Fool's Errand

by David G. Johnson

  Melizar replaced the dimensional pocket in his pack. He then turned toward Thatcher and opened the beautifully embossed leather-bound box. The inside was lined with black velvet. It held, in a perfectly formed mold, the embodiment of Thatcher’s thoughts from the page of his notebook.

  “It is like seeing my idea leap to life before my eyes.”

  There, in the box, was a beautifully crafted handheld, repeating crossbow formed of grayish-black metal.

  “This, my friend, is a D’zarik handbow,” Melizar explained. “It will hold up to five mini bolts at one time. You will find one hundred custom bolts, as well as a hip-quarrel for twenty of them at a time, in the leather bag there. All of this is my gift to you. I am afraid getting more bolts outside of a D’zarik city will be difficult, but fortunately, the bolts themselves are forged from a rare black metal called D’zarium, which you could not break even if you fired them point-blank at a solid stone wall. I am giving you a hundred because you will be much more likely to lose them in battle than to find any way to break them.”

  Thatcher fought past the lump in his throat, scrambling for adequate words.

  “Um, th-thank you. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You have already said it.”

  “If I may ask, what is the magical quality of the handbow?”

  “Ah, yes, about that. You see there is another rare metal, which the Durgak and V’rassi commonly use, called Durium. It is silver in color and nearly as strong as D’zarium. It is magical in nature, and all things made with it carry a natural dweomer, a magical potential, by nature. This dweomer enables Durium to lend itself easily to accepting further enchantments, more so than any other substance in the world.”

  “But it is metal. How can it be used for crossbow arms. Will it not be too inflexible to use?”

  “It is very strong but also has a flexibility and lightness to it that D’zarium cannot match. Durium chainmail would be amazingly light and durable, but when a bit more firmness is needed, Durium is forged into an alloy, either with steel or some other firmer metal. D’zarik are famous for D’zarium-Durium alloy, which we use in our armor and weapons. Pure D’zarium is as hard and unbreakable as diamond, but you will see from your bolts is a very heavy metal. It is also incredibly inflexible.

  “A full suit of pure D’zarium armor would be nearly too heavy to move in. Blending it with the feathery-light but almost equally strong Durium creates the grayish-black metal that comprises the body of the handbow. This makes it light to wield, and the flexibility lent by the Durium makes it possible to forge the cross-arms.”

  “So it is a magical alloy?”

  “Not so much magical and filled with magical potential. If the handbow was pure D’zarium, it would be useless. The strongest Nephilim could not bend the arms. The alloy, however, gives it tensile strength far beyond wood. It will hold its shape forever once forged.”

  “The string looks metallic too, but different than the body.”

  “Very observant of you to notice. The string is much more silvery in color. It is pure, braided Durium cord with just some dye to darken the hue to approximate the rest of the bow.”

  Melizar beckoned the thief to his feet.

  “Enough of this for now. In the bag with the bolts and quiver, you will find a waist belt and holster for the handbow. It hangs on your side and ties off to your leg to hold the handbow secure as you move and travel. When you pull the handbow straight up, away from the bottom of the holster, you will be able to pull it free. It will take some getting used to. Due to their weight, the bolts drop over distance faster than normal quarrels would. With practice, I have no doubt you will be as deadly with it as you are with your own invention.”

  “I…I don’t know how to thank you for such an amazing gift, Melizar.”

  “Enough for now. Put them away under your bedroll and follow me. It is time to put your faith in the tolerance of your companions to the test. Remember, I honor your willingness to stand with me, but if things go badly, do not place yourself in the middle. That will not be a safe place to be for anyone who wishes to see sundown today.”

  Thatcher quickly tucked away his new treasures under his blanket and went to rouse Goldain while Melizar went off to speak with Captain Tropham.

  “What?” grumbled the Qarahni prince when Thatcher gave him a hearty shake.

  “Goldain, I know it is still early, but if you don’t mind, Melizar and I need a few words in private before we leave.”

  “Yeah, sure kid. I’ll be up in a moment.”

  Thatcher left the northerner to pull himself together. He and Melizar then approached Captain Gideon, whose strength had recovered remarkably. The mage broke the silence.

  “Captain, if you don’t mind a short delay in our departure, Thatcher and I would like a word in private with you and Prince Goldain. I have asked the troopers to leave the meeting tent up for a while longer to facilitate some privacy in our discussions.”

  “Good morning to you too, Melizar,” Gideon said with a smile. “It must be an urgent matter indeed to cut straight through pleasantries and right to the subject.”

  “My apologies, captain. I am unaccustomed to the cultural niceties of the northwest. I am afraid directness is of greater value where I come from.”

  “I understand,” Gideon answered. “Whatever it is I am sure we can sort it through soon enough.”

  While they waited in the meeting tent for Goldain to join them, Gideon wondered about all this secrecy surrounding the mage. He suspected it had something to do with what they had seen of his hands. Secrecy seemed the norm for their magical companion, but with this urgent, unplanned conference, perhaps the breakthrough in trust Gideon had been hoping for might finally manifest.

  He already had an inkling about Melizar’s secret but was interested to see how much the mage would choose to reveal. The closeness with young Thatcher was a new and unanticipated twist, though. Apparently the boy was already in some type of cooperative relationship with the mage. That could take things in a few interesting directions, depending on how this played out.

  Growing up, Gideon heard the V’rassi of Ketarynne speak often of their subterranean counterparts the D’zarik. Gideon had never personally seen one, but based on the secrecy and the skin tone, the thought that Melizar was at least partially D’zarik seemed likely. It would certainly explain his remaining completely covered around those who dwelt on the surface.

  The V’rassi warned the Parynlanders often against trusting the D’zarik, but Gideon had always lived by the admonition of the One Lord that a tree would be known by its fruit. A good tree would bear good fruit, and a bad tree could not help but bear bad fruit. As the root was, so would the fruit be. Thus far, Melizar had given him no reason to consider him anything but a brother-in-arms, regardless of the color of his skin or the race of his ancestors. This would be an interesting meeting.

  As the four compatriots filed into the tent, with Goldain dragging in last still rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the northerner opened the conversation.

  “I hope this meeting doesn’t involve the need to think so early in the morning. We did so much talking, planning, and scheming last night I thought my head might burst. If you need ideas, you brainy folk don’t need me. If you need me to hit something, let me know, but otherwise, I was having a wonderful dream I intend to finish.”

  “Don’t worry, big guy,” Thatcher replied, “we will try not to make you think. If you don’t mind, however, our mage has some things to say, and we would appreciate you being awake enough to listen. Believe me, you hitting things is the last thing I want to see during this meeting. Just remember that.”

  Thatcher’s half-joking, half-serious response seemed to snap the northerner to full consciousness. He sat up and at least gave the appearance of his full attention.

  “Captain Gideon,” Melizar began, “you once urged me to trust you and said that my secrets, while respected by you, were not necessary.”

  Gideon nodde
d in agreement.

  “I am taking you at your word as a paladin and am about to entrust you with my secret and my life. Young Thatcher already knows what I am about to reveal to you. He seems to think that you and our huge, sleepy friend here will be as accepting and understanding as he has been. We have trusted his instincts with this plan and our adventure so far. I hope he is once again proven right.”

  Without further word, Melizar reached inside his hood to pull down the cloth mask covering most of his face. He was still hidden well within the shadow of his hood, but with a steady, determined motion he pulled back the hood of his robes and revealed his face to his companions. As they sat in staring silence, Gideon noticed the mage drop his right hand to the mouth of the belt pouch containing his kashaph components.

  Gideon and the others saw Melizar’s white hair and dark bluish-black skin. His ears raised to points much like aV’rassi’s. As with the chats-enash of most Ayabim races, he looked almost indistinguishably like his non-human parent, in this case a D’zarik. The difference was his eyes.

  According to what Gideon had been told, D’zarik had eyes as red as glowing coals. Melizar’s irises were pools of brilliant lapis-lazuli blue, not so different from Gideon’s but lighter and brighter in color. The effect of the blue eyes in the middle of the otherwise dark features was a stunning contrast.

  The effect of this sudden revelation, compared to what Melizar might have been expecting, was severely underwhelming. Gideon calmly gazed at the mage as if still awaiting some world-shattering revelation beyond Melizar’s D’zarik parentage.

  Goldain, looking as though he beheld any other V’rassi or Adami, was the first to speak.

  “Uh, that’s it? So you are an elf with a skin condition and white hair. Is this what this whole deal was about? Honestly, Duncan is twice as ugly as you are. Maybe you should let him borrow your cloak from now on.”

  The companions erupted into laughter, all except Melizar. He stood looking puzzled by the staggering nonreaction of his companions.

  “It doesn’t concern you that a descendant of an Ayabim race has been in your midst all this time?”

  “Brother,” Goldain answered, “I have never seen anyone of your race, and I don’t read those old books either. You look like a V’rassi that has been playing with the chimney flue. Beyond that, you are the same gobbler-freezing, dead-guy-brain-reading, seeing-in-the-dark mage who has fought and bled by our side for the past few weeks. Don’t make no difference to me if you are black, blue, or purple. You are part of our team and that’s good enough for me. If you wanna keep hiding your face and being all mysterious, that’s up to you, but if you were bundling up on our account, it looks like you can drop that whole bit.”

  “Well,” Gideon spoke up, “perhaps you might not want to drop the disguise quite yet. While I echo Goldain’s sentiment, I think you might want to hold onto the whole mysterious cloak business a little while longer.”

  “Go on, captain,” Melizar said, his attention focused on every word from Gideon’s mouth.

  “I know from your appearance that you are most likely a D’zarik chats-enash.”

  “You surmise correctly, captain.”

  “Then if you still plan to accompany us to Cyria, as I mentioned, the Cyrians are xenophobic and don’t usually allow any non-human races within their border. Being chats-enash might be enough to argue for your admittance, but I would rather not end up in a battle because I assumed incorrectly. Once we are out of Cyria, it is up to you to hide or reveal what you wish, but for now a mysterious, cloaked mage might be easier for them to swallow than a D’zarik chats-enash.”

  “I understand the wisdom in your counsel, captain. Although I must admit I am still reeling a bit that you all reacted quite differently to this revelation than I expected.”

  “What did you expect?” Gideon asked, though he could guess much of the answer. Doubtless the D’zarik were as untrusting of surface worlders as the V’rassi were of D’zarik.

  “I have been taught from childhood to hate and mistrust upworlders. Yet here you stand beside me in good faith, with no obvious intent to harm me.”

  “Well,” Goldain said through a smirk, “we wouldn’t want to be too obvious about killing you, right?”

  Gideon sensed Melizar tense and his hand drift once again toward his belt pouch.

  “Goldain is joking, Melizar,” Thatcher said, apparently also having noticed the sudden shift in the mage’s posture. “ And a pretty poor time to joke, I’d say.” Thatcher kicked Goldain in the shin for emphasis.

  “Hey! Don’t get your robes in a bunch, Mel. I’m just razzing you. You are one of us. I don’t care what anybody told you, I judge my friends on what they do, not how they look. You got nothing to fear from anyone in this company while Captain Gideon and I are around.”

  “Goldain is right,” Gideon added. “None of us mean you any harm. You are valued and welcome here just as much as Goldain, Thatcher, Tropham, or anyone else.”

  “Well then, captain,” Melizar said, once again visibly relaxing. “It is well we have a long journey ahead, for I have much to ponder. As strange as this may seem, for the first time in my life, I may actually be among those I can consider friends.”

  He replaced his hood and mask as the companions filed out of the tent. Tropham’s trooper quickly converged on the now-empty tent to complete their breaking camp. Gideon could not help but think how sad a testimony that was if Melizar’s last statement were indeed true. To go an entire life and not know friendship, how dark a place Shadowdeep must indeed be.

  Thatcher patted Melizar on the shoulder as they returned to pack their bedrolls.

  “Told ya so. Mel.”

  “That you did.”

  “You know, if what you said back there was true, the D’zarik must be a very suspicious people. But you have really great toys!”

  “My young friend, you have not even begun to scratch the surface of the truth on either count.”

  Thatcher went off in the direction of his blankets and hidden treasure. Before he got into his new D’zarik-made toys, however, he took the coins he had and brought them to Captain Tropham.

  “Captain, I know this is not much compared to the sacrifice your troopers or Captain Donovan’s berserkers made on this journey, but please accept these coins. Would you see that they are given to the families of the fallen troopers and berserkers to help in whatever way they can. It is small compensation among so many, but it is all I have, and I want them to have it.”

  Captain Tropham was visibly moved.

  “I will do as you ask. I saw you yesterday scouring the bodies before we burned them, but I figured it was your right to scavenge what you could. You certainly more than carried your own in the battle, so I did not begrudge you picking a few enemy pockets.”

  Thatcher blushed.

  “You saw that, huh?”

  “Yes, but for you now to give all you scavenged to the families of the victims is a great gesture. I will see your wishes are accomplished. From my troopers and I, let me say thank you for remembering the families of these men. If it is all right with you, we will add it to the collection we have already taken up amongst my surviving men and give it from the whole company. That way, it may stretch a bit farther, although I would say by the weight of this sack the lion’s share will still be from you.”

  “My name doesn’t matter. No need to tell anyone where it came from. Just say it’s from your men. The families of the fallen getting whatever help those coins will buy is the most important thing. It is one of the many things I have learned from Captain Gideon in my time with him.”

  “Captain Gideon is a good man,” Tropham continued. “There is a great deal we all might learn from him. Be safe on your journey, young master, and One Lord willing, we will meet again in Stonehold in a week or so.”

  Thatcher returned to his bedroll and opened the large, embossed leather bag. It was beautifully crafted, and the black leather seemed softer and more supple than any h
ide he had ever felt. He wondered what type of wondrous creature living beneath the surface of the world had given its skin for such a bag. He would have to remember to ask Melizar.

  Inside the bag, as Melizar said, was a complicated looking leather belt rigging of the same black color as the outer bag only much more stiff and sturdy. After a few moments of puzzling over the complex series of straps, belts, and buckles, Thatcher figured it out. It looped around the waist with a covered quiver of twenty mini-bolts for the handbow resting on the left hip and a rigging for the handbow itself on the right. The bottom of the handbow rigging tied to the thigh just above the right knee. Once outfitted in the rigging, Thatcher gingerly took the handbow from its ornate box, loaded five of the D’zarium bolts into the reloading chamber, and slipped it into its holster. It went into its casing as smoothly as a hot dagger through warm butter.

  The weight was good, but as Melizar said, the bolts were much heavier than expected. They were solid black, from nock to fletching, shaft to head. He knew time was of the essence now. They were already later than planned in setting out, but he could hardly wait to try out his new toy.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Thatcher saw Goldain struggling to wake a reluctant Jeslyn from her too-short sleep. Once Thatcher learned to master this handbow, he would show her who could shoot from horseback!

  Horseback…

  The thought terrified him. He had only been on a horse twice in his life. Once was when his friend Ebon had thrown him up behind and galloped through the city with Thatcher clinging on for dear life. The other was when the rogues of the guild thought it would be funny to put the novices on the back of an unbroken stallion as a form of initiation. That had probably been the shortest ride in history as Thatcher thought he remembered being bucked off before he was even fully on. He hit the ground like a bag of potatoes dropped off the back of a wagon, and remembered wondering if he would ever be able to breathe again.

  That fall resulted in two cracked ribs. It had taken him weeks before he was able to move around and breathe without pain. The Rogues Guild was not a gentle place to grow up, but it looked now like all that was behind him.