“Ride’s over,” he said to the little girl, who was clinging to him more stubbornly than a leech. She looked up at him with a mixture of fear and exhilaration in her face.
“Want to go again?” he asked, grinning.
The little girl looked at him for a minute, unsure if he was serious, then shook her head vigorously no.
Dodger just laughed. “Okay,” he said. “Then what do you say we go find your father? I bet he’s really worried about you.”
This time, the girl nodded her head yes, and Dodger lifted her onto his shoulders and began walking back the way they had come, whistling a happy tune as if they didn’t have a care in the world.
When Dodger and the girl found Lord Flynn and his men again, they had just finished mopping up the rest of the goblin horde. “We need to go after my daughter!” the distraught father said, trying to rally his men. “I’ve already lost my wife, I’ll not lose her, too!”
“No need for that,” Dodger said, strolling in among them. Flynn’s little girl was still riding on his shoulders, her small hands gripping his large pointed ears like reins, and she was giggling happily.
“Here. I think you lost this,” Dodger said walking up to the human. Immediately every sword in the party pointed at Dodger as Flynn snatched his daughter off the elf’s shoulders.
“Ouch! The ears! The ears!” Dodger winced as the girl reluctantly let go of him.
“Seize him!” the nobleman commanded once his daughter was safely back in his arms.
Following their liege’s orders, a dozen hands shot out and roughly grabbed and restrained Dodger. He wasn’t really all that surprised by the rough treatment and had half expected it. But what did surprise him was the little girl’s wails when her father’s men began to bind him again.
“Miranda, honey! What’s the matter?” Flynn asked.
“Don’t hurt him, Daddy! Don’t hurt him! He’s my friend! He saved me from those ugly little green men!”
The lord glared at Dodger with a look he would see many, many more times in the future, from both suspicious fathers and spouses. Dodger just returned the look with a sheepish smile on his face.
“What foolishness have you filled my daughter’s head with?” he demanded. “Did you think getting her to ask me to spare your hands would really work, thief? Now I think I’ll have your head!” he said drawing his sword.
At those harsh-sounding words, Miranda began crying again. “Please, Daddy! Please don’t hurt the little man!”
“Honestly sir, I’m not as clever by half as you’d give me credit, for it never even occurred to me to try that,” Dodger answered honestly. He wasn’t even sure what he had been thinking. His experiences back in Kreel had taught him it was extremely unlikely that anyone, not to mention a nobleman, would just let him go simply because he’d done them a favor.
“So why did you do it?” the lord pressed.
“Dodger shrugged. “‘Cause she’s a child and was in danger, and I don’t like seeing anyone or anything threaten a child,” he said after a long, contemplative pause.
Flynn still stared at him skeptically, but his priest looked more convinced. He gently placed a hand on his lord’s shoulder.
“He is telling the truth, M’lord. Killing him would be unjust,” the holy man said. “Yet, so would letting him go. He did, after all, steal from your household…”
“Hey, wait a second, priest! I told the truth! Doesn’t that count for something?” Dodger protested. “How d’you expect me to learn any moral lessons when you keep confusing me this way?”
The priest ignored Dodger’s outburst. “As I was saying, M’lord. He did steal from you. Perhaps a more fitting punishment for our young rogue here would be letting him work off his debt for his food and safe passage, by having him provide service to your household.”
Lord Flynn looked just as happy about that prospect as Dodger did. Though crusty and gruff, the lord was a fair man at heart. “And just what service do you have in mind?” he asked, still skeptical.
“Well, it appears Miranda likes him, and he’s already shown a willingness to protect her, and since you’ve just lost your page…”
The lord mulled it over in his mind for a moment, then reluctantly agreed. “Okay, I guess we can give it a try,” he said, resheathing his sword. “If it doesn’t work out, I guess I can always cut off his hands later.”
As it turned out, Dodger did make an excellent page, and worked for the lord for years, well past the point of repaying his debt to the nobleman’s household. Yet neither of them would admit they liked the arrangement.
Every night, after Dodger had finished tending to all of his master’s needs, Flynn would excuse him, saying, “Good night, Dodger. Try to steal from me tonight, and I’ll make good on my promise to cut your hands off in the morning.”
As for Dodger, he would bitterly complain to anyone who would listen about all the things he’d have to do for his master. “A page, he calls me! More like a slave! I have to fetch him his meals, water for his bath, bring him his clothes, and help him dress! You’d think the man couldn’t do anything for himself!” he’d grumble. “And then he has the nerve to use me as a live training dummy for his pupils!”
The last part was true, for the lord often did use Dodger to help train the young nobles he tutored in bladecraft. Luckily for Dodger, none of them seemed to be any good. Even weighted down by the heavy, padded surcoat and old, oversized steel helm Flynn had given him for protection, he could still easily avoid the young nobles’ attacks. For not only were they slow of limb, but appeared to be slow of mind as well.
No matter how hard the lord tried, nor how much he berated them, few, if any, of his students could master the techniques he was trying to teach them. As you can image, this did nothing improve the blademaster’s ill-tempered humor. He’d rail at class after class of noble youths that his lowly page could use a sword better than they could.
And he was right. Dodger had been forced to attend so many of Flynn’s training sessions that he knew all the attack and defensive moves by heart, and could execute them better than even some of the lord’s own men.
At the time, Dodger didn’t appreciate all the training Lord Flynn was inadvertently giving him. Given a choice, he would have spent most of his time tending to Miranda. She was growing into a spirited child with an easy laugh and sense of adventure. She loved the pictures he drew for her, and would make up the most wildest of stories about them. Dodger loved listening to the imaginative tales she’d tell.
“Draw me a dragon,” she asked him once. “With bronze scales, green eyes, and huge wings! And make it a girl dragon, ’cause girl dragons are so much better than boy dragons! When I’m bigger, I’m going to visit the islands in the Dragon Sea and make friends with one. Then I’m going to fly on her across the water to the Great Forest, and visit with the elves who live there. And I’d take you there, too! Maybe they’ll even be able to help you find your mommy and daddy.”
Dodger smiled as he drew her picture. “I’d like that very much,” he said.
This was perhaps the happiest time of our friend’s life. We know this because he kept these memories mostly to himself, hoarding them as a dragon hoards its treasure. But as he’d learn over and over again in his life, good times don’t last.
Again the Old Bard paused as if lost in a memory. Then he took another long draft of his wine. When the cup was empty, he held it out for more, and this time no one protested and the cup was refilled with sweet wine. The Old Bard took another long sip, then after wiping his mouth on one of his long sleeves, he continued with his story.
“As I’m sure M’lord and M’lady can attest, human children grow up fast,” the Old Bard resumed. “And in a blink of Dodger’s eye, Miranda had sprung up from a child to a lovely young maiden, with long blonde locks and eyes as green as newly budded leaves in spring. She had many suitors, but none caught her fancy, and she seemed to prefer spending time with her father’s page than go courting with a
ny of the sons of the nobles her father visited.
“I don’t ever want to get married and settle down,” she told Dodger one day after they’d come back from one of their rides across the countryside.
“I’m afraid your father might have something to say about that, M’lady,” Dodger said, rather breathlessly, as he dismounted his pony and staggered over to help her off her filly. Miranda’s idea of a relaxing ride usually included racing her horse at full speed across the countryside, jumping over hedgerows, fences, and streams, and it was all Dodger could do to hang onto his own mount to try to keep up with her. If her father ever found out he let her do this, he’d surely have boxed his ears. But Miranda was an accomplished rider and could not be persuaded to ride in a more demure, lady-like fashion.
“Well, it’s his fault! We’ve been traveling from place to place all my life, and I don’t think I could stand being tied down to one place. There are just too many places in this world I want to see!”
“Like the islands in the Dragon Sea, and the Great Forest?” Dodger teased.
Miranda stopped and looked at him and smiled, surprised that he remembered. “Yes,” she said. “I still have those pictures, you know.”
“I’m honored, M’lady.”
“In fact, I have all the pictures you’ve ever drawn for me,” she continued.
For perhaps the first time in his life, Dodger didn’t know what to say. He felt flushed, and was sure his face was turning red all the way up to the very tips of his pointed ears. He’d never thought his pictures were all that good, and never believed anyone would ever treasure them.
“I’m sure one day you’re going to be a famous artist, like the great master painter Doña Atello of Isandor.”
“M’lady is too kind,” Dodger finally said, not able to look at her.
Miranda took his chin in her hand and turned his head to face her. “Don’t let my father’s opinions dissuade you. You’re a great artist! The only art he knows about is warcraft. I’ve seen some of the Doña’s paintings at the castles we’ve visited, but I prefer your works. She might have a slightly better technique, but her pictures are full of muted colors and are dry and lifeless. Yours are bright, colorful, and full of joy! I think you will be just as famous as her one day…”
“And what will they call me? Don Atello of Nowhere?”
Miranda laughed, and it was like music to Dodger’s ears. Suddenly he wasn’t embarrassed anymore. “Don Atello! I like that. From now on I think I’ll call you Donatello!”
And she did. From that day onward, whenever Miranda would address him, she’d call him by his new nickname, Donatello. A few of the lord’s other servants overheard her doing it and began calling him that too, usually in a mocking manner. At first it bothered him, but the new name quickly grew on him, especially whenever Miranda used it.
That was perhaps the last of Dodger’s happiest days with Lord Flynn and his daughter. For soon after, the blademaster’s patrons began to dry up as the fighting style he taught fell out of fashion, in favor of the newer styles being taught by the Stealles in Penwick. As their days of wandering the continents dwindled, Lord Flynn retired to his ancestral home in Bardak.
Few folks came to visit them there, with one glaring exception—Lord Ocimum Wraithbone. After switching sides during the War of Ash, the former Parthian Lord relocated to the vacant halls of Versarni in Lanfor. Wraithbone liked to show off his wealth and power, often using it to buy things and people he found of interest. And while he had little use for an aging blademaster, he did have an eye for his daughter.
Lord Wraithbone met Miranda at her sixteenth birthday fete and immediately became enchanted by the young woman. But Miranda did not share his attraction. She found him ugly, and his merest touch raised goose pimples on her arms.
“Did you see the way that ugly old troll was staring at me?” Miranda asked Donatello after the soirée had ended.
“You’d have to be more specific, M’lady,” he replied as he walked her back to her chambers. “I saw lots of old trolls ogling you tonight.”
Miranda laughed. “You’re so bad! You shouldn’t be saying such things, Donatello.”
Dodger returned her smile with an impish grin of his own. “Yes, M’lady. But then again, neither should you!”
Again Miranda laughed. “Well, I promise not to tell my father what you said, if you don’t tell him what I said.”
“Deal!” Dodger said, extending his hand and they shared the secret handshake he’d taught her as a child.
The next evening, he brought Miranda a small rolled up canvas, bound with a ribbon. Miranda took it from him excitedly.
“I wonder what it could be!” she asked, hastily undoing the ribbon and unrolling it. On the canvas was painted a picture of a troll, huddled under a bridge, gnawing on a bone. When Miranda saw it, she burst out laughing, immediately recognizing the face he’d drawn on the hideous creature.
It was Ocimum Wraithbone. In fact, if you’ve ever seen Donatello’s painting of The Fall of Sir Kirk, you’ve seen the face of that troll. For from that day on, whenever Donatello drew a picture of a troll, it always had the face of Ocimum Wraithbone.
They were still laughing when Miranda’s father walked in.
“I’m glad I’ve found you in such a good mood, my dear,” he said as they entered.
Miranda quickly hid the small canvas behind her back as she turned to face her father. He was trying hard to look happy, but his face had never lent itself to smiling.
“I have some… wonderful… news for you,” he said ignoring his daughter’s rather obvious surreptitious behavior. “I have just made arrangements that will secure your future—a husband befitting one of your station.”
Miranda looked crushed and confused.
“But father,” she protested. “I don’t want to marry! And I don’t care about this drafty old castle. I want to stay with you! I love our travels together, and never knowing where we are going to end up each night!”
Donatello noted a strange twitch in Lord Flynn’s eye as he walked over to his daughter and gently placed his hands on her shoulders.
“That was fine when you were a child—but you are a grown woman now. It’s time to put away childish dreams and fulfill your obligations.”
“I don’t care one copper about my duty!” she said petulantly, stamping her foot for good measure. “I won’t do it! I just won’t!”
Flynn’s face turned ashen as his hands fell away from his daughter. In the thirteen years Dodger had worked for him, he could never recall seeing his master look so devastated.
“Dodger, you are dismissed,” he said turning to his servant. “I need to have a word with my daughter in private.”
Now the last thing Dodger wanted to do was leave, but the haunted look in the Blademaster’s eyes made him think twice about questioning his master. Reluctantly Dodger bowed, and as slowly as he could, he left the room. He felt his heart sink when he heard the door shut with an ominous thud behind him.
Dodger knew he shouldn’t have loitered by the door trying to make out what was going on the other side of it, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave. The door was thick, and the walls solid stone, and even his keen elven ears couldn’t quite make out what was being said in the room. All he could hear were muffled voices and lots of crying.
After what seemed like an eternity, the voices stopped and all he could hear were Miranda’s sobs.
At the first sign the door was about to open, Dodger dashed down the hall and disappeared into the shadows. A moment later, Lord Flynn stepped out of the room, pulled the door shut behind him and locked it from the outside. Even from down the hall, Dodger could see his face was still ashen, and his shoulders sagged as if he was carrying a heavy burden on his shoulders.
The Lord took a deep breath and stepped away from the door, then stopped and looked around.
“Dodger!” he called out into the emptiness. “I know you are lurking around here someplace. Show yourself!�
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Dodger could have easily remained hidden in the shadows and made his way undetected back to his room, but something in his master’s voice compelled him to step out into the flickering torchlight.
The old blademaster frowned. “I knew you wouldn’t be far,” he said walking over to the young elf. “You never are. You watch over my daughter like a dragon guarding its horde. And for that I’ve always been grateful. But so help me, you let her out of that room before she consents to this marriage, I swear I will cut off both your hands and throw the rest of your miserable hide in the dungeon for good!”
Dodger watched him walk slowly away, and when he was sure he was gone, he made his way quickly over to Miranda’s door. He gave one quick last look over his shoulder before reaching into his belt and removing two extremely thin metal rods concealed in a slit he’d cut on the inside face of leather strap circling his slender waist. With practiced ease, he slipped the picks into the lock and within seconds heard it click open. He put his tools back into their hiding place, cracked the door open, and slipped inside the room.
Miranda was laying on her bed sobbing into her pillow.
“M’lady?” he called quietly.
The sound of his voice startled the remaining tears from her eyes and Miranda practically flew across the room into his arms.
“Donatello!” she sniffled. “How’d you get in here? Father locked me in until I agree to the marriage he arranged for me!”
Dodger gave her one of his sly smiles. “You should know by now that none of your father’s locks have ever stopped me from going anywhere in this keep,” he said. “And they never will.”
Miranda laughed despite herself. But her mirth quickly morphed back into sobs.
Tales From Thac Page 17