by Greg Ricker
Taron found himself staring at the dead creature, and had to fOrce himself free of his self inflicted trance. He spotted Dalt strapping a sword and scabbard to his belt, causing it to pull heavily on one side from the weight, but he appeared quite satisfied with the find. Being less versatile, Taron began a search for stray arrows. The missiles lay scattered about on the street, or stuck in the walls of buildings, and buried within the dead. Taron collected only the arrows that missed their targets, but he managed to find enough to stretch the seams of his quiver. He found one by a large, stonewalled well in the center of the main road, and he remembered his thirst.
The circle of stones was two arm spans across, and as high as Taron’s waist. Two thick, wooden beams with intricate vine carvings formed an arc over the well, holding a sturdy, wooden pulley at the top. A heavy rope, fastened to an iron rod on the outside of the stones, ran up over the pulley and down into the well out of sight. He set down his bow and arrows, then wrapped his hands around the rope, just under the pulley. The rope made snapping noises as he pulled the twisted fibers taught. Hand over hand he continued until the knot on the water bucket’s handle became visible just within reach of the fading light, before the inside of the well was totally swallowed up by darkness. When he had it high enough to see the bucket in its entirety, he saw that it held not only water, but an Orc’s decapitated head, as well. It stared at him with dark, distant eyes, and a mouth still locked in a toothy snarl. Taron released the rope, and the bucket fell until it crashed far below.
What was happening? Why were the Orcs doing this? Like a hail storm, question after burning question ate at his troubled mind for an answer, each leaving just as quickly without the refreshment that they sought. Taron felt tiny and trapped. He saw the battle in Gerhihn, and he envisioned the slaughtering of Daylen.
“Over here!” Dalt made Taron jump out of his daydream. He stood before the largest of the wide buildings, one of the few not burned, and was waving him over.
As Taron gathered his belongings and jogged toward the barn, he noticed that it was actually a grand stable. The men of Daylen all used horses and oxen to pull their lumber down from the forested hills, and housed them in such buildings.
One wide open door led to another, giving the stable a covered bridge appearance when looking through. The foul smell of aging horse manure emitted from the gaping entry. There was little light inside, but when Taron reached Dalt’s side, he could see the doors to every stall within were open.
All saddles, reins, and travel baskets had been stolen from both the shelves and hangers about the stall.
Not one animal, live or dead, remained.
It was the same as back home.
“Who else, I wonder?” Taron snapped a small twig with exaggerated fOrce, and with equal fOrce, threw the pieces into the crackling fire. It was kept burning brightly to light the area and devour the chill that swept over the plains that night. Bits of firelight danced among the tree line of the nearby forest, creating eerie will-o-wisps that darted in and out of the darkness.
The two young men had not traveled far from Daylen before stopping to rest, but enough that it was no longer in sight, and could not be smelled, either. They had taken several blankets from a clothesline in the village, and had them sprawled onto the ground around the fire. Both sat with their weapons nearby, staring into the warm flames, seeing people screaming and dying within them.
“The Orcs will have to travel south to find small villages, now.” Dalt presumed. He saw Taron’s quiver, so full it was about to burst at the seams. “Why didn’t you grab a sword?”
Taron shrugged his shoulders, but he knew it was because he didn’t like using one.
Dalt laughed. “A hundred swords in your father’s house, and you don’t even know how to use one!” He saw the look on Taron’s face, and his laughter stopped short. Maybe he should not have mentioned Jarl. He planned to be careful what he said from then on, but their conversation had abruptly ended.
The rabbit and squirrel that they ate for their dinner was delicious, but they lacked something to wash it down with. Neither wanted water from the well back in Daylen after seeing what had been soaking in it. Now they were parched, and nowhere near a place to fill a water pouch. And no water pouch.
Minutes later, they were both lying in between blankets across the fire from each other. Lack of sleep the night before had taken its toll on Dalt, but hunger and frustration kept them both wide awake, staring into the fire.
Watching buildings crumble within the flames.
The sky was beginning to lighten when Dalt shook Taron awake. The heavy dew on the Channeron Plains glistened like a field of diamonds. In less than an hour the sun would be rising. Taron felt like he had just closed his eyes only seconds before. He sat up slowly, rubbing his head. Sleeping on the ground would take some getting used to.
Dalt had extinguished the fire and rolled his blankets. His sword hanging in its sheath, and the black dagger snug in his belt. The scabbard was made of a dark polished wood, with a dented tin reinfOrcement cap on the end painted gold. Nothing fancy, but the best that Dalt had ever worn. He did not have to wait long for Taron to gather his things, and both were ready to move on.
They headed east, with their blankets under one arm. Without actually deciding on it aloud, they both seemed to know where they were headed to next. To the great city of Bowenn. The journey would take them across leagues of tall grass, for at least the next two days. Neither of them had been to the city before, but knew the way. Every map showed it to be northeast of Gerhihn, between the east Dorols, and the forest. It could not be missed.
They stayed close to the forest edge, keeping an eye out for hunted game. Long periods of silence by far surpassed their short moments of dull conversation. Mostly, they wondered what Bowenn would be like, and how to seek out the right person for help. Traveling merchants in Gerhihn had all too often said, you could get lost in Bowenn just taking one wrong street. Hard to believe there could be a place so big, and so busy.
They could see the East Dorols ahead as the forest line turned north, sharply. With only a short while left before dark, they stopped to hunt, and set up camp. By nightfall, they sat near a small fire, licking their lips as they watched a skinned rabbit browning on a makeshift rotisserie. Two forked sticks fOrced into the ground held up both ends of the rotating spit, keeping the rabbit one foot above the fire as Dalt turned it. He had learned to make them hunting for days at a time with his grandfather. He dreaded returning home to find his body.
The small meal was ready. One rabbit was really just enough for one of them, but Taron cut it into equal halves with his small belt knife, and both ate savagely. They use both hands, licked on fingers, sucked on bones, and used their sleeves for towels. Wishing there was more, and for something to drink, they settled down for the night, with Taron keeping first watch.
Their biggest fear since leaving Gerhihn had been being followed by Orcs, but that had changed, now that they were alongside the Dorol Mountains. They both had heard that the mountains were full of brash, grey wolves. Their best defense was to keep the fire going. Taron threw the pieces to Dalt’s rotary spit into the fire, then sat cross-legged on top of his blanket with his bow and quiver nearby. He had not been loosening the string on his bow at night, and he worried for its shape, but still felt it wiser to keep it ready at all times. His eyes searched as far as the firelight would allow. Dense trees walled one way, and the emptiness of the grassy plains vanished into pitch darkness the other. Mysterious noises came from the forested mountains, and whispers blew across the Channeron, preying on his nerves. He had not hunted as often as Dalt had growing up, but he had been invited on a few of his grandfather’s hunting trips through the forest surrounding Gerhihn, and never before had the night seemed so dark.
So strange.
So unfamiliar.
So uncomfortable.
He did not know when he had pulled his knife from his belt.
When Taron
awoke, he thought he could hear singing. There was a lot of other noise along with it, but it was definitely singing. He raised up on one elbow and tried to focus. The morning sun was bright and warm, and for the first time since they entered the Channeron Plains, the air was completely still. The wild grass seemed taller and sturdier when it wasn’t swaying with the remorseless wind.
“Get up!”
Taron heard Dalt’s alarm only once, but had the feeling that he had heard it before near the end of his dreams.
“Come on!” Dalt was nearly ready to go, and sounded as if he would do so alone in a moment, if Taron did not make haste. “There’s a wagon!”
Eyes wide, Taron was on his feet and packed by the time the fire was stomped out. There was starting to be a pattern to this!
The two ran, as fast as they could, toward the distant singing.
As close to the mountains as they were, the land was like an ocean of waves. Constant rolling hills that dropped no more than fifteen feet, made the plains appear to have thousands of pits to walk around. Dalt remembered, when he had spotted the wagon earlier, that it was sinking into one of the dips until it receded from view, then rose again on the other side. For the moment, the wagon had again vanished within the hills. Moving on unseen. Though not unheard. Loud, confident singing and clattering of metal was carried in the wind. Dalt would have missed the wagon altogether if not for the tumult. Combined, the dissonance had a sound like that of minstrels in a sword fight. When the wagon emerged at the crest of one the multiple hills, the commotion became louder, but still far ahead. At the slow pace it was holding, they both felt confident that they could outrun it.
So the race began.
Both ran at breakneck speed down one of the gentle slopes, and lost view of all but the other side. One dip to the next, minutes passed, but all the while gaining ground. Until they found themselves descending into a pit that the wagon had just climbed out of.
¨Stop!¨
¨Sir!¨
¨Help!¨
¨Wait!¨
Their shouts were mere rubbish, combined as they were. They eventually caught the driver’s attention, though, spotting a head that peeked out to look behind the wagon.
“Yaw!” A snap on the reins, and the wagon began to move nearly twice as fast.
Taron and Dalt exchanged puzzled looks as they also picked up speed. Silently, both wondered if it would still be possible to catch up. They followed the wagon’s tracks as it disappeared over the hill.
Just in time to see the accident.
The pit ahead was dotted with a hundred stones of different shapes and sizes, all scattered about. A few larger rocks stood atop one another in rows that broke away at the ends, proving that there had also once been a structure standing there. The grass was knee deep in this area, and hid the rocks from the driver, his wagon was helpless to their wood shattering abuse, as his horse clumsily danced across the rough terrain.
“Whoa, Chassy!” The wagon driver cried out, and stood up in his seat, using all of his weight to pull back on the reins. The paunchy mule jumped and blundered on every step, seeming to successfully guide them to each and every rock near its path. The noise, which had grown immensely, was from pots, pans, spoons, and all other metal utensils imaginable, bouncing around in the bed of the wagon, and swinging about on ties banging into one another. Some items even fell out of the curtained rear of the wagon, flying free a the long cloth fastened there flapped.
“Chassy! Halt!” The driver saw the large rock ahead before the mule did, pulling as hard as he could pull back on the reins, but it was too late. When the front right wheel made contact with the massive boulder, it exploded into fragments, then the exposed axle end dug itself deep into the ground. Both the driver, and the mule, toppled to the earth as the wagon stopped dead where it stood.
Wanting to see if the man had survived the fall, Taron and Dalt ran to the site of the crash, when a small pot flew over the wagon and landed at their feet.
“Thieves! Brigands!” Another pot, of much larger size, was hurled in their direction, though blindly, and badly aimed. Then a silver serving tray sailed through the air over their heads. Spoons flew at them like harmless toys. They darted through the litter, closer to the wagon. After all, if they could not see the driver, then maybe the driver could not see them.
In the corners of his eyes, the driver saw two figures step around the wagon. One on his left, and one on his right. In one hand, he held a skillet by it´s wooden handle, and in his other, held the hilt of a long, throwing knife. A large, brown cloak strapped over one arm, left hidden what else he may have possessed. No amount of weapons would be enough to keep him from feeling pinned against the vessel, however. Trapped!
The blonde haired bandit had a bow and quiver crossing his back, and a dagger in his belt. The black haired thief carried a sheathed sword, and an equally as dangerous looking dagger in his belt. Neither held a weapon in their hands. That's odd. He thought. Unless, these were confident professionals.
“I have no money!” Admitted the driver, trembling. It was a lie. His eyes darted back and forth to both men. Wandering which would make the first move.
Taron stepped forward, and the man’s head jerked his direction. “We mean you no harm.”
“You get away from me!” The driver crouched down defensively, waving the long knife and skillet both. Unfortunately, his shouting startled the mule, which stood and began to run in one blundering motion. The wagon’s axle was buried too deep, and the craft simply shifted a little before the mule gave up, but it moved enough to knock the driver flat on his face. He looked disgusted when he rolled over onto his back. He had predicted what he would see. A black dagger hung only inches from his nose, and behind it, a fiendish smile.
“Now put the knife down, and listen.” Commanded Dalt, as calmly as he could, and the man quickly obeyed, dropping the skillet and knife at once, never taking his eyes from the wide blade above him. He watched the colors shift on its jagged edge, and he could already feel the sharp teeth sawing clean through his flesh. He let the blonde bandit pick up his knife, and Dalt stepped back, keeping the dagger ready in his hand.
The wagon driver stood with a groan, and brushed off his clothes. At the same time he painted a smile between chubby cheeks. He wore tight black breeches on his short slender legs, but a baggy buttoned shirt could not hide his enormous belly. He bowed ruefully, and his thick, black, bowl cut hair swung forward and back. He straightened his stance, and his threw cloak neatly behind him.
“I suppose I should thank you for not killing me,” he started, “but I’m afraid you’ll be displeased with your findings, and then...” He trailed off, not wishing to finish what he was saying.
“We are not thieves!” Taron proclaimed.
“Wait!” Dalt eyed the man from head to toe. “I want to know, are there any more knives under that belly?”
The wagon driver frowned, but also, did not answer. His gaze was frozen on the way Dalt’s blade shimmered and pulsed with the colors of a rainbow. Also odd, that.
“Why did you run from us when we called for you?” Taron asked, knowingly changing the subject.
“Pardon me for saying so,” began the portly man, “but the two of you look like...¨ He dared not say. ¨So I fled.¨
The southlanders looked each other over for the first time that day. Their clothes were torn and stained with blood, their hair needed combing, and worst of all, they were both well armed. They could not argue with the wagon driver’s present image of them.
“I assure you that we mean you no harm.” Said Taron, as he handed the man back his throwing knife.
The driver raised an eyebrow in interest, but was quick to snatch the blade. His hand went over his shoulder and returned without the blade, tucked away somewhere secret. There was probably more hidden on the man than they realized. His smile was genuine, though. He felt safer, perhaps.
“I am Park Brommul.” The driver bowed again, only it appeared more grand
when he added an arm swing.
“I am Taron Woodlock,” he then pointed with a tilt of his head, “and he is Dalt Cawdlin.”
Park tried not to eye the black haired too suspiciously, but until that dagger was tucked away, he would continue to keep his guard.
“Gerhihn and Daylen have been attacked by Orcs!” Announced Dalt, much to the amazement of the wagon driver. “We need help immediately!”
Park did not hear the latter. His eyes were as large as a pair of royal coins.
“Orcs?” He did not believe it. “They dwell thousands of leagues from here! Surely you are...”
Taron was going to interrupt, but Dalt was a second faster. He held out the deadly blade. “I took this from an Orc that I killed with my own hands!”
Park examined it.
Dalt finally tucked the dagger into his belt, and upon noticing, grabbed a yellowed shirt sleeve. “And this! Blood from another!”
The driver eyed them both. Liars!
“It is the truth.” Cut in Taron, as if he could read what Park was thinking.
The mule suddenly gave another effort at pulling the anchored wagon. Tin crashed and flew as it shifted on its buried axle end.
“Chassy!” Park was running as the others dodged the wagon’s slow advance. When the mule grew weary and collapsed, the battle ended as quickly as it had begun. Park was quick to grab the reins, and then he pet Chassy’s thick neck. “Good girl, Chass. Good girl.”
Taron and Dalt were soon at his side.
“If we can help you get your wagon moving,” began Taron, “could you part with two cups of water?”
Park smiled. He would need some help.