Ch 11: Two Paths in a Wood Diverge (pt. 3)

Previously in The Tale of Jarthen, the Rebels fought off wave after wave of terrifying desert-monkeys. Bertronius, Nelhoepher, and Lem, meanwhile, began exploring the seedier side of Susselfen.
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As they wearily struck out from the battlefield, Jellihondor, Elcrona, Jarthen, and Safir did not talk to each other much. For his part, Jarthen was still quite shellshocked from all that had just transpired – he felt unbelievably mentally and physically exhausted, though he could not help but ruminate on the gore and violence he had just witnessed…and, he thought with a shudder, had participated in.

After several hours of silent walking, Safir called out suddenly in Felin, his keen eyes spotting something that Jarthen himself couldn’t quite make out. He called again in the strange tongue and then turned to the group, crying, “There they are! Nagoa and the others!”

The idea of seeing Leila again was enough to rekindle Jarthen’s waning energy – he found himself keeping pace with Safir’s long strides easily. In what seemed to be no time at all, but was most likely an hour or two of hard uphill walking, the small group of bloody, fatigued soldiers made a joyful reunion with their fellows. Safir swept up Nyabel and Moshel in one great, exuberant hug, and chattered away in Felin clearly relieved to be with them again. Nagoa, for his part, walked over to the two red elves, appearing to inspect them for injuries, muttering to himself in Inalan, as he dryly lifted up their limbs, and expertly examined their wounds.

Finally, Jarthen caught a glimpse of Leila. He felt overwhelmed with relief seeing her safe and uninjured, as if it had been her that had just endured a frightening showdown with some terrifying feral apes. She turned and spotted Jarthen and he was pleased to see her delicate features light up. She ran across the small camp, hugging him so fiercely that she very nearly knocked him off balance. In that moment, clutching her warm, small body so tightly to his own, his face deep in her sweet-smelling hair, Jarthen thought to himself that Leila’s reaction made being in the battle worthwhile indeed.

*****
"Oi! Bert! Over here!" Nelhoepher called from the back corner of the Blushing Loaf -- the brothel and house of general ill repute that the young spies had earlier become acquainted with -- they had taken to convening there in the evenings. Bertronius had spent his day wearily trudging between the grimiest, most disreputable establishments he could find in this city known for its expansive, seedy underbelly in search of leads on Ractor, and was happy to be with his affable comrades for their nightly revelry.

"Hey Lem, hey Nel! How are you guys doing?" he asked cheerfully, in spite of his fatigue.

"Well we'd be a lot better if somebody wasn't being so tightfisted about giving us more ale," Nelhoepher responded with deliberate emphasis as the buxom, scarlet-haired barmaid they had all come to know as 'Reni' walked by carrying a tray full of ale to another table.

"Oh quit yer whinin' ye tow-headed git," she chided in the lilting accent of the red elves, as Nelhoepher made mooney eyes at the beautiful woman while she sauntered back towards the bar. Lem and Bertronius chuckled at this rebuff, which was similar to ones that they had observed many times before in the two weeks they had spent in Susselfen. The large, common dining room of the Blushing Loaf was packed at this time of the evening -- after dinner, but well before the point at which most patrons have slumped forward onto the bar or ventured out to their various of places of respite. The primarily male customers were occupied in the various pursuits of smoking pipeherb out of elaborate water pipes, drinking ale and other spirits, and enjoying the hospitality of the feminine employees of the establishment.

"So, I take it you two spent yet another productive day here, begging unsuccessfully for drinks?" Bertronius asked once his laughter at Nelhoepher had subsided.

"No," Lem replied somewhat haughtily, crossing his arms, "Arna gave us each a tumbler of very nice sherry for cleaning the ashes out of the fire place, I'll have ye know, Bert."

Bertronius sighed, but his compatriots did not seem to notice his exasperation. "You know guys, we're supposed to be doing some spy work," he said teasing his ineffective comrades.

"Of course," Nelhoepher responded proudly, "we've been makin' some really good contacts. It wouldn't surprise me if we happened on some information that will blow the minds of all the other spies in Susselfen," he added, brushing dust off of his sleeve in a nonchalant fashion.

"That's right, ol' friend," Lem agreed in his jovial tone. "We've met some very interestin' people here."

Bertronius could not help but roll his eyes at his friends' confidence. Not wanting to tease them unduly about their activities -- McNab would do plenty of that, he was sure -- he decided to offer to charm some ale out of Arna, one of the friendly barmaids who had been quite taken with the auburn headed lad. She was a few years older than the young spies, and Bertronius had found that she was often willing to give him and his friends a few free rounds of ale when he flirted with her. Bertronius excused himself, leaving Nelhoepher and Lem to observe his highly proficient conversational abilities from afar.

*****
As the initial feelings of excitement at being reunited with the other travelers and their guide waned, feelings of anxiety and concern began to trouble the rebels’ tired minds. The small encampment was shrouded in tense uneasy silence as each hour with no word from Rethnaki and the others ticked by.

Jarthen found that he was especially sensitive to the heightened anxiety of his comrades. Leila, worried now about her new friend’s refusal to eat or rest his weary body, offered him a sweet-smelling tea. “C’mon, Jarthen,” she pleaded, “it’ll calm yair nerves a bit.” Distracted, Jarthen nodded and took the cup, gulping the warm liquid down quickly. Within a matter of minutes he fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

When Jarthen awoke again, night had fallen. Blearily, he glanced around, noting a centaur’s silhouette around the campfire. “They’re back!” he said aloud to himself.

campfires - pleasant wherever your tired should may find itself

“Yes, thair back. Sellior said that one ov the wounded elves was too badly injured to move and thair had to wait with him ver some time to see iv he wairld improve…or not,” said Leila quietly by his side. It occurred to Jarthen that she had been sitting by and watching over him ever since the tea had taken effect, and this realization sent warm shivers coursing through his body.

“Air yair hungry? Thair cooking something at the vire,” Leila said, offering her hand to help him up.

Jarthen considered for a moment and realized that he was ravenous. He didn’t care what they were cooking over there as long as he could eat his fill of it. He took Leila’s hand and walked over to the fire with her, taking a seat next to Rethnaki.

Rethnaki glanced at him and gave Leila a sly wink. “I see yer concoction’s finally worn off, Leila! Nice ta have ye wit’ us, lad. Yer jus’ in time, too, we’re ‘bout ta talk ‘bout ta battle,” Rethnaki said as he handed Jarthen a plate of delicious smelling food.

Jarthen glanced around the campfire, noting those huddled around it. He saw Nagoa, the felintarks and tinker elf sitting across from him. Elcrona, just to the left of the male felintark, was engaged in a lively conversation with Safir, while Sellior was staring across Elcrona at something that Jarthen could not quite determine. On Jarthen’s right, Rethnaki had a protective and comforting arm slung around Helkint’s shoulders while the still clearly traumatized elf picked weakly at a plate of food in his lap. Next to Helkint, Jarthen saw that one of the elves he had pulled from the fray, now covered in bandages, seemed to be on the path to recovery.

“Naki, where are Jellihondor and Glothnafar?” asked Jarthen, realizing that the two leaders were conspicuously absent.

“Oh, once they saw ye were awake and alrigh’ they headed off ta one o’ their secret constitutionals. Ye know how they are,” the elf replied with mock exasperation.

Jarthen, looking around again, felt his stomach begin to churn with dread as a question formed on his lips. “Naki….what happened to the other elf I pulled out of the battle?” the young boy asked quietly.

Rethnaki gave him a sad, pained look. “Oh lad, I’m so sorry. The wounds Oertemis sustained were too great – Sellior had no way ta save him or even ease his pain. Jarthen, lad…we had ta put him out o’ his misery and bury him the desert.” Jarthen winced at the tragedy of having to dispatch one’s own comrade, but, after a steadying breath, nodded and glanced at Sellior again wondering how the sensitive elf took it.

Rethnaki cleared his throat and the conversations around the fire quieted down. “Alrigh’, I t’ink we need ta touch base ‘bout tha’ battle back there.” Others around the campfire nodded in agreement. “I suppose the firs’ question on most o’ our lips is this: what were those t’ings?”

“I’ll do my best to answer your question, Rethnaki. We fought against the most vile creatures the Dark Lands has to offer…what the Inalan call nybbas. As far as I know, the nybbas are a race of creatures who are bloodthirsty and savage – and thirst in particular for the blood of men. The stories say that they are not mere animals, that they have levels of intelligence that surpass even the cleverest of foxes, though they lack the civilization and refinement that separates sentient beings from nonsentient ones,” Safir explained.

“Aye, tha’ cleverness cost us a couple of our bravest lads,” Sellior said quietly with eyes downcast, causing Helkint to catch his breath noticeably.

“Righ’ afore the beasties descended on us, you were sayin’ summat, Safir,” said Vathorem, the injured elf. “Summat ‘boat ta trails, was it?”

Safir thought a moment and glanced at Nagoa. “Right! I was trying to tell you something about the nybbas, but I was afraid to utter their name lest it call them to us. It is said that they do such things. The nybbas set these…um…not really traps, but…” Safir trailed off, and the group waited patiently for him to find the right word

“Traps, I think, is exactly the right word for it,” interrupted Moshel with a firm, sharp voice that seemed to crack the silence like a whip.

Sellior turned to him, surprise and intrigue written across his features. “Would you? Why traps?”

“Because that’s exactly what it was, clearly. They hide in caves and tunnels they build in the rock formations, concealing their numbers. They clear out the area around their lairs and cover any alternative paths with whatever they can find to make theirs more enticing to travelers like us.” The silver elf had become more and more agitated the longer he spoke. Now he paused, took a deep breath, and regained the serene composure the others were used to seeing him have. “That kind of deceit is clearly more than simple animalistic trickery.”

Safir nodded appreciatively at Moshel. “Well, Vathorem, that answers your question about the nybbas better than I could have.”

“Are there more along ta way a-waitin’ fer us? Or any other beasties we should be warned about?” asked Rethnaki wearily.

“There’s nothing but the nybbas to watch for, but they are more than enough. The nybbas are hard to predict, we have to keep our eyes open. I’m truly sorry you had to learn about them this way, but now you know what to keep your eyes out for. I…should have noticed them, the battle was in part my fault. I swear to you I will do my job better from this point on,” said Moshel in a tight clipped voice. Nyabel patted his shoulder affectionately and said something under her breath that seemed to comfort him slightly.

Rethnaki paused a moment, mulling over the information he’s gathered. As the seconds ticked by all eyes turned on him one set at a time. “Well, Vathorem, ye fit enough ta walk on?”

Vathorem nodded. “Aye, me legs’re in fine shape. Canna carry nothin’, though,” he added, gesturing to his right arm in its sling.

“Helkint, lad, are ye feelin’ well enough to carry on?” Rethnaki asked gently. Helkint looked up at him and nodded definitively, though his eyes were still red from the many tears he shed over his lost friend. “Alrigh’, then. We’ll camp here tonight an’ tomorrow to rest up and take stock o’ our provisions. The temperatures ha’e not been too bad so far, since we’re getting’ in ta winter, so we’ll keep on walkin’ in daylight startin’ ta day after tomorrow. Get some rest tonight, friends.”

*****
"Yeah, I know that son of a whore Ractor," Graz Mayhew said, loudly putting his pewter tankard on the rough wooden bar. "He owes me big, and I get the feeling that he ain't going to be paying me back any time soon," he continued, as he angrily stared straight ahead at the back of Dunkler's Tavern, which, in Bertronius's increasingly experienced opinion, was a very unwholesome place. He had come here because he had learned through a series of discussions with a string of rather vile and villanous characters that the back room of this particularly begrimed public house did a large trade in gambling and games of chance.

raucous gamblers in their native habitat

"Why you askin', kid? What's he your father or something?" Mayhew inquired sarcastically, throwing in a coarse, raspy laugh. He continued to fix his gaze on the wall in front of him. He looked to be about fifty years old, although he had clearly lived very hard during that time. His face bore the deep lines that come from a life spent in hard, manual toil, and his skin was a jaundiced yellow from over drinking and smoking. Although his eyes had the glassy, cataract ensconsed look of a career alcoholic, Bertronius noted a glint of cruel intelligence in the man's eyes and knew that he shouldn't underestimate him.

"No, he owes me money too." Bertronius said seriously. "You seen him around lately?" he asked in what he hoped was a tough tone.

Mayhew looked over at him for the first time, and shrugged before taking another messy sip from his ale. "Haven't seen him."

Bertronius took a deep breath, and looked the grizzled man in the face, "look, we both want to find this degenerate wretch. If I find him, I'm not about to stand in the way of you getting what's yours from the rat, so long as I get a crack at him," he said utilizing a more informal vocabulary in this most common of venues.

Mayhew peered at him through his clouded eyes in a strange appraising way before shrugging his soldiers and responding, "Like I said I haven't seen him. I have heard, though," he paused, lowering his voices as he continued, "that he was seen rather recently holed up with some wench in a slum on the river." He spat a brownish string of saliva directly onto the bar floor, and took another sip from his drink.

"You know her name?" Bertronius prodded.

"Carthy, or some-at like that," Mayhew said gruffly.

Bertronius thanked the coarse man, payed for his drink, and promised to let him know if he found Ractor, before leaving Dunkler's Tavern to return to his own lodging for a well deserved rest.

*****
Jellihondor sneezed violently and glanced at his companion through the veils of smoke. Glothnafar had already entered a trance, and Jellihondor noted that it seemed to be happening more quickly of late – perhaps because he’d been practicing so much. Jellihondor knew his friend would remain entranced in the dreamlike state induced by the smoldering gruit for some time and reflected that what annoyed him most about Glothnafar’s current state was that it left him bored and alone with no one to talk to. Even among his famously gregarious race, Jellihondor had always been rather intolerant of solitude.

Over a bowl of pipe herb, Jellihondor replayed the prophetic dreams he had been having and the conversation he’d had with the Inalan seer, Shalini, about what they might mean. In his dream, which were of course not dreams in the strictest sense as they happened while he was awake and lucid about as often as while he slept, Jellihondor always found himself alone, standing in the waving grainfields of the Fethil. There was no sound but the slight whooshing sound of the wheat slappng against itself, like waves on some far-off shore. The isolation and lonliness of this scene always filled Jellihondor with unease and a feeling of uncertainty he could not quite shake.

Then Jellihondor would hear roaring crowds behind him, which always surprised him no matter how many times he had the dream, and would whip around to see what was happening. He always saw the same thing: a huge, magnificent golden tree, the emblem of the Rebel Army.

He would hear rushing sounds, full of deep cracks and pops. Ridges would rise in sharp relief, the massive roots catapulting themselves through the ground sometimes breaking through the surface, causing a violent spray of earth and grain in their wake. Jellihondor watched as the roots worked their way across the expanse of field in front of him, finally crashing into the walls surrounding Captfael Castle, the Witch Queen’s residence. After a moment or two filled with ominous rumbling, the castle would collapse into a pile of dust while the walls surrounding it remained intact. Jellihondor would close his eyes and breath a deep sigh of relief, and on opening them, find himself once again in the empty plains of the Fethil. And that was where the dream ended.

the deadly roots of the Rebels' golden tree

He could get the gist of it, the obvious part, prophesizing that the Rebel Forces would overtake the Imperial Army on its own turf, but the important details were lost to him. This dream was so much more symbolic and so much more vague than his other prophecies that after some months of trying to untangle it, Jellihondor decided he needed some help. When Glothnafar proved to have no greater insight, the pair decided to consult as many of the Great Seers as possible, no matter how far flung. Queen Svava was said to be a powerful seer, though the claims were so far unsubstantiated, but the cursed inter-ethnic politics that have riven the elvish community for millennia had prevented Jellihondor from talking to her alone. And now, with the duel, he doubted he could return to Norsa.

Shalini, on the other hand, proved that the Rebel’s trek to the City of Mages was indeed worthwhile. Jellihondor had been greatly impressed by her: though a human woman younger than thirty, she had a presence, self-possessed and infinitely wise, that reminded him of that oldest and most recalcitrant of peoples, the mages. It had been hard, in her company, to remember that she was mundayne. Glothnafar had teased him afterwards that he had developed a bit of a crush on the young, but widely known and respected, seer, and Jellihondor had blushed slightly in response. Their conversation about his recurring dream was burned into his mind:

”So, tha’s me dream, lass. I canna grasp ta deeper meanin’s o’ it fer ta life o’ me.”

“Yes, Jellihondor, it is quite difficult. It’s so abstract, this dream ov yairs!”

“Aye. Well, tha’s ta main reason we’re in town….ta consult wit’ ye if ye be willin,’ Shalini. Yer quite well known fer your interpretive abilities in our circles, y’know.”

She had laughed then, a quiet and slightly rueful laugh that had intrigued Jellihondor. “Pardon me, it is just…unexpacted…that seers as well-known and respacted as yairselves are asking me fer help and not the other way around. I am honored that yair have visited me and will do what I can to help yair.”

“Ye are mos’ gracious, lass! Do ye have any insights fer us, then?”

“Well….there is one yair have not seemed yet to notice.”

“Yes? Yes?”

“Yair hear an army, but did not see one. Yair heard them cheering on to victory, but saw the castle succumb to roots attacking it within its own walls, yes?”

Jellihondor had nodded, wide-eyed, riveted. Shalini continued, “Yair, I think, are forseeing the development ov some great weapon – one that changes the course of things. And one that can be wielded against Lilhelndine within her own realm.”

But the night before last, there was something new in the dream. This time, when the castle collapsed and Jellihondor closed his eyes to breath in relief, he was in the Dark Lands in his campsite among his companions when he opened them again.

Jellihondor had been puzzling over this for days, to the point of distraction. He had never been more grateful to have Rethnaki there to lead on the others. The meaning of the change had come to him when they were walking from the battlesite. The force and magnitude of the epiphany had caused him to stop in place, dumbstruck, the bow he carried clattering to the dusty earth. When Glothnafar approached him, clearly concerned, Jellihondor had dropped his voice to a whisper. “The weapon, I’ve been a-dreamin’, about, Glothie….I t’ink we already have it!”

The two had decided to delve into the future more deeply as soon as possible. As Glothnafar was trapped in his trance, totally oblivious to everything around him, Jellihondor packed another bowl of piper herb and pondered the implications of this latest revelation. What kind of weapon could it possibly be? Which part of the army had it – those remaining in the Erkenheld or those that had been sent further south? Jellihondor felt an urgent need to get back to the rest of the army. “After all,” he thought to himself, “Now tha ta prophecy is almost fully interpreted, goin’ ta Susselfen may not be necessary.”

Jellihondor heard Glothnafar groan and ask for water in a raspy voice. He handed it to the centaur, whose torso and back glistened with sweat as they always did after such a trance, giving Glothnafar a questioning look.

Glothnafar gulped down the water and wiped the sweat off his brow with his well-muscled arm. “Jelli, I don’t think it’s a weapon. I heard one voice, I think he was giving a speech about overthrowing the Imperial Army. Or, it may be that our weapon is a person!”

“Are ye sure?” Jellihondor asked, his face a mask of disbelief.

The centaur nodded. “Whoever it is, he was using a lot of the same imagery as in your dream – the roots of the tree, attacking Elothnin from the inside.”

“But a person? Glothie, even if me intuitions are righ’ ‘bout this new ending and the leader is with us now, he could be anywhere! In ta T’Lango!”

Glothnafar frowned, and Jellihondor noticed that the centaur looked slightly embarrassed. “No, I am fairly certain he’s here in the Dark Lands with us.”

Jellihondor waited a beat for Glothnafar to divulge who this mysterious voice belonged to. When he said nothing, Jellihondor prompted him. “So…who is it? Who’ll lead us ta victory?”

“I…don’t know. The voice is so familiar – it has to be someone I’ve talked to in the last few days! – but I just can’t place it!”

END OF CHAPTER 11

PLEASE CONTINUE ON TO CHAPTER 12