sample - Divertir Publishing

A Twist
of Fate
Mark W. Johnson
Divertir
Publishing
Salem, NH
A Twist of Fate
Mark W. Johnson
Copyright © 2012 Mark W. Johnson
All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be
reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or
any information storage and retrieval system, without prior
permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who
may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover photo by Elizabeth Harvey
Published by Divertir Publishing LLC
PO Box 232
North Salem, NH 03073
http://www.divertirpublishing.com/
ISBN-13: 978-0-9842930-8-7
ISBN-10: 0-9842930-8-6
Library of Congress Control Number: 2012946337
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
Dedicated to Helene, Benjamin, and Andrew.
Contents
Chapter 1 ........................................................................................... 1
Chapter 2 ......................................................................................... 7
Chapter 3 ........................................................................................ 19
Chapter 4 .........................................................................................31
Chapter 5 ........................................................................................47
Chapter 6 ....................................................................................... 69
Chapter 7 ........................................................................................ 85
Chapter 8 ........................................................................................ 93
Chapter 9 ....................................................................................... 101
Chapter 10 ....................................................................................... 111
Chapter 11....................................................................................... 121
Chapter 12 ...................................................................................... 127
Chapter 13 ......................................................................................137
Chapter 14 ......................................................................................145
Chapter 15 ...................................................................................... 155
Chapter 16 ..................................................................................... 165
Chapter 17 ..................................................................................... 179
Chapter 18 ..................................................................................... 189
Chapter 19 ..................................................................................... 197
Chapter 20 .................................................................................... 209
Chapter 21 ......................................................................................219
Chapter 22 ......................................................................................225
Chapter 23 ..................................................................................... 237
Chapter 1
D
ressed all in black, Jovy, the priest of Adannac, frightened
almost as many adults as he did children.
“Pardon me, sir.” The gnarled old man hunched over, hiding
his six-foot frame, his voice surprisingly strong. “What gods do you
and the lady worship?”
“Why are you asking? What do you want?” Standing in his
doorway, Mlaer’s face grew red. The young man with dark hair and
receding hairline was aghast at the questions.
“Well, we all know the lady may not be long for this world, and
I just thought you might like for me to say a few nice words for her.
You know, when the time comes.” An attempt at a smile simply
made Jovy’s hideous face even more frightening.
“She will recover!” With that, Mlaer slammed the door.
§§§
Mlaer fingered the pendant that he always wore around his
neck, one of the few things his father had given him, a sort of cross
between a bull’s head and a human head. Packing for a journey into
the unknown, and leaving his wife for a time, was harder than he
had expected.
“Boy, you ought to be staying.” The raspy voice of Krath, the
apothecary, startled Mlaer.
“You know I have to go,” Mlaer told the wicked-looking man.
“The Duke’s man said it was the only chance…” Mlaer saw a twinkle
in Krath’s eyes. “You just want me to stay so I can keep making
potions that fatten your purse.
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A Twist of Fate
“Not me,” Krath replied, grinning. His face reminded Mlaer of a
ferret, but his evil appearance concealed a heart of gold. “I don’t
trust that Dubesh. Never trust a man that’s got no hair – the gods let
honest people keep theirs,” Krath said, while gliding one hand over
his own clean scalp. They both laughed.
After an awkward pause, Mlaer whispered, “I’m going to miss you.”
The older man put his hand on Mlaer’s shoulder. “I’m going
to miss you, too, Mlaer.” Their eyes met for a moment, with the
apothecary’s misting over, and then Krath abruptly turned away and
said, “You’ll be all right.” Mlaer had never seen this side of his
business partner, as Krath had told him before that a “real man”
never allows his feelings to show. It took a moment to return to his
packing.
Mlaer gingerly lifted a small book bound in red leather, and
blew off the dust. Blank when his master gave it to him, Mlaer
thought of the long hours spent copying into that book, with
equally long hours spent studying it. He glanced at his bookshelf,
reflecting on the fact that none of the volumes he used from day to
day contained the sort of spells he would require on such a journey.
This small book that he had used only on occasion was what he
needed now.
“Being a wizard is more up here,” Master Elgrin had said, pointing
to Mlaer’s head, “than in here,” pointing to the book. “When you
leave my tutelage, you will have far more than a book. You will
have weapons and abilities, the like of which you have never even
dreamed. I pray you will never need all the tools I shall give you,
but they will be there if you do.”
§§§
Mlaer went home to Tarna, wanting to remember every detail of
her face, her voice, her laugh. Mlaer traced the ever-more prominent
lines creasing her once-full face, now gaunt from her illness. Her
long brown locks looked almost black in the afternoon shadows,
hiding some of her features as they wasted away. He wanted to fill
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Mark W. Johnson
his heart with her, and his head with a three-dimensional picture of
her so detailed that she would almost be going with him.
§§§
Eromit had begun his preparations long before this day; he
started preparing when they learned of a healer that might be able
to help. He knew then that, with only one slim chance for Tarna’s
recovery, Mlaer would go. He also knew that he could not let his
friend go alone.
Trebor may have had shoulders and arms as strong as the iron
he forged, but his heart was soft. An honest, simple man who would
help Mlaer himself if he could, Trebor knew that all he could do
was let Eromit leave.
“Well, son,” Trebor began, not accustomed to saying goodbye,
“you know you can take anything you need with you…”
Eromit nodded. “Thanks.”
“After all,” the big man continued, “I know how close you and
Mlaer are.” Trebor knew more of the bond between Mlaer and
Eromit than either of the young men themselves. With all of the
scars on his massive hands, no one ever noticed a scar on Trebor’s
own left thumb, similar to one that both Mlaer and Eromit bore.
Eromit had worked harder and longer than usual each day,
trying to make sure that Trebor would be left with no backlog of
work while he was gone. He also dusted off and sharpened his sword,
a source of great pride for Eromit since he made it himself. It was a
fine sword, with the look of Damascus steel and a hilt covered in
spun copper wire.
His actual preparations on the day before they left amounted to
organizing his materials, packing food and other necessities, and saying
his goodbyes. Naturally, Eromit’s farewells to Trebor and his wife
were the most difficult, for Eromit had no immediate family. Trebor
and his wife were like parents to Eromit.
“You both know that I’ll be back, don’t you?” Eromit struggled
with his words.
3
A Twist of Fate
“It’s so dangerous,” Trebor’s wife told him. “And nobody really
knows what’s on the other side of the Green Forest.” Now she was
starting to whine.
“Stop it, Soorie.” Trebor could see that she was only making
Eromit’s decision more difficult. “The boy’s brother needs his help,
and Eromit gave his word.” Trebor returned his attention to Eromit
and continued. “We just want you to come home safely. And don’t
you worry about Tarna; we’ll look in on her.” Eromit knew that
Tarna was acquiring a virtual new set of parents, so he was not
worried about her.
“Oooh.” Soorie started for the kitchen. “If you’re leaving tomorrow,
I’d better do some baking for that poor, sweet girl.” She disappeared
into the next room.
Trebor and Eromit exchanged glances, and both laughed.
“Typical Ydani mother, right? If you’ve got a problem, feed it.”
They laughed again.
§§§
Eromit lay awake for some time that night, thinking of what
was to come. This was the sort of adventure they had dreamed of as
children: striking out into the unknown, traversing dangerous territory.
Here they were, about to live the bread and butter of childhood play,
under circumstances far from the realm of juvenile dreams. The
security of home and hearth is hard to leave, especially for a journey
with such an uncertain conclusion, but true friendship often shows
itself only when tested in time of distress. This was the time, and
Eromit would not let his friend down.
Mlaer did not reflect on such things when he lay down that night.
His mind was occupied by thoughts of Tarna as he watched her sleep,
her breathing more uneven than it should be, her eyelids fluttering
through her dreams. She woke once or twice, but quickly returned
to sleep each time, perhaps to dream again of a world in which she
was strong and healthy. Mlaer dozed, but it was not a good night’s
rest.
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Mark W. Johnson
Tarna woke in the night and quietly spoke to her husband, who
lay staring at the ceiling. “Are you still awake?”
Mlaer rolled on his side to face her. “I’m okay. I just hate to
leave you.”
“Why don’t you stay?” Her voice sounded weak and puny. “You
don’t even know if that Landa woman can heal me.”
Mlaer wiped away a tear. “I know, but it’s a chance. Fate can’t
be cruel enough to take you away from me, so I have to go. I’ll take
any chance to have you well.”
Tarna nestled into a comfortable position in his arms and quickly
returned to sleep. He could not know how much longer she would
survive in this condition, and could hardly bear the thought of being
away from her. As Tarna’s health deteriorated, Mlaer treasured each
of her heartbeats, each of her breaths, more and more each day.
Morning came all too early. As the time to leave approached,
Mlaer held Tarna tightly, not wanting to ever release her. A knock
at the door interrupted.
“That’s Eromit.”
They said a few more farewells, kissed again and again, and Mlaer
promised to be back as soon as possible as he walked out the door.
He and Tarna had been holding each other since the wee hours of
the morning, and Mlaer knew that he could not look back.
Mlaer and Eromit walked in silence until they reached Trebor’s
house. As they reached the door, Eromit cautioned his friend, “Let
me warn you. There’s breakfast waiting, and Soorie expects us – especially you – to eat.”
They stepped inside and were greeted by a table set with bread
and cheese, milk, sausages and coffee.
“Eat, eat,” Soorie told Mlaer. “You used to be such a fine, fat
fellow, but just look at you.” She poked him in the ribs. “Skin and bone.
Eat!” She slid some eggs from her frying pan onto Mlaer’s plate. “You
start with three, and I’ll fix some more after I fix Eromit’s.”
“Dear,” Trebor interrupted, “if they eat ‘til they bust, they won’t
be able to go anywhere.”
Soorie gave her husband a stern look.
5
A Twist of Fate
“These boys have a long road ahead of them, and they need to
eat. Now, unless you want to sleep in the smithy tonight, you’ll sit
down and eat, and let me run my kitchen.” She was not smiling, so
Trebor sat quietly. “Now then, Eromit, your eggs are almost ready.”
She stared at Trebor and pointed to the table. “Pass those boys some
sausages, and bread, and cheese.” He meekly complied.
The two young men ate as much as they wanted, then struggled
to consume another plate or two of food to placate Soorie. Finally
finishing their meal, the two strapped on their belongings, Mlaer took
his staff, and Soorie’s tears flowed as she hugged them both. Trebor
held them in check, but his own tears were not so far from the
surface. Final goodbyes said – they began walking to the east.
6
Chapter II
E
romit spent most of the morning trying to engage Mlaer in
small talk, hoping to take his mind off of Tarna, about
whom Mlaer was obviously thinking almost constantly. “Say,
Mlaer, did you hear about that knight that rushed into the Duke’s
castle the other evening? You know, when it was storming so badly?”
“No,” Mlaer flatly replied.
“As I understand it,” Eromit continued, smiling, “he rushed in
and demanded a horse. The gatekeeper told him that the horses were
all stabled, and all he had was his big old dog.”
Mlaer’s attention had been snared. “No, I didn’t hear about this.
What happened?”
“The knight told him to saddle the dog.”
“What?” Mlaer leaned toward his friend to hear this story, his full
attention hanging on every word.
Eromit grinned broadly. “The gatekeeper told him, ‘Sir, I cannot
send a knight out on a dog like this.’”
Mlaer stopped in his tracks, stared blankly at Eromit for a moment,
and then burst into laughter. Eromit decided that his friend’s spirit
might not yet be dead.
§§§
Following the river, they hoped they would not travel far enough
to verify the rumor that the Darst flowed into a great sea far to the
east. Eromit looked about at this land, feeling the warmth of the
suns on his face. They had probably covered about fifteen miles
during the morning, but it seemed like much more.
7
A Twist of Fate
The sweet smell of spring caressed the breeze during the afternoon,
and seemed to strengthen them. The bees hummed their peaceful,
relaxing song. A few clouds hung lazily in the sky overhead, while
the suns gently warmed their path. This was a day for rebirth, a day
for life, the kind of day that makes a person glad to be alive. They
pursued a quest for life, and they felt as though all of nature embraced
them and blessed their journey.
Mlaer assessed his own attire. “I guess I look a little strange with a
black shirt and black cape and work pants. Then too, black clothes will
be too hot in a couple of months. I’m so tired, I don’t even remember
what a wizard is supposed to wear in the summer.”
“You’ll be fine.” Eromit thought that Mlaer seemed a little more
like his old self. “We’ll be back long before it gets too hot, anyway.”
Mlaer smiled in agreement.
They stopped for the night when they ate their evening meal,
neither of them being accustomed to this much walking.
Mlaer rubbed his toes. “My feet hurt, my back hurts, I miss
Tarna, I…”
“I get the idea,” Eromit interrupted. “I’m tired too, but everything
will look better in the morning. Go to sleep.”
Mlaer took his friend’s advice. They rested reasonably well that
night, and Mlaer was tired enough to fall asleep right away.
Morning brought another beautiful day to travel. A flock of yellow
and green birds chided them as the men tromped through the weeds,
but formed a colorful whirlwind whipping through the air when Mlaer
and Eromit walked too close. A world recovering from winter was
awash with the essence of life as the pair proceeded toward their goal
of bringing that essence to Tarna. They ate lunch and rested, breathing
in the atmosphere of rebirth.
They started their journey again, following the somewhat-limited
directions they had been given to follow the Darst. For whatever
reason, little geographical information had ever reached Ydan from
the East. Maybe the forest was impenetrable; maybe it was not. Mlaer
and Eromit knew nothing of what lay beyond the Green Forest, except
that Aurelia lay somewhere to the east.
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Mark W. Johnson
“Eromit,” Mlaer asked, “I’ve been thinking about something…”
“That could be dangerous, Mlaer”
“No, seriously. I wonder how Dubesh knows about Aurelstadt.
Isn’t it strange that he knows about Aurelstadt, the capitol of the
Kingdom of Aurelia, even knowing the name of the king’s personal
healer, Landa, but he can’t give us directions? All he knows is that it
lies somewhere to the east of the Green Forest.”
Eromit scratched his chin before replying. “Well, nobody really
knows much of anything about what may be on the other side of
the Forest, so his reports were probably not too complete. I guess he
told us what he knows, and probably wishes he knew more.”
Mlaer recalled the day that Dubesh, a tall, thin, middle-aged man
who carried himself as regally as the Duke himself, had spoken to them.
He had heard of Tarna’s illness and tried to help, as he was wont to do
when the citizens of Grand Raldi needed him. He mentioned Landa,
Aurelstadt, and started this quest. Mlaer only hoped that the man’s
information was reasonably accurate.
As they left the Raldi farmlands behind, no neat patchwork of
fields faced them; rather, trees blocked their way, twisted and wild.
Between gray and brown trunks shrubs grew throughout, along with
weeds of varying heights. They plunged through the brush, heading
further into the unknown east lands. Mlaer and Eromit were gradually
moving away from the Darst, as they chose the clearest paths eastward
and the Darst turned more to the southeast. Wild game appeared to
be more plentiful as they progressed with rabbits, squirrels, deers and
doves. They did not expect hunger in the days to come, if they could
just manage to snare some of nature’s bounty.
Mlaer stopped and rubbed his calves, pointing ahead to a clearing.
“It’s getting dark, and I don’t think I can walk much more today.
Why don’t we stop over there for the night?”
Eromit watched his friend in the fading light of Ecru’s twin suns,
Abba and Mutti, and then glanced ahead. “Okay. That looks like as
good a spot as any, and I’m tired, too.”
They moved into the clearing, where they gathered firewood and
built a small fire. The two set no watch, feeling that none would be
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A Twist of Fate
needed…yet. They fully realized that as the terrain became wilder, and
deviated further from their ken, they would need to have one watch
while the other slept.
As he stretched out to rest for the night, Mlaer’s thoughts drifted
back to Tarna. She had been so alive, but her vitality was slowly
sapped by this dreadful infirmity that permeated her body. In days
not so long past, she would have been thought possessed by a demon.
Maybe the old people’s silly superstitions were not so silly; maybe
she really needed an exorcist, or just needed the right priest to pray
over her. Mlaer shook his head, trying to clear away the confusion.
Sleep. Now he had to sleep.
Eromit watched his friend toss and turn, wishing he had some
balm for his friend’s tortured soul. He gave a silent prayer for Tarna
and Mlaer, to whatever gods might choose to listen, before his closing
eyelids shut out the stars beginning to twinkle in the heavens.
The night was short, and morning dawned clear and bright, with
no clouds hiding Abba’s face from the world. Mutti followed quickly
behind. Although weaker than Mutti this time of the year, Abba was
sure to grow stronger and overtake Mutti later in the year, just as
always. When Abba is strong enough to force Mutti from the sky
altogether, Mutti begins the cycle again, growing to overpower Abba.
Eromit stretched his body, feeling each muscle, realizing that he was
not accustomed to walking miles upon miles, and, unlike Abba, was not
growing stronger day by day. Mlaer also woke, stretched, and groaned.
The only way to work out the kinks would be to start moving again,
so they renewed their journey, albeit a bit slower than the day before.
The suns warmed Mlaer and Eromit as they progressed during the
morning. Frequent breaks to stop and stretch helped immensely, so
the warmth of the day and the combination of rest and movement
gradually eased their stiff and aching bodies. Mlaer was just happy that
he had brought a walking staff to make the hike easier.
As midmorning approached, they found something they had
never seen.
“Mlaer,” Eromit said as he stooped over something tangled in
the weeds, “look at this.”
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Mark W. Johnson
Mlaer joined his friend and gasped. They were gazing at what
appeared to be a gigantic ant, with its head lying beside its body. A
six-foot long insect, this fiery red monster must have stood about
two and a half feet tall at the shoulder, with its body covered in what
appeared to be short, sparse hair. Its broad, glossy head was attached
to a pair of serrated mandibles that looked as though they could slice
off an arm or a leg.
Mlaer arched one eyebrow. “We might want to be more careful.”
“Agreed.”
As they continued, they found more of the ants. Most were stonecold dead, but a few still twitched, autonomic reflexes moving antennae
or mandibles. Some were locked in poses of grisly combat, as though
two massive armies had collided, each fighting to destroy the other at
all costs. Mlaer and Eromit soon found themselves in the midst of an
erstwhile battlefield, littered with corpses of gigantic ants, many still
locked together in combat from which there could be no survivors.
They knew that some way out of this must be found, but which way?
“Well?” Mlaer asked. “Which way do you think will get us out
of here?” He pointed to the southeast. “It sounds like something is
going on over there.”
Eromit heard the noise as well, and nodded to his friend. The
noise was something akin to the sound of a bamboo forest being
smashed to pieces by cattle, but no animal cries were heard. They
strongly suspected that they knew its source, and had no intention
of exploring it.
“Let’s go that way,” Eromit said, pointing to the northeast.
“Maybe we can work our way around.”
“It’s worth a try.”
They walked ever so cautiously to the northeast, keeping a wary
eye out for anything threatening them. Finding that the brutes locked
in mortal combat were no danger to them, they watched for any of
the six-legged warriors that might not be preoccupied. Eromit carried
his unsheathed sword at the ready, while Mlaer tried to prepare a
spell to use. They expected to fight for their lives at any time, and
would not be disappointed.
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A Twist of Fate
Cautiously winding their way through insectoid mayhem, they
almost stumbled over the first ant that noticed them.
“Mlaer!” Eromit screamed. “Look out.”
Mlaer spun to his right, coming face to face with an ant no more
than three feet away. Staring into gigantic mandibles clicking together
and moving straight for him, Mlaer shouted some word that was
unintelligible to Eromit and waved his right hand at the creature. A
huge puff of smoke engulfed the ant’s front. The ant started thrashing
about wildly, knocking Mlaer aside. Eromit leapt forward, and with
one mighty blow from his sword severed the creature’s head from
its body.
Mlaer stood, rubbing his side, after watching the watermelonsized head roll past.
“You okay?” Eromit asked.
Mlaer nodded. “I’ll survive.”
They looked at the decapitated beast that flopped away from
them, and the head that had rolled aside. Mlaer’s flash powder burned
the creature’s antennae off, which must have been the reason for its
actions. Its head was only singed.
“Bad choice of weapons, Mlaer,” Eromit muttered.
Mlaer agreed. “The spell was supposed to make the flash and fire
a lot stronger…since I don’t know what went wrong, maybe I should
lead with my staff. At least I can keep whatever jumps out at me a
few feet away.”
They looked at each other and simultaneously began to run
forward. At virtually the same time, they had thought about the way
ants move, long lines of insects that could quickly mass on a potential
source of food. They ran until they thought their hearts would burst
and kept running until Mlaer collapsed and Eromit dropped to his
knees, gasping for air.
“If they catch us I’ll just lay here and die,” Eromit gasped.
Mlaer only wheezed in reply.
They had stopped at the edge of a sparsely wooded area, where
they leaned against the trees and looked back. Then they could see
that they had crossed a line of ants that stretched as far as the eye
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Mark W. Johnson
could see to either side. The ants did not seem to notice their fallen
comrade, rather, they continued past him on their journey. Whatever
trail leads ants to their food, or to the battle, must have been more
important than these two beings rushing across their line.
Eromit checked Mlaer’s side. “No broken ribs.” Eromit grunted.
“Just don’t do it again, okay?”
Mlaer smiled scornfully. “I haven’t done much ‘real’ magic in a
long time, so it may take a while for it to come back to me. There’s
a big difference between fighting for your life and helping old Yitzger’s
gout, you know?”
Eromit could only laugh.
§§§
The men moved east through the trees, slowed by the fallen
branches. They assumed that the Green Forest must be further to the
east, since it was alleged to be so dark and thick that no one could
pass through. Mlaer and Eromit finally came to a clearing, where they
built a fire and stopped for the night. Completely exhausted, they
quickly fell asleep.
Eromit was roused from his slumber by a noise. It was not much
of a noise, just a noise that was out of place. He looked around with
half-closed eyes, and spotted a figure rifling through their belongings.
Eromit bellowed as he leapt to his feet, which was more than enough
to make Mlaer bolt upright. Unfortunately for Mlaer, he was closest
to this intruder, who was intent on stealing everything he could find.
Steel flashed through the night air, catching the firelight and slicing
through the darkness. Mlaer tried to roll away from his assailant, but
felt pain searing his arm as he moved. He fell to the ground, gripping
his bloody arm.
By this time Eromit had risen and was facing the stranger, sword
in hand. They circled each other for a moment, and Eromit took the
initiative, slashing at his opponent. The man neatly dodged Eromit’s
sword and delivered a blow of his own to Eromit’s side, sparks flying
as Eromit’s chain mail saved him from serious injury.
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A Twist of Fate
Again and again Eromit’s mail took a cut, sacrificing a few links for
its wearer. Eromit was losing this duel. Mlaer managed to swing his staff
in a wide arc at the invader’s legs. The thief went down, followed by
Eromit’s sword. The man was quick; Eromit’s sword only scratched him.
Careful to stay out of reach of Mlaer’s staff, the thief said, “Why
don’t you just give me your money? I’ll let you live, you clumsy ox,
if you just toss me your purse.”
Eromit answered with a grunt and a swing of his sword.
Laughing, the thief slashed again and again, his arrogance causing
him to make his final mistake. He stretched too far and left his side
unguarded, allowing Eromit to connect with his own sword. Blood
spewed from the fellow’s mouth, his torso sliced halfway through.
Eromit sat heavily and looked at Mlaer. Both were splattered with
blood; Eromit mostly with the invader’s, and Mlaer with his own.
“How you doing, Mlaer?”
The magician gave as hearty a laugh as he could muster. “I haven’t
felt this good in years.” Mlaer examined his wound. “Could be a lot
worse. I think we can bandage this and I’ll be okay. Are you all right?”
Eromit inspected his clothing. “No deep cuts, I guess. I may be
sore for days, but this old chain mail held up pretty good.”
They caught their breath, bandaged Mlaer’s arm, and then looked
at the corpse in their camp. “What do we do with him?”
Eromit shrugged in reply, so they searched his pockets and found
virtually nothing: a knife and a few coins with unknown faces. Mlaer kept
the sword, giving its previous owner a shallow plot of land in exchange.
They realized that sleeping at the same time, with no one keeping
watch had been a near-fatal error. Anyone could sneak up on them
at night, but they had not appreciated the danger until this incident.
“That’s a mistake we won’t make again,” Eromit told Mlaer. “You
go ahead and get some sleep.”
“No,” Mlaer said, “you get some sleep. My arm hurts too much
to sleep, and maybe I’ll be able to sleep later.”
“On one condition,” Eromit replied, holding up one finger. “That
you wake me in a few hours.”
“Agreed, but let’s check those cuts first.”
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Mark W. Johnson
The blacksmith stripped the mail and shirt from his muscular
torso, so Mlaer could wash his wounds. None were deep, but a number
contained bits of metal and leather. Once they were clean, Eromit
seemed to drift into sleep fairly easily, while Mlaer propped himself
against a tree. Although not normally a melancholy person, Mlaer
already missed Tarna very much. He stayed awake brooding over his
spouse, but it could hardly be called “keeping watch.” The magician
woke Eromit midway through the night, when he thought he might
be able to sleep.
Some hours later, Eromit flatly said, “Morning, Mlaer.”
Mlaer rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he yawned, then replied,
“Morning. Do you hurt as much as I do?”
Eromit cautiously rubbed his side. “More. I wouldn’t be surprised
if I’ve got a couple of cracked ribs.”
Mlaer and Eromit slowly packed their belongings and forced their
bodies into motion. They plodded through the weeds and brush for
a couple of hours before reaching the Forest. While the warmth of
the suns helped their injuries, the brilliant gold of morning sunlight
seemed to be swallowed up by the deep green of the woods. The
Stygian darkness of the forest looked like the edge of the world.
Mlaer and Eromit continued their journey, following the tree line
north, looking for some trail into the wood. The pair briefly considered
turning south and returning to the Darst, but neither had any desire to
risk encountering a massive ant war. They might have simply pushed
into the forest, except that this was the darkest, thickest forest either
had ever seen. Penetrating this would be no easy task.
“Well,” Eromit said, staring at the blackness of the Forest, “do
we go in?”
Mlaer looked from side to side. They walked to within a few
feet of the first tree and hesitated.
“Are we sure we want to do this?” Eromit asked.
Mlaer rubbed a white powder onto the end of his staff while
muttering his incantations. The tip of his staff began to glow, slowly
brightening until it produced the light of a kerosene lamp. Mlaer led
the way with this light above and in front of him. Even though the
15
A Twist of Fate
overhead cover was not so thick along this “path,” the forest was still
pitch black, and Mlaer’s staff produced only enough light for them to
see a foot or two ahead; all else was an all-encompassing midnight.
They moved slowly, using their ears as well as their eyes to detect
whatever else might be in this place. The problem was that neither
their eyes nor their ears provided any information, as the supernatural
blackness blocked any vision, and no sound of any description touched
their ears. They could not even hear their own footsteps. Neither
had ever experienced the disorientation of sensory deprivation, and
both men felt the same fear.
After a minute or two that seemed to last for days, the woods
gradually began to lighten. As the world brightened, so the sound
appeared and grew. Mlaer and Eromit moved as quietly as they could,
their ears informing them that the woods were full of animal life. More
and more light filtered through the forest canopy, so with a word Mlaer
extinguished the glowing end of his staff. They saw a deer calmly
watching them, a fawn laughing and playing at its side. The world had
drastically changed from a woodland dungeon to a place of peace and
happiness, from the pall of death to a crescendo of life. They dared not
breathe a word, for fear of disrupting the glorious world around them.
They soon came to a bend in the Darst, looping northward before
returning to its southeasterly meanderings, where they drank deeply.
The water flowing clear and cool beckoned. They splashed and played
in the river like children, albeit for only a few minutes, then pulled
themselves back up onto the bank, where Mlaer and Eromit quickly
fell asleep.
§§§
They awoke slowly, groggily. “Who did a dance on my skull?”
Mlaer shook his head as he answered, “Whoa. The last time my
head felt like this was when I tried to show how much liquor I could
hold.” He tried to reach for his head and failed. “What?”
They were bound hand and foot. Both men strained and struggled
against their bonds, but soon realized they were held fast.
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Mark W. Johnson
Eromit and Mlaer examined their surroundings: a round hut with
a dirt floor. The wall appeared to be made of grass, with the conical
roof also of grass. With no discernible door or window, it was as if
the hut had been built around them as they slept.
“What do we do now?” Eromit asked his friend.
Mlaer opened his mouth and spoke, but no sound issued forth.
Eromit tried to speak, but his mouth no longer produced any sound
either. They looked at each other, panic stricken and open mouthed,
still struggling against their bonds. As they wondered about their
circumstances, fearing for their lives, a little old man walked through
the wall of the hut. The wall was not disturbed; he simply walked
through as though it did not exist.
The man reeked of age, his wizened visage showing hundreds
of years. He stretched out his hand toward Mlaer, revealing fingers
gnarled and twisted by time. In total contrast to his appearance, he
spoke with a rich baritone voice, saying, “Be at peace, my children.”
The words should have calmed them, but Eromit could see the
terror in Mlaer’s face as the ancient one placed his hand on Mlaer’s
skull. Mlaer’s expression slowly relaxed as the old one smiled, and
then Eromit watched his friend slump to the ground.
Eromit was frozen, watching helplessly as the embodiment of age
turned toward him, arm outstretched. Eromit believed his friend to
be dead, with death at his own threshold, ready to cross into him
and take him away as the stranger gently placed his fingertips on
Eromit’s head. Eromit’s brain recoiled violently from the touch, but
there was nowhere to go.
Eromit’s eyes closed, and all of his thoughts were suddenly laid
bare. He had never been so naked; the entirety of his being was under
the scrutiny of this stranger. His head felt warm, as if a summer
stream were flowing through, washing through his soul to this man
for review. The stream flowed into this man. All consciousness, all
unconsciousness, everything that made up Eromit was flowing through
this man’s hands. Then everything went black, and Eromit collapsed
in a heap, just as his friend had done.
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A Twist of Fate
§§§
Mlaer was shaking Eromit. “C’mon, wake up. We’re alive. We’re
okay.”
Eromit bolted upright. They were in the forest again, with no
more walls about them, back on the shore where they had fallen
asleep. Eromit stared at his friend and shook his head, trying to clear
away the cobwebs. “Boy, that was some dream I had. We were in
this round hut, and you and I were…”
Mlaer interrupted. “I know. Me too.”
“What? No, wait a minute. That…really happened? You were
dead! Somehow, weren’t you? Did it?”
Mlaer smiled. “I’ve been awake long enough to think this out a
little.” He paused, deep in thought. “I think it really happened. Whoever, or whatever, runs this forest wanted to know all about us. I
don’t know exactly what he did, but I feel that he left something for
us in our heads after he looked through them, something to help us
complete our quest.”
“And he called us his ‘children’ as if he knew us,” Eromit added.
Mlaer nodded his agreement. “There’s something else, too.” He
stared at Eromit for a moment before continuing. “How do you feel?”
“Fine,” was the expectant reply.
“No, really. Remember how sore we both were?”
“You’re right. I really do feel just fine. No aches and pains at all.”
Mlaer slowly unwrapped the bandage from his shoulder. A thin
red line showed what had been a deep, oozing gash only the day before.
The two stared at each other for a moment, deep in their own thoughts.
Resuming their trek they strode through the forest, enveloped
by greenery. They walked through no curtain of darkness as they
exited the wood, having no abrupt division between the trees and
the outside world. The day was still clear and bright, a spring day
with one sun nearly at its zenith. They had only been in the woodland
a very few hours.
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Chapter III
C
ompared to the interior, this side of the forest was positively
boring. The men were struck by the overwhelming ordinariness
of the world, where the sparse grass scratched and clawed its way
out of ground that was noticeably dull and lifeless. Rather than breaking
up the landscape, the sporadically placed trees only served to emphasize
the blandness of the area. The birds sang no special melodies as they flitted
from branch to branch; most wildlife hid from people, as it normally does.
The trees thickened in the distance into another wooded area, but not one
shrouded in doom and gloom. The world was plain once more.
Mlaer lifted his hand over his eyes and scanned the horizon. “Okay.
Where do you suggest we go from here?”
Eromit looked around, scratched his nose, and suddenly brightened.
“Mlaer! If we follow the Darst, we’ll surely come across civilization, right?”
“Right! And somebody is bound to know where to find Aurelstadt,
right?”
Encouraged, they started out once again, and passed the next few
hours without incident. Eromit and Mlaer had turned to the southeast,
heading for the Darst, through nearly flat terrain, so their progress
was rapid. By late afternoon they reached the riverbank. Mlaer tossed
a pebble into the river. “Eromit, do you remember the minnow trap
you built when we were kids?”
“Yeah.” Eromit smiled nostalgically. “Back when we used it to
catch bait. Do you remember the time we pulled the trap out of the
water and found that poisonous snake in it?”
Mlaer laughed. “That’s what I was thinking about. It’s a good thing
that snake had already drowned.” They both laughed. After a pause,
Mlaer spoke again. “Eromit?”
19
A Twist of Fate
“Yeah?”
“Do you really believe this healer can help Tarna?”
Eromit looked into his friend’s eyes, eyes that pleaded for reassurance. “I think maybe she can if anybody can.”
Mlaer nodded to himself. “We’ve already come too far to turn
back, so I guess it’s too late for second thoughts now.”
They set out again, this time following the Darst. They laughed
and joked while they followed the riverbank, just as they had done
years before on another river, when life was clean and good and all
in front of them. As children they had stalked imaginary dragons and
evil knights along Purple Creek, winding their way up and down the
banks of the stream. As youngsters they could never lose such battles,
but now the game was real, with serious stakes, and they had to win.
They grew quieter as their progress became more difficult, working
their way in and around the trees that had evolved into a forest before
Eromit and Mlaer realized it, slowing the pace of their adventure.
Dusk was also not far away, so they had only a couple of hours to
find a spot to halt for the night.
“Stop.” Mlaer hissed. He held his hand up when Eromit started to
question him, and they both listened. They heard grunting and snarling
in the trees, and not far away. Cautiously they looked about them.
Eromit calmly said, “Mlaer, I think we’ve found them.”
Mlaer turned to look in the same direction as his friend. Facing
them, no more than ten feet away, were a half-dozen vaguely humanoid
creatures. Roughly human in build, they had heads distorted in peculiar
ways; some had ursine heads, while one looked nearly human, except
for a dog’s snout and fangs. Their colors varied from sickly pink to
mottled gray, making their ragged and filthy brown-black clothes and
armor look appropriate. They seemed to be wearing all manner of armor
and mail, most of it taken off of corpses, judging from its condition.
Armed with axes and long knives, these heavily muscled brutes looked
as if they would need no help to dispose of these two interlopers. The
biggest and ugliest of the lot stepped closer and grinned, showing a
mouth full of jagged and rotting teeth, making the two men extremely
uncomfortable.
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Mark W. Johnson
As Eromit drew his sword, Mlaer announced, “I’ll take care of
them.” Mlaer dropped his staff and waved his hands in intricate patterns
above and in front of his head, chanting in some arcane language for
perhaps three seconds. As these dull witted creatures stared at him,
he tensed his entire upper body, jerking his arms straight out in front
of him, fingers outstretched. Big ugly laughed. Mlaer reached for his
staff. The creatures started moving toward them.
“Nothing’s happening,” Eromit whispered.
Mlaer swallowed hard. “I noticed.” Beads of perspiration glistened
as they formed on his forehead. “Maybe we should get out of here.”
Suddenly, eyes bulging, the monsters dropped their weapons and
grabbed their heads. They started screaming hideously in pain, releasing
high-pitched scream-squeals that hit Mlaer and Eromit like fingernails
on a chalkboard. Mlaer and Eromit stared, dumbfounded, holding their
ears as the beasts writhed in agony. The helmets these things wore
began to crack and split apart as something was forcing its way out
of their heads.
They were growing antlers. Huge antlers were sprouting from
these creatures’ heads, smashing through the helmets that were holding
them back. Eromit and Mlaer decided not to see the final product;
they ran like rabbits through the grass and the brush that snatched at
their legs. They ran only a few hundred feet or so before feeling safe
enough to slow to a trot, a pace they kept until the wailing ended or
they were out of earshot, whichever it may have been. They did not
expect to be followed.
They stopped beside the river. “That was great!” Eromit was
thoroughly impressed by his friend’s magical prowess. “I’ve never heard
of anything like it. You’re better than you admit.”
Mlaer was wrapping his shoulder, which had started oozing blood
again. He grinned sheepishly at Eromit. “That was, um, interesting,
wasn’t it? But, um, I’ve never heard of anything like it, either.”
“What?”
Mlaer laughed. “I, uh, wasn’t trying to do that. I was trying to
cast a spell that would make a mass of sticky webs appear all over and
around them. I don’t really know what I did wrong… As for the
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A Twist of Fate
antlers, well, I hope someday I can figure out how I did it. Maybe I
can do it again. Regardless, I nearly fainted when nothing happened.”
Eromit stared at Mlaer, looked back in the direction of the
monstrosities, and then stared at Mlaer again. They both laughed loud
and long before starting out again.
§§§
The next few days were an indistinguishable blur of long and tiring
walks. Mlaer was beginning to think he had feet of lead. Not even
his love of Tarna and the urgency of his mission could protect his
body from the exhaustion that was slowly but surely overtaking him.
Accustomed to more physical labor than his friend, Eromit could see
that Mlaer was nearly finished, near to becoming a casualty of their
journey. Eromit halted their progress shortly after midday on their
seventh day of travel. Mlaer protested weakly, but soon fell asleep.
Mlaer slowly woke. He yawned and stretched, rubbed his eyes,
and looked at the sky. It was early afternoon.
“Welcome back to the world of the living,” Eromit snorted.
“Looks like I didn’t need as much sleep as you thought,” Mlaer
told him. “I’ve been asleep for only a few hours, and I feel pretty
well rested.”
“Oh, is that so?” Eromit sounded sarcastic. “I’ll have you know you
slept for two days. I didn’t want you to drop dead on me, so I let
you sleep. You think I want to be stuck out here by myself?” Eromit
smiled and let that sink in before continuing. “By the way, I caught a
rabbit this morning. I roasted it earlier and about half of it’s left if
you’re hungry.”
While Mlaer ate, Eromit described what had happened in the
world during the two previous days.
Not long after Mlaer nodded off, Eromit began to survey the
area, staying within sight of Mlaer until he had made a complete circle,
then drifting farther outward. When he was satisfied that they were
the only ones in the vicinity, Eromit returned with firewood and built
a fire. First light of day saw Eromit returning to the Darst to wash
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Mark W. Johnson
his clothes and bathe, basking in the pure joy of being clean for the
first time in days. Eromit finally crawled out onto the bank and dozed
lightly in the sun. Having caught a rabbit, he roasted and enjoyed it.
He also repaired his mail as well as he could, having brought a bit
of wire along with him for this. He showed Mlaer his repair work.
“If I had my tools, I could have done it right, but I at least managed
to close most of the gaps left by broken or lost links.” Eromit showed
his companion the repaired sections. “They might not stop a sword’s
blade, but will have to do for now. I spent the rest of the day feeding
the fire and twiddling my thumbs. Last night I caught myself dozing
several times as I struggled to remain awake.”
“Good thing. We don’t need another burglar like we had before.”
Mlaer yawned and glanced around, grinning. “I guess it would have
woken me up, though.”
“You don’t know how glad I was to see you wake up,” Eromit
yawned. “Now I get some sleep.”
“Go ahead. I need to be moving around.”
Mlaer bathed after eating then relaxed in the sunlight, providing
Eromit the opportunity for some much needed sleep. After cleaning
and drying his clothes, Mlaer was ready to go. Eromit woke after
sleeping only two or three hours, so they started out once more.
Feeling much stronger, Mlaer no longer impeded their progress.
They slept in shifts during the next few nights, still having found
no trace of civilization. In the evenings, Eromit helped Mlaer learn
to handle the sword he had acquired. A quick study, Mlaer could be
counted on if they were to face any more ants. The problem, Eromit
felt, would show itself if and when they must face human opponents.
His friend was a smart man, one who quickly grasped the basics, but
against a good swordsman the basics would be inadequate. Fortunately,
Eromit sharpened his own skills as he taught Mlaer.
While Mlaer learned what he could of swordsmanship, he showed
Eromit a skill he had learned from his old master: how to defend himself
with a staff. His staff had been used as little more than a walking stick
up to this point, and his skills were rusty, but he felt the old moves
returning with practice. Mlaer recalled Master Elgrin’s lessons; use of
23
A Twist of Fate
the staff was one of the first. His master gave two reasons: First, learning
to anticipate and defend against an opponent’s blows sharpens the mind,
and second, there may not always be time to cast a spell. Master Elgrin
used knives and the staff to train Mlaer until magic took precedence,
developing hand-eye coordination, learning to anticipate an enemy,
strengthening the body to endure long hours of study and research. His
master had spent long, hard hours preparing him for the future,
including this physical training, training in the wizardly arts, and more.
“You know,” Mlaer told Eromit one evening, “when I was younger,
you could throw a knife at me and I could block it with my staff.”
“Want to see if you still can?”
Mlaer looked at Eromit as if he were crazy. “No thanks. A few
years ago, sure. But not these days.”
Eromit only laughed.
They sharpened their respective skills against each other, Mlaer’s
staff against Eromit’s sword. A staff might be ineffective against a giant
ant, but it might well put Mlaer on a par with a human opponent.
In a few short days they were not only feeling comfortable with
their weapons, but had regained that old feeling that nothing in the
world was unconquerable. Mlaer’s melancholia eased a bit as his
confidence grew.
Mlaer also studied his spells at night as Eromit slept. On an empty
page in his spell book, Mlaer jotted notes about the spell that went
awry. Maybe he could find a way to replicate his discovery. He tried
to ensure the freshness of his spells in his mind, because he wanted
to be able to cast a spell and know what would happen. There were
spells he had not seen in years, and some he had never had to use.
The magician felt that might change in the days to come. Reviewing
his spells was also a mental exercise to keep his brain occupied. Mlaer
wanted to keep his mind busy, so that he might not worry so much
about his beloved.
Late one afternoon, they happened across a farmer drinking from
the river. Having worked in the fields all day, he had stopped for a
cool drink on his way home.
“Hello, good sir,” Mlaer called, as the men approached.
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Mark W. Johnson
“Hello, young fellahs,” the man replied, looking at them suspiciously.
He looked them over, sizing them up. “What brings you to these parts?”
“We’re on our way to Aurelstadt,” Eromit explained. He glanced
around. “That is, we think we are.” He looked around again. “Can you
give us directions?”
The farmer laughed, and pointed to the north. “Aurelstadt be
off that way.” He looked at them and smiled. “I be going that way.”
He started walking. Mlaer and Eromit looked at each other, shrugged
their shoulders, and fell in behind him.
“Umm, I’m Mlaer, and this is Eromit.”
The man stopped abruptly, and then shook hands with both of
them. “Kadok.”
“Kadok,” Mlaer asked, “where are we?”
“This be Aurelia, King Greema’s land.”
“So you farm the king’s land?”
“Right. We pays our honest taxes, and the king leaves us alone the
rest of the time.”
Continuing their march, Mlaer and Eromit explained their purpose
to Kadok.
“Well, boys,” he said. “I hear that King Greema does got a great
healer, but I never seen her. Only been to the capitol once, when I
was a young’un. That be enough. With all them folks there ain’t no
air left to breathe. No sir, you boys can have it.”
They walked the hard-packed ground of the trail through fields
of hay sprouts. At full height, the waving fields of gold would block
the view of any part of the world outside their trail, but the fields
were just beginning to grow, hinting vaguely at the harvest to come.
One could see for miles across the flat expanse, so a solid-looking barn
and small adjoining house were visible from far away.
When they reached Kadok’s house he offered to let them sleep
in his barn, and they gladly accepted, with Kadok’s promise to show
them the road to Aurelstadt in the morning. Mlaer and Eromit slept
on straw that night, the softest bed either had been in since leaving
home. Eromit slept peacefully, until Mlaer woke him by screaming
and bolting upright.
25
A Twist of Fate
“What happened? Mlaer, wake up. It was just a dream. Wake up.”
Mlaer was awake, but had broken out in a cold sweat. “Ye gods,
what a nightmare. Tarna was with me, and then she died. The old man
from the Green Forest was there, too. He told me to pluck his eyes
out. And Tarna was dead…dead.” Mlaer stared off into the distance.
“It was just a dream.” Eromit tried to reassure his friend. “Tarna
is holding her own, and she’ll be fine after we get back, right?”
Mlaer looked at the ground and nodded. “You’re right.” He paused,
and then added, “I’m okay.” The magician rolled on his side, so that
Eromit could not see a tear roll down his face.
Morning bathed the landscape with Abba’s golden streams of
warmth. The dark fields, trees, and houses came to life, awash in the
sea of colors that day brings. Mlaer and Eromit were witnesses to the
morning’s rebirth of the world as Kadok opened the barn door and
flooded their sleeping area with light.
“Mornin’, boys!” Kadok’s bellow rattled the rafters. “You gonna
sleep all day?” Kadok laughed. “C’mon to the house now. Folks around
these parts don’t send no strangers out hungry.”
They met Kadok’s wife, a strong, stocky woman who obviously
worked as hard as her husband, when she served their breakfast. She
seemed ambivalent about the two city boys who slept so late, even
later than Abba and Mutti.
Kadok’s three boys ate as much as only growing boys can. Eromit
could only imagine how much Soorie would have enjoyed feeding this
group. After all had eaten their fill, Mlaer and Eromit tried to thank
Kadok’s wife and leave.
“That was wonderful,” Mlaer told her.
“Eat some more,” was her reply.
Eromit protested, “Ma’am, if we eat any more, we won’t be able
to walk!”
“Dear,” Kadok told his wife, “them boys had enough.” His stern look
quieted her, but he and she grinned at each other. Mlaer and Eromit left with
Kadok. Outside, he handed them a package. “Here be something for later.”
Mlaer glanced in it. “I guess we really didn’t eat enough to make
her happy.” They all laughed.
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Mark W. Johnson
Kadok walked with them for a short distance, and then pointed to
a dirt road ahead. “That be the road to Aurelstadt, there,” Kadok explained,
pointed ahead. Turning to the east, he said, “It be off that way.”
The two had offered to pay for their meal and lodging earlier,
but Kadok had refused. Mlaer tried one more time. “Are you sure we
can’t pay for anything, or work for it?”
Kadok shook his head. “Nope,” he replied. “We don’t turn away
nobody that’s hungry. Just help out some other fellah, sometimes,
okay?”
Eromit laughed. “Okay, I think we can promise that.”
Kadok clapped a hand on Mlaer’s shoulder. “I hope your woman
gets well,” he quietly said.
Mlaer nodded, and whispered, “Thanks.” He shook Kadok’s hand.
“Good bye.”
Kadok shook Eromit’s hand and turned to walk back to his farm,
so Mlaer and Eromit returned to their journey.
Kadok had told them that the road led directly to Aurelstadt, but
they were still a hard two days’ hike away, even though they made
excellent time on such a good road.
Mlaer and Eromit walked past acres and acres of farmland that
afternoon, returning waves from men plowing their fields, basking in
the light of a community of hard working, friendly people. At the end
of the day another farmer, Rashionn, took them in. They were overwhelmed by these people who treated strangers as old friends; Rashionn
explained that hospitality was one tenet of their faith.
“Our father in heaven done told us to show hospitality to our
neighbors,” Rashionn explained, “and he done said that everybody’s a
neighbor. He done told us that, after we pass from this world, he’ll
treat us the same way we done treated strangers when we was alive.”
Eromit told Rashionn about Kadok, and Rashionn said that Kadok
was his friend, as were all of his neighbors. He told Mlaer and Eromit
that they could not accept payment for their hospitality, and they were
fortunate that it was Kadok they had met. Many of his brethren in
the faith would be insulted, but Kadok would have interpreted their
offer of payment as a gesture of good will.
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A Twist of Fate
Rashionn further explained that he and his family lived on the
edge of the part of Aurelia inhabited by those of this religious sect.
From this point inward toward Aurelstadt, they would have to watch
their backs. Rashionn told them that the people of Aurelstadt were
dangerous people who believed in nothing but themselves. He was
quite emphatic about the “godless heathens in that forsaken city.”
That night, Mlaer had only one comment about their host. “As
nice as Rashionn is, I don’t think I could stand to hear about anything
else that was ‘done did.’” Eromit laughed, but agreed.
When Mlaer and Eromit left the next morning, Rashionn said that
he had “done lit incense and done prayed” for them. They cringed, and
thanked him. He wished they would not go to Aurelstadt, but had
prayed that they might find any good person that may be therein, if one
existed. Although they had only been among these people for a couple
of days, Mlaer and Eromit felt as though they were leaving family.
They hoped they could return someday.
As if to emphasize their passage from these gentle folk, the
weather was not so beautiful this day as that to which they had become
accustomed. The skies darkened, hiding Abba, then Mutti. The storm
gods pulled a curtain of darkness and lightning across the heavens,
leaving a wake of cold water to fall upon the puny mortals inhabiting
the world below.
Mlaer and Eromit unrolled capes made of specially tanned and
treated skins, soft and water-repellent. Even with such fine foul
weather gear, the howling wind and pummeling downpour drenched
Mlaer and Eromit totally. They slogged through the deluge all morning,
making what progress the elements would allow. Hunched over to
fight the wind, shoulders squared to the northern rain, they managed
only to protect their faces and part of their sides from nature’s attack.
Midday came and went with no break in the weather. The day
darkened, so Mlaer chanted a spell to make the tip of his staff glow.
Eromit watched as the pale glow illuminated their steps.
“Hey, why didn’t you do it like that before? When we were in
the woods, I mean?”
Mlaer did not look at Eromit as he spoke; rather, his gaze never
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Mark W. Johnson
strayed from the point of light. “I have to concentrate on the light to
do it this way. I’d do it the way I did before, but if I open the pouch
I’ll ruin the powder.”
They struggled against nature’s onslaught throughout the remainder
of the day. The rain finally slacked off late in the afternoon, and had
stopped by mid-evening. Two men, completely drenched, weary to
the bone, also stopped.
Mlaer’s flash powder turned out to be hot enough to light wet
firewood. It sputtered and spat, but the wood they gathered burned
well enough to dry them by morning. Their clothes would take longer.
Cold, tired and wet, Mlaer told Eromit, “I just hope we stay
well enough to finish this.”
“Right,” Eromit added sarcastically. “All we need now is to catch
the croup.”
Mlaer quickly fell asleep, as tired from concentrating on his staff
as from the hike.
Morning came too early for the two, but they knew the nights
would grow shorter and shorter as the season progressed. The suns
rose over a soggy Ecru that morning, showing Mlaer and Eromit a road
of mud. They trudged through the road, carrying quite a bit of it
with them, since the mud accumulated on their bodies as they walked,
weighing them down in body and spirit. Sinking into the quagmire
of a road, they often had to pull on their bootstraps to move their
feet. Lethargy and depression slowly grabbed hold of them, only abated
by the sight of a castle in the distance. They must finally be approaching
Aurelstadt.
29
30
Chapter IV
M
laer and Eromit found the walking easier, now that the
object of their quest was in view. As they drew nearer,
they could see two minarets towering over a sprawling
behemoth. Closer, and the minarets were both beautiful and out of
place, an architect’s drug-induced touch of insanity. This castle was
by far the largest structure that either man had ever seen, with those
golden-topped minarets standing over enormous walls and many
smaller towers like candles on a birthday cake. It was awe inspiring
at a distance, even more so up close.
They came closer and could see that not all of this structure was
castle; a wall twelve feet high surrounded a great city and the castle
walls within the city. The castle proper appeared to be on higher
ground inside the city. At the town gate they were met by two burly
men in plate armor, each wielding a massive broadsword. The guards
watched Mlaer and Eromit approach, sizing them up. The guards smiled
to each other, but turned stone faces to the approaching men.
“Good day,” Mlaer said, as he and Eromit halted before the gate.
“Hey, farm boys.” The guards laughed. “What brings ya’ to civilization? Don’t ya’ think yer goats’ll miss ya’?”
Eromit grabbed Mlaer’s shoulder. Although his friend’s temper
was not always predictable, Eromit could tell that he should be held
back. Eromit forced a grin.
“I think the goats will be okay without us for a while, sir. We
just ain’t never seen no city like this, Mr. Guard, sir.” Eromit hoped
they could not detect the sarcasm in his voice.
Both guards shook their heads, faces showing expressions of disgust.
“Stupid bumpkins,” one muttered under his breath.
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A Twist of Fate
The other spoke to them. “Three coppers gate tax. Each.”
He held out his palm, and Eromit placed six small copper coins
into it. The guard looked closely at the money. Then he looked at
Eromit and Mlaer again, more thoroughly, eyes mere slits.
“What kind of money is this?”
Mlaer had regained his composure. “They are called ‘Kents.’
Currency of the Duchy of Grand Raldi.”
This guard looked at the other and grinned. “He’s from some ratty
duchy.” Both guards laughed.
Eromit whispered to Mlaer. “Stay calm. They’re trying to get a
rise out of us.”
“Never heard of it. Yer ratty duchy’s money ain’t worth nothin’
here, so ya’ better change it to real money soon as ya’ can.” When
he saw that neither Mlaer nor Eromit was reacting, the guard
gestured toward the city with his head. “Go on, get out of here.”
As they proceeded, they heard over their shoulders a repeat of
“stupid bumpkins.”
Eromit guided his friend inside. The color came back into Mlaer’s
face as they gawked at their surroundings. A city, the likes of which
they had never seen, unfolded before their eyes. They were accustomed
to Ydan, their home village, with its slow pace and loose collection
of small buildings, which could not compare to this sprawling mass
of stone and wood. Aurelstadt, capitol city of the land of Aurelia, was
a major city in every sense of the word. Absorbing the hustle and
bustle of this metropolis in one look was like trying to quaff a gallon
of beer at one draught: impossible.
People of all walks of life, in all manner of dress, milled about on
streets paved with stone. Buildings two and three stories high were
jammed together up and down the streets with some leaning a foot
or two out over the street. From here, the men could tell that most
of the streets directly in front of the gate were clean, although some
of the side streets were not. Buildings along the side streets were also in
various states of repair; some looked solid, while others looked dangerous
for the occupants. The street in front of them was wider and cleaner
than the rest, and it appeared to lead straight to the castle.
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When they had finished staring, they felt foolish for being so
overwhelmed. Mlaer looked at Eromit and grinned. “I guess we are a
couple of yokels.”
Eromit returned an embarrassed grin, too. “We sure act like it,
don’t we?”
They knew their first stop should be at a moneychanger’s shop,
but then they must find Landa and convince her to travel across a
wasteland to a small town far away. They could offer her danger, mud,
exhaustion and heartfelt thanks as a reward. How could anyone ask
for more than that?
Mlaer and Eromit quickly came across a small shop with a sign out
front showing a pile of coins, but no name. They entered an empty
white room, with a sign on one wall listing interest rates from 48%
to 72%, and a dark wooden counter along another wall. The counter
was about three feet high, with metal mesh extended to the ceiling.
A plump, balding man sat behind a semicircular opening in the mesh.
He tilted his glasses back and smiled as Eromit and Mlaer entered.
Although it may have been meant to be disarming, this man’s smile
reminded them of a man-eating beast.
“Sorry,” Mlaer said, as they backed out. “Wrong shop.”
They walked further down the street, finding another moneychanger’s shop that looked exactly like the first one, except no interest
rates were posted. They entered, finding this room to appear very much
like the other one. The man behind the counter was a thin little man
with wire-rimmed spectacles, who did not smile, but ran his fingers
through his thin gray hair. At least this one did not look dishonest.
“What do you want?” he rasped.
“We need to change some money, sir.”
The little man stared at them. “Sir?” He paused. “Okay, how much
do you want to exchange?”
Eromit and Mlaer debated quietly for a moment, and then Mlaer
set two gold 5 Rol pieces on the counter.
The man picked them up and examined them with a magnifying
glass. “Interesting. The writing appears to be a variation of Aurelian
standard.” He placed the coin on a balance.
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A Twist of Fate
“It’s from the Duchy of Grand Raldi,” Mlaer explained. “It’s a
five Rol piece.”
“Who cares?” Neither Mlaer nor Eromit could see the rest of the
man’s tests, but it only took a moment. He set seven smaller gold
coins on the counter. “That’s it.”
“That’s it? Seven?”
“Yep.”
Mlaer scooped the coins up and put them in a belt pouch.
“Thanks.”
“Beat it.”
They left the shop and started down the road to the castle.
§§§
Walking the broad cobblestone road through the middle of
Aurelstadt, Mlaer and Eromit saw the whole panoply of man. Merchants were haggling over all manner of goods, from foods to clothes
to things they sheltered from public view. People passed by in all
directions, going to all the places that people go in a city. A gentleman
rode past, his manservant trotting alongside the horse. Prostitutes teased
potential customers in the alleys. Mothers swept their porches and
stoops. Beggars begged and thieves lurked in the shadows for unsuspecting
prey. The smells of bread baking and meat roasting were discernible
through all the less-pleasant odors of humanity. The sounds of people
laughing, crying, arguing and talking mingled with the sounds of a city in
motion; wheels rolled unevenly across cobblestone, horses clip-clopped
through streets, shoes trod and bare feet padded everywhere. Eromit
discerned the sound of a smithy, not far off the main street.
The road ended at a huge gatehouse, an entry hall flanked by
cylindrical towers that dwarfed the people below. The arched entryway
showed a partially lowered portcullis, with iron-studded oak doors
lying open beyond. The light falling behind the doors indicated a large
ceiling opening, making any approaching enemy subject to whatever
the defenders might drop on them. Beyond this hallway was another
set of doors, making this a formidable entrance.
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As they approached the gatehouse, they were met again by two
guards, albeit in much finer armor than those at the outer gate, with
gilded and polished weapons.
“Halt.” The guards, standing at attention, crossed their halberds
in front of the pair. Neither changed his stone-faced expression, and
they both continued to look straight ahead. “What do you want?”
Mlaer said, “We wish to inquire as to how we may obtain the
assistance of the king’s physician. My wife is exceedingly ill, and we
have traveled a great distance seeking her aid.”
The guards’ expressions had still not changed. “The Colonel meets
with peasants on Brundays. Come back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Correct. All morning.”
Mlaer and Eromit, seeing that argument would be fruitless, turned
away from the castle.
“We probably need to rest and clean up before we talk to them,
anyway,” Eromit commented.
Mlaer nodded, disappointed but realistic. They looked for an inn
as they walked back toward the city gates.
§§§
Stepping around a pool of water in the road, they entered a small
establishment just off the main street. The sign over the door portrayed
what appeared to be a long horned armadillo. Mlaer shook his head.
“I always pictured taverns and inns in big cities as having names
like ‘The Dragon’s Breath,’ or ‘The Boar’s Head.’ But ‘The Armadillo?’
It just isn’t quite the same.”
Eromit laughed as he pushed the heavy oak door inward. They
walked into a large room that seemed to welcome them with open
arms. The atmosphere was peaceful, with a gentle fire in the great
fireplace and the barrels of wine, mead, beer and ale behind the bar.
The entire building was constructed of a deep, dark wood that exuded
warmth and hospitality. Mlaer chose a small table in a corner, away
from the half-dozen or so people in the room, at least one of whom
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A Twist of Fate
was on the floor. The other patrons were nondescript, everyday people
who paid no attention to Mlaer and Eromit.
A blond, buxom barmaid came to their table, wearing clothes too
tight to leave any detail of her body to the imagination. They ordered
beer. Both men watched with delighted interest as she walked away,
eyes glued to her tiny skirt, watching each movement of each muscle,
until she walked behind the bar to get their drinks. On a shelf behind
the bar sat a stuffed animal, two and a half feet long that was apparently
the animal depicted on the sign outside: a longhorn brass armadillo.
When the bar maid returned, they paid for their drinks and inquired
as to the availability of food and lodging.
“You can eat and sleep here,” she said, leaning toward Eromit.
Her plunging neckline plunged even more as she bent over, elbows
on the table and head in her hands. “And you can have a nice, warm
bed, too.” Her leer left no doubt as to how she really earned her living.
Eromit’s face flushed red. In a voice higher pitched than normal
he replied, “Th-thanks. We just need a place to sleep.”
She realized this was a no-sale table. “Your loss, honey,” she
shrugged, tossing her golden locks to one side. She left to bring them
each a plate of food, with their eyes glued to the sway of her hips as
she walked away.
Eromit grinned at Mlaer. “What’s the first part of a woman’s body
you notice?”
Mlaer grinned back. “It depends on whether she’s walking toward
me or away from me.”
They both laughed at their old joke. They might enjoy the view,
but neither man was likely to rent any such property. After eating, they
arranged for lodging and a hot bath while their clothes were washed.
Their room was small and sparsely furnished, but they found
nothing living in the straw mattresses, so Mlaer glanced at a table with
two small, rickety chairs before sprawling on one bed. Eromit raised
the shutter of the room’s one little window and propped it open with
a stick left for that purpose. He poked his head out of the square foot
or so of opening at a darkening city, illumined only by lights that
sneaked out into the street from inside buildings. The throngs of people
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Mark W. Johnson
had deserted the roads, with the laughter of children noticeably absent.
The lights from houses and shops showed a few people skulking
through town, making most of the people still about seem to have no
good purpose. What little breeze blew outside the window provided
no fresh air, so Eromit abandoned his view of the outside world and
sprawled on the other bed. Clean, with clean clothes and full stomachs,
Mlaer and Eromit relaxed before going to sleep.
“You know, a city like this must have carnivals and such…and all
kinds of things to see and do.” Mlaer yawned and stretched. “I think
I ought to bring Tarna here someday. After she gets well, I think she’d
enjoy this place. Of course, we’d have to find a safer way to get here,
but…”
Eromit laughed. “And what would you do for money? We don’t
have too much left after eating, drinking, sleeping, et cetera, et cetera.”
Eromit blew out the lamp. “Good night.”
Certain that Tarna’s salvation would be assured in the morning,
Mlaer smiled as he closed his eyes.
§§§
Mlaer and Eromit rose before Abba that morning, hurriedly
dressing and leaving the inn. They wanted to be the first ones in line
when the Colonel began, so they quickly walked to the gatehouse,
arriving at first light.
“Where’s the queue to see the Colonel?”
The guard looked blankly at Mlaer and silently pointed down the
alley to his right, where Mlaer and Eromit saw a line of fifteen or twenty
people assembled. Many wore ragged clothing. Several women, dressed
in rags, wore hats that almost hid the fact that they had almost no
hair. Most of the people smelled as though they had never bathed.
Mlaer and Eromit looked all around at the people, the street, the
walls…and something moved. They noticed movement on the castle
wall above them. Men with buckets of some kind were moving
around on the wall above them. They turned and ran back to the
gate.
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A Twist of Fate
“Run,” Mlaer gasped to Eromit, as he pointed to the top of the
wall. “It’s a trap.”
“But why?”
At the end of the alley, Mlaer faced the guards while Eromit faced
the attackers. Back to back, preparing for the worst, they thus learned
the hideous nature of the assault.
Buckets of water were dumped on the people in the street below.
One guard waved his arm at Mlaer.
“Hey! You know the routine! You people have to be cleaned up
before the Colonel will talk to you.”
Mlaer stamped his staff and faced the guard. “Do we look or
smell as though we need a bath?”
The guard looked uncertain of himself. In a less commanding voice,
he said, “Well, it’s routine…I guess you two are okay…” He seemed
to recover his nerve, and then waved to the men on the wall. “These
two are okay!”
Mlaer and Eromit returned to the line. The water did help control
the smell, but these people really needed a good scrubbing.
Mlaer and Eromit were the last ones in the procession. The cutoff
may have had to do with the number of people or the length of the
line, they did not know which, but they saw the guards turn a few
people away later in the morning. By mid-morning they had reached
a plain wooden door, guarded by one soldier with a broadsword.
“You together?” he asked, in a deep, gruff voice.
Eromit nodded, and the soldier opened the door. Leaning in, he
said, “Last ones, sir.” He opened the door wider for them to enter,
stepping into the room behind them.
They stood in a small wooden room, facing a salt-and-pepper
haired man sitting behind a desk. Two rickety wooden chairs, both
still wet, were in front of the desk. The man behind the desk gestured
in their direction, revealing a long sleeved, royal blue jacket.
“Sit.”
Mlaer and Eromit tilted the chairs, brushing water off of them.
The man looked up when he heard the noise. He tossed them a hand
towel.
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Mark W. Johnson
“Thank you, sir,” Mlaer said, as he dried off one seat. Eromit dried
the other and they sat. A very distinguished looking man faced them,
an expression of mild surprise gracing his features.
The man leaned back in his chair and rested his boots on his desk.
Crossing his arms in front of him, his expression changed to one of
mild amusement. His gold trimmed jacket bore some sort of gold
button insignia. He smiled.
“And who are you?”
“My name is Mlaer, and this is Eromit. We have come from the
Duchy of Grand Raldi seeking assistance.”
The man stared at them for a moment before replying. “I am
Colonel Djimm of His Majesty’s Service. Tell me your story.”
Eromit and Mlaer told their story to the Colonel, only omitting
the part about the old man in the Green Forest. Something, somewhere inside of them said to keep it a secret. The Colonel listened
with closed eyes, so, when the telling of the tale had been completed,
the two thought their audience had fallen asleep. He opened his eyes
and smiled again.
“The healer of whom you speak is named Landa. She is the King’s
personal physician.” He paused. “Can she heal your wife? I do not
know.” He paused again and quit smiling. If they had not met the
old man in the Green Forest, his gaze would have been withering. It
was still an unaccustomed level of scrutiny, and they felt it as he
continued. “I do know that you have described a long and dangerous
journey. For His Majesty to allow his personal physician on such a
trek would require some…substantial service.”
Mlaer’s eyes widened. “I’ll do anything. Maybe she could send a
cure that we could administer. Either way, I’ll do anything you ask.”
His voice was panicky.
Colonel Djimm grinned. “It is the same.” He paused again, arching
his left eyebrow, as though struck by an idea. It almost seemed as
though he enjoyed baiting them, pausing for effect. “Yes, I think she
can probably help your wife. Have either of you ever heard of a star
sapphire?”
Mlaer and Eromit both shook their heads. “No, sir.”
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A Twist of Fate
“A star sapphire,” the Colonel continued, “is a translucent blue
gemstone with a white center that resembles a star, captured within
the stone. I describe this because of a ruined village believed to lie
somewhere to the south, once known to its inhabitants as Tardesh.
In this village there was once a temple, which contained a unique
idol.” The Colonel rested his elbows on the table, steepling his fingers.
“This idol was a three eyed bronze tiger, with gemstones for eyes.
As you have, no doubt, surmised, these gemstones are or were star
sapphires. Each stone is reported to be the size of a chicken’s egg.
They also happen to be the price of Landa’s assistance.”
“You make Tardesh sound like a fairy tale.”
“Some believe that it may be exactly that. Some have searched for
it. The few that I have seen who claim to have found it are quite mad.
Those stones are her fee. Return with them, and you will receive
what you ask. Good day, gentlemen.”
Mlaer and Eromit, too stunned even to speak, were helped to
their feet and escorted out by the guard. The guard returned alone.
“Colonel? What happens if they actually find Tardesh and bring back
the stones?”
Colonel Djimm laughed. “Then I shall have the fabled stones, and
I will not forget my friends.” He patted the footman on the shoulder.
“And as for those two, they shall be fertilizer for the Queen’s rose
garden.” Both men laughed.
§§§
Mlaer’s life with Tarna had been replaying itself in his mind. Somewhere along the way, watching Colonel Djimm’s smirk, Mlaer’s hopes
fell flat, so he now sat at a table in the inn, his mind’s eye seeing Tarna’s
smile, her laugh, her voice like a summer stream. Her voice was soft
and sweet, refreshing, the most beautiful sound the gods could possibly
bring to his ears. Her eyes spoke volumes about love, volumes that no
hand could engrave. The colonel’s voice burned the vision of Tarna’s
face even deeper into Mlaer’s soul that it already was. If Tarna were
to die, what would be left? How could anything or anyone ever come
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Mark W. Johnson
close to filling the void? How could the gods be so cruel as to take
her, the embodiment of all that is good in the world, leaving him alone?
Mlaer smelled beer.
Hey. Mlaer did smell beer. Eromit stood over him with two mugs
of beer in his hands.
“Was I gone long?” Eromit sat across the table from his friend.
“That barmaid’s still advertising her goods, so the service is kind of
slow.” Eromit grinned, seeing his friend’s return to the real world.
Mlaer smiled halfheartedly, and then dropped his face into his
hands. “It’s hopeless. Eromit, there’s no way we can find it. I’ll have
to go home and watch Tarna die.” A tear rolled down Mlaer’s face
as he muttered, “Tardesh.”
“Tardesh? Did I hear somebody mention Tardesh?” Both men
jerked around to look at the speaker. It was a fair-haired man, about
the same age as Mlaer and Eromit, who looked as though he had slept
on the floor, and often. “I’ve been there, you know. Saw my friends
die there. Buy me a beer and I’ll tell you the whole story.”
“Barkeep.” Mlaer yelled. “How about a beer for my friend here.”
He turned to the newcomer. “Say, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Maybe that’s because I didn’t toss it to you.”
“Is everybody in this town an obnoxious jerk?”
“I resemble that remark. I also resent the implication…”
“Sorry.”
“…that I live in this rat hole. I’m a visitor.” He showed an innocent,
childlike smile. “Name’s Firken. Firken Goodwine. Poet, bard, singer
of songs, teller of tales, adventurer and fighting terror to my enemies,
at your service.” He managed about half of a grand, flourishing bow
before grabbing his head and sitting. “I need a glass of medicine for
this headache.”
The barmaid came to the table, mug in hand. “I assume this is for
the human carpet?” She snickered while Firken gave her a withering
look. “You didn’t see this bum earlier? He’s been under that table since
yesterday, stone cold, dead drunk.”
She gave Firken one last scornful look before leaving the beer. He
drained it, watching her with one eye as she visited another table.
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A Twist of Fate
“She loves me,” Firken told them. “Now I’ll tell you the story you
wanted to hear. After all, I’m the storyteller. She just has one tale to
tell.”
After the introductions were made, Firken told his story.
“A friend of mine was the fourth son of the third son of a prince of
a tiny kingdom, so the town butcher had more power and wealth than
he did, even though his blood ran blue. Anyway, his only path to fame
and fortune was to search for treasure and adventure. He talked me
and three other friends into accompanying him…” The story grew long
and dull. As Firken’s story droned on relentlessly, Mlaer and Eromit
started clowning to stay awake. Mlaer made an imaginary noose in the
air, put it around his own neck, tightened it, and then yanked the
imaginary rope. Eromit drew an imaginary dagger from his belt, thrusting
it through his own head. His eyes bulged in feigned death.
“…about Tardesh…” Eromit and Mlaer snapped their attention
back to Firken. “They told us it was only a legend, but most legends
have some basis in truth. Some stories depicted Tardesh as a city of
gold, inhabited by eight-foot tall men, while others claimed it to be a
city of ruins. What all of the stories had in common was the reference
to great wealth. Tales ranged from a king’s ransom to the gods’ treasury
being stored at Tardesh.”
Or a statue with star sapphires for eyes, Mlaer thought.
“We wandered around for four months trying to find some clue as
to the location of Tardesh before we found it. We found the crumbled
remains of a town along a broad street. Searching the ruined buildings,
we found coins here, jewelry there, and each of us collected a small
bag of such wealth. It was plenty of money for beer and lodging and
beer and food and beer and such, but it was not the riches we searched
for. Continuing through town, we found the remains of a pyramid
in the center of the city. We thought it was probably a temple, so
we assumed that’s where the real wealth would be found.”
Firken closed his eyes for a moment before continuing, as though
summoning his resolve. “We went in. One member of our party
stepped right into a spider web that stretched from the floor to the
ceiling.” Firken paused, swallowing hard. “He yelled for help…we saw
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Mark W. Johnson
a spider half as big as a man swoop down on him. He screamed. We
killed the thing, but it had done a nasty piece of work on our friend.”
Firken continued. “Like fools, we decided that there was enough
light inside, so we didn’t take any kind of torches with us. The four of
us that were left found ourselves in a small room facing twin stairwells. Hakeel started down one of the stairwells. It collapsed under
him.” He shook his head before continuing.
“That’s when somebody had a brainstorm and suggested that we
light our lamps, so we did. Then we carefully went down the other
stairwell…we didn’t know this place was occupied, but we found out
soon enough. An arrow flew out of the darkness, dropping one of my
friends where he stood. The two of us that were still alive started
backing up the stairs, but we were attacked by dozens of goblins.”
Firken’s eyes twinkled. “We fought a retreat to the surface, slaying
at least forty or fifty of the brutes. When we reached the entrance,
we made a hasty withdrawal, and I led the way, though grievously
wounded. My buddy was dropped by the creatures, and I was forced
back by insurmountable odds. Although I fought valiantly, I could not
save him; I just barely managed to escape with my life. I have been
recuperating in this pit ever since.”
Mlaer and Eromit stared at each other.
“Do you believe…” Mlaer began.
“Not a word of it,” Eromit answered.
Firken opened his shirt, revealing a scar across his chest. The scar
looked like a four-fingered claw, larger than a human hand, had been
raked across him. The two men in his audience stared.
“A memento of Tardesh,” he said.
“Well?” Mlaer cocked an eyebrow in thought, looking at Eromit.
“What do you think?”
Eromit knew that Mlaer was likely to grasp any faint thread of
hope. He also knew that this strange fellow offered more hope than
his story first indicated.
“I don’t know,” Eromit replied. He thought for another moment
while Firken watched them both. “If we’re going to try it, would we
be any worse with him along? He might be able to help, you know.”
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“Whoa, wait a minute,” Firken interjected. “What makes you think
I want to go back? What makes you think that three men could do
this, anyway?”
“I guess he really could help,” Mlaer told Eromit, ignoring Firken
completely. “After all, he claims that he’s been there. His experience
might really be valuable.”
“Look,” Eromit told Firken, “I’m not so bad with a sword, and
Mlaer’s a wizard, so we should be strong enough to do the job. And
you want to avenge your friends, right?”
“Well, I…”
“You also seem like the kind of man who would fight to save a
lady,” Mlaer added. “My beloved wife needs your help.”
“Well…” Firken’s weak attempts at protest grew weaker.
Miss Buxom returned to the table with beer for all three, and
the bill to accompany it. Mlaer glanced at the bill and said, “Besides,
look at what they charge for beer these days.”
“Sold!” Firken grinned. “Okay, okay, you’ve given me enough
reasons. I’ll go with you.” He nodded to himself, considering his own
reasons for going.
They spent the remainder of the morning making preparations.
Firken had come to know the city well, so he led them through back
alleys to lesser-known shops for supplies. He said that the prices were
better, but one must carefully examine the merchandise before buying.
For changing more money, he led them to the first shop they had
entered when they came to the city.
Mlaer stopped Firken before entering. “This is the most dishonestlooking fellow I ever saw,” he told him.
Firken only laughed. “Yeah, I know. He might look like a toad, but
he’s the only honest money changer in town.” He looked puzzled for a
moment. “Why? Have you met him?”
Mlaer and Eromit looked at each other. “No, no,” Mlaer replied.
“We, uh, saw him leaving one night.”
“Right. You don’t think we’re the kind of yokels that can’t recognize
an honest man, do you?”
Firken laughed. “No, of course not.”
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They exchanged most of their money and bought the rest of
their supplies. They bought rope, lanterns, kerosene, and several other
items that Firken believed they would need. By late morning their
preparations were complete, and they left Aurelstadt.
Mlaer and Eromit had not been prepared for the reaction of people
who saw them with Firken. Even though only a few townspeople
snickered, it seemed to Mlaer that everyone was laughing at them.
Eromit tried to shut out the snickering by occupying his mind
elsewhere. He studied the city walls. They appeared to be made of a
wooden palisade with an earthen rampart, topped by a parapet and
rampart walk. That might be a strong enough defense, even though
the walls seemed incredibly low, if Aurelstadt had enough archers to
man the walls. One thing Eromit noticed was that a number of men
were fooling with three things that looked like huge crossbows on
wheels. Each consisted of a wheeled frame made of thick timbers,
with skeins of rope braided through the sides. It appeared to have a
pair of rigid throwing arms thrust through these skeins.
He poked Firken in the ribs. “Those look like catapults,” he said,
“but I never saw any made like that. Can rope work as well as a
solid bow?”
Firken smiled. “It’s human hair.”
“What?” Mlaer attention had been snared.
Firken grinned. “It’s a new kind of catapult. They use human hair
instead of the old fashioned wooden bow.” He saw the incredulity on
their faces. “Haven’t you noticed the beggar women that had their
hair cut off?”
“I thought it was some kind of religious thing.”
“But why?” Eromit asked. “Everything seems peaceful enough.”
“Looks are deceiving. There’s been a war going on up north of here
for hundreds of years. It’s the kind of war where neighbors are at peace
for years, and then they fight a battle. Rumors are that Aurelia is going
to get into it with someone, but that’s just a rumor.”
The final indignity was delivered by the guards at the city gates.
Doubled over with laughter, the guards heckled the three as they
left. A retort on Firken’s lips was stillborn, but flared through his
45
A Twist of Fate
brain. No purpose would be served by fighting the guards, but they
were all glad to leave Aurelstadt behind. Someday he would show
them all.
46