The Elfmaid's Curse (The Elfmaid Trilogy Book 1)
Read The Elfmaid's Curse (The Elfmaid Trilogy Book 1) Online
Authors: Warren Thomas
THE ELFMAID'S CURSE
BOOK 1: THE ELFMAID TRILOGY
By
Warren Thomas
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PUBLISHED BY:
Rollicking Dragon Press
Copyright 2014 by Warren Thomas
2nd Edition
Cover by
Tony Tzanoukakis
This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and locations within either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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The Elfmaid Trilogy:
Way of the Warrior (coming soon)
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TABLE OF CONTENTS:
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The Elfmaid's Curse
Book 1: The Elfmaid Trilogy
The fierce spring sun beat down unmercifully on the riotous courtyard. Teamsters bellowed and argued in the choking dust as they jockeyed for position. Meanwhile slaves of the great Merchant House began unloading the cargos of the foremost wagons. Horses whinnied their protests as one teamster tried to force his way before another wagon, in order to offload and get home sooner. The caravan guards, their job over, huddled in one corner near the tall gate into the Merchant House's courtyard. Permanent House guards now protected their lord's merchandise.
Captain Seth, a tall Tyrian in scuffed and dented armor, handed out their last pay. Lanky for a Tyrian, he was only about average in height for their kind at six five. Light blonde hair hid his silvering temples, but his face above his thick beard was dark and leathery from twenty years riding caravan guard in the northern steppes and deserts.
"If you're ever in these parts again, Danic, I'd be honored to hire you on," Captain Seth said to his Jarlander lieutenant. Then with a firm handshake, "Tschüss!"
"Tschüss! And thank you, Captain. I'll keep that in mind," Danic said, scratching at his four day beard. He took his pay and grinned at his companion, another huge Tyrian barbarian. "Well, Carl, after three months in the saddle, we finally get our reward."
The big redhead grinned back, and then sucked in a deep breath through his nose. "Can you smell it, Danic? Ale and women, both waiting for my pleasure. Maybe this time I'll let you find a sweet woman before I steal all their tender hearts."
"Let me? Dog, you couldn't find a woman if she was sitting on your face," he said, trying unsuccessfully to brush off some of the powdery dust coating his fine steel cuirass with his wide-brimmed steppe hat.
Both men wore the heavy cotton trousers of the steppe nomads stuffed into dusty, scuffed riding boots, with sweat-stained undyed cotton tunics under their armor. Over that, they had been wearing light tan burnooses, slit up front and back for forking a horse, to keep the hot sun from turning their armor into ovens. They'd shed the burnooses now that they were back in "civilized lands." Swords rode their left hips, and Carl also had a rather nasty looking battle-axe in his left hand. Their steel helmets were stored in leather sacks tied to their saddles, along with their shields.
Carl quickly retrieved the pay due him, and they swung up into their saddles. Danic's gray gelding snorted and pranced, excited to be leaving the turbulent courtyard. Carl's huge bay mare simply tensed, sweat-slicked coat twitching in a vain effort to fight off the hordes of biting flies. Danic gave the mare a critical look over. Carrying Carl's considerable weight was obviously wearing her out. He decided to find the closest stables and give the two horses a well-deserved rub down and rest.
"My lords, wait," a young man dressed in the livery of a House servant, shouted from the servant's door. "I have a letter for you."
Danic and Carl shared a curious look, wondering who knew they were there. The servant hurried over and smiled up at them.
Looking at Carl, "You are Carl of Ohmstat?"
"I am," he said. "What's this nonsense about a letter?"
Handing up an orange lacquered letter tube, "Here, Lord Carl. It arrived yesterday by warhawk courier from Somme."
The letter tube was in effect a section of bamboo with one end open for inserting the letter. The tube was closed with wax and sealed. The fact that it was lacquered orange meant it was sent special delivery by warhawk courier. Warhawk postal service was not only the fastest, but the only truly reliable postal service in operation. Needless to say, it was a private enterprise and terribly expensive.
The impressed seal in the blue wax didn't look familiar. Either the wax got hot and ran a bit, or was crushed in transit, or the sender's seal was crudely carved. Danic decided it was the latter.
Turning to Danic, Carl said, "Do we know anyone in Somme? I don't recall ever venturing to that city."
Danic shrugged, wishing the big barbarian would for once just open the bloody thing without babbling on and on. The only thing he did without second thought was fight, or cause trouble for Danic.
"It could be from someone we rode with," he said. "Open it, so we can go and get drunk."
Carl's face brightened at the suggestion, "Ah, that's a grand idea."
Striking the tube's wax-sealed end on his saddle horn just hard enough to shatter the wax, Carl opened it and pulled at the yellowed paper. He immediately piqued Danic's curiosity when his eyes went wide.
"What?" Danic demanded.
"It's from my cousin, Maeve," Carl said.
Danic knew a moment of panic. The love sick redhead had found him again. That only meant trouble. That also explained how the letter's sender knew Carl would be there. Maeve was a mage. Not a very good one, but she had her moments.
"She wants us to meet her in Allaria," Carl continued. Turning bright, mercenary eyes on his friend, "She has a plan to get rich."
"Again? Oh Gods, now I know we're in trouble," Danic cried to the heavens.
"So true, my friend," Carl admitted, chuckling at his friend's distress. "But Maeve Snapdragon is one woman to make life interesting."
"There's that, I guess," he said. "She's never boring."
And Maeve was just as beautiful as she was crazy. If she just wasn't so obsessed with marrying him.
A tiny cough caught their attention as they started to depart. The young servant was still standing there, with hopeful eyes.
"I held on to it for you, my Lord. I knew it had to be important," he offered, worrying his lower lip.
Danic's heart went out to the youth. Most likely he was bound to the Merchant House, to cover a debt or fine. He looked too young to have done anything to warrant this near slavery he was forced into. Likely, it was his father who was in debt, and sent his son to work it off. Pulling out a handful of copper coins, mostly the smaller value eagles and half-eagles, he handed them down to the bond servant.
"We thank you, young man."
"Thank you, my Lord," the youth said, clutching the prize to his chest as he hurried away.
"Sometimes, Danic, you're worse than an Amazon about rewarding folks for doing their job," Carl said.
"He's a bond servant," Danic said. "If people like us don't help him, he could spend all his best years slaving for this House. Maybe even for the sins of his father."
"His fate is his own concern," Carl said and reined his mount around to head out the gate.
Danic urged his gray before Carl and out the gate. They paused in the boisterous street beyond. Already the whores and other parasites of the city were converging on the Merchant House's courtyard in anticipation of the travel weary and saddle sore caravan guards and teamsters, dripping with three months of wages.
With a great laugh, Carl roared, "Elfhaven! Hide your women, for Carl, the Laughingbear of Legend, and his scrawny Jarlander friend are back!"
At six eleven, Carl was all but a giant and like most of his Tyrian cousins, Carl was massively built. His shoulder length, flaming red hair, matched his thick beard that ran to the middle of his chest, which was remarkably clean and free of tangles by Tyrian standards. His eyes were a cheery sky blue, surrounded by smile lines. And his clothes, though travel worn and filthy, were of good quality.
With broad shoulders and a six foot four frame sheathed in thick muscles, Danic was not slight of build by any measure,. Indeed, it only took one look to tell that the dark-haired, gray-eyed Danic was the leader, and the more dangerous, of the pair. Though a knight, he dressed much like his barbarian friend. The only real differences were his plain steel cuirass instead of a mail hauberk, and his broadsword instead of the massive great sword Carl preferred. And his silver spurs of a Jarland knight.
Danic leaned out of his saddle and punched his friend playfully in his steel-sheathed gut. "Scrawny, is it? Looks like I have to put your overgrown butt back in its place. Again!"
Eyeing him narrowly, "Ales at Ten Horses?"
"Last man standing wins."
Throwing his head back and laughing merrily, "The Gods will surely smite me for taking advantage of you, runt, but I've no heart to disappoint all those admiring women."
As they rode through the thick traffic, trading good-natured jabs and jokes, Danic basked in the smells and sounds to the small trading city. For months he hadn't heard much more than the ceaseless wind whistling in his ears, the whisper of windblown grasses, the jingle of armored men ahorse, and the rumble of large wagons. Now he was surrounded — almost assaulted — by the more familiar sounds of playing children, brash street hawkers, arguing men, barking dogs, and the constant clip-clopping of horseshoes on cobble. Even the acrid stench of a combination of human waste, cooking food, and the tannery outside the city seemed preferable to the clean steppe air — for now anyway.
"Our timing is bad," Carl said, pointing to a crowd around a low platform and blocking the street. "A slave auction. You think we can push through that crowd, or will we have to find another route?"
Danic glowered at the hated slavers atop the platform as he reined in. Though he had no real problem with the ancient institution of slavery itself, the men and women who gathered and traded in human flesh were another matter. To his mind slavers were the lowest form of life in existence.
"Ho, look at that one," Carl said, suddenly interested as a young woman was pushed up onto the platform. Her few scraps of clothing were ripped away, eliciting a grunt of sympathy from Danic, and then she was forced to begin a slow dance. Smacking his lips in appreciation at the enslaved beauty, Carl added, "I always did have a preference for redheads. They have fire in their bellies."
Forcing all the dark thoughts of slavery from his active mind, Danic turned mischievous gray eyes on his Tyrian friend.
"Redheads make the best slaves, I hear." Danic grinned at Carl's grunt of shock. "Born to the collar."
"Born to the...Dog! Born to the sword, more like it!"
Laughing heartily, Danic spurred his mount and led his friend through the crowd as the bidding began. At first there was some resistance, but few men would argue passage with trained destriers and a path soon opened before them. They continued on as Carl began extolling him with the many blessings and benefits of having red hair. Danic had heard them all before...many times.
He located a fairly clean looking stables not far from the Ten Horses Tavern. They waved away the stableboy's offer to tend their mounts. Neither trusted some scatter-brained hand to properly care for their horses. The boy would most likely take their money, and then do a half-ass job. After washing the horses off and combing their coats to glossy sheens, they fed and water them before heading for the tavern to feed and water themselves.
The trip didn't take long. Elfhaven was little more than a collection of mud brick structures within a high stone wall. The only stone structures were the palaces of the Merchant Princes and a few government buildings. It had started out as a trading post that gradually grew as trade between the steppe and desert cultures increased with the Jarland Kingdoms beyond the mountains. Elfhaven sat at the end of the only commercially feasible pass known through the towering Tyr Mountains.
