by Jason Jones
“They are indeed proud of their lack of monarchy and rule, are they not?” Cristoff tossed his reins to a young elven boy, reached for a silver coin, and tossed it. A slight nod, a flashing grab, and the little pointy eared troughmaster took the lord’s mare and started brushing.
“Aye they are, if they got out to other kingdoms and saw a bit of cleanliness, perhaps that’d change for the better. Watch yer back there, Cristoff.” Tannek loosed his battle axe, nodded to the small troupe of children that were enthralled with the shining armor and silver sword that the Harlian man had upon him.
Cristoff reached for his pouch, just in time, his gloved hand covering that of a small child that had just neared a years’ worth of food for his family and friends. Cristoff looked down, felt the enchantments of the decorated armor of Herrimus empower his voice, and he shook his head at the children.
“If you need, you ask. Taking what is not yours will never supply a life worth living.” His words captivated the young pickpockets, not with volume nor voice, but with something they had never felt before. The armor instilled a feeling of honor and truth into the words, and in those that heard them.
The boys all nodded, understanding, and just stared at Cristoff in little naïve grins of innocence. He reached in his pouch, counted out nine Harlian silver crowns, and handed each boy one in turn. No words were spoken, even when Cristoff put his hand on the golden feathered cross of Alden around his neck, and whispered blessings to them and their families. He touched each boy on the head as they passed, silently and respectfully, and then they wandered off and stared at their coins with one another, in awe of the man and the silver alike.
“Ye do that a few more times, and they likely will crown ye’ or somethin’. Or, ye will be broke by nightfall and have an army o’ dirty kids at yer beck and call. Shall we then?”
“Without charity for children, the world would be more cruel than it already is.” Cristoff corrected.
“Aye, teaching their parents how to care for their own, we call that charitable, where I be from.” Tannek shook his head.
Tannek Anduvann walked in through the shirtless and tattooed Armondi men that watched the sides of each door to No Kings Well. He looked for Dalliunn Cloudwatcher, but saw very little that was not taller than him, making his search for his companion nearly impossible.
A hand stopped him, belonging to a thick and young Armondi man at the door. Tannek turned as red as his fiery beard, the hand was on his very head, and he looked up. This man had his black hair tied back and oiled, his face shaven clean, and his eyes smattered with red paints, made to impose with a savage and battle ready facade. Scars, a few there were, tattoos of dragons on his arms and chest, yet Tannek looked up nearly two feet and glared at the large human. Without blinking, he grabbed the arm, and twisted, hard.
“Ye want a coin or two for me to enter, do ye?” Tannek waited for the man to grimace in pain and fall to a knee, which he did, and he whispered. “I got yer coins, and I got yer damn arm off me head now.”
“Fock yer coins, dwarf!”
Tannek waited again, for the young man to throw a punch, which he did. The marshall lowered his head, the knuckles hit the helmet dead on, and the crumpling of guard and breaking of bone echoed outside the door to No Kings Well.
Crack!
Two copper halfcoins fell to the dirt and dust at the door, followed by the Armondi man. Tannek nodded, the twenty patrons outside the doors nodded back, and he stepped in over the man with two broken hands, and a rather large and fresh bruise quickly forming on the side of his bleeding head.
“Not necessary, master Anduvann.”
“I beg to differ, lord Cristoff.” Tannek marched in, eyes looking for Dalliunn Cloudwatcher.
Smoke from pipes hung in the lack of air, ales and meads poured from stacked barrels, and the massive round tavern with eight entrances and two floors of debauchery was filled with every race, religion, and creed. Rooms with gambling roared with jingling coins, alcoves with prostitues moaned promises, and finding an empty table or chair looked less than probable. Incense masked the odors of sweat, blood, and vomited brews, yet the crowd here likely cared less what the smell was. In the center of the packed room, a well surrounded with hundreds of people could be seen. It was old stone, nearly ancient, with buckets being lowered and raised by boys and barwenches every second.
Cristoff kept his hand on Tannek’s shoulder, not for safety, but to remain close in the bustling crowd that one could be lost into on a moments’ inattention.
“Where is your scout, marshall?”
“Ye be a foot taller and more, Harlian, ye’ tell me where to go and I’ll make a path.” Tannek pushed people aside left and right, searching for a way through the mob.
The former lord of Saint Erinsburg raised up on the toes of his boots, trying to see over Shanadorian men, women being carried in half clothed merriment, and all the raucus inside No Kings Well. He saw the black wiry hair, the lewirja frozen ahead, staring at something amidst a sea of motion.
“Ahead Tannek, and to your left! I see Dalliunn, all the way back past that overhang, room near the other side!” Cristoff yelled it amidst a raising commotion from an unseen source.
“Aye, stay close then!” The noises turned from joyous drinking and songs that overlapped one another to scuffling and stomping with the mass of clientele pushing to get away from where they were heading. Tannek hurried, hoping Dalliunn was not the cause of it.
The back room cleared, just enough for Cristoff and Tannek to get a look inside. Ten soldiers of Evermont, hands on their greatswords that were planted down into the wooden floor, stood guard in their chainmail and looked nervously to their right. Behind them it was dark, the windows covered and oil lamps flickering from several tables. Cristoff heard horses outside, many horses, and shouting to make way for them to disembark right outside four of the eight doors to the large round tavern.
Someone was approaching, someone that had many men, and someone that even the drunken mob was willing to make way for. Cristoff saw and heard elves whistle to one another in the hundreds here, he saw a woman with short slick hair darting her eyes to other men and signaling. Cristoff put his hand on his blade and drew it out a few inches, not liking the sudden silence and motions of some in the tavern.
Tannek stood right below the beard of a Shanadorian guard, and peeked in to Dalliunn who was trying to converse with those few in the dark room. There were two men, dressed like the ones from Evermont, but more regal and decorated. One was older, a beard of blonde with golden locks to match, his hand resting on a greatblade across the table. His companion was a man built like the strongest of dwarves, thick and made of muscle upon muscle, with a clean shave and long waves of near white blonde hair.
They were not minding the commotion heading this way, nor were their nervous guards, but instead were surrounded by little pygmies, gnomes, a twig, and two goblins. Though the little minstrels had a few instruments with them, no one was playing nor singing melody at their private tables. Between the two large men, sat a pudgy older pygmy with dark curls and a fat nose. Tannek peered at the well dressed runt of a man, and he saw a necklace of long claws or fangs of stone around his neck. He looked to three platinum coins he was flipping over his fingers with his right hand, and with his left, he was caressing a stone axe on the table.
Tannek looked to Dalliunn, who must have pushed around the ten guards somehow, and indeed he was staring at his axe. Stone edging, blunt on one end, tied with sinew and cord with a curved bone handle, it was the one he had traded to Azenairk Thalanaxe back outside of Marlennak. He had smelled it, all the way through the city, and he had assumed the five they sought were here. A hand on Tannek’s shoulder let him know that Cristoff was right next to him again.
“What is it, are they here?” Cristoff nodded to the statuesque Shanadorian guards that blocked them from entering. The stomping of boots and armored men echoed from outside, getting closer.
“No, but aye, not s
ure really. Could use some help getting past these bigguns’ here, lord Cristoff.”
“Men, I am Lord Cristoff Bradswellen the Third of Saint Erinsburg, and I need to speak to your captains.” He gestured with a calm hand and voice.
“I don’t think they calls em’ captains here in Shanador, ye’ need maybe to---“ Tannek stopped his corrections as two of the men nodded, in awe almost, and let them pass through their line.
Dalliunn growled a feline acknowledgement out to Tannek and Cristoff, then nodded to the little man in the middle. “Egloo hormiinii athy shiinbi athy vunnoo triiiliss rrriiiotii.”
“What did he say?” Cristoff was on guard now, the sounds of arguing and fighting beyond a mere tavern dispute lingered outside.
“He said he smells Saberrak, Shinayne, and Zen. Right here at this table, and that be his axe in the hands of the pygmy there.” Tannek approached the table slowly.
Tubrey o’ Tarnobb stared at the lewirja, his big round eyes directly into the speckled feline curved orbs and cat-like irises that seemed to smile at him. He looked familiar, though he had never met one of these creatures in person. He thought hard, looked to the axe, then back up to the smiling lewirja. Tubrey squinted his eyes, saw the lion-man sniff the air again, and then felt an elbow from Sir Jardayne.
“So, are you and yours joining us to meet the low king of Evermont? Sitting here in misery, flipping those coins and drinking, this will not lift your spirits little one.” The Knight General of Evermont smiled, yet drew a dagger under the table, hearing the commotion and seeing unknown visitors pass into their room. These ones were staring, not just passing through, likely to get a glimpse of the famous Shans.
“I say Tubrey, you Shans o’ Little Door must travel with us, to do our great travels honor and song. I assure you, we shall find adventure in our routes, at least some dangers for you to write verse about. Thieves, bandits, something that I can---” Sir Codaius was cut off from trying to lift the spirits of poor Tubrey, who had done nothing but mope since his heroes had turned west to the curselands.
“I wanted to follow them, do you not understand? To my death or whatever end, like Shinayne says, but I cannot. I am small, weak, slower than even a dwarf with such a small stride. I can barely lift this axe with two hands. Should I sing a song of that? I have half a mind to turn round, caravan or no, and seek my bravery to the west.” Tubrey drank another slug of ale, looked to the foreign man in gleaming armor, the menacing looking dwarf beside him, and then back to the lewirja.
“What?! What do you want?! A song? To stare at the little man until I dance? Be off!” He shouted at the three passersby, like so many others that had asked for a tune from the famous minstrels. Without his word, the band would not play, and Tubrey would not give the word in his sorrows.
“I believe you have me friends’ axe there. Ye’ want to head west, Tubrey is it? Then show us which way the king o’ Kakisteele and his four friends headed. Ye’ can come with us then.” Tannek Anduvann thought he had broke him for a moment, for tears welled in the eyes of the little man at the table. His face went from fear, to shock, to sorrow, all at once.
Tubrey looked again at the lewirja, then the axe of stone Zen had given him. His eyes went wide and dropped a tear as he remembered who his dwarven hero had said he had gotten it from. He looked again to the red bearded warrior, then to the armored Harlian man, and then back to the four legged feline savage. They were all smiling back at him.
“Dalliunn…Dalliunn Cloudwatcher? You led them through the Misathi Mountains. And you, you must be from Marlennak? And you, are you the one Sir James Andellis spoke of, the noble Harlian lord of…?” Tubrey choked on his words, it was like a dream. The stories he had heard of Chazzrynn, Harlaheim, Willborne, the trek through Deadman’s Pass, and here were their friends, in Freemoore. The lewirja rounded the table, tail bobbing, and licked Tubrey all over his face.
“Lord Cristoff, formerly of Saint Erinsburg, yes. Do you know where we need to go, little friend? We need to find them, and soon.” Cristoff bowed to the men on either side of him, then felt a vibration from his pyramid pommeled blade, five throbs of warning radiated from his weapon into his hand. The longsword of Kendari had never done that before since it came to his posession.
Jardayne of Highmont stood, lifted his blade from the table, and signaled for Codaius of Norninne to do the same.
“I do not know who you three are, and I trust no one on the matter at hand. You know of the five that headed west?”
“We do, we follow them and their quest, to Kakisteele and the lost city of Mooncrest, aye. I am Tannek Anduvann, this is Dalliunn, and Lord Bradswellen the Third o’ Harlaheim.”
Tannek smiled big under his red braids of beard. The two knights of Evermont smiled back, looked to each other, then to the Shans o’ Little Door. Everyone felt something, a fleeting hope, an inspiration just from the chance of them meeting here at No Kings Well. Words could do it little justice, for everyone present simply knew that they each knew, and that was enough.
“This is unbelievable indeed, well met. I am Sir Jardayne of--”
The Knight General was cut off by the appearance of fifty armed Armondi men that now cornered them and their ten soldiers inside. People scrambled out of their way, toppling over one another to keep distance.
Silence, followed by the drawing of many blades, then silence again with but a set of bootsteps on weathered wooden floor to break it. Golden steel rings over fine fitting leather, golden shoulderplates and greaves to match, Prince Rohne Viorius, heir of Armondeen, was intimidating even at sixteen years of age. His tight slick hair pulled back into a black curled tail, a deep brown merciless stare emnated disgust, and his hand rested on his jeweled scimitar pommel as the scabbard toyed with his indigo cloak. His eyes radiated wickedness with their blue decorative smear of royal paint around them, and his breath seemed to hold for better air to arrive.
“Make way for the Prince of Armondeen!” His guards yelled in unison, one hand clutched in salute over their breastplates with the crossed talons holding the lance and scepter of their kingdom. Their other hand gripped their hilts of curved steel, as if they knew blood was about to be shed.
“Sir Jardayne, Knight General of Evermont, hiding in the slums of Freemoore? You are a hard man to find, harder still to find those you are protecting.” Rohne Viorius smiled at the men of Evermont, then the group of little folk, and lastly at the dwarf and his companions.
“You are at the wrong tavern, Prince of Armondeen. You should learn to read someday, perhaps before you are king.” Sir Codaius walked forward with Jardayne, next to Cristoff, Tannek, and Dalliunn.
“Is that so? My gratitude, Codaius, you just made many decisions for me with those declarations.”
“No King’s Well, so get out.”
“By all means, speak freely here, it is still a free city. Not for long, but today it remains as such.”
“What is it you want of me, your highness?” Jardayne spoke up, both hands resting on his greatsword now. He peered out the window, his forty men were surrounded by two hundred fifty at least. The prince had brought quite a force to have just a simple discussion.
“I want those five fugitives from Harlaheim, the ones you are hiding. The seekers of fame and treasure in my unfortunate southern domain. You know of what I speak, they stayed with you in Evermont for a time. They have plans to make incursions into my kingdom. Incursions, Sir Codaius, are unwarranted movements or actions into the lands of another. I assumed by the stupid look on your face that you were confused by the word.” Rohne glared at the man twice his size and strength. Yet with fifty men scouting the streets, fifty in here next to him, and two hundred fifty surrounding No Kings Well, he felt immensely more powerful.
Cristoff put his arm out just in time to stop the large Shanadorian man from a rash act. “I am Lord Cristoff Bradswellen, from Harlaheim. And there are no fugitives from my kingdom here, save for me.”
“That is because they are hidden, by
knights of Evermont. I truly do not care where you are from, or who you are. Turn them over, and no one needs to bleed.” Rohne raised his chin to this foreign lord, then spat on the floor.
“Perhaps my greatsword needs a bit of incursion up your princely little ars, we could settle this outside, were you a man.” Codaius, the Bear of Evermont as he was known, spat over the guarding arm of the Harlian lord.
“Truly? And even if you bested me with the blade, you are but a knight. When Armondeen seeks justice for a their prince assaulted, and my mother the queen sits in Acelinne before your kings, what pray tell do you think your punishment would be, mighty bear? They would likely trade you to be hanged, if you were lucky.”
“Cowadice with words, not worthy of noble blood!” Codaius raised his voice and growled.
“You assume that word of this will leave Freemoore, here at No Kings Well. I would wager it does not, Prince Rohne.” Jardayne put his hand on Codaius’ shoulder, trying to avoid a fight they were most outmatched to engage. “Let us try a diplomatic discussion, without insult.”
“Your men outside? Fifty I believe, and look there, I think the only words not escaping Freemoore will be yours.” Rohne gestured toward the surround, well in place outside the windows.
“Is that a threat, Prince of Armondeen?” Cristoff spoke calmly, now standing in the middle of this dispute that he knew little of.
“You should have taken the Lord Amirak’s offer. Denying Harron Vir Magaste several times, was not a wise choice, Knight General.” Rohne ignored the lord he knew not, and glared to Jardayne.
“I do not turn traitor to my kingdom, unlike your ruling lord. And, last I recalled, Ian Viorius and his young wife Andora, they rule Armondeen, not you.”
“Mind your words, Shanadorian. Evermont and Freemoore combined could not match the forces of Armondeen. Lord Harron would pleasure in leading them here, I assure you.”
