Tug
Mugwart and the Book of Power
by Emil Donatello III
Emil Donatello III
Copyright 2012 by Emil Donatello III
Smashwords Edition
CHAPTER ONE: THE TIMMREN’S QUEST
“The chosen one,” he laughed to himself, breathing deeply. The bearer of the sacred marks of Elkimar; what good is that all now? He could smell death coming as much as he could the unclean scourge beating on the crumbling walls. Goblin blood dripped from the ancient dark blade Tug held firmly within his small, dirt covered hand. The old sword seemed to crave the warm liquid, absorbing it into its shining blue gray metal. He wielded the ancient blade of the nesfaratu king, taken from its undead vampiric master. Tug had stolen the sword from its lord months before while wandering lost within the underground tombs beneath the twisted dead trees of Blackmore forest. That and the lord’s secret ring. He shuddered, remembering the pale blue glowing eyes of the creature he had stumbled upon within those ancient tombs, and dreaded the evil he had unwittingly let loose upon the world. But that was then and this was now. The Timmren collapsed to the wet granite floor of the ancient moss covered castle. His hands were shaking, his body ached from battle, and his soul felt heavy. He could hear the frantic calls coming from the injured warriors as they cried out for help from the walls of the besieged castle. Their armor was splintered and torn from the fowl beast and agents of the dark lord. He could also hear the insane screams of the Fron Giants from the plan of Gethana below as they approached the castle beating their giant drums of war. Their massive bodies, covered in tribal tattoos, digging pits filled with wood to feast upon the fallen. Tug could smell, drifting over the castle’s ancient walls before him, the stench of burning Goblin hair that rose from the blood stained fields of battle. The weary archers had almost exhausted their supply of arrows, the battered walls were crumbling, and Tug knew it was only a matter of time before the castle would fall. “The chosen one of power,” he laughed to himself again.
“What power, what magic? The prophecies were nothing more than tales,” he whispered to himself.
Exhausted and unable to stand, he crawled to a course woolen blanket in the corner and laid down on it to rest for just a little while. His brown eyes closed tightly as his mind drifted back to how this all started. How the Great War began. How he had come to know such things as battle, evil and monsters.
Tug lived just beyond Danner’s Lake in a small wooden shack that was covered by a straw thatched roof nestled within the sprawling rich green meadows of Timmren’s Falls. The little village was located just outside the vast pine forest of Beladin and west of the great white peaked mountain ranges of the east. The valley of Timmren’s Falls was inhabited by a gentle and simple race known in that region as Timmren. Men called them Wee Folk, the little people, or Tims for short. They were small in stature, and most had excellent hearing and vision, beyond those of the average man. They were a hard working race with kind hearts, having the appearance of very small men. Most wore beards but some, like Tug, were clean shaven, as was the modern way of the young folk in the community, to the chagrin of the older generation. Their origin was lost within the pages of time, but in the present day many were merchants, craftsmen, writers, and farmers by trade. They made their way in the world by trading with the Man town of Ithiwan to the near north and others like it that carried their goods to market. Local Timmren inns and stores lived off of the steady supply of travelers that stopped by their shops on their way further north, seeking work in the great lake dwellings of the fair haired humans to the North.
Timmren’s Falls was a peaceful valley of lush green pastures and small straw thatched cottages separated from the greater outside world by choice. The Timmrens themselves knew not war, plague and many of the unhappy things of the fourth earth age and stayed out of the affairs of the other races. They enjoyed their simple, rural life and wished it to stay that way, uncompromised by the evil passions that drove other races, especially the Human kingdoms, which had grown to become a great power across the lands.
Tug Mugwart blotted his white feathered quill upon the emerald parchment. His large hazel eyes studied the detailed map before him. He compared his map reproduction to the stained, roughly sketched copy he held within his small hands.
He was given the map by a Man traveler from the northern lake region that was staying at Ted Ulcom’s local Bumble Bee Inn. Tug was commissioned by the Man traveler to design a beautifully illustrated reproduction of this dirty worn map, which the man wanted to present, later that week, to his captain as a gift. Tug had added much more detail. The hills were grander, penned in a deep forest green; the tree branches seemed to rise across the parchment until absorbed in the deep blue sky above. The large arching branches, drawn so meticulously across the map, seemed to reach out and touch you. One could almost hear the soft rustling of the leaves as they seemed to come to life, stretching from the branches in shades of green. The twisting border of the map wrapped interwoven golden patterns to the edges of the parchment, framing the landscape like a glowing stained glass window, giving it a rich and lustrous texture. The intricate lettering was written in the ancient Human tongue, Celic, and was scripted in golds, greens, and hues of autumn reds and burnt orange. The letters were formed from interwoven vines and flowers of all the varieties found in the valleys of man folk.
Tug looked down at his work, admiring its beauty as he lay the dull, aging original parchment aside. “My map is, without a doubt, a most beautiful reproduction,” he thought to himself. It would fetch a nice bit of coin from the human traveler. At least enough to buy a fresh bag of apple tobacco at Gutterman’s market next week or few sets of new quills.
He looked around the room noticing how plain the pine walls were. His home was a modest dwelling even for a Timmren. The weathered wood cottage of only three rooms plus the outhouse was indeed small but cozy. It consisted of a large pine board living room, a kitchen with a worn apple wood cupboard, and a very small bedroom that held his tiny chestnut wood bed. There was just enough room for a small square oak desk, a round oak table, and a few chairs that sometimes were occupied by hungry guests.
The old roof was woven from worn bark and thatched hay, last replaced nearly ten years before. The outer walls were constructed from rough-hewn timbers bought from Gimcar’s timber house that sat on Pine Brook Lane. It sometimes leaked upon his guests, but no one seemed to mind as Tug was a great story teller. He would fetch a bucket, a cup, or some empty pot to catch the rain from the leaking roof and continue his grand stories to his friends. Tug loved to tell tales and he loved a good tale in return. He often found himself supplying sweet cakes, buttered mocha cream, or ale and tobacco to a table of rowdy friends asking for more of his made up adventures.
Tug was like most Timmren in that they love the simple pleasures of country life a good pipe, a good story, rich dark ale and sweet cakes for breakfast. These were staples throughout the small valley of Timmren’s Falls and Mr. Mugwart was no different. He lived a modest, quiet life filled with his work and the company of friends.
He was an illustrator and map maker by trade, often reproducing plain drawn maps into grand pieces of art. He illustrated books on occasion, as well, for the human clergy and all that needed his services. He was well known throughout the local towns that bordered Timmren’s falls for his artistic gift and wit of his tongue, or at least he thought so.
Tug rubbed his thick hairy knuckles that were stiff from drawing.
“Oh no! The tree is in the wrong place. Drat!” He muttered. “Drat this accursed map.” He dropped the feathered quill on the heavy parchment. The azure ink pooled into a fold of the blotting paper. He sat back in his wicker chair letting out a glorious yawn. His thoughts drifted from his work to the tales his mother had read to him as a child of great wizards, fearless knights, and immortal monsters. The very tales he now shares with his friends. Daydreaming was another habit of the little Timmren that often got him into trouble when his projects were due.
He leaned back in his chair, his large hazel eyes scanning the cluttered dusty bookshelf with a blank stare. How grand, he though, it must be to be a noble knight, or master wizard on some quest, to feel the excitement of the open road. He loved his quiet life but sometimes craved the adventure that only a backpack and his traveling boots could bring him, or at least the stories he had heard of them. The traveling backpack and boots his friend Gunther Pengertuck had bought him still sat in his small chest unused. He had lived in the small farming town of Timmren’s Falls his entire life with his friends, neighbors and family. It was a nice little town but there was very little in the way of excitement and in fact such adventuring was frowned upon. Timmrens stuck to themselves, believed in hard work and their ways; that was just the way it was.
He remembered the words of his father, rest his soul, “A life along the road was not respectful. One must pick an honest profession and stick with it. No son of mine will be a street urchin begging for his bread along the road.” Those were the words his father spoke some fourteen years before when Tug was given his backpack and traveling boots. It was a great family controversy and one that almost had Gunther thrown out of the house.
Tug’s father was a gentle farmer who believed in hard work and a clear purpose to one’s life. When Tug told him he wanted to be an artist and writer his father raised his eyebrow disapprovingly, as he always did when he was annoyed. “ Imagine a Mugwart becoming an artist,” he muttered. “We Mugwart are farmers, my boy, and farming is all we know.”
“That is not exactly true,” Tug thought to himself, remembering the unspoken uncle of the family Gogordin Mugwart. It was rumored that he left the village years before seeking adventure, never to be seen again, and the family would not speak about him after that.
Tug’s family had been farmers for generations and the news of wanting to be an artist did not go over well. But all was forgiven in the end. Later in life his father even embraced Tug’s decision once he saw he could make a living at it. Tug frowned, remembering his father’s harsh words and that raised disapproving fury eyebrow. He was a good man though, and Tug surely missed him as he did his warm mother.
His family’s talents did flow through him though and he often tended a small garden of berries, vegetables, and a little corn. But as an illustrator he would journey once a month to his clients in Ithiwan where he would sell his maps to travelers and his illustrated books to the parents of children. There was also the church of Ithicus that often hired him to scribe their holy scrolls. They were a sect of humans that followed the teachings of The God of the Wind.
He would quill his works on fine cotton woven parchment, dyed in many colors by the local merchants of Ithiwan. The inks he made himself using berries that he tended in his garden and a few other simple ingredients like corn oil, and pumpkin flour. It was a simple, honest, and good life that Tug was resolved to living as were the other Timmren in Timmren’s Falls.
Tug looked past his paper filled bookshelf, peering out a small round dirty window cut into the wall. The lazy summer’s blue sky was transformed into a large azure net, catching the white plush clouds that floated across it like the fishermen at the lake. They glided above the small thatch roofed cottages that lined the lush green valley. The rich farmlands were filled with golden wheat, colored corn, bimbal berry bushes, pumpkin vines, and all manner of vegetables. Along the borders of each farm were weathered wooden fences and posts. Within these fenced fields small Timmren farmers tended their newly forming crops as they had done for the last 200 years. With pant legs rolled up, straw hats, and small Timmren hoes they worked the deep black soil in hopes of reaping an abundant harvest come fall.
Tug pushed his chair away from the square desk, rubbing his little round belly and yawning, speaking out loud, “Time for lunch.” He muttered to himself as he searched his cluttered pantry. “What to have? What to have?”
“Bumblebee jelly on apple crisp, a sliver of pumpkin bread with daisy cream, or maybe a sweet cake dripping in warm brandy syrup?”
“None of the above, Mr. Mugwart,” he thought out loud. “Instead I will have Buttermilk cakes covered with black berry sauce.” His mouth watered at the thought as he quickly prepared his feast. He took the buttermilk cakes and warmed them atop his small potbellied stove, which was worn by years of faithful service. The warming buttermilk cakes filled the small kitchen with a sweet aroma that reminded Tug of his childhood and his mom’s cooking. His large hazel eyes sparkled as he grabbed a dark glass container, pouring its thick black purple contents into a small pan on the stove. “Black berry sauce,” he smiled, watching it form into a thick milky syrup which he poured all over the sweet steaming little cakes. “A veritable feast,” he thought to himself as he licked his lips. He carried his large stack of steaming, golden cakes to his small honey colored wooden table. Sitting down, he quickly devoured a golden buttermilk cake, savoring every bit. “How delightful,” he thought. Those poor man travelers may have adventure, but nothing as good as this. He smiled to himself. He continued to feast until the small clay plate lay empty. Not a crumb to be found.
He slowly walked across the room, finding his favorite cherry wood pipe, which was lying beneath his cluttered desk. Its smooth bowl had been worn through years of holding. He had several pipes and collected them as much he could, but this one was his favorite. It was plain with no decoration and in need of some repair, but it was a piece of home in his pocket that he carried with him on trips to the man villages. He grabbed a tobacco pouch digging deeply within the moist, thick dark plum tobacco until the pipe was filled. He stood up from his table and walked to his small roughly hewn front door. He looked out the tiny window as a beam of sunlight touched his cheek, warming it through.
He opened the door and breathed deep the warm sweet air that carried the scent of spring’s flowers. His little house sat on a hill and beneath him the valley rolled on forever it seemed. The farms lay stretched across its face like a patch worked quilt, giving off the colors of the fields, golds and greens of many shades. The rows of budding green corn lay blowing in the wind, as did the lines of golden wheat. Far in the distance the town looked active as little carts and wagons went to and fro across bumpy dirt roads carrying their wares. But the commotion of the town was far from his shaded house that sat beneath a great apple tree on top of a hill.
He sat on his rocking chair which creaked as he moved back and forth. With lit pipe in hand, he drew in the warm sweet plum smoke and blew out a beautiful white puff that circled ever wider around his head until it dissipated in the green leaves of the great apple tree that stretched above him. From his house he could see the dirt road to the south that swung around a bend covered in dogwood trees. The twisting road wound through the hills and the valley below to the little town of Timmren’s’ Falls and beyond. Far to the east the Perigon Mountains lay covered in a distant haze. To the west a grove of thick, prickly Gander bushes sprang up leading to the edge of a deep, dark pine forest. Tug rarely traveled the road to the west, but many say great kingdoms lie on its path: kingdoms of Men and Dwarves many days away.
Tug closed his eyes, feeling the warm rays of the sun across his round cheeks. The breeze caressed his brown thick curly hair as he began to drift into sleep. He could no longer stay awake under the spell of spring’s cool breeze and finally let the world of dreams envelop him. His pipe fell from his hand as he drifted off in his chair.
It was a glorious sweet nap until Tug’s startled eyes jerked open. He felt a pulling on his shirt. Groggy, he looked up to see that darkness had taken over the valley and before him stood a large black shadow. He jumped up in fright thinking that a woodland spirit was upon him or some forest animal. In front of him, silhouetted only buy the crescent moon, stood a large shadowed figure, large even for a Man, let alone a small Timmren.
“Easy friend,” spoke a deep thick voice from the shadow. “I mean you no harm.”
As Tug became fully awake he noticed two other figures behind the larger one. One figure was short and thick, the other slender and wispy.
“See here, what is the meaning of interrupting my afternoon nap?” Tug shouted.
The tall figure, observing the star lit sky, turned to Tug responding, “It doesn’t look like the afternoon to me, my little friend.”
Before Tug could respond the figure raised his large hand stopping him. “Like I said, I bid you no ill will nor did I mean to interrupt your slumber, but I have business to discuss.”
“What kind of business?” retorted Tug, still aggravated by the intrusion of the strangers at this hour.
“Pressing business, Mr. Mugwart. Pressing.”
“How do you know my name?” Tug asked.
“In due time, my little fellow. In due time.”
Before he could say another word, the tall figure ducked his head beneath the doorway and entered the little house and the two other cloaked figures followed him into Tug’s humble cottage.
Tug followed, angrily protesting this intrusion into his home by these cloaked strangers. He grabbed a small oil filled lamp and lit the wick.. The room filled with a soft golden glow, revealing the odd looking strangers before him. Tug looked at the cloaked figures, and recognized their races instantly. The one that had done all the talking was a tall Man. His features were sharp and the lines of his face deep. His hair was long and graying, as was his beard and mustache. His slate gray eyes were strong and shadowed beneath thick brows. His forehead was lined heavily, his hair dropping across his shoulders. He was dressed in common clothes covered with a gray cloak. He seemed like many a human traveler that Tug had run into in Ithiwan. But the human’s friends were two races that Tug had little contact with at this corner of the world. The thin wispy fellow had hair of gold combed forward and tight to his head, his eyes glowed a rich azure blue. But it was his pointed ears that gave away his race. “He is definitely an Elf,” thought Tug. He had read of this race in many books that he had come across while in the Man towns. They were a race known for their prowess with the bow, love of all things natural, and for keeping to themselves.
The other stocky stranger struck fear within Tug. He was thick with massive shoulders and arms, which protruded from beneath his cloak. He was shorter then the others but still taller then Tug. His black, fierce eyes seemed brooding and dark. They lay separated by a wide, scarred face and furrowed heavy eyebrows. His nose was bulbous and round. His hair was raven black and his beard and mustache grew thick and tangled. He was of the race of the mountain cave dwellers, the Dwarf. He had heard that their kind was sought for their prowess of metallurgy and craftsmanship.
Many of the Dwarves were miners in the northwestern mountains where the Dwarf kingdoms flourished.
From what Tug had read, the Elves, on the other hand, hailed far to the southwest and prospered at trade.
Tug’s heart was beating fast as he looked at this strange cast of characters that now sat before him. Their kind rarely came to Timmren’s Falls and Tug wondered what could bring them so far from home.
“Let me introduce myself,” said the human, “I am Alkabar and these are my companions, Ilem and Bongor.”
The one he called Ilem was the Elven fellow. The thin, pale creature looked toward Tug and smiled at the shivering Timmren. His blue eyes glowed against his fair skin like two sapphires set in snow.
The Dwarf named Bongor pulled his thick black hair from his hood stretching it down the center of his muscled back. He stroked the dirt of the road from his wild beard and mustache, which fell almost to his waist. He shook his head toward the Timmren with little trace of a smile, nor general manner of civility. His black eyes were piercing as if he saw through Tug and was looking at a distant object or place on the other side of him. His eyes were filled with sorrow and anger that Tug did not yet understand.
Tug nervously introduced himself extending his hand as he stood up from his chair. “You, sir, seem to know my name already but I will formally introduce myself. I am Tug Mugwart, illustrator of books and map maker extraordinaire.” The Timmren smiled slightly as the three nodded their heads in recognition. “Now, formality aside, what brings you to my little cottage at this hour Mr…?”
Alkabar looked at the far wall, which was covered in maps and illustrations. “That is what has brought me, Mr. Mugwart. We were given your name by the innkeeper in Ithiwan. He said you were a maker of maps and illustrator possessing a rare talent.”
Tug’s nerves were eased a little knowing this was a visit for business rather then thievery or worse.
“I am not a “maker” of maps per se. I illustrate them using grand lettering and all manner of the best inks and parchments, producing pieces of exquisite art.” Tug rubbed his chin as if pleased with himself at his rare display of haughtiness. “You have come to have a map copied or perhaps a book illustrated? That will cost six silver pieces for most work, but I will have five pieces before I even look at the original,” he grinned while stroking his quills.
Alkabar looked at the little fellow with some discontent. “I don’t think you understand,” he said.
Tug quickly countered, “Well, maybe I can help you for four silver pieces and five copper.” He looked at the shabby clothes of the travelers and added, “If my price is not too grand, that is.” He smiled again, this time broader.
Alkabar stroked his long gray beard as if deep in thought, his massive fingers moving through his thick gray hair. He moved closer to Tug. His large smooth hand grabbed Tug’s shoulder gently, easily covering it. Tug looked uneasily at Alkabar’s hand, swallowing a small gulp as Alkabar applied some pressure to his arm. The middle aged gentleman looked at the Timmren from under his thick brows with an air of seriousness.
“I think I can do better, friend.” said Alkabar.
Tug looked at Alkabar wondering what he meant by that, and why was this stranger addressing him with such familiarity. He would not have to wait too long for an answer.
“Suppose, just suppose,” Alkabar said, nodding toward the Timmren, “that I was to pay you one bag of gold for your services instead of your paltry five pieces of silver.”
Tug nearly fell from his stool in laughter. His large round belly bounced up and down. “A bag of gold for a map? Then I would call you crazy, sir.” He continued laughing, slapping his round belly with his small hand until he noticed the strangers were not laughing. They were merely exchanging knowing glances with one another. The Dwarf sat back in his chair letting out a sigh of annoyance as he scanned the Timmren’s messy home.
Tug asked again,” Did I hear right sir? Did you say a bag of gold?” He would not have to wait long for an answer. He again looked at their manner of dress and inwardly wondered what had really brought these strangers to his door.
Alkabar nodded his head yes in response to the little creature’s question.
A bag of gold could last a Timmren a lifetime, Tug thought. He wondered how many buttermilk cakes and plum tobacco could be bought with such money. With that money he could build a larger cottage, one with a shop attached just for making illustrations and maps. He could add a large wing onto his house and create a personal library of rare books, one of Tug’s hobbies.
The Timmren rubbed his chin while thinking of all the grand things he could buy with that amount of money. Then his thoughts came back to reality. A bag of gold was a lot of money. For that kind of money he realized he would have to do more than just illustrate a few books or draw a few maps. A look of apprehension came over his face. This look did not go unnoticed by Alkabar.
“Yes, my little friend, a bag of gold,” responded Alkabar. “You see,” he said waving his hand at the others, “we seek to hire you for a few months time or so. We have come a long way and head east. We seek a mapmaker to record the journey and the land we cross to accurately mark the land and keep an extensive journal of our travels for posterity. I also understand that you are familiar with many ancient languages from your interest in rare books.”
“You want me to map the land?” Tug asked, pausing. “But I redraw maps, I don’t create them.”
He thought to himself for a moment “Well I guess I could map the land, I mean I have seen enough maps, but I don’t journey beyond the village much, except to nearby Man villages.” He spoke while thinking to himself of the gold. Those gold glittering coins were so precious. Did he really have a need for such money? A whisper came back from deep within. Yes, yes indeed he did. He not only needed it, but craved to feel the gold between his greedy fingers. He smiled at the large man. “So, Alkabar,” he asked, “what lies to the east that you need mapped so badly? For hasn’t most of it already been traveled?”
“Most,” spoke Alkabar as he whipped the dust from his cloak. “but have you ever heard of the Gates of Akesh?”
Tug thought for a second but could come up with nothing. “No sir, I can’t say I have.”
Alkabar moved closer as if he did not want to be heard by some unseen entity. The small fire glistened off his gray eyes giving him an added air of mystery. “The Gates of Akesh are a secret pass that lies to the far north east, near the Norgon Mountain Range. Beyond the gates somewhere lays an old ruin, and within this ruin treasure of untold magnitude.”
Tug grinned keenly and said, “The only thing that lies far to the northeast are the Norgon Mountains and they are impassable. The legends say that they have peaks of solid ice that even the eagles cannot fly above. I know this area well through map and book, but have never heard of the Gates of Akesh.” Tug sat back in his small chair arrogantly crossing his arms.
Alkabar beckoned to Ilem with a sly look in his eyes and a small hand movement. The thin Elf walked over to a worn satchel and pulled out a rolled yellowing parchment. Alkabar took the ancient scroll and opened it. He unrolled the scroll across the table. It seemed to be an aged Journal of some type made of a dark parchment. Tug instantly realized that the parchment was very old and though he could not read the language he surmised it was an ancient dialect from the lettering and the writing on it was very old. It did not appear to be a forgery, but an original scroll. Tug recognized some of the sketches in the scroll as the Norgan Mountains and a drawing of a gate.
Alkabar proceeded to tell him that it was written in an ancient Elven dialect and that it described a hidden path through the Norgon Mountains leading to unimaginable treasure.
“It is a secret journal, Mr. Mugwart, one that was found quite by accident by my Elven friend here. He purchased some old documents and such from an estate sale and hidden within one of them was this scroll. This journal reveals the way to the Gates of Akesh but not beyond. It is a diary of a band of Elven thieves who long ago captured some ancient treasures of gold and silver and buried it. It tells of most of the way to this pass, but much is left out other than the description of a ruins in a distant land beyond the gate of Akesh wherein they buried there treasure. But you see these men were caught and killed, not revealing the hiding place, even under torture unto death. But now with this journal and other information I have located I believe we can find this place, but we will need you to map the way in order to record the journey of this historic quest for future generations.”
He rolled the scroll up tightly giving it back to the Elf. As quickly as he had showed the journal, he even more quickly hid it. This gate is a pass that will lead us beyond the Norgon Mountains, past the ends of the known world to a great Elven treasure.
The large man stood from the tiny chair, crouching against the small cottage ceiling. “Now time runs short and I have no more of it for you. We seek you to map our adventure beyond the Gates of Akesh and pen our story upon a scroll, for bards to sing our names in years to come, of concurring the Norgon Mountains, finding the gate, and gaining the lost treasure. You will share in our quest and in our treasure, and once the journey is complete you shall be paid one bag of gold for your trouble.” Alkabar moved closer staring into Mr. Mugwart's greed filled gaze.
“How say you, Mr. Mugwart?” Alkabar asked, stroking his beard as he did.
Tug’s thoughts were filled with gold once again. Gold, the beautiful shining metal that has brought kingdoms to their knees and has made rulers out of beggars. He sat back in his chair thinking to himself. These strangers seek treasure, as do most fools. But the journal did look very old, very authentic. Beyond the known world, he thought. How wonderful it would be to travel through strange lands if they did exist, to run my hands through those golden coins. He scratched his curly thick brown hair weighing the decision before him even more. He could journey all that way to the Norgon Mountains and find nothing. He could run into robbers or trolls along the way and be killed.
Or worse, his newfound companions could kill him once they have his map and finished tale. His father’s gentle image filled his head like a guardian spirit trying to guide his choice. The specter of his mind was heeding Tug to stay home and draw his maps, to be safe, not to risk everything for some fool’s errand with a bunch of strangers.
Tug thought of the shining coins rolling from his fingers as he purchased a new harvest festival hall for the entire town. He could be a hero, a king within Timmren’s Falls. Beyond the gold, beyond the admiration of the Timmrens, it was the adventure of going beyond the village that made his stomach tingle with excitement. His thoughts filled him with fear, yet it was that very fear that excited him more.
“How say you?” Alkabar asked even louder, being more insistent.
A feeling of greed and want of adventure took the Timmren over. “I say yes!” exclaimed Tug, the words leaving his lips with a feeling of dread in his belly as they did.
“Good! Then sign here,” Alkabar pulled an agreement from his bag. It was written with small print and encompassed many pages. Tug began to read quickly… make maps…one bag of gold… “Well it seems in order,” Tug thought, as he picked up his quill and penned his name.
“Good,” spoke Alkabar, looking at the others with a smile. “We will see you in the morning, Mr. Mugwart. Be ready.” Alkabar hunched over and moved toward the door. Bongor and Ilem also rose from the table, quickly leaving the little cottage, bidding the Timmren a good night.
“The morning?” spoke Tug. “So soon…”
“It’s in the agreement, Mr. Mugwart, You must start the journey the following morning.” Alkabar smiled through his thick mustache and beard. He pretended to read from the pages: “The party of the first part shall start immediately keeping a log of the journey as well as any maps of the land, and other duties as seen fit by the party of the second part…. etc. You, Mr. Mugwart, are the party of the first part. Sleep well, Mr. Mugwart.” Alkabar bent under the doorway, pulling his gray cloak around him like an owl would his wings, and into the night they went.
“But…But….”
“No buts, Mr. Mugwart; we shall see you tomorrow.”
Just like that, all three strangers were gone. They had strolled back into the shadows from which they had come.
Tug turned, closing the door behind him. He looked at the cozy little room, and it was again quiet. Tug thought to himself, “What have you gotten yourself into, Mr. Mugwart? Are you a fool? Leaving your warm, nice cottage for adventure, for gold, and with three odd characters, no less. These three look like they could throttle you in the night or sell you to some foreign ogre for feasting.” The image shook him to his core. “Not like a Timmren at all, not at all, Mr. Mugwart.” His father’s comments came back to him in a flash once again.
He looked at his table pilled with work to be done. Parchments of all types lay thrown about and inks overflowed their wells. There were customers waiting on his wares, people counting on him, and a stack of orders in his workbox. This was highly unlike him, but the gold, the adventure of the open road was too much. He had always wanted to go beyond the village on a real journey, a real quest, and now fate had given him the chance. In life fate rarely smiles more than a few times on any one person, so you should grasp it while you can.
Well too late now, he thought while packing his unused traveling bag. He stuffed it with several changes of clothes, two of his favorite pipes, his tobacco bag, a water bag, two cloaks and of course a second satchel to carry delightful treats to eat along the way. He also loaded a bag with quills, inks of many colors and fresh parchment to record this journey. He walked to the door placing the bags beside it. He turned and with a nervous sigh went to the light and blew it out. He laid his head down on his soft feather pillow and slowly drifted into an uneasy sleep. No time to be afraid, he thought…. No time to be afraid.
CHAPTER TWO: A SECRET MEETING
The morning brought a heavy knocking on the door. Tug stretched his arms yawning out a “Hold on, please.” The knocking was louder as he slipped on his trousers and his favorite pair of walking boots, as he called them. He rushed to the door peering through the small opening. His gaze was met by that of the gray-eyed stranger, his head covered with a large gray hat that shadowed his already secretive face.
“Mr. Mugwart, the day is wasting. It is time to go.”
Little Tug, still rubbing his eyes, opened the door. It was barely dawn; the sun had not risen across the nearby field lighting the corn nor the morning dew burned off of the wet meadow grass.
“I haven’t eaten my cakes, nor had a smoke of my pipe yet, good sir,” retorted Tug in an angered voice. Pushing him to go on this journey for treasure was one thing but it was quite another to forget one’s manners.
“There is no time! The road waits for no one, Elven gold awaits us.” Alkabar pulled Tug from his house by the back of his cloak, nearly picking him from the ground. “Here have a sweet cake on me,” his voice was stern and left little interpretation.
Ilem and Bongor grabbed his bags and strapped them to the pony they had purchased for Mr. Mugwart. He was a gentle creature, white with cream polka dots along his side. Tug patted the pony’s long white main. “Hello, boy. Good boy, want an apple?” Tug disappeared into his cottage again and returned with a small red apple, which he gave to the excited pony.
“Mr. Mugwart, please. Time is wasting.”
Bongor glanced over at Alkabar, speaking with a rough and thick voice. “We must go now.”
“Indeed,” Tug thought. “How rude.” He turned, wondering if he had forgotten anything, wondering what he was doing with these strange fellows. He shut his door behind him, which had no lock, and angrily mounted the white pony. It had been years since he had ridden, and as he recalled, he didn’t like it at the time nor did he care for it now. The wagon or carriage was the gentlemen’s way to get around. Not galloping away on horseback along muddy trails. Well, there was nothing to do now. He turned and looked at his small cottage one last time as he swallowed another piece of his sweet cake down. “Goodbye, friend. I will see you soon…. I hope,” he whispered.
Alkabar sat upon a white and brown mare. He grabbed the worn leather straps and slid his gray booted feet into the stirrups. He turned, beckoning Ilem to follow with a movement of his large hand. The Elf saddled a white and brown horse, which could have been the other’s sister, though much smaller. He began to move her along as Bongor followed on a large gray horse. He looked odd sitting astride such a massive horse, well large for his size anyway. But his rugged demeanor made up for the difference in size. He growled toward the horse to move, pulling its head to the side to make him follow the others. Behind them were two pack mules bearing large bags, satchels and trunks wrapped and tied down neatly. Tug wondered what was in those suspicious looking bags, but kept his thoughts to himself.
“Come then, Mr. Mugwart. Let us begin our adventure,” Alkabar turned the rains of the horse heading slowly down the dirt path, as did the others. Tug pulled the reins and dug his heels into the pony to get him moving. It was coming back to him, the way of riding, and so was the pain in his hindquarters. He moved alongside Alkabar to get a better view of the countryside.
The sun shown gloriously through the distant trees as it edged above the foggy horizon, slicing a golden swatch across the valley. It would be another beautiful spring day in the shire. The fresh green stalks of summer corn were covered in the early morning dew, spreading droplets to the ground for the earthworms to bathe in. Fresh daisy seeds floated through the air along the path like snow on a winter’s night. Tug breathed in deeply the pure crisp air. It smelled sweet like honeysuckle.
Alkabar continued down the dirt path, avoiding the fork in the road that would lead through the main section of town. Instead he turned onto Pumpkin Patch Lane, a small dirt road that wove over the nearby hills and ended in the gray woods near Panamore. This was another Man town, though very small, that traded with Timmren’s Falls.
They passed Mr. Bombweather's estate. He was a crotchety old Timmren who always scolded the town children for stealing his pumpkins. He sat outside, smoking his pipe, eyeing the strange group that passed him by. His long unkempt beard went past his belt, resting on his rather large belly.
“Good day, Mr. Bombweather,” waved Tug, remembering his manners.
The large overall clad Timmren replied back, wary of the unfriendly strangers, with a grunt and warning. “Don’t you nor your strange friends trample on my daisies. Damn Dwarfs…,” he whispered. Bongor shook his head slightly and let out a sigh. They just continued on ignoring his ranting.
“I say, sir…. what is your last name again?” asked Tug of Bongor. Bongor did not reply to the Timmren’s question.
“Do you not say good morning from where you come?”
Bongor looked back at the Timmren, his eyes fixed on him for a second. They were dark, hard eyes. Eyes that Tug was not used to seeing. Now that he thought of it, they all had eyes that seemed hard and callous. The Dwarf looked at him briefly and then looked away. Tug also just looked away, pretending that he had never asked the question in the first place. Instead, he concentrated on the road ahead and the beauty of his village. They rode for several miles until they rounded the last bend of Timmren’s Falls before entering the forest of Panamore, which was named after the town.
He had never been beyond this point to the east, for he had little business with this Man town. It was considered quite a low-end town and of little use for books and maps. Panamore was a town known for its many sleazy inns, bars, and brothels, where rough men often met a bad fate, tested by another’s sword. It was a town known for drinking, fighting and cheap women. It was a place that is an in-between rest area that one finds along the way to somewhere better. It lies just west of Blackmore, an evil and dark woods that surrounds Panamore and the whole northeast like a giant horseshoe, which many say is haunted. Those that venture to Panamore are often outcasts or adventurers hoping to find treasure in one of the old ruins that lie throughout the northeast area, or rough and tumble sailors on their way to the north lake regions to look for work on fishing boats and trade barges. Most stay clear of Blackmore all together, but a few have found themselves lost within the black woods. Those that have lived to tell their tales are never the same. Blackmore is a place of fear, filled with stories that it is haunted by ghosts, witches, and Goblins. It is filled with the power of the dark god and his creatures.
They moved further down the overgrown path until it almost disappeared beneath an outcrop of undergrowth. Weeds had grown over most of the path, indicating that few had traveled this way. Tug turned, looking back on the border of his village. The excitement grew within him as he wondered what lay within the Panamore forest and beyond.
The path was completely lost as they entered the cool canopy of the lush green trees. Its floor was covered in a thick carpet of moss and brown leaves. The gray branches of the beautiful woods jetted skyward as if reaching for the warm sun. The air was cool and crisp. The gray barked trees surrounded them as they melted into the landscape. The forest was open and was fairly easy to travel through. The floor of the forest was not muddy and the underbrush was very thin. It was a spacious and warm feeling woods that made Tug wonder why so many stayed clear of them. The horses and little pony glided through the thin trees, heading northeast at a steady pace.
Tug glanced over, looking at the pointed ears of the Elf that protruded through his golden straight hair. He thought them very strange but somehow delightful. Ilem looked at the Timmren and smiled. Tug smiled back. He had heard that the Elven race was one of the oldest known to the world. It was said that they were a quiet race that kept hidden most of their customs and traditions. They were a race steeped in many of the schools of magic and often kept to themselves. Stranger was the race of Dwarves. From what Tug had heard they were a race that kept their secrets hidden away in the hills and mines that they worked far to the northwest. It was said their forges set a red glow to the sky. Rumor had it they were a dark and brooding bunch that angered quickly and had little time to waste with words. Tug had noticed this already with Bongor. He was not sure if he was going to like this fellow. Civility and manners were important to most Timmren, and Bongor seemed to have little of either.
Ilem turned his head slightly, turning his pointed ear into the wind. “To the right, Alkabar. The stream is to the right,” he said. His voice was strong yet high pitched and seemed to flow as if he were singing at the same time.
Tug turned his head and strained to hear a single sound of a stream but could not hear a thing. All that he heard was the little creatures of the woods searching for berries and nuts.
“I hear nothing,” he exclaimed, while looking at the thin Elf.
Alkabar just turned his horse to the right and smiled. They rode a short way through a thick area of bushes and underbrush. As they did, they could start to hear the steady sound of the small stream rolling through the forest. “Remarkable,” thought Tug. “Those pointed hears could surely hear a heartbeat from 10 passes away.” The stream was crystal blue, flowing over moss covered rocks and broken branches.
Tug had noticed that they deviated from the worn makeshift path and headed in a new direction. Despite his anticipation, he turned to the large human.
“Why have we deviated from the path?”
Alkabar turned with a smile, holding the reigns of his mare tight. “We know a shortcut through the woods of Panamore that leads around the town. It would be better if we did not draw attention to ourselves.”
Tug shook his head in acknowledgment, smiling, while internally he could not shake the image of the ogre he thought of the night before. “Keep quiet, Mr. Mugwart,” he told himself, still unsure of his new traveling companions. “You do not want to end up sold to ogres for a snack.”
The stream glistened, rolling across the horses’ hooves as they followed its soothing trail. The cool water felt refreshing as it splashed across Tug’s face. The warm spring sun had broken through the morning clouds and canopy of green leaves above them. Tug looked to the stream and watched the frolicking fish with a keen interest. They had no care of treasure, houses, or fame. All they wanted to do was swim with reckless abandon through the crystal blue stream and enjoy the life they had been given.
By noon Tug’s stomach was rumbling, and his back, as well as other areas, was aching. They had followed the stream for some time, up hill and down valley, over broken tree branches and slippery rocks, and Tug’s stomach could take no more.
Tug called over to Alkabar who was leading the way.
“I say Alkabar, could we stop for a bit of lunch or early supper if you wish? “My stomach is empty and my back is sore.”
The large gray figured turned toward Tug as if in thought. For a moment he did not respond, pondering something other than them stopping for food. He rubbed his long gray beard for a second and then decided they would stop at the next small clearing.
“Yes, Mr. Mugwart. We may stop. It’s better if we rest the horses now anyway.”
Bongor shrugged his shoulders in disagreement. “Alkabar, we can’t stop every minute for this Timmren,” he growled. Alkabar gave him a quick glance that Tug just barely picked up, but it was enough to quiet the bulky mountain dweller. Then the Dwarf went about his business, grumbling beneath his breath as he did. They continued on over a ridge and came upon a nice small open area within the forest. Alkabar raised his hands and all came to a stop. Bongor led the horses and mules to the stream for water. The others dismounted and unpacked their food bags.
They sat in a small grove leaning against the fallen trees and decaying logs that were all around them. Tug quickly grabbed a pale brown satchel that was filled with sweet cakes and dispensed with two of them immediately. He smiled to himself while rubbing his belly. They were cold and a little stale, but still filled his initial hunger and craving for sweets.
The large man looked at the Timmren devouring the little cakes feverishly. “Easy friend,” spoke Alkabar. “We don’t want to eat all our supplies before we have time to purchase more,” he said, laughing.
Ilem sat against a large boulder pulling a strange looking fruit from his bag.
“What manner of fruit is that?” asked Tug.
“This is called ogrim fruit in my tongue. It grows wild in the forest were I live. It tastes like what you would call pear and maybe cranberry together.” The pale Elf bit into the strange yellow fruit. Tug smiled and inwardly couldn’t imagine what that combination could taste like.
“Would you like some?” The cheery Elf asked, holding out the lumpy rough looking fruit. Tug again smiled, “No, thank you. I have plenty to fill me, but thanks anyway.”
Tug pulled one more cake from his bag, and this time it was a blueberry sweet cake. He had worked up quite an appetite riding as he did. He sat against a hollowed moss covered log devouring his latest treat. The blueberry juice dripped from his fingers as he smiled to himself. He was quite enjoying the journey so far despite the rude behavior of the Dwarf. The ride was a little rough but nothing he couldn’t handle, and he liked this Ilem fellow. Well mannered, nice, congenial: the total opposite of this Bongor. Tug glanced toward the bulky Dwarf. He was consuming what seemed to be some large salted animal leg. Maybe it was mutton. The Dwarf smacked wildly as he ripped into his food, small bunches of mangled flesh occasionally fell from his mouth and got caught in his great beard. Tug was revolted by his manners and just shook his head in disgust.
Bongor sat off on a log near the stream. He had indeed pulled out a smoked leg of mutton, which he chewed vigorously with an open mouth. He was talking with Alkabar in between bites. The Human was eating smoked turkey, which he had wrapped tightly within his bag. Alkabar seemed ok with the rough Dwarf’s manners, or if he did mind he never showed it. Tug could not make out their conversation but wished he were a fly on their log.
Even the horses, pony, and mules dined on a fresh growth of lush green grass. They ate their fill on this so far uneventful journey.
When they were done, Alkabar signaled everyone to mount up. They continued on, following the right fork in the stream. It wound again in a new direction, more east than north. Tug wondered where this strange route was taking them. He hadn’t encountered this minor stream on his maps and knew little of the Panamore forest other than it was not that large and bordered close to Blackmore, which he did not accidentally want to enter.
They continued over the sprawling hills through the thickening dense forest. Occasionally they would come upon an open section where they could look across the valleys on the horizon. In such a place Tug looked at the expanse below and could see the rolling hills of Timmren’s Falls in the far distance. As they moved forward the woods appeared to become rougher to travel and more dense. He no longer could catch glimpses of home and sighed to himself, hoping that he would see it again.
They continued for miles shadowing this new branch of the stream, keeping it always on their right. Tug looked above him at the small pointed leaves of the trees and the ever widening of the forest. The foliage around them seemed to change; the trees grew lighter and thinner and their branches were heavy with thick leaves. Maples and white birch grew all around them and almost all the underbrush was gone. As they ventured deeper into this new forest, the floor was covered in a thick green moss and large toadstools. Tug could feel that they had gone through the Panamore Forest. In fact, they skirted the edge of the Gray Forest and found themselves in quite another. He did not recall ever drawing these woods on his maps at all. “A forest filled with toadstools,” he thought to himself. “I do not remember such a place.”
The air was filled with the pungent smell of mushrooms and moss. Around them the floor of the forest seemed to be covered by more and more of these strange colored massive toadstools. They grew in cone shapes, flat shapes, round shapes, and more. Some were colored gray; others white with red polka dots, teal green with crimson swirls on them, as well as lavender with yellow blotches, and some were fire red. “How strange,” Tug thought. He had never seen the likes of them before. It was very pretty, this strange forest of toadstools.
Alkabar seemed to take notice of the strange mushrooms himself, surveying the odd floor with a keen smile. They rode along the green soft forest floor until the long shadows of the day turned into the twilight of the evening. The golden red sun waned in the purple sky, dipping into the wooded horizon. The odd brightly colored toadstools seemed to glow in the eerie dusk light with a life of their own.
They decided they would rest near a small grove of budding dog wood trees next to the crystal stream under a great maple. It seemed as good a place as any to camp for the night. By the small embankment of the whispering stream sat the great maple tree, gnarled by many years of age. It was hunched over almost to the ground with its great branches making a perfect canapé, a protection from the elements for the small group to rest under.
Bongor gathered some dry wood nearby and prepared a small fire within a circle of rocks. Ilem had slipped away to find dinner and soon returned with two dark brown rabbits that would make a fine meal on their first night together. Alkabar lay back against a moss covered log staring into the darkening sky. He breathed deep the pure rich air of the toadstool woods, as if he wanted to capture its scent forever in his memory. He closed his slate, piercing eyes and seemed to sit in thought. His chiseled face became as placid as a deep pool of still water as the wind gently brushed his long graying beard.
Tug sat on the moist rich green moss next to a few glowing blue toadstools. The spongy moss felt as soft as any bed he had slept in before. He looked out at the glowing toadstools, admiring their fiery beauty in the darkness. He stretched his arms, yawning as he lay back against a small rotted log. The northern gray woodland crickets had begun to play a soft melody in the distance, as did the emerald tree frogs who sang their songs to the night sky. The spring night had grown warm and soothing. The wispy sounds of the crystal stream caressed Tug’s ears, relaxing him even more as it flowed over the small rocks within it. In the distance small nocturnal animals could be heard scouring for their night’s food as he reached into his backpack and pulled out his favorite worn wooden pipe. Unfolding a small wrapper containing the sweet smelling apple wood tobacco he loved so much, he began to smoke. The white wisps circled around the camp, spreading the fragrant apple scent across the forest, mixing with the scent of their campfire.