Rendering Nirayel-Wayward Fates

by Nathan P. Cardwell

  As if in anticipation of that observation, he casually traced the scar with a long fingernail while his yellow eyes remained intent upon Jester, as if reading him to determine his next move.

  "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Baron Goulder Heartrot."

  Jester started to speak, but was cut off when the Dark-elf to his right used a short staff to strike him across the face.

  "I do hope that you can accept my apologies for these most unsavory circumstances," continued the Baron cordially. "Unfortunately, I fear the situation is quite unavoidable."

  Jester did not reply.

  "You see, my associates and I find ourselves in need of transportation." offered the Baron affably. He then snapped his fingers.

  A hooded Dark-elf stepped forward, placed two small tow sacks at the Barons feet, and then backed away.

  His heart sank as the Baron reached to loosen the drawstrings of one sack, thus revealing Tuda, both bound and gagged. She had obviously been crying. He shifted his attention, realizing that Dobin was no doubt in the other.

  At the sight of Jester, Tuda's eyes brightened.

  That such innocence should be subjected to such vile ilk was an abomination: an affront to Nature itself. Jester's gaze wandered, and then dropped as he cursed himself for their capture.

  "Excellent," crooned the Baron, his grin broadening as he watched Jester's reaction. "From the expression on your face, I gather that these…creatures…are of some import to you. That is a most fortunate turn for everyone."

  At least she hasn't been harmed so far, he thought. Her eyes are too bright, too coherent, for someone of her age to have endured true hardship.

  "Kill it," commanded the Baron, his attention on Jester intensifying.

  "No!' Jester shouted. "If you seek cooperation, then you've found your leverage! I will do as bid."

  "Baron. If I may be so bold," a third Dark-elf said.

  "Your council is always welcome, Crimsin," replied the Baron.

  "An untested threat is a worthless tool, milord. I suggest you kill one creature to show your sincerity. You still have the other to hold the Druid in check."

  "NO!" screamed Jester, involuntarily struggling against his bonds.

  "Besides, I've never actually tasted Halfling. I understand that it's quite the delicacy," Crimsin concluded while continuing to grin in light of the Druid's dilemma.

  The hooded Dark-elf stepped forward again. "My Lord," she began. "He is obviously more than willing to cooperate. I fail to see the profit in reducing our insurance by half."

  "One is as good as two!" spat Crimsin.

  "Really?" asked the hooded Dark-elf. "And what would stop the Druid from simply porting both himself and the remaining child out as soon as you cut his bonds?"

  "We can take it out of his spell range," Crimsin countered. "Then we transport in two separate groups. One group can stay behind and hold it hostage, thereby insuring cooperation," he concluded with an air of satisfaction.

  "That would certainly insure transportation, all right!" she returned disdainfully. "The question, is where to?"

  "What are you babbling about, Delphi?" the Baron asked impatiently.

  "What would stop the Druid from transporting the first group to a place even further from home than we already are?" she answered with a question. "Or perhaps straight into an ambush at the Druid Hub, right here in Wiccaris? All he would have to do at that point is gate himself back here. The group holding the remaining child would be none the wiser. What's more, they would have to let him open yet another portal, as such would be their only hope of salvation. Unfortunately, when he envelops only the child and himself, then they would be stranded here."

  The Baron turned to Crimsin with obvious disapproval.

  "With two children," she continued, "you can take one of them out of his spell range, and then have him transport us all in two separate, but infinitely safer groups. By transporting the children separately, you won't need the Druid's agreement. You'll have him truly bound to your will."

  "You make a very strong point, my young Rogue," he commended.

  "My Baron," Crimsin began. "I'm sure if we just…"

  "Druid?" began the Baron while cutting Crimsin off. "As long as you cooperate, we will not harm your little friends. But if you attempt anything other than what I command, then you may rest assured their deaths will be most unpleasant, and not altogether swift. Do I make my meaning clear to you?" he asked, his concentration intent upon Jester's reply.

  "Yes. I will do as I am bid," Jester repeated. "I will do nothing to endanger the children."

  "Then we have an agreement," the Baron concluded with a smug expression.

  The searing stare Crimsin offered Delphi bore an almost tangible loathing. She had openly opposed his counsel. Worse yet, her counsel had been preferred over his. It was like an open slap in the face. How could he allow her to continue breathing after such an unrestrained display of disrespect? And yet, he could not kill her at this time, not after she just earned such favor in the Baron's eyes.

  She will die soon enough. Oh yes, he thought, as images filled his mind of the many pleasures he would experience at her expense. Lingering tortures. Exquisite pain, made to last for hours. His heart raced in anticipation. His breathing became heavy and the intensity of his stare became that of a starving man, drooling over a feast.

  This hostility was certainly not lost on Delphi. He could not have made his intentions known to her any better if he had screamed them. In fact, no one missed the raging silence transpiring between them. Especially Jester.

  "I assume," spoke Jester carefully, "that our agreement includes your underlings."

  The Baron shifted his gaze of amusement from Crimsin and Delphi, to the Half-elf. "What transpires between my people is none of my concern, as long as it doesn't interfere with the Quest, or my commands. This has nothing to do with our agreement," he concluded.

  Jester nodded his acceptance. There was little else for him to do, but accept.

  Crimsin forced his gaze from her and moved away from the crowd.

  Chapter Nine-Captain, My Captain: Revelations Of An Oaf

  Borin's world returned in much the same way as it had left. Shades of gray and light passed away as his surroundings gradually came into focus.

  "I cannot thank you enough, my dear," Reginald crooned with a deep bow as he kissed the woman's hand in a formal sign of respect.

  "I am most honored to be of service, milord," replied the Cleric, who began to follow suit, offering Reginald a grandly swept curtsy. Quickly thinking better of it, she corrected herself, snapping to attention and delivering a formal salute. With her task completed, she exited the tent and returned to her position in the column to meditate.

  "Father?" inquired Borin as he attempted to sit.

  "Lie back, Son. Let the good Lady's spells do their work."

  "What happened?" he asked weakly.

  "You were the recipient of a poison dart," Amara supplied.

  "Not just any poison," Merfee added, obviously impressed. "That was drachnid."

  Reginald placed a hand on Borin's chest. "You two shouldn't look so surprised. After all, my son is a Warrior." His tone was full of pride, but his eyes betrayed his relief.

  Knowing his father as he did, Borin realized how worry must have taken a toll, but perhaps he could make up for it. "Captain Krue," Borin announced in a formal tone. "I have retrieved The Candlis Talisman of Fortune."

  "No need to worry about that business now," Reginald replied dismissively. "Just rest, and we'll talk about it later."

  "Where's my bag?" Borin asked, disregarding his father's attempt to divert his attention. All that was left to do was hand the Talisman to his Captain and the Quest was complete.

  A silence fell as those around Borin glanced about nervously. At last, "I'm afraid you were found as you are, Son. There was no bag."

  "No," he refuted lowly, refusing to accept the implication. "I carried my duffle with me."
/>   "It is most likely that your assailants have your possessions," Merfee offered.

  "They no doubt have your armor as well," added Amara, thereby prompting Borin to lift his head and confirm what she had said.

  It was true. Incredible as it seemed, he had once again been deprived of his very armor. The thieves were apparently in a hurry, as he was still wearing all of the mesh under padding.

  "Son…" Reginald searched for words to console. "In truth, the Quest was but an exercise in futility. It was derived as an instrument to teach young Warriors the humility of failure. There are so many soldiers these days who come to a false security in their abilities… Honestly, nobody expected you to actually gain possession of it. To be truly honest, I wasn't even sure it existed."

  Borin wasn't listening. Time and again, his life had been close to its ending. He had been attacked by Dark-elf children with poisoned toothpicks, humiliated by that evil Druid, attacked by Bakers, framed for theft, stripped of his armor, infested by fleas, attacked by a giant chicken, and then tricked into consorting with a woman of ill repute, who not only admitted to having a Druid as a member of her family, but who was in fact married to a seven-foot-tall smelly monster who had almost killed him for doing nothing more than attempting to escape the clutches of the monster's wife. Now, he actually had been poisoned by Dark-elves, and yet once again stripped of everything, including his very armor. He suddenly felt quite weary. With all he had been through in the last few days, he simply had nothing left with which to be angry.

  "Father, may we just go home now?" he asked in a voice not dissimilar to that of a child who had been allowed to stay up so late that even the child himself recognizes the need for sleep.

  A commotion suddenly broke out in front of the hospice tent. This caught the attention of everyone except Borin, who was yet stupefied by his own misfortune.

  "Call off this boob of a guard before I squash his noggin!"

  Reginald pulled back the tent flap. The guard in question had caught Magnatha's left cane in his right hand as it came down. He had also managed to catch her right cane in his left hand as it came up. With neither willing to relinquish their claims on the canes, they both now danced in a small circle as each strove to gain control.

  At one point, it looked as if the guard had managed to gain the upper hand when the old woman released her grip on the cane she had originally sought to bring down on his head. This was a false victory, as was quickly evident when she grabbed the cane yet again, only now her grip was above, rather than below his. The strategy to this seemingly odd tactic became all too self-evident when she commenced to utilize her new leverage repeatedly to bang the guard's helm.

  "Hold!" bellowed Reginald in the same tone of voice as had boomed orders over countless battlefields: a voice no soldier under his command had ever failed to heed.

  Accordingly, the guard released his grips on both canes while immediately coming to attention.

  Magnatha was another matter. She had not taken orders from anyone in a very long time, and the Captain's tone, while quite authoritative, had no special hold on her. She had her own ideas of propriety and justice. As such, the guard received one last whack on his armored noggin for good measure, and though the soldier surely found this most uncomfortable, he did not waver. His ability to stay at attention in the face of such adversity was a testament to his training, and more than likely the primary reason he received but one extra whack.

  With the small outbreak of violence now under control, Reginald quickly strode to stand before the two combatants, presumably to reprimand and perhaps even incarcerate the crazy old crone for her affront.

  Instead, he bowed low at the waist, holding that posture for several moments before finally returning to an upright position. This was a gesture of respect usually reserved for military ceremonies, or sometimes as a casual greeting to foreign Royalty.

  Magnatha nodded, almost absently, as if the act of doing so was a matter of long endured habit.

  "Mistress Thistle, I presume," he offered in a formal tone while quickly moving to stand directly in front of her, dropping to one knee, removing his helmet, and then lowering his head in fealty.

  There followed a shocked silence from every soldier and Tarot in the vicinity, most of whom being of the opinion that offering one's head to such a woman was rather foolish, especially in light of her obvious head-whacking disposition. It did, however, serve to break through Borin's stupor of self-pity. At the sound of his father's formal address, he turned his head to witness said submission to a person that he knew was naught more than an old Tarot. Upon witnessing this, he sat bolt upright, his full and complete attention achieved.

  "Ock! Stand ta yer hind legs, Regi," Magnatha prompted while placing the palm of her hand to his nape in acknowledgment. "Ya owe the likes of me no such grandeur."

  Regi? wondered Borin.

  Reginald stood as bid, taking Magnatha's hand, and then appropriately kissing it as was called for by parliamentary procedure. "Retirement be damned, Magi Thistle! As far as I'm concerned, you are as you were, and shall remain until I find my final breath. I have only ever had one Captain."

  Captain Thistle? wondered Borin. Magi?

  Magnatha laughed. "Ya've not changed one bit, Regi. Yer still a blasted politician."

  "Milady," Reginald replied with a sly smile. "I assure you, I am still the same Warrior that you yourself trained. Politics is but another weapon in my arsenal."

  Magnatha considered this a moment, then suddenly broke out in laughter more closely resembled a cackle.

  Borin, whose attention had been last to focus on the commotion outside his tent, now found himself standing next to his father. He had only a vague memory of standing, and then moving to where he now stood. His concentration was intent upon the ancient woman standing before him. The image he had formed of her as nothing more remarkable than a crotchety old Tarot peasant had abruptly been displaced. And yet, this in itself was not the driving force behind what now consumed his attention. It wasn't that he had simply made a miscalculation. In fact, miscalculation in combat training was the cornerstone to eventual mastery. No, this was different. There was something fundamentally upsetting in being so completely mistaken in the assessment of a person's character. Sometimes one has precious little time in which to determine just who is to be defended, and who is to be dispatched. These are times in which one can ill afford to be so wrong. He recalled the young Dark-elves in the alley, and the efforts made by Jesterwolf to intercede on his behalf.

  "Ahh, there you are," crooned Reginald, realizing Borin was now by his side. "Captain Thistle. I would present my son, Corporal Borin Krue."

  Borin bowed deeply.

  "We've done met," Magnatha smiled. "Though I had no idea he was of yer line. I suppose I shoulda known, considerin the trouble what seems to follow him about." At this, she had to cover her mouth to avoid snickering, which could be taken as a social indiscretion under the good Captain's official presentation.

  "And what, may I ask, have you been up to for the last century?" Reginald inquired. "And don't go telling me you're just enjoying your platinum epoch. We both know I know you better than that."

  "True enough," she grinned. "I was never one fer bein put out to pasture. Truth be told, me business is naught but the business of family."

  "Family?" Reginald repeated dumbly, not quite forming the intended question as he sought and failed to align the image of his former commanding officer with that of a homemaker.

  "I never had time fer the makins of such during me career. Oh, I had you, and others like ya. Ya were all fine soldiers of every brand, and don't ya go thinkin I take such lightly, cause I don't. I was a career soldier and I've not one single complaint, nor regret."

  "A glorious career, milady," he quickly agreed.

  "Even so, by the time I resigned me commission, I was done too old to start up any fool notions of marriage. Who'd be wantin a crusty old Roc pie like me anyways, eh?" she snorted laughter.
/>
  "Reginald's smile was offered as a token of one wishing to offer polite argument, but unwilling to interrupt. Besides, wish as he might, it was hard to dispute. After all, his mentor was older than anyone he had ever known. Magnatha Thistle might be many things, but beautiful was not on the list.

  "So, there I was," she continued. "Passed the time fer man huntin, and sure and certain passed the time fer child bearin. What could I have to invest in, but others with less themselves? Look about ya, Regi."

  Reginald glanced about. What he viewed was a menagerie of half the races on Nirayel.

  "Almost everyone who camps here is either one of me children, grandchildren, or great grandchildren. And there be others as well, done grown and gone their ways. Not a one of em could be dearer ta me if I'd birthed em meself. Real corkers too, every last one."

  Reginald listened, and his smile broadened. As Magnatha spoke of her family, she slipped a bit further into a more archaic accent while her posture became that of a Warrior reciting some ancient and heroic deed. Her words offered one story, but her tone offered another. Her tone sang of a light yet burning in the dark, of dragons vanquished, and evil armies driven back before the might of valiant righteousness.

  Now the image of his old Master aligned properly with her legend. She was proud of her family, and here was Reginald Krue, one of the few persons of her previous life whose opinion really meant something to her. She wanted him to see. She wanted him to understand what it all meant. And he did understand. He understood that though the form of a Warrior may change, there remains one single constant. A Warrior must Quest.

  "Where's me wee grubs?" she asked brightly. "I want ya ta meet the latest additions. We took em in after their folks died. Now they're a handful, all right, no doubt of that, but I think you'll see what I mean by corkers," she chortled.

  "They stayed the night in the guard tower with Jester," Cleetis reported.