Saving Solace
( Champions - 1 )
Douglas W. Clark
Douglas W. Clark
Saving Solace
CHAPTER 1
Tom Osterman gripped the reins impatiently but made himself keep them slack, letting the lead horse set the pace as the team, a pair of massive draft animals, pulled the old farm wagon toward Solace. The wagon, heavily laden with potatoes, carrots, beats, and freshly ground flour, rattled and jolted over the rutted road. To the right, the rising sun had cleared most of the trees, and the day was already warm and tangy with pine resin. Somewhere a meadowlark sang its clear, lilting notes.
"I don't care what you say," Tom's wife, Sophie, went on, continuing an argument that had occupied the pair since leaving Jutlin Wykirk's mill down on Solace Stream. "I don't like him. He's such an… an…" She searched for a word that sufficiently expressed her distaste. "An odd sort," she concluded at last. "Always going on about outsiders who've been making their way into Solace these days-kender, elves, and whatnot. Even a couple of minotaurs he claims to have spotted." She thought for a moment.
"Well, maybe the minotaurs I can understand, though I've never seen one myself. But I've heard things about the horned race, and I know I wouldn't care to have any direct dealings with one."
"Ah, he's a good sort," Tom said.
"Who?" she asked, having lost her own train of thought.
"Jutlin," Tom said, flicking his eyes at her-like all of his movements, a tight, intense action. "He's a mite peculiar, I admit, and he does carry on about outside influences, but he's basically all right."
Sophie sniffed, her mouth pursed disapprovingly.
"I rather like the few elves I've met," Tom continued. "Such fine fellows. A bit on the proud side, perhaps, but basically a good sort."
"Oh, that's the trouble with you, Tom Osterman. You think everyone is a good sort."
"Well, weren't you just criticizing Jutlin for not thinking everyone is a good sort?"
"Don't you go getting all logical on me!" She stared straight ahead for a moment. "Besides, even you have to admit Solace has changed since they've all been pouring in," she added.
"Well, of course it has. I never denied that."
"There you go, then."
Tom wasn't sure where he went, except to market, but he knew better than to argue.
Around them the woodlands opened out, giving way to fields as they approached the outskirts of town, although they were still far enough away that much of the land stood untilled. Tom hauled back on the reins, and the wagon lumbered to a stop. The lead horse stood patiently waiting for the next command while the other horse began contentedly munching grass along the side of the road.
"Look, there it is," Tom cried, indicating a field to the left of the road with a sweep of his arm. "That's the one I was talking about." He jumped to his feet and surveyed the land as if he could see it more clearly from the vantage of his modest height. The lead horse, evidently mistaking his arm gesture as a command, started forward again, jolting the wagon. Tom sat down abruptly. "Whoa!"
Sophie rolled her eyes. "Yes, I see it."
"Well, what do you think? Wouldn't it be the perfect place to start expanding the farm?"
"What I think is that we'd better get going if we want to get to market in time. You know all the best deals are made early."
Tom stood up again and sprang down from the wagon. "Ah, we've got time."
"Tom, where are you going?"
"To get the proper feel for the land, you've got to walk it." He motioned to her. "Come on."
She didn't budge. "We've talked about this before, and I still say we can't afford to spend the coin."
"Just walk it with me," Tom pleaded.
She rolled her eyes again but stood. Tom grinned and helped her down. "Come on," he said again and, taking her hand, pulled her with him into the field. She plodded after him, unwilling to be hurried. "Isn't it a great piece of land?" he asked. He let go of her hand and crouched, scooping up the loose, black earth. The rich odor of it rose to his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply. "That's good soil. We could grow anything in that."
"We already do, in the fields we have," she reminded him. "People already say we sell the best produce in Solace." She studied the sun, now angling higher beyond the other side of the road. Her mouth was set in a grim line. "That is, when we make it to market in time."
"Ah, why can't you see the beauty of this?" She spun on him. "Because I've seen the 'beauty' of too many of your schemes as it is, Tom Osterman! I've seen how hard we both have to work taking care of the land we already farm."
He shrugged. "We'll hire more help."
"Spend more coin?" She stalked back to the wagon. "I'm not even in favor of spending what it would cost to buy the land, and already you're wanting to hire extra hands."
Tom scowled, staring off toward the far edge of the field. "What's that?"
"I said I don't want to spend the coin."
"No, that." Tom pointed to where crows were flocking around what looked like a small earthen mound.
Her gaze followed in the direction he was pointing. She pursed her lips. "I don't know. A pile of dirt maybe. What difference does it make?" She again headed for the wagon.
Tom didn't move. "That's not a pile of dirt."
"Tom, we don't have time to waste on any of your wild ideas. We've got to get these goods to market."
But he was already bounding across the field, his attention fixed on the crows that cawed and feuded as if contending for something. By the time Tom was thirty yards away, he had a pretty good idea what that something was, although he kept hoping he was wrong. But the closer he got, the more his certainty grew. It was a body.
Not just any body, he saw when he drew up to it, scattering crows as he windmilled his arms and shouted.
It was the body of Graylord Joyner, sheriff of Solace.
A blue-black line of coagulated blood stood out against the sheriff's throat, and the ground around him was stained the same dark color where that blood had spilled out upon the earth. The air here reeked of blood, drowning out the fertile, loamy smell of the field. Tom held his breath against the stench and stooped for a closer look.
The sheriff's shirt had been torn open and into the flesh of his chest was carved a word: Morgoth. Tom shook his head in incomprehension.
"Tom, what is it?" Sophie called from the wagon.
He said nothing, thinking what to do. Already the crows were gathering again, flocking closer. He couldn't leave Joyner's body to their predations.
"Tom?" Sophie called again.
He grabbed the body under the arms and heaved. The gash in the sheriff's throat burbled grotesquely as Tom dragged the body toward the wagon. Tom fought down the urge to gag. The sheriff had been a huge man, and although vigorous, Tom was a man of relatively slight stature. Dragging Joyner across the uneven terrain proved hard work and soon had Tom breathing heavily and sweating. Sophie came and stood beside him. "Oh," she said, staring at the body.
"Sophie, wait in the wagon!"
Instead, she leaned down and grabbed one of Joyner's arms. "Don't you even think to be ordering me about, Tom Osterman. I'm your wife, and I'm going to help."
They each took an arm and between the two of them hauled the body to the wagon. Loading it into the bed proved harder, but eventually they managed, flopping the dead man in among the vegetables and flour.
"Here," Sophie said, handing Tom a lap blanket from under the wagon seat. "Wrap him in this so he doesn't get blood on any of the produce."
"I think all his blood ran out already back there," Tom said. Nevertheless, he covered the sheriff and tucked the blanket hem under the body, as much out of respect for the dead man as to pre
vent any further blood from getting on anything.
They made the rest of the journey in unaccustomed silence. When they reached town, it was still early enough that few people were up and about, and their progress through the streets went disregarded except for an occasional hallo from passersby. They returned the greetings with grim nods, and if anyone found them unusually taciturn this day, it was dismissed with a shrug. People had their own affairs to consider, and the peculiarities of farm folk held little interest to the citizens of Solace.
Tom made his way to a quiet side street that housed the shop of Argyle Hulsey, a local healer Tom and Sophie had once consulted about their apparent infertility. Although Mistress Hulsey had been unable to help them conceive, hers was the only place Tom could think of to go now on this graver occasion. Outside the shop, he helped Sophie dismount. "Go find the mayor," he whispered. "The healer's servant will help me get the body inside."
She slipped off down the street as Tom knocked softly on the shop door.
¦ ¦¦¦ ¦
Palin Majere, mayor of Solace, bent over the body laid out on a worktable in the healer's shop and examined the word gouged into its chest. The smell of pungent herbs and potions almost cloaked the scent of death that clung to Sheriff Joyner's corpse. "What do you make of it?" Palin asked.
"Morgoth?" asked the grizzled, one-armed deputy, Sir Vercleese uth Rothgaard. "It sounds like a word out of the ancient elven tongue." He shook his head. "Not that that helps us much. I don't know the word nor the tongue."
Palin glanced at Argyle Hulsey, but she too shook her head before turning back to her mortar and pestle. "It can't have a very friendly meaning," Palin said, "since it looks as though the sheriff was murdered."
"He was a good man," said Sir Vercleese solemnly. "Didn't have enemies to speak of."
"No." Palin studied the body again. "Well, we'll give him a proper burial, of course, but we'll have to start looking for a new sheriff right away." He parted the curtains just enough to peek out the window to where the town now bustled with activity. The new Temple of Mishakal was scheduled to be dedicated in a few tendays, and Solace was full of visiting dignitaries, pilgrims, and other less savory folk, on top of the immigrants and refugees who already had the town stuffed to overflowing. "This is not a good time to be without a sheriff," Palin muttered.
The corners of Vercleese's mouth quirked down, and his brow furrowed for the briefest instant, immediately replaced by the mask of studied detachment that settled again upon his face. Had Palin not been watching the man, he would have missed the expression entirely.
The former knight's dignity had been slighted.
"I'm sorry, Sir Vercleese," Palin said softly. "It's not that you wouldn't do a fine job-"
Vercleese waved him off with his one hand. "I understand, sir. You need a younger, able-bodied man in the job. And I agree." He paused then added, "Did you have someone in mind?"
"I just might at that," Palin said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin. "But I'll need a message delivered to Southern Ergoth. Will you carry it for me?"
If possible, Vercleese stood straighter, and his chest swelled. "It would be my honor, Your Lordship. I'll leave at once."
"Good. It'll take you a few days to get there, then a few days coming back, with I don't know how much time required in between. All the while, Solace will be at a disadvantage."
"I'll make good time," the old warrior said stiffly.
Palin clapped him on the shoulder. "I know you will."
An hour later, Vercleese mounted his horse and slipped out of town unnoticed. He would follow Solace Stream down to the White-Rage River, which would take him to New Ports. From there, he would seek passage to Southern Ergoth. His departure was accomplished, Palin assured himself, with the utmost prudence. Argyle Hulsey's discretion in the matter could be relied upon. No one in town need be any the wiser for at least several days.
¦ ¦ ¦ ¦ ¦
"Sheriff Joyner was murdered?" repeated an incredulous man in the crowd that had gathered around the Ostermans' booth in the marketplace.
Tom Osterman, still unloading vegetables from the wagon and arranging them enticingly on the crude wooden counter, nodded. "That's what I said."
There was considerable jostling in the crowd as people strained to hear the Ostermans' news. Tom glanced at Sophie, who frowned in apparent disapproval that people had come to hear the gossip rather than to buy the produce. "Got some mighty fine beets," Tom called out, seeking to shift the topic of discussion. "And the potatoes are especially good this year."
"And what did you say was carved on the sheriffs chest?" another voice demanded.
Tom blew out an exasperated breath. "Morgoth, I think it was. Anybody know what it means?"
There was a general shaking of heads, and no one spoke for a moment.
"What do you say, folks? We have some of the best produce in Solace here," Tom said, trying again. He held up a bunch of plump, sweet-looking carrots in one hand, a fresh onion in the other, and gazed questioningly at the crowd.
It seemed the populace of Solace grew more diverse with each trip he and Sophie made into town. Humans still numbered in the majority, but among the milling crowd today were several dwarves-from sober representatives out of Thorbardin to the merest gully dwarf-a cluster of smoke-stained gnomes deep in discussion, an elf or two, a kender with purloined carrot tops peeking out of several of his innumerable pouches, and a couple of well-armed draconians, hissing in that sibilant tongue of theirs and shunned by the rest of the crowd. Across the marketplace there was even a minotaur-a huge, fur-covered man with the head of a bull and great, curving horns-breasting his way through the crowd toward the Ostermans' booth.
Beside him, Tom heard Sophie gasp at the minotaur's approach.
It was now midmorning, and the marketplace was teeming. There was a rich variety of booths, selling swords and knives, silks and satins, and all manner of foodstuffs. The aroma of roasting meat floated above the crowd. The tunes played by musicians competed with the shrill noise of the sword maker's grinding wheel and the bidding of customers.
Not everybody was on their best behavior. Tom watched a fight break out a few booths over as two tinkers competed for the same repair job. They wrestled one another to the ground and rolled about underfoot, at which point the woman seeking to have her pot mended shook her head in disgust and walked away, presumably to find another vendor.
The minotaur reached the Ostermans' booth and addressed Sophie. "Some of those beets and carrots, if you would be so good," he said in a rumbling voice that seemed more command than request. Sophie gulped and hastened to comply.
Tom's attention was distracted by a scuffle that broke out in front of his own booth. "No need to push," Tom said, stepping between a tough-looking human and two elves. "There's plenty of produce here to go around."
"They know what it means," the tough-looking man said, pointing to the elves.
"What what means?" Tom asked.
"Morgoth," the tough said. "Tell 'em." He elbowed one of the elves, who scowled down at the ruffian as though the human were beneath contempt.
"Sir elf, can you enlighten us?" Tom asked as others drew closer, listening.
For a moment, it looked as though the elf-tall, thin, and haughty as were all of his kind, his features sharp and his dark hair only partially covering his pointed ears-would disdain to reply. Then he frowned and said, "Beware. It means beware." With that, he and his companion turned and strode off.
A chill went down Tom's spine, and for a moment all was silent before his booth. Even the minotaur had paused to listen. Then the crowd broke into a multitude of languages and voices, each person striving to make himself heard above the commotion. «Beware» sprang from tongue to tongue, leaping like a squirrel darting though the trees. Beware, beware! But beware of what?
No one seemed to know the answer to that.
CHAPTER 2
Gerard uth Mondar straightened his jerkin, already worn with military pr
ecision, and ran a hand through his short-cropped hair in an attempt to smooth it into place. The attempt was useless, he knew, for his hair would stand up in straw-yellow, unruly tufts despite his best efforts, which was why he kept it cut short. As for his face, well, there was nothing to be done about that either. The scars he had borne since childhood illness ravaged his face were still there. Along his jaw, his dark brown beard grew in patchy and splotchy. The only reason he kept the beard was to help hide the scars. Between hairline and beard reigned a nose that was permanently askew from a fight in his youth, while to each side of it sat the startlingly blue eyes that were Gerard's best feature.
Gerard had come to accept that his was an ugly face, and regrets or what-ifs were pointless. But he wished he could look a trifle more presentable on this particular occasion, as he confronted his father, Mondar uth Alfric.
He paced his sparsely furnished chamber in the palatial family residence on Southern Ergoth, where, a fortnight ago, he had come after resigning his commission in the Knights of Solamnia. Since then, his father had refused to see him, furious over Gerard's action, but now Gerard's father had requested his presence in the chamber where Mondar directed the sprawling shipbuilding and repair business that had made the family wealthy.
Gerard's boot heels clicked on the parquet floor, five paces across, five paces back, as exactingly measured as if he were still serving on guard duty somewhere. The footsteps echoed off the hard, unornamented plaster walls. He stopped, took a deep breath, and was about to leave his room when a servant appeared at the door. "Yes?" Gerard said.
"Excuse me, sir. A messenger has arrived for you."
Gerard frowned, wondering at this puzzling news. "Show him in," he said, determining to deal with this matter quickly, then get on with his own audience in his father's chambers.
The servant ushered an aging, one-armed man into the room. The stranger bore himself with the rigid, erect discipline of a career soldier. "Sir Vercleese uth Rothgaard," the servant announced, then bowed and disappeared.
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