Borga Din sat nobly atop Nunaber and surveyed the
morning-painted valley below. The road had been long and wound
behind him, through the plateaus, and down into the desert
steppes. It had been a long journey, almost a month since he left
the caravan in the trusted hands of Aruna and the silladars. They
were making their way with bags of salt and lotus spice to the Scorpion
Tribes of the Soutern Kali. How he wished to be there in person to
inspect the hand-woven silks of those people. He would miss the
passing of the Cup of Bargaining, the beginning of a bartering ritual
with those primitive people that would pass long into the night.
But this journey was the product of foresight. Din knew that his
current partners were drying up. If no action was taken, he would
easily profit for some years, but in the meantime, the long term, as
well as his reputation, had to be considered.
And so,
that great and feared man looked with awe at the spread of land below
him. The road on which he and Nunaber stood cut through a green
land. Although he had heard the stories, he had never seen so much
green in one place - as far as the eye could see - grass, trees; a great
river twisted like a serpent, cutting the land into pieces. To the
north, he saw the faint outline of great mountains. At their base,
and spreading towards him was a great forest, which could only be the
infamous Black Forest of which he had heard so many tales and
songs. According to the messages he had received, he would find
the merchant Kalos staying at his private rooms in the tiny hamlet of
Shallow's Crossing. It was here that the respected trader kept a
respectable size lumber yard. Din's partner's in the West would be
eager for such goods, and if a deal could be struck, the caravan could
be assembled and headed back with a full load of wood before the end of
summer. If he made good time, Din could expect to reach the
roadside "Thirsty Duck" before nightfall, and perhaps even
begin discussions before bed.
He turned the great steed,
just about to head down into the greenlands, when he was taken
aback. A woman, mounted on a great steed of similar breeding,
stood before him. She had obviously come from the
north-western road and seemed shocked at seeing another figure on top of
the hill. But was there something else. Was this woman
afraid? She looked capable, but there was an air of mistrust and
paranoia surrounding her. Her bronze tone and functional garb
identified her as a woman of the Northern Desert Kingdoms, but her
traveling alone with such inherent confidence showed her to be unique
among the women of that land.
The two riders
sat for some time as if in a dream. waiting to see who would be the
first to break the silence.
*
*
*
*
*
Khael had ridden for a couple of weeks, up from the
Northern Kali into the steppe lands, and now, had reached the border
that separated her lands from the mysterious central region of Darklands.
It had been a trying journey. She felt that she was being followed
by enemies, but was it intuition or paranoia? Her questioning had
been fruitful as she passed through the settlements. In every town
it was the same story - a mysterious cloaked figure had been traveling
with an adolescent boy. Why this stranger had been bearing in this
direction was beyond her. What could the purpose of taking the
abducted prince into this strange land. Did the claws of the
Osirin Hand reach so far? At this point, all was conjecture.
She decided that she would crest the hill and follow the main road east,
stopping at the first sign of settlement and continue her
questioning. Her calculations led her to believe that the
mysterious abductor had only a three day lead at most.
Khael
snapped suddenly out of her silent reverie. She crested the hill,
and there, sitting upon a muscled steed, was a man of great
bearing. His garb and features made her think of the kings of the
south kingdoms, for this man seemed to exude a powerful presence of
importance. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously as she prepared to
protect herself.
*
*
*
*
*
It had been some time since Wistan had made any
discovery worthy of his name. He had been wandering aimlessly for
months now, following empty leads and fragmentary evidence. How he
longed for something, anything to stir the curiosity in his blood - even
a scrap of some ancient manuscript or codex. Frankly, the
situation was beginning to border on depression. He was about one
day west of Shallow's Crossing, and if he continued bearing west, he
should reach an Inn by midday. The Loremaster, lit his pipe,
contemplating the possibility of lounging away the rest of the day in a
dim common room. Maybe there would be other patrons at the Inn
after nightfall, and an opportunity to play the dice.
As
Wistan came around a bend in the road, the sun illuminated an unexpected
scene through the tree canopy. A few hundred feet ahead, he saw
what appeared to be a young girl mounted on a pony. Two men stood
blocking the road. Their dress and stance immediately identified
them. "Bandits," Wistan spat under his breath. He
couldn't hear their speech from here, but it seemed obvious that they
were toying with the girl.
*
*
*
*
*
Naqi had been riding for many days now. She had
stopped counting the passing of moons some time ago. The morning
had been tranquil and care-free so far. She had awoken under the
protective roof of the copse of elms where she had bedded the night
previously. She spent the first hour catching some fine trout from
the brook at the bottom of the embankment. After a wholesome meal,
she mounted Foamfoot, and headed back on the road.
She
missed the wrinkled and caring face of Anthea. The old herbalist
understood her need to set out and encouraged it, yet still wept at
their parting. "Be careful of the toils and troubles on the
roads," her matron had warned. This way of thinking was still
new to Naqi. She hailed from a land where the meeting of strangers
usually meant the sharing of food and news. It was a strange land
indeed where one's fellow inhabitants shattered the balance of good will
and sought to betray their own. No doubt, Anthea had been
exaggerating. However, coincidence occurs without forewarning, for
as the girl from the north had these thoughts, two men emerged from the
wood and blocked her way.
"Good morning."
Naqi spoke with calmness and kindness as was her custom.
The
men were obviously bandits. Clad in rags, and their faces showing
the strain of hunger, such men made their living lying in wait, waiting
for the approach of those travelers who appeared sufficiently weak to
buckle under their threats and bullying. One of the twain was
skinny, his joints knobby. He held a makeshift club before him and
attempted to look as threatening as possible. The second was a
little larger of stature and held a long wooden staff. He examined
the young girl who they had forced to stop. It was the larger of
the two who spoke.
"And a good mornin to you me
young lassy. Praps you have some vittles and coin to share
with two 'ard working men down on dere luck. See, me and me friend
'ere seems to have fell on 'ard times. We were travelin to a new
job, and juss last night, we was overtook by bandits. The bastards
(excuse my language Miss), stole our fine clothes, our vittles, and our
tools, leavin us to starve on de road. Maybe you've got some extra
in those saddle bags o'yours ta share with a couple a'fine men such as
ourselfs."
The large charlatan was inching closer,
but his smaller compatriot was standing still, staring down the
road. His view had just been interrupted by the entrance of a
darkly-clad man on a large steed. The bandit locked gazes with the
mysterious rider as his partner continued his lies. He swallowed
hard. There was a bad feeling about this.
*
*
*
*
*
"Starve?" Naqi says in a
puzzled tone. Her eyes sweep the land to either side of her,
cataloguing the cornucopia of food this rich land holds. Without
trying she can see an entire meal waiting to be gathered.
The white lacey tops of wild carrots, hundreds of tiny flowers joined
in a flat topped spray, wave in the gentle wind. Fat cones,
pregnant with new life, hang from the pine trees and they will
spill their soft, rich, oily nuts out when roasted over coals. Bees bumble
ungainly about, bodies yellow with a dusting of pollen and though
Naqi cannot see their hive it would be simple to follow them to
it. Nourishing honey, mixed with the chewy pupae, could be
had for the price of a few stings. Even the dead trees, when
pushed up off the ground, will deliver the wriggly white grubs that
are treats both raw and cooked. That these men cannot see it
amazes her. Even their weapons are wrong to hunt here.
The club won't catch anything and the walking staff isn't very useful
either unless he puts a point on it. They don't even have a
sling, Naqi muses, conscious of the ends of hers tickling the
skin above her knees from where it dangles from beneath the belt
holding her roan colored kirtle cinched around her waist.
Foamfoot, annoyed at the interruption or
perhaps happy of the excuse of it, turns her head back and left, lips
skinning back from square white teeth as she nips at Naqi's bare leg.
Automatically the girl swings it up and out of the way, then continues
the motion and slides out of the saddle from the off side of her mount.
Several inches shorter than the 15 hand
tall mare, the crown of Naqi's head doesn't show above Foamfoot's
withers. Stepping closer to the men she lets the reins drop and
Foamfoot snorts before sidling slowly towards the grassy verge to graze.
"I do not know how you can starve. There is food all around
us. I will show you," she says patiently. It would take
part of the morning but what was time when you did not know even if
you'd ever arrive at your destination?
Closer now, Naqi's jet black eyes
scrutinize the men one at a time and she sniffs in the direction of each
deeply. The nose tells the healer almost as much as her
eyes do about the men's welfare. Though hungry, they do not have
the peculiar yeasty, baking bread smell of advanced starvation.
Still, the whites of both men's eyes are tinged an unhealthy shade
and Naqi can see vermin crawling around the fringes of their hair.
They smell unclean but this is normal and Naqi thinks nothing of it.
Drawing on her knowledge of life and healing, Naqi couples it with her
keen observations to decide if the men need her skills or some of the
contents of the seal skin medicine pouch that dangles from her belt.
"I only have my winter furs in
the saddlebags and they will not fit you," she says, reaching to
a fold of leather tucked beneath her belt and squatting comfortably
in the road, buttocks resting on her heels. "Here, this
will be enough until we can gather and hunt more. You
need to eat it slowly so you do not get sick." The fold
spills open in her extended left palm, revealing a round cake made from
the gathered and hulled heads of wild winter wheat, dried raisins,
rendered white fat from a deer, and the finely minced pieces of the same
deer's haunch. She lifts it up towards the men with another smile
that dances around her small mouth, sun glistening on the greased black
braids that dangle on either side of her face. "I am Naqi,
and I see you," she says, opening the ritual that tells travelers
in her land that they are not spirits.
Anthea should have warned these men
about the bandits, she thinks. The gulp of the smaller man
and his sudden look of fright makes Naqi look back over her shoulder,
traveling cake still extended. "Oh, good," she cries
happily, seeing the horse and rider in the distance. "Another
rider. Perhaps they can help too." Her attention
returns to the closer, larger man and Naqi begins to stand up, taking
another half-step towards him and pushing the food towards him.
"Eat."
*
*
*
*
*
Din’s eyes, large pearls set in deepest night, become ivory
slits. He flashes his teeth involuntarily, in surprise, at the
traveller ahead of him. Unique amongst Northlands women she may be,
but the Tribes bred many female warriors, some of great renown, and
Din is not one to underestimate a potential foe. Questions leap into
the rider’s mind - who is she? Where is she from? Not least
is What is she doing here? Instinctively, Din gives a gentle
tug on the reins to sidle Nunaber away from the stranger. Like a
desert hawk, he surveys the landscape around him, searching the
rolling green lushness for the nearest high ground with a bit of
cover. But it is too late to run, were it necessary. The
Westerner hovers for a moment like the sand quail over a puddle,
ascertaining whether the mirage below is worth landing for. Then he
makes up his mind.
Din walks his desert stallion forward, carefully, but with the
outward pretense of relaxation. He rocks slightly in the saddle, nice
and easy, his armour chinking brightly in the Darklands dawn. Does
she know me? is Din’s greatest concern. A small rodent scurries
into the brush to the left of the path and the merchant incongruously
wonders what meals are served at this "Thirsty Duck". With
apprehensive eyes, the mysterious dune fox before him bristles with
contrast on the early morning path, and Borga Din suddenly compares
her to his Jemadar. Skin so pale to Aruna’s ebony, fiery red hair to
her black curls - the defiant lip they share. Not his preference, but
she would make an impressive slave, he muses.
Sauntering forward, Nunaber flicks his ears and Din speaks in a
haughty tone, bass and rumbling, his singsong words faintly clipped.
"Mara’s Blessing, traveller," he speaks the words of the
Juba greeting, somehow out of place so far from his ancestors’
resting ground. At the last second he remembers not to give himself
away. "Syud Remajee, Bappoo Tribe."
*
*
*
*
*
Blast!
Why do bandits always show up in the middle of
a good meal, in the middle of a lucky streak, or in the middle of a
mellow pipe? Making a mental note to study the correlation later,
Wistan slowed Grackle to a walk as he took in the situation.
The girl was obviously in trouble, she just
didn't seem to know it. Not surprising, since judging from her dark
skin and hair braid and the sealskin pouch she wore, the girl
appeared to be one of the Friendly People from the frozen north. The
poor thing was even offering them a sad little grayish-brown cake
for some unknown reason.
This could be intriguing, thought the
Loremaster as he approached the group slowly on horseback. It could
also be dangerous.
Gauging the bandits' ragged condition, Wistan
judged he could probably handle them one at a time but doubted he
could take them on both at once. Not knowing the northern
girl's skills, he quickly decided that a frontal assault was
out of the question. A hint of a grin flickered across the old
man's face as he decided on another course of action.
Addressing the bandits in a stentorian tone
affecting a peasant accent, Wistan called out, "Ho there, my
fine fellows! Have I got a deal for you!"
The Loremaster hopped spryly to the ground,
his quarterstaff in his left hand. He made a flourish with his
right, and suddenly he was holding a large gold coin between the
thum and forefinger of that hand.
"Greetings, my lords, greetings! As you
can plainly see, my walking stick is nothing but an old relic these
days, a venerable antique to be sure, but none so fine, to be sure,
NONE so fine as the beautiful piece of weaponcraft you hold in your
hand, sir. Yes, YOU!"
Wistan gestured heartily at the staff-wielder
and continued, letting his voice and manner take charge of the
situation.
"Now what I propose is a simple trade,
and it saddens my heart to part with this little gem." He
gestured with the coin. "It looks just like an ordinary gold
coin, to be sure, but this little beauty is more than a thousand
years old. It first belonged to Kalor Al Bazak, sorceror-king of the
Southern Tribes."
Wistan paused for an instant for effect, but not long enough for the
bandits to interject a word.
"That's right, my lords, Kalor the
Bloody. The Dark Lord needed to hire mercenaries shortly before one
of his scores of battles, and it seemed Old Kally was a bit short on
the old jingle in his purse, what? So he whipped up this little
wonder, paid his men, won the battle, and the rest, as they do say,
is history."
"Now you may be asking yourself, 'How
could one little coin pay for a mighty horde of southland warriors?
How could it pay for even ten? Well my men, I'll show you. Kalor Al
Bazak himself held this very coin in his right hand and uttered the
magic phrase 'Skargreld Sma Skullthross...'"
Wistan gestured with his staff, and neat as a
whistle, a second gold coin appeared between his index and middle
fingers.
"...and there you have it! Those words
again were 'Skargreld Sma Skulthross...' 'Skargreld Sma Skulthross...'"
Two more coins "magically"
appeared.
Wistan quickly thrust the three
new coins in his pouch and brandished the original magic coin
before the ragged men.
"So what's it to be, my fine men? The
Magic Coin of Kalor the Bloody for a mere walking stick?
Or do I limp to the next village?"
*
*
*
*
*
Naqi quickly glances at the rider approaching, and turns back to
the men before her. Even her quick examination of the pair
allows her to confidently assess their physical state. Neither
seems to be suffering from any ailment that a bath and a scrub
wouldn't cure. The mounted man is dressed in dark robes and
cloak. His hair is a little unkempt and the patch over his left
eye gives him a wily appearance. The new arrival nods at her
with a friendly smile, and begins striking some deal with the starving
men, but Naqi is too busy in her thoughts to pay full attention.
Already, she is turning, looking at her surroundings and taking a
mental inventory. A meal for four she ponders to herself
as she strolls to the roads edge and begins picking small ferns,
carefully assessing the tint of green on the leaves and muttering
"Thank you Earth Mother" before plucking each one from the
forest floor.
Wistan's speech comes to an end. The smaller of the two
rogues leans towards his larger comrade and speaks in an emphasized
whisper, the kind that is often more audible than that tone reserved
for general conversation. "Look at dat Tom! A magic
coin! This is our lucky day. We'll be rich beyond our wi.."
The wiry man's speech is cut short by an elbow to the
mid-section. Tom's attempt at making the physical exchange
appear seamless, perhaps even non-existent, only makes the disparity
in their relationship more apparent. Upon further examination,
Wistan gauges the abilities of the duo to be sub-average at best, and
realizes that he is in no danger. As usual, the robe-clad
wanderer fails to recognize the affect that his stern appearance has
on the simple-minded. By now, Tom is perspiring and shaking
noticeably, while Hentz slowly exhibits the expression of one who
"finally gets it." His perspiring commences almost
immediately.
"Well good Sir," says Tom in the tone one might reserve
for addressing the gods themselves. "You's truly too kind.
Me an Hentz here wouldn't tink of takin yer lovely coin. But I
can see dat yer a gentleman ta offer it so. If the world had
more a' yer type it wouldn't be in such a mess I'm
certain..."
By now, the unwholesome and pathetically comical pair have backed
themselves to the woods edge. Tom speaks once more as he throws
the staff on the ground. "Here's yer staff m'lord, a giff from
Tom, jus fer you. May it serve ye well. Da finess
compliments of da day to ya." And with that, the two men
scamper through the undergrowth and disappear into the forest.
Wistan chuckles, mostly at his initial misreading of the
situation. The two departed fools were the most pathetic excuse
for bandits he had ever encountered. His thoughts snap back to
the girl. Wistan's excitement builds so quickly that he lights
his pipe habitually. As one of the few people in the entire
world who has read Holzen's rare manuscript, An Anthology of the
World and All the Peoples Therein, Wistan watches the young girl
gathering plants and humming to herself. He is certain that this
girl is one of the North people that Holzen makes reference to in the
last chapter of the book. The famous scholar of old classifed
them as "a savage, demon-worshipping breed, with no moral order,
who often eat their own dead during their bloodlusted
rituals..."
Naqi looks up with a pleasant smile at Wistan, but registers
confusion as she notices the absence of the two men. Why
would they leave without eating she muses, as she strolls back
towards her new-found dinner mate.
Wistan grins uncontrollably. This find is more intriguing
than any manuscript...
*
*
*
*
*
Tucking the tightly curled tops of the
ferns she'd plucked from the larger plant into a fold of leather, Naqi
walks closer to Wistan. Anthea calls them fiddleheads.
I wonder why? When she sees nothing but traces of the
hurried departure of Tom and Hentz, Naqi's face creases in a quick
frown of confusion that vanishes as suddenly as dew struck by the
summer sun.
"I am Naqi and I see you,"
she says to the old man with the staff. Staffs, she amends,
seeing that Tom left his behind apparently. So intent was she on
gathering food and so trusting of the three men, Naqi had entirely
missed the sleight of hand and the exchange. Why the men left
makes no sense to her as they obviously could not have gone to hunt or
gather, but it makes little matter. The land is rich, the
weather fair, water plentiful. They did not seem to be terribly
malnourished anyway and someone else would help them down the road.
Naqi's smile brightens as she makes
sense of the world again, and her jet black eyes twinkle in happiness
as she looks over the newly arrived traveler.
He's old, is the first
impression to cross the young girl's thoughts, unaware that to him it
was unclear if she was a child or a young woman. Tall, too.
His eye is like the ice that has calved and swum long in the sea.
I wonder how he lost the other one? Maybe a hunting accident.
I wonder if his joints hurt? They must for that staff he
carries is well worn. He's used it to help walk I think. His
beard and mustache fascinate her for facial hair is not seen among her
people.
Her left hand reaches up to touch it
when a fat grouse, disturbed by Foamfoot grazing too close to it's
resting spot, explodes from the verge in a spray of feathers and
frantic wing beats. Naqi spins to follow it with her eyes and
body, plucking her sling as she turns and fitting a rounded river rock
into the cup. "Hungry, grandfather?" she asks taking a
step away from the old man. As the bird skims low over the
grass, headed for the safety of the trees, the humming noise of her
sling twirling around her head cuts the air. The bird is moving
rapidly, drawing ever farther away, when she lets one end of the sling
slip from her fingers and launches the stone bullet towards it.
Naqi laughs, not caring if she lands it or not, her sound a simple
statement of joy in the moment.
*
*
*
*
*
Wistan is mesmerized for a moment by his
discovery and stands watching her, observing the cut of her clothing
and the style of her equipment. The fact that she hadn't recognized
him as the would-be bandits had lent weight to his theory that she
hailed from the northlands. As she reaches for his beard, he
flinches slightly.
The easy confidence with which she used the
sling startled him for one so young, but how old is she really? It
shocks him further to realize that he can't tell if she is 13 or 29,
or somewhere in between.
The smell of smoke draws his mind away from
the puzzle, and he looks around briefly for its source before
remembering his hastily-stowed pipe. He gingerly extracts
the still-lit item from his beltpouch and absentmindedly puts it back
in his mouth as he returns his attention to the laughing northerner.
"You're about as out of place here as an
octopus in the desert, girl. I'll make a fire to cook that handsome
meal you just killed if you'll honor me with your tale over
dinner."
As he speaks, Wistan scans the area for
likely firewood.
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ABOUT FUDGE: Fudge is a
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