"Good evening, sir," Lorn offered.
The vendor stroked his bristly beard, shocked to see a dwarf at his table. Though he spoke all day to complete strangers in order to sell his wares, in this moment he seemed at a loss for words. "Is there something I can do for you?" he said at last.
"I merely came to look at your works here."
"Oh?" replied the merchant. "And do you like what you see? These are the finest woodworks you will find anywhere!"
"I beg to differ," Lorn replied politely.
The merchant was taken back by the remark and couldn't help but laugh. "Who are you, dwarf? And what gives you the cheek to make such a bold statement?"
"I am Lorn Mardrof of the Beowulken Valley."
"Beowulken!" the merchant replied in a loud laugh. His laughter grew and rang through the marketplace, until his hands clasped his aching sides. Embarrassed, Lorn stepped away from the table. "That explains so much! You and your people in the 'valley' of Beowulken have no business in woodcarving or any other art! Go back to the caverns and mine some coal!"
"I only came to offer my advice," Lorn said. "I, myself, am skilled in the art of woodcarving."
"What could you possibly teach me?"
"I noticed a slight--"
"Be gone, 'valley' dweller! No one can teach me, Master Jerthom, the greatest craftsman of the South!"
As he spoke, Randor snuck in behind Lorn and gleamed into the eyes of Jerthom, who fell instantly mute in the presence of the wizard. Lorn fell back onto Randor and sank into his arms. "The company awaits your return," Randor said.
Jerthom smirked at Lorn, then returned to the gathering of patrons at his table.
"What was that all about?" Randor asked as they crossed the street.
"Nothing," Lorn answered, not wanting to talk of it anymore. The merchant had hurt his feelings, especially with the words about his homeland. He was proud of where he came from, and would not change his background for the entire world. The dwarves of Beowulken were unique among their kind, shunning cave dwelling and stonework, for they were a different class of artisans, much like the neighboring elves of the Xantilan Kingdom. "I was merely trying to enlighten that merchant with some of my knowledge."
"Some are not open to criticism, my friend."
"Only wanting to further his craft," Lorn said, throwing up his hands.
"Well, let him keep his follies--seems that he deserves them."
Seth smiled at his friend as he watched him draw closer to the steps. His day had been rather tedious, dealing with Arnanor, who fought with every decision he made. All day the elves had spoken in their native tongue, keeping the Council diplomat out of their conversations. They, too, had been unsuccessful as they canvassed the city and its outskirts. Many people had looked at the small group with suspicious eyes, rarely having seen any royalty here, let alone elvish princes. No one they spoke to had admitted to seeing the symbol before, and Seth began to wonder if such a thing existed anywhere in Londor.
"I trust you are well?" Seth asked as he greeted the dwarf.
"I've seen better times."
"What happened?"
Lorn pulled him aside from the group and told him of the encounter with Jerthom, then fell silent as he sat down on the steps. Seth, outraged by this, desired to have an earnest talk with the scornful craftsman. "What did you say in return?" Seth asked.
"I said little to him," Lorn admitted. "I had not the heart to speak up."
"Bolden yourself," Seth replied. "I've told you that you shouldn't let people belittle you." He shook his fist, then pounded it against his open hand, biting his lip to calm his emotions. "I wished I had been there to hear that."
"Let it go, Seth," Lorn said, shrugging his shoulders. "It is in the past."
"It's not that simple a thing to disregard."
"What news do you bring?" Randor asked of the princes.
"A day wasted," Arnanor answered. "I am ready to retire for the evening."
"I agree," Muron added.
"Are we supplied and ready for tomorrow's departure?" inquired Arnanor as he began to ascend the stairs toward the front door.
"Indeed we are," said Randor. "I have placed the supplies in our rooms within our lodgings for the night. The provisions should last a good week in the wilderness….But it is not time to retire for the evening just yet."
"No?" Arnanor asked.
"Nor is it time for sleep, either."
"Where do you turn us now?" Gildan asked.
Randor looked to the tavern diagonally across from the inn. "To Fallon's End."
"What's wrong with the tavern in this inn?" Arnanor asked. "Ale is the same wherever you go."
"I am on official business, my good elf," he replied, and started down the road, with the company in tow. "Let us hope she is still there."
Lorn grabbed his belongings and trotted off. To his relief, Jerthom was not present; his shop now covered by a blue satin cloth and vacant of people.
* * *
As darkness settled in completely, the stars appeared, twinkling brightly down on the troubled world. A trio of wind instruments could be heard in the distance, accompanied by a soft clapping of hands--a minor festival, apparently.
The streets began to clear as the people of Nar-Fhandon filled the many pubs, raising pint glasses in celebration of a hard day's labor. The trading day was over, and the crowded marketplace was now a scene of bare wooden carts, tables, and multicolored tents. The streets were littered with crumpled parchments, picked bones, and empty bottles of wine and ale. A faint stench of old meat and moldy grain accompanied the cold winds that came with the sunset.
The tavern, Fallon's End, was an old three-story building of red stone, with a single red door. Smallish windows bordered the door, the panes covered in a thick coat of dust. Below the grimy windows grew small, untrimmed shrubs set in cracked ancient clay pots. Above the door, a sign creaked in the wind, its faded white letters reading, FALLON'S END: FINE BREW & FELLOWSHIP. From the half-open door came shouts of stupor and raucous laughter--it was safe to guess that this was not a place where the elite came to relax and unwind.
"I'm not even inside and I do not like this place," Muron whispered to Geil.
"As long as I am alive you will be safe," Sir Geil reassured him. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, as if unsure just what to expect.
As they reached the door, Randor took a brief look around with an eye to the safety of his company. A blare of noise greeting them as they entered.
As anticipated, the large room was jammed from wall to wall with patrons, standing or seated at small round tables piled high with plates of scraps and empty pints. The long bar in the back of the pub was also lined with thirsty patrons.
"Do you see her?" Seth asked Randor.
"Not yet," replied Randor. "She was the owner of this tavern before I left to Ethindar this last time."
"That was almost eighty years ago, Randor," Gildan replied. "It would be remarkable if she were still alive."
"She is half elf and half human; thus her life span would be a bit longer than a typical woman's."
Gildan nodded. "Then we will go and find a place to sit."
Randor nodded in agreement as the elf waded into the crowd. All but Seth and Lorn entered into the sea of coarse talk and pipe smoke. Malander placed his hand over his mouth as he pushed through, disregarding the insults as he jostled and bulled his way past whoever stood in his way.
Lorn noticed someone he had hoped not to see. At a table near the far wall sat Jerthom, gleefully swilling a mug of beer, not caring that it spilled onto his beard. Around him were fellow merchants in similar states of inebriation.
"Can we just wait outside, Seth?" Lorn asked. "It is too stuffy in here for my taste….After all, it is a splendid night out."
"No, thank you," Seth replied quickly. "I could use a drink myself. You'll get your fill of the outdoors again tomorrow." He laughed. "Now, go on and have a pint of beer, hmm?"
It looked as though Lorn could not escape the uncomfortable situation, so he stomped forward with lowered head, looking the other way and hoping to go unnoticed amid the crowd. Snippets of many loud conversations rang in his tender ears.
Gildan, who already had a cup of wine, found them all a table that had just been vacated near the stone wall. The two elvish princes sat quietly in their high-backed chairs, clearly ill at ease to be surrounded by such low company. Gildan set his drink on the table and beckoned Lorn over, pulling out the chair next to him.
Only a few feet more, and he would be past the disagreeable woodworker. There was no sign of Randor or Seth. What's the worst that could happen? he asked himself, and swallowing the lump in his throat, he walked past the dreaded table.
"Wait a moment, friend," Jerthom snapped, grabbing Lorn by the arm. His grip was unforgiving, sending sharp pains from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers.
He gulped as the merchant pulled him nearer.
"Is that the one?" a man at Jerthom's table asked.
"Most certainly," Jerthom replied, his tone serious, downing the rest of his ale and slamming the mug down to the table. With a resounding belch, he purposely sloshed a bit of his neighbor's ale on Lorn's boots. "You hear that, dwarf?"
"H-hear what?"
"You're already famous in our fair city."
"I--I don't…," Lorn mumbled.
"Wait--just wait," Jerthom began, holding back his laughter. "Tell them where you're from," he said, leaning back in his chair, ready to laugh anew at the answer he loved so much.
Stammering because of the pain in his poor arm, Lorn gasped, "Beo--Beowulken." As he had hoped, Jerthom released him and roared with mirth. Lorn caressed his arm as the entire table of merchants burst into deafening guffaws, drawing the entire pub's attention.
"Beowulken?" a merchant cried, tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks. "That place is a joke!" Others pounded on the table, unable to control themselves.
Looking up to see what brought on the commotion, Gildan and the princes found Lorn all but weeping at the hands of the merchants. Before Gildan could react, he caught a glimpse of Seth emerging from the snickering crowd.
"There's always something with this company," Malander grumbled.
Now Seth had his chance to settle with the merchant, and the words came easily as he stood before the table. "You are only a moment away from a thrashing if you do not mind your tongue!" he announced boldly. He parted his cloak to reveal his sword. Jerthom smiled and uncrossed his legs, showing his own blade.
"You waste my time, boy," Jerthom said. "This is a personal matter here, and no business of yours."
"His business is my own."
"Foolish knight."
"Apologize, and you may go without consequence." Seth stood firm, but the merchant would not have it. "Or perhaps you would like to have your bartering license banned by the Council."
"Nonsense," Jerthom answered. "Oh, sure--go and tell the Council. They have no control over what I do." Seth did not know how to counter now that his threat was useless. "I only trade in non–Mudalfaen-controlled kingdoms. The Council can go to hell!"
Seth's eyes narrowed as he twitched slightly, and he brought forth his blade from his sheath in one swift motion. Those nearby backed away, frightened at the sight of the gleaming steel as he said in an even tone, "How dare you speak of the Council thus! Watch where you tread--you'll get your payment sooner than you think!"
"The only payment I will ever receive will be gold!" Jerthom responded. "Leave my sight, boy, and take your little dwarf with you!" And turning his back to them, he grabbed a fresh pint of ale and raised it in salute to his friends.
"They are drunk, Lorn," Seth said as he escorted the shaken dwarf back to the company's table.
"Is there a problem, Seth?" Gildan asked as they sat.
"Nothing I cannot handle alone," muttered Seth. He left it at that, repressing the madness that flowed through his veins. Never had he heard anyone curse the Council that had brought the world such prosperity over the past eighty years. Rubbing his Mudalfaen badge with the tips of his shaking fingers, he breathed deeply to refocus his energy. The codes forbade him to reprimand Jerthom. After all, the merchant was ignorant and would not change even if threatened with violence. Highbinder placed his sword back in its sheath and rested his hands on the table.
"Where is Randor?" asked Arnanor, growing impatient with the tavern. The patrons here--the entire city, in fact--bothered him, and all he could think was how inferior these people were. The only elves within a day's ride were those at his table. "Humans disgust me," he mumbled.
Malander, who seemed to pay no attention to his surroundings, used his selective hearing to straighten the prince out once and for all. "What was that?" he asked, calm yet intense.
"Do not bother with it."
"You have my attention now--repeat what you just said."
Arnanor leaned over to Geil and said, "Lontos mingha malfou ni ran ni-chaldrof."
"Gah, min nu-dor, ghin bith tu ephthor," Geil replied.
Arnanor nodded with a mischievous smile. "Tu rha-daga fon loda."
"Sen ni ran conifen ah lonto," Muron replied defensively.
Standing up and leaning into Arnanor's face, Malander replied, "You cannot hide yourself in your native tongue, nit rosev fhandor!" Arnanor affected an expression of wounded innocence. "I speak your language…" He paused, leaning in closer. "Now do you speak mine?"
"Calm yourself, Malander," Seth interrupted. "Save your strength for the cause."
"I will not. He told his henchman here to kill me whenever he had the chance."
"Ridiculous!" Arnanor defended. "I said nothing of the kind!"
"Then what did you say?" Seth asked.
"I remarked only about this tavern. That is all."
"Is this true, Gildan?" Lorn inquired, assuming that the mercenary understood his northern brethren.
"I do not speak that dialect fluently." Sipping his wine, Gildan admitted, "Besides, I was not paying attention to what they said. My mind is occupied with greater matters."
Malander could only focus on the threat. "You go ahead and order that inexperienced warrior of yours to strike me down, and I will gladly show him my sword. I don't know what it is that threatens you so, but leave me as I am….Don't make me kill you. I have nothing to lose, after all--unlike you."
Arnanor said nothing, keeping his ideas to himself. Who is this human to speak this way to me? he thought. Malander had, in fact, deciphered the Northern tongue precisely, but he would never withdraw the remark.
Arnanor smiled to himself. The day Geil carried this act through would be another proud day for the elder prince. He tightened his gloves and flipped back the long, red hair that fell onto his armored shoulders. Muron, sitting next to him, felt ashamed to be somehow a part of this scheme. Arnanor locked eyes with Geil, both men nodding.
"I need a drink," Malander mumbled as he walked away. "Damned elves." He disappeared into the crowd, still shaking his head as he reached the bar. At the long wooden bar, Malander wedged himself uncomfortably between an old man in green clothing and a rugged gentleman in merchant's attire. The bartender approached, still wiping clean a glass with a small red cloth.
"Yes, sir?" the bartender said, pushing back her dirtied white sleeves.
"Two Dragonfires, quickly," Malander ordered, propping his elbows on the wet surface, uncaring that spilled beer soaked into his jacket sleeves. Feeling as though he was being watched, he glanced around him. Causing trouble was still on his mind, and Arnanor had only made it worse. Some eyes did look him over but were quickly lowered when he stared directly back. The bartender returned and placed two small, blue-tinted glasses by Malander's fingertips. They were filled to the brim with a deep red elixir, darker than any blood. Malander smiled and cracked his knuckles as he snatched one up. Then, tossing his head back, he drained it to the bottom in one gulp. Slamming the glass down, he made as short work of the second. All who w
itnessed this incredible feat were astonished at the grim man's tolerance, for it generally took only one Dragonfire to knock a large man into an instant trance. But Malander appeared unfazed, as if the alcohol merely excited his senses. Wiping his mouth, he slid the glasses down the bar and said, "Two more," grinning like a madman all the while.
"Excuse me, sir?" the bartender asked in disbelief. "Did you just order two more?"
"Indeed I did--now, place them before me."
"No one can handle that much. In all my years of--"
"Just bring them and dispense with the advice, would you?"
"Very well," the bartender replied. Throughout the tavern, people whispered, dumbfounded by the stranger's suicidal request for another pair of Dragonfires.
Malander slipped his hand into one of his jacket pockets and placed three silver coins on the bar in an orderly stack. The bartender's eyes lit up at the sight as she set down the cups and seized the overly generous payment. "You are greatly appreciated, sir." She walked away and placed the three gleaming coins in her apron.
Those drinks, too, vanished soon, though not as fast as the first. The spirits burned his throat and set him afire. Pounding his chest four times like a wild animal, Malander marveled at the Dragonfires' ability to blunt his torment. "Brilliant," he laughed, slamming his fist on the counter. For no reason that he knew of, Malander glanced over his shoulder, curious to see what the company was engaged in. He saw Seth and Lorn with drinks of their own in pewter mugs.
The bartender went through the single door behind the bar and returned with a full crate of unopened wine bottles, which clanked together with each slow step she took. Standing directly in Malander's view at the crammed bar was Randor, smoking his pipe. The wizard acknowledged him, pushing his glasses up his nose.
"Goodness!" the bartender exclaimed, almost dropping her precious box. Then, laughing, she regripped the handles. "Miithra? Is that you?"
"Aye, Eina."
Approaching nearer, Eina set the wine box on the counter and extended her arm in friendship. Randor shook her hand warmly.
Eina said, "It has been ages since I have seen you. I am pleased to see you are still alive and have come to pay me a visit!"
The White Shadow Saga: The Stolen Moon of Londor Page 18