“Oh, Donatello! He wants me to marry that horrible old troll Lord Wraithbone!” she said crying uncontrollably again.
Donatello took her head and gently pressed it against his shoulder and began to rock her slowly back and forth the way he’d done when she was a child.
“Hush, M’lady,” he whispered stroking her long golden hair. “I’m sure he isn’t really all that bad…”
Miranda looked up at him with her bloodshot green eyes.
“You didn’t meet him, Donatello!” she protested. “He made my skin crawl when he touched me. He’s a wicked old man! I just know he is!”
Dodger wanted to reassure her that all the rumors she’d heard about Lord Wraithbone were untrue. But he’d heard the stories about the nobleman’s purported experiments in the dark arcane and unholy arts too many times himself to dismiss them as just gossip among servants.
“Donatello, talk to my father, please! Get him to reconsider! He’ll listen to you!” Miranda begged.
Dodger doubted that. The only time her father recognized he existed was to bellow at him for doing something wrong.
Miranda seemed to read his expression and know what he was thinking. “Oh, Donatello, don’t think that way!” she said immediately. “He’s bellicose with everyone. If he didn’t like you, why would he have kept you in his service all these years?”
“Because if he got rid of me, he’d actually have to pay someone to be his page,” Dodger thought to himself. Thankfully he had other ways to supplement the handfuls of copper his lord grudging granted him each month.
“You will talk to him, won’t you?” she begged.
Dodger sighed. He found it difficult to refuse her when she looked at him with her lovely green eyes.
“As you wish.”
With those three words, Dodger found himself standing in the doorway of his lord’s private chambers. Flynn was seated in his great chair, facing a fire blazing away in the fireplace, a tankard of untouched ale resting on one of the chair’s massive arms.
“I don’t recall summoning you,” he said, startling Dodger. As was his habit, Dodger had slipped into his master’s quarters so silently that he thought he’d gone totally unnoticed, even though he’d been standing there watching the old man for quite some time.
“You didn’t,” Dodger said, quickly recovering from his surprise. Lord Flynn had an uncanny ability to spot him lurking around when he wanted to, a feat which had forced Dodger to abort many a scheme to supplement his income.
The lord didn’t immediately answer and Dodger thought he might have nodded off, so he slowly walked over to him.
“She sent you?” he asked, not bothering to favor him with even a glance. He didn’t even seem angry or surprised that Dodger had disobeyed him yet again.
“Yes,” Dodger answered, uncharacteristically short of words. His sudden lack of loquaciousness was brought on by the sight of his master’s face.
Lord Flynn looked at least twice his fifty-some years. Every line chiseled into his broad, handsome face now looked like a fissure, and his cheeks, usually puffed out and red with perpetual anger, were now sunken and sallow as decades-old parchment. Even his eyes, usually full of fire, were now dull and lifeless. It was like Dodger was staring at a living corpse, like one of the ones Lord Wraithbone was rumored to have created.
Lord Flynn frowned and finally picked up his tankard and took a long draw on it. When he finally set it heavily back on the chair’s arm and wiped his mouth with his sleeve, most of the liquid inside it was gone.
“Do you really think I want to give my daughter to that… that… old buzzard!” he spat.
Dodger couldn’t tell whether the anger in his master’s voice was directed at him or himself. “But it is the only way!” he continued, bringing his fist down hard on the chair’s arm, spilling what little remained of his drink. “You’ve heard rumors of what Wraithbone can do? Well, I’ve seen it firsthand. If I refuse him Miranda, Bardak will pay a horrible price.”
There was a short, awkward silence as Flynn stared into the fire, obviously remembering some event from his past. When he spoke again, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“You’ve no doubt heard about the Battle of Grevon?” he asked Dodger.
The young elf nodded silently. Who hadn’t? He might not have had much in the way of a formal education, but everyone knew of that miraculous victory during the War of Ash.
“Well, I was there. We fought until the last man… Until I was the last man. The battle was lost—Lanfor was about to fall, as was I. That was, until Wraithbone intervened…
Again, there was another long silence as Flynn watched the flames in the fireplace leap and crackle.
“I made a terrible bargain then. But it was the only way! If Lanfor fell, the war would have been lost! I had no choice!”
Flynn finally turned to face Dodger, then grabbed him by the lapel and pulled him so close their noses were almost touching.
“Wraithbone turned all our dead into zombies! With them, we were able to clear the field and win the day. Afterwards, I had to destroy them all!”
Dodger stared at his master in disbelief.
Flynn saw the look on his page’s face and released him, laughing a humorless laugh.
“I’ve done plenty of bad things, for good reasons,” Dodger said, finally finding the courage to speak. “Miranda will forgive you for that.”
“That she would,” Flynn nodded, sorrowfully. “She’s more than ever I deserved… I swore I’d protect her…”
Dodger felt his hopes rise. Perhaps he was going to be able to convince his master after all.
“Then don’t give in to him. Don’t give your daughter to that evil man. We can find some other way to save Bardak! She is your own flesh and blood, after all!”
“My own flesh and blood,” Flynn repeated. “My own flesh and blood!”
Before Dodger could question why his master kept repeating that phrase, Lord Flynn let his hand fly and it struck Dodger hard across the mouth, dropping the elf to the floor.
“You forget your place, thief!” the old man scowled. “I’ll not be lectured by some urchin I picked off the street! You will keep a civil tongue in your head, or by the gods I will clap you in irons and throw you in the dungeons for good!”
Dodger lay on the floor for a moment, stunned that the old man had actually hauled off and hit him. In all the years they’d been together, the worst the blademaster had ever done was yell and throw things at him, or make the occasional half-hearted attempt to swat him with the flat of blade whenever he’d stepped out of line.
Dodger wiped away a trickle of blood from his split lip with the back of his sleeve and slowly stood up to face his master.
“‘Pologies, M’lord,” he muttered. “Meant no disrespect. Just trying to look after your daughter’s interests.”
The anger in Lord Flynn’s face faded almost as quickly as it had come over him. His hand, which was still raised, began to quiver and he let it drop back into his lap.
“You have always done so, haven’t you?” he asked with a sigh, and Dodger thought he saw a twinge of regret form on his master’s face. “But I’m afraid this is one thing you can’t protect her from. Even we nobles must pay a price sometimes.”
That didn’t make sense to Dodger. The rich and the noble always seemed to be able to buy themselves out of any trouble. It was just the way things worked when you had lots of gold. And Dodger knew, from personal experience, that Flynn had plenty of it in his coffers. So why not use some of it now to make this problem go away?
What secret could be so terrible that even a dragon’s horde of treasure couldn’t buy off the creepy, troll-like Wraithbone? Flynn had spared no expense when it came to caring for his daughter, so why now was he jealously guarding his coppers like The Fagin?
And why had his master gotten so upset when he’d refered to Miranda as his own kin? He’d always treated her as such. He wondered if he’d ever understand the ways humans thought, and it ma
de him wonder what other dark secrets this man, whom he’d grown to grudgingly respect, was keeping from him.
“Now go,” Lord Flynn ordered before he could speak again. “Clean yourself up. I do not wish to be bothered anymore this night.”
Miranda was upset when she saw Dodger’s swollen lower lip when he returned to her chambers to break the bad news to her.
“Oh, Donatello!” she cried, rushing over to him. “Did my father do this to you?”
“It is nothing, M’lady,” he said, as she dipped a small square kerchief in some wine and dabbed it on his lip. “I’ve had worse.”
“I’m so sorry! I shouldn’t have asked you to speak to him when he was in such a foul mood.”
Dodger gently moved her hand away from his mouth, guided her back to the chair she’d been sitting in when he’d entered and placed her hands back in her lap. Her attempt to make his lip feel better was only making it feel worse.
“Think no more about it, M’lady. Your father is always in a foul mood,” he said smiling at her.
Miranda laughed despite herself, and Dodger was glad to finally see her smiling again. He liked the way she smiled at him.
The mirth, however, didn’t last long, and her face became somber again. “I take it my father didn’t change his mind, did he?”
Dodger shook his head. “Perhaps it won’t be so bad,” he said, trying his best to sound positive. “I mean, that old troll is very rich, and with all that money, I bet you’ll be able to travel anywhere you want and go all those places you always wanted to see. Who knows? He may turn out to be really nice…”
Miranda raised an eyebrow.
“Okay, probably not. But you probably won’t have to spend that much time with him. And I’m sure if I asked your father nicely, he’d let me go with you as your servant, as part of your dowry.”
“No!” Miranda said, getting up out of the chair and pacing the room. “Neither of us is going. I won’t let him!”
“I don’t see how you’re going to stop him,” Dodger said. “Your father has made up his mind and he won’t be swayed.”
Miranda paced back and forth, thinking. From long experience, Dodger knew she could be just as stubborn as her father, if not more so. So he said nothing and just watched her.
“Then we’ll run away!” she said finally.
“Your father would just send his men after you,” he said. “So would Wraithbone. You wouldn’t get very far.”
“But with you I would! You could teach me to hide like the way you used to back in Kreel. You said you were uncatchable!”
Dodger was sorry now that he’d ever told her any of stories about the way he’d spent his misguided youth as part of The Fagan’s gang.
“It was not actually as fun as it sounded,” he lied. “Besides, the city is the first place they’d look for us.”
“Then we’ll stick to the countryside or, better yet, the woodlands!” she said undaunted. “You’re an elf, and everyone knows you can’t find an elf in the woodlands if they don’t want to be found.”
Dodger didn’t have the heart to tell her that was just a myth. Even if it wasn’t, having grown up in a city, he had no more idea on how to “disappear” in woodlands than she did.
“Those are no places for a lady such as yourself. They are dangerous and full of all manner of wild animals and foul creatures. Remember the goblins in the Haunted Wood?”
“You protected me from them, and that was before Father taught you how to fight! He’d never admit it to you, but he told me that you were his best student and would make a fine swordsman!”
Given the loutish oafs he’d seen her father try to train, that wasn’t saying much. Still, her confidence in his abilities touched him.
“Life on the run is hard, M’lady,” he said, still trying to convince her of the folly of her plan. “They’ll be no roaring fire to sit besides on cold nights, nor soft pillow to rest your head on. If you’re lucky, the only heat you’ll have to warm you will come from a smoky fire made from some hastily gathered twigs and leaves and the only place to rest your head will be a hard rock. We’ll never be able to stay in one place too long, and the only money we’ll ever be able to have is that that I can steal.”
“You could always sell some of your paintings,” she offered encouragingly.
Dodger smiled at her sadly. “I doubt they’d even bring in a copper,” he said. “Even if they did bring in more, what kind of life would you have with an itinerant artist?”
Miranda walked over to him and knelt down in front of him. She took his hands in hers and looked into his big green eyes.
“I would rather spend a thousands lifetimes with you, enduring any hardship, than spend a minute as Lord Wraithbone’s wife.”
Dodger felt himself blushing all the way to the very tips of his pointed ears.
“Um… Thank you, M’la…” he began, suddenly short of words.
Miranda placed her right index finger against his lips. “Miranda,” she told him. Then to his surprise, she kissed him.
3
Miranda
The Old Bard paused to give his patron’s daughters a chance to imagine themselves in the moment. He knew how much young girls delighted in the tales about true love, and despite herself, so, apparently, did his patron’s wife.
He wanted them to savor the moment, because he knew what was to happen next would make his story that much more heartbreaking…
“Unable to convince her of the folly of her plan, and perhaps a bit giddy that she requited the feelings he’d never allowed himself to admit, the two young lovers planned their escape from Flynn Keep.
They agreed that Miranda would pretend to agree to the betrothal so her father would free her from her rooms and allow her free run of their home. In the meantime, Dodger would use the time to gather the few items they’d need for their journey together.
Within a fortnight, they made good on their plan and escaped.
At first, the young lovers stayed true to their plan to stay away from any road or well-traveled path as they made their way cross-country though empty fields and wood. But after a while, Dodger could see the harsh conditions taking their toll on his young noblewoman, especially after the nights began to turn colder. So against his better judgment, he agreed to let Miranda rest one night in the relative comfort of the next inn they encountered on their journey.
The inn they finally found was on the edge of the wood, near a long-forgotten crossroad. It was made from a few roughly hewn large timbers, mud and thatch, and looked like it hadn’t been occupied in decades. But there was a yellow-orange glow leaking out of the shuttered windows and smoke slowly curling up out of the stone chimney.
“Looks like someone is at home,” Miranda said brightly.
“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” Dodger replied glumly, once again wondering why he’d let Miranda talk him into this.
“You worry too much!” she scolded him playfully. “We’re leagues from home and haven’t seen any sign of pursuit now for weeks! I doubt anyone way out here would know who I am, let alone recognize me!” she said, taking his hand and pulling him toward the front door.
Dodger stood his ground, stopping her. He pulled her back toward him, reached over her shoulders, and pulled the hood of her now soiled and worn traveling cloak over her head until her face was obscured in shadow.
“Just in case,” he said, then he let her lead him to the door.
The inn was more crowded than they’d expected. There were at least a dozen patrons gathered in the common room, not including the innkeeper behind the bar, his wife, and a young serving girl rushing between tables carrying tankards of frothy liquid.
Dodger hurried Miranda away from the door and made her comfortable by the fire before he headed over to the bar to get them something warm to eat. It took a while to get the innkeeper’s attention, and even longer for his wife to bring him back two steaming bowls of whatever passed for stew in these parts. By the time he carried th
e food back to Miranda, he could see she’d already drawn some unwanted attention from a brutish man with a thick bushy black beard and his two clean-shaven pals.
Miranda was doing her best to ignore them, but they persisted. And when the bearded man grabbed her roughly by the shoulder, Dodger immediately set the bowls down on the nearest table and rushed over to her side.
“Unhand her!” he demanded, pushing his way between them.
The big bearded man released Miranda, then turned to look down on him with his dull brown eyes and broad, flat nose.
“And what ya gonna do if I don’t, little man?” he asked contemptuously, shoving Dodger away.
“Then you will find your hand on the floor,” he said, throwing open his cloak, revealing the hilt of a finely crafted small sword he’d nicked from Lord Flynn’s armory. “Next to your head!”
The big bearded man made a show of raising his hands in front of him as he took a step back. “Ooooh, you’re scarin’ me, little man,” he mocked. His friends laughed and simultaneously tried to grab him from either side.
Dodger had anticipated the move and was already drawing his sword when they attacked. He slammed the heavy pommel of his weapon into the face of the man on his right, breaking his nose and sending him to sprawling to the floor, howling in pain. He used the momentum of the swing to carry him around to face his second attacker, and as the man shot by him, Dodger slashed at his unshielded back.
The weapon’s keen blade easily cut through the man’s heavy leather jerkin and opened a long, deep gash along his back. He, too, dropped to the floor yelling in pain. With two of his opponents now disabled, Dodger turned his attention to the ringleader. Unlike his two friends, the bearded man was armed with a crude, broad blade, and in the time it had taken Dodger to dispatch his cohorts, the bearded man had managed to draw it.
“You’ll pay for that, you pointy-eared bastard!” he spat, lunging at Dodger.
In the years he’d spent as Lord Flynn’s practice dummy, Dodger had seen plenty of men fight like the bearded man, and he’d come to quickly realize that they depended more on their brute strength than any skill with a blade to get them through a fight. They posed little danger as long as he could avoid getting bull-rushed and wait for the inevitable over-powered and over-reaching swing to open up a vulnerable area to attack.
Tales From Thac Page 18