Exciting things are happening in our fine tale! In the last installment, Bertronius was reassigned to Susselfen - bringing his dream of avenging Jarthen ever closer. Meanwhile, Jellihondor's speech resulted in the parting of some much beloved comrades, but the gaining of some mysterious felintarks and a tinker elf.
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“Do we really have to leave this early?” a bleary-eyed Lem asked as he shuffled about in the pre-dawn gloom that bathed the room, gathering his belongings for the long journey to Susselfen. “I mean, we haven’t even had a proper break’ast yet…”
“Yeah, come’on McNab, how do ye expect a body to be awake so early!?” Nelhoepher bawled from the position he had assumed with his well-muscled arms all akimbo and his head hidden beneath his pillow.
The spy commander, who was far more accustomed to the early-rising and sleep-deprivation that are the inevitable habits of the espionage profession, could only sigh at his protégés’ bellyaching. “Come on boys, we’ve got to get to the stables afore it gets too late. If yer not careful, the lot of ye are going to end up riding bareback on some ornery ol’ mule,” he cajoled in a rather long-suffering voice.
Bertronius, for his part, was far more awake than his invariably buffoonish companions. Though he was by no means well-rested, his wits were about him: throughout the night, his mind raced as he planned and envisioned how he would exact vengeful justice against a one Larthon Ractor.
“Oy, Bert, are you ready?” McNab inquired, looking at him closely for the first time that morning.
“Hmm? Oh, yes, I packed most of my stuff last night,” he responded somewhat abstractedly as his mind was still preoccupied with the journey ahead.
The spymaster’s eyes seemed to linger on the lad’s face for a moment, as if there was something more he wanted to ask. However, apparently thinking better of it, he instead proceeded to give Nelhoepher a sound thrashing about the head and shoulders, forcing the still sleeping lad from his fortress of blankets.
McNab marched his trio of groggy subordinates out of the inn to a nearby stable in order to procure mounts for the first part of their journey.1 Upon entering the stable’s main barn, the spies were met with the not wholly disagreeable aroma of horses and a rotund, ruddy-faced woman who was well into middle age. McNab greeted the proprietress in a familiar sort of way, and she responded with an incomprehensible grunt. The pleasantries dispensed with, the spymaster proceeded to lay out his equine needs – a passable horse for himself, and whatever could be most cheaply secured for his young companions – and the rather paltry amount that he would be willing to spend on the livestock.
After spitting out a mouthful of the ale that she had been drinking, the well-worn face of the woman swore that, “ye’ll be ruinin’ me wit’ prices like these! I can’t jus’ give away good horses and donkey fer pennies on the pound!”
McNab was about to start the intricate dance that typifies transactions concerning domesticated beasts in all lands, when Nelhoepher confidently interceded, “now, ma’am…surely you could make an exception for gentlemen such as our selves. I know that I, for one, would be willing to offer up a kiss into the bargain, if that would sweeten the deal…” he said, casting what he undoubtedly believed was a very rakish sideways look at the woman and batting his eyelashes ever so slightly.
The stable woman looked the athletic, blonde youth up and down for a moment, before remarking, “the price fer this’un’s mount just doubled. Been a long time since anyone had gall enough to try an’ ply ol’Bess Crabblenathy with kisses - didn’t work then and it ain’t gonna work now. Fer the price yer askin’, I can give ye the ol’ nag, there,” she said gesturing to a world weary gray mare, “and a pair o’ donkeys. No more. Take it or leave it, yer choice,” she concluded with a rather noncommittal and apathetic tone.
While McNab paused to mull this offer over, and appraise the sway-backed mount, Bertronius sought to repair some of the damage caused by Nelhoepher’s impertinent attempt to secure a better price. “Ma’am, I apologize for him, he’s always been a bit daft, and is prone to making a fool of himself on occasion. I can assure you, he meant no offense, and did not truly understand what he was doing.” Bertronius could hear Nelhoepher take in a quick breath and elbowed him sharply in the ribs to prevent him from setting the record straight.
“Aye, he looks a hair on the slow side, I’ll give ye that,” her hardened face softening a touch as she looked at Nelhoepher who, having taken Bertronius’ hint and recovered from her rebuff, was now amusing himself and Lem by worrying a donkey about the ears with a piece of straw. Periodically, both boys devolved into fits of high-pitched giggles, which seemed to underscore Bertronius’ claims of Nelhoepher’s feeble mind.
Sensing that he had greased the hinges on the old wench’s rusted heart, Bertronius hoped to pry it a bit further, “it’s true, it’s been very hard on his poor mother – that’s who we’re going to see, actually. Ever since he left home, she’s been absolutely distraught – I only wish there was something we could do to get him home faster…she does worry about him so…”
McNab, quickly catching onto Bertronius’s gambit, came over and patted the lad on his shoulder and spoke in a consoling voice, “don’t worry boy, we’ll get him home somehow. Let’s just hope his mum can wait ‘til then,” his voice cracking slightly with maudlin emotion.
The old woman took another, more sympathetic look at Nelhoepher and Lem, who had by this point resorted to trying to push each other in such a way as to make the other step in the manure that littered the barn’s floor. Letting out a sigh as if she was casting her better judgment to the wind, she said that she supposed she could give them one decent horse, a pony for Bert, and a donkey for the other two, because, as she put it, “I wouldn’t trust the slow’uns on a proper horse – they’d only end up hurtin’ theyselves.”
McNab quickly accepted the offer and paid the woman for the discounted mounts, barely able to conceal the uproar of laughter that threatened to expose his façade at every instant. As they left, leading off the three quadrupeds, Bert thanked the old woman on behalf of Nelhoepher’s mother, which prompted the blonde youth to inquire, thankfully out of earshot, “whatcha mean by that Bert?”
“If these three can get us a barbarian guide, then there’s no point in dragging the hu-man whelp around with us. We should just send him back where he came from anyway, as he is more trouble than he’s worth,” grumbled the deep-voiced centaur. Jarthen turned bright red upon hearing Glothnafar’s derisive statement, and burned an even deeper shade when one of his comrades giggled in response to the centaur’s quip. Trying to take his mind off of his burning cheeks, Jarthen tried to focus on the exotic newcomers and their introductions.
The two felintarks and tinker elf had been conferring for a few seconds, clearly trying to work out between themselves who should address the rebels first. The male felintark stepped forward and nodded warmly at Jellihondor before addressing the group. In the flickering light of the oil lamps strewn about the dining room, Jarthen could see that he stood a bit taller than the red elves, but the voluminous robes he wore obscured his frame somewhat. He had removed his hood, revealing dark skin and dark hair which fell in long, tight ringlets about his shoulders. The felintark smiled, revealing small delicately pointed canines and pricked up his pointed ears. As odd as these features were, Jarthen felt more put off and unnerved by the man’s eyes – electric green with slitted pupils – which bore into him and seemed to underscore how distinctly inhuman he was.
In a deeply resonant voice, the felintark introduced himself. “Hello, I am Bali’Ekt Safir’al’Chaya’Radij din’Matesha, and my companions are Emba’Ekt Nyabel’al’Djejji’Chadesh din’Matesha and Moshel Atoosa’Shoket,” he said gesturing at the female felintark and tinker elf, respectively. “The three of us were in the audience when your leader made his speech, and though the Ra’zehm ruled against you, we thought it may be in everyone’s best interests if we offered you whatever assistance we could.” Jarthen noticed at once how flawless the felintark’s Common Tongue was – no trace of accent at all!
Bali’Ekt Safir’al’Chaya’Radij din’Matesha, Emba’Ekt Nyabel’al’Djejji’Chadesh din’Matesha, and Moshel Atoosa’Shoket standing about in the Dark Lands
The felintark, Safir, smiled broadly and turned to speak to Rethnaki directly. “Something you dearly need. We can guarantee you safe passage through the Dark Lands.”
Elcrona now spoke up. “Well, yes, Jelli mentioned summat like tha’…but how? I always heard tha’ ta’ Dark Lands are impossible ta’ navigate. How can ye be so sure ye can get us all t’rough it ?”
“Oh, well, because we are matesha, obviously,” replied Safir warmly, clearly assuming that the rebels had just missed this point.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, the female felintark, Nyabel, stepped forward. “Do you…not know what matesha are? No? In our language, ‘matesha’ refers to….um….” she, like the other felintark, spoke unaccented fluent Common Tongue, but it was clear that she had hit upon a word that was not easily translated between the two tongues.
“Caravaners. Traveling merchants,” said the tinker elf in a strong clear voice without looking up from the schematic he had been sketching since conferring with his counterparts. Although he had appeared to be entirely invested in his technical drawing, the oddly-silver elf was apparently still listening quite intently to the dialogue between the two groups.
Moshel's strange schematic“Yes! Thank you, Moshel. The three of us, we run caravans between Tarquintia, in the Empire, the City of Mages, and Susselfen. We were planning on traveling to Susselfen next using a route through the Dark Lands we’ve taken many times. We can guarantee your safety because we wouldn’t have much a livelihood ourselves if it we couldn’t get to Susselfen reliably.”
Nyabel paused for a moment, considering what to say next. She blinked her yellow cat eyes and pulled her long, straight black hair over one shoulder before continuing. “You should know that securing a human guide would have been very difficult for this group. The Inala - ”
“Who’re the Inala?” asked Sellior.
“Ah, the Inala are the name the Northern Bandits use for themselves. Be careful, to call an Inalan a bandit to his face will get you abandoned in the Dark Lands…. Where was I?”
“I think you were about to tell them about the changelings,” supplied Moshel, once again not looking up from his by now highly detailed schematic.
The felintark nodded and smiled. “Right. Exactly. Securing a human guide would have been difficult for you because the Inala are inherently suspicious of anything that looks close to their kind but isn’t. Their lore talks of changelings, humans who have been altered in some way by magic, and such creatures are considered highly dangerous. Inala tend to be highly resistant to dealing with red elves and felintarks – we look like changelings to them.”
Safir stepped forward now, placing one hand on his companion’s shoulder. Jarthen noticed that she was a full head shorter than him, making her roughly the same height as Elcrona. Despite the looseness of her robes, Jarthen could see that her figure was more voluptuous than the red elvish women he’d been surrounded with thus far. Though she was quite strange to his eyes, the lad could not help finding the eerily cat-like woman compellingly beautiful “As Nya was saying, we have a reliable and trustworthy Inalan guide already. We doubt that it would take much convincing for him to allow you to travel with us, as he trusts us and we will vouch for you. We will travel with you all the way to Susselfen, all you need to do is take care not to offend our guide.”
Moshel sat up now, reclining back and replying directly to his friend in a way that seemed, to Jarthen at least, as if he had forgotten about the rebels entirely. “Well, Nagoa doesn’t speak Common, just Inalan and Felin. So it’s not him they have to worry about, it’s his daughter. She’s quick, that one – she’s probably picked up a good bit of Common just hanging around this city.”
As Safir nodded in agreement, Jellihondor took a couple of steps forward, emerging once again from the shadows. “‘Tis good practice ta respec’ their customs and names fer themselves in any case, I say,” said Jellihondor. “O’ course we’ll be followin’ yer lead wit’ ta humans…what did ye call ‘em now?”
“Inala,” said Moshel.
“Right! Inala! We’ll be careful not ta be steppin’ on their toes. Won’t we, lads?” asked Jellihondor, fixing Glothnafar with a particularly stern look. “Now, since you’ve had the chance ta introduce yerselves, I say we get ta know ye three our own way!” Jellihondor threw his arms around Nyabel and Safir, and with a sly grin spreading across his face, said, “Now, how would you three like to try some pipe herb?”
“Is that it there? I think I can see it!” Nelhoepher shouted, trying to stand up on the rope stirrups that had been affixed to the donkey’s makeshift saddle.
“Is what what?” Lem chimed in trying to see around his taller companion’s well-shaped shoulders. Though they’d been sharing the services of a single donkey for the entire journey, Bertronus found it amusing that Nelhoepher and Lem and still not found a way to ride the donkey, which they had for unclear reasons named Clara, in a way that suited them both.
“Susselfen, ye daft goose!” Nelhoepher exclaimed as he craned his neck towards the foggy collection of buildings at the foot of the western Klevarcht Mountains. They had first spotted the rocky peaks jutting up from the plain a few days before. The lads, except for Bertronius who had read about the phenomenon of mountains always appearing to be closer than they really are in his parents’ private library, were stunned at how slowly their progress toward the mountains was.
Bertronius, riding on the fine young pony that he had charmed out of the middle-aged stable matron, also strained his eyes forward in the retreating light of the sun’s rays hoping to catch a glimpse of the city’s faint light. Susselfen, which lies in the bosom of Quentalno River and the rocky cliffs of the Klevarcht Mountains, is considered to be one of the strangest places in the Elothninian Emprie. The mist caused by the numerous waterfalls that feed the river from a small rocky cataract to a large rolling river that feeds extensive Elothninian farm lands shrouds the city in mist on all but the sunniest of days, shrouding the city in a way at once beautiful and foreboding to approaching travelers. Bertronius could just make out a shadow at the foot of the mountains, with a faint, ambient glow from the city’s lights.
He was about to remark that they must be at least another day’s riding away from it, when Lem issued a loud ejaculation of frustration. “Blast it, Clara! That’s it. I give up. Don’t mind me, boys, I’ll just finish the rest o’ this trip like this,” the rather inept youth said from his position dangling one foot in a stirrup, and his upper half dragging along the dirt road. Lem, never the most nimble - of equestrians or otherwise - had found staying on his shared seat with Nelhoepher an insurmountable challenge and had been suffered to fall from the donkey several times a day. For her part, Clara would typically just bray at the poor lad while she kept plodding along, refusing to stop so that Lem could get unstuck.
the puzzling beginnings of a sketch of Lem's folly drawn by an unknown artist2Too inured to the sight of his protégé being unseated to have any anxiety left for his well-being, McNab let out a cheerful snicker at Lem’s familiar predicament. “Careful now Lem, we jus’ got ye those pants, an ye’ve nearly ruined ‘em already with yer antics!” the energetic spymaster warned. Since leaving Perejin, McNab’s spirits and energy had revived considerably. Bertronius observed that the freedom of a journey along the open road at a leisurely pace was apparently much to his mentor’s tastes.
As Bertronius was reflecting on this, and Lem was struggling to untangle his foot from its trappings, and remount the donkey, McNab spoke again, “We’ll make camp here tonight boys. Tomorrow, we’ll make it into the city herself, and I’ll be able to show ye some o’ the sights.”
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1 Although the majority of the Elothninian Empire has a very admirable system of post carriages that can be taken advantage of for a modest fee, in the more remote western provinces it is often easier to purchase other means of transport as the carriages run less frequently and are not known for attracting the best sort of company.
2Jon 'Nigel' Seid has vowed to track down this elusive artist and harangue him or her until this drawing is complete. Stay tuned for the finished piece, dear readers!
1 comment:
Why do I get the horrible feeling that you guys have pretended that Jon is "special" to get advantages in the past?
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