In the last installment of our epic tale, Jarthen had just become acquainted with the mind-altering effects of elvish pipe-weed. Bertronius and his compatriots in the Imperial Army, on the other hand, endured the far less pleasurable experiences attendant to long marches and the drudgery of military life.
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Jarthen felt as if there were thousands upon thousands of miniscule fairies dancing in his veins. He sat on a cot in the tent staring vacantly into a spot on the wall just behind Rethnaki’s head, as he struggled to regain control of his mind. Although he had been awash with thoughts just moments before inhaling the harsh smoke of the weed, Jarthen now found it a struggle to muster a single thought. In addition, he was having trouble focusing his eyes: the walls of the tent and Rethnaki wobbled and distorted themselves, though his gaze did not waver from the spot on the wall. Time ceased to travel in the way that Jarthen was accustomed to: he could hear Rethnaki speak, but as if he was speaking to him from the bottom of a well—under water.
“I…I feel very…queer…,” Jarthen trailed off. He tried to rise from his seat on the cot, but was felled immediately by an intense feeling of vertigo. At the sight of this both Jarthen and Rethnaki burst out laughing.
“Ha! Ha!…oh me stars,” Rethnaki chuckled wiping away a tear, “ tha’s ta pipe weed fer ye. I remember me firs' time I very nearly rolled down ta biggest hill in all me village. I ha’e jus' taken me firs' breath o’ smoke at ta top of ‘ol Smarchak Hill, an’ me knees jus’ slipped righ’ from under me. By ta time I reached ta bottom o' ta hill, I was so dizzy an’ covered in prickers tha’ I nearly los’ me supper!”
Jarthen listened with a deeply profound, and yet somehow fleeting interest to Rethnaki’s musings. He felt completely enthralled by any words that Rethnaki spoke, but simultaneously doubted that he would be able to retain any of the information imparted at this time.
“Tell me…tell me about your village, Rethnaki,” Jarthen lazily requested.
“Well, there’s nah so much ta tell,” Rethnaki replied, drawing thoughtfully on the still lit pipe. “It’s small, ta ta north o' here, an’ it lays in ta bosom o' ta hills. Ye couldn’ find it unless ye knew it was there. My family’s lived there since ta beginning o' this world, and I’m ta only one ta ha'e e'er really left.”
“Does that mean…the rest of your family isn’t in the rebel army?”
“Aye. Fact o’ ta matter is, they t'ink I’m touched in ta head fer bein' here. Don’ get me wrong, they hate ta queen as much as ta next northerner, but they believe tha' elves are meant ta live in peace. Ye mus’ understan', lad, there’s a great divide in ta elvish community. Half o’ 'em are like me, an’ t'ink - nay, know - we ha'e ta fight fer ta betterment o' ta world. Ta rest o’ 'em, me family included, ardently believe tha' elves are above ta petty conflicts o' other beings.”
“But…” Jarthen struggled through his intoxication to understand, “how can they stand by when there are so many terrible things going on?”
“Well, me boy, elves ha’e been around longer, and will stay on this earth longer than ta rest o’ these creatures here.1 We know tha' despite wha' happens today, tomorra, an' fer hundreds o’ years, elves will one day inherit ta world, an' because o’ tha', they don’ see much point in bein' involved in these affairs.”
“If that’s true, why do you fight?”
“I’m o’ ta belief tha' we elves can’ ignore ta world. Even if we’re different from humans, dwarves, gnomes and ta rest, we still share ta same earth, an' we ha'e a duty ta do righ' by these other peoples. Maybe it’s jus’ because I’m young—most o' ta elves in ta army are younguns, too. Many o' ta elves tha' fought 'gainst ta queen in ta early days, ha’e given up ta ghost, but I suspect I’ll stick 'er out.”
“How…how old are you?” Jarthen asked.
“I’m 137 years old.”
“What?!” Jarthen managed to be shocked despite his still somewhat addled mind.
“Aye lad. Didn’ ye know? Elves live considerably longer than yer folk.”
“How long do elves live?”
“Well tha’s a tricky question. I could catch an arrow ta me heart tomorrow an' die on ta spot, but, if ta fates so mandate it, I could see ta end o’ ta world. On average, I’d ha’e ta say tha' mos’ elves see about 500 years.”
Jarthen sat astounded. He had never stopped and thought to consider the possibility that the other creatures in the Rebel Army might have different life spans than himself. He sat there confused and intoxicated. Meanwhile, Rethnaki smoked the last of the bowl, and tapped out the powdery white ashes onto the ground outside of the tent. “Come on then, lad,” he said gently, “there’s no point worryin’ about such t'ings. Ye cannot change some t'ings about ta way this world is, but we should get ta ta firing range so we can be ready ta change those t'ings that we ha’ some control over.”
Jarthen felt himself begin to gradually sober up on the walk to the rebel army’s makeshift firing range where the rest of the elves were already congregated. The lingering effects of the pipe weed caused Jarthen to sway as he walked alongside Rethnaki, who seemed wholly unaffected, even though he had smoked considerably more than Jarthen. Despite his continued inebriation, Jarthen couldn’t help noticing what a beautiful day it was. The sun had risen a bit further since the morning’s wager, burning off the dew that had clung to everything in the camp. The rebel camp bustled with life; creatures of any and all description milled around, practiced with their arms, and generally went about their daily business. Perhaps it was just the mind-altering chemicals passing through his veins, but Jarthen couldn’t help feeling that he was seeing the world with a new set of eyes. Jarthen was surprised by how little time it had taken him to arrive at the firing range: his sense of time had not yet returned to its normal rhythm.
“Ah, master Rethnaki and young Jarthen, so kind o’ ye ta grace us wit' yer most eminent presences,” Jellihondor called out sarcastically to the two stragglers. “Make haste lads, we’re burnin’ daylight!”
“Aye, keep yer cool, old man, ‘tain’ yet midday, an' most o’ us don’ ha’e ta get ta bed before sundown, like yerself,” Rethnaki replied in a light, jeering voice, which elicited stifled grins and chuckles from the other elves in their battalion.
“Well lad, perhaps ye’d be a better shot if ye didn’ insist on carousin' an' carryin' on ‘til ta wee hours o' ta night. I t'ink a trip around ta camp migh' improve yer shot and yer attitude,” Jellihondor countered in a patient, bemused way. “Jarthen, why don’ ye keep this truant company on his jaunt.”
Jarthen looked reluctantly back and forth between his commander and his sass-mouthed comrade, in no mood for the vigorous activity that would be required by the long run around camp. Nevertheless, Jellihondor’s mind was clearly made up, and he turned back to the rest of the elves after waving Jarthen and Rethnaki on their way.
They jogged off at a leisurely pace towards the perimeter of the rebel camp: the full trip was several miles long, weaving out of the large clearing, and along trails in the forest. They followed a narrow, but well trod path that was patrolled throughout the day and night by contingents of rebel soldiers. For the moment, a battalion of gnomes was in charge of the camp’s perimeter. Knots of gnomes sat with their battleaxes, short swords and shields, at evenly spaced points along the path. Though most of the gnomes appeared to be either asleep with their slouchy, conical hats pushed over their eyes, or deeply focused on mugs of some frothy brew, they still managed to convey a sense of nervous alertness.
A restless gnome...Rethnaki paused and, pointing at the gnomes spoke, “I’d wager these ol’ gnomes wouldn’a wake up if the sky came crashin’ down on ‘em.”
“Yeah,” Jarthen replied, “they do seem like pretty heavy sleepers.”
“I dare ye ta toss a stone at one,” Rethnaki said in the kind of tone that makes any dare, no matter how ridiculous, impossible for any young man to decline. Unable to resist his comrade’s challenge, Jarthen surreptitiously scooped a pebble from the path, and stealthily tossed it at the ponderous gut of a grizzled old gnome who was snoring particularly loudly. Although the gnome had been using his hat to shade his eyes from the bright sun, he was able to catch the small stone easily, and, in a flash, hurled it back at Jarthen with startling speed. In the blink of an eye, the stout gnome was on his feet fiercely brandishing his short sword at the lad.
“Oy, what’s wrong with ye foolish child!” the gnome growled in a raspy, high-pitched voice: his mastery of the Elothninian tongue was spotty at best.
“I…I’m sorry…I just thought that you were asleep, sir,” Jarthen spoke haltingly in response, while trying to edge away from the enraged gnome. He had never expected this diminutive, fat creature to have such a capacity to strike fear into his heart.
“Well, on with ye then…and, next time, leave sleeping gnomes lie!” and with that, the gnome lay back down, replaced his cap, and resumed his nap.
Jarthen and Rethnaki continued on their run in silence until they were sure that they had passed out of the gnome’s earshot. “Tha’ll teach ye ta try ta pull a fast one on a gnome, eh lad?” Rethnaki asked jokingly.
Jarthen tried to laugh off his friend’s comment, “Well, I would imagine you knew, having told me to throw it at him, eh!?” If nothing else, the gnome’s attack had had a completely sobering effect on Jarthen’s mind: he felt clear, and sharper than he had in a long time.
By the time Jarthen and Rethnaki had completed their lap, the rest of Jellihondor’s battalion had finished practicing, and was heading towards the camp’s mess area. The errant pair was panting with exhaustion and soaked in sweat from the previous exertion.
“Well,” Rethnaki huffed, “I suppose we should join the rest o’ that lot fer supper.” Jarthen grunted an affirmative in reply.
Bertonius and his young comrades caught their first glimpse of the Imperial Army’s main camp when they crested a large hill that marked the entrance of a long low valley that led up to the looming darkness of the wild forest beyond. Though it was still several miles off, the camp was truly an astounding sight for the raw, untrained soldiers: they had certainly never seen so many people, let alone soldiers, all in one place. It was as if a giant city had just sprung up in the middle of a great valley, in the same way that toadstools sprout after a light rain. There must have been a thousand tents, dozens of campfires, a great multitude of carts, horses and other draft animals, in addition to the ten thousand soldiers that made up the largest single contingent of the Queen’s army. There were three other sizable army encampments along the edge of the Erkenheld Forest that had been charged with preventing the Rebel Forces from making sallies into Elothnin proper. In addition, the Imperial Army maintained smaller battalions along the Klevarcht Mountains as these were known to be a favorite hiding place of rogues and scoundrels.
As they approached the camp, the road became increasingly wide, and bore the marks of heavy use: it had deep grooves where water still remained from the most recent rainfall, and was riddled with hoof and boot prints. The young soldiers were all quite eager to reach the camp, and quickened their pace, despite the fatigue from the long week of marching. After marching past the outlying pickets and guard posts, which consisted of little more than rough-hewn wooden shacks and sullen, tired soldiers, they finally reached the main entrance of the camp where a bespectacled, bookish man greeted them.
"...a bespectacled, bookish man..."
“West Fethil, 107 recruits, sir!”
“Very good, thank you for your time sergeant, you may report to your battalion commander.”
By way of parting, Kinnons barked this farewell to the West Fethil recruits: “Well, you’re not my responsibility any more, and I can’t say I’m not glad of it.” The sergeant turned on his heel, and disappeared into one of the winding trails into the vast tent city.
“Before I dispatch you into battalions, I have been asked by the spy corps,” the clerk said gesturing to a short, spry-looking man, with quick eyes and a fox-like face to his left, “to offer any who would volunteer the opportunity to become a member of this prestigious unit. Perhaps you could say a few words about your unit...” the clerk said before the other man interrupted him.
The representative of the spy corps was an energetic, charismatic speaker. “Well, it seems that we’ve lost several of our spies-in-training to unfortunate encounters in the forest, yonder, and we need some brave souls to fill their boots. Now I won’t say that being a spy isn’t dangerous, but it definitely has its benefits: for instance, you’re not going to end up tallying up figures like this ‘un over here, that’s for sure.” This jibe won the spy a few chuckles at the clerk’s expense.
“Any takers?” the spy asked the assembled troops. Despite the undeniable romantic quality of espionage, none of the West Fethil recruits seemed eager to answer the call for volunteers.
After a brief pause, Nelhoepher stepped forward, and, with a toss of his flaxen locks said “I offer my services to the Queen’s intelligence corps.”
Lem, clearly not wanting to be abandoned by his dashing compatriot, immediately followed, tripping out next to Nelhoepher. A few other soldiers also stepped forward. Knowing that being a member of the spy’s battalion would afford him a greater mobility and, perhaps, more opportunities to find Ractor, Bertronius decided to join his young friends as volunteers. All told, ten of the men that Bertronius marched with stepped forward.
“Very well,” the spy spoke amiably after it was clear that the ten men that had stepped forward were the last of the volunteers, “follow me.”
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1Rethnaki knew very well, however, that mages are in fact the longest-lived corporeal beings. The authors suppose that his outandinsh statements here are the result of either the effects of pipeweed, a desire to trick the young lad, or both.
PLEASE CONTINUE TO
CHAPTER 3
1 comment:
Nothing screams, "Great literature!" like an extensive description of a 12-year-old getting stoned.
I can't wait until he progresses beyond the gateway!
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