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| wDrentshi is now called Zetsoi, for your reference...: Friday, November 18, 2005 | |
Chapter 3 In the town of Buoka, a merchant ship prepared to set sail. “Do you have everything you need, Wronsteit?” said a man--his skin was the olive of the native islanders and showed signs of sunburn. The other man, whose skin was fair and whose hair was a pale honey colored blond, smiled. “I am sure that I do,” he said, thrusting his hands into the pockets of his deep blue robe. “You have been most accommodating. These goods are highly sought back home, and I shall be welcomed on my return.” The native man laughed. “Well, well,” he said quietly. “You paid good enough coin for it, of course. Turn a profit, will you?” Wronsteit also laughed. “Always,” he said. His blue eyes skimmed the docks, crowded with men and women with dark hair, moving crates and casting lines, and then restlessly returned to the ship that floated a few yards away. The island merchant bid him farewell and he nodded, then sprung lightly up the ramp to the ship. He smiled and waved a long arm as the other bid him farewell again, but already his mind and his eyes were elsewhere. He peered through the crowd, but there was nothing--nothing! Inwardly he cursed. The captain approached him as he leaned on the ship’s starboard rail. “My lord?” he queried. Wronsteit looked up quickly. For a moment his eyes were dangerous--then his teeth flashed in a grin. “Come now, my captain. I am no lord, especially not to you.” The rotund, grizzled little man grunted slightly, and Wronsteit’s eyes tightened imperceptibly--the captain looked down quickly. “Assuredly, sir,” he said, “But I was wondering if everything was arranged for our departure.” Wronsteit let his gaze travel the length of the ship and then across the crowded dock--still, nothing. He frowned, and one gloved hand lifted to tug at the short beard that decorated his pointed chin. “Not yet, Captain. I’m afraid I am still waiting for some supplies. They should be here within the hour, though.” The captain nodded and turned away, and Wronsteit growled low under his breath, “He’d better be back by then.” And in the depths of the city a small boy, perhaps ten years old, backed himself against the wall of an alley. One of the three men approaching him smacked his fist into his palm. “Rotten thief,” he spat. “You stole from the wrong man this time.” The other two exchanged laughs and spread out, cornering the boy. He watched them now rather nonchalantly. In his hand he held a short sword in its sheath--with one swift move he drew it. “This is an excellent blade,” he said quietly, his child’s voice piping yet serious. “And an expensive one, too,” said the man, taking a few steps forward. He stopped quickly as the boy brought the blade up into a guarding stance, and then he laughed. “What, you’re going to cut me?” The boy’s eyes were flat grey, the color of wet stone. “I am going to take this blade and leave,” he said, and closed his small hand more firmly over the rounded handle. “No-o...” said the man, and he grinned amidst the laughter of the other two. He was a slightly pudgy older man with the big forearms and calves of a field worker. “You’re going to hand it over all nice and quiet like, and then maybe I won’t beat you to death.” The surface of the blade caught the sun briefly, and then it flashed through the air. The larger man fell back with a cry, a hand going to his face, and the young boy sprang past him, the tip of the blade now touched with crimson. The other two men, built but not as pudgy as the first, with the same black hair and half-tanned skin as the rest of the islanders, closed on the boy but in their surprise they were too slow. He dropped to the ground and threw himself between the knees of one, then rolled to his feet, kicked the other man in the kneecap and the first man in the small of the back. The latter stumbled and cursed, lurching after him, but in an instant the boy had sheathed the bloody sword and disappeared down the street. He ran on, his small legs churning. The sun showed that it was far past their meeting time--Wronsteit would be upset. He grinned, shaking his head to get the sweat from his grey eyes and wincing as the braided black strands on either side of his face whipped against his skull. At last he reached a quiet spot and took a moment to tuck the short sword down the back of his shirt. Its pommel stuck out beneath his length of black hair and poked him in the neck. When he was relatively sure that it would not fall or be noticed, he continued on his way at a more casual walk. A quick glance around showed that Wronsteit was not on the pier, and for a moment he almost panicked. But then he saw that the ship was still at the dock and he sighed in relief to see the tall lean frame topped with a long shock of blond hair that was his master. He pushed his way through the crowd, keeping his head down until he reached the ship and then climbing the gangplank hurriedly. When he reached the deck he glanced around but Wronsteit was nowhere to be seen. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the sword against his muscles, and strolled nonchalantly towards his cabin. He had gone no more than a few paces, however, when a hand clamped down on his right shoulder and stopped him. The boy almost jumped out of his skin, but then Wronsteit’s voice hissed in his ear, “You are late, Nevaya.” “Sorry, Master,” Nevaya murmured, swallowing against the lump that had risen in his throat. “I trust you were successful regardless?” “Of course.” He flashed a grin backwards at the blond man who received the gesture coldly. “Wait for me in the cabin.” The hand left his shoulder and the tall man was gone instantly, silently. Nevaya shook himself free from his dazed stupor and headed for Wronsteit’s cabin quickly, avoiding the gazes of the sailors and the few ambassadors and tradesmen of Peloria who were still on deck--those for the most part were uncomfortable on sea voyages and stayed in their cabins until the ship arrived at the next dock. He went inside and sat down cross legged on his bed mat, pulled the sword from his shirt and removed the sheath, and commenced to clean the fine blade with a corner of his spare tunic. When he had finished he put the blade away again and leaned back against the wall. As he waited for his master to return he dozed lightly in the seated position. The movement of the ship as the sails billowed and caught the wind jerked him awake, and a minute later Wronsteit came in and shut the door behind him. “You have it?” he said, and then his eyes flickered around the room and he rummaged around through his pocket until he found the paper scroll that held the spell and pressed it against the door. White light flashed briefly, and then faded, and Wronsteit sat down with his legs half folded under him at the short bench next to the cot in which he slept and beckoned to the boy. Obediently Nevaya got to his feet and, pulling the sheathed sword from his shirt, he handed it to his master. “I apologize,” he said clearly. “I did not mean to be late. But these islanders are very careful with their blades, and even the clumsy fool I lifted this one from was cautious enough to notice me.” Wronsteit, who had accepted the sword and was turning it over between his palms slowly, looked up sharply at this. “You get yourself into a fight?” he demanded. The boy shrugged. “Just a small one.” “Did you kill them?” “I thought it better to return quickly than to ensure their deaths, since I was already late.” He hung his head, and the few strands of braided hair fell forward with the motion. The rest stayed tucked behind his ears. The man grunted, a mixed sound of both displeasure and indifference, took hold of the pommel and half drew the sword. The blade glittered in the pale lamplight of the cabin, and he nodded in satisfaction. “A good blade. You chose well.” Nevaya remained half bowed. “But that was the strange thing, sir,” and at that Wronsteit looked up again at him, surprised. “They were all of equal caliber. I saw the shops that sold them, the men who drew them. I could have taken any blade in the city--machete, short sword, long sword, even a kitchen knife--and it would have born the same excellence. Whoever makes these swords is a good man.” Wronsteit said nothing for a long moment, but he examined the shining blade and at the base, where the blade met the hilt, he found etched the form of a dragon’s claw--the maker’s mark. “It is neither your place nor mine to guess as to the nature of the maker,” he said. “We do what we’re told, nothing more.” The boy deepened his bow and then straightened. “Yes, sir.” Wronsteit nodded a second time. “Very well. Since you were in fact successful this time, take the rest of the day as a break. We’ve not much to do besides wait until we reach the mainland, but we can train tomorrow.” “Thank you, sir,” said Nevaya, bowing slightly again, and then he turned and went out the door. He loitered on the main deck, watching the sailors, and then after a while he found himself a bench and sat, watching the passing of the sea instead. Wronsteit leaned back on the bench in silence for a moment, and then after a while he went and got a scroll from one of his bags and began to read. xxxxxDRAGONSCENExxxxx A breeze swept the face of the volcano--a thin tendril of it entered the mouth of a cave, lifting dust from the craggy floor and pushing deep into the cavern. It brushed the distant tunnel that was the cave’s only other major exit, besides numerous small outcroppings and crevices here and there, but a rush of hot sulfur laden air pushed the little breeze back out the mouth it had come from, along with a belch of smoke. A strange sound like the toll of a bell rose with the hot air. Follow the hot draft and the sound down--down the tunnel, covered in darkness, towards a distant red glow. The tunnel opened eventually into another cavern--one that resonated with the sound of a bell, over and over. A hammer on metal. Each blow struck a shower of white sparks from the glowing slice. Ring. Ring. The sounds echoed in the large cavern. Drademar hesitated, stretched his claws in the grip around the metal handle of the hammer, filling the air with the grating of his scales. Then he lifted the strip of metal, still glowing, from the flat rock shelf where he had hammered it and thrust it into the slightly bubbling river of magma that meandered nearby. The half formed blade heated immediately and he dragged it out of the magma, clearing droplets from it with a flick of his heavy wrist, and placed it again on the rock shelf. The hammer rose and fell, and the strip of metal flattened and spread. He reached out--claws hovered over an assortment of other tools. After a moment’s hesitant decision, he selected a smaller hammer and began to work again. Beneath his ministrations and the flying sparks, a blade began to form. When he had it shaped as he wanted it--who knew how much time had passed? Time didn’t matter in such a place as the depths of the dormant volcano, not when night and day were obscured by rock and glowing fire. When he had it properly shaped he flapped his wings a few times, sending drafty air currents spiraling to the pinnacle of the cavern, carrying sparks with them. He gave the blade a few more tentative taps with the hammer, and then hummed to himself in delight, picked up the glowing strip, and plunged it into a nearby bucket. There was some little amount of steam, and Drademar peered, surprised, into the bucket to find that only a trickle of water remained in the bottom--that now quickly evaporating under the heat of the metal. He sighed, placed the strip back on the counter near the magma river where the cavern’s temperature would keep it from cooling too much, picked up the bucket by its handle in one claw, and turned back towards the tunnel from which he had come. It was easy going through the dark tunnel for him--he knew well all its twists and turns, since he had lived there for years. When he emerged into the brightly lit cavern halfway up the mountain’s face, sunlight glittering against the rocky walls told him it was day. He went to the water barrel and found that it, too, was empty, and a low growl of frustration escaped his throat. He scuffed a desolate cloud of dust with one clawed hind foot in the general direction of the barrel and scowled, then hurried to the mouth of the cave. For a moment he perched on the ledge, overlooking his domain. The dormant volcanic mountain curved underneath him, an expanse of rock littered with hints of greenery here and there. The sunlight glittered on the distant edges of the sea to the far right--to the left, the earth curved away into distant countryside. While he was technically on an island, it was large enough that an easy day’s flight could not cross it. He flared his wings, and the breeze caught at the webbing between the bony fingers and almost pushed him over. His talons bit into the rock as he worked to keep himself upright, and then he flapped once or twice, creating a whirlwind of dust in his wake. He leapt from the edge, bucket in hand, and skimmed down the face of the mountain, his scaled belly brushing shrubs and rocks aside. A small distance away there was a river that ran next to the plains and into the surrounding forest. He dropped down on one side of it, leaving deep footprints in the mud before scooping water into the bucket. A sigh escaped his lips--he should have filled the whole barrel, but the sword blade had to be quenched before it cooled and turned brittle. When the bucket was full he kicked off from the ground, the huge muscles of his shoulder working to pump the heavy wings as he struggle to gain altitude. When he reached the cave mouth Drademar clawed at the ledge until he had regained his balance once again, then folded his wings tightly up against his back and hurried down the tunnel once more. The temperature of the inner cavern and the blade’s proximity to the lava had indeed kept the strip of metal relatively hot. For good measure he held it above the lava and let it warm up again before adding a final light blow or two to the edge--then he plunged the blade into the bucket. Steam erupted from the bucket and boiled away. He waited a long moment, letting the blade cool down in the clear water, and then he pulled it free and laid it down again. The blade was that of a short sword and not yet fully formed--one of those used by many townsfolk and villagers. It would take another day’s work or two to finish it off to the caliber that he preferred, but right now he was hungry. It had been some time since he had last eaten--almost a week--and also the water barrel ought to be filled before he left. It was bad for the metal to sit too long without quenching. He lumbered up the darkened tunnel once more, and behind him the magma bubbled and steamed. xxxxxxxxxx “So,” Madrul’s father said several weeks after the trip into town, “Have you given any thought into your apprenticeship?” Madrul, who had been gathering firewood, almost dropped the stack. Blah blah blah and then he died Xxxxxxx The day of the annual dragon festival arrived with a golden sunrise, washing the palm trees and the canopy in an array of warm tangerine and yellow light. Madrul, his eyes full of sand from the late night prior, pushed himself out of bed and slapped away his younger brother’s hands as Rebe pulled excitedly at him. They dressed in their best tunics and cleanest togas, and joined the rest of the family in the main room. Tenari gave each a brief inspection, smoothing Rebe’s wild hair and straightening Madrul’s belt, helping Pedrac put in a pair of earrings. Then they left and walked through the woods until they came to the neighboring village of Keihilo. It was their week of celebrating the dragon festival and that meant that this week, of all the weeks in the year, the dragon would feed from their herds. The opportunity to provide sustenance for their protector was also an opportunity for an enormous celebration. The next two days would be full of dancing, feasts, and gift giving--a time of year that Madrul looked forward to as much as the end of the harvest season or the summer festival. As they approached Keihilo, they could see the community fire was already lit, in the village square. A tendril of black smoke rose towards a fragile blue sky, and the cries of the singers--and the dancers--spiraled after it. Family friends greeted Waef warmly as they approached, and he returned their embraces with a sincere fondness of his own. Tenari found the taller, thinner form of her sister amongst the crowd and tearfully seized her in a hug. Rebe, a sweet in hand, wandered about until he found his playmates. It was not long until Jorreked, Keirun, and Zetsoi found him, cornered by nearby cousins. With a nod to his relations and cheerful greetings, they dragged him away to run rampant with them throughout the crowds, stealing tidbits of food and avoiding relatives of all forms, until one aunt on the father’s side of someone’s family chased them away from the meal tables with a wooden spoon. When it came time to eat, they assembled along the tables, and the feast ensued. Everyone brought something to the meal--Waef’s family of course brought fish--in addition to those relatives who had been cooking since two days before, and the tables groaned with food. At last, when the sun had almost finished its descent, about half of the men from both villages took up staffs to drive the goats to the field, where the dragon would meet them and eat his fill, after which they would give him a crown of flowers and wish him well on his way. The singers and the drummers picked up the pace until their music was a frenzy, and the dancers swirled and trilled, the high pitched sound making Madrul’s blood race strangely, and the whole of the two villages shouted a farewell as the men disappeared down the road.
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