BT II - Chapter 29 (Patreon)

Micah sat cross-legged before the old man, Drekt to his right and Leeka to his left.  Somewhere in the corner of the dark hut, Garrat bounced back and forth excitedly, barely able to hold himself back from the thousand and one questions with which he had plagued Micah and the rest of the party on their trip into Swiftwater.

The flap of woven dry grass that passed for a door moved to the side, letting in a column of daylight.  The old man in front of Micah was also cross-legged, faded tattoos covering his wrinkled skin.  What stood out the most was the film of milky cataracts covering his bright blue eyes.  A small child ran up to the seated man, whispering something into his ear before scampering off to the side, where she waited expectantly.

To his left Leeka coughed, drawing a glare from Micah.  He had no way of knowing whether or not her throat was dry or if his companion was trying to hurry their host, but from the way she shrugged sheepishly, he could make a guess.

“So young man.”  The elder’s voice snapped Micah’s attention away from the orange woman.  “Garrat tells me you’re looking for something in the Azure Cliffs’ Broken Horn Pass.  He says you are looking for old ruins.  Very dangerous.”

“I don’t know most of the local names,” Micah replied, “but I had a map.  It was Garrat that identified the places marked on my map and put descriptions to them.”

The ancient man nodded slowly, absently lifting a wrinkled hand to brush a handful of gray, wispy strands of hair out of his face.  After a long, pensive moment, he coughed, his elderly body shaking like a leaf in a windstorm.

Micah stirred, the words to augmented mending on the tip of his tongue as he prepared himself to mend the old man’s lungs.  Instead, he was stopped by a single wrinkled hand facing palm out as his counterpart finished hacking away.  Finally, he spit on the dry ground of the grass hut.

“It’s a cruel joke young man,” the tattooed man rasped.  “I was born into a world of unending grass, and the gods have seen fit to curse me with an allergy to pollen.  The coughing calms down a bit during the winters, but the cold causes my joints to swell.  Every year is agony, yet I have been blessed with one hundred and twelve years of life, and I wouldn’t trade a single minute of it.”

“You see Micah Silver,” he continued.  “I knew you were coming before Garrat brought you into Swiftwater.  Our tribe is split between worshiping Iskos, Goddess of wind and travel, and Mursa.  Mursa has blessed me with a perfect memory and a long life so that I could serve as the recordkeeper of our tribe.  Two nights ago, she came to me in a dream and told me something of your predicament.”

“Well,” the old man smiled wryly.  “She told me something of our predicament.  I wasn’t provided with any specifics, just the knowledge that the entire world was at risk, and that you would need my help to cross the Grass Sea.  Life is hard on the Grass Sea, but not so hard that I wish to sacrifice my remaining years with my grandchildren.  I intend to help you.”

“That was easy,” Micah replied, reaching up to scratch at the stubble that was beginning to grow patchily on his chin.  “I was expecting this to be a whole ordeal.  As I understand it, pathfinders are a relatively valuable resource to your communities.”

“Oh they are,” the elder responded, reaching out blindly with a wizened hand.  The child that had run into the hut earlier in their meeting, scampered around behind the old man, coming back a moment later with a clay mug full of a hot, thick liquid that gave off a medicinal smell.  “A tribe that cannot traverse the Grass Sea is as good as dead.  Of course, given Mursa’s warnings, it seems like not helping you will lead to death as well.  I suppose under the circumstances I can spare one pathfinder, especially if you do something for me.”

Drekt stirred next to Micah.  Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw furrows grow over his friend’s face as he spoke.

“Excuse me elder, we have not been properly introduced.  My name is Drekt, and the woman to my left is Leeka.”

“I go by Marteen,” the old man replied, bringing the clay cup to his lips.  He drank noisily for a couple of seconds before extending the empty cup out into the air.  The child gently took it from him before running back into the rear of the hut.

“Thank you Marteen,” Drekt continued, inclining his head.  “I couldn’t help but notice that you brought up us doing a favor for you.  Ordinarily I wouldn’t object, we are asking for a service from your tribe, it is only fair for you to ask for a service from us in return, but at the moment we are racing an opponent with a head start.  We cannot afford any delays.”

“But the Goddess said you would need materials to enchant and appropriate sacrifices,” Marteen said, a sly smile on his wrinkled face.  “She directed me to gather seven of our finest pieces of scrimshaw as well as moonbat leather necklaces and harnesses for them.  They’re part of the bargain if you’re interested.”

“I’m sorry Marteen,” Drekt began, only for Micah to reach out, placing his hand on the big warrior’s bicep to silence him.

“We’re listening,” Micah cut in.  “The Goddess isn’t wrong.  Our enemy has found an entirely new way to attack us, and we are desperately in need of defenses against those attacks.  I’ve done enough research that I can make protective enchantments that will blunt those blows, but I haven’t had the time or the resources to actually craft anything.  Of course, I hope you understand that Drekt is right.  We can’t afford unreasonable delays.”

“Oh,” Marteen replied, “it won’t be unreasonable at all.  You see, Garrat was out in the Sea on his own for a reason.  There is a nearby dungeon that spawns the grass monitors you fought.  Unfortunately, it is high enough level that our tribe struggles to clear it on our own.  Usually, we contract adventurers from Jakint to clear it out, but as I’m sure you’re aware, no one has been leaving the city for some months.  The result has been grass monitors running amok, threatening all travel and trade across this section of the Grass Sea.”

“The final battle in that dungeon is the Monitor Queen,” the old man continued, reciting the mission’s details as if there was no possibility that Micah and his companions would refuse.  “My understanding is that she is a match for a level forty to fifty blessed.  In her egg chamber, she is accompanied by four scaled myrmidons, her mates and loyal bodyguards.  Each of them will be a challenge for any blessed under level forty.”

“Is the dungeon at least on the way to our destination?”  Drekt asked unhappily.  “If we must help your tribe, I would at least hope that there is some way to minimize the disruption to our plans.”

“The dungeon is barely an hour off of the route to Broken Horn Pass,” Marteen responded dismissively.  “Unfortunately for my tribe, its location means that the monsters that escape from the dungeon are a direct threat to any trade traveling through the pass.  That means that every caravan heading to the northern kingdoms is at risk.  On the other hand, it is in the perfect spot for you to clear it without delaying your mission too much.  Mursa herself suggested that you would be a perfect match for this task.”

“Honestly,” the old man continued, “I doubt that it will be an inconvenience at all.  Just think of it as doing a favor for a friend.”

Micah looked at Drekt, raising an eyebrow in a silent question.  The big warrior sighed, nodding his agreement.  He turned to Leeka.  She flashed an easy grin as she gave him a thumbs up.  Finally, Micah replied to Marteen.

“You have a deal.  I have the reagents I’ll need for the enchantments, so all I’ll need is a medium to imprint the magic onto.  You provide us with a pathfinder and something to enchant, and we’ll clear out your dungeon for you.”

“Perfect,”  Marteen said, smiling widely.  “Clara, be a dear and get Garrat.  Tell him to bring the materials I had him gather.  I have an assignment for him.”

Leeka groaned.

Three hours later, Micah couldn’t help but share the archer’s sentiment.  Garrat strolled next to him, emitting a field that caused the grass to flow outward, creating a fifteen pace radius bubble of open space that closed seamlessly behind their party.  Unfortunately, Garrat didn’t seem to understand the concept of stealth.

Micah did his best to spend the march examining the scrimshaw provided by Marteen.  He couldn’t tell for sure what exactly the ivory was from, but Micah suspected that it was either a femur or a shoulder-bone from one of the big lizards that stalked the Grass Sea.  What interested him the most however, were the intricate designs carved into it.  They looked like tiny overlapping scales, etched into flowing loops that depicted beasts of legend.

It was almost a shame that he would have to engrave over parts of them, but even that seemed to have been predicted by Marteen.  Each of the palm sized disks of bone had a blank circle around their exterior.  He wouldn’t have to interfere much with the artwork to inscribe the runes he was thinking of.

“Each of those is at least two hundred years old, yes yes,”  Garrat called out cheerfully as he noticed Micah examining the scrimshaw.  “They’re carved by a warrior after they manage to kill a grass monitor on their own to celebrate the achievement.  Once they die, they’re handed down amongst families.  It’s pretty rare to see more than one in the possession of an outsider.  If the elder gave you seven, that must mean that you’re pretty important.”

Micah nodded slowly, turning one of the disks over.  The back showed a delicately carved picture of the head and shoulders of a beautiful woman.  Below the engraving was a short love poem to someone named Lyrette.

“Say,” Garrat continued, “ do you think you can help Garrat kill a monitor once we get to the dungeon?  So long as you don’t tell anyone from the Tribe, Garrat can claim that he killed it by luck and surprise.  Then he’ll earn the right to make his own scrimshaw.”

Micah ran his thumb over the back of the ivory, taking note of the pair of holes bored through the bone so that it could be used as a medallion.  He wouldn’t know for sure how efficient the scrimshaw would be at absorbing the enchantment he was planning to lay on it until he had a chance to experiment, but Micah was almost sure that they were as good or better than much of the gold, ruby and diamond jewelry he used for most of his high end enchantments.

“Maybe if Garrat has some scrimshaw to his name, a girl will actually marry him,” the guide mused.  “Now they all say ‘Garrat, you talk too much,’ and ‘Garrat, it is impossible to think when you babble so,’ but if Garrat had a trophy?  Then women would come running.  No one tells Bierstek that he smells like stale sweat.  No one tells Marten that he is almost bald.  No!  They are mighty warriors, like Garrat will be.”

He tried his hardest to tune the rambling nomad out as Micah considered the best way to go about enchanting the scrimshaw.  He could almost feel the weight of the emotions and care that were poured into the carvings.  Touching a finger to the disk, Micah closed his eyes, letting his Arcana skill play over it.

Sure enough, he could feel the faintest echoes of temporal energy coming from it.  At some point the focus and care lavished on the medallion had transformed it from simply an object into an item of value.  Something that had a tangible and measurable impact upon the magical fabric of Karell.

“Heyah,”  Garrat called out cheerfully, either not noticing or not caring about Micah’s clenched jaw.  “I just thought I should let you know, we just passed the two hundred and fifty thousand pace mark to Broken Horn Pass.  From there it’s only about fifteen thousand paces to the grass monitor dungeon.  As long as we keep a smile on our faces and walk at a brisk speed, we’ll be there before you know it.”

“How does that work anyway?”  Leeka asked, mercifully sparing Micah from Garrat’s unceasing commentary.  “I understand that pathfinders are able to navigate the Grass Sea, and don’t get me wrong, I appreciate not having to push my way blindly through the unending grass anymore.”

Leeka motioned generally to the small clearing that centered itself on the tattooed guide.

“But two hundred and fifty thousand paces seems awfully precise,” Leeka continued.  “Most of the blessed that I’m aware of with seeking abilities only can sense a general direction.  At best they might know how far or near their target is.”

“Garrat just knows,” he replied, happy to have someone actually talk to him after hours of more or less speaking to himself.  “Once a pathfinder has been to a location, they just have to think about it to know how far away they are.  Example, Garrat is twenty eight thousand two hundred and seventeen paces from Swiftwater right now.”

“Fascinating,” Leeka replied thoughtfully.  “Now I have to talk to Micah for a minute about the upcoming dungeon.  Maybe you should talk to Drekt about your plan to kill a grass monitor.  He handles most of the party’s combat planning and organization.  If anyone can set things up so that you have a killing blow on one of the beasts, it’s him.”

“Yes yes!”  Garrat remarked cheerfully before wheeling around to find Drekt.  “Big swordsman help Garrat.  Good thinking orange lady.”

Leeka watched him go, a sour expression darkening her face the instant their small guide’s back was to her.

“Thanks,” Micah said wryly.  “I was about fifteen seconds from seeing how high I could throw him in the air without magic.  I’m pretty sure that I could get him far enough up there that I’d have time to cast flight and catch him.”

“I’m not sure you should have bothered,” Leeka replied darkly.  “Orange lady.  Hmmph.  He might be the height of a proper male, but Garrat has none of the decorum I’d expect from one.”

“What about me?” Micah asked, extending his arm so that Jakaw could jump off of her shoulder and scamper over to him.  “I’m pretty sure I don’t have the decorum of one of your ‘proper males.”

“That’s different,” Leeka responded as Micah fished some dry fruit out of his pouch to feed to the small monkey that was now perched on his shoulder.  “You’re a combatant and a companion.  We share bonds of sisterhood based upon the enemies we have slain and the blood we have shed together.  There’s no need for masculine niceties between us.”

“Sisterhood?”  Micah inquired, raising a single eyebrow. “We haven’t exactly gone into a bath house together recently for you to double check, but I thought we were past this.  I can assure you that I am a man.”

“I understand that,” Leeka agreed, “but you are a warrior and we have fought together.  As such, we are sisters.  It took me weeks of mental wrestling to try and reconcile your being male with our sisterhood, but eventually I just gave up.”

“After all,” she continued triumphantly, “there’s no rule stating that a man can’t be a sister.  Problem solved.”

Micah chuckled, shaking his head as he put the scrimshaw back into his pouch.  Jakaw chirped expectantly, cocking his head at Micah and blinking his eyes rapidly.

Almost unwillingly, Micah withdrew some more dried fruit from his carrying sack and fed it to the monkey.  Theoretically, the fuzzy little critter was eating almost a third of his lunch, but Micah found it hard to care.  After Garrat’s incessant prattle, Jakaw was a welcome distraction.

“Say, Micah?” Leeka asked contemplatively.  “How long do you think it will take us to cross two hundred and fifty thousand paces?  I’ve never bothered to actually count out my steps like that before.”

Micah looked up at the afternoon sky, mouth moving silently as he did the math.  Finally, he replied, voice devoid of any enthusiasm.

“A good day’s hike over flat terrain without a road is usually fifty thousand paces.  I figure that pace is probably accurate given the bubble Garrat can make in the grass.  Without him, I’d say we were making fifteen to twenty thousand paces a day.”

“Five days,” Leeka muttered incredulously.  “We’re going to be stuck with that little windbag for almost a week?  Gods above, maybe I should side with this daemon we’re fighting.  The end of the world is a better alternative than that.”

“Don’t worry,” Micah replied.  “It’ll go quicker than you think if you have something to occupy your mind.  A while ago, Trevor and I came up with a game for situations just like this to keep ourselves from going mad with boredom.”

“A game?”  Leeka inquired.  “That sounds preferable to listening to Garrat wax poetic about his romantic woes.  How do we play?”

“As we travel, one person will identify an object by its color,” Micah responded.  “Then the other person will be allowed to ask five yes or no questions.  For example, you could ask if the object was bigger than your head, or if it was harder than wood.  Finally, if you think you have good idea what the object is, you can use one of your questions to try and guess its identity.”

“I think I understand,” Leeka mused, reaching up to slap at a buzzing fly.

“Great,” Micah said cheerfully.  “I’ll go first.  The secret object is something gold.”

Leeka looked at the unending fields of yellowish grass just beyond the bubble created by Garrat’s blessing and back at Micah.  He grinned impishly at her.

She let her head flop backward and groaned.