Tales Of Grimea (6 page)

“
Hi!”

“
Hey, there. Oh my, that’s one big Worg
you’ve got.”

“
Oh, it’s nothing to brag about.”

“
Really?”

“
Yeah. I’m more interested in your eggs.
Do you go west often?”

From there on, she would tell him a lot about
the farther reaches of the wasteland as well as where to find good
towns to trade, and Hwosh would push his bandanna higher up on his
head in wonder, causing its string of beads and ornaments to
clutter about the side of his face. Slowly, their line inched
forward, then faster, until Hwosh was gestured in through Lor’s
gates after the man with the uproar causing turnips. The guard
didn’t smile at him, although he grunted at the sight of a man
carrying a Worg as calmly as Hwosh did.

Few in this town liked Hwosh; they seemed to
carry an opinion of him that he himself shared. It was often better
to stay quiet than to say something and make a fool of himself. Of
course, the warrior looked back at the woman as she turned left
after the gate with her wagon and after a second the man pushed on
straight ahead. She wouldn’t have chatted anyway. Not with him.

After making his way through the winding dust
bitten streets of Lor for a few minutes, the tall monster hunter’s
shoulders loosened slightly, and his gait began to become more
relaxed. Life can go on well enough, he thought.

Hwosh made his way towards the western side
of town, beyond the bustling bazaar filled with exotic scents and
smokes. Dust mingled here with spices and the feathers fallen from
birds with impressive plumages, which were apparently a particular
steal here. Why anyone would more for an “off turquoise” bird than
for a small house, a simple warrior would never know. The buzzing
crowd was mostly made up of foreigners, identifiable both by
certain facial features which hadn’t yet been distilled into an
average continental look, and also by choice of clothing. Regalians
hade proud high cheekbones and often boasted bluish eyes and
lighter skin, whereas those of Indellekt liked to dress in more
modest robes, although still rather colourful. As Hwosh made his
away along the shaded stands with their bright covers, calls came
from merchants announcing their wares in an almost songlike chant.
The sounds clamoured against one another, and the fighter ruefully
smiled. This was what home sounded like to him.

Somewhere along the way, a merchant in a
simple brown robe and a square hat, called a kama, stopped the
tanned man. “That’s a mighty Worg you’ve landed yourself,” he
remarked with an impressed whistle. His stand, noticed Hwosh, was
better shaded than most. In fact, this merchant had set up a long
tent like piece of blue cloth from the left building to the right
in order to shield an entire section of street from the sun’s hot
glare. His wares mostly consisted of beast: Skins, scales, pelts,
as well as tusks. He could see jaws and fangs and even a drake
scull looming ominously upon a high shelf. This man seemed to know
his business.

“Thank you, sir,” Hwosh responded politely
yet in a measured manner, “I’ve heard of your work, master Baqir.”
The merchant smiled at that, a wide toothy grin. Lor was a town of
trade, and it was natural for the most prominent of merchants to be
famous. Baqir was one of those few who had risen above the need to
have a street stand in the Bazar yet held one anyways. Some called
him strange, and that he was indeed. Still, the charitable man was
well respected, for he was as ruthless in trade as he was kind in
society. Hwosh had heard of him, of course, and knew what he now
wanted of him.

“So? How about thirty Regalians for the
beast, boy?” offered the merchant with a thoughtful look. Hwosh
almost flinched at the price. He eyed the slightly pudgy man,
trying to think things through. Somewhere to the left, a parrot was
repeating its owner’s cries.

“It’s green and red, great beside the
bed!”

“It’s loud, it’s true, only the best for
you!”

“Such, a steal, you can have it for a
meal!”

Hwosh barely gave the background noise an
ear, however. “Sir,” he murmured hesitantly, “The price you offer
is too much. This worg,” he gave the wolf like thing upon his back
a shake, “is worth twenty, maybe twenty three Regalias.” The man’s
expression changed for a second, and then he laughed, slapping his
thigh.

“Aye, boy,” he exclaimed, before a nearby man
dropped his bag of cinnamon powder and sent all around into a
coughing fit, chased by a hail of curses. When the commotion
subsided, Baqir added “You look like a strong boy, so I thought
selling this to you for a higher price would work as incentive.” A
wide smile coated his face, and Hwosh understood the man’s reading
of his tired leather armour and nicked broadsword.
Not just as a
lasting investment; this man wants to outfit me for better work
somewhere.
There was no way a merchant as savvy as Baqir would
boast an inexperienced eye for wares, and yet Hwosh found himself
doubting the man. There were many tough fighters in the streets of
Lor, hardened by the town’s less lawful side, not to mention the
east’s dextrous Muqateleen or Regalia’s knights. Settling on a cub
such as himself could be no more than a backup plan, at best. Could
the moustached man’s motive for this offer be pity?

Before he even knew it, Hwosh was considering
Baqir’s offer seriously, lost in the man’s earnest and kindly
demeanour. Then again, the black haired man was a simple one, if
not stupid, and proud in his own way. Hard earned money was simply
more appealing than the good natured charity of Baqir Kareem.
Also…

“Thank you, uncle,” Replied he respectfully,
setting his Worg down on the dusty road and almost tripping a
coffee boy. He inched closer to the merchant and took one of his
ringed hands in both of his, allowing his words to carry in an
almost revering whisper. “But I have a commission from master
Salim.”

Baqir almost recoiled at the name, but then
laughed off Hwosh’s apologies with a waving hand. “That’s alright,
my boy,” he exclaimed, “A merchant knows when he’s beat! But next
time,” he added with a waggling finger raised in mock anger, “Don’t
tease an old man with what he can’t have.” With that Hwosh was
forced to take a cup of hot black coffee from one of the constantly
moving vendors. The boy handed Baqir’s cup with ease yet seemed
more hesitant with Hwosh, perhaps due to the man’s physique or the
beast lying at his feet. His right hand shook as he held a cup out,
hot coffee scented with kerdama seeds pouring into it through a
pipe attached to the copper vat strapped onto the youth’s back. The
child gulped as Hwosh smiled at him, trying to put him at ease. He
kept his gorgeous grey eyes -a rarity when coupled with his browned
skin- on the warrior for the full minute Baqir took to dismiss him
with one more coin than was strictly necessary.

A few minutes after that, Hwosh Ru’ub was
sent on his way. The man went quietly, secretly glad for the brief
rest from carrying his prey upon one shoulder. As he went towards
the east of town, Hwosh inevitably had to cross Themra: an oasis
ringed by a lake and accessible only through four simple yet finely
made limestone bridges. The oasis was devoid of buildings, for
ancient law declared its waters public property and prohibited any
parties from exerting influence upon it. Even the underground king
adhered to that law. A few tired animals grazed here and there, yet
Themra was decidedly man’s cohort: people were in perpetual motion
to and from the oasis, carrying buckets laden with water sweeter
than a sweetmaker’s potions and almost magical with its healing
properties. Legend had it that when the first of Lor’s inhabitants
had settled here and managed to choose a Sultan from amongst the
many war chiefs and learned, Sultan Salah the first was chosen to
lead. Directly after creating an advisory body out of guild leaders
and establishing basic laws and ruling system, the man tasked his
right hand man and sorcerer with casting as many spells of
preservation and healing on the water, allowing it to become a
foundation for a city to rise around it and to last through ages.
Some say that the sorcerer, whose name had long since been lost,
was so powerful that the water’s magic can still heal a multitude
of illnesses and promotes good fortune. Another faction maintains
that the sorcerer went on to do great things in Indellekt. Others
say that Themra just has excellent water.

Hwosh made his way past the eastern bridge,
unto the extremely fertile soil. He was prepared to go slowly, due
to the large crowd of people gathered here, on the paths between
shrubs and fruit patches, but person after person made way for him
and his impressive burden. The warrior glanced here and there,
noting that there were more Lorians and easterners when compared to
Regalians and ‘Dellekts than there used to be. Men and women from
Lor and the eastern lands were dressed more modestly than others,
and often in simpler colours. The colours, Hwosh was surprised to
learn, were more of a cultural gesture. Uncle Salim had once said,
“Our colours are on the inside.” Added to that, despite the men not
being required by faith to cover up their arms, lower legs, nor
hair, many did so anyways as a gesture of support for their women.
Those of Lor also moved in a more segregated manner, men often
keeping to the left out of respect, and the warrior was slightly
amused to see that most every one of them had the same type of
beard. The water seemed to glisten in the sun, and Hwosh judged
sundown to be a few hours away, still. He made his way further to
the east.

Almost any town one enters will boast a poor
district. In Lor, this part of the city was to the east, so as to
shield the wealthiest from sandstorms. Here, the houses turned
shabby, the people slowly grew less educated and started to almost
sprout sunken cheeks. While Baqir and those like him tried their
best to elevate those in poverty to better lives, they were unable
to cover more than a tiny fraction of those in need. The higher
council, meant to be a retardant against corruption, spent more
time these days squabbling over trade agreements and tax cuts.
Granted, they were not outright thieves, and work still went
towards aid and education, but the council was certainly
inefficient these days, if not outright negligent. Even the roads
in the Qir quarter were strewn with tired garbage thrown from lean
to homes barely able to support their own weight. Within a few
minutes Hwosh had to slow down his breathing in order to keep
himself from gagging. His sense of smell was better developed than
that of others, but such a bliss when hunting could easily turn
into a curse in Qir. He tightened his hold upon his Worg and kept
his other hand close to his waist, where he kept both his old
broadsword and money pouch. Pickpockets were a dime a dozen here,
and most were desperate enough to risk death for a few meals’
worth. Such things happened when the main available occupation was
begging. Either that, or join Mikhlab, if you don’t mind
underground organizations.

Hwosh, luckily, had just barely escaped the
fate of these hollow eyed children in rags he saw all around. Not
being the religious type, he thanked old man Salim in his heart
instead, then made his way towards a well-known house in the heart
of Qir, ignoring the ravaged houses and people sitting aimlessly in
the middle of trash filled streets, leaning against walls and
waiting for something to change. Then the trash began to disappear,
and then the dead look in people’s eyes.

Slowly but surely, as Hwosh made his way
towards his destination, the living standards began to change until
he entered an area that was almost middle class in nature. It was a
block not more than twenty houses in length and width, but it was
reminiscent of Themra: A magical oasis in the middle of a desert.
Children played in the streets, some sitting at benches and
teaching each other their letters, and shy Lorian lover sat next to
each other and talked in a small garden with a slowly trickling
fountain as well as vine flowers clutching a high white square
pattern fence. Not a one of them even held hands, yet Hwosh could
tell that they were lovers from the intense passion apparent in
their eyes. Such was the way of easterners, he thought. Starting to
tire again from carrying his prey for so long, the warrior moved
towards his quarry with more haste than was absolutely
necessary.

The house he went to stuck out against the
others here like a sore thumb. Whereas this entire block of houses
was renovated and repaired often, this one houses still seemed
tired, if in acceptable shape: It still held on to old origins of
lay walls, a faded wooden front portal, and an overall shabby
quality of workmanship. Hwosh thought the place reflected its owner
and his intentions quite well. The man knocked the door once. After
a few seconds, he tried again, feeling slightly less patient. When
his third knock went unanswered, Hwosh Ru’ub sighed, looking
towards the sun in exasperation.
Yeah, it’s about time for
that
. Finding the door unlocked, he went inside.

The small clay house was comprised of two
chambers, and Hwosh found himself in the living room after ducking
his head under the door top. Despite this room being scantily
furnished, it was still in better shape than uncle Salim’s private
quarters. Here, there were a few sturdy chairs, a few rugs covering
the dusty floor here and there, as well as a well-made table. That
pure white table was the only finely crafted thing in the whole
house, Hwosh knew. It was a puzzling thing to many of Salim’s
guests, but Hwosh had once heard the man say that a business man
needed a reliable place to sign contracts. Besides, the thing was a
gift from his brother.

Sure enough, Master Salim was praying in a
corner of the room silently. Hwosh took a few seconds to observe
the man, and determined that he was about halfway done. A couple of
minutes, then, considering that the old bald man must have heard
him come in. Old man Salim never put off his prayers, even when in
the company of merchants or councilmen, but he was respectful
enough to hurry up if someone was waiting on him. The warrior also
noticed a pot bubbling in the corner over a low fire. Wisps of
smoke and vapour flitted off the pot and were swept off from the
ventilation holes directly above. That hole was bigger than the
others, which were tiny and ran along one of the building’s walls,
both at the bottom and the top. That was the ventilation method of
choice in Lor, despite Indellekt’s advanced magicks and many
merchants being able to afford people to fan them constantly. Cold
air entered through the bottom holes and warm air left through the
uppers. Each was barely large enough for a child to poke a finger
through, to discourage theft.