1st Day of Sunsebb, 565 CY
Gryrax, The Principality of Ulek
Elrohir took a swig from his waterskin and then jammed it back into his backpack harder than was ideal, given the potential for any number of items already stowed there to puncture the leather. Fortunately, that did not happen, and the ranger forced himself to remain calm as he took a deep breath and once again looked all around himself at the throngs of people passing through the streets of Gryrax.
My waterskin not breaking was the only good luck we've had in the past three days. The thought came unbidden to Elrohir's mind, and he glanced over his shoulder.
Argo Bigfellow Junior, currently standing about twenty feet off and similarly scanning the crowds milling all around them, caught his fellow ranger's eye and gave him his legendary pained smile. He said nothing, but he didn't have to. Elrohir could read Argo's thoughts as surely as if he and not Aslan was wearing the helm of telepathy.
Colossal waste of time- hoping he'll commit a robbery right in front of us.
Bigfellow was right of course, but there was no help for it. They had no magic by which to track their quarry, and the odds of simply being in the right place at the right time were so miniscule as to be a joke. Tojo had been correct in reminding his friends that it was a major mistake to rely on luck; especially when one's foe could wield chance itself as a weapon. It was only loyalty to their samurai friend that kept them from abandoning this hopeless quest right here and now.
At least they knew their target was in town. The town criers had already been active when Elrohir, Argo, Aslan, Tojo, Mogan and the Darkeye patrol had arrived back in Gryrax two days ago. An audacious spate of robberies was plaguing the city, and no one seemed able to prevent them.
The theft of the White Lily diamond from the Royal Palace itself; the lifting of a halfling caravan's entire inventory of rare spices, the brazen burglary of the city's largest apothecary; these and many other crimes seemed to be happening at a breakneck speed; if the culprit was indeed the outcast Dumovar, he either had help (which seemed unlikely), or had access to a healthy trove of magic (unfortunately, this seemed more likely). Lieutenant Hardeth had implied, if not stated outright due to dwarven discretion, that at least some of the "valuables" that Kilburn had said Dumovar had stolen from his clan were indeed magic items; and not the type you'd want any kind of a thief to have.
To preserve even the illusion that they were following some sort of strategy, the group had separated into teams of two upon their return to Gryrax. Aslan and Tojo were concentrating on the docks, where immense wealth flowed in and out of the city on a daily basis. An ever-growing team of Darkeye dwarves, along with Mogan, were spreading out along the unassumingly named "Rock Road," where the gem cutters, money changers and other financial institutions were concentrated.
And he and Argo had drawn the merchant quarter, where human, dwarven, halfling, gnome and a scattering of others, buyers and sellers alike, moved in a never-ending river among the streets and alleys, stopping at any one of the innumerable stalls and storefronts before moving on the next one.
Aside from the proportion of the various races, it was little different from the merchant section of Willip or any other city Elrohir had been in. An endless cacophony of people talking, shouting and haggling filled his ears, and a mixture of smells; food, perfumes, horses and more overwhelmed their nostrils. The overall aromatic experience was a bit more unpleasant than most; Gryrax was a very old city and lacked the large sewer systems of most cities its size. The cobblestone streets were built slightly convex, and troughs ran down both sides of most streets. People dumped their chamber pots and other liquid and semi-liquid waste in them, where they flowed down in rivers of sludge to eventually empty into the Bay of Adirole on which the city was located.
Flocks of raptors known as greyhawks (for which the great metropolis to the north was named after), large as turkey vultures, filled the skies above, as ready to pounce on a piece of food carelessly left unguarded by a customer as they were to snatch a gull or pigeon out of the sky.
Elrohir also couldn't help but note that Gryrax sported an impressive number of tall buildings; four, five and even six-story structures, inevitably stone and marble rectangles jutting up towards the sky. Mogan had told him these were primarily residences of the city's wealthier citizens. Each floor above the first was its own dwelling and sported a railed balcony and a decorated archway that led into the building's interior.
Anything?
Elrohir gave a start before mentally slapping himself. It had been a while since Aslan had telepathically contacted him via his helm.
Nothing, the ranger mentally replied, wondering if his corresponding emotions were being transmitted to the paladin along with his words. He hoped not. Every witness report of one of these crimes where a culprit was seen mentions a different individual; human, half-elven, hobbit. Is there any chance we're barking up the wrong tree, Aslan?
I don't think so, Elrohir, Aslan responded. It seems significant to me that none of these alleged robbers have been dwarven. Remember, Dumovar wants very much to be accepted back into his clan. That small chance would drop to zero in an instant if they found out he was framing fellow dwarves for his crimes. I'm certain he's using magic to assume different identities; he may even have a hat of disguise, like Unru's. Tojo agrees with me on this.
How's he holding up?
There was a noticeable pause before Aslan's voice reverberated in the ranger's head again.
Quiet; but not in the usual "Tojo quiet" way. He's tense. Nervous.
Can't blame him, Elrohir mentally mumbled. Well, keep in touch.
The afternoon was fading. Elrohir guessed the sun was less than an hour's hour away from sinking into the Bay of Adirole to their west, and he was considering the possibility of trading another unexciting meal of hardtack and dried bread for an actual tavern supper.
The two rangers were still in the merchant quarter but had moved away from the actual market area. A series of long, curved streets ringed the market, allowing porters and drivers to bring their wares into and out of the market using strategically placed short alleys to avoid the worst of the crowds.
Elrohir looked over to his left as a loud rumbling reached his ears. One of the large conveyances commonly called a "dwarven battle wagon" was coming into view around the curve of one of the long streets. Even the jaded Gryrax crowds; to whom these must be common sights, moved away and kept a respectable distance from it.
Even though he'd seen a half-dozen of these wagons since first setting foot in Gryrax, Elrohir couldn't help but be impressed. Without even glancing over at Argo's face, he could tell the big ranger, who had pulled up alongside him, was just as entranced.
The wagon was being pulled by what looked like two oxen, covered in long, gray fur. They sported horns shod in iron coverings. The creatures were called yaks, and Elrohir had seen a few of them back in Rhizia. The Fruztii had domesticated them for both labor and food.
Behind the beasts was the actual wagon; a simple wooden box, but with stone axles and wheels. Nothing could be seen of the wagon's load however, because a large wooden platform served as wagon roof and extended forward a good ten feet, ending just about level with the yak'syaks' heads and immediately above them.
What looked like a very small cottage was situated on top of this wooden platform. It had a peaked, tiled roof but no walls, only corner pillars and railings. Circular dwarven shields were mounted along these railings, giving added protection to the four armed and armored dwarves who sat on benches inside, their crossbows primed and in hand, resting on top of the rail. A fifth dwarf, the driver, sat on a bench just outside the cottage, keeping a steady rein on the yaks.
Elrohir knew these wagons were used only for the most valuable of cargos. He had just turned to ask Argo his opinion of this being a possible target when the rumbling was replaced by a loud explosion.
Time seemed to slow down to a crawl as Elrohir turned his head back in time to see the four dwarven guards flying outwards, crashing through the railings and hitting the cobblestones with loud metallic clangs. Elrohir could tell instantly none of them had been killed or even mortally wounded; the dwarves were clad in plate mail that was usually reserved for officers or other high-level warriors, but as the panicked yaks grunted and started to run as fast as their load allowed despite the driver's best efforts, it was obvious that the guards were never going to catch up with the wagon, which now sported a large quantity of smoke coming from its center.
The wagon was approaching Elrohir and Argo, who as one started to run as fast as their own plate mail would allow towards it. The wooden corner pillars were still ablaze from the apparent fireball that had been the cause of the explosion, but the conveyance was still in one piece. There was a humanoid figure in the midst of the smoke, but nothing definite could be determined of it from this distance. The leather armor-clad driver, unable to regain control of his steeds, threw down the reins in disgust, drew a hand axe from his belt and charged into the smoke, bellowing like an enraged giant.
Unguided now, the stampeding yaks moved over to the side of the street as they ran. The right wheels dipped into the trough, causing the wagon to tilt slightly, but not enough to slow it down.
"Grab it as it passes!" Elrohir yelled, but Bigfellow was already moving out of the wagon's path, preparing to do just that. The conveyance rattled past; they heard shouts, coughing and what sounded like a fight going on in the smoke, and the two rangers made their move.
It wasn't an easy maneuver. The cottage's floor was high enough that the only option for a quick boarding was to grab hold of one of the sections of rail not destroyed by the fireball. Both men did so, but Elrohir heard Argo yell in frustration as his piece of railing broke away in his hand. The big ranger tumbled back onto the street as Elrohir, grunting with the exertion required, managed to roll gracelessly onto the wagon.
The smoke was clearing fast. Elrohir could now see the driver engaged in melee combat with a lanky human, perhaps twenty years old, who was armed with a mace. A large sack filled with something bulky lay at their feet. The man had a wet bandanna tied around his lower face, but he also sported a thick, long beard that Elrohir judged very unlikely that a youth his age could have grown, even if he had never shaved in his life.
It was a dead giveaway.
"Dumovar!" Elrohir shouted
The man stiffened up; eyes wide with shock as he jerked his head around to stare at the ranger.
Jackpot, Elrohir thought with a grin. Even as the ranger closed in, the dwarven driver slashed with his axe, ready to take advantage of his opponent's tactical mistake.
Unfortunately, the burning pillar closest to the dwarf chose that moment to give way. A full quarter of the tiled roof crashed down upon the driver, who was forced to duck and cover his head with his hands. Although he was not seriously wounded by the falling debris, Dumovar lashed out with surprising speed, slamming his mace into the driver's side, sending him stumbling across the floor to the wagon's left edge. At that moment, the yaks pulled the wagon out of the trough, causing the tilted floor to suddenly jerk up again. This was too much for the poor dwarf's balance. Arms pinwheeling, he tumbled off the wagon just as Gokasillion came slashing on a horizontal arc that wavered as Elrohir suddenly coughed on the last of the smoke, causing the blade to barely miss the ranger's foe.
Breathing heavily, Elrohir regarded his enemy with a tactical eye. In this form, Dumovar wore non-descript leather armor, and seemed to have no weapons other than his mace. Far more distinctive was the belt that encircled the man above the hip, and the twelve or so leather loops encircling it, each containing what the ranger knew from experience were potion vials. Some were empty, but most still contained liquids of varying hues. One somewhat larger loop held a wooden rod- some kind of dark teak, perhaps- about eighteen inches long. A large belt pouch was also visible.
What was not visible was any sign of a pearl necklace.
His right hand still wielding Gokasillion, Elrohir held out his left hand.
"Dumotherain Darkeye," he began, grateful that there were now no other dwarves within earshot that might overhear and take grave offense at him addressing an outcast by a name that legally no longer belonged to him.
Yanking off the bandanna, Dumovar stared back at him; his breathing just as deep and ragged as Elrohir's, as the floor continued to rattle underneath their feet. While he wasn't attacking at the moment, the expression on his face was still more akin to a wild animal than a reasoning being; it reminded Elrohir all too closely of how Nodyath had looked that time he had appeared in the Tall Tales Room.
"I know your pain," the ranger continued. "I know about the necklace, and what it's done to you- what it's still doing to you."
No response.
"We can help you," Elrohir pressed on. "We know where the pearls came from, and we can take them far away from here; where neither you nor anyone else need ever fear their power again. Please, Master Dwarf. I do not wish to hurt you. Just hand me the necklace."
Lips pressed tightly together, the figure before Elrohir; who had momentarily stared down at the floor, where Elrohir now noticed a three-foot wide circle had been cut into the floor, leading down into the wagon proper, now looked back up at the ranger.
That sad expression in those dark eyes could never have been native to such a young face.
"What is your name?" Dumovar asked.
"Elrohir," he replied.
Dumovar sighed.
"I'm sorry, Elrohir. I'm sure your intentions are noble, but I'm far too along on my path now. I guess-"
And the outcast gulped and, it seemed to Elrohir, to come within a moment of tears.
"I guess I'm just not that lucky."
And he lunged to the attack.
Within a matter of seconds, even as they traded blows, Elrohir knew he was going to win.
His vaunted luck notwithstanding, Dumovar's combat skills, while not inconsiderable, were just not on a par with his own. This wasn't surprising; as a thief, Dumovar would be far more dangerous backstabbing from the shadows than in a straight-up fight such as this, but Elrohir was still grateful.
At last, fortune seemed to be turning his way. He'd do his best to avoid killing Dumovar if he could, but Elrohir knew that one way or the other, he couldn't let the outcast slip away.
Tojo was counting on him
While it wasn't his standard maneuver of choice, Elrohir let Gokasillion guide his hand as he followed Dumovar's mace swing. The blade intercepted the handle, and Elrohir slid his sword up and outwards.
Dumovar's weapon flew out of his hand.
Elrohir came in fast, turning his sword's blade so as to slam the flat into his opponent's skull. This was it. He-
Elrohir? You and Argo ready to meet up? Catch some dinner and go over our plans for the evening?
The Aardian ranger froze up as surely as if he had been grabbed by a ghoul.
FOR THE LOVE OF THE GODS, Elrohir mentally screamed, completely unaware if this was being transmitted to the paladin or not. ASLAN, I FORGOT ABOUT-
And a mace which had been retrieved with blinding speed slammed hard into Elrohir's skull.
Elrohir was trying hard to separate his senses back into their component parts again, but the pain was making that nearly impossible.
His muscles weren't moving right, and it was only starting to seep into the ranger's brain that he was now lying flat on his back. He had no recollection of how he had gotten there, but the continued rattling and shifting of the floorboards underneath him confirmed this hypothesis and was making the back of his head hurt almost as much as his forehead.
Vision wasn't distinct yet. Everything was shifting, as if some god had cast a blur spell on the entire world, and the reddish hue to everything may have been a sign that blood was trickling down into his eyes. Raising his head was a Herculean task, but he managed it just enough to determine that a humanoid blur that he assumed was Dumovar was still there, although it almost looked as if he was kneeling now.
At least he wasn't pressing the attack. Even in Elrohir's diminished mental state; he was pretty sure he had blacked out for several seconds, he was instantly aware that the outcast could easily have slain him by now if he had wanted to.
That comfort was lessened by his knowledge that even if Dumovar wasn't a murderer, people had still died trying to stop him.
As Lieutenant Hardeth had succinctly warned them, accidents will happen.
And as for sounds, Elrohir could make out nothing but a roar that was filling his ears, and only now starting to break down into coherent sounds.
They were words.
Elrohir! Elrohir! Dammit, talk to me, Elrohir! I know you're still alive; the connection would have broken otherwise! Talk to me! What's happened? What's going on? Elrohir!
Aslan, the ranger replied, grateful that he didn't actually have to try and make his tongue form actual words, it's Dumovar! We're fighting! I got knocked cold for a few seconds, but I'm all right.
Is Argo still taking him on?
He's not here. He couldn't join the fight.
Why not? Wasn't he with you?
He fell off the wagon.
There was a very long pause, during which Elrohir tried to wipe his eyes clear while staggering to his feet. The Dumovar-shaped blur was only starting to resolve itself, and Elrohir was sure the kneeling figure was looking at him now, although it still made no attempt to stand up.
Come again, Elrohir? Argo what?
It was nothing short of a miracle that even through his agony, Elrohir understood.
We're on board one of those dwarven battle wagons, Aslan! It's a runaway! I managed to jump on board, but Argo missed!
Oh.
It was amazing, Elrohir thought, how much of both embarrassment and relief the paladin managed to pack into that one word.
Where are you? Aslan continued.
Haven't a clue. We're running down one of those curved roads that ring the market; that's all I know.
There's half a league of those roads in the city. Elrohir! I need more to go on if I'm going to try a teleport!
Best guess, then! Elrohir mentally shouted. You have to stop, Aslan; I can't fight with you in my head!
Understood, the paladin replied. We'll be there as soon as we can.
Aslan fell silent as with a few deep breaths, Elrohir finally cleared most of the cobwebs clouding his brain. The pain was still horrific, but the ranger had fought with that before. He tightened his grasp on Gokasillion's hilt as everything finally came back into focus.
Elrohir's eyes widened. The first step he was about to take back towards his foe was stillborn.
A dwarf was now kneeling where the lanky human had been before. He was clad just as the youth had been, and was pulling silver-white metallic bars, each about the length of Elrohir's palm, out of the sack on the floor the ranger had noticed earlier, and into his belt pouch, which looked big enough to hold only one or two such bars, and yet was swallowing them, one after the other, without bulging.
Elrohir considered. If those bars were platinum, as he suspected they were, each one would easily be the equivalent of fifty such coins. He guessed that sack probably held at least one hundred such bars when it was full. At that rate-
The ranger caught his breath just as Dumovar emptied the sack and stood up.
The outcast had just acquired enough money to build a small castle.
The two eyed each other. Elrohir guessed that Dumovar's disguises were the result of potions as opposed to a magic item. That would explain the limited duration. The ranger just couldn't imagine the outcast, or any rogue, for that matter, dropping his cover voluntarily for no good reason.
Because now, Elrohir could finally see them.
His dwarven neck much broader than any elf or human's, the string of pearls looked more like a choker than a necklace on Dumovar.
But there they were. The legendary relic, sought for in vain for a thousand years by the heroes of Nippon.
The Pearls of Hamakahara.
"Dumovar," Elrohir said as loudly and clearly as could while all his muscles prepared themselves for battle, "I'm sorry; I can't let you go."
Loud shouts came from somewhere in front of their runaway conveyance. Then there were thunk sounds and loud grunts.
The outcast grabbed hold of the railing behind him and braced himself while facing his opponent.
"Bad luck for you then, Elrohir," he said with a sad smile.
The back wheels of the wagon actually lifted off the ground momentarily as their vehicle came to a sudden and complete stop. Not braced as the dwarf had been, Elrohir went flying forward, tripped over the empty sack and toppled forward, plunging halfway down the hole in the floor.
Even over his own cursing, Elrohir heard Dumovar's feet pounding as the outcast ran past him. The ranger managed to extricate himself from his awkward position just in time to see the rogue leap off the wagon's rear. A momentary glance forward showed him that a dwarven contingent, nearly a dozen strong, had slain the yaks with a fusillade of crossbow bolts and were now pouring around both sides of the stopped vehicle.
Grimacing at the pain, Elrohir again rose clumsily to his feet and pounded after his quarry. By the time his armored boots landed on the streets, Dumovar was about forty feet away from Elrohir. The dwarf stopped running and then, for some reason Elrohir couldn't comprehend, clicked the heels of his leather boots together.
Both Elrohir and the outcast started running again.
Now he comprehended.
Normally, with his longer legs Elrohir could keep pace with any dwarf, even wearing his plate mail. But Dumovar was now easily sprinting away at twice Elrohir's speed.
Magic items. Nice to have, the ranger thought sourly. Elrohir still had his bow, but never even bothered to draw it. The dwarves were now firing at the fleeing thief, but all of their bolts missed their target; as Elrohir knew they would.
Whether he truly wanted it or not, all the luck was on Dumovar's side.
Elrohir pulled up and was about to mentally contact Aslan with the bad news when he stopped.
The reddish light from a glowing sword preceded Argo Bigfellow Junior's appearance by a split-second around the bend of the long street.
His fellow ranger was impressed. Although the runaway wagon had probably not been careening nearly as fast as it appeared to Elrohir at the time, it had still been fast enough to leave Argo behind, if only slightly. The big ranger had clearly been sprinting after it this whole time; no easy task in plate mail, even for someone with Bigfellow's stamina.
Dumovar had been running down the center of the street, which now carried considerably fewer pedestrians; doubtless due to dwarven alarms; Elrohir could hear several horns sounding, but the outcast now veered to the right as Argo came up towards him, moving to intercept. The rogue had superior speed but rushing past an enraged Argo was far from a sure thing.
Neither Argo nor Dumovar saw the dwarf step out onto the third-story balcony of one of the stone towers that ringed the street, but Elrohir did, even as he started running again. He saw the figure extend its arm and, not even bothering to look down, empty the chamber pot it held before turning and retreating into its apartment.
A stream of yellow liquid that Elrohir was pretty sure wasn't water missed the trough and hit the street right in front of Argo. While he missed being doused by that horrid shower, Bigfellow's metallic boot slipped on the suddenly wet cobblestones, and the big ranger want flying into a spectacular pratfall.
"SON OF A BULETTE!" Argo roared as his armored butt hit the street for the second time in five minutes.
Dumovar bolted past.
Bigfellow got his feet just as Elrohir came up to him. The dwarven patrol rushed past the two humans without a glance.
"Sorry you missed the ride," Elrohir said to his friend, trying to keep the conversation light.
"Forgot my ticket, I guess," Argo grumbled. The big ranger seemed about to continue but then he suddenly looked over Elrohir's shoulder and pointed.
Yanigasawa Tojo came running up to them, Aslan only a few seconds behind.
Both seemed nearly as winded as the two rangers. It was obvious to Elrohir that the samurai was about to ask which way Dumovar had fled, but Tojo's violet eyes alighted on his face.
"Errohir-sama," he stated, still breathing heavily, "you are wounded."
"It's nothing," Elrohir replied, trying to sound casual, but he did not resist as the arriving paladin placed his gauntleted hand on Elrohir's forehead.
He hadn't realized how much it was still hurting until the pain went away.
"Thank you, Aslan," Elrohir said, nodding in acknowledgement. "That Dumovar packs a mean punch; there's no way that mace he's carrying isn't magical."
Aslan was now eyeing Bigfellow. "Are you hurting, Argo?"
Argo gave him his pained smile.
"Yes, but no one touches me there except my wife."
Aslan gave the big ranger a wry smile. Both men knew full well that Aslan did not need to touch the actual location of a wound to heal it; Aslan simply did it out of habit. That was simply Argo's way of telling the paladin to save his healing; it might be needed more urgently later.
Tojo, who had appeared nervous and full of energy when he first appeared, now seemed to be slowing down, like a fire dwindling down to ashes. His face was somber as he gazed down the streets where the shouts and cries were growing fainter by the second.
"We have fayered," he said, his voice growing softer by the syllable. "Dumovar has escaped us. Pears are rost."
"Not yet."
Three pairs of eyes turned to the paladin, who seemed to be looking at something none of them could see. His jaw was set, and his light blue eyes almost seemed to sparkle.
"I can go a lot faster when I need to," Aslan reminded his friends. The paladin's gaze shot over to the two rangers.
"Elrohir! Argo!" the paladin barked. "I can only take one of you with me, along with Tojo! Decide quickly!"
The rangers locked eyes. For the third time today, Argo Bigfellow smiled.
"I'll never be able to sit down again at this rate. You go, Elrohir. Give that rat bastard a few extra lumps from me."
Elrohir remembered the way the outcast had looked; how he sounded. Despite his injuries he had sustained from him, thrashing the dwarf to within an inch of his life held no appeal to him, but he nodded at his fellow ranger and gave him a reassuring smile. Argo stepped forward and pulled his right gauntlet off, and then slipped the oily ring off his finger and handed it to Tojo.
"This guy isn't a mage, and yet he's already set off a fireball," Argo explained as Tojo raised an eyebrow. "we don't know how many tricks he's got up his sleeve."
Tojo nodded and bowed to Argo in gratitude as he slipped the ring onto the hand not already wearing a magical ring. The samurai then turned to Aslan. "How are we to-"
He stopped. A light gray warhorse was standing where Aslan had been a moment ago, snorting impatiently.
Elrohir and Tojo clambered on.
"Go get 'em!" Argo shouted.
There was a wild neigh from Aslan just as he had started to gallop forward. The horse turned its head around and gave a fierce if momentary glower behind him before turning forward again. Elrohir rolled his eyes, then noticed Tojo eyeing him with a puzzled expression.
"Just in case it ever comes up, Tojo," the ranger explained with an embarrassed grin, "never slap the paladin on the butt."
Elrohir could feel Tojo tense up behind him as Aslan barreled down the street, passing dwarven patrols and civilians alike. The sounds of yelling and shouting were growing louder again, and Elrohir could feel his own nerves and sinews starting to respond. They must still have him in sight, he thought. We're still in this game.
They rounded the corner, and there he was.
Guards were converging on the outcast from both sides, and the trio had just a momentary glimpse of Dumovar as he darted down a side alleyway. This one led away from the marketplace, not towards it, but the ranger could determine nothing else. Those damned rectangular towers lined both sides of the alley.
Elrohir felt a tap on his shoulder.
"Errohor-sama," Tojo said, looking as grim as the ranger had ever seen him. "We must recover Pears of Hamakahara before city guard does. They wirr never rerinquish them to us, and I wood be forced to-"
Elrohir gasped as that scenario flashed through his mind. His blood ran cold.
"Tojo-sama," he replied, trying hard to maintain a level tone. "We don't know that for a fact. Dumovar has taken pains to keep the source of his power a secret, and Zantac told us the pearls don't radiate magic. Even Captain Kilburn admitted he has no proof they are the power behind what the outcast has done."
But the samurai shook his head.
"Then they would consider pears simpry one of the many sources of wearth he has storen, Errohir-sama," he said flatly. "We have no craim to them they wood recognize."
Elrohir gulped, then turned back to the front and leaned down as far as could over Aslan's neck.
"Faster, Aslan," he said. "Faster."
Aslan charged through the ranks of the running dwarves in front of him, ignoring their angry shouts of outrage. He swerved left and then turned right as sharply as could to make the turn into the alleyway, which seemed perhaps ten feet wide at most. Elrohir estimated that they had at most thirty seconds before the dwarves reached it. How were they possibly going to-
But suddenly he was sliding towards the ground as the horse seemed to evaporate under him. He and Tojo managed to land on their feet and looked over at Aslan.
A giant dwarf, easily eight-feet tall, now blocked the alleyway, facing outward.
"Go!' he shouted over his shoulder at them.
The duo nodded and headed onward, Elrohir breathing a sign of relief that Aslan had chosen a dwarven form and not say, Grock the ogre. That probably would not have gone over nearly as well, he thought. The ranger also thanked Odin that Aslan spoke dwarvish. He couldn't understand either the paladin's speech or that of the patrols, but it was obvious from their tones that they were not simply backing away from the large dwarf in deference.
Their time, Elrohir knew, was limited.
The alleyway turned to the right ahead. When the ranger and the samurai reached it, they discovered that it went only ten feet before turning left again. They followed-
-and then stopped short.
Elrohir couldn't believe it. He simply could not believe it, especially considering all the unearthly coincidences he had encountered in the last half hour alone. But barring an illusion, there was no denying the evidence of his own eyes, even if he couldn't understand it.
Dumotherain Darkeye, aka the outcast Dumovar, owner of the Pearls of Hamakahara and thus quite possibly the luckiest person on The Three Worlds, had run into a dead end.
The dwarf stood at the alley's end, perhaps forty feet in front of them. He was facing them now, that wooden rod Elrohir had seen earlier clasped in his right hand, while the left hand was either clenched into a fist- or perhaps holding a small object.
Elrohir had begun to draw his bow, perhaps hoping to persuade Dumovar to surrender, but his eyes caught Tojo's.
The samurai, he noticed, had drawn neither his bow nor his katana.
They stared at each other, violet eyes into blue, and an unspoken understanding passed between them.
"Go ahead, Tojo," Elrohir said quietly. "Whatever happens, I'll be here for you."
Tojo, the ranger noticed with some alarm, had started trembling violently, but the samurai gave him a quick but deep bow, drew nothing but a deep breath, and began to walk slowly towards the outcast, who stood still as stone, awaiting him.
At twenty feet, Tojo stopped.
"Dumovar-san!" he called out bowing with what Elrohir thought was uncommon courtesy to someone who had no noble rank and was certainly not a close friend.
The honorific was curious too, Elrohir thought. The ranger now realized he had won no points with Dumovar by addressing him by his former clan name. Like Tojo, Dumovar was an outcast from his clan but also like Tojo, hoped to return to it one day. Thus, he would continue to follow its traditions and address himself by what the dwarves called his mosgrim name, despite the pain it caused him. Tojo's suffix to that indicated that the samurai was following Dumovar's wishes in this, but still considered him at heart to be an honorable being.
Dumovar was clearly willing to listen but made no reply.
"I am Yanigasawa Tojo, samurai of," he hesitated, "Kara-Tur. I am son of Yanigasawa Suramuno, who is youngest brother of Yanigasawa Yashimoto; great reader and daimyo of my cran."
Elrohir caught his breath. Even during Tojo's tearful confession back at the Brass Dragon, he had never mentioned that his daimyo was also his uncle.
Elrohir knew that would have made Tojo's sin much worse- and so would be his punishment.
Tojo was waiting now, his posture expectant.
With a sigh, Dumovar responded.
"I am the mosgrim Dumovar, once known as Dumotherain Darkeye. Dumotherain's father is Sukral Darkeye, clanwarden of Gryrax Darkeye clan, as was his father before him."
"I speak to you, Dumovar-san," Tojo continued, "as one outcast to another. Fate has wirred it so that we meet this day, for we may herp each other as no one erse can."
The dwarf's expression was skeptical, but he continued to listen.
Elrohir's mouth then fell open as his friend Yanigasawa Tojo, probably the most taciturn person he'd ever met in his entire life, spilled his guts to a complete and utter stranger.
"I am exired from my cran in shame, Dumovar-san. I commit great sin. My daimyo say onry way I can return is to find Pears of Hamakahara. You cannot riv with them, and I cannot riv without them."
Still, the rogue said nothing.
"I know gaijin dwarves varuer honor just as peoper of my homerand do!" Tojo, continued, more loudly now. "We can each regain honor!"
"Do you know anything about me, Yanigasawa Tojo?" Dumovar now asked, his expression hard and his arms crossed against his chest. "I am no great warrior."
"Not matter!" Tojo abruptly shouted, causing both Dumovar and Elrohir to start. "Honor come from royarty, not skirr! Not matter what you do in rife, cran reader ask for your vow of fearty, and you give it! This what give you honor! Awe erse secondary!"
Dumovar seemed to consider that, but then shook his head again.
"My fall from grace happened before I ever set eyes on these pearls, samurai. Do you think I didn't know what I was buying that day in that jeweler's shop in Gradsul?" His expression was both sad and cynical. "I knew the legends about that elven family in the Dreadwood. I didn't know before I purchased them that they were the genuine article, but I knew what I wanted if they were. Wealth. Wealth I deserved," he added his dark eyes growing brighter with anger at slights, real or imagined, that he did not elaborate on.
"But you not want them anymore, Dumovar-san," Tojo said. "I know this. My friend Asran-sama see your urvan. Not matter how," he pressed on, ignoring the puzzled look on the outcast's face. "It say you hope to die if need be to regain honor and prace in your cran. Your chieftain know what pears have done to you! If you give them up, that return you to where you were before you found them. Offenses against your cran can be forgiven, Dumovar-san! Redemption can be made!"
The outcast regarded Tojo for a moment with a tilted head.
"By the gods," he said slowly, realization dawning on his face. "You really don't know, do you?" His smile was bitter. "I can understand. I certainly didn't- until it was too late."
"Know what?" Tojo cried in frustration and Elrohir could see the samurai's right hand, probably unknown even to himself, moving towards the hilt of his katana. "I know you have freedom to make choice, no matter how difficurt! I know you-"
"I CAN'T TAKE THESE OFF!"
The world went still.
Tojo's reserve shattered. The samurai gasped and his upper body actually jerked backward, as if he had been shot in the chest by a crossbow bolt. From behind, Elrohir couldn't see his friend's face, but he knew it probably now held the same mixture of shock and confusion it had held during that confrontation with Talass back at the inn, when she had shouted truths at him that he had not wanted to hear.
The outcast had grabbed the pearls around his neck during his exclamation and yanked, as if trying to prove his point. Now his hands returned to his side. His dark eyes bore into Tojo just as fiercely as Talass' light blue ones had ever done.
"That's right, samurai," Dumovar said with a terrible finality. "These elven pearls; what you call the Pearls of Hamakahara, are cursed."
Tojo said nothing. Elrohir doubted he was capable of speech right now, but the ranger's mind was racing furiously.
Dumovar was lying. He had to be lying; trying to save face, trying to justify his actions.
But then he remembered Zantac's story of Chelish's account of his conversation with the Dreadwood elf Yire, and the latter's memory of the elf he had known in his own youth.
"Yire stated that this elf wore a string of pearls around her neck at all times…"
And now it was Elrohir's turn to gasp.
Elrohir had been born among elves. He had lived exclusively with them for almost two decades, and now he cursed himself high and low that that statement had not set off alarm bells in his head.
Elves could live for up to 700 years; in a few cases even longer. By and large, they were chaotic, expressive beings; always growing, always changing.
No elf would ever wear the same piece of jewelry for every day of his or her life. Not if they had a choice.
Elrohir was so self-absorbed in this epiphany that he almost didn't hear Dumovar's next statement.
"I am truly sorry, Yanigasawa Tojo. But I have had to face a tragic reality about my life; and now, so it seems, do you."
"What?"
The word slipped out of Tojo like a scrap of parchment torn from the whole. Elrohir couldn't tell if the samurai was unable to believe what he was hearing, or truly wanted to know this terrible truth. The ranger couldn't imagine it was the latter.
"I know neither your sin nor the circumstances that drove you to it, samurai. But I know dwarven clan chieftains; the importance they place on honor, and what lengths they'll willing to go to keep it- or to avenge its loss."
Elrohir somehow heard Tojo's whisper as the samurai began to back away, trembling worse than ever.
"No… prease…"
And what made it worse was that a split second before Dumovar made that fateful proclamation, Elrohir somehow divined the truth.
And he knew Tojo had, too.
"Your daimyo didn't punish you, Yanigasawa Tojo. He betrayed you."
The world exploded with sound.
Elrohir whirled around. Yells and shouts, along with pounding footsteps, were heading their way. For whatever reason; and Elrohir could think of a dozen off the top of his head, Aslan could not or would not hold the dwarves back any longer.
They came charging around the corner. Elrohir recognized Captain Kilburn in the lead.
There was no sign of Aslan, but a white seagull came flying over their heads and landed on one of the balconies, eyeing Tojo and Elrohir as if assessing the situation and deciding what to do next.
If Elrohir had had a year and a day to think of what to do next, he couldn't have done it.
He said and did nothing as the dwarves barreled past him. Most made no compunction about brusquely pushing the ranger aside as they did so. Elrohir was buffeted and shoved into the alleyway wall, but he made no move to resist.
Dumovar pressed what might have been a stud on the rod, and a grappling hook appeared at the end of it.
The dwarves now engulfed Tojo en route to their target. Elrohir knew in another lifetime that Tojo would have swiftly drawn his katana and cut them all down for daring to push and shove a noble samurai warrior around like a common peasant.
But Tojo also did nothing.
The outcast pressed a second stud on the rod. The grappling hook shot upwards, trailing an attached rope that apparently had been magically contained in the rod, perhaps in the same fashion that his small belt pouch could hold a hundred platinum bars. The hooked head landed on the top balcony of the tower to his right and caught hold of it.
With his other hand, Dumovar tossed what seemed like a single caltrop in front of him. It seemed a pointless act as Kilburn easily avoided it as he came up to the outcast, battleaxe already in motion, but just as the captain took his final step to come into position, the caltrop suddenly gave a last bounce- to directly under where Kilburn's foot came down.
The captain gave a yelp of pain. He did actually manage to complete his swing, but it went wide.
Dumovar pressed a third and final stud, and the rope retracted, pulling the outcast up with it.
The dwarves roared with rage. Crossbow bolts went flying, but all missed the ascending outcast.
But now Aslan was in motion.
Dodging errant bolts as he flew, the seagull made straight for Dumovar. Elrohir could see he would intercept the outcast before he made the balcony. The ranger wasn't sure what Aslan's plan was. Knowing his friend, he guessed Aslan would polymorph into a fly at the last moment and land on Dumovar's shoulder. He could then teleport the outcast away to a location where he and the others could deal with him at their leisure- possibly even the Brass Dragon itself.
But it never happened.
With an ear-piercing shriek, a greyhawk plummeted from the sky and, talons extended, grabbed the gull. The two birds tumbled together through the sky and then crashed into the side of one of the towers, bouncing off it and out of sight, away from the alley.
Dumovar reached the balcony. Even as one hand released the hook, the other was pulling a vial from his belt and popping off the seal. The outcast put the vial to his lips even as he left Elrohir's line of sight.
The dwarves below had gained entry to the tower's ground entrance and were now pouring through. Elrohir assumed there was a staircase inside that accessed all the floors.
But he knew they wouldn't find their quarry. Luck would simply not allow it.
If they needed to, accidents would happen.
Elrohir walked over to Tojo. The samurai stood next to the alleyway wall. He had a blank expression on his face that made the ranger wonder if this was what Unru had looked like after the illusionist had been feebleminded.
"Tojo?" Elrohir asked.
There was no reaction.
Elrohir knew how highly Tojo valued his personal space but right now, he suspected that he could yank Tojo's katana out of its scabbard and he would make no response.
The ranger laid his hand on Tojo's shoulders. "Tojo? Tojo? Are you all right?"
Once again, Elrohir cursed himself mentally. He never seemed to know the right words to say. Tojo was clearly as far as it was possible to be away from being "all right."
Elrohir dearly wished he could mentally contact Aslan for help, but the paladin had switched the mental link to Argo before leaving the big ranger behind.
Elrohir was all alone, but not nearly as alone as Tojo; his dear friend who had just lost much, much more than the honor which had always provided strength and meaning to his existence. He seemed to have lost the very reason for existing at all, honor or no.
For all intents and purposes, the man Elrohir knew as Yanigasawa Tojo was gone.