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.

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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.