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Chapter 1
One wizard’s trash...
Bright, colorful lights dazzled the eye, exotic music and beguiling song caressed the ear. The enticing aroma of street foods assailed the nose, testing one’s will and the plumpness of their coin purse. ‘Twas where the wide Nanuba river crossed paths with the ancient Pourin mountain road, the Faeriebahn, giving birth to a sprawling trade stop, which people from all races called an avenue.
The glittering shops of this so called Rourie Avenue attracted all manner of men, elves, dwarves, and otherwise rarely seen faerie creatures. Crowds were hustling and bustling as far as the eye could see, coin and item changing hand, honest and dubious services offered and paid for.
Far from the darkly underbelly of this avenue, four odd persons made their way through the gathering of peoples, intent on finding shelter for the night. Visibly tired, their attire dusty from the road, travel packs and waterskins empty, they halted before a cozy-looking tavern whose signage read:
“Frolo’s Keg.”
One of the four, a stumpy dwarf, kept his grayish hood down, shifty eyes darting around as if on the lookout for someone. When said persona did not materialize, he pointed at the sign with a happy smirk – “Yes, that’s the one, me frens! Best ale on this side of Rourie Avenue, the comeliest wenches, and comfiest of beds!”
“I care not how comely their wenches are, Lombur.” – said the tall, clad in comfortable suit of mail armor human, and one hand resting on his broadsword, his other covering his mouth, whispered – “Just that the Avenue’s city watch is not on the look for you.”
The dwarf politely bowed at the knightly figure and assured him – “My Sir Giran must know, constables here neither know of my illustrious persona, nor have record of my grand deeds.”
“Why then have you this look on your face, Lombur, as if someone is just about to accuse you of wrongdoing?” – the knightly human inquired with a whisper.
“One never suffers from being overly furtive, Milord.” – snickered the dwarf, sheathing a leaf-bladed shortsword without anyone even noticing he’d had it drawn in the first place.
Their only female companion shrugged in her exquisite white cloak, gentle fingers waving something of a ceremonial gesture at the tavern, her tone somber and voice raspy, as if the lady suffered from extreme thirst – “Lombur, you only need tell me this Frolo has a reserve of moderately fine vintages, for I am parched. Languished I did, and for many terrible days my lips touched not a single drop of wine.”
“I swear on my honor, milady Silphala shan’t find Frolo’s wine cellar empty, nor his selection, modest.” – wholeheartedly promised Lombur as he finally lifted his hood so his companions would see him wink, his bearded mug plastered with nigh impossible to fake reassurance.
There was a sniff behind them and the three looked aback.
Their fourth companion, clothes, face, and pretty much everything of his caked in grime impossible to have been accumulated just by travel alone, leaned on his shovel-like stave, his gray peepers eying first the tavern, and then the darkly wynd nearby. Left dirty thumb partially sticking out of his wretched boot, he shifted his feet, patted his once dark-red robe, turned darkly rainbow because of a myriad of patches, and fixed his hole-ridden, bluish bowler hat.
For some unfathomable reason, a fresh dandelion rested in the brim of said hat. Only a smile was given instead of reply when he was asked where said dandelion came from, and how he was able to replace it when the flower withered.
By force of habit, the gently hunched man patted a blackish leather baggie which slung over his right shoulder, shoving odd bits of broken items sticking out from under the flap. None knew what wondrous magickal things he kept inside, yet they were accutely aware those were dangerous.
Another sniff signified that their companion was getting impatient.
The three knew well what would happen next, for it occurred wherever they went, and whenever time came for visiting taverns.
“That place, you know, the way Lombur describes it, even the air inside costs money.” – said he with his powerful baritone, eyes darting between his companions and the wynd.
“Steven, my good man, this is getting ridiculous!” – exclaimed Sir Giran, lifting his T-shaped helmet visor up, blue eyes smiling, gloved hand gesturing at the tavern – “Not even a pint of ale, nor a loaf of freshly baked bread? We have plenty of coin, you know.”
“Bread... yes. Ale... also yes. Everything, but only on the road.” – replied the robed man with a lively smirk as he made one unhesitant step towards the wynd, fingers casually plucking a crumb of bread from his brunette beard and shoving it in his mouth.
There, as a matter of fact, stuck beside that crumb was a piece of candy on a stick, which elven children called a lollipop. How did it find its place there and, more importantly, why hasn’t the sugary treat infested his entire beard with ants, was a question his companions very much wanted to know the answer of.
To remain on her feet, the elf theatrically grabbed Sir Giran’s armored sleeve. With a raspy gulp, the lady whiffed a lucky gust of warm air gushing out of the tavern’s shortly opened door. The aroma of freshly cooked foods and alcoholic beverages was maddeningly strong.
Steven’s only reaction was a yet another sniff.
“Blessed be Loznavna, you who giveth us the red elixir!” – Silphala cried out, life returning back to her porcelain skin, and cheeks red, golden eyes gleaming with soon-to-consume alcoholic happiness, she addressed Steven:
“Friend, we shall await thee here, at the morrow.”
Their robed and rather homeless-looking companion had magically transported himself at the wynd’s entrance, when he parted from his friends with a blessing – “May your meals be deliciously marvelous Milord Giran, your drink of wine exquisite Milady Silphala, and you Lombur... you best find the comeliest, most endowed in the chest area tavern wench!”
The door opened and closed, leaving many other odd groups looking for bed, food, drinks, and rest. As Steven’s raggedy shapes became one with the trash-filled wynd, some heard the man whistle. ‘Twas a quiet, short tune, a melody which token few knew, and the lyrics, even fewer.
Between the trashcans, where only a rat could squeeze, suddenly emerged a stoutly dog. Though a bit smallish on first glance, this silver-haired canine hid powerful muscles under his dirty fur. Steven greeted the dog by scratching him behind the ears, nodded towards the wynd’s depths, and asked:
“Did you... sniff?”
The dog sneezed, yet it sounded more like a chortle.
Panting, the canine enthusiastically nodded, pointing something down the wynd. For a short while, to the casual rodent observing the scene with mild to nonexistent interest, it would appear man and dog somehow exchanged information.
Since rats cared only if said intruders upon their trashy domain dumped scraps of food, and these two looked like inedible garbage, the scabs soon scampered about their business. None was so daft as to assail the man’s rich in crumbs and other dried delicacies beard. Rodents survived because they cared about their health.
“Oh... Oh my!” – exclaimed Steven, when his dog guided him to a seemingly random pile of garbage where, following a short rummage, he produced a half snapped wizardly wand still cracking with bits of arcane power – “That’s a good find, Bob.”
The dog sneezed again.
If there was a rat nearby capable of understanding wizardly speech, they’d hear – “Ya try sniffin’ ‘round next time, buddeh.”
Steven patted his canine friend, produced and offered Bob a half-eaten sammich which had pieces of dried veggies falling off of it, and when the dog turned his nose away, he enthusiastically shoved it in his own gob. The weird man chewed loudly, populating his beard with new crumbs as he basically inhaled the leftovers, making sure to even lick his fingers.
“Did you find... you know... more?” – Steven asked his dog and Bob nodded, his paw pointing at the wynd’s other end, and following another sneeze, said:
“Yesh, but of course I did find more, I am a magick retriever after all!”
“Most excellent!” – said the scruffy man, patted his dirty robes as if this pointless gesture would somehow make them cleaner, and tightened the grip over his shovel-like stave – “Dear Bob, you lead the way, and I will make sure you have a nice, clean bowl of porridge when this is over.”
“Chikenses,” – half-barking demanded the dog – “I wants hot chiknenses of the oven. Two of them.”
This demand was met with a clear smile and a nod, followed by another series of scratches behind the canine’s ears.
Saying nothing more except a whine followed by another head cant, Bob scampered his way through piles and piles of discarded trash, around overturned garbage bins, eventually leading his master out of the wynd. There was a crooked, poor excuse of a street they stood on, and it did not at all gleam with light, nor smell of foods like the wide boulevard the four companions had strolled around earlier.
Unsavory types strutted around and about. Some, the scruffy man would bet the exquisite sugary treat he kept for special cases safe in his beard, were foul goblinoids. Of course, in trade towns like this here avenue, if one paid their tax and did no foul, they were free to loiter about their business.
Bob alerted Steven with a silent whine and, his nose pointed at a smallish figure, the canine made himself invisible.
There, standing on a wooden box, one diminutive little girl sold scented handkerchiefs. Dressed in dilapidated rags, the elf could barely control her trembling, covered in small lacerations and bruises body, as she desperately peddled her goods, terror emanating like an aura from her crystal green eyes.
“Scented p-pads, b-buy yourself a s-scented paaad! The best you c-can buy and only for a fiver!”
One look was all it took and it became obvious for Steven that the girl hadn’t had any luck selling those. Out of twenty four in her tray, she’d sold only two. There were plenty of odd subjects strolling around, most of whom averagely clothed and some even moneyed-looking, however none appeared to be interested.
Steven, though he wanted to offer this girl the second half of the sammich, remained where he stood. Leaning on his stave, the scruffy man became an integral and undetected part of this dark street. He smelled, looked, and otherwise appeared not that he simply belonged here, but was in fact born right over there, under that rusty trash bin nearby.
He did not have to wait for long, as but a few minutes later, a hulkish goblinoid, breath vile and one reddish eye full of malice, approached the little girl. Catching a silent bark from Bob whose nigh invisible shadow lurked nearby, Steven got his cue.
“Only two?! I’ll teach ya to slug ‘round, ya lazy shit!” – snarled the six foot tall goblinoid, reaching forth to smack the child with the back of his dirty hand.
He could not.
Materializing before him, Steven raised the metal head of his shovel-like stave, which the slobbering creature smacked instead of the girl’s little face.
“Ye fool, watch ‘ere you goin!”
“Oh... oh no.” – smiling said Steven with not even a lick of compassion for the goblinoid’s hurt – “I am so sorry.”
“Humie, ye standing between me and me boss’s property. Move... or else...” – the thug growled in Steven’s face, pointing at the shaking as a leaf girl with his healthy hand.
“I don’t wanna.” – replied the scruffy man, giving first the terrified child a reassuring smile and the goblinoid his best, cheekiest smirk.
“Don’t know who ye be,” – grumbled the brown-skinned monstrosity and reached for a curved knife sheathed on his belt – “but Dlaksh will skin ya ‘live.”
“Dlaksh is your boss, right? The one who owns this child?” – inquired the man, his free hand offering said child a sammich, fresh and unwrapped, which he’d produced seemingly out of nowhere.
The girl immediately proceeded to unwrap it and began chewing with the force of two dozen hungry children.
Steven gently canted his head, and though the shining smile never left his face, there was something new, a different twinkle in his otherwise jolly gray eyes.
“Ya absolute moron! ‘Course Boss Dlaksh owns ‘verything and ‘veryone over ‘ere!” – replied the goblinoid, his razor sharp curved dagger inches away from Steven’s smiling face.
“Oh, so then he is quite affluent, your dear boss.” – the scruffy man said this with a nod, clearly addressing himself and not his knife-wielding conversationalist.
“I’ve had it!” – roared the goblinoid and following a loud whistle, three of his ugly kind emerged from a ramshackled building nearby – “Bois, ye ‘nab the moron while I carve him up!”
Though the girl whimpered behind him, Steven appeared to have not a single worry in the world when he asked – “Would you be so kind to elaborate, good sir, how many of said persons whom boss Dlaksh owns are... children?”
“Many.” – replied one of the three newly-arrived thugs, as he practice-swung a spiked club.
The man hummed a few tones from some melody, a ludicrous act, considering he was about to be slain where he stood.
“Well then, you four will excuse me and this little lady here. We have nice places to go and good people to meet.” – said the man as he turned around and picked up the bruised child with a gentle hand.
“Are ya dumb?! Now we are gonna kill ya dead!” – screeched the knife-wielding thug, and attempted a swing, weapon slipping from his fingers and harmlessly clinking on the street.
Neither he, nor his fellow miscreants were able to make another step. They felt their very breath drained, knees week, and fingers limp. As soon as they attempted to move, one after the other they slipped and fell on the dirty street. A thick layer of grease had mysteriously poured itself around their feet without them noticing.
“When we is free, ya is gone, rot, a corpse, ya hear?!” – shouted and with much less thuggish oomph behind his words the unarmed goblinoid.
Their strength stolen, the covered in grease bunch could only squeal, flap their limp, drowning in grease extremities around, and otherwise whimper impotent threats, while Steven carried the child away. As soon as he turned around the nearest corner, another whistle left his mouth. Behind came the strangely muffled sounds of roaring flames, deathly wallows, and the pop of burning flesh.
The little girl heard nothing. Her belly full, despite the rotten rags, she felt warm and cozy. Though the man who carried her appeared just as dirty a street dweller like herself, wondrously, he had not the stench of trash around him.
“You call me Steven.” – began he and offered her a bottle of warm milk – “Now, what is you name, little lady?”
“Mila.”
“Alrighty. Be a good girl and go inside. Find a tall armored gentlemen by the name of Sir Giran. Tell him that I, Steven, send you and he should help you find your parents.” – said he and placed the confused, dressed in simple, clean clothing child before the door of “Frolo’s Keg”.
“I have n-no p-parents.” – stuttered the girl, her eyes darting between him and the shiny, promising warmth and food tavern door.
“Sorry to hear that.” – and as he patted her head with a somber smile, Steven said – “My own parents were taken from me, many years ago.”
“Now, little one, you go talk to my friend. Never fear, he is a godly paladin and will protect you.”
“Uncle, wait, where are you going?!” – the girl had almost reached for the invitingly wholesome tavern door, yet grabbed ahold of Steven’s robe, scared to let go of the only safety she’d known in recent years.
Bob silently materialized beside his master, nudging him with his nose. The scruffy-looking man held Mila’s tiny hand, opened the door, and gently ushered her inside the tavern. While she made two hesitant little steps, right before he walked towards the darkly wynd, Steven reassuringly whispered in her ear:
“Uncle is late for a meeting. You stay here, eat and rest. We will see each other on the morrow...”
A dozen minutes later, led by Bob, he stood before some broken building, the unsavory silhouettes of armed to their crooked, pointy goblinoids loitering around.
“Dlaksh’s lair. Full of all them shiny stuffses you needsh, Master Magnerius.” – said Bob with a sneeze, and his eyes aglow with hallowed light, added – “Reeks of crap, torturous pain, and horrified kiddies.”
“Where be the local constabularies?” – the man asked.
“Sniffed one inside the lair, earlier.” – barked the dog.
“We will pay him a visit later.”
Steven cracked his neck and casually swung with the stave. Such was the power he exerted that his swings produced audible sound as they split the air. A grayish glow surrounded him and Bob when he hummed another melody. One after another, Steven whistled six different tunes, the last while he patted his canine friend.
Bob suddenly became larger than a warhorse!
Fires burning in his eyes, he lowered his head so the man could mount him.
“Remember, no stragglers. We don’t want them limping their vile selves to another town and starting all over.” – said Master Magnerius, his robes and stave aglow with arcane might.
The enchanted dog growled a happy growl leaping forth into the night, magickal rays shooting from his eyes, raging blue flame from his filled with dagger-like teeth maw.
That night, what the goblinoids saw was not a scruffy-looking man. Instead, a tall, clad in arcane armor, burning figure coming straight out of their nightmares, descended upon them. Neither arrow, nor blade could harm him or the monstrosity he rode upon. No, this was no battle, but more like a long delayed death sentence and the shining man, their executioner...
Ooooooh this is going to be such a a fun read it is already over the top good. You are amazing. ❤️