Chapter 3
As sleep took Gondell's mind away to the realm of dreams an unusual alliance sat camped on the northern edge of the dark forest. Unusual in such that as peoples Dwarf, Elf and Ogre seldom chose to ally.
Feron stretched, his yawn wide and exaggerated, “Can't you cook any faster?” he complained and poked his heavy set companion sharply in the ribs, “My stomach is beginning to think that my throat has been cut, it's been days since I last ate anything decent.”
“So your breakfast was not decent,” replied Ulaff as he turned a flat bread over on the wide stone he had laid in the embers of their camp fire, his tone calm as he masked his annoyance.
“Nay, do not take my meaning wrong my friend,” laughed the Dwarf, “Breakfast was fair enough, but little more than a snack for a hunter, I need meat, enough to stick to my ribs, I am wasting away on this trip.”
Tillendur opened an eye and chortled softly, “My dear Dwarf, I think it will be many weeks of short rations before you need to worry about wasting away.”
“An easy thing for you to say,” Feron replied, “You Elves barely eat enough to keep a mouse alive, you would grow fat on short rations. But I am losing weight,” he complained and cinched his leather girdle one hole tighter. “I blame Ulaff for my predicament, he may be a fair chef, but I warned you before, it is not wise to rely on an Ogre to cook, he eats more than he serves.”
Ulaff sighed in quiet resignation and poked the slender tip of his filleting knife deep into a roasting leg of mutton, a small smile broke across his thick lips as the juices ran clear as he withdrew the fine blade, “Think yourself lucky that the meat is cooked, I myself am also very hungry. Almost hungry enough to consider a slice or two of roasted unreasonable Dwarf.”
Feron looked up sharply, it had been many hundreds of years since the Ogres had been tamed, yet the old memories and suspicions lingered. “There is no need of such talk between friends.” he stated stressing the word friends, “You know that I merely jest with you, I mean no insult.”
Ulaff's face crinkled into a grin as he dropped the sizzling leg onto a thick bed of fresh green leaves and turned his attention back to the cooking bread. “No insult or offence taken,” he chuckled, “There is more than enough meat here to satisfy my urges for at least one more day, so why don't you fetch that cask of wine you've have been hiding for all these weeks, we can make this a merry meal.”
“I have not been hiding it,” grumbled Feron as he hesitantly stood and turned to the line of pack horses that followed their wanderings, “I was actually saving it for a special occasion.”
“And what occasion would that be?” asked Tillendur, “Maybe to celebrate the day that you escaped being roasted by an Ogre?” the Elf winked at Ulaff as Feron snorted and stamped away into the dark muttering.
“Yes, yes,” sighed Feron, “I had every intention of sharing,” the Ogres eyes almost glowed so intense his gaze as he spied Feron attempting to slip his small pouch of salt surreptitiously back into a pocket without his companions noticing. They had been on the road for many weeks and certain vital provisions had begun to run low. “I'll be happy to get to Scaraport tomorrow, maybe then you will all stop badgering me, then you can buy some salt of your own Ulaff.”
“Scaraport,” whispered Tillendur, “Still far, I wish we didn't have to delay though.”
“Just a few hours out of our way.” replied the hulking Ogre as he sprinkled a pinch of salt on the thigh bone in his meaty hand, “The trail is cold anyway, those vile creatures move quickly, but we never had any real hope of catching them before they reached the forest.”
“True my friend,” nodded the Elf sadly as he stared at the deep shadow of the ancient woodland, the flickering glow from their fire shimmering on the new seasons growth of leaves that rippled in the gentle breeze.
“Do you think it was them that you scented earlier?” asked Feron, the elvish ability of sight and scent never failed to amaze him. Tillendur had paused earlier that evening, his focus and attention drawn and intense as he sniffed gently.
“Do you smell it?” he whispered, “It is very faint, but there is another camp fire burning... far away.” Feron had snuffled noisily but detected nothing more than the aroma of pine resin and damp earth.
Tillendur opened his eyes and turned his head to face the Dwarf, “It was not them that I sensed before, I have no doubt of that. The aroma was too wholesome to be them, too fresh. I cannot be completely sure but I suspect that someone had a fish roasting.”
Feron raised an eyebrow obviously missing a connection.
“A fresh fish!” answered the Elf, “These folk do not have time to catch fish, that takes a while, and even if you ignore that fact, I believe that they march on dried food, cured meat and water only. I cannot see their captain relenting during such a driven march to allow a fire and fresh fare.”
“Then the source is of little concern for us.” noted Ulaff as he licked a thick coating of mutton fat from his fingers. “So what is the plan for tomorrow?”
“An early start,” nodded Tillendur, 'We start before the break of dawn, I want to be at the port at first light... after that.” he paused deep in thought. “Well after that... we shall see, I shall gather news of their passing in the forest, only then can we decide our new course.”
“If it's an early start,” answered Feron, “Then I shall bid you both goodnight. My need for food and drink is satisfied,” he declared before belching loud and long and let out his buckled girdle one hole, “Now my need for sleep is pressing.” And rolling into a thick blanket he drifted into a deep slumber despite the loud crunching of bones between Ulaff's teeth as he finished his leisurely meal.
“Something isn't right!” Tillendur reined in his horse and stood in the stirrups, “I sense a disturbance... it is strange, it is only a feeling, and I cannot explain why there is suddenly a heaviness in my heart. We wasted too much time in Scaraport, of that I am now sure. Come my friends, we must make haste into the forest, only there will I find any news.”
Their trip into port had been uneventful. Arriving just after first light they had soon found a merchant on the waterfront capable of re-stocking their dwindling supplies, he had studied their neatly written list and nodded slowly. He has education, acknowledged Tillendur, rarely did he meet any of another race that could understand elvish writing, especially a Gnome.
“You are free to leave your horses here,” the elderly merchant had stated as he called into the rear of his shop and began to bark orders, “They will be safe here, I will ensure that everything that you need is packed ready for your return.”
“Most agreeable,” replied Feron bowing low, “That will give me time to find breakfast.” And without further conversation he began the hunt for a welcoming tavern.
“I prefer to stay here,” Ulaff eyed the merchant suspiciously, “I had my fill last night.”
“I will accompany Feron,” replied Tillendur, “We both know that it isn't wise to allow our short friend to become too comfortable when there is a fresh barrel open and meat roasting, I do not wish to delay for too long.” But Tillendur only revealed half of his real concern to the nodding Ogre, I cannot explain, his thoughts were a confusion, There is something unusual about today, but I do not sense any danger or threat, he paused at the front door and gazed along the waterfront. Just in time he spotted his companion disappear into an imposing wooden structure, the sign hanging above the front door proudly announcing, “Welcome to the Tickled Trout Tavern.”
“Ulaff,” he called over his shoulder, “You will find us in the Tickled Trout, inform me the very second we are ready to depart.”
Tillendur hesitated on the street outside the tavern deep in thought, but his premonitions refused to reveal more than an uneasy feeling of expectancy. Raucous laughter issued through the open door as a drunken Fairy staggered onto the street, his hat following swiftly, thrown by the bar keeper as he stood in the entrance, his hands firmly on his hips.
“And don't come back, I don't need your kind in here,” the short stocky Gnome bellowed. The sound of breaking wood carried clearly to the street and he rolled his eyes, “Frontier towns!”, he sighed before turning to calm yet another dispute before it escalated into violence and more damage.
“A charming establishment.” chuckled Tillendur as he straightened his soft deer skin tunic and prepared to enter, I think it is even more important now to be with Feron, his temper is too short for a place like this... and I do not wish to spend time explaining our mission to the local bailiff.
Taking a deep breath Tillendur pushed open the heavy oak door and immediately fought the urge to gag, smoke hung heavy in the stale air, thick acrid smoke issuing from numerous long stemmed clay pipes and a huge cooking fire at the end of a long wooden bar. Loud music and off key singing assaulted his ears. His elvish tastes cultured and refined, the rustic drinking songs of the Gnomes sounded discordant to the extreme.
Scanning the darkened room he soon located Feron, his loud voice adding to the noise as he clattered a hefty wooden mug of ale on the table in time with the music's tempo. It does not bode well for a quick departure, he sighed moving lightly and nimbly between the staggering patrons, at least Ulaff is here if he doesn't wish to leave quietly. Ulaff would be a last resort of course but knowing the massive Ogre was on call to bodily extract the jovial Dwarf came as some comfort.
“Tillendur,” shouted the Dwarf and tipped a snoozing Gnome from the seat at his side to make room for his friend, the unfortunate creature slumped to the scuffed and dirty floor but continued his deep slumber undisturbed, “Sit and drink with me my friend, I know how much your people love music... is this not the finest choir you have ever heard?” he grinned wide as the Elf grimaced, the rowdy singers doubling their efforts as the chorus came around again.
“What they lack in finesse they certainly make up for in enthusiasm,” replied the Elf diplomatically as he took the offered seat, a look of obvious distaste on his face as he glanced down on the drunken Gnome on the floor. “I cannot understand why you do this to yourselves,” he stated turning his attention back to Feron who ran his sleeve across his lips before banging the empty mug down hard and declaring, “He keeps good ale... for a Gnome,”
Quite a compliment, thought Tillendur knowing that Feron had obviously decided the beer was close to excellent, that is high praise indeed, especially when phrased so by Feron, which will add to my problems, he will be very reluctant to leave now.
Despite the drunken revelry surrounding him Tillendur remained reserved and quiet, his strange apprehension growing by the minute, I wish I knew what disturbs me, he sighed quietly and took a sip from the small glass of ale that Feron had insisted he take, “Just to appear sociable,” he had been instructed. It is actually very good, he admitted silently as the bitter flavour of hops lingered on his tongue. Yet despite the excellence of the beer his thoughts swiftly returned to anxiety as his frustration at their unavoidable delay mounted.
Now Tillendur stood in his stirrups and concentrated hard on the quiet murmurings of the woodland in the distance, too far away to be sure, but close enough to feel the tension, “To the forest quickly friends,” he cried spurring his horse forward urgently, “But I fear the news will not be good.”
Without urging Tillendur's horse swiftly broke into a gallop, the connection between animal and rider almost telepathic, so close were their minds, so well he understood his master's moods and feelings. Feron bounced uncomfortably behind. Dwarves are not natural horsemen, generally preferring to walk but his appointment to the Guild had demanded that sacrifices be made, and so it was that he had learned to ride of a fashion. Comfortable and proficient at a walk or steady trot but unstable at a canter or gallop. Feron admitted frequently that a sack of grain would have more balance and control at speed. “I just hang on and pray that I don't break my neck when I fall off... which I guarantee I will do before long.” he joked, the jest covering the genuine fear he held in his heart.
“What do you sense?” asked the Dwarf quietly as he finally managed to still his excited mount. Tillendur had dismounted under the eaves of the glowering forest, his palm placed against the gnarled and deeply riven bark of an ancient and stately chestnut, “The speech is confused,” he replied, “Rumour and supposition... evil has been at work here.”
“Goblins?” growled Feron and reached for the battle hammer that sat in a sling across his back, an adaptation made for him by the Elves of the Guild, and a gift he had accepted gratefully.
“I need both hands to cling onto this beast,” he had half joked, the sling kept his favourite weapon close but prevented its bulk from hampering his horseback travels.
“I am sure they are behind this mischief,” nodded Tillendur, “But the trees speak of a breed greater in stature than any Elf, that is what is so confusing.”
“Bigger than an Elf?” Feron slipped to the ground and hefting his hammer took a few tentative steps into the gloom of the overhanging branches.
“The are gone now, early this morning... but the trees are afraid Feron, the creatures of the woodlands are frightened, all fair things quake, it is like they are holding their breath, waiting for a drama to play out.”
“What scares them? What drama? Ask them that Tillendur.”
The Elf shook his head slowly, “You know that I cannot ask them, I cannot talk to them directly my friend, I only sense their emotions, their fears, I hear their thoughts but I am not able to direct their thoughts. I see only what they are capable of revealing.”
Ulaff finally arrived trailing the pack animals behind him on a long tether, his long stride easily matching the pace of a jogging horse. “What is the news?” he asked but fell silent as Tillendur raised his slender hand, his concentration and expression intense.
“Goblins,” whispered Feron, “Big Goblins by all accounts, up to mischief in the forest, but quite what they have been doing we know not yet.”
Ulaff drew his sword, the polished steel ringing as it slid from its wood and leather scabbard, and he flourished no dainty Elf made weapon. An Ogre blade is a fearsome thing to behold, placing the tip on the floor the hilt stands high above the head of any Dwarf, and it would take the combined strength of two full grown Dwarves to wield it, the blade broad and heavy, more cleaver than sword. Yet, cumbersome as it may have looked, in the hands of a skilled Ogre it became an object of deadly beauty, wood or stone, little could withstand it's scything arc when used in anger, armour, flesh and bone cleaving as easily as soft butter.
“Hush your chattering,” whispered the Elf, “I am close to the truth now.” his eyes closed and his expression grew serious as he gripped the tree, pain flashed across his handsome face and with a small cry he released his grip, panting softly. “It is dire my friends, and we have little time... I now see the mind of our enemy more clearly.”