Chapter 2

     It was morning. Seth reluctantly poked his head from beneath the piled animal skins that sheltered him from the penetrating chill of the damp cave. A cold rush of air assaulted his face, carrying the scent of last night's fire mingled with the musky aroma of mildew. The faint smell of smoke made Seth remember how thankful he was when Fakir finished chiseling the crude fireplace out of the cave wall. Seth tested the floor with his feet. The ground was cold and the loose stones felt sharp.  It was time to get up!

     Seth was accustomed to rising early. His Master had taught him that hard work and study made the great sorcerer, just as attention to detail and a highly developed memory made a proficient magician. Seth smiled as he remembered his Master's words. He was glad he was to become a sorcerer. It would never do to be a mere magician, training endlessly to memorize the intricate spell symbols so they could cast spells they didn’t understand. He was to become a sorcerer. He wanted to understand magic, to fathom its principles, to become its master.

     He quickly dressed, shivering in the cold morning air. Arnnon had told him to come early to his cave. It had been several weeks since Arnnon's last attack and Seth had noted renewed activity in his Master's cave over the past few days. Arnnon had told Seth that today was to be something special. Seth could hardly wait.

     When Seth left his cave, he hurriedly turned toward the cave of his Master. It was still dark. To the east, billowing clouds could be seen in silhouette against a pinkish dawn sky. Seth continued his upward climb toward his Master's cave. His breath produced excited puffs in tempo with his running.

     “Damn,” he said, coming to a halt. After pausing to regain his breath, Seth turned back toward his cave. He had forgotten. Arnnon had insisted that Seth bring Fakir with him in the morning. He knew the dwarf would still be asleep. Fakir could never raise himself in the morning if it didn't suit his own purposes.

     “Damn him,” he repeated, quickening his pace.

     When he arrived at the door of Fakir's shack, he knocked. Then losing patience, he burst in. “By the Maker's oath,” he cried. “Get up!”

     Fakir stirred slowly in his bed. “Huh?”

     “By the gods, I say, get up. Fakir, you've got to get up.”

     Fakir groaned, then rolled over in his bed. Suddenly, Fakir sat straight up, quickly rubbing his eyes. Slowly, through bleary eyes the image of Seth came into focus. “Huh? What's going on?” he asked.

     “You miserable dwarf! The Master. You remember the Master, don't you? We're supposed to be there first thing. Remember?”

     “Oh, the Master,” yawned Fakir. Fakir paused and rubbed his eyes again. “Oh yes. I'll be ready in a moment.” Fakir tossed his legs across the bed and placed them on the floor, and once again began rubbing his eyes.

     Seth could see that Fakir was still dazed with sleep, but soon would be ready. Fakir was nearly dressed. His habit of sleeping fully clothed was left over from his highwayman days and the need for quick departures. Seth was absolutely amazed that Fakir had not been killed a hundred times due to his slow rising in the morning. Apparently Fakir responded differently when the need arose.

     A few minutes later, Fakir was ready. The pair immediately set out for the Master's cave. Arriving at Arrnon’s cave, Seth noted the cave was dark and no sounds came from within.

     “I don't like this,” cautioned Fakir.

     “It does seem strange,” agreed Seth.

     Both entered the cave. The air seemed menacingly still. In the dark, Seth and Fakir proceeded inward at a stumbling pace.

     “Master,” called Seth. “Are you here?”

     Suddenly the cavern was alive with light. “Who seeks Arnnon of Gorth-Ar?” a booming voice demanded. “Step into the light.”

     Fakir quickly whispered, “What's going on?”

     “It seems to be a dyman,” Seth whispered back. Seth gathered his courage.

     “Hold dyman,” shouted Seth as he stepped into the light. “What is your business in the cave of my Master?” As Seth moved further into the light his eyes scanned the cave. It was empty.

     “I have a message from your Master, my Creator,” said the dyman.

     “Well?” asked Seth. “What is it?” Seth glanced at Fakir. The dwarf looked uneasy.

     “First...” the dyman paused, “your Master promised that I was to be allowed a favor from you.”

     “Oh?” questioned Seth. “And what might that be?”

     “Your Master was in a hurry to depart, for what reason I know not, but promised that his young apprentice would give me physical form to aid in his instructions.”

     Fakir whispered, “I don't like it. Why didn't the Master give him form? Something's wrong.” It was indeed strange, thought Seth, and unlike his Master. Besides, Seth would only be able to give the dyman the very crudest of physical form. Something was definitely wrong.

     “Well, dyman,” bellowed Seth, “this does not sound much like my Master. Beware, lest I unmake you.” Seth lifted his arms to cast a spell.

     “Wait,” pleaded the dyman. “I'll give you my message.”

     Seth was relieved that his bluff was not called. This dyman was clearly beyond his unmaking. It showed free will and was vastly more intricate than the simple dymen he occasionally constructed to help with the house work.

     “Arnnon is gone from this world. It was his wish to leave at a time of his own choosing to foil possible plans of Sausorous, the Lord of Kennaquhair. I have carried off the Master's body and have hidden and warded it with my magics. I now go to guard it till its links with the Master are too weak to imperil him.”

     Seth was awe-struck. This was a truly powerful dyman and could cast its own magic. He had not thought even his Master capable of creating such a creature. Surely his creation must have been very dangerous and costly in terms of Mage-Balm Flower. Perhaps the Master had finally used the Flower he had hoarded as long as Seth could remember. He would check this later.

     Now a number of questions flooded Seth's brain. “Dyman, why didn't my Master destroy his body to break its link with him? He risks much this way.”

     The dyman replied, “Perhaps your Master still hopes to return to this world, thus he'll have need of it. Perhaps he plans to cast powerful magic on this plane and needs a strong tie to this world. Your Master did not confide in me.”

     “Did Arnnon leave me any instructions?” asked Seth.

     “No,” replied the dyman. “The Master said you would know what to do.”

     “Be off then!” commanded Seth, in an especially stern voice. “Guard well my Master's body.”

     Without a whisper the dyman was gone. The cave returned to darkness. Fakir struggled briefly to light a candle.

     “I hate this stuff,” complained Fakir. “Just give me a sword and something I can see and then I'll be happy. These dymen are unnatural. Men shouldn't deal with them.” Fakir paused. “Seth, this magic is too dangerous. It's not right. The Master is gone now. Don't bother with it anymore.”

     Seth just smiled, amused that after all these years Fakir still tried to talk him out of magic. Seth loved magic. In fact, his fascination with the dyman had made him forget that his Master was gone. Slowly, this realization came upon him, shifting his mood. Now he felt uncertain, pushing back the fear and loss he felt at Arnnon's unexpected departure.

     “Fakir, we must gather up our things and be off. I reckon three days will be enough to prepare ourselves.”

     “I'll be ready,” said Fakir.

          ****               ****

     The first two weeks passed quickly for Pilar and her traveling companions. The party was now well outside the snowy pine forests of the Northern provinces. They had entered a land of gently sloping hills, wide grasslands, and hardwood forests. The weather had changed too. The intemperate weather of the North had given way to mild mornings, warm afternoons, and breezy nights. Snow blizzards were replaced by gentle rains. These changes brought about subtle uncertainty in the travelers. Tarkin had heard terrible stories of these lands in the Lodge-tales of his father. Fierce warrior-lords were reputed to roam these lands, robbing and killing at their leisure. All seemed still, however. There was no sign of fierce warrior-lords, and the occasional village through which they passed offered no support of these legends. Instead, the travelers were greeted with curiosity and generally welcome to feast with the village elders.

     During the past few days, Pilar had fallen into a melancholy. She refused to admit her strongly felt homesickness, and was impatient for excitement. She dreamed of returning gloriously to Fol-bear and of having her adventures remembered in song among her people. Tarkin, on the other hand, weathered the dull road travel marvelously. He was well accustomed to long marches, having often endured the slow and uneven progress of military campaigns. Tarkin's half brothers also seemed content. Nothing perturbed them as long as sufficient wine was provided with dinner and large quantities of ale with lunch. Mornings occasionally proved trying, but not beyond Tarkin's control.

     “Tarkin,” called Pilar. “Up ahead, I can see another village.” Pilar’s voice held nervous promise. She longed to find her father’s business associates and to be done with this task. She was becoming frustrated and blamed herself for not being better apprised of the difficulties she would face. This would never do. Such poor planning would be deadly in battle! This was not like her! She shook her head. She would not make such mistakes again!

     Tarkin looked up and kicked his horse into a gallop. Coming up to Pilar’s position, he slowed to match pace with Pilar's horse. “Yes,” he replied. “I see it too. We'll soon be there.” Tarkin again pressed his steed, returning to the wagon and began to talk to his brothers.

     Within the space of half an hour, the party reached the village. The village was larger than they expected and was the central hub of a farming community. Apparently most of the men folk were in the fields, and foot traffic on the streets was dominated by women and an occasional merchant. The town’s people regarded the company with great curiosity and strangely gave the group wide margin to pass. The party noted this increased caution in the townspeople.

     Ahead, Pilar could see a weatherworn sign: The Cross-Roads Inn. Now her fatigue of the road got the better of her. She wanted to rest. An inn would be just the thing—a hot bath to wash the road dust from her body. And, more importantly, she seemed to remember Fol-bear mentioning such an inn as being in the town with which he traded. She smiled at her good luck. She would have to check this, but not now. Rest and comfort would come first.

     Pilar looked at Jess who returned her gaze. “My thoughts exactly, Lady. A welcome change from sleeping on the roadside.” Pilar looked back. Tarkin, too, nodded agreement. She could tell by the look on the faces of the Mal-tokii that they were already anticipating wine and ale for supper.

     The main room of the inn was large, serving as mess hall, tavern, and general gathering place. To the right of the door a large fire burned in a well-used fireplace. To the left of the door was a long bar, and behind the bar stood the proprietor. As Pilar and Jess entered, they noticed a large table against the far wall. At this table sat three travelers of the Morg-arn race attired in well-worn leather armor. From their numerous scars and the disfigurement of the tallest Morg-arn's face, it was clear that these three had seen heavy combat.

     The tall redheaded man behind the bar spoke. “Welcome strangers. Come sit and drink with us and tell us how you come to these parts.”

     Being watched by the three strangers, both Pilar and Jess felt a bit uneasy moving further in towards the bar. Pilar tried to hide her relief when Tarkin and his brothers appeared at the doorway.

     “Kinsmen!” said Bal'ma-ki when he saw the three Morg-arn. “We're weary of the road and have many tales.” He paused, sizing up the strangers. “Perhaps you'll buy us a drink and we'll share our stories.” The tallest of the strangers gave out a short grunt and smiled, then addressed Bal'ma-ki in a language Pilar could not understand, although she recognized it as the Morg-arn tongue.

     Tarkin walked briskly into the room, seeming to take little note of his brothers' affairs, and proceeded to join Pilar and Jess at the bar. He needed to arrange for more provisions, and to gather news. He must do this first. Then he could have his rest. Tarkin looked back over his shoulder at his brothers. Bah, they were disgusting. They thought of nothing but getting drunk. How was it that he was the one that was disgraced in the eyes of the Mal-tokii, and they the ones with honor?

     That evening, Pilar, Jess, and Tarkin exchanged conversation with the innkeeper, learning that trouble lay to the west. The exact details remained unclear, but trade and travel were clearly hampered in that direction. By coincidence, the latest information came from the three strangers across the room. The innkeeper cautioned that these three were an unsavory lot, making their livelihood by thievery and booty gathered as mercenaries.

     Having satisfied their curiosities and having consumed considerable drink, everyone retired. Clean beds, preceded by hot baths, promised a sound sleep until the morning.

          ****               ****

     “Wake up U-Tar,” said the tall Morg-arn. His disfigured face seemed especially grotesque in the strange mix of candle and moonlight. “It's well past midnight. Time to move.”

     U-Tar opened his eyes and tugged at the dirty sleeve of the third member of the group. Soon they were all ready. “Did you find out which rooms they're in?” asked the last.

     “Yes,” replied the tallest. “The innkeeper was very cooperative once we explained our needs to him.”

     U-Tar laughed. “But he did take a bit of convincing, didn't he, Faun'uir.” The tall Morg-arn agreed with a smile and Han-bor grunted his approval.

     “I trust he'll be more cooperative next time,” added Han-bor.

     Soon the trio was creeping up the stairs, the tallest leading. When they paused on the landing, Faun'uir turned to his companions and whispered, “U-Tar, you stand by the door of the Morg-arn and call if there is trouble. Me and Han-bor will get the girl.”

     “I hope her father's as rich as they say,” said Han-bor.

     “And not too choosy about how he gets her back,” added U-Tar. They all smiled.

     “Time enough for that later,” scolded Faun'uir. “Quiet now.”

     U-Tar scurried across the corridor to the massive wooden door that guarded the room in which Tarkin and his brothers slept. Faun'uir waved further down the hall to remind U-Tar of Jess sleeping in the furthest room. U-Tar waved back indicating he hadn't forgotten.

     Faun'uir slowly opened the door. Suddenly, something fell over with a crash. A helmet on a broomstick resting against the door had hit the floor. All three of the Morg-arn started, then realizing their situation, Han-bor quickly pushed past Faun'uir into the room. A still somewhat dazed Faun'uir followed seconds later. Faun'uir entered the room just in time to hear a dull thud and see Han-bor slump to the ground with the handle of a large dagger protruding from his chest. Faun'uir could see the amazement in Han-bor's eyes just before he breathed his last.

     Faun'uir's eyes shot across the room to Pilar. She was dressed in the soft leather jerkin she wore under her chain halberk and was slowly rising from the bed, pulling a long sword from its sheath as she rose. Faun'uir looked out of the door to U-Tar. U-Tar, who had his ear pressed to the door he guarded, shook his head. They were not yet heard. The tall Morg-arn then turned back to face Pilar. Pilar was standing barefooted on the floor holding her sword raised with both hands. The room was illuminated by moonlight leaking through a small window directly behind Pilar. Faun'uir noted her slight frame and loose hair glistening in the pale light.

     “Come on girl, let's see what you got,” smirked Faun'uir. This was great sport. Pilar eyed the Morg-arn and weighed the tenor in his voice. He was too self-assured. This would bring carelessness and death!

     Pilar moved swiftly toward him, bringing down a heavy two-handed stroke at Faun'uir's head. Faun'uir was ready for her and held his sword high to block the blow, but was unprepared for its force. Faun'uir's careless block crumpled under Pilar's attack. Faun'uir found himself thrown back, and Pilar's deflected sword bit deeply into his left shoulder. Faun'uir landed against the wall, sending a chair crashing.

     U-Tar now became frantic. There was movement in the room he guarded. Furthermore, the door to Jess' room was beginning to open. U-Tar had decided. This was Faun'uir's problem. He was clearing out.

     From Pilar's room, a badly shaken Faun'uir called out to U-Tar for help. Before he completed his cry a sweeping horizontal sword stroke produced a massive gash in Faun'uir stomach. The Marg-arn crumpled to his knees mortally wounded. With a faint gasp the Marg-arn slumped to the ground and passed into unconsciousness.

     Pilar's companions quickly filled the hall. U-Tar was nowhere to be seen. Suddenly, hoof beats could be heard from the street below. Bal'ma-ki rushed to the window of his room, bow in hand, but it was too late. U-Tar had escaped.

     Fifteen minutes of search produced the badly beaten body of the unconscious innkeeper who was found outside in the alley behind some barrels. Jess helped the poor man to bed and promised to look in on him in the morning. The innkeeper was grateful and offered free food and board to the party for the next week.

     “We'll see,” replied Jess, thanking him for his kind offer.

Reviews

[Charles D. Moorer]

Captivting writing. The pace is just right; the narrative and dialog flow beautifully. One can see the story unfolding. I know at some point Pilar and Seth will dovetail into one plot line, and I can’t wait. I agree with the previous reviewer, it has a Lord of the Rings feel to it.

[James Watts]

This, my friend, is an excellent write. Some of the best I have read here on the cafe. The story is progressing at a nice pace and it holds the readers' interest. Has a Lord of the Rings feel to it. Not bad work at all.