Funeral for a Friend

An old story I wrote when fleshing out a fantasy world. It is just a tiny thing, but I keep wanting to expand it. I probably never will though...

Pulling his cloak about him, the slender figure stared at the great monolith called the Spear of Tempus. It truly looked like the weapon of a titanic deity, a sliver of rock that towered almost a mile above the city of Lodin. A wide-brimmed hat protected his face from the glaring sun and the chill winds of the northern city. Beneath it, he wore silks of dark blues and black tucked into leather riding boots and a silken scarf wrapped around his mouth and nose.

To his right sat a man in his middle years, prating on about how the cold had affected his milk-cows. At first, he had been grateful for the farmer’s offer. Now, he wondered if the inconvenience of walking would not have been preferable to the commoner’s incessant babble. At the very least, the exercise may have helped to ward off the chill. With the gates in sight, it was too late to change his mind. Instead, he let his mind wander.

It had begun with news of a death. To call Janeth of the White Staff a friend would have been a lie; they had been companions once, fellow adventurers in search of knowledge, but they had not been close when last they spoke. With a smile, he remembered how they had been more once. A fundamental difference of opinion had driven them apart, she said that his thirst for knowledge had overcome his respect for life. Perhaps she had been right.

He had returned to the libraries of Tithmal and Kenera, searching for knowledge, and she had set off with a band of adventurers in search of truth, justice and honour. He had suspected that she would not live long, she was reckless with her life to seek out danger as she did, yet he was still surprised and slightly pained to learn of her death.

Perhaps that was the greatest shock, that he had felt such a loss after all those years when the black card arrived. She had left funds, to purchase a proper burial if anything should happen, and her arrangements had included the sending of messengers. Thus, he arrived at the great city of Lodin.

He looked up to see that the cart he rode on sat in line behind a carriage, waiting to enter the city. The city watch seemed typical for the region, in their red surcoats and leather boots. He could hear that each wore a mail-shirt beneath the uniform but that was to be expected. He wondered what use their halberds would be against civil unrest, even if they did hold them as though skilled in their use.

Whoever occupied the carriage, they were met by mounted guardsmen in banded armour and escorted deeper into the city. Perhaps guests of Queen Sibilla; the monarch of this small region, which still thought of itself as a kingdom.

“ ‘Allo Jack,” one of the guardsmen called to the driver, “more supplies for the wench?”

“Will asked me to pick some ale up from the Payne farm for him next time I came over.”

The old man smiled and gestured to the crates and casks behind him. Then the guard turned his eyes to the stranger.

“And what of you, traveller?” asked the guard.

“I come to send off an old friend.” he answered, pulling the scarf from his face. “

“Do you have a name, Master Elf?” he asked, recognising the soft voice of one of the elder race.

“Erin�"th.” he replied, after a moment’s hesitation.

“Do you come armed, Master Erineth?”

The elf grimaced at the clumsy human attempt to pronounce elven syllables. The guard’s eyes had already taken in his stout iron-shod quarterstaff and he seemed to be looking for any other weapons.

“Just this staff, the roads are a little treacherous at this time of year.”

A stiletto of dwarven steel nestled against his leg, just inside his boot but he chose not to mention it; that secret had saved his life before. Besides, most cities outlawed the easily-concealed slender daggers. The guard looked as though he might choose to search Erin�"th’s pack, where certain items were hidden that may not be well-recieved. He knew that magic-users were only barely tolerated in Lodin and did not want trouble with the city watch. He stood quickly, with a smile.

“Tia mah ke’llen.” the elf said, holding one hand to his heart in an elaborate bow.

“I am sorry, I don’t speak elven.” the guard said, suddenly seeming embarassed.

“It means ‘May you walk in light and in peace’ in elven.”

For a moment, the guard seemed pleased and tried to return the greeting. He tripped over the words but said them with such conviction that the elf could see the guard had warmed to him.

“The laws of the city are simple; we do not allow bared steel, open spell-casting or thieves. I don’t care how well you try to hide it, I can see you for a fellow soldier and I just want you to know where you stand. You might want to leave that staff behind as well, just so’s people don’t get the wrong idea.”

Erin�"th smiled at the guardsman as Jack drove the cart through the gates. The farmer’s verbal diarrhoeia had stopped and he muttered under his breath about ‘damned fool wizards’ and ‘speaking to the hunter’.

“Ia yaneca.” he said, smiling, as he patted the farmer on the shoulder.

The old man’s eyes glazed slightly as he stopped talking, then he turned to stare back up the road. Just for a moment, it seemed he was about to say something, then thought better of it. It was another risk but he could not let the old man run off talking to witch-hunters, the young mage had run afoul of their kind before.

“Did you say something?” the farmer asked.

“Nothing important, just talking to myself.”

“They say that is the first sign of mind sickness.” he said, smiling.

“I think I just need a little sleep, that is all.”

The farmer gestured to a sign to his left, showing a woman pouring ale onto the head of a small dark-haired human. The ‘Wench and Weasel’, according to the sign.