by Bill Smith
His wickedness was an amazing thing, but Garen didn't care about it one way or the other, and probably still wouldn't, even if he thought about it.
The truth was, he had run away from home, a troubled and distraught young man. His whole childhood had been a mess, and it had driven him to look for something better. As Garen looked down at the bodies below him, he wondered if he had found something better...
No matter. He'd started it, and now he'd finish it.
The thing about Garen's wickedness was that it shouldn't be there. Throughout his sixteen-year life, Garen had been a perfectly sane, perfectly normal child. Within the past two weeks, that had all changed. He was now a cold, calculating murderer...or was since ten minutes ago. What had driven him to do it? The obvious thing was money, but until now he'd never go as far as murder to get a little gold. No, it wasn't his horrible childhood that had caused it. That's what Garen had thought of first, but then dismissed it. There would've been signs. And he'd have a lot of pent up emotions with need of release. That wasn't the case.
So there had to be some other reason...
With a shrug, the young man began dragging the bodies into the middle of the road. After several minutes of struggling, Garen had both the merchant and his guard sprawled on top of each other. For the next hour, Garen skipped through the forest, whistling and gathering firewood. When he'd dumped a respectful pile of logs around his two victims, Garen lit the wood. It took a few minutes of careful tending, but Garen finally had them burning in a nice little blaze.
"Excellent," Garen muttered, then grimaced as the burning flesh began to stink.
To get away from the smell, Garen climbed in the back of the merchant's covered wagon and began poking around. He found the merchant's mattress, with plenty of blankets and pillows. Beside that was a little clothing chest. Before looking in the chest, Garen opened one of the eight crates that the merchant had been transporting. Maybe there was something useful in them.
One look inside dispelled that notion. All the crates were filled with bolts of wool. Wool! This damn merchant was shipping wool across the border. At this time of year? What money could be made from wool?
Garen snorted and dropped the cloth he was holding. He knelt by the chest and flipped the latches, then opened the top. Inside were several tunics, all oversized, and a few personal items. The bottom of the chest was covered in gold.
Garen grinned and counted the gold. His estimate came out to be over five hundred crowns. That was enough to live off of...for...the rest of his life, probably. That depended on his standards of living.
Aside from a strange cube, the rest of the objects in the chest were papers. Pulling aside the cube, Garen examined it. The cube was about four inches in length, and had strange designs all over it. They were pretty unintelligible, but Garen could almost make sense of some of it. He traced the indented patterns with his finger, feeling the smoothness of the wooden cube. As his fingertip reached the corner of the cube, there was a click within the cube, and a flicker from the corner of his eye. Garen looked over, and noticed that the wool had changed color.
He reached over and grabbed it.
Then his eyes went wide. Garen dropped the cube and scrambled over to the wool. It wasn't wool any more! It was silk. Garen's jaw fell, and he pulled at the soft fabric, feeling all down its length, looking to make sure he was seeing correctly. Inside the crates, it was the same thing. All the wool had transformed into silk.
Garen counted the bolts inside one of the crates. 500. That was...Garen sat down on the mattress, stunned. 500 times eight, that was 4000. 4000 bolts of silk. Each bolt was worth...shit. How much? More than one crown each. Garen pressed his hands against his face and stared at the crates for a few minutes, shocked. Then he began giggling uncontrollably. His laughter soon had him in tears, and then Garen forced himself to regain control. He packed the silk back into its crate, and managed to turn the silk back to wool.
By then, the fire outside had died down, so Garen went out and looked at the two bodies. He expected them to be ashes, but they had just turned into black, crispy husks. Garen rolled his eyes and grabbed the merchant's ankles, dragging the body back into the woods for burial.
Then Garen lost his grip and fell on his rear when one of the feet came off.
Garen groaned. This was going to be a long day.
***
Bolthorn's claymore sent the top half of one orc spinning into the air. The other orcs skidded to a stop and reappraised the situation. One elf girl would be a simple capture, but with a knight...
The warrior didn't give them time to think. He leapt into their ranks, hacking the orcs down like wheat. Blood and guts fountained from Bolthorn's sword as it slashed through the raiders. After the first few fell, the other orcs decided to retreat.
"Hey!" called the elf girl as Bolthorn started to chase them.
Bolthorn stopped and turned around. "Oh, sorry." He walked back to the black-haired young woman and stopped in front of her.
Looking past the bulky warrior at the retreating raiders, the elf girl smiled. "Thanks," she said to him. "I'm in your debt."
Bolthorn shrugged and started cleaning off his sword. "No problem. But how can you be in my debt when I don't know your name?"
Her blue eyes sparkled with another smile, and she extended her hand. "I'm Lia."
Bolthorn took her small hand in his and bowed his head slightly. "Bolthorn Blackfoot," he replied. "What are you doing this far east?"
Lia blushed. "I, ah, got lost."
Bolthorn raised an eyebrow and sheathed his sword. "You got lost? How can somebody get lost...how could you even get into the Stone Wastes without knowing it?"
"I'm from Anoria."
Bolthorn was rummaging through the orcs' belongings."Where?"
"Anoria. It's south of the Sea of Storms."
Bolthorn squinted, then noticed her ears. "You're an elf."
Lia nodded, folding her hands behind her back. "There are only a few of us in Anoria. I've heard of elves in the Great Forest, but I also wanted to travel north, so I came up here, looking for more of my kind."
Bolthorn moved to the next body. "I don't think you'll have much luck. Elves are pretty rare in Althoria. You'd have to go to the Highlands."
"How do I get there?"
"Do you know where the capital city is?"
Lia shook her head.
"No, not if you don't know where the Wastes are, you don't. You just head north. That's all."
"How far is it?"
"A month, maybe. I haven't travelled that far north, before. I'm looking to go there when I break journeyman."
"Huh?"
"I'm a journeyman in the Mercenaries Guild. Once I acquire rank, I'll be able to take on jobs in the name of the Mercenaries Guild."
"Oh."
"There's a town nearby that wanted me to bring them some orc heads to hang outside their town. Supposedly to scare off the orcs. Personally I think it's gonna get 'em killed, but they're paying me for it, so I...well, I do care, but I won't let them know until they pay me."
"Which way is the town?" Lia asked.
Bolthorn looked up from the orc he was searching and sat back on his heels. Lia was short for an elf, probably around five feet. Her hair was black, and fell far below her neck. A soft white gown was draped around her shoulders, and her only means of defense appeared to be a dagger on her belt. Lia blinked, and Bolthorn shook his head. "Oh, uh, I'll take you there. It's not too far, and it's probably the direction you want to go anyway."
"Thanks," Lia smiled again.
"Perhaps you should go stand over there while I, uh, prepare these orc heads for transportation. It's not for the faint of heart."
For the first time she seemed to notice the dead bodies. Wordlessly, Lia nodded, looking slightly ill. She walked a few yards east, and looked the other direction.
Bolthorn watched her go, and then set about decapitating the orcs.
***
"O Dragonslayer!" cried a man, running across the throne room. Two guards were chasing him. "I have dire news!"
Jorak the Dragonslayer, King of the Karoks, looked up from his tax reports. "What?" the huge Karok rumbled. "Let him go," he told the guards as they snatched the man off his feet.
The messenger, a human, literally fell to his knees in front of Jorak. "One of the western villages, Ohrim, was destroyed. It-"
"What?" roared Jorak, leaping to his feet. He grabbed the little human by his collar and lifted the man off his feet.
For a few seconds the human struggled to talk, but it became apparent that Jorak was a little too tense. The king dropped the human, who almost fell backwards down the steps. "Talk," ordered Jorak.
"I-We-They came out of nowhere!" blabbered the human. "We were-it was-"
"Talk sensibly," snapped one of Jorak's advisors.
The human finally regained his coherence and stood up. "I was tending the west field at my farm when they came out of the woods, to the north. I ran back to the house, to get my family...and...and the-the orcs..." the man looked like he was going to break down, but he held his composure. "My wife and my children saw them from the porch and came running..." a tear slid down the man's cheek. "And the orcs shot them down before they could take ten steps. I-I-I couldn't s-stay, there were so many of them, th-"
Jorak stopped listening. He drew his military advisor close. "Two battalions."
"More," the advisor said. "For orcs that can destroy an entire town, more will be needed."
"Two battalions would be enough to kill-"
"But what about the other orcs?" the advisor queried, his eyes grim.
Jorak swore silently. It must have taken the human two weeks or more to come all the way from the border. That meant even more villages could be decimated.
"This is not a single incident, O Dragonslayer," said the advisor. "This is an invasion. They would not attack a single town unless they were ready for war."
At that word, a spark ignited in Jorak. It had been a long time since he had fought in any battles. Now he had a full-scale war on his hands. Jorak couldn't help but grin when he ordered the whole Western Regiment to arms.
***
"Have your customs papers ready!" one of the guards yelled down the line.
Garen blanched, and leaned back into the wagon, opening the chest. He shuffled through a series of papers, until he came upon a leather tube. Inside the tube was a rolled up parchment. Garen looked at the paper, but he could read only a little, so it made no sense to him.
The wagoneer behind him yelled something, and Garen grabbed the reins, slapping them like he had seen the merchant do. The horses lurched forward and almost hit the wagon in front of him. Garen jerked the reins back, and the horses snorted and started backing up.
"Dumb animals!" Garen snapped. It took him a few seconds to get the animals calmed down, but by then he had to move forward again.
"Let me see your papers," said a bored guard, holding out his hand.
Garen handed the guard the rolled up parchment, and the guard scowled. "Customs papers, stupid," the guard growled, handing it back to him.
"Sorry," Garen said. He took it and grabbed the other pile of papers, handing them to the guard. "Here."
The guard sifted through the papers until he found what he was looking for. "Terias?" the gate guard said.
"Huh?" Garen said, a lump rising in his throat.
"You're Terias T'kal?"
"Oh! Yeah, that's me," Garen nodded vigorously. He took the customs papers back from the guard, who waved him through the gate.
This was an amazing time for Garen. He had never been to a city before, let alone a big town. The noise was incredible, and though he found it fascinating at first, it soon grew to annoy him. After about a half hour of driving through the city, Garen stopped the wagon in front of a wall, trying to decide where to go.
A few moments later, a young man walked out of the wall...a door in the wall. "Good morning, sir," said the man. "May I take your wagon?"
Another man followed the first one out. They were both dressed in white uniforms beneath a black raincloak.
"Where?" Garen said dubiously.
"To the stables out back. I'll give your horses to the stable boy, and he will feed and groom them. The wagon will be parked in a stall."
Garen peeked out of the cover and noticed that it had started drizzling. He didn't have a raincloak. "Uh, yes. Hold on." Garen leaned into the back of the wagon and unlocked the merchant's chest. He grabbed a few handfuls of gold and shoveled them into his pouch. "All right," Garen nodded, hopping from the wagon. The servant took the reins and sat in the driver's seat, urging the horses around back.
"Where can I get a cloak around here?" Garen asked, as it began to rain harder.
"I can take you to a linen shop nearby, if you wish," the servant replied.
"Do that," Garen said, wondering who these people were, and how much they were going to cost him. Though he'd never been to a city, one of his old friends traveled to a city often, and told him stories.
The servant walked him down a couple blocks and led him into The Fine Thread. Garen began perusing the displays, looking for a dark raincloak. The servant wandered off and began talking to the shopkeeper.
"About time you guys lived up to your damn contract," said the shopkeeper. "I don't think it was worth it."
"Your fault," replied the servant. "Not many of our guests require directions to other shops here in town. Merchants probably know where every other merchant in the city is stationed, anyway."
"Speaking of merchants, how old do you think that one is?" the shopkeeper asked.
Garen froze.
"Probably no older than eighteen," said the servant nonchalantly. "His father probably died and left the business to him."
"Think he'll survive?" whispered the shopkeeper.
"As a merchant? No. In life? No."
They laughed.
Garen plucked a raincoat from its hanger and carried over to the counter. "Will this be all?" asked the proprieter.
"Do you sew?" Garen asked.
"Pardon me?" the shopkeeper blinked.
"You know. Do you make clothes? If I bring you cloth, will you make me something out of it?"
"Of course," the shopkeeper smiled. "I'll work any material you've got..."
"Good. Because I've got some silk-"
"Silk?" interrupted the servant.
Garen stopped. The servant, the shopkeeper, and another customer were staring at him. "Why?" Garen said cautiously.
The servant took Garen's arm and led him aside. "Young Master, how much silk do you have?"
"Why does it matter?"
The servant glared at the customer, who was edging closer to them. "Because," the servant replied quietly,"silk only comes from Harnash, and because of a trade disagreement between Althoria and Harnash, silk is no longer being imported. It hasn't been for a few years now. To get silk, you have to cross the border and buy it."
Garen's grin spread wide across his face.
"How much do you have?" asked the servant.
Garen shrugged. "I'm ready to go now." He walked up to the shopkeeper and purchased the cloak, with far less haggling than he would have thought.
Out in the street, the servant said, "If you have silk in your wagon, you could become a very rich man."
"Don't you think I know that now?" Garen said.
"Of course, sir," the servant said, licking his lips. Before they went back inside the wall where Garen had stopped the wagon, the servant stopped. "Um, sir, it appears to me that you are relatively new to the trade commerce."
"And...?"
"If you should ever need my services, I can be available to assist you in certain matters..."
Garen looked the man up and down. "What's your name?"
"Joden Tolar."
"Well, I'm Garen. I'll take it into consideration."
Joden nodded and stood up. "I'm also assuming you've never been to the Red Feather before?"
Garen shook his head.
Joden smiled and led him into the wall. Inside, it was a virtual courtyard. There was a covered dining area, a garden, a fishpool, and a few sculptures in the grassy yard. "I think you'll like it."
"What is it?" Garen gaped. He looked at the main structure, which was more than five stories tall.
"The Red Feather is technically an inn, but we are much more than that. Our services range from trade mediation to lodging to massages to...just about anything you'd need."
They walked up the stone pathway into the front door, and into a foyer. "If you've never been with us before, we ask that you become a member. The fees are far less, and there are several benefits to becoming a member."
"Sure."
"Right this way," Joden said, leading him down a hall. In a small office, Joden produced two contracts, and handed one to Garen, who sat down at the table. He read the contract, and it seemed straightforward enough. "Gimme a pen," Garen said.
Joden handed Garen a quill pen, and he signed both contracts. "As a member, several of are services are free, and several are...available. Keep your contract safe somewhere, and this medallion-" he held up a small metal feather on a leather cord "-is your passport into the Red Feathers all across the kingdom. We serve in all the major cities, including Allanon and Arangrad."
"Where?"
"The Highlands."
"Wow."
"The man who founded the Red Feather was a traveler. He made the Red Feather specifically for merchants." Joden stood up. "I can take you on a tour, if you like, or I can show you to your room."
"You can show me around," Garen shrugged. "I'm not ready to sleep yet."
Joden took Garen on a tour of the huge Red Feather, which had only one building, but was big nonetheless. There were a few basements, with masseuses, saunas, baths, and the other rooms for the workers. The first floor and second floor mezzanine were just dining rooms, filled with merchants haggling, talking, and making other noises. The top three stories were the rooms and suites.
When Garen finished, he pulled at his chin and said, "That was fine. What time is it?"
Joden looked at a waterclock in the dining room and said, "Four hours past noon."
"Now tell me," Garen said. "Just how valuable is silk?"
Joden's manner changed, and his eye glinted. "How much do you have?"
"I'm not telling you until you tell me how valuable it is."
Joden pondered. "I'm not sure. No one I know has managed to obtain silk in such a long time. The price could be as high as ten crowns per bolt."
Garen's jaw dropped.
Joden nodded. "That's a lot, isn't it?"
"Shit, this guy was set for life," breathed Garen.
"What?"
"Nothing. I have a lot of silk, and I want to sell it all."
Joden nodded. "It's probably better to get rid of it soon, before customs catches on to you."
"Let's go talk to that shopkeeper."
Joden shook his head and grinned. "No. Look at what you have here. There are more merchants in this tavern than you could find within twenty blocks."
Garen looked down from the mezzanine and smiled. With all these merchants fighting to get his silk, the price could skyrocket. "You're right."
"It would probably be beneficial for you to take me on as your personal finance manager."
"Why?" asked Garen suspiciously.
Joden gestured to a table, and they sat down. "First, tell me how much silk you have?"
"A couple thousand bolts," Garen lied.
Joden gaped, then began calculating. "The money you could pull in from that much silk would be...enormous. It would be difficult for you to manage without help. Besides, I can watch the market and look for good investments."
"I don't see why not..." Garen said slowly.
"Good. The first thing you need to do is hire a couple guards."
"Why?"
"You will become a rich man within the next few hours," said Joden. "You will become a target, as well."
Garen shook his head. "I don't think so. I'm not hiring any guards."
"But-"
"No, Joden. That's final. Now let's start selling."
Joden sighed. "Okay. The first thing I want you to do is show me the silk."
Garen nodded and took Joden out to his wagon. He walked to the rear and opened one of the crates. Joden's eyes went dark. "Is this-"
"Ah ah," Garen said. He pulled the cube out from his pouch and traced the pattern with his thumb. The wool melted away to reveal the silk.
Joden's eyes popped wide, and he felt the silk, then looked through the other seven crates. "How many bolts are there?"
"4000."
Joden started laughing, but stopped when he noticed another merchant across the yard looking at them. "Okay, turn it back into wool, can you do that?"
Garen reversed the tracing, and it morphed back into the thick wool.
Joden closed up the crates, and waved one of the guards over to the wagon.
"I said I didn't want any guards," Garen said.
"He's free. He belongs to the Red Feather," Joden answered, then said to the guard. "Don't let anybody but me or him near this wagon. Understand?"
The guard shrugged and leaned against the wagon.
"Come on inside, Garen. It's time to make you rich."
***
Bolthorn counted his gold pieces as he walked away from the town hall. Lia appeared from a nearby store and caught up with him. "How much?"
"Ten crowns. Not bad, but not good."
"Where are you going now?" she asked.
Bolthorn shrugged. "I don't know. Scalp some orcs, maybe. I might go to the Mistlands."
"Where's that?"
"West. Far west. It's where the Karoks live."
"Karoks?"
"Big, huge, human-like things. Seven feet tall, real ugly, real big. Half-trolls."
Lia's eyes went wide. "They really exist?"
"Half-trolls? Yes."
"Can I go with you?"
"Huh?" Bolthorn raised his eyebrows.
"To the Mistlands. Can I go with you?"
"I...uh, guess so. It's a pretty nasty place, though. It borders the Darklands, and there are a lot of mean monsters out there."
"'Mean monsters'?"
"Well, you know what I mean. You might get hurt."
"I can take care of myself."
Bolthorn looked her up and down a moment, then said, "I guess so."
"So I can come?"
"What about your elven friends?"
Lia shrugged. "If I see some, I see some."
"You won't find any in the Mistlands."
"That's fine."
Bolthorn shrugged. "Your choice."
"Thank you!" Lia threw her arms around Bolthorn's armored chest, and he blushed.
***
"Please, take care of her," said Aleya's father as her mother wept into his arms.
"I always have, and I always will," replied Borim, already bored with the good-byes.
"I'll visit again, mother," Aleya said, swinging up onto her horse. "Don't cry."
Her mother just sobbed louder, and Aleya nodded to Borim. He turned his horse and followed her out of the village.
"Ride up here," Aleya said.
Borim nudged his mount into a trot and he rode next to her. "You don't look too sad," he said when they were out of earshot.
Aleya shrugged. "I've been in the temple for twelve years, ever since I was two. My parents were never really part of me."
"You were supposed to reunite with them today, not leave them forever."
Aleya shrugged. "Like I said, my parents don't mean much to me, so it doesn't matter. The only person I regret leaving behind is the Oracle. He was good to me."
"I think it probably hurt him even more," Borim mused aloud. "You were the only one who understood him. Probably still are."
Aleya nodded.
"Do you know what his prophecy meant?"
"No!" Aleya said, exasperated. "That's the ridiculous thing! I've understood all his prophecies but this one!"
"And it's his simplest yet," Borim said. "'You are the chosen one.' It's the only one I've heard him say that doesn't rhyme."
"There've been a couple before."
"So where are we going?"
"Allanon," Aleya replied.
"Why?"
Aleya shook her head. "I don't know. We're supposed to meet somebody there. They'll eventually become our destiny, is what he says."
"Whatever."
***
In the center of the room was a large brazier, that was burning with coals and sawdust. At this time of the morning, Doronar was the only one in the room. He sat naked on the floor, his legs crossed. Sweat rolled down his skin and dripped from his nose and hair. His eyes fluttered occasionally as he quietly recited the First Kintaran Mantra.
The spiritual build increased within him, and the tension showed as his muscles tightened. His arms and back were bulging with strain. In his spirit, Doronar was trying to break down a barrier, access a piece of his soul that had been calling him for a while now. His chanting rose to a crescendo, and his mantra locked into place with the flow of the universe. Doronar's spirit opened like a floodgate. Roaring filled his ears, and his eyes snapped open. Anyone in the room would have only seen the whites of his eyes. Universal forces raged around him, howling like a tempest.
And out of the anomalous gale, Doronar's vision was revealed.
Then it was over. Doronar fell back, his chest heaving. For a few moments, Doronar just lay there, blinking into the smoke. Finally he struggled to his feet and walked to the exit. Mak-kar was standing in front of the door with Doronar's robe.
"What are you doing here?" Doronar asked, taking his robe from Mak-kar.
"I thought I might find you here," Mak-kar answered. "You've been troubled lately."
"I know, Father. I'm even more troubled, now."
"Let me guess. You finally had your vision."
Doronar nodded and pulled the robe over his head. They walked out into the hall and Doronar headed toward his room.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"It was a woman."
"What?"
"My vision. It was a woman."
"And what was she doing?"
"Waiting for me."
Mak-kar pursed his lips. "That's it?"
"That's it."
"So you're leaving to find her now."
Doronar nodded and opened the door to his room. He went to his closet and began gathering his belongings.
"Will you be returning here?"
Doronar shrugged. "I'm not sure. It depends on what she wants me for."
"Maybe she's your soul mate," Mak-kar said jokingly.
"No," said Doronar. "She was wearing the robes of Nala."
"She's a priestess?"
Doronar nodded.
"What would the Goddess of Life want with you?"
"That's what I'm going to find out," Doronar said irritably.
"Don't get upset because you didn't see the Dragon-God, it will still happen."
Doronar shrugged. "Perhaps. But I am the only Acolyte who has not yet seen Arraka."
"Some go their whole lives-"
"Don't comfort me."
"Sorry."
Doronar finished packing his things, then said,"I'll see you sometime again, Father." He extended his hand.
Mak-kar clasped his pupil's hand, and had the sinking feeling they'd never see each other again.
***
"We might have to split the order," Joden said, looking at the papers in front of him.
"So? Sell to two different people."
Joden nodded. "That would probably be better, anyway. It wouldn't create a monopoly." He scribbled something on the paper and handed it back to the messenger.
Garen yawned and ordered another wine.
"Don't get drunk," Joden said. "You want to make yourself look professional."
"You'll be doing all the work."
"We don't want them to know that."
"Why not?"
"Your reputation would be damaged."
"So? I just want the money."
Joden shrugged.
When the wine arrived, Garen reluctantly pushed it away. "How much longer could this take?"
"I'm assuming you want the greatest possible profit gain?"
"Huh?"
"You want the most money, right?"
Garen nodded.
"Then it could take a while."
Garen lifted the wine glass to his lips and drank deeply. When he set it down, the messenger had arrived with more offers. "Why don't they come and just talk to us? All these pieces of paper are starting to make me dizzy."
"I think it's the wine. The reason we have the paper is so they don't know what cards we're holding. I'll just say that the offer's rejected, and they won't know why. Maybe we got a better offer, maybe we're bluffing. It's also a space saver. I'm dealing with over thirty merchants right now. It wouldn't do any good to have them all clamoring over our shoulders."
Three hours passed before Joden finally settled on an offer from a foreign merchants. Garen had managed to refrain from drinking all the wine in the building, and was only slightly confused.
"Okay," Joden said, waking Garen out of a stupor. "Rancheis is on his way over here now."
"Who?"
"He's the merchant you made the deal with. He's giving you all the money."
Garen perked up. "When? Now?"
"Well, yes. It's going to be transferred to your bank account, though. I-"
"What bank account?"
"The bank account I'm going to set up for you tomorrow morning. Anyway, Rancheis is on his way over here, so try to look a little dignified."
Garen's expression went flat immediately, and he stood up when the merchant came over to the table. "Good evening," Garen said. "Rancheis?"
The gray-haired man nodded and sat down. "Garen?" He looked at Joden expectantly.
"This is my personal finance manager, Joden..." Garen couldn't remember his last name. "He will be handling all my monetary transactions."
"I see," Rancheis said thoughtfully, pulling at his beard. He waved over a waiter and ordered three glasses of brandy. "I'm glad we could work together on this; maybe we could consider being associates in the future." When the brandy arrived, he said quietly, "If you don't mind my asking, where did you come upon that much silk?"
Garen looked at Joden, who wore an expression mixed between curiosity and warning. "I found it stashed in my attic," Garen shrugged. "Never realized it was there until I was cleaning out my father's belongings."
Joden flashed him a look of approval and the merchant nodded. Garen couldn't tell if either of them believed him, but it was a decent excuse, he figured. It gave a good reason for his young age, as well.
"I must say, you've struck a gold mine," said Rancheis. "The market will be hit hard with-"
"Excuse me, sir," said one of the servants, "but someone accosted your wagon-"
Joden leaped to his feet, the chair skidding back.
Garen and Rancheis were up a moment later, and they all hurried out back, to the wagon stalls. Rain was thundering down on the courtyard and the roofs, so they had to shout to be heard. There were several guards standing around the sentry Joden had posted earlier. The man was on his back, bleeding all over the cobblestones.
Joden knelt by the man, and started apologizing.
"What happened?" Rancheis demanded.
"Someone attacked the guard," answered another guard, "and presumably would've made off with the crates, but we heard them fighting. The city guard is tracking them down, now."
"Shut up, I'll be fine," the fallen guard snapped at Joden. Joden walked back over to Garen and Rancheis.
"He was across the yard, so they didn't see him till he broke two of their heads open. One of them jumped him from the wagon they were using, and stabbed him a couple times. That one got away, but the other two are inside the stall over there."
Garen peeked over his shoulder and saw two still forms on the ground next to his wagon.
"It would probably be beneficial for us to transfer the goods now," Rancheis said. "That would minimize risk to both our parties, since my guard compliment is substantially larger than yours."
"Just what I was thinking," Garen said.
Rancheis departed and returned with five hired guards a few minutes later. They started carrying the crates from Garen's wagon to Rancheis'.
"Thanks," Garen said to Rancheis. "I'm going inside to get a bath now. I'll see both of you tomorrow morning."
Joden jogged after Garen and said, "I'm still technically your servant until you depart. Is there anything you need before you retire? I can send you a meal, a bath-"
"Yeah, a bath would be nice," Garen murmured, wondering when the last time he'd bathed was.
"Right away. I'll send you some company later on." He produced a key from his cloak and handed it to Garen. "Your room is on the top floor, at the end of the hall."
Joden disappeared before Garen could ask what he meant. With a shrug, Garen ascended the stairs and went into his room.
The room was actually several rooms; there was a bedroom, a living room, a bathing room, and a meeting room. Probably for merchants to negotiate and talk.
As Garen passed through the bathing room, he noticed that the tub, which was a big empty hole in the floor, with benches inside, was filling up with steaming water. A quick glance found the soap and scrub brush.
Garen undressed and slipped into the water, sighing as the steam surrounded him and filled his nostrils. For a few minutes, Garen completely submersed himself in the water and let the sensations overwhelm him. Then he heard his door open.
"Master Garen?" called a female voice.
"In here," Garen replied, sitting on one of the underwater benches.
A girl, no older than fifteen, came into the large doorway carrying a pile of clothes. Her hair was dark brown, and fell down her back in small curls. She was wearing a white robe that was tied at the waist with a sash. "Joden sent me with a fresh set of clothes, bath oils, and a pitcher of wine."
"Let me see the clothes."
She held up a black tunic, black pants, riding boots, a belt, and a black cloak. "He had them ordered from The Fine Thread."
"Probably be added to my bill," muttered Garen.
"Excuse me?"
"Nothing," Garen said. "Thank you. I don't need the bath oils."
"Is there anything else you require?" she asked, stepping into the bath room.
Garen hesitated.
"Would you like me to bathe you?" she asked. "I am also an excellent masseuse."
"A what?"
"I can give you a massage, if you like," she said.
Garen nodded thoughtfully, "That'd be nice..."
"Sit in the stool in the center of the pool," she said.
Garen found it with his hands and sat down. The girl walked around to the other side of the tub and slipped into the water a few moments later. Her thin hands traced their way up Garen's back and to his neck. She started there, and worked her way down, releasing tensions and loosening pressures in his muscles. Garen found himself lulled into a trance, and he lost track of time within a few minutes.
When the girl finished her massage, Garen blinked and looked around. She smiled at him, her bare shoulders glistening with water. "Is there anything else I can do for you?" she asked him.
Garen ripped his eyes up from beneath the water, and looked back at her. "I, uh...you can..." His tongue tied, and he stammered a couple other words.
The girl leaned forward and placed her hot lips on Garen's, and he melted against her body. Garen's passion grew quickly, and he pushed his hands down between her legs, exploring a girl for the first time. She pressed her hips against his hand, and kissed him hungrily, plunging her tongue into his mouth.
Garen responded with equal eagerness, and grabbed her hips.
The servant girl opened her nether lips with one hand and aimed Garen's cock up with the other. They both sighed as Garen's cockhead sank into her depths. "Oh gods," Garen hissed. He pushed her against the side of the bath, and began humping into her.
The girl's legs wrapped around his hips and she began thrusting back into him forcefully, bringing herself to orgasm before Garen. He didn't even pay attention when she began bucking and thrashing beneath him, crying out passionately.
Garen came only a few seconds later, grunting and thrusting out, emptying his hot seed into her womb. A few seconds after his climax, Garen slipped back, and fell to his knees. The girl looked down at him, slightly hazy from her orgasm. She smiled, and ducked her head beneath the water, then came back up, slicking her hair behind her head.
"Sit up there," she said, gesturing to the edge of the tub.
Garen mutely sat up on the floor, his legs hanging in the water.
The servant girl took his limp penis in her hands and began caressing it back into an erection. "How old are you?" she asked.
"Sixteen," he answered after a moment.
The girl raised her eyebrows, still rubbing Garen's cock.
"How old are you?" he asked.
"Fourteen," she replied. "You're the youngest I've had."
"Wh-" Garen cut off as the girl's lips closed over his erection. He sighed and absently stroked her hair as she sucked him.
It took a few minutes, but her expert abilities brought him to another shattering climax. His hands held her head down as more of his semen flooded her mouth. She drank it down easily, and grinned when he stammered, "Oh, gods, I'm sorry, I didn't-"
"Don't worry about it," she said. "I've had a lot worse."
"No, I-"
The girl put her finger on his lips. "Don't worry about it. Now come on, the bed is the best place for things like this."
A few hours later, Garen was sprawled out on the bed, sleeping quietly. The servant girl looked at his naked body for a few moments, then stood up and dressed. She lingered in the room for another moment, then walked out the door and down to the girls' room. Sasha and Marina were the only ones unoccupied at this time of the morning.
"Hey Bree!" Sasha cried.
"Hi," replied the girl.
"So," Marina grinned, looking up from her card game. "How was the virgin?"
"How do you know he's a virgin?"
"You mean he wasn't?"
Bree pulled off her robe and sat in the bathtub at the end of the room. "Not any more he isn't."
"Wow," Sasha mused. "What was different about it?"
"What do you mean, what was different? It's just like-"
"Come on, Bree," Marina said. "A virgin has to be different from a fat old merchant."
Bree tried to hold back a smile, but couldn't. "It was a little different."
Sasha, the younger one, bounced next to Bree. "How was it different?"
"Well, it's hard to explain..."
"What was bad about it?" Marina asked, sitting on the bed next to the tub.
"Well, he didn't know what he was doing."
"What was good about it?" Sasha asked.
"He didn't know what he was doing. I got to come, too."
"Oo," Marina raised her eyebrows.
"Okay ladies," said a voice from the door. "We need some service in room 205."
"Who's in there?" Marina asked.
"Did you just get finished, Bree?" asked the nightmaster.
She nodded. "Room 320."
"He's that rich one," mumbled the nightmaster as he scribbled down Bree's name.
"Who's in 205?" Marina repeated.
"Oneas Baltor."
The girls looked at each other. "Must be new," Marina said.
"No, he's usually into boys," the nightmaster said. "The only other girl who's served him is Anne. She's busy now."
"Who gets it?" Marina asked. "You or me?"
Sasha shrugged. "I don't know. I already..."
"Sasha, you can take it," the nightmaster said. "I think he likes blonds anyway."
Marina stuck her tongue out at Sasha and Sasha did the same.
Sasha grabbed a robe and slipped it on, then tied her hair back and followed the nightmaster out.
Bree finished scrubbing and dried herself off.
"Bree?" Marina said.
"Hm?"
"When are you getting out of here?"
"What do you mean?" Bree slipped under the covers of a bed.
"Well, you've been here for two years. I imagine you've built up a big savings."
Bree smiled mysteriously. "Maybe I have. But I'm sure not going to tell you about it."
Marina sighed and pulled her own covers up. "It's just so hard to get out of here. You have to pay them for food, and clothes, and-"
"It's just self-control," yawned Bree. "Now go to sleep. When I leave, I'll take some of you guys with me. How 'bout that?"
"Sounds good to me," Marina mumbled. She blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness.
***
Bolthorn sat in front of the fire, legs crossed. His claymore rested on his knees, a rag draped over the blade. The coals of the fire glowed orange, and reflected in Bolthorn's eyes; two sparks floating in the darkness.
Lia was resting peacefully on the other side of the fire, her back rising and falling with each breath. She looked too vulnerable.
It made Bolthorn nervous, having her follow him. His whole life was a fighter's life, and danger was at every step. With Lia here, it made a larger target. Her presence could, and probably would, become more than just a target. It could become a threat.
Bolthorn sighed, and hung his head.
That was only if he took the dangerous jobs that he was used to. There were always caravan guards, sentry jobs, bodyguards, and a few other odd jobs. They paid low, and Bolthorn lost interest quickly.
When Bolthorn looked back across the fire, Lia was gone, replaced by a man in a grey cloak. The cloak was difficult to see if looked at directly, since it seemed to fade into the background. Other than his hands, the only thing Bolthorn could see about the man were his irises. They were green, shining as though a candle flame were right in his face. But that was all. The whites of the eyes, the nose, the...the whole face was invisible.
Bolthorn's hand was around the hilt of his sword, but he stopped. Behind the first man was a second. This one was a huge warrior, bigger than himself even. He wore dark armor, and had a huge battle axe on the right side of his belt. His face was covered by a black helmet.
"Who are you?" Bolthorn asked.
The man in the cloak answered. "I think you should stay with her. And go to Allanon."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Alinor," replied the man. "But the only thing you need to worry about is keeping Lia with you."
"What if-wait, who are you? Not your name. I want to know what-"
"I'm a friend," Alinor answered. "And I'm here to help. But I have to go now, before I'm detected. So just protect Lia, yes?"
"Hey-"
Bolthorn started awake. His head was slumped forward, leaning on his chest. When he looked up, Lia was still sleeping.
***
"All right," Joden said. "Your current assets total 93,288 gold."
Garen laughed and clapped his hands. "Gods, this is great."
Joden nodded. "Now, do you want an estate?"
"A what?"
"A manor. A place to live."
"Well, sure, but what's wrong with the Red Feather?"
"It's too costly. Living in the Red Feather for the rest of your life would be boring, anyway."
Garen grinned thoughtfully. "Yes. I want a manor. Go get me one."
"I was considering that it would be better for us to move up to Althorien."
"Althorien? Why?"
"The economic possibilities are far greater than here. Investment opportunities abound."
Garen shrugged. "Whatever. When do we leave?"
***
Jorak's armies crashed down on the Minion like a tidal wave. In the first five seconds, over one hundred orcs were dead on the battlefield. More died in the next four hours. But the Karoks suffered as well. For every five orcs the huge warriors brought down, one of their soldiers were slain. The bloody first battle ended with over three thousand dead, orc and Karok.
Even after the orcs had been defeated, the half-trolls pursued, their swords stained with the blood of the fallen. War cries echoed through the valley until all of the orcs had been slaughtered. A victory cheer rose up from the Karoks, having tasted the blood of their enemy for the first time. War was what they lived for, and now they had it.
***
"This city is huge!"
"It's Althorien," Borim replied.
"I know, but it's huge!" Aleya gasped. They stared at the tall towers, buildings, flags flapping, and strands of smoke floating from the city walls. Outside the walls, farms were scattered for miles, and people moved about their daily work.
"This is only the top section," Borim said. "The river flows through the city, then dumps into a lake below that, where the middle section of the city is, then goes down another cliff, and falls onto the bottom part of the city."
"So there are three sections?"
Borim nodded. "Each section is on a different level of the cliff. But that's the surface. A lot of the city is inside the cliff. Below us." He gestured to the ground. "I can't wait to see over the edge of the cliff," Borim said.
"How high is it?" Aleya asked.
"Well, from here to the middle cliff, it's a couple thousand feet. From there to the ground, it's another few thousand feet. About a mile in all."
"I don't think so. You can go look at it. I'll wait somewhere else."
"Not without you," Borim said.
"But-"
"I'm your Guardian," Borim said. "You should know better than that. I'm not leaving your side, ever."
"But-"
"Aleya," Borim sighed. "I'm not going to shirk my duties to the Oracle, or my honor. Just accept it."
Aleya couldn't help but smile. "As you wish."
"No, it's as you wish."
***
Doronar knocked on the door of the temple with his gloved fist.
A few minutes later, a pudgy monk answered the door and looked up at him. "Yes?" squeaked the monk.
Doronar almost laughed at the scene. A six-foot, fully armored warrior was facing down a four-foot pacifist. If only he weren't here peacefully.
"I need to speak with the Priestess of this temple, please."
"But she's a busy woman."
"Well then let me talk to a priestess. Somebody other than you."
The monk scowled and said, "Who are you?"
"I'm Doronar, Acolyte to Mak-kar of the Temple of Arraka of Dale."
The monk rolled his eyes and opened the door. "Come in. Please wait here while I get someone to help you."
The foyer was huge. It had several adjoining hallways and rooms. A life-size statue of Nala was positioned next to one of the doors. It was an image of a lovely woman, in a toga, with her hand held out in welcoming.
The monk disappeared into one of the doors, and Doronar suddenly became nervous. What was he supposed to do in the temple of a Goddess he did not worship? He acknowledged her existence, but...Doronar blew his lips out. Nala wouldn't care.
An old woman walked from the door, followed by the squeaky monk. "May I help you?" she asked.
"Yes," Doronar said. "Are you a priestess?"
"I am, but-"
"I need to consult with you, in private."
The woman caught his expression, and gestured down the hall. She walked with him and he quietly explained his vision. By the time she reached her meditation room, she seemed relieved. "This vision is not as dire as I had feared."
"What do you mean?"
The priestess closed the door and sat on one of the four stools in the room. "We've had some distressing prophecies of late."
"Like what?"
The priestess seemed to debate for a moment, then said, "The Grey Shield broken and burnt."
Doronar raised his eyebrows. "The Karoks?"
She nodded.
The Grey Shield was an ancient symbol that the Karoks wore on their war banners. Now their banners were usually replaced with orcs' heads.
Doronar pondered that for a few moments, until the woman said, "How can I help you with your vision? You want me to see if there are any women in this abbey matching the one in your dream?"
"If it comes down to that," Doronar said. "I was hoping you could ask Nala for help."
"Lock the door," the priestess said. "I'll see what I can find out."
***
High above the Mistlands, Marath watched its orcs throwing themselves to their deaths in battle after bloody battle. The half-trolls were decimating Marath's forces. Though Marath had literally millions of orcs, the supply was not endless, and the half-trolls were fighting in their own land. They were holding up better than Marath originally thought. Something had to be done about it.
If Garen were not already on a mission...but he was, so someone else would have to be found. Marath turned its eyes east, toward an unlikely pair of adventurers.
Marath smiled.
END OF ODIN ONE
(c) 1996 by Bill Smith
(micro@oz.net)