(Art source unknown)
This is a new shadow fantasy series set in the same universe of this wondrous hobo wizard story. One needs not read it, but you might enjoy since they share magicks, gods, and beings. Have fun!
Index: Chapter 1 Chapter 3 Chapter 4
Chapter 2
Lies and tests
It was early morn.
Crystal clean mildew winked at Sun’s golden eye, scintillating reflections dancing over grass, crawling bugs, and sleepy animals. The trees had already awoken, waving leaf and branch, eager to feast upon the new day’s warm light. Pleasant morning wind walked through forests, fields, and garden yards, giving plants their voices. The waver of leaves, the creak of branches, and flutter of flower petals livened the air. Birds stretched their wings and cleared their throats, chirps, hoots, croaks, and caws soon to join natures daily orchestra.
A gathering of armed men faced each other in this lovely morning, their hands seconds away from drawing steel. One group had a tall stone tower at their backs, clad in mail from head to toe crossbowmen on her battlements. The second band was twice their number; five armored carriages pushed by beasts of burden and full of archers in suits of silken armor, pointy helms glistening in the morning sun.
They were the Pahjere, unscrupulous mercenaries who once fought for the giant folk from beyond the Titan-back mountains. The five youths screeching insults and vile threats from behind the bars of their cell, these men came to reclaim them. Long, curved at their tips swords rested on their hips; elaborate carvings on their wooden sheaths, the weapons’ pommels topped with enchanted metal-encrusted gems. If one could outfit his hirelings with such expensive arms and armor, then he was not merely affluent, but in command of vast riches.
“I am Master Pahtan, Owner of slaves, Commander of wagon-trains, Speaker of the Pahjeran people.” – faked politeness in his voice when the Pahjere man presented himself, lifting his water cup shaped hat, its tassel and golden pompom dangling in the wind – “I’ve come for my boy and his friends.”
Lord Adrian smiled. In his full set of mail, helm’s visor lifted, he casually lent on the wide kite shield, gloved hand nowhere near the hilt of his broadsword.
“Lord Adrian, paladin of Hroen, protector of River’s Dale.” – Feanor’s father introduced himself in turn, omitting the major fact he was also Seneschal of the King.
“They did commit quite many an affront, these boys of yours. Threatened and assailed people with weaponry, ruined their merchandise, and even brandished an artifact of sorts, unleashing its deathly magicks.”
“Mere youthful injudiciousness, think nothing of it.” – with nary an emote began Jathra’s father, his voice bristling with polished threat when he added – “However, they who harm Pahjere noblesse, in our lands, it is customary to hang them until dead... from their entrails.”
The man was a copy of his son, although much stronger and two heads taller. Same gibbous forehead, curly hair with faint hints of silver, and gaze quite disturbing to face. Each look in the dark brown eyes invoked old memories of a pointless war and many an unnecessary death. If anything, his gaze oozed even more bile as his boy’s, and Lord Adrian felt his dislike for him grow.
The knight’s meek smile and calm face did not change one bit when he retorted – “In my lands, such gruesome punishments are reserved only for those who dare harm innocent children, molesters and vile murderers. Them and degenerate slavers, of course.”
“Of course.” – Pahtan said with a nod, giving his people a sign to calm down since they’ve reached for their swords – “Such are your laws, Lord Adrian, as it is with all peoples who shun the noble, civilized practice of slavery.”
It was now time for Adrian’s soldiers, most of whom were golden-haired men and once slaves of the giants, to reach for their swords. Master Pahtan studied them with his beady eyes, the sly smirk plastered upon his face gradually replaced by hints of worry. Their signature hand-and-a-half, straight, wide bladed ring pommel swords not only had the reach, but were swifter on the swing and excellent stabbers. Compared to made heavy by tacky encrustations Pahjere swords, magicks or no magicks, they’d have a definite edge.
Then there were the loaded crossbows aimed at them from atop that tower...
“My men would strongly disagree, them being Agarthi and all, but we have not gathered here so early in the morning to compare cultures.” – Lord Adrian spoke as he canted his head, angling his helm’s visor to shield his eyes from the rising sun.
Master Pahtan gave his men another sign so they’d stay calm and dangled a fat sack of coin – “Tell me, protector of River’s Dale, how much do I owe for my boys’ ill-thought actions?”
“Owe me?” – and the paladin raised an eyebrow, head tilted slightly to the left – “According to the law of the land, these five should receive fifty sticks each, and be banned from this kingdom for a period of time no less than a year.”
Pahtan’s face twitched, forced smirk on his crooked lips when he said – “But you would not enforce such a cruel penalty, your lordship, for they are just foolish young boys. No one was killed, nor seriously wounded.”
“You speak true, Master Pahtan, for my people are famed for their justice.” – said Lord Adrian and gave one of his soldiers a sign to bring the prisoners – “Therefore, I won’t order them stripped naked and beaten for everyone to see on midday’s market square.”
“Fifty silver, I think you agree, is a most reasonable compensation for all the ruined merchandise.” – Lord Adrian continued as Jathra and his underlings saw the light of morning, their happy smirks killed in infancy with a single glare by Pahtan, who swiftly handed over the coins, his face plastered with impossible to discern emote.
While Adrian’s soldiers were unshackling the youths, he added – “Pair that fine with the boys’ honest vow they’d never do such a thing ever again, and I will release them to your care here and now.”
The Pahjere nobleman nodded as his men approached the young men, one of them carrying a bag which was soon revealed to contain an assortment of potions. Lord Adrian raised an eyebrow – “Them being under the law, all five received healing care, I assure you.”
The paladin gave one of his soldiers a nod – “Give them their teeth back.”
Eyes full of barely controlled rage, Jathra received a small leather pouch. Jaw and nose completely healed, the toothless youth demanded – “Giwff my spfehre bachk!”
Lord Adrian’s only reaction was a gentle wince.
“Your lordship will excuse my son. There is no sphere. He is overwhelmed... yes... smitten by being reunited with his parent, aren’t you, boy?” – swiftly muttered Pahtan, managing another impossibly wide smile, as he placed his ring-heavy hand upon his son’s neck, whispering something in their language.
At first, Jathra attempted to resist and even talked back to his father. One brutal squeeze later and the youth was mumbling an apology, quickly followed by his four underlings. Though Adrian did not believe a single word they said, this was a much safer solution. Better they be gone from here quick with a fine instead of being publicly humiliated.
Pahjere, the paladin knew were vindictive people—just punishment or no.
“Lord Adrian, you mete judgment befitting your people’s honor. I wish you fair life and great many riches.” – said his farewell Master Pahtan and tipped his strange hat, its pompom dangling furiously upon the wind, as he urged his son towards the carriage train.
The latter was swift to move, and never mind its apparent sluggishness, rapidly took to the road. It did not take long for the wagons to grumble away from the village on their sturdy wheels. Pahtan’s armed guards throwing his soldiers ireful glares as clouds of dust finally shrouded them, their suits of armor and weapons from view.
Adrian could only assume the number and type of magicks needed for one otherwise bulky wagon to move with such haste...
Master Pahtan was potentially dangerous, and his son mayhap more so, even without his “sphere”. This otherwise mundane-looking item was so seeped in weird magicks, that even Zolan claimed to not know of its origin. Therefore, the paladin sent a messenger boat down the river long before yesterday’s evening sun had set, dead intent on informing his King’s court.
Naïve fools never attained paladinhood. Lord Adrian made sure to have a long talk with his son Faenor and Baldaran, including the young faerie maiden, Nifa. Before the crack of dawn they were already on a camping trip trekking across the nearby hills, of course, under Zolan’s supervision. Though most youths in the kingdom were self-sufficient, border folk here raised their children with sudden raids in mind. The three goodhearted younglings, they’d get to pass their test and be accepted into the ranks of River’s Dale battle ready adults, a tad bit earlier than most.
To be on the safe side, Adrian secretly mobilized the village militiamen, warned them and their wives of Pahjere devilry. They who knew not about the insidious people were given a crash history course by their much suffered Agarthi neighbors. The village of River’s Dale mayhap appeared quaint and wholesome on the first glance, yet virtually all who settled here were hardened soldiers in their youth.
“Sergeant, bring my horse.” – ordered Lord Adrian and turned his gaze at the tower, addressing his men with a calm, reassuring smile – “Soldiers, you stay alert! I shall visit Lord Hrothgar shortly and ask his counsel on these matters. Between you, him, me, and wise Zolan, we’ll make sure that our people are safe.”
As soon as their commander rode his mare into the village, his soldiers marched back inside the tower. Its gate shut and magickal wards erected, dutiful sentries continued their uninterrupted watch. Shifts had already been set and while part of the garrison carried out their duty, the rest either maintained arms and armor, kept the tower’s cleanliness, ate or slept. This was a border troop and though not numerous, the men who served here were of the highest possible quality.
For any enemy, to simply storm this bastion would require numbers, surprise, betrayal or... magicks beyond comprehension.
* * *
Midday and the youths had already set their camp, following a grueling trek across the Craggy Hills. They’d found a source of clean water, gathered firewood, and built themselves a basic shelter. All of this was not uncommon for young men and girls to be capable of, though as tradition demanded, they were only allowed a single item.
Faenor swung his lightweight ax, cutting yet another straight piece of wood for the expansion of their shelter. Earlier, he’d started the fire by striking his ax’s head with a piece of flint, sparks setting a bundle of dry fluff which Nifa gathered from old bird nests. There was Nifa’s small cast iron cauldron hanging over the firewood they gathered, stewing a fat wild chicken felled with Baldaran’s sling.
“Isn’t it wonderful how much one could achieve with just an old ax, a dinky cauldron, and a simple sling?” – Zolan’s warm voice cut through the camp noises with surprising ease.
Nifa fluttered overhead, one hand clutching a small baggie full of mushrooms, insult felt in her melodic voice – “I have you know, this dinky pot is a family relic!”
“Nif, I feel Uncle Zolan is just poking fun at us. He knows this ax was one of my dad’s military field tools.” – hollered the young elf, shouldering said ax with a grin.
He carried what was essentially a thin piece of lumber and deposited it atop the small, growing pile of building material beside the shelter.
“Simple you said?” – grumbled Baldaran, deftly sliding out of the shrubbery nearby, carrying a big hare by the ears, his sling tied around the forearm – “Brother, I think our uncle absolutely hated spit roasted hare.”
Said uncle whistled when he witnessed how Faenor threw the ax and Baldaran caught it mid flight. He would skin and gut the animal, prepare it for cooking as quick as possible since the elf could use the daylight and make more poles.
Wiping saliva with the edge of his sleeve, Zolan apologetically said – “Well now, you’ve got me by the tongue!”
Everyone in the village knew Uncle Zolan since in these distant parts, having a wizard around was not simply good, it often meant the difference between life or death.
His age impossible to gauge, Zolan was quite the tallish human, his sinewy build slim yet athletic. Brunette, these days he nursed a wondrous stache, keeping his hairdo short. No one had ever seen him wearing traditional wizardly garb. Unlike the odd magick-wielding visitor, their homely uncle was practically indistinguishable from an ex soldier. Even his warm gray eyes oft appear full of this long stare which old warriors called the “one hundred spears look”.
Arming sword in a worn sheath on his hip, Zolan got a smile or two whenever he told people not from the village of his profession. Most assumed he was a veteran gone slightly mad or a mercenary used to inflating his price with outlandish claims. It wasn’t that like most wizards or sorcerers he could easily prove himself, by weaving magick or casting a spell.
“Arcanists think thrice before they speak.” – he’d say and more often than they liked to remember.
Especially when some trouble would befell their village and Uncle Zolan helped solve the issue by being his mundane self. Not a singe spell cast, not one magick woven, just him acting befitting a skilled veteran. If his wizardly colleagues would employ their mystical crafts, he’d otherwise leap into fire or brave the raging river without a second thought. Not one soul in River’s Dale cared how or why, because Zolan always saved the day.
Sometimes, when they had too much mead to drink, Hrothgar and Adrian would mutter grim tales of when Zolan spoke one of his words of power. These stalwart, powerful men, they’d whisper like old wives, hunched over the fire and their voices would tremble. Children quickly learned to not ask questions about the war they’d fought alongside for years, let alone inquire of their cool arcanist “uncle”. Though for a growing boy, to learn the secret of a bloody, terrible battle, was a quest on itself, there was too much shackled suffering in their fathers’ eyes for them to push for an answer.
Faenor sat beside the fire to rest and recover some liquids. On the way here, Nifa carved a couple of rough bowls from pieces of driftwood they grabbed along the riverbank. She’d mostly finished them by now, and though these were rudimentary, one could eat soup or drink water. There simply was no time for more and yet, Nifa picked a few dry branches, fully intend on shaping these into simple spoons.
“Uncle, we already proved ourselves capable survivalists.” – said Faenor and asked in between cautious sips of soup – “What are we even doing here?”
Zolan reached with his pocket knife and snatched a drumstick from the pot, blowing the piping hot meat. He took a bite, chewed, and swallowed the meat with a content smile, giving Nifa a thankful nod for her spice-less, yet quite delicious cooking.
“Following that rather troubling occurrence yesterday, your parents wanted you three safely away from the village.” – explained Zolan and patted a longish bag laying behind him which gave out a clutter of the metallic variety – “Where, I, Zolan, a grand Arcanist of this kingdom, shall oversee your battle test.”
He produced the weird sphere from his shirt’s pocket and ogled it for a long couple of seconds, despite in his warm eyes – “Lord Adrian and I, we did not like the idea of this... whatever it is... finding its way back to these obnoxious Pahjere.”
Nifa winced. Her fair cheeks flushed and eyes sparkled with faerie fury when she asked him – “Uncle Zolan, is it true what my granny told me about these people?”
“Yes.” – nodded he in reply – “All of it and more, yet I am not about to trouble your youthful mind with the sins of their flesh, nor the stench of their souls.”
Baldaran’s catch began to smoke on the hot embers, its spit held by a couple of big stones. The dwarf cleaned Faenor’s ax in the fire and gave the tool back, but not before pulling a few of the shooting rocks out of the fire. He’d smashed a few with the hammerhead of the ax, with care, so there were plenty of ammunition for his sling later.
Cracking his neck, Baldaran threw one gaze at the weapon bag, shooting a question – “I would very much like to know... who are we fighting?”
“As your dear teacher, because it was mostly me who taught you about fighting, among a great many other things, all I can say is there are three of them. They are armed and they are big. They may or may not have that specific... erm... fragrance, lingering around their persons.” – Zolan answered the question when he’d devoured the drumstick, and thoroughly licked his fingers – “You know the type.”
The youths shared a look.
There was only one kind of foe whom Zolan, their parents included, would claim had a stench lingering around like an aura.
Goblinoids!
I wonder what this unidentified sphere is made of and capable of?
I LOVE this! So full of intrigue and character development. Very nice.