Fool's Errand

by David G. Johnson

  The tall, golden-haired barbarian stared at her as though he were starving, and she were a roast leg of lamb. The small and wiry dark-haired youngster’s eyes also locked in on her with fierce intent, but more of wondrous curiosity than physical passion.

  The most curious of all, however, was the one wrapped head to toe in swaddling robes. Gloves covered his hands, and his deep hood hid any hint of features. Firstly, Arreya wondered how in the world anyone could do battle wrapped in so much excess cloth. She barely wore enough skin cloths to cover the areas deemed most important to cover in Adami society, allowing her the freedom of movement required in battle. She knew the Adami and Durgak warriors normally wrapped themselves in metal to better withstand enemy blows. This was odd enough when it seemed perfectly reasonable the best way to defend against damage was simply to not get hit. However, the odd cloth wrappings engulfing this stranger would both hinder battle and offer no protection whatsoever. The oddest thing about him was the distinctly non-Adami scent he exuded. She had never before smelled this particular odor. The Zafirr had senses of sight and smell that were far beyond most races, and they never forgot a smell. Whatever lay beneath those voluminous robes, it was something new to her.

  Thatcher turned his attention to the other remarkable individual seated at the table. A monstrously large warrior in full gleaming-black plate mail armor sat with a scowl on his face that looked as if it had been carved there in stone. This man had clearly Adami features, but his size dwarfed even Goldain. It was hard to guess exactly while seated, but Thatcher reckoned this giant of a man must be at least seven feet tall. His long, black hair pulled back into a topknot behind his head, the scars on his face, and the deep furrow in his brow as he surveyed the room spoke clearly that this was a veteran warrior who took his work seriously.

  Protruding above his right shoulder was the massive hilt of a two-handed sword slung diagonally across his back in a manner similar to how Goldain wore his sword. The hilt was molded, copper-colored steel in the form of a thick dragon’s body, and the pommel was a ball of carved ivory, bearing the shape of a dragon’s head. Wings protruded from the hilt-guard toward the point, giving the overall impression that the sword might be the spirit of a Wyrm embodied in weapon form. The sword was as equally large and impressive as the man who wore it.

  Any further chance to speculate about the other visitors was cut short as the porcine form of Mayor Ignatius Farnsworth III entered the room. The mayor was of average height with short, slicked-back black hair, tiny dark eyes, and a pair of small, gold-rimmed spectacles, which rested unsteadily on his slightly upturned nose. He was not a handsome man, but to become mayor of one of the greatest cities in northern Ya-Erets at such a relatively young age was an accomplishment not easily dismissed. As the mayor approached his seat, one of the sergeants-at-arms pounded the haft of his halberd upon the floor three times, bringing the flurry of conversations spanning the room to an abrupt halt. Out of the mayor’s rotund, bookish exterior poured a strong and soothing voice as he addressed the gathered adventurers and dignitaries.

  “Gentlemen, and lady,” Farnsworth added with a nod in the direction of the Zafirr chats-enash. “We are assembled to debrief the returning scouting teams from the Wild Lands and to discuss the recent troubles with caravans traversing Dragon Pass. After hearing all parties wishing to address this assembly, I and the ambassadors and military advisors from Rajik, Darkmoor, and Stonehold will collectively decide on the best course of action to address the issues currently affecting all of us.

  “Due to supply shortages occurring as a result of the missing caravans, both Cyria and Parynland have sent their regrets, being unable to spare representatives for this meeting. I have been assured, however, of their cooperation should it be required in confronting whatever trouble the westbound caravans are encountering.

  “While Cyria has agreed to continue shipping caravans eastbound, Parynland has decided to maintain what supplies it has and forego exports to the east until such time as westbound trade can be resumed in safety. This decision places an even greater urgency upon the assembled nations here to quickly discover who is intercepting the caravans and devise a solution.

  “I would like to begin by hearing the findings of the three patrols just returned from the Wild Lands. There is strong suspicion that the increase in frequency, ferocity, and organization of the humanoid raids on our southern settlements is in some way related to the disappearing caravans. Although we dispatched seven patrols, only three have returned so far. We will hear first from Auxiliary Captain Gideon from Parynland.”

  Gideon rose respectfully from his seat and proceeded to relate the details of finding the bandit lair in the foothills in the northernmost part of the Wild Lands. He presented the chest of coins retrieved from the Hobgoblin lair to the mayor, recommending they be spent in relief of the victims of the raids. This gesture brought an even sterner scowl from the face of the dark-haired giant, whose fixed gaze had not left Gideon since his report began. The tale proceeded smoothly until he recounted finding Parynland shields in the Hobgoblin stronghold. Gideon was clearly uncomfortable relaying this information, but ended his report with it and a follow-up question.

  “I would be interested to hear if any other patrols encountered similar Parynland artifacts during their time in the Wild Lands.”

  “Thank you, Captain Gideon,” said Mayor Farnsworth, standing once again to address the assembly. “May the One Lord bless your team for their charity in turning over these coins to help fund the relief efforts. By international salvage rules, you could have claimed them yourselves. The citizens of the northwestern nations are grateful for your generosity.”

  This elicited a semi-audible harrumph from the large, mysterious warrior still intently staring at Captain Gideon, as if by his gaze he might immolate the paladin. As for the rest of the assembly, applause and thanks was the response from the majority of the delegates present. Thatcher flushed at the unexpected accolades toward Gideon’s team, which included himself. He wondered for a moment at his decision to keep ninety-percent of his share, feeling as though he had bought this praise at a great discount from what it had cost his companions. He didn’t have long to ponder.

  “Next we shall hear from Captain Tropham of the Aton-Ri Elite Duelist Corps to report.” Tropham, an older-looking commander seated next to the Zafirr chats-enash, stood and spoke.

  “We found no lairs or hideouts though we patrolled most of the length of the northern border of the Wild Lands. We ventured into the mountain settlements near the northern edge of the section of the Dragonspine Mountains known as the Dragon’s Tail including the settlements on the south side of the mountain known as Eben-Pinnah. Our excellent tracker, lady Arreya”—he nodded toward the feline female—“helped us hunt down and dispatch four raiding parties of a dozen or so Hobgoblins, Orcs, and Ogres each.”

  “So, her name is Arreya and she’s a tracker,” Thatcher thought. “I will have to remember that.”

  “Beyond that,” Tropham continued, “we found no clearly defined tracks leading back to any lairs. My Adami rangers and I, experienced trackers all, couldn’t even find a traceable trail in the rocky ground there. Thanks to Arreya’s impressive skills, I would say the northern border and the mountain settlements should be safe for some time. Raids into Darkmoor and southern Rajik should significantly decrease.”

  Arreya, who had been silent up to this point, spoke up without rising from her seat, unaware this was a breach of protocol.

  “I managed to convince one of the squeakers we captured to talk to us in his last moments of life. He said the tribes, even those who usually warred with each other as much as with anyone else, recently called a truce. There was talk of a big boss pulling the strings, but the squeaker was too low on the feeding order to know much more than that. His cooperation bought him a quick and, uh, relatively painless demise.”

  A smile crossed her face as she seemed to be recalling a pleasant memory. She had spoken in excellent
Adami, the trade language of Ya-Erets, with only a trace of an exotic accent. Upon hearing that last comment and seeing the satisfied smirk on the face of the predatory tracker, Mayor Farnsworth went pale. This man was a politician and clearly unaccustomed to the realities of the law of the wild. He preferred not knowing the dirty details of how others kept him in command of the greatest city in northern Ya-Erets. Clearing his throat, the mayor thanked Tropham and Arreya for their vividly detailed report and turned to the giant man at the table.

  “Auxilliary Captain Xyer Garan, on hire from Cyria, is the only remaining member of his patrol to return. Captain Garan, will you please give your report?”

  The giant did not stand as was customary when giving a report to leaders but remained seated while speaking. There Adami present knew without doubt that, unlike Arreya, he was aware of his breach of protocol. He did not even look at the mayor, but rather kept his gaze locked onto Gideon. He had visibly bristled while listening to paladin captain’s report. Gideon hadn’t appeared to notice, with his attention focused properly on the mayor while giving his report and on the other speakers when hearing their reports. Melizar, Thatcher, and Goldain had not taken their eyes off Arreya, each for their own reasons. Now that Xyer was speaking, everyone present saw the intense stare Gideon was receiving from the Cyrian. This was not surprising given the history of conflict between Cyria and Parynland.

  “We also found a lair of bandits,” Garan began, “and yes, paladin, the weapons store of the raiders was stocked with shields bearing crests of your king, along with newly forged weapons and armor. There is clearly some connection between your kingdom and these raiders. I suppose King Paryn will follow his usual protocol and find a way to sweep this under the rug with his propaganda, but at least those present here will have no excuse to support his façade of benevolence any longer.”

  These insulting words, directed at the sovereign of another country, would have been inappropriate even from a drunkard in a tavern. To hear such vitriol pour forth in a meeting of dignitaries shocked everyone. Many of the ambassadors looked uneasy and frightened that a battle might erupt across the meeting table. Mayor Farnsworth fidgeted in his chair and eyed the nearest exit. The sergeants-at-arms had all taken two-handed grips on their halberds in preparation for a martial intervention. Even the laid-back northerner, Goldain, started to rise in his seat with his hand reaching toward the sword hilt hanging on his back. Gideon calm response instantly defused the situation as his left hand gently urged Goldain to remain in his seat.

  “Friend Garan,” Gideon began, taking a calming breath before continuing, “I know our governments have had their disagreements, but today, we are neither Cyrian nor Parynlander. We are agents in the employ of Mayor Farnsworth and Aton-Ri. Let us not take upon ourselves the past strife between our nations, but instead, let us seek together to discover the truth and decide a course to restore stability to our homeland nations as well as our patron city and current employer.” After another breath of pause while the tension in the room dissolved, Gideon continued. “I assure you that if indeed citizens of Parynland are involved in this banditry, that King Paryn will see them brought swiftly and surely to justice.”

  Unwilling to let the matter go that easily, his hatred for Parynland still quite evident in his demeanor and tone of voice, Garan countered.

  “And what if the king himself is involved?”

  This renewed the nervous tension among the attendees as they watched to see if the paladin maintained his former calm in light of Garan pressing the issue. Gideon indeed retained his peaceful countenance as he responded.

  “Should that be the case, I am certain the governments of the assembled nations will seek the cooperation of King Cyrus and the people of Cyria to join us in seeing justice done.”

  Garan’s scowl morphed briefly into a look of surprise. This was clearly the last answer he expected to hear from the paladin. The scowl quickly returned as he realized his failure to goad Gideon to open conflict. A hint of confusion remained as he faced this enigmatic, unprovocable paladin. Xyer cleared his throat before finishing his report. Thatcher heard almost imperceptibly low mumblings from Melizar, seated on his left.

  “As we were leaving the lair we discovered,” Xyer concluded, “a huge raiding party of Ogres, Hobgoblins, and Orcs ambushed us. The raiders killed the rest of my company, but I was finally victorious in avenging them. I buried my teammates in the field and returned as soon as possible to report what we had found.”

  As Garan finished his report, Melizar leaned over to Thatcher and whispered so that only the young rogue could hear.

  “He’s lying.”

  Farnsworth looked relieved that the reports from the patrols ended without bloodshed. Thatcher doubted the mayor would ever again make the mistake of hiring mercenaries from both Parynland and Cyria at the same time. The pudgy bureaucrat then invited the representatives from Stonehold to retell the information they had brought to him yesterday concerning the survivor of one of the caravan ambushes, who had made it as far as Stonehold. An older Durgak dressed in a fine tunic, proper kilt, and sash denoting the office of dignitary rose from his seat to address those assembled.

  “My name is Saren Farspeaker. My compatriots and I have journeyed from Stonehold, answering the invitation from Mayor Farnsworth and under directive from the high council of Stonehold to bring news of interest to the assembled nations. The Durgak city of Stonehold is the gatekeeper of the only east-west pass through the Dragonspine Mountains. We care for and assist all caravans both east and westbound who pass through our city and charge no fee for passage.”

  Thatcher sighed with impatience. Durgak were usually a people of few words, but their dignitaries and bards could tell tales and spin verse and songs long enough to lull even the hardiest listener to sleep. This was shaping up to be one of those times, and he could hardly wait for a chance to inquire more deeply of Melizar about his whispered secret. Having caught a glimpse of his fidgeting, Gideon cast Thatcher a glance that quelled any thoughts of engineering an early release from the impending torturous verbosity of the Durgak dignitary.

  “We had noticed nothing unusual,” Saren continued, “as caravans coming from both east and west passed Stonehold as they always have. It was not until we heard reports from the eastbound caravans that no westbound caravans had reached their destinations in Cyria and Parynland for several weeks that we realized something was amiss. Since caravans had passed through Stonehold heading that way, whatever the trouble, it was happening somewhere to the west of Stonehold. It was then our west gate guardsmen received a strange visitor. I was not aware of this at the time, or able to get to the west-end medicine house before the man expired, so I will ask Captain Zarek Stonehammer to report on the details of the matter.”

  The older Durgak took his seat and a younger warrior in full Stonehold military dress, with sandy brown hair and a beard neatly braided in the fashion common to Durgak warriors, stood to address the assembly. A flash of hope passed Thatcher’s eyes that they might be finished sooner than he thought. The drowsy, half-glazed look in Goldain’s eyes showed the Qarahni did not share his hope.

  “Just over a week ago,” began Captain Stonehammer, “we spotted a lone individual crawling his way toward the west gate of Stonehold. Suspecting a trap, we sent a pair of scouts to investigate while crossbowmen covered them from the walls. It was a lone Adami guard, part of the escort of the last westbound caravan to pass through Stonehold. He was feverish and half-delusional from thirst by the time he reached our city.

  “We took him immediately to the medicine house and called for a priest gifted with healing oth. The man only muttered responses to questions, mostly incoherent, but a few things he kept repeating. He mentioned several times a blue mage leading an attack and talked about Nephelim and Orcs. We could get little more of any sense out of him. His injuries were too extensive for our herbalists, and he passed away before the healing priests arrived. After reporting this to the elders, we received
Mayor Farnsworth’s invitation to this council, and decided I should accompany the ambassador in hopes of being of assistance.”

  With that, the soldier returned to his seat. The assembled dignitaries exchanged concerned looks following the Durgak captain’s grim report. After a somber pause, Mayor Farnsworth stood again and addressed the assembly.

  “Gentlemen,” he began, this time forgetting to address Arreya with separate courtesy. She seemed unaware of the omission. “Having heard all of the field reports, and this disturbing information from Stonehold about a blue mage, I will excuse the assembly. I ask that General Hargan of the Aton-Ri army, as well as the military and diplomatic liaisons from Stonehold, Rajik, and Darkmoor please remain. We have much to discuss concerning the proper course of action in light of these reports. I thank each of you involved in this matter. We will reconvene tomorrow morning an hour after sunrise to share with you our decision on the path forward. I would ask each of you to return here at that time.”

  The head sergeant-at-arms drummed the floor thrice with the butt of his halberd, signaling the general dismissal of the meeting.

  The Iron Cur

  “Fellows,” Gideon said, addressing his team, “we have much to discuss. I have a room at the Silver Shamrock Inn while I search for longer-term housing. The rooms are ample enough for us to meet. Perhaps we could retire there.”

  Gideon’s suggestion elicited a nervous twitch from Thatcher. The youth glanced about, balancing the importance of what he had to say against the idea of once again challenging his captain’s judgment. Glancing unsurely at the ground, he cleared his throat.