David Cook - Beyong the Moons

“A hundred steel,” Teldin countered.

Counteroffer followed counteroffer as the two men haggled over the price. Just as they were about to close the deal, the cloaked Gomja stepped forward and laid a hand on Teldin’s shoulder, as if to try to shake off the whole bargain. With a dark glare, Teldin warned the giff back, and, in the next instant, sold the cloak, or at least its parts.

“Master Stonebiter,” the vendor asked of his dwarven friend, “if you’d bring some tools, we could free this young man from his problem.”

Interested in the outcome in his own right, the dwarf quickly produced a sharp knife, the blade decorated with hammered silver coils. “This should do the job just fine.” With a quick step, he hopped back onto the stool and prepared to cut the clasp free. Gomja drew himself up to his most menacing height and stepped forward, one hand on his own knife. It was clear to Teldin that the giff was struggling to restrain himself, but whether the creature meant to protect Teldin or prevent the damage, the farmer had no idea.

Just as the blade was about to touch fabric, Teldin closed his eyes, fearfully certain that the giff was going to do something rash-such as hurl the dwarf down the lane. He braced for the trooper’s onslaught. Instead, Teldin’s body was seized by a tingling blast that jangled every one of his nerves. The farmer’s eyes flew open in shock and his body involuntarily jerked and was flung backward until he crashed in a heap near the door to Mendel’s stall. There he sat dazed and gasping like a trout from a stream while the hairs on the back of his neck seemed to crawl up and down his scalp of their own will.

Master Stonebiter had fared no better. While Teldin sat stupefied, the dwarven smith twitched and jerked about, hooting and hopping as if in the grip of some convulsive dance. The blade had dropped from his nerve-numbed grasp.

An astonished Gomja and Mendel each hurried to their respective concerns. It took some time for Mendel to get his neighbor quieted down, and by the time the merchant succeeded, Gomja had Teldin back on his feet. “G-g-great Paladine,” stammered Teldin, “what was that?”

“It was the Dark Queen’s curse!” shouted Stonebiter as he struggled to calm down the little tics and seizures that afflicted him. “The damn thing’s cursed.”

Teldin shook his head to clear it. “I didn’t mean-”

All at once, the two merchant’s eyes were wide and staring at a point over Teldin’s shoulder. Stricken by their horrified looks, the farmer’s heart leaped with fear. He spun about, expecting the worse, only to find Gomja standing there, uncloaked. In the excitement, the giffs head-cloth had slipped to his shoulders, revealing his broad, blue-gray jowled snout and pert ears.

“By the horrors of the Abyss,” Stonebitcr mumbled, “the thing’s a spy! Be away with you! Get on and go!” The dwarf scrambled for his axe. Mendel himself could only stand in the middle of the street, helpless and terrified. A thin, piercing wail of despair started to leak through his slack lips, slowly but steadily increasing in volume.

Before they attracted any more attention, Teldin seized the blanket and covered the giff again. Mendel’s panicked whine grew louder, so the farmer skillfully guided his crudely cloaked companion out of the market.

Following old landmarks, Teldin led the giff down the narrow streets to the waterfront. Having to duck out of sight of every passer-by made their progress painfully slow. It wasn’t until late afternoon that they finally reached a small, run-down tavern. A battered sign, announcing it as the Sea Steed, swung over the doorway. The noise of voices came from inside.

“Just follow me closely and don’t say anything,” Teldin advised the giff. Gomja stood stiffly and gave a curt nod from under his blanket.

Teldin was pleased to note that the Sea Steed had changed little in five years. The tavern was still small, but warm against the coo1 bay breezes. The embers of a fire flickered in the hearth. About half the candles on the chandelier were lit, dripping hot wax into the center of a scarred table. The rest of the furniture was equally simple, a few nicked tables, each with an oddly matched assortment of chairs and benches around it. The smell of smoke, salt, fish, and flat ale flowed out the door.

Even though it was early, the place was not empty. Three of the tables were occupied, two by lone drinkers, the third by a cluster of five men in quiet conversation. The taverner half-dozed on a stool near the fire, one eye open to watch the customers. The serving maid was out of sight, probably helping the cook in the kitchen.

As Teldin entered, those capable of it looked up and made note of the stranger without stopping their own conversations. Just as they were about to dismiss the new arrival, a shadowed form squeezed through the door behind him. All at once every voice went silent, all eyes trained on the giff. The innkeeper suddenly sat up, his eyes wide open.

Teldin did his best to ignore the stares; he was getting used to them. Picking a table, he pulled up a bench and signaled the innkeeper. Gomja took another bench and sat. It promptly broke under the giff’s weight, dropping Gomja to the floor, but no one laughed. No one made a murmur. No one dared to. Embarrassed, Gomja gave it up and sat cross-legged on the floor; the table still only reached his chest.

“Do you have rooms?” Teldin asked the innkeeper.

The man nodded. “Upstairs, third on the right.” After a quick haggle, Teldin paid for beds and a pot of ale. As he and the giff drank, Gomja looked around the commons with wide eyes. The others in the room gave the pair surreptitious glances, trying to deduce just who or what the giff was.

As Teldin was mournfully finishing his ale, one of the men at the other table walked over and stood opposite the farmer. While he was not tall, perhaps a half-foot shorter than Teldin, the stranger was heavily muscled. He was dressed in battered leather armor, crudely patched. The stranger’s face was broad, his nose squashed and broken in several places. Thick, black tangles of hair hung from under his leather skullcap, the type a warrior wore under his helmet. A businesslike knife hung at his side. There was something familiar about the man, but, try as he might, Teldin couldn’t place him.

The stranger stood, not saying anything, only studying the farmer’s face. “Teldin Moore, is that you?” he finally asked, leaning closer to get a better look in the gloomy light.

“Yes,” Teldin answered warily.

“By the damned gods! I knew it!” the stranger burst out. “Don’t you remember me? Vandoorm, Vandoorm of the Solanthus Light Infantry?” He spread his hands open wide in a gesture of friendliness.

Suddenly the face and name connected in Teldin’s mind. “Vandoorm! Why-what-what are you doing here? I haven’t seen you in five years!” Teldin got to his feet and thrust out a hand to his old companion. The two warmly embraced, greeting each other as old friends should.

Their salutations finished, Vandoorm looked at the giff, still sitting on the floor. “What the hell is this?” he asked softly of Teldin.

“This,” Gomja said firmly and with some irritation, "is Trooper Gomja."

“He’s a … friend.” Teldin hastily explained the gill’s appearance. Gomja watched, waiting for any sign of suspicion from their visitor, but the story seemed to be accepted. Vandoorm, in turn, introduced his companions, four tough old campaigners like himself. In no time at all, Teldin and Vandoorm fell to reminiscing about old times. Hours passed as they ate, drank, and talked, until it was quite dark outside.

Although fascinated by their tales, Gomja could barely keep himself awake. The conversation seemed to go on forever with stories, lies, and questions. Finally, Teldin stood and embraced his friend once more. “In the morning, then,” the farmer said as the two parted.