Chapter Three
The Question of a Stranger
In time, with the words and images of old Malrond still ringing in their ears and dazzling their sleepy eyes, the Littles and the old inn fell to the late hours. The last revelers, celebrating the victory they’d been told of in the South, they too took themselves off into the night as best they could with songs and lanterns to see their way along the roads to where they must be off to within the district.
Though it was still spring, and the night winds at this late hour were as wont to come in off the Great Sea as naught, there definitely was a festive air about those setting off toward their farms and small villages lying along the roads and rivers of the Gentle Lands.
Thankfully, the wind was not up on this night and in fact the air had turned pleasantly warm even at this hour as though whispering of a fine summer coming along soon enough.
This was all early, but not unappreciated. It would be a good year for crops, so that too was considered a blessing as Littles each and every one of them took themselves off to their homes for an unheard of Late Supper, or perhaps even Cordials and Cheese, which is the third of the three nightly meals they usually are about. This would normally consist of a pie, perhaps some cheese or a fried egg, then of course a fine pastry and a cup of cold milk from the lower larders before bed.[NC1]
On toward midnight, perhaps in the hour before, the inn fell to a contemplative yet pleasant darkness as old Fatty gathered up the dishes and cleaned the bar again. Only a few of the Littles were left now. The oldsters, bachelor farmers, and a few of the young yet unmarried sat before the great hearth, nursing the last of what would be poured from Fatty’s taps for the night, before the round and large Little innkeeper turned them out one and all with much gruff impatience.
There was really no one left in the inn save these rascals and Fatty’s large family working at the closing up for the night. Out on the roads across the district, the night watch would be crossing the lonely roads to light the lamps that lit the way between distant and sometimes close places of stead, farm, village, hamlet, and outlying settlement.
But there was one other among them that night. A stranger, for the most part. Come in from the road and unconsidered by the lot of them giving their final opinions and musing on what they had seen and heard that night within the Last Friendly Inn.
Malrond’s Telling of the Show.
Such as the stranger were best steered clear of by the Littles as they liked to mutter among themselves when out of hearing. But of course, since there had been much beer poured over the course of the to-be-remembered night, and the news of the great victory before the tower itself in the south had come to them early in the evening, the Littles were much interested in once more discussing all the events. The portents and what they intended, and of course what it all meant for them and their Little World. Holding forth flowed freely and in time the presence of the dark stranger who’d kept to the old alcove within the inn, near the back and the upstairs barrels, had been forgotten.
So, he listened to them, silently, and seemed from casual observance, suspiciously uninterested in their palaver.
“So that’s that, says I,” said Cormic Tarnettle of the East Hills Tarnettles. “Dark forces, say I, has been struck down once more. The wizards o’ the council say it’ll be a good year for crops and that worries are for others come what may.”
“Aye,” muttered Ol’ Ned Duggan who was an oldster and not much in the autumn of his years[NC2] . “Ne’er thought I would see a year free of the worries o’ the South. Orcs and gobs is one thing and another, I tells ya… but to know that them ‘warewoofs’ has been sucked back behind the ol’ Blac Gate shore puts a mind at ease. I says that to yas. Used to like to fish down at Cutter’s Lake until I saw ‘warewoof’ in the dusk of a full moon comin’ up. Ne’re go down that way a’since, that’s for shore.”
The other Littles agreed that indeed a good year was upon them all even if it had been purchased with the price of elven blood, flame, and sword in the south. Perhaps even a good age was upon them all, not a few mused. One might even wonder if the old trade with the southern lands would come this way again and…
“It’s all a lie,” said the stranger from the shadowy recess where Ol’ Warshbourne had once done his moneylending. Acquiring a fortune that had built him an estate over in River’s Edge that had gone to crumbling in the years since the old miser had passed. Some said it was haunted by the ghost of an elven maiden whose tomb had been rumored to lie upon the haunted grounds nearabouts. But that was…
“A lie ye says?” said Cormic Tarnettle as though he were a bit deaf and an oldster like Ned Duggan. Though he was not yet but seemed to be trying out the role as of late. Warming to the weight it might carry and what he could get up to with that.
But that’s a Tarnettle for you.
All the Littles turned to peer into the deep shadows of the old alcove but the firelight from the hearth would not penetrate far across the room and so the Stranger seemed one with the gathering shadows there. Indeed, the darkness that lay there seemed an… unnatural thing to the Littles. A thing unto itself.
“Strangers…” muttered Ol’ Ned dismissively so only those near the fire might hear. “Never any good come of ‘em, I tells ya.”
And perhaps the Littles should have been a bit frightened. Even cautious. But again, the Boch, the meat pastries that had come out late in the evening along with some cold roast chicken seasoned with winter herbs, and a bit of Olive Woods cheese had put the courage into the Littles one and all and so they feared not the shadows, or the stranger and his words within them. The firelight and their companionship, and well, just being in the inn that night, a place much considered the last of the friendly places before one reached the dark and uneven border of the southern lands, gave them a bit more courage than they normally possessed.
Perhaps…
The stranger spoke up again. His voice was hard and seemed weary with the road, hoarse and dry. Deep like the woods. He had the voice of men who make their ways out of doors often do. Slowed by the weight of great spaces crossed and seen. And though much of him was dark with shadow, there shone eyes that seemed to burn within the shadows. Elven eyes, it seemed for a moment. But then not when you tried to look closer. They were eyes that possessed some other light than that fey and mystical race. Masters of all times since the Ancient Times of the Old Age much remembered in tale and song.
“No,” said the figure in the dark. “Not a lie. But lies… yes. There have been many of those tonight.” There was a long pause and the gathered Littles felt that the stranger had said his piece and was finished. They waited politely for more, sure nothing would come.
Then, “All told for your amusement… and rest.”
The Littles were made uncomfortable, for this was a bit too direct for their tastes in polite conversation, and for such a fine evening of victories recounted and of course, that fine cheese from Olive Woods, hadn’t that been nice?
Well, it was verging on rude.
But they remained silent and did the stranger the courtesy of ceasing their talk, ceding the floorboards and vast silences of the inn to listen to whatever it was this highwayman had to say, for it did seem he was going to speak.
The air was almost filled with something before he even began. As though it were the same as Malrond’s magic. But different.
Definitely different.
“What if I were to tell you…” began the stranger, leaning forward. His leathers creaking as he did so, and yes, wasn’t that a blade on his hip? “…that everything… and I mean everything you’ve heard tonight, and in fact every night old Malrond the… Wise… has ever appeared out of the nethers of wherever he comes from, to tell you of yet more good news from the Emerald Throne… what if I were to tell you that all of those things… are lies. Illusions… just like the smoke and shadow within his magic? What if I were to tell you Littles… those things?”
Not a one of them replied.
“Would you suddenly start a revolt? Would you shun him? Reject the things Malrond says?”
The stranger gave a soft, dry chuckle.
Still, no one replied to these questions. Wide eyed, they held their last pints and watched the shadows, the orange firelight of the great hearth playing across their features.
“Nay. You would not believe my words for it is easier, and of greater comfort to believe… what you want to believe. And not what is truth.”
Silence.
Then Cormic dared a word or two. He laughed first to show he was interested in keeping it a bit friendly, or even perhaps guardedly friendly, which was the natural default of the Littles, but also to disagree. That was what the laugh was for. And the Little blacksmith who would, and should be, married one of these summers soonish, dared.
“Then say truly, stranger. If’ee the wizard tells lies… then what be the truth of the great battle of the south? And the tower? And for that matter… the shadow?”
Now this, for a Little, who might make out to be a timid people in the re-telling of this tale, if you can call it that though it has been suggested it’s more of tragedy, it has been suggested that I have a tendency to make the Littles out to be bumkins, or even patsies. Simple folk. Timid and afraid of their own shadow.
Nothing could be further from the truth. I assure you.
True, they might be a bit close-minded. Or too ready to make with a song and a pie than mounted barbed steed and confront the souls of fearful adversaries… but they are plucky. You can say that for them. First off… they’re dogged in their determination. Feuds, and polite ones at that, might last between clans of Littles for upwards of a hundred years. And every so often there’s a bit of a wild streak in one or two of them.
They call it, “goin a’wanderin’.”
And Littles who’ve gone wandering have been known to get up to some rather brave deeds in desperate spots.
Those that returned.
But the children of men, and the elves who are older than most, refer to these types by other names, and none of them good.[NC3] Reckless and fever-touched adventure seekers are most commonly used in polite company. Chasing down the rumors of the Ancients for lost piles of Dragon Hoard, or Barrow Geld.
Pure fantasies that’ll see you missing if you listen to the common wisdom dispensed between hall and home.
So, while I might paint them as such… you do need to know for this part of the tale, that Littles are… actually, quite brave.
Having said that, in the dense silence following Cormic’s interrogation of the dark stranger sitting in the shadows of the old alcove, the younger Littles gathered about the Inn’s Hearth that night, weren’t of a mind to gather up their coats and walking sticks and head off into the night.
But they would prefer if Fatty appeared with a little more cheese and perhaps one more round to keep out the mist when it was time to be heading.
Still, for a moment if felt like meeting a ‘warewoof’ might be preferable to the dangerous atmosphere brewing inside Fatty’s as the stranger spoke his discomforting words.
The stranger stood, left the old coins on the rough table, and came close to the fire. Standing among them for a good look. And now they could all seem him a’better.
He was most definitely not elven, though the cloak and hood, and even the travel-worn gear said he must be of men. Northern Tribes at that. The features grim and rough, not like the elves that stopped by on their passings to the south. He was definitely not of that race.
Where elves’ faces were smooth and white like alabaster, fair even like summer peaches with eyes that sparkled blue, and most importantly at times jade or even the coveted emerald green, the stranger’s eyes were coal black by the firelight of the inn in which they glittered.
And his skin was dark from the sun. And weather-beaten and lined from days and nights out-of-doors.
Some say there are ancient elven tribes from the days of Airë who carried that color. Seafarers they had become in the days when the elven fathers had reached for the distant coasts of strange and lost lands never known again.
And whereas elven garb was beautiful, rich, and fine, even the warriors were oft finely adorned in their armors, this stranger’s travel gear was rude and rough and made for the road. Something as like the forest men of the Eastern Mountains. Leathers and high hard muddy boots that had seen many a league and more. And of course, an old worn grey cloak, water stained and beaten by nights in which it must have served both as cover and bed.
The only weapon he carried was a longsword in a plan yet cared for oiled leather scabbard. And there was nothing remarkable about this weapon though it seemed to have seen much use and wear in battle no doubt by its wrapping.
And all those things were seen and noted by the chubby Littles who sat in the finest of Fatty’s overstuffed leather chairs gathered around the cheery fire at the last of itself. But what drew their eyes was the ragged scar across his long and slender neck.
A hangman’s scar. Or an assassin’s cut.
Perhaps the reason why his voice was rough and little more than a whisper though it seemed to carry weight.
Long dark hair fell across one eye. And under one arm, held tightly by a worn leather glove that didn’t match the one on the other hand, was a bundle wrapped in grave shrouds. Old Ned Duggan would bet his life, in the retelling of the evening later, when things had gone all strange in the aftermath of the night’s events, that the stranger was a barrow robber of some bad sort.
But that was later.
“Then say truly, stranger,” fiery young Cormic the Blacksmith offered. “If’ee the wizard lies… then what is the truth of the great battle of the south? Tell us now and perhaps Fatty will spot another round and the last of the wheel.”
And now that the stranger had come to stand among them near the fire and explain his words, none of them were made too comfortable by this turn of events. In fact, Fatty did not move to pull a tap, or cut cheese from the wheel in the kitchen. The stranger’s stillness and presence were mesmerizing in their silence and most wished they’d never heard what was said next, because whether they wanted to believe it or not, what was said next to them there that night in the inn, near the last of the night’s hearth, changed everything.
After that…
Everything changed.
Medusa and ‘Shadows in Sirith Osildor’
Check out some books by Nick
The American Wasteland Trilogy
The Tragedy of the Strange Company Series
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