The Inner Seas Kingdoms: 02 - The Yellow Palace Page 3

  The yeti whipped its head around quickly to discover where its source of pain had come from, and Kestrel fired a second arrow as soon as it faced him directly. The skin of yetis was so tough that no weapon could penetrate it in battle, except for a few small vulnerable patches. The second arrow was aimed at one of those vulnerable spots

  – the mouth, but a quick bob of the monster’s head caused the arrow to only strike it in the chin, where it slightly penetrated the hide and stuck in place. The yeti was infuriated, and grew even madder at Kestrel when it suffered the pain of pulling the arrow out.

  It immediately charged at Kestrel, its other, defenseless prey forgotten in the face of a challenge. Kestrel instantly calculated what reaction time he had left before the yeti was upon him, and realized he only had time to use his enchanted throwing knife for one hasty toss, with perhaps a second or two left thereafter before the yeti reached him if the knife failed to kill. He aimed it at the right eye of the yeti then released a strong throw, sending Lucretia, as he named his knife, flying rapidly towards the yeti that was approaching rapidly.

  Kestrel dropped his bow and whipped his staff out in front of him, feeling for the first time that the stout piece of wood was puny and fragile compared to the bulk of the approaching massive opponent. Just as he braced himself, the knife, the goddess-blessed throwing knife, was true to its promise and found its target, sinking deeply into the eye socket of the yeti, penetrating and burying its point in the brain of the great predator. The yeti died before it fell all the way to the ground, and its momentum carried it nearly within reach of Kestrel’s staff before it stopped.

  Kestrel threw his head up and faced the skies above with relief. “Thank you goddess,” he whispered.

  He planted his staff in the ground, picked up his bow, then walked past the yeti to see the wailing victim of the attack. He discovered that he had saved a gnome family.

  How he could tell he wasn’t sure, but it was evident to Kestrel that the badly injured gnome who he found first was a female. Covered in furs, and bleeding badly from a terrible wound to her abdomen, she vacantly stared at Kestrel as he crouched to examine her. Then, to his startlement, two lumps that he had taken to be rocks moved and rose, revealing themselves to be two child gnomes, apparently the offspring of the injured woman, and they came over to where Kestrel looked at their mother.

  “Are you okay?” Kestrel asked in the human language that had become his most comfortable language in recent weeks. The gnome grunted something that was distorted by the pain she felt, but was clearly not the human tongue.

  Kestrel repeated his question in the elvish language, but again got no response. He stood up and looked down at the two solemn little gnomish faces that looked up at him, and looked at the closed-eye grimace of the injured woman, then looked at the sun that rested on the horizon in the west, not far from disappearing for the night. There were no good options available for dealing with the situation at hand; only the fact that the yeti was dead prevented it from being worse.

  “Grim ging,” the larger of the two gnomes said to Kestrel, pointing at its mother.

  “She’s hurt. Your grim ging is hurt. Let me look at her wound,” Kestrel said in reply, sticking to his human language. He removed her hands gently from the injury in her stomach to get a better view, then was appalled at what he saw. The yeti had raked its claws deeply across her stomach, ripping her flesh thoroughly and laying open a terrible, gory view of her exposed organs within. Kestrel gently replaced her hands over the wound, then bit his lip as he thought about what to do next.

  The injuries were massive, far beyond his limited ability to help. Even if he had healing water, he wasn’t sure it could do enough, quickly enough, to help the poor unfortunate creature. He wished that Alicia was present, that Dewberry could somehow magically transport the elven doctor and a barrel of healing water to make the situation better. There was little he could do, he realized, and then wondered what he should do.

  He concluded that he could start a fire, to keep the gnome and her children warm and comforted. “I’m going to the river to get some firewood. You stay here with your mother,” he told the young gnomes, then walked around the hill to the river, and began to pull together pieces of driftwood and drag them back towards the site of the injured woman. The sun was setting fast, and he wanted to build up as big a stack of fuel as possible before the long cold night began.

  On his way back to the river for more wood he heard one of the gnome children talk to the other, and then come to follow him. Shoosh dimma ging roosh dimma?” the child asked him, looking up at Kestrel’s face as he trotted alongside him.

  “Yes, I think a fire will help your mother feel better,” Kestrel answered, thinking that any communication, even if it was ineffective, would be comforting for the youngster to hear.

  He bent to pick up pieces of wood, and the gnome did the same, filling its short arms quickly with a small supply of kindling, then waiting for Kestrel to acquire his own load, before the two of them traveled back to the others. The two of them made three more trips before the last fading rays of daylight were gone. Kestrel fumbled for several minutes in the dark with his flint before he got a spark to jump to the small pile of kindling, and finally got flames to come to life.

  “Carsh!” the smaller of the two gnomes said as it saw the results of Kestrel’s work. “Carsh, grim,” it repeated as it gently tapped its mother.

  Kestrel slowly fed larger sticks into the fire to sustain it, then went looking for rocks, and built a small wall around one side of the fire to reflect its light and heat towards the mother, hoping the concentration would make the fire more comforting for her. He sat down at last beside the injured gnome when his job was done, and looked down at her face. Her eyes were closed, but as he gently patted her shoulder, they opened and looked up at him. Their look was dull, but peaceful. “Grambo, shoosh dimma,” he heard her murmur. She shut her eyes again, and Kestrel sensed that he had heard her speak her last words.

  “Be at peace, little mother. May the gods protect you and meet you,” he said gently. The two gnome children were on the other side of their mother, leaning carefully against her body, looking from her to him to the fire and back to her.

  “Do you want something to eat?” he asked, reaching into his meager supply of dried rodent meat, and pulling out a handful of pieces. He gave one to each of the children, then put one in his own mouth and began to chew. The gnomes watched him, then quickly consumed their own pieces of meat, and looked at him eagerly. He gave them each another piece, and fed them a few more bites before his supply was depleted.

  The gnomes looked disappointed when he held the bag upside down to show its emptiness. “Grambo,” they said in unison, then snuggled against their mother, as Kestrel added more wood to the fire.

  Gnomes were a race that Kestrel knew existed, though not from any personal exposure. They had been more firmly fixed in his mind as real than sprites had been before he met Dewberry. But knowing of their existence gave him no knowledge or insights into them. They had broad faces, with wide noses, and eyes that were very deep set. Although he couldn’t really tell through all the coats and coverings they wore, he had an impression of short, squat bodies. Gnomes never left their mountain homes. They weren’t considered to be a warlike race or cruel race, but they were known to defend their own homelands fiercely. Few elves or men ever dealt with them, beyond a handful of traders the gnomes trusted.

  They sat in silence through the night, Kestrel awakening from time to time and adding more wood to the fire, until their supply ran out. The gnomes were all quiet, and Kestrel fall asleep for the remainder of the cold night, as the flames slowly sank, and darkness blanketed the site.

  Kestrel awoke at sunrises to see the two boys staring at him over their mother’s body. “Grim ging?” the small one asked.

  “Grim ginging?” the older one asked immediately afterwards, tears in his eyes. Kestrel sat up, then reached over to be the mother, and placed th
e back of his hand against her face. The flesh was cold, and he closed his eyes. He lifted one of her hands cautiously from her wound, but the stiffness of her arm confirmed all he needed to know, and he stopped the effort.

  “I’m sorry boys, but I’m afraid your mother passed last night. She’ll be at peace now,” he told them gently, then circled around the mother’s body to squat down next to them. He pulled their bodies against his and hugged them tight. “I’ll take care of you,” he told them. “You’ll beokay,” he promised, and he felt their bodies shudder with grief as he held them tight for several long minutes.

  The sun was rising in a clear sky, and Kestrel tried to decide what to do. The ground was frozen solid; there was no hope of burying the gnome mother. Instead, he carried her body up to the top of the little hill, where he began to cover her in stones. The boys watched, then joined in, adding pebbles and small rocks to his effort throughout the morning, as he encouraged them to stay active and help. It took an hour of trips up and down the hill, building up a sweat in the chilly air, but Kestrel and the boys soon had the deceased gnome suitably covered, then went back down to the fire pit.

  Kestrel went in search of more wood, to kindle another fire for at least a little while. He coaxed flames to rise from the ashes of the last fire, then turned to the gnomes. “You stay here for a little while. I’m going to go get something from the yeti, and then I’ll be back.”

  He trotted across the plain to the dead yeti, its frozen body untouched since he had killed it. There weren’t likely to be any other predators that could live where a yeti claimed territory, Kestrel mused, as he finally tugged his knife out of the eye socket of the great creature. He thought fleetingly of all the wealth that the dead creature represented, if he could somehow transport its goods to market, but dismissed the thought as pointless.

  But there was something he could harvest from the creature, something that might prove valuable to him. He looked at the blade of the long throwing knife he held in his hand. The knife was enchanted, a gift from the goddess Kai, given to him in a battle in Estone. It had the power to hit any target he could see. He had looked at the blade often when he had lain aboard the ship, or as he had walked through the wilderness since. The edge of the blade was keen, the sharpest edge he had ever seen on a piece of metal.

  The divinely bestowed blade might even had enough sharpness to cut through the virtually impregnable skin of the yeti, he speculated. And that skin was what he wanted for himself. A coat made of such material would be a tremendous protection in any battle, turning blades and arrows, leaving a person with almost as few vulnerable spots as a yeti itself had.

  He had named the knife Lucretia in honor of a maiden elf guard member he had known briefly, one who had gone to war and died. He talked to it now as he prepared to test it. “Let’s see what your abilities are here, Lucretia,” he muttered as he knelt and placed the tip of the blade at the throat of the yeti. He pressed hard, and the pelt of the yeti resisted. He pushed harder, and the skin suddenly opened beneath the knife, letting it penetrate into the frozen flesh beneath, but only a fraction of an inch deep before stopping.

  Kestrel pressed hard on the blade, and began to draw in down the center of the chest of the yeti carcass. He spent the next hour at work, not noticing as the two gnome boys grew curious and came over to watch him, sitting at a little distance with bright, shiny eyes observing him skinning away as much as he could. He grunted as he rolled the heavy body over, and looked up with he heard the two boys grunt in vocal support of his effort. He looked up and grinned at their serious faces, glad to receive smiles in return.

  “Yeti,” he told them, pointing to the monster.

  “dimma, roosh dimma,” the older gnome replied.

  When he finished his butchery at last, he had enough large swaths of the skin in a pile to more than make an entire suit for himself. He looked at the boys, then cut a small piece of the skin off for each of them, and threw the scraps over. They grabbed in the air excitedly to catch their gifts, then looked at, probed, and stretched them, chattering to one another.

  Kestrel stood with his load rolled up in a bundle in his arms. As he stood he felt his stomach rumble, and he realized how hungry he was. The boys were just as hungry, he was sure. He paused to look at the yeti carcass, but the thought of eating it was far less appealing than going hungry, so he waved his hand in a motion and urged the boys to join him in returning to the campfire site.

  They threw more wood on the fire, lifting sticks from their small stockpile. “Fire,” Kestrel instructed the boys. “Carsh,” they returned the favor, as they took turns stepping close to the flames and adding fuel.

  “Grow,” the older boy then told Kestrel, rubbing his belly, and opening his mouth to point at it as he chewed.

  “I’m hungry too,” Kestrel agreed. “Let’s go see if the river had anything,” he waved to them to follow him. He ventured out onto a sandbar, and shot two fish and a duck with arrows, getting uncomfortably wet and cold as he waded in the water to retrieve his victims. Afterwards, he and the youngsters sat at the fire that afternoon and roasted the results, eating hungrily, before they returned to the river and stacked up a large supply of firewood to get them through the night. It was already late afternoon, and Kestrel saw no point in leaving the campfire to only travel for two or three remaining hours of sunlight.

  They went back down to the river again, and Kestrel shot another duck, then they pulled up some tuber roots along the edge of the river, and returned to settle down as sunset darkened the sky. They sat together by the fire, eating and trading words.

  The older boy was Bolt, and the younger was Grees; they understood that he was Kestrel, and he understood that he was a shoosh dimma to them. The fire was carsh, and the arrows he shot were called swishes.

  They all seemed satisfied with the state of affairs for their tiny community, and the boys snuggled up against Kestrel for body warmth as they fell asleep in the evening. And that was how the gnome hunting party found them at sunrise the next morning.

  Chapter 3– Life with the Gnomes

  Kestrel awoke to the sound of a piece of wood crashing into his campfire. His eyes jerked open, and he saw nearly a dozen gnomes in a circle around him and the boys. The gnomes were alert and wary, but not acting belligerently as they surveyed the scene they had discovered, though several had spears held ready and generally pointed at him.

  One of them addressed Kestrel in the gnomish language, causing him to gesture and tell them that he could not understand. The little gnomes woke up, still snuggled in against Kestrel. As they looked around, they spotted a gnome they recognized among the party that had arrived, and they both sprang up joyfully, then ran to and hugged the short man.

  Kestrel also stood. “I found the boys and their mother two days ago,” he said. “She is buried up on top of the hill,” he pointed. “A yeti killed her,” he pointed to the north. “Its body is a little way over there.” Even though he knew his words made no sense to the gnomes, he felt the urge to talk and explain, to demonstrate that he was a reasonable person.

  The boys were talking rapidly too, and most of the gnomes were listening to them speak. They looked at Kestrel, and looked out to the north, then a pair of them went out to see the yeti, while the rest stayed to listen. The boys pointed up the hill as they talked, then one ran over and picked upKestrel’s bow as the other talked. All the gnomes carried a variety of bows, Kestrel noted, as well as cudgels, staffs, and knives. Three had swords as well. They were a heavilyarmed party, and he suddenly wondered for the first time who they were and why they were at the campsite.

  They all began to troop up the hill to the mother’s grave, and Kestrel followed. They made a circle around the stone mound, and clasped hands, so that Kestrel found himself included as a part of the prayer circle. One of them, the one the two boys had run to, began to speak, and twice there were ritual pauses and responses, then they released hands. One by one, starting with those closest to Kestrel, the
y told him “grambo”, then left the hill top, so that he was the last one down.

  After that there was more discussion. They looked at Kestrel often as they spoke. At one point they inspected his roll of yeti hide, causing him concern before they put it back in place, then all walked over to see the site of the yeti carcass. The gnomes talked excitedly as they circled around it, examining it closely before eight of them hefted it on their shoulders and carried it back to the campsite.

  They talked some more around the campfire, and Kestrel longed to know what their discussion was. From time to time the small boys would come sit in his lap, making one of the gnomes smile, and comforting Kestrel to know that the adults witnessed and accepted the comfortable relationship the youngsters felt with him. When the conversation ended, it was apparent that a decision had been reached.

  The gnome who was particularly marked for affection by the boys came to Kestrel, and began to talk in a slow, earnest voice, explaining something to him. He ended with a gesture, a wave of his arm, and then an outstretched hand. Kestrel looked at the hand, then placed his own slender hand against the beefy palm and shook.

  A minute later the gnomes shouldered the yeti carcass again, and they all looked at Kestrel expectantly. The boys danced around him, then began to gather up his goods and bring them to him. He understood at last that he was being invited to go on a journey with the gnomes– he didn’t know where, or how far, or even what direction. But he was apparently invited and expected, he may have even accepted the invitation already with his handshake, he realized. And in the dead of winter, high in the Water Mountains, he would receive no better invitation.