Sodas, the 17th of Lost Speed, 4E 201

It was late afternoon by the time they passed under Riverweed’s northern gate. Freddy was there holding a rope that connected to five wooden pales hanging precariously from the walkway above the gate.

“Goodbye!” he said as each member of the company looked up nervously, wondering what surprise the buckets held in store for any Impeccable soldier unlucky enough to come that way. “And remember, if you come back I’ll prank you!”

The cow, painfully slow though it was, reached the other end of the stone bridge just outside Riverweed before Ti’lief.

“Ti’lief not like all this water, no,” he repeated for the third time as he cautiously made it to the middle, trying not to look to either side. The others waited patiently as Ti’lief finally made it to the other side of the bridge and let out a sigh of relief. “Is it much farther? And, more importantly, are there any more bridges?”

“No more bridges,” said Draloth, frowning as he watched Thral poke the signpost with his warhammer. “Though we will be following the course of the river, so you might want to not look to your right until we are Whiteruin.”

As the company started up the northern road, Kharla found herself walking at the rear with Ti’lief.

“So where you from, Cat?” she asked, moving to his left so he didn’t have to look at the river.

“Ti’lief from Noweyr,” he replied.

Kharla grunted. “Come on, everyone’s from somewhere.”

“No,” the Cat-man protested, “not every Khapiit from Somweyr. Some from Noweyr in the north, and others from Elsweyr.”

Elsweyr, the land of the Khapiit (a word that means ‘fine rug’), lies on the southern coasts of Tamarind. Its three regions approximate to the three climates that the land encompasses: the savannahs of Noweyr in the north, the jungles of Elsweyr (yes, where jungle berries come from) in the central region, and the hot deserts of Somweyr in the south. The Khapiit from each region are distinct in their physical traits. The Khapiit of Noweyr tend to be short, perhaps so they can hide in the savannah; those of Elsweyr have long, strong tails, of use in climbing trees of course; and those of Somweyr have far less fur, no doubt because of the heat and perhaps also the sand. On this latter point, I myself once sojourned in Somweyr for a season selling ice cream. It was very lucrative but in the end I had to pack it in because I just couldn’t stand how the sand just got everywhere. And I mean everywhere (and, no, before you ask, there isn’t a place called Everyweyr).

Kharla scratched her head. “Well, wherever you’re from, I should tell you that I don’t much care for thieves.”

“Ti’lief not care for thieves either,” the Cat-man said.

“But you are a thief!”

Ti’lief looked as if someone had just cut off his whiskers. “Ti’lief not thief! This one is a member of the Honorable and Tidy Guild of Anti-thieves!”

Kharla furrowed her brow. “What’s an anti-thief?”

“Guild members unsteal things, where possible, but also provide a general house tidying service.”

Kharla shifted the two axes at her belt. “How do you unsteal something?”

Ti’lief looked at Kharla as if she was stupid. “Anti-thief steals stolen item from thief. Then anti-thief returns stolen item to owner. Simple.”

“Right,” Kharla said, not feeling at all stupid. “So how many in this Anti-thieves’ guild?”

“Including Ti’lief,” the anti-thief began, “one.” He paused. “Guild not popular yet, but will be when Ti’lief finds marketing director. You will see.”

“It doesn’t seem like it’s very profitable,” Kharla said.

Ti’lief pulled his hood up tighter, no doubt to avoid seeing the river. “Sometimes Ti’lief has problems finding original owner so keeps stolen item.”

The cow made a regular clinking noise as the silverware and other metal goods from Rod and Gertrude’s home jostled about in the two large sacks Draloth had saddled the animal with.

“Can’t this beast go any faster?” Kharla shouted.

Draloth turned his head. “The cow’s hair is so thick and matted I doubt one of those new-fangled crossbow bolts could make it through!” He prodded the creature again and it took no notice. “I think it only has one speed setting. And I use the word ‘speed’ loosely.”

Kharla sighed. “Riverweed is going to be burned to the ground before it gets any guards to help defend it.”

“You were at Helga, right?” Draloth said. “The only thing that will change if guards are sent to Riverweed is that those guards will be roasted alive too. Think, this cow could be saving lives. Which reminds me, I really should come up with a name for the beast.”

“Didn’t it have a name already?” asked Kharla.

Draloth stroked his narrow chin. “Maybe, but I didn’t think to ask. I know, why don’t we all give a name and I, as the new owner, will choose the best?”

Mell seemed to perk up at the idea. “Clarabelle! Call it Clarabelle!”

“Ti’lief thinks Buttercup is a better name, yes,” said the Cat.

Kharla tugged at her ponytail as she pondered a good name. “What about Bessie?”

“Right,” said the Dark Elf, “and what about you, Thral?”

Thral looked up on hearing his name. “What?”

Kharla looked at the Nord. “We need a name for the cow. Do you have a name?”

“My name’s Thral.”

“No, not your name,” Kharla explained. “A name for the cow.” She pointed at the creature.

Thral smiled. “Daisy!”

“Great, four truly original names.” Draloth’s voice was thick with sarcasm. “What about the name Nix? We have Nix-Oxen where I come from, you see. Though they aren’t actually Oxen, they’re more like big insects.”

The anti-thief stared at the cow. “Ti’lief doesn’t think she looks like a Nix.”

“Agreed,” said Mell. “I think she might be upset if we called her after an insect.”

Draloth looked at Kharla. She shrugged. “Not a name I’d choose, but it’s your cow.”

“Could ask cow?” Thral said.

Draloth sighed. “I have an idea. Let’s see who can ride the cow for the longest. The winner gets to choose the name!” The Dark Elf paused to see if anyone protested.

“It’s as food a way as any, I suppose,” Kharla said.

“All right, who’s up first?” asked the Dark Elf.

Ti’lief approached the cow and looked at it. “Ti’lief cannot ride cow. It’s too dirty. He get his fur all matted like cow. Take ages to lick it all clean again.”

“Well, that’s you disqualified then,” Draloth said.

Ti’lief narrowed his amber eyes at the merchant and then licked his paw. “Ti’lief rather be clean.”

Mell walked up to the cow next and looked at it. “Now that I see her, I think the animal must be very sad to have to carry more weight. And if she’s sad then that makes me sad.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” the Dark Elf said. “Disqualified!”

Mell dropped back and Kharla urged Thral forward and explained to him what he needed to do. Surprisingly the beast was large and fat enough so that Thral’s feet were not touching the ground, though only by about an inch. However, so heavy was he that the cow just plain refused to move.

“Next!” said Draloth.

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Kharla got up on the cow and managed to stay on while the cow continued onward. Indeed, it moved a little faster as Kharla squeezed her legs.

Draloth smiled. “All right, Orc. You win. Bessie it is.”

“Wait, aren’t you having a go?”

“Me, no? I only suggested it because I thought it’d be entertaining to watch you all try to ride the creature. Besides, I don’t particularly like the name Nix. Had an uncle in the Morbid Tang who had Nix as a code name. Horrible person. Died from eating a poisoned cheesecake.”

The Morbid Tang is an assassins’ guild based in Marrowind, my homeland. It is said they sometimes carry out assassinations at the request of the government (and I can well believe it). The guild’s patron Deirda is Mephanol, also known as the Lady of Solvents, Fueler of Speed, Protector from the Frost, and Queen of Trifles. The guild specializes in poisons administered via tangy desserts that mask the bitter taste of the fatal poisons they use. Their favored deadly desserts are lemon meringue pie and mango sorbet, and their motto is ‘Dealing out Just Desserts”. Marrowind nobles pay cupbearers a great deal of gold to taste their desserts; a cushy job if you are lucky enough not to get poisoned. Of course, the guild has a pretty poor track record when it comes to assassinating people who don’t have much of a sweet tooth.

Kharla, much to her chagrin, remained seated on Bessie as they continued their journey. She’d tried getting down several times but the cow always slowed its pace when she did so.

She’d complained about it at first, and Ti’lief had reminded her she was lucky not to be downwind of the beast, but as they continued she rather enjoyed the experience. Bessie was sturdy, strong and her horns made good handles for steering. Maybe Kharla could devise some kind of saddle once they got to the city. Ti’lief had also suggested the cow be given a good wash and a comb of sufficient strength be found to get all the mats out of her hair. Possibly one made of ebony.

As the road dipped and they turned a bend they saw a line of several Impeccable soldiers escorting a prisoner heading their way. It was too late to hide.

Draloth looked concerned and hid behind Bessie. “What do we do?”

“Carry on. I doubt they have our descriptions and, who knows, that register probably became just another one of the many burned books in the land.” Kharla straightened and looked at the soldiers boldly. “They’re probably on the lookout for Torncloaks anyway. If they ask, we can say we are a merchant caravan, which, if I’m honest, isn’t a thousand miles away from the truth.”

Kharla nodded toward the Impeccable soldiers as they passed by. The prisoner, dressed in brown rags, looked like a Nord. Maybe a Torncloak, maybe a murderer, or perhaps just a thief.

“Impeccable business, be on your way,” a soldier said.

Kharla turned to see that Thral had stopped and was looking at the soldiers, his warhammer resting calmly on his big shoulder.

Kharla, fearing what the Nord strongman might do, flashed a concerned look at Draloth and Ti’lief. Draloth didn’t move from the other side of Bessie but the Khapiit moved to Thral and grabbed his arm.

“Ti’lief sorry,” the Cat said to the soldier. “Big man fascinated by your fine armor and bright helmets.”

The lead soldier smiled. “Why, thank you. I do try to keep it in top condition. You see that?” The soldier pointed to a blue medal on his chest with the image of what looked like a neatly folded white cloth emblazoned upon it. “The Order of the Folded Napkin.” Pride filled his face.

“Such a nice medal,” the Cat said as he guided Thral away from the soldiers. “Ti’lief is sure you deserve it. He honors you, our whole merchant caravan—which has nothing to do with the circus—honors you.”

The soldier frowned but then nodded his goodbye and ordered the prisoner and his men to continue. Kharla wondered if the soldiers were heading toward Riverweed and Freddy’s buckets. That would mess up their fine uniforms. The boy had probably put something much more disgusting than water in those pales. She urged Bessie on with a grin on her face.

The road came to a crossroads with a bridge straight ahead and another to their right. Ti’lief let out an audible sigh of relief when Kharla led them left.

Thral slowed to a stop as they passed a couple of buildings on their left. A big sign sat outside the door of the nearest one that read ‘Honkingbrew Meadery’. Draloth made good use of the blunt goad stick to get Thral moving again. It seemed to work far more effectively on the Nord than the cow.

They followed the river down the road, passing fields of crops, farmhouses, and windmills until they drew near to the turn in the road city of Whiteruin at which point they heard the sound of fighting coming from the field they were just passing. Three thugs were beating up a poor old giant who must’ve lost his way and traipsed across someone’s field.

Kharla jumped from her mount and jumped the fence, but the giant had already been clobbered to death by the time she got there.

A Nord woman in leathers, standing over the giant’s corpse, turned to face Kharla. “Well, that’s taken care of. No thanks to you.”

“What?” grunted Kharla. “That giant looked like he needed help!”

The woman adjusted the bow on her back. “He certainly did. But a true brute would have relished the opportunity to take on a giant. That’s why I’m here with my Shield-Botherers.”

“Shield-Botherers?”

“An outsider, eh?” the woman looked Kharla up and down. “Never heard of the Compellers?”

“Sounds like a bad name for one of those traveling minstrel groups!” shouted Draloth. Kharla glanced back to see her companions all standing in a line watching from the other side of the fence. Except Thral, who had decided to sit down and peer through a gap in the crude fence.

The Nord woman gave the Dark Elf and the others a stern look. “We are an order of bullyboys and strong-arms. We are brothers and sisters in harassment. And we show up to cause problems if the coin is good enough—and to solve the problems we create if it means even more coin.”

“That’s right!” said the man with her. Another Nord. His voice sounded like Rolof’s but even slower, though not as slow as Thral’s. He booted the giant to make sure it was dead, or perhaps just for the fun of it.

“Ti’lief thinks some respect for the dead is needed,” the Cat-man said.

“Does Ti’lief want me to respect him too?” the Shield-Botherer said.

Ti’lief gulped.

Then Thral stood and the Nord woman’s eyes lit up. “Now there’s a Nord who’d make a fine Compeller! We’ll take you, Orc, and the Nord, if you’re interested. Come find us in Whiteruin. Ask for our leader, Crudluck Whitemange at the Hall of Jorrvexer.”

And then the three of them walked off toward the city, each with a threatening swagger.

Kharla looked at the fallen giant with its head face down in a large cabbage. “Well, I don’t think I’ll be joining their little outfit anytime soon,” she muttered. “And I doubt Thral—Wait, where’s Thral?”

Kharla looked past the others as they all turned around. Thral was striding after the three Compellers.

“Draloth, go and get him back! Use the goad if you have to!” Kharla shuddered to imagine the damage that would be done if Thral joined those thugs.

“What were you thinking?” Kharla said to the Nord strongman as they caught up with Draloth and Thral near the Whiteruin stables, just past a carriage upon which sat a driver singing to himself.

Thral gave her his usual blank stare. “Thinking?”

“Ugh, never mind,” said Kharla.

“Look!” Ti’lief pointed to several hide tents on a patch of ground not far from the walls. “A Khapiit merchant caravan. Maybe you could trade with them, Draloth?”

Draloth stuck his nose up in disgust. “Are you kidding? Those Khapiit merchants are a bunch of thieves.”

“Ti’lief knows this, but maybe Ti’lief finds stolen good he can return?”

Draloth rolled his eyes.

The Khapiit camp consisted of several hide tents and a cooking spit over a fire. A grayish Khapiit sat cross-legged on a mat at the entrance to the largest tent. His eyes lit up as Ti’lief and the others approached.

“Hello, brother. Ti’lief is happy to see you. He has not seen another Khapiit for many moons.”

“May the sand not lodge between your toes, friend.” The Cat dipped his head and looked at the others. “This one has traveled far across Tamarind to swind—serve—you.”

A female Khapiit in a plain dress approached. “Ri’chard, this one’s bones ache for the Loon Sugar. It has been too long since she tasted it. Her body shakes with the need.”

“Control yourself, Atabar!” Ri’chard rebuked her. “Do not frighten our customers away with your fits!”

Atabar went off in a sulk, shaking her head—and indeed her whole body—involuntarily as she walked back to her tent.

Loon Sugar consists of small yellow crystals refined from the cane grasses of the coastal lands of Elsweyr that have been ‘scent marked’ by the urine of the magical Ilfit (a sort of house-cat). It is an addictive drug that causes a euphoric high in the user but comes at the cost of their intelligence, making them quite stupid for the duration of the substance’s effect. A more potent version known as Scrumpy can be imbibed in the form of apple cider. Withdrawal symptoms include the shakes, an increasing loss of memory for dates (notably birthdays and other special occasions) and names of pets, and, in extreme cases, spontaneous uncontrollable dancing.

Ri’chard turned back to Ti’lief and the others. “My apologies, now how can I help you?”

“Ti’lief wonders if he could peruse your wares? Especially,”—and here he tipped his head and gave Ri’chard a knowing wink—“the special items.”

“So what was the purpose of all that?” Draloth asked as they left the Khapiit camp.

“You’ll see,” Ti’lief said, smiling.

A large chunk of wall fell down and almost hit Kharla as they passed under the outer gateway to Whiteruin. Kharla hurled a curse at the stone. She’d dismounted Bessie when they reached the camp and now walked at their head, eager to warn the city and get to Windfarm.

“One day they’ll get around to repairing these walls,” Draloth said. “I’ve been here several times and they just get worse each time. When I was last here a section of wall collapsed on a wandering minstrel. Fortunately, he was found because a guard heard him plucking his lute from under the rubble.”

Kharla stole a glance to her left and right where Whiteruin guards in their yellow uniforms stood nervously on the poorly maintained walls and wooden ramparts.

“Right, let’s be careful with Bessie here,” said Draloth as they reached the drawbridge. The structure creaked as Kharla stepped on it and it was riddled with holes. “Thral, stay back! We don’t want you both on here at the same time.” Thral dutifully waited unto the cow was across.

The main gate came into view as they left the drawbridge behind. It was a double-door gate flanked by two Whiteruin guards discussing the latest gossip.

“Did you hear that Oldthred Torncloak murdered the High King with his vase?” said the guard on the right to the guard on the left.

“His vase? Are you sure?” asked the guard on the left.

“It’s what they’re saying,” confirmed the guard on the right. “Shattered it apart too, they say.”

“So what happened to the flowers, then?” asked the guard on the left.

“Well, how should I know? Maybe he put them on the High King’s chest after he killed him—”

As the guards saw Kharla and her party approach, the one on the left stepped forward.

“Halt! City’s closed with the dragons about. Official business only.”

Kharla grunted. “I don’t think a locked gate’s gonna stop a dragon.”

The guard frowned. “Are you looking for a beating?”

Kharla folded her arms. “We have news about the dragon attack. Riverweed calls for aid, will Whiteruin answer?”

“Fine,” said the guard. “But we’ll be keeping an eye on you, Orc.”