A young Elf was framed in the doorway, waiting for their approach, a warm smile on his timeless face. The Queen and Simon approached the man somewhat cautiously. Like all Elves he was dark skinned and broad-nosed. He had a gold loop through his left ear, and a somewhat stocky build that was a bit unusual for his kind. A little short with a thick chest gave him somewhat of a dwarven frame, but it was subtle. Perhaps he simply lifted heavy things, like a smitty.
The most striking feature on him, however, was his eyes. They were pure white, like all True Mages.
“Young man, this is your Queen, who has travelled from the other side of the realm to speak with your master, the ancient Elf Pilanthas. She seeks his council. Please do not keep her in wait.” Simon was direct, but not harsh. Whatever arrogance he conveyed was minimal. The Queen had no use for pageantry.
The Elf bowed low, and with a modest wave of his hand, said, “I know your purpose, and I would recognize our fair Queen’s face anywhere. What kind of prophet would I be if I wasn’t expecting you?” the old Elf said with a twinkle in his eye. “Please, Queen Najalas—enter and be refreshed. Simon, you may join us if it puts our Queen more at ease.” He stepped aside and held the door to his unusual house open.
Queen Najalas stole the quickest look possible with her bodyguard before regaining her regal composure. That quick look said it all—he looks like he’s 25!
“You are—Pilanthas?” she asked.
“I am, your Majesty,” he replied. “Do not be thrown off by my youthful appearance. I assure you, I am every bit of 250 years old.”
“Then by what sorcery do you change your look?” the Queen demanded.
Pilanthas smiled again. “That is a secret that I may share with you…or I may not. But you did not travel all this way to speak with me about my face. You wish to discuss…something else. Shall we have our discussion inside, where it is more comfortable?”
The Queen inclined her head slightly. “Yes. Of course.” Simon did not need her invitation—he followed her inside automatically.
The house was simply furnished, but for one thing that stood out: books. They were everywhere, all ordered on shelves, with only a handful resting in piles on a few tables. There were some strange vials and other queer objects that the Queen could not place, but every room must have had a few hundred books. And the house, though simply furnished, was not small.
“You live in a library, Pilanthas,” the Queen said as she sat and accepted some fragrant tea with a smile. “Thank you.”
“When you live as long as I have, it affords you with time to both study and to write.” The Elf sat himself down after offering Simon tea as well and passing out some bread. “So, you have something on your mind?” he asked.
Queen Najalas didn’t reply immediately. She looked at the Elf closely. There were no wrinkles. His hair was light brown—not a streak of grey—and his body was the very picture of muscular youth. He wore a green tunic. The Queen had known many Elves, and knew they lived much longer than men. Maybe three times as long—a 180-year-old Elf was considered a ripe old age, just as a 60-year-old man was. But a 180-year-old Elf looked old. And Pilanthas was more than 250 years old—legendary. Why had nobody told her to expect the look of a boy?
“Pilanthas, I have many things on my mind. But before we discuss them, I must confess that I am indeed mystified by your appearance. I find it difficult to trust a man whose age and face are so clearly mismatched. I’m afraid your council will fall on deaf ears until I believe you are who you say you are.” The Queen sipped her tea, but did not lower her gaze.
“Very well. I had an inkling that this may be an—issue between us. My Queen, let me tell you some things. I know your general, Strongiron, told you about Xaro, whom he observed first hand. I know that you did not believe him at first, any more than you believe me. So you asked for confirmation, and received it recently in the form of whipped Lord Kensington, a man whom you view as a weakling. I already know your questions of me. You seek more confirmation that this Xaro is indeed a threat from across the sea. You seek council about what you should do to defend Elvidor if he attacks. You wish to see the future, to know your fate in such a battle. And…you wish to know what man would be a suitable King, for your womb stirs and you wish to leave an heir, but you find most men interested in the title, yet unfit for rule. Have I come close to the mark, your Majesty?”
The Queen narrowed her eyes. Simon too was on edge, looking for a sign from his Queen. But then she laughed. “Well. Either you are truly a prophet, or the most well-informed man I have ever met. Fair enough. Do you have something a little stronger than tea, good Pilanthas?”
The Elf got up and flashed an entirely too-charming smile. “Of course, my Queen.”
Tar-Tan
“We must change course, General,” Captain Grull said to Tar-Tan. “The boats will not survive a passage up the coast. We underestimated the weight.”
Tar-Tan stood up in his cabin, slamming his fist onto a table, causing it break. He also struck his head on the eight-foot ceiling, forgetting his height, causing more wood to splinter above him.
“Our boat will sink even faster if you decide to take it apart plank-by-plank, General.” Captain Grull added.
The half-ogre curled his lip into an unpleasant sneer and sat back down. “How is it possible that we did not account for this?” Tar-Tan prided himself as an exceptional tactician. For him, this miscalculation was almost worse than losing an arm in battle. “Why must we head to the southern shores of Ipidine?”
Captain Grull spread his arms wide. “We factored the weight fine for calm seas, General. The Endless Sea of the West this time of year, however, is anything but calm. We are rowing against wind and current, and the slaves—”
“Soldiers” Tar-Tan interrupted.
“Soldiers…they go through more food as a result. We have lost one ship already to waves capsizing her, and it was hardly the worst storm we’ll face up the coast. We must get to land. The ships we’ve designed cannot weather the kind of seas we’ll face with this much weight aboard. They float, but the ballast is unstable this low in the water.”
“Can we sail completely around the Eastern edge to reach Sands End?”
“No, General. The Sea of Hate is no kinder this time of year, it is a much longer voyage, and it puts us close to the Great Whirlpool as well. Better to sail off the map completely than to take that route.”
Tar-Tan rose again, mindful of the ceiling this time. He leaned over a map that he unrolled on what was left of his small table. “You know what this means, Captain.”
“A long march, General.”
Tar-Tan nodded slowly. “You give me a choice of delivering some men in poor condition or no men at all.”
Captain Grull said nothing, waiting for Tar-Tan’s decision.
The massive half-ogre looked at his captain. “Very well. Make sail for the Dead Marshes. We will land the fleet east of there, and make preparations to march up Ipidine.”
Veronica
Veronica had made up her mind. She would not take the well-travelled path across the Crystal Mountains. Elf’s Bane was a gap in the mountains wide enough for thirty well-armored men on horseback to ride abreast without breaking formation. So it was passable for a lone rider, for sure.
But that was the problem. It now was less a strategic military outpost and more a trading route between the Eastern and Western halves of the continent. It would be difficult, even for her, to pass unnoticed through the gap. A young woman travelling alone would be beyond odd—it would cause undue questions and invite unwanted attention. Though she feared no man one-on-one, even a True Warrior, she did not need to fight off the advances of three or four lonely mercenaries. That was not a prudent strategy.
There were, however, alternate routes through the mountains. Less travelled, more secretive. Climbing the mountains, however, would take eons. There had to be another pass or another way through. And if you knew who to ask, and how to ask, the right inform
ation was all around you. Before she ran into Marik, she had been gaining quite a bit of information in Briz.
All of her Master’s plans could have unraveled if she had blown the mage’s cover. She had not expected him to turn up in Briz at the same time in the same inn—the chances of their paths crossing were a million to one. She did wonder which of the two boys he was with was the one Xaro was obsessed with, but that was not her concern.
Her concern was Strongiron, and he lived in Rookwood. She did not want to sail all the way around the Southern coast of Elvidor, either. Money wasn’t the problem, it was time. It would take a month or two by ship, and she would be confined on board a sailing vessel with a bunch of lonely men. The last time she’d had to take an extended sea journey, she’d disguised herself as a man. No, that would be her fallback plan this time.
Veronica knew other paths existed—fellow members of the Assassin’s Guild had told her as much. Finding them was the challenge. But her luck had changed a few days ago. Before she stopped in Briz for the night, she ran into a group of gypsies heading west toward the port city of Nervadine, from whence she had come. Gypsies were some of the most friendly folks a stranger can meet. Their whole mission is often to attract strangers who have nowhere else to go. It was by their sprawling campsite, just off the road, where she fell into conversation with a Dwarf who was seated by a fire, nibbling on some burnt meat.
“That smells delicious. I bet you’d like to wash that down with something warm,” she said as she took an uninvited seat next to the Dwarf, away from the caravan.
“Hmph. What do you suggest? Flat ale is all we have, and not much at that.” The Dwarf eyed the woman curiously as he picked at a hunk of meat dangling from the end of a long dirk he was using as a skewer.
“This.” Veronica threw him a full wineskin. “Try it, good Dwarf. If you tear me off a piece of your meat, we’ll call it even.” Lowering her hood, Veronica smiled at her new friend.
The Dwarf pulled the stopper and drank deep. “Woman, what are you doing carrying such fine drink as this!” He ripped off a chunk of meat with his grubby hands and tossed it to her. “Deal!”
Veronica laughed. “I should ask you what a Dwarf is doing travelling with a pack of gypsies, but I thank you for the meat.” She ate it without hesitation, less because she was hungry, but more to build camaraderie. Having shared food and drink, perhaps he would open up even further.
“That’s easy enough to answer,” he began in more quiet tones. “You get tired of living in one spot all the time. My people don’t understand that, but the gypsies like to move around. I’ve seen half of Elvidor while most of my kin are holed up underneath the Hawthorne Mountains a continent away. Just a different kind of Dwarf I guess. Your story?” He tossed her another piece of meat like she was some kind of animal being trained for tricks.
Veronica smiled. She gnawed at the lamb or whatever it was and took the wineskin back, moving closer to him. “I, too, like adventure. Seems we’re kindred spirits. My whole life has been on the western side of the Crystal Mountains, and I long to see the East. But the Elf’s Bane is a merchant thoroughfare, from what I hear. I am looking for a different way across.” She paused and looked at her friend in the eyes, letting her gaze linger.
The Dwarf considered her, then said, “Aye. There are other ways across. Might be I can help you.” He put a stubby hand on her leg.
Veronica didn’t miss a beat. “What path?” she whispered breathlessly, allowing the flames of the campfire to illuminate her pure, porcelain skin.
The Dwarf’s eyes glinted as he leaned further in. The wine stench on his breath was awful. Veronica just encouraged him with a gentle squeeze of her hand on the inside of his thigh. “What path?” she repeated.
He smiled greedily. “Northeast of Briz, there is an old mine. Ask around and some locals will point it out. It has been abandoned for years, but really it was a cover anyhow. Sure they pulled some pretty rocks out, but the real prize was an underground path clear through to the other side of the mountains. Dwarfs built it, mainly for smugglers and outlaws who wanted to evade the arm of Rookwood in the East. But you can find a guide through the mine. Ask the town smitty in Briz, Barnabus, if he ‘knows how to put a thread through a crystal needle.’ Tell him Thimble sent you. He’ll help you.” The Dwarf reached up to grab Veronica’s face.
“Wait—let us drink again. I want to be good and drunk before you have your way with me,” Veronica teased as she pushed herself away and handed him another flask. “Here. I share the whiskey only with real men…or in this case, real Dwarves. If you can handle it,” she said with a devious smile.
“Give me that.” Thimble took a good long pull, his eyes watering. “No woman as fine as you should be carrying drink on her like that!” He handed it back. “If drunk is what you need to be, than drink!”
Veronica took the bottle and stopped it again, tucking it back into one of the secret pockets she had all over her. She stood suddenly and retrieved her wineskin. “Thank you for the information, Thimble.” She didn’t bothered turning around to see him keel over dead from the poison. The thud was confirmation enough.
That had been a little over a week ago. She had asked around inside the The Crystal Break (before running into Marik—which was most unfortunate) about the whereabouts of a smitty in town named Barnabus. It certainly didn’t take long to get pointed in his direction.
What a bronze-looking man. Barnabus stood outside his forge. Though it was getting quite cold late into the fall, he seemed content in little more than loose-fitting pants and a leather vest. Most metal-smiths were big men, with chiseled arms from countless hours of hard labor. Barnabus was small. Veronica towered over him as she approached. He was exceptionally tan, with brownish-reddish hair and a beard that needed a bit of trimming. His paunch was the only thing on him that made him look out of shape. A man who likes to drink.
She smiled as she approached. “Are you Barnabus?”
He looked up and gave Veronica a quick look. “So me mum says. If you need some work, it’ll be a day or two—I’m backed up.”
“Actually, I need but a moment of your time. My friend Thimble thought you might know how to thread a crystal needle.” She let the smile fade from her face, to be replaced with a curious look.
“Thimble, eh? What business do you have with that Dwarf?” He went back to hammering a piece of steel to remove a dent.
“We were, ah, friends. I met him on the road to Nervadine.” She left it at that.
“Well, your friend was my brother. Half-brother. His dad got together with my mum. Can’t say as we’re close.”
A half-dwarf. How rare, and interesting. No wonder Thimble took such an interest in a human female. Probably grew up with his dad bragging. She trusted her instincts and rolled the dice. “Actually, we weren’t that close either. I didn’t take kindly to his advances, so he won’t be doing much more of that. He did, however, point me in your direction. If you know how to get through the mine, I would be grateful.” She smiled that twisted little smile that most men couldn’t resist.
Barnabus stopped working and looked up. He started shaking his head and chuckled. “Well, so be it. We live in a Dark World. I’d ask what’s in it for me, but I’m guessing that’s what got Thimble into trouble with you to begin with. Yeah, I can help you. My dad was a slave smuggler, and he knew those mine shafts by their smell. Before he died, he drew me a map. I’ve no interest in smuggling or mining—I do fine shaping iron. Mum always said it was honest-man’s work. You can have the map. But know this—the mines are dangerous. Trolls, or worse, you’ll find in there.” He went inside and returned a few minutes later with a scroll case. “Here. Just leave in peace. I don’t know your business, and I don’t care to either.”
Smart lad. Veronica took the case and looked at the map. “Thank you, Barnabus. I’ll leave you to your work.” She rolled it up and put the map away. She did throw him a piece of silver—not for the map, but for the courtesy of not fo
rcing her to kill him.
CHAPTER 11: REVELATIONS
Trevor
Though not the first time Trevor had set foot in the seaport of Gaust, he was nevertheless always impressed by the grandeur of the city. Shoal and Nervadine, the other port cities on the tips of the Three Fingers, were large and busy as well. But Gaust had more wealth, better architecture, more marble and stone, older buildings—it was just a first-class city.
Walking tall in his special shoes, Trevor arrived in the city and began asking around the docks for ships heading west. Soon winter would be upon Elvidor, and few would try to sail past the Great Whirlpool then. It did not take him long to learn that one vessel, The Modest Mermaid, was set to leave with a shipment of ore from the Crystal Mountains, bound for the Great Isle between Adimand and Ipidine. Finding passage from there to the western edge of Ipidine, where Xaro was refortifying Sands End, would be much easier from the Great Isle. One of the dock workers told him to check inside the Lazy Pour tavern and ask for Helmut Bowhistle, first mate on the Mermaid.
Though it was mid-afternoon, the tavern was crowded. It took tipping the barkeep for Trevor to find Helmut, who was surrounded by several empty mugs, three other men, and a pair of dice. His full beard was shot with grey, and his hands were cracked and bloody, like a man who spent his days laboring in the sun covered in salt water. Or a bare-knuckled fighter. Or perhaps both.
“I’m looking for Helmut Bowhistle,” Trevor said as he approached the group of men cautiously. “I understand he sails on a ship headed west.”
The thin man with a scraggly beard looked up, eyes narrowed. “Might be you found him.” The other men chuckled, eyeing Trevor suspiciously. “What do you want with Helmut?”
Trevor smiled pleasantly. “I’m looking for passage west. If he’s first mate on the Modest Mermaid, I’d like to see if there’s room for one more.”
In Pursuit Of Wisdom (Book 1) Page 25