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Milton put one tired, red eye to the hole in the gate and peeked out again. The mysterious flying behemoth still lurked outside, just as huge and just as intimidating in the light of dawn as it was in the dark of night.
He hadn't gotten a lot of sleep last night. The senior mages had spent far more than the half hour Ferman had predicted discussing the situation, so it wasn't until well past midnight when he had returned to advise Milton of their decision. The young apprentice agreed with most of it up until the very end.
The senior mages had determined that the flying thing was most likely a powerful magical device rather than a beast. They had deduced that people—or similar—probably abided within. They had decided that someone should go out to greet them, extend the hand of friendship, and respectfully inquire about their intentions. And they had concluded that Milton was the ideal candidate for the job because he was a personable and physically unimposing young man with a keen mind, knowledge of magic, and, perhaps most importantly, no family depending on him for support. Ferman had told him that his selection proved how much confidence they had in him and that he should view it as a great honor.
After a realistic self-assessment of his limited abilities, Milton saw it differently.
"If my father could see how brave you are, he wouldn't object so much to you keeping company with me," Mari said, standing beside him and bolstering the tiny amount of confidence he had been trying to summon. She looked at him with soft brown eyes and touched his cheek with an even softer hand.
Milton sighed and adjusted his grasp on the pole holding the white flag.
"It's not bravery he cares about, it's gold, and mine is dwindling fast. He doesn’t think I'm a good investment."
Milton had inherited his workshop from his father, who had been the city's best tinsmith. Milton, although he possessed the knowledge and technical ability for the trade, did not have the artistic talent or the interest to be good at it himself. He had always been the bookish type, and the lures of magic and natural philosophy drew him. Much of his monetary inheritance, consequently, went to paying Ferman to take him on as an apprentice, but he had yet to see much income resulting from his new vocation. He kept trying to tell himself that pursuing your dreams was more important than money, but, unfortunately, it is difficult to pursue your dreams when your creditors are pursuing you. He had not reached that point yet, but he could see it looming in the near distance.
Magic, it seemed, was in decline. The old records suggested that clerical magic had suffered the most. At one time, powerful clerics were said to be able to call on their gods to part rivers, call down lightning and plagues on their enemies, and raise people from the dead. Now they were reduced to casting dubious blessings and curing light wounds, and they mostly used potions and ointments for that. But secular magic was being affected as well, with spells becoming less potent, sometimes failing entirely. Consequently, people were turning to non-magical solutions for their needs, leaving him and even the more experienced magic users without many customers. He speculated that something might be disrupting the underlying source of magic, but no one really understood what that was.
"I think you're a good investment," Mari said consolingly. "You're smart and gentle and kind. You would make a much better husband than Grizlaw. I don't care what my father wants. Grizlaw is old, fat, and nasty."
Grizlaw the cloth merchant was indeed almost twice her age and weight. He was also devious, demanding, short-tempered, and he treated people like things, but none of that mattered.
"He's rich," Milton said.
"He has a lot of money. That's not the same thing at all," Mari replied with the innocence of youth.
Milton agreed that gold was a poor way to measure the value of a person, but that made no difference either. Mari's father would decide whom she would marry. That was how it had always been.
"You should go now," he said. "I'm not sure how this is going to turn out."
"I'm going to stay," she said. "I told Gorbo to close up the workshop."
"You won't be able to see anything. They won't let women up on the wall walk."
"I know. I'm just going to wait around here until I see you come back safe and sound. Then I'll go home to help my mother with the laundry. I'll stop by the workshop later, and then you can tell me all about what happened."
"Milton!" cried his master, emerging from the crowd gathered around the gate. "Not gone yet, I see. Good. I hoped I would be in time."
Mari made way for Ferman and drifted back into the crowd.
"Have the senior mages changed their minds?" Milton asked him, hoping they had. Maybe if they ignored it, the flying thing would fly away.
"No, of course not. Don't worry. You still get to go. It's just that King Genrex would like you to invite the strangers in to see him, or for him to see them, I suppose—providing they're not dangerous or hideous or whatnot. I'm sure we can trust your judgment about that."
"I'll do my best." With any luck, no one would be home inside that thing and it wouldn't matter.
"Good lad. You'd better be off now. We're all counting on you."
Ferman turned to one of the military officers and pointed toward the gate with his staff. "Have your men open this. My apprentice here has an important job to do."
A group of soldiers unbarred and opened the gate just wide enough for Milton to squeeze through. He held the white flag in front of him and waved it earnestly. He sincerely hoped that whoever might be inside that thing would understand what it meant.
The lack of sudden, unpleasant surprises prompted him to take a step, and then another. Two steps from the gate, he heard it close, which was quickly followed by the unmistakable sound of the bar dropping solidly back in place. He found this discouraging, but turning back had never been an option.
He approached the flying behemoth slowly, constantly waving his flimsy white sign of neutrality. "Hello?" he said. "Is there anybody in there?"
If there was, they either did not hear him or did not want to answer.
He ventured forward with his eyes glued to the enormous object, searching for any sign that it noticed him. He stopped when its pale bulbous nose loomed overhead.
A metallic grating noise above and ahead startled him, and he jumped, accidently dropping his flag. With some vague idea that it represented protection, he bent to retrieve it before looking up to see that a door of sorts had opened in the belly of the beast and that a that ramp was emerging from it like a long, slow-moving tongue.
It was more fear and curiosity than courage that held him in place as the ramp settled on the ground and figures began to descend. They looked like people, which came as a welcome relief. Dwarfs, halflings, or even elves would have been all right, too. One of the things that had kept him up last night was the possibility that the strangers would be something with scales, fangs, or long spikey tails and a ravenous appetite for scrawny young men.
All four of the people coming down the ramp were dressed alike in blue, one-piece outfits that combined shirt and trousers. Two of them appeared to be women, which suggested an explanation of sorts.
"Hello. Are you adventurers?" he asked hesitantly. No past adventurers had ever arrived in such a bizarre fashion, but only adventuring parties included women as equals in his experience.
"He speaks English!" the short woman in the lead said.
Milton did not know what she meant. He spoke Common, just like everyone else.
"Um, thanks for chasing off the orcs last night," he said.
The tall man behind her smiled. He seemed friendly enough, anyway.
"What is this place?" asked the first woman. She was the smallest of the group by a few finger widths and looked a bit elfish—slim, with brown hair, brown eyes, and a tan complexion.
"It's the walled city of Bardasium." How could they not know this already?
"No, I mean the planet."
"Planet? You mean like in stars and planets? Those are in the heavens. We're o
n the ground."
The tall man laughed. "And it's turtles all the way down, I suppose."
"What?" the elfish-looking woman said.
"Never mind. What's your name, young man," the tall man asked. The jovial tone in his voice helped put Milton at ease.
"Milton. Milton Puddleswirth."
"Well, Milton, you can call me Brax, this is Doc, behind him is Sandra, and this fine lady is Commander Chang."
The last was the short woman who had first spoken. She must be their leader.
"So you are adventurers, right?" Milton said.
"I suppose you could call us that," Commander Chang said, while behind her Brax appeared to be trying not to laugh.
Milton did not see how this could be funny, but he did not think the strangers wished him any immediate harm. Commander Chang must be their magic user, and a very powerful one, considering how they arrived. Brax was obviously the fighter. Anyone built like that would be either a fighter or a blacksmith. Doc, the dark-skinned man with the contemplative expression, would most likely be their cleric, and that would make Sandra, who appeared graceful and athletic, their thief. Viewed this way, they were a small adventuring party with a standard compliment of skills. Yes, it was all beginning to make more sense now.
"If you don't mind my asking," Milton ventured hesitantly, "why have you come to Bardasium?"
"How, would be a better question," Commander Chang said.
"We saw the fires last night from a distance and thought we might be able to help," Brax said.
"Yes, the orcs. We're not sure what provoked so many of them to attack us. They're not often much of a problem. A few orc clans wander through here now and then, but other than a stolen chicken once in a while, they're not much trouble. They can be aggressive, but they mostly end up fighting each other."
Brax nodded knowingly. "Yeah, something's driving them."
"Brax!" Commander Chang said in a warning tone.
"Just a guess," he said defensively.
"Anyway, thanks for coming to our rescue," Milton said. "It looked like we might be in some serious danger just before you arrived."
"Glad we could be of assistance," Brax said. "Shame about the town." He waved an arm toward the still smoldering part of the city on this side of the walls.
"I think most everyone got inside before the attack," Milton said. "The orcs were hooting and howling in the woods for a while before they charged in."
"They were probably working up their courage. Orcs aren't really all that brave."
"Brax…," Commander Chang said again, glaring at him.
"Just another guess," he said. "In any case, it's good to know the people here escaped."
"Yes, we're all glad to hear that," she agreed.
"Commander," Sandra said. "Maybe they would like to pay us for the service we have provided."
Ah, payment. Of course. They were definitely adventurers.
"I'm sure the king would be happy to do something like that," Milton said. "In fact, he has asked to see you, if that's agreeable with you, of course."
The commander turned to her fighter. "What do you think, Brax? You have more familiarity with situations like this."
"To be honest, Commander, I'm surprised at how familiar it all seems, but based on my experience, I'd say meeting with the king would be a fine idea."
"There may be injured people in the city," Doc said. "I'll get my bag."
"Okay, but I'd like someone to stay here with the ship," the commander said. She looked back and forth at the other members of her party. "Sandra, that's you. Keep it buttoned up until we get back."
~Chapter 7~