by RG Long
“What direction did you see them head off in?” he asked.
Before she could reply, a very tipsy Teresa came stumbling onto the docks. She was swaying with every step and, had it not been for the quick movements of both Ealrin and Blume, she may have tumbled right off the docks and into the water.
“Are you drunk?” Holve asked Teresa with a look of surprise on his face.
Teresa tried to reply, wrenched her face into what she probably thought was an intimidating stare, and threw up into the sea. Holve rolled his eyes.
“Get her on board,” he said. “But see that she finishes being sick first.”
Ealrin And Blume traded looks.
“Amrolan, Elen,” Holve said as he looked at the two elves. “Come with me. We’ll need to find a place for the elves to spend a few weeks. Perhaps you can help guide me to an appropriate place outside the city?”
The two nodded, though Ealrin noticed both were quite stiff with each other, and followed Holve off the docks. He called back over his shoulder.
“I’ll send word if we’re not going to return to the ship by nightfall.”
“Stay safe,” Ealrin called after him, worried that his companions had already split up more than he had hoped to since coming to the pirate city.
CARRYING TERESA ONTO the Dragon’s Wing was more difficult than Ealrin thought as she was still vomiting every few moments and with all of her armor still on her, she weighed at least twice as much as she would have without all the metal.
With a lot of grunting, a few choice curses from Blume, and reprimands from Ealrin, however, the pair of them managed to get the inebriated princess on board and back to the room they shared. Once they had deposited Teresa on the mat she was supposed to have been sleeping on their entire journey, Blume left the room, muttering something about getting cleaned up.
Ealrin, in the meantime, grabbed a bucket and helped Teresa to place it between her knees as she leaned into it and gave one last heave of sick. He was surprised she had anything left to give.
Wiping her mouth, she lay down on the mat and closed her eyes. Her face was red and she had sweat on her forehead.
“Better,” she murmured and let out a burp. Ealrin covered his mouth as the smell was anything but pleasant.
“I killed Tory,,.” she said, opening her eyes and looking up at him. “Ealrin, I killed Tory.”
He sighed deeply and nodded his head.
“I know,” he said. “I was there. I saw the whole thing. You didn’t mean to, though.”
She closed her eyes and shook her head.
“My swords. My hands. My soldier and general,” she said through clenched teeth. “I killed him. No matter what the spell was, or what had taken over me, he died at my hands.”
Ealrin felt the tears welling up in his eyes and the lump in his throat. These weren’t for Teresa, however, nor were they for Tory at the moment, though he had shed more than a few for the fallen warrior. He was thinking of his own sins.
“Teresa,” he said. “You were under a spell. You had no control. The emperor was using you. Wisym explained what had happened. What he did to you and to her and Elen. You weren’t yourself.”
“But they were still my swords in my hands.”
Ealrin took his gaze away from her and hit the floor, looking down at his own hands. What crimes had he committed with those hands and not told her yet? Could he tell her? Or would she hold him in as much contempt as it appeared she held herself?
He was spared the concern. Blume came back into the room with a bucket, a rag, and a bar of soap.
“Help me get the armor off of her,” she said. “Then let me clean her up. You can wait outside.”
IT TOOK A LONG WHILE for Blume to come out of the room with a dirty rag and water. She looked satisfied, though.
“I like being helpful,” she said. “She’s all cleaned up and asleep for now. I’ve heard you wake up with a terrible headache after drinking too much. Is that true? Or do you think Teresa is stronger than that?”
Ealrin chuckled.
“She’s strong alright,” he said. “But strength has little to do with a hangover. Let her rest. We need to see if Wisym needs any help. It sounds like cattle moving on the upper deck.”
The pair returned the bucket, rag and soap to its rightful place and then climbed the steps out of the boat. They saw that, in fact, Wisym was still having trouble getting the Wood Walkers separated by gathering. The good news, however, was that she had found Ferinan.
“I’ve not gone to speak to her yet,” she said. “But she’s aboard the Maiden’s Sword, that ship over there.”
She pointed to a larger boat three docks over. Most of the elves from the woods seemed to be congregating around that one particular boat. It was now midday and the elves seemed to become restless.
“Let’s go talk with her about what to do and see if she has any ideas,” Wisym offered. “I’m nearly spent trying to get all of these elves organized. They’re either too angered we brought them here or too fascinated with the big city.”
“Don’t hold it against them too much,” Blume said. “I’d gawk, too, if I had only seen trees my whole life and then was brought here.”
The trio walked quickly over to the ship Wisym had indicated. Its crew was busy packing essentials for another journey. It seemed the captain of this vessel wanted to get away from the Court, too. They were welcomed aboard by a dark-skinned elf with black hair. He bowed low and indicated the stairs beneath the deck.
“I believe you’ve been summoned by the chief of the Wood Walkers,” he said when he made himself upright again. “She’s injured, but the healers have been working on her nonstop since we left the shore by the woods.”
“Nonstop?” Ealrin said out loud, his eyebrow raised. Some on their boat had been injured and also been attended to by healers. Most were well enough within an hour. What injury had Ferinan sustained that required constant vigilance?
The answer was grim.
When they walked into the room Ferinan had been placed in, they were assaulted with a very strong odor of herbs and candles. Four healers were either rushing about the room, checking different pots and containers, while the others were bent over Ferinan, muttering words of Speaking and of healing.
Blume held onto Ealrin’s arm as they walked through the door. Ferinan was in terrible condition. She had been burned near beyond recognition by the flames that had consumed her forest dwelling. Her skin, where there was enough of it left to tell, was red and shiny. Other parts of her were blackened and dead looking. Her gray hair was almost completely burned away. She grimaced with pain every so often, then relaxed as a healer spoke more words over her. One of them was making figures eights above her with a wand Ealrin recognized as Rimstone.
When her eyes opened and she saw the three enter she said in a raspy voice, “Leave us.”
“But, my Lady, you are not...”
“Leave us,” she repeated.
The healers looked reproachfully at Ealrin, Blume, and Wisym, as if they had committed some crime, and then swept out of the room, taking a breeze of the odor filled air with them.
Ferinan held out her hand to Wisym.
“Come here,” she beckoned.
Wisym obeyed and kneeled beside the elven ruler.
“You came to us in search of a tree,” she said. Each word seemed to cause her great pain. Every time she swallowed, she grimaced with the effort. “The Everring Tree.”
“Yes, that’s right,” Wisym said, nodding solemnly.
“I have never known the true location of the tree of legend,” Ferinan wheezed. “But, there are some of our kindred who may. The elves of the north who have forsaken our ancient ways of preservation. They may know.”
“There is one of their kind among us,” Ealrin said softly.
Ferinan nodded.
“Please tell Gorplin and Tory that we are indebted to them. We surely would have been completely lost were it not for their help. The forest, I fe
ar...”
Blume stepped forward and took the hand of the aged elf. Ealrin looked at her in surprise. As far as he knew, she had never had any dealings with her at all.
“Elen is a good elf,” she said. “So is Amrolan. I’m sure the two of them working together can restore the forest to your people.”
Ferinan gave Blume a stern look for several moments, then smiled weakly.
“Perhaps you are right,” she said. “But please, do not bury me here, so far from our home. Return my bones to the trees of our ancient heritage.”
Blume nodded. Ealrin saw a tear run down Wisym’s cheek.
“Such violence and hate,” Ferinan said, her forehead wet with sweat and a grimace on her face. “What good can possibly be done when all that men and elves desire is to burn and destroy?”
She took one last ragged breath, and then lay still.
Blume put her hand down and Wisym stood up.
“Come on,” Wisym said to the three of them, turning from the room and looking away from the body of Ferinan. “We need to tell the Wood Walkers their chief is dead.”
12: The Mines of Death
Gorplin was being lead along by seven dwarves through the city streets of Death’s Gate. They were rapidly chatting to him about the mines of their ancestors, the works they crafted, the ships they built, and the tunnels they had dug. It was hard to take in all they were saying, as they were all talking at once.
“The tunnels! You’ll have been through many in Ruyn, I’m sure, but these are works of art!”
“You should see the metals we’ve found in these mountains! Silver! Iron!”
“We dwarves have been here for a millennium, but the elves came afterwards and built their city as a guard for us.”
“Wait until you’ve met our Thane!”
“Thane?” Gorplin asked, catching the word in a haze of information and found it strange.
“Our word for king,” answered the grey-bearded dwarf to his right. “And our Thane is the greatest of dwarven kings! The Great Thane Ironheel!”
Cheers rose up from the dwarves as they continued their winding path through the city. Gorplin was thoroughly lost. Though he would have normally had been able to keep track of any path through unfamiliar cities, the elven ale had taken a greater toll on his faculties than he cared to admit.
After a few more turns through the city’s main roads, the dwarves came to what was an obviously dwarven gate. No other portal could have been wrought from stone with such dizzying heights or with such skill. Gorplin stood for a time admiring the work, much to the pleasure of his guides.
An archway towered over the main street as the road went from uncovered path to cave entrance. Two dwarven kings, or Thanes Gorplin supposed, held in their hands two great hammers that intersected. In the crossing of the dwarves' weapons, an iron circle was carved with two great runes that translated simply: The Mines of Death.
“Pleasant name,” Gorplin muttered. The other dwarves chuckled at his response.
“It’s our own way to keep out the elves. They refuse to cross the threshold if they can help it!”
And with those words, Gorplin found himself being led underneath the great archway and into the caverns that lay beyond. Dwarves were going in and out of the portal, looking at the group of seven dwarves with mostly friendly expressions. Some waved. Others merely grunted. Most carried hammers and wore pleasant, if not slightly stern, expressions.
Having spent his entire life up until the race wars of Ruyn in the mountainous halls of his father, Gorplin was used to seeing grand dwarven halls. Even the great Grandun-Krator had been a sight to his eyes, experienced as they were.
So, when all he did was nod at the excellent craftsmanship of the great hall they entered and didn’t spill over with praise, the dwarves faltered a bit as they each took turns showing him what they considered to be the grand works of their fathers.
“But aren’t we forgetting our manners!” said the gray-bearded dwarf, slapping his own forehead after Gorplin just muttered a compliment or two when he had been pointed out a statue of the first dwarf of the mines. “Names!”
Each dwarf went around and introduced themselves. Dendi, a red-haired dwarf with a short beard bowed low. Frendi, brother of Dendi and also redheaded, bowed but not as low so not to drag his quite longer beard on the floor. Nom and Bom were cousins and both blonde-haired. Thrin was a quiet dwarf and merely nodded at Gorplin, who realized in all of the commotion, this dwarf hadn’t uttered a single word. And, finally, there was Brend, the old gray-haired dwarf.
Brend bowed a second time as he said to Gorplin after the introductions were made.
“You must come and meet our Thane!” he said proudly. “He’ll be glad to hear news of other dwarves on Ruyn. He’s a bit of an explorer himself! He’s been on every piece of dirt that Irradan has to offer and underneath just as much as well! Come with us!”
And before he could object much, again due to the amount of ale still coursing through his veins, Gorplin was ushered straight through the hall towards a large door with two impressive iron doors flanked by more dwarves with hammers. Some of these were stone statues in similar make to those in the entrance, others were dwarves guarding the hall for their king.
Gorplin saw that the color of the guard and of the Mines of Death was an appropriate black with a silver hammer emblazoned on the shields, breastplates, and banners of the dwarves. They nodded at them as they walked forward through a door and into another large chamber of the rock and stone. Gorplin saw that, unlike the previous chamber, this one was more ornate. Gold and silver flickered in the torchlight that illuminated the walls and ceilings.
He found the use of torches odd. Back home on Ruyn, his own tunnels and chambers had been lit by Rimstone runes. Fire seemed barbaric in comparison. These feelings, though the ale still was working its way through him, he was able to keep to himself. The runes inlaid with precious metals were beautiful in their own way. He attempted to put on an impressed face, lest he insult his hosts.
After making their way across the chamber and with much more pointing and chattering, they arrived at a door where the dwarves did not nod and allow them to pass. Instead, they stood fast and only glared.
“Tell Thane Ironheel we have a dwarf from Ruyn! I’m sure the Thane would approve of an audience from a foreign dwarf with stories of distant lands!” Brend said enthusiastically. One of the dwarves nodded, then hurried inside. Gorplin was impressed. He had nearly thought that the guards would just shoo them away and tell them to bother the king when he was less busy. Then again, this kingdom of dwarves didn’t seem particularly large.
Gorplin was remembering another king he had been introduced to once and steeled himself for whatever might lay beyond the chamber. He had, in fact, not been at first so openly accepted in the courts of the other king. Then again, he had also not been expecting to encounter a dragon.
A guard came back to the door and bowed them in. Gorplin followed the other dwarves, who went in first without hesitation. Before him he saw a glittering cavern, though not of crystal or of Rimstone. The cave was filled with untapped veins of gold that ran out from the middle of the room, where a golden throne sat upon a dais of three steps.
Thane Ironheel was a young dwarf, at least younger than Gorplin had expected. He seemed as old as Gorplin was; though, at fifty, the dwarf was no youngling. Yet, in the reckoning of dwarves, he had only just come of age.
He was a blonde-bearded dwarf with streaks of red. A look of interest greeted Gorplin from the Thane as he looked over the heads of the other dwarves. All seven dwarves bowed low. Gorplin, being a prince himself and remembering it, he bowed but not quite as deeply. Thane Ironheel rose and inclined his head.
“Welcome stranger,” he said in a deep voice that belied kingly pride. “I’m told you hail from Ruyn. We do not often see other dwarves from distant lands. I would have you come and tell me stories of the dwarves of other continents and of the kingdoms there.”
&nb
sp; Gorplin concealed a burp and managed to reply while keeping down whatever was churning in his stomach.
“It would be an honor to speak with you, Thane Ironheel, and to share stories of my wanderings and friends. We have seen and done much on Ruyn and Irradan. I’ve only just arrived this morning.”
Thane Ironheel gave him a look of curiosity that Gorplin thought seemed mistrustful.
“This morning?” he asked.” Did you come here with the elves of the woods? The ones called the Wood Walkers?”
Gorplin faltered, but attempted to rally himself.
“Yes, Thane,” he said. “I arrived here with elves and humans, fleeing the war in the south.”
“That,” the Thane replied, “May change the nature of our conversation.”
13: Plans
Blume was feeling overwhelmed. Aside from the fact that she had spent much of the last six months chasing after one friend or another on a new continent filled with strange elves and stranger magic, she was now surrounded by people she didn’t know and in a city built and maintained by pirates.
She had been in worse predicaments before, that was sure, but then she had friends to talk with. People who were her age, or at least close to it. Now, she found herself surrounded by adults and wishing she had someone to talk to. In Lone Peak, she had Dilinor, even for just a little bit. She missed him. Not as much as she missed Jurgon.
Jurgon. Thinking about the halfling made her heart ache. She hadn’t really had time to mourn him properly. They hadn’t even had a service for him like they had done for Tory. Then again, they had no body.
She put the dough she was kneading down. Ever since they had returned to the ships, they had been busy about getting some type of meal prepared for the elves. Blume and some of the others had been tasked with making bread. And so, they made bread. Small loaves, only enough to feed two a meager meal. But it was still going to be food. They didn’t have time to let it rise, nor to worry much about herbs and other things to help improve the flavor.