The sky darkened under a canopy of stars, as festivities continued. Off to the side of the inn, several people looked over the odd flying contraption. None got too close; for the word had spread that the wizard had placed some kind of magical trap on it. Rumors of the protective spell’s deadliness spread and grew in the telling. Townsfolk marveled its beauty from afar. The visiting wizard sat near his machine, sharing a drink with a small gnome.
Mel Bellringer spoke from around the sides of his mouth as he smoked his pipe. “So there are actually about six races of gnomes in the realms, descended from the original tribe many centuries before the cataclysms of the Godswars. Humans and elves saw fit to classify them into only two races, the forest gnomes and the mountain gnomes.”
Korrelothar Balshav responded, “My pardon then, I didn’t know how gnomes classified the different branches of their race. But you are from among the forest gnomes are you not? Yet you seem to have a lot of knowledge regarding your mountain brothers.”
As the elf sipped some more of the local wine, Mel explained, “I was kicked out of my forest home, sad to say. In looking to expand my magical talent, I found myself staying with some mountain gnomes in the range between here and Orlaun. Mountain gnomes are more technically inclined, whilst forest gnomes tend to prefer wooded hideaways and more natural surroundings. As such, mountain gnomes are also more open to innovative and new ideas, such as magical talent. There are forest gnomes who study magic, but my family would not have it.”
“I see,” replied Korrelothar. “I would like to hear more of your stay with those gnomes. I bet you could tell lots of stories. It’s good to chat with you.”
Mel beamed, “I could talk all day about my mountain kin! Thank you for your compliments, too often I am in chats where I am the only one holding up my end of the conversation!”
Elf and gnome talked merrily despite distracting, albeit good, music coming from a band in front of the inn. Even small villages have their musicians to boast about, Troutbrook had seven. One played mandolin, the other a fiddle, and both seemed to blend fairly well. One member of the band blew merrily into a flute, while another had a smaller pipe instrument fashioned from a seashell. Two women sang along with the melodies, while a final member of the band banged on a hand drum. Half of the band was actually lay members of the church, and often performed religious songs during services. Several people were dancing out in front of the band. Many of the songs had no words, but gave out a beat for certain dance rhythms. During those times the two women vocalists would lead the town in specific dances, popular in larger cities, that followed the beat of the music. The center streets of the village became a whirl of rows and pairs of dancing figures.
Down the street a bit, some men were drinking out in front of the local pub. While the inn was a place for socializing, the pub offered serious drinking and other camaraderie. In front of the pub, several men gathered around a dwarf and an unlit brazier. The owner of the pub placed it outside to provide light, though it was not yet lit.
Salgor had already shared some samples of his own “Bandago’s Brew” with the owner. His homebrew was dwarven ale, but the stout warrior had no shortage of drink varieties carried in his large pack. He stood by the brazier with patrons, explaining how dwarven whiskey was brewed. “The trick with dwarven whiskey isn’t the taste, as long as you have plenty of alcohol. The true test o’ the whiskey is how flammable it can be! You attach a flint for a lighter, swallow a mouthful, then you light it and belch…like so!”
The dwarf took a large mouthful from a flask at his belt. He then flipped something at the lip of the container with his thumb, igniting a piece of cloth there. Then he blew the whiskey through the flame, sending a sudden fireball into the dry brazier. People jumped back, and even the band missed a beat at the sudden flame in front of the pub. The tinder in the bowl caught fire fast, starting up a flame in the brazier. The drinking patrons laughed and cheered at the dwarf.
Salgor Bandago then snuffed the wick on the bottle, and downed the rest of the whiskey. “Now that is dwarven fire! It was used with good results many times when I find myself in a pinch.”
The dwarf then hushed a bit, as if whispering in a conspirator’s manner, though all around could still hear him well. “But the real trick when you start trying it is to practice well enough or you will suffer the worst mishap imaginable…”
Everyone leaned in close, but Salgor made sure all attention was on him before he let out his next outburst. When everyone was quiet and listening to him, he let them in on the one thing dwarves fear when learning that trick. “Your beard will catch on fire!”
As the drinkers laughed, Salgor put on a show. He pretended to panic at some imaginary fire on his beard, and frantically swatted at it to try and put out the imagined flames. He ran circles and howled to the delight and entertainment of the onlookers.
Slightly removed from the majority of the night’s activities, the smithy sat a short walk from the inn. Much of the revelry remained within sight, but the shop itself sat on the quieter fringes. Trestan and Hebden enjoyed a cozy fire outside, socializing with friends and longtime customers. The young man’s armor and sword displayed upon a stand. He showed it off proudly, though he listened more than spoke. Hebden had learned about most of the details of the trip south, but Trestan said little to others about the incident. He remained shy about it, unsure how much he wanted to express openly after all the hardships of the road. Many people paid a visit, sharing their relief at seeing Trestan home and healthy. A good number of old neighbors were already very loosened up with liquor, treating Trestan as if he was their best friend as they slurred their conversations. The young smith simply smiled, a little shy about the attention. When Trestan had the opportunity, he asked Petrow and Salgor about Cat’s whereabouts during one of their visits. The two responded that she hadn’t been seen since riding with Lady Shauntay up to the Tessald mansion.
Petrow had offered a guess, “I’m sure the Lord Verantir has a lot of questions, and he will demand full answers. I’m sure she has a lot to talk about up there, but nothing to worry about. She’ll be back as soon as they remember she’s a commoner.”
With a wink, Petrow departed with Salgor. Trestan had wandered closer to the celebration a few times, but strayed back to his chair in the smithy. Every trip earned a free drink from someone, but without having Cat for companionship the young man kept drifting back to his father and home. For some reason, it seemed less of a celebration if he couldn’t have fun with the beautiful half-elf.
Meanwhile, the companions moved about the crowd during the evening, yet stayed the center of attention wherever they went. Mel Bellringer found himself surrounded by curious children. At three feet tall, many of the human children stood at eye level. The gnome loved the attention of kids, and soon he was entertaining them. “Now, watch these surprises, young ones. They won’t harm you, but they will make a loud noise!”
Mel ringed a small area with a protective field similar to what Revwar had used during the bluff battle. The barrier did nothing to block the view of things going on behind it. From outside of the misty barrier, children watched as Mel tossed a few small pinches of clay on the ground.
POP! POP!
Using a small version of his “Timed Boomy” spell, he was setting off little firecrackers that popped and fizzled on the ground. Children screamed, squealed and laughed as the little clay pieces blasted up puffs of dirt.
“Ooh! That was a nice one. How about five at once?” Mel smiled to the kids.
Another series of popping and cracking erupted inside the field, to the delight of several children.
Off in the street, a couple dancers fell down laughing as a complicated dance routine resulted in a soft collision. Korrelothar tried teaching a delicate elven dance. At least one dancer was not graceful enough to follow the course without knocking down his dance partner and a few others. The errant dancer climbed back to his feet with much noise and grunting.
“I’m
not so full o’ the spirits that I can’t dance straight!” Salgor Bandago bellowed as he got up. “It’s these prancing elf movements, akin to guiding horses through small tunnels. I’ve a bit too much girth for them. Give me a real foot-stomping, marching rhythm!”
Trestan had wandered back into the main crowd when he caught sight of one of his friends helping a maiden to her feet due to the dance mishap. Petrow laughed as he helped an auburn-haired young lady stand, then both turned around to help dust off the dwarf. Much giggling and laughing followed, before Salgor went to “refill my throat with the gods’ water.”
Petrow wore a smile when he turned and saw Trestan giggling at them all. The older youth spoke, “And I suppose you’ve never lost your footing on the dance floor! Especially when fine vintages have been flowing so freely!”
Trestan nodded, “Of course I have, but it is more entertaining when someone else takes a tumble. I didn’t realize two people could flatten a dwarf so easy with a dance step.”
The young lady clinging to Petrow’s side drew Trestan’s attention. The handyman saw the two exchange glances, and suddenly remembered proper manners. “Tres, you remember Inedra here? Milady, this is my friend Trestan, surely you have seen him before.”
The young woman curtsied as she was introduced, then spoke, “The other hero of the village, I am honored and delighted. Oh my, you two have acquired a lot of well-deserved attention tonight. I’m glad I could get one of you to myself for a few dances.” Now the young maiden turned her look meaningfully towards Petrow, “And maybe a few more after I return? I’ll be right back for another dance if you’ll wait for me.”
She looked alluring. Trestan remembered her as a daughter of one of the local farmers, and someone whom Petrow had been seen with on a few occasions. Petrow kissed her hand and replied, “I would win through any dark night or adventure for the chance to find myself back in your arms for another dance. Be swift and hurry back to me.”
She giggled as she walked away. Her eyes went behind her and she winked back to Petrow as she walked through the crowd. Trestan smiled a knowing smile when Petrow finally took his eyes off her. The older youth blushed, “It seems I have a few lady followers tonight, and several have been asking about you too.”
Petrow raised his eyebrows in an inquisitive manner; Trestan kept a smile but fidgeted. “And a few of them have found me. There have been many interesting discussions over at the forge…”
At that, Trestan seemed to frown for a moment, though he regained a smile. “Anyways, I have had time with my father again. That is all the company that I really needed tonight.”
“Aside from Cat, who hasn’t returned from the manor yet?” Petrow asked. He saw a reaction in his friend, and knew he had hit a nerve. Trestan nodded in agreement, but the handyman thought he read something else in his friend’s eyes. “There is something else isn’t there? Maybe something discussed at the smithy?”
“Aye, there was.” Trestan paused before continuing. “I would be happy if my only conversations over there had been discussions of which village girl I would dance with, or how much total strangers seemed to have missed me during my absence. There has been talk about some things that sound rather ominous and dire if they foretell the future of the village.”
Before Trestan could say more, Korrelothar appeared out of the crowd and put a hand on each man’s shoulders. “Ah, Trestan! Glad to again see you doing so well after how much you worried your friends. I’m glad to have come across you all in the wilds. It is very rare indeed that two men of your young years do something so noteworthy and selfless in the face of such a scary foe. Mel has told me much, but I surmise that he tells everyone much!”
Both young men blushed and thanked the elf for his kind words. The wizard asked, “I do hope I wasn’t interrupting something. I just wanted the chance to compliment you when I could catch you two together.”
Petrow cast an unsure look at Trestan, “Not really anything important I guess. We are once and again ever thankful that you stopped to help us.”
The elf nodded gracefully, but assumed he had interrupted something private. Korrelothar started to step away when Trestan held out a hand to stop him. “Wait, good sir. There is something I was about to discuss which you should hear.”
Before saying more, Trestan suddenly looked around the crowd. He seemed suddenly rather guarded, as if whatever he was to say next wasn’t meant for just any ears. Petrow and Korrelothar looked around too, but then shrugged, unsure why Trestan acted secretive. When the young smith spoke, it was in a low voice that only they could hear.
“Korrelothar, I admit Petrow and I overheard you talking to the head priest in his chambers earlier, about the theft of the stone.”
At the mention of the theft, the elf wizard held up a hand in a motion to hush the young man. He said, “Please keep it secret. Almost none know or has a clue yet except those of you that went out to rescue the young lady. Nay need in worrying the populace.”
Trestan nodded his understanding. He figured most of the companions wouldn’t have mentioned the holy relic in their tales, though one could not be sure what may have been said in accident. “I understand and I haven’t mentioned word of it to anyone except for my father. I swore him to secrecy unless someone else already knew and asked him. Anyways, since you have had an interest in studying and searching for more answers about the stone, it might be best if you learn what I’ve heard in discussions.”
The three moved out of the street for some privacy. Though people called out to them, they huddled together to have a private chat. Trestan continued speaking when they were alone.
“As the head cleric told you, Troutbrook has always been blessed with good crops and healthy herds. It’s amazing how one can take that for granted, or attribute it to our own methods or soil. Many farmers and herders pay the stone nay special heed, thinking it nothing more than decorative. Yet I have come to believe that the holy relic did have some helpful influence over this land, and its loss is already being felt.”
Petrow interrupted, “So, you heard some bad news in the discussions over at the smithy?”
As the elf wizard listened with interest, Trestan continued. “Aye. Two things stood out in my mind. Our village is not used to having certain afflictions affect crops. Maybe it was the stone, but we generally haven’t had any plant disease or bad insect infestations in the crops. Tonight I have heard conversations of both. A few farmers, just a small number really, have had some damage to their early crops from bugs and plant disease. This may be normal elsewhere from conversations I heard in Barkan’s Crossing, but it is rather unheard of around this area.”
The elf listened with interest, but to Petrow this was a disturbing eye-opener. Trestan continued, “I heard some complaints from a rancher as well. Not once in anyone’s memories have we had a disease that affected the herds and cattle. Oh, occasionally one or two might die from an illness of some kind, but it happens rarely. From what I heard this evening, there is a contagion sweeping three large ranches on the other side of the river. The herdsmen there are having a hard time trying to get control of it, because they just aren’t used to dealing with animal diseases. Several animals have been quarantined, and some died rather suddenly and unexpectedly.”
Trestan awaited an answer from the elf, while Petrow frowned at the grim possibilities. The handyman felt a chill in the night air for the first time that evening. The wizard absently stroked the mature elf stubble on his chin. He seemed lost in his own world, but soon realized that both young men were looking to him for an answer or reassurance.
The elf put a hand on each young man’s shoulder and whispered, “I thank you for telling me. I hope to see what the cleric has in the histories but from the sounds of it I may spend weeks here trying to research it from old scrolls. You have confirmed some things that I had feared. It sounds like your village was protected by this gift of Yestreal. Now that it has been stolen, your village is vulnerable to normal hazards that you haven’
t faced. It will be a dark time and a hard adjustment for your people. I do worry about why someone would steal the artifact, besides the magic powers of which we are aware”
Trestan spoke, as the elf seemed ready to turn and walk away, “Wait. What can we do? How can you help us?”
Korrelothar Balshav stopped in his tracks, raising eyebrows at the young smith. “What, indeed, can I do for you? I hope to learn more about these items, and therefore understand them better. Maybe one day we can learn enough of why they were taken, and locate the thieves. But, other than that…”
The elf held his hands out to his sides, helpless to suggest further action. Trestan’s strong shoulders sagged as he contemplated there was nothing they could do to repair the damage. The elf took pity on the young men and added, “Do not feel that I will let this issue drop. I take a great interest in helping people, which is how I earned the title ‘The Highwater Conjuror.’ I will find out what I can and some day we may be able to get both stones back where they belong.
“In the meantime, do not despair after all you have accomplished. Both of you earned the celebration today because you are heroes! Without you, the blood spilled on the street that one fateful night would have been for nothing, and the clergy would not know of the theft. I am proud that two people of such humble roots could make a difference against a ship full of mercenaries.”
* * * * *
A procession of royalty entered from the north part of town, interrupting the celebration as it passed under the candelabra of bright stars and glided down an aisle of torchlight. Though the small village could not boast such magnificent pageantry as the nobles and of more enriched societies, the entrance of Lord Verantir Tessald was noteworthy by any means. The presiding lord rode astride his white stallion. Silvery battle mail adorned his body, crowned with a decorative circlet signifying his nobility and title. A scabbard on his mount carried a decorative, gold-filigree, two-handed sword. Aside from fancy dress, and expensive materials, this was still a small-town noble. Nobles from Orlaun or even Kashmer would have scoffed at the lack of extravagance…but to the people of the village Lord Verantir might as well be a king.
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