Rendering Nirayel-Wayward Fates Page 4

  Then he heard them. What are they doing?

  He worked up the nerve to lower himself far enough down to peek out beneath the leaves of the lowest branch. Sure enough, there they were, two young Wognix. Far too young, judging by their size and frame. By their garb, they appeared to be Neophytes of some Rogue Class. What are Dark-elves doing so far from home? he wondered. No matter. He wished no trouble where trouble was not warranted. Besides, Wognix so damp behind the points posed no threat to him. He would just wait until they passed.

  Only they were not passing. Instead, they each crouched low on either side of the alley, behind several discarded crates, unseen to all but Jesterwolf. Are they mad? Is it remotely possible that they fail to realize the danger in coming so close to Dwarves? Then he saw their intent: the other Half-elf.

  A shadowy figure swaggered down the darkened Alley and headed directly toward the hiding Wognix. Obviously, they meant to waylay him. Upon closer inspection he could see a thin rope lying across the width of the darkened alley. Both Wognix held an end of the rope in one hand. In the other hand they each held a dagger. He could even detect the faint scent of the nightshade plant. The daggers were poisoned.

  Wildern might overlook a bit of pilfered pie, but were Jester knowingly to allow bloodletting when he knew he could prevent it, he might just as well paint a big Proscribe sign on his forehead. His eyes glowed only the faintest shade of green as the unsuspecting Half-elf passed the point of no return. Yet just as he was about to step into their trap, his feet shimmered so faintly that only the actual caster of such a spell might have spotted it. Even the Dark-elves missed the effect. Abhoron may have crafted their eyes for the night, but the light of burning mana was of yet another nature. The on-comer's feet left the ground, but no more than a few centimeters. The spell was very weak, as it had been meant to be. Neither of the Wognix, nor the rube they hunted, had detected the change.

  Then, as the trap was sprung and the rope stretched taut, the feet of its mark were yet above it. A mere moment later, the other Half-elf floated gently back to the ground as the weakened levitation spell fell away. He continued to swagger along, completely oblivious to both of his assailants, and to the fact he had just taken several strides without touching the ground beneath him.

  Jester suppressed a strong urge to snicker. This is hardly the time for levity, he scolded himself, and then immediately bit down on his lip to maintain his composure as the phonetic connection between levitation and levity caused the abrupt reemergence of that which had just been suppressed.

  Now the Wognix were lining up behind their mark with daggers drawn. Apparently, they were not subject to subtle hints.

  Jester grinned mischievously. Very well, lads. Let's see if I can make myself a bit more obvious. He gestured with both hands, making an upward motion with his fingers, and then clenched them into closed fists, as if grasping.

  A bright aura formed about the Dark-elves' feet as the ground cracked, followed by green glowing vines that shot out to entwine their legs. Abruptly, they commenced to struggle while spitting curses at the unseen menace that had rooted them to the ground.

  ***

  Borin turned quickly, sword drawn. He came suddenly face to face with two young Dark-elves. They appeared to be in some form of distress.

  He had understood their kind to be of a less civilized nature, and would never have imagined such as they might be welcomed this close to a Dwarven community. Perhaps he had been misinformed. His father had told him to try and keep an open mind when it came to other races, and he was determined to do just that.

  He did not sheathe his sword, but did approach the Elves cautiously. "Are you quite all right, gentlemen?" he asked.

  The Dark-elves ceased their struggling and looked back at him. They appeared to be somewhat confused.

  Perhaps they didn't speak the Homidris language. He had been schooled in many tongues, yet he had always found Dark speech difficult. Their application of description in emphasis of almost every structure of communication seemed far removed from the established uses that were almost universal in all other languages. Happy meant painful, and sad meant healthy. Such terms as "Good morning" were often followed by some form of violence, and he didn't even like to think about their mating rituals.

  Still, he was a representative of Arbitos, and he must at least make some token effort to assist these Elves if possible. He spoke to them in broken Dark Speech, and though he was unaware of it, he spoke quite loudly, as if volume might compensate ignorance. He had meant to ask if they were in need of any assistance. However, it came out, "IS BOTH DARK ONES I SEES BE NEEDING CHRYSANTHEMUMS?"

  At this, both Dark-elves looked at each other in pure confusion, and then suddenly burst out laughing.

  Hmmm-I may have miss-spoken myself, he thought.

  Then there was an abrupt thud several meters behind him. Both the Dark-elves and Borin turned to witness another Half-elf with short reddish brown hair rolling on the ground beneath a large oak and fairly booming laughter, which only served to further fuel the Dark-elves' own amusement.

  Jester had withstood all he could, finally losing his balance, suddenly no longer finding his continued concealment to be much of a priority. "What a buffoon!" he bellowed, booming laughter again.

  Now both of the Dark-elves were in tears and supporting one another.

  Borin was rapidly losing patience. All he had done was offer assistance. He could not fathom what idiocy possessed these three. Then he noticed the roots holding the dark ones hostage. This was obviously the work of a Druid. With that, he turned back toward what he now knew was yet another of that unbearable tree-hugging Class.

  "Release your victims, Knave!" he demanded as he brought his sword to bear on the assailant who was yet rolling on the ground. Jester looked up to realize that Borin's anger had now targeted him and his face corkscrewed in pain.

  That's better, thought Borin. At least he has the sense to fear a Warrior when he sees one. "Fear not, fool. I'll not kill you, but be you warned, I'll not have you wear my patience further. Now release your captives!"

  Tears streamed down the Druid's face and he clenched into a ball, much like a newborn.

  At this, Borin was taken aback. What's wrong with him? Then, as the Druid's entire body commenced to tremble, he found his resolve suddenly shaken. What ails the wretch? Is he addled? Or … What if he has a weak heart? he thought in what was rapidly becoming a state of panic. By my father's beard, I've killed him!

  In truth, Borin Krue had very little use for Druids. He found their lack of serious regard for civilization to be most offensive. Still, he had no wish to harm one of them, and he certainly didn't wish to become the cause of anyone's death who didn't warrant it. "Are you all right?" he asked in a curt, yet slightly less aggressive tone.

  There was no reply. The Druid simply continued to lay upon the ground, convulsing.

  What would the Captain say when he discovered that his own son had killed a Priest of Nature? Considering the upcoming Alliance, this was hardly conducive to gaining Sergeant's stripes.

  "I'll go get help! You will be all right, I swear it!"

  Before he could leave, Jester's hand shot out to grab his arm.

  He turned back and knelt to support the fallen Priest's head. "Yes? What can I do? How may I help?"

  "Ple…" Jester began to speak, but failed. He took in a ragged breath and tried again. "Ple… Please stop! You're killing me!" he hissed through clenched teeth.

  "Nay, friend Druid," Borin soothed. "Lay still. I'll fetch you a Cleric."

  "Please… I can bear no more!" Jester begged, and then burst out in another fit of ragged laughter.

  Borin's mouth dropped open as his eyes narrowed.

  Borin Krue was neither fool, nor dullard. True, this may not have been readily apparent under the circumstances. On the other hand, regardless of intellect, is there anyone who could have instantly known the nature of these events beforehand? Had he not been upwind to the Dark-el
ves, even as they were to Jester? And as anyone acquainted with the nature of levitation spells could testify, there is no sensation of lift. One might detect a difference due to an increase in height. A full levitation spell can lift and hold a person several meters above any surface, but this had not been a full levitation spell.

  As for his initial confrontation with the Dark-elves, it was true that they were armed with daggers. On the other hand, Borin had been highly trained in all forms of combat. He saw their clumsy grips on the daggers and how their postures were obviously that of untrained civilians. What's more, once he had passed down wind, he had smelled the poison just as easily as Jester had, not that it mattered. Warriors are weaned from infancy to become immune to many poisons, including all derivatives of the nightshade plant. They simply had no prospect of defeating him with those silly toothpicks.

  The only reason he had failed to see the true nature of his would-be attackers was that it never occurred to him that they might not be aware of the differences between themselves and a bona-fide Warrior. After all, even cur dogs know better than to jump a timber wolf. Still, he chastised himself. I should have known something was afoot. Most people don't laugh at their saviors.

  He whirled back toward the Dark-elves, prepared to cut them down. Not only had they sought to commit an act of unprovoked violence, but they had also violated the code of honorably challenged combat by the use of stealth. Outside of the confines of open warfare, this was the epitome of dishonor. They deserved death. Yet in facing them, he found that both of the dark-blue-skinned Elves were now absent. While he had been busy with the Druid, the spell holding them prisoner had dissipated.

  ***

  They had overheard their parents speaking with the Regent of the latest news from the Empire. Such reports were always welcome in Pitchwere. It offered a reprieve from the boredom of this backwater post.

  This particular report had been a preliminary intelligence on some low ranking Arbitos soldier, apparently returning from some form of Quest. Heartrot's spy had delayed his return by fouling up the coordination efforts for his passage home.

  The report had gone on to include the request of a Detail to be dispatched from Pitchwere in order to intercept the returning soldier as he disembarked at the Dwarven port of call, the idea being to send the head of Captain Krue's son back to him in a box, thereby achieving a great coup in the Emperor's name.

  The Regent had discounted the entire business, as it had apparently originated from some old feud between Baron Heartrot and Captain Krue, and was not worth risking Pitchwere resources on. "The only thing Heartrot has accomplished with this foolishness is the loss of one of his Enchanters. What a waste, to have the girl gate back with nothing better to report than this," he had concluded in disgust.

  Officially, that had been the end of it. Not for the boys, though. For them, this was a purely platinum opportunity to complete their rite of passage to manhood. So they had set out to retrieve the head of Krue's son.

  Unfortunately, things had not worked out as planned. They had already risked too much by seeking their mark so close to Dwarves while the remnants of daylight yet lingered. They had also designed their tactics to be swift, quiet, and clean. They had failed on all three counts. What's more, there were angry voices in the distance, distant, but quickly closing. They would complete their rite of passage by other means, on some other occasion, and with less humorous prey.

  ***

  Borin's anger redoubled as his attentions returned to the mirthful menace. He would not kill him, as he hadn't actually attempted to harm him, but only humiliate him. Still, he felt under the circumstances it would be all right to thrash the varmint within about a centimeter of extermination. Yet as he faced him, he found that, like the Dark-elves, the Druid had taken his leave.

  A small vein just above his right eyebrow began to throb. He was about to commence upon a full-blown Berserker's rage if he didn't calm himself soon. A community of happy-go-lucky little Dwarves was hardly the place for that.

  He walked stiffly to a nearby oak tree and sat with his back resting against its trunk. After perhaps four or five deep breaths, he began to regain a bit of his lost composure. Maybe I should just sleep here tonight, he thought. Surely, neither the Dark-elves nor that ridiculous Druid would be foolish enough to return.

  Then he heard a number of voices in the distance. They were becoming louder. It sounded like quite a commotion. No, not louder. Closer. Perhaps a Posse searches for the Dark-elves. Perhaps they were caught in the act of killing that accursed cuddler of plant life. This was a particularly pleasing thought, serving to calm him even further.

  There was a rustling in the leaves above his head. Borin looked up just in time to see an apple fall from the tree. He reached out to catch it deftly in his right hand, and then brought it closer to his face for a better examination.

  His brow furrowed. How odd, he thought. An apple from an oak tree?

  Just then, a large group of Dwarven merchants rounded the corner of the alleyway, led by a round-bellied baker sporting a rather large rolling pin. The baker, catching sight of Borin with one of his stolen apples, immediately let loose a mighty howl of anger while hurling the six-pound wooden pin at the culprit before he could escape justice.

  He had meant to stand and meet with the men. Perhaps they would ask him to help search for the Dark-elf Brigands. Yet even as he stood, he was struck upon the very top of his head by the pin as it came down in the arc it had been thrown, its punctuation echoing through the alleyway like that of a cricket bat striking something metallic and hollow.

  Fortunately, Borin's helm absorbed the majority of impact. Even so, when he did finally regain consciousness, he would find a most pronounced goose egg of a bump on his head. He would also find himself residing within a small cell with steel bars, low ceiling, and a Dwarven guard standing watch. Worst of all, he would find himself left wearing naught but his long johns.

  ***

  Jester loved apples. Still, as tasty and sweet as they were, could any apple ever hope to compare to such sweetly executed mischief? I think not, he thought in self-congratulation of his latest work of art.

  Of course, he would regret it later, as he always did. Wildern's teachings were quite explicit about such behavior. And yet time and again he would find himself in situations that were simply too irresistible to pass up.

  It was just so perfect. The timing, the Buffoon, the mob. The best entertainment in all of Nirayel, and all for the meager price of one small apple!

  And yet was it not more than mere entertainment? Was it not also due justice? Did the oaf not have it truly coming to him? Had I not just saved the oaf's very life, only to witness said same oaf offer protection to his own assailants? And flowers!

  This brought on yet another in a long line of uncontrollable fits. After falling out of the tree for the third time, he at last resolved to sit on the ground until he got it out of his system.

  After a time, he began to calm down. He then recalled how the Warrior had pointed the sword at him. What was that he had said? Oh yes, I remember. "Release your victims, Knave!" he mimicked the Warrior's authoritarian baritone. And the apple! Oh, the apple! And that expression of confounded mystery! Jester was no mind reader, but it didn't take one to see the Warrior's fleeting attempt to connect the apple with the oak it had just dropped from.

  "Oh, what a great dunderhead!" he bellowed, cleaving to the oak's trunk for support, even as the great oak itself seemed to sway in the windless night, as if in jovial camaraderie. "I'll-I'll fetch you-a Cleric!" he cried in a cracked voice as tears rolled uncontrollably down both cheeks.

  Jester had become fully intoxicated with mirth, drinking it in as a drunkard fills his belly. This was the way with almost all Elves, Half or otherwise. Yet in his case it was more than the Race or Class he belonged to. It was simply who he was. He could have been anything, Warrior, Ranger, Rogue, or even Baker. For all his spells, he had never found a finer magic than simple laughter.


  He continued to play it over in his mind for some time, savoring each moment as if it were fine wine. The armored oaf simply swaggered in with that ridiculous duffel bag, completely oblivious to everything around him.

  More laughter.

  Duffel bag? he recalled, no longer laughing.

  Armor? he thought nervously.

  And was he not walking from the direction of the wharf? Quickly, he sobered.

  "ABHORON'S BUTTOCKS!" he cried, quickly jumping to his feet and bolting for the Jail.

  Chapter Three-Assassination She Scribed

  "Elder Ironwood? I think you should see this. Elder Ironwood!"

  Amara Ironwood knelt some fifteen meters away from the recently discovered corpse. She concluded her silent prayer to Natura for the swift passage of her slain friend, and then rose to her feet with the assistance of her walking staff.

  As she turned to address him, she noticed the insistent Wood-elf was only just beginning to lay out his kit. Wood-elves can be so exasperating, she thought wearily. They're just naturally brash . "You've no need to howl at me, boy," she scolded. "My points may sag, but I assure you, they're still quite sharp."

  The double meaning was well received, as the entire team of Rangers offered a short round of subdued chuckles in approval of the Elder's sharp wit, which matched her sharp hearing. The possibility of a third meaning became visible on several of their faces, but was quickly squashed by the Elder's grim expression as she made her way through their midst.

  Humor was not only accepted here, but expected. With exception to the darkened factions of Abhoron's realms, no Elf would ever wish his death to interrupt the lives of others so drastically as to suspend good-natured mirth. Had the circumstances been of a less serious nature, there would have been hearty laughter, rather than subdued chuckles.

  Naturally, one was expected to walk a fine line between humor and respect. It was simply a matter of good taste. And of course, there were exceptions. The family and friends of the deceased could claim exemption of this custom, though such behavior was not usually mentioned within the more refined circles of conversation.