Chapter 5 Chapter 5
Felag Stonedelve rubbed his thumb across the worn edge of his leather map, ignoring the mud that splattered his boots as the wagon lurched forward. The original route, marked in faded red ink, had been abandoned at dawn, and his calloused finger now traced a new path that curved away from the wood elves' territories. In the covered wagon behind him, secured with rope and hidden beneath layers of trade goods, lay merchandise worth more than all their merchandise combined: one unconscious human woman whose value increased with every league they traveled deeper into Nidelvia.
"This route adds two days," grumbled Dornic, his second-in-command, tugging at his russet beard braids with anxious fingers. "We risk the spring rains catching us in the lowlands."
Felag folded the map with practiced precision. "Two days means nothing compared to what awaits us in Limdrion." He lowered his voice, glancing at the other wagons in their caravan. "The dark elves haven't seen a human in three centuries. They'll empty their coffers for this one."
Dornic's frown softened, replaced by the gleam of avarice that Felag had counted on. The six wagons comprising the Forge of Gold Merchant Group continued their slow procession, wheels creaking as they abandoned the relative safety of established trade roads.
By midday, the landscape had transformed. The solid ground gave way to a vast swamp that stretched toward the horizon, broken only by clusters of skeletal trees rising from murky waters. The lead wagon slowed, forcing the caravan to match its cautious pace.
"Careful on the left!" Felag called out, watching as one wagon tilted precariously toward a seemingly shallow puddle that could swallow a wheel whole. "Stay on the ridges!"
The air hung heavy with rot and stagnation. Brackish water bubbled around the wagon wheels, releasing pockets of gas that made the dwarves pull their scarves over their noses. Mosquitoes swarmed in thick clouds, drawn to the sweating bodies of both dwarves and the draft horses that pulled their wagons.
Felag's hands were numb from the damp chill, but he felt a warmth in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that he recognized not as guilt, but as anxiety. He climbed into the back of his wagon, pushing aside crates of traded goods until he reached a canvas-wrapped form. Carefully, he pulled back the edge of the fabric.
The woman lay still, her long brown hair fanned across a makeshift pillow of burlap sacks. Her scholarly robes, the mark of the Collegiate Alliance of Vyhelm , had been partially covered by a traveling cloak, likely to hide her identity during the initial stages of her journey. Ink stains marked her fingers, permanent badges of her profession. Felag pressed two fingers against her neck, feeling the slow but steady pulse.
"Still breathing," he muttered to himself. "But the draught won't last forever."
Three days. That was what the herbalist had promised when Felag had purchased the sleeping potion. Three days of complete unconsciousness, followed by gradual awakening. They were already into the second day, and the swamp was slowing them down more than he'd anticipated.
He replaced the canvas, arranging traded goods around her to maintain the illusion of ordinary cargo. As he climbed back to the driver's seat, memories of the previous day flickered through his mind, the casual conversation with the young professor about escort services to the Greenways, the drugged tea offered during their planning session, the too-easy theft of the human woman who had foolishly trusted a dwarf she'd only just met.
By late afternoon, the swamp began to recede. The ground became firmer, the trees taller and thicker with needles rather than moss. They had reached the temperate rainforest that marked the border of dark elf territory. Unlike the bright, airy forests of the high elves or the golden-leaved woods of the wood elves, this forest seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. The canopy above was dense, allowing only thin shafts of sunlight to penetrate to the forest floor.
Drops of water fell continuously from leaves overhead, creating a constant patter that sounded almost like whispered conversations. The air smelled of pine and wet earth, a welcome change from the putrid swamp. Yet despite the relative beauty, tension settled over the caravan. They were in Nidelvia now, the land of the dark elves.
"We need to send word ahead," Felag announced as they made camp that evening. The wagons had been arranged in a defensive circle, though no fires were lit—a precaution against attracting unwanted attention. "Gernit, you're the fastest. You'll go ahead to Limdrion."
A young dwarf with a sparse beard stepped forward, clearly pleased at being selected for such an important task. Felag withdrew parchment from his pack and began writing by the light of a covered lantern.
"Take this to Bartlos Slat," he instructed, folding the message and sealing it with wax. "No one else. Tell him I have special merchandise that will interest his master greatly. Tell him it's a human woman, scholarly, young. Mention nothing of this to anyone in the city until you've spoken with him."
Gernit nodded, tucking the message into a waterproof pouch. "What if I'm questioned by the guards?"
"You're delivering trade manifests ahead of our arrival," Felag said. "Nothing more."
As Gernit disappeared into the darkening forest, the remaining dwarves gathered for their evening meal of hard bread and dried meat. With no fire, they huddled in their cloaks against the damp chill, but their spirits remained high.
"I hear dark elves pay in gemstones for humans," said Ugdin, a barrel-chested dwarf with elaborate beard braids. "Bigger than your thumb."
"It's their magic they're after," another replied. "Humans can do any magic. Imagine what the pointy-ears would pay for that in their bloodlines."
Laughter rippled through the group, though Felag noticed how their eyes darted to the shadows beyond their camp.
"I'll buy myself a mining claim in the eastern mountains," Dornic said, slicing his knife through the air for emphasis. "No more trading for me. Just gems and gold till my beard turns white."
"I'll settle in Khazad-Tor," another announced. "Open a brewery. Live like a lord."
Their voices rose with excitement, each boast more extravagant than the last. Felag let them talk, their crude jokes about the human woman's worth washing over him as he calculated profits in his head. If Bartlos delivered his message promptly, and if Mavros Vex Maelis was as interested as Felag predicted, they could be rid of their cargo and rich beyond measure before the woman even fully woke.
"To the Flight of Men," Dornic eventually toasted, raising his waterskin in mockery. "May they always flee where we can follow."
More laughter, louder this time. Felag joined in, though his eyes drifted to the wagon where the woman lay. The draught would begin wearing off tomorrow. They needed to reach Limdrion before then, or this simple transaction could become considerably more complicated.
"First watch is yours, Dornic," he ordered, rising to his feet. "Wake me if she stirs." He glanced toward the wagon where Patrina slept on, blissfully unaware of the fate being planned for her.
As Felag settled into his bedroll beneath his wagon, he pushed away thoughts of what might happen to the human woman after the sale. Such considerations were bad for business, and business was all that mattered in the end.