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 |  |  | | | The land of Ilyria is bruised and dying under the growing evil power of
Morgeth. And the evil is spreading. All of Alatheia is in danger. As you
read Necromancer you slip into a world of magic and mystery, both good
and evil, that only a master storyteller could weave. Expertly woven
into the tapestry of Alatheia is a small band of would-be heroes. Bound
together by prophecy, held together by love for their land and each
other they will set out to save their world. Their journey is not easy,
and there are those in the band that will pay the ultimate price, but
they will not falter in their quest to rid their home of the evil
Necromancer.
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Prologue
They urged their horses on, faster and faster, hooves merely a blur
beneath them. They had to stay ahead, maintain a distance. Spurs flashed
in the moonlight, sending shards of silver into the night and
disappearing into the deep forest surrounding them. Four pairs of legs
willingly carried their masters with as much speed as they could muster,
despite the weariness that edged its way into their lean muscles. The
riders’ mounts were built for such endurance, but even they could not
run forever.
A ruthless sounding horn blasted a hole in the quiet night; the
valkyries were gaining on them. The distance between them was closing at
a rate that could not be matched by any human, elf or horse. The lights
from welcoming houses glinted in the distance. They were a league out
and spurred their horses onward. The horses blew streams of white
frosted air into the night with every breath; every step counted here.
They pulled up short, having undetectably passed all the dimly lit
houses in the town. A dark-cloaked man mounted upon a silver-white horse
waited patiently in the middle of the Rathos Firth. His face was not
visible behind his hood, and without hesitation the child carried in the
embrace of a fair-headed elven maiden was placed in his arms. They
could only hope to chance, luck and fate that they had chosen true.
Without a word, the stranger turned his horse into the current and flew
upstream away from the two riders.
Their eyes met, and as another horn blasted behind them they urged
their horses forward through the foaming water toward the far side. If
they could only keep these foul creatures on their trail for a few more
leagues; before they finally had to turn and fight. Their horses lurched
up the damp earth along the side of the Rathos Firth and charged into
the inky night. Hooves struck against the stones and loose soil that
covered the ground, scattering showers of damp earth into the night.
Leagues flew by and the moon passed overhead as the creatures closed the
gap. They reached a small clearing surrounded by gnarled oak trees.
Pulling their horses to a sliding stop at the far side they dismounted
and turned loose their weary steeds. They were prepared for battle.
The horn blasted again and a grey-black mass tumbled through the
clearing’s far edge. The valkyries were an army amassed for one thing…to
kill and destroy. They were an army of demon soldiers.
The valkyries were hideous beings; lean and tall, without a single
hair on their ash gray bodies. Their eyes were milky white as though
they were blind, but instead were large and depthless pools of soul-less
malevolence. They had small human-like ears, and had sharp hooked and
pointed noses that jutted sharply downward. Thin-lipped sneers revealed
small barbed teeth. They wore chain-linked armor over slate gray tunics
which only served to emphasize their empty eyes, and they carried
roughly crafted short swords at their waists. Broad shields with a large
crest upon it – a red-eyed crow’s head crossed by two swords – were
held up by muscled arms, and maces were swung wildly above the creatures
heads in anticipation of bloodshed.
The elf readied her bow and nocked an arrow, training it upon the
dark shape of a valkyrie. Her flaxen hair was held in place by a pearl
circlet, away from her elegant and refined face, revealing slightly
pointed ears and the faint blue outline of a dragon’s eye behind the
left. It was the mark of an elf. She was slight in size but this belied
her true abilities in battle. At her side she carried a long and slender
elven blade, built for speed and strength. It was light to wield but
deadly to all those it touched. Etched along its center were elvish
runes. Her bow was of the finest elven craftsmanship and a quiver of
skillfully made arrows hung across her back. Her robe was of silk and
she wore a slim silver and leather belt at her waist to carry her sword.
The man wrapped a stout hand around the gilded hilt of his own blade
and drew it from its leather sheath. He was muscular and lean with a
dark mass of hair flowing to his shoulders. His eyes shone blue even in
the dark night as though he were seeing the ocean from somewhere in his
mind. On his hand he bore a ring – a silver and gold band garnished with
elven script engraved both inside and out – and crowned with the symbol
of a red sun upon it. His clothing was simple and raw; that of a simple
peasant. The same faint red sun which was found on his ring was also
found behind his right ear and gave away who he was. It was the mark of a
leader of men, through blood, not war.
He nodded at the elf, their eyes catching each other for a brief second
as she released her arrow and whispered “Sii fila nomentu (Fly without
mercy)”.
The arrow shot straight and true towards the ignorant valkyries. It
struck the temple of one, driving deep into his skull; he did not have
time to make a sound. He hit the ground and a red glow built around him,
throbbing and pulsating. The valkyries withdrew in fear but did not
move far, staring from their fallen comrade to the elf, who had already
nocked another arrow, and back again.
Again she released the arrow, this time without a sound, and pierced
the heart of the red orb that had grown from the pulsating light. It
shattered, and shards flew into the hearts and skulls, legs and arms of
the valkyries. No sound but the guttural gurgling of the dying and
wounded interrupted the night. The man who stood alert and aware beside
the elf, sword drawn in readiness for battle, looked neither surprised
nor affected by the display of power.
Something snapped eerily behind them. Before either could turn to
face the new enemy, a voice dripping with a sense of evil so rhythmic it
was alluring, spoke three words, “Il nekra gordeak (Bind their
essence).”
Neither the elf nor her companion could move; they were bound as if
with ropes. These bindings were not of twine or hemp but of magic origin
and they did not restrain just the bodies of the elf and man. She
thought through the words needed to break the bonds but found that the
curse also bound her memory. She could not break the invisible barrier
around them.
Zoruna, for that was his name – and the elf knew it as surely as her
own though she had never laid eyes upon him – stepped from the cloaking
darkness of the trees. He was not man, dwarf or elf kind. Neither was he
a valkyrie, although he held some sway over them it seemed. He was one
of the Darklings; a secretive race who dwelt in the deepest recesses of
the mountains of Ascaroth and were bound by black magic.
His face was white but it did not reflect the silver light from the
stars or moon; instead it had a translucent, death-like quality about
it. His hair was of the same color as his face but had the texture of
the finest spider silk; it barely existed. His faint and shallow set
eyes were black with hints of writhing flames, revealing the demon
within. All that the elf could see of his garb was a flowing red robe
which reached below his feet, brushing the ground with each step he
took. The rise of the robe to his left side was evidence of a sword,
heavy and well worn. She knew this sword, for tales of it and its master
plagued even elvish stories of the past. Its name was Karuth, and many
men, elves and gnomes had fallen beneath it.
Zoruna was flanked by four other individuals of similar features and
garb. Although they were of smaller stature they instilled no less fear
in those that stood, or knelt before them. Despite the success against
the valkyries, the she-elf and man felt all hope draining from their
hearts.
“Where is the child?” A grating and penetrating voice came from Zoruna. “Tell me and I will spare your lives.”
They knew he lied; he would never release them alive, no matter the
content of their speech. The elf bowed her head but the man by her side
closed his eyes and said, “I will tell you only this: You have followed
us like dogs for many days, and over many leagues, but we are without
the child. He perished within days of our departure from Caervasa and we
have been in flight for the safety of our own lives and no more.”
“You lie,” growled Zoruna, and raised his sword. The man and elf
bowed their heads, knowing they would never see their son grow. The elf
struggled through her memories. She grabbed desperately onto the magic
she needed while she fought Zoruna’s invisible restraints, and uttered
four elvish words, “Sumen noreth fi andu (Veil out of sight).” As Karuth
fell, the elf’s sword and the man’s ring disappeared into the night,
and man and elf knew no more.
Her name was Gith’rael Rohallion, the daughter of the Lord of Elves.
His name was Gannon Sunweaver, the son of Marden; deceased King of Ilyria.
Seventeen years were to pass before the son of Gith’rael and Gannon
would learn his destiny; before the prophecies of old were to be
fulfilled.
PART 1
Chapter 1
A loud persistent knock against the aging oak of the door roused
Caradoc Daggerfell of the Raharu Clan from the most disturbing sleep he
had had in many a long year. His dreams were vivid and troubling; images
of valkyries and war clouded out any view of peace that usually
pervaded his slumber.
The knock came again, louder and seemingly more persistent if it were
possible. He threw off the rough woolen blanket, slowly pulled his
weather-beaten boots onto his feet and stood. He felt old on cold
mornings such as this, and although he had many years behind him, he
knew he had just as many ahead of him – if the tip of a sword didn’t
find him first.
He grumbled to himself as he made his way across the rough-hewn floor
of the room that had served him as a hideout for the past few months.
Soldier numbers had been increasing steadily around Telarius, one of
Ilyria’s main cities, and they made Caradoc none too comfortable. They
weren’t specifically looking for him but still he tried to avoid
trouble; if they found him, only Morgeth would know who and what he was.
The morning was unusual, not just for the odd dreams that had plagued
him, but also because specific orders had been given that he was never
to be disturbed, under any circumstances. He drew his sword; an ancient
elvish blade that had seen many years of use, before he turned the
tarnished brass handle and pulled the door inwards. There was no one
there – or more accurately no man was there. What sat in the doorway was
a cat, red with blond streaks and amber eyes. It picked up its paws,
ambled through the door and into the room as if it owned the place.
Caradoc closed the door and slid his sword back into the sheath. This
was no enemy, and as he watched, the cat grew. It changed form until an
auburn and blond long-haired man of middling years stood before him. He
was tall and bore an austere expression, tainted with a slight sneer of
superiority. From the man’s shoulders hung a floor-length, iron-grey
robe; a shady cowl hiding his face. He leant upon a silvered ash staff
topped with moonstone; it was threaded through and around with red which
shimmered in the faint moonlight that pierced the window.
“Caradoc, my old friend!” His arms outstretched as the two embraced
and the stranger’s stern manner relaxed. “Far too long it has been, yes;
far too little time we have, not enough time.”
Caradoc avoided pleasantries; it was not his style. “Fen, it is
certainly always a pleasure to see you, but solemn times are always what
bring you to me.”
“Yes, yes, solemn times are ahead. It has been almost seventeen years
since you saw the child?” Caradoc nodded as Fen pushed back the cowl of
his robe. “I have spent the years since he was hidden away with the
elves of Dath’erim, studying the elven prophecies that speak of him.
They also speak of the people who will aid him; those that will help him
to fulfill those prophecies and bring an end to Morgeth’s power. The
boy cannot do this alone, Caradoc. He is vulnerable until the sword and
ring are re-united in his hands. Only his blood can do this; of that the
elves made sure.”
Caradoc felt confused, he had thought hiding the boy would be enough. “What changed?”
“Morgeth changed. He is no longer content with tyrannizing Telarius,
its people and those close to the city. He threatens war on every land
that opposes him. He looks for the boy; he knows the legends. The boy he
wants for his own, to kill him; no longer just from the king does he
draw his power.”
Caradoc dropped his gaze to the floor. Somehow, through his own
dreams he knew this; knew of the war and of the unrest, of Morgeth’s
quest for ultimate power until all the peoples of Ilyria and then all
the kingdoms of Alatheia were under his iron fist. This also explained
the increasing numbers of soldiers marching through Telarius at all
hours of the day and night.
“You have come to me for a reason Fen; this is no social visit. What is it that you need from me old friend?”
“An elf from the lands beyond Sam Nuthen; from Tunitha, a girl of few
years; a magron from beneath the Baur Mountains; an elven horse from
beyond the northern edge of Ilyria…” he paused, his eyes sad, “…for a
man of many and little years, and of a half-breed with magic within
him…and of course the boy.”
Caradoc knew why the mage’s eyes were sad, for the prophecies talked
of them both. He knew they talked of a journey fraught with danger and
he knew that some of them would not see the end. He nodded. “If this is
what we must do, and without us the boy will not succeed, then my life
is forfeit against whatever it is I must do to protect him. You know
this already, you know that upon my honor I cannot refuse; would not
choose to refuse.”
A thin smile formed upon Fen’s worn face. “No doubt I had, my friend,
that honor you would find in this task and that you would shoulder this
burden. Outlines only do the prophecies give us, and we must find them
before the boy turns seventeen.”
“The horse, the elves of Sam Nuthen already had; across the mountains
she came to them from Dath’erim, and with me she came to Telarius. Take
her and find the girl; sixteen also she will be, born the same day as
the boy. A mark she bears below her heart where she was pierced by an
arrow. One blue eye she has, and green the other will be. She is human,
but she will have ears like an elf.”
“I will find her, but what of the others? What do the prophecies say of them?” His voice was curious but grim.
“The elf, I know not whether they are he-elf or she-elf, but born
under the highest sun and brightest moon they were. They will be skilled
above all others with a bow, and also from the elven land of Dath’erim.
The magron we will find when we get there, for most vague the
prophecies are about them.”
“Get where?”
“Once your task to find the girl is completed, take the horse to
Darrow where you left the boy. Leave the horse and watch the town. You
will know when the boy is ready to leave. To Malior you must bring him,
for that is where we will meet – and find the last member of the
company. Send the girl there and find her a horse.
“I must depart now for Sam Nuthen, for age wears on me; I am not the
man I used to be. Before he turns seventeen the boy must be gone from
Darrow. Find the girl in Tunitha you will.” He pounded the floor three
times with his staff. His form changed once more as he shrank in size to
the tiny red and white cat that had first entered the room. He climbed
onto the window ledge of a window set ajar and disappeared onto the roof
below.
Caradoc leaned against the wall, his arms outstretched, feeling the
rough plaster beneath the palms of his hands. His head hung heavy on his
shoulders and he allowed it to drop forward to stare at the floor. He
felt as though he hadn’t taken a breath since Fen had entered the room,
and now he sucked in the air. His whole body felt weak and he shook his
head. He was feeling his age, for in human terms he was almost eighty.
With the blessing of the elves at his birth and with the blood-line of
his clan, he would live for more than three times that of most humans,
without the effects that great age would normally bring.
He knew it wasn’t really his age he was feeling but the weight of the
future that Fen had just drawn him into; he knew he was called to do
this. He was one of only a few of his lineage left, and not one of them
knew where the others could be found. He was a great swordsman, and none
but the greatest of elves could outclass him in a fight; his heritage
saw to that. The boy needed him and he would not fail.
Caradoc traveled light for he had want for little and needed less.
Since he was the last son of his tribe, substantial wealth had been left
to him after the most recent battles against Morgeth. His boots were
already on his feet but he gathered the few belongings he had; his sword
in its leather sheath standing beside the door where he had left it. He
buckled it snuggly around his waist. Around his shoulders he wrapped an
ankle-length, hooded elven cloak. Despite its light weight, it shielded
him from the worst weather Ilyria, or any other country in Alatheia,
could throw at him. He retrieved a small dagger from beneath the pillow
and slid it into a scabbard on the opposite side of his belt to the
sword. He glanced around the room; it looked bare and barren, as though
no one had been in the room for months. The only telling sign that
anyone had been staying there was the slightly warm and wrinkled sheet
covering the mattress, and the rumpled woolen blanket which had slid to
the floor.
Was this really a way to live? He wondered. He pulled his hood over
his head, hiding his face as best he could. He would have preferred to
have left under the cover of darkness, but Fen’s urgent arrival and
hasty departure meant there was little time to wait on convenience.
He opened the old oak door which separated the room he was in from a
dark corridor. Hurriedly he stepped through, closing the door and
sealing off the light which permeated the dingy space now surrounding
him. It was still early. When Fen had left, the sky through the window
still had a slightly purple tint to it. The sun was barely up.
He listened, and except for the occasional scurrying mouse above him
in the rafters, no one else was yet stirring. The inn seemed almost
deserted as he traveled as quickly and quietly as he could over the
slightly creaky floorboards. At the top of the winding stairs he paused
to listen again, but still he heard nothing, and crept down the darkened
staircase to the vestibule behind the mead room. He lifted the latch of
the rear door pulling it towards him, allowing the new air of the
morning to permeate the musty air of the inn behind him.
The purple had departed the sky above him and was now a pale
lingering blue. It would not be long before people were starting to move
in their beds, stirring to a new day and the same repetitive labors.
With the off-chance that someone was looking out of a nearby window,
Caradoc did not want to arouse suspicion. He strode confidently to the
stables not twenty paces from the rear door of the inn. His grey
stallion Elthed had been confined to one of the back stalls. He nickered
quietly when he heard Caradoc’s stealthy steps coming towards him. In
the adjoining stall stood a large, black mare; she was of the same rare
breeding as Elthed. She was akin in build and character to the great
grey equine, and in her eye was an unusual intelligence. She was the
elven horse Fen had left him; she had been left un-haltered and there
would be no needed for one now.
The door bolt of the stall that Elthed occupied slid back with a
rough grating sound, but the door itself opened silently. The horse
bowed one knee and allowed Caradoc to climb upon his graceful back then
he stood and waited.
Looking into the eye of the black mare, Caradoc whispered, “Namen I
thena ur (Follow me my friend).” She nickered soft and low, and he
nodded.
“Sin Tunitha, Elthed fur dulenia inr’a (To Tunitha we must go
Elthed).” Elthed stepped forward, pausing only to allow Caradoc to reach
down and release the bolt upon the door which separated them from the
black elven horse. The gate swung open and the two horses picked up a
swift trot as they left the dawn-darkened barn.
Caradoc whistled softly, almost too quietly for human ears as they
emerged from beneath the low timbers, and from behind him came a hawk.
She swooped down towards him in an arc, pulling up a hair’s breadth
before she collided with Elthed, turning and landing on Caradoc’s
outstretched arm.
“Good morning Esra.” The tiny hawk cocked her head. “Thi’sen yuna
Esra (Good sun-up [morning] Esra),” and she ruffled her feathers,
flitting to his nearest shoulder.
They turned from the yard onto the cobbled streets of Telarius.
Caradoc pulled his hood low to his eyes but no one even glanced their
way, and soon they were through southern gate and the whole of Ilyria
lay before them.
He had chosen to leave though the eastern entrance and circumnavigate
the city to head south-west. He didn’t believe anyone had an interest
in him, but now Morgeth was searching for the boy he didn’t want to be
remembered. He was determined to cover their tracks and disguise his
true destination with simple diversion tactics. He whispered to Esra who
immediately took to the skies. His spy above watched the lands around
them for any trouble that they would want to avoid.
Elthed continued at a trot until the sun was a hand’s breadth above
the horizon. Then without urging, and with the understanding of a horse
bred by the elves beyond Ilyria, he stretched out his long legs beneath
him and raced along the banks of Lake Tela. Sand flew as each foot was
placed against the ground and pushed the refined equine body through the
air; a silver arrow above the ground. Each footfall was echoed by the
sleek black mare which ran with him, side by side. Their coats glinted
in the early morning sun and plumes of warm breath escaped their velvet
noses.
The ground disappeared in a blur beneath Caradoc and he rocked back and
forth rhythmically to the movement of the animal beneath him. Horses
like this were never broken, and to place a saddle on their back or a
bridle in their mouth would be an insult. They would consent to being
ridden only by those they had chosen, and it was their position to keep
you upon their back.
Tunitha lay seven long days of riding to the south west of Telarius.
There was only one other town which lay between them and Tunitha. Faerug
was small but it was a place he knew could purchase another horse for
the girl. He would not see Faerug until the sun was at least at its
zenith on the fifth day, for it was only a two day ride from Tunitha.
As dusk drew in Elthed slowed, and at a copse of trees Caradoc
dismounted. Esra had gone hunting but he knew she would be there at
sun-up; he did not worry about her. Elthed nickered to the onyx mare and
they ambled away in search of soft shoots on which to munch. Whether
because of the sun, or the speed and distance they had traveled that day
– or both – the two horses shimmered with sweat. They rolled, glorying
in the dust they kicked up, and as if they were one being, together they
stood, shook and nuzzled each other.
Elthed squealed and stomped the ground with his foot, “Still horses,”
Caradoc laughed to himself as the two animals faded into the dwindling
light.
The sun was already well past the peak of its climb on day five of
his journey before Caradoc saw the low-lying buildings of Faerug. It
wasn’t long at Elthed’s fast pace that the southern gate would be before
them.
Again, Caradoc did not want to draw attention to himself and his horses.
“Guthera Elthed (Slow Elthed),” and the horse slowed and finally
stopped. His sides moved in and out with heavy breaths, but it was not
labored. “Thegua qu’eren, agu delenia inr’a dunah’tha Faerug. Se’I fur
hutha thi’in lu, (Black horse, you must go around Faerug. At sun down we
will meet),” and the black mare trotted away towards the east. He
whistled for the hawk and as she settled upon his arm he said to her,
“Kuro namen, kuro raethar, (Follow her, watch her).” She took flight
after the disappearing mare.
Elthed looked on, a hint of unhappiness in his eyes. “I know you like
her my friend, but she’ll only be gone a few hours. First we must
acquire a horse for this girl. It would look odd for us to need another
horse when it looks as though we are not using one we already have.”
Caradoc laughed despite himself. Elthed understood Ilyrian as well as he
understood elvish, but he rarely listened. “Why do I talk to you as
such brother?”
Elthed nickered and picked up a trot towards Faerug. Soon they were
walking beneath the timbers that stood sentinel against the Northern
Plains. Guards were posted and looked up as Caradoc and his mount passed
by them, nodding their heads in his direction. He didn’t stand out
then!
Faerug was small. It was a place he had passed through on more than
one occasion, for varying reasons. Elthed kept a steady pace along the
dusty streets until they reached a small single storey building,
unobtrusive except for a palm-sized sign above the blue front door that
said ‘Inn’. It was one of those places you went if you didn’t want to be
found. It was full of the nastiest sorts of creatures, mostly on the
run from ‘work parties’; punishment set out for the worst offenders of
Ilyria by the guardian. It was not the inn that Caradoc sought, but that
which lay to the right of it; a gate.
Sliding from Elthed’s broad back he rapped sharply against the newly
painted gate. A peep window opened through which poked an ugly,
rough-shaped noise. It sniffed.
“Caradoc?”
“Yes Goro Goldhammer, now let me in.”
The peep window closed, the gate swung in and man and horse slipped
deftly through the narrow opening. Before Caradoc stood a gnome, a
little more than half the man’s height but stocky, and who smelled like
he’d been sleeping in the pig trough. The long beard that hung from his
chin to his chest was matted, and particles of food had been caught it
in like flies in a spider’s web.
“Ever think about taking a bath Goro, you smell like the stalls you
clean!” The gnome looked at Caradoc from beneath his caterpillar
eyebrows and grinned sheepishly.
“I ‘ad one when th’ moon was full las’.”
Caradoc shook his head in bewilderment as the last full moon was five
nights ago, “You mean the one before we just had?” Goro nodded guiltily.
Caradoc kept a fair distance so as not to be continuously assaulted by
the smell coming from the little rock of a gnome.
“Goro, I need a horse. I want a good one mind you, nothing that will let me down.”
“What you need one of ‘em fer?” He looked puzzled. “You go’ tha’ great grey beastie there, an’ he’s bee-utiful to boot.”
“We both know where Elthed is from Goro, and we both know he won’t
take a saddle. Now I need a saddle horse to carry provisions, no
questions asked.”
Goro’s eyes looked wide as dinner bowls and a knowing smile could
vaguely be seen beneath the shrubbery that grew from his face. He
winked.
“Got you there, won’ be no trouble. You need a saddle an’ bridle then too?”
Caradoc nodded.
The gnome disappeared through a half-sized door and Caradoc could
hear him lumbering back and forth through the straw and hay that lay
beyond. The occasional clink of metal against metal could be heard along
with the slap of leather. Time passed and he watched the shadows moving
slowly across the compacted dirt of the stable. He was beginning to
wonder what was taking the half-sized creature so long when a thunderous
crash echoed throughout the yard. A full-sized door, around the corner
from the convenient gnome-sized one, was heaved open with too much
effort and banged back against the wall.
Out came Goro, huffing and puffing, and what could be seen of his
face as he stared at the ground, was flushed. This was a surprise to
Caradoc for the gnomes were a yellow-skinned race. The gnome grumbled to
himself as he led a golden horse with white mane out of the darkness
and into the light of the morning. She was beautiful, but no elven
horse. Caradoc stood, a keen eye watching her movement as Goro stepped
her forward. Her muscles flexed and he saw no sign of lameness in her
legs.
“She’s good.” Caradoc nodded, pulling a leather pouch from beneath his cloak. “How much?”
“I owes you sir, you saved me ‘ide before. She’s yours. ‘er name’s
Dai’eth, no elven ‘orse mind you, but she’s a good ‘un. There’s also
provisions tucked int’ them there bags.” Goro pointed towards two rather
large bags tied to the rear of the saddle, “blanket an’ water too.”
Caradoc nodded again and smiled. Gnomes never forgot a debt owed, but
still he removed two gold coins and placed them into the pocket of the
gnome’s tattered and filthy tunic.
Goro looked horrified. “Sir, my ‘onor is at stake ‘ere, I can’ take no money from you.”
“You can and you will, Goro my friend. I’m just paying for your baths
for a whole year, so you have no excuse. Purely for my benefit you
understand.”
The look of horror disappeared from the poor gnome’s face and his
whole body twisted as he let out a huge guffaw. He roared with laughter
until tears streamed down his cheeks and into his beard.
“Got it my frien’, will take me baths,” and he hobbled back through
the human sized door, pulling it closed behind him as he went. Caradoc
could still hear the occasional laugh through the walls as he opened the
gate to the street. He led the sun-colored addition to his herd through
the narrow portal. Elthed followed, dipping nimbly to a knee as Caradoc
mounted, attempting to draw little or no attention. With a set of reins
in hand leading the fire-touched mare they left Faerug without so much
as a glance from another inhabitant. Caradoc tipped his head at the two
guards at the north gate who returned the gesture, then refocused back
on their card game. He doubted he would be remembered by sundown, let
alone seven days hence.
Several leagues beyond the outskirts of Faerug, as the shadows were
growing long and the sun was making haste towards the western horizon,
Caradoc could see the vague shape of a regal horse. She was blurred by
bushes and the evening light, and had taken to a place that offered
hiding should she need it, or had the rider and horse not been Caradoc
and Elthed. Elthed paused, sniffing the air, and nickered as the black
horse stepped boldly out of her veiled waiting place. It was a good
place to stop until the sun rose in the morning.
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