He turned with a crazed smile on his face and to his customers said, "Strange travelers, again!"
"Hello, good man!" Euso said.
"Greetings to you, friend!" the man replied, and he smiled as he took the fish he had caught by the lip. "Waters gave me a winner here!"
"I see, I see. The ferry is up and going then?"
The man slammed the fish a few times on the dock, rendering it dead.
"Of course, ya got here just in time. Tide is in and the water is calm. Going to grab some more herbs for your healin'?"
The ferryman took the fish and tossed it into the larger raft of the two.
Euso shook his head as he boarded the raft. "No, no. Quite personal, actually. I would like you to meet my friends Berie and Slats."
The man rubbed his hand dry before giving a stout hand to Slats. He then took hold of Berie's hand, who proceeded to squeeze against the soft grip he offered.
"Strong woman and a short man you have here! Strange people come this way as of late!"
"You have seen others?" Berie asked, boarding the raft just ahead of Slats.
"Of course. Just this early morning! Bit of a quarrel of sorts between them, but I think they sorted it out. Took the southern road, I think."
Slats looked to Berie and said, "Do you think he might have convinced Garoa to wait somewhere on the other side?"
"Doubtful. Rusis are stubborn. His mind is set, and I fear it will take much convincing to pull him away from his task as long as he sees it so."
The raft lurched out, the guiding stick pushed far into the depths below against shoal formations and the occasional crab house of boulders, slipping along into mud.
The sun shined above them high and hot, even though the coastal winds brought a chill over Slats’ skin as he looked out over the water.
Across the way, the other dock was starting to come into view. Yet, as they floated closer, it was clear that the brother of the ferryman had less than happy tidings this early morning.
A large man, nearly twice the size of Brethor, slammed a wooden club on the ground near the cowering ferryman, who scooted backward, holding out his hand.
Their ferryman gave a hard push to the raft, and they lurched forward. Behind the large man, three others holding swords walked down the dock as the ferryboat came along side.
"All right," one of the two gruff men shouted, "out of the ferry and empty your pockets on the dock!"
Slats's hand felt for his ax. He challenged, "And who exactly is requesting such a thing?" he asked.
"The name's Remor, and it is necessary for you to follow my commands."
The other man behind him snarled and laughed, "Yea, yea! His commands need following. Now, ya short, lumpy man!”
"You impede our path and harm the unarmed," Berie said, pointing toward the ferryman, who cowered in the shadow of the larger man taunting him.
Remor pointed his sword at her and yelled, "Quiet! What we have going here is our business. The Legions paid us quite well to acquire the services of the ferryman. Seems your islands are gonna be the Legions' before too long!"
In the confident shroud of conversation, Berie had already reached behind her and grasped the bow still hidden under her garb. The question now was the arrow and her hand fumbled behind her even as the dull Remor looked on.
"How about you just walk away," Slats advised. "Go on down the road, and we will have no quarrel with you."
There was an eruption of laughter from the three of the highwaymen. The large man actually fell backwards as he did, giving the ferryman time to jump to the water and began swimming briskly underneath the surface.
"Duma! You dimwitted oaf! You let him escape!" Remor shouted.
"No matter, master! I've got him," the other man said.
He ran down the dock and took up a large boulder. So large in fact in took two hands for him to lift it above his head as he ran along the opposite dock just near the ferryman, who was nearly at the bow of the boat.
As he reared back, the ferryman with Berie and Slats cried out, his feeble form gave way to quick movements and the tossing of a pair of spike shells. The two shells flew in unison, striking the man's hand. The boulder fell, and the man tumbled backward. The rock struck his foot, pinning it, and the man landed with his head just above the water and unable to get free.
Remor pushed aside the larger man, going to aid his friend, who squirmed and splashed, unable to free his leg.
Berie leapt to the dock, her bow now drawn as she moved sideways to better angle her shot. Slats’s ax was now out, and he followed behind.
Remor managed to free the mangled and bleeding foot, and pull his friend from the cold bay waters.
The man coughed and shook his head as Remor patted his back.
"All right, there! I got you out!"
The man was well, save his foot, and he looked over Remor's shoulder to see their other companion in a quandary.
Slats rushed the larger man, bashing the blunt head of his ax into his stomach. The man swung his blade, but missed. Slats punched upwards, catching him in the jaw. The man stumbled to the ground and, before he could rise again, the head of the dwarf’s ax was against his head.
Berie aimed her bow at the others.
On the raft, the ferryman helped his brother out of the water and walked him to the dock. Sharpened shells were in both of their hands.
"Now, new terms," Slats said.
Remor raised his hands, as did his injured friend.
Euso walked along the dock, looking at the injured person across from them.
"You three," continued Slats, "will return to wherever you came from, and you will not harass these men again."
Three heads nodded together.
As the one man helped the other hobble toward Berie and Slats, Euso looked at them both and said, "We cannot just let him remain as such. That foot is bad off, and I can see splintered bone."
"They are of the Legions," Berie said.
"No, I do not think so," Euso replied.
"If I say to you three ‘I wish to kill those of the Legions,’ what say you to myself?" Slats asked.
Remor answered, "We say kill whom you must. We are only men for hire and will help you, particularly if you pay."
"Surely you must have your own convictions? Have you not also had friends taken by the Legions?"
"Say nothing of it!" shouted the gimp man through his tears as tried to walk faster.
Remor helped the man to sit and then said, "My friend here has had further injury to an already injured soul. The Legions kidnapped his brother many weeks ago. But as there have been stringent restrictions place on bounties from our own sowing of plants, we are left with few resources for income. Even the weapons we have are on loan from the Legions."
As the injured man looked at them, he placed his hands on his legs trying to halt the flow of red that trickled out onto the gravel.
"As I thought," Euso said. "Let me treat that leg. I can help you feel at least a bit better, I'm sure."
Berie gave a slight shake of head in disapproval; however, Slats looked on in curiosity. Euso knelt before the quivering man as he pulled a bag from around his waist.
"I have a salve for pain that I will apply first."
"N . . . n . . . no . . . no!" he stuttered, "not magic!"
"This is not magic, but an herbal remedy that I have perfected. This is nothing but nature used in a way to heal you."
Euso took a green and white compound and sprinkled it over the open skin.
"It burns!" the man shouted.
"It will for a moment, but that will go away. Will you tell me your name?"
"They call me Noumo, after my father, Noumo Humerran. He was a miner in the eastern mountains. The eastern mountains are no place for men anymore. Too dangerous.”
Euso nodded along. The man seemed to have forgotten his pain as Euso continued with more salve and bandaging.
"Sounds like you need some dwarves to deal with mountain dang
ers,” Slats laughed. “But tell us, why do you fear magic?”
"Why shouldn't we?" Remor replied. "Aside from memory sickness, the legionnaires tell us that powerful wizards and elves, and even dwarves, dwell now in the Islands. They say Kealin the Blood Blade has returned."
"And you believe everything the Legions tell you?" Euso asked.
"Well, um. They wouldn't lie, but . . . "
The man was suddenly aware of an issue with the information he had.
"It is no matter," Berie said. "I can assure you that no dwarf or elf is upon the Island Nation, as well as that no wizard is running amok. But of these things you should not fear. The Legions are taking your people, and of that you should fear. Do not judge the Elven or Dwarven people, nor magic. It is by the power of magic than many men have been saved through the ages."
The men seemed perplexed but in wonderment of her words.
Euso finished the bandaging to a well-relieved Noumo, who now had a slight smile.
"Better?"
"Yes sir, much better. The ache is gone."
Euso reached into a different pouch and said, "Take these as the pain returns." He dropped four small red seeds into the man's hand. "They will help keep the pain away."
Slats jumped to the ground, allowing the large man to get up. He rubbed his neck with his hand as he joined the other two.
"You are all free to go, but do not trouble the ferrymen again."
"We will not, but other's may. The Legion is seeking easy access to the Island Nations."
"And tell them that doing such will end unwell for them." Berie warned. "Tell them that these waters are protected by Kealin, and you will not have a soul that wishes to come this way."
There were firm nods from the three. The large man picked up Noumo and began walking away from the docks. Remor went to the ferrymen, both of whom stood side by side with slight grins.
"Forgive us and the trouble we have brought to your waterside."
He threw a few coins on the dock and turned, joining the others walking hurriedly south.
Slats strung his ax over his back and walked toward the ferrymen. He asked, "You two are well?"
They both nodded. The one who had taken them across tucked his shells back in his garbs and bent down to pick up the dropped coins.
"You owe nothing to us, good travelers. Know that even without Kealin the Half-Elf here that the Brothers can protect this way. We are not just feeble old men."
The two men both smiled. "As we stand on the same shore, we become as a race of old. Tell your friend that his dagger is well to see on the mainland again."
The two men turned and jumped into the water, disappearing under the surf.
Euso laughed and said, "Something tells me there is more to my old friends that I knew!"
"Perhaps of Meredaas's kin,” Berie supposed. “It is strange to me, more half-kin of magic."
"I had always heard that the people of the sea and men had crossed blood at some time. I did not know such offspring actually existed!" Slats exclaimed. "Very interesting."
The three bid farewell to the ferry landing and began walking down the southern road. It was near noon now with the sun floating high above. To the far east, the mountains ran beside them like serrated teeth sticking into the blue sky. They continued for a good while, taking at last a hard, eastern trek that was rocky and even hillier as they went further into the foothills.
Slats pointed at an etching on a large stone overgrown with flowery vines that obscured the etchings.
"It is old Dwarven language. I just saw it with a glance, but I am happy I did. Books on Dwarven histories tell of how they were skilled in hiding their paths, except to their own. I hope I will continue to see signs as we draw toward the mountains."
Euso agreed and said, "Although I cannot decipher it, the past I know of is this way. However, the actual village was further south. Dwarves were all in this area, from what I could tell."
"Indeed, we were," Slats confirmed.
Their path was bleak with black, cold stones and no signs of plant life, only cracked rocks. The dark stones that rose along the path were narrow and tall. Though it would have been more comfortable for them to be above the crevice that ran the land, Slats insisted on staying as low as he could, so as not to miss any signs. The narrow walls beside them turned smooth and an archway, adorned in hard-edged shapes, caused the dwarf to pause.
"I am near the place of my people, the land of the Dwarves."
"We are not yet near the mountains," Berie said. "Are you sure?"
She stared upwards at the symbols of the horizontal stone overgrown with green vines.
"I am. Although it is peculiar that stone would burst forth life as so. You see, nothing else grows. This is strange."
They passed under the archway and went through a narrowing path where no more than a single person could walk through at a time. The path then opened, and from the side of a hill they emerged, looking down on the remains of a stone road that stretched up into the mountains.
Slats gasped. He knew this view from etchings in a book back in Elinathrond. The place of the dwarves was through this valley of stone columns. In his tongue he knew it as Harrodarr — Dwarven Hold. It lay beyond a great expanse where the rivers of Tita and Rodal flowed from the mountains, met and flowed further south from the hills and across the plains as the combined Tirdal River.
From where they were standing, they could see its darkened crest capped white by occasional stones jutting from its surface.
Night approached. As they made it to the Tirdal River, they crossed over the remains of fallen archways that had once stood above the river at the joining point of the upper rivers. Long ago, an altar sat there, one which paid homage to the blood of the mountain as it met with the life force of the rest of the world. The large stone blocks that still stood offered a place off the ground to lay for the night.
They ascended the steps, overgrown in a red moss, and made a fire in the remains of a stone torch basin.
Slats laid upon his back and looked up at the stars, for as Berie and Euso began to eat he found no hunger. A weariness and a sadness came upon him. His hand felt his ax, the last great weapon of his people, and he was sad. His people, being gone, had never been at the forefront of his mind, but looking now upon the gateway paths of his ancestors, a deep sadness was upon him.
He thought of his passing from Harrodarr on the road to Elinathrond. He would not eat tonight, not that a bit of hunger had not begun to creep upon him, tightening his stomach in a knot and causing a rumbling, but he chose to not eat out of respect. The fields they looked upon were a grave. In the times since this was his home, he knew a great massacre happened upon these grounds. He turned over, looking out across the grasses. A stillness lay upon them. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.
Chapter 10 Of Lucia and Beasts
Sviska awoke the next morning as sunlight began to stream through the top of the walls of the city, shining over the river and onto the balcony of the inn. He stepped outside and looked down to the city. What had happened last night he could only guess. Other than a few militia-like guards sparsely patrolling, most of the town’s road were busy with people going about their daily chores.
Garoa soon joined him, and they headed down for the promised breakfast in the dining hall. Two long, wooden tables flanked one another in the dining hall, and a large stone circle sat in the floor before the fireplace. On the walls above them, the antlers of deer as well as other items of curiosity — a strange wooden bear holding a sword and a random cast iron pot — sat next to another mounted antler.
"You know the story of the forest man?" a voice said.
Neither of them had seen the person talking, but he had spotted them. They both shook their heads.
If any knew of any forest man, it would be this character. As he came to their table, they noticed his boots were covered in dark mud and leaves, and left a littering of dirt as he walked. A wrap of vine hung from his leg ove
r brown trousers, and he wore a shirt likely torn by thorn bushes and sharp stones. His long beard swayed, and he carried a large ax strapped to his back, the ax’s handle made of animal bone.
"I tell ya boys, there is a creature in those woods of late! I heard story when I was little, some bear that they said you could come across cooking up his latest kill in a big pot. Sounds like rubbish to first hear such a thing, but I swear it is true!"
He pointed to the wooden bear on the wall.
"Looks like that I bet!"
The man took to his porridge, finishing it quicker than either Sviska or Garoa could fathom downing theirs.
He took his bowl to a table near the front of the room. The innkeeper, turning the page to a book, looked up unamused, at the very best, and stared back down at the words. His only guests for the night had been that strange smelling man, Sviska, and Garoa. He was ready for midmorning and a break from dealing with people. His quick glares upwards had not been unseen.
"You ever get the feeling that being an innkeeper wasn't his first job?" Garoa said.
Sviska looked over and nodded, agreeing.
"But it wasn't!" the man said, sitting back down across from them. "Most of us aren't having things how we'd like them. As soon as the Grand Protectorate made a curfew, I moved out. Took my things and threw together some sticks in the woods. Now I live how I want. When I come in for supplies, I stay here and my good buddy Leurka there fits me up a nice room and this tasty breakfast!"
Sviska reached out with his hand to shake with the bearded man. "The name is Sviska, and this is Garoa here. We did not catch your name."
"Well of course you didn't! Can't let that get out on its own. It’s a secret 'round here. Call me, um . . . " The man scratched his chin as he looked around. "You can call me Nupp. Yep, sounds good to me."
"Nupp?" Garoa asked.
He shook his head and winked. "Y'all aren't the only ones that don't won't trouble around here. With the entire Legions of Lokam about every night and strange happenings in the land, I understand some privacy."
Nupp stood and adjusted the straps to his ax before glancing around the room.
Saints of Wura: Winemaker of the North, Arcane Awakening, Reckoning in the Void (Saints of Wura Books 1-3 with bonus content) Page 37