Rendering Nirayel-Wayward Fates

by Nathan P. Cardwell

  The Captain secured the scroll in his belt, and then grabbed his cloak from the back of his chair. "Right then, Rainswalker," he continued while making for the door. "Stay on my heels, boy. We've much to accomplish, and precious little time."

  Borin would have to wait. Matters of Arbitos Security had just taken a drastic turn for the worse. Elder Pynewood had just been assassinated in broad daylight, and if Ironwood was right, then an invasion by Factions from within the Dark Empire could not immediately be ruled out. Either way, Captain Reginald Krue fully intended a swift retaliation upon the perpetrators.

  Chapter Four-Where's Waldo?

  Jester had been unable to come close enough to even catch sight of the oaf for almost three days. In fact, he had only seen him once since the oaf had been taken into custody, and then only briefly as his unconscious body was dragged across the courtyard, and then down into the prison proper.

  There were a large number of guards posted at strategic points, both in and about the Dwarven stronghold, and carefully positioned so as to avoid any possible blind spots. This, coupled with staggered shifts that ended only after their replacements arrived, had consistently left Jester with no gaps to penetrate.

  On the third day, he decided there was no choice but to risk a closer look. He began to cast, pausing only for a brief prayer. Perhaps I should just take a moment to point out that were I to depart this life while undertaking this completely selfless act of rescue, then I would be unable to carry out the wishes of your most illustrious Council. Then of course, there are still the matters of restitution to the Baker, and that unfortunate wound borne so bravely by the poor old oak. Now, I'm sure you know I would never pretend to tell you of your own business, but it's always good to have all the facts.

  With that, he waved both arms in wide arcs, concluding with his outstretched hands, as if grasping imaginary curtains, which he then drew about himself like a cloak. A distortion formed. At first, it appeared as an aura that grew and swirled. Presently, the rotation intensified, collapsing inward as it fused with both his body and clothing, slowly draining all color: a liquid sheath of air that bore only his shape, like a living ice sculpture. Finally, even that faded, melting into the air and earth about it. This was his strongest invisibility. Other, less elaborate spells could have been established much faster, but what he needed now was reliability.

  As he approached the Dwarven portico, he overheard several guards in a discussion concerning recent pressure from the Merchant's guild to crack down on the perpetrators of all the thefts occurring of late. After receiving their signed petition, the Governor was apparently considering their requests with greater attention.

  Jester tried not to dwell further on that particular topic, as it might just be possible that he had contributed to some small amount of that pressure. Nevertheless, it looked as if the crime of theft might soon become elevated to one demanding a more severe penalty.

  Once on the second level, he tarried as a stately Dwarf with a shortly cropped beard addressed several more guards. "The whole of Arbitos and Spurious be in pandemonium. Some high up, muckety-muck half-breed were found face down in the mud, and rumor has it that Wognix be responsible. I'm expected to attend a full gathering in Arbitos proper. I'm thinkin' they're of a mind to form some Tribunal, or Council of Nations. All I know for certain is they're gonna have to do more than form yet another worthless…"

  The Dwarf felt a sudden current of air, powerful enough to blow the buckled hat from the top of his head.

  "Here now! You lads have a terrible draft down here, don't ya?" he commented while retrieving his hat.

  Both guards looked back at him with quizzical expressions. The truth was that the lower sections of the hold were shut off from any outside airflow. It could be terrible in the summer.

  ***

  The tiny Fodder beetle exited its nest in the corner of his cell after having delivered yet another payload of various building supplies. It then reversed its bearing, traversing the length of stone floor, and then exiting beneath the door. It would then be away for ten to fifteen minutes while locating more material.

  He had watched it repeat this process for several hours. Observing this ritual was not particularly entertaining. On the other hand, there weren't a great many other distractions available. There was his neighbor in the adjacent accommodations, though this was a subject from which he would have preferred to be distracted.

  There came a "Pssssst," from outside the door to his cell. At first he thought it was that confounded drunkard again. Gads! If he recites the finer points of difference between Dwarven and Elven ales again, I'll go stark raving mad!

  "Pssssssst."

  "What is it, you lush?" he shouted, striking the cell wall with his fist.

  "Over here," a voice whispered at the door.

  His attention was drawn to the corridor. Cautiously, he moved to the cell door and looked through the bars. He looked down the dimly lit hall in both directions, but saw nothing. He was about to return to his cot when…

  "No. You can't see me, but you must listen."

  Egad! Borin thought, recognizing the voice. It's that accursed Druid! "Be gone, foul Sprite!"

  Sprite? Sprite! he thought, and then caught himself. There were much greater issues at hand than insults from a simpleton. "Listen to me," he whispered as loudly as possible. "There's been a murder back home."

  "I said be gone from me!" Borin bellowed. "Are you deaf as well as… Who?"

  "I've no idea, though it appears to be a matter of some import, or else they would not be calling for a gathering of Dignitaries."

  "This is all your fault! Had you not framed me for a crime of your own perpetration, I would be home by now!"

  "Will you please lower your voice? I'm here to get you out."

  "Oh, really?" Borin inquired sardonically. "And just how do you plan to accomplish such a feat?"

  "You really are simple, aren't you? Unless you missed it, I happen to be a Druid. Have you never heard of Teleportation?"

  "Aye, I've heard of that. Have you never heard of Warding? Take a good look at the marker above the door."

  Jester stepped back and looked up. Sure enough, there was a seal of warding. No magic could be performed while near it.

  He suddenly grew quite nervous. If his spell were to wear off at this juncture, he wouldn't be able to recast without stepping out of the ward's area of effect. That would definitely place him within the guard's range of vision.

  "Just hang on," Jester offered encouragingly. "I'll be back to get you out."

  "Well, isn't that just grand," Borin intoned. "I feel better already. What is it you think you're going to do? Ask them for the key?"

  No answer followed.

  "GET ME OUT OF HERE!"

  "Hey!" came a slurred shout from the next cell. "Can't a fellow catch a few winks?"

  The Dwarf in the adjoining cell pressed his face to the bars of his own iron door. "Oh, it's you!" he voiced with enthusiasm, if not clarity. "Say, did I ever tell you about the time I was a Judge in the Dwarven versus Elven ale contest in Upper Lavish'nix?"

  The small vein above Borin's eye began to throb.

  ***

  In truth, Jester had no idea what he was going to do, not that he had ever let that circumstance stop him before. He saw no particular reason why it should get in the way now.

  He raced back out the way he had come, stopping short when he noticed a door that read Confiscations. Once inside, he found a number of crates marked with different numbers. He opened a few, but failed to find anything that might serve a purpose in his current endeavor.

  There were several items that caught his eye, such as a lady's pink garter, heavily woven with iridescent sparkles. Ezy would really go for this, he thought before placing the item back.

  In the next box, he found an oversized jerkin and thought of Huey. He held it up against himself, gauging its size by using his own dimensions as a template. From tail to collar, the garment was perhaps ha
lf again the length and breadth of Jester's entire body. Way too small .

  Recalling the number to Borin's cell, he searched until he located a box with the same number. In that box were all of Borin's possessions. He searched through the Duffel bag to see if there was anything of use. It mostly housed various types of weaponry. There were several swords, axes, and daggers, and a finely crafted bow with some very well-balanced reed shaft arrows, but nothing of particular interest.

  The daggers posed something of a momentary problem. Being of a higher quality craftsmanship, he experienced a certain minor discomfort in merely looking at them. Touching them would have been excruciating. If only they weren't so obviously deadly, he might have been able to pretend they were something other than what they were, at least long enough to move them out of his way. When at last he realized that his aversion was not to be denied, he simply emptied the entire bag onto the stone floor.

  As the contents scattered, a wooden case fell on top of the pile, popping open as its latch jarred free. His eyes widened, for inside the box reposed a Talisman of Fortune! Any Tarot would covet such an item, and he found himself sorely tempted by it. Even to lay eyes on one was an extraordinary stroke of luck.

  There followed an intense moment while he wrestled with his conscience. Had this business only been about rescuing an ungrateful oaf, he might have disregarded his ethics. As it was, there were matters afoot of much graver consequence. Regretfully, he placed the Talisman back within its box, consoling himself by recalling that for every Talisman of Fortune, there was an identical Talisman of Ill-fortune, indistinguishable from the its twin until such time as its true nature emerged, which was often too late to do the bearer any good. In fact, the only good thing about Talismans of Ill-fortune was, ironically, the only bad thing about Talismans of Fortune, which is to say, they only function once per bearer. After that, their magic awaits the next victim and or lucky oaf to blunder by.

  He had an idea, but wasn't sure it would work. He checked Borin's money pouch. Ahh, jingle-jingle, he grinned. Plenty…and platinum at that. Perhaps there was a chance. He had to take one big risk and hope he was far enough from the ward to cast. Unfortunately, the act of casting would in itself disrupt his invisibility. If he were wrong, then he would no doubt be sharing the same cell as the Warrior himself. Not a nice image, that.

  He gathered up all of Borin's belongings. Oh, Troll spore! How can I carry it all? The armor alone must outweigh a small Roc. Still, he managed, but just barely.

  He offered a small prayer to Wildern for good fortune in a worthy cause, hoping that the Deity would not examine the situation too closely while considering the request. He wasn't entirely certain of Wildern's stance on the worth of oafish Warriors.

  Then he waved his arms, and his eyes flashed silver as a cloud of starlight surrounded him.

  ***

  "That's my final offer!"

  "Friend Druid," crooned the Dwarven Rogue. "Surely you can see my position. I have a great deal of overhead to deal with."

  "What? Ink and parchment?"

  "And besides, the content of your request is obviously of a risky nature. Should you get caught, then it is my reputation on the line. No, this situation definitely calls for a proper adjustment of compensation."

  There is no time for this foolishness, thought Jester. No doubt the Rogue sensed his impatience. They have a knack for that sort of thing. If he just had a bit more time, he would show this little Thief how to really barter. As it was, he had no choice.

  "All right, you Crook!"

  "Excellent," crooned the Rogue with a triumphant smile. "I will get to work right away. Come back in the morning and it will be ready."

  "Oh, I don't think so, little man," Jester stated flatly

  At this, the Rogue's smile vanished.

  "You have just one hour, else me and my plat disappear," he spat, demonstrating further by fading from sight, and then reappearing behind the Dwarf to flick his ear.

  "Be reasonable, my friend!" cried the Rogue as he spun about. "You cannot expect a quality product in so short a time! It simply isn't possible!"

  "Considering the amount in question, I think that I can expect both quality and expedience. Besides, you know good and well that I'm pressed for time, or else you would not be receiving the unholy sum of fifty platinum in the first place. So just let me know if you can't handle the job. I hear there's a Rogue at the other end of town who has no qualms about working under pressure."

  ***

  "…and so then the Dwarven brewer says, 'Crumly?' That's me, Crumly. 'Crumly?' he says to me, 'You may well be the leading ale authority on the face of Nirayel.'"

  "Please stop. I just can't bear it."

  "Of course, the Elven brewer was none too happy. I don't think I should even repeat what she said."

  "Then don't!" Borin cried pitifully.

  "Shut up in there!" commanded the guard as he came to Borin's door. "Stand back, prisoner!"

  Borin complied as the guard unlocked the iron door, which then swung inward. The guard walked through, followed closely by a Paladin, crouching low.

  "Is this him, Marshal?" the guard asked.

  "Yep," a most familiar voice replied. "Thought you got away, didn't you, Waldo?" asked the Paladin in a superior tone. "I've searched high and low for this varmint."

  Borin was staring at what he knew was a Druid, but who was fully dressed in finely crafted armor. After doing a closer inspection, he realized that it was his own armor. The Corporal insignia had been replaced with Sergeant Major bars, and then stamped with an encircled star of gold, denoting the class and rank of a fully vested Deputy Paladin, Warden Class. Still, he would have known his own armor anywhere. The nerve! Oh, the nerve!

  Mistaking Borin's expression for shock at having been caught up with by the long arm of the law, the Dwarven guard turned to the Marshal with his own expression of admiration. "Congratulations Constable," he offered solemnly while shaking the Paladin's hand, and very nearly toppling him over.

  "Oh, just doing my duty," the Constable assured the guard while bracing his hand against the cell door.

  "Judging by the Writ you showed me, I'd warrant that they'll be glad to see you bring this vermin back to Arbitos. He must be a real nasty character, extradition being what it is."

  "Yep," replied the Constable shortly while endeavoring to support the massive weight without showing any sign of the incredible strain under which he labored.

  "All right, Slime. Move out!" gruffed the guard, quickly ushering Borin out of the cell with the pointed end of his bronze spear.

  "Be careful," the Constable admonished. "He's tricky, this one."

  "Yes, I heard about his last escapade," intoned the Paladin. "Pilfering produce now, are you, Waldo?"

  A small growl escaped before Borin could adjust to the escalating string of insults. Fortunately, the guard's insistent spear tip was most helpful in his regained composure.

  "All that's left," continued the guard as he tossed iron shackles at Waldo, thus prompting Borin to restrain his own wrists and ankles, "is to stop off and collect his effects."

  "Umm… That is to say," the Constable offered haltingly, "that really won't be necessary, my good man."

  "What do ya mean?" the guard inquired with a confused expression while tossing him the key to Waldo's shackles. "He has a fair amount of goods in our lock-up, ya know."

  "What I mean is-well-a Swine like this has no right to possessions. Yes, that's it. I would appreciate it if you would simply see to it his possessions are sold, and the proceeds donated to local charity."

  "Do you mean to tell me you intend to parade this man all the way back to Arbitos in his long johns?" queried the Dwarf incredulously.

  "Yep," answered the Constable absently, feeling as if he were about to topple again, although he managed to right himself.

  "Well, if you say so. He sure musta made folks awful angry where you come from."

  "Well-I really shouldn't divulge the spec
ifics of the case," intoned the Marshal seriously. Then, noting the guard's deflated expression, he added, "Of course, seeing as how you're a fellow officer of the Law and all, I suppose I can trust you."

  "Sure ya can trust me," beamed the guard. "I won't tell a soul."

  "Well, you see, it involves the daughter of a certain prominent Southwest Wiccaris farmer," confided the Marshal in a hushed tone.

  "You don't say," replied the little guard, leaning in to hear more.

  The Marshal Looked about cautiously, insuring that no one was eavesdropping, and then motioned the guard even closer.

  "The poor innocent lass was just picking fresh wild flowers for her ailing grandmother when…" He whispered the rest into the guard's ear.

  Borin looked on as Jester continued to whisper confidentially to his all too eager audience. As this went on for some time, his attention wandered back through the door of the cell he had just exited, and then to the beetle as it returned with yet another load of building material for its nest. This wasn't going to aid in his escape, but neither was the great whopper spewing from the fool's mouth to the guard's ear. As long as time was apparently to be squandered anyway, he could at least squander it on something infinitely more interesting than a Druid's dribble.

  "And that's how they found her," concluded the Constable, no longer whispering.

  "Still atop the church bell tower?" asked the guard with genuine astonishment.

  "I'm afraid so," confirmed the Marshal. "What's more, the poor dear was three sheets to the wind and wearing naught but the Bishop's hat. I understand the baby is due before the coming Tri-equinox."

  Borin's attention snapped back, though he offered no argument. What could he say that wouldn't jeopardize his impending freedom? In truth, the Druid really was helping him. Wish as he might, he couldn't change that fact.

  "Oh! Oh, it's just awful!" lamented the inebriated occupant of the adjoining cell, who had apparently overheard the Marshal's account.