The Staff of Naught (38 page)

“Could they have been at the White Marble? If this is just one group then there must have been a bunch there. Then Seymour couldn’t have…,” said Lousa her train of thought jumped quickly to the point.

“They’re still there,” said Ariana as she suddenly appeared like a ghostly presence next to them. She wore a simple white shift that fluttered in the breeze giving her an even more spirit like appearance and her short was hair was loose and fluttered all around her head. “We can go now, travel the rest of the night, and catch them in the morning!”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” said Lousa. “The wagon … oh,” suddenly remembering that their speed was no longer inhibited to the slow wagon and the donkeys. “It’s dark, we could fall into a ravine,” she finally said although with the clear sky and the sliver of moon it was actually a fairly bright night.

Ariana just looked at her and then dashed over to the sleeping Humbort and began to shake him awake. “C’mon Humbort, we’re going right now. We can catch them!”

Lousa could see the gleam in the girl’s eye even from this distance. “Shamki, let’s talk to the hobgoblins and see if they are coming from the ruin and how far ahead it is.”

 The big half-orc nodded his head and walked forward towards the noisy caravan while he pulled out a small stone that instantly illuminated brightly, “Hail, travelers, hail,” he shouted loudly as Lousa walked along behind him.

The caravan of wagons, there were actually three of them with a dozen hobgoblins on each, some of dressed with strange multicolored hats that flapped wildly in the breeze but likely pinned to their hair to keep them from flying off, stopped their own shouts and called out to the duo in a rough language that Lousa only partially understood. Shamki seemed to understand it well enough and shouted something back to them. Soon enough they stood around the wagon and spoke with a short hobgoblin with a particularly colorful hat that seemed almost as tall as the creature itself.

“Where are you coming from so early in the morning,” she asked him and waited for Shamki to offer a translation. It was the longest sentence she ever heard from the stout warrior’s mouth and she could tell by the sour expression on his face that he loathed speaking so much. “I wonder what caused him to be such a quiet sort,” she wondered and not for the last time.

“Small Crescent Moon,” ceremony said Shamki back to her a moment later although she did understand the word moon in the original reply.

“Ask him how long a journey back to the site of the ceremony and if it’s the White Marble ruin,” she told Shamki.

A few moments more of translation, reply, and retranslation ensued but it quickly became apparent that the ceremony completed a couple of hours ago and the White Marble ruin stood very close by indeed.

By now the rest of the group stood next to Lousa and Ariana glared at the woman through narrowed eyes when they learned the nearness of the ruin.

“There is no way we could have known how long it was going to take us to get there Ara,” she said in reply to the look. “We had to stop for the night and you know it so don’t give me that look,” she continued and raised her eyebrows to glare back at the girl.

“Humph,” said Ariana. “Bend down Humbort horse,” she ordered to the man who complied immediately.

“He’s not a horse,” said Lousa, “and you should walk part of the way yourself”.

Ariana turned her head to look the other way and dug her heels into Humbort’s side.

“Ow,” said Humbort and began to prance forward in an imitation of a horses canter.

“Don’t get too far ahead Humbort,” called Lousa after them into the night. “We still have to saddle up the horses and Seymour can’t complete that ceremony until morning in any case.”

With that she rushed back to their campsite and began to get her horse ready for the short journey.

Two hours later the sun started rise on the eastern horizon and Oliver, sat with his knees folded and his back straight, and noted it without actually opening his eyes. Seymour was already up and gathered many of his religious accouterments around him in preparation for the morning’s ceremony. He glanced occasionally at Oliver but did not disturb the morning meditation the orc performed although the temptation to do so clearly manifested itself in his fingers as they tapped on his side and frequency of the glances.

The sun rose another few degrees in the sky before Oliver opened his eyes, rose to his feet, and moved over to his horse.

“All finished with your meditation?” asked Seymour in a voice that dripped of impatience as his fingers continued to beat out a drumbeat on his leg.

Oliver nodded.

“Those vile hobgoblins left last night and so we should have no problem completing the ceremony but we should hurry. Those foolish Dorians will probably spot the heathens leaving and head out first thing. We only have a couple of hours.”

Oliver made a short motion with his head towards the apex of the hill where small figures worked to pull down tents and banners.

“Damn,” said Seymour as he followed the gaze of the paladin. “How many of them?”

“Ten, no more than that,” said Oliver his hand moved to the sword at his side.

“We’ll have to kill them,” said Seymour. “They won’t leave us in peace to finish off the staff.” The Priest of Ras then reached down and pulled out the Icon of Ras from its place beneath his heavy robes. “Let’s do this as quickly and cleanly as possible. I don’t want to use power from the Icon of Ras. I need to save energy for the destruction of the staff. Can you take all of them yourself?”

Oliver pursed his lips, “It’s difficult to say. If they are just workers cleaning up the site then it will be easy but if they have guards and magic using priests then it is not such a simple task.”

“Perhaps you could find it in your heart to give me a straight answer just one time, can you do it without my help or can’t you?” said the Priest his eyes blazed although the fingers at his side continued their relentless drumming. “I must seek the guidance of Ras before I start the ceremony.”

“I can manage,” said Oliver his eyes neutral and his face as impassive as ever.

“Good,” said Seymour. “You go up the main trail and kill them all and I’ll come up the other side and start my preparations as soon as you make your attack.”

Oliver began to brush the horse and put on its reigns but Seymour stopped him with an angry word, “Forget the damn horse,” he said. “I know you love that animal but I hope you value my patronage and my friendship more than a simple beast. Dovestar has a dozen brothers, sisters, nephews, and nieces at the Royal Stable and you can have your pick of them if anything happens to the horse. It is merely a gelding after all.”

Oliver nodded his head and immediately stopped his work and headed towards the path that lead up the hill while Seymour walked at a quick pace around a group of bushes and disappeared into the morning light.

It took the paladin of Ras about ten minutes to reach the bend in the hill where he saw half a dozen hobgoblins, tall creature with swarthy skin and thick facial hair, as they clambered along the crossbeam of a tent frame and pounded at it with hammers and other tools. He was able to walk up almost directly behind one of the workers who stood on the ground at the base of the structure and yelled instructions to those higher up. Oliver drew his sword and made a coughing sound. The hobgoblin on the ground turned, his eyes opened hugely wide in astonishment, and he dropped the parchment in his hand to the ground where it fluttered for a moment but then came to rest.

Oliver made a motion with his head as if to dismiss the creature, which took only a moment to make a decision, and began to sprint down the steep slope of the hill away from the orc warrior. It took a few seconds more for the other workers to realize what just happened, drop or climb down from the heights, and likewise scatter. None of them carried any weapons and there were apparently no guards left at the site. Within thirty seconds of his appearance he was alone at the top of the monument.

It took another five minutes for Seymour to arrive, slightly out of breath, and the High Priest of Tarlton looked around at the empty plateau for a moment as his head darted back and forth before he spoke, “You didn’t slay them?”

“They had no warriors, just workers, they fled,” replied Oliver with a shrug of his shoulders and then pointed to an isolated platform of shining White Marble where a dais that seemed to glow in the morning light stood.

“Excellent,” said Seymour and walked over to it while he pulled the satchel from his back and laid it on the dais with a casual motion. He then began to unpack other items with a great deal more care and place them carefully about the satchel.

Oliver walked up to the apex of the hill, a rocky point to his left that overlooked the valley below and scanned the horizon to the east. The fleeing hobgoblins scrambled down the hillside in all directions and their shouts and cries made it back up to him as the little mouse scratches inside a wall might alert the cat who ruled the house.

He saw the horses that approached at speed but overlooked them for a few minutes because his thoughts were on the wagon, but as they got closer it was clear that one of the horses carried itself with the carriage of a Royal Steed while the other was some common nag of the region. The dim light of the morning made things more difficult as well and it was long minutes more before he recognized Sutekha’s old steed now ridden by the green haired woman and possibly one of the children. Shamki and his horse led the way and last was a man who walked that turned out to be Humbort with another of the children on his shoulders. The closer they approached the more certain he was of their identity and he cast an occasional glance towards the White Marble Dais and Seymour busily at work around it. He waited for a few more long minutes as the horsemen and walker slowly approached but then climbed down from the peak and walked over to where Seymour continued his activity unabated.

It took the High Priest of Ras more time to notice the presence of Oliver and even when he did, he barely glanced up as he placed glowing icons all around the Staff of Naught now exposed to the direct morning sun and ringed by strange symbols painted onto the White Marble. “What is it?” said the high priest as he finally paused in his work with sweat on his brow. “This is particularly fine work and requires all my attention. Your hovering is not helping matters.”

“They approach,” said Oliver and pointed to the base of the hill.

Seymour shook his head in agitation. “Hold them off until I complete the ceremony then. Do I need to explain everything to you?”

“I understand,” said Seymour and slipped his unadorned sword from the loop that served as a scabbard. “Good luck.”

Seymour resumed his work and did not look back.

Oliver walked down the hillside and arrived at the base of the trail at about the same time as Lousa, Unerus, Shamki, Humbort, and Ariana.

“Oliver,” said Lousa as she dismounted from her horse and walked to within ten feet of the man. “We don’t blame you for what happened.”

The paladin merely stared at her and brandished his sword.

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” the woman continued her green eyes seemingly changed from light to dark green like fast clouds that passed in front of the sun on windy day. “But, Shalalee has to be answered for,” she concluded.

“It is always this way,” said Oliver and he spoke in an accented Dorian that he apparently knew all along. “I have no wish to harm the children but if you choose to go up that hillside and interfere with the Chosen One of Ras he will kill you all. Stay here, wait for him to complete the ceremony and then we will settle this among the adults.”

“No,” screamed Ariana as she climbed down from Humbort’s shoulders, shook her finger at the warrior, and ran at him. Humbort reached forward his long arms covered the gap in an instant and grabbed the girl by the collar to pull her back. “Let me go,” she shrieked, flailed her arms and legs wildly, but was unable to pull loose from the firm grip.

Shamki came forward his own sword drawn, held in his unbroken left hand, and made a feint towards the paladin who flicked out his own long blade in reply. The warrior of Tarlton looked at Shamki, his blade in the left hand, and with a quick move paralleled the half-orc. “I do not wish this to be an unfair fight,” he said with a little bow of his head. In this battle the half-orc warrior only moved forward when Oliver retreated, stayed well away from the quick blade of his foe, and never made an aggressive strike.

Lousa raised her hand and uttered a few magical words but the fiery darts that came out of her fingers seemed to burst into little flames as they got near the paladin and caused him no discomfort. Unerus drew his own little blade and started forward but Humbort grabbed him as quickly as he had Ariana and pulled the boy back. Ariana used the moment to tear loose from the gangly man and sprinted around where Shamki and Oliver probed each other’s defenses and up the hill.

“Ariana,” shouted Lousa as she spotted the movement as she prepared another spell. The beautiful woman stopped immediately and went after the girl.

Oliver looked over his shoulder and Shamki made a quick lunge that forced the paladin to dodge to the right to avoid the blow. Rather than follow up and press the attack the half-orc took a step backwards and raised his sword in defensive position.

Oliver nodded his head and smiled at the half-orc, “You have learned a valuable lesson,” but he spoke in his native tongue and without Sutekha’s spell craft the words meant nothing to Shamki; however, he gathered their intent without any trouble whatsoever. He nodded his own head in return and then took another step backwards and away from the blade of the paladin.

Oliver stood silently for a moment, surveyed his foe, then began to move forward in the attack with aggressive blows aimed towards Shamki’s sword arm, and forced the half-orc to slowly back away in a circular motion each time to the right of Oliver. The two continued their slow dance for several minutes as Oliver moved in a more and more aggressive fashion that forced Shamki back in increasingly sharp movements. Shamki’s breath came loud and fast and Oliver’s brow showed beads of sweat even in the cool air of the morning.