by Alon Shalev
Ballendir stared at him in disbelief. Then a grim smile stretched across his face. “Perhaps yeh need to tell mah what a Wycaan is, exactly.”
SEVEN
General Tarlach reached the Cliftean Pass and felt a wave of relief when he found that the elves had not engaged the forces there. As long as they stayed within the borders of Odessiya, Tarlach believed he could find them. He instructed his troops to set up camp to rest for a day.
They had been chasing the renegades now for two months and, though these were battle-hardened troops, he saw no need to push them further. He sent some of the sentries at the pass out to hunt. They would enjoy the change of routine and give the battalion a well-deserved treat of fresh meat.
Tarlach slept for a few hours and then went to the kitchens. The cook had his back to the entrance and didn’t look up from his steaming pots. His deep voice boomed, “When I have food ready, you’ll know it, and then you can come eat with everyone else. Who do you think you are? Even the general himself wouldn’t dare sneak into the kitchens while the meal is still being prepared.”
Tarlach smiled, tempted to reveal himself. But he feared the big cook might have a heart attack when he realized at whom he was yelling. Tarlach didn’t want to lose such an important member of his staff.
Back outside, he found Bortand, his assistant, waiting patiently. He seemed to know instinctively when the general was around. Tarlach rued the day he would have to find someone to replace him.
“How did you know where to find me, my friend?”
“Why, my good general,” Bortand replied. “You, um, assume I came looking for you?” He rubbed his ample belly. “Life on the road can be challenging for one with, um, my . . . appetite.”
Tarlach laughed. “It’s good you’re here. The fresh air and exercise will help you lose some weight. And anyhow, while I admire your considerable talents, I fear they will not be enough to get you past that cook.”
Bortand looked between the kitchen tent and General Tarlach. He frowned. “Sir, would you like me to get some food for the both of us and bring it to your tent?”
“A flawless strategy, Bortand,” the general laughed, “but I’ll wait until the soldiers eat. Go forage for yourself if you wish, and then join me when you’re ready. I shall stroll around the camp for a while.”
“I can wait, sir. You’re right; a gentle stroll will be, um, good for me.” He patted his stomach again.
Tarlach knew his troops did not enjoy his meandering. When he was younger, he had maintained a good rapport with many of his soldiers. They appreciated his jokes and his concern for their families and themselves. He had bound them to him, and they had been ready and willing to die for him. Many of them, in fact, had.
Now they stiffened when he came into sight. They laughed overenthusiastically at his jokes and answered his questions very formally. Where his leadership had once divined the respect and compassion of camaraderie, it now met only with the harsh rigidity of fear.
As it should be, he figured, but still, that fellowship was something he missed. Perhaps that was why the young ranger, who showed no trepidation, had interested him so. As he and Bortand walked the grounds, soldiers sprung to attention and came out of their tents as soon as they heard he was approaching. He wanted them to rest, so he led Bortand away from the camp to a cluster of trees nearby.
They had barely sat down when they saw a horse galloping toward the camp. On its back rode a ranger. The rangers fascinated him. They did not cower to his command, or even that of the Emperor, though they always showed both great respect. They considered themselves a free people roving the lands. They never mentioned ranger villages, but surely there were ranger women and children? He hadn’t questioned them because they fulfilled an important need, and they did it extremely well.
As the ranger dismounted and strode briskly over to the general, Tarlach called to a soldier, who scampered over. “Go the kitchens. Tell the cook I require food for the ranger brought here. Whatever he has right now will suffice. And he should send some ale.”
“I will bring it back myself, my lord.” The soldier saluted and ran toward the kitchen tent just as the ranger reached Tarlach and Bortand.
Tarlach considered this ranger to be the leader, though there was another also older than the rest.
“My lord,” the man said and bowed his head full of thick, gray-streaked hair. “May I submit my report?”
“Sit down, man,” the general said, offering a place along the log. “What news do you bring?”
“Thank you. As I think you know, sir, the traitors moved north when they reached the pass. As you ordered, Jermona is the point tracker.”
“How’s the boy doing?”
“Though he’s young, he is well-trained. And he takes his responsibilities very seriously.”
“And you trust him as your point tracker?”
“Yes sir, Jermona is good enough to be point. He has done well and, besides, there are always two or three close behind him, ready to take over if needed.”
Tarlach stroked his chin. “What if I told you to now put a more experienced man at point?”
“Sir?” The ranger frowned. “Is there a problem? I understood it was your desire that Jermona took point. Have we not been of adequate service?”
“Adequate?” He snorted. “Don’t belittle yourself or your men. You’re excellent at your job. I hold you all in high esteem. Yes, I had requested him at point. I was just wondering . . . do not read anything into it. I truly value your service.”
The ranger bowed his head again, lower this time. “Thank you, General Tarlach. I have worked for you now for ten years and hold you in high esteem, as well.”
“I am pleased to hear it. Here come the refreshments. We will have a proper meal soon. Take a few bites for now to satiate your hunger, and then give me your report.”
EIGHT
Seanchai was surprised at the sheer amount of crates and boxes and how heavy it all was as he helped right and repack the overturned cart. Ballendir and Ophera, the old dwarfe, shuffled nervously, anxious not to reveal what they were carrying.
When the wagon was ready and Ballendir’s wounded sister safely secured with Maugwen watching over her, they began to move north. Two mules pulled the cart; their harnesses had prevented them from trying to flee the wolfheids, a fact that had probably saved their lives.
Seanchai couldn’t believe he was in the company of dwarves, and it gave him a needed sense of purpose in his journey. Though he was not following Mhari’s instruction, he was at least doing something constructive. He was intimidated by the idea of the Elves of the West, not because he feared their existence, but because he wondered how he would fare among their practiced, concentrated power.
Seanchai felt strongly he was on the right course. He looked around at his small collective. Ilana and Ballendir walked just behind him, discussing the route. The others had spread to both sides and behind, wary and silent.
Rhoddan had clearly been physically tortured and his wounds, though fading, were still visible. He had refused to discuss them with Seanchai, bearing it alone as he felt a warrior should. Shayth bore no visible wounds but something had clearly happened. He had asked Shayth what Tarlach had done but his friend was as closed as ever.
Ilana called to him. “We’ll make camp in a couple hours. It’ll take at least another day to enter the Bordan Mountains, and we must consider Ellendir.”
“Ellendir?”
“Mah sister,” Ballendir explained. “En be the name of our family and dir the name of our clan. It’s a rich vocabulary, which gets lost in translation.” He hesitated and then said: “I’m glad yeh’re coming with us.”
Seanchai looked at him, befuddled. “You trust me?”
“I didn’t say that exactly. But whatever else yeh are, Seanchai, yeh’re a healer. In dwarf culture, healers are considered an almost priestly class. Ilana told me how yeh see yehself as a healer not a warrior. In the short time that I have known yeh I h
ave seen both sides. This speaks to me. Also . . . bah, I talk too much. Yeh must excuse me. Mah people will tell yeh that I’m very opinionated and speak mah mind too freely.”
Seanchai smiled at him. “I’m glad you share your thoughts, Ballendir. I hope you can help me understand your people better.”
The old dwarfe snorted from her place on the cart, and then recoiled under Ballendir’s glare.
“Ophera scoffs because she knows mah so well. Yeh should probably take everything I tell yeh with a pinch of gold.”
“Like what?” Seanchai asked.
“Aaah, later. Mah answer would not be short. Over dinner, perhaps.”
Seanchai realized that he had not eaten since the morning. “Well, now’s as good a time as any to break for a meal,” he said.
They all laughed, but, as Seanchai was not the only one hungry, they stopped in a clearing a short while later, away from the path.
Seanchai and Ilana lowered Ellendir off the wagon and began their Ryku. Seanchai sensed Ballendir behind them, no doubt watching for any movement from his sister as they channeled earth energy into her body.
Afterward, Seanchai sat and watched Ophera light a small fire and hang a cauldron over it. She worked without saying a word, eyes always cast downwards. Soon, the aroma of cooking vegetables permeated the campsite.
Maugwen helped prepare the broth. She added what remained of the rabbits from the previous day and also produced some bread, which excited the dwarfe. Seanchai felt uncomfortable with Ophera’s clearly subordinate role and, after he had eaten his stew, took the pot and began to clean it.
An agitated conversation ensued in Dwarfish between Ophera and Ballendir. Finally, Ballendir nodded and turned to Seanchai.
“We’d rather yeh not clean the dishes. Yeh’re our guest, and we feel it to be impolite.”
Seanchai started to object, but Ilana caught his attention and shook her head ever so slightly. Perplexed, he turned to the dwarfe.
“I mean no offense, but I need to make tea with my herbs. The drink is for Ellendir and me. It gives energy and helps to stimulate the body. In her case, it will help to replenish her blood supply.”
Ophera looked to Ballendir, who managed to either sum up what the Wycaan had said in a few words or just told her to acquiesce. She rose, took the pot away from Seanchai, and cleaned it. Then she poured some water in, looking for Seanchai to signal how much.
“Thank you, but I would prefer to add the herbs and stir,” he said.
“Why?” Ballendir asked.
“Firstly, I want to ensure the right amount and secondly, it mustn’t boil.”
Another furious exchange ensued until Ballendir stopped it with a sharp word. Ophera plopped on a tree stump and crossed her arms. She glared at Seanchai, who felt bad.
He took a small pouch and added three pinches of herbs to the water. He wasn’t sure how much to give Ellendir, as he was completely ignorant about dwarf physiology. He could take his own and dilute the rest, he decided. When Ophera handed him a wooden spoon, he took it but immediately handed it back as a peace offering.
“Would you stir? I’m very tired and would appreciate the help. Please make sure it doesn’t boil.”
Ophera nodded stiffly. She approached the task with utmost seriousness, and Seanchai went back to sit with Ballendir.
“Now perhaps you’ll tell me what makes you different from other dwarves, and why the dwarf nation seeks isolation.”
“Gladly,” Ballendir said. “But first we should light our pipes. Perhaps I can interest yeh in some testleweed? It grows near our mountain range back in the East.”
“To smoke?” Seanchai asked, looking to his friends for help and receiving only amused grins. “I’ve never–”
“Really?” Ballendir raised two bushy eyebrows. “Is this something that only dwarves and men do?”
“Elves smoke pipe weed,” Ilana said.
“Well, now,” Ballendir mused. “I see I have a lot to teach yeh, young Wycaan.”
NINE
General Tarlach listened carefully as the ranger described each individual in the party and recalled the decision to head north. Tarlach wanted to know more about the human girl, but the ranger knew no more than her name and physical appearance.
At the mention of dwarves, however, Tarlach started. How many dwarves? What clothes were they wearing? Could the rangers tell what clan they belonged to? He asked a dozen more questions to no avail.
“You should have sent a more experienced scout,” Tarlach snarled, knowing that it had been his decision to send Jermona. “Dwarves always like to show their clan colors. I need to know which clan is thinking of moving so far north right under my nose.”
“My lord,” the ranger replied evenly. “I went myself to confirm that they were indeed dwarves. I can assure you they were not wearing clan regalia.”
General Tarlach abruptly stood and looked away. Dwarves. Why? He turned back to the ranger and asked the same questions again and received exactly the same answers. Finally, he dismissed the ranger.
“Do not leave the camp. I will have new orders for you.” The ranger nodded once and left.
Tarlach gazed at a nearby hill without seeing it. He sighed, deep in thought, and looked over at Bortand, who was hovering close.
“Why, my friend?” he asked. “Dwarves do not travel above ground if they can help it. Why are they on the move?”
“My general,” Bortand began. “First, um, we should remember that this is a small group. They could be an advance scouting party or simply running away for politics, love, a gem feud. This might also explain the lack of insignia.”
Tarlach nodded slowly. “Yes, that makes sense. If they were transporting anything of worth, then there would be a lot more of them.”
“Unless, of course, they hoped to travel, um, unnoticed.”
The general nodded again and stood abruptly. “Come. This is very disturbing and we must deal with it quickly.”
Bortand was shuffling to keep up with the general. “Why does it disturb you so? They don’t seem to me of any, um, significance.”
“Because we don’t want the Wycaan to get in with the dwarves,” Tarlach replied without looking. “If he is isolated from the races, there’s little damage he can do.”
“You worry this elf will forge an, um, alliance among the races?”
“It has happened before, Bortand, and now this elf’s group includes humans, elves and dwarves. History has a nasty habit of repeating itself.”
“Yes, sir. Indeed, it does.”
“And the Emperor, my friend, has a keen interest in history.”
Jermona kept his distance from the party until they set up camp for the night and lit a fire. The shadows cast by the flames provided a perfect cloak for him and the fire ensured the party would have no night vision. He settled behind a good-sized rock, making sure he was situated where they wouldn’t see him if they left the fire. He was eager to hear their conversation.
The dwarf, Ballendir, was very talkative, but would not reveal their mission or details about their journey. This dismayed Jermona because he knew once the general heard about the dwarves, he would ask about this before anything else. He listened as they discussed their wounded dwarfe companion and the herbal mix the big elfe was preparing as they ate.
After they finished dinner, a pungent smell reached Jermona. At the sound of choked coughing, he peeked around to look. The huge elf, Seanchai they called him, was holding a pipe and gasping for air. His bright red face was a sharp contrast to his white-blond hair. The others were laughing at him and Jermona wondered whether Seanchai would draw his blades and reassert his authority. But he seemed to take it in good humor.
The dwarf counseled Seanchai on how to smoke the pipe. Jermona knew from his travels that elves used it ceremoniously and that humans and dwarves smoked frequently, especially in the taverns. Ranger youth were only allowed to smoke pipes when they came of age, and he had not been interested.
Whi
le they smoked, the dwarf told a story. Jermona listened intently. He had heard it before, but from a very different perspective.
Many soldiers had already tucked into their meals by the time General Tarlach joined them for dinner. The remnants of two wild pigs roasted over an open pit, and the cook had set a table with vegetables, bread and ale. It had been a long time since they had enjoyed hot, fresh meat.
Three soldiers rose from the table nearest the cooking pit and offered the general their table. He nodded and considered inviting them to join him. It would terrify them, he realized, and anyway, he needed to talk with the ranger.
He looked around but couldn’t see the ranger at any of the tables. He turned to Bortand, intending to instruct him to bring the ranger, but Bortand was already seated, bent over a full plate of steaming meat. Tarlach laughed at the sight and called for a soldier to find the scout.
While he waited, he took a plate; helped himself to some meat, vegetables and bread; and joined Bortand at the table. Just as he sat down, the cook bustled out of his tent and presented a large oval tray to the general.
“One of the hunters caught a pheasant, my lord,” he said.
“Thank you,” Tarlach said, barely glancing up. “And please, compliment the hunters.”
The cook bowed as he walked away. Tarlach dug his fork into the pheasant and took a large portion. Then he signaled to Bortand who delicately and expertly sliced off some choice parts.
The ranger appeared, eyes puffed up and curly, gray hair dripping with water.
“I woke you?” the general asked.
“It is of no consequence,” the ranger replied, eyeing the pheasant but not moving to take any.