Hope that he doesn't mind me sharing it with you... He won't, he's pretty chilled.
-oOo-
Arkon looked over his shoulder into the night, their camp
was small and the torches that their bodymen had sunk into the ground only illuminated
the pale sand directly below them. The Tyrnus Desert was a thousand square
kintyres of featureless flatland. They were still a full day’s ride from
civilisation; from the terminus of the first part of their quest.
“Lord Arkon?” asked Lord Bilthor, looking up from the
firepit, “Are you sure that the seer will be in Forthang City when we get
there?”
Lord Arkon nodded slowly, then took a long drag on his
Yantha-bone pipe, “That’s where the Sand-Kin said he would be; I’ve had no
reason to think they would lie.” The curl of pale green smoke from his pipe momentarily
obscured the stars that made up the constellation of Jory the Merrywalker;
Arkon waved it away before Bilthor had chance to remark on this new ill
omen. “Is Lord Teletorc in his tent?”
Bilthor nodded, robbed of the opportunity to point out the
ill omen, “He’s still suffering from that nest of woodgrubs that he ate
yesterday. I told him that he should have let his bodyman singe all the hairs
off it before he ate it, but what would I know?” He made the complicated
hand-gesture that meant ‘It is as something known by a child.’ In his native
language.
“We will enter Forthang tomorrow, the seer will be on top of
his pole in the market square and he will be able to tell us where we can get High-Lord
Sehmbhy’s yearly tribute.
“I hope it’s easier than last year’s quest, the air was very
thin at the top of the mountain. I lost three bodymen to that final avalanche…”
both men nodded, “Lord Kalkreith’s wife still hasn’t recovered from losing her
husband you know?”
Arkon pulled the tiny crystal vial from under his shirt, “I’ve
still got the sample of the creature’s blood.”
“Does it protect you from harm?”
“Well, brother, I’m not dead yet.” The deep laughter of the
two lords was interrupted by a bodyman bringing them each a glass of Jumen
wine, which they drank silently and retired to their tents for the night.
The next morning was bright and hot. The three lords sat
whilst the camp was struck, and packed carefully aboard their tame Yanthas. They
headed towards the shining towers of Forthang behind its giant defensive wall
of sand-glass. The strong legs and barbaric claws of the Yanthas ate up the
distance as if it were nothing, and even though they had to stop twice for Lord
Teletorc to be put back onto his mighty steed, it was just after Second-Prayer
when they arrived at their destination.
The Lords’ bodymen cleared the way in front of them, as they
made their way from the stables to the market square – and right to the base of
the seer’s pole.
“Good Seer, I am Lord Arkon of the Guild of Tribute. We…” He
looked at Lord Teletorc’s prone form, lying on the worn cobbles, “We three have
travelled from far Ithnia to gain your counsel.” Arkon paused, but the seer
just sat at the top of the pole, his eyes closed. “We have been sent so that we
may know of what the High-Lord requires as his tribute this year.”
The seer’s eyes flickered open, their cloudy white pupils
reflecting the harsh sun. He coughed, his mouth dry from not speaking for the
three hundred days since he had last spoken. He fixed the lords with his blind
stare, “The High-Lord requires one of the remaining two Chumchurras in existence.
One is located in the highest tower of the Dark Citadel on the dead continent
of Chumchurrasel. To reach it you must cross the Blood Sea, braving the
ravenous Sea-Chibs who are known for their ability to separate a sailor’s head
from his shoulders between breaths. Then, when you make landfall on the rocky
coast of Koranth, you must travel across the Plains of Death, against the
Mirror Wind that will show you your greatest desires to try and divert you from
your task. And finally enter the Invisible Valley by choosing the one true door
from amongst the eighty-three exactly similar ones, knowing at all times that
the wrong choice will bring instant death.”
Arkon and Bilthor looked at each other and gulped. “Can I
just stop you there, what about the other one? – You said there were two.”
The seer blinked, “What?”
“You said that there are two remaining – So how do we get
the other one, claiming the first one seems a bit… involved. Not to mention
dangerous.”
The seer deflated slightly, then he reached for the jug of
ice-water next to him and took a long, slow drink. “There’s an Argos Extra on
the corner of Hadras Street,” he pointed over their heads, back the way they’d
come, “It’s catalog number 734/7624 – You get a choice of colours. Only one per
customer though. You know, no offence, but I don’t think you’re really entering
into the spirit of this ‘quest’ business.”
