Elven Star

9

Paithan had a great deal of work to do making his caravan ready for travel, and the old man’s words of doom slipped from his mind. He met Quintin, his foreman, at the city limits of Cahndar—the Queen’s City. The two elves inspected the baggage train, making certain the railbows, boltarches, and raztars, packed away in baskets, were attached securely to the tyros.[17] Opening the packs, Paithan inspected the toys that had been spread over the top, taking care to note if he could see any sign of the weapons hidden beneath. Everything appeared satisfactory. The young elf congratulated Quintin on a job well done and promised to recommend the foreman to his sister. By the time Paithan and his caravan were ready to start, the hour flowers were indicating that foiltime was well advanced and it would soon be midcycle. Taking his place at the head of the line, Paithan told the overseer to begin the march. Quintin mounted the lead tyro, climbing into the saddle between the horns. With much cajoling and flattering, the slaves persuaded the other tyros to crawl into line behind their leader, and the caravan plunged into the jungle lands, soon leaving civilization far behind. Paithan set a swift pace and the caravan made good traveling time. The trails between the human and elven lands are well tended, if somewhat treacherous. Trade between the realms is lucrative business. Human lands are rich in raw materials—teakwood, bladewood, cutvine, foodstuffs. The elves are adept at turning these resources into useful goods. Caravans between the realms came and went daily.

The greatest dangers to caravans were human thieves, jungle animals, and the occasional sheer drops between moss bed and moss bed. The tyros, however, were particularly effective in navigating difficult terrain—the main reason Paithan chose to use them, despite their shortcomings. (Many handlers, particularly humans, cannot deal with the sensitive tyro, who will curl into a ball and pout if its feelings are hurt.) The tyro can crawl over moss beds, climb trees, and span ravines by spinning its webs across the gap and swinging over. So strong are the tyro webs that some have been turned into permanent bridges, maintained by the elves.

Paithan had been over this route many times previously. He was familiar with the dangers, he was prepared for them. Consequently, he didn’t worry about them. He wasn’t particularly concerned with thieves. His caravan was large and well armed with elven weapons. Thieving humans tended to prey on lone travelers, particularly their own kind. He knew, though, that if thieves became aware of the true nature of his merchandise, they would risk much to acquire it. Humans have a high regard for elven weaponry—particularly those that are “intelligent.”

The railbow, for example, is similar to a human crossbow—being a missile weapon consisting of a bow fixed across a wooden stock, having a mechanism for holding and releasing the string. The “rail” it fires is an arrow magically gifted with intelligence, able to visually sight a target and guide itself toward it. The magical boltarch, a much smaller version of the railbow, can be worn in a scabbard on the hip and is fired with one hand. Neither human nor dwarven magic is capable of producing intelligent weaponry; thieves selling these on the black market could name their price.

But Paithan had taken precautions against being robbed.

Quintin (an elf who had been with the family since Paithan was a baby) had packed the baskets by hand, and only he and Paithan knew what really lay beneath the dolls and sailing ships and jack-in-the-boxes. The human slaves, whose duty it was to guide the tyros, thought they were carrying a load of toys for tots, not the deadlier toys of grown men.

Secretly, Paithan considered it all an unnecessary nuisance. Quindiniar weapons were high quality, a cut above those of ordinary elven manufacture. The owner of a Quindiniar railbow had to be given a special code word before he could activate the magic, and only Paithan had this information, which he would pass on to the buyer. But Calandra was convinced that every human was a spy, a thief, and a murderer just waiting to rob, rape, pillage, and plunder. Paithan had tried to point out to his sister that she wasn’t being rational—she gave the humans credit for a phenomenal and cunning intellect on one hand, while maintaining that they were little better than animals on the other.

“Humans really aren’t too different from us, Cal,” Paithan had said on one memorable occasion.

He had never tried that logic again. Calandra had been so alarmed by this liberal attitude that she had seriously considered forbidding him to venture again into human lands. The awful threat of having to stay home had been enough to silence the young elf on the subject forever.

The first stage of the journey was easy. Their only obstacle would be the Kithni Gulf, the large body of water that divided the elven and human lands, and that lay far to the vars. Paithan fell into the rhythm of the road, enjoying the exercise and the chance to be his own person once again. The sun lit the trees with jewellike tones of green, the perfume of myriad flowers scented the air, frequent small showers of rain cooled the warmth built up from walking. Sometimes he heard a slink or a slither alongside the path, but he didn’t pay much attention to the jungle wildlife. Having faced a dragon, Paithan decided he was equal to just about anything. But it was during this quiet time that the old man’s words began buzzing in his head. Doom will come back with you!

One time, when Paithan had been small, a bee had flown into his ear. The frantic buzzing the creature made had nearly driven him wild until his mother had been able to extricate it. Like that bee, Zifnab’s prophecy had become trapped inside Paithan’s skull, repeating itself over and over, and there seemed little he could do to rid himself of it. He tried shrugging it off, laughing. After all, the old man was leaky as a cracked gourd. But just when he had convinced himself, Paithan saw the wizard’s eyes—shrewd, knowing, and inexpressibly sad. It was the sadness that bothered Paithan, gave him a chill that his mother would have said came from someone standing on his grave. And that brought memories of his mother; Paithan also remembered that the old man had said that Mother wanted to see her children again.

The young elf felt a pang that was partly sweet, partly remorseful and uneasy. What if his father’s beliefs were true? What if Paithan could actually meet his mother after all these years? He gave a low whistle and shook his head.

“Sorry, Mama. Guess you wouldn’t be too pleased.” His mother had wanted him to be educated, she’d wanted all her children educated. Elithenia had been a factory wizardess when Lenthan Quindiniar saw her and lost his heart to her. Reputedly one of the most beautiful women in Equilan, Elithenia hadn’t been at ease among the high born of the land; a feeling Lenthan had never been able to understand.

“Your dresses are finer, my dear. Your jewels are more costly. What do these lords and ladies have that ranks them higher than the Quindiniars? Tell me, and I’ll go out today and buy it!”

“What they have, you can’t buy,” his wife had told him with wistful sorrow.

“What is it?”

“They know things.”

And she had been determined that her children would know tilings. To this end, she hired a governess to give her children schooling such as only the high born received. The children had proved a disappointment. Calandra, even at a young age, knew exactly what she wanted out of life and she took from the governess what she needed—the knowledge necessary to manipulate people and numbers. Paithan didn’t know what he wanted but he knew what he didn’t want—boring lessons. He escaped the governess when he could, dawdled his time away when he couldn’t. Aleatha, learning her powers early, smiled prettily, snuggled in the governess’s lap, and was never required to learn to do more than read and write. After their mother had died, their father kept the governess on. It had been Calandra who let the woman go, to save money, and that was the end of their schooling.

“No, Mother won’t be pleased to see us, I’m afraid,” Paithan mused, feeling unaccountably guilty. Realizing what he’d been thinking, he laughed—somewhat shamefacedly—and shook his head. “I’ll be getting daft as poor Father if I don’t cut it out.”

To clear his mind and rid it of unwelcome memories, Paithan climbed up on the horns of the lead tyro and began to chat with the overseer—an elf of much sense and worldly experience. It wasn’t until sorrowtime that night, the first cycle following torrent’s hour, that Paithan would again think of Zifnab and the prophecy—and then only right before he fell asleep.

The journey to Estport, the ferry landing, was peaceful, without incident, and Paithan forgot the prophecy completely. The pleasure of traveling, the heady awareness of his freedom after the stifling atmosphere of home lifted the young elf’s spirits. After a few cycles on the road, he could laugh heartily at the old man and his crazy notions, and he regaled Quintin with tales of Zifnab during their rest breaks. When they finally arrived at the Kithni Gulf, Paithan could hardly believe it. The trip had seemed far too short. The Kithni Gulf is a huge lake that forms the border between Thillia and Equilan, and here Paithan encountered his first delay. One of the ferries had broken down, leaving only one in operation. Caravans were lined up all along the moss shore, waiting to cross.

Upon their arrival, Paithan sent the overseer to find out how long they would have to wait. Quintin returned with a number that marked their place in line and said that they might be able to cross over some time the following cycle. Paithan shrugged. He wasn’t in any particular hurry, and it appeared that people were making the best of a bad situation. The ferry landing had come to resemble a tent city. Caravaners strode about, visiting, trading news, discussing current trends in the marketplace. Paithan saw his slaves settled and fed, his tyros petted and complimented, and the baggage secure. Leaving everything in the capable hands of the overseer, the young elf left to join in the fun.

An enterprising elven farmer, hearing of the plight of the caravanners, had hastened down to the landing with several barrels of homemade vingin packed in a wagon, cooled by ice.[18] Vingin is a strong drink made of crushed grapes, fortified by a liquid derived from fermented tohahs. Its fiery taste is favored by elves and humans alike. Paithan was particularly fond of it and, seeing a crowd gathered around the barrel, he joined them. Several old friends of Paithan’s were among the crowd, and the young elf was welcomed with enthusiasm. Caravanners get to know each other on the trail, sometimes banding together for both safety and companionship. Humans and elves alike made room for Paithan and a cool, frothy mug was thrust into his hand.

“Pundar, Ulaka, Gregor, good to see you again.” The elf greeted long-time associates and was introduced to those he didn’t know. Seating himself on a crate next to Gregor—a large, redheaded human with a bristling beard—Paithan sipped his vingin and took a brief moment to be thankful Calandra couldn’t see him.

Several polite inquiries about his health and that of his family followed, which Paithan answered and returned in kind.

“What are you carrying?” asked Gregor, downing a mug in one long swallow. Belching in satisfaction, he passed his mug to the farmer for a refill.

“Toys,” said Paithan, with a grin.

Appreciative laughter and knowing winks.

“You’ll be taking them up norinth, then,” said a human, who had been introduced as Hamish.

“Why, yes,” said Paithan. “How did you know?”

“They’ve a need for ‘toys’ up that way, so we hear,” said Hamish. The laughter died, and there was gloomy nodding among the humans. The elven traders, looking perplexed, demanded to know what was amiss.

“War with the SeaKings?” guessed Paithan, handing over his empty mug. This news would make Calandra’s day. He would have to send a faultless back with it. If anything could put his sister in a good mood, it would be war among the humans. He could almost see her counting the profits now.

“Naw,” said Gregor. “The SeaKings has got their own problems, if what we hear be true. Strange humans, coming across the Whispering Sea in crude ships, have been washing up on the SeaKings’ shores. At first, the SeaKings took in the refugees, but more and more kept coming and now they are finding it difficult to feed and house so many.”

“They can keep ’em,” said another human trader. “We’ve enough problems of our own in Thillia, without taking in strangers.”

The elven traders smiled, listening with the smug complacency of those who are completely unaffected, except as it might concern their business. An influx of more humans into the region could only send profits soaring.

“But … where are these humans coming from?” asked Paithan. There was heated discussion among the traders, the argument at last being settled by Gregor stating, “I know. I have talked to them myself. They say they are from a realm known as Kasnar, that is far norinth of us, across the Whispering Sea.”

“Why are they fleeing their homeland? Are there great wars being fought there?” Paithan was wondering how difficult it would be to hire a ship to take him and a load of weapons that far.

Gregor shook his head, his red beard brushing against his massive chest. “Not war,” he said in grave tones. “Destruction. Total destruction.” Doom, death, and destruction.

Paithan felt footsteps crossing his grave, his blood tingled in his feet and hands. It must be the vingin, he told himself, and set his mug down hastily.

“What is it, then? Dragons? I can’t believe that. Since when have dragons attacked a settlement?”

“No, even the dragons flee this menace.”

“Then, what?”

Gregor looked around solemnly. “Tytans.”

Paithan and the other elves gaped, then burst out laughing.

“Gregor, you old liar! You had me going there for a while!” Paithan wiped tears from his eyes. “I’ll buy the next round. Refugees and wrecked ships!” The humans sat silent, their faces growing dark and shadowed. Paithan saw them exchange grim glances and checked his mirth.

“Come now, Gregor, a joke’s a joke. You caught me. I’ll admit I was already counting up the coins.” He waved his hand toward his compatriots. “We all were. So enough already.”

“It is no joke, I am afraid, my friends,” said Gregor. “I have talked to these people. I have seen the terror on their faces and heard it in their voices. Gigantic creatures with the bodies and faces of our kind, but who stand taller than the trees came to their land from far norinth. Their voices alone can split rock. They destroy all in their path. They snatch up people in their hands and fling them to their deaths or crush them with their fists. There is no weapon that can stop them. Arrows are to them like gnats to us. Swords will not penetrate their thick hide, nor would blades do any damage, if they did.” The weight of Gregor’s words oppressed everyone. All listened in hushed and attentive silence, though there was still some unbelieving shaking of heads. Other caravanners, noting the solemn gathering, came up to see what was going on and added their own dire rumors to those already spreading.

“The Kasnar Empire was great,” said Gregor. “Now it is gone. Completely destroyed. All that is left of a once mighty nation are a handful of people who escaped in their boats across the Whispering Sea.” The farmer, noting his sales dropping off, tapped a fresh barrel. Everyone rose to refill their mugs, and began talking at once.

“Tytans? The followers of San? That’s only myth.”

“Don’t speak sacrilege, Paithan. If you believe in the MOO Mother[19] you must believe in San and his followers, who rule the Dark.”

“Yeah, Umbar, we all know how religious you are! If you walked into one of the Mother’s temples it’d probably fall down on top of you! Look, Gregor. You’re a sensible man. You don’t believe in goblins and ghoulies.”

“No, but I believe in what I see and hear. And I’ve seen, in the eyes of those people, terrible things.”

Paithan gazed steadily at the man. He’d known Gregor a number of years and had always found the big human reliable, dependable, and fearless. “All right. I’ll buy the notion that these people fled something. But why are we all in a dither? Whatever it is couldn’t possibly cross the Whispering Sea.”

“The tytans—”

“Whatever—”

“—could come down through the dwarven kingdoms of Grish and Klag and Thurn,” continued Gregor gloomily, “fn fact, we have heard rumors that the dwarves are preparing for war.”

“Yeah. War against you, not giant demons. That’s why your lords slapped on that arms embargo.”

Gregor shrugged his shoulders, nearly bursting the seams on his tight-fitting shirt, and then grinned, his red-bearded face seeming to split wide apart.

“Whatever happens, Paithan, you elves won’t have to worry. We humans will stop them. Our legends say that the Horned God constantly tests us, by sending warriors worthy of us to fight. Perhaps, in this battle, the Five Lost Lords will return to help us.”

He started to drink, looked disappointed, and upended his mug. It was empty.

“More vingin!”

The elven fanner turned the spigot, nothing came out. He knocked on the barrels. All gave forth a dismal, hollow sound. Sighing, the caravanners stood and stretched.

“Paithan, my friend,” said Gregor. “There’s the tavern near (he ferry landing. It’s packed, just now, but I think I could get us a table.” The big human flexed his muscles and laughed.

“Sure,” agreed Paithan readily. His overseer was a good man, the slaves were exhausted. He didn’t expect any trouble. “You find us a place to sit, and I’ll buy the first two rounds.”

“Fair enough.”

The two, swaying slightly, threw their arms around each Other—Gregor’s arm nearly engulfing the slender elf—and tottered off toward the Land’s End.

“Say, Gregor, you get around a lot,” said Paithan. “Ever hear of a human wizard name of Zifnab?”