The White Shadow Saga: The Stolen Moon of Londor (24 page)

"Hold on, elf-prince," Randor said. "I am not
through with you yet." Arnanor crossed his arms and waited
impatiently for the conclusion. "I will be at the Green Hall Inn if
you need me."

"Why will you be there? Are you not going
with us?" Lorn asked.

"We need lodgings and supplies, do we not? I
will be at this inn the day long. If you come across something of
interest, inform me immediately." He paused. "Seth…"

"Yes, sir?"

"Go with the Northern elves, will you?"

Arnanor was insulted greatly. "What…?"

"It shall be done," Seth said with a
salute.

"We don't need his aid, wizard!"

"He will keep a close eye on you for me. You
do belong to the Council, after all, mind you."

"Yes, but--"

"I thank you for your cooperation." Randor
was not of a mind to argue, and he expected the same from his
companions. "Highbinder, if they fall out of line whatsoever, let
me know at once." Seth nodded and took his place beside Arnanor,
who looked at him with disgust. "If you find nothing here, return
by sunset." The company parted, and Lorn went to follow Seth, but
he was halted by Randor's swift hand. "Where are you going?"

"With Seth," he replied meekly.

"I need you to go with Gildan and
Malander."

"Must I?"

Seeing the despair on the dwarf's rough face,
Randor patted him gently on the shoulder. "I will be forever at
your service if you do this for me." Lorn smiled and felt
important, proud to be in Randor's favor. "There may be a time when
Seth is not at your side. You must build your tolerance and
willpower. It will make you a stronger person in the end, I promise
you."

"Do you really think so?"

"Would I ever tell you wrong?"

Lorn shook his head.

"Good." Randor pushed him forward. "Go on,
then, before they leave you." Lorn shuffled down the road and
around the first corner he passed, seeing the two warriors a few
dozen paces ahead.

The wizard stood alone on the street,
surveying the simple structures, and noticed nothing out of the
ordinary. Hopefully his strategy would work.
Something is here
, he thought,
but what?

* * *

Randor stepped out the front door of the
Green Hall Inn and leaned on the steps, smoking his pipe as
nightfall began to take over the world. With him stood Gildan,
Malander, and Lorn, who had returned earlier with nothing to
report. Gildan tried to set aside his loathing for the city's
uncultured, coarse inhabitants. "Nothing has come of our visit
here," the mercenary said as he loaded his pipe with fine tobacco
he had just purchased. As he put a coal to the pipe, passersby gave
him a strange look. He did not let it bother him, though, and
merely puffed away. But stranger looks had been given him, and this
was certainly nothing to fret over.

"There has been no word from Seth," Randor
replied.

Lorn sat off to the side and watched the
local citizens walk by. Across the busy street was a woodcarving
work area, where buyers flocked to admire the craftsmanship. With
his eye for fine detail, Lorn inspected the works through cracks in
the crowd from where he rested, noting the flaws. "Seems the base
is a bit off on that table," he mumbled. He had to keep busy
somehow just to keep from worrying himself into a mess over Seth's
departure. The dwarf thought he had handled the day quite well,
although he did regret making Malander angry by talking too much.
"I guess a little constructive criticism wouldn't hurt," Lorn
chuckled as he crossed the cobblestone street.

The crowd thinned as Lorn drew near a table
that stood almost to his height. The man behind the table, an old
fellow with a full white beard on his weathered face, did not
acknowledge him but continued speaking to a handful of people. His
eyes were dark and close-set, and he wore a fluffed coat and baggy
pants that were stuffed into his knee-high boots. A wide-brimmed
hat sat atop his gray hair, set off with three colorful
feathers.

"Good evening, sir," Lorn offered.

The vendor stroked his bristly beard, shocked
to see a dwarf at his table. Though he spoke all day to complete
strangers in order to sell his wares, in this moment he seemed at a
loss for words. "Is there something I can do for you?" he said at
last.

"I merely came to look at your works
here."

"Oh?" replied the merchant. "And do you like
what you see? These are the finest woodworks you will find
anywhere!"

"I beg to differ," Lorn replied politely.

The merchant was taken back by the remark and
couldn't help but laugh. "Who are you, dwarf? And what gives you
the cheek to make such a bold statement?"

"I am Lorn Mardrof of the Beowulken
Valley."

"Beowulken!" the merchant replied in a loud
laugh. His laughter grew and rang through the marketplace, until
his hands clasped his aching sides. Embarrassed, Lorn stepped away
from the table. "That explains so much! You and your people in the
'valley' of Beowulken have no business in woodcarving or any other
art! Go back to the caverns and mine some coal!"

"I only came to offer my advice," Lorn said.
"I, myself, am skilled in the art of woodcarving."

"What could
you
possibly teach me?"

"I noticed a slight--"

"Be gone, 'valley' dweller! No one can teach
me, Master Jerthom, the greatest craftsman of the South!"

As he spoke, Randor snuck in behind Lorn and
gleamed into the eyes of Jerthom, who fell instantly mute in the
presence of the wizard. Lorn fell back onto Randor and sank into
his arms. "The company awaits your return," Randor said.

Jerthom smirked at Lorn, then returned to the
gathering of patrons at his table.

"What was that all about?" Randor asked as
they crossed the street.

"Nothing," Lorn answered, not wanting to talk
of it anymore. The merchant had hurt his feelings, especially with
the words about his homeland. He was proud of where he came from,
and would not change his background for the entire world. The
dwarves of Beowulken were unique among their kind, shunning cave
dwelling and stonework, for they were a different class of
artisans, much like the neighboring elves of the Xantilan Kingdom.
"I was merely trying to enlighten that merchant with some of my
knowledge."

"Some are not open to criticism, my
friend."

"Only wanting to further his craft," Lorn
said, throwing up his hands.

"Well, let him keep his follies--seems that
he deserves them."

Seth smiled at his friend as he watched him
draw closer to the steps. His day had been rather tedious, dealing
with Arnanor, who fought with every decision he made. All day the
elves had spoken in their native tongue, keeping the Council
diplomat out of their conversations. They, too, had been
unsuccessful as they canvassed the city and its outskirts. Many
people had looked at the small group with suspicious eyes, rarely
having seen any royalty here, let alone elvish princes. No one they
spoke to had admitted to seeing the symbol before, and Seth began
to wonder if such a thing existed anywhere in Londor.

"I trust you are well?" Seth asked as he
greeted the dwarf.

"I've seen better times."

"What happened?"

Lorn pulled him aside from the group and told
him of the encounter with Jerthom, then fell silent as he sat down
on the steps. Seth, outraged by this, desired to have an earnest
talk with the scornful craftsman. "What did you say in return?"
Seth asked.

"I said little to him," Lorn admitted. "I had
not the heart to speak up."

"Bolden yourself," Seth replied. "I've told
you that you shouldn't let people belittle you." He shook his fist,
then pounded it against his open hand, biting his lip to calm his
emotions. "I wished I had been there to hear that."

"Let it go, Seth," Lorn said, shrugging his
shoulders. "It is in the past."

"It's not that simple a thing to
disregard."

"What news do you bring?" Randor asked of the
princes.

"A day wasted," Arnanor answered. "I am ready
to retire for the evening."

"I agree," Muron added.

"Are we supplied and ready for tomorrow's
departure?" inquired Arnanor as he began to ascend the stairs
toward the front door.

"Indeed we are," said Randor. "I have placed
the supplies in our rooms within our lodgings for the night. The
provisions should last a good week in the wilderness….But it is not
time to retire for the evening just yet."

"No?" Arnanor asked.

"Nor is it time for sleep, either."

"Where do you turn us now?" Gildan asked.

Randor looked to the tavern diagonally across
from the inn. "To Fallon's End."

"What's wrong with the tavern in this inn?"
Arnanor asked. "Ale is the same wherever you go."

"I am on official business, my good elf," he
replied, and started down the road, with the company in tow. "Let
us hope she is still there."

Lorn grabbed his belongings and trotted off.
To his relief, Jerthom was not present; his shop now covered by a
blue satin cloth and vacant of people.

* * *

As darkness settled in completely, the stars
appeared, twinkling brightly down on the troubled world. A trio of
wind instruments could be heard in the distance, accompanied by a
soft clapping of hands--a minor festival, apparently.

The streets began to clear as the people of
Nar-Fhandon filled the many pubs, raising pint glasses in
celebration of a hard day's labor. The trading day was over, and
the crowded marketplace was now a scene of bare wooden carts,
tables, and multicolored tents. The streets were littered with
crumpled parchments, picked bones, and empty bottles of wine and
ale. A faint stench of old meat and moldy grain accompanied the
cold winds that came with the sunset.

The tavern, Fallon's End, was an old
three-story building of red stone, with a single red door. Smallish
windows bordered the door, the panes covered in a thick coat of
dust. Below the grimy windows grew small, untrimmed shrubs set in
cracked ancient clay pots. Above the door, a sign creaked in the
wind, its faded white letters reading, FALLON'S END: FINE BREW
& FELLOWSHIP. From the half-open door came shouts of stupor and
raucous laughter--it was safe to guess that this was not a place
where the elite came to relax and unwind.

"I'm not even inside and I do not like this
place," Muron whispered to Geil.

"As long as I am alive you will be safe," Sir
Geil reassured him. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, as
if unsure just what to expect.

As they reached the door, Randor took a brief
look around with an eye to the safety of his company. A blare of
noise greeting them as they entered.

As anticipated, the large room was jammed
from wall to wall with patrons, standing or seated at small round
tables piled high with plates of scraps and empty pints. The long
bar in the back of the pub was also lined with thirsty patrons.

"Do you see her?" Seth asked Randor.

"Not yet," replied Randor. "She was the owner
of this tavern before I left to Ethindar this last time."

"That was almost eighty years ago, Randor,"
Gildan replied. "It would be remarkable if she were still
alive."

"She is half elf and half human; thus her
life span would be a bit longer than a typical woman's."

Gildan nodded. "Then we will go and find a
place to sit."

Randor nodded in agreement as the elf waded
into the crowd. All but Seth and Lorn entered into the sea of
coarse talk and pipe smoke. Malander placed his hand over his mouth
as he pushed through, disregarding the insults as he jostled and
bulled his way past whoever stood in his way.

Lorn noticed someone he had hoped not to see.
At a table near the far wall sat Jerthom, gleefully swilling a mug
of beer, not caring that it spilled onto his beard. Around him were
fellow merchants in similar states of inebriation.

"Can we just wait outside, Seth?" Lorn asked.
"It is too stuffy in here for my taste….After all, it is a splendid
night out."

"No, thank you," Seth replied quickly. "I
could use a drink myself. You'll get your fill of the outdoors
again tomorrow." He laughed. "Now, go on and have a pint of beer,
hmm?"

It looked as though Lorn could not escape the
uncomfortable situation, so he stomped forward with lowered head,
looking the other way and hoping to go unnoticed amid the crowd.
Snippets of many loud conversations rang in his tender ears.

Gildan, who already had a cup of wine, found
them all a table that had just been vacated near the stone wall.
The two elvish princes sat quietly in their high-backed chairs,
clearly ill at ease to be surrounded by such low company. Gildan
set his drink on the table and beckoned Lorn over, pulling out the
chair next to him.

Only a few feet more, and he would be
past the disagreeable woodworker. There was no sign of Randor or
Seth.
What's the worst that could
happen?
he asked himself, and swallowing the lump in
his throat, he walked past the dreaded table.

"Wait a moment, friend," Jerthom snapped,
grabbing Lorn by the arm. His grip was unforgiving, sending sharp
pains from his shoulder to the tips of his fingers.

He gulped as the merchant pulled him
nearer.

"Is that the
one
?" a man at Jerthom's table asked.

"Most certainly," Jerthom replied, his tone
serious, downing the rest of his ale and slamming the mug down to
the table. With a resounding belch, he purposely sloshed a bit of
his neighbor's ale on Lorn's boots. "You hear that, dwarf?"

"H-hear what?"

"You're already famous in our fair city."