Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Dawn, when darkness reluctantly releases its grip on the world in the face of the sun’s relentless return, was Delmarf’s favorite time of the day. One of the pleasures of having a nomadic lifestyle is that he is often privileged to watch this daily occurrence. Of course, he usually enjoys it on a more firm surface. He will never be a water person. This trip has made that clear. Mastering the rivers seemed so easy before he actually tried it. It’s the morning of the second day since leaving Awktowon and they should’ve already reached Boknor, but Delmarf’s expertise on the skiff had resulted in them taking twice as long to reach their destination. He had gotten them stuck on the banks of the Mirator more times than he would like to think about, and then there was his intimate visit with the Mirator. Yesterday, just before dark, his pole got caught on some underwater obstruction and jerked him off-balance. He frantically grabbed for Arto, who decided that he didn’t need a bath and took a step back, allowing Delmarf to get personally acquainted with the Mirator. It was fortunate that alongside the bank was a small clearing. They pulled the skiff up onshore and built a fire so Delmarf could dry off. Since they were already relaxed, he decided they should get a little sleep here before completing the trip. The only good thing resulting from his dip in the cold river was Wemael’s laughter. She had slept fitfully that first night and had been solemn and withdrawn most of the day. She had begun to warm up to him just before he fell into the river, and the sweet sound of her uncontrollable laughter blunted his frustration enough to allow him to join her in the mirth. She helped him set up the fire and tended to Arto. It was interesting to see her with Arto. The stubborn mule was not cooperative very often, but Wemael spoke to him and it seemed like Arto would have done anything for the girl. Eager to visit his friends and find some true help for Wemael, he started back on the river a few hours later, having gotten a quick nap.
Now with the sun brightening the morning sky, he could see Boknor in the near distance. He had seen the docks a few times, as his friends were river folk. He always smiled when he saw Boknor. It was a small town putting on the airs of a big city. The ruler of this town was Lord Bok, a giant. He was 9 feet tall, standing far above any of the residents of Boknor, but he was a runt. He came from a family of giants that were normally 12 to 15 feet tall. When it became obvious that he would not live up to their standards in size, they rejected him. They felt he was a failure for something that he had absolutely no control over. He moved on, wandered aimlessly for a few years until he found a small village by the Mirator. The residents were in awe of him. They had never seen anyone that big and he was stronger than anyone in their village. He enjoyed their admiration, and found ways to impress them. He soon became the person they looked to for advice for any problem they faced. Even though he often had no personal experience in solving these problems, he came up with solutions. When his solutions worked, they praised him, when they didn’t; they thought that the problem couldn’t be solved. It didn’t take long for Bok to become their leader, then their ruler. He was not a harsh ruler, but the little village soon became his own town, not theirs. He changed the name to Boknor, “the home of Bok”. The residents stayed happy because he was constantly looking for ways to improve the town. He wanted to have the greatest city in the world, and then his family would know that they were the ones that were unworthy. His ambition was further fueled by the wife he chose. He married an orc named Oogi. She had spent many years working for the dwarves of White Mountain. The White Dwarfs were as renowned for their skill with stone working, as they were for their complete lack of pigmentation. She loved the fortress the White Dwarfs built into the side of White Mountain, and she drove her new husband to attempt to build something more impressive. Lord Bok and Lady Oogi had a problem though, this was not White Mountain and the folks living here were not White Dwarfs. There were skilled carpenters and stone masons and they strove hard to create a magnificent city, but they just couldn’t pull it off. The materials needed to build the city that the ruling couple desired just didn’t exist anywhere in the surrounding area and they could not afford to import all that much. So what Boknor ended up looking like was a piecemeal attempt at looking fancy. True, there was a great palace in the center of Boknor. Lord Bok used up all the available materials for this vital structure. The rest of the city was a hodgepodge of stone, carved wood, and simple wooded structures. The docks were a perfect example. The basic structure and design of the docks was impressive. There were mooring posts, beautifully engraved with the faces of Lord Bok and Lady Oogi, a loading area big enough to hold goods from a dozen fully laden ships. The warehouses though were crude wooden structures.
On the docks were a couple of guards, orcs in studded leather vests bearing the emblem of Lord Bok, a firtog tree. Lord Bok had chosen the firtog tree because it was the tallest tree known to exist anywhere. As he drifted within their view, Delmarf tapped his head once with his right hand and then tapped his left shoulder once; the guards returned the salute of Boknor, indicating that Lord Bok was head and shoulders above all his people.
Wemael woke as he was saluting. She stood and gave the salute also, something she had done many times before with her father. The guards seemed to be amused by her salute, and waved at her. She did not wave back, but scooted behind Delmarf a bit. There was very little activity on the docks this early. While work began early on the docks, it usually waited for the sun to be fully revealed on the horizon. They sailed passed the docks, Delmarf admiring one of boats docked there. He felt a tug on his shirt as they out the docks behind them.
“I thought you said we were going to Boknor, sir.”
“I am sorry, child. We are not going into the town, right now. My friends live just up ahead, that is where we are going.”
Delmarf could see Wemael straining to find a house or hovel anywhere ahead, but couldn’t see one. The expression on her face almost made him laugh, a little girl looking so serious and focused.
“Wemael, do you see where the river bends to the right up ahead?”
“Yes”
“My friends live on the island in the bend. Do you see that island?
Wemael scrunched up her nose and took a hard look ahead. “Yes, I see it.” She exclaimed with glee.
Wemael’s laughter was a welcome sound.
The left bank was gradually getting steeper, and would soon block any view of the walls of Boknor from his sight. The walls were another great example of Boknor’s true status. The bottom three to four rows were made of finely carved stone, followed by three or four rows of field stones, topped by spiked wooden planks.
By the time they had reached the island in the bend, the bank towered over them by about eight feet. The channel that ran between the island and the bank slowed down enough that Delmarf had to start using the pole again. He eased the skiff into the backwash behind the island and headed for the sand bar against the mainland bank. As they ground against the sand, Delmarf took note that his friend’s row boat was staked there, so he knew that he was home. He let Arto get off onto the sand, and the mule seemed as happy to be on solid ground as he was. Delmarf figured it would be some time before he would be able to coax his pack-toting friend onto anything that wasn’t firmly grounded on earth. Wemael got off the skiff cautiously, looking around, trying to understand where she was. Directly in front of them, there were steps carved into the side of the bank, leading to a large oak tree. Tied to the oak tree and spanning the backwash to a cypress tree was a bridge made of rope and wooden planks.
“Are we going up those steps?” Wemael quizzed?
“Yes, we are, but I need to do something first.” With that, Delmarf turned toward the island and shouted, “Flies are cool, but spiders make me drool.”
“Gross, why did you do that.’ Wemael asked with her face screwed up in a sour look.
“Wait a minute and you will see.”
After a minute or two, somewhere just back from the island edge came this response, “brrraup, spiders are my treat, brrraup, did you bring me some to eat, brrraup?”
Before Wemael could even think about questioning that response, the source came into view at the edge of the bridge. Wemael’s mouth fell open and her eyes widen. Standing, or rather squatting there looking at them was the strangest creature she had ever seen. She had seen similar creatures but much smaller, of course none of them could talk, and none wore any kind of clothes. The creature was about three feet tall, although since he seemed to be squatting, she was not completely sure. It had bright green skin with black spots. Starting at his green throat, a grayish stripe went down both sides of his body; the stripe also was punctuated with black spots. He had very large eyes which set up high on his head, almost on top of his head, with green eyelids. The green on his throat faded into a grayish-yellow as the color made its way down his chest. Across his upper body he wore a sash with some emblem that Wemael couldn’t make out and the lower half of his body was covered by some sort of wrap. She could not get over how much he looked like the little frogs that lived in the trees back home.
He suddenly leapt from where he had been observing them to right at Delmarf’s feet. Jumping the eight feet from the island to the sand bar took no more effort on his part than it took Wemael to scoot behind Delmarf.
“brrraup, Welcome friend, Delmarf and friend, Arto, brrraup, and you to, friend, little one, brrraup.”
“Good to see you again, friend, Fribble. It has been too long since we enjoyed a good spider stew.” Delmarf answered with a hearty chuckle.
This elicited such strange laughter; croaking and sounds that Wemael was sure that she would never hear anything to match.
“brrraup, you are a jester, friend, Delmarf, brrraup. Many times have I offered spider stew, brrraup, only to watch you settle for Mother’s daisy bread, brrraup.”
“Tis true, tis true, friend Fribble.” Delmarf managed through his laughter.
Regaining his composure, Delmarf introduced Wemael.
“Friend, Fribble, this is my new friend, Wemael. Black times have made new friends.”
“brrraup, sad to hear of black times, brrraup, but glad to meet a new friend. Welcome, friend Wemael, brrraup.”
“Wemael, this is my good friend, Fribble Riverjumper.”
Wemael had been hiding behind Delmarf, but the frivolity earlier had eased her uncertainty, so when Delmarf introduced Fribble, Wemael, stepped out to his side and curtseyed.
“brrraup, a lady, no less, friend Delmarf, brrraup, you bring me a lady for a visit.”
This brought a smile to Wemael’s face and lit it up.
“brrraup, shall we go now, friend Delmarf? brrraup, Mother and the tads will be most anxious to see our old friend and our sweet new one. brrraup.”
“Yes, friend Fribble, I am looking forward to seeing Riup and the tads.”
Delmarf removed his packs from Arto, putting them in a small cave near the steps that Wemael had not seen earlier, while Fribble jumped up to the oak tree and lowered a large sling. Wemael didn’t know how Arto was going to go up the steps, but then Delmarf led him to the sling and placed it under his belly. Arto might have resisted this, but he had done this many times before and while it was clear that Arto liked this about as much as a skiff ride, he endured it knowing that food was at the other end. Covering the cave with the vines that had hid it earlier, Delmarf led Wemael up the steps. When they got to the top, Delmarf helped Fribble crank the winch and raised Arto to them. Releasing Arto from the sling, Fribble slipped him a carrot, and then told him where a new patch of clover had grown since his last visit.
With Arto happily devouring clover, Fribble said, “brrraup, off we go to home and spider stew, brrraup.”
A new round of laughter accompanied them as they crossed the bridge.

Chapter 3-Globe of Ban'helai

Chapter 3

A man sits alone in a small room. The one door from the hallway opens into a room that is approximately twelve feet wide and fifteen feet long, furnished with simple furniture, a bed, a small bedside table, a wardrobe cabinet and a fairly good sized table with two chairs. On the opposite wall hangs a window that offers a pleasant view of the city and the river that rushes pass just outside the city wall. The room is one of a dozen or so that make up the second floor of this building, all of which are occupied. Some of the other guests have added better quality furnishings and all have decorated their rooms with keepsakes from home and personal items. The man in this room is not like the others. His room is Spartan and one would be hard pressed to figure out where this man calls home from a tour of his room. The only thing of significance in the entire room is a large map spread across the main table. The map displays the entire known world. Scattered, for no apparent reason on top of the map, are a handful of ordinary looking pebbles. It is late afternoon and the shadows begin to fill the room, so the man lights the oil lamps that adorn the walls. He had earlier pulled the bedside table close to the map and had placed a unique lamp on it. The lamp had the normal base of an oil lantern, but added to all four sides, just above the flame were four highly polished three inch long metal plates. These plates were attached at such an angle, that when the lamp was lit, the light hit the plates and cast off a more brilliant glow. Returning to the tables, he lights this lamp and retakes his seat before the map.
So engrossed is he in his study of the map that it takes four attempts of loud knocking before he is aware that he has company.
“Enter,” he calls out.
A tall, fair skinned, human enters the room clad in a chain mail shirt, black leather pants, black leather boots, and a dark blue cloak. Walking with the stride of a confident warrior, he carries his six foot long spike with him into the room.
“You have a visitor, sir,” the guard announces.
Without moving his gaze from the map, the man behind the table says in a tone dripping with rebuke, “I thought my instructions were clear, Borban. I am not to be disturbed.”
“Yes, sir,” the guard replies, “your order was clear, but this visitor is most insistent. Also, this morning I heard you asking for this visitor, mentioning that she was overdue in reporting to you.”
As soon as the last sentence left his lips, Borban knew he had made a critical mistake.
The man behind the table stood quickly and fixed a hard glare at the guard.
“So, now, your duties include listening to my conversations, do they?”
“Uh…no, sir…I…uh...was just…,” the guard stammered, trying to explain himself when the man behind the table cut him off.
“Silence! I will deal with your error momentarily. Tell me who this visitor is.”
“It is Flit, sir,” the guard informed in a much subdued voice.
“Ah, yes, Flit, Send her in and then go and bring Iltor to me.”
At the mention of Iltor, Borban’s expression changed dramatically. He went from looking like a hardened soldier to looking like a ten year old boy facing down a pack of war wolves. Terror was not simply written on his face, terror was the very fabric of it.
“Don’t just stand there, do as you are told. I wouldn’t want to have to add more subjects for Iltor to address with you,” the man behind the table barked.
As the guard scrambled out the door, the man returned to his seat. He was playing with the pendent on his necklace, which seemed to have a calming effect on his facial expressions, when Flit entered the room.

No footfalls betrayed Flit’s entrance into the room, as a mater of fact, the only sound preceding her, was a soft whirring sound. The man behind the table smiled as he watched Flit enter. He always enjoyed the way she moved. Flit flew into the room about five feet from the floor. She darted about, not with aimless movement, but with the steps of a dance with an unseen partner. It was as if she were dancing with the very air. She waltzed with the air for a minute or two and then lit on the back of the chair opposite the man behind the table.
“Did you miss me, my friend?” Flit asked, her four wings making an almost melodic sound as they beat quickly.
“We will speak in your language for now.” The man instructed.
He thought that the similarities Flit bore to her animal kin, the dragonfly, were remarkable. She was about twice the size of a dragonfly, almost one foot long. Her body, wings and head were proportionate to that size, but in keeping with a dragonfly’s basic body make-up. Her coloring was beautiful, a sleek jet black tail ending in a gold tip, her body and head were various shades of red and black and her wings, shimmering, translucent silver. Unlike the dragonfly, her wings were not only a flight necessity, but they were a protective devise. Their apparent flimsy look belied the reality that a drakonfluer’s wings were one of the hardest substances known. If one was able to kill a drakonfluer, not a task many creatures accomplished, the wings proved not only a good luck charm, but a welcomed addition to any armor.
“Very well, if you think you can keep up, my language is not for the tongue of many earth-walkers. They are such slow-tongued creatures.” Flit responded with a snicker, although the whole exchange sounded more like an impatient person tapping on a table.
“You will find that I am unlike any earth-walker you have ever met, my swift friend.”
The man behind the table leaned back a little in his chair, not to be more at ease, but to focus more on Flit. He had engaged the services of this drakonfluer soon after arriving in this town. Drakonfluers serve one basic purpose in the civilized world. They are messengers. Twenty years ago, the head of the Council of Twelve, Ban’helai of Arnavenia met Flaze Duskdarter, leader of a clan of drakonfluers living near the Council’s town. Learning of the drakonfluer’s ability to learn languages and appreciating their amazing speed, he asked Flaze to join the Council of Twelve and be their official messenger, a post of both honor and great responsibility. Flaze accepted immediately, recruiting the rest of his clan to serve as the core of the Council’s Messengers. Since then, drakonfluers of different clans have joined the Council’s Messengers, while others serve individuals. Flit is of the Flaze clan, but refused to join the Council’s Messengers, wanting the freedom to do as she pleased and right now it pleased her to help this man.
“Do you what day it is?” the man behind the desk asked with a hint of displeasure.
“Is that honeysuckle, I smell? I believe it is. A very good choice, though it smells a bit overripe, of course that can’t be avoided now, can it? But I guess it will serve your purpose better than the lilac scent you were using when I left you.” Flit needled.
“Your purpose here is not to critique my choice of scent. You do know that you are three days late in reporting.’
“Honeysuckle really is the best choice I believe. It’s strong enough to mask…oops, I mean compliment any other scent that might be present while still being pleasant to experience. You really should stay with the honeysuckle.”
No one that knew the man behind the desk would have dared ignore his questions, much less insult or rib him, but Flit was not like anyone else and she knew that while the man behind the desk brooked no insubordination, he enjoyed her little needling, or at least tolerated it.
“Are you quite done, my dear Flit? Do you need more time, perhaps you would like to comment on my decorating skills?”
‘Oh don’t get me started on that, you have less sense of décor than a millworm.”
Neither spoke for a minute after that, Flit savoring the ribbing and the man behind the desk merely waiting for the report that he knew she was now ready to give him.
“Your friends are sometimes too thorough and then sometimes they are wholly ineffective.”
The man behind the desk folded his arms over his chest and shot her an exasperated look.
“Don’t get all excited, big guy. I will give this report the way I want and you will just have to live with that.”
Flit paused a moment, not liking the look on the man’s face. On he surface, it was the same, ‘Oh, get on with it already’ look he always gave her, which she enjoyed. But beneath the surface, there was a clear look that told her that this earth-walker would only tolerate so much nonsense and defiance and she was too close.
“The group you sent to the Boknor area was too thorough. They totally destroyed that little marsh Halfling village, but left no one alive to tell the tale. What a waste of destruction.”
“Where are they now?” the man questioned her, apparently not as upset as she thought he would be.
“They’re twelve miles south of Boknor. They’ve avoided Boknor so far, as they’re still just ten creatures. They’re looking for other fun things to destroy. Perhaps you should remind them of their true mission.”
“Allow me to deal with my friends actions. You stick to your mission.’
“The group you sent to Kairn’s Keep has met with a slight set back.”
“A slight set back?”
“Well, more of a total defeat.’
“What?” the man sat straight up in his chair, “What happened?”
“Seems that while they were having fun with that family of orcs the dwarfs have befriended, they met some dwarfs that didn’t like the way they were having fun. Three dwarfs, I think a father and his sons, wiped out all five of your buddies. What magnificent fighters those dwarfs were, and the weapon the father used was amazing, some kind of hammer that he could throw and swing around. What a mess he made of those guys…”
“Jocknor’s son, that meddlesome dwarf!” the man bellowed as he sprang to his feet, sending his chair sprawling on the floor behind him and causing the pebbles on the table to jump into the air as he smashed his fist onto the table.
Flit dashed off her perch as soon as she saw his anger rise. She was hovering a few feet away from the table now, amazed at his anger. He was livid and the honeysuckle scent had curdled with the rise of his fury.
Almost as if he had thrown off a dirty coat, the man behind the desk regained his composure. He picked his chair back up, stroked his pendent and sat back down.
“Forgive me, my dear Flit. I apologize for my outburst. It was most unbecoming. I just don’t like dwarfs and when they stick their noses where they don’t belong, it irks me.”
Flit waited a minute more before returning to her chair, not believing for a minute that that was a momentary outburst or that he was as calm as his words tried to convey. Flit was convinced that this was one earth-walker to be wary of. She also knew that while no earth-walker could hope to catch a wary drakonfluer, this earth-walker just might be an exception.
“Do you have anything more to report?” The man asked with a forced restraint in his voice.
Flit hesitated; she knew that he was not going to like what she saw at the end of the fight. There was something not quite right with his friends. She had no explanation for what the last attacker had become right before its death, but she knew that this would set the man behind the desk off even more if she told him. She chose to omit that detail and simply tell him that she had left when she saw that the battle was over.
“You need to go back to Kairn’s Keep. I need to know what that bothersome dwarf has done with my friends’ remains, and what he plans to do about the attack. Take someone with you that you trust, send them back with the report and you stay with that dwarf. I want to know everything he does. Follow him into the Keep if you have to, but I want to know everything.”
Flit had never seen such intensity on the man’s face before. She was beginning to regret choosing this man as an employer, but she would see this through.
“I will take my brother, Dar.”
“Go now, do not delay.”
As Flit started for the door, the man said with an icy calm, “I am depending on you, Flit. You would be wise not to let me down.”
Flit vowed that this was the last time she worked for this man as she passed a 7’ tall Minotaur and a squeamish-looking human approach the door. She was barely passed those two when she heard the man behind the desk say in disturbing voice, “Now, this will make me feel better.” Then the door to his room slammed shut.