Paul Thompson - The Qualinesti

Something thumped against the prince’s feet, which hung over the end of his short bunk. Ulvian snapped to a sitting position. Dru had bumped him on his way to the injured human’s bed, where he now stood. Skinning back the man’s eyelid with his thumb, Dru shook his head and made clucking sounds in his throat.

“Frell’s gone,” he announced loudly.

An especially tall human came to the dead man’s bed and hoisted the body easily over his shoulder. He strode across the room and kicked the front door open. The red wash of sunset flowed into the gloomy barracks. The tall human dumped the corpse unceremoniously on the ground outside. Before he could close the door again, a dozen gang members were already picking the dead man’s bed clean. They took everything, from his scrap of blanket to the few personal items he’d stowed under the bunk. The press was so great that Ulvian was forced to move away. He spied Dru leaning against the wall near the water barrel. Slipping through the crowd, he finally faced the Silvanesti.

“Is that it?” he asked sharply. “A man dies and he gets dumped outside?”

“That’s it. The dwarves will take the body away,” Dru replied, unconcerned.

“What about his friends? His family?” insisted the prince.

Dru took a small stone from his pocket. It was a four-inch cylinder of onyx the thickness of his thumb. “Nobody has friends here,” he said. “As to family—” He shrugged and didn’t finish. His fingers rubbed back and forth over the piece of black crystal.

Just as night was claiming the mountain pass, the sound of metal against metal sent the grunt gang storming toward the door. Outside was a huge iron cart wheeled by four dwarves. The cart bore a great kettle, and when one of the dwarves removed its lid, steam poured out. Ulvian let the rest of the gang press ahead of him, having no desire to be trampled for a dish of stew.

When he got outside, he shivered. A raw wind whistled down the pass, knifing through the clothing the prince wore. He watched the laborers, clay bowls in hand, mill around the food wagon while the dwarves served the steaming stew and doled out formidable loaves of bread to each worker. The aroma of roasted meat and savory spices drifted to Ulvian’s nose. It drew him toward the wagon.

He was promptly shoved away by a Kagonesti with a shaved head and two scalp locks that hung down his back. Ulvian bristled and started to challenge the wild elf, but the hard muscles in the fellow’s arms and the definite air of danger in his manner held the prince back. Ulvian slinked to the rear of the poorly formed line and waited his turn.

By the time he reached the wagon, the dwarves were scraping the bottom of the kettle. The ladle-bearing dwarf, warmly dressed in fur and leather, squinted down from the cart at Ulvian.

“Where’s your bowl?” he growled.

“I don’t know.”

“Idiot!” He swung the ladle idly at the prince, who ducked. The copper dipper was as big as his hand and stoutly formed. The dwarf barked, “Get back inside and find yourself a bowl!”

Chastened, Ulvian did so. He searched the room until he saw Dru, who was leaning against the wall by the water barrel, eating his stew.

“Dru,” he called, “I need a bowl. Where can I get one?”

The Silvanesti pointed to the fireplace at the south end of the room. Ulvian thanked him and wended his way through the crowd to the fireplace. Up close, he saw that the hearth was dominated by the same Kagonesti who had shoved him away from the food cart.

“What do you want, city boy?” he snarled.

“I need a bowl,” replied Ulvian warily.

The Kagonesti, who was called Splint, set down his bowl. Glaring at the prince, he said, “I’m no charity, city boy. You want a bowl, you got to buy it.”

The Speaker’s son was perplexed. He had nothing to trade. All his valuables had been taken from him before he left Qualinost.

“I don’t have any money,” he said lamely.

Harsh laughter rang out around him. Ulvian flushed furiously. Splint wiped his mouth with the end of one of his long scalp locks.

“You got a good pair of boots, I see.”

Ulvian looked at his feet. These were his oldest pair of boots, scuffed and dirty, but there were no holes in them and the soles were sound. They were also the only shoes he had.

“My boots are worth a lot more than a clay dish,” Ulvian said stiffly.

Splint made no reply. Instead, he picked up his bowl and started eating again. He studiously ignored Ulvian, who stood directly in front of him.

The prince fumed. Who did this wild elf think he was? He was about to denounce him and tell everyone in earshot that he was the son of the Speaker of the Sun, but the words died in his throat. Who would believe him? They would only laugh at him. Hopelessness welled up inside him. No one cared what happened to him. No one would notice if he lived or died. For a horrible instant, he felt like crying.

Ulvian’s stomach rumbled loudly. A few of the gang around him chuckled. He bit his lip and blurted out, “All right! The boots for a bowl!”

Languidly Splint stood up. He was the same height as Ulvian, but his powerful physique and menacing presence made him seem much larger. The prince shucked off his boots and was soon standing on the cold dirt floor in his stockings. The Kagonesti slipped his ragged sandals off and pulled on the boots. After much stamping of his feet to settle them into the unfamiliar footwear, he pronounced them a good fit.

“What about my bowl?” Ulvian reminded him angrily.

Splint reached under his bunk next to the fireplace and brought out a chipped ceramic bowl, enameled in blue. Ulvian snatched the dish and ran to the door, leaving gales of coarse guffaws in his wake. By the time he threw open the door and dashed out, the dwarves and the food wagon were gone.

The grunt gang was still laughing when he returned moments later. He stalked through them to the crackling fire, where Splint sat warming himself.

“You tricked me.” Ulvian said in a scant whisper. He was afraid to raise his voice, afraid he would start shrieking. “I want my boots back.”

“I’m not a merchant, city boy. I don’t make any exchanges.”

The barracks were quiet now. Confrontation was as thick in the air as smoke.

“Give them back,” demanded the prince, “or I’ll take them back!”

“You truly are an idiot, pest. Go to sleep, city boy, and thank the gods I don’t beat you senseless,” Splint said.

Ulvian’s pent-up rage exploded, and he did a rash thing. He raised a hand high and smashed the empty bowl against the Kagonesti’s head. A collective gasp went up from the workers. Splint rocked sideways with the blow, but in a flash, he had shaken it off and leapt to his feet.

“Now you got no boots and no bowl!” he spat. His fist caught Ulvian low in the chest. The prince groaned and fell against one of the spectators who had gathered, who promptly flung him back to Splint. The Kagonesti delivered a rolling punch to Ulvian’s jaw, sending him spinning into the wall. Splint followed the reeling prince.

Ulvian’s world swam in a sea of red fog. He felt strong hands grasp his shirt and drag him away from the support of the wall. More blows rained on his head and chest. Every time he was knocked down, someone picked him up and tossed him back to receive more abuse. Vainly he tried to grapple with Splint. The wild elf broke his feeble grip with little more than a shrug, kicking him in the stomach.

“He’s had enough, Splint,” Dru said, stepping between the prostrate Ulvian and the raging Kagonesti.

“I ought to kill him!” Splint retorted.

“He’s new and stupid. Let him be,” countered Dru.

“Bah!” Splint spat on Ulvian’s back. He rubbed his throbbing knuckles and returned to his place by the fire.