They rode several hours before stopping for a break. Searching the plentiful and giving surroundings for something to go with their bits of dried meat, Djar wondered if his decision to leave Demron’s horse was a good one. The beast was far stronger and much faster than either of their mounts, but Ghaarhart was also far more conspicuous. He ultimately felt they were better off trying to blend in with the general populace than traveling around the countryside on an armored goblin warhorse. Not your everyday sight, you know.
Cookie managed to round up a few edible roots. Djar simply couldn’t match her seemingly innate survivalist talents, so he left much of the foraging to her. She could always find and identify – the important part! – the best and most nutritional food in the forest. A perfect example was a bunch of sweet tasting bluish-colored berries that she found growing on several long spine-covered vines that snaked their way up a huge oak.
Being a sprite, she did have heightened senses that made it much easier for her to live off the land. Djar could remember dozens of times when Cookie had gotten them out of several tough spots on their regularly scheduled camping excursions. Finding food, finding the right trail, getting their bearings straight during a downpour – these were all hallmarks of the young woman.
Djar leaned lazily against a tree near the small fire that Cookie had started. He closed his eyes, letting his mind slip well into the past, to much happier times. He could vividly remember when Cookie joined the family. After getting over her initial shyness, the little sprite would continuously pester him, chanting, among other things: “I go with jar – like a cookie.” At the time, Djar thought it was pretty stupid. But his mother thought it was cute, so his parents began calling her Cookie from then on. Even then he had to admit that the name fit her well, but he took more than his fair share of ribbing from friends. He took even more abuse from kids whom he’d never consider his friends. Eventually, however, it became no big deal. It didn’t take long for the two of them to become best friends and nearly inseparable. Djar found Cookie to be fascinating. Her outdoor skills were honed to perfection and her wisdom was extraordinary, yet she still retained a kind of naïve innocence. His feelings were always very strong for her, but lately, he simply couldn’t deny feeling something … more. He would have explored those feeling by now, but felt strange. Even though they were not related, they were sort of raised like brother and sister, so it was awkward at best. What would she thing about …
“This Raipar Root’s pretty good,” said Cookie, interrupting his thoughts with her munching on the steaming, yellow root. “And these berries are great!”
“They are,” agreed Djar, walking over to the fire and carefully taking another leaf-wrapped root from the small cooking fire.
Cookie then gobbled down a huge mouthful of the baked root, then grabbed a fistful of berries and shoved them into her mouth – both of them were quickly dispensing with their courtly manners. Djar’s mother had been no aristocratic prude, but she did teach them the etiquette necessary for state functions. Both of them did maintain a certain dignity too – at least whenever they were in the castle. “How long do you figure it will take to get to Dymorla’s neck ’o the woods?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. If we don’t run into any goblin patrols, it should take well over a week to get to Durbin Springs. We can then get some provisions and a small boat to ride the current of Teardrop Lake until we get downriver in the Astabor. Then we’ll hike southwest through the corner of the South Durn until we reach her keep – or whatever it is she calls home.”
“What are we going to do if and when we find her?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll worry about that when we get there.”
* * *
The following day dawned bright and blue and flawless: an utterly perfect late summer day with just enough morning heat and breeze to keep away the mosquitoes. The little vampires often plagued them during their forest excursions – but not today! They rode along in the near-perfect day reliving now nostalgic adventures. “Remember when” and “What about the time” began several long stories – some of them a bit embellished, but neither seemed to mind. The stories kept them both amused for hours. They only stopped their enjoyable, easy pace to rest the horses or forage. At least for a while, it seemed like the good old days. The weather, the ride, the condition of the trail – everything seemed … right. It was also easy for them to supplement their meager store of dried meat. Several times they were detained after smelling enticing aromas emanating from the forest’s fruit-bearing shrubs and trees. They’d stop just long enough to collect a bunch, and ride on.
This part of the Durn was also well known to them – they had traveled the trail frequently on hunting and camping excursions, so they didn’t have to pay too much attention to the intersecting side trails.
Toward the evening of the sixth day of travel, the forest broke apart to reveal a gently rolling grassy plain.
“The Bedlands! We’re making pretty good time,” Cookie said, wheeling her horse around to face Djar.
“Yeah, we’ll probably get to Durbin Springs in another day-and-a-half-two-days.”
“Do I really have to tell you that I don’t like the idea of going there? I know you haven’t forgotten what happened last time,” Cookie lectured. “What if those thugs give us trouble again?”
“Durbin Springs is a pretty crowded place, Cookie. I highly doubt the idiots will still be waiting for us (then again, with those morons, you never could tell, he thought). Anyway, why don’t we just camp here for the night – it looks pretty comfortable – then we’ll get an early start tomorrow.”
They slept very well through the entire night, waking only once when a howling coyote agitated the horses. Cookie reassured the animals by whispering something to them. Djar couldn’t understand it, but cookie had a way with animals like all of her kind. And he was glad.
They resumed their enjoyable journey after a cold breakfast of fruits just before the slowly rising sun obliterated the remaining darkness. They felt good, even though the early-morning dew had dampened some of their provisions, including their cloaks.
The day warmed significantly as they rode on. The sun shined down through the bunches of broad green leaves like swords of light. Chirping birds, rustling squirrels and small chattering insects filled the warm air with the cacophony of nature. To both of them, it was like a long remembered but long missed animal symphony, and the concert pleased both travelers. Again, since entering the forest, both travelers felt like everything was like it had been before the occupation. Even with the goblins in Mahhrain, the forest was the same inviting place it had been for as long as they could remember.
There was one important difference, however. They met no other people on the Great East/West Trail which they traveled. At this time of year they should have met up with any number of passing caravans, riders or trappers from the frontier. But these days no one came to Mahhrain. There was no reason to. There was nothing to trade and nothing to gain, except possibly death or imprisonment. In fact, most of the trade throughout all of the land was now put on hold, except maybe for the cities far south, such as Port of Navatu on the South Ocean.
The realization of how bad things had become sent Djar’s thoughts spiraling down the now familiar road of trying to understand what had happened and what could be done about it. The invasion of Mahhrain was an unprecedented historic event, the likes of which had not been seen in centuries! The other two duchies in the Human Lands had sent a sizeable but belated force to Mahhrain after hearing of the siege, but, at that point, nothing could be done. By the time the mobilized army reached the city, the goblin occupation was complete. Mahhrain’s scattered army came together with the forces of the two duchies and fought a valiant battle. They simply could not long stand against the larger and more aggressive hoard. Before losing too many men fighting in the open, the armies marched to Fort Durn, where they fight on, actually becoming the first serious problem for the goblins to cope with. Durn is a well-stocked, well-protected stronghold for the army. Many deep, secret tunnels dug long ago enable small bands to actually make their way out behind the goblin army and strike small, effective blows before scrambling back to the well-hidden and protected entrances. The tunnels also serve as great supply-lines. The goblins keep figuring the bands to be rogues hiding out in the forest.
Of course, all of this was told to Djar by some of the provincials he had visited on his collecting errands for Karn. He never got to see, let alone take part in, any of the battles. For several months following the occupation of Mahhrain, he was locked up in one of the towers like the little Princling.
But now, if Djar could enlist the help of Dymorla – and if she really was a powerful sorceress – just maybe he could oust the goblins from Mahhrain. Visions of this conquest played in his mind for a long time as they rode on. The time passed quickly and it was time to camp.
On the next day their journey took another direction. The morning was cool and cloudy, and by the afternoon, the distant muffled rumblings were replaced by dark green storm clouds and great blasts of thunder. These savage turns occurred fairly regularly this late in the summer. A vicious electrical storm tore at the now weary travelers for more than an hour before it settled into a steady rain shower.
Still onward they trudged; their horses searched for sure footing on the increasingly flooded trail. Large clumps of mud and clay stuck to the hooves of the poor beasts, causing them discomfort. Their human companions did not fare much better. Even with their hoods drawn tight, the rain kept running into their eyes making it difficult to see. Their cloaks also felt increasingly heavy as they became soaked through.
Not a word was spoken for a long time as both struggled to keep the horses on the trail. The memories of the previous enjoyable days were drowned in the torrential downpour. They finally had to stop. Not because they wanted to, but they were increasingly concerned for the well being of the horses. They were continuously slipping on the flooded trails, and it seemed that they could fall down any second. Besides, they poor animals needed a rest and food.
Time crept miserably by as they waited for the downpour to ease. After searching out food for themselves and their mounts, they tried to nap, huddled close together under a makeshift lean-to they fashioned with sticks, leaves and grasses. They were already soaked, so the only relief the shelter permitted was to shield them from the large falling drops.
The wet afternoon finally gave way to a misty, iron-grey evening. Although both were glad that the downpour had subsided, the drizzle clung to the bones and afforded no great comfort.
Cookie smiled reassuringly, but said nothing as they began to pack their things to resume their journey. They traveled slowly on into the night, not wanting to stop since they lost so much time during the storm. Cookie was an invaluable asset, as the Sprite seemed to have a built in compass, and always seemed to know the correct paths to follow to maintain their Westerly direction. Djar most certainly would have gotten lost if he was in the lead, for the clouds obscured the moon and stars, so visual directions were impossible. But even Cookie had difficulty seeing in the pitch black forest, and, eventually, she called a halt to the march.
They slept until the black night gave way to a grey dawn. The drizzle gave way to a fine mist. It was nearly noon when the forest broke into a meadow of long green and yellow grasses.
“We’re close to the Astabor,” said Cookie.
“I think I see it up ahead.”
“Yep, that’s it. And I think we came out of the Durn just a bit north of Durbin Springs, so head south along the river banks.”
“Okay. How long do you think it will be before we reach town?” asked Djar. “I want to get to a tavern, dry off, and get a good hot meal.”
Cookie turned in her saddle to face him.
“We probably won’t get there until the evening, what with the time we’re making. And what’s the rush, anyway? Don’t you like being chilled to the bone, eating soggy fruit and not-so-dry-meat Princling?”
Djar just smiled.
* * *
Durbin Springs was a place of cutthroats and thieves. Dirty money changed dirty hands in dirty alleyways. Fighting dogs, creaking signposts and singing drunks were about the only things that broke the gloomy silence. And these unsettling noises were quite contrary to the soothing sounds of the forest that they had grown used to for more than a week straight. In retrospect, the rain didn’t seem nearly as bad anymore.
“What kind of people would live here?” Cookie whispered, pulling her cloak tightly about her.
“Some don’t have a choice – others like it,” breathed Djar.
“I told you I didn’t want to come here. It’s only gotten much worse.”
She was right. The last time the travelers found themselves in the city it was quite by accident. They were on a camping trip when a huge bear attacked one of Duke Taelbor de Kellwood’s hunter-guards, Drew de Lago. They had no choice but to seek medical help in Durbin Springs.
While waiting for the doctor to do his business, Djar and Cookie walked into a seedy tavern to get something to eat. A barrel-chested trapper dressed in animal furs started taunting the young lord, who did look pretty hokey in his Imperial Hunting Garment. He also started to make passes at Cookie – who to this day maintains she could have “taken care of the thug.” Push came to shove, and soon shove broke out into a dangerous sword fight. Djar didn’t have Dybol then (his father still carried the sword), and he was fighting for his life, so he searched for an open killing strike. The trouble was, he had yet to become the blade master he now was, and he was no more than a boy going up against a man nearly twice his weight. Things didn’t go according to plan.
He never even came close to a killing strike, as his sword was knocked out of his hand, and the burly trapper backed him up against a wall. Cookie was kept busy with five of the trapper’s friends.
If not for Dermatt, and a few of the Home Guard making a timely entrance, Djar would have been cut to ribbons. Thankfully, however, the trapper’s sense of manhood was supplanted by his instinct for survival, so he let his young prey go without a fight. This was wise as Dermatt had quickly drawn his huge sword and was more than ready and willing to run him through without the slightest hesitation. Thinking of the encounter, Djar once again wondered what became of his father’s most trusted bodyguard; Dermatt was probably killed in the battle of Mahhrain’s occupation, but he didn’t know for sure …
“Okay,” Djar said, bending close to face Cookie. “We’ll just get one quick meal, then dry off and get some sleep. If we get up early enough, we can get out of town before anyone even wakes up – most of them will probably be sleeping off hangovers, anyway.”
They walked the fetid streets, searching for an inn that looked somewhat respectable. They passed clusters of ramshackle huts and garishly painted storefronts. Even the town’s larger two- and three-story buildings were in total disrepair; some even visibly leaned to one side or the other.
Finally, they came to a place called The Broken Keg. It was a sorry looking two-story structure in bad need of repair. Most of the paint had long since chipped off, and some of the planks even had rotted out holes in them. A misspelled sign told of “bargan priced luxery rooms”.
“Should we just try this one?” asked Djar.
“I don’t like the looks of this place, but then again we haven’t passed anything better.”
Before entering, they hitched up the horses. They stopped at the door, peering into its dirty little pane of yellow glass. Several men and two women sat at four different tables. Smoke filled the room. At the table nearest the back, four rough looking characters played cards. One smoked a huge pipe that belched a gigantic cloud with every exhale.
There was a rough plank bar set atop several barrels alongside one of the walls.
“That’s probably who we talk to about getting the room,” whispered Cookie, pointing to an old, disheveled man behind the makeshift bar.
“That’s fine because I need something to eat before I go to bed.”
She gave him a dirty look.
“Come on, Cookie – I’m starving.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” she said, grabbing the rusty door handle and pushing the creaking door. Upon entering, a wicked odor assailed their nostrils. It was different than the odor in the streets – but equally bad. The mix of smoke, sweat, perfume, and food smelled so strongly that it was a wonder that you couldn’t see the odor. At any other time Djar’s stomach would have been unsettled, but presently he only had one thing on his mind.
Walking up to the crooked old man behind the bar, he called: “Two ales and two big bowls of hot soup, please!”
The old man turned, pointing to a large steaming pot in the kitchen area.
“No soup. Stew.”
Djar smiled. “That sounds fine. I guess we’ll eat at the bar here.”
“Suit yourself,” was all he said before shambling over to get two bowls from a shelf over the old wood stove.
Djar looked at Cookie who was glancing about nervously.
“Take it easy,” he whispered. “Don’t worry. These people have no interest in us. Remember, we’re just poor travelers on the way to Elfin.”
“Elfin?”
“Yes. You pretty much look like an elf, albeit a runt.”
“Very funny.”
Djar smiled. Though Cookie was an expert outdoorswoman, he had the edge when it came to handling people – and getting out of people trouble. He was well versed in diplomacy – practically since the first day he could speak! Actually, he used to call it hustling, though never in his father’s presence. Yes, Elfin was a good story. It was a newer border town actually set near the troll lands of the East Wilderlands. Many elves were taking up residence there since the signing of the Pact Of Peace by Aara, queen of the elves; Aeilronic, prince of the woodland elves; and Thag Olrood, the great troll Chieftain and Master of the Seven Tribes of the Dark Peoples as they were known.
“Here’s your stew, and I’ll get the ales right now,” said the barkeep, a little more pleasantly. “Four Coppers, for-the-goods.”
“Great.” Djar carefully felt in his tunic pocket for a large Silver. He didn’t want to be flashing Golds around in a place like this. “You can keep the change, my good man.”
The barkeep quickly took the coin – at first looking suspiciously at it – then quickly stuffed it deep into his apron pouch. Apparently even he didn’t like flashing his money around in his own establishment.
“Care for anythin’ else?” he asked; the big tip making him a bit over-friendly.
“Now that you mention it, yes. We need a room for the night, but we’ll probably be leaving early, so we want to pay for it now. Can you help us?”
“Uh, hum, uh ... sir,” he said. The innkeeper was definitely beginning to smell a profitable evening. He looked at Djar, then looked Cookie up and down, pausing at length in certain places. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “All we have left is the honeymoon suite, and that is ten silvers a night.”
“Ten silvers? Are you kidding? We –” hissed Cookie.
“We’ll take it – for seven.” interrupted Djar.
The innkeeper happily scurried into the kitchen area with his newfound riches – presumably to hide the coin.
Djar leaned close to Cookie. “What was that? You talk about me, then you almost cause a scene over a few silvers?”
“That’s way too much money to spend on a dumpy room for a night.”
“You know, you take after my father,” he scolded. A few of the patrons glanced curiously at them. He then lowered his voice to an almost imperceptible whisper. “Don’t worry about the money. I have a lot.”
One of the card players then began to whoop it up about winning “the mother of all pots.” Djar was glad, because it took the attention away from them. The drunken winner then stood up and did a comical little jig, slapping the palms of his hands on his heels. He called out to the innkeeper “to get his big behind in here” and to give everyone a round on him, then flung a silver piece at the smiling old man.
Yes, it was definitely a good night – for the innkeeper.
* * *
The “honeymoon suite” was nothing more than a dirty little room with a large, musty bed. The straw mattress reeked of mildew, and felt almost wet in the humid room. At least the sheets had been washed – if not, they probably would have slept on the floor.
“I’d hate to see the regular rooms,” said Cookie, as she slumped down on the mattress. “Sharg! There’s a stick in the mattress – and you can guess where!”
Djar rolled his eyes. “Let’s just make the best of it and get some sleep.”
Sleep was what they wanted. Sleep was what they needed. But sleep is not what they got. Apparently, the tavern was a popular place, as more and more sounds emanated from the downstairs escapades. It seemed that some crashing sound – usually accompanied by screaming or laughing – startled them nearly every time they fell asleep.
This went on long into the night before Djar finally sprang from the bed.
“I can’t take this! Look, Cookie … it’s getting light outside! The sharg-encrusted idiots partied the entire night!”
“Let’s just get our things together ...” she began, getting up from the bed, “and get out of here.”
They packed their goods and left the room, stopping to peer over the aged banister before descending the stairs.
Djar’s heart sank.
“Cookie. It’s one of the guys from last time,” he breathed.
“Get out.”
“I’m not kidding,” he said, pointing to the enemy, which sprang from his past. “We’ll have to try and sneak past them. Pull your cloak tight and try to avoid his face.”
Djar felt like he was in a dream, but he knew it wasn’t so. It was much too real to be a dream.
He waited until the innkeeper went back into the kitchen before beginning a descent that seemed to take an eternity – they didn’t want their newfound friend to make any commotion upon their departure – they had, after all, probably made him more money than he usually brought in during the course of a full week.
They made their way past the remaining patrons – who were mostly coming down from a full night of being drunk – carefully trying to avoid the face of the bearded giant who almost succeeded in snuffing out Djar’s life once. Djar certainly didn’t want to give him a second chance.
They made it all the way to the door before Djar felt the overpowering urge to glance at the giant.
He did.
The giant glared directly into Djar’s face and scowled. Then he looked away.
The trapper was so obviously drunk that he probably was only seeing two small blurs walking in front of his red, squinting eyes.
“Wow, are we ever lucky,” said, Djar, after they walked out into the early morning grey.
“Yeah real lucky! Someone stole the horses!”
Continued With Chapter III: Of Long Walks And Demons