CHAPTER IV: The Caravan of Mifhortun Dur
My first master, Gibiris, had expeditiously chosen to die the winter previous. As Gibiris was a man of limited means in both mind and money, there was little worth in his meager estate, and obviously nothing for a bonded apprentice. But as I was part of his personal effects, much like a pair of boots or a table, I was written into his last testament. Fortunately, my departed master had made provisions for my release from servitude -- bless his bones! He forgave my life-debt in lieu of long years of service rendered; thus, I was a free man at last.
And there I was, a journeyman apprentice, unattached and with no prospects (or food, for that matter); so I packed up what scant belongings I had, and headed for the bustling city of Caladh, the sprawling commercial center of Marannan-astair, and the greatest sea-port in all the East. Due to its position in the Straits of Enegaer, Marranan-astair and its capitol, Caladh, controlled trade heading back and forth from the Gold Coast of the Eastern Ocean to the settlements along the Inner Sea, as well as exporting raw materials from the vast continent of Mu. If ever there was a place for an ambitious young man to seek his fortune, it was in Caladh.
It was evening when I arrived in the city, and as I made my way through the crowded bazaars that lined the lamp lit quays, I came upon a rather round and jovial merchant who was recruiting for a caravan scheduled to set forth that spring. I struck up a lively conversation with the rotund pitchman, named Mifhortun Dur, and discovered that, among other open positions, the merchant was in need of an interpreter fluent in the speech of the Rus. It seems Mifhortun Dur's caravan was to make the long trek up the Northern Trade Route, and seek for the Rus tribesmen along the high plains of Hildorien. An interpreter was needed to barter with the Rus, and aid in striking a deal for a herd of the famed horses that ranged across the steppes. These fabulous steeds were worth their weight in gold, and fetched tremendous sums at auction in Marannan-astair.
That I spoke only a few phrases of Rus mattered little, for Mifhortun Dur struck me as being rather naive for a businessman. By the time our interview had finished, I had convinced Mifhortun that I spoke the language as if born to it, and he hired me on the spot. So delighted was the merchant that he even agreed to pay part of my wages in advance; which was well, as I had no intention of returning south with the caravan once negotiations had been completed. I already had it in my mind to strike north of Hildorien in an attempt to find the hidden realm of the Dark Elves, the first leg of the quest I had set for myself so many years earlier in Minas Tirith.
Within a month, initial preparations were completed in Caladh. I joined Mifhortun Dur and the various other merchants, wranglers, farriers, wainwrights, drovers, teamsters, cooks, servants and slaves who would comprise the caravan, and we took ship, making a nor' westerly crossing of the Straits of Enegaer (and as little is said about that voyage, the better). We made port in the harbor of Merrow, a fortified town on the shores of Hildorien long held by the Ship-lords of my island. It was in Merrow that we were to meet our caravan-master and the guards hired to protect us along the great march up the Northern Trade Route.
The caravan-master was a sullen and disagreeable-looking sort named Marfach-Suil. I remember the man had yellow eyes, fetid teeth and smelled of rotten peas. I hated him immediately. Seldom do I misjudge men (and when I do, I learn from my error), but it was certain to me that Marfach-Suil was a man who could kill without remorse, and steal the pennies from his dead mother's eyes. That Mifhortun Dur, the simple merchant who had hired me so easily, would trust this surly caravan-master as well filled me with further apprehension. As I stated, Mifhortun Dur was not the brightest star in the heavens.
Accompanying the repugnant caravan-master were a dubious assortment of mercenaries so much like Marfach-Suil, that I wondered if perhaps they were not all of the same race (if ugliness can be considered a racial trait). Desert tribesmen of the Roaring Waste they seemed to be, swathed from head to foot in dark linen, save for their sun-darkened, leathery faces (and I would have considered it a blessing if they had kept those covered as well); but aside from their unsavory appearance, these mercenary-guards were absolutely necessary for our dangerous journey. The trade routes, even in that time of relative peace, were infested with fierce bands of highwaymen and nomad slave-traders who preyed upon the rich offerings of the caravan-trade; yet such was the enormous potential of caravanning that merchants would gladly take the risks. Those lucky enough to survive robbery, slavery or murder became fabulously wealthy.
Having drunk to excess the night before our departure, I of course stumbled out of bed in the morning looking and feeling my best. Dazed and still half-drunk, I found a covered wain filled with soft, pliable barleycorn and plopped myself inside for the first part of the journey. Awaking again for a second time late that afternoon, I found that the caravan had passed out of sight of the town, and beyond all other civilized habitation, for that matter. The Great Plains of Hildorien, an endless range of steppe-land that stretches for hundreds of leagues to the north, east and west, was to be my home for the next several months. To relieve the boredom, I pulled out my notes on the Rus language and began to study them earnestly. You see, I had had the great fortune of making the acquaintance of a Rus stable-hand just prior to leaving Caladh, and he gladly shared the knowledge of his mother-tongue with me (after several pints of ale, of course).
Traveling by caravan is neither romantic, nor exciting: the animals stink, the food stinks, the guards stink, and every monotonous moment drags drowsily into dreary days, ticking to the tedious cadence of oxen sadly lowing, slowly plodding mile after mile after countless mile down a flat expanse of utter nothingness. True insanity is measured by the amount of giddy elation one feels at seeing a lone tree on the barren plain. I was miserable; more so when I discovered that the speech of the Rus was merely a series of grunts, slurs, clicks and attempts to clear phlegm from the back of one's throat. The caravan did not need an interpreter; a drunk with a bad cold would have sufficed. The tedium was only relieved a bit when we set up camp every evening. After eating what can only be described as swill the pack animals could not stomach, we told tales and sang around the campfires until blessed sleep at last overtook us.
Perhaps my mind had finally snapped from motion sickness and sheer boredom, but I began to take an interest in the strange and somewhat sinister habits of the guards. Never did they mingle with the other folk of the caravan during the day's march, and at night, they did not join us around the campfires, preferring to segregate themselves into separate enclaves far from the main camp. There they sat, huddled around their own fires, whispering conspiratorially in the guttural tongue of their tribe. Having nothing but time on my hands, I would often sneak in the darkness to the edge of their camp and eavesdrop on their near-unintelligible conversations. But this odd mania of mine eventually bore bitter fruit, for I quickly learned that the mercenaries' gruff language was akin to the speech of the Rus, and I began to understand their harsh dialect.
I was shocked (but hardly surprised) at what I managed to translate: the mercenaries, with Marfach-Suil as their leader, were plotting to plunder the caravan once the merchants had purchased horses from the Rus! They intended to murder or enslave us all, and then sell the horses themselves! I brought these dread tidings of treachery to Mifhortun Dur, but, to my endless amazement, the fat merchant met my dire warnings with a mix of disbelief and annoyance. He replied that I must certainly be mistaken, because Marfach-Suil had led quite a few of his caravans in the past. Yet Mifhortun promised he would discuss the matter with the caravan-master, and abruptly ushered me out of his tent, all the while having me promise that I would keep my silence, for he wanted no dissension within his caravan. I left in disgust, certain now that the merchant was an idiot. I decided that I must watch and ware for my own safety's sake, and I slept with one eye open.
Finally, after nearly three months of torturous travel, the caravan reached the high-plains of Hildorien, the homeland of the Rus. The Rus were nomadic tribesmen who followed the seasonal migrations of the wild herds of horse and kine that ranged across the arid steppe. They had no permanent settlements, save perhaps hidden refuges used in times of war, concealed among the shoulders of the Orocarni Mountains, which loomed above us now to the west. So, rather than wander aimlessly about the steppe in search of the elusive Rus, the caravan-master ordered the long train of wains to be unhitched, and we set up a semi-permanent trading post along a stream, and there we waited. After a few days, a group of tribal elders approached the camp and hailed us. It was now time for me to perform the duties for which I had been hired.
Fortunately for me, the Rus language proved fairly simple to muddle through (although I am sure my accent was dreadful). Negotiations were at first tense, because the Rus were very wary of strangers (as they should be), but as trade talks continued I found these rough nomads to be quite shrewd, unwilling to trade their beloved horses for a few cheap trinkets, grain and some iron utensils. The Rus were much like their northern neighbors, the Dark Elves, in that regard. They had deep bonds of respect and affection for their steeds, and a cult of the horse had grown over centuries of close association with the beasts. But Mifhortun Dur proved to be a soft touch in trade talks, giving away far more than I ever would, had I been conducting negotiations and not just interpreting. The merchants of our party grumbled anxiously as well regarding Mifhortun's apparent lack of business sense, particularly since it was their merchandise he was giving away. But in the end, the parties came to a mutually satisfactory purchase price, and the Rus tribesmen rode off to round up the number of horses specified in the agreement.
It was quite spectacular to see the skillful Rus drovers guiding a herd of some three hundred horses towards our camp. No words can describe the heart-pounding feeling -- for it was a feeling -- transcending both sight and sound, as these magnificent beasts thundered and wheeled across the steppes towards me. Filled with exhilaration, I fully understood then why the Rus so loved these proud steeds. Once the herd had been handed over to our drovers, it was then the job of the caravan's wranglers to separate the stallions from the mares for easier transport. Makeshift corrals had been constructed for this reason, as well as for the protection of the herd against thieves while the caravan sat on the open plain. It would take another few weeks of preparation before the caravan, and the horses, would be ready to journey back south down the Trade Route and homeward.
With my part in the negotiations completed, I no longer felt it necessary to stay with the caravan. It seemed particularly wise that I should keep to my original plan and head north, and quickly, as I feared that Marfach-Suil and his fine band of cutthroats could take the camp at any moment. But before I abandoned the caravan to its doom, I felt honor-bound to warn Mifhortun Dur one last time regarding the impending plot. The plump merchant was, as always, in a pleasant mood as I tried to impress upon him the terrible predicament the caravan was in, and once again he ignored me as if I were a child having a bad dream. Left with no alternative, I angrily told Mifhortun that if he would do nothing, then I must at least warn the others in the caravan of their peril. I then left the fat fool sitting in his tent. But there are 'fools', and then there are 'Fools'; and I proved to be the biggest 'Fool' of them all.
As I emerged from the tent, there stood Marfach-Suil, smiling (or scowling, they were one in the same with him). He nodded at me as if in acknowledgement, but suddenly, rough hands were laid on me from either side, and I was held fast. The caravan-master's sneering grin became more malicious, and he raised a cudgel above his head. I stood there stupidly, not even attempting to cry out as the club came crashing down, and I was struck with a vicious blow to the temple. My head howled as the sky spun drunkenly, and I fell into blackness.