Winds of Torsham (The Kohrinju Tai Saga Book 2)

by J P Nelson

  The woman at center remarks, “Why don’t you sit down, Gordi, and enjoy another cup of tea with the rest of us?”

  The elf rolls his eyes and says sarcastically, “Let him pout, Feila, it is what he is most skilled at.”

  The scholar casts an eye from his book and smiles slightly.

  The giant shows no facial expression and simply stares at the table, apparently in deep thought.

  Gordi remarks, “How ‘bout I grab you up and …”

  From the teahouse door a medium sized man with a smooth face and trim hair enters. His manner radiates confidence and is mingled with a pleasant demeanor. He is immediately followed by another, a dark haired man dressed in a mantle common of a field cleric.

  The scholar closes his book and with a smile says, “There he is. How are you Albri?”

  Albri smiles as he approaches the table. Without question he reaches for a fresh cup and the pot of tea, “Good morning, Jethroas. I am doing most well, thank you, most well for a man who is retiring.”

  The elf asks, “So you are really going to do it, quit this?”

  “Oh yes,” he waved his hand, “secret quests, creeping into the camps of who knows what, investigating and exploring old tombs and what have you …” he glances at the cleric behind him and with a chuckle adds, “… nearly getting my head handed to me by a vampire … oh-h-h yes-s-s-s!”

  Feila holds her mug in the direction of the cleric as he pours a cup of tea; with a smile she asks, “And for you, do we now address you as Father Superior, instead of Don’Syre?”

  The giant just looks up to the man pouring his tea.

  Gordi retorts, “Father Superior, my ass!” In what might be construed as a menacing gesture, he walks up to the cleric and stares him eye-to-eye, “I remember when you were just a wet-nose kid, learning the arts of stealth and thievery, then a master rogue … a teenage master rogue, at that. Now here you are, a High Priest-elect.” He then holds his hands wide in exclamation, “I didn’t think you even liked Eayah … that it was all an act …”

  The elf chuckles, “Gordi, Gordi … you are just jealous he didn’t ask you to journey to Xenias with him and take a position of attendant, or something or other.”

  Gordi turns to the elf and points a seriously direct finger at him, “Watch your tongue, magician, or I’ll …”

  “… Do what?” Feila asks with a smirk. “Are you going to take us all on at once?”

  Jethroas holds his book up and with a wave of it adds, “I’m armed and ready.”

  The giant shows a hint of a malicious grin.

  Albri is stepping back with one hand in the air saying, “Hello … retired remember?”

  The cleric is stirring honey into his tea as he replies, “I’m just an ass, remember.”

  Gordi then turns to the woman on the end of the table who has remained quiet and exclaims, “See, Theata, there is no respect for me here, none whatsoever.”

  Theata glances at Gordi with a whimsical smile of humor, but says not a word.

  “Actually …” the cleric addresses Gordi with a slight grin, “… it is the church itself which is run in a manner which I don’t approve.” He puts the stirring spoon down and tastes his tea, then glances at Feila and says with approval, “Excellent herb. Congratulations on this new venture. I wish you good fortune.”

  “Thank you, Logan.”

  “Ar-r-rgh!” Gordi animates grandiose exasperation, “This is what I’ve been talking about. We’re coming undone. Feila, you’re trading in your sword for a spatula and spoon to buy this tea house. Jethroas, you’re heading to Dahruban to do what? Write books? Albri, you’re going to that island to stare at the moons and planets, for what? What can you hope to accomplish by looking into that far viewing contraption we found? And Kaurl, Kaurl, are you going back to that farm out yonder in … where was it, anyway … never mind.”

  He then turns to Logan and levels his gaze for a long moment as the rest hold to his dramatic oratory, “And you, Logan, you are the one who always has the plan. Are you going to change the world by entering into the most political, back-stabbing priesthood anywhere? Have you not made your atonement? We should call you Logan the Lame, Logan the Lame-Brained.”

  Gordi places his hands on hips as Logan becomes solemn, then walks to the frustrated man and puts a hand on his shoulder and gazes deep into his eyes. After several quiet moments Logan says, “I honestly don’t know, but I am going to try.”

  There is an awkward silence as the two men lock gazes upon one another, then it is Gordi who looks down, then to the table at each of the persons there. Looking back to Logan it seems there is moisture in Gordi’s eyes as he grasps one hand to Logan’s own, still on his shoulder, then the other hand reaches for Logan’s shoulder as Gordi says with gentle, but meaningful fashion, “Then, my brother, I wish you best. If you need me, you know how to find me.”

  Jethroas covers his mouth in casual fashion, but then brushes what must be some dust from his own eyes.

  A tear runs unashamedly down Feila’s face.

  The elf nods an approving sentiment and raises his cup to the pair before them.

  Kaurl opens his mouth slightly and mutters an indistinguishable word while slowly tapping his arm.

  Theata is still quiet, but there is an appreciation in her expression.

  And Albri, Albri asks, “Are we all still in agreement of special feast this eventide, here in Feila’s new establishment?”

  All nod and affirm agreement. But most importantly, all understand the words and meaning spoken this morning only the way deeply bonded people can … people who have shared blood, sacrifice and purpose. Events have transpired among this ensemble that only they may ever know … secrets common to them alone … mysteries both solved and unfinished … loss, life and death … yes … death.

  As the gathering stands to depart it is Gordi who asks of Logan, “So, will the Nakoaian Nander-Rogue and the changeling join us this evening?”

  Humorously Logan responds, “You mean Teaberry? I am afraid he is abroad. As to Banea, I am unaware of her where-a-bouts. She could be anywhere, as you well know.”

  As Gordi empties his cup, then places it on the table, he looks at each of his friends and says more than asking, “Then … then I guess it is done? We are dissolved as a team … we are a band no more?”

  Moving up beside him and placing a hand on his arm, Feila replies, “We are still a family, Gordi.” After a moment she gently shakes her head and asks, “Are you not tired of the blood?”

  “But …” Gordi looks to Logan, then back to Feila, “… we still have the final task, and we are still not sure …”

  “Gordi …” Logan interjected, “… we have done what we can, for now.” Logan passes a serious wink to Gordi, then says as he turns to leave, “We will talk more in the evening.”

  Lingering behind, Albri hears the elf tell Gordi as he slaps him on the back, “Do not be afraid, my fair friend, I am not retiring. Should you need a companion to protect you and guide you through your journey, I am at your service.”

  “It would figure, N’Ugarr, it would figure.”

  Aside from Albri, Theata is last to depart the patio, and as she does she pauses before Albri and speaks in a hushed tone with words revealing lack of mastery of this language, “I would favor you to wish your wife my words, ‘May Albri and J’Hene walk into sun for happiness.’”

  Albri smiles and bows his head as she parts company, then follows Gordi and the elf from the room.

  N’Ugarr can be heard asking, “Truly, do you think myself to be a lowly magician?”

  As the two walk inside through the door Gordi, slaps his hand to the elf’s shoulder and says, “Mon’Gouchett, yes, my pointy-eared friend … most assuredly yes!” The echo of N’Ugarr and his hearty laughter can be heard through the interior.

  Albri drinks the last sip of his tea and relishes the flavor as he gazes into the hillside, studying a field of violet, yellow, orange and blue flowers as they billow
like unto waves of the sea. Again he breathes deeply of the morning wind and wonders who is really appreciating the bouquet carried upon it.

  The breeze wafts its way through the city toward the sea. Not a few moments walk from the teahouse is the Dukker’s Bazaar, known far and wide as the last point of serious trade before following the Pihpikow Road into the Devil’s Kitchen, and then to the Plains of Shudoquar.

  The Devil’s Kitchen, thinks Albri, how many times has he been in there. The name was of human collaboration and was originally known as Lapt’Hinnon Tuith Dé, when the Lapt’Hinnon Laborra D’Chaun ruled this piece of land. Leprechauns, thinks Albri, unseen for thousands of years. Many believed them to only be a folk tale, but he had seen proof of their existence.

  The Pihpikow Road actually began in that low stretch of rocky land; a stretch of ravines, rock formations, crystal clear streams and … well, it was beautiful, but deadly. In this year, 5118 ED according to the Elvin Calendar, it was estimated no less than sixteen tribes of bandits lurked in there. And that was just human bandits.

  But … it was beautiful.

  Albri closes his eyes and thinks of the hundreds of tents in the Bazaar, many already making their first trades of the day. Albri knows this place well. He knows that two throws of a stone away Montel Soota sells her rugs at premium prices, but they are perhaps the best made west of the Alburin. Princes have bought her wares, but even they must haggle with skill and in earnest, because haggling a cost is an art form in itself and the proprietors here are among the best in the game.

  Beyond Montel Soota is Ansukanti, a seller of exotic incense and fragrances. Ansukanti has been here for decades and chose his location well with specific purpose; the fragrant breeze enhances his own wares. Likewise, Estahl the wine-seller, sells wine by the cup, bottle and flask varieties which are complimented by that very same breeze.

  Albri can envision a workman of high quality leather he knows, putting his crafted products out in a loving manner, for his work is truly an example of fine art.

  Toward the middle of the Bazaar on a small knoll, a young man named Edgarfield offers himself several times a day in contest to anyone who can best him in a bout of grappling. A contender would pay a small fee for a try, and if won, the contender would take a prize twenty times larger than the fee. In the months since Edgarfield began this venture, none had yet to beat him and all had given to submission. It was truly a show of finesse and skill.

  Far into the Bazaar the breeze still reached, but the fragrance of flowers ceased, giving way to an abundance of leather, metals being worked, sweat, animals and food. ‘Ah yes,’ thinks Albri, one of the things he will miss about this place is the food. As he thinks of food he imagines Machest, a man as round as he is tall, but whose smoked meat would make an herbivore crave the taste of roasted flesh.

  Machest used his own secreted blend of herbs and spices and could bring the best flavors from any cut of meat. His fires ran all night long and he used only certain woods for any of his fare. Even now, Machest was already well into business. Smoked meat on a stick, in a wrapper, folded within delicious breads provided by the baker next tent over, jerked meats for travelling … name it and he could provide it.

  Albri could see this well from behind his closed eyes. What he could not see was the creature cleverly hidden under folded canvas in a nearby pile.

  With the sun not yet revealed, the creature was well concealed. A person with such thoughts to search the pile may happen to observe a pair of eyes, eyes set just the distance apart to perhaps belong to a medium sized dog; these eyes peering intently at a freshly smoked cut of beef hanging at just the right height, at just the right distance … if only the right moment would present itself.

  The creature to whom these eyes belonged was skilled in the art of survival, to be more specific, skilled in the art of stealing. Ah, but to be even more specific, the art of catch and run stealing.

  This would not be the first time old man Machest’s wares had been the creature’s goal. Five times in the last three months the creature has successfully tried the prize … and won each time. With intelligence and cunning, however, the creature knows not to be greedy and give care when and which station to rob from. It was a game as much as a way of survival.

  Completely out of sight, the creature waits with endless patience. Not without consideration does it notice an absence of helpers. Bad luck to Machest. Suddenly, the opportunity may have just availed itself … yes … there … Machest turns into his tent and the creature springs from his hiding place, revealing itself to be a boy all of perhaps nine or ten years old, filthy and clothed in rotten rags. His feet are bare and fingernails are encrusted with dirt.

  In one hand is a razor sharp piece of glass. With a practiced movement he leaps to grab the haunch and severs the hanging cord with one deft motion. But alas, his endeavor is all but undone as an unseen bell attached to the beef jingles. Machest leaps around the corner with agility defying his girth and brandishes a large cleaver, “I have you now you miscreant.”

  Machest produces a bola with his other hand and tosses the weighted cord at the boy. The boy, however, is not without recourse as he leaps up and over the tossed weapon, hits the ground and rolls forward coming up into a sprinting run.

  Away from the meat-stand he darts this way and that, weaving between those coming to market as a maddened Machest runs behind him wielding his cleaver overhead and yelling out, “Lay hands to the thief, lay hands to the thief!”

  Tucking the meat inside a prepared, yet dirty canvas sack, the young thief whisks his way through the Bazaar. A bystander reaches to grab him, but he spins in midair from the grasp. Two dogs, then a third, smell the roasted haunch in the boys sack and begin to give chase. Ducking into a candle maker’s tent, he hurdles a table of ornate candles as Machest is surprisingly close behind. Machest flounders into the table as his quarry sprints skillfully ahead, narrowly missing yet more grasping hands as all around the chase breeds chaos.

  Suddenly a donkey cart blocks the way, but rather than give pause, the boy ducks under the donkey’s belly giving rub to the beast’s underside. The donkey brays loudly and commences to buck in its harness upsetting the cart, driver and contents all about.

  Two stock wranglers move to make a capture. Circling in such manner as if trying to entrap a rooster, one lay a hand on his garment. Turning for an instant, he sees the dogs as one leaps toward his precious sack of food. A slide to the ground as rotten fabric tears, and the dog lands upon the wrangler’s chest, knocking him down.

  Up again, the waif realizes this has not been his finest day, as he narrowly evades the second wrangler and more bystanders enter the chase to catch him. A loop of rope encircles his body, but it falls to the ground around him. Jumping from the noose his foot is foiled as he stumbles. Around the corner of a tent, Machest is seen again.

  Again evading a reaching hand, a dog tries for his sack … Knocking the dog aside, he spins from yet another grasping hand and ducks under a stand of fruit. Pushing the stand outward and into Machest, presence of mind dictates the grab of a pear in the one hand and a cluster of figs in the other.

  The vendor is a woman who is now also yelling at him. Tucking his treasure into the sack, he catches sight of her about to hurl yet another fruit at him with a barrage of profanity. Deftly catching the fruit, he recognizes a flag billowing above a distant tent and determines exactly where he is.

  The dogs are about Machest as he stumbles up, now covered with the juices of smashed plums and ripe melons. Quickly moving around tents and evading the ruckus, the boy moves with purpose of direction. Stealth now beyond him, speed and redirection are his only hope.

  Still receiving chase, a plan of action is quickly deliberated while passing a cheese stand, his hands collecting a block of goodness in the process. Around the corner and there is Machest, as much by mutual accident as by Machest determining his quarry’s direction. A circle of angry vendors and amused marketeers are about to close in on thi
s whisk of a ragamuffin.

  Yet to concede capture, the child of the street sees a pallet and vaults to its top, then to another, then to a moving cart as his pursuers continue wild and determined chase. Children are now calling in glee with more dogs barking and giving chase as if this were a sport … some voices even yell encouragement to the center of this morning's excitement.

  Machest moves well in spite of his ample size, yet he slips and slides to gain foot purchase in yet another quick change of direction.

  From the moving cart the boy leaps to the top of a solid enclosure and with an articulation of flipping acrobatics, lands on his feet to the ground below. He knows his time is borrowed as his young breath is becoming strained, the burden he bears is becoming heavy and his exertion is taking its toll.

  If he can but make it to the building on yonder hill, he knows of a borough just large enough to squeeze through, and a tunnel to a cave which is safe when the rains have tarried for a time. A man who had been teaching him things, and giving him little assignments in exchange for small coin, had showed him this cave. The man was gone, now, but the cave was still there, and the things the boy had learned were still there too.

  A bun of bread finds its way into his hand as he once more sees the angry meat vender, ever brandishing the cleaver with menace. Stopping of a sudden and switching back, he ducks around and past a wine-seller. Just up the hill, he thinks in a ragged breath, so close …

  Seeing Machest once more, he ducks under a table as the wine-seller yells and curses in admonition. Machest collides with the table as more commotion results with the bursting of two skins of wine.

  Almost … so close … yet Machest’s prey stumbles and falls. Rising up again with a gasp of breath, Machest swings wildly with his cleaver amid a constant barrage of profanity.

  Almost blinded by the wine in his eyes, the exhausted child dashes in undetermined direction, refusing to give himself to defeat and return to the child-house for orphans. With grit and fortitude he plunges forward and smells the pungent aroma of freshly worked leather … then a strong arm grabs him around the waist. Before he can react, a hand is clasped about his mouth as he is lifted and passed to yet another arm as he is told, “Be still lad, you are safe.”