It was late in the night, right before I was about to retire to bed, a few days later, that a knock brought me to my door. I heard just one rap, and then any others were drowned out by the barks of my loyal vigilant surging leaping snarling perky-eared ripply-muscled short-haired thick-leather-collared mastiff.
“Marley, come on. Good girl. Relax.”
I opened the door. Before me in the moonlight stood a gaunt weathered ragged windblown uncombed sleep-deprived inadequately-bathed poorly-laundered traveler; a woman.
She walked on crutches, for she had only one leg. She wore a long, soiled skirt.
“Flicker,” she said. “The musician. Son of Becca and Landon, also musicians. Cousin to Freydis the leathermaker.”
“That’s me,” I said. “I don’t think I know you – ?”
“And you are nephew to . . . Slade the Luckless.”
“What? Uncle Slade? Well, yes. But the ‘Luckless’? I’ve never heard him called that.”
“You have not seen him for some time.”
“No. We haven’t seen him for ten years, probably.”
“May I enter.” She didn’t tone it as a question. I stood back, holding onto Marley. She swung her way inside on the crutches.
“My name is Caiside,” she said. “I am glad that I found you. And you will be glad, also. I have some life-altering news for you.”
As she progressed, she started a song:
You’ve got gold stashed away that’s too much to count.
Jewels, silver, and chainmail, an astounding amount.
Save or blow it, you don’t really even have to pick which.
It turns out, you know –
it turns out that you’re filthy rich
I’ve got a map, and I’m afraid I’m gonna have to beg
you help me out, ‘cause as you see I’m down to just one leg.
When you see this stuff, I’m telling you, you’re gonna be floored.
It turns out, guess what:
it turns out that you’ve got a hoard.
It’s guys like you who earn the envy of us, all the rest.
You sit there set while folks like me just have to hobble our best.
Just look at you, standing there on top of two sound boots.
It’s guys like you, with this news –
guys like you can never lose.
As for me, my life has been hella harder than that
I lost my leg in a bloody vicious marmot attack.
But that’s not you; you can just decide to run or jump.
It must be nice to have
two good feet and not a stump.
There are people who don’t realize what they have got.
They think these crutches look fun, but let me tell you they’re not.
People like these that I’m talking about don’t think twice about just assuming the best all the time and taking everything for granted, but I don’t think they are realizing –
“All right,” I interrupted her. “Would you like to come inside and sit down?”
She was already creeping forward as I said this. While she did look haggard, she seemed strong enough, and she swung herself forward using her crutches. She carried a shoulder bag, and had a bedroll tied around her waist.
“I suppose I am very fortunate,” I said as she settled down into a chair by a small table in my front room, “if what you’re telling me is accurate, about this hoard you were talking about. I think that is your main point, right? Some sort of hoard for me?”
“A hoard,” she agreed.
“All right, then. But I feel I may be counting unhatched chickens right at the moment if I put too much confidence in that.”
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
She answered singing again:
I learned about this trove of loot straight from your Uncle Slade.
He let me know ‘cause he’s been thrown in prison by The Mage.
He’s afraid he’ll never get out so he wants to share
the secret of this hoard.
And I’ve got a map that tells you where.
“Slade has been thrown in prison by The Mage?” I asked. “The Mage of Wastemoor, herself? How could that have happened? The last we heard of him, I think he just told us he was heading westward to try and trade some goods he had. We assumed he was doing all right.”
“Yes, well,” she said. “This is no subject for a tavern song, I’m afraid. Trouble you for grog?”
I moved to my cupboard as she continued.
“Slade did come to our country some years ago with some things to trade, you are right. And you know, he looked a bit like you. I can see him in your eyes. And your brows. And those two marvelous working intact legs you have.”
I thought about responding to this but just continued pouring her drink from a jug.
“And he traveled here with some easily portable items. He had a supply of amber, for one thing.”
“That tracks,” I said. “It’s not so hard to find in the hills past town.”
“Yes. But once he arrived in Wastemoor, after some time, I’m afraid he began to traffic in other wares; things which were controlled by The Mage. Or intended to be controlled by The Mage.”
“Such as what?”
Her eyes lit up at this, and she hard-whispered:
Long-buried skeletons; barrow wights’ blades;
dark-arts charm necklaces pilfered by maids;
unaware unicorns trapped in a glade;
these things wound up with your good Uncle Slade.
Sacrificed scimitars thrown into rivers;
jackalope antlers and hippogriff livers;
Elven love letters and borrowed dwarf gold;
these are all things that should never be sold.
Votives from pilgrims and candles from altars;
bright sterling censers and gold-embossed psalters;
offerings left for some god or a spirit;
are sacred to some, but our Slade wouldn’t hear it.
Thick hidden sovereigns dug up from fields;
gifted gold axes with matching kite shields;
veterans’ discharges carved into metal;
all this, and other loot, Slade tried to peddle.
She stopped and just regarded me ominously.
“All right then,” I said, “he would be taking some risks trading much of that, certainly. But – look at jackalope antlers. You kind of have to admire someone who picks those up to trade, after they’ve been shed. Don’t you? That’s not hurting anyone.”
“They are property of The Mage, all of them, by her decree.”
“Really? Throughout all Wastemoor?”
“Her power is absolute.”
“I can’t believe Uncle Slade wanted to live in a place like that. After living free here in Enkel Kanindal.”
“He did not want to, by the time I knew him.”
“In prison,” I said. “And may I ask – how do you get in there yourself?”
I shouldn’t have bothered inquiring. She began signing again:
There are people like me who will not be ordered around.
I’m not like some folks walking smooth who want to settle down.
I’ve lived a life and I don’t mind that I’ve picked up some scars.
Unlike some ones I’ve met –
I’m not afraid of a few bars.
“All right,” I cut her off before she could continue. “I don’t really need to know. I’m sure the Mage imprisons people at a whim. And also of course for truly courageous acts of defiance,” I added quickly because she had started to object. All she ended up saying was:
“Defiance, indeed. Hand me that.”
I gave her the mug of grog.
“In any event,” she said. “Your uncle Slade, I’m sorry to say, is despairing of his chances of being released. Soon, or perhaps ever. When he heard I was to go, he slipped me this.”
From her shoulder bag she produced and unrolled a vellum scroll. It was larger than I would have guessed, and rather handsomely illustrated, with Enkel Kanindal depicted and then the rough lands to the north and east.
“I was expecting something rather smaller and simpler, in a map made in a prison cell,” I told her. “How did he get vellum like this?”
“Well. You might not be surprised to learn that your uncle has a way of getting on well with prison guards.”
She unrolled it completely on the table. I leaned over it. On its left it showed our town, with Gray Mount to the north. The remainder depicted the Wilds to the east. It showed streams, hills, and forested areas which I knew, and also many I didn’t.
Toward the far right of the map were a number of features which were completely unknown to me. We residents of our quiet town seldom ventured very far at all into the Wilds. One place up in the top right especially drew my attention: it was a simple drawing of a cave entrance titled Cursed Massacre Agony DeathHole.
“What on earth is that?” I asked, pointing. “I hope we don’t need to go in there.”
Caiside leered at me conspiratorially.
“Then the art has done its job,” she said. “That, of course, is the location of the hoard. That name is to dissuade others if anyone else were to get this map.”
“I see. My Uncle Slade drew that in?”
“He did.”
“Hmm. You know, I’m afraid it might actually draw attention to itself, unfortunately. Well, apart from there being a number of places I’m not familiar with, and it looking like a journey which is not short, it seems like it might not present too much trouble to follow this and – locate this hoard.”
She looked at me then as if she had been hoping to hear something more pessimistic, as that might have shown I was being appropriately cautious. She sang:
This trip will be no summer outing.
This brutal map from Slade is routing
us through wilds and hostile zones;
gullies of loss, gorges of bones.
There’s talus, glacial till, and scree;
tricky for you and worse for me.
We’ll pick our way through haunted downs,
and try to sneak past kobold towns.
We’ll wander through the awful Drearwolds
susceptible to lumbering firbolgs.
Slosh our path through boggy fens,
and feel our way in foggy glens.
We’ll have to wend through witches’ fells,
and then be watched in shadowed dells.
And you!
-she finished, pointing at me suddenly; it reminded me very much of Thorfin shaking his axe at me, a few days earlier –
– can’t be a boggle-EYED lad
if we chance upon a dryad.
Again I suppose I was not showing the alarm she had hoped to see. She looked at me and repeated:
“A dryad.”
“Certainly,” I said. “And it sounds like there are a number of . . . creatures we’ll have to be careful of.”
“That’s right,” she agreed. “Very careful.” She seemed a little more content now.
icensed under the license. Attribution: Somerset County Council.
Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 Generic License. British Museum - Room 40: Lewis Chess Pieces.
Diploma: Wikimedia Commons, photo by Wolfgang Sauber, GNU free documentation license
