Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[Nerindel]

Korpúlfr

Korpúlfr watched the young maenwaith disappear into the shadows, before shaking his head and turning back to rejoin his guests. Tinar’s sudden and unexpected offer to follow the northerners had caught him of guard, allowing the rash young man to act before he had time to gather enough wit to stop him. Tinar had professed to being able to take care of himself, but Kor was not so sure! The boy did not know the city as he did; the dangers were many even for those who possessed their abilities. Not only were there thieves and cutthroats on every corner watching and waiting to pounce on the unwary and unsuspecting denizens of the city. But there were the scavengers, nocturnal animals that would emerge form dark places to scavenge for food and to whom other smaller creatures would present but a delicious treat. Also, he could not forget the wild dogs, vicious creatures that many of the less reputable inns and taverns kept in order to keep their even less reputable clientele in check.

Entering again the hall of tales he pushed his concerns temporarily aside, he had already resolved to have Hasrim go out and ensure that the boy did not run into trouble. Thankfully, another tale had begun allowing him to return to his seat with only a few members of his household staying his course and only long, enough to gain from him assurances that there was nothing to be concerned about. As he took his seat, he looked to his cousins, who both quietly moved to join him.

“Tinar is following the northerners!” he told them in a quiet whisper, looking at each in turn, as he spoke.

Asrim as usual wore a concerned but thoughtful expression, he knew that the more diplomatic man would be thinking further ahead and contemplating the repercussions should anything go wrong. However, Hasrim was another kettle of fish altogether, his deep scowl relied clearly his feeling on the matter, and it did not stop him from airing them verbally.

“The boy is a fool!” the warrior snapped trying hard to keep his voice to a low whisper, “he almost gave us away tonight, if not for you quick intervention, he would have unwittingly told that captain exactly what he wanted to hear.”

Korpulfr nodded his agreement with a slight frown lining his worried brow. The fault was not Tinar’s alone, he had underestimated the Captain and even as he thought back on Tinar’s mistake, he realised that the question had been carefully placed to catch them out. Thinking again on his own hasty reply he could not help but feel that the captain had gotten exactly what he had wanted.

“That may be the case…” he continued, pushing the thought aside. “What’s done is done. Should he succeed it would put him in good standing with his mother and in more of a position to be considered as her successor!”

“And if he fails, or worse goes and gets himself killed?” Hasrim retorted, his bearded face turning a deep shade of purple as his frustration increased. Korpulfr took no offence to the mans heated reply, he knew full well the warriors feelings regarding Wyrma’s youngest son, he saw the boy as an unnecessary liability and so far Tinar had done nothing to change that opinion.

“Wyrma will listen to no excuses if something untoward happens to her son!” Asrim added coming out of his silent contemplation, “she will hold you accountable, weather you are or not.” he warned.

“Then we will just have to insure that nothing untoward does happen, won‘t we” he replied solemnly. “Hasrim as you have so little faith in Tinar’s abilities you can go and keep an eye on him, ensure that he does not get into any trouble and that no trouble finds him, if you know what I mean.” Hasrim nodded knowing that he meant for him to keep the boys path clear of the more dangerous residents of Umbar.

“Only intervene if it becomes absolutely necessary to do so!” Korpulfr continued, “You never know he might surprise us.” Hasrim still not entirely please with the situation nodded his understanding and silently stole from the house in search of his quarry, while Korpulfr remained to carry out his duties as host and head of the wolf household in Umbar.

~*~*~

As the night steadily wore on, he remained distracted, his thoughts for a long while remained on Mithadan’s story of the shape changer, Bird and the effect her presence would have on the Maenwaith’s current situation. He knew that there were those among their kind who did not hold with Wyrma’s great plans. Treacherous Rebels his father called them, though he himself had seen no such treachery, but he had no cause to disbelieve his father’s words. And what if this bird character found these rebels? He thought to himself. Would she with her northern knowledge aid their rebellion? He quietly wondered if it were not best for them to locate this woman first. Asrim too was concerned with this stranger’s presence in their lands, for when the tales and songs had ended and his guest had all departed for home or retired to their rooms, he spoke to him of his concerns.

“What if the Captain lied about their friendship and she is no more than a valuable commodity that he has lost and is seeking to retrieve?” Korpulfr shook his head at his friends suspicions, “No, his concern seemed genuine if not a little guarded.” he replied thoughtfully guiding his cousin towards the study were they could talk more freely. For several hours, they debated this and many other concerns that had arisen from that nights proceeding.

Finally tired of talk that seemed to be getting them nowhere and growing more and more concerned that neither Tinar nor Hasrim had yet returned he turned to the widow reaching out to open the thick heavy drapes hoping to get a little air with which to clear his head. Pulling back the drapes he gasped, Asrim immediately joined him and together they both watched the thick dark smoke rising from the harbour below, both catching a fleeting glimpse of white sails before the dark blanket of smoke totally obscured their view.

It now seemed that at least the Northerners and their captain were no longer a concern.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma sunk to the ground exhausted, frustrated at her seeming inability to reclaim her human shape. She slept fitfully for several hours, as uncomfortable memories surfaced in snatches of dream. She had glimpses of herself chasing after Narika, unable to catch up with her. Just at the point she managed to draw even, Thorn flew between the two sisters in the guise of an Eagle and sternly forbade Ráma to continue.

As children, she and Narika had been virtually inseparable. Yet, however similar they were in appearance, the girls' temperament and interests were markedly different even at this young age. And since their mother was clan leader, this dissimilarity was a matter of public note. Their personal attributes were the subject of frequent if private discussion among the elders, a situation that Ayar disliked but could do little to change.

Ráma had been the rash, impetuous child who rode through the desert like a storm and outran the boys in footraces. She was warm and spontaneous, bubbling over with gaity, a little butterfly who had trouble sitting still. Interested in everything that was not between the pages of a book, she talked with outsiders whenever she could, even though the elders had explicitly warned her not to do so. She did not openly scorn tradition, but was willing to question certain practices if these seemed to interfere with more important things. Her personal inclination was to deal with problems head on, and although she was far from belligerent, she was not afraid to fight.

It was not that the elders expected Ráma to sit home quietly embroidering tea napkins. No one in the clan felt that way. Both men and women could take on the shape of dangerous beasts, so it made little sense to pigeonhole girls or discourage them from leading an active life. If Ráma had been the eldest daughter in a lesser household, her prowess with weapons and her willingness to battle for what she believed would have earned praise and encouragement.

But she was not the eldest daughter of a lesser household: her position was more critical to the clan. Although clan governance was not hereditary, many a bright son or daughter stepped forward to become the next leader, either individually, or in tandem with a beloved spouse. Rama's impetuous nature, her tendency to strike back and ask questions later, even her willingness to deal with the outside world, made the elders nervous. For long years, the maenwaith had safeguarded their heritage by maintaining a fierce independence, using deception and deceit to trick enemies and then slinking off laughing into the shadows. Preserving the peace by trickery was deemed far more honorable than engaging in open warfare with its resulting loss of life.

Narika seemed to embody those traditions that stood at the core of the maenwaith heart. Grave and reflective, she had been a gentle child who loved lore and old tales and who could play the harp and sing with skill. Despite her introspective nature, she showed wisdom in the ways of the desert and could be physically tough. She brought out the best in all those around her. Wary of outsiders, and inordinately proud of her own people, she was unusually skilled as a shapeshifter, and thought things through very carefully before deciding on a particular path. She was, in effect, everything that the elders wanted. Able to shift into the form of an Eagle or a poisonous adder, Narika was an effective fighter, but one who never forgot that there were other ways, perhaps better ones, to safeguard her people. In that, she closely resembled her mother.

Ráma loved her sister fiercely but had made a separate life for herself as a trading agent and spy in the city of Umbar. But the increased tensions between the people of the desert and those of the city, along with the growing ambitions of Wyrma, seemed to be eroding the ground on which she stood. Ráma's inability to control her own form, and the recent news that Thorn intended to wed her sister, had placed her in a more uncomfortable position. All of these matters were simmering at the back of her mind, when a loud "whack" interrupted her sleep and she abruptly awoke. Looking out, she glimpsed one of the strangest sights that she had ever seen.....

***********************************************

The jaguar's eyes widened as she saw the great bird collide with the jagged roof of the cave and fall back to the ground with a thud. No longer tired or confused, Ráma instinctively leapt up and raced over to see what was happening. The single word that escaped from the Eagle's mouth provided the only clue that she would need. This was no simple beast, but one of her own people, most likely a maenwaith who was kin to the Eagles, since few outsiders could master such a form. And such a magnificent creature! The bird had dark brown plummage speckled with grey, stood nearly three feet high, and could boast a wingspan of more than seven feet.

But was she friend or foe? As a child, Ráma would never have raised such a sorry question when dealing with a fellow maenwaith, much less one who could claim some kinship with her own clan. But times had changed. There had always been enemies from the outside; it was the ones within that gave her pause. She could not overlook the possibility that this might be the mysterious stranger who had forced her to flee the Inn.

Ráma warily padded forward on velvet paws, genuinely curious about the stranger but still uncertain whether she could trust her. Still, if the great bird meant to attack, her behavior gave no indication of it. As luck would have it, she had tumbled down at the very back of the cave and could not leave without first confronting Ráma. Boxed into a corner, she stood as silent as a statue, glaring out at the jaguar. Only the gleem in her eyes betrayed the fact that she was very much alive. The Eagle's eyes were a deep brown flecked with gold. In their depths, Ráma could read wisdom, akin to that her mother and sister held, but also a deep sorrow born of some mystery that was beyond the young woman's understanding. The sadness and fear in those eyes finally tipped the balance, compelling Ráma to let down her guard.

"Please, I do not mean to hurt you. But who are you, and what are you doing here?" To her surprise, Ráma had regained control over her body. She quickly shifted back into human form and was rewarded with a slight softening of the hardness in the bird's eyes.

Ráma was never certain of the exact details of the conversation that followed. Either the bird was speaking in a foreign tongue, or did not fully understand what Ráma was saying, or perhaps some combination of both. The young woman could pick out words and phrases here and there, but many of the Eagle's words were simply impossible to decipher. Still, she did learn one or two things. The maenwaith's name was Sorona. She had come from miles away, and did not have a permanent home or clan, something that Ráma found very strange. In the middle of the discussion, Ráma caught hold of the word "North", another term that surprised her. As far as she knew, her people did not live or journey to the far northern lands, so this reference was extremely puzzling. Yet, whatever difficulties they'd had in communicating with each other, Ráma was convinced of two things. Sorona was indeed one of the mainwaith and she was not an evil creature, only one who seemed lost and sad.

As Sorona turned to made her way back to the entrance of the cave, Ráma bent down to offer her goodbyes, "I do not know if you can understand me, but very shortly I will leave these caves to journey to my clan. You are welcome to come along in any guise you choose. The sands are open and inviting; the mountains beckon just south of where my family camps. Many times, I've left Umbar with a heavy heart and found peace and friendship out in the desert. It is up to you, of course. But we would welcome your presence." The Eagle nodded in acknowledgment, slipped out of the cave, and flew off into the sky on her own.

[Ealasaide]

"We are heading south again," hissed Mithadan. "We must go back."

Airefalas examined a narrow alley which led off to the right. It had an evil smell about it like the backyard to a slaughterhouse and somewhere in the darkness beyond their sight, he could hear snarling as though two dogs were fighting over leftovers. Overall, it did not look promising. He nodded to Mithadan, and the two of them turned and retraced their steps only to round a corner and find their way blocked by three burly Haradrim, each bearing in his hands a spear and a bottle. The bottles were, for the most part, empty.

The Gondorians stopped in their tracks.

“Well, well, well,” said the foremost of the Haradrim. He paused to take long drink from the bottle in his hand. Draining it, he tossed the bottle to one side where it shattered against the stone wall of one of the buildings that lined the narrow street. “What have we here?”

“Foreigners, I’d say,” said the man to the leader’s right. He grinned, exposing his two black teeth. “Prob’ly off’n that Gondorian ship ‘at‘s anchored down the harbor.”

“Got money,” said the third man. “Remember? Got some Gondorian coin offa some o’ them kitties the other day before their captain wouldn’t let ‘em go ashore no more.”

The Leader reached out and flicked Mithadan’s lapel with the point of his spear. “Are you Gondorian kitties?” He asked with an oily grin. Then his eyes hardened. “Give us your packs and your purses.”

Airefalas watched as Mithadan glanced down at the spear point resting against his chest, then shook his head.

“No,” said Mithadan calmly. “I’m afraid we can’t do that.”

“And why not?” asked the Leader, pressing down a little harder with his spear.

“Stick him!” urged Two Teeth from behind.

“We need our things.”

“Well, we need your things, too,” said the Third Man. “You!” he said, turning to Airefalas. “Give us your pack.”

Airefalas shook his head, mentally debating whether he would have time to draw his sword should the bandits attack or if he should look for another weapon. From the corner of his eye, Airefalas’ glance fell on a pile of wood and building materials stacked against the wall to his right. One piece was about the length of his sword and slightly more than two inches thick from the look of it. Airefalas’ eyes narrowed.

A pace ahead of him, Mithadan still argued with the Bandit Leader, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, as overhead the stars moved steadily in their courses across the heavens. Time was passing. Beyond the bandits, Airefalas could see that the way was clear but for a skinny brown dog that nosed around in the shadows near a closed storefront. If they could just get past these bozos, they might actually still make it back to the ship. Mithadan half drew his sword as the Bandit Leader pulled back his spear as though in preparation to strike.

“Stick ‘im! Stick ‘im!” chanted Two Teeth. The sniggering quality of the bandit’s voice grated on Airefalas’ nerves. He hated everything about Umbar so far and this snaggle-toothed idiot seemed to epitomize the entire Umbarian experience for him.

Abruptly, Airefalas patience snapped. “Mithadan! Look!” he barked in a tone of command that he had not used since losing the Amarantha. He pointed down the empty street. “Falasmir’s guards have followed us!”

The others, including Mithadan, all looked, the bandits snapping their heads around as though they half expected a platoon of guards to be standing behind them, swords drawn. Seizing the moment, Airefalas closed his hands around the piece of wood from the woodpile and swung it with all of his strength at the back of the Bandit Leader’s head. The club connected with the man’s skull with a loud whack!. The bandit fell to the earth like a sack of potatoes and didn’t move. Mithadan drew his sword. Holding his spear crossways across his body, Two Teeth charged Airefalas, driving him back against the stone wall. Airefalas saw stars as the back of his head hit the stones. For a few seconds, he grayed out, coming to with the shaft of the bandit’s spear pinning him against the wall and crushing his throat. Struggling to breathe, Airefalas dropped his club, and grabbed the bandit’s spear with both hands. At the same time, he drove violently upward with his knee, one, two, three times in rapid succession, each time connecting with the soft flesh under the bandit’s ribcage. The wind knocked out of him, Two Teeth fell back, gasping. Airefalas wrenched the spear from the bandit’s hands and struck him under the chin with the butt end, then, swinging it around, drove the point home.

Seeing that Mithadan had just slain the third man with his sword, Airefalas dropped to his knees, holding his throat and trying to regain his own breath.

“Are you all right?” asked Mithadan, leaning down beside him.

Airefalas nodded. “Good enough,” he answered hoarsely. Considering the crushing his larynx had just taken, it could be days before his voice returned to normal. Just a little unsteadily, he rose to his feet. “You?”

“Not bad,” said Mithadan, sheathing his sword. “But we have no time to lose.”

Nodding again, Airefalas followed as Mithadan turned and led the way back toward the fork where the roads split to the north and west. This time they took the more northern branch. They had only gone a short distance when the road took a sharp turn to the west. Mithadan stopped and pointed into the sky ahead of them.

“Look,” he said grimly.

Airefalas felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as he looked in the direction of the harbor. A red glow lit up the sky that had nothing to do with the sun or the arrival of dawn. Saelon had set fire to the docks.

“Do we still have time?” Airefalas asked his captain.

Mithadan shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“I guess there’s one way to find out,” Airefalas murmured. Looking up at the line of rooftops that bordered the narrow street, he took off his pack and unbuckled his sword. “I’ll go up and look.” Having spent nearly his entire life negotiating the riggings of sailing ships, Airefalas could climb like a spider monkey. If there was anyplace for his hands or feet to find purchase, he would be able to pull himself up. Looking around, he chose the easiest-looking climb and moving from doorframe to balcony on up, Airefalas soon stood atop the tiled roof. The house he had chosen had good elevation and, when he turned toward the harbor, Airefalas found he could see everything. With a growing sense of desolation, he called down to Mithadan.

“She’s sailed,” was all he said.

“Is she under pursuit?” Mithadan called back.

Airefalas shook his head. “Not yet. The corsairs at the dock are aflame, but the Star’s abroad and making for open water.”

Mithadan nodded and, with a gesture, summoned his first mate back down again. “Then, I guess we should make for the Cat’s Paw,” he said when Airefalas stood beside him again at street level. “And hope that Ráma is still waiting.”

Putting on his pack and buckling his sword back into place, Airefalas nodded without much enthusiasm. They were still lost, and, so far as he could tell, the street patterns of Umbar made all the sense of old cow paths. Finding the Cat’s Paw on their own would be a clever trick indeed. Even so, it was now their only option.

But this time, luck would be on the side of the Gondorians. Not knowing where else to go, they continued on in the direction they had already been traveling. The farther they went, the more narrow and shabby grew the lane until finally they rounded a gentle turn and stopped in disbelief. There before them, centered on the block of buildings, was a squat and ancient hostelry. Over its door, swung the faded sign of the inn of The Cat’s Paw. Quickening their steps, the two Gondorians made for the door, which they found locked. Mithadan knocked softly.

A few minutes later, they heard the sound of movement behind the closed door, then the soft voice of a woman. “Who is it?”

“Our names are Mithadan and Airefalas,” answered Mithadan. “We are friends of Ráma.”

“You are foreigners,” said the woman, in response to their strange-sounding names.

“Yes,” Mithadan replied. “We are from Gondor. Ráma told us that we might find her here.”

There was a shuffling and scraping as if furniture were being moved, then a key turned in the lock and the door cracked open. “Come inside quickly,” the woman said, stepping back for them to enter.

“Ráma told me you might be coming, but she was unable to wait for you here,” continued the woman once the two men stood before her just inside the small common room. “She left camels for you in the paddock, but you must go at once. It would not be good for you to be found here.”

Airefalas and Mithadan exchanged a troubled glance. Guessing their concern, the woman bit her lip nervously, then went on: “Ráma said that if you still need to meet with her, she will be waiting at the Caves of Herumor, a mile north of the city gates. She will wait there until just after dawn, but only until then.” She touched Mithadan’s arm. “She does even this at great peril to herself, sir. There are evil folk about.”

Mithadan nodded and thanked her warmly. “Then we will not tarry. Show us to the camels, mistress,” he said. “And we will be off at once.”

The innkeeper nodded and led them through to the exit in back that opened onto a small paddock. Inside the paddock sat two camels, both of them saddled and ready to go. She handed each of the two men a full skin of water from just inside the door and then she was gone, the inn’s back door closing and locking behind her. Just outside the gate to the paddock were two sticks the approximate size of riding crops. Mithadan picked them up and handed one to Airefalas. Not quite sure what they were for, Airefalas took what was offered and followed Mithadan into the tiny enclosure. Choosing one of the two camels for himself, Mithadan fastened his water skin to the camel’s saddle and, swinging a leg over the camel’s back, settled comfortably into place. He touched the animal’s shoulder once with the stick, and it lurched to its feet. Riding out of the gate of the paddock, Mithadan turned and looked back only to see Airefalas still standing there, staring at his camel with a look of deep distrust.

“You can ride, can’t you?” asked Mithadan.

Airefalas nodded, still staring at the camel. “I can ride a horse,” he answered crossly. What he didn’t mention to Mithadan was that while he could ride a horse, horsemanship was not one of his strong suits. Seeing as he had spent most of his time at sea, he had not had much opportunity to refine his skills. Camel-jockeying, he was afraid, might prove to be something else entirely.

Guessing Airefalas’ thoughts, Mithadan smiled. “Just pretend it’s a goofy-looking horse.”

As if in response, Airefalas’ camel made a noise that sounded something between a honk and a belch and spat a gooey, tobacco-like substance at Airefalas’ foot. Then it smirked and settled deeper on to its haunches, lowering its long eyelashes at him like a coquettish female. Frowning, Airefalas reached out and tied his water skin to the saddle, but made no move toward mounting.

Finally, Mithadan lost his patience. “Get on the camel,” he snapped. “Now.”

It was an order. Grudgingly, Airefalas cleaned his boot with a handful of straw and threw his leg over the camel’s back, sliding nervously into the saddle.

“You throw me,” he grumbled at the camel. “And I’ll skin you. Make myself a new pair of boots.”

The camel turned its head and gave him a sly look, but when Airefalas touched its shoulder with the riding stick, it rose obediently to its feet. Another touch with the stick and it trotted to where Mithadan waited astride the first camel. They started off at once for the caves. To his surprise, Airefalas found that Mithadan was right. Riding a camel really wasn’t all that different from riding a gangly, long-legged horse. The camels proved remarkably fast as well, delivering them to the Caves of Herumor just as the first fingers of dawn touched the eastern sky.

Following a trail of fresh hoof prints, which they assumed must belong to Ráma’s horse, the Gondorians dismounted under the over-hanging cliff that marked the opening to the complex of caves.

[piosenniel]

Gondor

The patter of small bare feet down the stone floored hallway came to a sudden halt just outside her room; the soft slap-slaps giving way to hushed whisperings that curled round the cedar frame of the door. Pio pulled the quilt over her head, snuggling down inside the warm, dark cave of it. She was in that curious state between dream and waking; the place where a small effort of will might change the avenues of imagination, effect a more desirable ending.

What images she could capture were indistinct, obscured by darkness and the haze of fear. A ship . . . ships . . . and great blossoming fires. Small figures . . . some safe under the cover of night, some gone missing . . .

Her brow furrowed with unease, unable to move the passing phantoms into a clearer light . . .

Soft light . . . muted morning pushed its way through the loosely woven curtains to the side of her bed, falling warmly on her closed eyes. It drove away the last of the flitting dream, and wove itself pleasantly in with the sweet, sharp smell of cinnamon and sugar. One sticky finger tapped lightly on her cheek.

‘Are you sleeping, ammë?’

The wistful words proved the final breaking of the dream’s spell, one grey eye popping open to see Cami’s face near her own, a sanding of cinnamon and sugar about her lips. Someone had crawled under the covers at her back and now lay snuggled against her, back to back. Isilmir, it was, as Gilwen spooned in against her belly. With a groan of mock displeasure, Pio reached out an arm and drew in her youngest daughter, too; into the safe haven of the bed quilts.

‘Well, I guess I am truly awake now,’ she laughed, reaching back and forth to give them each a tickle.

‘Tell us about the party, then!’ coaxed Gilwen. ‘Did Baran really go with you?’ ‘Who was there? And what did the King look like?’ asked Isilmir, imagining the great sword hung at his belt. Questions and more questions followed, one upon the other. Pio’s own opinions of the party dropped away as she viewed the party through her children’s eyes. Magic wove through her narrative . . . candles in crystal holders . . . glinting off the shiny baubles worn by the party goers. Rich colored banners hung from the hall’s wooden beams, twined with shiny ribbons. The women were graceful, their dresses lovely; the men all tall and handsome in their finery. There was music and dancing and sweets piled high on silvered platters. It was a more enchanted scene, she knew, than what had really been . . .

Cook had come to stand in the doorway. She listened quietly to the story, a smile on her face. At a pause in the narrative, she rapped gently on the door frame. ‘Breakfast,’ she said, ‘if anyone’s interested.’ ‘Or still hungry!’ she laughed, as Cami bounced off the bed and went running for the kitchen a few steps ahead of her brother and sister. Pio drew on her robe and stood at the side of the bed for a moment, watching Cook follow after the trio.

Silence settled round the room once again. And from the corners the shadows seemed to grow darker. Pio shivered, drawing the robe closer about her. Remnants of the dream still lingered, niggling at the edges of her mind. A piping voice at her side once more dispelled the murky thoughts.

‘Hurry, amme,’ urged Isilmir, slipping his hand into hers. ‘Cook’s made griddlecakes and opened her last pot of strawberry jam to put on them.’ He pulled her quickly down the hall. ‘Come on! Or we won’t get any!’

[Estelyn Telcontar]

The dog panted for breath; keeping up with camels was no easy business, especially since he had to take care to keep cover. Tinar was glad that the Gondorians had slowed down and appeared to be looking for something – or someone? – in the caves that became visible in the early morning light. Would they travel on, he wondered? Why had they chosen to come here instead of going to their ship? Obviously, something had happened, and he was determined to find out what they planned to do, even if that meant following them into the desert. But he could not keep up with them if they travelled far at this pace. His sparrow form would not give him enough speed for a long distance; could he find a new form for this new task?

° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° ° °

Wyrma repressed an aggravated sigh as she listened to Nizar slowly deliver his message. Why she had chosen to use those two bumbling brothers was a mystery to her; it had seemed like a good idea at the time to choose the most unlikely candidates, but it taxed her patience no end to deal with them. She regretted that Kumat had already flown back to their city; she was worried about Tinar and would have liked to have someone reliable following him to bring him back. Well, she would have to hope that Mu’sad kept on his trail.

Slowly and clearly she instructed Nizar. “I want the two of you not only to follow Tinar, but to bring him back to me here at the palace!”

“But how will we know what form he has taken?” the man asked, shaking his head in confusion.

“You mean you did not see his transformation?” Wyrma’s voice was menacing and cold. “Well then, go back to your brother and tell him to follow the Northerners and look for a dog following them – I would think that he has taken that form.”

“Bring back the dog,” Nizar repeated obediently.

“And hurry!” Wyrma exclaimed. “While you tarry here, they could be gone out of reach!”

[piosenniel]

Mus'ad and Nizar

By the time Nizar had made it to the vendors’ market his brother had already found Tinar. He had been keeping an eye on him from the tops of buildings that stood along the young man’s route. The young fool was loping after the two foreigners . . . in dog shape; they were wandering aimlessly, or so it appeared to Mus’ad. ‘How obvious!’ he’d snorted to himself, but then the two fellows Tinar was following had not seemed to notice their tail. The dingy blue-grey pigeon chortled in an unattractive way at this poor excuse for a joke, then followed it up with the thought that perhaps foreigners were as dumb as he had heard.

On his third flight back to the spiced-scorpion seller’s stall, his wings growing a bit tired, patience wearing thin, he’d finally spotted Nizar winging his way toward the booth. Sitting together on the large carved sign above the establishment, Mus’ad attempted to elicit from his brother what Wyrma’s instructions had been.

‘Let’s see,’ cooed Nizar as he bobbed his head at his brother. A blank expression crossed his feathered face for a moment, followed by panic. He’d tried so hard to remember the instructions, but it was dark and he couldn’t concentrate on both remembering what Wyrma had said and finding his way in the dark. In an effort to buy himself a little time to remember Herself’s exact words, he began preening his wing feathers, checking for fleas. Mus’ad gave an exasperated hop toward his brother and pecked him lightly on the top of his head.

‘Well?!’ Mus’ad urged. ‘What exactly are we to do?’

Nizar fluffed out his feathers and shook himself as if to knock loose the Mistress’ instructions. Hunkering down, he concentrated hard. ‘There were three things,’ he said, brightening. ‘Follow him. Don’t lose sight of him . . .’

Mus’ad looked expectantly at his brother, and clacked his beak in irritation. Nizar fidgeted on the wooden edge of the sign. His mind had gone quite blank. Below them, a hungry mongrel slinked along in the shadows. ‘That’s it! Follow him. Don’t lose sight of him. And look for his dog shape.’ He bobbed his head in satisfaction. ‘Yep! That’s it. That’s what we’re supposed to do!’ ‘Herself’s very words!’ he pronounced with certainty. In a few moments they were both winging their way back to the area Tinar had last been seen in.

‘I wonder what he’s left out?’ mused the lead bird . . .

~*~*~*~

They’d missed the fight between the foreigners and the drunken alley rats. And could barely resist the urge to have a look see at the fiery goings-on at the harbor. Mus’ad grew a little panicked at the sight of the burning vessels in the harbor and the confusion on the docks. Surely Tinar, foolish as he acted at time, was not involved in that mess! Wrapped up in his thoughts he almost missed it as his brother went flapping by him, nearly slapping him with his wings in his haste to circle about him and head in the opposite direction. ‘There’s those foreigners!’ Nizar said, dipping one wing tip at the street below. ‘And there’s the pup!’ cried Mus’ad, altering the direction of his flight. ‘Good eye, Stinkbug!’

Despite the hated nickname, Nizar’s chest puffed up with pride at the compliment that accompanied it.

~*~*~*~

The dog had fallen far behind the two camels. Which was just as well, thought Mus’ad, since day was coming and the dark of night would no longer hide the trailing cur. Both the birds were tired, their only advantage that they could fly high enough to see far ahead and keep their quarry in sight. The camels the foreigners rode were small figures far in front of the footsore Tinar. The pigeons could see where they had stopped on the rocky rim in the distance, the one that led down to the honeycomb of caves below it.

Tinar had now approached closer to where the two men were dismounting. His belly low to the ground, the birds watched as he crept up a small rise and peered at his prey. The foreigners spoke for a few moments then urged their mounts down the narrow path to the entrance of the caves. As soon as their heads had disappeared from sight, the dog went slinking behind a small rocky outcropping near the ledge. Blending his slender form into the shadows of the piled rocks, he padded silently along to a position where he could watch some of the area below the ledge.

The two birds sat huffing and puffing on the limb of a scraggly sand-whipped tree. ‘Oh, Mus’ad, he’s not going down into the caves, is he?’ The little dun colored pigeon huddled against his older brother. ‘If he does, you stay here and keep lookout,’ whispered Mus’ad. ‘I’ll go down . . . be easier for me to do it . . . you just keep lookout . . .’

The birds looked back to where the dog crouched, as still as the rocks about him. ‘Maybe we’ll be lucky,’ whispered Nizar, distracted by some bug as it crept along a nearby branch. ‘No such luck,’ muttered Mus’ad, lifting his beak in the direction of the dog. In its place was now a small sparrow.

With a fluttering of wings the sparrow dropped below the ledge . . . and with a sigh, the blue grey pigeon followed - landing on the edge of the rocky ledge. Now a small lizard, he slithered nimbly down the face of the overhanging ridge, senses alert for . . . whoever . . . whatever . . . was below . . .

[piosenniel]

Rôg

Out of the cooking pan, into the fire . . .

That old saw kept running through Rôg’s mind as he stared at the hissing embers of the small fire just beyond their little lean-to.

Lean-to! Hmmmmph! Prison, I should rather say!

Huddled against the back of the small enclosure, he screwed up his courage and inched forward, taking a peek at the guard stationed to the side of them. Narayad! The one who had wanted to kill him! The fellow was dozing, muttering something under his breath as his chin nodded near his chest. ‘I’m warning you . . .’ he snorted in his dream. Rôg leaned closer to hear the ending to the threat, and ducked back just as quickly, his heart pounding. The man slept with his eyes only half closed, lids twitching; the fire’s light glinting off his unseeing orbs. It was a sight to send shivers down the young man’s spine, and he made the old sign to ward off the evil eye.

‘Rôg,.....psst.....Rôg!’ With a slender finger to his lips, Aiwendil gave a ‘shhh!’ as his companion turned toward him. Nodding his chin toward the dozing guard, the old man fumbled in the folds of his robe and brought out an incense pot.

‘Fur and Feathers!’ thought Rôg. ‘He’ll have us pegged as thieves now!’ He grabbed his right wrist, already feeling the quick slice from the clansman’s blade which would strike off his offending, thieving hand. He could feel the fiery pain already as the bloody stump was plunged against the pan of hot coals to stanch the bleeding . . .

‘I wanted you to look at this,’ the old fellow went on, inching closer to the fire.

Rôg pulled his thoughts away from their depressing downward spiral to watch as Aiwendil turned the pot carefully in his hands. He drew Rôg’s attention to the clasp on the grate within. Curious now, the younger man took the pot and examined the grate and its latch closely. How strange!’ he murmured as he lifted the hinged grate up from the bottom half of the container. Turning the pot over, he inspected the maker’s markings on the bottom – a crossed tong and hammer with two vertical slash marks beneath them. Moving closer to Aiwendil, he spoke low, saying his father’s younger brother, a metals’ worker as were all the males in that family, had made this pot. ‘I have seen these particular pots made,’ Rôg went on. ‘They are a common design of his; well built; made to withstand the constant packings and movings on of the desert peoples. And all of them have a sturdy clasp . . . right here,’ he said running the tip of his finger along the front rim of the pot. He took Aiwendil’s finger and ran it over the smoothed edges of the grate and the rim against which it should have been tightly secured. They were both a little rough where the clasp and its latch point had been forced off then poorly filed.

‘This didn’t break of itself,’ Rôg said, placing the pot on the ground between them. ‘And someone would have noticed almost immediately that there was a problem when new incense was put in and the old ashes cleaned out.’ He raised his brows at Aiwendil. ‘Unless, of course, the last one to do so was very lazy and unobservant . . .’

‘Or unless the last one to fill the pot and light it was the one who removed the clasp . . .’ finished the old man.

‘A snake in the nest . . . you think?’ murmured Rôg. ‘But who will believe us here if we tell them?’