Chapter 4
In the morning, Novanostrum wakes to find himself alone--and cold. He carries a few new pieces of wood to the remnants of his campfire and snaps his fingers at it.
Nothing happens.
He tries a few more times, to no effect. He takes his staff in hand and focuses on a heavy rock in the corner of the cave, trying to levitate it. But he can’t get it up. He shakes his staff, frustrated at his impotence.
Novanostrum walks outside the cave, only to see a lumbering bear strutting toward him. He twists the metal ring on the face of the Ristwatch to pause time so he can eliminate the threat, but nothing happens. The bear continues its advance, and Novanostrum does the only thing he can think of--he sprints down the mountain path toward Zweissergrund.
Zanther walks the long road to Claustria, opting not to take the shortcut through the Deathstretch. He can see the gloomy clouds and dead trees of that cursed land on the edge of the horizon and thinks back to his last experience there, shuddering.
It isn’t long before a pair of eyes in the shrubbery takes notice of the lone, white-robed traveler and summons its cohorts for an attack.
Four horses come dashing from a copse of trees and beeline toward Zanther, who unsheathes his new weapon.
“Time to test you out,” he says to his longknife. The longknife does not respond.
With pikes in their hands, they charge Zanther, hoping to trample him or spear him, but a few quick swipes with his longknife knock them from their horses, who continue their charge without their riders.
Zanther finds the wooden blade light and responsive. The carpenter has hollowed out the center of the birkwood weapon and drilled a few holes in the center of the blade, holes which cause a deafening whooshing whistle whenever the weapon is swung.
The brigands get up, clutching their weapons and closing around Zanther in a circle.
“Looks like someone couldn’t afford a real weapon,” one of them says.
Zanther strikes the man heavily on the forehead, rendering him unconscious. “Is that real enough for you?” he asks.
The others take this opportunity to attack, each of them thrusting their pikes in unison but managing to hit nothing, as Zanther drops to the ground and rolls outside of the circle, coming up behind one of them and swiping at his shins. The man drops to the ground in pain, drawing his knees to his chest.
Zanther uses his wooden blade to swat down the attacks of the other two, kicking one of the men in the genitals and thrusting the point of his longknife into the throat of the other.
With all of his attackers collapsed on the ground, Zanther reaches into the quiver of arrows on the back of one of the men and produces four arrows, spearing an arrow into the open mouth of each man before any of them have a chance to react.
He doubles back in the direction of the horses and manages to find one of them. In a few ticks, he tramps over the pile of men, each of them writhing and burbling blood. The horse kicks up a dust cloud as he spurs it on, racing toward Claustria.
On the dusty plains of Lexi’khan, two Paterlinguan word traders are digging. They push the silty piles of dirt aside, exposing the fresh nomenclay below. They use recurved blades to cut the nomenclay into blocks, which they set onto a wooden wagon.
“I’m just saying, man, that wench needs slapped,” one of them just says.
“Are you listening to yourself?”
“I never knew you were such a feminist, Kharoll.”
“That’s not what I mean. You said ‘that wench needs slapped’ instead of saying ‘that wench needs to be slapped.’”
“The ‘to be’ is implied. It’s a perfectly acceptable construct.”
“No, Soose, it really isn’t. As a Paterlinguan, it’s our duty to uphold the highest standards in language usage.”
“Well, Kharoll, then I guess I don’t need to point out to you that ‘usage’ is a pointless word; ‘use’ will suffice on its own--the ‘-age’ suffix doesn’t imbue the word with any extra meaning.”
“The word ‘usage’ has fallen into the realm of popular use.”
“Popular use?! You profess to be a so-called ‘true Paterlinguan’ and you’d use that as an argument?”
“It’s one of the Ten Imperatives: language must evolve.”
With their wagon full of blocks, they put their tools away and each grab a wooden handle as they pull the wagon along the slithy road toward their camp.
“Kharoll, I’m not arguing that language doesn’t evolve. My argument is that it’s also our duty to prevent lexical pollution, just as we do when we collect old words and take them out of circulation.”
They are too involved in their conversation to notice the woman blocking their path until they almost run into her. Her long hair and plain robe give the Paterlinguans the impression she is a witch. She holds a small box out to one of the men.
“Arcania sends this gift for your Editor. Will you deliver it to him?”
Soose sizes her up. “We shall take you to him so that you may deliver it yourself, witch.”
She clears her throat. “I am not ignorant of the fact that there has been conflict between our peoples in the past, and that because of this you harbor Arcania no small amount of ill will. It is in the spirit of improved relations and more accurate communication between our respective communities that I have been sent to present your esteemed Editor with this humble token.
“However, as you may have noticed, I am but a timid creature of the female gender and the thought of approaching so many powerful Paterlinguans such as yourselves at the same time fills me with a certain sense of trepidation. So if you would be able to convey this small package for me, I would be greatly relieved and, moreover, I could more quickly extricate myself from your sublime lands. As I believe your greatest desire is for me to be away from here with all possible haste, it should be in your best interest to aid me by assisting with such a simple task.”
The two Paterlinguans look at each other for a moment. Kharoll reaches out and takes the package from her, and they continue on their way. Within a few ticks, she disappears from their field of vision toward parts unknown.
Soose and Kharoll approach the Paterlinguan camp, a bazaar of tents and stalls filled with the hustle and bustle of commerce. They leave their wagon next to a row of other wagons filled with nomenclay and weave their way through the narrow passages between tents until they approach a larger tent with elaborate banners hanging in front of it. Soose waits by the entrance as Kharoll disappears inside.
Inside the large tent, there are tables covered with stacks of books and old documents. Two slender beauties wearing thin dresses made from rolls of parchment bearing words in a foreign language are fanning a man sitting on a large pillow.
“Editor Snarfblaggle,” Kharoll says, “I met a messenger from Arcania who asked me to deliver this package to you.”
Snarfblaggle snatches the package out of Kharoll’s hand and inspects the card, which reads as follows:
Most esteemed Editor Snarfblagle,
We realise that in the past their have been conflicts betwixt our people. However, we consider this to be a whole nother chapter in Arcanian-Patterlinguan relations. Please except this small token as a first step two-words improving the dialog between Arcanians and Patterlinguans. Inclosed is a key which will allow you to open the box.
Respectfully,
The Arcanian Wizards’ Council
As Snarfblaggle reads the card, his face gets redder and redder until he finishes, and tears it in half. He throws the key and the card out through the doorway of his tent. Kharoll tilts his head at him.
Snarfblaggle explains, “They spelled my name wrong. They misspelled the name of our people. Their grammar is atrocious. I refuse to believe that the rulers of a civilized kingdom harbor such ignorance, and so it’s clear that their letter is a declaration of war. We shall round up our strictest pedants and overwhelm them with our correctness. And also with weapons.”
“So what should I do with their gift?”
Snarfblaggle picks up the key and hands it to Kharoll. “Trade it to the first philosopher you meet.”
A servant carries a package into Mayor Slotterhaus’s office and sets it upon the Mayor’s desk. Slotterhaus reads the fancy calligraphy on the tag aloud.
“The Grand High Council of Arcania wishes to extend its thanks to Mayor Slotterhaus and the people of Zweissergrund for their continued support,” he reads.
There is a small key tied to the ribbon attaching the tag to the package.
“Never did care for those shifty wizards or their tricks, but a gift is a gift,” he says to his servant as he unwraps the paper to find a small chest. He pushes the key into the lock and opens it.
Novanostrum has finally entered the town limits of Zweissergrund to find himself once again surrounded by the steep-roofed lodges and snow-covered streets of the mountain town. Directly in the center of town, he spots the Mayor’s mansion.
A moment later, there is an ear-blasting explosion, instantly reducing the mansion to splinters as the fireball expands skyward. Novanostrum barely manages to dodge a large piece of wooden debris by diving to the ground.
Though few are outside in the cold to witness the actual explosion, the number of people in the vicinity increases rapidly, most of them gawking at the smoking rubble. The postman, who had barely managed to make his way outside before the explosion, is talking to some soldiers, who quickly take notice of Novanostrum.
“You! Wizard! Arcanian scum!” they shout as they sprint toward him.
He grips his staff, trying in vain to produce a fireball, but they level their powderblasts at him.
“Drop it! Drop it now!” one of the soldiers screams at him, shaking with fear at the prospect of being transformed into something small and slimy.
To the surprise of the soldiers, he calmly sets his staff down and allows them to escort him, roughly, to their nearby outpost.