A Baptism by Fire

by Wayne O'Brien

  "That would be fine," Faeranduil accepted.

  "Give it a bit," Helmeck said as he fried crow's eggs. "A meetin' 'ill be set for ye."

  "A meeting with whom?"

  "The man ye just saw."

  The wooden plate was put before Faeranduil, fried crow's eggs with a long link of deer sausage and a piece of bread. He ate enjoying the seasonings he had not tasted since his younger days. Before the war, even before he wed.

  "May I have an ale to wash this down," Faeranduil asked.

  Helmeck looked at him a moment, questioning. "Nay," he said shrugging the question off as strange and out of custom. "Beer is for the morn. Ale is for ye'r dinner." Helmeck guffawed as he poured a lighter looking beverage, not as frothy or bitter. The door to the back room opened and the man entered, coughing deeply from his chest. He looked tired and much older than he should be.

  "You wanted to see me about work," the man asked.

  "Yes I do," Faeranduil replied.

  The man waved his hand and exited the same way he entered. Faeranduil followed him into a dark room lined with shelves of herbs and spices. A table stood in the middle of the room holding a ledger, quill and ink well and candelabra. The man sat in a chair on the far side of the table, the ranger across from him.

  "I understand you know where I can find some work," Faeranduil started.

  "That goes without saying," he snapped, "I called you into my office 'cause you asked," the man said as he filled his pipe with a dried flower, one of the same kinds he saw on the mountainside the other day.

  "High paying work, I need to pay for my room and..."

  "I don't care what you need to pay for or not," he snapped again, as he closed the bag the flowers were in. "It's too early to hear the begging of some stranger," he looked at Faeranduil, "ranger." The rough young man laughed at the rhyme, his laughter soon became uncontrolled coughing.

  "What work is there to be had," Faeranduil asked coldly.

  "What hath you come here in search of," the man mocked. "No ranger comes from the north, never shows his face, and is only lookin' for work." He lit his pipe; a bitter-sweet smoke began to emanate from it.

  "I am headed toward..."

  "Filth," he cursed, "I bet you're an elfling."

  Faeranduil stared at him coldly, his hand on the hilt of his knife. It seemed like a long time they stared at each other, a game of chess in the mind.

  "So," the smoker said at last and leaned back in his chair, "the ways I see it, you're a burning long face or you're not. Either way," he paused to lean in, drawing breath from his pipe deeply and letting it slowly escape his mouth, floating up his face and breathing it back in through his nose. "What's in it for me?"

  The ranger stared at him, studying, still playing the game. "What is it that you want?"

  The man took a drag from his pipe, his eyes closing a bit more as he did. "Coin, power, oprianal," he smiled.

  "By the gods of creation I do give my oath that you will receive all that you deserve," Faeranduil said formally and filled with pride.

  "Indeed," the man scoffed. "You cannot get me anything without the permission of Frost."

  Faeranduil looked at him, "your leader I am guessing."

  The man coughed harshly as he nodded his head, stood and led the ranger to the door opposite the one he entered. This door opened to the dining room, facing the stairs he came down that morn. Beneath them was another door leading to the cellar. They went to that one and descended the stairs. Faeranduil followed the smoking man to a wall, where he could see a small lever pushed to release a hidden door in the cellar.

  They followed a dark tunnel down into the sewers. It was no wonder why the human city of Bristork smelled so foul, with a river of excrement flowing beneath the streets. They turned multiple times, all the while heading south, until they reached a large open area, well lit with torches. Faeranduil could hear the commotion of merchant's and their customers above him.

  "Frost," the man coughed, "this ranger is looking for work."

  A tall man stood up from a high backed throne in the middle of the chamber. The king of the sewers, presiding over the waste of the city. He turned to look at the ranger, his grey skin and colorless eyes stared through the ranger for a moment before gesturing for him to come around the room and before him.

  "Thank you, Jaques," Frost said as he sat again. "You may take your leave. You have traveled far," he asked the ranger as Jaques disappeared into the darkness of the sewers.

  "I have," Faeranduil said.

  "And what do you seek?"

  "Enough coin to pay for food and bed whilst I travel south to Caultonsburg."

  "And what is in Caultonsburg," Frost asked while he studied the shadow beneath the ranger's hood.

  "That is my concern," Faeranduil could sense others gathering behind him.

  "You are in my city now and the concerns of an elf from the north are the concerns of mine." At that his hood was pulled down from his head, exposing his pointed ears, long face and sun darkened skin.

  Faeranduil pulled the knife from his back and sliced the throat of the man on his right, the one who dehooded him. He dropped the knife from his right hand and caught it with his left as he pulled the sword from its scabbard and made a quarter turn. The long blade cut deep into the gut of another who stood behind him while the knife cut at his throat. Making another quarter turn, he brought the blade up, from the same swing that disemboweled the man behind him, and cleaved the head from another.

  Faeranduil pivoted, dropping the blade of his sword down for an upwards strike, as he took a step towards the brute who was coming up behind him. The blade sliced up, from groin to chin, opening the attacker. He then planted the heel of his foot into the stomach of a fifth, pushing him against the wall and cleaved the top of his head, at the eyes, with his sword.

  The bottom part of a spear swung around and cracked him in his lower back. Faeranduil turned, swung his sword at who hit him, cutting the spearman through one cheek and out the other. The flat of a blade crashed against the back of his head sending him forward and a knife appeared beneath Faeranduil's chin, pushed hard against his throat.

  Hollow clapping echoed through the now silent chamber. Frost sat, smiling, amused by the bout. "You elves really do move fast, I could hardly see you." He stopped clapping and walked up to Faeranduil, who was forced to his knees and disarmed. "I'm impressed."

  Faeranduil sneered at Frost, vowing to finish what he started.

  "What shall we do with him," the voice holding the knife asked.

  "Take him out the east tunnel, let's see what our friends in the south think of our gift," he turned to walk back to his throne then paused and continued, "sell them his gear and weapons."

  "What of the slain," an archer standing next to the throne asked.

  "Throw them in the river." Four of the guards stripped Faeranduil down to his under garments and boots. He was then escorted to the right of the throne. Faeranduil heard the splash of bodies being tossed into the sewage before a dense sack was put over his head and tied around his neck.

  It had been several days of travel since they took a couple horses from the farms of Fynstork. Only stopping to eat and rest on the occasion Faeranduil's captures grew weary. The sack was constantly over his head, save when they decided to give him their leftovers. His legs ached from the forced march, and being refused to relieve himself anywhere other than his pants.

  A deep dark screeching sound echoed faintly from the north, eerily reminiscent to his dream the day before entering Bristork. The rope tied around his wrists was tugged on hard, forcing him to walk faster or fall and be dragged. He walked behind his captures, who were riding the horses, for at least six leagues each day.

  One morning, while they were stirring from their slumber, a horn blew long and deep, echoing across the land, signifying the first day of the Festival of Flowers. Beacons were lit across the horizon and festivities were being prepared for the next three days. The festival for t
he Doba Idtaeyar, or time of rain, began later that day. Prayers and sacrifices to Ytris, the goddess of nature, were given on the next day, and to Taeyar, god of water, on the third.

  Their travels south lasted through the next ninety days and three festivals. On the announcement of the forth blooming, Doba Agste, the birthday of Agste and the new year, they finally entered Kreal, on the shores of Lake Shemoth.

  At length they traveled through Kreal, four riders and their captive. Eventually they stopped and Faeranduil heard boots land on the compacted dirt street, take a few steps, and then there was a knock on wood. The door opened with a screech.

  "Oye, there Groupon, we've a gift from your friends in the north. As well as proposal," one of his captures said. Faeranduil felt the gaze of whom they were talking to fall on him.

  "Wha' proposa' ye 'ave," a rough voice asked, there was the sound of metal clanging together before Groupon continued. "Arms. Wha' need have I for those?"

  "That is for you to decide."

  "'ow much ye askin'?"

  "No price was given to me. You may make any offer." There was a pause.

  "Fif'een gold for the bundle."

  "Nay, that's an elvish bow, possibly from the war," the haggling capture said. Faeranduil could only smell the dank musk of the sack from the Dobas of rain, wind and sky. The mold tainted his senses.

  "Twen'y."

  "Done."

  "An' who be t'is?"

  "A gift," the cord tied around his neck was tugged on. "He was somewhere he shouldn't have been." The sack was removed, Faeranduil blinked in the blinding light.

  "An elfling," a hairy muscle bound man said.

  "Aye," his captures pushed him to the ground. "Free of charge," he continued as he handed the rope to the slaver.

  Faeranduil glared at his captures and began to stand up, his bound fists clenched tight. A stick came around and hit him in the back of his knees, sending him back down to the ground.

  "He is a Wilder, give him a chance and he'll cut ye'r throat."

  "Aye, I've handled worse. Ye have to know 'ow to 'alk to 'hem."

  The captures laughed and looked down at Faeranduil.

  "I will kill you," Faeranduil promised the capture that negotiated with the slaver. Half his head was shaved close and was tattooed with a vine-like tribal design.

  "I doubt that elfling," he spat in the ranger's face then mounted his horse and headed west towards Bristork Highway to follow the river north.

  "Smells like you could use a bath," the slaver said and Faeranduil turned to look at him. The slaver waved his hand to beckon him to follow. Faeranduil stood and followed him.

  The bath was warm and soothing, and in an actual tub. The slaver let him clean in his personal home. Faeranduil's wrists bore the mark of the rope, red and sore, yet he was relieved to be rid of them for the first time since his forced march from Bristork.

  Clean clothes were left for him, all white and embroidered with the sigil of the slaver on the chest. A blue chain border encircling a scarlet man with a black tattoo going down his spine, marking him as an unbranded slave. After Faeranduil got dressed, his bathing and dressing being watched by two guards, he was escorted to the dining area of the slaver's luxurious home.

  The slaver sat at a table and motioned for him to join. The table was large enough to seat twenty; there were oil lamps down the middle. It reminded Faeranduil of his time in Okeawodal. The slaver, who was now wearing a soft leather vest over a loose fitting shirt, clapped his hands and a young girl, no more than thirteen sun cycles of age, came from the door behind him.

  Her face could not be seen through her long black hair; her head bend forward looking at the floor. She wore an old dress of faded green. On either hand was a plate of food. She first served the slaver, with a small curtsy, and then handed the other to Faeranduil.

  "Name's Groupon," the slaver said as he cut into his fish.

  "Faeranduil," the ranger responded, "I thank you for your hospitality."

  Groupon grunted and continued eating, Faeranduil could see that he was not raised wealthy; rather he earned it through the slave trade.

  "May I ask one thing of you," Faeranduil continued but was cut short.

  "T'night ye be fed and bathed, t'morrow ye be marked and tested to see ye'r talents," Groupon said plainly.

  "If you set me free and return my belongings you shall live."

  Groupon laughed so hard to Faeranduil's statement he spit the lake grass onto the table. "Ye can buy them back for thir'y gold. As for ye'r freedom," he paused to swallow the bite of fish he was chewing, "that 'ill be determined by ye'r skills."

  Faeranduil wanted to explain his position with King Ianhorn, but thought better of it. That information in the wrong hands could mean worse than slavery. Gods forbid they learned his role during the invasion of The Kingdom of Okeawodal. He looked long and hard at Groupon, who returned the gaze.

  "I'm a businessman," the brawny slaver said, "I make m' coin from good inves'men's." Groupon drank from a large goblet filled with a sweet fruity red wine. "I trea' ye good, ye work with me. There are cons'quences fo' breakin' the laws. Fo' Master an' slave." He looked at Faeranduil, twisting the knife in his hand. "There be prep'rations an' festives fo' th' new cycle. Ye are a guest fo' t'night. But m' plans stay true."

  "Your words are wasted and pointless," Faeranduil thought. His gaze piercing deep, planning the next piece to be removed from the mental chess board.

  "Ye 'ave not eaten," Master Groupon said distastefully. "Ye wish to insul' me, in my home?" Faeranduil did not respond, his sight moved to the girl; her terror filled eyes connected with his. There was a slight glint of wonder in her eye when it came to the elf. He could see that small spark deep in her eyes, the fire that could grow into building dreams was not yet out within her.

  "My request has gone up," Faeranduil said. He looked at Groupon, emotionless. "My gear, my weapons, my freedom and now her freedom," he pointed to the girl subserviently standing behind Groupon,"for your life, and the lives of your men."

  "Burning horse-face cuntling," Groupon raged, tossing the knife on the table and picking up the crossbow that lay in his lap as he stood. "The shite rat 'as right 'bout ye," I 'hink ye had enough to eat." At that he called and the guards picked Faeranduil up from his seat and escorted him away. Faeranduil heard Groupon tell the slave girl to give his plate to the dogs before the door closed.

  Faeranduil awoke before dawn in the small room, no larger than a closet, he was locked in. He sat, legs crossed, and eyes closed praying to the gods of creation. The sound of keys jingling beyond the door, followed by the click of the lock, echoed in the distance of his meditation.

  "Oye, long face," a voice said, "time fo' ye'r markin'." Two sets of hands grabbed him up from the floor and escorted him down the hall. The basement was well built, laid out as a type of prison. In the main room, the only way out, there was a table for documentation and an unusual looking chair.

  The chair had a head rest, bent backwards with a hole in it. The back of the chair, also bent back and reclined awkwardly. The arm rests were reversed from the seat as well. Faeranduil was brought to the chair and his face forced into the hole of the head rest.

  A leather strap was fastened around his skull.

  "Name," the scribe at the table said.

  Faeranduil did not respond, his arms were strapped to the rests, bound wrists and elbows.

  "Name," the scribe demanded as Faeranduil's ankles and knees were bound as well. Still there was no response. "So you want to play games," the well dressed scribe said as he walked to Faeranduil. A stick came down across his back, cutting into his shirt.

  "Stupid, Shaz'tet," the scribe cursed, "you did not remove Master Groupon's shirt, and have now ripped it." Faeranduil heard the snap of wood on flesh, followed by the grunts of pain, as the scribe struck the guard repeatedly. Once the beating stopped, the scribe told the guard to pick himself up.

  "Do not worry, Princess," the scribe mocked, "this w
ill only hurt at lot."

  A small needle entered into the flesh on the back of his neck, hitting the bone between where his shoulders met. Faeranduil squirmed, but did not yell out. The needle entered again, hitting a spot in his spine again, this time slightly next to the first. Again and again the scribe painstakingly put the intricate mark of Groupon on Faeranduil's neck. The longer it took the worse the pain, until Faeranduil could not take it and yelled out.

  "De'iä Ytris, aenil oi thár a semîs, fu'ræf nin cín blűťsh," he cried in his Elven tongue. The words echoing off the stone walls of his prison.

  Faeranduil sat in his closet, the back of his neck throbbing. The plate that held his morning meal sat empty on the floor. He was in meditation again, praying to Idtune, goddess of the sky, thanking her for the birth of Agste, when the door opened.

  Groupon stood in the doorway, adorned with a soft bear skin tunic beneath ring mail.

  "Time for ye'r testin'," he said, and two guards escorted him out of his cell and up to the main floor. "I hear ye were some 'rouble earlier, Princess." Groupon smiled at him as they went to the backyard of the house. He held his crossbow ominously.

  The yard had high walls surrounding it, made of the trunks of great trees. Within the yard was a crude type of obstacle course, meant to test new slaves. He was directed to a pulley system with a net filled with heavy stones tied off with a rope and fed through the single wheel.

  "Pull," Groupon said as he pointed to the rope. Faeranduil grabbed the rope and tugged on it. The net of stones rose off the ground, causing some smaller stones to fall free. He dropped the rope, sending the net back down.

  Laughter filled the grassless yard. "Surely, Princess Horse-head, can do better than that," a guard mocked. Faeranduil grabbed the rope with both hands, one on either side of the wheel. He pulled the net up again, and then collapsed onto the ground, unthreading the rope.

  "On ye'r feet Princess," Groupon ordered and Faeranduil began to stand. The stone flew across the yard with such speed the guard had no chance at blocking it. Instead it landed between the eyes of the guard on Groupon's left, sending him to the ground unconscious.