by C S Marks
Chapter 13: THE UNLUCKY MOON
“We’ll need a diversion,” said Hallagond. “We know now where Nelwyn is being held, and it will take all our wits plus a good measure of luck to free her. We must occupy Al-Muniqui and his people with other things.”
“Yet there are only four of us. What diversion could we provide that will distract so many?” asked Galador. Having been thoroughly chastened by Gaelen, he was now quite willing to do whatever Hallagond suggested, within reason.
“I may have a workable plan,” said Hallagond, “but it will be fairly tricky and will involve further information-gathering by our stealthy Wood-elf. We must play on their deepest fears. Nothing is as diverting as the fear of losing your life and the lives of your family, and it has not been that long since the Plague devastated these lands. I suggest we turn that to our advantage.”
“How do you propose we do that?” said Rogond. “It seems an invitation to ill fortune, using such a terrible thing to one’s advantage.”
Hallagond shrugged. “Then propose an alternative if you will. I’ll do whatever works.”
He went on to explain the plan, and even Rogond had to admit that he had no better suggestions.
“You are certain that none will die because of this?” he said.
“I cannot be certain who will die, Rogond, including ourselves,” Hallagond replied. “But what I’m proposing will not directly result in anyone’s death. I must ride to the Chupa to obtain what I require; I doubt they will have it in the Neela. I will need to ride swiftly…perhaps I could avail myself of one of the other horses?”
“You can ride Réalta,” said Galador, eliciting a rather surprised look from Rogond. Galador did not often allow another to ride his proud animal.
Hallagond looked over at Gaelen. “I suppose you will want to go along and make certain that I don’t run off and abandon you,” he said.
To his surprise, she shook her head. “No, I trust you. I know you will honor your life-debt, for you are still a man of honor. Besides, I also know that you realize the extent of my tenacity, and that I will hound you unto death if you disappoint me.” She smiled as she said this, but he took her meaning.
“Then I shall leave at once, for the moon is waxing and I can ride swiftly in darkness,” he said. “It will take several days, even mounted on Réalta. By the time I return, it will be a week or more.”
“You underestimate Réalta,” said Galador. “You will never have ridden so swift an animal.”
“Indeed,” said Rogond. “We shall be expecting your return in five days, not seven.”
“Provided my errand is successful,” said Hallagond. “I may not find what I need in the Chupa. If not, we will need to make another plan. I may bring others to aid us, but that will take time.”
“What others? There are none in the Chupa who are our friends, except El-morah and his family,” said Gaelen.
“I know people there, though I would not necessarily call them friends,” replied Hallagond. “But, speaking of El-morah, I will need to purchase a rather large quantity of kaffa—I need it for our deception. Do you have gold that I may give for it?”
“One of our companions, a dwarf, remains in the Chupa. He may have a little,” said Rogond. “Just explain our situation to El-morah. He will want to aid us in freeing Nelwyn, but make certain you explain your plan so that he will understand fully his involvement in it. Do you take my meaning?”
Hallagond did. After a brief parley with Galador, he took the provisions needed for the journey, mounted Réalta, and galloped off toward the Chupa oasis.
Réalta more than lived up to Hallagond’s expectations. He gained the Chupa after two days of hard riding. Though Hallagond would have appreciated a day or two of rest, he had no time to spend in pleasantries. He would go to El-morah, and then to another man of his acquaintance from whom he hoped to purchase something very unusual. This was essential to the plan, and it was lucky that this man was here, in the Chupa, for there were very few who could provide such an item.
His name was Mikla the Poisoner, and he was known by the darker element of the Ravi as the man who could provide “any poison for a price.” His wares were sought after not only by those wishing to do harm to their enemies, but also by Shiva, the healer. Many poisons have medicinal properties when given in lesser amount.
Hallagond walked into Mikla’s dark dwelling, with its countless flasks, vials, and bubbling elixirs, but did not see anyone there. “Mikla, reveal yourself. You have a paying customer!”
A dry, papery laugh sounded from a dark corner, followed by a bout of wheezing. Mikla’s health was none too good of late, no doubt from countless hours of exposure to the acrid vapors of his dreadful compounds. Rumor had it that he was already half-mad from them.
“Paying customer, you say? That is not the reputation of you or your fellows, Al-amand. Show me the payment so that I may judge for myself.”
Hallagond held up his purse, shaking it to reveal a few coins inside. “This is only a down payment,” he said. “When the deed is done, I will return and pay you more than you could hope for.”
“Of course you will,” said Mikla in a silky, sarcastic voice. “What is your need?”
Hallagond spent the next several minutes explaining, and, to his relief, Mikla had the very elixir he desired. Yet the cost would be high for such a quantity. Hallagond used all his skill at persuasion to convince Mikla to trust him. When he had finished, the old man laughed again.
“Al-amand, your skills at beguiling hapless merchants have improved. Alas, I am immune to your charms.”
“I thought as much, but though I have no more gold to give, I do have a thing that is perhaps more valuable to one such as yourself.” Hallagond brought forth a small packet of dark brown hair, Galador’s hair, and handed it to Mikla.
“Strands of hair? And why should this interest me?”
“Because it is of the Avinashi, they who never venture into these lands and would never give their hair to one such as you. I believe Elven-hair is of use in the making of some of your talismans, is it not?”
In truth, Elven hair has no medicinal properties, but the important thing was that Mikla believed it did. His eyes grew round and bright as he removed a single strand from the packet and held it over a candle-flame to test it. The hair curled slightly, but did not singe. Mikla wrapped one end around his finger and pulled with all his might, but the hair would not yield.
Mikla smiled—men would pay dearly for a talisman containing a single strand of Elf-hair, in the hope that wearing it around the neck would confer some of the disease-resistance that had so blessed its previous owner. There was enough hair in the packet to provide many talismans. Since the Plague, the demand was understandably high.
“I will admit that this has some value,” he said. “Yet it does not cover the cost completely. You will need to return and pay what you owe, but as I am truly generous I have decided to trust you.” Mikla’s eyes never left the packet of long, silken hair—it was worth a fortune in the southern markets.
Fair enough,” said Hallagond. “I will return and compensate you properly when our plan has been carried out. As always, no word of our transaction is spoken to anyone. Agreed?”
Mikla nodded and bowed, sending himself into another bout of wheezing, as Hallagond left the shop with his precious, dark elixir.
After he left Mikla’s establishment, Hallagond made his way back toward the House of El-morah, taking a less-traveled path. There were those in the Chupa that he would avoid if possible, including Haifa, to whom he owed an extensive amount of money. He had already gone to the dwelling of Estle, the half-sister of his friend Azori, to inquire as to whether Azori and his band had come to the Chupa as expected, but Estle was not at home, and Hallagond had no time to spend in searching for her. He made his way toward El-morah’s house, trusting that Réalta had been fed, watered, and rested, for it was his intention to leave at sunset. As he approached, he heard a deep, growling voice
from behind him.
“Tuathan! It’s about time you returned. Bad enough that you left me here, but now you return and do not even seek the company of your friends?”
Hallagond turned to regard a very short, stocky figure walking briskly toward him. Ah. This must be the dwarf my brother referred to. “Hail, Fima,” he said. “I am pleased to meet you, but you’ve been addressing the wrong Tuathan. I’m Rogond’s brother; they know me here as Al-amand.”
Fima stopped in his tracks, his long white beard waving gently in the dry breeze. He looked up at Hallagond and blinked. “Are you, indeed?” he said. “Well, now I see that you are not Rogond. You are older, and the desert has left its mark on you. Yet the resemblance is undeniable!” The dwarf bowed low. “Fima, son of Khima, and I am extremely pleased to meet you,” he said. Then he drew himself up and fixed Hallagond with a wry expression. “Do you have any notion of how long and how far we have come in search of you?”
Hallagond muttered under his breath. “Apparently just far enough, regrettably.”
“Eh? What’s that?” Fima asked.
“Nothing,” replied Hallagond. “I’m sure you want to know what’s happening with your friends. Walk with me and I will enlighten you, but then I fear I must be away. My brother and his friends are awaiting my return.”
When Hallagond had explained the nature of his errand to Fima, and told what had befallen, the dwarf was understandably unhappy. “All is as we feared, then. I must return with you and aid you! Any who put their hands upon Nelwyn shall feel my axe upon their necks.”
Hallagond quite believed him. The old dwarf was bristling and red-faced; he had regained at least some of his strength and would have made a worthy ally.
“I’m sorry, Fima, but I must ride hard. They are expecting my return in two days. You would burden the animal, and if you are like most dwarves of my acquaintance, riding swiftly is not among your talents. Remain here, and rest assured that your friends will come for you when this matter is resolved.” He clapped Fima on the shoulder as he spoke, for the dwarf was a stout friend and Hallagond could not help but like him.
El-morah was suspicious of Hallagond at first, as he knew him by reputation. Such a quantity of precious kaffa was worth a small fortune; how did El-morah know that Hallagond wasn’t simply taking advantage for his own profit? Yet Fima had vouched for him, and he had been granted permission to ride Réalta by Galador, which indicated a high degree of trust. Besides, the plan seemed well-conceived enough to actually work.
“Rogond and I will find some way of compensating you, El-morah,” said Fima earnestly. “Do not fear.”
Réalta would bear an even greater burden on the return journey, for in addition to Hallagond he carried more than fifty pounds of El-morah’s finest kaffa. This was nearly half his reserve—the rest would need to last until he made contact with his secret supplier.
As Hallagond rode away, El-morah and Fima went back inside to find Mohani busily brewing a fresh batch. “We still have plenty of less costly blend,” she said to her husband. “We will save what remains of the better stuff for those who appreciate it.”
He smiled back at her. “A sensible plan,” he said. “But you will need to bake ever-more-wonderful cakes to make up for it, or our profits may dwindle.”
“Not to worry,” said Fima, his blue eyes twinkling. “When my friends return, Gaelen will sing for your patrons. If she does, you’ll have more than this dwelling can hold, and folk will talk about it for years to come.” He sighed and looked back toward the path Hallagond had taken. “I pray that Nelwyn returns with them.”
“I will drink to that,” said El-morah, pouring himself a hot cup of the better kaffa as well as one for Fima. Others could drink the lesser blend. They raised their cups together, for they were folk of worldly ways and discriminating taste.
The Company was first alerted to the return of Hallagond by Eros, who called to Réalta long before he came within hearing or sight. “His senses are keen,” said Gaelen, patting Eros’ strong neck in admiration. Finan seemed to take exception to this, pinning his ears at Eros and snorting.
Rogond was amused. “Your battle-mount has a jealous nature, Gaelen. You had better not show affection to Eros in his presence, for it would seem that he desires all of your attention.”
Gaelen turned to her proud animal, shaking her head. “Finan, Eros is my friend. I fear you must bear it if I pat him, for I will show affection to my friends if I please.” Finan seemed not to hear her, but continued to threaten Eros, switching his tail back and forth, his nose slightly wrinkled. Eros ignored him.
Réalta came into view a few minutes later; he was weary and had been trotting for many miles, trying to conserve his strength. This was a trick he had learned from Eros, who, though he could not match Réalta in speed or grace, would spend less energy and nearly always outlasted him.
Hallagond raised his right arm, indicating that his errand had been successful. He vaulted from Réalta’s weary back and handed the reins to Galador. Then he rested by the fire as Gaelen brought him food and drink.
“I met your friend, the dwarf,” he said. “Looks like he’ll soon be strong enough to travel with you again.”
“Well, that’s the best news I’ve heard in a while,” said Rogond, examining the large package of kaffa. “El-morah has made quite a sacrifice. We must make sure it is not in vain. Tomorrow we will begin our task to free Nelwyn, and then we must find a way to repay this generosity.”
“Indeed,” said Gaelen. “Hallagond, tell me again how we are to proceed. We must understand all elements of the plan…I do not wish to make any mistakes tomorrow.”
Hallagond nodded and called Galador over to listen with them. The moon was rising in the eastern sky; it would be full in two or three days. Gaelen hoped that it would prove to be a most unlucky moon for Al-Muniqui. Her bruised ribs reminded her to make certain of it.
Hallagond hoped that this would be the last full moon beneath which he would endure his brother’s company, while Rogond hoped it would be the first of many. Galador prayed that his beloved would be at his side ‘ere it began to wane. The Company sat in silence, the golden orb reflected in their eyes, and kept their own thoughts until morning.
Al-amand, the kaffa-peddler, and Brunor, his young apprentice, were admitted into the settlement as the sands warmed under the sun of early afternoon. They carried a cargo of great worth—a large amount of the finest kaffa, to be paid for by Al-Muniqui’s trade-master. It then would fall to Brunor to deliver the packages to the buyers, which numbered three. The largest quantity went to Al-Muniqui’s household, and the other, smaller lots had been purchased by his two full-witted brothers. The trade-master’s eyes widened when he saw the size of the parcels. “Al-Muniqui’s captains will be quite happy…their master likes to keep them alert,” he said.
Hallagond smiled. “Very wise of him. I’d make sure they have a good supply, and there will be no one falling asleep at his post, that’s certain.” The trade-master chuckled back at him, for they were two men-of-the-world. Hallagond slipped two gold pieces into the other man’s hand, just to make certain of his welcome.
Gaelen took the kaffa to the brothers first. It was fortunate that “Brunor” did not need to speak, as each package was accompanied by a note of explanation from the tradesman. She merely handed the parcels to the weary, careworn women who came forth to collect them, and retreated without a word.
When she left the courtyard of the eldest of Al-Muniqui’s brothers, she beheld a man tied to a stake, forced to stand in the full sun, apparently not long destined to remain in the world. He was an old man, thin and in very poor condition; his body was bruised and battered, and his eyes held no life. Gaelen had been strictly instructed by Hallagond not to take any notice or make any comment upon anything she saw happening around her, but she truly didn’t understand such cruelty being practiced by one man upon another. She stopped in her tracks, turning to the man-servant who led her from the courtyard, ad
dressing him in the common-tongue.
“Who is that man, and what was his crime?”
The servant was shocked that a stranger would ask so bold a question, but he could not fail to answer; after all, Gaelen was masquerading as a free tradesman, and was therefore his superior. He dropped his eyes and answered in a halting voice, for his use of the common-tongue was limited. “He is a servant. He disobeyed. The wrath of Al-qamadan is swift and just, and this punishment is deserved. Take no notice.”
The bound man moaned once more in his misery, tearing at Gaelen’s heart. She approached him as the man-servant followed behind, admonishing her.
“It is the will of Al-qamadan! You must not interfere!”
But Gaelen saw only the hopelessness in the tethered man’s eyes, the longing for comfort and release from pain. She drew forth her water-skin as she drew nigh him, taking his chin in her hand that she might offer him a mouthful. It was better than nothing.
The servant grabbed her arm. “It is forbidden! You must not interfere with this man’s fate!”
As she gazed into the hopeless eyes of the unfortunate old man, Gaelen saw that she need not disquiet the servant further. She sighed with frustration, and a deep sadness took hold of her. No one deserved to be treated in this manner, certainly not by those of their own race, those who held power over them.
The servant shrank back from the fire in her eyes as she began raving at him in Elvish. “Do you people not know that this is wrong? Why do you not rise up and strike at your tormentors? Are you so weak and dispirited that you will let them torture you and take your lives without a struggle? I cannot understand.” She appeared to be on the verge of drawing a blade until she came to herself, shaking her head.