As he slowly advanced towards the highest peaks, the woods cleared and he was now standing closer to the ridge. He wondered where he had ended up, having to find his own way without the aid of any battered paths. Of one thing he was sure; he had not turned or changed directions drastically, and always kept on the right-hand-side of the forest as he had initially decided by checking the map.
Once on top of the ridge, he climbed a tree and started to scrutinise the land around, hoping to see the clearing of the village. And just as he expected, towards his left, he could see the Sallncoln lay in the valley just before the sparkling lake. Crossing the valley from this side of the ridge would certainly spare some hours, he considered, though he did not feel safe nor confident enough to do it just yet. So he decided to continue along the peak of the mountain through the forest where he felt safer.
Master Ghaeloden? his mind’s voice was soft, I see the village and I shall be there in the next few hours, maybe two or three, give or take.
Take your time, Nuuk! I am back where we landed this morning. I am confident nobody will notice me here as long as I don’t fall! the dragon replied, seemingly gratified he’d get a chance to bask in the sun.
The imp continued on his way until he felt confident enough to descend from the peak and into the valley. The brisk pace of his determination allowed him to traverse it in a shorter time than anticipated.
He passed a few houses that were seated at the edge of the village. Luckily, there was nobody around that he could see and he hoped it would stay that way. A narrow path among the tall grass indicated where the village’s centre would be found, alas, he had yet to find a human on whom he could test his disguise. And just as he was about to pass another small house, the door of a wide hut, with bent walls and thatched roof, banged open.
A plump man with an axe on his shoulder came out. “Good’ay to you, young master!” he called with a quick greeting of his left hand, lazily lifted.
“Good day to you, kind sir!” replied the imp, exchanging the friendly greeting, spreading all four fingers in the air.
The chubby man’s face shook swiftly, bouncing his fat cheeks from left to right. He twisted his face and squinted his eyes with effort.
Yet, Nuuk was faster. A rapid murmur and another finger popped into view, making the chubby man blink restlessly.
“Gargulhia, young sir. For a moment I thought I saw four fingers, hah,” he said. “I must stop meddling with that brew of mine.” The man let out a long chortle as he patted Nuuk on his head and continued on his way.
That was close! The imp exhaled with much relief.
What happened? he heard the dragon ask.
Why didn’t you tell me about the fingers? I’ve got four of them and humans have five! said the imp, frustrated.
Oh. I considered you knew it already, isn’t it obvious? Did anyone approach you? Is all in order?
I believe it is. The imp turned around to check and, once assured he was alone, he let out the tension with a deep exhale. But at least he did not notice anything else. That makes my human disguise pretty decent, I should say.
I had no doubt! the dragon said reassuringly.
After some time, Nuuk found more houses set on either side of the pathway, and the people he encountered confirmed that there was nothing wrong with his disguise. They all smiled and greeted him with a wave of a hand, a nod or a ‘Good day to you, young sir!’
A gathering of young girls in white aprons and combed hair, under coloured scarves, were vivaciously and cheerfully exchanging the latest rumours of the village while cleaning long white soapy-sheets. They all smiled at Nuuk making him merry by witnessing the joys of their humble lives. It reminded him of Grora with its simplicity and cordiality of its inhabitants, each bringing its own contribution to the community and its prosperity. But the happy feeling was short-lived, when the air he walked within became permeated with a raw scent of burnt wood and death. The houses he approached were those that had been spared most of the wrath of the fire, yet they still bore the scars of its rage. A smoky trail persisted in the air and from here onwards the ground was tinted darker with a gradient of dull tones. Grey smudges crawled from the outside area and advanced towards a tar-black at its core.
The flame appeared to be so violent that even the earth had been deformed and moved. He searched and failed to find any signs that men had been the culprit for such a ravenous upsurge of force. Though he knew little about fires. Muddy ruts and ditches, filled with turbid waters, were spreading outwards along the direction of the fire, decreasing in intensity as they reached the outer edge. Remnants of the wreckage pushed by the impact’s energy were still visible everywhere; shattered pieces of stone, wood, bone and metal, stuck in the trees and walls of the houses, made Nuuk shiver with distress. He dared not think of how he would have felt, had he been in Sallncoln at that moment. Surely the Felduror he knew was not capable of such loathsome deeds. Besides he had mentioned this to be a mere rumour. His insanity would often make him violent, angry and greedy, though, certainly, he could not be the responsible for these cold-blooded murders. Because to Nuuk, that was what they felt like; cold-blooded murders.
If the people he passed on the edges of the village had been cheerful, content to have been spared, the people here were sad and heartbroken. There were no more greetings, many of the villagers didn’t even lift their gaze from their tasks and very few acknowledged his presence.
Absorbed in his inspection of the wrecked houses, Nuuk almost bumped into a little girl. She was standing by the edge of the muddy path and was amused by two men committed to fixing the wheels of a broken cart. Her eyes were just like his, a warm jade green colour, and her long and golden hair was dusty and uncombed. Held between her tiny fingers, she was slowly swinging a little straw-doll with black-buttons eyes, slung about her tiny hand.
The imp smiled at her and she smiled back, yet her smile appeared wounded. With some delay he came to realise why; her left forearm was broken. A row of thin, wool threads was aiding in keeping her little arm suspended halfway across her small chest. Wrapped against her bone there were two flat pieces of wood to keep the bone as straight as possible while mending.
“What happened to you, little girl?” he asked gently.
“I fell and hurt my arm.”
“Can I see?” He extended his hand to look at her wound.
The little girl nodded and pushed, ever so slightly, her arm towards the imp. By the look of the fingers it didn’t seem a simple bone fracture. Swollen and dark-purple, most certainly there had been some vein and sinew damage. He fleetingly considered he had to be careful in using magic if he didn’t want to be exposed or drained of strength, but he could not leave her like this. Not today. Her life could be forever shaped for the worse, if she lost her forearm entirely at such a young age. He gave a compassionate little smile and placed his other hand on her shoulder. With his eyes closed and chin propped on his chest, he whispered a healing spell. He felt her little shoulder twitch under his palm and he knew then that the magic had worked. Though, just as he was about to ask her how she felt, a hoarse voice erupted.
“Oi, what’re ya doing over there?” asked a bulky man, coming towards him.
“I- I meant…” the imp stuttered.
Did you just use magic, Nuuk? The dragon’s voice carried both concern as well as worry.
“Yes, not a good time now, Ghaeloden!” replied the imp not realising he was speaking out loud.
“Who’re ya calling, Ghaylordan?” The man took a menacing step towards Nuuk while the little girl walked towards her father.
“Papa, he’s a friend! He looked at my arm and now the fingers don’t fizzle anymore.” The little girl had reached the bulky man, hugging his right leg.
All well. Explain later! Nuuk managed to direct a reassuring thought towards the dragon, before speaking to the angry father.
“I only wanted to help her hand, kind sir. My brother had a similar wound,” added the imp, thankful th
at the girl managed to calm her father’s temper. “I will be on my way now. I bid you a good day!” He waved at the little girl and bowed to the two men who were wordlessly inspecting his every move.
The girl waved back at Nuuk as he moved away, and with pleasure he noticed the colour in her fingers turning more pink than purple. He smiled and winked at her, a gesture he had seen do one of the young human guards at the citadel.
Seeing her try to mimic his gesture, made his heart swell with happiness and joy. Her smile was brighter than before.
I had to mend a little girl’s arm, master Ghaeloden. Nothing to worry but her father thought I meant her harm and I had to extricate myself from that challenge. All is well now. I am on my way. The imp’s thought could not hide the sense of accomplishment and delight he felt at his action.
Imp, I understand. Though, don’t be getting us into trouble, not for anyone! Try to avoid interacting with humans, unless it’s about the witch!”
I apologise. No more magic, thought the imp, a little disappointed at the dragon’s reaction.
Yet, as he continued on his way, he could not contain how happy he felt. The effort had only required a bit of his strength. He felt a little dizzy, though nothing a few moments’ rest wouldn’t fix.
And thinking that the wizard did not agree or allow anyone to use spells. How much good could be done if only those like him were permitted to practice healing spells? With dread, he then imagined the various ways the wizard might punish him if ever learned that he had used magic, but determined that the joy of the gesture felt like it was worth tenfold the risk of the madman’s wrath. What else could he try and do with magic before draining his strengths completely? Certainly the place was in desperate need of mending. Alas, material things could easily be fixed, houses rebuilt, trees planted again and in time they’d grow to their full splendour. The immaterial things could not. The souls of those departed were lost forever.
With such a consideration, he reached the village’s market and stared at the hall. It seemed that a meeting was about to take place. Many people were gathered in front of a tall building, clearly those were the market’s streets. They were debating in small groups how they’d proceed and if they should rebuild Sallncoln. Frustration ruled their words and figures. Fear persisted, buried in their flesh and bones.
Among the people, Nuuk noticed that there were two distinct types of behaviours. The first one was of those that had lost material things; they were the noisiest and most verbal – driven by anger at having lost their houses, their animals or other goods. The second one was those that had lost someone dear. They were the most taciturn, deprived of any joy or fear and with absent will of life. Husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, daughters and sons were silently mourned by eyes that had no more tears to cry. In their presence the talkative ones quietened themselves and tried their best to console the less fortunate. Where words failed, compassion was accepted with a touch of a hand, a pat on a shoulder or a voiceless hug or nod of a head.
Struggling to endure the laments of the silent and their palpable horror, the imp left the crowds and decided to explore the village. If Naghnatë had been still here, he would have been able to feel her presence. After all, that was what the wizard had said and, if that was true, such powers would be hard to hide even with her experience. But Nuuk felt nothing. And he hadn’t felt a single spark of magic while crossing the mountain that led to the village. Likewise, in here, at its core, surrounded by what must be all the occupants of Sallncoln.
I am here at the centre of the village, master Ghaeloden! he said feeling near a dead end.
I was wondering what were you waiting for to apprise me! replied the dragon, almost yawning away his reply. Have you found her?
I am sorry; I am surrounded by a throng of people. They are holding a meeting. The condition of this village is dreadful! Some big fire has befallen it. I fear many have been lost, by the sight of these sad people’s faces. Nuuk replied.
I shall need to see this with my own eyes, Ghaeloden said. I will wait for your expedition to come to an end and upon your return, I’ll survey the village from the sky.
As you wish. I am on my way to the other parts of the village I still have to see. The imp was keen to leave the gathering behind him.
It took him good hours to scout the entire village. Although small compared to the citadel, he did not want to ignore any of the shattered huts, nor fuming stables. He meticulously inspected the surroundings checking inside every place he could gain access to and asked everyone that seemed willing to reply. Not one of those people knew to whom he was referring.
He was sure that if the witch was drawn to the place, as his master said, he would’ve felt her.
There was not much else he could to but to return to the landing area where, together with the dragon, he would spend the night and decide what to do the following day.
It was late afternoon and the light was starting to weaken. The water that filled the ruts reflected the crimson light of the red-dying sun, deflecting wafts of vapours from the heated ground into the chill of dusk. From up in the half-burned trees, birds lifted louder and sharper calls, uncharacteristic of an evening song. The people had disbanded from the market streets and the hall and centre of the village was almost deserted. The hammering and cutting noises that had accompanied him during the day carried into the evening.
Tired and confused, Nuuk could not rid himself of the sadness and anguish that had accompanied him since entering Sallncoln. He wanted to do more, but felt powerless and disheartened.
I’m coming back, master Ghaeloden! I am afraid I didn’t find the witch nor have a clue where she could be. The only thing I am sure of is that I haven’t felt the smallest tingle of magic today. What about you? Nuuk felt abashed.
Well, we haven’t felt anything because there’s nothing to be felt. I sensed your spell as easily as hearing your thoughts right now, but nothing else! answered the dragon with the same tone of frustration. I will wait for your return before departing for my airborne inspection.
I will be there in a couple of hours, if I don’t indulge in those sweet berries on the crest! chuckled the imp, quickening his pace and thinking how thirsty and hungry he had been the entire day.
A short while after, he reached the house where he had healed the little girl’s hand. He could see that both of the cart’s wheels had been fixed and re-attached to the cart. Everyone was inside, happily chattering. He could see their gestures of joy and happiness depicted by candlelit shadows cast on a small curtained window. An inviting smell swelled from the bent chimney and wafted into the evening sky, invading his nostrils and making his stomach growl. He gulped a mouthful of wet air and reluctantly took his eyes from the window. He intimately hoped that he had aided to be a happier home today.
Though, as he turned his head towards the pathway that led outside the village, he was startled by a presence.
Few meters away a silhouetted figure was grimly staring at him. In the chill air of the evening, the mist springing from the warm ground cloaked the figure rather well. He could not make out any features of the face, even if he was almost certain that it was an old woman. She started walking towards him, aiding her slow steps with a crooked wooden stick.
“Are you lost, child?” Her voice was soft when she spoke; she was now close enough for him see her face.
“Oh not at all, I just came from the market and I am on my way home,” Nuuk replied, trying to diminish a trail of fear that unsettled him.
Yet, he felt she was an outsider to the village just as he was. Her clothes seemed from a different place; her robe must’ve been at least a century old. Her wrinkled skin, burned by the sun’s light, didn’t give away her age and there was something odd about her face; her eyes. Her eyes were too sharp and vivacious for someone of her age, sparkling with almost unnatural light and blue in colour. He dared not hint at his suspicions, though he could not take his eyes away.
The desire to ask her something was
strong, but his tongue felt numb. Something was embracing and tightening its grip around him, an invisible clinch he could not overcome. In vain he tried to look about him, he was still as a tree. He could not move; he could not speak. He only managed to think of the Drakhahoul and issue a soft, crying thought.
Help!
Bilberith’s Sceptre
Nuuk / Naghnatë
Nuuk woke up on the dusty wooden-floor of a place he did not recognise. Half-spent candles, spread about the place, lit the interior with their yellow flares. Yet, their light was barely enough to identify any particular feature. The dew on a small, square window revealed how moist and warm the air inside was and how much colder it was outside. Somewhere behind him, he could hear water boiling on an angry fire. Most likely there was soup cooking inside a cauldron – the pleasant smell of herbs and spices accompanied the wet waft every time droplets of water spilled on the ardent pot.
He propped himself on his elbows but his spinning head prevented him from rising further. He tried to voice a word, failing when his throat burned with thirst. What came out instead, was a hoarse noise between a cough and a hiccup. His aching, feverish head forced him to rest motionless for a few moments, before feeling assertive enough to start rolling to one side and inspect the place. As he moved his head to the left, the front wooden door opened briskly.
“Oh, you’re up!” A gruff old-woman’s voice broke the silence as she entered the hut, a snow-filled container tight in her hands.
Nuuk tried to speak and instantly stopped to gulp down a painful, dry breath that made his tongue stick to his palate.
“Here, here. Drink this!” The old woman knelt beside him and handed him a mug of water.
She held his head up and helped him drink slowly. There was no desire in fighting the need to quench his thirst.
The cold liquid burned his sand-dried throat, though after a few moments he calmed himself and felt reinvigorated. Her gesture made him consider she couldn’t want him dead, not if she had offered him water. His mind was slow in remembering why he was there, but he could finally breathe properly without a burn in his nose or neck. Staring at the old woman, he felt that he had seen her somewhere, failing to remember where and when. His mind was hazy.
Winterhorn (Tokens Of Benevolence Book 1) Page 17