The White Shadow Saga: The Stolen Moon of Londor (25 page)

"I--I don't…," Lorn mumbled.

"Wait--just wait," Jerthom began, holding
back his laughter. "Tell them where you're from," he said, leaning
back in his chair, ready to laugh anew at the answer he loved so
much.

Stammering because of the pain in his poor
arm, Lorn gasped, "Beo--Beowulken." As he had hoped, Jerthom
released him and roared with mirth. Lorn caressed his arm as the
entire table of merchants burst into deafening guffaws, drawing the
entire pub's attention.

"Beowulken?" a merchant cried, tears of
laughter rolling down his cheeks. "That place is a joke!" Others
pounded on the table, unable to control themselves.

Looking up to see what brought on the
commotion, Gildan and the princes found Lorn all but weeping at the
hands of the merchants. Before Gildan could react, he caught a
glimpse of Seth emerging from the snickering crowd.

"There's always something with this company,"
Malander grumbled.

Now Seth had his chance to settle with the
merchant, and the words came easily as he stood before the table.
"You are only a moment away from a thrashing if you do not mind
your tongue!" he announced boldly. He parted his cloak to reveal
his sword. Jerthom smiled and uncrossed his legs, showing his own
blade.

"You waste my time, boy," Jerthom said. "This
is a personal matter here, and no business of yours."

"His business is my own."

"Foolish knight."

"Apologize, and you may go without
consequence." Seth stood firm, but the merchant would not have it.
"Or perhaps you would like to have your bartering license banned by
the Council."

"Nonsense," Jerthom answered. "Oh, sure--go
and tell the Council. They have no control over what I do." Seth
did not know how to counter now that his threat was useless. "I
only trade in non–Mudalfaen-controlled kingdoms. The Council can go
to hell!"

Seth's eyes narrowed as he twitched slightly,
and he brought forth his blade from his sheath in one swift motion.
Those nearby backed away, frightened at the sight of the gleaming
steel as he said in an even tone, "How dare you speak of the
Council thus! Watch where you tread--you'll get your payment sooner
than you think!"

"The only payment I will ever receive will be
gold!" Jerthom responded. "Leave my sight, boy, and take your
little dwarf with you!" And turning his back to them, he grabbed a
fresh pint of ale and raised it in salute to his friends.

"They are drunk, Lorn," Seth said as he
escorted the shaken dwarf back to the company's table.

"Is there a problem, Seth?" Gildan asked as
they sat.

"Nothing I cannot handle alone," muttered
Seth. He left it at that, repressing the madness that flowed
through his veins. Never had he heard anyone curse the Council that
had brought the world such prosperity over the past eighty years.
Rubbing his Mudalfaen badge with the tips of his shaking fingers,
he breathed deeply to refocus his energy. The codes forbade him to
reprimand Jerthom. After all, the merchant was ignorant and would
not change even if threatened with violence. Highbinder placed his
sword back in its sheath and rested his hands on the table.

"Where is Randor?" asked Arnanor, growing
impatient with the tavern. The patrons here--the entire city, in
fact--bothered him, and all he could think was how inferior these
people were. The only elves within a day's ride were those at his
table. "Humans disgust me," he mumbled.

Malander, who seemed to pay no attention to
his surroundings, used his selective hearing to straighten the
prince out once and for all. "What was that?" he asked, calm yet
intense.

"Do not bother with it."

"You have my attention now--repeat what you
just said."

Arnanor leaned over to Geil and
said,
"Lontos mingha malfou ni ran
ni-chaldrof."

"Gah, min nu-dor, ghin bith
tu ephthor,"
Geil replied.

Arnanor nodded with a mischievous
smile.
"Tu rha-daga fon loda."

"Sen ni ran conifen ah
lonto,"
Muron replied defensively.

Standing up and leaning into Arnanor's
face, Malander replied, "You cannot hide yourself in your native
tongue,
nit rosev fhandor
!"
Arnanor affected an expression of wounded innocence. "I speak your
language…" He paused, leaning in closer. "Now do you speak
mine?"

"Calm yourself, Malander," Seth interrupted.
"Save your strength for the cause."

"I will not. He told his henchman here to
kill me whenever he had the chance."

"Ridiculous!" Arnanor defended. "I said
nothing of the kind!"

"Then what did you say?" Seth asked.

"I remarked only about this tavern. That is
all."

"Is this true, Gildan?" Lorn inquired,
assuming that the mercenary understood his northern brethren.

"I do not speak that dialect fluently."
Sipping his wine, Gildan admitted, "Besides, I was not paying
attention to what they said. My mind is occupied with greater
matters."

Malander could only focus on the threat. "You
go ahead and order that inexperienced warrior of yours to strike me
down, and I will gladly show him my sword. I don't know what it is
that threatens you so, but leave me as I am….Don't make me kill
you. I have nothing to lose, after all--unlike you."

Arnanor said nothing, keeping his ideas
to himself.
Who is this human to
speak
this way to me?
he
thought. Malander had, in fact, deciphered the Northern tongue
precisely, but he would never withdraw the remark.

Arnanor smiled to himself. The day Geil
carried this act through would be another proud day for the elder
prince. He tightened his gloves and flipped back the long, red hair
that fell onto his armored shoulders. Muron, sitting next to him,
felt ashamed to be somehow a part of this scheme. Arnanor locked
eyes with Geil, both men nodding.

"I need a drink," Malander mumbled as he
walked away. "Damned elves." He disappeared into the crowd, still
shaking his head as he reached the bar. At the long wooden bar,
Malander wedged himself uncomfortably between an old man in green
clothing and a rugged gentleman in merchant's attire. The bartender
approached, still wiping clean a glass with a small red cloth.

"Yes, sir?" the bartender said, pushing back
her dirtied white sleeves.

"Two Dragonfires, quickly," Malander ordered,
propping his elbows on the wet surface, uncaring that spilled beer
soaked into his jacket sleeves. Feeling as though he was being
watched, he glanced around him. Causing trouble was still on his
mind, and Arnanor had only made it worse. Some eyes did look him
over but were quickly lowered when he stared directly back. The
bartender returned and placed two small, blue-tinted glasses by
Malander's fingertips. They were filled to the brim with a deep red
elixir, darker than any blood. Malander smiled and cracked his
knuckles as he snatched one up. Then, tossing his head back, he
drained it to the bottom in one gulp. Slamming the glass down, he
made as short work of the second. All who witnessed this incredible
feat were astonished at the grim man's tolerance, for it generally
took only one Dragonfire to knock a large man into an instant
trance. But Malander appeared unfazed, as if the alcohol merely
excited his senses. Wiping his mouth, he slid the glasses down the
bar and said, "Two more," grinning like a madman all the while.

"Excuse me, sir?" the bartender asked in
disbelief. "Did you just order two more?"

"Indeed I did--now, place them before
me."

"No one can handle that much. In all my years
of--"

"Just bring them and dispense with the
advice, would you?"

"Very well," the bartender replied.
Throughout the tavern, people whispered, dumbfounded by the
stranger's suicidal request for another pair of Dragonfires.

Malander slipped his hand into one of his
jacket pockets and placed three silver coins on the bar in an
orderly stack. The bartender's eyes lit up at the sight as she set
down the cups and seized the overly generous payment. "You are
greatly appreciated, sir." She walked away and placed the three
gleaming coins in her apron.

Those drinks, too, vanished soon, though not
as fast as the first. The spirits burned his throat and set him
afire. Pounding his chest four times like a wild animal, Malander
marveled at the Dragonfires' ability to blunt his torment.
"Brilliant," he laughed, slamming his fist on the counter. For no
reason that he knew of, Malander glanced over his shoulder, curious
to see what the company was engaged in. He saw Seth and Lorn with
drinks of their own in pewter mugs.

The bartender went through the single door
behind the bar and returned with a full crate of unopened wine
bottles, which clanked together with each slow step she took.
Standing directly in Malander's view at the crammed bar was Randor,
smoking his pipe. The wizard acknowledged him, pushing his glasses
up his nose.

"Goodness!" the bartender exclaimed, almost
dropping her precious box. Then, laughing, she regripped the
handles. "Miithra? Is that you?"

"Aye, Eina."

Approaching nearer, Eina set the wine box on
the counter and extended her arm in friendship. Randor shook her
hand warmly.

Eina said, "It has been ages since I have
seen you. I am pleased to see you are still alive and have come to
pay me a visit!"

"It is an honor to be within your walls once
again. You look as beautiful as the last time I saw you."

Eina lowered her head and smiled, pushing
back her long, dark hair, barely exposing the pointed tips of her
ears. Her clothes were stained from the spirits and brew her
establishment created and sold, yet the effects of labor upon her
garb did not bother her.

"How go things here?" Randor asked.

"Never better," Eina laughed. "Ah, I miss the
peaceful nights sometimes, you know, but I've grown accustomed to
this wall-to-wall madness you see tonight." She grabbed a tall,
clean glass and placed it before her old colleague. "What can I
serve you this fine evening?"

"I need something from you," Randor whispered
as he leaned closer, not wanting anyone to catch wind of his
conversation.

Eina frowned and darted her blue eyes about
the room. "All depends on what it is," she answered softly.

"Have you seen anything out of the ordinary
within the past three months or more?"

"Why do you ask?"

"This concerns the…" Randor paused, spying
for eavesdroppers. "The moon."

"Say on, my friend." Eina grew curious,
wanting any new information on the event that had captivated the
entire community. Gossip spread wildly, and anything worth hearing
was welcome.

"I am looking for an S-shaped symbol, with
jagged edges and two small circles within its curves." Eina bit her
lower lip and tried to think whether she had seen such a thing.
"Does this sound familiar to you?"

"An S-shaped symbol, jagged…" She trailed off
in thought.

"This is crucial."

"Can't say that I have," Eina admitted. "I am
sorry."

"Not your fault," Randor sighed. "It could be
anywhere--if it even does truly exist on Londor."

"I will keep a lookout for it, I promise."
Eina extracted an old dust-covered bottle of wine from beneath the
counter and popped the cork. "Here you go…" She filled the glass to
the silver brim with the sweet-smelling gold liquid and tucked the
bottle away to prevent its sale to patrons. "Free of charge." After
a quick nod, Eina smiled again and resumed her duties of taming the
wild throng at the bar.

"Many thanks." Randor noticed Malander not
far away and raised his glass in salute, receiving a nod in
confirmation. He began to drink and caught Malander's full
attention by pointing to the table. It was time to assemble
everyone under his command. Malander acknowledged the gesture and
pushed away from the bar, again shoving his way rudely through the
crowd.

"Watch where you're going!" someone shouted
at him.

"Petty fools," Malander said under his
breath.

"There's Randor," Seth announced happily,
saluting him with his half mug of ale. "A toast to our leader!"

"Here, here!" Lorn added, both laughing as
they drank more.

Randor set his glass on the table as he took
his chair. "Still nothing," he said ruefully.

"Your contact could not help?" Seth asked,
disappointed. "Where do we turn from here?" Hope dimmed in the
knight, for he still had no solid time frame for his journey's end.
He was too attached to having a set plan, and this perpetual
uncertainty was new to him--it was not a feeling he enjoyed.

"South is still the way of our quest--at
least, this is what I sense."

"We will not rest until the moon is returned
to the heavens," Arnanor declared, and Muron and Geil placed their
hands over their chests in the Northern way of agreement.

Without the company's knowing, a group of
five tall, pale men wearing long, dark overcoats had entered the
tavern, keeping along the wall near the entrance. Each had dark,
short hair combed forward, and a tattoo under his left eye: four
thin lines of black running down the cheek. The shortest line was
nearest the nose, and they grew longer as they reached the outside
corner of the men's gray-colored eyes. Their presence was unfelt as
they sat at a cleaned table in the corner farthest from Randor and
company.

"What tidings do you bring from the
Fatherland?" Randor asked Seth.

"I wasn't there very long, I am afraid--just
three days." Seth readjusted his cloak and leaned back in his
chair. "It is always an honor to be within the Council's walls.
Their hospitality far exceeds any other in the world."