“Flaming horse cookies, I hate this already. Here I go and make an obvious poke at you, and you don’t even bother to poke back. It’s like you are all serious all of a sudden. If that’s what this change means, I don’t want any part of it.”
“Brother,” Kylor continued with patience filling his voice. “I am still the same person you grew up with. I am the same brother you sat on while punching him in the chest. I am the same brother you force-fed mud pies. I am the same brother who was always smarter, faster, and better-looking than you all our lives. Don’t worry, none of that is going to change.”
With this last jest, Bardrick visibly relaxed as a smile crept across his face. The whole “better-looking” joke was something Kylor often used despite the fact that they were identical twins. With this, Bardrick knew his brother’s sense of humor had not completely abandoned him.
“Well then, I’m still not sure I understand it, but if you being all religious and stuff doesn’t mean we still can’t joke around, or that I can’t still feed you the occasional mud pie, then I guess I got no real grumble with it.”
The ceremony was wonderful, and all of the caravaneers were present. Even Arreya returned from Aton-Ri just in time for the ceremony. The look on Bardrick’s face showed that his gruff and objectionable manner had been a mask. He watched his brother’s Washing with his face beaming with pride at the love and adoration that poured out from the assembled friends and Durgak strangers who attended. The only ones missing were the heroes on their way to Varynia. Hopefully, they would soon return with whatever news they discovered. In the meantime, the members of the company waiting in Stonehold could only keep waiting. For Bardrick, spending a few extra days, enjoying the masterful brewing skills of the Mountain Spring brewmasters was not a delay he would regret.
Secrets Revealed
Thatcher’s nearly two hours of tossing and turning provided little rest. He awoke as the slightest hint of the dawn’s warm glow crept over sliver of eastern horizon nestled between the northern and southern slopes of Dragon Pass. Captain Tropham and a few of his troopers were already busy about the camp. Thatcher doubted they had slept at all, but of course, their journey would only be half a day back to Stonehold. For those heading for Cyria, their travels would take at least a week there and back. Depending on their reception in the capital city of Varynia, it could be considerably longer.
Apart from giving of the coins to Tropham, which he had already decided to do, the thing that was disturbing his restless mind most was Jeslyn’s comment about his crossbow being useless on the back of a horse. He had been so proud of his invention. A repeating crossbow was an amazing revolution and had increased his ability to defend himself from a distance considerably. He had not shared the secrets of its mechanism with anyone, but he knew many of his guild-mates envied his cleverness.
Thatcher had a knack for new ideas as far back as he could remember. Building things better just seemed to come naturally to him, and when he got a puzzle or a new idea into his head, he was unable to let it go until he had a solution.
His camp was simple enough to break. He didn’t really own anything beyond his weapons, thief’s tools, and a raggedy bedroll, so while he waited for the others to rise and pack, he used the dim light of the predawn to scratch out his thoughts on his most precious of possessions—his notebook.
Paper was not common, and it was expensive. Quills and ink were relatively easy and cheap to find, but having something to apply it to was always the issue. He kept his notebook as secret as possible from his guild-mates, for they would have ceaselessly ridiculed him for wasting good coin on such a useless dalliance. This notebook, however, was the center of Thatcher’s hopes and dreams.
It contained marvelous imaginings, many of which he had brought to life already, such as his repeating crossbow. Others were beyond his ability either due to the expense of the materials it would take to manifest them or because there was still just one little glitch or two to work out that awaited further inspiration. Now the task was to answer the snarky comment of the Rajiki archer girl.
As he puzzled, he realized that solving the bulkiness issue with his crossbow would have applications and benefits far beyond firing from the back of a galloping beast. As a rogue, he often had to negotiate delicate situations like the corridor blade trap back in the raider lair. His crossbow and even his longsword had been far too bulky to take with him on that twisting and tumbling journey past those spinning blades. If he only had a smaller weapon, not much bigger than his dagger, then he could have traversed the trap and arrived at the end with firepower far beyond his trusty stiletto. That was it, a one-handed version of his crossbow!
He began to sketch out the possibilities, pausing only a time or two in order to calculate the tension requirements and the scaling for the bolts. Then he hit a wall. Wood small enough to be feasibly fashioned and pulled back by a counter lever in such a small device would require tensile strength enough to propel a much smaller bolt with enough power to penetrate light armor. Wooden arms capable of such tension, however, would be incredibly difficult to recock, and would lose resistance over time. Without a solution to this issue, he would have to regularly plan to replace the necessarily custom-made cross arms, creating an ongoing cash sink. Wood was not the answer. He would have to think of something else.
Thatcher was so consumed with working through the glitch in his idea, he did not even notice Melizar slipping silently up to him.
“Looks like you have been quite busy before the sun has even shown its face, my friend. Anything I can help with?”
“Oh,” Thatcher answered, startled a bit by the mage’s proximity. “Just some idle doodling. I’m not sure the idea is even worth the breath to explain it.”
Thatcher knew mages, by nature, were brilliant. When it came to practical, mechanical things, however, most of them were as out of place as a bull in a pottery shop. Their powerful minds were more accustomed to unlocking the mysteries of hidden power and the intricacies of kashaph than working through the physics of the natural world. They bent the laws of nature, they did not figure out how to work within them. He doubted his magical companion would be much help with the tension problem, but there were things he needed to discuss with Melizar before they left for Cyria.
The mage peered at the notebook drawing of Thatcher’s stillborn idea. Thatcher’s stomach twisted itself into a knot, his heart sinking deep within his chest as he gave utterance to his next words.
“I am glad you came by, Melizar. We need to talk.”
Melizar fought to contain his elation. It seemed the rogue may already be wrestling with the very question Melizar hoped to raise with him.
Who else had seen?
He patiently waited while Thatcher gathered his thoughts. There was something weighing heavy on the young thief’s mind. It was something far beyond the scribbled ideas in his notebook.
“This is the hardest thing I have ever done,” Thatcher began, “but I feel I will have no rest until I do it.”
The young thief reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a tiny piece of black leather and extended it toward the mage.
“I feel I must return this to you.”
Melizar gazed at the magical eye patch he had given to the young rogue. His mind raced through the possible meanings of the youth returning it to him.
Did the boy not understand the value of this gift would bring a king’s ransom at any magical auction?
Was the young thief intending to betray the secret he inferred that he would keep?
Melizar allocated a portion of his mind to run through possible responses while continuing patiently allow the thief work through what he had to say. When the continued pause became intolerably long, he prompted the young rogue to continue.
“You don’t like my gift?”
The surprise that invaded Thatcher’s face showed clearly that he greatly feared being misunderstood.
“No,” the boy quickly corrected. “That is not it at all
. This is the most amazing gift anyone has ever given me. Believe me, it is taking every ounce of willpower I have to bring myself to return it to you. The problem is not with the gift, it is with the promise that accompanied it.”
Melizar now reallocated a large portion of his mind to working through how he would go about killing his companions once Thatcher decided to reveal his secret to the others. While working through those scenarios, the small portion of his mind still engaged in conversation with Thatcher nonchalantly continued it.
“What promise is that, my young friend?”
Thatcher’s surprised look transformed into semi-confusion as if somehow there was a misunderstanding about the implied promise of secrecy they both so clearly understood in the heat of battle.
“Uh, I expect,” Thatcher cautiously continued, “unless I misread your intent, that the gift was more about keeping secret of your skin color than a thanks for saving your life.”
“And you feel a need to discuss this with the others?” Melizar inquired as he subtly moved his hand near the mouth of his spell component pouch.
“As for my part, I have no problem taking your secret to my grave, although I am at somewhat of a loss why you choose to guard it so closely. I can keep my promise, but the issue is you have paid for a useless service in buying my silence. I was not the only one who saw.”
Melizar again reallocated his mental resources. The part that had been engaged in plotting how to eliminate his companions returned mostly to the conversation at hand.
Perhaps things are not as far out of control as he imagined. If others beyond the rogue had seen and yet Melizar lived through the night, he might not have to kill all of them after all. He once again nodded encouragingly toward Thatcher.
“Go on.”
“Gideon, Goldain, and I all saw your hands.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really. Let me be honest with you, Melizar. You may not realize this, but I don’t care one whit what someone looks like or what race they are on the outside. My best friend in the world is a green-skinned Hobgoblin chats-enash, and let me tell you there have been many times on the streets of Aton-Ri where I have fought side by side with Ebon against those who couldn’t see past his skin.”
“Your best friend is a Hobgoblin chats-enash? That would be something new to see.”
Melizar’s mind whirled with the possibilities. Adami and Hobgoblins were mortal enemies. He couldn’t recall a situation where he had seen them not mutually hostile. Everyone knew chats-enash, like himself, were not will-bound to their Malakim or Ayabim patrons, but more often than not, the mixes tended to follow the lead of their non-Adami parent.
“Look,” Thatcher continued. “I don’t know what race you are, but I know who you are. You are my friend, a valued companion, and I would give my life standing shoulder to shoulder with you against anyone who sought your harm. I probably understand better than most why you might want to hide your identity, but I would be willing to bet my life that if you gave Captain Gideon and Prince Goldain and even Duncan the same chance, they would do the same. Know this: If I am wrong, they will have to kill me to get to you.”
Melizar struggled to find his voice. Any part of his mind plotting how to survive by killing his companions ceased its contemplations. He reached a gloved hand out and closed the young rogue’s hand still holding the eye patch.
“You keep this gift, my friend. I gave it to you for saving my life. The fact that you would tell me about the worthlessness of our secret, and your commitment to stand with me based on our friendship, is worth more to me than a thousand magical items. Once the whole truth is out, I am not sure you may not get the chance to give your life on your word. Your actions just now give me hope that you would truly keep it. I will not ask it of you though. If things go differently than you expect, I want you to know that I truly am your friend, and I want you to stand aside and keep yourself safe whatever happens.”
Thatcher gratefully returned the eye patch to his vest pocket.
“So what race are you that you feel would cause those of us who have fought and bled beside you to toss away our history and seek your life? From seeing my friend Ebon and his brother Garrack, and I can say for certain you are no half-Hobgoblin. What other race could inspire the hatred you to fear?”
Melizar lowered his voice to a whisper.
“Have you heard of the D’zarik?”
The unchanged expression on Thatcher’s face said as plainly as any words that the young rouge did not know of the race.
“We are a servant race of the Ayabim, who live below the surface of your world, in a place called Shadowdeep. There is an entire world below Ya-Erets that lies in darkness and exists only in the knowledge of the wise and learned or those whose memories are long. We are like the V’rassi in both physical appearance and longevity, save for the color of our skin. In other ways, our culture, society, and mining abilities, much more closely resemble the Durgak.”
“So you are a full-blood servant of the Ayabim?” Thatcher asked, an incredulous look overtaking his youthful features. “I find that hard to believe.”
“My younger brother and I are chats-enash of a D’zarik father and an Adami slave-girl who was our mother.”
“So you are chats-enash. That makes you free-willed, so why do you fear?”
“I have been told from childhood that those who serve the Malakim will kill a D’zarik on sight, even a half-blood one.”
“I think you fear unnecessarily, Melizar. If there is one race hated and feared almost as much at the goblinoids here in the northwest it is the Fenriri, but Sable is a Fenratu, a Fenriri chats-enash, and nobody so much as batted an eye when she joined our group, except maybe Arreya.”
They both shared a brief smile as they remembered the tension in the air when their feline scout first met her new canine counterpart.
“But,” Thatcher continued. “You saw yourself even they were like long-lost sisters after shedding blood in battle together. I think you may have heard tales designed to scare D’zarik children, but give us Adami some credit. The One Lord wouldn’t have made chats-enash possible if we were going to kill on sight every member of an Ayabim race we came across.”
Melizar’s mind swam. The very fact he lived through the night with two of the greatest warriors in their company aware of his difference certainly pointed to some truth in the boy’s words. Perhaps, though, they just had not put the pieces together, or could not imagine in their wildest dreams ever meeting a real D’zarik.
Even more likely, perhaps none of them had ever seen or heard of his race. The issue might not even come out until they met someone who had. No matter which explanation was responsible for the fact that Goldain and Gideon had not already moved against him, it was apparent that his worst fears were far beyond the truth of the situation. This was not the first time he had reason to doubt what he had been taught about the surface races. It likely would not be the last.
“Well, young Thatcher,” Melizar said, standing up and lightly brushing the dust from his robes. “The sun is up and so are most of our companions. Before they bring down the main meeting tent, let us put your theory to the test. Before we do, however, if you are wrong and this little revelation ends in bloodshed, I want you to have one more gift.”
“What gift?” Thatcher’s voice trembled with barely contained excitement.
“I could not help but notice your drawings. A hand crossbow is a great concept, but you are probably wondering how to solve the issue with the tensile strength of the small, wooden cross arms, right?”
Thatcher’s jaw dropped.
“Uh, yeah. That is pretty much where my idea hit the wall. Do you know much about weapons? I thought mages had little time for such mundane things.”
Melizar laughed.
“Boy, my people are the greatest weaponsmiths on all of Chadash. Our patron, the Ayabim, Husam, was purported to once have been the weaponsmith of heaven. Now I don’t believe in all those fairy tales, but
it is no fairy tale that the D’zarik weapons are as sought after as Durgak armor.”
“So,” Thatcher asked. “My idea has merit?”
“The idea you have been toying with has been a standard in D’zarik warfare for centuries. I come from a long line of military men.”
“I thought you were a mage, not a soldier.”
“Much to my father’s chagrin, I deviated from our family legacy and followed the pursuit of kashaph. Being the oldest son certain things were passed down to me, like that eye patch, the likes of which have little use in my current profession. I have a toy from my grandfather, which fell to me when my father sent me away from our home city. I will never use it, so I want you to have it.”
“But someday you may have a family, a son of your own to pass it on to.”
“Living away from other D’zarik, the prospects of me ever having a son to pass it on to aren’t promising. Quickly, come with me before we meet with the others.”
They approached Melizar’s campsite. Thatcher watched as the mage pulled the now-familiar dimensional pocket from his pack. As he unfolded it on the ground and spoke the words of unlocking, it performed just as it had in the raider lair.
Thatcher was practically salivating as Melizar reached deep within the magical pocket and pulled forth a large leather-bound box and an even larger leather bag. He spoke the closing word and refolded the dimensional pocket, setting the items he had retrieved beside him as he worked.
Thatcher surreptitiously slipping the eye patch over his eye. His face showed his realization of what Melizar must already know. Thatcher saw a shimmering blue glow coming from the box.
“Yes, my friend,” Melizar said in reaction to the excitement filling Thatcher face. “There is some magic about this, but not nearly as strong as that contained in your eye patch.”
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