Several polite inquiries about his health and that of his family followed, which Paithan answered and returned in kind.
“What are you carrying?” asked Gregor, downing a mug in one long swallow. Belching in satisfaction, he passed his mug to the farmer for a refill.
“Toys,” said Paithan, with a grin.
Appreciative laughter and knowing winks.
“You’ll be taking them up norinth, then,” said a human, who had been introduced as Hamish.
“Why, yes,” said Paithan. “How did you know?”
“They’ve a need for ‘toys’ up that way, so we hear,” said Hamish. The laughter died, and there was gloomy nodding among the humans. The elven traders, looking perplexed, demanded to know what was amiss.
“War with the SeaKings?” guessed Paithan, handing over his empty mug. This news would make Calandra’s day. He would have to send a faultless back with it. If anything could put his sister in a good mood, it would be war among the humans. He could almost see her counting the profits now.
“Naw,” said Gregor. “The SeaKings has got their own problems, if what we hear be true. Strange humans, coming across the Whispering Sea in crude ships, have been washing up on the SeaKings’ shores. At first, the SeaKings took in the refugees, but more and more kept coming and now they are finding it difficult to feed and house so many.”
“They can keep ’em,” said another human trader. “We’ve enough problems of our own in Thillia, without taking in strangers.”
The elven traders smiled, listening with the smug complacency of those who are completely unaffected, except as it might concern their business. An influx of more humans into the region could only send profits soaring.
“But … where are these humans coming from?” asked Paithan. There was heated discussion among the traders, the argument at last being settled by Gregor stating, “I know. I have talked to them myself. They say they are from a realm known as Kasnar, that is far norinth of us, across the Whispering Sea.”
“Why are they fleeing their homeland? Are there great wars being fought there?” Paithan was wondering how difficult it would be to hire a ship to take him and a load of weapons that far.
Gregor shook his head, his red beard brushing against his massive chest. “Not war,” he said in grave tones. “Destruction. Total destruction.” Doom, death, and destruction.
Paithan felt footsteps crossing his grave, his blood tingled in his feet and hands. It must be the vingin, he told himself, and set his mug down hastily.
“What is it, then? Dragons? I can’t believe that. Since when have dragons attacked a settlement?”
“No, even the dragons flee this menace.”
“Then, what?”
Gregor looked around solemnly. “Tytans.”
Paithan and the other elves gaped, then burst out laughing.
“Gregor, you old liar! You had me going there for a while!” Paithan wiped tears from his eyes. “I’ll buy the next round. Refugees and wrecked ships!” The humans sat silent, their faces growing dark and shadowed. Paithan saw them exchange grim glances and checked his mirth.
“Come now, Gregor, a joke’s a joke. You caught me. I’ll admit I was already counting up the coins.” He waved his hand toward his compatriots. “We all were. So enough already.”
“It is no joke, I am afraid, my friends,” said Gregor. “I have talked to these people. I have seen the terror on their faces and heard it in their voices. Gigantic creatures with the bodies and faces of our kind, but who stand taller than the trees came to their land from far norinth. Their voices alone can split rock. They destroy all in their path. They snatch up people in their hands and fling them to their deaths or crush them with their fists. There is no weapon that can stop them. Arrows are to them like gnats to us. Swords will not penetrate their thick hide, nor would blades do any damage, if they did.” The weight of Gregor’s words oppressed everyone. All listened in hushed and attentive silence, though there was still some unbelieving shaking of heads. Other caravanners, noting the solemn gathering, came up to see what was going on and added their own dire rumors to those already spreading.
“The Kasnar Empire was great,” said Gregor. “Now it is gone. Completely destroyed. All that is left of a once mighty nation are a handful of people who escaped in their boats across the Whispering Sea.” The farmer, noting his sales dropping off, tapped a fresh barrel. Everyone rose to refill their mugs, and began talking at once.
“Tytans? The followers of San? That’s only myth.”
“Don’t speak sacrilege, Paithan. If you believe in the MOO Mother[19] you must believe in San and his followers, who rule the Dark.”
“Yeah, Umbar, we all know how religious you are! If you walked into one of the Mother’s temples it’d probably fall down on top of you! Look, Gregor. You’re a sensible man. You don’t believe in goblins and ghoulies.”
“No, but I believe in what I see and hear. And I’ve seen, in the eyes of those people, terrible things.”
Paithan gazed steadily at the man. He’d known Gregor a number of years and had always found the big human reliable, dependable, and fearless. “All right. I’ll buy the notion that these people fled something. But why are we all in a dither? Whatever it is couldn’t possibly cross the Whispering Sea.”
“The tytans—”
“Whatever—”
“—could come down through the dwarven kingdoms of Grish and Klag and Thurn,” continued Gregor gloomily, “fn fact, we have heard rumors that the dwarves are preparing for war.”
“Yeah. War against you, not giant demons. That’s why your lords slapped on that arms embargo.”
Gregor shrugged his shoulders, nearly bursting the seams on his tight-fitting shirt, and then grinned, his red-bearded face seeming to split wide apart.
“Whatever happens, Paithan, you elves won’t have to worry. We humans will stop them. Our legends say that the Horned God constantly tests us, by sending warriors worthy of us to fight. Perhaps, in this battle, the Five Lost Lords will return to help us.”
He started to drink, looked disappointed, and upended his mug. It was empty.
“More vingin!”
The elven fanner turned the spigot, nothing came out. He knocked on the barrels. All gave forth a dismal, hollow sound. Sighing, the caravanners stood and stretched.
“Paithan, my friend,” said Gregor. “There’s the tavern near (he ferry landing. It’s packed, just now, but I think I could get us a table.” The big human flexed his muscles and laughed.
“Sure,” agreed Paithan readily. His overseer was a good man, the slaves were exhausted. He didn’t expect any trouble. “You find us a place to sit, and I’ll buy the first two rounds.”
“Fair enough.”
The two, swaying slightly, threw their arms around each Other—Gregor’s arm nearly engulfing the slender elf—and tottered off toward the Land’s End.
“Say, Gregor, you get around a lot,” said Paithan. “Ever hear of a human wizard name of Zifnab?”
10
Paithan and his caravan were able to cross over on the ferry the following cycle. The crossing took an entire cycle, and the elf did not enjoy the trip, due to the fact that he was suffering from the after-effects of vingin. Elves are notoriously bad drinkers, having no head at all for alcohol, and Paithan knew at the time he shouldn’t be attempting to keep pace with Gregor. But he reminded himself that he was celebrating—no Calandra to glare at him sternly for taking a second glass of wine with dinner. The vingin also conveniently fogged up Paithan’s remembrance of the daft old wizard, his stupid prophecy, and Gregor’s gloomy stories about giants. The constant clatter of the turning capstan, the snorting and squeals of the five harnessed wild boar who drove it, and the constant urgings of their human driver blasted through the elf’s head. The guck-covered, slimy vine cable that drew the ferry over the water slid past him and disappeared, winding around the capstan. Leaning up against a bundle of blankets in the shade of an awning, a wet compress over his aching head, Paithan watched the water slip away beneath the boat and felt extremely sorry for himself. The ferry had been operating across the Kithni Gulf for about sixty years. Paithan could remember seeing it as a small child, traveling in company with his grandfather—the last journey the two’d made before the old elf vanished into the wilderness. Then Paithan had thought the ferryboat the most wonderful invention in the world and had been extremely upset to find out that humans had been responsible for inventing it.
19
Peytin, Matriarch of Heaven. The elves believe that Peytin created a world for her mortal children. She appointed her eldest twin sons, Om and Obi, to rule over it. Their younger brother, San, become jealous and, gathering together the greedy, warlike humans, waged war against his brothers. This war sundered the ancient world. San was banished below. The humans were cast out of the ancient world and sent to this one. Peytin created a race known as elf and sent them to restore the world’s purity.