Chapter Fourteen: On the Edge

Chapter Fourteen: On the Edge

            Outlands

            Haven Village

            Carsten woke early that day, and he went outside almost immediately. Although he would have liked to wait for Arcaena to wake up, he wanted to get a better view of Haven. In truth, the more he saw of the town, the more he could not shake the feeling that this was where he belonged. The problem was he knew Arcaena would never agree to it. As much as she apparently disliked her father, the dark elf clearly wanted to go home. That being said, he also felt, in the deepest part of his soul, that where she was going now he could not follow. And Haven seemed to Carsten to be the best place for him at the moment. As he walked, he could not help but appreciate the simple happiness he saw among the people of the village. They did not have much, and what they did was in poor condition. Even so, they expressed both contentment and oblivious joy in their circumstances. He passed several shops as he walked down the main thoroughfare, smiling as he listened to the friendly dialogue between the traders and their customers. Then, finding a nice bench on one side of the street, the dwarf sat down and watched the people and wagons go by. There were a few narhol pulling the vehicles, most of them were actually horse-drawn. Carsten kicked his legs back, enjoying the sights and sounds all around him.

            “Ten? It was eight last week.”

            “Tell you what,” the shopkeeper said. “I’ll make it ten for everyone else. For you, six. I know that Toskan’s bedridden.”

            The woman nodded her thanks and handed the man her money. He reached behind the counter and pulled out a large white package stained with blood. That and the noxious odor from the wooden building told him that the man was a butcher. As if a gore-splattered leather apron was not indication enough, he reflected ruefully. The man handed her a second piece of meat, whispered something to the woman, and she went on her way. As the dwarf watched, he noticed similar practices among other shopkeepers. If he or she knew the family had a sick member, he might give a discount. Sometimes, Carsten saw the trader palm the money back into the client’s hands. One of these was a dwarf baker who caught Carsten’s eye when he gave a man a free loaf of bread for his sick wife. Currently, however, he was not behind the stall, instead helping his workers in unloading several sacks of flour from a wagon. From the looks of the burlap containers, the red-haired dwarf would have been willing to wager each one weighed well over one hundred pounds. Even so, the workers had little trouble hefting the sacks and dropping them down into the hands of the two dwarves waiting to receive them. One of these missed the hands of a young-looking blond fellow, who despite his youthful appearance was far broader and taller than Carsten, almost human height. It hit the ground with an audible whump, followed by a crack as it splintered the wooden ramp beneath it. The narhol pulling the cart gave a loud, surprised bleat and broke into a run, sending the three workers on it tumbling off. The ramp spun crazily in the mud, sending up a spray of filth from the street. Despite its ponderous appearance, the beast moved with incredible speed, pulling the cart at lethal velocity behind it. The baker momentarily looked as though he might chase after the animal, but decided against it. Grumbling, he started to pick up sacks of flour, while his workers got themselves out of the mud.

            “A whole wagon?” One of them remarked. “Exemplary going, Gunnar. You just managed to lose two hundred enuva worth of flour and leaven. Brilliant.” The blond dwarf ran his hands through his hair, coming away with a smattering of dirt.

            “So now it’s my fault?” He asked incredulously. “Who was the idiot throwing flour like a festival tournament ball? You know as well as I do that I can’t catch and throw like you do. But instead of placing blame, maybe we could go after the cart.” The baker shook his head.

            “That won’t be as easy as it sounds,” he told them. “How about we clean up the mess now and go after the goat later. No reason to lose the rest of today’s work because a spooked animal. Who knows? You fellows might finish early today.” Carsten had heard enough. This man seemed practical, no-nonsense. He demonstrated a capacity for kindness and compassion, and now he had lost half a day’s work to a stupid accident. The red-haired dwarf got to his feet and slipped through a side street, listening to the sounds of surprise and distress coming from the adjacent byways. Time to see if he could find the obnoxious goat.

            Carsten did run across the goat, although not quite as he had intended to do. He spent the better part of the morning looking around the town, without much luck. Everyone had seen the beast dragging the rapidly splintering cart, but no one seemed quite able to definitively say where it had been headed. Working with the information they had provided, Carsten had searched just about every alley, side street, and claustrophobic avenue he could, but not one had turned up results, aside from some wood pieces, shards of glass, and injured limbs. The dwarf was currently kneeling beside a young man who had been knocked several meters by the rampaging animal, and it looked as though he had broken his arm. A small crowd had gathered, and Carsten was curious if anyone knew how to set a bone.

            “If this arm heals wrong, he will be unable to use it again,” the dwarf said. “Can no one help me?” Shakes of heads and expressions of discomfiture followed his question. “All right, then,” he said, looking down at the boy (for boy he was) lying on his back in the dirt. “I can readjust your arm and put it in a sling. But you will be unable to move it, and it will hurt. A lot.” The boy shook his head.

            “What makes you think I care if it’s going to hurt?” He snapped. “Stop talking about my blasted arm and fix it already.” Carsten nodded, gently feeling the bones beneath the skin. The boy winced but remained otherwise still. Yes, the bone was broken, but only in one place. That made readjusting its position at least easier. Still, the dwarf knew bone-setting was a difficult task at best, and he set to work. He seized the arm and applied pressure around the area, getting a firm grip on the snapped ulna. Working it back up onto the other half of the bone, he shifted it until he felt it fall into place. The boy grimaced, biting his tongue to keep himself from screaming. Tearing a strip off his own jerkin, Carsten lashed the arm against the boy’s chest.

            “There,” he said. “Not pretty, but it should do for now. Is there a bone-setter or healer in town?” Everyone around shook their heads. Carsten rolled his eyes. “All right, then here is what you ought to do. Go to Deyann’s house; there’s a dark elf there who has a knack for healing. Tell her Carsten sent you, and she should help.”

            “Where are you going?” The boy asked.

            Carsten turned around and trudged off through the mud. “I have a goat to catch,” he growled.

Carsten was glad he had found the goat; however, he was less enthusiastic about dealing with it like this. The narohl was standing stolidly in the middle of the thoroughfare, blocking his path. Also, the walls on either side of him were rather claustrophobic, meaning he had little room to dodge if the beast decided to charge. From the angry look in its large eyes, Carsten was almost certain that was precisely what it meant to do.

“Easy there,” he said, stepping slowly toward the animal. “You have had a very long and trying day, eh? Time to come home, big fellow.” The goat snorted but made no move beyond that. This had better work, he thought. Getting trampled would certainly make life worse. “Come on now. You had your fun, but I think you ought to go home. Your master is probably worried.” Hopefully, using a softer tone would pacify the angry animal, though he had his doubts. “Let me see…” he murmured. “You look all right, and the cart is intact. Easy, boy, easy…” he was close to the goat now, and he reached out with his hand and laid it on the back of his head. “Sssshhh,” he whispered. “There you go. Nice and calm, as it should be.” The goat reached out with its head and butted him gently with its head. “There you go. Now to get this cart home.”

The dwarven baker was busy at his oven, taking loaf after loaf out of the inferno. The sweat dripping down his forehead and the flush of his cheeks was, in truth, more due to anger than rage, but there was little he could do. The cart’s loss was regrettable, and it would cost him food for months. But what could…his musings were suddenly interrupted by Gunnar, running into the bakery’s oven room.

“Sir…” he began, puffing as he tried to catch his breath. “I…”

“What now?” Jorgen asked. “Do you have a problem, or is there some other reason you aren’t working?”

Gunnar hesitated. “Well…sir, it’s the cart. It appears as though someone brought it back.”

The cart was almost exactly as Jorgen remembered it; its sides were scored and damaged, and the wheels looked like they might need replacing. Two sacks of flour had been damaged, but no more harm beyond that presented itself. To the dwarf’s surprise, there was no one in the seat, but there was a note stuck between two boards. Jorgen too it out of the slats and read it, his eyebrows rising as he looked at the script.

To whoever owns the cart,

I apologize that I do not know your name, but I knew you needed help. I know that this may not seem perfect, as a few sacks of flour got ripped while your goat was running amok. I did my best, and I hope you can help feed these people.

Best of luck to you and with the Maker’s blessing,

-P

Jorgen smiled and folded the note. “Well, it seems we’ve been favored today by a mysterious benefactor. Get to work, boys. Let’s get the flour offloaded.”

Deyann’s House

Arcaena was tending the boy’s wound; not a pleasant thing to do, but she had made a covenant to be a healer, and she was going to uphold it. Magic was rolling off her hand in a steady stream, and the boy’s face was relaxed for someone with a broken arm. Her concentration barely wavered when the door swung open, and she said, “Well, you have certainly been busy this morning, have you not?” Carsten smiled. Still uncanny, he thought.

            “Sorry,” he said. “I got distracted. Is that a problem?”

            The dark elf smiled as she put the finishing touch on the healing. “There,” she told the boy. “Your arm should be fine now. Go on, now.” The boy blushed, stammered his thanks, and ran out the door. Arcaena watched him go and then turned to Carsten. “I need to speak with you.”

            “About?” He asked.

            “About that kiss,” she answered.

            “Oh.” The dwarf lowered his eyes. “If you want me to apologize…”

            “No!” Arcaena said quickly. And then, softer, “No. I do not seek an apology. There is no reason to apologize, Carsten. I want you to know that. I have no regrets about it, and neither should you. However, I want to talk to you about what happens after.” He had been dreading hearing that. To dwarves and dark elves both, a kiss was tantamount to a marriage proposal. When Arcaena had done that, he had initially felt a surge of fear. What she was doing went against almost thirty years of grooming and everything he knew about society. And now she had realized her mistake.

            “If you have no regrets, why say anything?” He asked.

            “Because, while I know what it meant, I do not want you to mistake me. I love you, Carsten, and I always will. But I think we both know what I really want to say. You…know how my father is, I think.”

            “Aloof, powerful, protective, determined,” Carsten said, counting off on his fingers. “Also kind, understanding, compassionate, and intelligent, if you are any indication.”

            “Yes to the first four, and probably on the last ones. Even so, he has…prejudices. See, I had very distinct ideas about who I wanted to marry, but he told me that I was only to marry someone of similar social standing.”

            “So?”
            “Think about it,” she said. “Your family may be royal, but they are far from wealthy. Your name carries judgment, not prestige. I love you for who you are, but my father would never accept you because of who your family is.”

            “So you want me to act like it never happened?” Carsten was incredulous. “Then why did you lead me on?”
            “Could you truly think me so petty?” Arcaena asked. “I did no such thing. All I want is for you to know that I need you to wait.”
            Carsten felt a surge of warmth in his chest. She was not turning him down after all, merely saying the time was not right. And, if there was a wrong time, then logic dictated that there would be a right one. “Wait for what?” He asked.

            “The Dawn Festival Tournament,” she replied. “See, my father places great value in the winners. He has chosen my suitors from among their number, but all the men who have won before are useless. I cannot tolerate men who care more for their looks than their souls.”

            He smiled upon hearing this. “You know,” he said, “someone here told me that they would train me, if I was willing. And…” the thought died on his lips.

            “Talk,” Arcaena prompted. “What is it?”

            “…I feel as though this is where I belong,” he remarked. “Like this is what life should be for we who live here. And I want to learn everything I can about this place because I want to take it back home. These people are untouchables among outcasts, and yet their lives are far happier than any I have yet seen. Do you not think our families, our peoples, deserve the chance to be happy? That is what I believe they can teach me, and I fully intend to be their student.”

            “And you want to learn what happiness is?” she asked.

            “I know what happiness is,” he replied, taking her hand. “I just need to learn what I have to do to hold onto it.”

            The dark elf smiled, causing the blue marks on her cheeks to slant curiously. “And I can wait as long as it takes you to discover that,” she told him. “So we agree?”

            He nodded. “You return home, and I stay here. Say nothing to anyone of me, I beg you. I am, after all, an exile.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek.

            “Nothing,” she whispered. “I will not breathe so much as a word to a soul.”

            “Thank you,” he said. Then, looking around, he added. “By the way, it is about midday. Where are the others?”

            “Rolf went to see Mycal,” she answered. “Thomas and Edessa went out to help Deyann in the fields. He said there was work to be done, and that if you wanted, you could look for the local blacksmith. He is but one man, and he needs help badly.” Carsten nodded.

            “Then I will go,” he said, unbuckling the sword belt from his waist. “I should not need this at a forge.” And just like that, he was gone.

            Lower fields

            Thomas was trying his hand at the plow, and he found it not to his liking. True, farming was a noble vocation, but he found it quite difficult. His first few harrows stretched out in the field like the claw-marks of a giant beast. They were jagged, and the other people in the field were acting so oblivious that the dwarf was certain they were holding in their peals of laughter. After all, there was nothing more amusing then watching the crown prince of all dwarves make himself the quintessential fool. He kept trying anyway, and he noticed the lines of the harrows straightening out behind him. Thomas drew no small satisfaction from the fact that he was improving, yet he was fully aware of the fact that the other harvesters were immensely enjoying themselves watching him. Edessa, for her part was actually working at the opposite end of the field, and her plowing seemed to go simultaneously more smoothly and more slowly. The beasts pulling her implement seemed to have a ponderous demeanor, in stark contrast to the particularly spirited animals that he had been given. Still, the bullocks were good animals to use, as narohls were a bit too placid and weak for this kind of work. Deyann, for his part, was driving a wagon that was bringing shipments of seed from the two to plant. Granted, it was a bit late to be planting. Even so, the people of Haven had had little choice.

            “See, we’d expected the seed earlier,” one man had explained. “But the man we sent to get it couldn’t come back because the spring rains washed the road he was using away in several places. That means we didn’t get the seed until three weeks ago. We’d almost given up on harvest, but we’re still going to try, even though it’s likely we won’t get much. Still, it’s better than wasting the seed in its entirety.”

Thomas had concurred, but now he found himself newly appreciating these Outlanders. To think that they personally did this work every year, and they almost seemed to enjoy it. He could not quite blame them, to be frank. For the difficulties of this life, it seemed to have its perks. The people were one; despite their hardships, they were happy, and seemed the difficulties of life served to mold them into the people that they became. Also, there was the strange sense of adventure about it, not knowing what was coming next. Granted, depending on the event, it could easily be catastrophic, but the threat of impending doom seemed to perturb them not at all. The other workers in the field had already finished their set acreage, and they were relaxing around a barrel of water underneath a tree. Thomas set his eyes on the field in front of him; given his current progress, he probably would not finish until midafternoon, and that is he were lucky. Which I am not, he reflected. Ah, well. Best to keep pushing on.

Edessa, for her part, was doing a straightedge job, but she was by no means focused on it. Her mind was elsewhere, wandering its way home. Not that she was discontent here, but she wanted to leave with all her heart. As much as her reasons might be unclear to others, they were completely lucid for her. It was Arcaena. Not that she bore any personal bitterness toward the dark elf; after all, she had saved Edessa’s life and tried at every turn to help her. In all she did, Edessa saw an unblinking compassion, a care for others that eclipsed almost every other emotion. Add that to a lethal skill with spells and her intrinsic beauty, and she was an absolutely stunning woman. And therein lay her problem; while she had only known Arcaena for several months, Edessa had known of her for far longer. Dothnae’s proposal to the dark elf had not gone unnoticed, especially by the girl trying hardest to make him see that she cared about him. They had been friends for almost as long as Edessa could remember, though the elf prince was a little bit aloof around everyone he met. That had not deterred her, even at a young age, and the desire she had to befriend him had made a lasting impression. They formed the most unlikely bond and, as she aged, Edessa found herself hoping more and more that it might grow beyond mere friendship. However, after a diplomatic meeting Karyth Redbark had with Oriem, king of the dark elves, his son had developed an infatuation with Arcaena. Now that Edessa had gotten to know her, she could understand it; he had seen in the princess what that dwarf did, but the difference between the two of them was that Arcaena had seen something in the latter. Which Edessa also understood. Dothnae’s manner often came off as overtly egotistical, and he could sometimes be elitist. The trouble with it was that he did not understand his own shortcomings, and thus believed he had none. Edessa had tried to show him these, to help him understand that he was not perfect, but that he could be better. The elf had no desire to improve himself; after all, one cannot improve upon perfection. She interrupted her thoughts to look behind her, seeing the straight rows she had carved in the tough earth. As with everything she did, they were ramrod straight and uniform. Ironic, she reflected, that the one thing she tried hardest at was the one thing at which she could never really succeed…

Mountains, Near Haven

“Would you be so kind as to tell me where exactly we’re going?” Rolf asked. Mycal turned to look at him, a queer half-grin on her face.

“Are you getting tired?” He shook his head.

“Not so much tired as frustrated,” the man replied. “I’m tired of walking up and down mountains without an explanation. So could you at least be so kind as to share.”

“Fine,” she burst out, exasperated. “I’m taking you to meet the other wolves, and we’re going to get you to cross over.”

Rolf sighed and leaned against a tree. His words were deliberate, drawn out. “When are you going to get it into your thick blond skull that I can’t? That I might have been born as one of you, but that’s not how I was raised.”

“Birth and upbringing don’t matter,” she answered. “You already are one of us. You just need to remember it.” She turned and started walking further up the slope. “Now come on. We’re almost there.”

Haven

Komajur’s Blacksmith Shop

Arin Komajur was not known for his patience. Maybe it was the molten metal he worked with, or perhaps it was the fact that everyone seemed so agonizingly deliberate in their tool or weapon choice. It could also have been his personal exasperation with customers using their implements wrong and then complaining that his workmanship was shoddy. Today, he had already dealt with seven irate farmers, one inane huntsman, and a woman in need of a frying kettle. The woman had been the easiest to deal with, while all the others had shown themselves to be consummate fools. So, when a dwarf showed up at the front door of his shop, the burly man had told him to bug off. Well, he had said something quite different, but Carsten chose to edit it to the above. Recognizing the anger in the man’s eyes, the dwarf had tried to placate him as best he could.

“Deyann sent me,” he told the man. “He said you mentioned needing a hand around the shop.” Arin snorted.

“So he sent me a boy? I said I wanted help, not some apprentice.”

“Strength and aptitude are not measured by age,” Carsten remarked. “And he obviously thought I could do you some good. I can ask him for another job…” But the man was already shaking his head.

“No need, boy. I’ll put you to use. But I’ll expect hard work, every day. You’ll do as I tell you when I tell you, and you’ll only ask questions when I give you permission to. Understand?” Carsten nodded. “Good. Now, take these.” He reached underneath the counter and tossed something long, flexible, and dark at the dwarf. Carsten managed to catch the item out of the air, and he stared in disbelief at it. A set of squared mesh patches were set in dragon leather pads, and they tied around the head with a length of a tough, elastic material. As he held them up to his eyes, the dwarf realized, with a jolt, that he could see through the patches. It was by no means perfect sight, but it was impressive all the same.

“What are these?” He asked.

“I call them firestoppers,” Arin replied. “They keep molten metal out of your eyes. Here’s a pair of gloves, too. Carsten slipped them onto his hands and turned to the forge.

“So where do I start? Carsten asked.

At this point, they both heard a loud knock on the blacksmith’s door. A loud voice called, “Arin, open up! The rings you sold me broke, and I want my money back.” The man rolled his eyes.

“Not again,” he groaned.

“What?” Carsten asked.

“It’s the cooper,” the other answered. “Do you know what a cooper is?”

“A fellow that makes barrels,” the dwarf said. “Why is that bad?”

“Old Farley here tosses the things about like they’re children’s toys, and then he complains when they break. Do you really want to know where to start?” Carsten nodded, feeling he already had a good idea what his first task was going to be. “Good. Now go and open the door. Show Mr. Farley.”

Gate

Deyann was taking a break from shuttling grain back and forth to the fields to check up on the town watch. Haven lacked an official watch commander, but Deyann was the closest thing to it. The guards were looking sharp, eyes scanning the plain in front of them. While the town might be poor, the dark elf thought, it was far from defenseless. It had more than enough men-at-arms to defend itself from a reasonably sized attacking force, although a small army would present no end of problems. Their weapons were…his musings were interrupted by a shout from the walls.

“Sir!” Came one of the guards’ voices. The tone of urgency told Deyann there was most likely a problem. “We’ve spotted something on the plain, sir. And it’s moving quickly toward us.” Deyann rushed around the side of the wooden palisade, mounted the wooden ladder, and scaled it in less than three seconds. A feat made all the more impressive by the fact that he was more than seven hundred years old. As he ran to the side of the guard who had said he spotted something, the dark immediately recognized the problem. It was a large dust cloud on the plain moving swiftly toward them. There was little visible in the midst of it, but the gleam of silver and the high speed of the party indicated one group.

“Huntresses,” Deyann whispered.

“Should we sound the alarm?” The guard asked. The dark elf shook his head.

“No,” he answered. “Let us receive them at our gates and see what they have to say.”

Mountain slopes

Rolf turned his head at the sound of metal-shod feet scraping over stones, and what he saw chilled him to the bone.

“Mycal,” he said. “I think we should head back. Look, down in the valley.” The woman was at his side within seconds, and her eyes narrowed.

“Right,” she snapped sarcastically. “As though we should. Those hateful creatures hunted our brothers and sisters of the Wyvern clan almost to complete extinction. I have no intention of letting them do it to us, too.”

“I wasn’t talking about that,” he told her. “I meant that, if they’re here to attack the village, we should at least be there to help defend it.”

“They won’t,” Mycal murmured, more than half to herself. “No one could quite possibly be that foolish.”

            “Didn’t you just say these people almost killed all the Wyverns?” Rolf asked. “I don’t believe logic counts for a whole lot with them.” She tilted her head briefly before she nodded.

            “Point taken,” she said. “I’ll get the others. I’m faster than you. Head back down to the village.” Rolf raised an eyebrow.

            “I’d be willing to bet I could beat you in a footrace,” he responded.

            “As a man or a Wolf?” She asked, her face quirking into a smile. Then, she turned and began to change, her blond hair elongating into a beautiful coat of golden fur. She turned her canine head toward him, winked, and bounded on up the slope, quickly vanishing from view. At that, he felt something snap inside him, and he noticed, in shock, that his limbs were changing shape, silvery fur growing all along them. He felt his face elongate, and the entire world seemed to come into much sharper focus. He could actually smell her, he realized. Knowing the direction she went would make finding the rest of the Wolves so much easier. He found running a strange exercise now, as four pumping limbs were a lot more to keep track of than just two. Still, he rapidly learned how to accommodate this new development, and he was soon moving with great speed of in the direction she had gone.

            Everwinter Waste

            Shadowheart Island

            Shargann was sitting on his throne, his eyes examining the scroll in front of him. Well, this is news, he thought. So the sword has left the dragon’s lair, in the hands of its rightful owner no less. And then there is the matter of Galsdom…suddenly, an idea occurred to him. The powers of his race were strongest around the new moon, and one was going to come in about two weeks. An ideal time for a fight against a potentially dangerous foe. He looked around the chamber, carved out of smooth black stone and perforated with orange veins of still-contained magma. While the Aetherdrakon might not be ready yet, Shargann still had other weapons at his disposal. Still, such a move should not be undertaken without calculating the odds of success. While the Exile might love shilthain, he and his had not yet forged enough weapons to be a potent force. The king’s skill with his axe staff would probably allow him to best the Exile handily, even without the use of his Mierthin powers. He raised his voice for his courier.

            “Versyn,” he called. The door to his throne room came open, and his chief messenger stepped through the door. She was young, her face almost angelic except for the long red mark that traced its way along her chin. All Mierthyn had a mark like that; not all in the same place, of course, but they did have them. Her hair was not black, as that of most of them was, but instead a dull ashen grey.

            “Yes, uncle?” She said. “Is there a message you want me to take somewhere?”

            He nodded. “There is.” He reached into the chest beside his throne and removed a pen and ink, followed by a thick vellum sheet. Then, he swiveled the left armrest of his throne around at an angle perpendicular to the sides of the seat. He began to write, the frosthawk feather scratching the scroll as he wrote quickly. He would keep the message short, he decided. No point in making it difficult to understand. Once he finished, he handed the rolled-up scroll to his niece.

            “Do you know how to reach Frostspire Caste?” He asked.

            “Of course I do, Uncle. We all do.” Shargann nodded. That was good, at least. He did not need to give directions.

            “Then take this to Issavea. She will understand what I mean by it.” The young woman nodded.

            “I will go at once, Uncle.” As Versyn turned to leave, the king pondered what he had just done. The move would have ordinarily been highly risky, but now he was desperate. The only hope to stop the Exile’s advance was to kill him, and that in single combat.

Author's Note

Note spelling and grammar errors. Positive feedback would be nice, but it is not mandatory.