by RG Long
She stopped and looked over the wall into the mountains and forests beyond.
What would her father do?
The question had haunted her for weeks.
She had always seen him as the consummate ruler. Wise and strong. Kind and good.
She had never seen herself stepping in to fill his role. She never wanted it.
Ever since she decided to join the army, much to her mother's chagrin, she felt as if she had found her place.
She was a warrior, not a queen.
And one of her first decisions as the ruler of Thoran was to send everyone she trusted as a friend off on an adventure without her.
She yearned to go with them. Traveling to Beaton in search of aid was more what she believed her best role was. But her people needed her here. She told herself that every morning. And every night as she lay in bed she wondered if someone else could rule better in her place.
Though she would never say it out loud, she missed them. The King’s Swords was where she belonged. The palace felt foreign, odd.
She hoped they would return quickly with news of aid. She also hoped her brothers would return with them and rule the country, as they had been raised to do. But what then? What of Androlion? What of the army he could amass against them? Were there more goblins out there, waiting a command to attack?
Her thoughts wandered as she stared off towards the south.
A sergeant coughed behind her.
"Oh," she said. She turned and remembered she was not alone with her thoughts. There was a city to rebuild.
"Come men," she said in a voice that sounded too commanding and too forced. She just wasn't good at this. "Let's go tend to our city."
They began to descend the stairs that led back into the busy streets below, when a trumpet sounded. It was not the call of battle, but one of a delegation.
Teresa quickly ran up the stairs. She looked over the wall, but saw nothing.
"Milady!" came a call from the gate watchtower. One of her soldiers was waving from the eastern facing opening and pointing below. "A single rider! He bears a white flag!"
"From where are his colors?" She shouted back to him.
"He wears green, Milady!
The Southern Republic, thought Teresa. The enemy.
"OPEN THE GATE!" SHE ordered as they came to the main entrance to the city. A single rider came in on his horse. He was a young man with bright blonde hair.
"Hail, Thoran! I must speak with your ruler at once!" he began. He was unable to say much else, however, as Teresa leapt up and dragged him down off his horse. Her men restrained the beast as it reared up, annoyed at being dismounted so roughly.
“What is this?” the man said as he was taken off his horse. “I demand an audience with the prince...”
He didn't finish his sentence.
Teresa ensured he fell hard and that she was above him. She heard the air knocked out of him and his words stopped immediately. For good measure, she put her knee into his ribs.
His moan of pain was quite satisfying.
"How dare you bring the colors of Androlion Fellgate into my country!"
Teresa drew a knife from her hip and put it to the man's throat.
"My father is dead because of your country's insanity. I should have your head as the beginning of revenge for the thousands of my people who died because of your republic."
She spat at the ground beside him.
She truly was not her father. However, she felt great satisfaction at holding this messenger's life in her hands. What was one life when thousands had been spent defending peace and sanity?
The man gulped hard. Sweat dripped down his brow. He opened his mouth to speak, but Teresa cut him off.
"I should warn you, that the next words from your mouth are tied up very closely to your life. Ponder them well."
She had almost whispered the words to him. None of her men moved to stop her actions. They probably would have loved to gut anyone from Androlion's camp themselves.
The blonde man breathed deeply and spoke slowly.
"Not all from the once great Southern Republic share that disgraced elder's ramblings as worth listening to."
Teresa eased up on her dagger.
"Keep talking," she said. "But your life is not spared yet."
She looked closely at him and realized that his uniform was not bearing the white griffin of Androlion, but rather the three triangles of The Southern Republic.
"I come asking for aid," he continued. He spoke more calmly as he felt the pressure give from the dagger's edge.
"Aid for who?" Teresa asked, puzzled that anyone would think Thoran capable of sending aid. Surely they would have known of the hardships that the country had faced?
They had only sent for aid several days ago themselves to the north.
"For those who seek to undo Androlion Fellgate and restore peace back to Ruyn," he answered.
Teresa got off of him and stood up. The messenger gave a great sigh of relief and rubbed his ribs gently.
"One elder of the old Republic remains," he said as he sat up and looked Teresa in the eyes. He could not have been older than twenty, yet Teresa saw great sorrow in his brown eyes.
"She requests an audience with the ruler of Thoran."
Teresa reached out a hand to help the man off his back. He looked at her questioningly.
“Your life is no longer forfeit, if that is your worry,” she said plainly, continuing to offer her hand.
He took it and stood. After he dusted himself off, he spoke.
“In three days, Mara of The Southern Republic will port in River Head. She begs for council.”
Teresa regarded him closely, and then nodded.
"Take him to the barracks and find him a place among the soldiers to rest until morning," she commanded.
He looked around questioningly.
“Um, ma'am,” he began looking awkwardly around. “I do still need to speak with the ruler of Thoran. Elder Mara seeks council from him.”
“Her,” Teresa corrected him. “You've been speaking with the ruler of Thoran this whole time.”
He looked aghast at her for a moment. Then, as if waking up from a dream, he shook himself and bowed low. He also grunted a bit and held his ribs. Teresa began to feel bad for him.
“My apologies, Milady!” he said. “I thought Thoran's prince had taken the throne after the sad passing of the king!”
This wasn't making Teresa regret her decision to knee him in the ribs at all.
“My brothers are north for the time being. I will counsel with Mara,” she said.
She turned to leave, but then realized the man was still bowing down.
"What's your name?" she asked him.
"Alec," he replied, still bowed low and grunting a bit every now and then.
"Rise, Alec," she said, feeling a bit awkward at telling someone to stop bending over. “Bring him back his horse!”
A sergeant brought back his mount and handed him the reigns.
"And rest well, Alec. We leave at dawn for River Head."
Teresa walked out past the gate a few paces onto the road that lay ahead.
If she could not join the King’s Swords in an attempt to gain aid for Thoran, perhaps she could find aid herself in River Head.
Perhaps she could prove her worth as Thoran's leader.
17: The Sly Pirate
Blume stood on the small stage of the grungy inn they had wandered into a week ago. The innkeeper's wife had seen the three and taken pity on them.
“Just look at them, Marvin! They're wasting away!”
It was a little difficult for Blume to understand her meaning, as they had only left Thoran the day before, spent one night in the alleyway, and actually eaten two meals on the streets of Sea Gate, before stumbling upon the inn.
Wasting away surely wasn't the right way to describe them, but in comparison to the innkeeper wife's considerable girth, they were smaller by far.
It had actually been Abi
gail who had spotted the help wanted poster outside the building, after having wandered several back alleyways and side streets, trying to find a place to stay.
They had promised to work hard in exchange for food, a place to sleep at night, and a coin each a day. According to Jeremy's math, they were losing out quite a lot in truth, as the innkeeper charged any tenants six coins for a night's stay and a meal. But they had a warm bed, plenty to eat, and a fresh set of clothes for the three of them.
And so far, their attempts to hide Abigail and Jeremy's race had gone well. Jeremy was the youngest of the three (or so they told their employers), while Abigail was the oldest and tallest.
It seemed this story satisfied both Beryl and Marvin. And one night, after finishing a song for the guests, Blume overheard Beryl speaking with another patron. Apparently the two were old friends and went back a long way. As she walked from the stage, Beryl motioned for Blume to join them at their table.
“Blume, this is Miss Pearl, a dear friend of mine,” she said as she scooted over to make room for the small girl. There wasn't much room left on the tiny bench, but it was enough for Blume to pretend to sit.
“Pearl, this is the wonderful singing girl I've been telling you all about,” Beryl gushed to her friend. “Didn't I tell you? She's a natural talent!”
Miss Pearl smiled, or at least Blume thought she did.
As bubbly and outgoing as Beryl was, Pearl seemed to be quite the opposite. Beryl looked at every patron as if she could have been his or her long lost mother, or at least neighbor and dear friend.
Pearl glared down the end of her very long nose at Blume. Her skin seemed to be hanging from her skeletal figure. A few chin hairs were made more prominent by the fact that her face was the shape of a crescent moon. Her forehead and her chin both stuck out much farther than her nose, and that was quite the accomplishment. She dressed as one who had great wealth.
Which made her presence in such a tiny inn very odd.
“Well she didn't grate my ears, as the last few entertainers you've had here did,” Pearl said. Blume assumed this was an attempt at a compliment.
“What was that song you were singing? The one just now?” she asked, stroking her chin with her bony fingers.
“It's called 'The Flight of Ingur,'” Blume answered, trying to be more confident than she felt. For some reason, she felt as if Pearl were someone to be fearful of. “It's one of my favorites.”
Pearl considered her for a moment, stroking her chin.
“Yes,” she said after what seemed like a very long time. “Ingur. Nasty elf settlement up north I believe.”
She said it more as a fact than a commentary.
Blume tried not to narrow her eyes in disgust.
“Yes, I believe it is north of Sea Gate,” she responded.
“Was north, you mean,” Pearl replied as she sipped from her cup of wine. “Was north,” she repeated. “The Mercenaries have made short work of those spindly legged creatures and are putting their forests to good use I hear. Ship building. Many companies from Sea Gate went north to harvest the lumber and are floating them down the coast to build a massive fleet. It's been great business for my husband. He's the owner of the leading shipbuilder in the entire country.”
Blume now understood why she disliked Pearl so much.
Beryl laughed.
“Now don't go bragging to this wee one,” she said as she pinched Blume's cheek. “She'll know all about your husband later. Didn't you say you could get her a job at the theater you own, Pearl?”
Pearl smirked at Beryl and petted her hand.
“Shush now, Beryl,” she said in a sickly sweet voice. “No need to be getting the young one's hopes up. Especially if she keeps singing trash.”
She turned back to Blume.
“I very much enjoy your singing,” she said to her. Blume sat smiling as best she could, though she was attempting to hold back the desire to throw the woman's wine in her face.
“Do learn some proper songs and perhaps I can have use of you in larger venues, hmm?”
Blume widened her fake smile and, as she scooted off of the bench, bowed to Pearl.
“Yes ma’am,” she said. As her face bowed, she rolled her eyes.
“Please excuse me,” she said. “I must tend to the guests' rooms or Miss Beryl will throw me out!”
Beryl laughed and pinched Blume's cheek.
“I could never throw you out, dearie,” she said in a singsong voice. “But yes, do get to the linens. I would hate to lose you to Pearl, but as she's my oldest friend, I may very well try to have you singing for larger audiences sometime soon!”
Blume walked away from the table and up the stairs to fluff the pillows and gag.
She remembered the talk in Weyfield of the inferiority of the lesser races.
And she promised herself never to sing for Pearl again, unless it was an elven ballad or dwarven march.
That woman deserved no songs of her own liking.
THE TRIO CONTINUED at the inn week in and week out. The only problem was that they worked from sunup until way past sundown and barely had anytime to figure out what their next move should be, let alone do any spying at all. This frustrated Blume to no end, but she was willing to be patient in order to find the right opportunity.
“The Sly Pirate,” which was the name of the inn of which the three found themselves employed, was a small establishment. Ten rooms, five on the second floor and five on the third, held its overnight tenants. The bottom floor was a combination kitchen, dining room, and reception area for guests.
Abigail helped serve the food to any who ate. Mostly her guests were from the night before or ones who planned on staying the next night. She busied herself busing tables, refilling drinks, and making lots of small talk. She excelled at the latter and received many compliments for being able to talk to any who came in for the night.
Jeremy was helping keep the books for the old man, as he proved himself valuable at keeping record of transactions and helping the old innkeeper find ways to make an extra coin here or there. When he wasn't dealing with the books, he assisted the wife in the kitchen. He was no cook, but he could follow directions to the letter. For a simple stew or plate of fish, Jeremy proved more than capable.
Blume's job was to sweep and mop, make the beds and see to the linens. When she wasn't fluffing a pillow or cleaning up a spill from a guest who had far too many drinks of the Pirate's best ale, she was singing to entertain the diners.
She had never guessed that she would sing for any to listen, save friends or family, but the innkeeper's wife had heard her while she cleaned and almost insisted her to sing for the group who were finishing their meals and heading to bed.
Before she knew it, Blume had sung three songs and had to sing them all again due to rapturous applause.
The old innkeeper and his wife were pleased with their newfound staff and asked few questions, for fear of losing such a wonderful (and inexpensive) team. They hadn't suspected their story in the least, which was good because not a one of them could tell it over again. How three supposedly teenage friends had shown up in Sea Gate without relative or reason was nothing to fuss over, Beryl, the innkeeper's wife said. What mattered was helping the poor orphans find a place.
Blume didn't remember explaining that their parents had all died tragically (as far as she knew, Abigail and Jeremy both had full families back in Thoran), but didn't bother to correct her either.
All was well for the trio in the inn.
All except for the innkeeper's son, that is.
Marvin and Beryl were old. Probably somewhere in their seventies and unable to carry out the heavy lifting that running an inn required. Especially a three-story inn. That's where Drake helped out. He was the one who worked the crank to get barrels of hot water from the upper rooms and then poured into the tubs and basins there. He was the one who collected the waste containers from each room and emptied them outside. Drake was also the one who would deal with the very un
ruly customers who showed up from time to time and were too drunk to dispose of themselves.
All this lifting had made Drake very strong. He was also quite the good looking man, being around thirty years old. Which would have been welcomed, had he been warm hearted and kind. But Drake was terrifying. He was mean and bullied Jeremy to no end. Both Abigail and Blume had been the unwilling target of his advances on them. As long as Marvin and Beryl were nearby, however, there was nothing to fear from Drake. They shooed him away with a sad look in their eyes whenever the girls complained. Sometimes he would be gone for a few days’ at a time, leaving the trio to do his heavy lifting as a team.
When he would return, it would be either in a drunken rage or in tears of sorrow and remorse.
Blume never knew.
So when Drake came back from one of his four-day absences, the trio did their best to stay close together. It wasn't too hard, as they shared a room on the top floor and the inn was far from capacity that night. Since word had gotten around that the inn had improved its staff, the little Sly Pirate had enjoyed better business than it had in years. Blume was singing every night, Jeremy was making sure Marvin collected every coin he was due, and Abigail talked the ear off of any patron who would listen.
Six rooms were full that night, not including the one Blume and the others shared. Marvin, Beryl, and Drake lived in a house that shared a wall with the inn. In fact, a door opened from the inn's kitchen over to their modest two-story home, but out of respect for her employer's privacy, Blume never tried to enter through it. At least while they were watching.
Drake stumbled into the inn with a dark bottle in his hand. He slumped over to a table and laid his head upon it.
A few patrons looked around, startled at this new addition to their dinner, but Abigail calmed any anxieties.
“Oh don't worry about him, that's the innkeeper's son. Looks like he's had a bit much tonight. He ought to stay asleep there for some time. I once watched him sleep for ten hours straight like that.”
Drake slept on the table for the rest of the evening. By the time the other patrons had gone to bed, the dining room had been cleaned, and the dishes put away in the kitchen, the trio was exhausted.