I promise, this series will end. Eventually... For those of you who have stuck with my story up to this point, I salute you! You make me very happy. =] Beforehand, I thank you for your sweet comments of appreciation. They have greatly encouraged me!
And now, without further ado...
And now, without further ado...
Part 6: Neris
“ 'Scuse
me, sirs, where might we find some grubb?”
In a
scramble of weapons and bodies, the two men were instantly
surrounded. Despite the instinct to grab for their own weapons, both
raised open hands to shoulder level, a sign that they were not there
to fight. Peder did the talking, acting nervous.
“Whoa,
there. Easy, fellas,” he said, in the accent of a southern farmer.
“We're just two honest travelers lookin' for a bite.”
The
armed men were silent. Presently, they parted and an Aijan man
stepped forward. He stood at least four inches shorter than either
Slannin or Peder, but was well-built and stocky, muscular in the arms
and shoulders. Crossing those arms, he confronted them in the
Gondian language, thick with his native accent.
“Who
are you?” he demanded, his words blunt and fast. Small, dark eyes
glared at the two beneath black eyebrows. The face was round, stern
– devoid of laughter, and sported a neatly trimmed mustache and
goatee, which framed the thin mouth.
To
fit his character, Peder cleared his throat.
“Name's
Pedd and this here's ma buddy, er... Dirt,” he said, throwing his
arm around Slannin's shoulders and giving him a bear squeeze. “He
doesn't talk much. We caught sight of your fire an' were almighty
hungry after smelling your meat for th' last mile.” For effect, he
leaned over, looked at what was left of a deer carcass still roasting
over the fire, and sniffed longingly. The leader ignored his
yearning and repeated the phrase in the same manner.
“Well,
you see,” Peder began, acting disappointed. “We're headed to
Wyntown Spring to see ma sister. See, he's 'sposed t' marry her,”
he added, leaning forward and jerking his thumb in Slannin's
direction. “But he got cold feet and I had to run 'im down. Took
me all mornin' an' most o' the day,” he mumbled, glaring at his
companion, who stood hunched with arms crossed. “But I caught him!
An' now it's dark, thanks t' Dirt here, an' we're gonna have t' spend
the night in this wood, an' I'm gonna miss Mammy's cake, an'–”
“Enough!”
shouted the Aijan man, furious. Peder flinched, thinking it an
appropriate reaction to his act, but inwardly he was laughing. “I
care not for your petty troubles, peasant! You eat and go on your
way.” Abruptly, he turned on his heel.
“But,
it's nearly midnight–” Peder began and the man whirled to face
him again.
“You
eat!” he repeated. “And go on your way.”
The
leader held Peder's eyes in a lock until the younger man, though he
hated to, looked away. He then spoke abruptly in his native language
to another dressed as a foot soldier, who promptly moved to the fire. The soldier returned and led them to a spot on the ground for them
to sit, offering them heaping plates of meat and bread, as well as two mugs of fresh water.
“Much
obliged,” said Peder. He didn't receive a reply nor was he
expecting one.
Both
men sat down and set to the food with a will. The soldier moved to
watch them. Obviously, they were still under suspicion but, at the
moment, Peder didn't care. The venison was delicious, cooked with
some kind of spice, and the bread, though a bit stale, was a great
accompaniment. He hadn't realized how hungry he was. This was the
first meal he'd had since an early breakfast that morning, which now
seemed ages ago.
As
they ate, he and Slannin looked around the camp. Vaguely, he
wondered where Jaron and their dragon friends were. Only when their
guard became so bored as to fiddle with his boot, did Slannin turn to
him.
“Dirt? That's the best you could come up with?”
“What? It was a last minute decision. They know your name, right? So I
came up with a new one. 'Dirt' was just the first thing that came to
mind.” Peder matched Slannin's hushed tone. Fortunately, guarding
two “peasants” such as them was the last thing the soldier wanted
to do and so, bored out of his mind, he began playing with a small
dagger.
A
cool breeze blew through the trees, ruffling the hair of two, making
Peder wish he had kept his cloak, which he had hidden before entering
the camp. The leathern clasp, bearing the likeness of a hawk, the
emblem to which division of the Guard he belonged, was far too
recognizable. Slannin, too, had abandoned his cloak, hiding his twin
daggers in sheaths beneath his vest. To complete their makeshift
disguises, they rubbed dirt and moss on their faces and clothing, and even rolled up the sleeves of their shirts, which better fit the look of a poor farmer. Peder hoped it was
enough.
“Still,”
muttered Slannin, shaking his head. He finished a bite of bread and
meat, then added sarcastically, “You sure are a creative one.”
“Fine. Next time–” The guard turned in their direction and Peder, on
impulse, mimed a random scene, opening his mouth as if he was
speaking. Despite his grim personality, Slannin caught on and
laughed aloud. The soldier turned away and Peder continued, pointing
a hunk of bread at Slannin.
“Next
time I'll call you Mumbly. I think it fits.” They glared at each
other and Peder caught the faintest glimmer of a smile on the other
man's face. He grinned.
“Aw,
come on! You wouldn't believe what some people call their young
'uns, nowadays. Why, I met one just two weeks ago who told me his
name was Twig! Poor kid, he–”
“'Least that's better than Dirt...”
“I
heard that, Mumbly.”
Half
an hour passed.
“Peder.”
The
Guard looked at Slannin, whose green eyes said something must be
done. His friend was right; it was time to move. Peder ran a hand through his hair, half hoping Jaron would
appear as if by magic beside him with a command or at least a nod of
confirmation. Quietly, Peder
sat, elbows on his knees, racking his brain. He nibbled what was
left of the stale loaf and swished the lukewarm water of his mug. Maybe they should move on, find a place to observe the camp and wait
for the Elf captain. It was madness to attempt to take on twelve men at once.
Doubts
began to slither into his mind. Time would not wait for his
decision, he knew, nor would those responsible for this plot against
his country. The Aijan nation was now a big part, at least a select
few of her people were guilty of treason, as was the united islands
of the Twelve Isles. If they didn't do something soon, this
situation would definitely fall out of their hands.
So be
it, they had stalled long enough.
Peder
stood, stretching his tired limbs. Slannin gathered the spent
dishes, stacking them neatly beside the fallen log. His eyes roamed
the camp grounds, grinding into his memory the positions of each
visible man as well as those under cover of the tents. It would be
risky. Thankfully, they
still had their weapons. No one had thought to search them after
hearing Peder's ridiculous story.
The
Guard gestured to Slannin, then stooped to pick up the dishes,
intending to thank their “gracious” host.
“Change
of plans. I feel it would be best to leave the camp and pick off the
soldiers one by one. The odds far outnumber us no matter our skill.” Peder's voice was low. Somewhat bored and ready for any kind of action, Slannin scowled, apparently disappointed,
though he said nothing. He knew Peder was right. “If possible, we
take them alive.” Slannin nodded, and they moved toward the camp
center.
Just
as they passed the man appointed to guard them, the night was pierced
by a shout.
Neither Peder nor Slannin
understood the language, but they didn't like the sound of it. Peder
whirled to see a man dressed simply in a burgundy tunic and tan
trousers pointing at them. He must have just stepped from the main
tent. Peder glanced at Slannin, whose daggers appeared in each hand. His companion hissed.
“It's
the messenger!”
The time following those words fell into chaos.
Even their guard was surprised by the
sudden shout. Peder threw the empty plates at the unsuspecting man
and drew his sword as the soldier stumbled. He turned in time to
block a hit from an eager long-sword. With a few precise strokes, he left
the second man in the dirt. Whirling his sword, he shouted.
“Come on!”
Anger fueled his strength.
These men had come for a purpose: to
destroy an alliance and, in time, ruin a country. His country.
Not
today.
“GONDWAAAAA!!!” he shouted,
bellowing the war-cry of his people. Slannin looked at Peder, whose
expression was fierce and confident. He determined not to get in the
Guard's way.
 |
| Peder Grey |
Panting from exertion, he began to
wonder why he had taken this job.
For a brief moment, he was no longer a
part of the battle. Finding himself at the tree border of the camp,
he took the chance to catch his breath.
On the far side of the central blaze
burning brightly in the night, Peder saw Slannin engaged with another soldier. It
wasn't long before the former thief hooked a hilt to the man's head. Peder grimaced and unconsciously felt the back of his scalp.
“Effective,” he mumbled to
himself.
A footstep behind him caused the young
Guard to freeze.
Peder spun on his heel, sword at the
ready, and came face to face with a giant. Though he wasn't much taller
that Peder himself, but he stood about as wide as he was high, the majority
of his size being muscle. He was bald, except for a thin, braided
ponytail on the top of his head, a trademark feature of an Aijan
warrior. That was exactly what this man was. Bare-chested, clothed
only from the waist down, with arms the size of small barrels, he displayed an intimidating sight.
The Guard's long-sword clashed with
the other man's one-edged blade. Peder grunted at his strength. They broke and circled, the man gave something of a laugh, reminding Peder of a bear.
He, in turn, attempted a laugh, but it
sounded like a pathetic, nervous squeak compared to the gruff voice
of his adversary. Clearing his throat, he caught a glimpse of
Slannin, five yards from himself, exchanging blows with two other
soldiers.
“Hey, Slannin!”
“Kinda. Busy,” the other man
grunted, blocking a thrust from the longer swords of his opponents.
“You wanna trade?” Slannin looked
up, but quickly returned his attention to the two men before him. Dropping to the ground, he kicked one of the men's legs out from
under him and finished with the dagger hilt. Keeping his eyes on the
remaining enemy, he spoke to Peder.
“Where
was he hiding?”
Peder ducked a swipe from a beefy arm.
“Aye. Where were you
hiding?”
The big man laughed.
Dodging another blow, he feinted and
spun in close, his long-sword whistling through the air. His offense
was neatly parried
causing the Guard to roll, avoiding a hit.
At that moment, an ear-splitting roar
interrupted the course of the battle. Men covered their ears and instantly looked to the leafy
ceiling. A shadow filled the open air, creating gusts of wind, and
sending sparks flying dangerously close to the canvas of the tents.
Majestically, Valtiramiir landed in
the midst of confusion and turned the chaos level up a notch. The
soldiers were completely shocked at the sight of the rare creature,
obviously an ally of their enemies.
At the arrival of his scaly friend,
Peder nearly forgot the presence of his sizable opponent. He turned
in time to defend against a blow that might have separated his head
from his shoulders.
“Watch it! You almost took my head,”
he muttered sarcastically
through gritted teeth. He was getting tired of close calls. This time, the big man did not laugh. The arrival of the red dragon
had triggered a fear, pushing back the confidence the soldiers had
possessed only moments ago. It was all Peder could do to defend
himself from the onslaught of offensive strikes, fueled by the power
of terror. He felt himself tiring again, no doubt due to a long day of
non-stop travel and battle.
Willing weary muscles to obey, Peder
brought his sword up to meet a powerful, overhead swing. He cried
out and fell to a knee as the resulting crash of metal jarred his arm
enough to numb it temporarily.
Then, as if from nowhere, a massive,
armored tail rammed the soldier in the side and sent him flying into
the formidable trunk of an oak as round as a house. To Peder's
relief, the man crumpled to the ground.
“My thanks, Lady,” said Peder from his kneeling position. The dragon dipped her head regally in
acknowledgment.
“We would rather not lose you yet,
young Peder,” she replied, her voice as smooth as honey.
“Well,
that's a relief,” grinned the Guard. “Neither do I.”
The fight was brief.
Peder inhaled deeply the sweet night
air. Leaning on the hilt of his sword, with the point in the ground
at his right foot and his left knee pressed into the soft, mossy
dirt, he took the brief rest gratefully. Thank You, Eliadan.
At the sound of boots coming to a halt
before him, he groaned.
“Who dares disturb my peace?”
When he received no answer, he opened
his eyes and glared at Slannin, who offered a hand.
With another groan of weariness, he
accepted and was pulled to his feet. He took his cloak and
slipped it on. Slannin did the same, but left the hood down.
“Jaron returns. He should arrive at
any moment.” Peder nodded, not caring how Slannin knew this
information. He patted the other man's back.
“Don't worry. I will speak for
you.” Slannin shook his head.
“It does not matter anymore. I will
accept the consequences of my actions.” The words were quiet.
Peder looked at him and the vision of
his new friend on trial did not sit well with the young man. Jaron had
said he was wanted on many charges, but was now believed dead. Maybe
they could work that to his advantage.
His eyes observed the camp, which now
lay in ruins. Two of the smaller tents were now smoldering embers
and the others, though whole, lay broken from the fight. Valtiramiir joined the
men from her position guarding the captured soldiers. Out of the
fourteen, only three lay dead. Five others remained unconscious
whether from Slannin's blows or the red lady's foreclaw. Those
conscious were tied and gagged to await questioning.
At last, Jaron and Keighvyn arrived,
wearied and windblown from flight. The Elf set foot on solid ground
and scanned the area in approval. Before joining the young men and
red dragon, he drew a whistle from a cord around his neck and blew a
sharp, piercing note that rang through the quiet of the forest. With
that, he returned the whistle to his shirt and met the men, now
standing near the fire close to the larger tent. Peder came to
attention and saluted his captain with a fist to his chest.
“Well done, Cadet,” Jaron
remarked, placing a hand on Peder's shoulder. “You've proven
yourself today, I believe.”
“Thanks, Cap,” Peder replied,
relaxing. It wasn't often he received such an open compliment from
his senior partner. “What of the ship?” he inquired, curious.
“She now lies on the ocean floor.
Those of the crew who did not surrender, lay with her.” Jaron
gestured to the tent and the men entered, excusing the dragons. The
interior was spacious and neat. A quarter of the room was curtained,
evidently allowing the leader as much privacy as possible. Each man
took a seat around the circular table located in the right-hand
corner from the entrance.
“But come, what happened here? I
have called for a messenger hawk. We will send word to the Commander and await direction. Meanwhile, we have time to spare.”
As Peder filled Jaron in on the events
from when last they parted, Slannin grew solemn with each passing
moment. He dreaded when the subject would turn to him. Jaron
listened with interest and actually laughed, or rather, chuckled
slightly, at Peder's recount of their act as farmers of the South.
 |
At the conclusion, the cry of a bird
filled the night. Jaron left the tent and returned with a beautiful
hawk resting on the leather of his arm guard. Dark-brown feathers
mingled with those of a rusty-red color then faded into a mixture of
white and brown plumes at the tail. Slannin noticed what looked like
a halter fastened to the back of the bird where lay a cylinder to carry the messages. Two bands of painted red leather was attached to each of its legs.
Both men were silent as the Elf
quickly penned a message with ink and paper from the supplies in the
tent. Placing the small piece of parchment in the cylinder and
securing the lid, Jaron lifted the fabric of the tent door and, with
a soft word of Elvish, sent the bird on its way.
He turned to Peder and Slannin.
“Slannin.”
The man raised his head, a wary, guarded look in his eyes.
“Dawn is slow approaching. We must
await the patrol my company will send. However, while the dragons guard the
prisoners, we have time to hear from you.” Jaron returned to his seat before the two and continued. “Your every intention was
to take the documents, was it not?”
“Yes. At first.”
“At first?” Slannin avoided the
Elf's gaze.
“It is a long story.”
“We have time. You are foreign to
this land – neither of Gondoa, nor Ardos. Though I know your
nationality–” At this statement, Peder interrupted.
“Wait. You are not of Gondoa? Where–?” Slannin's eyes flicked to Jaron's. The Elf's nod was
slight, and he smiled a small smile. Slannin looked at Peder.
“Neris.”
--------------------------------------------------
Photos from Pinterest. I do not know where the handsome gentleman above hails from, but he is what I imagine Peder to look like. =]
Photos from Pinterest. I do not know where the handsome gentleman above hails from, but he is what I imagine Peder to look like. =]
I absolutely love this story and thoroughly enjoy each new update! The beginning of this one made me laugh. Loved it!
ReplyDeleteGreat story :)
ReplyDeleteI found an image that looks identical to Peder.
Here is the link:
http://pinterest.com/pin/309129961892967912/
Also thanks for joining my board on pinterest, the " character" one.
I would love it if you kepy posting on it :)