Novel, Chapter 8.3

Creash spent the night thinking about ways to answer “what do you know?” Well, at least he'd spent some of the night thinking about it. Most of yesterday was filled with excitement of Gaethric's, [Pummel's] departure. Creash missed the first act while he watched the Wizard's rock, and much of the second because Zephi told him to stay put. Of course Creash did not stay put, but he had to travel a path where the elder Druid would not notice him. By that time, Gaethric and his men were tearing the village of Kael-Monjaro apart. They didn't touch the monastery itself, of course, that kind of sacrilege wasn't their business. But Gaethric made a great squawk about his being insulted. The rough sort of man must answer injured honor with blatant injury. They knocked some buildings down, and set fire to one of the feed-granaries. The straw an hay made a great smoke. But in this marsh it was a great trouble to keep things dry, not to reach water, so the blaze did not spread. Gaethric probably didn't want it to.

The real reason for his great show of insult was to have clear reason, in his own mind at least, that Druids had breached their contract. Gaethric and his men were hired, at a healthy price, to defend the monastery and its lands for the space of five years. Chartamnet, the Arch Druid at Kael-Monjaro, feared that Orcs might attack. Gaethric had been employed just over a month, and Creash knew exactly what he was up to. He would take the full payment for five years' service and leave. With the safety of the town and the monastery as his “mercenary's” bargaining chip, the Arch Druid would concede payment rather than loose the safety. Breaking things and setting fires were just a sort of negotiation tactic.

                    Chartamnet actually had to face Gaethric down himself in the end. Creash was too far away to hear what their said, but at one point the mercenary actually tried to hit Chartament. The Arch-Druid, though a venerable forty or so years old [Creash doesn't know exactly. He's 39. The “venerable” age category for goblins would begin at 40], the Arch-Druid had very quick reflexes. Druids train not only mind, but spirit and body. That included some study of the unarmed martial arts. It was even possible for a master of such arts to become a druid without even having the gift of magic, although such things were rare. But Chartament was an administrator, not a master. He blocked most of Gaethric's blows, but 'pummel' earned his name and eventually pushed the old man into the mud. Gaethric, however, accepted a 'ransom' of barely a quarter the price he was offered to defend the monastery, so the Arch-Druid must have impressed him in some way.

Why had he bothered to hire mercenaries in the first place? It was just another thing Creash didn't know. The Corsairs had never been exactly family to this place, being more of a competing merchant than a trading partner, but they wouldn't actually attack. Would they? And the Orcs only fought themselves these days, or with Corsairs on far away islands, or with elves, so distantly than no one cared. They wouldn't come here. So that left the local clans, but they were all friends of Bharrak, and most of the elders of Bharrak had children or at cousins here. So, what then, the northern clans would come all the way here? They were even more distant than the orcs and elves. It seemed more likely the old days of elven crop-plagues would return, when water was poison and wheat would not grow, than that Eth would attack way down here.  

“Tell me something that you know.” Zephi had said. Creash couldn't tell him even a simple fact, whether it be “twice two is four,” or “the sky is blue,” or “the moon moves through its phases exactly once every month.” If he said any such thing, Zephi contradict it and ask that he prove it. Such things can not be proved. If he chose some more obscure fact, then Zephi would ask 'how do you know,” and laugh when Creash finally came to some underlying assumption. Then Zehpi would say “see, in truth you know nothing.” Creash had played those games before, with other 'lessons.' They weren't fun.

The young goblin was so lost in thought that he didn't notice smoke rising from the Wizard's rock as he approached. When he entered the shrine around it, though, he noticed the fire. The shrine was just a ring of beautiful, arching, white-barked birch trees around a clearing that stood open to heaven. An elf might think nothing of the trees, because though they are sacred to goblins, they would seem pale compared to their elven cousins. The youngest species in an elven forest have been magically groomed for over a thousand years.

For a moment Creash wondered if he'd left his fire going, but of course he hadn't, and it wouldn't be burning now in any case. Maybe it was a sign from the Wizard? But did it mean it the fire was ok, or that he'd erred disastrously?  

                     Aytheur was rather more observant than the goblin, and decided it was rather wiser to conceal himself than meet this one directly. But the goblin boy seemed to be alone, and alone he wasn't much of a threat. He was at least cleaner than the vagabonds who accosted Aytheur the day before, though he wasn't much better dressed. He wore a single garmet, like a long shirt which hung down to his knees. It was an attractive light yellow-orange color, but any idea of the garment having any style to it was lost with the overly massive leather belt that held it in place. There was no craftsmanship to it, it looked like it was ripped directly from the back of some unfortunate cow. The belt was tied, the boy lacked buckle, shoes and hat. Frankly, he seemed to be barely better off than Aytheur in his leafy bandages. Not his idea of civilization. But he was a goblin, after all. Aytheur really began to question what he was doing out here.

Sure, his father told endless stories of his life among the goblins. But Ghaent wasn't actually a goblin by birth. He belonged to the race of trolls, the elder race, which no longer existed in the world except in secret. By magic and by vow he could neither remember nor reveal the place of his birth. Of his life before he was called “wizard,” Ghaent only said “I wandered.” He had been an outsider among those he called his people. Just as Aytheur's mother had been. Aytheur sought out Bharrak, the tribe that adopted, or was adopted by, his father. He just hadn't planned on meeting them in so poor a condition.  

Aytheur's left eye had swollen during the course of the morning. It was now forced shut. Clotted blood, mud and leaves tied with their own stalks formed the bulk of his clothing. He tried to change some of them, but any touch caused such pain that Aytheur nearly fell unconscious from it. His walk was a uncomfortable shuffle. Had he reached this place a day earlier, and never met with those thuggish goblins, Aytheur might have turned around at this moment. The stupid creature stared at the fire, memorized. When he noticed Aytheur's approach, the goblin instead stared at him. Reading the creature's face was impossible for the half-elf. But begin so close to a goblin filled him with revulsion.

The goblin addressed him, speaking quickly, “Sorry, I'm sorry, Are you the Wizard? A fire, not mine. When did you come? Sorry you wait. Don't tell?” The words were jumbled, whether though the goblin's confusion or through some change in the manner of language since Ghaent's time. That was, after all, about two generations ago for the goblins.

                For his part, Creash did not realize what he was looking at until after he'd stumbled out an apology for starting a fire, which might be a disrespect, and for not being at his post. It would be a great shame on his head if he kept the Wizard waiting. But after his terror passed, he realized what he was looking at. Creash had never seen an elf, but he'd seen an orc once. A merchant. They said elves were like orcs, except littler and without teeth. They also said that elves weren't born, but grew out of seeds in their forests, and that they stood in the sun all day and ate dirt. But the description was accurate enough. It had long hair, a thin, pointy face with a sharp, pointy chin. Its body seemed too thin for its height, and both arms and legs were like those of a starving man. Creash knew at once this must be an elf – and obviously one which had been beat up pretty badly. It was a mass of blood. The innumerable strands that hung from its skull stuck together in cakes. Its body was poulticed with mud and blood, and great lilly-leaves were stuck all over. Aside from that, and some odd leg coverings, the elf was naked. Creash didn't want to make any guesses about its gender, though. Some of the stories he heard about elves made such things pretty confusing.

                 Aytheur reached the boulder, and nearly collapsed on it. He'd been fine this morning, but everything was more stiff now. Everything hurt more now. The eloquence of greeting from yesterday just wasn't in him. “I want to go to Bharrak, or to a polismar [a word Aytheur intended to mean “settlement.” Creash had never heard it before, but the meaning was clear enough]. I need help. Care. Yoonama [elven word: medicine].”  

Aytheur had not tried to speak aloud since he met the thugs. It made him cough. Blood filled his mouth, and he choked, then doubled over and coughed it up. Then the world went black.

                Creash was shocked, but not stunned. He took off at a run back to Kael-Monjaro, without even checking to see if the elf was still alive. It had to be a man, he decided, since it looked more like a man and it talked like a man. An elf-man.... But what was it doing here, at the Wizard's stone? Why did it ask for his clan?

Creash was shouting before he reached the monastery, but was hardly more coherent than he had been with Aytheur. “An elf came! To the Wizard's stone. He's dieing, or dead, and he might be the Wizard, and someone beat him, and... Go get Zephi! And Chartamnet! And bandages!”

Kelmartaen, one of the druids, was tending the garden just inside the monastery's wall. The monastery building itself was only one of several, some of stone but most of wood. The entire complex was surrounded by a stone wall in a loose triangular shape. Each corner was fortified with a tower, half again as tall as the wall. The three gates were at the bases of the towers. The whole affair was build up on a rocky island. Long wooden causeways connected the island to the forested marsh to the east. To the west, the forest fell off, as the delta met the sea. At the highest tides, Kael-Monjaro was only a few hundred yards from the water, but presently a wide expanse of brackish mud flats separated it from the sea. The monastery building was an extravagant stone structure, with four floors. The forth was level with the upper parts of the towers, and from its balconies you could see the mountain ranges far to the north and south.

The druid dropped his gardening tools and grabbed Creash as he tried to run by. “Calm down. What's happened?” 

“Can an elf be the Wizard?” Creash asked, gasping.

That was arguably the strangest question Kelmartaen had ever heard. The Wizard is a spirit, immortal and powerful. He, or she, since spirits do not have gender, came among the goblins from time to time. They were the Wizard's people, and particularly the clan Bharrak, because the Wizard once married the chief's widow. That was (about) twenty generations ago, but still Bharrak was respected for its special place among the clans. Like any spirit, the Wizard might come back as any body. And the Wizard was the greatest among spirits. The idea of being all powerful is not exactly part of the goblin's belief, but they certainly believed the Wizard could do anything. 

“I suppose he might. The elves too much be spirits, no? But don't talk nonsense. Who is hurt?”

"An Elf!” Creash nearly burst with impatience. “He came to the Stone. He's beaten. Might have died!” 

Metaphysical problems were put aside. Kelmartaen, like all druids, was a protector of life. And if one elf, badly injured, showed up and asked for help, then he would do his best to preserve life. “Go on, Chartamnet is inside,” Kelmartaen indicated the monastery building. Chartament would probably be in his workspace on the second floor, but Creash knew where to find him. And the lad could probably convince the old man this was important. Kelmartaen wasn't interested in waiting, though. One of the newer wooden buildings served as a hospital. It was built during the plagues thirty years ago because the older stone building was foul with the stench. At present there was no real need for an entire hospital, so it served as a convenient place to store trade goods as well as healing supplies [medicine among goblins has a large spiritual element, but they care for the body in a common sense manner. Don't forget this when you try to describe the place!].  

Strangely, Zephaniaz was in the hospital. The aged man sat on a heavy sack of Ktedu nuts [like a coconut in appearance, but with a “fruit” similar to pepper. They are often shipped whole and ground on site as spice, or for medicinal uses.] Zephi said, “The bandages are there. Bring a sling-bed”

Kelmartaen met another druid at the gate, and explain what he was doing. They ran down the causeway together. Inside the monastery, Creash repeated himself for the third time while Arch-Druid Chartament grew more frustrated. The Arch-Druid had been composing a message to the Corsairs. He was trying to decide if he should warn them about Gaethric. If they knew more about the “mercenary” than he did, they would laugh that Chartament was taken in. On the other hand, if they knew nothing, they would appreciate the tip. No ships could sail during the winter months, and overland trade with the Corsairs was every bit as impossible as overland trade with the orcish isles. That meant Chartament's newest news was going on half a year old. There had been rumors that orcs, from the Empire, were expanding their raids, but no more than rumors yet. The spring shearing would happen soon in Bharrak, and they would have bales of wool to ship south. Would the orcs trade? Would they turn their noses and pretend the goblins were not trading partners for the last hundred years? Or would they want to bring Kael-Monjaro under their “Imperial protection?” And without a warband like Gaethric's, he had fewer options. Chartament's mind was on such political matters. He had no interest in giving attention the mad shouting of a boy. Eventually Creash convinced the Arch-Druid that something significant had occurred. Zephi joined them, along with two fifths. They followed the worn path to the Wizard's Stone to see what the lad raved about.

[fifth: druid of the fifth order, rather like a druid-in-training. Presently Chartament has them acting like a town guard. Or redshirts.]

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