by Chris Pisano
Climbing the small rise leading to Freeman’s Way, three men of dubious background took a pause from their journey to check their bearings. Silver squinted at the dual suns that compassed their journey. Setting in the sky glowered Rosaria, the red morning sun. Just above the horizon was Rellucidar, the blue day sun.
“Almost there. Are you sure that Haddaman can authenticate the map?” Silver asked.
“Of all the people who might verify it, only Haddaman is too spineless to deceive us,” Nevin replied. “Let’s keep moving. This trip has been quite easy, but I would see its end sooner than later.”
In a week’s time, their passage had been unmarred, other than an unfortunate incident that had been narrowly avoided when Nevin recognized a leaf that would have given him a bad rash as he sought a suitable reply to nature’s call. When his counterparts laughed about his near misfortune he had insulted their lineage, the reason for their immaturity. In the end, it had cost him only a pair of worn gloves that he often used when hiking—he no longer trusted their “purity”—a small portion of ego that he could easily afford to do without, so he wrote the incident off as no great loss.
“It seems we made good time, however …” Nevin said, his words trailed off as speechlessness struck him. From their vantage point atop the knoll about a mile from the erstwhile town, the group gazed at the smoke spiraling upward in plumes.
“Nevin, maybe we should see if there are survivors and if we can be of use to them,” Silver mumbled.
Scratching at the stubble that had consumed his chin during their journey, Nevin regarded Silver with the sightless look of disregard that had always distanced them.
“There’s only one person I’m interested in seeing. Let’s go see if we can count him among the survivors. I have a very bad feeling our little map may have something to do with this. If so, our moving on is the best help we can offer them.”
Within minutes, the trio came to smoldering remnants of the town walls. A charnel odor tainted the air as they neared, overpowering them as they entered. Nevin’s delicate senses were offended the most, forcing him to use the corner of his traveling cloak as an ersatz handkerchief, cradling it around his nose and mouth.
Diminutia and Silver walked as if any given step could give way to a trap. They forced their pace faster as Nevin trod down the ash speckled road, nary a glance in either direction; not even to the abandoned waif standing in the charred doorway of a partially collapsed house. As if magnets, her eyes clung to the thieves.
Unable to look away, Diminutia whispered, “Shouldn’t we help her?”
“No,” Nevin replied.
Usually business minded as well, Silver would normally agree with Nevin in such matters, however, the sight of the orphan would not soon be forgotten. “Nevin, helping her would …”
Nevin stopped and turned to his counterparts, his callous eyes hiding the layers of pain and anger associated with living through such an ordeal many, many years ago.
“Help her? And how do you propose we do that? Give her the gold we have, or our food, so we have none when we need it? Take her door to door searching for someone to care for her?”
“You elves …”
“Look, I am sympathetic to her situation. I am just as upset as you two, but we need to find answers to more questions than just what happened here. She will be found soon enough, probably by someone who knows who she is and will be more suited to help her than we are.”
“I’m beginning to wish that you did wipe your ass with that leaf.”
Nevin disregarded the comment as simple human callowness, as he had done so many times in the past, and continued to make his way to his destination—the antique store of Haddaman Crede. To refer to the store as anything more substantial than debris would have been an exaggeration.
Out of habit, the thieves stepped into the area as if there were still a door. The ash of the burnt roof coated the fist-sized rubble remains of the walls scattered over the floor. The ash swirled like angered spirits around the thieves’ ankles, disturbing the wreckage as they continued to search the remains. The store’s wares decorated the destruction: handcrafted gold candlesticks fused to designer shields, entire suits of armor warped or shredded, jade and turquoise ground to green talc.
“Haddaman’s dead?” Diminutia whispered.
Despite the horror surrounding him, Nevin could not help but to smirk at his partner’s comment. He walked to the far end of the room where a corner would have been, had there still been walls, and kicked away enough debris to reveal part of the wooden floor. Using his dagger, he stabbed the floor, sinking the blade deep into the wood to give his fingers enough leverage to lift away the hatch, exposing the catacombs. “Now, Diminutia, have you forgotten who we are talking about?”
Nevin reached into the small hideaway and yanked the screaming, flailing Haddaman to the surface. Lifting the weasel-framed man posed little effort for the elf. “Haddaman! It’s us. Calm down.”
“The Horde! The Horde did this.”
“The Horde? Why? What did they want?”
Haddaman knew exactly what The Horde wanted. Instead of offering up his knowledge to save half the town, he hid like a coward. “Stones. There’s an obscure tale only whispered in the darkest of dungeons. It’s quite lengthy, but over four hundred years ago, a mad wizard accursed five gems, giving them a power …”
“That when placed in a staff, the staff mixed with dragon blood had the power to summon demons,” Nevin finished.
Haddaman’s face shifted to the color of the bleached ash still sprinkling from the sky. “You have heard that story before?”
Devoid of any emotion, Nevin reached into his satchel and produced the map. “Just a week ago.”
Reaching for the map, Haddaman shook, the minor quakes not stopping with his hands and soon consumed his whole body. “You … you have a map to one!”
“So the map is legitimate?” Diminutia asked.
“Yes, yes,” Haddaman answered, looking at the map. “Where did you get this?”
“A bard sold it to us.
“A bard? Who? What was his name?”
Diminutia’s face curled, contorting as if an unpleasant odor took his senses by surprise. “He never gave us his name.”
“Pity. I would like to meet this fellow.”
Silver surveyed the landscape, noting the surviving townsfolk beginning to make their way from various shelters and hiding spots. Two sobbing women trudged past, each holding a hand of the small waif from the town’s entrance. “Exactly what happened here, Haddaman?”
“A nightmare. Earlier in the day a messenger had bequeathed the mayor a very peculiar gift—a rare and beautiful cactus from an unknown source. Once the day sun reached the pinnacle of its ascent, the cactus exploded.”
“Exploded?”
“Yes. What the mayor did not realize was the cactus was a nursery for thousands upon thousands of baby scorpions. They flowed from the town hall like a pool of malevolent ink, their chattering so loud it drowned out the screams of their immediate victims.”
“I thought you said The Horde did this?”
“The scorpions were merely a signal. The Horde burst from the forest just as the scorpions from their nest.”
“Well, gentlemen, we came here seeking to authenticate a map and, it would seem, validated the entire myth. Perhaps we should forego the mad pursuit of this stone and simply stay here to lend a hand where one is sorely needed …”
“But you must pursue this! If The Horde were to retrieve the stones, the consequences would be …”
“Dire, naturally.” Nevin exhaled, and with the stale breath went the acidic remnants of hope. “And there you have it, friends. The choices that lie before us are charity or potential martyrdom. What next?”
“There is much that could be done here,” Silver began, looking about him at the devastation as if for advice.
“I will do everything I can to rebuild this place and shelter these people,” said Haddaman
Crede, his voice suddenly taking on the tone of confidence. “For years I have stashed away gold and always felt too guilty to put it to use. It seems,” he said, gesturing about him, “that the purpose I have always lacked sought me out. You have a chance to thwart The Horde … you must seize the advantage or the atrocities to which you bear witness today will pale before those of the future.”
“It seems to me,” Diminutia said, “that staying here to help these people might not be such a wise idea after all. It’s reasonable to assume that there is a bit of trouble following our boot heels. If we stop now, we’ll be responsible for causing more people more grief.”
“Sorry, Silver,” Nevin said, his voice conveying true regret. “I agree with Dim. I understand your concern, and when this is over, we can come back to see if anything still needs to be done. But to delay here invites the same doom to other towns, I believe.”
Silver heaved a sigh heavier than the rubble the townsfolk sifted through. Then Nevin turned to Haddaman and asked, “Do you have any supplies we could borrow? And what of The Horde? Did they find any of the stones? Did you see which direction they went?”
“I, uh, spent most of my time cloaked in obscurity. I wish I could help you more, but I’m afraid I don’t know the answer to any of those questions. But take what you need. What’s mine is yours!”
When the trio had replenished their supplies only insofar as demand dictated, they made their farewells and trekked to the forest that lay on the other side of the erstwhile town.
Glancing over his shoulder, Nevin wondered, How close are you, Bale Pinkeye, and do you really know what you’re looking for?
***
Two days later, the ogre and his group found Freeman’s Way. The left side of Zot’s head was swollen and bruised with the likeness of Bale’s hand. Never blessed with directional sense, the band had wandered in circles for a whole day before a stomach malady had befallen Bale. He barely had time to stoop behind some rocks when the intestinal seizure hit him. By the time the discomfort had passed, his legs could not support him well enough to stand. As luck would have it, a broken plant lay in the dirt at arm’s length. He used the leaves to the last, then called for camp to be set up as darkness crept about them.
The next morning, Bale awoke with a terrible itching about the loincloth. Frantically, he searched about for the proper tool. To his companions delight, he ran to the nearest tree and used it as a scratching post, scraping his buttocks across the bark for relief. Hoots and hollers came from Pik Pox and Zot, until, at length, one of Zot’s dances carried him too close to the ogre he mocked.
By the time they reached Freeman’s Way, Bale’s flesh bubbled from top to bottom with the maddening itch. His skin was flushed as though with anger, and he picked at the thick pustules while surveying the damage of Freeman’s Way.
Trotting along toward the rear of the pack was Phyllis Iphillus, a satyr. A long-time friend, Phyl, joined in the adventure as soon as he heard about it.
“Bale!” Phyl called. With every word from the satyr’s mouth, Bale swore he heard the faintest whisper of a lisp, contrary to all of Phyl’s denials. “I’ve been working on a new one … let’s see now …
“There once was a captain named Speld
Who liked to have his privates held
One day while playing with his mistress
He went and got caught by his missus
And now the poor man is called ‘Geld’”
Phyl’s tittering grated Bale more than his sumac rash.
“Phyl,” Bale bawled. “Come here.”
As Phyl made his way to the front of the group, the tiny tinkle of tiny metal against metal forced Bale to stare at the satyr’s ankle. Right above the cloven hoof, a small silver chain hugged the satyr’s ankle. Dangling from the chain were two miniature morning stars, irresistibly striking each other anytime Phyl walked.
“I hate your ankle bracelet,” Bale mumbled.
“You’ve been saying that ever since I got it. What is so wrong with it?”
“It sounds like a bell. A really tiny bell.”
“It’s not a bell. It’s a talisman.”
“It sounds like a bell.”
“It’s a symbol of confidence and virility. All the other satyrs have one.”
“We need to be interpretating and it’s hard to be interpretating with a little bell ringing behind me.”
“You mean ‘intimidating’ and what could be more intimidating than two morning stars smashing into each other?”
“It sounds like a bell.”
Unbeknownst to Bale and company, one townsperson heard the whole conversation and approached the motley crew. “Welcome to Freeman’s Way,” Haddaman Crede said. “Might you be here for business or pleasure?”
“No!” Bale barked, thrusting his chest forward while his cronies stood firm behind him, making as many menacing faces and gestures as they could muster. “We’re looking for people. But from the looks of things … What happened?”
“Small disaster, I’m afraid. But we’ll get on our feet soon enough. We always do. People, eh? Well, you’re in luck. This town has a lot of people. Tall ones, short ones, skinny ones, fat ones …”
Bale snorted and shook his head as if trying to shake a complex thought from his brain. “No. That’s not what I meant …”
“So, you’re not looking for people?”
“Yes, we are!”
“Then you’re still in luck.”
“No! I mean, yes! I mean … stop talking!” Bale yelled. As he huffed, his gelatinous belly rolled up on the inhale and squished over his rope belt on the exhale. “We’re looking for a statistic group of people.”
“You mean ‘specific,’” Phyl whispered.
“Very well,” Haddaman said. “Who might you be seeking?”
“A group of thieves …”
“You mean the dastardly trio of Nevin Narrowpockets, Diminutia, and Silver? Those curs?”
“Does that mean he doesn’t like them?” Bale asked from the corner of his mouth to Phyl.
“That’s correct,” Phyl replied.
“Then, yeah!” Bale and his party roared in unison.
“They came through town recently. I assume you want to know where they went?”
“Yeah!” the team roared in unison again.
“Go past the farms on the east, and you’ll find a forest. There will be a large clearing and then another forest. The thieves are on the other side of the forest. Now go get them!”
“Yeah!” they screamed again as they hooted and hollered, lumbering down a side street of Freeman’s Way toward the farms.
Haddaman Crede laughed, almost feeling guilty for confusing them and then sending them to a vile piece of land aptly named The Fecal Swamps.
Five
King Theomann stared out his window, facing east, toward the potential war. If war came, it would rage half a continent away, but the king could see fields of flame and hear earth-trembling explosions mixed with the screams of thousands of young men dying. Any other person could stand at the same vantage point and not be wary of any such threats of war, deceived by the smooth hills rolling among lush patches of forest. Any other person would only hear the muted voices of the city’s citizens and bird warbles. Not King Theomann, though. He had to snap his head to shake the image of blood rushing like rivers over the hills and through the forests.
“Am I doing the right thing?” Theomann asked his son.
Perciless approached and placed his hand on his father’s shoulder. “Father, your sons and all your people have great faith in you. If there is an opportunity to win a war before it begins, you must take it.”
“But to send your brother and the Elite Troop on a potential wild-goose chase? All from the word of a mysterious bard?”
“Sometimes chances must be taken. The Elite Troop exists for a reason—they are the best of the best. If nothing is found within a month, I am sure they will return no worse for wear.”
“There is
a fine line between taking a risk and flailing in desperation.”
“What if Tsinel seeks the gems as well? And we have intelligence that The Horde is looking for them. If we are grasping for phantoms, then they are reaching for the same ones.”
Theomann smiled. “Your words are comforting, Son. As much as I would appreciate hearing more of them, you really should be off to see how troop movements are going. Tend to the needs of our generals; see what supplies they need to help fortify the borders. We may not be at war yet, but a presence along our borders should quell any Tsinel sneak attacks.”
“Very well, Father. Rest your body and soul, for what you are doing is for the good of all,” Perciless offered as his parting words.
My father acted for the good of all, Theomann thought.
Memory flooded through him as light through a transom, and he was taken back many years to his own childhood. Theomann was barely six when his father, Durandenn, was confronted with the first tangible threat to the peace and tranquility upon which the kingdom of Albathia had been forged.
An area of peace and prosperity surrounded on all sides by passive city-states, Albathia was a relatively young monarchy when rumors of conflict drifted from across the ocean of distant Irabel, a land of warmongers steeped in intrigue and political maneuverings. At first, the rumors were as wind over water, gentle and not alarming, but steadily they grew to a clamor that was insistent and dangerous. Albathia, situated as it was, had a standing army, though it was never needed previously, and a local militia that consisted of farmers who required fervent consumption of alcohol before their pitchforks menaced anything other than hay.
As rumor lingered into certainty, many of the surrounding settlements ceded themselves to Albathia in the hopes that such a concerted effort would display a unity of mind and purpose even a violent nation could not lightly dismiss. The event had the opposite effect. Irabel saw this large conglomeration of cultures as a challenge to their sanguinary vision of conquest. Their armies were assembled and dispatched post haste.