Chapter Five: The Road to Wehtag

“I’m bored!” Lorrick whined.

“Ye’re always bored,” Damiar countered.

“Yeah, but I’m really bored right now,” Lorrick pressed.

“We plan on leaving very early tomorrow. You should utilize this time to sleep. I know that I would be sleeping if you would be silent long enough,” Typothanas added.

“Humph!” Lorrick protested, rolling over in his sleeping bag. It was warm and comfortable, but the two of them went to bed far too early for his liking. He was used to late nights in taverns entertaining people. He had all day to sleep tomorrow anyway. He would just use Damiar as a big pillow to lean against and fall asleep.

“Not good for much else…” Lorrick muttered.

“Did ye say something, Lorrick?” Damiar asked.

“No. Go ahead! You two get your beauty sleep. I am going to find something to occupy my time,” Lorrick said in decision. He wrestled his way out of the captivity of his sleeping bag and made for the fire.

“Please let whatever activity you decide on be a silent one,” Typothanas requested. Lorrick rolled his eyes. What was there to do at night around a campfire by oneself? He had brought plenty of toys and reagents. He could practice his magic, but he did not have a way of replenishing his resources if he did that.

He had trick decks that he could play with. It never hurt to brush up and practice his slight-of-hand tricks. They were best performed in front of a mirror so he could perfect any mistakes that might give away his secrets. Even if he had a mirror, the firelight was not enough to give him the light that he was looking for.

I wonder what Typothanas brought with him…

He looked over at where the elf was sleeping: up inside of a tree. His face was deliberately turned away from the fire and from what Lorrick was doing. Lorrick grabbed the elf’s pack and opened it. He rifled through the neatly organized pack, realizing that the meticulous elf would immediately notice Lorrick’s tampering the next time that he looked at it.

Oh well. The worst that he can do is get mad at me.

Most of what Lorrick found in the pack was clothing. There was a small utility knife tucked away in a leather sheath that Lorrick played with for a while. The hilt of the knife was carved with all kinds of exotic elven glyphs. He wondered what they meant. The blade was long, thin and curved, probably meant for cutting fruit. It made sense enough, considering Typothanas’s vegetarian diet.

He found some bread wrapped up in big leaves. It was a yellow, buttery color and smelled good. Lorrick broke off a piece and was disappointed to find out that it was hard like a cracker; he preferred his bread to be soft. He tasted and spit it out in disgust. It was not sweetened or seasoned with salt or spices as far as he could tell. It was bland and dry.

“That’s appetizing,” he commented tossing the bread back into the pack in no particular place. He tried to play with Typothanas’s rapiers, but they were too long for Lorrick to use properly. He was astonished by how lightweight they were. Damiar’s sword was much heavier, Lorrick discovered, lifting it and comparing the blades. The difference was so drastic, like swinging around an iron rod or swinging around air. It was clearly the secret to Typothanas’s swiftness with the blades.

I wonder if these blades are as durable as Damiar’s. I would think not simply on the fact that they are so much thinner.

He moved on to snooping through Damiar’s stuff. He had a lot more things that tickled Lorrick’s fancy. He picked up his lyre and looked it over carefully. It was such a beautiful instrument. The man clearly had good taste. Tempted to give it a strum or two, he put the instrument back in its place and continued his snooping. He found a quill, some ink, and some parchment. He found some simple tools: a hatchet, hammer, flint and tinder.

He soon grew bored with going through Damiar’s stuff and went back to Typothanas’s where he found something most interesting.

What’s this?

Lorrick pulled out an ancient-looking, worn, book bound in rough leather. It was held shut by a piece of twine. By the looks of it, it was a journal or diary of some sort. He knew that it was a huge invasion of privacy to read someone else’s journal, but he was absolutely sure that he would die of boredom if he did not read it. Typothanas would just have to understand. This was a life or death situation.

He took the book close to the fire and untied the twine. He cracked it open to the first page and saw an inscription on the inside cover.

L. D. Wayreth.

This was not Typothanas’s journal! It was written in Common. He had taken it from someone else. Now, Lorrick did not feel guilty at all about reading it. He was not invading the privacy of anyone he knew, so it was not like it really counted. He thumbed through about halfway and started to read.

…something wrong with Sanctus Dei. My mother was taught when she was young to follow their instructions implicitly and without question. She has raised my sister and me to do the same. In spite of this, I cannot help but to question their motives, and not just with the crusade.

Daravon said something today that really made me think. He was talking about how big a priority it should be for Sanctus Dei to translate the holy scriptures into Common so that every man, woman and child may read Yaru’s words of truth. The Church has had the ability to do this for centuries, and yet it remains undone.

What more, they have many times shut down the operations of individuals who have taken this task upon themselves. I’m not sure that one man could achieve a total translation in his lifetime, but that is hardly the point.

Keeping the scriptures in a language that the average man cannot read keeps them in control of the faith. It puts a huge temptation to abuse and change the scriptures for their benefit. They could say that the people are required to pay a certain tithe for the souls of their dead loved ones to stay in Heaven, and the majority of people would listen blindly and pay the tithe for fear of their loved ones’ souls.

Daravon told me that part of my training would be to read some from the holy scriptures everyday. After reading, he and I would discuss what I read, and he said that sometimes he would require me to write about them. I admit that I was not exactly thrilled about the idea. I find the scriptures difficult to understand. When I told him this, he was not upset, in fact he agreed with me.

“Pray that Yaru will give you wisdom and understanding,” he says.

Daravon’s methods of apprenticing me are not at all what I expected. For the first week or so, all that we did was spend time with each other. We spend nearly every waking moment of every day with each other. We sleep in the same house, eat the same breakfast, go to the same places, and do virtually everything together. Just recently, we started incorporating exercise, prayer, servitude, swordplay, archery, scripture reading, meditation, more prayer, calligraphy, and even more prayer.

I confess I do not always pray when it is ‘prayer time.’ I usually lean my head against the pew and fall asleep until Daravon comes over to get me. I thought that I would be learning things that would make me a better soldier. Yeah, the swordplay and archery are good, but it is nothing more extensive than what I was doing when the sergeant was training me.

I want to learn something amazing! I want to learn how to conjure pure Light. I want to learn how to strengthen and quicken my body with the Light. I want to learn how to swing a sword once and cut down ten men. I expected something so different than this—discipleship—he called it. I can hear my father laughing at me now, shaking his head in an “I told you so,” way. Yaru please let me learn something good tomorrow.

Lorrick set the book down and reflected. He could understand the author’s pain. When he was at the Sages Circle, he was leaps and bounds ahead of his peers. He was ready to start conjuring the elements to command, but they had him levitating feathers, unlocking doors, and charming random objects to do relatively useless things. This poor kid was ready to be a Light warrior of legend, and his teacher had him doing exercises and studying scriptures.

“That’s the problem with teachers these days: they have such a hard time seeing the potential in those they teach,” Lorrick said to himself. He tried to read a little more of the journal, but he was suddenly groggy and tired. Reading had apparently done the trick. He would have to try reading more often; it was not nearly as bad as he remembered.

He scurried back to his tent and bundled up in his sleeping bag after doing his best to put all of Typothanas and Damiar’s belongings back where they were supposed to go. He yawned and tried to count sheep. Counting sheep was too boring, so he starting counting dragons, which was so entertaining he stayed up for hours more pretending he was flying over Azur’nth on top of one.

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And so the days came and went as the three travelled north across Azur’nth. When Typothanas needed an escape from Damiar and Lorrick, he would pull out the journal that he was to deliver and read it thoughtfully. His only complaint was that it was only one volume long.

The passages were so strangely written. The author rarely used his own name and often wrote in poetry or stream-of-consciousness, free-writing. The thoughts were sporadic and often incomplete. Because the author was a believer in Yaru, he often penned prayers in his journal, prayers of adoration, confession, thanksgiving and supplication. He believed his god was a real person with whom he had an intimate relationship with, yet he did not have too many good things to say about Sanctus Dei or the clergy.

Reading the journal was the perfect, most sweet escape. It gave real insight to the thought process and emotions of a young, human man. The passage he was currently reading was particularly intriguing. It was about the Ysaht people and their culture.
They let me keep my journal. I was so surprised! They even gave me a quill and ink vial. They have us locked up but the beds are comfortable. The food is delicious. It is spicy and unusual. Much better than Azur’nthian food or at least more interesting.

I thought for sure they would torture and kill us, being Sanctus Dei and all. Not that they didn’t rough me up a little bit when they captured me. And they did kill Vernon and Mateo. They are keeping Oran and me alive and well-fed. Though not entertained. We are still prisoners, locked up in a cage. I think they intend to keep us here forever or until Sanctus Dei stops pillaging their camps, which is not likely to happen anytime soon.

They are nothing like what we’ve been told. They Ysaht are nomadic, yes, tribal, yes but not the barbaric, monstrous killers that the church made them out to be. They care for each other, their families and children and friends. They are very musical people. They sing, dance and play music all the time. It is good too: lots of drums and percussion.

I wish they spoke Common or that I spoke their language. The language barrier makes communication quite difficult. I have to use a lot of hand motions and body language. It is a good thing I am such a demonstrative person.

They let me out every now and then, always heavily guarded, of course, and they let me duel them with wooden swords. They are a warrior people and can all fight well. Sometimes I beat them and sometimes I don’t. My instructor would be disgraced to call me his pupil, especially considering I got beat by a girl. She is their leader or captain, commanding officer or something. In my defense, I was somewhat distracted. She has long blond hair, which is unusual because the Ysaht all have dark hair and brown skin. Her skin was probably once creamy white but has been deliciously bronzed by the sun. She was wearing next to nothing, exposing as much skin as discreetly possible and her body is muscular and voluptuous, curvy and enticing. I must admit I am hopelessly attracted to her in the most impure way. Her green eyes and pearly smile make it all the worse.

I am pretty sure that she wants me too. Hard to be sure because we don’t speak the same language but the way she smiles at me or caresses my arm to get my attention when she could tap me or say something. She smells like clove and cinnamon mingled with sweat and sand. It drives me in a frenzy when she walks by and I catch her scent.

Her name is Cory, or at least that is what the men all her. Maybe it is her last name or a title of respect. I will have to find out. Easier said than done but I am determined to know more about her.
Typothanas could relate to the author. He had never met a beautiful elf maid that he did not become infatuated with and eventually obsess over. He was never brave enough to make a move on any of them, and he would lose interest as other elves would woo them and carry them away.

With his studies he always had a sorry excuse of a social life, Caeralahana was his only friend, and even they were casual and surface friends. He had grown closer to Damiar and Lorrick than any elf he knew. Even now he would lose himself in a book or in reading the journal when he could be getting to know them better and he hated himself for it. His thirst for knowledge was an insatiable void he was sure he would never fill.

Their days of travel past quickly and before long, they had arrived in Wehtag. The entire town was constructed around a huge man-made lake. Most of the residents were clustered on the southern edge, but their houses and buildings and roads going completely around. Sail boats and fishing boats could be seen in the water for miles.

The people seemed much friendlier than the people of Narbshire. They were all smiles and hellos. None of them made too much of a fuss of Typothanas being an elf, though he was still turning a heads. It was really more of a small city than a town. They had buildings made of white stone, two, and even three stories high, pavilions with bright multi-colored tops, wooden cabins next to the lake and a marketplace in the center of the town.

“Good ‘ol Wehtag!” Damiar exclaimed.

“Aye. I don’t know what I was doing in Narbshire. This place is great,” Lorrick agreed. Typothanas could not bring himself to be happy right then. Soon, he would have to say goodbye to his friends and travel to Effedeyo on his own, still several days away. They would be enjoying their new lives in this pleasant city while Typothanas was roughing it across the road alone. They would, given the short amount of time they had spent together, forget all about him and go on living their lives as if he had never happened to them.

“What’s wrong, mate?” Damiar asked him suddenly.

“Nothing,” Typothanas replied shortly.

“Yer face doesn’t say ‘nothing,’” Damiar countered.

“I have a headache, that is all,” he replied. It was not a lie. He did in fact have a headache, but he felt guilty for not being honest with Damiar as to what was bothering him.

“That’s probably because we had such a light breakfast and it is well past lunchtime. What do ye say we go get ourselves a fish sandwich?” Damiar patted his shoulder.

“I do not eat fish,” Typothanas replied.

“That’s right. Sorry, mate. It is just so unusual that you don’t eat meat of any sort, easy to forget.”
“From my perspective, I think it is strange that you eat meat at all,” Typothanas argued.

“Fair enough. Well, there are plenty of good fruits and veggies ye can buy at the market, but I’m still gonna have me a fried fish sandwich,” Damiar insisted.

“Me too! Smothered in mustard!” Lorrick added.

“Mustard?! Ye eat yer fish with mustard?” Damiar asked. His tone said that he was disgusted.

“Yes! What else would you eat it with?!” Lorrick demanded.

“Mayonnaise and hot sauce! Mustard! Yuck!” Damiar stuck his tongue out and pretended to wretch.

“Oh! I absolutely love it dripping, gushing mustard out the sides when I take a bite!”

“Ye’re disgusting,” Damiar said, shaking his head.

“You should try it!” Lorrick insisted.

“Nah! I’ll stick to what I know is good…” Damiar’s voice faded as he continued towards the docks to buy his sandwich.

Typothanas stood alone at the crossroads leading to the market. Part of him wanted to take that opportunity to run away towards Effedeyo while Damiar and Lorrick were buying food, to avoid the awkwardness of saying goodbye. The other part wanted to skip out on his venture to Effedeyo and his life in the forest and live with Damiar and Lorrick in Wehtag for while. His heart told him he needed to go to Effedeyo though; it was what he originally set out to do. They would be hurt if he did not tell them goodbye, but it would spare them all the awkwardness.

Drawing his hood over his head to cover his ears, he quickly gathered his things, and sprinted out of the town. He looked over his shoulder and back at Damiar and Lorrick one last time before he started running full-speed again, putting the town of Wehtag behind him. Though he wanted to, he made sure not to look back again. He headed northeast for Effedeyo.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Damiar had just taken a big bite of his fish sandwich when he glanced at the roads to the northeast. There was a solitary person in a green cloak running down the road at an impossible speed. It did not take him long to realize who he was and why he had left. Damiar swallowed his bite of fish and looked down at the ground, disappointed.

They walked back to the place where they had left Typothanas, and Lorrick finally stopped rambling long enough to notice that he had gone.

“Where did he go?” the gnome asked.

“He left,” Damiar replied simply.

“Without saying goodbye?” Lorrick exclaimed.
Damiar watched Typothanas until he was nothing more than a speck in the distance.

Goodbye, my friend. I wish you well.

Chapter Four: Showdown in Narbshire

“And stay out, ye swine!” roared a voice from a tavern when suddenly a small body robed in tattered blue came flying out the door and down the wooden stairs.

“Fine!” retorted the little blue bundle as it pulled itself to its feet. The voice was shrill and high-pitched, but undoubtedly male. “I don’t wanna entertain riff-raff like your sort anyway.”

“Take your cheap tricks down to the Pale Pony! Oh, wait, they kicked you out of there too didn’t they, Lorrick?” laughed the man from the doorway.

“Oh go back inside and choke on a peanut shell you half-witted buffoon!” replied the little blue bundle of robes which now looked more like an extremely small man. He turned and looked at Damiar.

“What are you lookin at?” It turned out the little blue bundle was no man, but a gnome. Damiar in all of his travels across Azur’nth had only seen a few gnomes. They had all been in the Trade District at Effedeyo trying to peddle cooky inventions to passersby. This gnome was wearing blue robes trimmed with silver, the same garb that mages from the Sages Circle wore. Damiar had never encountered a gnome mage before.

He was a strange looking little fellow. He had bushes of thick, curly brown hair, enormous aqua colored eyes beneath furry, overgrown eyebrows and long lashes. He had a large, bulbous nose and pouting lips that any woman would envy. His face was smooth and clean shaven. His physique was nondescript, mostly because he was hidden beneath the robes. Only his pudgy hands emerged from the sleeves.

“I did not mean to stare, sir. We were just passing through and could not help but notice the…uh…commotion,” Damiar smiled respectfully. The gnome looked at him with a coy grin. His expression changed when he saw Typothanas.

“My, you’re a tall one! And thin too! Like a great walking tree,” he stepped closer to Typothanas who looked disgusted and offended at the little gnome, “you sure are dressed funny too. One would almost think…by the gods! You’re a sodding elf!”

“Please, keep yer voice down! We’re just passing through and we’d like to keep a low profile!” Damiar pleaded, but already a few people had begun to point and stare.

“Catfish whisker sticks! I’ve never seen an elf before! You even have pointy ears! Can I touch them? Please-please-please?” the little gnome begged.

What color that was once in Typothanas’s face drained as his facial expression contorted to a mix of horror and rage.

“No you may not touch my ears, gnome!” he reached up and felt his ears with a self conscious demeanor. He pulled his hood over his head to cover them up.

“My name isn’t gnome…sorry! How rude of me…my name is Lorrick Quagnign, son of Gnathaniel Quagnign: former archmage, now turned entertainer-slash-tailor-slash-singer-slash-I don’t know what else…slash…” he laughed and continually kept his eyes fixed on Typothanas’s ears.

“You were an archmage?” Damiar inquired skeptically.

“You bet his big elven ears I was! I was the best too…well almost the best…maybe not the best-best but I guess you could say I was near the best. I mean anyone who knows anything knows Norton’s the best mage left in the land, but that Regal Gallione is a fine mage too…a little too serious for my taste. Always in a bad mood…like he’s eating lemons for breakfast…”

“That sounds like a great tale, Lorrick, but you see, my elf friend and I are in somewhat of a hurry. We need to buy some horses and be on our way. Can you point us in the right direction?” Damiar asked.

“Sure! I don’t have any horses to sell you. I’m deathly afraid of the beasts. Not that I have much use for them, being my size and all,” he laughed and gave Damiar’s leg a playful slap, then turned his eyes to Typothanas again, “can you hear better than humans and gnomes?”

“What? How should I know? What kind of question is that?” Typothanas replied bitterly.

“It’s just, I would hope that with such big, pointy ears poking out either side of your head, you’d be able to hear a spot better than we could. Otherwise, what’s the point? Certainly their not for looks…haha! Get it: the point! ‘Cause his ears are pointy!”

“Can ye lead us to someone who can sell us a horse or not, Lorrick?” Damiar interrupted. He stole a glance at Typothanas. Color had returned to his face but only an angry scarlet. It looked as if steam would erupt from his ears at any moment.

“Right! Sorry. I get sidetracked every now and then. Some people say I talk too much but what do they know? Yeah, let’s go to the Pale Pony; it’s a tavern on the other end of town,” he kicked a clod of dirt at the door of the tavern they were standing before now, “better than this run-down shack...blimey-grime-ogre-slime! C’mon, I’ll show you the way! Lorrick knows!” and the gnome was off, skipping and prancing merrily as he motioned for them to follow.

Damiar reluctantly went after Lorrick and beckoned a cooled-down Typothanas to follow. Damiar could not help but to crack a smile.

“He is mad!” Typothanas said aloud.

“Surely…he’s funny though. ‘Blimey grime ogre slime?’ Who says that?” he laughed, still barely out of earshot of the little gnome. Typothanas finally smiled.

“I’m rather fond of ‘catfish-whisker-sticks,’” he admitted, “but he is terribly rude, making fun of my ears like that.”

“Expect to get a lot of attention around these parts, Typothanas, or anywhere ye go for that matter. Elf folk have not been seen in Azur’nth for generations. People are bound to point, stare and say things,” Damiar warned.

“Forgive me if I am incorrect, but we are trying to avoid attention?” Typothanas asked bitterly.

“Yeah but that’ll be nigh impossible,” Damiar replied reluctantly.

“Are my pointed ears the cause?”

“And yer height and the way ye’re dressed. Yer accent doesn’t help much either…best to let me do all the talking,” Damiar suggested.

“By all means…” Typothanas muttered as they continued following Lorrick. It had to be hard, Damiar thought, stepping out of his sheltered life in the forest to the world of men, wild and crazy as it sometimes could be.

“What did you say your names were?” Lorrick inquired, realizing, no doubt, he was leading total strangers around Narbshire.

“We did not say what our names were,” Typothanas snapped.

“I am Damiar MacPhearson and this is Typothanas Tremiralan,” Damiar needed to throw a little water on the fire growing between the elf and gnome.
“Wow! You even have a peculiar elven name! Typothanas, Damiar it is good to meet you. I would be most happy to be your travelling companion in the lovely town of Narbshire.”

Damiar looked at the town. It was so unique the way it was built. Every other house, every other establishment was on the river bank. It was not build wide, but long, and on both sides of the river. To describe it simply, it was shaped like a ‘j,’ following the river, bridges every few miles to cross from one side or the other. Everything was made out of wood; there were no brick or stone houses anywhere. The roofs all peaked, made of wooden shingles and pitch. It was a river town full of docks and fishermen. The air was hot, wet and sticky.

“Well, lets keep going, friends. ‘Tis still a ways before we get to the other side of town,” the gnome said. Lorrick continued to interrogate Typothanas, asking him every strange and personal question under the suns, but Damiar blocked it all out. His eyes and ears were alert to the unsavory characters throwing glares and stares their way. His hand reflexively rested on the hilt of his sword.

The walk proved to be about twenty minutes before they arrived at the Pale Pony. Damiar looked at it disapprovingly. It certainly did not look like the sort of place he wanted to go into. The noises of drunkards wrapped up in carousing and music, mingled with wickedness could be heard from outside.

“Here we are. Just ask Bomer, he’s the bartender. He knows everyone in this town. He’d be able to tell you right where you could go to find horses,” Lorrick pointed to the door. Damiar and Typothanas remained frozen, wondering if they should even bother going into a place like that. In Damiar’s experience, drunkards trying to give direction or sell something usually resulted in a fight.

“Frazzled-frog-phalanges! Come on! Don’t be shy!” Lorrick exclaimed, giving them both a shove, “everyone’s welcome here.”

Damiar stumbled into the door where a massive, muscular man and a stout, burly dwarf waited, blocking the way. The dwarf put his hand on Damiar’s chest and shoved him backwards. It was not hard enough to knock him over, but it did make him stumble.

“Sorry, lad! Yer gone haft ‘leave yer swords at the door; them’s the rules,” the red-bearded dwarf said sternly, his arms folded over his massive chest. Damiar looked down at Lorrick.

“It’s fine! Standard procedure. Bouldern will take good care of your weapons for you,” Lorrick assured. Damiar took another glance at the dwarf and saw that there would be no exceptions to the rules. Hopefully, it would be an in-and-out trip and they would not
have to leave their possessions for long.

Reluctantly, Damiar handed over his bow, quiver of arrows, his hand-and-a-half sword and also his sci’ar, a one-sided, one-handed, curved sword he carried as a back-up and sidearm. Typothanas followed suit and handed over his bow, arrows and rapiers.

“Yer boot knife too, lad,” the dwarf shoved Damiar back again, pointing at his boot. Aggravated at being pushed around, Damiar unstrapped the small belt holding the knife in place, giving the belt and all to the dwarf, who sneered at him with audacious satisfaction. Damiar reached into his pouch and found a silver coin. He flicked it up in the air so the dwarf would have to catch the coin and uncross his arms.

“For all ye trouble,” Damiar said sarcastically. He walked past the dwarf and into the tavern which was busy with waitresses trying to deliver food and drink to impatient customers. All the while they were trying to avoid being violated or sexually harassed by the horny, slightly intoxicated young men. Damiar looked around and spotted two stools open next to each other at the bar.

“C’mon,” he motioned for Typothanas to follow him, as they sat at the wooden chairs. The bartender, a middle-aged man with more hair on his face than face itself walked up to them with a greasy, brown towel that could have once been white. He wiped the countertop in front of them and grinned behind his wooly mustaches and beard.

“What’ll it be?” he asked heartily.

“I’ll have a half-pint of mead,” Damiar replied.

“Wine,” Typothanas said.

“By the gods! An elf! Well we don’t see your kind too often rounds these parts. First glass is on me,” he replied and turned to fetch their drinks.

“Thank you kindly,” Typothanas smiled.

The man was back with their drinks quickly enough. Damiar put a coin on the table that more paid for his drink, and Typothanas’s, and some information.

“Are you Bomer?” Damiar asked.

“Yessir I am,” Bomer eyed the golden coin but did not reach for it because Damiar kept it firmly pressed under his index finger.

“Thank ye kindly for the drinks. My friends and I are looking for horses to buy,” Damiar said softly.

“Sorry, mate. We don’t sell horses here. Booze, broads, and a good time,” he smiled beneath his overgrown beard.

“Surely ye know of someone with horses to sell us. I hear ye’re well known around here,” Damiar pressed.

“Well, old man Wiley Black lives about a quarter-mile upriver. He’s the horse breeder and stable master here in Narbshire. Ye can’t miss his place; he’s right near the smithy,” Bomer offered. Damiar slid the coin to him and smiled.

“Thanks, Bomer. We’ll finish our drinks and be off,” Damiar said.

“No problem, lad. Yaru’s blessings,” he said as he scooped up and pocketed the coin.

“That was easy enough,” Typothanas observed, “I find it unfortunate that you would have to pay for something as trivial as a question.”

“Ye’re right about that,” Damiar added, chugging what was left of his mead, “Ye ready?”

“Yes. This wine is terrible. It tastes like vinegar,” he said, as he slid the cup forward with a look of disgust, “Do we require the services of the gnome to find the man selling horses?” Typothanas asked, hoping the answer was no by the tone in his voice.

“No. We know he lives a quarter-mile upriver. If he breeds horses, his place shouldn’t be too hard to find. Plus, we know it’s next to a blacksmith,” Damiar was relieved to find an excuse to be free of the over-talkative gnome. Lorrick caught sight of them on the way out and ran promptly to their side.

“Hey! Did you get what you needed? Where are we going now?” he asked excitedly.

“We are going to buy horses,” Damiar said, as he made a gesture with his finger to himself and Typothanas as he said the word ‘we,’ “thank you for your services, but they are no longer needed.”

“But…!” the gnome said in protest.

“We’ll be seeing you, Lorrick,” Damiar interjected, as he cut him off. Typothanas was retrieving their belongings from Bouldern.

“I just thought I could…” he started again.

“Sorry, mate. We’ve got it from here; we don’t need your help anymore,” Damiar said firmly. The gnome was clearly hurt. He hung his head and walked back to the table. Damiar felt a sting of sympathy and guilt and thought about letting the little gnome come with them at least to buy the horses. The thought passed as quickly as it had come on.

“Are you ready?” Typothanas asked Damiar as he strapped his sword on. He patted himself, making sure he had all the items he had handed over.

“It’s all there, lad,” Bouldern sneered.

“Never hurts to make sure,” Damiar muttered in a voice just loud enough for Bouldern to hear. Reaching into his money pouch, he snagged a random coin and tipped the dwarf bouncer with it. It was gold, more money than Damiar intended to give him and certainly more than the pushy, belligerent dwarf deserved.

Soon enough Typothanas and Damiar were on their way again, one step closer to being out of this ‘welcoming’ town. They had only been walking for five minutes or so when Bouldern stepped out of an alley and blocked their way.

“Hiya, lad,” he snickered. The massive man and a few others stood blocking the way. They were armed with clubs and knives, Bouldern, with a heavy wooden war mallet studded with steel fittings. Damiar realized instantly that they were about to be mugged and reached for his sword.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were ye, lad. We can do this the easy way…or the real easy way,” Bouldern patted his mallet with violent glee. The gleam in his eye told Damiar he was itching for a fight. There was a sound like the crunching of rock under foot directly behind them. In a single, fluid motion, Damiar unsheathed his sword, spun on his heels slashed through the air, his blade missing a man’s throat by mere millimeters. He heard the sound of Typothanas nocking an arrow in his bow and holding it taut, ready to strike. Bouldern had turned the corner with four companions and Damiar faced three others; they were outnumbered.

“So it’s gonna be the real easy way, eh lads?” Bouldern taunted, “get em!”

Damiar heard Typothanas’s arrow release as he parried the blow from an attacker. He reached for his sci’ar on his belt with his left hand and slashed wildly and wide to hold his opponents at bay. They advanced and as he backed up he ran into a tall slender body that he was sure was Typothanas. They were back to back and surrounded, it did not look good. With a roar, Damiar rushed his enemies head-on, a familiar voice in his head.

No reserve…no retreat…no regret…

________________________________________________________________


Lorrick scrambled over to the bar and climbed up the tall stool. He rested his elbow on the counter and his chin on his hand. He felt his lips pout forward as he frowned.

“What’s the matter, Lorrick? You’re not lookin yer usual chipper self,” Bomer asked, wiping a mug out with his ever-browning dish towel.

“Ah nothing…just chased my new friends away,” he drummed his finger on the bar table.

“That man and elf were yer friends?” Bomer narrowed his gaze at Lorrick with suspicion.

“Well, I just met them today but I thought we hit it off pretty good…guess I was wrong…” he whined.

“Ye could always drink ye troubles away, Lorrick, my friend,” Bomer offered, tapping a bottle of whiskey on the bar.

“Nah. I’m a mess when I drink; you know that better than most. I think I’ll get back to the streets and work again. There are, after all, so many ladies who want to see the magnificent Lorrick turn a bundle of sticks into roses!”

“That tired old trick? Lorrick, mate, ye need some new material.”

“Trick!” Lorrick burst objectively, “that is the problem with this town…with this whole day and age, no one willing to believe in anything beyond what they see with their own two eyes…or one if you’re a Cyclops…eight if you’re a spider…anyway!” Lorrick swiveled in his bar stool and shot a glance back towards the door. Typothanas and Damiar were just walking out of the swinging doors of the entrance of the Pale Pony. He groaned and continued to spin in circles at the bar, pretending he was on a carousel on the fair grounds of Mercanaza.

He continued to spin as a familiar buzz entered his ear. It was familiar, yet a sound he had not heard since he was living in the Eterna Mountains. It was Dwarvish being spoken in a loud booming voice coming from the front door. Bouldern was making commands at his posse.

Lorrick understood Dwarvish just fine, having grown up around dwarves his entire life. Gnomes and dwarves often lived together, especially those in Azur’nth. Typically, gnomes and dwarves lived in the mountains. Dwarves loved to mine ore and stone, burrowing deep in the earth, and gnomes loved to tinker and invent gadgets from the materials the dwarves mined. It was more of an understanding than a friendship. To date, as far as history recorded, gnomes and dwarves had never had a war with each other. They were brethren, both born of the earth.

Though he understood the language, he could not make out the words with all the wonderful bar noises circulating through the air. Bouldern only spoke Dwarvish when he wanted to keep things secret, and his secrets usually resulted in thievery and murder. It was well-known that he was a bloodthirsty, violent dwarf; most folks in Narbshire were afraid of him. Lorrick was not afraid simply because he knew that Bouldern was superstitious and would not hurt him because that would break the honorable peace pact that had existed between gnomes and dwarves.

Still, Lorrick could not, for the life of him, tame his insatiable curiosity and need to be involved. He just had to know what Bouldern was saying. He would never be able to get close enough to hear without looking suspicious. It was time to work a little magic. He smiled gleefully. He had not worked real magic in quite some time.

He reached into a small, hidden pouch and felt around for a reagent for his spell: some raw cotton. He began to finger and fiddle with the cotton as he muttered the words for his spell.

“Muffil a meya,” he muttered as he placed the cotton near his ears. Instantly, the noise in the room sounded distant and cloudy. That solved the problem of the noise, now to amplify the noise coming from the front of the bar. He grabbed a glass of whiskey from the man sitting to his left. His back was conveniently turned as he was flirting with the pretty, busty barmaid, so he did not notice Lorrick swiping his drink. There was only a swallow left so Lorrick chugged the aged liquor and stifled a cough as the whiskey burned his throat.

He turned the glass over and flicked the bottom of the glass twice. The glass resounded with a crystalline ting. With the vibration still in the air, Lorrick accessed the magic swimming through his spirit and murmured another set of magic words, charming the glass.

“Amplifi sata a so,” he said as he pressed his ear to his new listening device. He pointed the open end of the glass in Bouldern’s direction and listened intently to the conversation. The sound was crystal clear.

“Didn’t ye see it?” he asked, with bloodthirsty excitement in his voice, “he tipped with silver on the way in, tipped the bartender for the drinks, and tipped me with gold on the way out. Lorrick said they were looking to buy horses. They got money and money to spare.”

“What do you want us to do?” asked a man Lorrick did not recognize. His Dwarvish was rough but understandable.

“Round up the boys. Ye know what to do,” Bouldern chuckled. Lorrick watched as he reached for his heavy war mallet and as his men filed out the door before him. He whistled and three men got up from their table to join in the scheme.

“Hey, Bomer! I’m goin on me break!” Bouldern shouted in Common. Lorrick shot a look at Bomer who nodded Bouldern on. Lorrick felt his stomach lurch with queasiness. Bouldern was going to rob, and likely murder Typothanas and Damiar.

“Not if I have anything to say about it!” Lorrick leapt from his stool and bolted for the door. He stopped and snapped twice, “Dispel a todas,” he said, releasing the spell on his ears and the charm on the glass. He continued his stride towards the door.

“Bouldern! Wait!” he yelled in Dwarvish. Bouldern turned and faced him, a look of irritation on his face.

“Can I help you, wee one?” he inquired sarcastically.

“I know what you’re doing and I won’t let you!” Lorrick crossed his arms over his chest and stuck his nose up to Bouldern.

“Mind yer business, Lorrick. This doesn’t concern ye,” Bouldern snapped.

“Aye, it does, Bouldern! You’re gonna rob and murder my friends!” Lorrick said accusingly.

“Yer friends? Ye don’t even know em!” Bouldern countered.

“Nevertheless, they don’t deserve this. They are just passin through!” Lorrick argued.

“I’m only gonna take their money. I’ve no intention to kill them…if they cooperate,” he sneered. Lorrick huffed his way around the burly dwarf and started towards the door.

“Where d’ya think yer goin?” Bouldern demanded.

“To warn them, of course!” Lorrick snapped. Suddenly, two powerful arms snatched him up and threw him into a closet, all the way to the back. Lorrick fought his way to the front and tried for the doorknob. He heard a lock latch from the other side of the door; Bouldern had locked him in.

“Hey! Let me out! Hey! Groveling-goblin-goo!” Lorrick cursed. He was locked in and since the band had started playing music and the dancing had begun, no one would hear him pounding on the door or shouting at the top of his lungs. He would have to improvise with magic again.

He plunged his hand into his pouch and pulled out a tiny vial filled with little black granules. He reached for a piece of cardstock paper and folded it in half. Using the paper as a sliding funnel, he dropped about half of the powder into the keyhole. He pocketed the vial and the cardstock. Now all he needed was a fire reagent. He pulled out a powdery, crumbling, yellow sulfur rock and twiddled it in his fingers.

“Incindiaria,” he spoke as a fire came alive between his fingers. The small, smelly fireball crackled and smoked as it floated near his hand. He pointed his finger at the lock and mentally ordered the ball to fly towards the keyhole. It wisped its way to the lock and there was a loud bang and flash of light. All that was left of the doorknob and lock was marred, twisted, black metal.

Lorrick pushed the door open and looked around the tavern to see that Bouldern was gone. Lorrick had only been locked in the closet a few minutes, but that was still a head start for Bouldern. He ran out the door and started running, fast as he could manage without tripping over his robes. Having short legs did not make for fast travel. As he ran, he reached into his pouch and pulled out another tiny, glass vial, this one filled with quicksilver. He shook the vial up and down, muttering another spell.

“Expediente,” suddenly his legs moved so fast they were little more than a blur. He pocketed the vial of quicksilver; it probably had two or three uses left in it.

He turned the corner and stopped dead on his tracks, stumbling head-over-heels, not used to the momentum of the haste spell. He picked himself up just in time to see Bouldern, who had an arrow sticking out of his left biceps, raise his war hammer over his head. He was about to bring the mallet down on Damiar, who was lying on his back, unarmed.

Lorrick snagged a rock from the road, clutched it in one hand and stretched his other towards Damiar.

“Barrios!” he yelled just as the mallet came down. It stopped a mere six inches from Damiar’s face. Bouldern recoiled as if he had hit a brick wall with his hammer. The rock in Lorrick’s hand crumbled into dust. Without another thought, he sprinkled the dust in the air before Bouldern and the three men standing next to him.

“Dormir sata a san!” he whispered as the three men groggily stumbled to the ground and fell asleep. Bouldern did not fall. He simply wiped his eyes and shook his head as if clearing some dizziness.

“You’ll need more than a sodding sleep spell to do me in, Lorrick!” the burly dwarf sprinted towards Lorrick and got ready to kick him. Instinctively, Lorrick tried to get out of the way. This allowed him to avoid the studded end of Bouldern’s steel-toed boot, but he still hit him with his shin. The dwarf’s powerful kick vaulted Lorrick high into the air, flipping and spiraling out of control.

His body crashed into rough shingles as he began to roll forward. He used his hands to brace his movement and came to a stop. He could not help but to laugh out loud as he looked down at the road below him. Bouldern had kicked him onto a roof! A roof across the street at that!

“What are the odds?” Lorrick counted to five mentally, allowing himself five seconds to lose himself in amusement and bewilderment. Then, it was time to get back in the fight.

I can’t believe I tried to use a sleep spell on him!
He should have known better. Dwarves, as a race, were naturally resistant to remedial magic, like sleep spells.

He looked down and saw that Damiar was on his feet again with sword in hand. He was bleeding and bruised, as was Typothanas, whose quiver was empty. He was wielding two rapiers that looked sharp enough to skewer a man alive.

There were still a few men left standing to face them, but it was not them that worried Lorrick, it was Bouldern. The men that Bouldern ran with were dangerous enough, but he was in a league all his own. He was one of the few dwarven war heroes alive and still living in Azur’nth from the Sage War. He had killed his fair share of men and elves and was no pushover; he would not hesitate to kill again.

Lorrick reached into his pouch and pulled out a mottled bird feather. He held it in his palm and blew the feather into the air.

“Leviosando,” he said activating yet another spell. He felt his magic begin to wane. It had been quite a long time since he had last performed so many spells in such a short amount of time. At least they were all simple spells requiring minimal energy. He still had a few in him. He to remind himself that he was once an archmage.

But that was a long time ago, Lorrick grimaced. Bouldern had not stopped fighting since the end of the war. Either way, Typothanas and Damiar could not fight him and three men by themselves! Lorrick would even the odds a bit. He leapt off the roof, floating to the ground.

“Bouldern! The jig is up! Leave them alone and go back to the bar before someone gets hurt!” Lorrick warned, staring up at the angry dwarf. He conjured an electric attack spell to his hands and held it ready to strike.

“Only persons in danger of getting hurt is you, Lorrick! You and your new friends yer so willin to risk yer neck for! Get outta my way! You two! Just hand over yer money and I’ll be on.”

“Can’t do that, mate! We need this money for horses,” Damiar replied keeping his sword poised to strike. One of the men lashed out with his club. Damiar deflected the blow and brought his fist into the man’s gut. The man doubled over and Damiar, in a whirl, spun and kicked the man in the head. He fell to the ground like a sack of potatoes, quite evidently unconscious. The other two men rushed Damiar, and Bouldern seized the opportunity to attack him from behind. Lorrick unleashed his electric spell but it flew past Bouldern and hit a wooden porch banister, exploding it into splinters. Typothanas engaged both men in an epic two-on-one sword duel. The clang of steel against steel echoed through the streets.

Damiar turned to face Bouldern, assaulting him with his own series of sword blows. Bouldern skillfully parried each attack with his hammer.

It was not long before Typothanas had disarmed and immobilized both men. One of them was missing a hand. Damiar, with a forceful kick, sent Bouldern tumbling backwards.

Lorrick stepped forward to Damiar’s left, Typothanas to his right. The three of them stood facing Bouldern, daring him to try to fight all three of them at once.

“It’s over. Yield, and go home,” Damiar said lowering his blade from alongside Bouldern’s neck. The dwarf laughed and picked himself off of the ground, wiping a spot of blood from his lip and spitting a mouthful on the dirt before them.

“I guess it’s yer lucky day today, lads. I underestimated ya. Let me just say, if I ever catch any of the three of you in my town again, it won’t be pretty,” he turned and helped his injured, beaten men to their feet.
“Don’t worry, dwarf. You won’t be seeing us here again if we can help it,” Damiar assured.

“I mean you too, Lorrick! I want you out of my town! I catch you anywhere near Narbshire, if I even hear about you here, I’ll find you and bust you with my hammer!” he growled ferociously. Lorrick knew better than to talk back to an angry dwarf, especially one was dangerous as Bouldern, so he kept quiet.

There was no way that he could stay in Narbshire now. Bouldern meant what he had said and he did have a large gang of followers that might as well have been the law in Narbshire.

As if nothing had happened, without even acknowledging his existence, let alone thanking him, Typothanas and Damiar continued upriver to buy their horses and skip town. Lorrick scampered behind them.

“Excuse me! Don’t I at least get ‘a thank you for showing up in the nick of time and saving my life?’” he asked. Finally, Damiar looked down at him, but he kept walking, stepping over the unconscious man he had kicked earlier.

“Ye really were an archmage,” Damiar shook his head in disbelief. Lorrick felt his face get hot and redden with anger.

“Did you think I was lying? Ugh! Of course you did. I don’t know why it’s so hard to believe. I practically have to conjure lightning in order to make believers out of people.”

“I am sorry that I didn’t believe ye, mate. You just don’t meet too many legitimate mages around anymore. Thank ye, by the way! We would have been goners if not for ye showing up when you did.”

“Speak for yourself. I required no assistance,” Typothanas muttered arrogantly, as he wiped some blood from his nose.

“Well, well mister superiority complex, don’t show any gratitude, whatever ye do!” Lorrick snapped sarcastically. Typothanas scowled and rolled his eyes.

“You’re welcome, both of you. Now as repayment for all my trouble, I have decided to let you take me with you,” Lorrick announced jovially.

“What? Where?” Damiar demanded.

“Wherever the two of you are going,” Lorrick flashed a grin.

“We have two different destinations,” Typothanas objected.

“He’s right. I’m only going as far as Wehtag, Typothanas is going on to Effedeyo…anyway, it matters not where we’re goin, Lorrick. Ye can’t come,” Damiar tried his hardest to sound resolute but it was not nearly enough to stop Lorrick this time.

“Nice try! I saved your life. Bouldern was gonna crush your face with a hammer. Because I helped you it is now too dangerous for me to stay here. Thanks to you, this is the third town I’ve been thrown out of! You owe me, and I demand to be taken with you!” Lorrick stomped his foot and raised his voice as he spoke.

Typothanas threw a disdainful glance and then gave Damiar a look that said the decision would be left to him.

“Fine, you can come with us,” Damiar surrendered.

Unable to contain his glee, Lorrick ran over and embraced Damiar’s leg.

“Oh thank-you-thank-you-thank-you! You won’t regret this, I promise.”

“You do realize we will not have a horse for you right?” Typothanas asked. Lorrick smiled.

“I know that! I don’t expect you guys to get me a horse too.”

“Then how, little gnome, do you plan on keeping up with us?” Typothanas asked. It was clear that he was hoping to change Lorrick’s mind.

“I’ll ride with you, silly!”

Typothanas looked utterly mortified, but then his expression changed to one of relief.

“I do not require a horse, so you will be riding with Damiar,” Typothanas replied.

“How in the name of the gods do ye plan on keepin up with us with no horse?” Damiar demanded.

“I will show you when wear are ready to travel,” Typothanas promised.

“This is gonna be so much fun!” Lorrick clapped his hands together excitedly.

“Remind me, when the opportunity presents itself, to die in a fire,” Typothanas said to Damiar, who began to laugh. They trotted on to buy horses.

“Why ever would you want to die in a fire? That sounds horrible!” Lorrick asked, completely confused.

“This is going to be a long trip…”

Chapter Three: Encounter

A gentle breeze danced through the forest and made the trees sing. Typothanas never grew weary of hearing their song. The elf ventured west, further west than he had ever been. He realized as he stopped in his tracks that one more step would be the furthest he had ever been from home. He knew this because of the mammoth tree with purple leaves before him. It was the same tree he had fallen out of so many years ago, when attempting to climb to the top. In his heart he smiled, but his face remained stoic and stone.

He veered left, around the tree and he saw an outlook that both scared and excited him. Fiero was setting in the west, casting a sunset on the Eastern Plains. It cast an amber glow on the entire forest, every tree, flower and creature. He stopped again and looked back at the magnificent forest, thick with tall trees, their roots protruding out of the ground like gnarled tentacles. Brilliant flowers were in bloom, accenting the green leaves and brown trees with vibrant colors of blue, violet, pink, yellow and white. It smelled floral and citrusy, ripe with fruit and bloom in the spring.

He loved his home, but something in his heart yearned for more. It was more specific than something, if only curiosity. He wanted to know why and what and how. Maybe it was his thirst for knowledge, maybe it was boredom. More than likely, Typothanas would find out what it was
he was looking for when it was right before his eyes.

The real deciding factor in taking his trip had been the map. He had found a map, dated decades back, but recent enough to be considered a reliable source of information. It was a map of the continent of Azur’nth.

The forest had been easy enough to locate. It was in the eastern part of the land, stretching from the Eastern Plains to the sea. It was a miniscule part of the continent. Typothanas had always seen the forest as a huge, expansive realm—it was his whole world. Seeing the map had been a rude awakening to how diminutive his world was—and just how he was. Azur’nth was smallest of continents in the world of Espiria. The world was a vast domain offering who knew how much more knowledge than the forest! Typothanas was not satisfied with folk tales from elf lords who had not seen the outside world in centuries. He needed to witness and experience and, most importantly, learn for himself.

So here he was, at the edge of his whole world, about to embark into the great beyond, a journey of a lifetime when a human came rampaging into the forest as if he was a bat flying free from the Abyss.

Typothanas strung his bow and readied an arrow almost reflexively. It was an unwritten law that men did not enter the forest; both races knew this. He had the human in his sights and was ready to fire when two spiky, black blurs crashed through the forest only seconds after him. Typothanas was learned in the subject of Azur’nthian wildlife and though he had never seen one he recognized the creatures immediately.

Bandersnatches were strong, fast and hard to kill. As an elf, Typothanas was generally opposed to killing, as he had a reverence for all life, but in this case, a sentient being was in mortal danger of a beast, and his life was worth protecting, even at the cost of the other. For him to have the capability to help this human, though he was breaking the laws by entering the forest, to do nothing would be a far worse crime.

This was not a very promising start to his voyage but he ran to catch the human. The bandersnatches had him cornered in a nook surrounded by gigantic, gnarly trees. He had no escape and no choice but to stand and fight.

Typothanas winced as the larger bandersnatch lunged, jaws open at the human. He dodged to the left, twirling his body and slashing his sword through the air. He caught the creature in the mouth, slicing through its cheek. It screeched in pain and slashed wildly but the human was skillfully parrying each blow.

The smaller one stood upright and tried to work its way behind him. This was Typothanas’s chance; he nocked an arrow, took careful aim and fired. He hit his mark, wounding the creature in the shoulder. He had nocked and fired another arrow before the creature had time to react to being struck with the first one.

Typothanas glanced at the human and their eyes met for a moment, only for a moment because the battle raged on. He advanced on the smaller bandersnatch, firing arrows rhythmically. Some arrows hit tender flesh but most glanced off of the black, spiky bone-armor protecting the bandersnatch’s body.

One thing was certain: he had diverted its attention off of the human and onto himself. The creature sprinted full-speed at Typothanas, attempting to charge into him. He ran to the right and jump-kicked off of a tree with all of his might; his nimble body sailed through the air. He used his legs and free arm to ascend and was perched in a high branch in a matter of seconds.
The bewildered bandersnatch, looking like a tailor’s pin cushion, howled in frustration as it scanned the treetops for Typothanas. He nocked his last remaining arrow and took careful aim, for he had to make this one count. He aimed for the throat, downward, hoping to hit as many organs as possible so that the shot would be lethal. The second the bandersnatch caught sight of him and he released the arrow. It went down the creature’s throat; it was as if it had swallowed it.

Clutching and clawing wildly at its throat the creature fell to the ground, gasping desperately for air. Typothanas spun and jumped to the ground, catching hold of a branch on the way down to slow his descent, falling gracefully like a petal from a wilting rose.

Reaching for his rapiers at his belt, Typothanas rushed the other bandersnatch who was still clawing frantically at the human. The human had a bloodied arm and side from where the creature had successfully slashed him. Surprisingly, he was holding the bandersnatch at bay with his swordplay.

Typothanas seized the opportunity to strike while the bandersnatch’s back was turned. He stabbed meticulously at the creature’s backside, each blow penetrating flesh and sinew. Without warning, the creature’s hind leg kicked a rapier out of his hand, and whirling, backhanded him in the face. The blow lifted Typothanas off of his feet and sent his body spiraling through the air and smashing against a tree.

The wind was knocked out of him and he saw stars for a moment. Between twirling through the air and hitting the ground he had dropped his second rapier. Looking up, the creature was advancing on him and he forced himself back into a state of intense concentration.

“Etrac,” he uttered.

The trees above him, as if coming to life at his command, bent over and suddenly began to wrap themselves around the creature’s arms, as the roots of the tree began to entangle its feet.
The creature leaned forward, its jaws open wide. Typothanas was back against the trunk, his face turned to the side to keep from having it bit off. He could feel the sticky, hot breath of the creature as it inched closer and closer. He fought the urge to gag as the smell of raw, bloody meat entered his nostrils.

He did not dare to move. The tree’s snare would only hold it for so long. He was stuck like a mouse in the clutches of a cat.

Typothanas heard the human start to speak in a low, chant-like tone, and he risked a glance past the creature. The human had his gaze fixed on the bandersnatch, his hands in front of him like he was holding an imaginary ball. Suddenly, a bright, orange and yellow flame erupted to life in his hands.

The creature turned around when this happened, no doubt feeling the same intense heat from the flame that Typothanas was feeling. It began to screech in a way unlike before: this was a cry of fear and of panic. The human, thrusting his hands forward, hurled the ball of fire at the bandersnatch; the result was explosive. The creature was utterly consumed by the flames, reduced to a smoldering pile of ash in a matter of seconds.

He looked over at the human, who appeared to be completely exhausted. His step wavered and he looked as if he would fall over.

“Sorry, mate. Haven’t done that in a while,” he stumbled and Typothanas caught him. He was heavy. He helped the man lean against the tree for rest. He was sweaty and out of breath.
Typothanas looked the human over. He could not help but stare, for his curiosity; he had never seen a human before. He had seen plenty of portraits of humans in history books and in the art galleries in different communes. They were always portrayed as short, stocky, hairy, pink creatures with rosy cheeks and yellow teeth. Typothanas had always found their appearance to be rather unattractive.

Typothanas wrinkled his nose when the pungent smell of the human’s perspiration wafted into his nostrils. It was a salty, vinegary smell and when it mingled with the unwashed cloth and leather that he was wearing, it evolved rapidly from a scent to a stench. His skin was a fleshy color and it looked to be soft and squishy. What more, there was black hair protruding from the skin on this creatures arms and face. At further scrutiny, while looking through a tear in the man’s leggings and shirt he discovered the same was true about his legs and chest. The degree of body hair was either greatly exaggerated in the paintings he had seen, or this human male was still young.

He was shorter and wider than Typothanas. He had broad shoulders and a muscular build. Typothanas was not one to succumb to intimidation, but he could take one look at this human male and see that he was exceptionally strong. His arms filled out the sleeves of his shirt, and his chest swelled prominently from underneath. His neck was thick and even his forearms were swollen with strength.

His dark hair was cut very short, as if it had been cut with a razor recently. He had a large, masculine forehead, and thick, dark, eyebrows above two small, almond-shaped eyes, a round nose, very pronounced, but it was a favorable shape and contour for his face. His ears were oval-shaped and small. There was not even the slightest hint of a point about them. His lips were small and thin, his chin prominent and round. There was also hair growing on the man’s neck, chin, cheeks and upper lip. Elves had long sung away hair to grow anywhere on their bodies save for their heads and eyebrows. He could not recall what humans called the hair on their face. Perhaps there was more than one name for it.

Typothanas was able to see all kinds of freckles, scars, blemishes, and even small wrinkles around his eyes. He knew that humans did not practice nature magic and did not sing over themselves to alter their appearance as elves did. Even if the elves would divulge how to use the magic, and the humans became capable of using it, it would be futile. Their lifetimes, from what Typothanas had studied would only allow for them to see a few changes. At first, Typothanas was repulsed by the ugliness of the human male’s imperfections, but as he studied the scars further he became curious about them. The faint appearance of wrinkles on the man’s forehead and in the corners of his eyes gave his face character that Typothanas had never seen in an elven face.

He wielded a long, straight sword that was sharp on both sides. It was very crude and plain, the hilt was made of wood with simple brass fittings. His clothes were simple too: black shin-high boots, brown leather breeches, and a white linen shirt with a green vest over it. He wore fingerless leather gloves that looked more like the gloves of an archer than that of a swordsman.

“Are you a mage?” Typothanas blurted in Avrælin, “you performed magic. Does that not make you a mage?” he asked curiously. The human male did not look like what Typothanas had imagined of a mage. That much was for sure. Still, he had performed a powerful spell to kill the bandersnatch.

The human looked as if he had no idea what Typothanas was saying.

“Do ye speak Common, Elflord?” he asked. Typothanas sighed, forgetting himself. The human’s vocal chords made a strange sound. It did not resound or reverberate like the voice of an elf. It was flat and simple and not as deep as that of elven males.

“Yes. I speak Common. I am no elflord, though,” Typothanas replied indignantly, but he had not meant to. Ignorant people were a pet peeve of Typothanas’s. Then again, I am just as ignorant of his ways as he is of mine, he thought, scolding himself for being so judgmental.

“I’m Damiar,” the man said, extending his right hand forward. He held it there and looked at Typothanas as if he expected the same. Jutting his hand forward, he held it out like Damiar’s.

“I am called Typothanas Tremiralan,” he had done the greeting ritual just as Damiar had and still, he looked at him puzzled. Suddenly, Damiar seized Typothanas’s hand firmly and shook it up and then down. Repulsed that the man had touched him without so much as asking permission, Typothanas tugged his hand away.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Typo…Typotha…sorry what was your name again?”

“Typothanas,” he replied, disappointed that Damiar found it difficult to pronounce his name.

“Typothanas…I’ll remember that. And no, I am not a mage, to answer your question,” Damiar said, with a little laugh.

“You understand Avrælin?”

“No, just a few words. Ye use the same word as we do for mage, but I believe ye pronounce it mah-zee, yes?”

“Magi,” Typothanas corrected.

“I also recognized the word gamayre, the real word for magic, so I figured that was what you were asking,” he laughed again, a belly laugh, loud and genuine. Typothanas did not laugh often, especially when he saw no humor in a situation. Damiar seemed to laugh at a whim.

“Humans are not allowed in the forest,” Typothanas pointed out sternly.

“I know. Sorry, mate. I had little choice in the matter. Those bandersnatches chased me here. Craziest thing! Their pup, or cub, or whatever ye call their young ones, attacked my horse. I killed the mongrel and its parents decided they wanted vengeance,” he chuckled.

“Where are you travelling to, Damiar?”

“That is my affair,” he replied.

“Did ye study Common or do all elves speak it as well as you?” Damiar asked, changing the subject. He stopped and Typothanas walked alongside him. Typothanas was flattered, he felt his knowledge of Common limited but Damiar seemed to think he spoke well.

“Most elves think it a waste of time to learn the languages of other races.”

“But not you?”

“Obviously,” Typothanas could not help his snide remarks and sarcasm.

“I guess what I meant to ask was why,” Damiar snickered.

“I am intrigued by other races and cultures. I have always wanted to travel and see these things for myself. I thought it prudent to learn the language of Common first since most races, save for elves, speak it.”

“Well your studies paid off; ye speak Common beautifully, Typothanas. Where are ye travelling to? It has been a long while since an elf has graced us with his presence,” Damiar inquired.

“That is my affair,” Typothanas joked, mimicking Damiar only moments before.

“Very well, then. I travel to Wehtag, a lake town northwest of here,” Damiar replied.

“I too, go north, to Effedeyo,” Typothanas said.

“We’ll be going the same direction for a while. Wehtag is just southwest from Effedeyo. We could travel together if you would like,” Damiar offered. He seemed trustworthy and friendly enough.

“I would like that,” Typothanas replied simply.

“Besides, it’ll be good to have you around to protect me from anymore bandersnatch attacks,” Damiar said with a laugh. Typothanas frowned. “That was a joke,” Damiar added.

Typothanas could not help but crack a smile. Travelling with Damiar would be an enjoyable experience, he decided.

“Very well, let me salvage and clean as many of these arrows as possible from this one, and then I will meet you at your camp,” Typothanas offered.

“Sounds good, mate. See you there.”

________________________________________________________________
Damiar rhythmically strummed on his lyre as he travelled on. Earlier they had a discussion about the historical significance of their chance encounter. In hundreds of years the humans and Azur’nthian elves had not been in face-to-face contact. Damiar was the first man to see an elf, and Typothanas was the first elf to see a man in almost an age. Both of them had just begun a journey of discovery. Typothanas was seeking to discover the world outside of his forest and Damiar was on a quest for self-discovery. Damiar was glad to find that they had something in common, and was already recognizing a kindred spirit in the elf.

He could not help but to stare and admire the elf’s strange appearance. It was as if he was a creature from a different world. His unnatural height gave him a commanding presence despite his petite frame. His skin was the color of pearl and did not have a single imperfection or scar on it. Only his lips and the palms of his hands had a slightly different hue. It reminded Damiar of marble that had been smoothed and polished. He wore a mane of silky, shoulder-length, midnight-colored hair that was in shocking, stark contrast to his strikingly white skin. Save for the hair on his head and eyebrows, there was not another shred of hair on his body that Damiar could see. Despite Typothanas’s delicate features, they did not seem to be dainty or feminine. There was still an air of strength and masculinity about him.

Damiar noted that the elf’s clothing was of the finest quality. His leather jerkin was the deepest shade of green he had ever seen and it was smooth and seamless. It came past his waste and was fastened with a belt of brown, braided leather. His shirt was spun from fine elven silk and dyed to a rich brown to compliment the green jerkin. He wore brown cotton leggings that were tucked into boots that came up to his knees. The boots were made of darkened brown leather, and strung with even darker laces. At the top were two straps and buckles to fasten the boots into place. The toes of the boots were pointed, unlike the fashion of boots that humans wore which were typically round.

It was difficult to keep himself from being entranced by Typothanas’s voice. It was smooth and hypnotic, deep and alluring. It sounded as if he were speaking with two or even three sets of vocal chords simultaneously. It seemed when he was speaking as if he were singing in the richest bass voice that anyone had ever heard. He was eager to hear the elf’s singing voice.

“Though the road has been hard, and the journey long, still my heart leads me on,” Damiar sang as he strummed his lyre.

“To the land far away, o’re mountains and sea, onward my heart leads me home.

“I’m coming home, I’m coming home, over the mountains, my heart leads me home. I’m coming home, I’m coming home, down through the valley, onward my heart leads me home.”

“That is a beautiful melody. Did you write it?” Typothanas asked admirably.

“No, it’s an old chours that soldiers used to sing when they marched home victorious from war,” he smiled.

“Were you a soldier?”

“No,” he replied without hesitation.

“Where did you learn your swordplay?”

“I am self-taught; any skill I possess I have attained through endless hours of rigorous practice,” he replied.

“It is quite impressive,” Typothanas said admiringly.

“Thank ye,” he replied, swelling with pride at the compliment.

“What about magic? I thought magic was rare, only taught to the most promising pupils by the Sages Circle.”

“In most cases ye are correct. I am a little different. I travel all over and I have acquired some skills here and there in my youth.”

“You are still young. How can you say your youth?”

“I am of age and have been for three years now,” Damiar shot back angrily, “how old are ye, elf?”

“Eighty-two,” he said gingerly. Damiar’s eyes widened and his mouth fell open.

“You jest! Ye don’t look a day over twenty-five!”

“Elves age much differently than men. We live to be millennia old,” Typothanas explained. He had heard elves were long-lived but he would never have realized by how much.

“So by elven standards ye’re still very young as well,” Damiar half-asked-half-stated.

“Considering how long my lifetime will be, one could say that I was relatively young,” Typothanas replied.

“What I would do in a life time were I able to live that long!” he pondered aloud.

“It is probably a good thing that men are so short-lived,” Typothanas frowned, “you are very quick to start wars, especially with each other.”

“Ye make us sound like savages,” he said indignantly.

“No other race has had as many wars within their own race as humans; none come close,” Typothanas added.

“How would you know something like that?” Damiar asked. He had meant for his tone to be one of neutral curiosity, but it came across indignantly.

“I have read every volume of human history that we elves have in our possession,” Typothanas replied. He did not seem to be offended by Damiar’s tone. Aside from the few moments of hostility when they first met, Typothanas did not seem to use inflection and emotion in his voice the way humans did.

“There are more of us and we are not so condensed as elves dwelling in the forest or dwarves underground. It creates for more diversity and disagreement,” Damiar said, finding himself defending his race, though he knew better than most the true nature of men. Men were savages, doing horrible things to each other for the most trivial of reasons.
Even doing it in the name of a god to justify their actions…

“True as this may be, it would not surprise me if there were a war between men going on right now,” he replied with biting cynicism in his voice.

“Actually, there is,” he confessed ashamedly. Typothanas looked at him as if to make sure he was not jesting.

“Tell me more,” Typothanas demanded, intrigued. Damiar began to unfold the details about Sanctus Dei, their place in society and authority, and of the Ysaht, their isolation and lifestyle. He tried to present only the facts but he snuck his opinion in every now and then without meaning to. Typothanas’s great pointed ears seem to drink in every word.

“Your king allows the Church to do this?” Typothanas inquired, his tone had a slight bit of disbelief leaking through.

“Unfortunately, yes. Bringing an uncivilized people to the Light sounds noble if you say it like that, but as usual, there is always more to the story with Sanctus Dei,” Damiar could not contain his bitter contempt from seeping out into his voice.

“Do you know something more? Do you know why the Church is really crusading against the Ysaht?” Typothanas asked.

“Well, no. I know they are looking for some sort of resource, and it is exclusively and abundantly found in the Ysaht desert,” he answered.

“What is it? Gold? Diamonds?” Typothanas asked.

“It is something different—a source of magic or power or something. I only know what they call it,” he confessed.

“The Church?” Typothanas questioned.

“No, the Ysaht. They call it et Vidal-agh.”

“What does it mean? Do you know?”

“It translates in Common as the life spring.”

“Do you know what it is supposed to be?” Typothanas asked.

“No. I know that the Ysaht are trying desperately to protect it, and since Sanctus Dei has started their crusade they’ve been looking for it tirelessly.”

“How do you know all of these details?” Typothanas asked.

“People talk. I’m from all over the place and I do well to listen to people in taverns as they talk,” Damiar replied.

“Some of this information is first-hand, detailed information. Either you, or someone you know has been there in the midst of this,” Typothanas pointed out.

“Strangest thing…I found this journal here,” Damiar reached into his pouch and pulled out the leather-bound book. “It is a first-hand account from a soldier in the Sanctus Dei army. He was studying to be a Luminari but was taken as a prisoner of war escorting a member of the clergy.”

“You found it?” Typothanas inquired suspiciously, “journals are personal things; usually people keep them close.”

“I thought the same thing! Strangely enough, it was stuffed in between the mattress of my bed at the inn by the Vernadi,” he explained.

“What is the Vernadi?” Typothanas asked.

“It’s the city-state where the Sanctus Dei headquarters is located,” he replied.

“And a Luminari—what is that?” Typothanas asked.

“For lack of a better description, a Luminari is a holy soldier. He or she devotes their entire life to learning the way of the Light and to Yaru’s teachings.”

“Like a cleric?” Typothanas queried.

“Yes and no. Luminari study the same healing artes and holy magic that clerics do, or at least remedially. Luminari are warriors though—the most powerful in our land, bringers of Light, justice and goodness. They’re rivaled only by Darinu, which have not been seen in years,” Damiar explained.

“You sound like you admire these Luminari,” Typothanas observed.

“Everyone does. Luminari are heroes,” Damiar explained.

“And a Darinu is…?” Typothanas asked.
“A servant to Havaeltr: god of Shadow and Void. They are like the Luminari except they practice dark artes and black magic,” Damiar explained.

“You seem to know a great deal concerning the Church and its affair, Damiar,” Typothanas replied slyly.

“I only know because I’ve been to too many taverns and have a wonderful habit of listening in on conversations I am not necessarily included in,” Damiar snickered.

“So you have said. Is anyone doing anything to oppose the crusade?”

“There are some protestors, mostly people who live in Effedeyo, but it isn’t enough to change anything. Lady Farrina Snowchild is open about her disagreement with the Church’s actions, but unless she had some evidence against them it will do no good,” Damiar said with a shrug.

“Farrina? That is the woman I am going to meet in Effedeyo. Is she very important in your culture?”

“She’s the king’s chief advisor and Ambassador of Foreign Affairs. While she has no real authority she is extremely well-known, well-liked and influential in the kingdom,” Damiar said as he narrowed his gaze at Typothanas.

“Perhaps this journal could be used to expose the Church’s crusade for this life spring. I could deliver it to her for you,” Typothanas offered.

Damiar looked at the ratty book and thought for a moment. He had never liked the war and what a wonderful and anonymous way to contribute to the cause of putting it to an end. The Church of Sanctus Dei would not be able to trace the journal to him. He could ask Typothanas to be quiet about it. They would look for the bloke who wrote it if anything—a ghost hunt at best. Plus, Typothanas was an elf, seemingly disconnected from the entire situation. He would have diplomatic immunity and protection while he was in Azur’nth. He was the best person to do it.

“By all means! It will shed some light on the way the Ysaht people live. Sanctus Dei tries to make them out to be less-than-human. If anyone can turn this around, it’s her!” Damiar handed the journal over to the elf.

“May I read it?” Typothanas requested.

“It does not belong to me; I read it. I guess ye would haft find the man who wrote it, if he’s still alive and ask him,” Damiar said with a nod. It was supposed to be in jest, but Typothanas clearly thought, by the look on his face, that Damiar expected him to track the man down to ask permission to read it.

“Go ahead and read it. It will give ye insight into human culture and current events in the world of men,” he insisted.

“Thank you, Damiar,” Typothanas said, touching his fingers first to his lips and then to his heart. It seemed to be a gesture of gratitude.

“Typothanas I should warn ye that ye should be careful delivering that. Making enemies with Sanctus Dei is not something I would recommend. They have been known to be cunning and forceful to anyone who opposes them,” he warned, hoping he was not going to put his new elven friend in danger.

“Even after what you have told me, I am not afraid of them. If what you tell me about their crusade is true then they are doing wrong and must be stopped. I am sure I will be safe. I am an elf and have diplomatic immunity here. Also, Lady Snowchild will be the one taking action. I am just delivering a piece of information,” Typothanas said, as he stuffed the journal into his satchel.
“I pray you are right, friend,” Damiar replied grimly. There was a long moment of awkward silence between them. Damiar did not feel like talking anymore. Thinking about Sanctus Dei and the crusade had put him in a little bit of a bad mood.

“How far do you think we are from the crossroads?” Typothanas inquired, breaking the silence and changing the subject.

Damiar thought, doing some mental math. Were they on horseback, it would have only taken a few days or so, but being on foot was slowing them down considerably. The first town between the Vernadi and Wehtag was a place called Narbshire and it was a little out of the way, further east than they needed to go, near the bend of the Narblan River. Still, they would be able to buy horses and get some additional supplies. Damiar opened his coin purse. He had leftover coin from his last dealing in the Vernadi, not nearly enough to buy another horse, let alone two.

“At this rate, we won’t get there for another three weeks or a month, but we have another option,” Damiar started, looking to see if Typothanas was interested.

“What option would that be?”

“There is a town due east of here, near the river bend called Narbshire. We would likely be able to find horses there.”

“That seems to be the better course of action,” Typothanas responded simply, not aware of the money situation or of the unsavory kind of town Narbshire could be. It was known to be a breeding ground for thieves and criminals. It was the southernmost town in Azur’nthian jurisdiction, save for Saint Oloran but that was Sanctus Dei’s territory. Few soldiers were stationed in Narbshire and the ones who were usually became party to all the carousing and debauchery that the town was so infamous for.

Damiar did his best to convey the dangers awaiting two travelers, strangers to a town like that, with a purse full of coins.

“We have your sword and my bow if the situation arises,” he shrugged the idea of danger away nonchalantly.

Damiar showed Typothanas his coin purse, and while it was not sparse, he could not afford a horse. Typothanas frowned and studied the coins as he pulled out a small, green, leather pouch as well, opened it, and pulled out a fistful of golden coins.

“Lady Snowchild said in one of her letters that I would need gold to pay for things here. Elves have no use for gold, save for decoration,” Typothanas poured the coins in Damiar’s hands whose mouth was agape with shock. What meant so little to Typothanas was a small fortune in the world of men.

“Typothanas! This is a hefty sum of money! Before we get to Narbshire ye need to put it in more than one place and be sure to only get it out if ye haft to,” Damiar cautioned him.

“Will it buy a horse?” Typothanas asked, concerned.

“It will buy four horses and a carriage if you so desired,” Damiar smiled.

“A carriage? Well we certainly will not need one of those!” Typothanas replied affirmatively. Damiar gave him a puzzled look. Maybe he had a bad experience with a carriage? Who could know?

“So, to Narbshire?” Damiar asked.

“To Narbshire,” Typothanas affirmed, nodding in agreement.