by Philip Smith
Suddenly, the ground beneath Robert’s feed shifted and crumbled, and he felt himself begin to topple forward. They tried to regain a semblance of balance, but to no avail as they plummeted down a steep hill, their rolling, bashing bodies making a thunderous commotion as they cascaded in a living avalanche. For the second time that evening, Robert was sure they were going to die. But just as suddenly as they had fallen, they rolled to a stop at the bottom of a ravine.
“Ooohhhoooooooooowwwww,” the giant heaved.
“I’d be at the bottom of a gorge,” spat Robert, finishing his earlier thought.
He picked himself up, brushing the dead leaves and dirt off his rough sack clothes. They had crashed into a large clearing at the base of the surrounding hills. Lo and behold, in the center of the clearing stood a large oak tree.
“Talk about a grand entrance, sir,” said a voice near the tree. The two turned to see Hanburg, chuckling at the base of a boulder, one of many strewn about the clearing. Robert limped over to him, Twostaves stumbling behind mumbling about not being a “ball and chain.” Robert didn’t care.
“Where is everyone else?” he demanded. Hanburg looked about in answer, his eyes concerned but his brow not yet worried.
“They should be here shortly. Come, I have your gear.”
They followed him to the tree where he had several large rough-cloth sacks hidden in a low branch.
“Hey! That bag looks familiar. Oh yeah,” Robert scoffed, “I’m wearing one just like it!”
“I am truly sorry,” Hanburg said in disgust. “For years I have opposed the slavery customs of my people. But people don’t change when they are set in their ways.”
“That’s not unique to your people,” Twostaves said. “Humans in general seem to have an issue with change.”
“Agreed,” Hanburg nodded, opening the sack and scrounging around. “Ah, here are your things, noble giant.”
He produced the white tunic, iron breastplate, targe, and double-link mail coat. The giants staves were cleaned and sealed with fresh beeswax by the look of them. In a heartbeat, Twostaves used one of the metal tips of his weapons to bludgeon open the last remnant of his bonds. He then excused himself to go change in the thicket.
“And here’s your gear,” Hanburg said, untying another sack. He tossed Robert his gold belt and soft brown robe. As much as Robert had wished it had not been recovered, it was a welcome change to the coarse sackcloth he had now. He pulled it on over his head and turned to see Hanburg holding out his spear.
“This,” the man admired, “is one of the finest pieces I have ever had the privilege to hold.” He handed Robert the weapon, which had been diligently been polished and oiled.
“Thank you,” Robert said, taking the weapon. “It was the only thing my father ever left for me.”
Hanburg smiled. “I’m sure he knew you would use it to accomplish great things.”
Robert shrugged. He didn't like talking about his father; it bore the weight of too many questions Robert had no answers for.
“Eöl!” a voice cried out in panic. Robert whirled around just in time to see a drenched and heaving elf burst through the clearing. Robert had never seen Jesnake wet, nor panicked, but to see both at the same time alarmed him.
“What on earth?” Robert shouted.
The elf stumbled to them at full speed then collapsed five feet away from him.
“Get up, we can’t dally!” Robert said, jogging over to him and helping to pull the heaving creature to his feet.
“Eöl-” the elf coughed. Robert hauled him up and began dragging him.
“I know brother, just a little bit further and you can-”
“Eöl!” The elf pulled away and waved his hands frantically.
“What!?”
“The princess,” Jesnake gasped. “It’s a trap!”
Chapter 11
The Pastin the Shadows
Paige slid behind a wagon for a rest. From her vantage point, she could see the stockade wall. She smiled with relief. All she had to do was make it to the stack of crates Hanburg had assured her would be next to the wall, use them to climb over the stockade, then rendezvous with the rest of the Brotherhood at the clearing he’d described.
She peeked around the wagon wheel to make sure she was still alone, trying to calm her ragged, nervous breathing. The deserted street sat silently in front of her. The princess slowly rose to a crouched position, taking care not to rustle the straw that was scattered on the ground. She tiptoed towards the wall, her last barricade before her long awaited freedom.
A twig snapped behind her. Paige froze halfway through her step. She turned her head slightly, looking over her shoulder. Nothing. The night sounded quiet save for the sounds of merrymaking on the other side of the village. It might have been an animal. Then again, it might not. She thought for a brief moment, then decided that even if it was an animal, she wasn’t going to take the chance that it was a villager. She took off, her moccasins skimming the hard-packed dirt and straw as she bolted for the stack of crates. She was only a score of yards away now. All she had to do was make it to the bottom box, then she could use her speed to propel her forward and up. If she could only manage to grab the tops of the stockade logs, she could leap up and over the top of the fence. She pumped her legs, closing the distance between herself and salvation.
CRASH!
She lost her footing as a figure stepped out of the shadows, tripping her with what felt like a long pole. She tumbled head first and scrambled to get up onto her feet. An iron grip latched onto her ankle and dragged her backwards. She clawed at the dirt and straw, only grasping hands full of matted heather as they pulled her back into the shadows of an alley. She felt her arm being wrenched behind her back and a bony knee pressing her to the ground.
“Hello missy,” a voice slithered, one she knew all too well.
Locamnen. No! She struggled to get away from his vicious hold.
He squeezed harder and flattened her chest into the dirt. “You are mine now. You have no one else to save you, and you won’t get a chance to try anything like last time,” he smirked.
She kept struggling until she felt the icy blade of a knife catch her throat. He chuckled as he yanked her onto her side, her free arm now pinned between her body and the earth. She glared sideways as the vile creature held his gleaming knife just under her jawbone
“What now, you mix-blood halfling wench?”
In response, Paige wrenched her body in the opposite direction. As she moved, she felt the blade glance along the back of her neck. She felt panic and instinct seize her. Her limbs tingled with a newfound energy. She wrenched her arm free and walloped Locamnen in the side. The man gave a startled cry as he tumbled off her, giving Paige the opening she needed. She slammed her heel into his lower abdomen. He gasped, releasing her as he doubled over.
She turned to run, but felt his talon-like fingers grip her around her throat. Her cut burned as his bony fingers manhandled her until he could get her in a stranglehold. Paige thrashed about trying to get loose, but his fingers constricted like a coiled boa, cutting off her oxygen supply. She gasped for breath as he pushed her up against a longhouse wall, slamming her face into the rough wood.
“Gold or no gold, I’m sick of dealing with you!” he hissed, a mad fire in his eyes. “And they never made me swear you would be alive when I delivered you.”
Paige felt lightheaded now. She needed air. She tried once more to get free, wriggling and kicking backwards like a mule but he held firm. She found herself panicking knowing that Klaíomh wasn’t pinned into her hair even if she could reach it.
“Pity,” Locamnen mocked, nuzzling her pointed ears with his hot, sweaty beak of a nose. “Such a pretty face had to be tainted by pointed ears.”
Paige thought she heard someone calling out, but her vision was fading in and out. She could only describe what she beheld as black wisps of smoke before her eyes. There was a sound of a shout followed by a sickly slice. She felt Locam
nen’s grip slacken enough for her to gasp a breath. As she gulped air into her lungs, Paige turned to see the wide eyes of her attacker. A sickly pale look spread out across his face. He coughed, blood sprinking from his mouth onto her face. She recoiled in shock. His grip released her neck.
Paige slumped to the ground. She looked up. A blade protruded from Locamnen’s chest, physically lifting the devil off the ground. A sickening sound resonated as the razor edge pulled back through his bony chest. Locamnen fell backwards. Paige felt her vision fog up as she hit the dirt. Her head reeled as she fought for consciousness then succumbed to the darkness.
◆◆◆
Robert crashed through the forest. Only a half hour earlier, he’d been trying to get away from the village. Now his sole purpose was to get back so he could save Paige. He charged ahead, not flinching at the countless branches stinging his face and tearing at his hastily fastened robe.
He kept plowing on, slashing away with his spear as quickly as he could. In the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape slipping from tree to tree. He only knew two people that slunked about like large cats, and Jesnake was at the oak tree with Hanburg.
“DIN!” he shouted, not breaking his pace.
“Eöl, what’s wrong?” Dinendale shouted, immediately abandoning the shadow to catch up to his friend.
“Paige is in danger!” Robert shouted over his shoulder, not breaking stride. Dinendale was soon matching pace with him wearing a look that would have caused a nine-foot tall bridge troll to wither. Robert knew he was wearing the same expression. It was the look of a warrior with one mission: to rescue a comrade from harm.
They thundered to the edge of the woods at a full sprint. The lull of the feasting had lowered considerably in the time they had escaped, making it evident that many of the villagers were turning in for the evening. The two warriors searched the outside of the village for anyone that might be wandering around. No one. The walls were clear of any life.
“Ok, go!” Dinendale hissed, picking up a sturdy stick. Robert scurried to the wall, laying flat against the stockade. He slid along the logs, locating the same grate he and Twostaves had used to escape. It wasn’t hard to find. He motioned to Dinendale and the dark elf padded over to his side.
“Where do we start?” Dinendale demanded.
“Paige was to come through that wall,” Robert said, pointing to the left. “You go that way. I’ll search the other. There‘s no telling where she could be.”
“Aye,” Dinendale affirmed.
Robert caught his arm as the elf turned. “What if one of us gets caught?”
Dinendale paused, then looked Robert straight in the eye with a sly smile Robert hadn’t seen from him in a long time. “We don’t get caught.”
“Ah, right,” Robert said, gesturing smugly to the village around him. “Except for that one time, remember?”
Dinendale rolled his eyes and made a shoving motion with his hand to ward this friend off. Robert nodded, and then they both entered into the village. Once in, Robert turned to give one more look at his friend. For a moment, blue eyes locked onto brown ones, filled with determination sprinkled with worry. Suddenly, Dinendale was gone, evaporating into the shadows. Robert also slipped into the darkness, his keen eyes and ears alert for his friend.
◆◆◆
Dinendale stole quietly along the inside of the wall, careful to creep through the hidden crevices where less of the bright moonlight would give him away. His fingers gripped the stick till his already pale knuckles were even whiter. It would have to do, there was no time to find a blade. He’d lost a close friend once by not being there in time, and he’d sworn never to let that happen again.
The elf slowed as he heard the crunch of metal plated boots on the gritty earth. He stopped and crouched like a panther behind a well at the back of a longhouse. A moose skull sat atop the well’s roof; its antlers cast an eerie shadow on the ground from the light of Taivian and Suntra high overhead.
The footsteps grew closer. Dinendale heard the distinct clink of chain mail on plate-armor. The elf felt the thrill of triumph, knowing no one from the village would have mail to wear, as he’d worked in the smithy’s shop for a week and never saw a single riveted link fashioned. The footsteps stopped near the well.
“Locamnen, you sniveling wretch, where are you,” the voice hissed. There was no mistaking the accent; this man was a Shaud. The elf gripped the stick in his hand loosely as he tried to find the balance point.
“Locamnen!”
“I’m here,” Dinendale hissed, mimicking the medicine man’s whining voice as best he could. “Let’s get this over shall we?”
“You have her?” demanded the stranger. Dinendale felt heated anger surge down his arms and into his fingertips.
“Who?” the elf hissed with calculated malice.
“The Alitarian princess, you goat! Quit playing stupid!”
“My memory is a bit fuzzy.”
“Inbred curr,” the other spat, and Dinendale heard the tell-tale clink of gold in a sack as it hit the dirt. “Enough games.”
“Tell me, soldier. Why should I give her to you instead of keeping her myself?”
“We’ve already been through this! Quit with the questions and hand her over!” the voice demanded in a menacing rumble.
“Is she really worth all the trouble? What about her sister?”
There was a slight pause.
“Oh yes, she spilled it all to me. Every word as I held a knife to her throat,” Dinendale cackled in a low tone.
“You idiot. Her sister is in my lord’s castle. She is in the dungeon even as we speak. Now hand over the other girl before I lose my patience...”
Dinendale heard the ‘shing’ as the Shauden drew his scimitar.
“Come get her, Raven-head,” Dinendale said in his own deep baritone. He sent shivers down his own spine as he stepped into the moonlight, stick held loosely at his side.
The Shaud in front of him was a middle-aged man wearing a seren’s scarlet turban and Shauden armor. An embroidered golden serpent twirled across his white tunic that stretched over his mail coat and steel breastplate. In his hand rested a wicked, curved sword that reflected the moonlight on it’s polished steel blade. His boots made a crunching sound as he braced his feet into his fighting stance on the straw riddled clay and pebble road.
If Dinendale hadn't known better, he would have thought twice about tangling with a captain in the army. There were two different types of serens: those that fought their way up to the rank by skill, and those that flattered a noble enough to gain the position. A normal person would have run away in ignorance; Dinendale chose to fight. The fact that the sword the seren held was in like-new condition told the elf it wasn’t used much; Dinendale hoped that was an obvious sign that this one was of the flattering types.
The seren was taken aback at the sight of a towering elf holding a stick. But he quickly recovered and charged his opponent, sword gleaming.
When he was just in reach, Dinendale jumped to the side and brought the stick down on top of the Raven Head. The blow sent the man reeling into the dirt, landing on his face. But he leapt back up, hacking at the elf with fury. Dinendale blocked the blows, one of which nearly rendered the elf’s hand short a few fingers. Despite several seconds of fierce blows the seren’s blade eventually snapped Dinendale’s tree limb in two. The fighters parted. The only sound besides the distant thundering of drums was the heavy breathing of the two combatants into the chilly autumn air.
“What a pity,” the seren sneered. “By the way, not bad acting. You could almost pass for the lowest of human slime, even if you are an elf.”
“High praise coming from an expert in that area,” Dinendale stalled, his eyes darting around for anything he could use as a weapon.
“Is that so?” spat the seren. His even white teeth gleamed with a satisfactory smirk in the moonlight. Dinendale let his jaw-drop mockingly as he began to back up towards the well, judging his distance by the sh
adow of the moose antlers on the dirt to his left. The gleaming smile widened as the elf saw him raise his sword for a second charge. Dinendale felt the wall of the well behind him and smiled.
This time, Dinendale waited till the last moment to jump aside, knocking the sword out of his hand. In one fluid motion, he hooked his hand into the man’s sword belt and jerked him forward and up over his shoulder. The captain hurled headfirst down into the well.
Dinendale heard the smack as the soldier as he hit the water far below. He could hear the shouting and sputtering as the seren surfaced. The elf sneered.
“Have a good swim, you intrepid little monster,” he hollered as he slunk back into the darkness.