He wryly contemplated how many of the finds he and Zach had made, items that the pair had rescued on behalf of someone else. How precious little true magical items were available in the world and how he had never had the fortune of finding any among the possessions of any of the criminals he had taken in on warrant duties.
A smile crept over Carym’s face as he found the shop that he had passed on the way into the city. The door was open and a faint but certain odor of cloves drifted out. Caution momentarily found him as he thought of several good reasons why it might be a bad idea to go into this shop, especially when one considered this in the context of the previous day’s events. However, caution was overpowered by curiosity - as is often the case - and Carym strode boldly through the open door.
He was struck by the neatness of the shop. Shelves lined the walls from floor to ceiling and wheeled ladders were located at intervals to aid the customer in gathering the hard-to-reach items. White jars lined many of these shelves, each bearing a label with words written in unknown tongues. Other shelves held jars of glass filled with liquids and various dead things, most of which were unrecognizable to him. His nose was overpowered by the abundance of sharp and contrasting smells and he fought a bout of nausea rising in his gut. As he walked deeper into the shop he found a counter with a comfortable looking chair at the far end of the shop, presumably where the shopkeeper sat. Behind the counter was an assortment of beautiful and shiny wands, staves, walking sticks, and other similar weapons. Under the glass surface of the counter was a variety of beautiful jewelry, alongside a variety of ugly jewelry; there was a ring with an eyeball that appeared to be watching him as he moved.
To the right of the counter was another room with an assortment of swords and shields, axes and maces, pole arms and armor. There were cloaks and coats and shirts and boots of the softest leather. As he walked about the room, a remembered warning from the old druid drifted through his mind; beware of anything sold openly as magical, for surely it is mundane; or dangerously arcane! The old druid knew that there were a rare few shops specializing in magical supplies. Most were merely traps to catch the unwitting fool and part him from his money with a bottle of snake oil.
Oil gleaned from a stone, old Dryume would say of the so-called potions sold in these places.
Carym heaved a sigh, wondering if this were such a place; and nearly gagged from the taste of the malodorous atmosphere. A quiet chuckling drifted through the shop from seemingly every direction at once, but faded quickly. Carym warily looked for the source of the sound, but saw no one. Assuming the sound had come from passersby outside, Carym continued to peruse the items in this room and his eyes came to rest on a beautiful cedar chest in a corner, covered in dust and edged with webs. The decor on the chest was Cklathish in origin and Carym recognized some of the ancient letters.
He brushed off the dust, which billowed into the air and nearly choked him. After a brief coughing fit Carym opened the lid to the chest and peered inside. Inside the chest were some dusty books, and a couple of dirty pieces of cloth that looked to be the remnants of a very old cloak. He gently brushed the dust off the cover of one book, but put it back down after realizing he could not read any of it. He rummaged through the chest some more and found a pouch that appeared to be filled with something. He picked up the pouch and found that its old fibers gave way and several marbles spilled noisily out into the bottom of the chest.
“Now, what would you be wantin’ with that chest? Hmm?” came a crackly old voice.
Carym turned to see the same mysterious looking man who had been talking with the Crimson Elf outside this very store only a day before. The man’s eyes looked very young, despite his elderly appearance.
“I came to see the sort of wares you sell, sir. I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said, nervously. He recalled how particularly onerous sorcerers could be.
“No one has looked in that chest in nearly three centuries, boy.” The older man seemed testy to Carym, and he wondered if the man was going to cast a spell at him. He fervently hoped not and wondered how this store could have been here for three centuries, and the wizard with it.
“Sorry, sir. I’ll just put these back.”
“No you won’t, either,” the man said in his peculiar manner of speech. “Show me what ye found, boy.”
Carym hesitantly held out the handful of marbles he had picked up from the bottom of the chest. Glancing at them for the first time, he felt a sudden mix of contrasting sensations roiling across his outstretched hand. Swirls of heat, stabs of cold, rivulets of water, the tickling of a breeze, and a very deep resonance that shook his soul, assaulted his senses all at once. The sudden onslaught of sensations caused a sense of dizziness and his knees buckled.
“Whoa now! How did ya do that?” the old man whispered, mystified by the presence of the marbles. Carym and the old man just looked at what he now realized were not marbles, but stones. They were both silent for a long moment, each contemplating the shifting colors on the surfaces of the odd stones. One was a deep crimson, with swirls of jagged reds; another as blue as the sea with shocks of silver scoring the surface; another was misty gray, with roiling clouds; another was brown with shifting rivulets of gold and copper and bronze; another was so dark and so black that it took Carym’s breath away to just look at it; the last was translucent, and when he looked at its surface he swore he could see the fleeting images of faces peering back at him!
“What are these?” he asked, mystified and mesmerized. The old man glanced from the stones and back up to Carym and slapped the younger man on the shoulder, startling him.
“Don’t stare at them faces, boy!” he hissed. “Unless you care to join them!”
Carym could say nothing, but felt like the older man was probably right. Somehow he sensed that these were very dangerous items indeed. “I’ll just go put these back in the chest for you, sir.”
“The Hades you will, lad!” the man said forcefully. “I’m not wantin’ them things in me store. Been there too damn long, collecting up all me good dust. Nah, them’re yours lad.”
Carym looked the man questioningly. “What do you mean?”
“Are ye daft? Their yours! Get them and get gone with ye. I’ll not sell them to one of your like, so just ye go and take them out of me store!” Then, under his breath, the old man muttered, “Figures, they’d be Sigil Stones! They been here all these years, and whoda thunk it? Damn!”
“I don’t understand, sir. What do you mean?”
“What this grumpy old curmudgeon means to say is that you, sir, are a Fyrbold!” came the smooth voice of the Crimson Elf Carym had seen the day before.
The man strode gracefully into the room, with a definite air of nobility and authority, while the tone of his voice bespoke of an honest and friendly nature. He glanced at the older human with great respect and bowed his head at the old man. He thought he saw a twinkle of amusement in the old man’s eyes which quickly disappeared.
“Who are you?” Carym demanded. He was starting to panic as thoughts of a dire need to escape assailed him. He wondered, though, how he would fare against a Crimson Elf and a mage who intimated his age to be counted in centuries. “And, what is a Fyrbold?”
“I am Morgon-Fyr, of Alfheym,” the man said gently with a slight bow. “I am your friend, Carym of Hyrum.”
“I don’t know you,” he said.
“But I do know of you. I am of the Society of the Watchers, Carym. We’ve been waiting for a sign of the Return for centuries, and now here you stand before me. I am honored to meet you, sir,” the red skinned man said earnestly. He pointed to the stones in Carym’s hand and said, “If I may?” Without waiting for an answer, he waved his own hand and the red stone drifted lazily through the air and settled his outstretched palm. He gazed in wonder at the stone, his eyes reflecting the swirling light within.
“What are they?” asked Carym, his fears of hostile intent somewhat allayed. Still, he was edgy being around men of such power.
“You must guard these with your life, Carym; tremendous power lies within them! Each represents one of the six disciplines commanded by the six Orders of Sigils: Fire, Air, Earth, Water, Shadow, and Spirit. And all of them here in one room!”
“And ye need be gettin’ them outta here!” barked the old man. “I’ve enough to do fending off halfwit thieves and pirates. I’ll no’ have denizens of that Shadowfyr, Umber, lurking about thinking them stones are here! Them’re nasty beasties too; like to flay the skin from a man’s bones, they do!”
“Oh, do be quiet, Bartholomeul!” quipped Morgon with a smile. “All these years that dratted old chest just sat in the corner collecting dust. And you, my friend, were nary the wiser, eh?” he said with a laugh at the old mage. Then, with a sigh, he said, “What shall we do with you, Carym?”
Carym wasn’t sure he wanted anyone to do anything with him at all. “What do you mean,” he demanded. “I am no threat to you!”
“To us? Good heavens, no! Are you perchance, on a quest? To the Everpool, perhaps?” asked the soft spoken elf. Carym’s heart was racing. Damn! How did he find out? Could I have said too much to that blasted siren?
“Never heard of it,” he said simply.
“Wise of you to deny it. However, as I said before, I am your friend. In fact, your druid friend thought it wise to inform Alfheym what had befallen you and of his remarkable observation of your latent talents. My people sent word to me and, knowing your destination, I deduced the most logical port of departure: Dockyard City. Shocked indeed was I, when you walked right past me as I was discussing your plight with good old Bartholomeul here!”
“Why is Alfheym concerned with the likes of me?” he asked. He was not surprised that Dryume had been acquainted with elves, the man was as old as the trees he tended.
“We are the keepers of what is left of the lore of the Fire Sigil. I am from a long line of Fyrbold, though it has been long since any of my kin have been blessed with the power to control the Tides of the Fire Sigil. We Crimson Elves may only touch the Tides of Flame and none other, thus I may only touch the red firestone that lay in your palm. You, however, seem to have been gifted with the power to hold all six! When I touched that stone, I could sense the amassed knowledge of the ages, condensed into that one stone!”
The man seemed genuine to Carym, even if he was acting a bit giddy.
“The many races gifted with the power of Sigils were typically able to use but one of the six disciplines. Somewhere along the way, the Great Father saw fit to place humans on this great creation known as Llars,” said the man with a wry grin toward Bartholomeul. “To humans he gifted the mastery over any one of the Sigils, some could even dabble in multiple Sigils. But here stands you before me with all six in your very palm!”
“You must go, Carym! And you must take these stones with you to the Everpool!” he said with urgency. “You must tell no one of them! Not even your friend, Zach. Our own reporting has revealed that the Spiders are in league with dark powers, Carym. Dark powers! Travel with him now for he can aid you in your own quest, but do not let him know of yours!”
Carym grunted in acknowledgement; he surmised as much himself, understanding now that the elf must have been surveilling the Spiders while he was patronizing the Widow that evening.
“What are your plans, then?” he asked Morgon. “If you know so much about the stones, will you come with me?”
“I fear I must return to Alfheym and report my findings. We Elves have been somewhat obtuse regarding the existence of these stones over the centuries. While many of my kind have insisted their existence to be real, the Royal Family has not been so agreeable to the notion. In any case, Umber’s minions will be hunting you fiercely!”
“I’m afraid they have already begun, Morgon,” he said, relating his encounter with the siren and the evil priest, Ebonaar.
“Oh, dear,” he said. “Well, they shall be hunting you much more diligently now. Go and find your privateer, for he will return soon. We will help cover your tracks here, won’t we Bartholomeul?” the cheery elf said. The dour old mage grunted and nodded his head.
“I will join you when I can. Regardless, you must leave now!” he grabbed Carym by the shoulder and ushered him toward the door.
Carym shook hands with each man, then headed out towards the Widow.
“What are your wishes, Great One? Shouldn’t I go with him?” there was a long pause before the other man answered.
“As much as it saddens me to say so, no. As you said, you have a journey of your own to make.” The first man did sense great sadness in the voice of his counterpart. “He must find his own way for a while. You may join him later.”
“Aye,” replied the other, heaving a great sigh.
Carym found his way back to his room where he promptly went to sleep. He dreamed of swirling masses of colors and waves that ebbed and flowed like the tides of the sea, and power beyond his reckoning. In his dreams he felt the tug of a spiritual force offering eternal peace and tranquility, which was suddenly negated by dark forces that played upon his every temptation. Finally, he awoke breathing hard and was surprised to find that it was just moments before dawn!
Zach was already awake and moving busily about the room.
“Welcome to the world of the living, Carym,” he said sarcastically.
Carym just nodded as he got dressed and buckled on his sword. Zach had acquired some supplies and split them up between two backpacks. Finally, the two men proceeded to the lobby where Zach returned the room key and slipped a coin to the woman who was minding the counter. After that, they set off for Pier 25.
The same weasily man was seated at the gate to the pier when they arrived, his nose in his ledgers and his seemingly sleeping guards slouching behind him. Carym and Zach walked by and the man did little more than raise an eyebrow as they passed. Zach had made all the arrangements and the appropriate fees had been paid, no one would take notice of the two men.
Waiting impatiently at the dock was a burly, red-haired man with a long, scraggly beard. He wore the fine clothes of a sea-merchant, adorned with many gold chains and necklaces. Next to him was a woman cloaked in gray. Raven black hair spilled out from her hood and her face was steeped in shadow.
“Nice of you to come visit, Yag. What brings you here?” Zach said smartly.
“Get in the boat!” growled the privateer. “There are dark clouds forming and I don’t want to get caught in any storms.” Then he turned his back to the pair and climbed into a small landing boat, which was big enough to carry eight people aside from the oarsmen. The cloaked woman followed quickly after the privateer with Carym and Zach in tow.
Slowly the little boat made its way further into the bay, rocking and swaying on the choppy waves. As the wind picked up the passengers were occasionally sprayed by a wave breaking across the bow of the small boat.
A particularly strong gust of wind battered the passengers of the boat, stinging them with its chill. Carym was awestruck as the cloaked woman’s hood was blown back, revealing her fine features and stunning eyes. His gaze locked with hers for a moment as she held him steady with her piercing eyes. Then, abruptly the woman pulled her hood back into place, but not before Carym noticed her olive skin, and her slightly cupped ears. Glancing at his friend, Carym noticed that Zach had seen the woman’s face too; although his expression was far from friendly. Carym tried to strike up conversation with Yag, and with the cloaked woman, but each time he was met with a scowl from the privateer and naught but silence from the woman. He sighed and sat quietly the rest of the journey, watching boats ferrying passengers out to the harbor while fishing boats returned to the docks with their catch.
Great warships with towering masts and wonderfully colored sails stood
in the harbor alongside merchant barges, Vaardic long ships and Karbander Tradesmen, and even those oddly designed ships favored by the Shugu of the Kamato Islands with golden sunrays on their sails. The little boat meandered its way through the towering ships and the passengers endured the jeers and curses from the foreign sailors, as sailors are wont to do.
Finally, the small craft arrived at the privateer’s ship and Carym stared in awe. The stern of the ship bore a great stern cabin like any Arnathian warship, likely where the captain was housed. And the ship had four masts of varying sizes with sailors climbing the rigging and unfurling the canvas now that their captain had arrived; typical of most ships. There was a large open space along the main deck where still more sailors scurried about hauling lines, tying knots, cleaning the deck, or other sailor busy work.
What was different, however, was the massive cabin in the fore of the ship with large windows looking out at the ocean. The front of the cabin sloped down, like a ramp, until it narrowed and joined with the prow, finally ending in a long bowsprit. The wooden beams used to make this ship joined so smoothly as to appear utterly seamless; he marveled at the craftsmanship. While Carym was in awe of the bizarre ship, Zach seemed indifferent to it all. It was apparent that his mind was on other things, though try as he might Carym could get nothing from his old friend.
A large wooden arm swung out over the small boat and two ropes dropped from a pulley system that dangled from the arm. The oarsmen quickly grabbed the ropes and secured them to the bow and the stern of the small craft. With great effort, the sailors on deck above pulled and pulled on the ropes as the small boat was slowly raised into the air. Once the boat was parallel with the top of the ship, crewmen swung the arm back in and secured it to the ship, allowing the passengers to board the Marineer. Once aboard, the passengers were led away from the gangway and aft towards the great stern cabin.
A Tide of Shadows Page 21