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Extract from 'The Noble Savage Philosophies'
We have heard from so many notables, that man is not worthy of our consultation in
determining the relevance of his own existence. He is comforted in the
knowledge that we do not blame him for this, it is simply that we do not believe
him to be equal to the task of understanding.
While we debate and write, discussing the fabric of his society and arguing the
merits of his strength and weaknesses, we the scholatic, do not at any time
consider that the achievement of his balance could be realised by his own philosophy.
At no point would my learned colleagues consider or open their thoughts to the painful
truth, that the natural state of man is good and wise. Have we become so blinkered
in our debate, that we our closed to even the possibility that as an individual, or as a
race, he may have something to contribute.
Even MonPellia himself realised that man could only fulfil balance through self-regulation.
I then would ask you to take just a small step further into the philosophical unknown, if
he has the potential within himself to command balance, can he not be part of the understanding
that engenders that process?
If my words and actions have caused embarrassment to my peers, then for this I apologise, it
was not set out to be such. Yet I feel we are on the breakthrough of unrealised understanding
and my hand will not be staid, by the narrow thinker or self obsessed politicians that grow
like a fungus within our council.
The scholatic was bred as a race to purify the mind, to allow us to understand and protect
the common man that threatened to destroy himself. I believe now that man will never
capitulate into the void, as he has a natural survival instinct within his core. An underlying
understanding that will ensure his continuance. To understand this from mere observation could
take an eternity, only in allowing man access to teaching, lore and philosophy can we hope he
will discover these truths for himself. - Pionor Saban Ved844
The old man, walked slowly though the long hallway. Its heavy stone walls narrowing to a point far
into the distance. He paid little attention to the carefully woven tapestries that adorned the
passageway, depicting the many faces of those that had gone before him. His gnarled stick, carved
from trees that had long since departed the shores of his country, offered him the only assistance
to a tired and weary body. Knowledge and writings could not replace the pleasures of youth, he
thought. The tapping of the stick on stone, echoed through the hall, announcing his arrival to
those that waited at its end. He knew his time was coming to an end, with hindsight perhaps he
would have done things differently. He had been too outspoken, allowing his personnel beliefs to
cloud the greater goals. Yet he would trade all those mistakes to be made right for just one
other. His greatest failure.
Reaching the end of the hallway, a tall ornate door rose up to halt his progress. Raising his stick, he tapped twice on its thick wooden panels. He stood quietly, waiting for an answer. Leaning the support aid against the door, he reached up to remove the hood that shrouded his face in darkness. The cloth folded down and rested about his shoulders, revealing a strong face, lined and wracked with time but tempered with eyes that age could not wither. His thinning hair, wispy and white flittered in the cool air that breezed through the passage. He breathed slowly in, then out and reached once more for his plain stick. The faintest smile crossed his face as the heavy door began to open. There was always hope of another, he thought and shuffled into the open doorway.
He could not see the guard who stood behind the door but he heard his heavy footsteps as he moved to seal the exit behind him. The chamber was over sixty foot in length and its ceiling stretched up to the very top of the university itself. They had always met here, long before Gru-Staedak had walked within these walls. The chamber had been forged as part of the original building under the instruction of its founder MonPellia. The first of the true scholatic. Time had taken a toll on many parts of the university but the chamber was just as it had been all those years ago, magnificent as it was cold and forbearing.
The old man reached within the confines of his heavy robes, pulling from a long pocket a small book. It was bound in copper and upon the cover was set a small symbol. It had no text or writings on either back or front. He approached two guards who wore the cloaks of Council Protectorate. They were armed with long swords which one held in the left hand, the other in the right, standing close enough together that the tips of the blades crossed on the stone floor.
The guard on his left held out his hand and the old man placed the book upon it, the cover was opened then closed and passed to the second guard. The process was repeated and the book returned to its bearer. Both men moved their arms from the floor and parted, ushering the man into the centre of the chamber.
In great contrast to the rest of the bare and empty hall, the central area was richly adorned with a hexagonal [six sided is this right -hexagonal-query for Ed] table. It was crafted from a rich wood with heavy legs at its base, supporting a ten inch thick top that was covered with a hide stretched about its corners. The great rivets that held the material in place were of copper, each bearing a shining jewel within.
About the six sides were tall backed chairs, forty seats in total, seven graced each of the five sides that were nearest to him. The final side at the top of the central chamber had only five, similar in every way to the others with exception to a dyed red covering of leather pulled about the back .
He walked around the table, acknowledging those who were already seated with a nod or an occasional smile. Finally he came to the side on the right nearest to the five and sat between two others cloaked in a similar fashion to himself.
He rested his stick upon his lap and turned to face the central seat where the five sat.
Upon the central seat sat a tall wiry framed man, he too wore robes, but his were of a deeper hue, a dark blue, almost black in the poor light of the chamber. His hood was back and revealed a determined face, concentrated eyes that scanned the table continually, seeking out information and knowledge. Allowing the final arrivals to sit, he rose to his feet and addressed the council.
"May those that sit now do so in the grace of knowledge and enlightenment." He stretched his arms out in a semi-circle to encompass the audience.
"I must first offer apologies for two of our number," he said pointing to the empty seats, one opposite him at the other end and another on the side of the old man, "Lamentor is unwell and bound to his house, DeFache is extremely busy with urgent matters at the High Council's request and so has been given leave from this meeting."
A few murmurs went up from the council, sickness was one thing but they were all hard pushed at their universities, why was DeFache any different.
The man, pushed his hands downwards to calm the voices, "Let us move directly on to matters of this calling. We have gathered on this day, because word has reached the Highs of a great danger in Vedian. No simple enemy, or issue of state is this of which I speak. Yet it is a danger that could threaten all of the lands. While I have little doubt that many of you know the tale of which I must recount here, I offer no apologies in telling it again. For to truly understand this peril, we must once again give reference to 'The Days Of Impurity'.
Much head turning and shuffling came from the council members, some staring at others, others dropping there heads in acknowledgement of the terrible tale.
"I do not tell this tale lightly and I only tell it here away from the soft minds of the common man, for in this it is him and his brethren that I do feel most sorry for. Yet I your duly elected leader and Head of The High Council am responsible for the charge the scholatic have been set, and I will not waver in that purpose as I know it to be right."
From the left hand side nearest the five, a voice came from a middle aged man, "I would not hear this tale again Shel-Toro Master of the Balanced Lore. Did we not ensure many years ago the end to this saga? Were the writings not lost to the world or burned to ensure such peril does return? What purpose can such recounting serve but remind us of these times?" The man offered his hands up to the Council Leader.
Shel-Toro turned to the man and smiled, nodding at the words, "I more than any, would have it another way SanPollan. I respect your theory in this matter and all around should pay homage to your words, yet I fear there is no other course for us, to ensure we are of one mind in the dealing of this peril."
SanPollan acknowledged his leader and bowed his head, he grinned to himself knowing it would not be long now before his place within the High's was ensured.
"Shel-Toro continued his address, "We must go back many years now, hundreds of years to find these times. We can not recount there source and no text will tell of them, many philosophies have been considered but those are for another day. Within the council at this time, a few years after its original leader had passed to the earth, a keen and ambitious young man was in residence. He had proved himself within the 'Pulpit' and progressed quickly into the council proper.
While criticism could be given to its then High's, I will spend the time to do that here. Years passed without great incident until reports began to arrive at the council of Pionor Saban's teachings. It was being rumoured that Saban had strayed from the path of schooling and had been offering his time to the common man. Some had even said that he had employed some of them within his classes under the disguise of manual labours.
Disturbed by this news, the Council sent word to Saban to attend an emergency meeting at Pluris. Here he was questioned and officially warned to stay clear of any such future gossip. Yet the rumours did not go away and indeed turned to clear fact when some of Saban's writings were presented to the Council by worried members. Within them they talked of the common man need for teaching and ideas relating to mans own philosophy. Clearly he had passed beyond the council's aide and there recourse was to call him once again. This time Saban did not in any way attempt to deny his actions, instead addressing the members and actively promoting his views. A vote was taken and Saban became the first and only member in its history to be sent down. His title and his belongings were not only taken away but he was dismissed from the scholatic. Removed from the race he was born into and left to reside with those he sought to corrupt. Yet the council was ill advised in this matter, for this only angered Saban and turned him to darker pursuits.
He forged his own cult, to be known as the Saban Monks, they were made from the common man and he went about teaching them and learning them beyond their control. He rallied many to his impure cause and his followers erected a school which he called a monastery, and he labelled it 'the School for Believers'. Intimating that any could attain the highest peaks of scholarship if their belief was true. These lies and half truths had to be stopped before the infection spread through mans easily led race.
Finally the council took a definite action, calling upon the Protectorate to attack the building and end this terrible tyranny once and for all. It was clear for all the scholatic to see that Saban would drive down man into a well trodden path of destruction and despair were they to attain the teachings which he offered. They would fight amongst them selves once more, warring and killing until none remained!", Shel -Toro's voice echoed through the chamber, he was animated now, his eyes wide and hands clenched.
"The Council planned to capture Saban and thereby leave his followers without direction, they would return to their flock and forget quickly of these perilous lies. Yet no one was prepared for what they faced. Some ancient arts had been studied by the followers, mind control and even spirit summoning it is said. The Protectorate was massacred, only a few escaped to tell of the ghastly events that befell them on that dreadful day. Our Captain now," he turned motioning to a man that stood in the far corner of the chamber, his face unviewable in the light, only his chain mail could be seen reflecting off the candles, "he is the only true descendent of the Protectorate of old because of Pionor Saban."
Shel-Toro turned again to face the council, his voice now dropping to a whisper that was piercing in its tone, "Then as the Council began to amass their defences with the King, for fear of an attack on Pluris itself, they vanished. The monastery was found empty, left with only the blood stains of the Protectorate as proof that life was ever there. No follower was ever found, though many believe they just went back to their flock, fearing Saban had indeed gone mad. Saban himself was never found but stories and rumour were rife of his demise. I am but a simple man at heart, I do not attempt to understand why he disappeared when he did, I hope...perhaps, that he saw the true future that faced the common folk and something within himself could not bring them to that terrible end. That is what I hope."
Shel-Toro slumped down into his chair and for a moment sat silently with head in hands before once again resuming.
" You all know the events that came after. We tried to ensure all teachings and writings were laid bare from Vedian. That no trace of this matter ever arose to trouble our fair country again, we were forced to burn all texts in reference to this period and set to the fire all that had been built in his name. Banished was he from ever existing on the Vedian lands, wiped from its history a name that would stick in the throat of even the oldest bard. We thought our task done. How wrong we were my friends."
Once more Shel-Toro erupted from his chair, his tall frame leaping away from the table and coming to rest behind the tall wooden seat. Resting his hands on its back he stared solemnly at them all, "An item has surfaced, an artefact of the old days. It is said that one who is strong of will and blessed in the ways, can see days of yesteryear within its aura. I have heard of such items, yet we believed them all destroyed many hundreds of years past. The texts suggest that such an artefact can bear the characteristics of its creator.
This item, this cursed throwback to a savage age, it could reveal too much to those that are not ready for its knowledge. We can not allow this to happen and we will not!"
His final words dropped like stones on the chamber floor, resounding and unyielding.
"The recovery of the artefact must be made with caution and in secrecy, we do not wish to draw unnecessary attention to the issue. I will ask our Captain to send for some able men, to assist him in the relocation of the item."
Behind Shel-Toro, in the alcove of the chamber, the shadows shimmered and the Captain departed to carry out his sworn duties. He did not wait to confirm the orders, he already knew the word had been given. The Protectorate was no simple military haggle, it was a unit formed through bloodline and maintained through sacrifice, he would carry out the orders and he would never question them. It had been his destiny to carry out the duties of the council, as did her fathers before him. He did consider actions to be right or wrong, he did not consider them at all. Yet for the first time in many years, he relished the task to be undertaken here, the Saban Monks had laid bare his people for many generations. This would be no ordinary assignment to be acted out unquestioned or without thought. He would extinguish this abonamation of an item that would lead others to the fate of his ancestors and none would stand in his way.
Shel-Toro continued, his manner urgent still, "Go now and research in your private libraries. Discover any information that may shed light on the origin of the artefact, I have placed with each of you the details my informants have gathered so far. Do not speak of this to anyone. The fate of the common man may lie in your hands, do not forsake him, do not condemn him to the fate of Saban"
He motioned to the assembly that the meeting was ended and they ushered from their seats, whispering and muttering, some to each other, some to themselves as they walked from the chamber.
The old man raised up his stick and began to take leave of the ancient hall, his mind was troubled now and he knew something must be done. If only DeFache was here, he thought, he would know what action to take. His limbs ached and his joints creaked, the cold air of the chamber infested his body.
The tale had been known to him, he had heard it told many years before, but not entirely as it was told here. Key factors had been amended and some parts left untold, he wished to return to the sanctity of his University and consider the matter at greater length as was his way.
A voice came upon him as he turned to leave, "Stay now Gru-Staedek, the Highs would speak with you." The tone was instructional and cold and he turned to see Shel-Toro sitting again between the other four men.
"What matter would we speak of Master of the Balanced Lore?" The old man was not comfortable, warning signs raised hairs on the back of his neck, yet he ignored them.
"You know that we do not hold rumours and gossip in high place at this table. Yet words have reached us and their content has the High's worried." The men about him nodded in agreement.
"It is said that you have been witnessed conversing within University boundaries with the common man, it is also said that the matter of these discussions were philosophy related. We also hear that your writings give mention to the 'purity of man'? You must surely understand our fear in this matter?" The council leader did not move, neither did his eyes ever leave Gru-Staedek, his gaze locked like an arrow on its target, watching and waiting for the kill shot.
"I fear you have been mislead. The context of my writings too has been misconstrued, I feel it is a minor misunderstanding, I can assure the Council such matters should be of little concern." The old man smiled, yet he knew what was to follow, it was inevitable DeFache had told him, in their last heated meeting. They had sat within the walls of the Sanctuary of Bridges at DeFaches University, discussing and debating as they had for many years. DeFache had talked as he always did of balance through non-interference, just as MonPellia had many ages before. But it had felt right, all this time, these long years of teaching and philosophising, for the first time he had felt what he was doing was right, the common man had a right to realise his potential, not to be dictated to by self serving politicians. It had not always been like this, the council had been a source of wisdom and guidance, but things had changed these past years, new members had been installed who's lore followed that of Shel-Toro's. He and DeFache had been the only voices in opposition to the changes and now DeFache had withdrawn from debate, preferring to stay within his own halls disillusioned with the councils new policies.
The High's stood as one man, Shel-Toro held a hand out and addressed Gru-Staedek in a formal tone, "We cannot take this offering, we will not accept these words. The mistakes of our forefathers are lessons to be learned, not actions to be repeated. In respect of your long service to the council, we do not cast you down old man. You are dismissed from the Council of Lore and as such may no longer teach at the University of Asten. Yet your place in the scholatic will stay and you may continue residence until your death. We will not allow another cult arising in our lands, the people do not deserve such poor leadership."
Gru-Staedek withdrew the small book from his robe and placed it in the palm of Shel-Toro's outstretched hand, "Perhaps you are right, to dismiss me Shel-Toro, for old I must be. I thought the scholatic was birthed to guide men, not to rule them."
The back of the inn was lit solely by the light that escaped the long tavern windows. Arn, Joseph and Speck sat on dirtwood logs around a makeshift table. Though they could have sat inside, and sometimes they did when there was a good song or tale to hear, something brought them back to the spot where they had been forced to sit when deemed too young by the tavern master. The three drank deeply from the clay mugs of black ale that was brewed in the large barn behind the tavern.
"My round.", noted Speck.
"I can get them if you like Speck, I got a bonus from the captain.", offered Joseph. He often worried about how the other boy got by, his mother made so little and Speck himself only got occasional work writing notes for the village council and a few merchants.
"I said it's my round!", erupted the boy, quickly standing and marching in a black mood through the back door of the tavern.
Arn leaned toward Joseph and said in a low tone, "Next time try - 'Speck I'm feeling good, I got a bonus and we should all get drunk on me!', you'll spare that fearsome pride the lad has."
Joseph nodded knowing that Arn was right, as he invariably was in matters of diplomacy. His own straight-forward approach didn't always work. When he looked up from his brooding he saw a familiar grin spread across the hunter's face. "Ral's coins?", offered Arn.
Ral's coins was a common tavern game, taking it's name from a legend in which a thief won back his freedom from a demon king by playing him the game. The tale goes that the cutpurse and the beast played with jewels but for obvious reasons coins or stones were used in the bar version. Two lines of ten coins were laid out and the players had to remove the coins from the table and drop them into a cup one at a time. If a player is fast enough he can get ahead of the opponent, slap his hand over the other's and he wins. If all twenty coins get into the two cups then the coins are laid out again and the players continue until someone wins. Arn was the village champion at the game and had rarely lost a match, in fact no one few ever got past the eighth coin before they felt the weight of his hand on theirs.
"I'd like to keep some of that bonus. I was thinking of buying a gift for someone with it."
"I'll play." Came a feminine voice carried by the night air.
Arn looked out into the dark and replied, "Step up to our table then my beauty!" Joseph peered out to see who had called but could make the figure out, until to his surprise, the figure of Febra stepped into the circle of light from the tavern windows. Her ragged dress came down just below her knees and a wide leather belt was wrapped around her waist, it was quite obviously made for a man several times her size since she was forced to wind the tongue back around her and tuck it in. The belt had tell tale slots cut into it for dagger sheaths but being empty they just added to the peculiar look of the girl. She sat down at the table and cocked her head to one side, seemingly weighing up Arn with a lavacious look.
"What's the stake then?", she asked.
"I think a copper will be enough,", Arn sidled into his tavern entertainment style, "pick your own ten stones and we'll let the fun begin."
Whilst the girl was wandering around finding ten suitable stones, Speck emerged from the inn grasping three large mugs. An unabashed look of disgust crossed his face when he saw the orphan girl.
"I see we're letting the riffraff join us now are we?"
"That's quite enough from you Speck, bring that beer over and we'll start our little match of Ral's coins between myself and the lass." Speck's face lit up at the prospect of watching the girl thrashed by the hunter and plopped himself into a seat, waiting for the action to begin. Febra sallied back to the table and laid down ten round bean sized pebbles, Arn nodded in appreciation, had she selected smaller or larger stones then her ability to get a swift grip on them would have been impaired. It was all to do with the relative size of the stone to the players hands, as the demon king in the legend had discovered to his cost.
"Money on the table?", chimed Speck.
"I'm good for the money.", glared the dark-eyed girl.
"Good. Ah yes, we often go about taking the word of unemployed village scullies for sums of money - even the well-off round here have so little, where are you going to scrape up money? Or perhaps you weren't thinking of earning or lending eh? Perhaps you were thinking of lifting the coin from some passer-by?" "That is enough Speck!", Joseph raised his voice in an uncharacteristic show of anger. He immediately felt strange about the outburst but continued, "We're all here for a bit of entertainment. Her word is good until she breaks it OK?"
Speck mumbled darkly to himself but stayed quiet, if the truth be told even he was feeling a little guilty about the way he had talked to the girl. That was Speck's way though, the anger took him first, then the brain kicked in to tell all the minute details of what he had done wrong.
"Ready hand.", Joseph commanded. Arn had laid out ten stones of similar size to the ones Febra had chosen from the ground, the only difference was that these were a little more consistent in size and that Arn had grown sentimental about them and carried them in his pocket where ever he went. Following Joseph's instruction both players held their hands hovering over the first stone, just far enough away to be certain that they weren't touching it.
"Go."
The stones dropped into the cups with phenomenal speed, and though the expectant crowd of two watched for the usual slap of Arn winning the game, it never came. The pair finished at precisely the same time and as each dropped in their last stone their eyes locked on each others in a maniacal competitive glare. For long moments the staring match continued between the two, each waiting for a telling reaction from the other. Slowly in a kind of mental truce, both broke into a composed grin.
"Well then.", said Arn.
"Well indeed.", responded Febra.
"It seems we shall have to set them out again if I am to claim my copper off you."
"It is I who would be claiming it off you I think. But I confess, you are quite quick." The girl grinned at Arn, her eyes widening like saucers. "I always give a worthy opponent the pleasure of my smile before knocking them in the dirt." This made Arn break into a cackle, this young slip was beginning to impress him. As he reached for the cup to pour his stones back on the table, Febra's hand covered it.
"Before we play again perhaps you and your friends here would like to hear a proposition I have. A venture that might require men with quick hands."
Arn glanced at the other two, who both gave unhelpful shrugs. Frankly the scully girl with a shady scheme was a little bit out of their experience. Arn turned back to Febra.
"Let's hear about it then."
"I could see you were the kind that cottons on quick to a good thing. I have won the bid on a real jewel of a job, the pay is excellent and the risk minimal but I need to get together a party of four to pull it off."
"It isn't illegal is it?", inquired Speck.
"It is quite legal!", Febra sounded genuinely annoyed, "this task has been hired out by the nobles of the dukedom through the traditional auction. I have the mandate for it. As well you know I suspect, for I saw you there earlier today. Now, do you want in?"
"How much is our cut?", this comment from Joseph surprised Arn a little as in all the time he had known the fisher boy he had always been unconcerned about profit and such. Joseph himself had suddenly thought of the Dusk Returner and wondered just how much it would cost for a winter refit.
"You would receive 20 copper pieces each, and all that for just a few weeks work, a month at the outside."
Even the hunter looked marginally impressed by the figure. Twenty copper over a month or sooner outstripped what any of them could make in five times that time. It sounded too good to be true.
"The auction gives better money for more dangerous missions I've heard.", said Arn defensively.
"Not this one, it's an academic mission. All it requires is care. You look like a man who could care well about something. I'm afraid the cut might have to go down a few copper's though because we may have to hire a scribe."
At this the three faces on the other side of the table from Febra mysteriously lit up and the thin one vaguely said, "A scribe you say?
Speck leant back into his seat and folded his hands behind his head, "Perhaps I know of such a man. A quite brilliant young theologian, a perennial master of lore, some say."
"Who is this man? I would meet with him, tell me of him now." Febra's eyes widened again at the chance to fulfil her quest.
A long arm came out and pushed Speck, he toppled unceremoniously from the stump landing on the sawdust laden floor below.
The perpetrator piped up, "What this silly young fellow is trying to say, is that he can help you. There is no lore master in these parts and for that we are all the more pleased. Yet in essence he speaks the truth, he does know of words and books, though I for one have warned him against such. Yet I would say my lady, he can help you." Joseph would have continued but instead found himself staring into the girls eyes, dreaming of far off hopes.
Speck dusted himself down and snarled at Arn, who had found the whole matter of great amusement and was still laughing hard.
"Why a scribe though Scully?" he said in a terse tone, "You were correct, we did see the auction on the afternoon, there was no mention of a scribe. What requirement could you have for one, I wonder?"
Febra ignored his tone and spoke as pleasantly as she was able, in the knowledge that his kind were hard to come by, "Within the words that were passed with the quest, they say that three and one are required to travel.."
Speck butted in "Yes, yes we heard all this, but what of the scribe silly girl."
Febra's face was turning scarlet and she was not used to holding her tongue, yet she needed this task for her longer term plan, so taking a deep breath she continued, "As I said, three and one, the one specified as a scribe. Apparently the item to be collected must be verified by identification. Certain inscription within the item must be read and married with the scroll I have been given."
Speck grinned and spoke in a voice like he had heard the visitors from Pluris, "Well m'lady, that is of interest indeed. Yet I must ask, how did she read such words when clearly she cannot?"
That was the final insult, Febra stood up and shouted at all of them, "Old Man Talon read for me, if you must know. Now I have run short of patience. To journey we need supplies, I have an advance to pay for some, we may need to acquire the rest. I will wait at the market square at dawn tomorrow, if you are there, we will all make good coin, if you are not I will go alone."
Her face was crimson with anger, the three opposite her sat back in there seats, stung by the ferocity of her words. Then in a swift move, she leant over the table and clumsily planted a kiss on Joseph's cheek. She then turned on her heels and began to leave for the road, as she turned the corner she shouted back, "At least the dreamy fool, may accompany me now!"
Arn's belly ached with laughter, clearly the girl had no experience in the art of affection and her recipient was none the better. Poor Joseph had frozen to the spot and hardly moved long after Febra had departed the scene. He slapped Joseph on the back, "come now my friend, it was but a little wound, you will heal in time. I will fetch more ale to calm your nerves."
As Arn left, the smile dropped from his lips and his mind turned to thoughts of the offer. He did not need the copper, he earned fair wage assisting with the hunts and soon his father would retire and he would take over as master. It was a good and respectable position, he should have been glad, yet he felt a longing. A feeling that he had not seen enough or done enough, the thought that from the moment he was born the pattern of his live had been decided for him.
His father was a fair man, but rarely a gentle one. He demanded much and Arn had worked hard, yet he wished just once that he could turn to him and just say 'no'. Just for a moment to be his own man, that would be worth more than all the copper in Vedian.
Perhaps his father would grant him a leave of absence to take up the task. No, he was fooling himself, his father did not like straying from the plains that surrounded the Luff, he did not see why there was need to do so. Arn had heard of towns like Pluris and Tantagel but he could only envisage them in his mind from the tales that were told by firelight.
Now to have the chance to witness the great site of Bannermane, it was too much to turn away. This would be his final chance, by the next summer he would have to take up his duties full time, it must be now.
He ordered the tankards from the bar and leant against a central pole. He would go on this quest and he would be damned if his father would deny him this opportunity. He would return in ample time to take over the hunt, no harm would be done. He would take a beating for sure, but the old man wasn't as strong as he used to be, it would be worth it.
He collected the ale and walked back outside to their seats, his resolve was set, he would take the quest and he already knew Joseph would come with him. The boy was smitten, he would follow the Febra into a blazing fire and scarcely feel the flames, he was not the problem here.
He sat down and offered an ale to Speck, "So young word master, what a fabulous opportunity this must be for you."
Speck looked at the hunter curiously, "In what way Arn?"
"This is your chance Speck. The chance to get a name for yourself in the eyes of the village, to gain respect. A scribe and translator who visits Bannermane and perhaps even Asten University would surely be held in high esteem by the assembly. You would be, a sort of ambassador of the Luff, a statesman wandering from town to town, spreading your skills to the nobler men."
The small boys eyes lit up, "Yes, yes. You could be right, I will show them all, I will bring books to the Luff and they will thank me for it. In time perhaps I will be asked to join the scholatic."
Joseph awakened finally from his fixation, turned to Speck, "You can not be invited in like it was a party Speck, you have to be born into the scholatic, you know that. I ask you, who would want that, it is said that they do not work but sit and think for days on end, whoever heard of such strangeness. Do not veer too far from your roots Speck, you are different I grant and I respect you for it, but you are still of the Luff, be proud to be so."
Speck spoke quietly, "Should I be proud of the taunts and beatings, proud of the way they look at me from across the path? Am I proud of the way my mother is regarded and treated in the village? Perhaps born of the Luff I am, but not proud to be so. If I am proud it is because I call you friend that is all and nothing more"
He turned to Arn, "I will go on this quest, not for money or for the Luff, or indeed for fame but I will go for friendship."
Arn stood up, "Then my comrades it is decided, for I to would wish to travel for my own reasons. So the girl has her three and one."
Joseph turned his head from side to side, looking at both men, "Why has no one asked if I will go, are you not be presumptuous?"
Arn smiled at Speck and he grinned back at the hunter, "I think good Joseph," Arn offered whimsically, "that we already know your mind in this matter. For it clearly is being controlled by something other than your head."
Joseph blushed and nodded, he would go and bring back money for Pike and the refit, he would make his father proud.
Yawning, Arn began to start the track South to his home, "Don't forget, dawn tomorrow at the market, the girl is right, we will need plenty of supplies, the wilderness will not be a hospitable land past the plains I think."
"What will we meet out there Arn," Speck shouted after him, "are there beasts and enemies to fear? I do not worry, yet I would like to know."
The hunter shouted back, "You read to many tales, young master. Sleep soundly and do not be troubled by beasts or foes. Heat and drought are the travellers greatest enemy. Goodnight friends, rest in the arms of the Luff."
Arn wandered down the southern path thinking to himself, rest soundly my friends for the Luff will not protect us out there and a hot sun will doubtfully be the greatest of our hurts.
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