by C S Marks
Eros halted before the trader’s strange beast, and as Rogond and Fima dismounted and held their empty hands before them, palms upward, the men relaxed. These two had come to bargain, not to exact revenge. The trader smiled inwardly, though he kept his face expressionless. His profit would increase a bit further by the look of things. He commanded his animal to kneel, though he did not dismount from it.
“How may I be of assistance? I had thought our business completed, but I see that there is yet some service I may provide.”
“You know well why we have come,” said Rogond. “Gaelen should never have traded that brooch, for it is of great sentimental value. It has little worth otherwise, for it is a small piece, and only of silver.” He looked sidelong at Fima. “We are prepared to part with gold, which is of the greater value, to restore our friend’s token to her.”
“I might consider parting with it,” said the trader with a glint of avarice in his dark eyes. “What have you to offer?”
“I will give five gold pieces,” said Fima with obvious reluctance.
“The price was eight,” said the trader, “and that was for the horse, not the brooch.”
Fima struggled to keep his emotions from showing. “This is a small piece of silver. It is of little worth to anyone save Gaelen, who treasures it because it belonged to…a dear friend, who was killed in battle. Why not do something kind and considerate for once? Since you are determined to take advantage I will meet your original price of eight gold pieces for the horse. I would then appreciate the return of the brooch that should never have come into your hands.” He patted his axe-haft in a meaningful manner, his blue eyes smoldering.
The trader drew himself up and looked down upon Fima with disdain. “You are in my land now,” he said, “and you seem to believe that we know nothing of affairs in the north. I recognize the design on this trinket—it was worn by someone of great importance, perhaps even the High King himself, if I am not mistaken. Its like will not be made again. Try to deny it! It is worth far more than its face value as a piece of silver, and you know it. Now let us be clear!”
Fima’s white beard bristled as he struggled with his temper. “Do you work the northern trade route to Dûn Bennas?”
The trader’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, do you?”
“Occasionally, though it is of little consequence in my affairs. The King’s men sometimes desire horses of the kind I can provide. Desert-bred animals are unmatched in agility and hardiness, and can travel farther and faster through barren lands than your larger northern animals, hence you favor them as mounts for scouts and messengers.”
Fima examined the fingers of his right hand. “It may interest you to know that our Company travels in the service of the King. He will not take kindly to it, should you treat us ill. No animal will you or your sons barter in the north, not ever again. You will be turned away from the White Fortress and her markets. Meet your original price of eight gold pieces.” He looked hard into the trader’s eyes. “Or you will regret it.”
For the first time since their meeting, the trader took Fima’s words to heart. Yet he would not give in so easily, for trading was his livelihood, and he was skilled in it. “Your gold pieces are like a thousand others. This brooch is one of a kind, and it is of hard silver, a rare and precious metal. It is worth at least ten gold pieces. Your Elf traded it. No one forced her.”
“She had nothing else to give,” said Rogond, his grey eyes hard. “You took advantage of the regrettable bond she made with that worthless horse. You are certainly not leaving my Elven friends with a favorable impression of humanity!”
The trader was not chastened in the least. “Your Elven friends need to learn how to survive in the Ravi, if that’s where you are going,” he said. “And they will need to learn to stay their hands upon their bow-strings, for they will see far worse than whips being used on horses.” He looked at Fima again. “Against my better judgment, I will part with the brooch for ten gold pieces, though it is probably worth more to the right person. You, for example, would give more if I insisted—your heart is open for all to see. In return for this sacrifice on my part you will not interfere with my trading rights.”
Rogond smiled to himself. Fima’s words had been taken to the trader’s heart.
Fima then surprised himself by drawing forth his purse. “Done,” he growled, reluctantly removing ten heavy gold medallions and handing them to the trader’s man, who stood by. He would forego the courtesy of handing them directly to the trader himself. The trader then reciprocated, giving Gaelen’s brooch to his assistant, who handed it to Fima. All parties bowed, signifying the end of the transaction.
“May you find prosperity sending these nags to better treatment in other hands,” Fima said with mock politeness. “I doubt there will be any tender-hearted Elves to save them, alas!” Rogond lifted him onto Eros’ broad back, then swung up behind him. As they turned to leave, the trader called out to them.
“Wait one moment! I would favor you with some advice, and a warning,” he said, an undercurrent of menace in his voice that they could not dismiss. Rogond turned Eros about, facing him once more.
“Well?” growled Fima, who was anxious to be on his way. “What have you to say?”
“Only this. You had best look after the Elves, for they are not safe in southern lands. There are many who will covet them, especially the golden-haired one. Some might even try to take her, and do harm to the others. She would bring a great price.” He shot a meaningful look at Rogond. “Before I became a dealer of horses, I traded in slaves. It was highly profitable, but slaves are much more difficult to manage, and since the Plague few can afford them. Slaves are a luxury, but all are in need of horses.”
Rogond’s lip curled with disgust, and the trader smiled. “Oh, don’t worry, for your excitable little friend would not likely be taken. None would want to deal with her; they will simply cut her throat. No, it is the golden-haired one they will desire. Watch after her, my friends. None of you has even a glimmer of a notion of how to survive in the southlands, and I fear you will not live long. I expect to see that brooch at market one day, when your reckless, annoying She-elf lies dead.”
Rogond’s blood rose to his face, and his grip tightened on his spear. The trader looked into his eyes and was afraid, dropping his gaze for the first time. “I mean only that you will need aid to remain safe in the deep desert. Do any of you speak our tongue? You need a guide to conduct you safely, and I would suggest that you acquire one as quickly as you may. Take this advice—or leave it—it matters not to me. You and your friends must suppress your proud natures, for they will not serve you here. That is a lesson you had best take to heart.” With those words, he commanded his animal to rise. He would say no more.
Rogond and Fima rode with all haste to rejoin the Company. “Remember, Rogond,” said Fima in a worried tone. “I gave eight gold pieces for the brooch. Not ten, only eight. I don’t know if I could admit to having given ten…”
Rogond nodded; Fima’s secret was safe. As he rode, he considered the advice they had been given, doubt growing in his heart. The Company had received their first taste of life in the southlands, and the taste was still bitter in his mouth.
Chapter 5: THE FORSAKEN ONE
Far to the south of the place where the Company now rested, a tall figure prowled quietly along paths twisting between rows of colorful, desert-worn pavilions. Such places were now fairly common in these lands, for wherever there was water, there would be men. They were a varied lot, congregating in these “tent cities”, building nothing of permanence. Should the water supply be exhausted, the city would simply disappear, and the people would move to the next known water source. The tent cities served as stopping-places for caravans of merchants who would replenish their supplies and trade some of their wares before moving on. They were also frequented by bandits and brigands who needed water and provisions, though they were less willing (or likely) to pay for the
m.
Because the denizens of the tent cities were mostly temporary, and because they were made up of many tribes and cultures, Hallagond considered them to be perfect dwelling-places for one who wishes to remain unnoticed. His group of unsavory companions had purchased a rather large quantity of liquor, together with a small amount of rather potent leaf known as “dream-weed” in the common-tongue. The sutherlings simply called it “marwani”, which meant basically the same thing. Hallagond’s companions had persuaded him to join them in partaking of both, but he had done so only minimally. Now he was the only one among them still able to stand on his legs. He left them passed out on the floor of their tent and went out into the city, as was his habit. He would spend no more time among them than he needed to.
Still, he was glad of them. A lone traveler brought forth too many questions and aroused suspicion, for none would travel alone in the Ravi if they could help it. Hallagond had no other need of them. He had become quite capable of looking after himself, even in these hard lands.
The marwani had left him with a pleasant heightening of his senses. He reached into his small pack and extracted some dried figs wrapped in leaves, placing one in his mouth and chewing slowly, savoring the incredible sweetness. As he did so, he looked up at the stars...even after all these years they still amazed him. The folk of the northlands had no idea how bright and clear a night sky could be, and unless they traveled here they never would know, for Hallagond did not intend to return there to tell them of it.
He still stood tall, lean and leathery, browned by the desert. His eyes were not dark like those of the desert peoples; they were grey, like those of his mother and father, and of the brother who was not yet known to him. His strong arms bore several elegant, multicolored designs. He had paid dearly for them, but they had been done by one of the greatest artisans to be found in the Ravi-shan.
He remembered well the willowy, hooded figure bending low over his outstretched right arm, studying it with grave intensity. The artisan, of whose gender Hallagond was at first uncertain, had looked into his eyes, whispering words in a tongue that had not reached his ears in many a year. “This is a sword-arm, of late unused except in need of survival, though it was once mighty. It will need protection in the trials to come. Do you wish my aid?”
Hallagond did not reply in the Elven-tongue, though he spoke it well enough. “If you ask whether I want your services in decorating my arm, then the answer is yes, or I would not be here. If you ask whether I need your protection, the answer is no. I need no one but myself for that.” Then he added, “But if you would place upon my arm designs that you feel will aid me, I say, what can it hurt? Do as you will.” The artisan had smiled, revealing perfect white teeth—a rarity in these lands.
“Are you of the Undying Folk, artisan? You are said to be of great age, yet your eyes and your smile suggest otherwise,” asked Hallagond, at once regretting the question, for the artisan said no more to him. When the work was done, Hallagond was very pleased. He had little doubt that the artisan was of Elvish race, though he never lowered his hood to reveal his face. He had adorned Hallagond with runes traced in elegant, swirling lines of indigo and purple, spiraling up and down both forearms. Their nature would not be known to many in the Ravi, and the tongue was High-elven, which even Hallagond did not know well. Yet he could make out some of it—one word in particular was repeated several times.
“Why does the word ‘tréiga’ appear so many times? I know what that word means...why do you refer to me as forsaken?”
The artisan’s eyes glittered under the dark folds of his hood. “Is that not who you are? Have you not forsaken yourself and your heritage, man of the north?”
Hallagond had tensed his arm, thinking to deny it, but he could not. The artisan knew him for who he was. He remained silent through the rest of the session, which would be the last. After Hallagond had paid the artisan—and the work had cost much of what he owned, for it was of fabulous quality—he took his leave. Yet he could not dismiss the Elvish words that had appeared like a vision of his past life, as though sent to guide him. Forsaken...yes, that is who I am. The word in the sutherling tongue is “amand”. From now on, I shall be Al-amand, the Forsaken One. Hallagond is no more. I am Al-amand. He smiled a grim and humorless smile. “Should I ever need reminding, I need only regard the runes upon my arm.”
He had since acquired other designs interspersed among those of the Elvish artisan, as well as a few in places on his body that are best not described. He had not borne sober witness to any of them. There was a red-and-gold dragon in flight that was actually quite beautiful, and a nice rendering of a rearing horse, but then there was the lopsided skull with a red rose clenched in its broken teeth. It could have been worse, he supposed. He had known of men who had gone to some inept artisan in a semi-drunken state, only to wake with something truly ridiculous permanently affixed in their flesh. Learning from their example, Hallagond had lately stayed away from the artisans.
The careers and the lives of such unfortunate lesser artisans were often quite short, as disgruntled customers occasionally exacted harsh vengeance when they became sober. Hallagond remembered one poor, trembling artisan trying to explain to one of his companions that he actually had requested the name of a certain well-known harlot be inscribed across the back of his right hand, together with a somewhat unseemly and amateurish rendering of her. It had taken Hallagond plus two others to drag their enraged companion away. Hallagond had called back over his shoulder, offering advice: “Never again give in to such a request by a drunken man, no matter what he offers you. You will live longer!”
That was long ago, and Hallagond, known now as Al-amand, bore many marks upon his flesh other than the designs graven there. He had lost his left earlobe, bitten off during a brawl, and there were at least a dozen other scars that he had acquired since leaving the northern lands. Yet the scar on the back of his right hand, a jagged, ugly brown mark, had come from an Ulca blade. That was the only obvious physical reminder of his former life as Hallagond the Ranger, save for the scar that he most detested—a rather extensive burn mark on the front of his right leg. The circumstances surrounding it had turned a part of his heart forever to stone.
His handsome face was relatively unmarked, at least what one could see of it through his luxuriant beard, which had recently been streaked with silver. Some men of the southlands grew their beards long, for they were a mark of male prowess in certain cultures. Yet other races were beardless, growing facial hair only with great difficulty. These were those of eastern descent, or so Hallagond had been told. Their eyes were dark and exotic, and their smooth skin tended toward a light, warm brown. They were attractive people. So were the darker tribes of the far southern coasts, where the unrelenting sun had formed men whose skin was nearly black, like polished mahogany. Hallagond found them fascinating as well as comely. They had interesting ways and unique and beautiful speech that he could not begin to understand, yet those who spoke Aridani had revealed their engaging good humor. They seemed generally content with the state of their lives, describing the beauty of their homeland. Hallagond could not help but envy them.
He had actually befriended a few of them as they came northward to trade their ivory and rare essences in the markets of the great coastal cities of Castalan and Fómor. Since the Plague, none of the trades were especially prosperous. Not only had the number of buyers diminished, but so many producers of goods had perished that there was less offered for sale. What goods there were commanded high prices. Not many could afford such luxuries as slaves and ivory, yet a few were relatively prosperous, having taken advantage of the riches left behind by the dead.
With so few customers, the slavers had needed to cut back considerably, and many had gone into other pursuits. This was just as well in Hallagond’s opinion; he detested the very thought of people of any race being used in this manner, bought and sold and traded like cattle, cast aside or killed when they displeased their masters or outlived their
usefulness. Though much of the Ravi-shan was wonderful, like a sweet, ripe fruit, there was also much that was rotten.
His friends in the ivory trade had offered to take him to their southern lands with them, and he had considered it, but at the last declined their offer. No...this seamy, disreputable place was more befitting of Al-amand. He did not deserve a life of pleasant comfort, surrounded by gentle people. Who knew what evil he would bring among them? They did not understand his reasoning, but they accepted his choice, reminding him that he would be welcome among them should his heart change.
As he stood alone in the dark, he heard the sound of unpleasant laughter and cries of dismay coming from a nearby tent. There was apparently some activity going on inside, and he was drawn to investigate. Hallagond possessed an inquisitive nature, with a knack for discovering mischief. He smiled when he he realized that the tent was a gambling-den, for he had not seen a good game of chance in a while.
As he approached the entrance, a man was flung through the doorway to land in the dust at his feet, crying out in dismay. Hallagond stared at him for a moment, as the man began to weep, clutching at the dust with both hands. He was nearly naked, and evidently had been beaten. He was so wretched that Hallagond was taken with a sudden urge to aid him.
“What happened? How did you get yourself beaten? Did you wager beyond your means, or try some trick that failed you and was discovered? Speak, if you would have aid.”
The man tried to gain his feet, but could not rise above his knees without help. Hallagond offered his hand, and the weeping man took it. “Thank you,” he said, “but I must now go and climb to the tall rocks yonder, then throw myself from them.”
The man began to weep again, as much with shame as with pain this time, as Hallagond continued to question him. He had indeed wagered beyond his means, but he had done so because his family was in need, and this was the only way he could think of to gain enough wealth to feed them. Hallagond looked at him and shook his head, for the man was clad only in a loincloth. Obviously, the other gamblers had taken everything else. He looked into the man’s eyes, and saw no lie behind them.