battle-instincts seized the men. Only Vandoorm turned calmly, surprised but unruffled by the new appearance. “So I report, noble – uh – one.” The captain hesitated slightly, searching for the right word with which to address the mysterious speaker.
