How he'd mistaken them for rock trolls was the fault of the cat's eye ring, or his own for assuming. It sensed things, but it didn't distinguish what those things were. Since gothicans and rock trolls were roughly the same size, and Dendle had just killed a rock troll, he just figured that is what they were.
His heart nearly stopped when he’d burst out of the trees, expecting to see big gray-skinned, confused-looking vermin. Instead, he was met by towering figures with long black hair, pale angry faces, and studded black armor. He was lucky that his momentum carried him past them before they could react.
He'd managed to keep his footing and continue without faltering even though he was sure his heart was about to explode. The gothicans matched him step for step since the chase began. Without the magic of the cat's eye ring fortifying him, he would've already been taken, he knew. Even with its power coursing through him, he was beginning to tire. Only his deep concern for Captain Murdle and the people of Uppervale kept him on his feet and moving forward.
He cut out of the tree line, hoping to find a rocky precipice where he might be able to climb and gain position or turn and defend himself. Or better yet, find a place to hide and catch his breath.
He came across a ledge, and though it wasn't an easy climb, he knew that if he could make it to the top, he would have a tactical advantage. He made the choice, scrambling up the rocks. At first, the handholds weren't so hard to find, but they soon became smaller. So small that only the tips of his fingers held him to the sheer granite face while his feet dangled wildly, searching for purchase.
The gothican that was closest stopped below him, looking around. It might have moved on if a handhold hadn’t crumbled under Dendle's weight and sent a shower of rocks clacking down.
In a language that Dendle didn't understand, the gothican called out into the darkness and was answered a moment later. The gothican then shed his heavy leather and chain chest piece, and unbuckled his thigh plates and girdle. Without all the extra weight, he started climbing.
Dendle watched him coming swiftly and methodically upward. The top of the ledge wasn't that far above, but he was clinging to a flat smooth face of granite covered with slick gray-green lichen. While he tried to think of what to do, he found a toe hold, held himself still, and took a few deep breaths to calm his thundering heart. His arms were starting to burn, and he didn't know how much longer they would serve him.
The gothican had to slow where the fingerholds were all that he could use to pull himself up, and Dendle wondered where the other one had gone. He closed his eyes and concentrated on sensing where he might be. To his grim surprise, he could tell that the other gothican was directly above him. He looked up in confusion, trying to figure out how this could be, and the moonlight revealed a pale face framed in hanging black hair peeking cautiously over the side down at him.
Who was the most surprised was hard to tell. The gothican definitely didn't expect to see a half-breed hanging there on the ledge below him, and Dendle couldn't understand how one of his pursuers could have climbed past him without him knowing.
Then Dendle cursed himself for being so stupid. Of course, there was another way up. With a huff, he weighed his limited options.
The gothican above yelled out something that Dendle couldn't understand. He wondered how he could have played this, if he'd taken time to learn the gothican language when he was offered in his youth.
The thought slipped away as quickly as it came and the only consolation was that Dendle wasn't panicking. In fact, he felt calm. He had the urge to leap off the wall, and for some reason felt that if he did this, he wouldn't die from the great drop to the rocks below. His mind rationalized that was crazy, so he fought the urge and was almost startled off the wall anyway by some furry thing that brushed across his face.
It was the frayed end of a rope, he realized, not some creature about to sting him. The gothican above had lowered it down. When he looked up the confused warrior above him spoke in broken, but understandable, kingdom tongue.
"Why you run from blood?"
"I am half-blood," Dendle answered before he could stop himself. He was sure he'd made a mistake, but the gothican's thoughtful expression told him otherwise.
"Writhick blandsen freignetsly," the gothican called down loudly enough for Dendle to know he was speaking to his companion clinging to the wall below.
"Huh?" The gothican beneath him responded.
"Blandsen freignetsly. Saulest kingdom."
"No, not from the kingdom," said Dendle nervously to the one above him. "No kingdom!"
"Yes, kingdom speak," he replied with a grin at Dendle's sudden discomfort and denial of Narvoza.
Dendle figured out he was only talking about the language he was speaking, not his loyalties. He was relieved by the smile on the gothican's face.
"You are leezard. Why you hang on rock?" The gothican chuckled at his own joke and wiggled the rope until he was sure Dendle could see it.
Dendle couldn't help but laugh a little himself.
"Come, leezard. We no harm half-blood."
Dendle took the rope and was hauled the rest of the way up so swiftly that it was clear it took little effort for the gothican to get him there. When they stood facing each other, the gothican was more than a head taller than Dendle, who was more than a head taller than the biggest human he'd ever met.
"Me am Tarthin. That Writhick. Who you?" The gothican struggled with the words but spoke them clearly enough for Dendle to understand.
"Me am Dendle," he answered, trying to keep his words in a form that Tarthin could understand. Dendle was nervous and unsure of what might happen next so he tried to nonchalantly stay ready for anything, especially to flee.
"You climb like leezard, Dendle," Tarthin said with a big laugh, then added, "and you run like stag."
The gothican put his arm around Dendle and gently, but firmly forced him to sit. Tarthin sat beside him, digging into his pack. He produced a cloth bundle that he opened to reveal freshly dried venison. It was thick and salted and Dendle took the offered piece thankfully.
Tarthin laughed when Dendle tore into it like a hungry dog.
Chapter Ten
Though it was hard to understand the gothicans, Dendle gathered that Tarthin and Writhick had been exiled because they sided with the faction of their people who didn't want to follow their leader, Lord Ulrich into war.
These gothicans, along with several other small groups, had been left behind when the bulk of their people marched south toward Nepram.
For reasons unknown to him, some of the gothicans didn't like Lord Ulrich's allegiances. When Lord Ulrich told his people of the bargain he'd made with the god called Pharark, many rejoiced. They were happy to serve one who was ready to help them take back their homeland from the humans who had stolen it. Others were skeptical. Tarthin understood Lord Ulrich's hatred for men, but he didn't share it. The lands north of the mountains were cold, but wild and free. Dendle learned that almost half of the gothicans were content to spend their time and efforts making it a better place to live instead of looking backwards.
Many of the gothicans believed that, though they had once been slaves, they had also been brought out of the darkness by humanity. They learned to grow food and build shelters. They learned to write and created a language all their own. These gothicans wanted to move on and forget the wrongs of the past, and maybe even someday attempt to coexist, but Lord Ulrich's hate for humans, and King Barden's hate for gothicans would have to be outlived before any attempt at peace.
Tarthin spent a while articulating all of this, and though it wasn't fully clear to Dendle, or even Tarthin for that matter, what was clear was that Dendle was reasonably safe with these outcast gothicans who still hated kobls and trolls, but for some reason, didn't want to hate humans anymore. Besides that, they were traveling in the same general direction he needed to go to warn Captain Murdle of what he’d seen. Writhick had left to find the three others who made up their group. He was to bri
ng them back to the clearing he and Tarthin were slowly turning into a camp.
After Dendle spoke a while, Tarthin said, "It is sadness that you are of two proud peoples but have none."
"I have one or two," Dendle smiled, thinking of Captain Murdle and the guards in Uppervale. "Maybe a few more now."
Tarthin smiled at that and finished making a ring of stones for a firepit.
"It's good to know there are other gothicans who do not hate so much," said Dendle. "There are humans that are the same. All of them do not hate like their king."
"Shameful is hate," Tarthin agreed. “Shameful for any.”
Dendle sensed movement to the east. Four large creatures moving quickly toward them. "Writhick and your companions are coming," he said.
Just a few heartbeats later, a strange howl came from the distant east. Tarthin looked at Dendle, his face showing amazement at Dendle's ability. He then stood, took in a deep breath, and answered the call.
"How you know they come?"
Dendle smiled and shrugged. He wasn't about to tell him about the cats-eye ring he’d found in the cavern where Braxton Bray saved his friend. He thought it wiser to change the subject. "Why haven't you gone back north to your people?"
"Many trolls gathering," he paused, clearly searching for words. "Lord Ulrich trusts them. We do not."
"They have dwarven slaves," Dendle nodded. "They make weapons."
"You see trolls?" Tarthin looked up suddenly.
"Yes, I see trolls," Dendle answered, and then repeated, "They have dwarves making them weapons."
"Dwarves," Tarthin shook his head and looked down. "Another hatred of my people."
Dendle remembered Captain Murdle's story of how the little dwarves fought the giant gothicans for thousands of years before the humans ever arrived. The little ones could poke up into the thighs and groins of the gothicans while the bigger gothicans were forced to hack and chop down in what Dendle could only imagine was horrible frustration at the smaller race.
"The trolls have them as slaves," Dendle said again, as if that might change thousands of years of feelings.
"Little warriors, the dwarves," Tarthin said. "Very brave. Very dangerous." He looked at Dendle curiously for a moment, "Where you going so fast?"
"To tell a friend about the trolls," Dendle met Tarthin's gaze. "I must continue soon."
There was a long silence between them, then Tarthin said, "Maybe we go with you?"
Dendle could see Captain Murdle's expression as he and a band of gothicans came down out of the mountains and knew that any sort of welcome reception wouldn't be at all likely. The Captain's job was to keep the gothicans out of the kingdom, after all. Then again, the gothicans could stay in the lower mountains and wait for Dendle to take the message. That thought struck him as odd because, until then, he hadn’t been sure. Now, Dendle somehow knew he would return to this band of exiles who treated him like a person. If the others in the group were as welcoming as Tarthin, Dendle thought he might join them, if they would allow it. They were as much his people as the humans were, and so far, besides the captain and a few others, they were the most understanding beings he'd ever met.
It wasn't long until another howl erupted, this time it came from much closer to the camp. Tarthin answered it, and soon the other four were crunching through the forest into view.
Tarthin spoke to them quickly in gothican and introduced them to Dendle politely. The largest of the group was a whole head taller than Tarthin. His hair was gray at the temples. His name was Skalab, and he was the leader of the group, in the sense that he was the eldest of them. Writhick introduced his brother Karthick, then Tarthin introduced the last of them. She stayed behind the others until she was called forth. Dendle was struck by her beauty. She was about the same height as he, and her well-toned body was nicely rounded in proportion to her size. Her ice blue eyes were huge, and they seemed to glow as her pale skinned cheeks suddenly bloomed pink.
Dendle realized he was blushing, too, and that his mouth had fallen open.
“This is Balokith,” Tarthin said with a grin. “We call Balo.”
Balo’s hair was dark like the others but had a tinge of color to it, sometimes blue, sometimes purple, depending on the way the light caught it, and her leather armor was cut to enhance her figure.
Dendle pulled his eyes away from her but didn't miss the intricately carved hilt of the sword hanging from her hip.
"Not many woman for half-blood," Tarthin joked. "Dendle, only half-goth. Too much for kingdom girl."
Skalab and Karthick laughed. Apparently, they understood enough of the kingdom words to get the jest.
This only added to Dendle's embarrassment for he'd never known a woman, and for the very reason Tarthin just voiced. These gothicans could surely tell by his reaction.
He wasn't half as embarrassed then as he was later that evening when Balo sat by him at the fire. She turned and spoke to him in clear and fluent kingdom tongue.
"I've never met a half-blood," she said with a look that frightened Dendle as much as it excited him. "I would like to get to know you."
Part II
Another Jewel
Chapter Eleven
Nine-year-old Chureal Solace was as awkward as she was out of place. She wandered in a daze among the still battling men of Ormandin and Pelania. The shock of seeing her there had already caused more than one man to falter and lose his life. Occasionally, a clash of swords or the buzz of an arrow passing close caused her to flinch, but even amid the growing pile of bloody corpses and screaming wounded, she showed no real fear. Her once white and yellow dress was now soaked crimson from the waist down and splattered and smeared different shades of brown, black, and red the rest of the way up. Her hair was a dirty tangle, and her lightly tanned face was covered in both freckles and smeared gore.
Why these men were fighting, she had no real idea. All she knew about it was what her mother told her; the Pelanians were wicked, evil folk and the people of Ormandin had to be rid of them. Being that she'd never been outside of Ormandin's border, this sounded reasonable at the time. But then the Ormandian knights came to the farm on their humungous horses, wearing shining armor, flying the king’s banner proudly. Her father met them not far from the house, and they began yelling at him. One of the knights drew his sword and killed him while Chureal watched from the window and her mother screamed for mercy in the yard. They called him a traitor. It was a word she understood but had no idea how it applied to her Pa. He had loved the kingdom of Ormandin with all his heart.
The knights killed her mother, too. Chureal was only spared the same fate because she hid under the house until the men were gone.
Later, she wandered aimlessly across the countryside. An old farm mother she called Ganna took her in, but that seemed like a lifetime ago. She'd been nothing but a huddled mass of sobbing fear until she found the jewel, or more accurately, until the jewel found her. She was playing in the forest above the pasture of the farm where she was staying when the knights came there. Even after the sun went down, and they were long gone she was too afraid to go back. The small moon was high overhead, casting its scary red glow on the trees around her. She could do little more than fight to stay silent while curled into a fetal ball.
Sometime during that night, she cried herself to sleep, and when she woke, all sleepy and confused, she saw what was left of the farmhouse smoldering in the cool morning air. In the pasture was a long, green, glittering hump thrice the size of the barn. Hoping that Ganna was all right, she ran as fast as she could across the pasture towards what was left of the house. About halfway there, she slowed to a cautious walk and trembled in terror at the sight becoming clearer to her weary eyes.
The knights were dead. Some smashed flat by the big green sparkling thing, others slashed and cut apart. A few were nothing but black smoldering heaps, only distinguishable by their shape or the weapons and armor laying with them.
One of the dead warriors wasn't the same as the othe
rs. The knights all wore the king’s black and silver emblem, but the other fallen fighter didn’t. Her armor was white, gold, and tan, except where her blood had stained it. She had long shiny white hair and what Chureal thought was the most beautiful, peaceful looking face she'd ever seen. What kept drawing Chureal's attention most, though, was the amulet the woman wore around her neck.
Chureal walked around the mess. Her hardened little heart was unfazed by the blood and gore left from what appeared to be a nasty battle. It wasn't until she realized the green sparkling mound she'd been walking around was the broken body of a dragon that she registered emotion. Oddly, it wasn't fear that struck her, but sadness for what was once a magnificent creature was now only a heap of twisted bones and broken wings.
A voice from inside her told her to take the amulet, and she did.
Eventually, she found what was left of Ganna in the smoldering rubble of the farmhouse. One of the knights had cleaved her with his blade, and the flames had taken their toll. Since then, she'd been wandering aimlessly.
When she came across the battlefield, she was compelled to touch the wounded men. Some of them were instantly healed, others died when she did so. How she could do this, or why she was doing it, she wasn’t sure, but she knew something was about to happen, and she was supposed to be a part of it. She was pretty sure the jewel led her there, but she didn’t wonder why. Over the many days that passed since she'd found the amulet, it kept her nourished by leading her to food and drink. Now, here she was, calmly walking amidst a battle in full progress.
From the moment she put the amulet's chain around her neck, things were different, especially her dreams. She used to only dream about her mother and father and how nice and peaceful life had been before the war started. Her father, a simple baker, had a little shop on the outskirts of Ormandin Proper, and her mother washed linens for one of the more reputable inns in the area. They had a small farm with goats and cows and a garden. Life had been easy and good. Chureal had many friends and a dog named Jester she loved beyond measure. Her aunt Ardena watched her during the day sometimes while her parents labored. What became of aunt Ardena and Jester she didn't know, but she wanted very badly to find them. She planned on doing so just as soon as she was finished doing what the amulet wanted her to do.
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