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Chapter One
The Show of the Telling
Beyond the roads and ways of civilization, toward the south, and a little off to the east, there was once an old inn where road weary travelers, tired and dusty, coming from the south and heading off toward the north and the great cities that lay there, would stop to pass an evening a time or two a year. Less and less as those years went by, and seldom now in the current, much darker days, but the inn was there all the same and the lands in which it lay, much forgotten by the great and powerful as they watched their maps from their tall towers near the wide and spreading sea and counted the times with an eye toward the shadows of the south.
The Wayside Inn was “the Last Friendly Place” as it was simply known by the old and road-beaten who still dared travel. And even occasionally it was sometimes marked on those yellowing ancient maps few seemed to possess any longer, as a place of safety, where the fire was warm, and the beer from the cellar cold.
And the cakes uncommonly good. But that is saying something about the Littles twice. For both good cake and Littles mean the same thing to anyone who knows a thing or two about either.
The Indarri, rulers of the Great Elven Kingdom of Indolién to the north along the sandy coasts of the sea, preferred to refer to the old wooden pile of a roadside inn that lay along the southern coast road out of fair Indolién, brightest of their shining coveted jewels, and heading off south toward Sirith Osildor and the port districts that surrounded the dark tower down there, often called the City of Ghosts by all in nothing more than a hushed whisper as though to ward off some curse, they preferred to refer to the ancient inn as the “The Littles’ place by the side of the road.” And then they too, of course, made their ornate gestures to ward off some evil spirit as was custom when talking about anything lesser than themselves.
Which was, to be honest, most things and folk as far as the Fair Elves were concerned. Such is the way of the haughty and noble Indaar.
The forgotten lands that lay between Sirith Osildor and Indolién were considered… provincial by those same Indaar. Rolling hills and a long valley gave way to the coast and its small line of hills protecting the farms from the salt laden blasting winds and mists of the seas. Beyond the district where the inn lay was a small distant mountain range to the east occupied by small farms found fewer and farther between, and among these were found the occasional villages and hamlets of Littles. Or so the Indarri had named those smaller folk, the Littles. These smaller people had their own name for themselves, but the haughty Indarri elves seldom cared for anyone else’s languages or words but their own.
Of course. Everyone knows this.
In recent years, camps of reckless adventurers who’d long turned to banditry, waited alongside the crumbling roads and small, quiet canyons and hills where perhaps the remains of some ancient tower sleepily watched the dusty scape and the distant Barrow Hills. It was said that darker forces walked the canyons and dry hills where the ancient burials lay farther east, during the longer nights of winter itself, and even along the outskirts of some of the Littles’ villages farther out than they should have been. Tending their olive orchards and keeping watch during the quiet hot days, and shut up and in during the moonlit nights when one might hear things it was best not to investigate. But again, those were always the tales told in the hinterlands and around the Great Hearth of the old Inn, away from the high precincts and bright jewels of fair coastal Indolién where only important matters of state and great magic were ever discussed among rising and slender white towers adorned with pennants fluttering in the breeze.
No tales of ghosts, or lost hoard was ever spoken of among the beautiful elven ladies and their lords adorned in their shining and bright ceremonial armor. Such talk was crude and boorish. For the Indaar only dreamt of a misty future that somehow matched the glorious lost past of those elves who cast their gaze from their tall, sculpted towers and watched the storms of the sea come and pass by. And never did they turn their gaze south, beyond the Great River of the South the Sírë Morna. For that too was greatly considered uncouth to discuss even though it was in quiet tones and often.
The Great River of the South. The Black River.
Or as it was sometimes known… Nuruhuinë.
The Death Shadow.
One early evening it was into this very ancient inn old Malrond himself, who some said was an emissary of the Emerald Council, came on a late afternoon spring day. Many of the Littles in the district had seen him crossing over and through their green fields even just now blooming with wildflowers and first sprouting. Walking along the quiet and forgotten roads that lead from one stead to another with his tall and sculpted staff, stopping for a pleasant bit of talk with many of the older Littles he’d known in the long-ago days, and some who were rumored to have once, on occasion, gone off “a’wandering” with Malrond himself as they say down in those pastoral districts. And so, by Later Afternoon Tea, which is when the Littles have finished their heavy work for the day and are ready for their second tea before turning to the business of cleaning affairs up, news had spread that Malrond himself was indeed “around whether you’d been expectin’ that to happen or not, today of all days, dontcha know.”
Many of the Littles were settling down to either their honey cakes, or even the heavy lavender scones with baked crumble topping for Second Tea, when they heard the news regarding Malrond as teams of small Little boys, wild and screaming, raced from farm to farm to spread the tale of the tall wizard’s arrival in the district.
The Littles are well known for those fantastic scones. Some even say Glórindol One-Hand, ruler of the Indarri, occupant of the Emerald Lion throne which rests atop Indolién’s Seventh Hill, favored them greatly and had carts of them brought up from the districts by the Elven Horse themselves. It was over these matters, and Malrond himself specifically, the Littles discussed news of Malrond’s arrival, and, that it was clear he was heading toward the old inn and would arrive there toward day’s end.
So of course, with little organization and much frenzy, Littles from all across the district found an excuse to be about some business regarding the inn, and came in from their farms as the spring sky began to settle toward its gloaming to hear what the old wizard had to say.
For he always had something interesting to say.
Now, let us discuss the inn which the Littles, who favored the likeness of the Children of Men more than elves, began to stuff themselves into as night came on and the inn was made merry and hot by the hearth and many a candle. As had been said, the inn was very old. Very old. Some say, which is a common phrase in almost everything Littles speak upon, a sort of benediction before engaging in the gossip they so love, or an absolution if you prefer, some say the old inn was as old as Indolién itself.
But… who knows such nonsense things?
But back to the inn itself, it was a beautiful old pile of rambling rooms and deep cellars. The beer which the inn was famous for, a dark brew they served cold and called “boch”, came with a creamy head of foam and a slight bitter aftertaste that filled the stomach right with just a sip, leaving a satisfied feeling and a pleasant warm afterglow. It was the opposite of the heady “pils” brought down from the eastern mountains, direct from the ruined halls of rock dwarves who still delved into the remains of their lost empire. Pils was, by most, considered only barely brewed and far too potent for polite conversation which is what the Littles prided themselves on. The inn was also known of its Coastal Cheddar the locals called Onion Sharp. And travelers often remarked they’d never had anything of its like.
It was into the main room, all girded and floored in perfectly polished red oak, with a roaring fire built within the massive hearth, that pints of beer were hoisted, two-handed of course by the Littles, and plates of that sharp onion-cheese with crusts of the local sourdough were set out. By the time Malrond got around to showing up it was full dark, and the Littles had been about their gossip to the point that they had worked themselves up into quite a tither regarding what this was all about.
Of course, the news had to be about the south. And the war there, for no doubt it was war, that had been brewing beyond Sirith Osildor. Of course, it was about the Shadow Hordes and rumors of who was behind all the dark things and dire omens. Of course, it must be about all these things. And then again, some say, it could be about the north. Might it be about the Children of Men? The Savages Tribes forming up in the cold reaches of the lands there where the days were short, and forests stretched off to the end of the world or so some say. Where the mountains were jagged and cruel, and the rivers were supposed to be filled with ice and roaring that would carry you off into a land of dangerous dragons. It might be about those things.
Why… surely it must? This was the consensus all the Littles had arrived at before Malrond himself had even arrived and opened his mouth one bit.
But there was dissent.
Of course, said other Littles, rowdy and young and known to stick to the back to share a good joke and perhaps a pipe, of course it’s ‘bout the rock dwarves in the Eastern Mountains. Of course, since there is to be war in the south, the dwarves will sense their chance to sweep down on the lands of the Indaar and take their stolen treasures, and snatched jewels, back from the sack of Indolién if there is to be one. For the dwarves are a greedy lot, greedier than most and what have they been plotting up there in Rahaza-Ishgur, the ruins of their mighty and dark fortress beneath the sheer stone face of old Caragdûr.
Why the dwarves did not aid the Indaar as the Littles did at the battle of the Neverine Sands was much discussed.
“And that was a hundred years ago! Why, my old Deda fought in that when he was a lad,” erupted one blustery-faced Little, waving his mug about as though it were some kind of torch.
One of the Littles coughed politely, but pointedly, to indicate they didn’t believe the teller’s DeDa had indeed fought at that long ago battle out in the sands that lay south and east beyond the mountains. When the Indaar had gone off to save their cousins, the Andaar, rulers of the lost kingdom of the sand elves as they were commonly known.
Or Erumë as the elves of Indolién would have named it.
So there within the roasting and cheery inn, as the cold mists from off the sea rolled over the line of coastal hills and came to the pleasant farms of the Littles, were all those kind of arguments regarding just exactly what Maldron himself would say this night. Perhaps it was news of the Emerald Court, some greater affair, or a new law to make all their lives better despite the burdens incurred in its offering. Or perhaps it was even about all those strange lights in the south a few nights ago when the last of the winter storms had risen up out of the sea and smote the coast hard indeed. Hadn’t they all felt the earth shake with titanic booms and the deep thunders rolling out across the coastal hills like some giant out a’walking? And of course, all those strange lights that colored the night sky.
Many piped up and said there were no such things as giants. But these were mainly young, and they failed to notice many of the quiet older Littles said nothing on this and seemed merely content to watch the passing of absolutely certain talk with a bare chuckle, or a grim stone face.
Truly it had all been rather frightening, the storm a few nights back. But the Littles were the type of people who, if they made it through the long night, were just as apt to forget the horrors of a toothache in the golden light of morning and fresh cakes and a good pot of coffee. And so they had done away, mostly, with the rather unexplainable events of just a few nights prior. Until Malrond himself had bothered by and there must be something in that. For why else would he come to the inn?
As it has been said, it was all rather frightening and by the time the bent and gaunt old man ducked his head and made his way into the inn, many of the Littles were in a tither and upset, impatient to hear what was going to be said.
But then Malrond the Wise swept into the inn, tall and gaunt as has been noted. His long grey beard a thing the Littles always marveled as they could not grow such features themselves, nor ever be so tall as the wizard. It was a testament to the inn’s ancientness that Malrond did not have to duck down much to enter as he did at many other Little dwellings. No, the inn had clearly first been built for taller people. Taller than men, as elves were. And so perhaps in the long ago before the rise of Indolién, perhaps then elves had worked these very same fields in the once and long ago.
Hadn’t Farmer Copper out in East Fields once found an ancient stone turned up in the soil of an old field? All carved with the strange runes that looked like old Andaar Elvish. Such things were always being found here and there across the district. Or so some said.
Especially if you believed the things some said. Which of course most Littles did. Gossip was their stock and trade here in the south beyond the hubbub and glitter of the mighty elven capital that lay within the basin of a coastal plain surrounded by the mountains and passes to both the east and the north.
Malrond swept in, his grey travelling cloak and dirty robes heavy with dust off the road that had come up so quickly after the last of winter’s storms. Fatty McFarlane who saw over the inn, tried to bring a sterling silver tray of wine in a slender goblet, which was custom for all elves who passed this way, up to the old wizard but a long bony hand, adorned with rings of what surely must be power, waved the fat innkeeper away.
“I’ll have a draught of your bock, Fatty, if you don’t mind, please,” said the old wizard. “It does cure the curse of the dust one finds out there along the road in these early months.” The wizard’s voice was deep and rich. Sonorous almost. Old too because the elves were old. The longest lived of all the known lands as some like to say. “And perhaps some of your cured olives from out the Dry Foothills’ way, Fatty. That is if you have them yet, of course.”
Malrond cast his glittering eyes over the crowd as he sat down near the fire, stamping his boots to shake the misty damp out of his old toes, and then immediately producing the slender long-stemmed alabaster pipe elven wizards preferred. He set about packing it with their special blend and then held it, unlit until Fatty returned with a large mug of the boch and a plate of Onion Cheddar. A few spring onions and scattering of cured black olives accompanied this.
“Good!” cried Malrond with delight as he plucked at an olive after taking a long, deep drink of the boch. His showman’s voice filling the room and startling all the Littles all at once. “You’ve brought me everything I’ve dreamed about along the road I’ve followed up out of the south. I just simply had to stop here along the way, though I do indeed tarry, for the Emerald Court expects me at dawn to deliver a report regarding events in the south.”
Then the old wizard set to drinking the beer and snatching up a piece of cheese to nibble and consider, his eyes absent and faraway on something for a long moment.
“Wot’s it all about?” asked Shane McFie from out the Sheepstead district which wandered along the little dry canyons that led up into the foothills. Young Shane was never one to be patient and so of course he’d been the first to badger the melancholy elven wizard regarding exactly what this was all about. But as least this was done with questions and not his fast fists as Tor McWallows might attest after events at last Harvest Fest when the two had come to blows and only Shane walked away with the hand of Darla MacNoil.
Malrond came to himself and seemed surprised he should find himself in a room full of Littles, all eyes waiting with an almost urgent expectancy reserved for the direst of circumstances.
“Well,” intoned the old wizard as he selected another dry cured black olive and popped the salty morsel into his mouth. “Who says it’s about anything in particular? Can’t an old friend come in from the long winter and share fire and food and a good smoke with his Little friends?”
A few remonstrated Shane from the shadows of the inn for being so hasty. Old Malrond had sustained himself yet with the tray and mug. Be patient. Though a moment later these few didn’t necessarily admit to the remonstrations when fiery Shane cast a blazing glower over his back to see just who exactly had made such comments regarding his impetuousness.
“Why it’s always about something, Malrond, when ya shows up,” began Shane once again. “Somethin’ wonnerful and all always. We comes to expect such when you shows up. And I ain’t no sally for sayin’ such. You alls knows it, dontcha?”
Several of the Littles agreed they did indeed “know it.” Yes, the appearance of Malrond, who always seemed to be coming direct from, or heading directly to the Emerald Court, was always a time of good tidings. And of course… the show of the telling.
Because that’s what this was really all about. If it had been simple gossip, well, that would make its way all over town by Main Lunch tomorrow. But what would have been missed would have been something that was truly special.
The show of the telling.
That’s what wizards did. They didn’t just tell you a story, they showed you one. With magic.
And here was one. Malrond himself. Come obviously… to show them something now.
Malrond’s eyes were dark and shining as first he stared at little Shane, defiant and fiery. But yes… right. And for a moment, the old wizard stared over the top of his crooked nose, his baleful dark eyes staring even into Shane, as some might say.
And for a long moment he didn’t stop. Malrond cast his dark, glittering eyes across them all. Everyone the next morning who was there would have told you, that old Malrond himself had stared straight at them. Not just all the Littles. But them specifically. For there were others inside the old place that early evening. Men of the road who always seemed to be about the business of trading. A clutch of sand elves come in from their camps out in the hills. A few other strangers who preferred the dark recesses of the bar and the shadows there. Others too. Every one of them would have told you in that moment as the telling of the show began that old Malrond was looking at them as he began his magic.
And this is how he began, the old elf putting down his mug of Fatty McFarlane’s finest. Then taking up the unconsidered long-stem pipe that had already been packed with his brand. And then, just like that, a blue flame appeared at the tip of his long and slender index finger after he had quietly given his thumb and a long and crooked finger a soft snap. Like the soft break of dead fall eucalyptus in a quiet forest.
Flame touched bowl and the wizard puffed his pipe to life. The room darker now, the shadows deeper. And then old Malrond began the Show of the Telling.
The Tolkien Project Chapter One