III. Whispers from the Long Summer of Nagarythe....

[Headshot]

Part 1

“We are here, Master Beneficio!” the voice called from outside.

The carriage door swung wide, letting in the blast of light, heat, and humidity that was the late afternoon of Tilea. Eduardo Beneficio seized the wooden sides of the carriage doorframe and pulled himself out into the street. He grunted as his shoes thudded onto the cobblestones.

The scent of the sea was strong here as ever. That curious mix of salt, cool breezes filled with spice, and the rotting stink of fish guts. Overhead the carrion gulls were thick; their cries echoing about the crowded buildings that lined one side of the street. The other was bordered by a low wall, just the height of a man’s chest; and beyond it, open sky, and a plummet of nearly a hundred fathoms to the harbor deep below. For this was Remas, City of the Arch. In ancient days the faeries from across the sea had lived here, building wall upon wall, palace upon palace, at the height of their arrogance and power. It was they who had founded the city; drawn to its deep, but sheltered, harbor. It was they who had built the original stone arch connecting the two winged promontories of land that formed the barriers of the harbor entrance. And atop the arch had sat their tall towers and fortresses; a bastion against conquerors from the sea….

But that had been in ancient times. The towers had long fallen, or been pulled down. Only the white naked stone of the arch itself had persevered, safe in its sheer massiveness. And as the race of man had come to this land, finding the empty ruins long abandoned by the faeries, they had claimed them as their own, and built upon them.

Now the white arch was buried – more a city legend then a fact of life. It lay beneath generations of red-brick cobblestones that lined the Remas streets, and the white plaster and yellow-bricks that formed the walls of the courtyards and villas that had sprouted up like mushrooms upon the great arch’s back. It was here that the wealthy of Remas dwelt. Safe high above the docks and drab labor of the city about the harbor. Here one street ran the length of the arch, bordered by its wall and spectacular views on the interior, and the high brick walls of the manors to the sea-side.

The early afternoon rains which usually flood the city streets throughout the first weeks of summer had stopped for the day. And the late afternoon heat had begun to bake the cobbles dry; now they almost hissed steam, as pools evaporated.

Eduardo wiped a sweaty brow with a cloth pulled from his coat pocket. He looked about. The streets were slowly filling with people, risen from the mid-afternoon slumbering. Tilean men and women, dark of hair, and swarthy of skin, began to line the walls of the avenue. Hawkers with their carts full of remedies and perfumes, competed with vagabond tumblers for the attention of the passerby. Fruit stalls thick with the ripe melons of the North, and the shriveled black fruits of the Great Desert, stood here and there, the criers pleading to the heavens above that nothing in them was older than a fortnight! Street urchins ran underfoot, and all those with any sense in their heads, kept a tight hand upon their purses. Minstrels and bards played a bedlam of different tales, all hoping to catch the ear of a wealthy merchant patron. There were even a pair of the southern mendicants seated against the harbor wall, garbed in dirty white robes, and the strange wicker basket head gear of their Order, hiding head and face from both Gods’ and man’s eyes as penance. From out of the innards of the basket hoods extended wooden pipes, which played a slow wailing tune.

All of this Eduardo took in with a glance. He had seen it before. Many a time, since he had come to this city.

Eduardo was an outlander. A single look would tell anyone that. His hair was light of color, straight and not curled like most of the Tilean dandies, and he wore it loose to his shoulders. His wan skin, slender nose, and bright eyes all marked him as one of the barbarians from the distant North. An empire they call it. Though in Tilea it was just a frozen land full of pines, that lay far too close to the Demon Lands, the place that no mortal should wander.

Eduardo approached the closest courtyard gate, passing through with scarce but a nod to the servant hastily holding the gate open for him. Once through the short tunnel that waited beyond, the sounds of the street became muffled – present still, like the buzzing of a bee beyond a pane of glass – but no longer palpable and consuming. Here in a merchant prince’s garden, there was space for a touch of tranquility; a quiet within the walled courtyard, punctuated by the rich, marble fountain that sparkled and spat in the center.

Eduardo had no glance to appreciate the courtyard garden that had cost him a small fortune, making his way briskly up to the doors leading to the villa itself. He swung them open, and saw….

“Tybalt!” he called in surprise as he entered the spacious entry foyer.

Tybalt, tall and lanky, with the hooked nose and oiled ringlets of a merchant lord of Remas, turned quickly at his call, a rogue-ish smile upon his face.

“Ah, my good friend Master Beneficio! Welcome home! Welcome home!” he said, the grin never leaving his face. Though Eduardo’s eyes were drawn to the man’s hands, quickly working to close the clasps of his outer doublet. “Your lovely companion was just showing me about your Villa.”

Eduardo’s eyes narrowed. He knew exactly what Tiffania had been showing him. But the girl, her long blonde hair all in curls, just stood there behind the merchant, tapping her foot on the floor as if bored.

Tybalt continued oblivious to everything else in the room, “It’s hard to believe that it has been nearly four years since you first came here! So much improved over the keep of that fat old laggard who used to live here!”

Eduardo’s frown deepened. He clinched a fist. But no; now was not the time. “Tybalt, I must speak with Tiffania. If you would be so good as to show yourself out….”

“Of course, of course, my dear friend!” Tybalt glided towards the door, a look of relief briefly flickering across his otherwise jovial countenance. But he paused right outside the door. “I did only come to tell you something.” He said with a slight frown. “Nunzio is looking for you.”

Eduardo nodded. “Yes, I know.” Tybalt left with a slight bow. Eduardo turned to the girl.

“Tiffania…. Why?!” he said trying to and failing to keep the pain out of his voice.

Her hands moved to her hips. “Do you really want to start this now?! Rod??”

He frowned more. He turned and made his way for the stairs leading to his study. The girl falling in step behind him. He hated when she used his real name. He had been Eduardo Beneficio, merchant prince of Tilea, for nearly four years now. He had left that old life behind.

Well, all of it, except Tiffania.

She was a constant reminder that he had been Roderick the Shoe. A sometime cutpurse, sometime urchin, all the time down on his luck. He sometimes liked to think that his moniker ‘the shoe’ was a legacy from his days working with the underworld of the Empire. But truth be told he had never advanced very far. Nothing more than an errand boy, or set of eyes, at the tavern he grew up in. Once he had become too big to be unseen, the Guild had lost all interest in him. Rod had picked up a trade. He cobbled. Carving the cheap wooden shoes that were popular with the longshoreman of Marienburg.

But then his father had written him. That fat, old, loudmouth, Palstaff. The boy had scarce seen him twice in his life; always drunk. Always ‘passing through’. He may have even have really been his father. His mother certainly thought so. But as she was a harlot at the tavern, it was doubtful that she knew for sure. All he knew was that the old man had not been a part of his life, and he had hardly given him a second thought, until that day the letter arrived….

It wasn’t the letter itself that had caught his eye; though that was rare enough. That it was enclosed with a pair of Tilean gold coins had nearly stopped his heart. More than a years wages! All wrapped in faded parchment, and twine. The letter had said something about coming to Remas. About a family business. About passing on a legacy. Some such rot.

But there had been the gold.

And with no other prospects, he had come, met the old fat man, and was surprised to learn that he was a respected merchant lord of Remas. More than surprised. The man had never seemed to have a pair of coppers to rub together. But here he was with coffers of gold…. And he was dying. Nearly black with the gout. He wanted his ‘son’ to take over the name and business.

And Eduardo Beneficio, merchant extraordinaire, was born.

He threw himself in the chair behind his large, oak desk, and put his hands on his face. “Tiff, we have trouble.”

Suddenly looking sharp, Tiffania fixed him with an appraising gaze. That brought back memories. Of her time between the brothel and tavern in Marienburg. She had always been the sharpest of the lot….

And he had always loved her.

“Why? What happened? Is this about Nunzio?”

“Yes,” Rod moaned. “Somehow he found out about the missing parts to the last shipment. I don’t know how!” He cut off her next question. “I checked the fake barrel myself. But somehow he knows. I just heard during lunch that he has started asking about me. We have to do something! Fast!!”

Even now the afternoon sun was quickly sliding into shadow. “We have to get out of the city.”

Tiffania pursed her lips, and looked thoughtful. “Why?” she finally asked.

“Why?? You know what he did last year to the Medicis!! His men no know mercy! They’ll gut me!”

“No, I mean. So what if he comes. At heart he is a businessman. All he cares about is the coin,” she soothed. “Apologize, say it was a mistake. And then offer him something in recompense. Something of like value.”

She made it sound so easy. Roderick groaned again. “You know I don’t have that much coin on hand! It’s all with the…partner….” He moaned again.

“Sure you do,” the girl replied. She pointed at the box on his desk.

Rod sat back. There it was. As always. Upon the corner of his desk. A plain, unadorned dark wooden box, of simple, but elegant lines, and clasped with a fine silver lock to its front. It had been there longer than he. Just sitting there on the edge of the desk. He hardly noticed it anymore; it was covered with a casual stack of letters and papers.

“I…I can’t,” he fumbled for words. “It was the one thing I promised the old man.”

The memories were sharp. Palstaff on his deathbed. The old man had told him to under no circumstances part with the box. Nor to do anything with it. It was the one thing that wasn’t his. He was just ‘watching it for another’ for awhile….

The old man had said in, what was to prove to be his last lucid moment, that if Roderick should do anything with the box, he would suffer for it. As surely as the tides.

Tiffania stepped forward and worked the clasp. She knew the secret as surely as he. She lifted the lid. Inside lay row upon row of fine silver coins. Each delicately and carefully carved with the likeness of a white tree upon its face. They just lay there and glistened in the waning afternoon light.

And true to his word, he had never used a one. Never had a need to; the fortune the old fat man had left him had been so vast. But then that storm last year had destroyed his fleet at sea, losing him the entire investment. And coin had become scare.

That’s when the partner had approached. And the day of need had been staved off by a sudden intervention.

But now….

“Grab your things,” Rod ordered. “Just in case. Get everything ready to go. I’ll take this to Nunzio, and then meet you at the ship.”

Tiffania was still pouting when he heard the clamor of a forced door downstairs. The blood drained from both their faces. His guard was outside… The City Watch were probably paid to not walk the arch….

And the last of the sun’s rays disappeared in the west. Night had fallen.

He reached into his desk and pulled out the finely crafted dirk he kept there. Taking Tiffania by the hand he led her to the door. Peering outside he could see little in the dimness. Just a few shadowy figures clustered about the villa’s front door. Stealthily he led the girl down the back staircase and towards the door that led to the kitchen and servant’s quarters. If he could just make the servant’s entrance, then the sea wall gate with its little hidden path beyond….

A hand seized him firm about the wrist. With a sharp twist he felt the bone give and splinter. Rod screamed in agony as the dirk fell from his grasp.

Tiffania was screaming beside him. Her attacker had her arms pinned. His own put a beefy arm about his neck and drug him away from the stairs and toward the entry foyer.

A lantern burned above the door now. In it he could see a handful of men, and Nunzio. Tall, and slender, like a Tilean rapier. The man’s graying hair was oiled and slicked back from his receding hairline.

“I am disappointed in you Eduardo,” Nunzio said in a chill tone. “Beyond disappointed. I had thought that after you had helped me deal with Alto Medici so efficiently last year you would understand how…personally, I take my business arrangements.”

The man withdrew a rapier from his side and with a lunge thrust it forward, piercing the meaty center of Roderick’s foot. He screamed in pain that brought tears to his eyes, and soiled his pants.

“I didn’t…. I didn’t,” he stammered as the throbbing receded after the blade had been pulled free. “I have coin,” he finally managed to gasp.

Nunzio’s frown deepened. “The Comtesse is still waiting for her shipment. Waiting impatiently. She has many plans for its use Luccini. And you are disrupting those plans!”

Another lunge. Roderick screamed as his other foot was pierced by slender steel.

“I’m sorry. I can get you more. From up North! I just need time. I have coin!” he stammered.

“No, Eduardo. Or should I say, Roderick the Shoe,” Nunzio smirked. “Yes, of course we all knew who you were. Don’t be foolish. We didn’t care as long as you were reliable. You see, being reliable in my business is worth far more than gold.”

Nunzio was pacing in front of him impatiently now. “You are going to tell me where my shipment was sent. If you do not, we will start cutting on you. If you still do not, then my men will take turns with your little trollop here in front of you. And then we will start cutting on her….”

Just then the door to the courtyard opened. Roderick’s heart leapt in his chest. If the City Watch would come he could bribe them with the silver! But no, standing in the darkened doorway were the two drab mendicants, their faces still covered by their wicker hats.

Nunzio snarled at them. “Leave now! You’ve seen nothing! You understand?”

The taller of the two on the left pointed carefully at Roderick. “We have come for that one,” he said in a thickly accented Tilean. “Give him to us, and we will go in peace.”

Nunzio barked in laughter. He nodded to his men next to the door. The closest reached towards the mendicant who had just spoken.

In a flash, the mendicant’s hand lashed out grabbing the approaching member. Rod could hear fingers snap as the hand clenched down. And then with a twist the arm was turned, and the other fist came out punching clear into the upper arm. The shoulder slid from its socket with a sickening sound. The man howled and collapsed on the ground.

“Give us the mortal,” the figure said again, and pointed at Rod.

Swords and knives appeared in the hands of Nunzio and his men. Nearly as one they attacked. But as they stepped forward the figure to the left reached under its robes. In a smooth draw a pair of blades emerged: one straight; one curved like a Saracen tulwar. His companion had also produced a long curved sword, and with a speed and precision that was frightening, began to disassemble Nunzio’s men.

The brute holding onto Rod’s neck released him. He could see Tiffania likewise free at his side. He grabbed the girl’s hand and staggered for the stairs. He could hear men coming from the kitchen in a thunder. He looked about.

“After them!” Nunzio called. The brute, knife in hand, was charging up the stairs with Nunzio in tail.

In a panic Roderick pulled Tiffania into his office. Perhaps the window?

Yet there was a figure standing beside his desk. A figure as black as death itself. A long cloak hung loosely about its frame, swirling with its movements. Eyes as black and as hard as obsidian met his from out of an alien visage, partly obscured by long black tresses.

Nunzio and the huge brute were on his heels. They burst into the room, and saw the figure.

Nunzio looked startled. But then quickly recovered. He lifted his rapier and pointed the blade straight at the newcomer’s chest. “Take one step closer and you are dead!” he hissed.

With a bemused look on its face the strange thing stepped closer.

Nunzio lunged!

There was a flicker and a flash of light. And then Nunzio was just standing there. His sword split in two. And his torso slowly sliding from his waist.

The giant brute turned with a scream like a small child and fled into the villa.

Rod briefly considered taking Tiffania and doing likewise, but the strange apparition held up a warning finger.

Behind him Rod noticed the lock box was once again open. And empty!

He looked back to the figure as it surveyed him. Then slowly the creature spoke:

“Roderick, Son of Palstaff. I am the Shadow Prince. And I have questions for you.”

***

[Malossar]

Poor rod the shoe. These Nagarathi must be so startling for humans to comprehend!

Well done as always sir headshot.

[Aicanor]

Love their zen disguise, ingenious. Unlike Rod, I look forward to the next part of the story.

[Elithmar]

Very good, as usual. I love how you show us the Nagarathi (in disguise) at the beginning, but we think nothing of them at the start.

Good job Rod didn't use the silver.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Yay a new story!

[Elithmar]

Yay a new story!

I was surpried to see you hadn't claimed the first post.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

In saw this hours ago, but intentionally left off posting ^_^

Seems we've gone back in time, Spite is still the Shadow Prince, not that I'm keen to see him die, he's one of my favourite characters ^_^

[Elithmar]

In saw this hours ago, but intentionally left off posting ^_^

Yeah, yeah, a likely story.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

I was priming models ^_^

[Elithmar]

I was priming models ^_^

By hand, peasant.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

I spent enough time with spray paints as a teenager, I wasn't painting models though ^_^

[Malossar]

I spent enough time with spray paints as a teenager, I wasn't painting models though ^_^

Ahhh nothing like a quarrel between gilted lovers!

[Prince of Spires]

You guys are just all jealous because Rod gets to meet all the beautifull women Tim always seems to drag along...

She was a constant reminder that he had been Roderick the Shoe. A sometime cutpurse, sometime urchin, all the time down on his luck.

I got funny looks from my colleagues because this got me sniggering behind my screen. Barbarian from the north, wooden shoes and all. Well done sir. I can't wait for the next part.

Rod

[Elithmar]

I spent enough time with spray paints as a teenager, I wasn't painting models though ^_^

Ahhh nothing like a quarrel between gilted lovers!

You Caledorians don't understand. You love your dragons, but all Lothernians care about is themselves. I don't think Yvressii are capable of love, they're too grim.

[Headshot]

Part 2

Narrin’Tim rested back to mast, with one hand draped on the rope railing, in the Nest. Far below, the Hawkship, Harvest Moon, rolled and swayed with the life of the sea, its voluminous sails full of the breath of the wind. The lines and rigging, mast and rail, creaked with their own rhythms, and even though the ship itself seemed small and distant, against a backdrop of the great ocean, Tim could hear the sounds of the ship like the exhalations of some great beast.

Narrin’Tim often volunteered to serve the duty in the Nest. He was of the Romani Sky Folk of Nagarythe. The clanfolk who dwelt in one of the unique wonders of Nagarythe, the skystones of the western hills. There, aeons ago, dark magics had been summoned forth to raise the land against the onslaught of the cataclysm and the drinking seas. The sorceries had worked, after a fashion. The sorcerers had riven the mountains in twain, granting them the gift of air, and sailed across the ocean with their followers and slaves. But in their haste, the magic had done more than forge the mighty Black Arks of the Druchii; they had also permanently marred the landscape of Nagarythe, the ancestral home. What had once been a highland of heath, heather, loch and glen, had been transformed in an instant into a phantasmagoria world: in which the hilltops themselves rose to drift above the ground far in the sky, forming islands floating in the wind….

And Tim’s people had learned to live within them, drifting from island to island on the back of magical skiffs and schooners. Thus he had spent most of his childhood, and almost all of his life, in the heights, looking down at a distant and murky world below.

But that was beginning to feel like long ago. It had been over ten years since he was first called to serve in the Host of Nagarythe. Strange. He had competed for it. A contest had been held in the Western Hills, and Tim had proven himself with bow and blade to be one of the best in the clans. Despite his youth. And the recruiter, Palin’Tanith, had taken him into the Host. He still remembered uttering the oath, “I swear that if by life, or by death, I can serve Nagarythe…..”

He had been young then. He felt much older now.

But maybe that was foolish. He stood more erect, and stretched his shoulders. He was tall and lanky of build, and his broad shoulders and lithe muscles still possessed all the strength of his youth. He had faded grey eyes. And his head was shaven, except for the braided scalp-lock that ran from brow to long queue in the back, in the manner of the clans of the Romani of western Nagarythe.

No. I haven’t seen my second century yet. I am still young, he thought.

But then Tim reached up and brushed his brow. There was a scar there, slowly fading to white. That was from Avelorn. He remembered the frightful charge of the blood demon. Its final plummet over the cliff and into the vastness below. Another on his cheek. That was from Elthin-Arvan, the place the mortals called the ‘Old World’. And the terrifying battle with the man-beasts. How they had hewed and hewed with their crude cleavers and unnatural strength. Him all the while trying to dodge and parry. Just to take another breath. And then there was the line on his chin. That was from the Druchii raid last year. A bolt had deflected and cut him cross with white heat and speed. Only a degree or two of difference and it would have transfixed his skull, instead of whistling past his face.

And then there was his broken, hooked nose. That was from….Chrace. Another memory that he felt conflicted about. A deep sense of shame. But it hadn’t been altogether unpleasant….

Still ten years in the Host. What would he look like after a century? In time he would be no different than ancient Palin’Tanith!

As if summoned by his thoughts he looked down and could see old Tanith, he of the criss-crossing scars and wild white braids, climbing the rigging towards the Nest. Tanith was the oldest of the Host, and had seen more fighting and war than any one person should ever have to. Still, even with only one arm - the other lost in battle to the Dark Elves some five years ago – he was able to climb the ropes with fearsome agility. Tanith was of the Sea Folk of Nagarythe, the hardy - some say, fearless - dwellers of the Northern isles. Whereas Tim had grown up in the heights of the Skystones, Tanith had spent his youth among the boats and trading ships that plied the coastal waters of the North. He knew the feel and spirit of the ocean better than just about anyone.

Well that perhaps wasn’t all true. Tim glanced down at the hawkship far below. Nagarythe, unlike the other kingdoms of the Asur upon the sacred continent of Ulthuan, did not build its own hawkships. Truth be told, the clans were too poor to build and maintain a fleet. And every attempt at restarting major shipyards would invariably attract the attention of the raiders from the Land of Chill, the Dark Elves….

Some of the southern Asur called them the ‘cousins’ of the Nagarathi. Tim had broken a few noses over that remark. But there was truth to it. The blood ties still lay between those few who had stayed loyal to the Phoenix Crown, and the many and powerful who had taken up the banner of the usurper and onetime Lord of All Nagarythe, Malek’Kith. But those blood ties had been cut and spilt on beach, plain, and glen, in countless battles over the millennia, seeming to have proven Nagarythe’s loyalty to Ulthuan a hundred times over! Tim was willing to bet that more Druchii blood had been spilt by Nagarathi steel blades and bodkin tips, then the rest of Ulthuan’s warriors combined!

And yet still, they were distrusted, and looked down upon…..

He shook his head. No, I am being unfair. He tried to capture his wandering thoughts. Yes, Nagarythe had no lords these days. Only the council of clans, and the Prince of Shadows, the Everborn.

And with no lords, no wealth, there were no hawkships built in Nagarythe. The vessels that were there were all sent in service to the Crown. From the Phoenix King’s own personal fleet. Glancing back down to the Harvest Moon far below, Tim could see its tiny crewmembers busily getting the ship ready. The captain, Aaryn’Flynn, and most of the crew, were all from Lothern, in the deep south of Ulthuan. And yet they had fought, and died, loyally at the Host’s side for years.

Tim pulled himself from his reverie; Tanith was almost there. He moved over to help the ancient warrior.

“What brings you up here, Old Crab? I gave the land-sighting hours ago. You should be getting ready,” Tim chided. Once Tanith had terrified him, but the long years had forged a fast friendship between the two.

“Gah!” Tanith spat. “I don’t need a reason to come up here. You forget who your are talking to whelp!”

Tim cocked an eyebrow. “Oh. It’s Lili again, isn’t it?” Tanith rolled his eyes, confirming Tim’s suspicion.

Palin’Lilean was far below, in her customary place at the base of the hawkshead prow. One hand on rail; one hand on hip. Eyes out to the horizon. She was Nagarathi, but with an education in the navigator’s arts, hard earned in Yvresse and Eataine. She stood up there at the prow, her scalp shaved like Tim’s, and with her own long scalp braids floating in the force of the wind, looking like a queen of the sea. As if she was born to it. And indeed perhaps she had been. Palin’Tanith was her father….

Which meant many a night onboard was punctuated by their arguments. It had been like that for years.

Though now Lili had….help. And Tim suspected that that was the root of the problem.

For millennia the Host of Nagarythe had been maintained through calling to the clans. And the clans would send forth their most talented men to compete for the honor. Always the men of the clan, of course. That was the tradition set by Aenarion, and it was honored throughout Ulthuan. And as the wars were succeeded by yet more wars over the course of Nagarythe’s bloody history, the men called became younger and younger, until most, like Tim, were barely past their rite of manhood.

Then Lili came. The first woman to fight in the Host not as mage, but with a bow. And afterwards the Shadow Prince himself had gone to the callings, and told the clan elders that any woman willing to compete would be granted the chance. It had been bedlam. Tim remembered that a meeting of the Clan Council had been arranged. The leaders of Nagarythe had been furious with the Shadow Prince. Why change four thousand years of history?

And the Shadow Lord had answered, “Necessity.”

Tim had feared that the Prince would be sent to the Second Death right then and there. Sent to walk the haunted tunnels beneath Anlec for failing Nagarythe. But finally, the Council had relented, and the recruiting continued. Now nearly half the archers of the Host were elf maidens. None had as of yet been elevated to the ranks of the fabled ‘Shadow Warriors’, but it was only a matter of time….

And not everyone was pleased with this development.

“She! And that gaggle of hers!!” Tanith glowered and clenched his jaw.

Tim shrugged, and made space for him in the slender nest.

“It’s not all that bad,” he soothed. “They fought well last year against the Druchii.”

“You are completely missing the point!” Tanith seethed. “And don’t even start! I know the real reason you like them here! You and Pol and all the others.” He glared and shook his head. “Separate tents. And latrines! And soon to come, who knows what??!”

Tim smiled at Tanith’s accusations. It’s true: there were some lovely elf maidens among the Host now.

But whenever Tim looked at them, there was just a pain in his chest. He saw a face…. Dark blue eyes, and short curly hair the color of the summer sun…..

Just thinking about it now filled his whole body with an immense sense of sorrow and loss. And an aching emptiness. Just. Nothing.

That book she had given him was still in his pouch. Once it had been immaculate from lack of attention. Now the bindings were well worn, and the cover faded. He had learned to read, partially with her help. And he had read it over and over again. He could recite the aphorisms of Aenarion’s childhood from heart now; he had stared at those pages so often.

All because of her. Years and not a sight of her. He grimaced.

Curse the God who forced love into the Asur’s hearts!!

Tanith seemed to sense the change in his mood. His own glowering disappeared. He clapped him on the shoulder with his one good hand.

“I’m sorry Tim,” the old elf said, his infamous gravelly voice turned surprisingly soft. Then he cleared his throat. “Look lad. Your eyes are better than mine. Tell me what do you see.”

It was a lie, Tim knew; Tanith’s sight was just as good as his. Still Tim straightened and gazed out to the shapes on the approaching horizon.

“I see white towers. Wood and stone, on a rise overlooking a sheltered bay,” Tim said carefully. “In the bay I see small skiffs and fishing boats working some shoals. There is a single long stone quay. Easily the length of two eagleships. And docked at the quay is a hawkship. She is flying the whites and blues of Saphery, though I don’t recognize her sigil.”

Of course all of this had been reported before. But Tanith listened attentively, nodding.

“We will be there in under an hour,” Tim added, again unnecessarily. He glanced at the sky. They would step ashore just as the sun reached its zenith. Here in the Nest he sometimes forgot the ferocity of the sun in these parts. Down on deck it was always balmy; and oftentimes scorching under the noon skies. This land of the Asur they were now headed to must be hot and miserable indeed.

Tanith kept on nodding, and thinking, while staring off at the landmass the Harvest Moon made for. He looked almost apprehensive.

“What is it?” Tim queried. Tanith just shook his head in reply.

“Do you think the mortal spoke the truth? Is what the Shadow Lord seeks here?” Tim pressed.

“I don’t know,” Tanith finally answered. “But I don’t like it…. Something is wrong….”

***

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Seems we missed the conversation, damn.

[Elithmar]

Some of the southern Asur called them the ‘cousins’ of the Nagarathi.

Listen up, boys, he's talking about us!

[Headshot]

Seems we missed the conversation, damn.

It didn't go well for 'the shoe'. He never should've messed with Nagarythe....

Stay tuned to learn more.

[Prince of Spires]

“What is it?” Tim queried. Tanith just shook his head in reply.

“Do you think the mortal spoke the truth? Is what the Shadow Lord seeks here?” Tim pressed.

“I don’t know,” Tanith finally answered. “But I don’t like it…. Something is wrong….”

Ooooh, cliffhanger. Cool!

Seems we missed the conversation, damn.

It didn't go well for 'the shoe'. He never should've messed with Nagarythe....

Stay tuned to learn more.

Always eager to learn more. Keep it comming

I would almost feel sorry for 'the shoe'. He was just some poor, misunderstood youth. All he did was try to rip off his business partner etc. But personally I feel that the shadow prince is just realy a softy at heart and that he was actually quite friendly to him (at least for a Nagarathi in a hurry to get answers).

Rod

[Aicanor]

Headshot, how do you make all the musings so much fun to read?

Some of the southern Asur called them the ‘cousins’ of the Nagarathi.

Listen up, boys, he's talking about us!

So what? Hell, Aicanor probably has some distant cousins in the Land of Chill. We can only be sure there are none once there are no Druchii left, ok?

[Headshot]

Part 3

As suspected, it was scorching down on the quay. The white stone of the pier was hot enough to fry gull eggs. The noon sun beat down with a heat beyond palpable; Tim could almost feel his skin peeling beneath its ferocious gaze. And here there was the wind off the water! Heavens knows what the interior of the island was like. Away from the cooling breezes, the heat and moisture must be hellish!

But then, the water of the bay…. It was a bright cobalt blue in places; deep, luminescent green in others. And so clear that Tim could see the white sand of its bottom some five fathoms down! And there! The fish and sea eels, darting about. They were a garish rainbow of spots and stripes. Bright colors, as vibrant as the tropical sun overhead, swam in lazy schools, or shot in ones or twos, among the reefs below. He had not seen anything like it. Not since he last glimpsed the Sea of Dusk, those many years ago.

The captain of the Harvest Moon, Aaryn’Flynn, stood on the quay beside him. He had stripped his outer robes and sailor’s jacket, and stood there, tapping his foot, only clad in the loose white robes of the Lothern workers. He also wore a hat, with a wide, triangular brim, equipped with feather in the band, providing ample shade for his face.

Not a bad idea that…. Tim mused.

“Well, enough waiting,” Aaryn’Flynn said with his customary charm. He produced a strange contraption of paper and folding wood. With a flick of his wrist, it popped into a half circle. The white paper was emblazoned with black and white dragons, and writings Tim did not recognize. Flynn began to fan his face with it.

“I must report my cargo and crew to the harbormaster. Phoenix King’s laws and all that,” he added. “You can catch up when the rest are ready.” The elf turned and made his way down the quay.

Tim nodded as he departed then knelt down at the edge of the pier to watch the strange world below. There were spiny ball things. And fish the shape of stars! And clams and mollusks curved like dragons teeth! And things that fanned with luminescent tendrils, but then disappeared in the wink of an eye!

What sort of place was this?

The ramp to the Moon shuddered, disgorging Avyn’Pol and Tanith onto the quay. Pol was the youngest of the Shadow Warriors; just a few years passed his rite. He was of the west, and so his long blonde hair was trimmed in the Romani style: completely shaved upon one side. He gawked at the fish alongside Tim.

Tanith spat. Ruining the moment.

“C’mon,” he grumbled. “The prince is meeting with some of the captains. He said he would meet us up at the Keep.” Then with a smile added, “The prince said we can be the ‘diplomatic vanguard’.”

That didn’t sound like a good idea, Tim thought. But he fell in alongside the others as they walked down the long quay.

Along the way they passed the other hawkship. Its sails trimmed neatly, it sat at the quay seemingly asleep. Not a soul could be seen moving on its deck. But along the aft Tim could make out a word.

“The Quintessence,” he read aloud.

Tanith spat again, and muttered ‘Saphers….’

At the head of quay Tim could see Flynn speaking with two spear-armed warriors. They were a strange pair. Both tall Asur, with the bright blonde hair of Chrace and the inner kingdoms. And despite the heat they were dressed in full armor: ithilmar shoulder plates and cuirass, bedecked with silver scale and chain skirts and sleeves. Full crested helms, and bright white and red robes, including ankle length capes, completed the ensemble.

It was just odd. They stood ramrod straight, spears held at a careful, disciplined angle, and their robes were so immaculate and painstakingly organized. Armor was polished such that it actually gleamed painfully in the burning light.

Odd. Looking at the Nagarathi walking beside him, Tim noticed that they had all left their cloaks and tunics on board; stripping down to nothing but boots, breeches, and the soft leather armored jerkins of Shadow Warriors.

Pol wasn’t even wearing boots! Having grown accustomed to life on the ship barefoot, he strode along the quay with nothing between sole and hot stone.

Though of course they all carried the tools of their trade: a vast assortment of knives, swords, hatchets…. Tim alone carried five. Tanith nearly twice as many. And both Tim and Pol had the longbows the Shadow Warriors were famous for, draped across their back.

It suddenly struck Tim that between their black leather armor, scarred visages, and bristling weapons, that they might seem a bit…intimidating, coming down the docks.

Funny, never thought of that before.

The two spear-elves seemed to agree with his appraisal. They hadn’t adjusted their positions. But their eyes were fixed on the Shadow Warriors approaching.

That’s it! Tim thought. Their dress! It just seems so…. studied. Like Caledorians deliberately trying to dress Caledorian. Weird.

One of the spear elves was answering Flynn.

“Can’t be,” he said. “Everyone knows that the Shadow Prince died in Athel Loren some years ago. Went in and didn’t come out.”

“News travels fast,” Tim muttered.

“All the way to the ends of the world,” Pol added, still gawking at their surroundings.

“Even if that was so,” Flynn replied with a calm good nature, “You should know that the Shadow Prince cannot die. A new one would arise. So here we are, Shadow Prince on board, alongside a contingent of his warriors. With business with your lord.”

“The Shadow Prince is dead,” the warrior repeated with a frown.

Flynn turned with a sigh. “Ah Tanith! Perhaps this situation requires your special skill set.”

Scarred, one-armed Tanith glowered at the two elves. “Look whelp,” he snarled. “Let us pass or I’ll take that spear and shove it somewhere that you’ll learn what real posture is all about.”

Tim was pleased to see that the warriors finally began to sweat under the fierce sun.

“Or you could wait until the Shadow Lord comes down here,” Pol added.

“Though he is not as forgiving as we are,” Tim finished, in what he hoped were ominous tones.

The two elves were positively swallowing now. Just then though an elf maiden in the long robes of a court attendant approached them from behind.

“Stand aside warriors,” she commanded. “Be at peace and welcome to the Dragon Isles. I am Vala, of the scribe caste. I am here to guide you to the keep.”

She was strange. Very strange. Whereas the two warriors looked to be costumed Caledorians, she was dressed in robes the likes of which Tim had never seen. She wore a long skirt of white silks, with red trimmings. But then only a halter top; richly embroidered, it was true. But leaving her fit midriff completely exposed. More strangely than that, the pate of her skull was completely shaved. As smooth as a shell. Tim had never seen that before anywhere in Ulthuan.

But the guards stood aside, and the Nagarathi moved in beside the maiden. Flynn took a quick bow, and then went in search of the harbormaster. The Shadow Warriors followed the elf-girl into the waiting town beyond.

The first thing that Tim noticed….

“What are those?!” Pol gasped, pointing.

“Ah yes, Tree-Palms. You must not have them in the cold north,” Vala said with an enigmatic smile.

They were a nightmare breed of tree, Tim thought. All covered in rough scales, and barren of branch or leaf. Instead each of the tall twisted things ended at a stunted crown of broad spiny growths.

“Yes,” Tanith said thoughtfully. “I’ve seen them before. They grow them in a few places in Eataine.” He peered at the row that lined the avenue they were entering. “Mind the fruit. Hard as stone. And likely to drop on you and crack a skull.”

Vala laughed softly at that, though not with malice. “That is true advice,” she said. “Though these in the village have been well harvested.”

Tim turned his attention to the village they now walked among. The buildings themselves, in shape reminded him of the peaked houses of Cothique. Except the wood was not white; but instead a deep, almost black, brown. And there was little glass on display. Instead most of the upper stories of the buildings were open to the air, and even the lower stories were riddled with wooden lattice-work, in the shape of birds, raptors, serpents, and above all, dragons. Strangest of all were the bottom of the houses. Each was elevated above the ground some half an elf height, resting on posts firmly driven into the ground. Wooden steps led to the entrances.

The design must allow the air to pass freely through the interior, Tim mused. And the raising…? It must be for the rain.

He looked down at the path they now traversed, just now acknowledging the crunching sound his boots had been making. He knelt and dipped his hand into the white stuff covering the path. Shells! Dried white shells. The path wasn’t cobbled with stone or gravel. It was the shells of the sea!

Yes, the rain must be fierce here! The ground must turn to a quagmire of oozing mud. So the houses are raised to keep the seepage from coming inside. And the paths are covered in the dry shells to allow foot or hoof to pass.

Tim felt pleased with himself for solving the riddle. He turned his attention to the people now emerging from the village. They were Asur, of course, tall and slender, with hair long and braided, or worn short and trimmed in the manner of the warriors of the Western Kingdoms. What caught Tim’s eyes were the number of children running about the houses, or lurking in doors. Most of them stopped to gawk at the Nagarathi as they passed by. It was the number that struck Tim. He had never seen so many Asur of such a young age in such a small village!

“It seems too small a village for a port built for two Eagles,” Tanith commented as they walked.

“Yes, very few live down here at the harbor,” Vala explained. “Most of these buildings are craft-spaces or stores for the harbor. The people themselves live in the manors and keeps upon the shoulders of the Twins.” She pointed. Tim raised his gaze. Past the thick row of ugly-trees outside the little village, looming in grays and greens, were a pair of mountains that dominated the surrounding countryside.

“It is cooler upon the reaches,” Vala continued. “And not a long ride by Elyrrion steed to the harbor. We have even brought the birches and pines of Ulthuan, and have seeded some of the slopes. And we brought fox and stag for the hunts as well.”

As she spoke Tim noticed a flock of white birds settle upon a peaked roof nearby. They were larger than ravens, with strange short beaks, curved to points. But it was the luxurious yellow-gold crests they raised as they sat there and preened, that struck him the most. He tried to imagine hunting stag amongst such creatures.

“Near the peak of the Old Sister,” Vala added, pointing to the western mountain, “There is snow year round. In the season of Frost, many make the climb to the peak to celebrate the Winter Fests as it is done in Ulthuan.”

Tim nodded, still dumbstruck by the vistas around him. Then a scent reached him. He slowed near one of the peaked buildings. The front was open and in the interior he could see a stone baker’s oven. Before the building were wooden trays set upon wicker legs. And upon the trays were small round things. They looked like unleavened biscuits. No larger than the palm of one’s hand. Yet they seemed moist, and unfinished. Not dry and flaky like the breads of the north. These things seemed soggy and brittle. Though they were hot enough for steam to rise from them. And they gave off that strange aroma.

And they were dark brown!

By Loec’s Shiny Silver Ears!! What in the manner of Asuryan’s creation???!

The Nagarathi as a collective were now standing about the trays and staring. Even Tanith.

“What are they?” Tim managed.

Vala gave her musical laugh again. “They are our local sweet-cakes,” she explained.

“You eat these?!” Pol added with some horror.

“They are…. brown,” Tim commented slowly. The color coupled with their moist, brittle exterior reminded him of something one would want to avoid stepping in on the road.

“We have planted the cacao from distant Lustria here. An extract of the cacao give the cakes the rich color, and a distinctive taste,” she said, and then waved at the baker inside. He smiled and nodded. “Please try some,” she said to the Nagarathi.

“But…they are brown,” Tim insisted.

“Well it is said that the Shadow Warriors fear nothing,” she murmured.

The three elves of the North shared a look. No one looked particularly excited. But they all reached forward and claimed one of the little round cakes. Tim raised his to his lips, and for a moment thought he would rather be fighting Druchii, and then bit in…

“It is sweet!!!” he almost sputtered.

“Yes, they are our local sweet cakes,” the scribe explained patiently. “Though we do not use honey in it as I hear you in the north of Ulthuan would. We use the sap of the cane that grows in fields hereabouts. When processed it becomes a dry powder of unparalleled sweetness. That with the cacao extract gives it its unique taste.”

Tim took another bite. He decided he liked it. In fact, it was delicious! Not even Tanith was complaining. Tim noticed him discreetly palming a second one and placing it inside his jerkin.

“The cane powder is very popular in Lothern, I understand,” Vala continued. “It is one of our chief exports.”

Tim shook his head. Brown cakes! Would the wonder of Asuryan’s Creation never end??

The scribe led them onwards, and in a short time they had passed beyond the edge of the little village. The path took a sharp turn and began to rise towards the white towers of the keep overlooking the harbor.

But here, whereas Tim expected the lush growth of the strange spiny vegetation to thicken, it actually was limited to carefully maintained rows alongside the path itself. The interior surrounding the trail was bare, except for dirt and grass, and wooden post fencing. Beyond the fencing, he could see a herd of cattle nosing about a water hole amidst a broad green field. They were just as strange as the birds! Dark in color, but short of coat; unlike the long furred beasts of Nagarythe and Chrace. And their horns were short and twisted inwards, not like the broad sweeping ones of the aurochs of Ellyrion. And these things had huge humps behind their shoulders, but sagging backs.

So odd….

Wait! There at the edge of the herd was a young boy squatting on his ankles with a long stick resting on one shoulder. He was not an Asur; but a mortal of the race of man. He had copper bronze hair and short wiry hair. And his eyes were almond shaped, almost as if a crude reflection of the Asur! He looked nothing like the men of the Old World Tim had encountered before.

“There are men here?” Tim queried.

“Yes of course,” Vala answered looking curiously at him. “They tend the herds and work the cane fields. There are certainly not enough Asur here to do that.”

Tim glanced at Tanith and Pol. “I thought slavery was illegal in the Crown’s dominions,” he said carefully.

“They are not slaves,” Vala answered, her cheerful countenance suddenly turned stern. “They live freely in their own villages along the western coast. They work the fields in return for Asur protection and justice. They also receive coin, sometimes.”

“The same wage any Asur would, I’m sure,” Tanith said dryly.

“Of course not,” the scribe said stonily, then turned and walked along the path. Pol followed her. But Tanith and Tim lingered behind.

“It’s strange,” Tim ventured after a moment. “They talk of cane and cattle. But it doesn’t seem enough….”

Tanith shook his head. “No, not at all. If they wanted to raise cattle they could do that back in Ulthuan,” he said and then snorted in disgust. “Half the kingdoms are empty of Asur and yet you think cows are so important to the Crown that they would raise them half a world away? No. We are here because of that.” He pointed. Tim looked and saw a dark smudge on the horizon; like storm-clouds, but thin and tall, standing upright in a narrow coil.

“What is it?”

“The smoke from the Dragon Isles, west and north. From their fire mountains,” Tanith explained. “It is one of the last places known to us. One of the few places outside of Caledor, where the ancient drakes still slumber and nest.” He nodded. “That. That is why we are here.”

Tim stared at the dark lines of curling smoke. He had never seen a dragon before. Not in the flesh. Though he had known them in song and tale all of his life. Suddenly he felt like he had stepped out of his world, and into one of legend. Over there. Across a narrow stretch of sea. There be dragons….

“C’mon,” Tanith said. “Let’s catch up with the others.”

***



Well, Gentlemen (and Lady!). I have to thank you all. Writing that bit brought back a lot of fond memories of the tropics from younger times. Oh. And memories of malaria. Not so much fun.

More to come...

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

Your description of the coloncolonywas masterful as normal, I really want chocolate cookies now ...

[Malossar]

Your description of the coloncolonywas masterful as normal, I really want chocolate cookies now ...

+1

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

coloncolonywas

^_^'
This is what happens when I post from my phone at morning tea.

[Prince of Spires]

It's great to see the Nagarathi are suitably impressed with the exotic life in the colonies. And it's great to see we realy do have cookies. Brown ones

I'm impressed with Vala though. She seems to resist Tims charms (for want of a better word) better then most women we've seen.

A saphery hawkship. Does this mean we're getting a hello from Anna’Lis again? (sorry if I spoil it for everyone by trying to guess what is going to happen)

Cattle and cookies. I like your description of the dragon isles. Some of the descriptions were masterfull. Keep it comming.

Where in the tropics did you go (and why)?

Rod

[Headshot]

I'm impressed with Vala though. She seems to resist Tims charms (for want of a better word) better then most women we've seen.

Perhaps he is off his game? Stay tuned....

A saphery hawkship. Does this mean we're getting a hello from Anna’Lis again? (sorry if I spoil it for everyone by trying to guess what is going to happen)

I have no idea what you are talking about. Surely there are more elfs in that kingdom then just that one, lovely maiden! I mean, why would she even be in this story?!

Where in the tropics did you go (and why)?

In this mortal realm, throughout the South Pacific and SE Asia. In the quest of some advance degrees....

And there really was a village surrounded by big crocs and all sorts of nasties, where the people in all earnestness warned of the coconut as being the real killer.....

+1

I call lazy, new father shenanigans on this!! All the hours spent scripting, writing and editing each section, and the response is what, two keystrokes?! For shame, Caledorian slacker!

At least Tiralya spends time coining neologisms! Like 'colon colony'!

Which incidentally, even the mighty Palin'Tanith himself was unable to come up with a more apt descriptor for Rod's kingdom.



back to work. two key strokes. grumble. grumble....

headshot

[Malossar]

Just be thankful i can stay awake long enough to finish the tale!

Hehe -- funny story, i actually got the baby to sleep last night and still had enough energy to bake some chocolate fudge cookies!

[Elithmar]

Hmm, nice. Their largest commodity is slaves though? Seems a little harsh for Asur. Sound more like Druchii! Evil colonials...

[Aicanor]

I wonder what would these brave Naggarathi say on my favourite green matcha cookies.

[Elessehta of Yvresse]

had enough energy to bake some chocolate fudge cookies!

I'm hating you a little bit right now...