by J P Nelson
The hole turned out to be more than a cave, it was a tunnel which led in winding fashion into the mountain. No one was interested in exploring, but there was much in the way of fire fuel. In short order, a roaring fire was built and Fhascully stripped, rubbed dry, and bathing in its heat with soup made of dried meat shavings in the making.
When Jha’Ley came in with his bundle, Dessi was startled and asked, “Commodore!? With respect, sir, are you kidding?” Seedle passed a disapproving glance of his own, but said not a word. Caroll was attempting to do his minor heal thing on Fhascully, and found a stab wound in his side and several broken ribs.
Jha’Ley again noticed Seedle absently touching the little pouch at his side, then clutch it for a moment as if making a determination. The commodore made no comment.
Jha’Ley shook his head, “I do not know. We are not at war with these people. They are hungry.”
Dessi just stared at him, then got up and said, “With your permission, I would like to venture outside and see what might be to salvage. I do not believe the kobolds retrieved their dead.”
Jha’Ley nodded.
The cave stank, but it warmed fast. Here they would stay for a day or two, until he was sure Fhascully would be able to travel. Then they were returning to Heizle.
Dessi returned with their backpacks and Fhascully’s spyglass. Jha’Ley passed him an inquiring glance.
“The kobold bodies are still out there, and the creature is floating in the water. Mister Fhascully’s sword is protruding from its back. I fear I am not skilled at the art of lasso.”
Seedle suggested, “I possess such skill, sir. It would not do well to lose such a weapon.”
At Jha’Ley’s nod, Seedle took a rope and left for the already refreezing pool.
The kobold, prisoner such as he was, did not attempt to speak, escape, or anything. He sat in his cover before the fire, more afraid than anything else. Jha’Ley had attempted to communicate with him, but he did not seem to understand.
Dessi nodded to the little person and asked, “What are your intentions for him, sir?”
Gently shaking his head, then shrugging, Jha’Ley replied, “When we leave we will let him go.”
The sergeant was at a loss for words.
“Sergeant, if you were starving, part of a race which was once known for intellect and art, but now reduced to scavenging, what would you do if five well supplied strangers entered your land?”
“I … I am not sure, sir.”
Jha’Ley was hesitant, “Nor I, and I may be making a mistake ...” He held up his hands, “… we cannot kill all who lend us opposition, especially when we are in their land without invitation.”
Eventually, Seedle returned with the blade and he laid it down by Fhascully who was asleep. “How is he, sir?”
“Well, Mister Seedle, he is doing well.”
They spent the next day in the hole, eating and recuperating, but not relaxing. A stringent watch was kept as everyone was ready for battle. The only person feeling talkative was Seedle, who drew from his limitless collection of jokes and humorous stories.
There was, however, a brief discussion of the creatures involved.
Dessi asked into the air, “Of a wonder, what might those beasts have been? Are they an intelligent species?”
It was Fhascully who answered, although briefly, “It is my thought these are what may be called buhg-bahrs, although to my knowledge no scientific name has been rendered.”
He paused for a time, and was amazed to find Dessi still waiting for more explanation. Everyone was waiting, actually.
“I have only read of scant notations. These make supposition the creature is but a myth; an old tale spoken to wayward children to scare them, but no more.”
Dessi commented, “Then, Mister Fhascully, I would think you have valued evidence for recording.”
After a moment, “Yes, sergeant, I would think so. Thank you.”
Seedle commented, “Bug-bears, what a name.”
“Buhg-ba …” Fhascully thought a moment, then continued, “… yes, bug-bear, what a name indeed.”
Caroll again put his energy into Fhascully. He believed the ribs had come back into place, but were far from being healed. The second morning, he did it again.
Once everyone had eaten well of their morning meal, Jha’Ley walked over to the naturalist, crouched down and asked, “Do you feel well enough to travel, Mister Fhascully?”
He nodded, then replied, “I presume you are not going to pursue the castle, sir?”
“No sir. We are not adequately equipped for the quest.” He flipped his watch open, “We must needs return. Our time is running tightly and I do not wish the expedition to raise concern.”
He gently slapped the man’s shoulder and smiled, “We have learned much. And you have many findings of which to record.”
Fhascully looked to the edge of the fire and solemnly said, “Aye. Yet I wish you had achieved your objective.”
“I have learned much as well. We will return, better prepared”
When the team was ready to push on, the kobold was still sitting in front of the fire, an uncertain and confused look upon his face.
Everyone watched closely as Jha’Ley knelt on one knee before the kobold. They looked each other eye-to-eye, and the man gently pulled a dagger in sheath out and laid it on the ground. He pointed at himself, not for the first time, and said, “Jha’Ley.”
After a few moments, he rose up and backed away, the kobold’s eyes big with amazement.
Taking cue from Jha’Ley, Seedle brought a wrap of jerky and laid it down as well. Stepping back, he passed a dubious eye to his commodore. Likewise, Fhascully laid down a pouch of corn meal, and Caroll gave a bag of dried fruit.
Dessi took his flint and steel and showed the kobold how to use it. Stepping back, he muttered, “Build a beggar a fire, and he will be warm for a night. Show him how to make fire, and he can be warm always.” Glancing to Jha’Ley he shook his head and added, “Commodore, I surely give wish you are correct.”
As they walked out, Seedle turned and saw the kobold standing at the mouth of the hole, watching them return to the trail.
There was no hesitation during the return trek to Heizle, but there were no more attacks by kobolds.
The team was enjoying their second morning at breakfast, a breakfast cooked in a comfortable eating establishment, when the three ships were spotted headed for the docks.
Captain Ervis had traded well, and a good cargo of apple brandy, among other interesting articles, was secured. Tye’s Tavern made good business as the crew frequented the place, and many were the tales swapped, in particular those of Mister Seedle.
The chief petty officer was a man loved by the crew. A leader with a firm hand, yet fair and always ready with an encouraging word. The telling of tales was his way and passion. He was not a comedian, but he was of County Courtney on the Mon’Cique coast of Vedoa, known for men who drink their ale, tell tall tales, sail through hurricanes, and whistle a merry tune all at the same time.
Plied with a hearty pint of spirits from the apple, Seedle told his tales until all had heard them a sufficient number of times. The favored being the encounter with the wyvern and bug-bears. There were those few things, however, of which he did not embellish.
Caroll’s touch of healing was not mentioned, that was for him to reveal at such time of his choosing. The severity of Dessi’s wound was not disclosed, as it would require an explanation of how it healed so quickly. But there was something else, something in particular he held back … when stripping Fhascully of his frozen clothing, horrid scars upon his back and body were clear to see. What past did the man have, for these scars were old, scars of the whip and wounds of war alike. Yet, no mention of these was made, even at the fire.
As Seedle was weaving his tales of the fighting, one lad spoke up, “What of Mister Fhascully, chief, how did he fare to blade?”
We must remember, though respected far and wide for his sc
ience and valued knowledge, Fhascully was not a popular man. More often than naught, he was thought of as being morose with a rare word of pleasant timber for anyone. A solitary individual who conversed, if that word can be used in such light, usually with Kravieu or Jha’Ley, and even now was not in the presence of the tavern company.
One could tell Seedle’s audience expected to hear how Fhascully needed to step aside during combat, or perhaps was in the way. Anything to lend more basis for jest rendered at his expense.
It was the Marine who spoke in reply, “He fared well, not at all …” before the crowd could begin laughter, he continued, “… I would think to say he shined gloriously, although he will probably not speak of it.” He looked to Seedle and added, “He saved my life directly. And it should be known, without his blade the whole party might be slain.”
All were quiet as he lifted his mug, “Mister Seedle, let us drink to Mister Fhascully.”
“Aye, Sergeant Dessi, to Mister Fhascully, a fighting naturalist of exceptional skill and valor.”
___________________________
Night’s middle had long past, the tavern near empty, with only Seedle and Dessi at their table, nursing the back half of a pint, when Kravieu walked over and asked, “May I take seat with two fine Vedoan gentlemen and sailors?”
Seedle replied, “Aye, take a seat and join our final draught.”
“A most interesting rendition of events, Mister Seedle.”
Seedle replied, “I thank you, kind sir.”
Kravieu took a long sip of his mug, “… a fighting naturalist of exceptional skill and valor … I have not heard description put to Mister Fhascully in such manner before.”
Dessi shrugged his shoulders and Seedle lifted his mug, then said, “Aye, of a certainty. You have known him for many years, have you not seen him to act.”
“He is rare to wear the weapon, and I have never seen him to draw it, even to give it cleaning.” Kravieu paused and savored his brandy. You made mention of removing his frozen garments, rubbing him dry, then making wrap with blankets before the fire.”
Dessi adjusted his seat, not knowing where the conversation was leading and replied, “Yes, Mister Kravieu, what of it?”
“Then you saw the scars.”
Dessi and Seedle passed a brief glance to each other, then Seedle idly tapped his fingers against the table and asked, “What scars?”
Kravieu smiled, “You are loyal mates.”
Seedle suggested, “Mister Fhascully is an interesting man, a mysterious one.”
“This would be one way to put it, yes.”
Dessi added, “He does not carry a military bearing, but his display of skill does not come from civilian experience.”
“No, it does not.”
Dessi drew a deep breath, then with Seedle giving him his attention, he took a resolute posture and continued, “I have seen officers who wielded such a weapon as his, with skill such as he demonstrates, in bloody combat.”
“You were at Valley Sunday, were you not?”
“Yes, I was but a youth, but I attended my father and brother. A more beautiful land in heart of the Gohbashai Mountains you will never find.” He glanced to Seedle, “Spring water as cold as ice,” he held up his thumb, “blackberries twice that size, and soil black and rich to yield any crop one might put down.”
The look in his eyes became distant and his tone carried bitterness, “It was my home of childhood.”
He looked past Kravieu and became lost in memory, “From across the wide plain the Mid-Landers call the Grassic Sea they came, wielding short blades and lances, laying waste to all they could not carry. Slaughter, slaughter of men, women, children …” he closed his eyes, “… the children.”
The Marine clenched his fist and held it so, then took a deep breath and gradually flattened his hand upon the table top. There was a burning hate in his eyes as he slowly opened them, “Their skill at arms was unbelievable. Mig Mjon, Mig Mjon and his savage horde. He had ruled well the lands west of the Obindao River … why did he need to come east? We never knew. But come, he did.
“We, the people of Sunday Valley and abroad, we tried to stay them, but it was of no use. We were outclassed in every way. Those who were not slain were taken prisoner, to be killed in sport at our captures pleasure.”
Seedle asked softly, “Then you were among those captive?”
“Aye, I was.” Dessi looked to each and continued, “The general, emperor to be, Mig Mjon, wielded a sword of radiant silver, said to cut through anything. The first Sparkaen Broad Sword ever to enter our lands. Each of his six captains wielded such, but hammered in unique fashion from steel sent by the gods, steel hidden within rock from the heavens. The six captains governed six lieutenants of their own, each of whom were afforded masterful blades of similar construction, but of lesser steel … yet still superior to ours.
“My father was a huntsman, and sharp of eye with a crossbow. But his forearm had been broken as a child and wielding a blade was not his strength. Still, he fought with honor against a captain, a youthful captain scarce old enough to grow hair on his face, but technique of hand not to be believed. He slew one brother and my father, but not before my father scored a thrust to the captain’s side.”
Seedle’s face showed realization as he asked, “By-hair-of-the-lizard, Dessi, you thought …” he tapped his fingertips in rolling pattern upon the table top, “… you believed Mister Fhascully to have been the captain.”
“It was the surface of the blade, and the manner of which he moved the weapon, known as Sparkaen Style. It only works with a perfectly balanced blade of such length and design.”
“Of no wonder why you searched so diligently upon his side. You sought not for more wounds, but for an old scar.”
Kravieu asked, “And … did you find that which you sought?”
Dessi put his hand over his mouth, then rubbed his chin with his response, “No, I did not. I am the fool.”
Warmly, Kravieu responded, “No, my good sergeant, hardly the fool, but only two degrees off course. You gentlemen have been courteous to our man of discussion. Allow me to repay a courtesy, at request of a continued one.”
He motioned for the server, “One last round for my mates and I, if you please?”
Then he began his own tale, “Some years ago, a farmer lived with his family on the outskirts of the Giuanka Jungle in eastern Rok’Shutai. He was of fourth generation and raising various crops for seaborne trade. But certain native inhabitants began raiding with alarming frequency, to such extent the farmer collected his wife, two daughters and four sons to sail for Aeshea and return to their ancestral homeland, far north and east of Karlay.
“Not long after, Mig Mjon began his raiding. Boys of choice age were taken and forced to serve in the infantry. This farmer’s home was one such raided. Mother and one daughter were raped and mutilated, while the eldest daughter managed an escape. The father was hung from barn door, and the barn burned while sons were made to watch, the boys taken for impressed service.
“The youngest proved frail for the journey, so his head was dashed upon the rocks for all to see. Over some years, the third son witnessed his older brothers fall, the eldest in combat, the next in training. He himself was flogged with frequency, as his will was strong. But his resolve became to survive, learn way of their blade, and rise in rank until of position to slay the slayer.
“A reckless ambition, if you will, but it was his sole recourse to live. And rise he did, but not to office of lieutenant. The six captains and their six lieutenants were of lineage to Mig Mjon. This lad did, however, rise to be flank warrior, which required skill of highest order to protect their officers and carry out particular missions. Our lad was made one of the chief captain’s flank warriors, even as they entered Sunday Valley.
“Suf Fautner was the youngest of captains, he who your father scored wound upon. The chief captain was Sig Onaun, he who commanded the aft wave, and he who was slayer of our lad’s house.
“From Sunday Valley, Mig Mjon intended crossing of the Gohbashai in march toward the sea, even Vedoa itself, and lay claim to all of the east. But he was foiled of his own hand.
“To rule by fear bolsters only the ego of the ruler, as to kick the hound once too many times will result in hound biting the master. By this day, the infantry was comprised solely of impressed warriors. Grumbling was common and desire to break company was strong.
“Our lad wished only to slay the slayer. To abolish the bonds holding the men was not his aim, but upon gaining knowledge of an approaching army, which might at least withstand in battle for a time, a plan was formed and acted upon. The plan was to avail opportunity for his own lethal strike, but if to take head of Mig Mjon and bring cease to his wanton rampage was within reach, so much the better.
“Missive was sent by night to the armies gathering at the valley’s edge, and ropes were cut of the captive’s bonds. They were told, ‘Hold fast, until …’”
Dessi finished the words, “… until the sound of a horn. Then take weapons yonder stored, and ply your bid for freedom.”
Seedle was listening, absorbing all he could hear, as Dessi added, “Yes, I recall it as if were yesterday. Our people knew far in advance of the Mig’s coming, and sent riders throughout the lands bearing warning. The moons were dark the eve before morning’s battle. A youth, ascending manhood, shrouded in a cloak and hood made to slice our bonds of cord. His message was coarse, but clear. We knew not then or after who played the role. Are you saying it was Fhascully?”
“I say not, only the events which transpired as told to me.”
Seedle asked, “It was he who told you these things?”
“No, he has never discussed such with me. I once knew one who was there, who disclosed the story in its entirety, such as they knew.