It was a testament to how great the winter storm was.
The far mountains were no longer visible through the dense blizzard. From this spot on a clear day in the northern wastes, one could make out the east and west mountain ranges that formed the borders of this hard and cold land.
On this day, however, it was a challenge to see the trees of the forest from twenty yards away, which, of course, was exactly why she had chosen this spot.
Normally to see the woman now standing at the edge of the mighty forest, if she didn't want to be seen, was quite the feat. She had a talent for disappearing, even in a crowded tavern. But today, between the hard snowfall, the trees of the Saliderian Woods and the whitened cloak of wolf skin she wore, to see her would mean she was less than an arm's length away.
The wind was cold and bitter. It was these types of winds that first bothered her so when she first arrived here. No longer. Now she was accustomed to the wind and snow. So much so that she considered them her partner, always aiding her and allowing her to use them to her advantage.
What little of her face that was exposed stung in the fierce gale. Her silver hair was braided into a single plait that ran the length of her back, trailing from the heavy fur hood she wore. The hood was fashioned from the same skull of the beast whose fur she wore on her back. His face still struck terror in those who saw it now, though the life of him bled out some five years ago.
She was of a slender build and medium height. Underneath the furs, skins, and double blades she had strapped to her back was a beauty that was unparalleled to most of fairer lands. To see her without her hunting gear would cause most men to crane their necks to get a second glance.
If, indeed, their necks had not been broken before they could try to catch those enchanting blue eyes.
The wind was slowing now, but the snow was falling harder than ever. A new layer of snow would add another arm's length to the depth of what was already blanketing the ground. She had no fears of being followed and no worries about anything being found this far out in the wastes until spring.
Perfect conditions to claim a bounty.
She had been stalking her prey for three days, waiting for the right opportunity. He headed east for a while, which most travelers in these parts do after trekking through the southern pass. That path led to the first relief from the cold winter in a three day walk in any direction.
Those who traveled east without first stopping to rest and resupply were either foolish or determined, or perhaps a combination of the two.
This man was the latter.
He now approached in his slow and steady pace, which he had kept for ten days. His heavy jacket and pack were covered in snow and to any other man, the two arm lengths of powder he was blazing through would be enough of an excuse to turn back.
But not for a foolish and determined man headed east in the northern wastes.
Her eyes narrowed to ensure this was the same man she had been tracking for the last few days. The previous night she had gone ahead of him, anticipating the direction he was heading so that he might pass by her. Only once had she ended the life of someone whom she had incorrectly thought her bounty. Not this time.
Yes, this was the man. The military coat still showed some of the dark green color through the white powder. His stature was certainly that of a warrior; he was taller than the average male and certainly had a much broader chest. His arms were the size of tree limbs. The wind gusted unexpectedly, knocking off the soldier’s hat. His auburn hair flashed as he made a grab for the soaked and worn head covering. After tugging it back onto his head, he resumed his trek.
Though she cared less for the reason and more for the gold she would soon claim, it unnerved her to think of someone headed east after the rumors of the growing unrest down south.
She needn't lose much sleep tonight, however.
Her first knife found his chest before he had comprehended the whirl of the steel through the air. Clutching the handle now protruding from his heart, he staggered. It was only a breath before she was on him, blade drawn and brought to his neck.
“You're the most expensive bounty I've had in a year. It's been a pleasure.”
For a moment he struggled to reach around himself and grab this assailant. For a moment she feared he may have been able to draw his sword and do damage to her. But only for a moment. Her second blade made its cut: deeply and effectively.
His lifeless body sunk to the ground.
She cleaned her blade carefully and returned it to its sheath. Her knife received the same treatment before it was fastened to her calf. The number of blades she wore, both concealed and in plain sight outnumbered her own fingers.
Her instructions were simple. Return the book and the necklace and she'd have her reward. Both of these he had kept in a satchel hung around his shoulder for the entirety of his time spent in the wastes. Anything else of value found on her kill was hers for the taking.
When she eyed the beautifully crafted spear with its azure gem set into the base of the tip, she hungrily relieved it from its former owner and took hold of it. A weapon so fine had not been seen in the wastes for many years.
Quickly, she looked up from her business of looting and sniffed the air.
This smell was new. Not one she had encountered while tracking the man who was now nearly covered in snow. She breathed in deeply, then spun around on her heel.
He was only a stone’s throw away. How he had avoided her for so long made her wonder if he had come from the forest as she had. She dropped the spear and drew her blade, swearing under her breath for letting him see her.
He would not have the gift of sight for long.
Chapter 2: Ealrin Bealouve
There was nothing but fog. It was all he could see.
He could still hear the screams. He could still taste the salt water in his mouth. But all he could see, all he could remember, was fog.
Sensations played in his head.
Falling darkness. Ear splitting screams. Water. Fog.
Suddenly a new sensation reached his senses.
He was on fire.
No, not on fire. But burning. In a moment he realized his eyes could open. In raising his eyelids a hair's breadth he immediately regretted it. The sun was burning down on him. He closed his eyes. The light was blinding compared to the darkness and fog.
His arms were only sluggishly responding to his desires to move them. His feet were soaked, along with most of his legs. He realized that half of him lay in water. Not still water, but a tide. It was at this same moment he realized the terrible pain in his abdomen. He slowly brought his fingers to his ribs and felt the torn cloth that was his jacket and his shirt. The warmth of his own blood contrasted the cool sea water.
As he touched his bare ribs the familiar darkness came back, threatening to engulf him again.
More screams.
And yet, these voices were different. These were not the ones in his head.
These were running down the beach.
***
“I see you’ve decided not to die after all.”
The throbbing in his head was immense. The pain in his chest was still quite real. The screams and the fog vanished a bit as he began to become aware of his surroundings.
Instead of a sandy beach, he lay on a bed. Instead of a burning sun, there was a ceiling above him. Instead of water at his feet, there was a blanket.
He lay in a room, dimly lit. The light was easier on his eyes than the burning sun he last recalled seeing.
But not much better.
It took him several moments of blinking to understand that, in the corner of the room sat a man. The one who had apparently just confirmed what he had been wondering during his dreams of fog and voices: he was alive.
Finally, his eyes were usable and he leaned forward to glance about the room.
It was sparsely furnished. He lay in one of the two beds that were separated by a small table at the head of each. The wall to his left was ba
rely an arm's breadth away. At the foot of the two beds was a space slightly larger. Two chairs framed the small fireplace that provided low light in the room. To the right of the fireplace was the door. A few pegs on the wall beside held his shirt and coat.
An inn.
The idea came to him as he laid his head back down on the pillow. His ribs still burned with the small effort of looking at his surroundings.
“No. I’m alive,” he finally said.
His voice was harsh, unused. There were suddenly several questions he had to ask, but the fog lingered in his mind, preventing him from forming any.
“You’ve been laying on that bed now for half a moon,” said the man in the corner chair.
Instead of trying to ask, he looked at the seated man, investigating who he was.
Straining his neck a little, without moving his chest, he could see who was dimly lit by the fire.
The first thing he noticed was a grimace on the man’s face.
He sat comfortably in the chair, as if he was accustomed to spending time in it. As if it were made for him. He was pleasant in appearance, save for the look on his face. His brown hair was not long enough to hide his green and narrowed eyes, but stopped above his eyebrows. His expression didn’t seem to be narrow out of menace or strife. His eyes spoke about the life he had seen lived out before him.
He wore a simple green shirt with a leather vest and pants. His black boots looked well worn and traveled on. From across the bed, his stubble was visible. Some gray hairs betrayed him as older than 30, yet there was something in his eyes that Ealrin couldn’t quite place. Like a father examining his son after seeing him fall from a tree.
“My name is Holve, in case you were curious."
He was curious.
“And yours is?” asked Holve.
But now his first coherent question came to mind:
“What is my name?”
The words escaped his lips alongside his thoughts.
The wrinkles on Holve’s face shifted as his expression changed. Was it pity?
“Eh, that part I may be able to help with. Your coat had in it the name 'Ealrin Bealouve.’ It’s sewed into the collar quite nicely actually. Someone with a skilled hand had done it.”
Ealrin.
The name floated in amid the fog. It sounded like a name he had heard many times. Could it be his?
He wasn’t sure.
He didn’t have any better suggestions either.
“Ealrin Bealouve.”
Again his voice was harsh. He was overcome with a thirst at the moment.
“Water. Please. A drink.” he managed.
Instead of a word, Holve gave him a wink and left the room. He soon returned with a wooden cup and a pitcher full of water. He poured some into the cup and offered it.
At first, Ealrin tried to sit up to accept the drink, but was overcome with pain in his head and his ribs as he made the attempt.
A very real groan of pain escaped his lips.
“Now don’t work too hard, Ealrin. You’ve had it pretty bad.”
Holve moved over to Ealrin and helped him drink the water. It was almost cool and certainly refreshing to his overly parched mouth. He gulped down every drop that was in the cup and wished there were more. But then it hit his stomach and he wasn’t sure if he wanted to throw it all back up or just lay still a moment.
“Thanks,” Ealrin managed as he licked his lips to spread the moisture on his chapped mouth.
Holve placed the cup and the pitcher next to Ealrin’s bed on the table and returned to his chair. Resuming the same look of comfort, he began to speak.
“Well, I’d say welcome to Good Harbor, but seeing as you’ve already been here for the better part of a month lying in that bed, you ought to be feeling pretty welcome already. You sure gave us all quite the intrigue in your coming. This is a fishing and trading community. Not many boats occupy these waters without the knowledge of the general public. Yours sure snuck up on us though. There was a pretty terrible storm the night before we found you lying on the beach, about a day's walk east of here. Your vessel was smashed to pieces. Most of it went down to the depths.”
With this he paused.
“You’re the only one we found alive among the wreckage.”
He was looking for a response from Ealrin, but Ealrin had none to give.
A shipwreck?
A storm?
Others?
None of these brought any memories to his mind.
Only fog.
Hearing no response, Holve continued.
“We thought for a time we’d lose you too. You had lost a lot of blood. Fortunately for you a healer of some talent was traveling through this harbor. He was able to patch you up nicely before sailing on. Then, with Elezar’s cooking and a room to rest in, it seems you’ll pull through.”
Ealrin saw that Holve had allowed himself another moment to examine him. His expression was stony. It didn’t seem like the man smiled much. Ealrin felt odd as Holve continued staring at him, as if he had more to say and definitely more to ask, but was pondering whether he ought to speak.
Holve sighed.
"Though your fever certainly gave you some odd dreams. You fought those blankets pretty hard the first few nights.”
For the next few moments, there was nothing but silence, broken only by the occasional crack of the logs in the fire as they turned to embers. The room had paint peeling off at certain spots on the wall and smelled of the sea. The hearth above the fireplace held a vase of long dead flowers that were stiff and brown.
Ealrin looked up at the ceiling, staring at the wood he saw there and to keep from feeling uncomfortable as Holve glared at him.
Holve asked the question Ealrin was wondering as well.
“Can you recall anything Ealrin?"
Nothing Holve had said provided a picture in his mind. It was as if he was hearing a tale that he played no part in at all.
“I can’t,” replied Ealrin.
There, in his mind, was only fog.
For the second time, Holve gave a big sigh.
“Hmm. Well, I was hoping to find out some things from you. Like I said, boats here don’t normally surprise us at Good Harbor. And the pieces of yours that washed ashore aren’t like any I’ve seen in many winters.”
“Good Harbor?” asked Ealrin.
“That’s right,” replied Holve. “Though the only truly good thing about this place is the bed you’re sleeping in. We’re the only human island in-between the civilized portion of Ruyn and goblin owned lands known as the Goblin Maw. They’ve sailed from time to time to the mainland, always landing here first to set the place to fire and stock their boats before turning on more populated areas. Though it’s been some time since they’ve set their ships to sea. I reckon they’ve been arguing among themselves. Better for us if they keep in-fighting.”
Holve shifted in his chair to glance out of the window into the night. The small opening had four glass panels set into a wood frame. It was the only thing that decorated the otherwise bland plastered wall.
“This island isn’t the home of the willing. The ones who live here either want to get away from the eye of more civilized areas of Ruyn or can’t afford to leave.”
Holve adjusted his gaze back to Ealrin.
All this talk of Ruyn, goblins sailing, and fishing was so foreign to Ealrin. Nothing could fight through the fog that so clouded his mind.
He was only halfway sure of the name he was hearing.
But now, his present situation was beginning to register in his head.
“Who’s been caring for me?” asked Ealrin.
Though he was sure he’d felt better at some point, he certainly wasn’t starving. Nor was he unclean. In fact, save for the wound in his ribs that still hurt when he moved despite being healed, Ealrin felt well taken care of. His belly was satisfied and his skin felt as if he had had a bath.
Well, except for the feeling that he wanted to throw up again due to his h
eadache and the water.
“We’ve been taking turns watching over you. Elezar and myself. Well, us and the maid. Though she refused to wash you up. Bit modest,” Holve said with a wink. That seemed a little out of character for him, though Ealrin had only known Holve for a few minutes.
Ealrin was overwhelmed. If he truly had been lying here for a month or more, then he owed his caretakers much.
“Thank you,” he said. And he meant it.
“Don’t mention it,” replied Holve, with a bit of gruffness to his voice. It sounded as if he truly wished Ealrin wouldn’t mention it.
“And welcome to Good Harbor. And the Rusty Hook. Best inn on the island.”
Chapter 3: Stinkrunt
Stinkrunt sneered as he walked onto the goblin ship. He was doing his best to look fierce today, but, as always, it was hard to look fierce standing next to old Grayscar. Grayscar was the big doyen of the Sharp Claws. He had three scars running down his face, starting from his forehead, down his snout-like nose and going all the way to his opposite cheek. The beast that had given him the scar lived just long enough to admire his work before Grayscar skewered it with a spear. He had returned to their goblin tribe with that great wolf around his neck as a trophy and he had been the doyen, or leader, of the Sharp Claws ever since.
Stinkrunt, who was one of the smallest goblin leaders, always felt like he was in Grayscar’s shadow. Of course, in a literal sense, he tried to be as often as possible. The sun hurt his eyes and today was no exception. The goblin tribes were loading the boats and sailing toward human lands, something they hadn't done in a generation.
Grayscar took a big sniff from his off centered nose.
"Smells good. Smells like the sea. Smells like war. We'll stop fighting other tribes. We'll fight men instead. Dwarves and elves too." Grayscar looked over the goblins who were loading weapons and barrels of supplies into the ship and chuckled. Stinkrunt could tell the thought of war with the other races pleased his leader. He always felt important whenever Grayscar talked with him.
Metal and Magic: A Fantasy Journey Page 91