Late in the afternoon, Tevvy came to the bridge over the Iorn River, and the road leading west. There were only two passes over the Monti-sterlastan: Northpass, connecting Komfleu to Karble, and Southpass, connecting Kilnar to Loikurx, a village in the southern part of the Misty River Valley. The southern way hugged the spur of the mountains, passing just north of the Mariskal, a swamp running south to the sea, rumored to be the home of many strange and evil creatures. Parties of travelers or merchant caravans traveling west were always large and well-armed, leaving Kilnar hours before dawn and riding until they reached the Forsaken Outpost at the base of the pass many hours after sunset, a nervous journey of nearly 60 miles. The Fereghen kept an entire company of seklesem stationed at the outpost, constantly patrolling the road north of the swamp. In spite of this constant surveillance, travelers and caravans still disappeared, but many travelers and nearly all merchants preferred the southern route west to the northern, which would lead them to the uncomfortable questions and thorough searches conducted by the kortexem, who watched the road and pass more carefully than the seklesem, if that were possible, and the kortexem were well known for their strict enforcement of the law. Tevvy did not expect to meet anyone on the road at this hour, so he was quite surprised to see two travelers on the bridge, and more surprised by the fact that they were both on foot and arguing vociferously.
“You’ll ruin me, Jarell!” one shouted, pulling on the other’s arm. He was shorter, and his clothes were finer, but dirty and torn, and there was blood and dirt on his face and on the arm that was pulling on the taller wethi where the shorter wethi’s fine silk sleeve had nearly been torn off. “I hired you to guard my caravan,” he went on, “you must come back so I can salvage what is left!”
The taller wethi jerked his arm out of the shorter wethi’s grasp. He wore leather armor, helmet, and knee boots, and the boots were caked with dark mud. Scabbards for a short sword and dagger were hanging empty from the belt about his waist, and there were dark stains on his armor and tunic. He held his short sword in his right hand, and the blade was stained black, with the point broken off. “Forget it, Merik!” Jarell shouted. “You saw what happened to the others! I will not go back into that accursed swamp ever again!” he said each word slowly, and Tevvy could hear the fear in his voice. He turned and jogged away, and Tevvy got a clear view of his dirty face and the dried streaks of tears.
“You cannot leave me here!” Merik shouted. “We have a contract you are breaking!”
Jarell stopped and laughed. “Since you haven’t given me even an ayesu, I’d say we’re even.” Without another word, he turned south and jogged toward Kilnar.
Merik cursed at him, then he saw Tevvy watching him. “Young master,” his voice implored, “can you please help me? This traitor has ruined me!”
Tevvy pulled on the reins, stopping his pony in the entrance to the bridge, then he threw his left leg over the pommel of his saddle so that he was sitting sideways on his pony, looking down at the distraught merchant. He smiled as innocently as he could. “My good merchant, Merik, was it?” The merchant nodded. “What could a small, humble thief do that a large, mercenary like Jarell could not?”
Merik thought about this for a moment, put his hands on the pouches hanging from his belt, and took a step back. “A thief, you say?” he asked.
Tevvy nodded once. “Some have named us so,” he replied, “but I prefer professional scout and treasure finder, although I have learned recently that we were called the klitodwerem by the founders, so if you think that I will go back to your wagons and take your goods back from the monsters that killed and drove off all of your guards . . . ,” Tevvy left it hanging in the air.
Merik looked at him for a moment before responding. “No, I suppose not.”
“However,” Tevvy went on, “I’m guessing that you gave that oaf some sort of surety, a part of his fee, which you would like me to recover? Or perhaps, you simply want an escort into Kilnar, which I would be more than happy to do, in exchange for information?”
Merik looked warier than before. “What kind of information?” he asked.
“What has happened to leave you in these dire circumstances?” Tevvy asked.
Merik’s face softened, and then turned bleak. “Horrible monsters! From the swamp!”
“Hold on,” Tevvy interrupted, “you’re starting in the middle! Were you traveling east or west?”
“West,” Merik replied, “we left Kilnar this morning, two hours after midnight, as is customary, so that we were entering the fringes of the Mariskal, the swamp, right at sunrise, but the monsters were there, waiting for us; they somehow knew we were coming.”
“Monsters? What kind of monsters?” Tevvy asked and slid down off his pony. “We should start walking toward Kilnar while we talk,” he suggested, gesturing south.
“No!” Merik exclaimed. “I have to go back! The monsters will have all my merchandise! They’ll ruin me!”
“You need to get help first,” Tevvy replied in a calm voice, seeing that the merchant was more than a little unbalanced. “Let me take you back to Kilnar . . . ,” he started to say, but Merik interrupted him again.
“No!” Merik exclaimed, grabbing and pulling on Tevvy’s arm. “You must help me save my goods from the monsters!”
“Okay, okay!” Tevvy said, seeing that he would get nowhere. He suddenly understood why Jarell had run off. “Here’s what we’ll do,” he said, thinking fast, “I’m guessing you haven’t had time to eat or drink anything? No? I just came from Shigmar,” he said, opening one of his saddlebags and digging for one of the sleeping potions he had borrowed from Klaybear, “where I’m good friends with a couple of green kailum,” Tevvy winked, “you know how trustworthy the green kailum are?” he asked. Merik nodded, confused. “Well, they gave me this special potion,” Tevvy went on, “a new energy drink that will sustain a person on long journeys, better than rations, cheaper to make.”
“Really?” Merik said, looking interested. “Are they looking for a way to market it? I might be able to help.”
“Here it is,” Tevvy said, pulling out the small vial and holding it up. “This is enough energy to keep a large wethi like yourself running all day long, or fighting monsters to save your goods,” he added slyly.
Merik held out his hand eagerly. “Let me try it.”
“Not so fast,” Tevvy replied, pulling back his arm. “It still behaves strangely sometimes,” he went on, “you see, the formula is not quite perfect, so you’ll need to climb onto my pony.”
Merik looked wary again. “Why?”
“Well, what usually happens,” Tevvy replied, “is the person gets really weak for the first few minutes, until the potion begins to work, then you will feel great.”
“Weak? Couldn’t I just sit down?” Merik asked, looking suspicious.
“No, some have actually fallen asleep for a time,” Tevvy admitted, “so if I put you on the pony and you are one of those who fall asleep, I can still start walking toward your wagons and not waste any of your time and valuable energy, since I know you really want to catch the monsters before they make off with all of your merchandise.”
Merik tried to jump onto Tevvy’s pony, snatching the sleeping potion out of his hand and popping the cork. Tevvy put a hand on his arm to stop him. “Please try and remember any odd feelings, sensations, or thoughts that you have while under the potion’s influence: it is, after all, experimental,” he said, smiling at him. Merik smiled back, drank the potion, and climbed onto the pony. Within seconds, Merik sank onto the pony’s neck, hands draped on either side. Tevvy quickly tied the sleeping merchant to the saddle, picked up the reins and led his pony south toward Kilnar.
Half-an-hour later, Tevvy walked down the dirty street toward an inn owned by an acquaintance of his father, at the south end of the town’s single street, an inn called the Jakal’s Grin. About halfway through town he stopped, staring at the placard hanging above the door to an inn called the Green Beast. The sign bore
the distinct outline of a morgle. He nearly turned aside to go in, but that voice–his grandmother’s–warned him that such an action would be unwise without first finding out what he could from his father’s friend. He walked on, turning aside when he reached the familiar sign.
“Does your village still have a healer?” he asked the Jakal’s groom.
“Yes, sir,” the young wethi replied.
“This merchant,” Tevvy went on, “Merik by name, is not right in the head. I gave him a sleeping draft so that I could bring him to town; he wanted to run off back to the swamp and rescue his wagons by himself. Take him there and let the healer know,” he said to the groom, then he pointed to the pouches hanging from Merik’s belt. “He appears to have plenty of currency, so make sure that it gets to the healer.” Tevvy flipped an argentu to the groom. “Then you can see to my pony.”
The groom nodded and took Tevvy’s reins. He wished the kortexi were here, so he could have seen how Tevvy had every opportunity to steal the incapacitated merchant’s purse, but he did not. Karasun! Wretched kortexi! Tevvy cursed to himself, and, shaking his head, he entered the inn.
“Good day, Jak,” he said.
“Tevvy, what brings you to this refuse heap?” Jak growled. He was tall and strong with black hair and beard, his arms covered with the same black hair. An eye patch covered his left eye. “Some business of your father’s, no doubt.”
“Ale,” Tevvy said, flipping another argentu onto the bar.
Jak filled a mug and set it down in front of the awemi.
Tevvy took a long drink from the mug before setting it on the bar and wiping his mouth. He sighed. “There is very little ale in Shigmar,” he said, “so that even your swill tastes good.”
“You were in Shigmar?” Jak asked, lowering his voice. “What happened? The tales we have heard are . . . unbelievable,” he finished after a moment’s hesitation. “Armies of purem and nekerpum destroying the city, marching on and laying siege to Holvar, the Fereghen and all his legions of seklesem destroyed, and,” he lowered his voice so that Tevvy had to lean forward to hear his final whisper, “a weapon that destroys mountains, cities, and armies.”
Tevvy leaned back and drank again from his mug, thinking hard about what he should say. He was surprised at how many grains of truth were contained in the rumors that had reached Kilnar and Jak’s ears. He sat down his now empty mug and waited while Jak refilled it. “Have you ever heard of something called the ‘Prophecy of Shigmar?’” he asked. Jak looked back at him blankly, so he went on. “It speaks of those ‘chosen of the One,’ who will come at the center of the ages to both ‘save and destroy’ the world?”
Jak’s brow wrinkled for a few moments with thought. “I think I remember my mother telling me something like that,” he said. “Does it describe each of them as being members of the different orders, like the kailum, and the kortexem?”
Tevvy nodded. “That is the one,” he said, and took a sip of his mug. He looked around the inn’s common room, noticing that it contained the usual assortment of late-afternoon drinkers, so he lowered his voice to a whisper and leaned forward. “I have met them, and traveled with them,” he whispered to Jak.
Jak’s eyes widened. “Are you saying . . . ?”
Tevvy interrupted. “We live in momentous times,” he noted. “Do you recall the one in the prophecy described as the ‘cunning mouse?’” he asked, still whispering.
Jak nodded, eyes riveted on Tevvy. “I think I remember that one.”
“He’s here, speaking to you,” Tevvy said.
Jak’s eyes flashed around the room. “If I did not know and trust your father, I’d say you’d been bathing in brandy!” He put his hand on Tevvy’s forearm. “That’s not something I’d mention too freely.” He raised his voice suddenly, so that the entire common room could hear. “You say you were at Shigmar when it was attacked?”
All heads turned toward the bar, faces eager.
Tevvy recognized the wisdom of Jak’s ploy, so he replied in the same voice. “I was, and I can tell you exactly what happened, as long, that is,” he said, “as my throat doesn’t get too dry.”
There followed many offers to refill his mug and the scraping of chairs as the inhabitants gathered around the bar. Tevvy launched into an account, carefully edited, of what had occurred at Shigmar. After a few questions, Marka, Jak’s barmaid, expressed the biggest concern of the locals. Marka was a thin, young wetha with dirty blonde hair; she would have been pretty had her nose not been so large and bulbous, looking out of place on her elfin face framed by all that dark gold hair.
“Who will train the kailum to be our healers?” Marka asked. “Our healer is old; where will we get someone to replace him if there is no school?”
“We cannot go to the red kailum,” Felrek, a local farmer, said. He was a stocky, weather-worn figure with chiseled features on his pock-marked face beneath a shock of black hair. “They do not help anyone but themselves, and the genewum are unreliable, too obsessed with nature,” he added, grimacing, making his face look even more chiseled.
“Not all the kailum are at Shigmar,” Tevvy said, “in fact, most of them are scattered across our land. So they will gather soon, I’d imagine, choose from among them those who will become masters of the school, and begin the rebuilding process. We may have shortages in the next few years, but I’m certain they will work something out. Have the green kailum ever let us down?”
Most listening shook their heads; the locals got up to leave and take news back to their families; the rest of the Jakal’s patrons turned back to their drinks.
“Well-spoken,” Jak said to Tevvy, “you’ve done your father proud, I think. Anything Wild Jak can do to help you out?”
Again, Tevvy looked around the common room warily before speaking in a lower voice. “I passed an inn on the way to the Jakal and got quite the surprise,” he said in a whisper. “On its sign was the likeness of the creature who led the assault against Shigmar, The Green Beast.”
“An ill name,” Jak noted, filling a mug for himself and taking a long drink before speaking again. “It opened several years ago, and the odd thing is, some of the people who frequent it disappear.”
“Disappear?” Tevvy asked.
“Not all at once,” Jak went on, “but a few every month. The person goes in one night and never leaves. The family investigates, employs help, but no trace is ever found. One family even went to Rykelle and asked for help of the seklesem, stationed in that city; they found nothing.”
“The seklesem found nothing?” Tevvy said, thinking suddenly of Rokwolf and Marilee: they would not have failed to find the truth, and neither would Tevvy. He finished his mug and stood up.
“What are you doing?” Jak asked.
“That beast is tied to what happened in Shigmar,” he replied, and then lowered his voice again. “One of the reasons I came south was that we believe the morgle who led the assault came from the Mariskal; I arrive in Kilnar and find its likeness on an inn that you tell me has a reputation for people vanishing.”
“There’s more,” Jak said.
“More?” Tevvy asked, eyebrows rising.
Jak nodded. “I suspect that their drink is drugged.”
“How do you know?” Tevvy asked, more interested.
“I sent one of my grooms over to investigate,” Jak went on, “a few days after it opened. He came back, funny, like he was drugged. The next day, he went back and never returned to work; he was one of many who disappeared.” Jak stopped and drank his mug dry. Tevvy waited in silence, giving the innkeeper time to recover. Finally, he spoke again, in his normal gruff voice. “Wait until the wagons arrive from Rykelle; there will be more coming and going, and people looking for places to stay.”
“How much longer, do you think?” Tevvy asked.
“Not too long,” Jak said, “maybe half-an-hour.”
“Good. Then you can tell me what is going on with the caravans going west,” Tevvy said. “I brought a half-crazed
merchant back to town; I found him on the bridge, raving about monsters and wanting me to help him get his merchandise back.”
Jak frowned. “Over the last few months, there have been more problems on the road west, more caravans attacked by the creatures of the Mariskal, which is not unusual, as some years there are more attacks, some years there are fewer. Late this last winter, however, a caravan coming east was attacked near this side of the swamp, right at sunset. Only one of the mercenaries survived; he staggered into town the next day, blood-stained and white as an anemu, raving about monsters that would not die. He died two days later of a disease that our healer had never seen and could not cure. No one thought much about it, until more and more reports came back; fewer and fewer caravans were getting through, and now, there aren’t many willing to try. Merik was the last, and he had a terrible time hiring anyone to guard his caravan.”
“And they didn’t even make it past this edge of the swamp,” Tevvy added. “Anything else about these monsters?”
Jak sighed and refilled his mug. “From all that I’ve heard, and you can imagine how much the reports are inflated, the creatures are ten to twelve feet tall, very strong, green skinned, and they feed on living flesh.”
“Sounds like the wedaterem, but with green, rather than blue, skin,” Tevvy mused.
Jak shrugged. “They’ve been seen in the swamp before, but there were few of them, and they were solitary creatures–those did not come back to life after they were killed.”
“What?” Tevvy asked, spitting out and choking on his ale.
The Redemption, Volume 1 Page 72