The temperature was lower than the day before and the men had more appetite for conversation. Much of the talk centred round the missing jewels but by mid-morning the topic had been exhausted and talk had gradually turned to other things.
When they stopped that evening, nobody failed to notice that some of the merchant’s most trusted men were stationed close to the wagons, trying to look casual while their shrewd eyes roamed the clearing. A few of them were polishing their weapons in a suggestive manner and the lack of trust, while understandable, caused a strained atmosphere in the camp that night.
Callum wandered around the camp like a spare part. Borin took pity on the lad and invited him over to the log where he was sitting with Dannymere and two dwarves.
The young man was quiet and thoughtful as he ate his bread and cheese. Borin passed him the jug of ale and he poured himself a measure. Dromak knew that few men would willingly go without ale for months and he had several barrels stashed in the back of the wagons. He was shrewd enough to water it down though and to monitor how much was doled out each night.
“They don’t trust me,” Cailum complained, scuffing the dried earth with the heel of his boot. “See those guards up there? They’re for my benefit.”
Borin shook his head. “No. If the merchant thought you had something to do with the rubies, he’d have thrown you out this morning.”
“Or searched you on the spot,” Vascos remarked. He reached for the jug of ale and when he realised how little was left, he drank it straight down.
“I still can’t believe they did it,” Callum said, thinking of his former friends. “Fulk is a family man with two daughters under the age of five. And I’ve worked with Jed so many times. Nothing like this has happened before.”
“No-one really knows the hearts and minds of others,” said a dwarf called Thelon, “but those men are gone while you’re still here. That tells me all I need to know. Forget about them and start looking out for yourself. Keep your nose clean and the merchant will have no reason to doubt you.”
“Just relax and enjoy the music,” Vascos said gruffly, gesturing to the other side of the camp where a man called Nymas was tuning his lute.
The musician struck up a solemn ballad and the men listened as his rich voice filled the clearing. The song was about battles hard won, at too high a price, and burying the dead. It was exquisitely performed but it did nothing to lighten the mood.
The mercenaries listened respectfully until the last note had evaporated into the air then they started demanding other songs by name. Nymas was happy to oblige and before long, he was playing more lively tunes that had some men up and dancing. Vascos was quick to notice Dannymere tapping his toes in time with the music. “Follow me!” he rumbled and before Dannymere could protest, he was dragged away by the stubby little man.
“Not dancing tonight?” asked an old fighter with long grey hair, as he approached the log where the remaining men sat. The fighter was wearing a floor-length grey cloak, darker than his hair by several shades and the sword at his belt looked lethal. His brown eyes were on Thelon and they were twinkling with merriment.
“Felis- good to see you!” Thelon was already on his feet, clapping the old fighter on the back. “You know very well that I don’t dance!”
“I keep hoping that maybe one day…” Felis rubbed his hand across his chin where salt and pepper stubble had already started to grow. “Now who do we have here?”
The dwarf made the necessary introductions then he and Felis fell to reminiscing about their younger years.
They were in the middle of a particularly amusing anecdote when a long shadow fell over them. Standing there was a man of average build with thick black hair, grown to the jawline on one side but completely shaved off on the other. He had a thin mouth and it was turned downwards, making him look miserable. “Uncle- at last! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“And now you’ve found me!” Felis chuckled. He turned to the others and said, “This is my nephew, Hugo. He’s not one for dancing either.”
“You should stop your friend from making a fool of himself,” Hugo scowled at Borin.
“Huh?”
“What he’s doing is so undignified.”
“If you mean Dannymere, I’m not his keeper,” Borin said reasonably. “If he wants to dance, he can dance.”
“What’s wrong with dancing?” Callum asked.
“He should not be doing it. You have encouraged him too much already!” Hugo snapped and his black eyes flashed with anger. His hand instinctively went to his sword but he did not draw it.
“Have I missed something?” Vascos rumbled as he returned from the dancing, covered with beads of sweat.
“Not at all,” Felis interjected, quickly standing up. “We were just catching up but now it’s time to get some rest, isn’t it Hugo? We’re taking the third watch tonight.”
A furtive look passed between the two men before Hugo nodded abruptly and left the group. “What’s his problem?” Borin asked once he was out of earshot.
Felis smiled apologetically. “It’s his first time on the road and he’s not the most sociable of my sister’s sons. He doesn’t like the usual frivolities of youth.”
“How strange for one so young,” Thelon remarked. “Now old men like us are another matter entirely and we have every right to be grumpy.”
“Absolutely right!” Felis agreed before excusing himself and bounding away to follow his nephew across the camp.
Thelon watched him go. “Felis has more energy than any man his age. I swear he has dwarven blood in him.”
Felis was easily six-foot-tall and the idea of dwarven heritage made Borin laugh out loud but once his merriment had subsided, he started to consider the extended lives of the elder races. Unless they met with an untimely end, dwarves could live upwards of two hundred years. Elven folk could live even longer; between five and ten centuries. Not for the first time, he was struck by the thought that his best friend would easily outlast him.
“To us, humans are but children in this world,” Thelon said as if he had read his thoughts. “But the impact they have on it can still be profound.”
Borin was left considering the truth of this statement while behind him a cloaked figure lingered in the shadows. The horses rumbled in discontent and a few even stamped their hooves but nobody heard the disruption as Nymas played on.
Chapter 4
The Trouble with Minkle
Borin woke up early the next morning. It was still dark and he could not get back to sleep. Instead, he thought about the journey so far and the people he had met. Felis, the old fighter, was good company but he did not know what to make of the man’s nephew. Hugo had acted strangely and his comments about Dannymere had made Borin feel uncomfortable.
Borin rolled over and realised that with the strange events of the previous day, he had forgotten all about the mysterious woman in the cloak. Dannymere was convinced she was a figment of his imagination so he felt compelled to track her down and prove his friend wrong.
Once breakfast was over, the van prepared to leave. Dannymere was still pulling his boots on when the men at the front began to move out. He had tossed and turned for most of the night, finally dropping off just before dawn, and now he felt lousy.
“Hurry up,” Bardolph chided, untethering Jasper to save some precious time. “The men behind you are sick of waiting.”
“Sorry,” Dannymere muttered, taking the reins and waving an apology to the others.
“Never mind sorry,” Bardolph said. “Just get your backside in the saddle and get in line.”
Dannymere put his foot in the stirrup and was surprised when Jasper staggered backwards. “Whoa, boy!”
“Quit fooling around!”
Dannymere tried again but the moment his full weight hit the saddle, the animal started to screech. “What the-”
Jasper reared up and shock forced the half-elf wide awake. He leaned forward, clinging tightly to the pommel. The
horse reared again, desperate to throw him.
“The magician’s horse is crazy!” Dannymere heard someone shout. He pulled the reins but Jasper was incredibly strong and an epic tug of war between the two began.
“Hold on!” yelled Borin, trying to approach on foot, but the pounding hooves kept him at bay.
“Stay back- he’s got the devil in him!” Dannymere shouted. The horse wheeled around in tight circles and his eyes rolled back in their sockets, making him look possessed.
The other mercenaries gave Dannymere and Jasper a wide berth, fearing for their own safety and that of their mounts. Some younger animals were already in distress, reacting to the thoroughbred’s squeals with shrieks of their own and straining to break free. One of the mules even got loose and trampled a watering trough. The crack of splintering wood startled the nearby men and their own efforts went to catching the mule before it wreaked further havoc on the camp.
“Whoa!” Dannymere tried again but the horse would not be calmed. Years of riding experience and grit determination were keeping him in the saddle but the muscles in his legs were burning and he wondered how much longer he could hang on.
Then Jasper was off, shooting across the clearing like a dart. Dannymere was carried straight past the wagons and the watching men who were as helpful as puppets with their strings cut.
“Someone get after them- quick!” Dromak ordered when he saw the half-elf being carried down the slope and out of view.
Borin was the first to act. He galloped past the assembled wagons, vaguely aware of the mercenaries calling out encouragement and warnings in equal measure. He rode hard into the wind. It made his shirt stream out behind him and his eyes smart. Around him, the landscape became blurred like a child’s painting. “Come on Duchess,” he said through clenched teeth, spurring his horse on to greater speed. Her hooves beat a steady tattoo on the ground and they began to close the gap.
Up ahead, the thoroughbred had just jumped a fallen tree and was approaching a bend in the road. Borin braced himself and made the same jump easily before heading to the bend.
Borin saw the danger but his warning cry came too late. Jasper veered sharply to the left, almost unseating his rider. The half-elf swayed then regained his balance but just when he thought he was safe, he looked up to find a thick branch dangling down at the side of the track and it struck him square in the face.
Dannymere was knocked clean out of the saddle. He stayed suspended in the air for a moment as the thoroughbred galloped on without him, then he hit the ground with a sickening thud.
Duchess skidded to a halt and Borin was out of the saddle in a flash. He heard a commotion behind but neither man nor horse turned to look. Dannymere was not moving and Borin already feared the worst.
“Move aside,” growled a voice and Borin was surprised to see that Felis had also joined the chase. Behind him was the speedy bay that Bardolph had once pointed out. Although that was only a few days ago, it felt like a lifetime now. Borin vaguely recalled thinking that she must have flown like the wind to catch up with them.
Felis leaned over the unconscious half-elf and put an ear to his mouth. A few tense moments ticked by before he raised his head and shook it. “Your friend is not breathing,” he said.
It was quite dark inside the wagon with the drapes closed. Albin, the general hand, sat on the floor cross-legged, taking a moment to gather his thoughts. His family had warned him about life on the open road but their stories had involved murderous brigands and cut-throat thieves; not runaway horses and missing mercenaries. In a sense, these last things were more troubling to the boy than the tales his parents told because the dangers seemed to be coming not from outside the camp, but from within. Maybe he should have listened to his mother when she had begged him not to go.
Albin sighed and rubbed his temples. A dull ache had settled on his brow: a reaction to the stress of the morning. He had not seen the accident himself but he had heard plenty of reports from the mercenaries. ‘The magician’s horse was possessed by evil spirits’, said many of them. Albin did not believe in magic or spirits but he had listened to their accounts with interest before retreating to the safety of his wagon.
The young boy poured some water from a nearby barrel and sipped it slowly. He had fought hard for this opportunity to travel, gone against the wishes of his loved ones, and he wanted to make the best of it come what may.
Once his cup was drained, Albin set it down on a nearby shelf and busied himself with the breakfast bowls, rearranging them into piles, according to size. It was a pointless task but he found comfort in the distraction. His next job would be distributing food at midday and he wondered whether, due to the accident, they would still be sat at the roadside by then. Either way, he prided himself on being organised and he had already sliced the cold meats.
A sudden movement in the corner of the wagon stopped the boy in his tracks and he held his breath. He seized a broom and, holding it like a weapon, advanced forward, ready to strike. He would not let rats nibble the supplies on his shift.
Albin moved stealthily, avoiding the floorboards that he knew would creak. The pile of blankets he used as a bed was moving and there was something sizeable underneath. He brought the broom down heavily and with a ‘thwack’ it struck the floor. A furry creature shot out of harm’s way and straight to the other side of the wagon, with a look of disgust on its furry face.
“Oh it’s you!” Albin exclaimed in relief. He set the broom back down in the corner. “I thought I told you to stay outside until night-time.”
The creature blinked three times in quick succession and then scurried over to his master. Albin tutted and scooped him up.
Minkle was a unique creature of undefined breeding. In many ways he resembled a small bear for he was covered in grey fur that was particularly dense around his face. He had a small, black nose, that was often wet, and a set of bushy eyebrows that would not look amiss on an old man. Although Minkle could not speak, he was able to communicate in other ways and showed definite signs of understanding what he was told.
Albin had found the odd creature roaming the countryside near his home some years before and had persuaded his family to accept it. The boy had grown up with few friends and had come to rely on his pet for company.
Albin was young but not naïve: he knew that the merchant would disapprove of Minkle but he could not bring himself to leave his companion behind. Minkle was therefore brought along in secret; stowed out of sight during the day or discretely let out to follow behind the wagons at a safe and reasonable distance.
Minkle waited for his master to sit down then clambered onto his lap. The boy selected a wide-toothed comb and began to groom his pet, untangling the knots in his fur. “How have you got yourself in such a state?” he asked, pulling out bits of leaves and twigs.
Minkle stretched in satisfaction and the young boy noticed for the first time that he was holding a small, navy-blue pouch. “What have you got there?” Albin asked, putting down the comb, and the animal surrendered the pouch without complaint.
Albin untied the strings gingerly and slipped a hand inside. He could feel a pile of cool, smooth stones beneath his fingertips. “Surely not-” began the boy, tipping the contents of the pouch into the palm of his right hand.
Albin watched with a deepening sense of dread as some shiny red stones rolled out of the bag. Each one was identical to the one that came before it, and even in the dim light of the wagon, he could see that they were magnificent. He did not have to count them to know that there were twelve. “A dozen rubies for the prince’s crown,” he whispered, in awe.
“Albin! Get yourself out here!” Dromak’s gruff voice filtered through the drapes at the back of the wagon and cut through the boy’s thoughts like a knife.
Albin’s heart stopped beating for a moment as he feared the merchant might actually come on board. “I’m c-c-coming!” he stammered loudly, trying to stuff the rubies back in the pouch. His hands were trembling so badly that
he almost dropped them on the floor. If he was found with the rubies, everyone would think he had stolen them. Flustered, he looked around the wagon for a safe place to hide them.
“Oh Minkle- what have you done?” Albin asked as he stashed the rubies beneath his pile of blankets. “And what in the world am I going to do now?”
Chapter 5
Unknown Motive
On the opposite side of the camp to the wagons, a trio of men were huddled close together, holding conference over a lunch of cold meats and pickles. Borin had very little appetite after what had happened and was staring at the green hills in the distance. He could see a flock of sheep grazing; their white coats thickening up ready for the winter. He sighed and snapped back to the present. The eyes of the other two men were upon him.
“Dannymere is lucky to be alive,” Fendril Dromak began. “If you hadn’t been there…” he let his voice trail away.
“Is it true he swallowed his tongue in the fall?” Bardolph asked.
Borin nodded. “Felis helped me to dislodge his tongue and the two of us got him breathing again.”
“Felis is a good man to have around,” Dromak remarked.
The last time Borin had seen his friend, he was being carried to Dromak’s own wagon. Dannymere had been conscious, but disorientated. Borin had wanted to stay with him but there were others who were better qualified to help. “When can I see him?” he asked.
Dromak considered this. “Not for a while. The dwarves have mixed him a healing draught and left him to rest.”
“The dwarves?” Borin was surprised.
“Oh yes. Thelon never leaves home without a bag of herbs. He should have been a physician, that one.”
Bardolph cleared his throat and scanned the area to make sure that nobody else was in ear-shot. He leaned forward conspiratorially and said, “We have some troubling news and we don’t want it made common knowledge.”
The Lost Son Page 3