by Ronald Long
It would be here that they would settle their differences and keep their peace, Celomaer thought.
His eyes scanned the city he had lived in all his life. Judging by the position of the moon it was approaching midnight, but even from his vantage point he could still hear the activity in the streets below and see fires and lanterns burning bright despite the late hour.
In a city of over 600,000 souls, there was rarely a time when everyone slept. Celomaer reveled in the buzz of the city below him. Several buildings stood over four and five stories tall. In the morning their roofs would create a patchwork of color that only those who viewed the city from this great height could truly appreciate.
The streets branched out from the capital tower like spokes on the wagon wheel. Several towers similar in design to the spiraling capital Tower rose along the city streets. Some were places of study and books. Others where the homes of the nobility and even the second houses of some other elders on the council. Though he knew he lived a soft life in comparison to some of the other residents of Conny, Celomaer had never really enjoyed the vanity of some of his fellow elders. Being elected an elder of the Southern Republic was a high honor, but it also came with the possibility of terrible corruption. Many wealthy merchants and landowners would gladly pay to influence your decision on important matters, and several elders had taken advantage of such deals. The two other elders of men, for example, both had at least two other houses in which they lived in the great city.
Celomaer shook his head just thinking about it. But perhaps this was why he had become head elder. And his many years of service, far too many for him to recount this late night, he had never wants excepted payment for decision made. Perhaps it was his purity in the face of corrupt politics that had enabled him to be the elder of elders for the last 15 years.
Still, there was much to do in order to convince the six other elders to lay aside their differences and focus on the current unrest between the races.
His mind wandered to the council's previous session.
As he sat in his chair at the raised portion of the circle of council, Celomaer was holding his head in hands as his elbows rested on the arm rests of the oaken chair. The decorative stone table that formed the inside of the circle was what his eyes were focusing on. Its intricate ruins and carvings of dwarves, elves, and men depicted all the people of The Southern Republic. In the carvings they were living in peace and cooperating. On the table they were fighting with words like daggers.
"You'll come to find that the axe of a dwarf is much better suited for crushing a skull than some finicky elven blade!" shouted Dollin, one of the dwarven elders that sat around the table. Well, everyone else was sitting. Dollin was in fact standing, but his short stature made it seem like he could be doing either to Celomaer. Even for a dwarf he was shorter than most, but he more than made up for it with presence. His red hair flaired along with his anger.
"This is not a discussion about weaponry, Dollin and I'll not have it turn into one. I believe your original point was the elven caravan that traveled to Kaz-Ulum from Ingur," Celomaer interjected. It was the first time he had spoken in well over thirty minutes. The bickering between the elves and dwarves was getting worse and he knew it would soon escalate.
"Now, Dollin, if we are to understand, you are not debating axes and swords but an elven caravan that intended to travel to Kaz-Ulum?” he said, trying to bring the conversation back to a focus.
"Not only that, but I say there was no caravan!" Dollin shouted at Celomaer, who upon hearing those words put his head back into his hands.
"Dollin of Kaz-Ulum!" shouted one of the elven elders, a tall and brown haired man named Finasaer. He was younger than Dollin, in fact he was the youngest of the elders. His youth gave him a pride and arrogance that matched Dollin's rage. The elf was fair and had no beard, for in fact no elf ever had need to shave. They never grew facial hair. Celomaer’s own greying goatee fell into his lap as he continued to listen to the bickering.
"You know full well that the elven caravan came to Conny and resupplied here and convened with myself and Olweleg before continuing on to Kaz-Ulum. Or have you forgotten that they also spoke with Thrinain, who gave them his blessing to travel to your infernal mountain? If you say there was never a caravan than you are a liar or a fool, perhaps both!"
Shouting on both sides grew so that no words were intelligible by either party.
Of course Finasaer was right. The elves had indeed sent a caravan of artistans and craftsmen from Inger to Conny with the intent of traveling to the dwarven mine in order to learn from the weapon smiths there. It was to be a time of cooperation and learning from one another. The elves had in fact traveled to Conny. Celomaer had seen them with his own eyes. The issue was that the caravan never made it to the mountain. Upon searching for the fourteen carts, forty horses, and over two hundred elves that were apart of the traveling group, only a single charred cart was found.
On that cart rested the heads of the lead artisans upon the axes of dwarfs.
Now both sides were furious with the other. The elves naturally assumed that the dwarves had slaughtered the elves for reasons unknown to anyone but themselves. The dwarves claimed no such violence could have taken place because it was during a season of meditation for the dwarves, before a concentrated effort to better understand the mountain and its gifts to them. No weapons would be held during the two weeklong worship of the mountain. Therefore the dwarves could not have attacked the elves.
And they said that it damaged the honor of a dwarf to be called liars.
Both sides blamed men for different things at different times. Men should have accompanied the elves to help them travel safely to the mountain. Men should have come to the aid of elves if a battle was to be fought. Men should side with the dwarves because of the weapons forged by them and used in the Southern Republic's army.
And so the argument continued to escalate.
"Peace, my fellow elders!" said a feminine voice finally.
Mara held up her hands to silence the elves and dwarves. Celomaer looked up from his hands, hoping that the sole woman elder could grant him respite from this bickering. His headache was worsening by the moment.
Both dwarf and elf resumed their seats as they looked to the short female who still held her hands high. She looked at both sides of the round table with stern green eyes. Though she was in her sixtieth year, she was still a fiery politician who could easily command a room, as she did currently.
"May we take a moment to discuss a possibility amongst this tragedy?"
Celomaer adjusted himself in his rather uncomfortable chair to better look at Mara. He had always admired her for her ability to look at every situation with eyes other than her own. No wonder she had risen to the prominence of an elder. She possessed a wisdom and insight that even Celomaer envied at times. Should he ever need someone to follow him as head, he would have her be the top candidate.
“Suppose the elven caravan was in fact attacked and I believe we can assume this report is true. Now what if what is plain to our sight is not true and, as the dwarves say, the caravan was not attacked by dwarves of the mountain but by another group? We have heard several account of a group of raiders harassing smaller villages and communities on the southern side of the peninsula. Could it have been made to look as if the dwarves of the mountain are at fault when truly they are not?”
For a moment Celomaer considered the possibility, that the dwarves of the mountain were honest and have no knowledge of the attack. But then could it be another group of dwarves who led the attack? A rogue group? Those who perhaps would not have observed the Mountain Ritual?
“If one dwarf has killed an elf than all dwarves are responsible!” roared Finasaer.
The shouting match continued and Mara looked down at the table, shaking her head.
So much for diplomacy.
Celomaer had replayed the scene around the Table of Elders for the last two weeks during their break from session. Cou
ld he have led better and helped bring about some peace? Perhaps if he were younger he could have told both sides to quit being foolish and listen to reason. Or at least to Mara.
Tomorrow, during the councils next session, he would ask, no beg, his fellow elders to see the great need of unity and not bickering so that they could address the greater issue at hand. There indeed had been reports of a rogue group of bandits gaining ground amongst the more unsavory types of man. It seemed much like the Merc Rebellion of a generation ago, but surely it was not they who were causing such trouble. Those raiders were smashed against the rocks with the combined might of three races held in unity.
And so it would be again after this tragedy was behind them.
A noise at the door brought him out of his daydream.
"Does my Lord require anything?" inquired a voice from the door. He assumed it was one of the towers attendants. Celomaer turned to face the attendant, keeping one hand on the railing of the balcony.
“No thank you I’m…”
Celomaer would not finish that sentence, or any afterward. For the words that he had intended to say were stopped short by a dagger that cut into his throat. The blade was sharper than any he had ever imagined. He swung at his attacker, but his arms were too frail and his frame too weak. The action caused him to lose his balance. Clutching his bleeding wound, head already spinning from the loss of blood from the deep cut, he slipped to the floor. Looking up he saw the distinct face of a man: bearded and dark. His eyes were narrowed into a grim and satisfied look. A smirk crossed his face. He dropped the blade that had sliced Celomaer’s neck and turned to leave. He wore the traditional robes of a tower attendant: maroon with a single golden colored sash and a hood; stolen perhaps from the laundry or from his first victim of the night.
The man would undoubtedly leave the tower unnoticed.
The world around him swum and spun. He lay on the cool stone balcony, unable to call out for help. His hand had no more strength to clutch his neck and it fell limply to his side. With his last moments Celomaer only saw one last detail that would heralded up and down the streets of Conny the next day and used to stir hate and unrest and the beginnings of a terrible struggle: it was an elven dagger that slit his throat.
Chapter 13:
The Night Shift
Ealrin was awakened by a shake.
"Can’t see how you sleep for all the snoring. It's your shift," said a bleary eyed human named Pas.
He had a good point. For all their complaining, once the dwarves were asleep, hardly anyone else could rest with their combined snores. The whole crew cabin shook with their collective breath.
Ealrin thought about reconsidering his desire to visit a dwarven city more than once whilst trying to fall asleep. He removed the bits of cloth he had eventually tied around his ears to help him sleep and drug himself out of his hammock and into a standing position. He gathered the sword Roland had been allowing him to use, and now had officially gave him to keep, and climbed the stairs from the lower deck up to the main deck.
Pas was sent down to wake the next shift and as Ealrin arose, the other three who were on watch gave a sigh of relief and began to file down to their own hammocks. The night was still, a breezy eastern wind was guiding them along to their destination. They would be there after one more day and night of sailing.
Holve rose from the lower deck as well as one of the elves. Ealrin began to look for a fourth, but then realized Urt was at the helm, rounding out the high moon watch.
"Mind if I join you?" said my voice as if spoken inside a vast cavern, with a slight echo behind it. It was never difficult to tell when Edgar was speaking.
"Not at all Edgar," said a yawning Holve. During this voyage, Ealrin's friend had not been talking much. Instead he had been pouring over several pages of notes in his own leather bound journal. Every now and then he would consult a map that Ealrin could see was of the continent of Ruyn, make a new note in his journal, grunt a bit even, and then go back to reading. His behavior seemed odd to Ealrin, who had known Holve to be very talkative, despite his bad mood.
When Ealrin had inquired about his change in behavior, Holve had only said "It comes from two things young one: my dislike of traveling by sea and wishing this voyage to be over quickly as well as my business in Thoran. Once all my thoughts are gathered I will gladly share what I have been looking over."
Now that he was out under the open sky, Ealrin began to wonder how the first watch had indeed known it was time for their shift to end. The sky was completely overcast with dark clouds. Not a single star could be seen. It made the night eerily dark.
"I fear that eastern winds are more likely than not to bring dark clouds with them. The Dark Comet burns brightly as well. A bad omen," said Edgar, who Ealrin supposed was looking at him. Though how a suit of armor had the sense of sight he wasn't sure.
"It's just so dark tonight," said Ealrin with a yawn of his own. He was trying to think of something to ask Edgar. Surely a spirit encased in ancient armor had stories to tell to help them pass the time. But just as he was about to let words slip from his mouth, a light caught his eye.
And then another. And another. Soon the whole western horizon was filled with lights that were level with the sea.
Urt let out a mighty roar that sent chills down Ealrin's spin.
This was no good tiding.
"Goblins," said Holve in a tone of bitter resentment. "To see that many on the horizon spells terrible news for Good Harbor. I had thought their numbers were dwindling."
"As did I," said Roland, rising up from the lower deck, strapping on his weapons. "I spent the last moon before coming to Good Harbor prowling the Maw and I thought their numbers had decreased back down to the days of the Southern Republic's expedition. This can't bode well for the dwarven cities."
Ealrin thought of the dwarves traveling with them from the mountains in-between Beaton and The Goblin Maw. Were their ancient dwarves cities safe or overrun with the grey skinned, black haired beasts?
Felicia came flying out of her cabin, fastening a sword in its sheath around her waist. Instead of her typical clothes, she had on the equivalent of a night robe and her captain’s jacket. In her eyes, however, was a fierce determination. Urt surrendered the wheel to her as she began barking orders to the crew that was emerging from the lower decks. Sleep was no where in their eyes. They had also heard the Skirlx mighty roar and knew what it meant. They were alert and ready for action.
“Full sail! Prepare the vessel for combat! Every one of you, make ready your weapons! To your stations!” Felicia Stormchaser. A storm had begun to chase her instead.
Ealrin’s post was at the rear of the ship, Roland was at his right, closer to the wheel. This part of the deck was higher up than any other area. The lights that had lit the horizon were coming closer with each passing moment. It seemed like the White Wind was going to be overrun.
“We are using the same wind are we not?” asked Ealrin as the lights began to illuminate their vessels: ships with dark sails that littered the sea like leaves during the harvest.
“Yes, but our wind is a natural one. There’s something about this that seems more than unnatural,” answered Roland. “Goblins are as inventive as they are cruel. Something drives them other than the winds!"
“I’ve never yet been overrun by a goblin vessel and I don’t intend to be!” barked Felicia in the pair’s direction. “If there’s anything on the deck that can be lost, throw it over!”
Barrels and boxes and trunks began flying off the White Wind’s deck. Every piece of cargo that they could afford to do without was tossed, down to the very basic necessities.
It seemed like several merchants would be disappointed in the fate of their wares, but that was the least of their worries at this moment.
Ealrin took a moment to rest from throwing a chest overboard to glance back at the approaching menace. There was something odd about the boats. It seemed that the water they rode on was being stirred with something o
ther than their hulls. They were now close enough to see that their hulls were painted black and that they were crawling with goblins: on the sails, on the rigging, and on the deck. This particular boat carried no less than a hundred. The crew of the White Wind was a scant 30.
“What is that at the bottom of the boat closest to us?” Ealrin asked the closest person to him. It turned out that person was Urt, who was surveying the boats as well.
“Slave oars,” said the Skirlx.
So. They do talk, Ealrin thought.
He leapt gracefully to the upper deck and spoke to Felicia, who swore loudly at his news.
“Ready yourselves, crew of the White Wind! It seems we’re in for a fight!” she said as she drew her own sword, keeping one hand on the wheel.
“It’s not the fight t with goblins that worries me,” said Holve who had appeared at Ealrin’s side. “It’s that I’ve never known a goblin to go looking for a fight it wasn’t totally sure it would win.”
Holve had nothing but disgust in his voice. His eyes were narrowed with rage. Ealrin thought about asking him how many times he had to face a horde of goblins that were sure of the results of a battle and won. Obviously he had dealt with the grey skinned killers before. How many of those skirmishes had been won over the bodies of several defenders who were fighting for their lives?
And would Ealrin live long enough to tell the story of his own encounter with the goblins, or was he living his final moments?
He drew his sword as Roland came to stand next to them as well.
They would soon know.
***
The goblin ship was now directly behind them, flanked by two more on each side. Not only was the crew of the White Wind hopelessly outnumbered man to man, they were soon to be surrounded by ships each carrying two hundred goblins each.
The blood had drained from Ealrin's hands. He felt numb and cold. And yet he tried to steel himself with the same gritty determination that his companions had. Every person on board had drawn their weapons. Ten of the crew carried bows with them and waited for the ships to come within range so that they could whittle down the goblin menace before they were boarded and faced the red eyed beasts in hand to hand combat.