A red trident dominated the heading of the parchment in Kel’dhos’ hands. He read the letter over and over as he and his companions ambled through town after their drunken revelry from the night before.
Eight guards—each wearing a billowing grey cloak emblazoned with a piercing trident—encircled Kel’dhos and the others. The morning sun glinted off the guards’ red-scaled armor, their faces obscured by full-helms with narrow slits for eyes. They escorted the group toward a looming castle in the distance, which sat upon a blade of land jutting out into the rushing bay waters. Menacing indeed.
Kel’dhos felt queasy. Desperate to keep his crumbling nerves in check, he let his eyes drift back to the words on the parchment:
To the six misfits of Ridgeton,
Your endeavors have not gone unnoticed. I summon you all to Mariner’s Keep. I wish to speak with all of you. Immediately.
Elias Blacktide
Highwarden of the Trident Guard
An ominous message from the Trident Guard. The Trident Guard. Kel’dhos had read about the peacekeepers of the Tameless Shore. A militarized force that attempted to police the wretched land and the treacherous waters of Mortas Bay. A rough task. One Kel’dhos could hardly imagine doing.
What could this Highwarden Blacktide want with us? Kel’dhos thought to himself.
The men escorting them looked anything but friendly. They all wore beards of varying colors and those same menacing helmets, except for the mountain of a man leading them. He was as tall a man that Kel’dhos had ever seen, towering over the rest by a full head. A forest of a beard, as black as an akrep’s eye, took root along his jaw, and his polished head caught the sun, reflecting it back into Kel’dhos’ face.
Beside Kel’dhos, Magnus eyed the bald behemoth with worry, one hand buried in his satchel.
Kel’dhos leaned toward the dwarf. “What do you think?” he whispered, gesturing toward the nearest guard.
Magnus twitched, ripping his hand from the bag. “Oh, I wasn’t...” He looked around and met Kel’dhos’ eyes. “Oh, you mean the guards?”
“Of course I meant the guards. Are you alright, my friend?”
Magnus smiled and rubbed his bearded chin. “Aye. I’m fine... aside from being rudely awakened by these men. I thought the Trident Guard had better manners.”
“Isn’t it obvious?”
Kel’dhos and Magnus spun around to see Telerek close enough to knife them.
“We’re not in restraints and we have all our weapons and armor,” continued Telerek, patting the hilts of his daggers. “They want something from us... which I imagine we’ll find out soon enough.”
“He’s right, ya know,” Magnar said over his shoulder. “I’ve been in several situations just like this once or twice. We’ll be fine. More or less.”
“More or less?” asked Kel’dhos, arching an eyebrow.
“Relax.” Telerek rested a gloved hand on Kel’dhos’ shoulder. “We’d most likely be dead by now if that’s what they wanted.”
I guess they’re right, Kel’dhos thought to himself. He looked at Magnus, who’d been rather reticent throughout their walk. I wonder if he’s okay. Something seems to be troubling him.
The group continued on as the red-brick castle grew larger and larger. As they reached the bridge, dark clouds surged in, carrying a chill with them. Unfortunately, they also brought rain. A peaceful mist blew from the angry cotton-like clouds, a prelude to a stronger downpour yet to come.
“Well, this is just great,” Magnar groaned. “Rudely woken up, escorted through town like criminals and now rain.” The barbarian slicked his wet hair back, pushing it out of his face.
“This reminds me of my frozen home,” Beltayne said, gazing skyward with longing. “The light rains from the east would drift into the land of Obsidian Ice. I had never felt rain against my skin before. It’s nice to see what it’s like when it doesn’t freeze.”
“Aye. You must not have had much rain in that gods-forsaken tundra,” Magnar snorted with a chuckle.
Beltayne shook his head. “Oh no, not at all. Ice fell mainly from the sky. It was awful. But what the Ice Maiden gives us only reflects her mood. Ice typically meant she was upset with something, so we did our best not to anger the Snowy Queen.”
“Strange,” muttered Telerek, nimbly weaving from the rear to walk beside Magnar. “I don’t know why anyone would choose to live in such a harsh climate.”
Beltayne shrugged. “Honestly, I did not know this part of the world existed until very recently. That’s why I am happy to save all of you in times of need. It is my duty and quest to protect the weak and innocent.”
“And I’ll be right there with you, Bel,” said Kel’dhos, grinning.
Boots thudded on the wooden slats of the massive drawbridge. Kel’dhos peered at the iron chains holding it in place, each spanning at an angle from the edge of the behemoth walkway to the stone gatehouse, where the portcullis stood firm. As they crossed toward the heavy gate, it groaned and screeched, rising sluggishly. The guards filtered them into the courtyard beyond, where dozens more Trident Guard soldiers stood waiting.
Kel’dhos and the others were beckoned forward by the tall, bald leader, who led them toward the massive red-stone keep. It loomed before Kel’dhos like a monstrous dragon of old. Glassless windows dotted the rough stone; parapets lined the lower half of the keep, bowmen at the ready. A wide stone staircase rose to the tremendous oak door of the colossal castle. Flanking the entrance stood more guards and displayed behind them, mounted on the stone wall, hung an extravagant crest emblazoned on a large tapestry: a silver anchor overlapped by a golden ship’s wheel on a field of blue. The tapestry fluttered in the rainy breeze, its golden tassels whipping wildly.
“It’s the Dyre family’s crest,” Telerek said, once again beside Kel’dhos, peering up at the symbol. “’Steadfast in Storm and Trade.’ Or... something like that. Vital to the growth of this town, they were.”
The Dyre name rang a vague bell for Kel’dhos. Having consumed every text he could get his hands on in his youth, he remembered reading about the Dyre family—how they grew into prominence and helped build Ridgeton into what it was today.
Kel’dhos simply nodded at the wood elf as they followed the large Trident Guardsman into the keep. The building opened up into a broad entry hall, with sconces lining the walls and casting a flickering light throughout the spacious room. Dim light peered in through tall, thin windows lining the wall from front to rear. Two long rows of tables filled the otherwise empty floor space.
“This way,” grunted the bald guardsman, making a sharp right turn and ascending a grand staircase that spiraled up to the next floor.
It was a sight to behold—an even larger and more open space than the entry hall below. It seemed like a hundred men and women filled the room wearing all kinds of Trident Guard attire—armor, leathers, weapons and the like. The chatter came to a halt as they all took notice of the unfamiliar visitors.
Curious stares followed Kel’dhos and his friends as they trailed the stern man through the barracks-like area.
“Welcome to the Storm Hold, home of the Trident Guard,” announced the man, candlelight flickering off his shiny scalp. He waved his hands about as if showing off a prized possession but didn’t slow his determined pace. “I’m taking you to a meeting room. Highwarden Blacktide is awaiting our arrival.”
Magnar let out a long, low whistle, watching a group of soldiers sparring in the corner, while Beltayne seemed in awe. The snow elf brought his strange sword close to his face, whispering. Kel’dhos heard Telerek and Val murmuring in hushed conversation behind him, their footsteps muted.
Then there was Magnus. The wizard had been uncharacteristically quiet since they had awakened. He stared vacantly ahead, following their escort.
The big man leading them turned a corner and stomped down a long corridor, armor clanking with every step. Before long, they reached an oaken door at the end of the hall. Blazing sconces sat on either side, and a trident made of gold was fastened to the broad wooden surface. The bald soldier stopped just short of the threshold and turned toward Kel’dhos and the others, holding up a hand to halt the group. He nudged open the door and peeked inside.
Kel’dhos heard a loud voice from within. Their guide looked back at them.
“In you go,” he said, ushering them through the doorway. “And behave yourselves.”
Magnar and Beltayne entered first, followed by the rest. A grand oval table sat in the center of the room; a massive parchment filled its surface. Support pillars stood tall in each corner, adorned with their own dark-iron sconces, flames crackling within. A large silver chandelier hung from the center of the ceiling, and a humongous banner with the Dyre family crest displayed on the far wall beyond the table. Two large paintings of trade ships flanked it on either side.
“Ah! Welcome, welcome!”
A large, portly man stood from his chair on the far side of the table. His booming voice took Kel’dhos by surprise.
“Thank you, Captain Casker. You may return to your daily duties.”
Their escort—Casker—saluted with a fist to his chest, then nodded and exited the room, shutting the door with a thud behind.
The big man strode around the table, passing several others whom he’d been having a meeting with prior to Kel’dhos and the others’ arrival. “I am Elias Blacktide, Highwarden of the Trident Guard.” He held both arms out wide as if to welcome them in a full embrace. His thick black beard dominated his face, resting atop his bulky belly. “Come, come. Take a seat. I have much to discuss with you all.” The Highwarden motioned to the empty seats on the nearest side of the table.
Kel’dhos stepped up to the closest chair and sat awkwardly. The others followed suit, filling the surrounding seats. Kel’dhos squirmed with discomfort. He was in a room with, no doubt, one of the most powerful men in the region, who had an entire battalion at his command. What could he possibly want from Kel’dhos and his friends? They were just a small group of adventurers, the sort of thing that was oft common in these parts.
The Highwarden plodded back to his seat and introduced each of the others present. One by one, he named each of the five people until Blacktide came to the sixth, and final, person: a human woman in the chair beside the Highwarden.
“And this is Riona Melfaron, First Warden of the Trident Guard.” The Highwarden patted her on the shoulders like a proud father would. Her face was hard, with dark eyes that cut like broken glass. She sliced into Kel’dhos with a dangerous gaze.
Blacktide laughed and took his seat. “Ha! You should see the looks on your faces!” The table rumbled as he pounded it with a joyful fist. “She’s harmless, I swear. But now that you’ve met everyone under my employ, I want to get down to business.”
He snapped his fingers, and a small door near the back swung open. A hiss met Kel’dhos’ ear, and Telerek shot upward, chair skidding backward. Magnar had done the same, fumbling for the grip of his war maul.
“Easy lads,” boomed the Highwarden, waving them off.
Magnar and Telerek flushed when they saw serving boys and girls emerge from the doorway carrying trays upon trays of food. The barbarian and wood elf eased back into their seats with muffled apologies.
“So! The six of you made quite the commotion in the Tiuv Forest,” Highwarden Blacktide said. He leaned forward, grabbed two large biscuits from the fresh tray in front of him. After splitting them both open, the Highwarden slathered what Kel’dhos deemed to be too much butter and jam all over the four pieces. Blacktide took a big bite from one of the dripping biscuits. “Handled yourselves well, did ya?”
“Aye,” Magnar said with a mouthful. He’d also snagged a biscuit and ham. Clearly, his appetite was unaffected by the situation. “Tree monsters, creepy human mages, undead bastards... They didn’t stand a chance.”
Blacktide winced at the word ‘undead.’ Most people do. It’s not something one tries to be familiar with—or associate with.
The Highwarden cleared his throat and continued. “Ahem. Well, I don’t want to delve into matters of the undead, but I understand that you six can handle yourselves quite well.” He finished off another half of a biscuit, licking his lips. “You see, I have a delicate assignment that I need handled. And well...”
“You don’t need the Trident Guard tied to it,” Telerek said from beside Kel’dhos.
A devilish grin spread across Highwarden Blacktide’s puffy face. “Indeed, Master Rogue, indeed.” He leaned forward, resting on his elbows, hands clasped. “The Trident Guard is a noble group of men and women. We are tasked with keeping the peace throughout the Tameless Shore. Do you know how difficult that can be? This place is a lawless wasteland full of bandits, corrupt politicians and even shittier businessmen.”
Magnar looked across the table at Telerek, grinning at the rogue, who sneered back at the hulking dwarf.
“And there are some things,” continued Blacktide. “That my Trident Guard cannot meddle in. Especially when they lie just beyond the boundaries of the Tameless Shore.”
So, that’s what this was about, thought Kel’dhos. They need our aid.
“What do you want us to do, Highwarden?”
The voice took Kel’dhos by surprise, as Magnus had barely spoken since they left the tavern. Now, it seemed the dwarf wizard was fully engaged in the conversation.
Once again, the Highwarden smiled before bursting into an obnoxious laugh that rattled the rafters of the vaulted ceiling above. “Have any of you heard of Praldosta?”
Kel’dhos nodded. The town of Praldosta sat north of Ridgeton along the Aonru River just west of Eldrin City. Many texts shared their vast knowledge about the rough and tumble settlement with Kel’dhos. Not much good came from a place like that. But Kel’dhos knew not much good came from anything on the Tameless Shore.
“Aye,” Magnus said. “A small shithole west of Eldrin, right?”
“Right you are, Master Wizard,” said Blacktide.
“What about it?” asked Telerek. He glared at the Highwarden with arms crossed. “If you have a job for us, just get to the point. We don’t like to be led along.”
A flicker of irritation swept the Highwarden’s face, eyes narrowing on the sharp-tongued wood elf.
Kel’dhos let a half-hearted chuckle fill the tense air. “Now, now, Telerek. Let’s not rush the Highwarden. If he truly has a job for us, we should not want to miss any details.”
Blacktide caught Kel’dhos’ eye, a smile returning to the plump man’s face. “Well now, at least one of you is sensible and polite. Though I don’t know many godly folk who aren’t boorish.”
“I wish that were true, Highwarden,” Kel’dhos replied. Too many times throughout my youth, I had to deal with crude peers. Too many times...
Blacktide waved a hand dismissively. “Bah, anyway, I need this looked into.” He leaned over the table as far as he could and pointed to the enormous map spread across the center. His sausage-like finger stubbed at the Aonru River traveling north from Mortas Bay. “Praldosta sits along the southern Aonru here.”
He relaxed back into his seat and continued. “It has come to our attention that an awfully illicit operation has been uncovered by certain assets of mine.”
Magnus shifted uneasily in his seat, stroking his short black beard. “Illicit? What are we talking about exactly?”
“Slave trade.”
Kel’dhos felt his breath catch at the word, and he could feel the tone of the room shift. Talk of slavers and their ugly business tended to do that.
“My task for you misfits is simple,” explained Blacktide. “Travel north to Praldosta and investigate the mines.”
“Seems easy enough,” Magnar declared, downing a mug of ale and slamming down.
“Oh, I’m sure it does, Master Dwarf. But I need you to figure out what’s going on with this slave business without compromising the mining operation.” The Highwarden rubbed his hands together and looked between his guests. “I have incredibly powerful friends who are invested in Praldosta’s mines. It is in their best interest that you figure out what is going on under their noses within the mines without destroying the legitimate business.”
Telerek chuckled. “I see... You want us to stop the slavers and save the business so your friends don’t look bad.”
Blacktide’s face reddened, fists clenching. “Money makes the world tick, rogue. Some of us just don’t like to see money made at the expense of others, believe it or not. Slavers are evil. My friends will not tolerate such a thing being tied to their investment. I am asking you to shovel the shit and toss it out. Will you accept? You will find that my friends have very, very deep pockets.”
Telerek looked down the row of chairs with a grin. “What do you think?”
Kel’dhos didn’t have to think. “I’m in. Sioch would have me put this slave operation to an end.”
“Ha!” shouted Beltayne, rising from his chair. “And I, Beltayne, Knight of the Winter Court, shall punish these vile slavers. For the Icy Maiden of the Frozen Tundra demands it.” He sank back down and whispered to that curious sword of his.
Magnar and Magnus did not oppose. They voiced their disgust at slavery along with the rest of the room. Kel’dhos noticed Blacktide perk up at Beltayne’s mention of his homeland. He didn’t blame the Highwarden. Few people know the icy lands in the far west, let alone meet anyone from there.
Blacktide cleared his throat and spoke once more. “A human man by the name of Noster is the mayor of Praldosta. He’s a good person who’s simply trying to fix that place. If you need anything, go and see him—if you can. Just do not mention you are there on Trident Guard business. Remember, you are working of your own accord.” The wooden chair groaned in relief as he stood. “The one in charge of the quarry and mine is a dwarf called Godrin Balk. A red-haired little shit that seems to have taken advantage of his station. There is a chance he may be unaware of the slave trade going on under his nose... but I somehow doubt that.”
Telerek stood from his seat. “You have a deal, Highwarden. We’ll leave promptly this afternoon.”
“Good, good,” Blacktide clapped enthusiastically. The other strangers gathered around the table nodded, and a sense of relief washed over the room.
“You mentioned deep pockets...” Magnar said, hefting his lumbering maul over his shoulder. “How deep are we talkin’?”
“One-hundred gold pieces to each of you now,” Blacktide said. “And upon your return, at least that much more. Depending on the outcome, of course.”
“Aye,” the barbarian grunted. “Seems pretty deep to me. I like it!”
The room shifted into more of a social event after that. Blacktide and his other guests mingled near the back of the room, most likely discussing the deal he made with the party. Kel’dhos would bet all of his gold that at least some of them were the investors of whom the Highwarden spoke.
Kel’dhos and the others awkwardly waited near the door they had entered from. After a few minutes, Blacktide and his First Warden Melfaron approached.
The First Warden was tall for a human woman. Her blonde hair in a bun and her blue eyes pierced right through Kel’dhos. She and the Highwarden wore the same uniform: black trousers and tunic beneath a black peacoat. The First Warden’s coat was adorned with a silver trident at her left breast, while the Highwarden’s bore a large, golden kraken with its tentacles woven around a silver trident.
“Alright,” began the Highwarden. “Our deal is sealed.”
First Warden Melfaron handed each of them a small pouch of gold coins as Blacktide continued.
“Your initial payment has been made. Now, good luck with your venture, and we hope to see you soon.”
Kel’dhos and the others shook the Highwarden’s hand. When Beltayne, the last to do so, the Highwarden took special interest.
“Beltayne, was it?” Blacktide asked. “Tell me, are you from the Sea of Obsidian Ice?”
“I am!” exclaimed the paladin. “A Knight of the Frost Queen, at your service!”
“Ha!” Blacktide clapped Beltayne on the shoulder. “A fine knight indeed, Beltayne of the Winter Court! Though, do tell me of your home. I have always been fascinated by people who choose to dwell in a frozen hellscape such as the Obsidian Ice.”
“I would love to tell you about my home, good sir!” Beltayne said. “But there is something I would like in return.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I will tell you everything you wish to know of the Winter Court if you can best me in a duel!”
Blacktide reared his head back and laughed, holding his protruding belly as if he were cradling a babe. “My dear, Beltayne. I would love that. You have a deal. Though, I will wait until you and your companions return from your task. So, let’s say it’s a three-part deal. You complete the mission, then we’ll duel, then you’ll tell me of the Obsidian Ice.”
“Ho! You assume to be the victor already?” Beltayne said.
“Let’s just say I am very, very confident, young snow elf.” Blacktide patted Beltayne on the shoulder once more and pushed the paladin towards Kel’dhos and the door.
Hmm... I wonder...
“Excuse me, Highwarden Blacktide,” Kel’dhos said, raising a hand toward the plump man, who turned to face him.
“Aye?”
“Would you happen to know anything about a few Heralds of Sioch that passed through the port here in Ridgeton?”
“Mmm, paladins of Sioch, huh...” mused Blacktide, rubbing his massive black beard. “We got a lot of holy folk that come through here, cleric. When was this?”
“About a month ago, I believe. My father, a cleric of Sioch, left the Sepulcher Hills with them many months ago. I tracked them down to the port here in Ridgeton, where they boarded a ship called the Sea Siren. It’s set to return in two weeks or so,” explained Kel’dhos.
“I am sorry,” Blacktide said. “That does not ring any bells, but I will look into it for you. We’ll talk again once you return.”
“Thank you, kind sir,” Kel’dhos bowed his head and whispered a quick prayer to the God of Peace, before turning and following his companions out of the room.
“Good luck, Misfit Six!” shouted the Highwarden from behind.
“We really need to come up with a name for ourselves,” Magnus muttered, shaking his head. “I am not going down in Guild history as being the fuckin’ Misfit Six.”
***
The sun morphed from golden splendor to an orange glow as it sank below the silhouetted treetops of the Tiuv Forest in the west. Kel’dhos and the others hobbled along the main road north from Ridgeton. Their horses—loaned to them from Highwarden Blacktide—weren’t exactly high quality, but they fared better than the alternative.
The road was busier than Kel’dhos had imagined it would be at this time of day. Most people avoided traveling at dusk or after dark for fear of bandits. Nonetheless, many wagons and horses came and went, most of which were heading south to Ridgeton. Traders, merchants, mercenaries—the latter avoided eye contact and shied away when approaching the Misfit Six, as Blacktide coined.
I guess we look just mad enough to be left alone, thought Kel’dhos with a half-hearted smile.
“Are we almost there?” grumbled Magnar, head tilted upward to the sky. He groaned even louder when Telerek let him know Praldosta was still a full day away.
“Calm yourself, brother,” Magnus said, his hand rummaging deep in his satchel. “Cerulean Cove is our next stop. Look, you can see the outline of the buildings now.” Magnus pointed ahead toward the coastline.
Sure enough, Kel’dhos spotted a few dingy buildings through squinted eyes.
Beltayne pulled out a parchment and unfurled it, holding it up in front of his face. The snow elf had earnestly taken to drawing maps with great enthusiasm, so naturally he had been documenting every landmark and road on their brief journey. “Aye. Looks like a few more miles before we reach Cerulean Cove.”
It wasn’t long before the gang rolled leisurely into the quaint town. There were no city wall or towers standing guard on the outskirts; only the rough main road lined with aging wooden buildings. A cropping of small houses sat off the northwest just beyond the road.
“Well, this seems quite lovely,” Kel’dhos said. “Much quieter than Ridgeton, I must say.”
“I’m tired and hungry,” Magnar grumbled. He pointed to a tall abode in the center of town. “There. That has to be an inn.” He spurred his poor horse forward with the rest of the group in tow.
A large sign was plastered to the side of the building: ‘The Bayview Inn.’ Magnar was already dismounted and shoving open the front door. Magnus scampered in after him, most assuredly hurrying to keep his brother in line.
The tavern was peaceful for Kel’dhos. A singing bard sat in the corner on a low-rise stage, plucking away at her bronze harp. Smoke lingered in the air, filling his nose with a strong tobacco smell. A group of human men sat at a nearby table, blowing smoke from their pipes.
Magnar and Magnus were already at the front desk, speaking with an older, gaunt-looking human woman. She flipped her curly grey hair over her shoulder and smiled at the two dwarven brothers.
“How can I help you fine gentlemen?” she asked. Her voice was a crackling rasp, but Kel’dhos felt a mother’s love behind her words.
“Room and board!” Magnar said, rubbing his hands together. “We’ve been on the road all evening, and I’m famished.”
“Absolutely, Master Dwarf!” She smiled at the brothers, gesturing into the den. “Take a seat anywhere you’d like, and I’ll get some food right out. The name’s Martha, by the way. Just holler for me if you need anything else!”
Magnar thanked the woman and stomped into the seating area, falling into a chair with a heavy sigh. Magnus, Kel’dhos and the others followed, settling around the table the barbarian commandeered.
“We’ll eat and then get some rest,” hissed Telerek. “We need to be on the road early on the morrow.”
Magnar waved his hand at the rogue. “Yeah, yeah. I can’t think about tomorrow until I’ve eaten.”
Kel’dhos set his mace and shield down against his chair and yawned. Leaning back, he took a moment and eyed each of his companions: Magnar and Magnus filled their mouths with the hot food Martha brought out, she even stuck around to talk with the brothers; Beltayne whispered to his sword as usual; Telerek and Val turned their attention to the performing bard, singing a familiar tune.
Could it be? Kel’dhos rose from his chair and drifted toward the young woman plucking the strings of her harp. A soft, haunting tune filled Kel’dhos’ ears. He knew it well. ‘Cairn Hills’ it was called. A song that was played often in the Sepulcher Hills. A lamenting melody that evoked mourning and reflection. The woman’s voice was exquisite, pure. Kel’dhos was enthralled, and before he knew it, the song ended.
“Do you know the song?” asked the woman, smiling at Kel’dhos.
“Indeed,” he replied. “The Sepulcher is my home. I watched over the cairns in the hills for many, many years.”
“Oi! I’m from the Sepulcher Hills too!” she exclaimed. “Just passed through there not but a few days ago. I’m heading south along the coast.” She patted her harp. “She’s not going to play herself—maybe if I were a wizard—and my pockets are getting light. I’m Jaina, by the way.”
Kel’dhos chuckled. “Kel’dhos, a cleric of Sioch. And I understand. I definitely miss home.”
“Oof, don’t say that, Kel’dhos. There are much better things in the world outside the Sepulcher. Enjoy life beyond the cairns.”
“I am trying.” Kel’dhos cocked his head. The woman was human, Kel’dhos guessed around his age, maybe a bit younger, and her blonde hair hung low below her shoulders, her green eyes inquisitive. Freckles dotted her cheeks, and she couldn’t have been much taller than Magnus.
Hmm... she’s beautiful, thought Kel’dhos. Nope, no. Absolutely not.
“Say...” Kel’dhos began, stammering. “You, uh... said you came from the north, right?”
“Aye! Passed through Praldosta this morning, in fact.”
“Oh,” Kel’dhos said. “We’re, uh, headed that way actually. There’s some work up there for us.”
Jaina eyed him with amusement. “What work? You lot look more like a mercenary outfit than miners.”
“Oh, well, uh...” Kel’dhos stumbled over his words. “The Tri—”
A hard clap on his shoulder interrupted Kel’dhos. Magnus appeared beside him, stepping up to join the conversation.
“We just so happen to be heading up to Praldosta for some guard duty. We may end up taking on some work at the mines. Us dwarves tend to be good at that sort of thing,” the dwarf wizard spouted off, saving Kel’dhos from giving away too much information.
Not even a day into our journey and I almost mentioned the Trident Guard, Kel’dhos thought to himself, sighing. I am not good at being secretive...
Beltayne popped up on Kel’dhos’ other side. “Greetings, my lady. That was some magnificent string work. Beautiful tune… beautiful.”
“I appreciate it, kind sir,” she replied. “I was just speaking with Kel’dhos here about my travels and our shared home.”
“Ohhh,” Magnus said, elbowing Kel’dhos in the side. “Heh. Nice, very nice. Well, I hope he wasn’t boring you with our current venture. Boring is exactly what it is. Just a bunch of weary travelers looking for work is all.”
“Well, all I know is there were a bunch of people up in Praldosta talking about strange noises coming from deep within the mines. They looked to be miners themselves, so they seemed a reliable source, but who really knows,” explained Jaina.
Magnus, Kel’dhos and Beltayne exchanged a knowing glance. They all understood what that news could mean.
“Oh, and if you’re heading that way,” Jaina said, grabbing Kel’dhos’ arm. She blushed and promptly let go. “Oops, sorry... Uh, you could, I mean should look for the Hopewell Inn or Oldstone Tavern. I played at both spots in Praldosta, and they were much nicer than any of the other taverns up there.”
Kel’dhos felt his face flushing; his neck grew hot. He couldn’t help but smile at the beautiful woman. “Thanks, Jaina. We’ll, uh, definitely keep that in mind.”
Jayna looked Kel’dhos in the eyes and gave him a faint smile, cheeks still red. “Well, I’m through for the night. I’m gonna head to my room. Night!”
With that, the short bard grabbed her harp and stumbled her way to the stairs at the back of the den and clambered out of sight.
“Wow,” Magnus said, laughing. “Absolutely wow. You’re clueless aren’t you, Kel’dhos?”
“Huh?”
“She liked you, you dolt.”
“Oh, no,” Kel’dhos said, shaking his head, still feeling embarrassed. “I highly doubt that.” He feigned a yawn and meandered to his seat. “Anyway... I’m off to bed. We need to get our rest before tomorrow’s journey.”
“Right, right.” Magnus downed the pint of beer he was holding and grinned.
“What are we doing? Where the hells are we?”
Kel’dhos turned to see Val standing in the center of the room looking bewildered. It appeared she had just woken up from a long nap, and looked unequivocally confused.
“Val... What is wrong with you?” asked Telerek.
“Oh,” she began. “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me, cousin.”
“I really wish that were true, Val. I really do.” Telerek sighed and ushered his cousin to the stairs.
Loud snoring ripped through the calm air of the tavern, alarming Kel’dhos, Magnus and Beltayne. Magnar was leaning back in his chair, feet propped up on the table, with a plate of half-eaten food resting on his chest. His mouth hung open with chewed food, greeting them with each ungodly snore.
“Alright then,” Magnus said, running a hand through his beard. “Come on brother, time to go find us a couple beds.”
The wizard nudged his brother, who shot up from his seat, plate clanging to the floor, food flying. “Where are the goblins?!” Magnar mimed holding his war maul, rearing up to swing at some unseen being.
“Relax, Magnar. Grab your stuff and let’s go get some sleep.”
The barbarian glanced around sheepishly, then picked up his maul. He apologized to Kel’dhos and Beltayne, then followed his brother up the stairs.
Kel’dhos looked at his snowy friend, who’d just finished whispering to his blasted sword. “I don’t think I will ever get used to any of you. This is undoubtedly the weirdest time of my life... but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
“Same, Small-Ears, same,” said Beltayne, grinning as he felt his own ‘normal-sized’ elf ears.
The two remaining elves gathered their things and dawdled to their rooms within the peaceful, quaint Bayview Inn.
End of Chapter