Chapter 2: Enyth Maldurna

Crodas awoke to the murmurs of nature accompanied by the odd voice of camp’s occupants. They’d come upon the loggers yesterday, late in the afternoon just as the sun was disappearing. Arvid’s bedroll was empty. He was up already. The 48 year old teamster’s body creaked to life as he pulled on his breeches and boots. The younger man might find this life inspiring in some way, and maybe he might have in the past, but now he just found sleeping on the ground was simply painful.

“The things I do for the King,” he muttered emerging into the day.

“Good morning, Princess,” the short, angular man who had been his companion for the past month greeted, his grin sardonic.

“That’s what this is?” he retorted dipping his hands into the nearby barrel of rainwater and waking himself up.

“So far,” the other replied nodding towards the small fire near the rock he sat upon. “Coffee on the grill.”

“Appreciated,” he acknowledged.

“I took the liberty of doing a bit of asking around,” he reported. “Camp foreman’s name is Arbant. He sleeps in that wagon over there. Pretty sure he was the grey beard sitting on the steps into it we saw last night coming in. My guess is he’ll be who we want to talk to.”

“You’re full of surprises this morning,” he commented before sipping his beverage.

“I try to be. Predictability is death,” he returned wryly.

To be honest, his inquiries were hardly surprising at all. In the time he had known Arvid Delantheri, he had found him to be rather inquisitive and adept at reading the minds of men. He had been the first from the list Jurna had given him that he had found. He imagined that had been part of the reason he had agreed to accompany him out of Karsundal to begin with; Part of the reason. He was quite certain the other part were the four armed men who seemed to be searching for him, but no one ever promised him the folks he was searching for would be angels.

“Who are we looking for again?” the shorter man asked stirring the coals of the fire with a stick.

“Enyth Maldurna.”

“What do we know about him?”

“He’s a name on a list, Arvid” the former captain stated. “I know about as much about him as I did you.”

“And look how that turned out,” he grinned once more. “A better man you’ve never met.”

The pair bantered back and forth long enough to wake themselves and smoke a pipe while keeping an eye on the wagon. In the end however, they weren’t rewarded for their patience though they spotted several other members of the camp.

“Looks like they’re all headed out to the plot,” Delantheri surmised as they trudged towards a trailhead. “He’s probably

already out there.”

“We may as well do the same,” Crodas nodded recalling the foreman who had waved another to them from those steps before turning towards a group of loggers. The second then lead him to the place his buckboard stood now before taking his leave. The 48 year old rose from the log he had been perched on. Dumping the remains of his coffee on the fire, he followed that up by emptying the pot of the rest in the same way, stirring the dying embers around until they all turned black.

Downing his last before urinating in the same place for good measure while the newly named Earl retrieved his sword, the second then buttoned up and announced “And on we get.”

Walking past the other vehicle, kitted out in such a way as to allow one to reside within, the two caught up to the last of the crew, leading a team of yoked draft horses behind the others. With drooping eyes, a nose too long, and hair the colour of straw, he didn’t really notice their approach until they arrived.

“Good morning man,” Alvendahl hailed as they neared. “That’s a fine pair of animals you have there; Stronger than any one of mine.”

“We feed them well,” the other shrugged. “You the traders I heard about coming in last night?”

“That we are,” interjected the thin, brown haired man. “Arvid Delantheri is my name. This is my partner Crodas Alvendahl. We-”

“-Indeed,” the 48 year cut back in, shooting a look of annoyance at his only recruit to date unseen by the third, “We were hoping to have a word with your foreman. He was quite busy when we arrived and we didn’t really get a chance to talk.”

“Arbant?” the sandy haired man inquired. “He’s up ahead there. Thicker man, about as old as you, big beard. But you probably know that already. Just keep asking as you go.”

The paired continued their journey past the group of wood cutters of various heritages. Most were of human stock, but the odd Dwarf could be found among them and even one of two of Orcish blood. Eventually they made it to the front group and the man they had heard needlessly described to them more than once on the way.

“Good morning to you Arbant,” the Earl greeted, his eyes warning the second off.

“And to ya back,” he returned over his shoulder as he stopped, stretching his back in the morning, hands on hips. He then commenced directing his charges towards their tasks of the day. It seemed he had picked out three trees in particular he wanted felled.

“We arrived last night, we’re the traders from up Warkon River way,” Crodas began as the man spoke quietly to one or two other about the work.

“Saw ya come in,” the older man nodded turning towards them. Slightly shorter than Elf blooded man, he was broader across the beam and even greyer in hair than he was. “Glad ya found a spot, sorry I wasn’t there myself, things needed tending to. The haggling usually gets taken care of once the men return to camp while dinner is being made.”

“As we have become familiar,” the teamster concurred. “But we actually wanted to speak with one of them. At least that’s what we were told. You do have a Enyth Maldurna who wields an axe for you, correct?”

“Aye, one of my best,” he confirmed. “What’s yer business with Queenie?”

“We’d like to speak with him on behalf of King Aisling III,” Alendahl revealed producing a scroll from inside his jacket and handing it to the man.

Casting a sideways glance at the pair the bearded man took the scroll in hand and unrolled it. He quickly scanned it, his eyes landing at the seal and signature at the bottom of the document before reading it in detail.

“Which of ya is the Earl of Manthardim?” he then questioned, looking doubtfully at the pair before him.

“I am” the greying trader acknowledged extending his hand in friendship. “Croda Alvendahl. This is my companion Arvid Delantheri.”

“Ya know my name already it seems. Ya don’t look like much of a snoot,” the lumber captain pointed out with a bit of derision, using the local vernacular for someone of noble blood.

“I doubt the finery you’d expect to see on one would be suitable to these surroundings,” he countered disarmingly. “Truth be told, up until a few months ago, I was just a man as you, nothing more. I’m far more comfortable with being called Crodas than anything else.”

“And how did ya land in robes?”

“That would be a story that lasted an entire bottle,” he informed the foreman.

“Would it now?” the stocky man returned with a bit of skepticism. “Then it is one ya will tell me before ya leave this camp.”

“Gladly, good sir,” he smiled. “We have some fine spirits with us bound for Mallunz. I’m sure I can spare a sample. You do look like a busy man with much responsibility however.”

“And ya want to talk with Maldurna don’t you? King’s business,” he surmised, taking the hint.

“It is the main reason we are here,” the 48 year old admitted.

“Ya see the big one in the blue wool cap over there?” the foreman indicated. “That’s Queenie.”

“Why do they call him that?” Arvid inquired, speaking for the first time.

“Queenie? That’s a story that would take another bottle son,” the logger divulged before turning away once more to deal with his men, leaving the pair standing alone amongst the bustle of woodsmen.

“Let’s go make a friend,” Arvid suggested enthusiastically, clasping his hands, his smile broadening.

“Yes, of course. Let’s go do that,” the ex-soldier agreed, shaking his head. The other man’s tendency at times to exaggerate the emotion of his statements could at times be as annoying as it could be entertaining. He wagered it might be one of the reasons Delantheri was being chased when he first caught up to him.

Picking their way through the other men and the stumps of previously felled trees they eventually approached the logger that Armant had directed them to. From across the clearing it was apparent that Maldurna was a bit larger than most. But now seeing him up close from behind, Crodas felt that this was something he had underestimated. At 5’10” he was considered to be a bit taller than average. Arvid, after all, was four inches shorter than he was. But this one, this one had nearly half a foot on him if an inch. And the breadth of his shoulders spoke to a lifetime spent swinging an axe.

“Enyth Maldurna?” he inquired clearing his throat, to give warning of their approach.

“Who wants to know?” asked a voice somewhat higher pitched than Alvendahl was expecting.

“Crodas Alvendahl, Earl of Manthardim,” the 48 year old state evenly.

“And his erstwhile companion Arvid Delantheri,” the sharp featured man piped up, somewhat to the chagrin of the first.

“Earl huh?” came a snicker as the figure turned towards them. “Then ya ought to be bowing to me. They don’t call me anything but Queenie ‘round here.”

As the logger rounded into view, the mystery of their tenor was solved for the two newcomers. Peering down at the duo from was a massive freckled woman with short curly black hair peeking out from beneath the blue wool cap.

“And why would a pair of snoots want to talk to little ol’ me?” she then asked casually cracking her knuckles by mashing the fingers of one hand together with the other.

“Oh, he’s the snoot, not me,” Arvid backpedaled fully aware of the size discrepancy between the woman and himself.

“We’d like to speak with you about your birthright,” the older explained with a touch of caution and an annoyed look at his companion. He had been in enough taverns in his travels as a teamster to understand the potential peril in upsetting very large people. And she certainly qualified there.

“My birthright?” she guffawed picking up her axe once more and turning towards a large oak that had been chalked off as having been stripped of it’s upper branches. “This just gets better and better.” She raised the axe and with practiced leverage laid into the trunk before her.

“It could actually,” Alvendahl insisted following her but keeping clear of her arc.

“How so?” she questioned with bitter laugh. “I’m a never wed logger who is either too ugly or too scary for any man to consider.”

“Where were you born uh ... Queenie? Who are your parents?” the wagoneer queried.

“Ya already met ‘im,” she revealed, jerking her head towards the rest. “He runs the place. He says I was whelped in Morlambandur, but we moved before I could remember.”

“Wait ... Arbant?” the thin sidekick reacted puzzled.

“Ya don’t see the resemblance?” she returned taking another swing.

“Actually um ... no,” he replied honestly, looking back and forth between the two.

“Not all children take after their parents,” Crodas cut in attempting to steer the exchange into calmer waters. “But it seems professionally at least, you have. He calls you one of his best you know.”

“He ought to,” she agreed as another thick slice of wood flew from the tree. “No one else here kin do what I kin do as long as I kin do it.”

“Why does everyone call you Queenie?” Delantheri probed, shrugging when the Earl glared at him.

“Ya’d have to ask Pa. He’s called me that ever since I was but a wee one.”

The reply elicited a chuckle from the Karsundali who opened his mouth to counter only to shut it when he saw the expression of the other man.

Shaking his head in exasperation at his partner, the trader returned his attention to the large woman. “And how long ago was that? Since you were a ... wee one?”

“Pa told me a while back, it ain’t polite for a man to ask about a woman’s age. It ain’t proper.”

“He isn’t wrong there ... Queenie,” the elfblood agreed. “Though I do not inquire for reasons others might.”

“Right, my birthright,” she stated with a shade of sarcasm before her axe fell once more. “If ya hafta know, I’m 22.”

“If I might ask, where is your mother?” he followed up.

“Never knew her,” she confessed her face softening somewhat. “Pa says I was a difficult birth, being so big ‘n’ all. Says she didn’t survive it. Says it’s why we moved. Couldn’t bear it.”

With that Crodas nodded to his counterpart. Without a witness there was no claim to be made. And from what he had been told over the years all of King Dalumder’s seven sons as well as the man himself were massive, dark haired men. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time a sailor from the island realm of Harukran found his way into the bed of a local woman when making port. It was time. As much as he could hear the warning bell in his head, it was time.