"No, Magnif—Maldoch, I didn't."
"Remember this lesson then. Don't be fooled into complacency by thinking that the universe is a constant. It's not. The cosmos changes with the unpredictable regularity of the weather and is equally hard to forecast with any degree of certainty.” Jumping to his feet, the night wind blowing coolly through his long hair and beard, the wizard fixed his hawkish stare on the Troll teen. The hint of a revolting smell poorly masked by scented oil wafted under the tip of his beaked nose, and his suspicious eyes watered. “What's your profession, boy?"
"I'm a dung seller,” N'tolth said with pride. “I gather the droppings from J'tard's personal unihorn herd, flatten and sun-dry the dung balls, them barter them off as fire fuel. It's a big step up from my last job as an offal cook."
"You won't object if I don't shake hands with you then."
The refusal was lost on the Troll. Handshakes were not a formal ritual of greeting in this part of the world.
"You want something from me,” the wizard prompted the Troll, keeping a set distance between himself and the pongy dung handler.
"I have a question for you."
"If I had a shorrin for every time someone says that to me, I'd have enough metal to open my own silver mine."
N'tolth dithered, unsure whether to proceed. Maldoch sighed and gave his permission with a desultory wave of his hand, inciting the Troll to speak his mind. “I peruse the texts in the Library of Histories whenever I get the chance. It is written that you are the most widely traveled person in the whole of Terrath."
"Yes...” the spellcaster guardedly accepted.
"You must surely have hiked out by Tahldorea."
Warning bells pealed in Maldoch's head. N'tolth named Humbril Crest by its original label in the old trading speech preceding Nglais. Sussing out the Troll's intent, the wizard headed him off at the pass. “I'm going to save us both a lot of inconvenience. The Snow Trolls don't exist. They're nothing but myth."
"But the texts..."
"I know what the texts say. I ought to, considering I dictated them more years ago than I care to remember. It's not my fault the scribes took liberties with my dictation and embellished key passages. I think that's called artistic license."
"Then how can you deny the existence of the Tahldoreans?"
"Because they were never real in the first place! I'm aware of your legend teaching how the ancestral Trolls were begat by hairier forebears and that a remnant of primordial Trolls remains in hiding to this day at the foot of the mountain. That is partly true."
N'tolth latched on to that concession, only to have it wrested from him by the wizard's next statement.
"The forerunners of the Trolls were likely furry, but it wasn't natural by any means. No siree. Surviving the freezing cold of the Barren Wilds meant wearing pelts, probably bearskins to contain Troll largeness. Such attire gave rise to the fable of haired giants. After the desert migration they discarded their winter clothing, becoming miraculously hairless and adding the trademark element to the fairy tale. So you plainly see, it's naught but popular misconception."
"But where there's cloud, there's rain,” persisted the Troll, using a local adage inferring that behind every fanciful tale lurked a speck of truth. Captivated by the possibility of mythical cousins inhabiting a region of snow and ice completely opposite to the sandy desert, he was far from ready to discount a stock Troll belief.
Not quite so accommodating, Maldoch had enough on his plate without pandering to adolescent fancy and his tone became harsh. “Don't waste any more of my time or yours on this matter. You should be fathering babies instead of chasing wind devils. Snow Trolls sprouted from the misinterpreted past. They never truly existed and it's folly to believe they ever did."
Disenchanted by the unappealing truth, N'tolth mumbled, “Sorry for disturbing you, Magnificent One."
"Stick to the bullshit you know,” advised Maldoch, watching him shuffling down the stairs off the rooftop. “Go back to dealing in dung and leave the crap of mythology to the lore masters, boy. Bizarre as it may sound, what comes out of the backend of a unihorn is more honest than tales woven by storytellers."
—
Garrich hurtled up the steps. Panting from the exertion, his eyes explored the rooftop, spotting the wizard parked on his knees in a corner facing south. The Goblin paused on the topmost stair, unwilling to barge in. A nimbus of shimmering blue enveloped Maldoch's head and he appeared to be talking to thin air.
"...arranged. Meet us three weeks from tonight at that point on the east coast."
"I'll anchor in the westernmost cove of Falke Tropicana,” confirmed an echoing voice emanating from nowhere in the darkness.
"Don't be late, Shipmaster,” exhorted the wizard, extinguishing then both the spell and magical aura.
Wandering over, Garrich asked, “Who were you speaking with?"
"I was booking passage on an Elven boat."
"The Elves sail?"
"No, they bob on the water going around in circles. Didn't Parny cover this with you?"
Garrich's face turned scarlet. He had forgotten. The technical wizard indeed explained that Elven colonists sailed from out of the Unknown Ocean a couple of millennia ago. “Parndolc may have mentioned it,” he admitted contritely.
"It plainly didn't sink in."
"Hardly surprising,” said Garrich. “When I think of Elves I associate them with trees, not water."
"And what are ships made out of—iron?” Maldoch despaired. “Boy, some days you show undreamt of promise, while on others you're thicker than an Ogre's skull."
Garrich folded his arms and huffed. “Maybe you should have had me fostered out to a scholar. As it is I'm a soldier's son and one thing I learnt from Tylar is that a soldier doesn't need to think about the orders he follows."
The wizard's droopy moustache veiled his wry grin. Garrich had come to realize that the fundamental asset of being counted a champion was unthinking obedience. “You finished sword practice early tonight."
"It's hard to concentrate, what with girls chasing me. So I came up here to hide."
"I'd hardly call that a nuisance.” Maldoch chuckled enviously.
Bewilderment crept over Garrich's countenance. “Troll maidens find me fascinating for some reason."
"Everyone wants a taste of the exotic. Aren't you the least bit interested in getting friendly with a lusty Sandwalker wench?"
"Maldoch! We're different races."
"Don't knock something until you try it."
Garrich was appalled. “You haven't!"
"I hold the record, my boy."
"For what?"
"Being the first red-blooded male in Terrath to bed a woman from each of the Fellow Races."
Garrich leaned his hands on top of the parapet edging the roof to steady his shocked sensibilities. “You had all that sex just to make a bigger name for yourself."
"Don't be so prudish. After breathing, fornication is the most natural act in the world. You really do need to broaden your horizons. Normally I don't kiss and tell, but in this case your education take precedence over my humility.
"All women were not created equal. Elves are the gentlest lovers; Dwarfs rank the most aggressive with insatiable sexual appetites. Trolls have the stamina of racehorses, while Gnomes only make love with the lights out. Anarican women are ... well, you've met Aliana. Draw your own conclusion."
"That leaves Goblins,” Garrich said interestedly.
The wizard was about to reply honestly, then changed his mind and grinned. “There is something to be said for mystique,” he said, taking Garrich's head in his wrinkly hands.
The Goblin wriggled free. “Race isn't the real issue,” he reluctantly confided.
"Aaah, inexperience,” twigged Maldoch. He nudged Garrich with an elbow. “Practice makes perfect on that score."
"That's not the reason,” Garrich mumbled uncomfortably, staring at the cityscape below. Street torches guttered in the sighing night bre
eze, the ephemeral flames striving to stay lit and illuminate the way for those enjoying a nocturnal stroll free of the glaring sun, buzzing flies, and relentless heat.
This time the wizard's acuity was bang on. “The naked bimbo back in Wivernbush certainly got her hooks into you, lover boy. You can't even think of any girl but her. Pity you're in for major heartbreak.” Maldoch started for the stairs, making for his bed.
Tired of wizardly innuendo, Garrich snapped, “Just what do you mean by that?"
"For a virgin, you've set your sights mighty high, aiming for an exotic plant you haven't got a snowball in Kha-Rell's chance of deflowering."
"If it's the race thing..."
"Oh brother,” laughed the mocking spellcaster, descending the first few steps. “That's not the half of it. She isn't even of the same species."
[Back to Table of Contents]
Chapter Twenty Five
"It's so hot!"
"Stop whining, Garrich,” Maldoch told him off. “We're in the middle of the desert. What did you expect—snow?"
"It is wintertime,” the Goblin griped back. “A little cold would be nice."
A bass chuckle sounded from the Troll giant striding ahead of them. J'tard had taken point since leaving Rohal Ak Jubai a day after his return home, heading southeast out across the unmapped dune fields where there was nothing but shifting sands. It was late in the day and the trio had just decamped to resume trekking in the more bearable cool of night, threading their way along the troughs of bedrock snaking between the rows of lofty seif dunes. Swept bare by the scouring wind, these natural avenues had long been the traditional highways of the ancient desert nomads and were so again tonight.
Not ready to quit complaining, Garrich moaned, “How come I get to tow this smelly spitball around with me?"
He referred to the cantankerous beast he was pulling along behind him with regular jerks of the cord tethered to the haltered animal, the contents of the stoppered water jars saddled on its sloping back sloshing noisily. The snorting and rumbling unihorn, like everything in the Great Desertland, was built on the premise that big is better: Garrich barely reached the one ton monster's shaggy shoulder. A bizarre cross of rhinoceros and camel with a touch of bison thrown in for good measure, unihorns were a utilitarian animal exploited fully by their Troll domesticators, providing milk and meat, as well as clothing material from their woolly forequarters and dried dung for fuel. It was both a dependable beast of burden and mode of transport for the desert folk, as well as a prime source of bartering currency. Troll culture relied completely on these “wagons of the desert” and J'tard had made a financial killing as a superior breeder and supplier of the unlovely creatures.
After a week of traveling together, Garrich thought their new Troll associate a queer bird. J'tard was of average size for his race, which meant close to being double the weight and twice as tall as the slighter Goblin. For all his size, the giant was soft spoken and inoffensive ... hardly questing material. Perhaps the burden of responsibility as the bearer of his nation's talisman weighed heavily on J'tard, compounding his natural introspection. Somehow Garrich doubted the stone vial containing Tahriana's Leaf, strung about the Sandwalker's blocky neck from a near unbreakable cord of twisted unihorn tail hair, would encumber the colossus. His only redeeming feature as a potential fighter was the fearsome five-foot long club he rested casually on a mighty shoulder.
Garrich stumbled forward with a startled, “Hey!” as the unihorn gave him a playful prod in the small of his back with the tip of the single horn that gave the breed its name; an upward curving appendage extruding from the middle of the bone shield that extended from its upper lip to the crest of the shoulder hump where precious fat reserves were stored.
Maldoch chortled. “I think he likes you, boy."
"She,” amended J'tard.
"Garrich has a girlfriend,” the wizard sang mockingly.
"Oh, act your age, magic man,” retorted the Goblin.
"If I did, I'd be as sedentary as that great lump of volcanic rock over there,” said the spellcaster, nodding toward the overbearing cone of Dahad Byrakhum peeping over the dune tops away on his right and blackened by the fires of sunset. A disapproving glance from J'tard smacked Maldoch like a hand blow. “Whoops. Didn't mean to be irreverent,” he apologized to the Troll. The extinct volcano held special, some might say spiritual, meaning for the Sulanders and they brooked no disrespect.
"Magnificent One, we have a problem ahead of us,” reported J'tard, his dark eyes flashing annoyance on top of anger.
The wizard caught up to where their stooped guide, having climbed to the apex of a huge sword dune to gauge their progress, now peered in the direction he was gesturing. The orangey glare of the setting sun backlit the travelers, flinging spindly shadow copies of men and beast down across the gritty canvas of ridged, heat retentive sand. Out east a billowing ochre cloud smudged a considerable stretch of the rolling horizon, animated with destructive intent.
"Sandstorm,” pronounced J'tard. “It's a doozy."
"And right in our path to the coast,” determined Maldoch. “Can we skirt it?"
"It's pretty extensive,” the Troll observed doubtingly. “The Black Goddess is really huffing and puffing tonight.” He was understandably reluctant to try. Raging winds driving sandblasting grit that stripped exposed flesh to the bone was enough to put anyone off getting too close.
"What's wrong?” Garrich called up to the consternated pair from his position on the channel floor. Wrestling with the reins to the ornery unihorn, which spat a disgusting gob of bile his way, the Goblin adroitly ducked the gooey wad while waiting for a reply.
"There's a storm running our way,” Maldoch glumly answered.
"And your weather bones didn't feel it coming?"
The wizard brushed off the youth's dig. “J'tard, when do you reckon that blow will peter out?"
"You know these storms as well as any Sulander, Maldoch. It might wheeze out of steam in an hour or two, or carry on gusting for a week."
"Then we stay on course and hope it'll blow itself out before we reach it,” opted the spellcaster.
"I'll traverse the dune ridge to keep tabs on it,” J'tard said as the wizard slid down the 200 foot sand slope, steadying his descent with his trusty staff, to take the easy road with Garrich.
The vivid sunset curtain raiser of night played out with unrestrained red and pink splendor. Twinkling stars latched on to the coattails of the descending darkness, providing mood lighting for the embracing coolness. The sunlit contrasts etched into the dunescape by the sculpting winds were toned down by the cobalt and violet shadows, muting the harsh beauty of the baked land.
"How does the Troll know which way we're going?” asked Garrich. “Aside from that volcano, there are no landmarks to find your way in this sandbox."
The wizard's eyes drifted upward to J'tard's silhouetted form gliding fluidly across the dune crest. “He's navigating by the stars. See that bright star hanging low in the east? That's what the Ancients called Fenar. After the moon, it's the brightest object in the night sky and provides a near constant point of reference for travelers in the know. By keeping Fenar at his left shoulder, J'tard can maintain a steady track southeast."
Garrich was not done being curious. “What's with that giant and his club? You would think he was married to that crude weapon of his the way he hangs on to it."
"The same way you cling to your sword?” the wizard teased under his beard. ‘A Troll's rite of manhood is an insufferably long affair that culminates in the initiate trekking alone and naked into the deep desert in search of the sacred mahtouk plant. Finding the said plant, he digs out its water-bearing tuber by hand and breaks off the tip to symbolically slake his thirst. He then lugs the end piece of the root home to carve it into his personal weapon."
"Just how big is this root?'
"As long as a sapling oak,” revealed Maldoch. “You've got the wrong end of the stick, boy. Don't fixate on the root. Fo
cus on the club shaped from it. The weapon symbolizes the quintessences of Troll social order: reticence, robustness, durability, and latent power when anger flares. The club is an extension of the male psyche to such a degree that its owner is never parted from it, even in death."
Garrich looked upon J'tard with opened eyes, humbled by the wizard's acuity.
Midnight came and went, marked only by the briefest rest for a rationed water break and quick bite to eat from the food jars K'hanti packed. Resting on his haunches, Garrich began to shiver as his body cooled. The desert was an environment of ridiculous extremes: ablaze with burning sands during the day, chilled by nights of unfrozen coldness. They moved on at a mile-eating pace through the wee small hours, making the most of the dark travel time until the sparkles of the starry sky were absorbed by the brightening golden glow of the kindled sun clipping the eastern edge of the Terrathian continent. Only Fenar shone with a stubborn faintness, defying the oncoming blueness if only for a while. A miniscule shower of grit announced J'tard's descent from the dunecaps to use his expertise to dig into the malleable slope, to shade the company from the daily heat and glare under a sunblock of sand. Instead of going for the hand shovel of baked clay tucked into one pocket of the unihorn's saddlebags, the Troll leant on his club, his pipsqueak eyes dancing in thought.
Maldoch gave him a prod. “What's your problem?"
"That storm bothers me, Magnificence. It's not behaving as it should."
"There's etiquette for storms?” joked Garrich, carelessly dropping the halter rope.
J'tard carried on regardless. “It is growing way too fast. By my reckoning it has spread north and south fifty leagues overnight and is expanding at an increased rate. Nightfall might well see it grown to a hundred leagues in either direction. I've never seen a sandstorm get that big that quickly."
"So it's the mother of all sandstorms.” Maldoch shrugged, inconvenienced but not unduly concerned.
"You may change your mind. I have the feeling the storm is a deliberate barrier, swelling to impede our progress."
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