Chapter 3

Upon his return to the home of the Buckholm clan, Qualtan rested for three days and three nights, mending his wounds. Arkonis was impressed indeed to see his successful return, and happier still to be greeted by a defeated Romulax and his guarding captors.

On the fourth day, Qualtan and Arkonis bade farewell to the druids, Romulax shackled to their side. They floated off on a chartered ferry. For a brief moment, Romulax looked back at them. His eyes were ablaze with defeated hate. One of the druids pulled at his robes, and he scowled, looking away.

“He’s lucky I didn’t ship him off to the Gumthaults; they would have enjoyed his company,” Arkonis said. “I should not have listened to you.”

“I think whatever punishment his fellow druids have in store for him will be sufficient payment,” Qualtan said.

“Indeed? You put your faith far too easily in others,” Arkonis retorted as they turned to walk away from the busy shore. Boats came and went, dropping off passengers and cargo.

“Only in those that prove worthy enough for it,” said Qualtan. Now that his strength had returned he was eager to go back to Littlebig. What stories to be told!

Arkonis gave Qualtan a puzzled look. “For a lad, you speak as of one who has seen many winters! Must be the wizard’s blood in you.”

Qualtan shrugged. “Being brought up by wizards makes one different, I guess. It leaves one a little … separate … from his fellows.” Qualtan thought back to his friends in Littlebig. They would laugh and say he talked of things too seriously, questioned things of a nature too obscure, and that he needed to relax. “You’re not an old wizard yet!” they would say. Still, he couldn’t help it. He had always felt more comfortable around the scholarly wizards of his youth, the noble knights and warriors that he looked up to. Was that his fault? He couldn’t pretend to be otherwise—not at the price of not being who he was. He was proud of his heritage, and what his hopes for the future would bring. His friends, simple in deeds and life, most never having set foot outside of Littlebig, could not understand.

“I’m sure it does, and with the pedigree of your family, expectations must, I would say,” Arkonis said. He pointed at Qualtan’s chest, as if reading his thoughts. “It is good to be different, lad! My great-great-great grandfather was a priest! Imagine the horror on his face if he was to see where his holy bloodline went awry!” Both laughed at length at this.

“So what now for you?” asked Arkonis.

“I return home to Littlebig. My uncle will finalize my letters of introduction to begin my entry into the Turinthian order of knights!” Qualtan said, his eyes suddenly alight with renewed excitement.

“I would give recommendation of my own if it mattered much. Hah!” said Arkonis, slapping his thigh as they stopped to rest atop some large crates. “Word from a smuggling Dock Master would probably do more harm than good for the start of your future. That is why I stay away from my own son. No need to blemish his reputation!” Arkonis laughed, but it seemed an empty expression of mirth. Qualtan thought how joyous the occasion would have been to see his father coming to visit him, a newly made knight, in fabled Turinthia.

“If I could see my father, I would offer him welcome, no matter what,” Qualtan said aloud. “Your son is lucky to have so concerned a father. I would tell him that myself if I could.”

Arkonis smiled thankfully, patting Qualtan on the arm. “You are a good lad indeed. It’s a privilege and an honor to know you. In my work, people you can trust that have true worth are counted with half of one hand! Your father is a lucky man, alas, he is not here! But I am proud of you for him!” Arkonis flashed a great toothsome grin, and rose. “Well, enough of this for now, eh? We need to send you back home and in a manner befitting a knight! You will take back gifts … no arguing now … to solidify your friendship to the Buckholm Clan! You will always be welcomed here for the service you and your uncle have done us!”

And it was as Arkonis had said. His return trip to the Woodworm Ports was laden with many offerings from the Dock Master. A fine cloak to replace his tattered one. A pair of silver daggers encrusted with pearls. Pots of incense and boxes of smoking herbs for Qualtan’s uncle. He pushed on past Moresmouth, hoping to reach home as quickly as possible. At Salarza, Qualtan once again sought out the Golden Tankard, where he had stayed before. Huel was happy indeed to secure his room once more.

“You’ve returned! Welcome back, milord! Back to Littlebig is it? See, I remembered! Trust your business was met successfully?” the innkeeper said with a wink and nod. Before Qualtan could answer him, he continued. “Ah! Begging your pardon, good sir, I don’t mean to press in matters that aren’t my business! Look here, I have your very same room available. Ahh, now what is that fine smell?” Huel said, breathing in the aromatic scent of the smoking herbs Qualtan now carried. Qualtan smiled, and fumbling through his packages, presented a box of the dried leaves to Huel.

“A gift to you for your courtesy and help.” Huel hungrily took the box to his nose and inhaled mightily. His gold tooth grin spread from ear to ear. “You are too kind, my lord, too kind! This is exotic stock indeed!” Huel said, bowing multiple times.

“For your pleasure,” Qualtan said as he began to march toward his room. Huel raised a finger. “Your friends … you mentioned me, of course?”

Qualtan smiled, knowing Huel assumed from their prior conversation that he was part of some smuggling or larcenous ring. Qualtan did not wish to disappoint him. “I did, and with the highest recommendation! They will most certainly keep your name for future use, if you know what I mean.” Qualtan winked knowingly to the innkeeper, who thanked him effusively, placing a finger by the crown of his nose and winking back.

Qualtan threw himself upon a bruised mattress, stretching out with relief as he removed his armored plating. A mixture of emotions assailed him—excitement, certainly, and smug satisfaction at the victorious completion of his task, definitely. His thoughts turned to Turinthia and what would happen when he at last became a knight. A nervous thought quickly passed through his mind … what if his commendations were not enough? Usually only those sponsored from parents of the nobility could become knights, as his father had been. Or, those of less austere rank could qualify if proof of great deeds was given. Surely his training, the proofs given by his uncle, and his defeat of Romulax would qualify! “Of course they are enough!” he said loudly, jumping off the bed.

“I will prove worthy of my father’s name. I will wield the sword given to him, and make Aurelus proud. I will be a knight of Turinthia, a knight of the Alliance!” He lifted his enchanted blade and looked into its liquid-like finish, the perfection of its wrought form. Qualtan placed it atop a small table nearest a window and walked about the room. All past feelings of self-doubt were gone. The words of Arkonis Buckholm had emboldened him. It was time to move on, and he was ready. Self-satisfied, he filled a cup with water from a nearby pitcher. As he raised it towards his mouth, it was shot out of his grasp by a small, wing-tipped arrow!

Qualtan fell back in surprise, but as he reached for his sword, he saw a figure perched atop his window’s ledge, a newly fixed arrow pointed at him.

“Go for your weapon, and I’ll aim my next arrow to hit, not miss,” the cowled intruder said. Somehow, the voice sounded familiar, though Qualtan could not place it.

“Back. Go back! And keep your hands where I can see them!” said the figure, waving Qualtan to move away from where his sword laid on the table between them. Qualtan complied. The figure hopped inside the room. “Well, well! So we meet yet again, my paladin friend!” said the grinning half-orc.

“I thought I knew your voice. You’re the half-orc from Moresmouth,” Qualtan said, recognizing his opponent.

“The one and the same,” the half-orc replied.

“I assume this is no coincidence, our meeting like this?” Qualtan said coolly, quickly appraising the situation. He wasn’t sure, based on the unique firing device on the orc’s wrist that was pointed at him, if he could avoid the arrow. Nor could he gauge its lethality.

“You’ve led me on a merry chase, I’ll say. I tracked you through the river where you took passage to Flotsam’s End. The Buckholm Clan, eh? Nasty business, that. A few baubles here and there kept me apprised of your return.”

“You followed me?” Qualtan said with growing annoyance.

“Indeed I did,” said the half-orc, eyeing Qualtan’s sword as he moved in closer.

“Perhaps to offer your thanks?” Qualtan said, folding his arms.

“Not much of a chance to offer thanks surrounded by a drunken mob, is there?” he said angrily.

“So offer it now,” said Qualtan.

“Thank you!” the half-orc said with exasperation.

“You are welcome,” Qualtan said, lowering his arms. The half-orc waved them up again. “Who are you? And why have you followed me?”

“I think my cross bolt gives me the right to ask the first questions,” the half-orc said, pointing to his wrist gauntlet.

“Interesting weapon. I’ve never seen the like,” Qualtan said.

“And you probably never will. These devices are unique and are mine alone. Now! Who are you, paladin?” he asked.

“I am no paladin,” Qualtan answered.

“Don’t play words with me! You are a paladin, all right! Who else would risk his life to rescue an orc?” he said.

“Half-orc,” Qualtan corrected.

“I know what I am! The question is what you are, so you better answer it!”

“My name is Qualtan. I am son to Eucradus, nephew to Aurelus, both heroes of the Great War.”

The half-orc thought for a moment. “I’ve heard the names, I think. Before my time. What business does a paladin have in Moresmouth, and with the smuggling clans?”

“You seem rather anxious to know,” said Qualtan.

“Don’t dare me!” the half-orc said, aiming his weapon.

Qualtan sighed. “I was given a boon by my uncle to travel to the Darklight Forest and confront an evil druid that lurked there in order to win commendation for entry into the Turinthian knighthood.”

“The Buckholms?” the half-orc insisted.

“They owed my family a debt. They repaid it by providing me with travel to the druid’s lair.”

“Humph!” the half-orc said, grabbing a box of smoking leaves and sniffing them with interest. “Sounds like a wild tale to me. No one dares enter the Darklight Forest. The evil druid that lives there is whispered of in many places.”

“He lives there no more.”

“I don’t believe you!” the half-orc said hotly.

“Then who do you think I am?” Qualtan asked.

The half-orc smiled, showing his sharp fangs. He laughed aloud, shaking his head as he sat upon the table.

“I will play along with you. You’ve been hired by the Merchant Lords, and I know which one. They found out I returned, and you were sent to bring me back. You found out where I was hiding, and almost had me, except those swine at the inn provided enough interference for me to flee. Knowing of my doings with the Clan Lords, you went there to seek out information after I fled that night.”

“And you are…?” Qualtan intoned.

“Smart enough to know when I’m being taken for a fool. How did Thule find out about me? Quickly now!” the half-orc said.

Qualtan shook his head. “I am not working for your merchant lords or this man you named Thule. I know nothing about you, or who you are, save for the fact you seem to be a rather ill-mannered lout.”

The half-orc hissed at the comment, then as quickly relaxed. “Ill-mannered is all a half-orc knows,” he said. “Thief, scoundrel, smuggler, robber, call me what you will. I’ve been all that and more. I’ve been trained by the best in these arts, for no other road was afforded me. I am no fool.”

“You choose your own road. Some more difficult than others, but they can still be traveled upon.”

“Hah! More priest than paladin! What world do you come from?”

“The same as you.”

“I think not! You are a naïve sort of lad, I see that now.” Qualtan bristled at the comment. “Yes. You know nothing of the Merchant Lords, do you? Or life outside your rosy wizard’s home. Darklight Forest, eh? More true would be an errand to receive these trivials for your uncle. I’ve wasted my time. A good lad, playing the grocer. Going out into the nasty world to see what it’s like, eh, for a bit of fun? Go home, grocery lad. I’ll be lenient with you.”

“May I have my sword, then?” Qualtan said.

The half-orc smiled as he rose from the table. “I think not. It’s quite a weapon, this is! Better in the hands of someone who can appreciate its value. The gems alone will fetch a good price. A lesson for you the next time you go outside to play…”

The half-orc reached for the handle of the sword, and Qualtan stood at the ready, smiling inwardly. This was his chance. At the intruder’s touch, the blade immediately glowed red-hot and the surprised half-orc let out a yelp of pain. He dropped the sword as it seared his palm. Qualtan outstretched his hand, and the sword flew into his grip. Holding his hand in sudden anguish, the half-orc bolted out the window, with Qualtan in pursuit.

The half-orc leapt onto a colored canopy below, bouncing onto an accompanying awning beyond it. He jumped agilely from one to the other, using the tightly hung tarps as trampolines, surprising the merchants below them. Qualtan attempted to follow suit, bounding after him, until his weight tore through a supportive covering. He crashed into tables of fruit and vegetables amidst a crowd of people. Cursing, he looked up at the escaping half-orc who laughed at Qualtan’s misfortune. His quarry scampered onto a window ledge toppling ornamental pots, and then clambered onto the top of a low-roofed building. Qualtan ignored the complaints and angry comments of the townsfolk he had scattered about. Apologizing briefly, he pushed through the throng, running towards the climbing half-orc. With a mighty leap, he hurled himself upwards, grabbing hold of the ledge on which the half-orc had landed. Surprising a wizened old man who was attempting to clean the damaged crockery left behind, Qualtan sprung from his perch onto the roof. The bearded lodger fell back in surprise, cursing loudly at the sight of his pots that were dislodged and shattered anew.

Slowing his pace, the half-orc chortled with self-satisfaction, feeling he had escaped. Qualtan’s sudden landing from behind caused him to bellow in angry surprise and to renew his speed. The dwellings they stood upon were huddled closely together, with various open decks that made running through them possible. The half-orc hurtled through hanging lines of laundry, tossing aside clothes into the wind, and spilling bowls of soap and water, to the displeasure of their owners. Qualtan followed closely, barreling through the same inhabitants until, with a mighty bound, he caught up to the half-orc, grabbing the side of an aged smoking stack to halt his forward movement as he slid into view.

The half-orc sneered and withdrew his sword. “You’re nimble for a human, I will give you that!” he said, as Qualtan unsheathed his own.

Their swords met. With mighty thrusts and parries, they fenced over the rooftops, jumping from balcony to ledge, rooftop to rooftop’s edge. Inhabitants busy with their midday chores ran from the battle as drying clothing was hewn through, brooms broken, tables overturned, and knick-knacks spilt.

“You fight well for a thief!” said Qualtan.

“Bah! You’ll wish you stayed in your room, grocery boy!” the half-orc retorted.

As Qualtan pushed his adversary, they fell upon a family eating at a small table. Shouting with fear, their members ran about as the half-orc jumped onto the table, knocking food and plates about. Qualtan pushed against the table and its contents, along with a few chairs, spilling them over the balcony’s side. They smashed and shattered below in a pool of muddy water that spattered over loitering guards. Calling for help, occupants of the homes they invaded hurled garbage at the two contestants. At last, Qualtan took control of the battle, and with a deft sword-stroke cleaved the half-orc’s sword into two.

“Admit defeat, before the whole town rises against us!” Qualtan cried out.

“Hardly!” gasped the half-orc. Tossing his cloak aside, he withdrew two short batons from his sides. Gleaming knife-like points snapped into place at a quick jerking gesture from his hands. With a cry of battle, he attacked again, forcing Qualtan to defend himself from both weapons. One sharpened rod sliced through a clasp that held Qualtan’s own cloak; the second tore his belt, dropping his scabbard. With a sudden feint, the half-orc jumped towards a thatch-roofed home below them, clearing through the covering. Qualtan followed. Landing inside the home, the dried vegetation slowing their descent, the two fighters continued their battle. A woman shrieked in fear. A dog barked in defense. “I’m sorry!” Qualtan cried out, as a man rushed out of their way. One of the batons was struck from the half-orc’s grasp, flying in the air to impale itself into a nearby wall, nearly hitting an old man standing to one side, who fainted at the near strike. The half-orc was backed onto a porch area, smashing through rotting shutters.

With a quick blow, Qualtan dislodged the second stave from the half-orc. He leapt from balcony to balcony, with Qualtan giving little ground. The balconies came to an end, and the half-orc quickly surveyed an avenue for escape. A supporting pole extended from an adjoining warehouse, a makeshift block and tackle, its lines struggling to lift a platform of boxed supplies. Sweating men pulled at the ropes below while others at the upper opening attempted to guide the materials in. Knocking a flowered tray onto a hapless passerby below, he hopped onto the porch’s guarding rails and jumped across, setting down atop the pole. Qualtan paused, pushing aside an angry tenant who shoved at him to leave. The half-orc bowed towards Qualtan, nimbly keeping his balance on the pole, as workers yelled and gestured at him. Sighing, Qualtan followed him, the pole creaking with his added weight. The arm began to bend and crack. The half-orc took a running hop onto the roof of the warehouse and as Qualtan did the same, the pole snapped, sending its contents exploding to the ground below, dispersing dodging workers and panicked horses.

“Blast it!” yelled the half-orc, flummoxed at the reliability of his pursuer. He shot a handful of arrows from the device on his wrist, and then a group of small throwing knives, which were easily deflected by the magical shield summoned by his enemy’s sword. He ran ahead, leaping from one building to another, until he reached a wide-spaced area between the building top he stood upon and the next. Looking back to see the warrior behind him, the half-orc took a deep breath and leapt. He barely crossed the distance, his body hitting hard against the brick façade, his hands groping at a debris-filled gutter. The half-orc struggled to pull himself over the rooftop, but the gutter began to creak free, preventing him. Qualtan easily leapt over the two buildings, landing past the half-orc. Qualtan walked over to the ledge and observed the straining half-orc. Smiling, he extended a hand. The half-orc looked about, hoping for another means of escape. The gutter creaked and began to jut away from the building.

“Take it!” Qualtan demanded.

“Blast!” growled the half-orc, accepting the favor.

With one arm, Qualtan hoisted the half-orc over, dropping him to the rooftop beside him. The half-orc wrenched free and took on a boxing stance. Qualtan dropped his sword, his blue eyes rolling with exasperation. “Stop fighting me!” he said.

“Hah!” The half-orc unleashed a fury of kicks and punches that the warrior met and blocked.

“Why didn’t you fight like this back at the inn?!” Qualtan inquired mirthfully.

“It’s not easy when you have three drunken ninnies pinning you down!” the half-orc retorted. His high kick struck Qualtan in the chest, then in the face. Qualtan stepped back, off balance, and the half-orc pressed his advantage. He struck with his fists, but Qualtan grabbed one of his wrists and then the other. Trapped at last, the half-orc butted his head with full force against the temples of the human fighter. The effect was not what he had been expecting. Rather than stunning his foe in the hopes of release, the half-orc, unaware of Qualtan’s enhanced strength, stunned himself instead. Qualtan released his hold on the half-orc. With his eyes rolling and tongue lagging, the half-orc staggered and fell.

Qualtan laughed as the half-orc dizzily attempted to right himself. Qualtan called his sword back to his hand and pointed it at the half-orc’s throat.

“Are you finished?” he inquired.

“Apparently so,” the half-orc replied, staring down Qualtan’s sword. Satisfied, Qualtan removed it. “I give you some credit—you are not so much a grocery boy as I thought.”

“You shouldn’t have attempted to steal my sword.”

“I apologize for it now,” the half-orc said, groggily rising to his feet.

“Are you satisfied now that I was not hired to find you?”

“Yes … ouch!! Perfectly,” the half-orc responded, feeling the knot forming on his head.

“You’ve made quite a mess of things running about.”

“You mean WE have. No one told you to follow me, you know.”

“So what did you mean to do if I had been after you as you thought? Kill me?”

“Maybe.”

“So who is this Thule? Why would he send others to look for you?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Did you steal from him?”

The half-orc snorted. “You would assume that, wouldn’t you?”

“I assume nothing.”

“I worked for him. In fact, HE stole from ME.”

“Really?” Qualtan’s blue eyes narrowed.

“Don’t believe me, eh? But then, I haven’t given you much of a reason to, I guess.”

“Not really. Because of you, we’ve left a trail of broken pots and soiled linens from one end of town to the other. You tore away my cloak,” Qualtan said, patting his damaged shoulder harness where the new cape given to him by Arkonis had once been firmly secured. “And my sword’s sheath. I should take you to the coastal authorities myself to find the truth about your claims.”

“If you did, I would be soon dead. This isn’t civilized country here, you know. I’m a wanted man in these parts, although it’s been awhile.”

“Because of Thule again, eh?” Qualtan said, unconvinced.

The half-orc ignored him.

“My plan was to sneak back quietly into town and find my way back to Thule on my own terms, until you messed things up.”

“Me?! Perhaps if you would not have approached me like a thief in the shadows, you wouldn’t have had the need to bolt like a rabbit!”

“I had to be sure about you! 'Either way, what’s done is done! We need to leave this place, and quickly, from all the ruckus we’ve caused.”

“So who are you then? You have yet to say…”

Suddenly, a door burst open and soldiers of the Ports rushed through.

“Surrender, accursed thieves!” the lead man said. Swords and spears were pointed in their direction. The soldiers’ armor had been blemished with splattered mud, victims of the overturned table Qualtan had inadvertently thrown from the rooftops before.

“I am not a thief!” said Qualtan. “This half-orc…”

“You and your partner have caused enough damage! Come peacefully now, if you don’t want things to go badly for you.”

“This is not my partner! I was chasing him…”

“Take them!” The soldiers moved in closer as the lead man brandished a pair of chained manacles.

“Why won’t you let me explain?” Qualtan said.

“We need no explanations from the likes of you! I’ll make sure the jailor’s whip pays you back for this humiliation!” the leader said, pointing to his muddied appearance.

Two of the soldiers grabbed hold of the half-orc, shackling him from behind, and pummeling him to the ground.

“Stop striking him! He is defenseless!” Qualtan implored.

“You talk as if you have rights! This isn’t the Alliance, boy!” The leader laughed, striking Qualtan’s face with a mailed fist, knocking him to his knees. Qualtan dropped his sword more out of surprise than injury.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” the half-orc said.

The lead soldier spat towards the half-orcne. “So? I’m the lead guard of this sector, and I do as I please. Take them away!” he commanded.

Qualtan was pulled to his feet. The men gasped and stepped back at the sight of his azure eyes now gleaming hotly red. With a growl, he grabbed hold of the shocked lead soldier, his hand crumpling through the soldier’s metal chest plate. Qualtan pulled the man up close. “Your job is to protect your citizens, not to abuse your power.”

“Hang the sermon, man!” cried an agitated half-orc.

Eyes bulging with fear, the lead soldier mumbled a reply and was immediately thrown back to his companions, toppling them.

Qualtan again motioned for his sword to fly back to his hand. He quickly disarmed a frightened soldier guarding the half-orc, and with one swift movement, pulled the shackled prisoner onto his shoulder and jumped off the side of the rooftop.

The half-orc yelled all the way down. Qualtan landed with a heavy thud some fifty feet below. Above, the soldiers huddled around the top of the building to observe them. The lead soldier barked at his men to follow, and raised a curved horn to signal alarm.

Qualtan tore the half-orc’s bindings from his wrists.

“Agh, you nearly snapped my back with that trick!” he complained, reaching for his spine.

The soldier’s warning sounded. Qualtan looked up towards the soldiers. “How could they be considered guardians of the Ports with such maltreatment?”

The half-orc rolled his eyes. “Enough with your preaching! We have to go!” he said, grabbing at Qualtan’s shoulder. They sprinted through the crowded merchant-ways as additional soldiers responded to the alarm. Dodging and evading their pursuers through mobs of travelers and tradesmen, they paused at an open courtyard. Soldiers appeared from all around them, shoving people to the ground.

“We are surrounded!” Qualtan said.

The half-orc eyed their situation and smiled evilly. “Not yet!” he said.

The half-orc lifted his right arm and with a slight flexing of his wrist armed the miniature cross-bolt that seemed to unravel and come together from a secured section on his arm.

“What are you…?” Qualtan’s question was answered by a bolt that shot from the half-orc’s weapon in the direction of a large ogre bodyguard chomping on fruit as his ward stood to one side. Instantly, the arrow struck the great creature’s booted foot. It hollered in rage, falling backwards onto a wagon of melons. The wagon was crushed, fruit spilling in all directions. The horses attached to the wagon rose up in surprise, hurling their drivers away. The rushing soldiers were immediately beset by flying melons and showered by pieces of the splintered cart. As panicked merchants rushed to and fro, Qualtan and the half-orc easily made their way through the chaos into an alleyway. Behind them, another horn blared forth, and they turned to see two soldiers on horseback galloping towards them, a large net extended between them. The half-orc stopped to aim his weapon yet again, but Qualtan stopped him.

“My turn,” he said.

He began to run towards the two horsemen, who laughed at the ploy. However, neither could suspect the power of the young warrior whose sinews gave him a mighty thrust, allowing him to leap straight onto one of the horrified riders, knocking him off his horse and smashing him to the ground. The second rider was instantly pulled off his horse, entwined in his own net. The first rider was struck senseless from the impact, and the half-orc quickly took control of one of the unmanned horses. Turning around, he rode back out of the alley. With an open hand, he grabbed his companion on the run, hoisting Qualtan onto the saddle behind him as pedestrians flung themselves out of their way.

They rode hard, plowing through another band of soldiers, jumping over a line of tables filled with screaming merchants and bewildered customers. A trio of soldiers on horses blocked their way, and the half-orc expertly swerved their horse to one side, leaping onto a twisting line of cobblestone steps that led to a street three levels above them. As they reached the top of the steps, patrons and their wares tumbled and rolled out of their path.

“It’s a miracle you haven’t killed anyone yet!” Qualtan yelled, looking behind them as pursuing riders emulated their actions.

From an adjoining street came three more riders giving chase. The half-orc was a master horse rider, though, and narrowly avoided being cut off. Crowds began to disperse to either side, observing the frenzied race. “Give way! Give way!” the half-orc screamed as hesitant pedestrians pulled back. They galloped on the main thoroughfare, idling ships to one side, as they headed for a two-towered gatehouse leading outside of the city walls. Merchant carts quickly shoved themselves out of their way, pushing hapless sailors over the docks into the lapping waters below. Their pursuers gained.

“They mean to cut us off!” Qualtan said, pointing to the raised portcullis ahead.

“Quick, take the reins!” the half-orc said. Qualtan snaked his arms around to grab hold of the leather straps.

The half-orc took aim with his loaded wrist weapon and fired in quick succession. Three bolts struck home, hitting one of two thick ropes above the exposed gate that held heavy counterweights for the raising and lowering of the portal. The rope tore free and the portcullis lurched crookedly to one side. Gate attendants on opposing platforms ducked for cover.

“Steady,” the half-orc said, keeping his right arm aimed with his left as they grew closer.

“Can you do it?” asked Qualtan. Humans and humanoids ran clear of the groaning metal fence that pulled at its straining lone counterweight.

“Lower the gate, you fools!” yelled one of the guards, as Qualtan struggled with the reins from behind the half-orc.

The gate jerked slightly, moaning as its lone support began to tear.

“Steady,” the half-orc said again.

The gate struggled, lowering.

“Do it now!” Qualtan cried out.

The half-orc released another volley. The second rope quickly snapped free. The portcullis shrieked in dismay as it fell, its final counterweight crashing to the ground. Qualtan instinctively brought forth the magic shield from his blade and raised it above them, but it was not needed. They cleared the gate, seconds before it slammed past their heads. Their pursuers groped at their reins attempting to stop their mounts before crashing into the metal barrier. Qualtan and the half-orc were off, hurtling through lines of astonished visitors on their way towards the city. The half-orc whooped in delight, keeping their horse at a breakneck pace.

It was many hours later, and satisfied of no further pursuit, the two escapees took rest away from the main road in a grassy field as the sun fell asleep at last.

“There are wanderers aplenty out here. No one will take notice of our fire,” the half-orc said, groping at his tired feet.

“You are a fast man with a horse,” Qualtan said.

“In my line of work, fast is everything if you wish to stay alive. Still, I’ve been too fast for some other things. I owe you an apology. You have saved me twice now, and that’s something I’m not used to. Here … I’m sorry,” the half-orc said, extending his hand.

“You apologized before,” Qualtan said with false suspicion.

“Aye, but I mean it this time.”

“Then it’s accepted,” Qualtan said, grabbing hold of the half-orc’s wrist and shaking it gently. “Although you do owe me more than an apology.”

“I do?” said the half-orc.

“Well, there is my horse.”

“And one given back!” the half-orc retorted, pointing to their captured steed.

“My cloak and belt.”

“Easily replaced!”

“My belongings I left at the inn,” Qualtan said, arching an eyebrow at his companion.

“Hah! Very well, then, name your price, for I am obliged to you now. Despite my orcne nature, I keep my word.” The half-orc added a twisted branch to their faltering fire.

“You’ve yet to tell me your name, man … or your story,” Qualtan said, settling back.

“That’s the second time you’ve called me a man,” the half-orc said, his features softening.

“Aren’t you?”

“Hah. Not to many. Your words are taken with more value than you would know.”

“Your story then!” Qualtan said, rolling to his side, his arm propping his head.

“An easy price to pay. My name is Glaive.”

Qualtan’s eyebrows rose. “You are named after a weapon?”

“That name was given to me, by me. Do you wish to hear my story or not?”

“Fine, fine. Please continue,” Qualtan said, smiling with a mock bow.

“Hmph,” the half-orc said, straightening his tunic. “Unlike your wizard-coddled past…”

Qualtan gasped with exaggerated insult.

“…I grew up within a band of mercenary orcne. A human witch led our tribe, and I was born to her and our band’s captain. I don’t recall much of it, as its lasting was short. One day, after the orcs had ransacked some nameless village at the command of my mother, their deeds were repaid in full. A troop of soldiers attacked our hideaway. It was in the hills, I think. I was barely nine winters old, but I managed to escape. The rest did not, including my mother. It’s strange to look back. I can still see my father being run down by knights on horseback and his back becoming a pincushion of spears.”

“I’m sorry,” Qualtan said.

“Don’t be. You didn’t know my father. He was like all orcne—a bully, abusive, greedy. The blows I suffered from his hands were all the memory I have of him. Orcs really are a hateful, spiteful lot, you know, and live up to their reputation. Anyway, I somehow made it to the outskirts of Woodworm, losing myself in the crowded streets and alleyways. I quickly learned to steal food in order to survive. I became quite good at it, and learned to steal more. Pockets became easy targets and jewelry was quickly exchanged for gold. I even formed my own gang of similar strays from the streets, although it didn’t last long—no human will take orders from a half-orc, not even at that age. Still, my belly was full, and I found a home. A poor, drunken sot allowed me to live in the basement of his cottage, although more for the goods I could provide him than from any real charitable concern. Eventually my smugness got the better of me, and I tried pilfering from a trio of REAL thieves I observed pick-pocketing through a crowded bazaar during a springtime festival. I was able to get through two of them before the third caught on, and I was had. You think we just went through a merry race? Hah! They chased me over and under Woodworm, until they caught me at the last.” Glaive paused to stoke the fire.

“What happened next, Prince of Thieves?”

“Ah! Quite a surprise, yet it proved fortuitous for me. Rather than strip my hide, they were so impressed by my skills, they offered to take me in, into their guild! The Company of the Dartful Hand were we, and proud of it. Unbeknownst to the other members of the merchant ruling class, we were secretly backed by Lord Thule, one of the most influential and powerful of the lot. We stole and raided from the other lords and he profited well from it. He became like a father to me, the father I never had. He trained me in all the finer points of burglary, pocketing, safe-cracking, and more. He respected me, half-orc or no. It didn’t take long for me to rise to the position of Master Brother, leading my own band of thieves. This time it didn’t matter if I was a half-orc; my skills and Thule’s favor overruled any mutiny. We became rather known, in a way. Hah! We were even contracted out by the various merchant lords who took notice. The advantage this gave Thule over his rivals’ habits was great indeed! Life was good back then…” The half-orc’s voice grew quiet.

“…and then?” Qualtan inquired.

Glaive seemed to rouse himself as if from a dream. “Then, my fine paladin friend, as all things must, it came to an end. The Company was betrayed by Thule himself, and I was betrayed most of all! A few of our fellows decided greater gains could be had if they exposed Thule’s double game with his merchant lord brothers. Unfortunately for them, they were found out. Thule felt we could no longer be trusted. He set us up, you see, on a false mission. We were sent to raid a rival merchant lord’s warehouse, but it was a trap. He let out the story that he knew who had been robbing the other lords blind, and together with them, had prepared for us. My new father, eh? The fierce loyalty I had shown him! Surrounded by soldiers, we fought our last battle together, and just like the orcne clan I had fled from, I alone survived to flee yet again.”

Glaive paused as Qualtan sat up, intrigued by the tale.

“I was the last to his deceptions, one he wished to sever. I knew this as much as he. I fled these parts for four years, never staying anywhere for long. I was the most wanted criminal the Ports had seen in an age! The Black Garters were sent after me, as well as the Red Sash. I still had some connections, and they served me well, keeping me one step ahead of my pursuers. How is that, eh, the lone half-orc, never reliant on others, now dependent on the same to keep myself alive. The Buckholms had been a useful client, as had been the Gumthaults. They smuggled me out of the Ports, and I traveled far, biding my time.”

“That is why you connected me to your Lord Thule, visiting the Buckholms as I did. So now you are back for your revenge.”

“Indeed I am! Since word has never reached his brother lords of his misdeeds, Thule probably thinks me dead.”

“So why didn’t you ever try letting his fellow merchant lords know of his deception?”

“After being one of the ones responsible for their misfortunes? Having actually been, in fact, behind most of the thieving that had plagued them? Thule knew there was little chance of that. They would have killed me on sight! He weaved his web well.”

“I see.”

“Now I will have revenge for my brothers, and for myself! He’ll pay for using me!”

“And after you kill him? What then?”

Glaive looked at Qualtan with a sideways glance.

“More sermons, is that it? You don’t understand. What would you know of revenge when nothing has ever been done to you?”

“I do understand. My father was killed in the Great War. Killed by Those That Stand in Shadow. My mother’s grief was great. So great she killed herself. My father I had never known. My mother, only in the vague images remembered by a child.”

“The stories say most were captured, were they not? Except for Shaz, although he is more myth now then legend.”

“Yes, all but two were captured. Shaz and Darksiege escaped. The rest were imprisoned by the Council of Mages, of which my uncle was a member. They were sealed in a room that none but the Council could open. Five winters ago, my uncle showed me that room, and gave me the runes to open it. Only I was given that privilege, for I was blood of my uncle. It was a strange chamber. The walls parted and shifted like some great puzzle box. In its center was revealed the prison of the Dark Ones. Each was trapped in a cloudy sphere, slowly waning in power until they would eventually expire. My uncle led me to the sphere that trapped the Evil One responsible for my father’s death, and indirectly responsible for the death of my mother. I lifted the wand that held the globe and peered within. I could see a shadowy form take slight substance and the visage of Thorngagg took shape. I could not tell if he could also see me, but I sensed that he could. Fear and loathing assailed me, and I thought a voice spoke to me, demanding release. ‘My blade could shatter this, could it not?’ I asked my uncle. ‘Yes it could, if you called upon its power to do so,’ he replied. ‘What would happen then?’ I asked him. He told me that Thorngagg would be released. He would be much weakened, his powers having been drained from him those past many years. The Dark Ones fed off the life force of others to endure. It had been long indeed since he had fed. He would be confused, his senses muddled; he would be an easy victim to hate.

“With that, he took the wand from my hand, and placed it back upon its sealed chamber. I had asked for years to see the captured Dark Ones, but had been denied until then, as he had felt I was at last ready to view the murderer of my family. ‘Come. Let us return to the light. Leave the darkness to its own shadow,’ he had said, pulling me away.

“Disturbed, I went back to my own room. That night as all lay quiet, I could not sleep. The need to once again confront the Evil One was greater than all other concerns. At last, I snuck back to that mystic chamber. I used the runes my uncle had entrusted me with, and opened the puzzle box. There the prisoners were laid bare before me once again. Afraid my uncle or some other mage or attendant would take notice, I quickly sealed the entrance behind me. Then I took the globe holding Thorngagg and once again looked into its milky shell. The feelings I had experienced before returned to me.

“The voice seemed to creep back into my ears, taunting me, calling for its freedom. Thorngagg’s face was contorted, leering out from his spheroid prison. Slavering, hungering. I was afraid, but also angry, angry that he should continue while my parents could not. Images crept into my mind. I saw my father in a flash of memory that was not mine, fighting his way through a legion of orcne in a crowded stairwell. I saw an orcne appear as if from thin air, aiming a black arrow of enchanted design. The arrow was released and it struck my father, burrowing deep. He defeated his attackers and staggered up the stairs, unwilling to fall. There, atop the staircase, stood Thorngagg, observing my father’s last attempts. He smiled, revealing rows of dagger-like teeth, mocking my father who tumbled back to his death. My heart pounded. My temples throbbed with pain, as the images left me. Again that evil voice beckoned to me. ‘Release me!’ it hissed.

“I had been trained well over the years, to fight, to become a warrior. My enchanted abilities, my strength, gave me confidence. I placed the sphere upon the floor and I raised my sword. I called forth its enchanted energies and it began to glow. I could see movement within the globe, as if the Dark One, sensing my actions, had become agitated. Sweat dripped from my forehead. I envisioned Thorngagg bursting free, exhausted, terrified, seeing his fate now come due. He would plead for mercy, and find none. I would kill him as he had killed my father, mocking him, laughing at his pain. My breath came in ragged gasps of excitement. I positioned myself, and held high my sword.”

Engaged, Glaive leaned forward. “Did you strike?”

Qualtan smiled, his features relaxing as his mind returned to the present.

“I did not. I stood awhile. Then at last, I lowered my sword. To kill a helpless prisoner, I would have been no better than he. Is that how I was to honor my father and mother? I replaced the wand in its cell and returned to my quarters, satisfied I had done the right thing.”

“Humph. If that had been me, I would have enjoyed making the monster pay. What is honor but some hollow badge of ego to flaunt? You are truly unlike any I have ever met,” Glaive said, shaking his head. “Well, after that disappointing end to your tale, I grow tired.”

“I will take the first watch,” Qualtan said, frowning at Glaive’s words.

Glaive yawned loudly. “You will indeed, since you carry magicks to protect us that I do not.”

Qualtan laughed, staring at his newfound companion as he curled to one side, preparing for sleep.

“Good night, priest,” Glaive said.

“Good night, thief,” Qualtan responded.

                                                                                       ***

The sun was barely past the horizon as the two riders reached the borders of Woodworm Ports. The air was cool, and pearls of morning dew decorated the trees and grasses around them. Qualtan led the way, pausing to assist Glaive off his seated perch from behind him.

“Are you sure you wish to be left like this?” Qualtan asked.

The half-orcne patted his arms to gain additional heat. “Aye. You have the longer journey between us, and besides, I owed you a horse, didn’t I?”

Qualtan glowered. “So will you steal a new one, then?”

Glaive looked up with a smile, scratching the frazzled hair that lined his sharpened chin. “You assume too much! Having seen the light that streams from you, I will most assuredly borrow a steed and return it when I am done.”

“Bah!” Qualtan retorted. “So you mean to follow through with your plans?” he added, a concerned look on his face.

“My path is different than yours. I will do what I set out to do.”

“Be wary then. From what you have told me, this Thule of yours is no fool.”

“Have no fear. His ways are known to me.”

“Very well then,” Qualtan said, turning back to lead his horse forward.

“Why not join me?” asked Glaive. “I could use someone of your skills. Thule’s an evil sort. It would do your honor well to help me put an end to him.”

Qualtan smiled, unimpressed at the attempt. “I think not, friend Glaive.”

Glaive raised his hands in defeat.

“What will you do afterwards?” Qualtan asked.

Glaive looked up at the warrior. “Honestly? I do not know. The Company is long gone and once I’m through with Thule, I may have to disappear again for awhile.”

Qualtan thought for a moment. “Why not join me, then? I will need to return back this way when I travel to Turinthia’s capital, Tringolm, for my appointment.”

Glaive guffawed. “Join you? As what, a page to a newly crowned knight? I don’t follow orders well, and I don’t see the court of Turinthia taking a lowly half-orcne into their hallowed halls. They would think you mad, which is close enough to what I think!”

Qualtan shrugged. “I have been to Tringolm before. It is a different place than the Ports, a much better place.”

“I have never been,” said Glaive. “But one big city is the same as another. Your rich, your poor, your middling class. A half-orc is a half-orc no matter where you go.”

“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps you should just stay here then, and skulk about. I’m sure there is much thievery to be had.”

Glaive gave Qualtan a sharp look.

“I will be back in a fortnight. I will go to the Golden Tankard; I already made plans with Huel, the innkeeper. Meet me there, if you’d like. That is, if you are still alive.”

“Inviting a half-orc to the center of the Alliance. You are naïve and mad. Mad, mad, mad,” Glaive said, putting his hands on his hips. “And what’s to say I take your offer, and use it to rob your noble court of knights and lordly buffoons blind?”

“Then I would have to stop you,” Qualtan responded with a grim look.

Glaive stared back and after a short pause, they both broke into laughter.

“We shall see,” Glaive said.

“Good luck to you, friend Glaive,” Qualtan said, motioning his horse to a trot.

Glaive stared at him for a moment. Cursing at himself, he raised his hand and cried out. Qualtan stopped and turned around. “What is it now?”

“You forgot something,” Glaive said. “Actually, it’s something I, eh, borrowed from you. Here.” The half-orc pulled a small bag of coins from his belt and threw it into Qualtan’s hands.

Qualtan stared at the bag and then at Glaive.

“I took that last night when you slept. Just a habit, really,” Glaive said with obvious discomfort.

“I was wondering when you were going to return this,” Qualtan said, putting the bag away and resuming his direction away from the Ports towards home.

“Hah!” Glaive laughed loudly. “Good luck to you, priest! Perhaps we will meet again.” And with that, the half-orc turned back towards Salarza. With long, loping gaits, he soon disappeared from view.