Looking back, Jorn had to wonder how many customers in Falneth the gnomes expected to find. Orbadrin, however, would buy one of the clocks every time, fascinated by the turning dials and the bells going off every hour. Perhaps that one annual sale to the thane was enough to make the trip worthwhile.
Jorn couldn’t help but smile when he was introduced to Flatfoot, remembering the clocks on the shelf in Orbadrin’s council room. Jorn’s favorite was a particularly complex clock which displayed the phases of the moons and the position of the constellations. Jorn also loved a beautiful clock featuring little tin dwarves who struck tiny bells with their hammers to signal the arrival of each hour.
Flatfoot was average-looking by gnome standards, a little shorter than Ironhelm but far less stout than the burly dwarf fighter. He seemed rather nimble, despite a growing paunch around his middle and the look of someone long grown used to a comfortable lifestyle. He had the prominent chin his race was famous for as well as the typical gnomish nose, thin and very long. He wore no whiskers on his lip or chin, either, his face as smooth as an infant’s. A pair of large ears, large even for a gnome, gave him a slightly comical appearance. Yet Jorn also detected a certain dignified air about him. Jorn wondered if he was as soft as a casual glance might tend to indicate. He introduced himself, with more than a hint of pomposity, as Salonius Quadrinius Flatfoot, and then quickly urged them to call him “Sal”.
“Lord Ironhelm has used his exceptional interpersonal skills and graceful manners to convince me to join you in your endeavor,” the gnome told them.
Ironhelm muttered a curse under his breath.
“We thank you,” Jorn said.
“Thank me when we pull it off,” Flatfoot said.
_____
Flatfoot admired the polished mahogany case on the table in front of him. He took a last sip of whiskey, contemplating the day’s events. So much had happened so quickly, all of it worrisome. It was a delightful dinner, at least, getting to know his new companions.
They’d feasted upon a fine array of foods, perhaps the last truly decent meal they could expect for some time. His housekeeper procured a pair of wonderful hares in the market which she prepared to sublime perfection. Then there was the roasted squab and the creamed eel. That was preceded by the heaping plates of river oysters served Llangellan-style, ice-cold and raw with just a pinch of lemon. There were also ample platters of cheese, freshly-baked black bread, and plenty of potatoes seasoned with turmeric and saffron from Shandorr. The spices cost plenty, but Flatfoot ordered his cook to spare no expense. And so it was an elegant feast, especially considering the short notice.
Flatfoot decided his new friends were all fine fellows he would enjoy spending time with. All save Ronias, that is, who struck him as a terribly gloomy sort. The elf barely touched any of the dishes put before him, hardly saying a word. Jorn, by comparison, went on at length about gnomish clocks, admiring the pair sitting atop Flatfoot’s mantle.
Flatfoot put aside his cup and slowly opened the mahogany case. The inside was lined with the finest cotton cloth dyed a bright scarlet and edged with gold stitching. Resting within was a short sword of the finest dwarven make, a marvelous example of craftsmanship. Flatfoot’s eyes ran over the gleaming blade. It was a perfectly-forged example of the highest-quality steel honed with precision. A delicate pattern of interlocking vines ran along the blade, etched carefully by some dwarven craftsman of old. Flatfoot’s hand reached out and took hold of the handle. He picked it up and held it aloft, admiring the way the light of the wizard’s lamp hanging from the ceiling in his upstairs bedchamber reflected on the gleaming steel. He could only wonder at the many secret alloys and ancient techniques used by the dwarf smithies to craft such a weapon.
Whirling around, he slashed the air in front of him, first side-to-side and then around in a circular pattern. It felt like he was wielding a feather, the blade so strangely light. Smiling, he slid the sword back into its sheath, a worn old leather thing. He placed it atop his old green cloak, a faded and torn garment. The cloak lay on the table next to his battered leather armor and his cheap-looking leather boots. All of the gear before him looked as shabby as possible. It was by design, of course, meant to discourage brigands.
His gaze fell next upon the cloak. It was patched and torn from decades of travel in all sorts of weather, the genuine article rather than another fake designed to make him look poor. The cloak shielded him from driving rains amidst the wastelands south of Vandoria and from the brutal snows and merciless winds of northern Linlund. It had been with him since the very beginning of his career. He picked it up, feeling its heavy wool fabric as his mind wandered.
How long ago had it been since he first donned the cloak and left home, breaking his mother’s heart? He paused a moment, counting the years in his head. It was sixty-eight years since he turned away from the lands of his birth by the shores of the Arfordir Bay in that gnomish realm of Faerfachen and began an intrepid life of trapbreaking and adventuring alongside wizards and warriors. No matter. His mother now lived in pampered comfort back home thanks to her illustrious son, her tears long since forgotten.
Flatfoot pitied the vast majority of the world, poor souls who never took a real risk in their entire lives and so never really lived at all. He’d taken many risks in his day, his outstanding luck always pulling him through.
Still, he couldn’t help but wonder how much more luck he had left before it finally ran out.
Fifteen
Barter’s Crossing was quiet right after sunrise, the multitude of merchants who normally crowded the streets not yet awake. The shops were still closed, the taverns only just closed, and few were out.
Flatfoot was in a good mood, dressed in his old green cloak, battered old leather armor, and broken-in old boots. His short sword was strapped to his waist and a small crossbow was slung over his back. A handsome chestnut-colored pony stood outside his door saddled and waiting for him. A second pony stood tethered to the first would serve as pack animal. He got into the saddle, the idea of going back to trapbreaking after so many years finally hitting him. He’d barely slept the night before, rising early in the darkness to check over his bags one last time and to pen a dishonest letter to his wife telling her he was going on a hunting holiday with old friends and wouldn’t be back for at least a month. She’d be furious, he knew, seeing right through the deception and assuming he was off on yet another romantic dalliance. Probably, she would begin shouting curses, the servants scurrying away. Some type of vase or dish would likely get smashed, most likely several. Yet she’d be utterly powerless to do anything about it, however much she might fume. He wondered if she would be angrier if she knew the truth.
“Master Flatfoot,” his chief bodyguard said. He stood by the door of the house, a burly human with a shaved head and long black whiskers. “I don’t understand why you must go off on this hunting trip and not bring any personal protection. At the very least, I should accompany you.”
“Stay here and protect my home and my workshop,” Flatfoot said. “Besides, do you see the seasoned fighters I am with? What harm could possibly come to me among such a company of slayers?”
They wound their way through the crowded tangle of mostly-empty streets. A group of city guardsmen were gathered in front of a narrow alley next to a seedy-looking tavern near the gate, examining the corpse of a prostitute apparently murdered the night before. Jorn glanced at the victim and winced. She lay on her back with her throat cut open, a skinny girl barely into puberty.
“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn said, turning away.
“Ach. Did you see tha’?” Ironhelm muttered. “Damned sewer! They should put the whole damned devil place to the torch, they should. Aye, tis true.”
Passing through the gates of the city, they were soon traveling along the western road. The dead girl and the twisting lanes of Barter’s Crossing were far behind them as tangled city streets gave way to farms and meadows.
Ironhelm felt relieved to be back
on the road. All in all, it could have been much worse following Stormbearer’s death. They’d replaced the Vandorian and only lost a day.
Their road closely followed the winding course of the River Tam for many miles west of the city, passing by prosperous dairy farms and the occasional small hamlet. Jorn thought it at all very handsome country, the cottages and villages constructed in a style not unlike back in Linlund.
The river was wide, the far banks marking the beginning of the mighty Kingdom of Brithborea. Three hundred miles further north was Shalfur, strongest of all the western realms. Beyond Shalfur lay The Westmark. Once, as they crested a small hill, Jorn caught a glimpse of a line of hills on the far side of the river. They were distant and blue, barely discernible on the horizon.
“The Loralingian Highlands,” Willock said, noticing Jorn staring at the distant hills.
“Are they?” Jorn asked. “The city of Noviomagus is at their southern end, yes?”
“Yes,” Willock said. “It’s not more than a half day’s ride north. Have you ever visited there?”
“No,” Jorn said.
“Too bad,” Willock said. “It’s a magnificent town, you know, nothing like Barter’s Crossing at all.”
Jorn stared at the distant hills. He’d not seen Morag in five years, not since he left Llywarch. Braemorgan assured him she was safe and thriving at Noviomagus, however, a mere day’s ride north.
Across the river Jorn spotted a solitary figure standing on the far bank.
“What do you make of that?” Jorn said.
They paused, Willock assembling his spyscope and studying the far shore.
“Whoever it was, he’s gone now,” the woodsman announced. “He was tall and thin and wore a gray cloak with the hood drawn over his face.”
“The Wanderer of the Woods,” Flatfoot said.
“Wha’?” Ironhelm asked.
“Oh, just a local legend,” the gnome explained. “A tall man who wanders those forests on the far shore. Some say he’s a forest spirit, others just a legend. The tales go back at least as far as Llangellan’s founding. He’s said to help travelers in need. He appears as if out of nowhere, slaying would-be brigands before disappearing back into the shadow.”
“Let’s hope we’ve no need for his help,” Ailric said.
At midday they stopped at a roadside village and ate plates of bream caught that morning from the river and sold at the local tavern. The fish were served whole, rubbed with lots of salt and stuffed with herbs before being grilled over chunks of Llangellan cedar. It was served with fresh bread and whole pickles, washed down with some locally-brewed ale. They rode off in a good mood after the simple but incredible tasty meal.
They encountered few travelers on the road west that afternoon, which Flatfoot thought strange for that time of year. Normally, he explained, the dwarves who dwelled at the edge of the Great Barrier Mountains crowded the roads hauling their wares to Barter’s Crossing. All they encountered that day was a small caravan of heavily-laden mules headed east as the sun started to sink low in the sky. A pair of dwarves guided the mules as a trio of heavily-armed dwarves on horseback rode out in front.
“Wha’ news of the road ahead, brothers?” Ironhelm asked.
“War and misery,” one of the dwarves said. He was old, his beard white and his face wrinkled and weathered.
“What the hell does that mean?” Jorn said after they’d passed.
“Ach. I don’t know, laddie,” Ironhelm said, scowling as the caravan passed by in somber silence. “We best be extra cautious.”
They camped that evening in a roadside clearing next to a swift-flowing stream. Tall pines surrounded it as a gentle breeze wafted through and the trees swayed gently. In the center of the clearing was a circle of stones surrounding the remnants of previous campfires. A pair of logs lay on either side of the stone circle, primitive benches for sitting.
_____
Jorn took guard duty first again that evening, happy for a bit of peace and quiet after the others went to their tents. He sat upon one of the logs near the fire, his sword stuck in the ground next to him within easy reach. A Llangellan long bow bought in Barter’s Crossing leaned against the log on the other side of him, several arrows stuck in the ground within easy reach.
Flatfoot stayed up with him for a few minutes, sipping some of the fine whiskey he’d brought.
“You know, this is the perfect spot for an inn,” he was saying. “A day’s ride west of Barter’s Crossing. I’ll have to remember it. I’d wager the land is cheap. Well, good night.”
The gnome shuffled off to his tent and left Jorn all alone.
Jorn was exhausted, but could not have slept even if he had wanted to. He chewed on a bit of flannae as his mind wandered. He glanced up at the stars. It was a clear night and hundreds of thousands of stars seemed to look back down on him. His thoughts soon turned to long conversations under the stars on the coast of Glaenavon.
He pulled out the copper amulet he wore around his neck and fingered it, picturing with perfect clarity the first time he ever saw the island. It was nighttime, just after dark, Glaenavon’s rocky coast looming over the dark waves as their ship approached.
It was not even three weeks after his escape into Llywarch. Jorn’s shoulder was still sore and he was seasick from the first ocean-going voyage of his life. He clutched the railing of the ship as he watched the sailors lower the tiny rowboat down the side. Jorn and Braemorgan climbed down into the rowboat and a pair of seamen rowed them towards the beach beneath the tall cliffs. It seemed like they were rowing through a sea of fog, so thick they could barely see past the bow of the boat at times. All Jorn could really make out was the lighthouse beacon shining eerily through it all from somewhere atop the sea cliffs. Braemorgan spotted the beacon from far out on the water, and the sailors brought their ship in close.
They stepped onto the beach, Jorn happy to feel solid ground again. His slung his pack over his back and followed Braemorgan ashore, the wizard leading them up the narrow path that ran from the beach up the side of the cliff.
“Grang’s teeth! What is this place?” Jorn asked.
“This is the home of Fearach, the wizard you will be staying with,” Braemorgan said. “I thought we had discussed all of this.”
“It’s a lighthouse,” Jorn said.
“Most observant. Fearach is the lighthouse keeper.”
“The lighthouse keeper? Grang’s teeth! I’m going into hiding with a lighthouse keeper!”
“He is the lighthouse keeper, and yet much more. I think you will find your time with him most illuminating. Learn all you can while you are here, Jorn, so you will have all the skills you need to take back your birthright when the time comes.”
Fearach was waiting for them at the top of the trail, standing in the door of the stout little lighthouse. He was one of the oddest-looking men Jorn had ever seen. He was short, barely reaching up to Jorn’s shoulder, and looked to have seen many summers. His head was mostly bald, and his face was round and ugly with a furrowed forehead and a large, bulbous nose. He had stooped shoulders and a wide waistline which protruded out in front of him as waddled around like a penguin on ridiculously-skinny legs. For clothing all he had on was a worn old cassock and a pair of sandals on his feet despite the winter cold.
“Ah, Braemorgan!” he said at their approach. His voice was deep and booming, which surprised Jorn. “This must be the young man. Well, you’d better get him inside where it’s warm.”
Braemorgan did not stay more than an hour, having tea with Fearach and then suddenly leaping up from his chair as though he remembered he had to be somewhere important and was late. He wished them both goodbye, promising to check in on Jorn and update him on how things were going on the mainland when he had the chance. As he left, he paused at the doorway, looking back at Jorn.
“Remember, Jorn, do not squander your time here,” he said. “Knowledge can only make you stronger.”
_____
The lighth
ouse was an unremarkable structure, wide at its base and gradually tapering up thirty feet to the blazing beacon at the top. It was a dismal thing, really, an ugly edifice of plain gray granite.
Within, the place was a chaos. Fearach had several small but comfortable rooms on the ground floor crowded and cluttered with countless books and papers. Outside was a small barn, a chicken coop, and stables.
“It’s not much, but it’s home,” Fearach said. “Well, let’s show you your room and get on with the evening’s business. You’ve a long day tomorrow.”
Fearach led Jorn up a narrowing, twisting staircase to a small room on the second floor. It was tiny and plainly furnished. Within was a bed, a small chest, a stool, and a little window. A wizard’s lamp sitting in a little niche in the wall provided light. A small vent on the wall allowed heat from the fireplace below to warm the room. Jorn shrugged, dropping his heavy pack onto the bed and stepping over to the window. All he could see outside was fog.
“You’ve a fine view of the water, actually,” Fearach said.
“The room’s good,” Jorn said. “I thank you. Where is this place, exactly?”
“We are on the northernmost point of the island,” Fearach explained. “This place is called Cape Ardor, and that’s the Glaenavon Straights outside your window under all the fog. On a clear day, not that we get those very often, you can see the coast of the mainland.”
“How far is it?” Jorn asked, peering into the thick whiteness.
“Two leagues, barely more than a stone’s throw. You ask many questions. That’s a good thing. Come, let us have a little supper before we bed down for the night.”
They went downstairs and Fearach spooned out a bowl full of some kind of fish stew which Jorn tasted cautiously. He was surprised by its good flavor, eating while Fearach carefully described the rest of the island.
Child Of Storms (Volume 1) Page 29