The ‘accursed Assayer’
‘Bespectacled Death’
The ‘Dottore’
Alchemist’s trail | the barrel
Part I
-Science stands devoid of blame-
“Hmm. Fascinating,” the short-stature and otherwise unremarkable Issir man mused, using the tip of his pricey boot to disperse the ashes. He mainly wanted to see if the embers remained warm beneath the ashen surface. “A lucky find.”
For they were not.
The campsite along the trail lay deserted for days. Dispersing the top layer of the ash heap uncovered a few charred fragments of wood. Without hurrying he took a steel stirring rod and pressed down on the fragile wood exterior, breaking it open to reveal the dark inner core.
“Use the knife,” he told himself calmly.
To peel the core out. He paused working near the extinguished campfire in order to listen for the sounds coming from the large road running parallel to the trail he had been following. Both routes cutting south through the Grass Sea towards the Tunnel Pass Settlement. The uninspiring name given to the ever-growing trade waystation because it had started as a worker’s settlement in order to house all those digging out the Tunnel Pass that met with Durio’s Road at Oras Navel.
The Lorians were big on public works and transportation.
If the path was good for horse, then then they made it bigger to accommodate carriages.
Someone was walking said path on foot.
Weirdo.
The lonely man waited, feeling the tension on his stomach muscles increase.
And the strange pedestrian kept walking, reached and then headed past his position, always whistling a silly tune.
Eh.
He wasn’t followed which was an acceptable outcome.
But still more dangerous people might flock to block his path, drawn by the unfortunate happenstance at Holt’s Stables.
Too-big a boom to go unnoticed.
Nitro paste was very volatile and destructive to use on soft targets or enclosed spaces. A door is a soft target in a sense, but it is still a barrier that can turn a room into a sealed container for a while. Unfortunately with time enough the gasses produced eventually fill it out completely. More and more, until the increasing pressure eventually cracks and overpowers the walls or the ceiling.
“Boom.”
A slight smirk appeared on his thin lips, but it went away immediately, as he preferred to entertain himself in small doses.
“There,” he murmured and raised the black piece to his mouth. Bit on it tenderly to test its solidity, the taste vile on his palate. Acidic when mixed with saliva, the toxic taste produced a violent spasm that marred his face.
Charcoal.
Poor quality, but useable.
“Hmm,” he mused as he stood up, carefully wrapping the item in a cloth first in order to stow it in his satchel. The mule let out a snort as the man neared, now burdened by the weight of the satchel slung over his shoulder with the leather strap, so he could inspect the small barrel. The latter remained securely fastened to the saddle, and although not too-heavy, the animal appeared fatigued.
He should have taken the horse to ride out of Holt’s Stables. “No time and the scout was already dead.”
A waystation has horses. Um. Might even have cheap help for hire. “Affirmative.”
But you can’t just waltz in there. “Correct.”
Hmm.
He started cutting vertically through the vegetation and tall grass in order to reach the main road. A minute later he had gotten out right behind the dirty barefooted kid walking by the side of the wide dirt road, twenty meters away.
With a sigh he turned around to check on the road but saw no one approach. He could hear wagons though in the distance. The road improved to cobblestone through the tunnels, and led to the capital.
If one turned southwest that is.
“Hey,” he shouted, a bit weakly, so he put some vigor in his vocal cords and tried again. “Boy!”
The disheveled Lorian kid paused and then slowly turned around to perceive the stranger calling out to him. He blinked once, as if mimicking the lonely figure, the wind blowing through the Tunnel blocked by the settlement’s houses less than a kilometer away.
“Are you a blind priest of Uher, mister?” The kid asked. About ten, or thereabouts, malnourished but also pretty rough-looking.
It’s the dark robes and the glasses.
“No.”
“Alright,” the kid said guardedly and cleared his throat before spitting down. A semi-failed attempt that left saliva drooping from his dirty chin. “What do you want?”
“I need a driver.”
“A what?”
“Let’s talk out of the road,” he offered hearing the wagons approaching behind him.
“How about we don’t?” The kid retorted. “I don’t know you.”
“I’m not a priest.” The both stared at each other unsure. “Nor blind,” he added blankly.
“Uhm. I’m Hoof,” the kid said. “It’s a moniker.”
“You have family around?”
“Me father died in the King’s war. He guarded Framtond’s bridge,” Hoof explained sadly. “A couple of months ago my mother got very sick and when I reported it, Aedile’s people came and took her away.”
Wim should have been saddened by the kid’s misfortune, but felt nothing but mild relief.
Good.
Of course, he couldn’t say that.
“You are heading to Cartagen?”
“Aye. I’m going to learn a trade.”
“Ambitious. Hear that bucolic animal sound, Mister Hoof? That’s a mule and a meal. Less ambitious tasks can be more easily mastered,” he told Hoof and the boy turned to spot the animal, but of course couldn’t through the tall grass.
“It sounded like a fart,” Hoof finally said.
“Mules fart. It’s mostly methylene. Flammable gas.”
Hoof puffed his cheeks unsure. “I ain’t going first into the tall grass,” the boy warned him and after a brief moment, he decided to just go along with it. He kept a hand inside his right pocket where the knife was kept, as they went through the grass and out of the road, just in case the lad was a fledging criminal.
The moral fiber of our society has taken a nose dive these past couple of years, Wim thought troubled at the carnage and moral collapse he’d personally witnessed.
Eh, it is sad. Truly.
Comes a point when you never know whom you’ll bump onto on the road.
“Hey. What’s the matter wit yer mule?” Hoof asked and the animal tried to knock him out with a wild head-butt. “SHIT!” Hoof cried out and dived away from the hurt animal.
Ah.
“Shush,” he tried to soothe the nervous mule. “Stop this.”
“Whoa,” Hoof was heard from a couple of meters away. “You’re terrible with animals. Are you a dottore? You look like one.”
It’s the glasses and the conservative black robes.
“In a sense.” He replied and dug inside his satchel for the fine tooth comb made out of silver. He started to comb his short-cut thinning white hair, after parting them at the left side, while Hoof made another attempt to pacify the animal.
“Its front leg is injured. A worn out horseshoe,” the boy explained. “You can’t ride it.”
“It’s not a problem. We can walk to the settlement.”
“Sure. Is there food inside the barrel?” Hoof queried.
“No. There is food in the settlement.”
“Alright. What kind of Dottore are ye?”
“I deal with… sort of a chemist.”
“Kamist… what? Wait… does this mean racist ‘n shite? Fuck you!” Hoof glared his way.
“Boy, you just don’t have the mental capacity to understand.”
“At least I ain’t a bigot, and I’ve room to fucking grow!” He paused as if to think about it. “So… do you have a name? Mine’s Ari, but they call me Hoof, because I can walk without shoes,” Hoof made a grimace of annoyance at that.
“We’ll use uncle Wim,” he told him after a brief pause. The boy stared his way in silence, and when Wim blinked behind the thick glasses, Hoof mimicked him.
“You’re creepy mister and fer sure, ye ain’t my uncle.”
“We are loosely related.”
“Hells we are! Yer skin is blacker than this lame mule’s arse!”
Said the non-bigoted kid.
Wim stared at the extinguished campfire remains for a brief moment. “This can be remedied.”
“Hah. You can’t be serious.”
“We can always say your mother whored herself in Pascor.”
“Well, fuck you! Leave me dead mother out of it!” Hoof warned him angrily. “And I’m from Croton!”
“Close enough. Do you want the job, or not?”
“Fucking all-hells. Ye said a driver. A driver of what?”
“A horse driver,” Wim explained.
“You got no horse!”
“Yet.”
“Aha,” Hoof crooked his mouth and then stared at the now snorting mule. “Why the fuck do you need a horse driver?” He finally asked and Wim combed his side burns before returning the comb inside the satchel. Then he finally offered a reply of sorts.
“I need my hands free.”
“For what purpose?” Hoof grunted narrowing his eyes. “Spit it out, Mister Wim!”
“Um. I need to keep an eye on the barrel.”
“Ugh?” Hoof gasped not expecting the reply, so Wim added coolly, making the whole situation even weirder.
“Or a hand.”
Plus, I really hate riding on my own. It is better if someone else does the hard part.
Oras Navel, circa 196-199 NC
-
Twenty minutes later
The settlement at ‘Nipius Bonosus’ Tunnel Pass
Wim followed after the mule and Ari Hoof, shuffling his feet under the weight of his satchel as they approached the main hostel and tavern inside the settlement. The massive tunnel entrance could be seen after the last simple houses and huts, the first two kilometers more a channel through the rocks, before it burrowed properly inside the mountain.
The modest stone tavern had two floors with four windows each, and was part of a four smaller buildings complex. The three sheds and the stable located behind it. A large wooden sign secured over an older written phrase directly over the entrance wall, read ‘At Clodius’.
A mid-aged Lorian with a prominent beard sat on a chair next to the entrance, under the portico’s shade and crunched on a hefty cucumber. Hoof stopped the lame mule before the tavern and hostel, then scratched his bottom over the dirty tunic, using his left foot’s toes to do the same to his right shin, briefly standing on one leg.
But for the light color of his skin, the coal paint had washed off at spots revealing it, the barefooted kid could pass for a big-bodied monkey.
Although to be fair, for the most part Hoof just looked dirty.
“Hello,” Wim took the initiative walking past the itching kid and greeted the sitting man munching on the raw cucumber. Green skin and all. “Is Clodius inside?”
“Nah. He is not,” the man replied and swallowed, before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Inside.”
“I’m looking for the owner,” Wim expounded.
“Goes by Clodius Remus,” the man said. “The place started as an eatery. The workers used to say let’s meet at Clodius’ for he is cheap and it sort of stuck,” he spat the cucumber’s spores down and dropped the rest of it in a side pocket. “The moniker not the cheap part.”
“Mister Clodius?” Wim guessed.
“That’s right,” Clodius Remus replied. “Looking for a room to let?”
“A trade.”
Clodius crooked his mouth, tongue cleaning his bad teeth behind his closed lips and then asked curious.
“A trade and a room?”
“I want to buy a horse,” Wim pressed on. “I noticed you have a stable. Perhaps you could spare an animal?”
“You just read the note over my shoulder. Tiny letters. Them things you wear help, I guess.”
“They do. Now about the horse—”
Clodius raised his arm to stop him and planted both feet down as if to stand up, but didn’t. “I need a moment before standing up or I get dizzy. Something in the blood the Dottore said. But it was an army dottore, so we’re sort of still uncertain.”
“Vegetables help and olive oil. It’s your blood pressure,” Wim said and Clodius narrowed his eyes, now examining the bookish Issir more intently.
“He’s a racist Dottore,” Hoof informed the tavern owner with a toothy grin, until Wim turned around and cuffed the kid once over the head. “Fucking bastard!” Hoof cursed and retreated behind the mule.
“Your kid?” Clodius queried with a thin smile.
“I was involved with a local girl in Croton,” Wim replied, hoping his story would pass the smell test.
“Plenty of bigoted fellas over there,” Clodius retorted. “Ye must be one lucky dude to get away with it. Luthos ain’t yer cousin by any chance?”
Laugh, he told himself. This idiot made a joke.
Wim cracked a bored smile.
“I need to buy a horse, Mister Clodius.”
“I’ve two and need both,” Clodius said and crooked his mouth again. “Where are you guys heading?”
“Cartagen,” Wim lied. “How much?”
“The horse ain’t for sale. Mister Dottore.”
“I’ll give a gold Eagle,” Wim offered his penultimate piece of coin. “For the animal.”
Clodius scratched the side of his Lorian nose with an index finger in silence. “You seem like a man that wants to go through that tunnel in a hurry,” he finally said. “You know the saying, need brings them darn prices up. Infiltration. Always found the term a bit lewd.”
“The term is inflation. Two gold Eagles,” Wim said keeping his calm.
The tavern keeper snickered. “Five.”
“This is ridiculous,” Wim argued reasonably. “I can buy that hut with this kind of coin.”
“You are not too far off in yer assessment,” Clodius agreed. “Last time I checked though, huts don’t travel. Could it be done with a couple of wheels? Possible. But ye will still need a horse to do the pullin'.”
“Two gold Eagles and the mule,” Wim haggled after breathing out.
“Why not use it yourself?” Clodius queried, thinking about it.
“It’s lame. Needs to stay off that foot for a week,” Hoof explained.
“You don’t have a week to spare, Dottore? The boy’s mother’s relatives must have taken the matter pretty serious. Heh?” Clodius asked mockingly. “Well, the darn price just went up, I reckon. It’s a case of… inflation.”
Wim stood back, took a big breath and then slowly exhaled. “The mule for a meal and a room, plus a gold nugget for both horses,” he countered in a level-headed manner.
“I don’t need the mule.”
“You will for lack of horses or you can slaughter it for meat.”
“Nobody eats mule, Dottore,” Clodius retorted. “We are not barbarians like you.”
Debatable. But your people are crooks for sure!
“What the cook knows,” Wim insisted again trying diplomacy. “Doesn’t have to be public knowledge.”
“Hah! That sounded deep,” Clodius chuckled and pressed his back on the chair thoughtfully. “A gold nugget. Are you in the gold mining business, Dottore?”
“You could say that,” Wim replied maintaining his unruffled manner. “A piece of gold that size is close to a kilo. That’s about twenty Eagles.”
“You have it with you? Maybe in that satchel?”
“I can produce it,” Wim replied.
“You don’t say. Well, sure wish I could do that myself!” Clodius chuckled, greed in his eyes, but then sobered up fast and asked all serious. “How soon?”
“A day,” Wim grimaced. “I’ll need a place to stay and no distractions.”
“I have rooms and while this ain’t Asturia by night,” Clodius offered, thinking about it. “It does get a bit raucous later, when the caravans stop for the night. Ehem… I’ll need that gold coin as leverage, until you… produce the gold, Dottore.”
“I’ll take one of the huts,” Wim retorted and tossed him the round gold coin.
The moment they rounded the tavern, Wim halted a couple of meters away from the square hut, built behind the bigger building. Probably originally functioned as tool sheds, Clodius had repurposed when the engineers had finished working there. The rumor was that Bonosus, the man behind the tunnel and the reason this settlement/waystation existed in the first place, had finished another tunnel the last couple of years he had christened after himself. The well-known Lorian architect was now busy building a city in the desert for the King of Regia. Bonosus had called the new city Luciopolis after the King, probably in an attempt to cover his own arse and avoid the reproach of his peers for what appeared to be a case of vanity.
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Naming your creations after yourself can do that.
The thoughtful Wim noticed a man guarding the tavern’s stables and raised an index finger to scratch at the thin white beard growing on his cheeks, weak chin and upper lip.
Hmm.
“Mister Wim,” Hoof asked dragging the loaded mule behind by its reins. “Do you really have a gold bucket?”
“Gold nugget,” Wim murmured and walked to the door to test it. It was unlocked. The latch broken and missing. He grimaced and watched for a while the boy securing the mule. “I’ll take the barrel off of it,” he told him and Hoof nodded.
“So, where is it?” The boy asked. “This mysterious nugget?”
“I don’t have it,” Wim replied and walked inside the small cabin. A rat stood up on its hind legs under the bed and stared at him intently for a second, before bolting for the cracked open window manically, the moment Wim stepped forward into the room.
Wim placed his satchel on the dirty table and heard Hoof entering behind him.
“How are you going to pay the tavern owner then?” The boy asked. “He ain’t giving you the horses for free.”
“Nothing is free in life boy. You have to sacrifice some things to move forward. In this case, I’ll just make some gold,” Wim murmured and got a square piece of cloth out of the satchel, he opened on the table. On it he placed the piece of charcoal, the white powder made out of lowly cave bats droppings he’d gathered near Canlita Sea. It was called saltpeter or for those with a fancier vocabulary, potassium nitrate, and right next to it Wim placed a large yellow piece of raw sulfur.
“Hah,” Hoof snorted and came to stand next to the Dottore of Chemistry. Also an assayer and alchemist as well. None of it mattered, if Wim didn’t survive this turbulent period. “What’s that smelly shite coming from? Yer gonna use all these? No way!”
“I just need the charged stone inside the lead box for that and a piece of cheap noble metal like copper,” Wim raised his head to stare out of the window for anyone sneaking up to their cabin. Somewhere from the great beyond his teacher’s words were heard. The Master Alchemist’s steady voice preserved in Wim’s memories of course and not real. What else do we need here students? Rosier had lectured. A fountain of energy and a medium to transfer it in order to kick start the molecule migration from one metal to the other. From one element to the other. There only four basic Elements. Fire, air, earth and water. Only three major Principles. Sulphur, Mercury and Salt. Most everything can be dissolved in one acid or another, and finally… at their microscopic level, all substances in nature are a conjugal of ready to be discovered craftable material that can be reshaped anew, if first broken down. “This is just an idea to solve another problem.” Wim told the listening Ari Hoof. “To create a product of an anodyne nature in appearance that offers a much safer payload and room to be creative in its delivery.”
“Are ye talking about Clodius’ horses?”
“A different kind of transportation.”
“Right. Ahm… so, what’s a charged stone?” Hoof asked and Wim grimaced.
“Enough. I need to hide the barrel,” he told the boy.
“Why?”
“Don’t ask too-many questions,” Wim warned. “Asking the wrong one, can get you killed. Both of us.”
“Even quiet people die,” Hoof retorted. “If you can make gold, why do you stay in the cheap room? Why not buy food and a carriage like all normal rich folk?”
Wim sighed and then wrapped the important basic components inside the cloth and returned everything inside the satchel, but took the tiny square, hermetically sealed with wax, lead box out. Remember to wash your hands after, he thought.
“I’ll need an iron bucket, water and any bronze or copper tool you can find inside the stable,” Wim ordered Hoof. “Get them here and you’ll get coin for a proper meal from the tavern. Ah, and carry a good load of firewood from that pile inside the cabin. I need to lit up the furnace.”
“What furnace? It’s just an old stove,” Hoof contended and Wim pursed his mouth annoyed.
“It’ll do. Get going now.”
Six hours later,
Afternoon of the 27th,
The fourth month of the year 196 and 2nd of Spring.
(Lorian month Quartus. Imperial Moon Canatya or Sulime for Cydonia)
The mask-wearing Wim emptied the grinded and mixed material from the mortar inside a glass phial and corked it.
It needs to dry out fully now. Preferably on a warm, dehydrated and non-conductive surface, away from the sun. Then I could test whether the powder retains its characteristics or it has gained new.
He heard someone approach from the front of the cabin and walked there, stopping to glance inside from the closed glass window. The iron bucket could be seen red hot and smoking over the hot coals. The arsenic crystals had dissolved inside the liquefied acid, helped from the boiling water. This new mixture had released the power inside the stone and reacted with the surface of the broken bronze tool part. The copper inside it that is. Everything was going well, but the cabin had been filled with noxious vapors in the process.
Um.
Very toxic.
Deadly.
It was the boy. Hoof reached the cabin’s entrance and went to open the door, but Wim stopped him, still remaining half-hidden behind the north corner.
“Keep the door closed,” the alchemist said.
“Mister Wim? Dottore?” Hoof asked, sounding startled. “What are you doing back there?”
“Shush. Were you followed?”
“No? Eh, there are a couple of newcomers in the tavern,” Hoof started, and Wim stopped him with a gesture. He popped his bespectacled, masked head out of the corner and looked about for any visible threats.
Everything appeared normal and the back of the tavern, its kitchen that is, while noisy, only had the cook’s help dosing off in the shade, after smoking a fat joint.
“Come back here,” he whispered.
“Alright,” Hoof murmured with a grimace and walked to the back of the cabin, following the alchemist. “What is that awful smell?”
“Nothing of import. Ah. Don’t breathe it in, or you’ll die,” Wim cautioned.
“No shit! Damn it, I don’t really want to!” Hoof protested rolling his eyes. “No import, he says. Don’t breathe or you’ll die. By the gods! You are fucking weird man. And this shit, reeks something foul!”
Wim sighed, then turned around and tossed him a leather mask that covered the whole face. “Put this on, and slot a cloth over the mouth. The less you talk, the safer you are.”
Hoof grimaced but he did as he was told for a while. “The mask is too-big,” he griped after a quiet minute.
“Better to be big,” Wim told him and gathered his tools inside the barrel again. He had set up an outside workplace, some meters from the cabin’s posterior wall, well-hidden from the tavern. He placed everything carefully inside the barrel in order to avoid disturbing the ampules. “Hmm. What newcomers?” Wim queried the boy observing his work, while holding the mask with both hands before his face.
“A couple of Uher’s priests,” Hoof replied and watched Wim as the latter judiciously placed the larger phial he had kept covered with cloth inside the barrel. “What’s that black stuff in the vial? Pepper powder? Incense?”
“Ah. Aye, you can say that,” Wim agreed.
“One or the other?” Hoof inquired a little confused.
“None,” Wim murmured, and then set his eyes at the corner of the cabin hiding them from the buildings facing the main road. “What kind of priests?”
“Don’t know. Clodius seemed a bit spooked,” Hoof admitted. “He said to some other customers that their likes haven’t made an appearance since the war.”
“The Civil War?”
“Some older war with the North. I don’t know anything about that either,” Hoof expounded. “They weren’t looking for you. Some other guy named Jori Keiter.”
‘Open the door, your excellency,’ Inquisitor Jori had said, standing outside his hostel room, back in Holt’s Stables. ‘It is time to return home, stand before Uher and show penance for your many transgressions.’
Of course, Wim wasn’t homesick for starters.
He also didn’t feel guilty or really believed in any gods or countries.
Even his friendships were a bit neutral in nature. That is to say, Wim kind of liked young Brother Sebastos. Um. Could he also discuss a topic of two with Benedict Stam and Luna Rosman, Rosier’s pupil and daughter? Sure. Now, would Wim ever take an arrow to the chest for any of them?
Absolutely not.
So he had refused Jori’s suggestion emphatically.
“What’s the blasted matter?” Hoof asked seeing Wim’s constipated expression. “The vapors made you sick? Did you breathe them in? You fool! Ye could die!” He finished ogling his eyes comically.
Wim’s eyes flickered, a little startled by the boy’s outburst. “We need to steal the horses,” he finally uttered after gulping down. In order to further soothe his nerves, he reached in a pocket and got the fine tooth comb out. Wim used it to fix the straight part in his hair on the left side, and smooth out his beard in silence.
“What about big Park? Huh? He’s guarding the darn place. Half of the back portion of it, is Clodius’ warehouse!” Hoof blurted breaking the silence and sounding worried, as he’d realized Wim’s vague ‘we must steal the horses’ actually meant Hoof must go by himself and steal the tavern owner’s horses.
“You’ll tell Park to come here and collect the gold from the bucket,” Wim replied.
“The gold nugget?” Hoof asked and lowered the mask, a grin on his dirty face. “You made it, Mister Wim! Whoa! We’re fucking rich!”
“Shush, boy,” Wim retorted in a steady voice trying to curb his enthusiasm. “It’s not ready yet, but Park won’t know it. Just get him inside, and remember to stay back. I’ll get the horses. You need to give me time to bring the barrel and secure the horses.”
“Bring Park into the cabin,” Hoof reiterated his orders. “Then shall we meet at the stables?”
Wim grimaced, considered the journey ahead, and then gave a single nod.
“Now, watch the barrel for a moment,” Wim commanded, tightening his jaw. “I need to get the stone before Park shows up.”
“No magic stone, no free gold,” Hoof smirked with a hint of mischief, and the alchemist pressed his lips together, then motioned for the boy to put his mask back on.
Darn stupid animal, Wim thought and yanked at the reins again to turn it the proper way only to lose his grip on them. The horse didn’t stop and the frustrated Issir kept following it around the back of the stables, hefting the barrel under his left armpit and using the right hand to reach for the brindles.
The horse stopped finally with a pained neigh and Wim puffed out in frustration. He pushed the barrel inside one of the saddlebags and looped a rope around it to further secure it on the horn. Then tried to climb on the saddle, but the horse moved again and Wim almost did the splits, one foot trapped in the stirrup and the other planted on the ground but left behind.
“Help,” Wim griped, feeling himself stretch out in an unnatural manner. “Stop. Don’t move, you donkey. That’s quite enough!” He urged the horse, but the absent any brains animal let out a loud snort and then twirled dragging the alchemist in a strange dance, until Wim dropped to his knee. His foot slipped out of the stirrup and the metal part of the accursed riding contraption smacked him on the chin. “Ah, the misfortune!” He cursed in pain and took a moment to slowly get up again.
Wim started dusting off his robes with both hands furiously, but had to halt eventually in order to remove his foggy glasses and clean them up.
Hoof found him still standing next to the horse and staring frustrated at the setting sun.
“Where’s the other horse?” The boy asked curious, his bare feet raising a good amount of dust as he shuffled near him.
“One horse is enough,” Wim hissed. “Help me up on the saddle.”
“Are you crazy? You left a lot of gold behind! We should take both animals!” Hoof scolded him, all but yelling in his face until Wim reached to grab the boy’s shoulder for purchase and made him stop.
Let’s try this accursed exercise again.
Hey. Hop.
Ah.
Success!
“Where is Park?” Wim asked, after he’d finally managed to get his arse on the saddle.
“He went inside and searched for the nugget,” Hoof explained looking around them. “I should get the other horse, now that the road is open.”
“Forget about the other horse! You’ll drive this one,” Wim cut him off.
“Drive…”
“Aye. I can’t… deal with them. That’s the job, Mister Hoof! We talked about this already.” Wim urged him and breathed out. “Now, hurry up. Those Inquisitors were looking for me.”
“No, they were looking for a man called Jori Keiter,” Hoof reminded him.
“Listen to me,” Wim retorted, trying to keep his composure. “These men are killers. If they find out you had Park poisoned, then they’ll skin you alive boy!”
“What? Wait, a minute! Park seemed pretty fine!” Hoof protested but did hop in front of the older man.
“Did he come out of the cabin?” Wim queried, turning to glance back over his shoulder.
“No. Is that too bad?” Hoof sounded very confused and worried. “I thought of giving him the mask at first, but you had said nothing about it. I needed more instructions, Mister Wim!”
“Did you? Give him the mask?” Wim asked steadily.
“I didn’t.” Hoof sighed. “We can turn back. Mayhap, he’s a slow breather?”
“It’s too-late for him, Hoof, but not for us. So, you’ll keep going as fast as you can instead,” Wim cut him off from protesting again. “Faster, if it is possible. We need to get out of the tunnel and reach Oras Junction before the sun comes up. We are not stopping there anyways but briefly and only to load up on water. It’s an arid place.”
“Ugh? Where are we going then?” Hoof asked turning around to look into Wim’s bespectacled face. “Cartagen? Storm’s Rest?”
“The Goat Plains,” Wim replied, holding on to Hoof’s waist, and watching the road up ahead with ease, as the alchemist was much taller than the Lorian stray.
“What for? To hunt goats? Just make some more gold,” Hoof protested. “And we’ll eat at a freaking restaurant!”
“These men will never stop following us,” Wim explained, a nervous spasm locking his jaw. He breathed out, trying to forget his years locked up without a sliver of hope to ever escape. “They need what I have. Desperately.”
“They need whatever you have in the barrel?” Hoof queried, turning around to look his way again.
In my head.
“In a sense,” Wim murmured and braced himself when they approached the dark mouth of the Tunnel Pass.
“Why?” Hoof asked, but the alchemist shushed him and made himself smaller on the saddle. The four riders that had cleared the Lorian sentries slowly rode towards them. A couple of them were almost Issirs. Almost. But not quite. None of them looked like traders. One of the half-breeds familiar from somewhere, but busy reading a report the guards had given him, while the other rode almost unseen under the raised leather hood troubled with his own thoughts. They followed behind the thin Lorian thug and the Northman scout with the hardened face that led their small group. Leading past Wim and Hoof, towards the first houses of the Settlement.
“There are no gods,” Wim whispered when they cleared the sentries’ minutes later, with naught but a superficial glance given the late time. “Just those that strive to be like them and those that have succeeded, using whatever means necessary.”
If people reach the pinnacles of knowledge, or power, then they call themselves whatever they desire and can even shape the whole realm to their image. Time is nature’s great equalizer. Death its loyal lackey. Master time, young Wim, and defeat death, and thou shall be worshiped as a god, even when your deeds in this life pale to those of others, much more accomplished and grander or nobler of stature, than yourself. Future is what we make of it and all legends eventually become just words scribbled in a brittle piece of paper.
-
Six days later
Southeastern most edge of Goats Plains
The granite wall of Stonemaze Peaks
Night of the 5th
The constant eastern wind blew over the barren stones, rapped at the old spruces’ trunks stirring their branches and made them whistle. A goat leaped over two tall fallen stones and a sharp boulder, then turned its horned head to perceive the pair trying to secure their animal and set up camp.
But for the thermolampe’s light, the deserted terrain appeared devoid of any intelligent life. Well, perhaps the lonely goat stands in disagreement of the latter sentiment. While the great vale was chockfull of goats, few ventured as close to the steeper mountains at its end, not for fear of the heights and cold, but for lack of food.
The goat tipped its head back to stare at the black heavens and then let out a crackling bleat, half-chortle and half-scream that reverberated on the mountain wall near it and the many others in the distance. Either a warning or a taunt.
“I can’t feel my toes,” Hoof blurted out, carrying small stones to create a campfire and Wim glanced his way, his eyes hurting at the lamp’s light until he turned the valve to curtail it.
“Put your shoes back on,” Wim told the shivering boy. “Or lose your toes.”
“They are too-heavy,” Hoof complained about the boots they had bought from the army surplus stores at ‘Dokamna Camp’ waystation and sat down across from him. “Can we boil some tea leaves or something?”
“We need to preserve water,” Wim replied. “Be quiet.”
“The goat is gone,” Hoof noted and wrapped himself with the old Legion blanket. Wim extinguished the lamp and stood up, to once again behold the forbidding wall of black basalt. “Where is the labyrinth? If it’s up those sides, then we are fucked. No horse can climb that, and even if I made it, you wouldn’t.”
Wim walked away from their camp spot and the horse, trying to analyze the assemblage of smaller and bigger rocks barring their way, every cranny on the wall of hard basalt beyond them, and each boulder sprouting out of the ground that made even approaching to scout the terrain appear treacherous.
Forbidding.
Goat country.
They don’t need big ole paths leading to the top, much less fancy roads carved in rock.
You shouldn’t expect them.
These are little people, living inside the mountains.
Their trails tiny.
Inside as in under.
Wim, ah my boy… He thought disappointed with himself for not realizing it sooner.
His search was pointed the wrong way.
The time wasted.
Start anew.
“Stay where you are,” Wim told Hoof and ventured forth determined at first, but had to slow down immediately after almost turning an ankle and proceeded to walk carefully amidst the raised boulders. He focused his attention on those big rocks ‘attached’ directly on the stony ground or spots devoid of any soil.
Anything unnatural, manmade, or used.
Correction.
Folk-made.
“What are you doing out there in the dark, Mister Wim?” Hoof protested. “Help me light a fire!”
“No fire and less yelling,” Wim retorted, raising his voice to be heard over the whistling breeze. “How about a story instead? The great Reinut fell ill seventeen years into the New Calendar. No one knew what the illness was and our doctors were much better back then, but anyway, the illness caused his body to fall apart. They called it ‘Royal Leprosy’ but it was nothing of the sort. Close, but not close enough. Black boils that smelled of rot and leaked black blood or something.”
“Who’s that?” A shivering Hoof shouted.
“Good grief. This realm is doomed. The first High King, for crying out loud,” Wim replied gruffly, murmuring under his breath and fumbled with the Thermolampe’s bronze valve to ignite it again. After a couple of tries and mechanical clicks, a spark was produced and the gas caught it. Ah. There. “People searched everywhere for the cure, but didn’t trust the Zilan or better yet, those that fell into their hands didn’t know or want to heal the Issir king.”
“Why not?”
Your lack of knowledge is disturbing, but the blame lays not with you.
“They were aggrieved with him specifically or plain ignorant of this particular affliction,” Wim grunted and walked down what appeared to be three small steps cut inside a protruding rock, but unseen even from three meters away. Hmm. “They searched far and wide for several years. Until, the king perished and people stopped caring.”
“How does that help us, Mister Wim? Is it another Dottore story? Because we can’t eat yer powders and this place is spooky as all fucks!” Hoof yelled rattling his teeth, half from fear, and half from the night’s cold.
“I read it inside the Grand Archive,” Wim replied and returned to the top of the hidden staircase of sorts. Such an insignificant spot. “One of the Issir parties sent out consisted entirely of monks and their report was saved when the court records were destroyed. Uher’s faithful warriors traveled further into the Lorian lands than anyone else. All but one of them perished to the elements and Lorian treachery.”
“Well, fuck them. If yer looking to guilt-trip me about my ancestors, think again. Uher’s murderous priests are trying to catch us for days!” Hoof cursed very annoyed, when Wim returned and crooked his mouth in a comic grimace at Wim’s nervous sign to remain silent. “Why did they let you read their stuff? Ugh?”
“I was with them for a time,” Wim explained. “But not one of them. It is unimportant at this point. This brother that made it this far, reached this here valley at some point around year 18 or 19 of the New Calendar. He discovered a city hidden inside a mountain,” Wim breathed out and once again extinguished the mechanical lamp, lunging their campsite in total darkness, his eyes towards the small opening that led down for a couple of meters afore stopping on solid bedrock. Granite floor and not basalt. The basalt dominating the mountains around them carefully scrapped away at that spot to reveal the harder, set deeper into the earth, but lighter in color rock. Only that good ole basalt is hard enough a rock unto himself to be scrapped away or shaped into small steps by a wayward goat.
“A dwarf city called Eth Bennoth.” He continued. “The Issir monk made many claims, but few believed him. One of the claims was that the dwarves could traverse the core of the mountains via tunnels or even use the Rabbit Plains that run parallel to them on the surface, in order to reach the Four Sisters Mounts themselves many hundreds of kilometers away, the mighty rock formation south of the Stonemaze Peaks. The Peaks names are Lilatum, Basila, Asselin and the fabled Gidina. The latter peak important because it is the one under which another dwarf city is located supposedly. Eth Dehur.”
Hoof pursed his cracked lips unsure. “We are here to meet dwarves?” He finally asked, his voice cracking.
Wim sighed, shaking his head in despair and then recoiled upon noticing a light flicker at the chasm –and supposedly leading to a dead end- he’d just discovered thirty meters away. It came up for a brief moment and then disappeared.
Kudos. A well-researched solution!
“Rabbit Plains and Eth Dehur,” Wim murmured, a smirk forming on his lips and then started walking towards the massive basalt boulder hiding an entrance for little people. “Both directly connect to Lesia, boy. We are here to be lost from history.”
Because not everyone wants to be remembered.
Some just want to survive and conduct research on more important matters.
He took one step through the darkness —Wim had kept the light off on purpose— but the darkness turned solid. Smelled of dirt, sweat and leather. A manly chin appeared and then a strong mouth. The mouth’s lips split into a leer and pure gold gleamed on the pale moonlight barely reaching the bottom of the canyon. The gold sculpted into normal human teeth but married with large inhuman fangs, resembling those of the female Zilan ranger who had almost killed him months back.
Wim gasped and flinched away in panic, but a hand grabbed his right shoulder to prevent him from moving.
“You know,” the unknown male said in heavily-accented Common, and in a robust voice, “Everyone got confused when ye didn’t go straight east or west. Ditching both cities was a stroke of fucking brilliance, dude!” Wim blinked behind his thick glasses and then swung the heavy Thermolampe to crack the man’s skull open, but the fiend blocked it with a nimble elbow, and used his other gloved hand to deliver a sudden slap on the alchemist’s cheek. It landed hard enough to twirl Wim around dazed as a chicken.
Shit. An alarming twist!
Wim gasped in pain and dropped to a knee, but he was grabbed by the scruff of the neck the next moment and then yanked upright on shaking legs. “As I was saying,” the freak with the golden smile continued. “You could have made it to Eth Bennoth, and left all others confused. Hah! You were so close! Unfortunately for you, Mister Luikens, I immediately discerned where you were heading,” the immodest man continued whilst dragging Wim towards the campsite with ease. “The Guild has dealings with all Folk and doesn’t discriminate.”
“I worth more to you alive!” Wim pleaded trying to free himself and saw more people gathered at their campsite.
Armed men carrying torches.
One of them stood up, while the other two kept their swords trained on the ogling Hoof –the boy was still wrapped with the old blanket- and stared at the struggling alchemist with narrowed eyes. The half-breed’s face half-shaded in darkness, but the deep scars on his face —a sign of paralysis forced by a necrosis of the face nerves— made the scared Wim remember him of sorts.
The man from the tunnel they had briefly see about a week prior.
“Rhys, he’s right,” the stranger said, this half-breed of Issir and Lorian origins, while Rhys was a greater mixture of genes, probably of Cofol, Issir and Lorian origins. “We need to return him alive…” the man paused, looked into Wim’s face perturbed for a long moment and then brought a torch he held nearer as if in disbelief, right after Rhys dropped Wim in front of him with a snort of derision.
Wim stared into the half-breed’s face unsure.
“Sudi,” Rhys prodded as if alarmed. “What’s the god darn problem?”
“Syphilis lathered bitch,” Sudi cursed glaring in Wim’s nervous sweaty face. “It’s you!” Sudi hissed suddenly irate and Wim Luikens blinked in shock at the change in attitude.
“Mister Sudi, you are mistaken. We’ve never met before—” Sudi’s punch caught him at the side of his jaw afore he could finish and Wim’s head was violently thrust back with a groan. Managed a few shaky steps and then dropped to his knees yet again, his mouth filled with blood.
“Mister Wim! You hurt him! Murderous ruffians!” A worried Hoof yelled, upon seeing him falter from the blow and Sudi went to lunge at Wim again, but got tackled by Rhys. Sudi broke out of the man’s hold with a growl and a knee to the gonads, got a shortsword out, but the grimacing Rhys had a longer blade unsheathed in the blink of an eye and immediately raised it to prevent the other half-breed from stabbing the defenseless Luikens.
Divine intervention!
The righteous man of science stands devoid of sin!
“You go for a man’s cock this intently,” a roaring Rhys warned the furious Sudi, “Prepare to be introduced to a world of fucking pain, mate! Stand the fuck down!”
“This motherfucking weasel tried to blow me up to smithereens in Alden, for no plaguing reason and absent any fucking warning! Many others didn’t stand as fortunate!” Sudi hissed and Wim’s eyes flickered nervously behind the thick, yet again foggy glasses.
Eh.
Nah, I can’t recall him at all.
“It was an honest mistake,” Wim croaked, trying to appear reasonable, despite not remembering the angry half-breed from before. “Was I ever in Alden, many-many years back? Sure. Perhaps for a brief moon. But was I ever there of my own volition? Absolutely not, sir. A messenger must be free of any guilt! It lays at the legs of his masters!”
“Why, you sycophantic rat! Get out of my way, Rhys!” Sudi growled. “We’ll just say we lost him in the mountain trails. I’ll deal with the Governor.”
“Can’t let you kill him, Sudi,” Rhys grunted warningly.
“Why the fuck not? Him you’ll spare? The man is a mass-murdering monster!” Sudi argued irate and Rhys’ face distorted, eyes oozing madness, as if was fighting demons within himself. Perhaps this can be exploited, Wim thought, trying to find a way to escape the worst. Live today and plot for a better outcome on the morrow. “We have enough of those around to keep the likes of him!” Sudi added with a grimace.
“Lies! Mister Wim is a Dottore!” Hoof yelled in protest and tried to get up. “He’s not racist, or a murderer!”
“What? Saul, silence the fucking kid!” Sudi ordered and the gaunt Northman scout wacked Hoof on the head with the flat of the sword dropping him like a rock.
“I have my reasons, Mister Sudi,” Rhys grunted and gulped down, before crooking his mouth this way and that. “And your story might not hold with the Governor, as we are being followed all day. It is them priests and they brought company. To ensure silence, we need to take them out. How far are you willing to go with this? The Governor is acting on the King’s orders.”
“Fucking all-hells,” Sudi cursed, clenching his wrinkled mouth. “You could’ve told us sooner, you bastard! Saul, is there another way out of the vale?”
“I’ve no idea, boss. Never been this far in afore,” Saul retorted and stooped to check on Hoof’s pulse, putting two fingers on his neck. “The boy is out cold.”
Ah, the situation worsens, Luikens thought, a grimace of pain distorting his bloodied jaw, and cast an indifferent glance at the unresponsive Hoof. The boy is useful, but not right now. Young people can withstand the worst of blows anyways. Right then, where was I? Ah, yes. Introducing more elements inside a volatile concoction, can produce, more times than not, unexpected results.
Given enough boiling time.
Excellent deduction, he decided patting himself on the back.
“I can get us to Lesia,” Wim croaked and forced himself upright on rubbery legs.