by Bill Ricardi
Bruce mumbled, “As much as a mushroom can be, I s’pose.”
Peter shrugged. He said, “They’re long gone now, and I saw no signs of the elemental lurking about. We can have the Tatertown militia keep an eye on this area. Some of the local engineers can help repair the trenches and stabilize the hillside for reseeding.”
After everyone agreed that we were done here, I took out a thin strand of copper and cast Max’s Message. Cid wasn’t as startled this time, more sleepy. He promised to have someone at the meeting point within a couple of hours.
Back at the cabin, we rested until dawn. After morning intellect enhancements, we said our farewells to both Bruce and Peter. The two of them promised to come visit us, and to put our names on the Guild rosters as preferred partners.
Hierophant Petrinoth said, “I’m glad to report that everything I’ve heard about your family ended up being true. The Culinary Guild will likely need to consult with the northern Elves. However. I’m positive that they’ll see this as a success. Each of you should expect the 500 gold bounty shortly. As a member of both guilds, I’ll make sure that it’s deposited directly into your Adventurer’s Guild account, which you should be able to access back at the University. Del-Nekbenth’s blessing upon the three of you!”
Bruce’s goodbye was much more low key. Each of us got a hand shake. The young man’s easy smile was infectious. He didn’t need to say much. “T’was fun. Let’s do it again soon.”
Cid gave us a ride back to the Temple of Vinara outside of town. With classes already started up again, Benno needed to get back to the Arcane University right away. Ames and I had a different destination. My dealings with druids had not come to an end as of yet.
We were going to see Shaman.
Chapter 5
There was one thing that changed both my tribe and my village more than anyone could have imagined: Access to large amounts of quality lumber.
A few months ago, I had learned the story from the man himself: Kronz. When the first tradesman appeared on the Jeywafa clan’s newly operational Circle of Transport, it was assumed that the huge box of lightly charred wood was fuel for the upcoming celebrations. It took two translators and a lengthy demonstration for the merchant to get his message across: The wood was for barter, and it was charred to preserve it against the moist swamp air.
The merchant happily walked away with a large stack of reconditioned mundane weapons, one of the more common local commodities after the army of the undead had been defeated. Kronz, the orc craftsman who bought not just one but three of those lumber shipments, was called an idiot by most of his peers. When the rest of his wood appeared the next day, along with a box of iron spikes called ‘nails’, Kronz got to work.
You see Kronz once travelled with an infamous orc captain by the name of Blue Briar. He had seen human cities, and he had worshiped in the temple of Melflavin the Tinker, He Who Wept and Made Swamps Grow. He studied the construction of both shelters and seafaring vessels. Most importantly, he knew how to put hammer to nail. It was a noisy few days.
So when Kronz traded in his tent for a small wooden house, there were vague murmurs of disapproval. When smoke started to rise from the stone-lined fireplace, tribemates thought that surely his blackened wood home was going to burn to the ground. But when people stepped inside, their jaws dropped. There were no insects. Inside this prison of wood, the air was cooler in the hot seasons and warmer in the cold. The entire place was more dry than any tent the orcs could construct. And it offered unparalleled privacy and security.
Soon after that first wooden home went up, Kronz had a visitor. Hemitath, the Skua of Chief Shaman, commissioned a larger house to replace the royal tent. Demand immediately became far too much for poor Kronz to handle on his own. He enlisted his entire extended family on both his mother and father’s side, as well as the full time assistance of his three daughters. The company’s first foreman was his uncle Kronz. The second was his younger cousin, Kronz. Soon the company of Kronz, Kronz, Kronz and Daughters was the busiest and richest crafting organization in the Southern Orc Tribes.
So when Ames and I stepped out of the copper teleportation circle, passing under the wooden sign that read ‘Magic, Peace, and Multiculturalism’, there was hardly a tent to be seen. Indeed, the only temporary structures were ones intended to be mobile, festive, or otherwise traditional for the sake of tourism. My homeland was now a city of wood and of stone. And of multitudinous people.
In two years, the Jeywafa clan doubled in size. Not just in terms of the amount of ground in use by the village, but in terms of permanent residents. Representatives and merchants from the major races had moved in. Orcish men and women from other tribes, particularly the nearby Fistuntuls, married into the clan. Even a smattering of humans got caught up in the recent wave of partnerships. Every once in a while, interracial couples could be seen walking around town, and a few of the women were gravid with half orc bundles of joy.
With new families came new construction. The public baths, one of the star attractions of Jeywafa village as well as the conception site of many of our newest little clanspeople, were located beneath the Circle of Transport and the newly constructed Temple of Kenvunk. But even as large as these central features were, the supporting infrastructure put them to shame. Entertainment consisted of traditional (and traditionally rowdy despite being in a building rather than a tent) orcish ale houses, a few select brothels, and a small but hugely popular playhouse owned by a minotaur acting troupe. There was a large open market to the East near the retaining walls, and permanent trade and craft stores surrounding it. The western part of town butting up to the hills was where everything was made, from weapons to weaving, from arsenals to art. Everything was either new or rapidly evolving.
The end result being: I was lost in my own village.
Ames peered around with keen were-cat eyes. “I think we’re to the East? Where’s the sun?”
Even in my own ears, my voice sounded defeated. I said, “Directly above us. It’s noon.”
We wandered around for a little while, looking like tourists.
Then my mate spotted a town watch patrol. “Oh thank the gods.” Ames waved both paws in the air, flagging them down.
Perhaps a fraction too late, I pulled up the hood of my cloak to hide my face in the vague hopes that I wouldn’t be recognised. The young, pike carrying guardsmen were already pointing at me and murmuring to each other, however.
The taller of the two asked, in Orcish, “Hey, ‘scuse me. You’se that guy yes?”
I cleared my throat and asked, “What guy?”
“Guy from side of crates of salt?”
Ames choked back a guffaw. The blow to my ego was incalculable. This was my life now.
I sighed and said, “Yeah, probably.”
The tall orc nudged his shorter brethren. “Told ya.”
Ames managed to remain composed. The feline asked, in Common, “Which way to the royal chambers, please?”
It was the shorter one who understood and answered. “You go North. Few minute. Pass bread place. You no miss.” He pointed the tip of his weapon in the correct direction.
After thanking them and receiving a thump on the back for being the best salt mascot on all of Panos, we proceeded North. The smell of baked bread did indeed come just as we caught sight of the Chieftains’ Hall. It was a large building made of the same charred wood as the rest of the nearby structures. However, it was one of the few buildings in town that was two stories high. The banners of every tribe, both inside and outside of Shaman’s mutual defense coalition, flew above the gates.
As much as the other advances had helped the Southern Orc Tribes, the political gains of becoming a major transportation hub helped most of all. For the first time since the Second Great War, elvish and human embassies flanked the orcish seat of government. Not only was Chieftains’ Hall a place for every tribe to conduct official business with each other, any tribe could take meetings with foreign powers here. It was n
eutral territory.
And of course behind all of this, in both a literal and figurative way, were Hemitath and Shaman. We passed through Chieftains’ Hall on our way to the private residences in the back. At least one of the minor chieftains was holding court in a side chamber. I didn’t recall his name, but I believed he was from a small clan to the Southeast. He was talking about trading peat and coal for masonry tools and training. On the other side of the table, some humans were nodding in agreement. When I paused to listen to the details, Ames grabbed me by the belt and tugged me away.
“What’s your rule?” asked the were-cat.
I sighed. “Don’t get involved in the politics.” was my reply.
The reason was evident when we arrived at entryway to Shaman’s private wing. Immediately upon seeing us, and very unlike the younger and less experience guards in the city center, the three orcish veterans bowed.
The eldest among them said, “Sorch of the Engine. Great Cat of the North.”
The truth was, the level of fame and influence that Ames, Tara, Toby, and myself wielded in these parts was frightening. Even the most innocent political interaction might be at odds with Shaman and Hemitath’s intentions, and that could cause strife. The minotaurs and the were-cat only got involved under Hemitath’s direct instruction, and I had vowed never to get involved at all.
We returned the bows of the house guards. “Are they in and taking visitors?”
The old warrior bobbed his head. “Yes. Take lunch in library. Go ahead, me let steward know.”
Truth be told, the private residence was quite modest. There was a simple kitchen, two bedrooms, a living room, and the library. Everything was made of wood save for the shale flooring. The library was just a quiet place to eat, and a secure location for Hemitath’s spellbooks and magical studies. It was a far cry from the residences in Hemitath’s home city of Arbitros or her quarters at the Arcane University. At the same time, it was sheer luxury compared to the drafty, leaky, bug infested tents that Shaman grew up with.
Shaman was sitting in a padded rocking chair, slowly shifting his weight back and forth to promote that soothing motion. He was dressed in a clean white cotton shirt and short tan pants. His green-gray skinned face broke into a broad smile upon spying us. “Look who here.”
Hemitath, who had been reading through today’s foreign missives, was leaning over the dinner table. As she sat up her long hair, which went silvery-white in the past couple of years, floated into her face. After sweeping it back, the ancient elf mirrored her husband’s smile. She said, “Look who, indeed. It’s the kids.”
I chuckled a bit. In recent years, Hemitath and Shaman took to calling us their ‘kids’ and Benno was the ‘kids’ kid’. Neither of us had any objection. Shaman was more of a father to me than any man had ever been.
The older orc gestured. “Sit, sit. Wants food?”
Hemitath added, “We just finished, but there’s more fresh bread, and we have some sugared boysenberry jam.”
Ames and I politely declined. We knew that these two would stuff our bellies full if we allowed them.
I said, “We’re just checking in after a mission for the Culinary Guild, of all things.” I awaited the inevitable questions that would come on the tail of such a statement.
Instead, Hemitath said, “Oh yes dear, we heard.”
Shaman said, “Yeah, yeah.”
Ames and I must have seemed disappointed, because the old elf started laughing. “But why don’t you give us the details, we’ve only had an overview from what our people at the Transportation Guild were able to pick up.”
Ames launched into a full recollection of the mission. I related how it might have tied in with Omi-Suteth’s advice on researching the weather and crop issues. Shaman rocked away in his chair as he listened. The older orc wore a look of vague satisfaction, but not one of understanding. I was glad that he was proud of his ‘kids’, but I wanted so much more from my friend, afflicted by Glogur’s curse when he was forced to cast an arcane spell without any intellect enhancement.
At the end of our tale Hemitath said, “I think I agree with your druid. Tatertown isn’t the first victim of this upheaval, simply the latest. You’ll remember that two years ago, there was coastal flooding in communities on The Shore. That was traced back to water elemental activity. And of course we’ve had crop issues since well before that. Something is causing the elements to turn, in a very real and literal way.”
Shaman said, “Lizards no answer call now, too far away. Is strange time. You fix.”
I sighed. “I’ll try, chief. Two guilds and a university, not to mention every major government, are trying to figure it out. My family will do their part.”
Shaman snorted. “Don’t disappoint. Not dis time.”
That tone wasn’t very much like the Shaman I knew. It hurt that he seemed to want to belittle our current and past efforts. Hemitath caught my eye and just shook her head a little bit. I knew what she was trying to convey: ‘It’s not him talking when he says things like that’. She had said that to me privately so many times over the last couple of years. You would think that the sting of Shaman’s brief cruel streaks would have faded away. No. It doesn’t fade away.
Changing the subject quickly, Ames asked, “So how are things here? Has the economy sorted itself out?”
The elder elf had to laugh at the question. She said, “In a year and a half we went from being a wood importer and weapon exporter, to being a copper exporter hiring a massive amount of outside labourers, to being a coal exporter and tool importer. All the while developing a tourist trade.”
The feline joked, “I hear you started importing salt as well.”
Hemitath said, “Oh yes, we saw that Sorch. Congratulations. How did that particular business endeavour come about?”
I held up both hands, helplessly, “We honestly have no idea. We need to talk to Toby and Tara.”
The elf said, “Well this is an example of what I was talking about. Your salt may be the next big thing. We just don’t know. The economy, if anything, has become more surreal.”
That worried me. I asked, “By now things should have settled down, right? Last I heard, most of the surrounding tribes came together to share in the prosperity of the Circle of Transport and share the knowledge of new trades among all of the orcs. We stopped a war, the humans and the elves have embassies. What’s the problem?”
Hemitath said, “We’re the problem, Sorch. At least partly. We’re succeeding on the tourism front. But knick knacks and tribal eroticism, even if they’ve made the Southern Tribes a popular destination, aren’t exactly a set of stable industries. We’re starting to offer more tangible services; eventually a combination of traditional mining, mercenary work, and the peat harvest are going to become significant contributors to the economy. But right now, everyone is rushing towards whatever the latest craze might be. There’s no stability.”
A light snoring sound punctuated Hemitath’s last statement. Shaman had fallen asleep in his rocking chair. The three of us took the opportunity to move out into the living room. I sat on the wooden bench with Ames, while Hemitath’s lighter frame took advantage of the comfortable wicker chair.
I asked the same question that I always asked, “Any improvement?”
The elf slowly shook her head. “He still can’t read scrolls. Not even in the Astral with Benno’s help. Research on spells that improve the intelligence of others has failed. No druid, no cleric, nobody has a solution. Not yet.”
Ames murmured, “The outbursts are getting more harsh.”
The archmage looked down and away for a few moments. She said, “He’s angry. He’s trapped in there and he’s angry. Shaman is still the sweet, genuine man that we knew. But irrational expressions of his frustration are going to happen.”
I said, “Are you holding up?”
Hemitath wiped away the beginnings of a tear, then straightened her shoulders. “Yes. Lizzy has been irreplaceable. She’s learned to take cu
es, make prompts, and otherwise help to guide her master. Dutch picks up the slack when Lizzy is resting. They’ve been an amazing help.”
The were-cat looked around. “Where are they?”
“Oh, they’re sitting in on that meeting in the hall.”
I was incredulous. I asked, “You have your familiars sitting in on political negotiations?!”
My tone made Hemitath laugh. She explained, “Not as spies, not really. Everybody knows who owns those two silly creatures. They enjoy being around people. Probably because of the snacks that they get. But if there are raised voices or if tempers flare, Dutch lets me know right away. If one of our people needs to get us a message, Lizzy delivers it. Like I said: Amazing help, those two.”
As if on cue, the amazing and yet occasionally infuriating Lizzy came in on the wing. There was a little note strapped to her leg, as in if the flying lizard was some kind of messenger pigeon. As soon as Hemitath untied the little scrap of parchment from Shaman’s familiar, Lizzy flew over to perch on Ames’ shoulder. I, in contrast, received a protracted and heartfelt hiss from the temperamental creature.
I said, dryly, “Good to see you too.”
Ames scritched under the flying lizard’s neck, making the little beast croon happily. The were-cat said, “Oh, she misses you dear. That’s her way of saying you don’t visit often enough.”
I wasn’t convinced.
Hemitath called over, “Thank you Lizzy, you can get back to the meeting.”
Ames allowed the lizard to break the scritching-based trance. She nearly fell off of my were-cat’s shoulder, straining for that last moment of contact. Then Lizzy launched herself into the air. A couple of lazy spirals later, and she was gone.
I asked, “Something go wrong at the meeting?”
The former Headmaster of the Arcane University considered the contents of the note. “No, this is from Shaman’s right hand man. They need more people working on the retaining walls. Making them thicker and higher. It’s a constant battle. We’ve had to hire full time teams to build up the earth around the village. Otherwise the rising water will keep encroaching.”