Sacrificial Goats
Raylin tossed the second shard of Bishop Margate’s staff onto the tent floor next to Aramin. “There you are, Rornman.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Aramin’s eyebrows entwined above his nose like mating sand grubs. “Boy,” he called to his manservant, “fetch the chest beneath the red canvas. Give it to these men.”
The party settled down upon the fur-trimmed pillows as Aramin’s aide dragged a sizeable chest from beneath curtains hanging from the tent’s roof. The Rornman whistled an unknown tune as he watched John commence coin-counting. After a moment, he let his gaze gather the whole party. “You have given good service to myself, but also to all of those who would prevent Ippizicus’ return. You can see that I thank you with coins as well as words.”
Aramin stood and walked to the rear of the tent whereupon he deposited the second piece of the staff into a heavy satchel. He turned. “There is a pair of goats tethered outside. Doubtless you saw them - fat, succulent. I will have the boy butcher them both; we shall eat well this evening. Also, I have been hoarding some t’krak for such a moment as this. Burns like sweet regret going down. You are all welcome to it.”
The Rornman snapped his fingers. The serving boy dutifully stood a cask on its end, tapped it with a small mallet and spike, and began to fill wooden tankards with the rusty Rornish whisky.
None of the party drank until seeing Aramin take his first pull.
Kellus asked the question on all his companions’ minds. “And what of the third piece of the staff, Rornman? Do you not wish to strike a deal with us to secure its return?”
Aramin smiled disarmingly, his teeth the same brown color as his skin. “No, no – I have a feeling you would not wish to assist me any further. Besides, I am rather low on funds at the moment. It may take time to replenish my reserves of coin.”
“How so?” John pushed Amelyssan’s share of the gold toward the elf, mercantile interest in his eyes. “How do you earn such wealth, Master Aramin?”
“Trade, mostly. I can make elixirs that men swear assist them in their lovemaking.” He spread his hands apologetically. "Fools and their money, eh?”
Kellus had not touched the tankard before him. He rested an elbow on his knee and fastened his eyes upon their benefactor. “You do not seek our aid to find the third piece of the staff-”
“No, no – I have said as much.”
“-because you already have it.”
***
The tent went silent. John stopped counting gold crowns. All eyes turned toward the Rornman, and his serving boy drifted backward, away from the brazier. For a long span of moments, only the central Valusian winds were heard within the hide-draped tent.
“Perhaps I do, Rhelmsman. Indeed, indeed.” Aramin showed his teeth like a dog. “You have your secrets, and I have mine. Let us part ways, having helped one another.”
“I think not.” Vath stood from the corner. His companions had managed to convince him not to kill the deceitful Rornman, but only barely. Anger roiled once more within his stomach. He frothed. “You have lied to us. Again.”
Aramin coiled. He glanced from Kellus to the half-troll. “Never did I lie. I told you I wanted the lot of you to retrieve parts of the staff. You have done as much.”
“You told us that you required all three portions to make it whole.” Vath stepped forward, the red light of the brazier making the boils on his skin stand out in shadowy relief. “You told us you had scryed Bishop Herryn passing the crag known as Raven’s Roost – but never did the traitorous priest near that location.”
Aramin bobbed his head up and down like a vulture. “So my scrying was slightly incorrect – what of it?” He tapped his nose with a broken nail. “Actually – ‘twas my knowledge of these lands that failed me. I knew not the proper name for the crags I saw in the vision of the fleeing bishop.”
Vath simmered for a moment. “Destroy the staff, then - you have all three pieces. Do it now.”
The Rornman appeared as if he had been asked to erase the Balantir Cor from the horizon. “Bah! I will destroy the staff when I am well and ready. You are a half-troll; you cannot hope to comprehend the arcane power required to finish such a task. I need time to gather my strength.”
Amelyssan’s voice cut the air with confidence. “Then we shall wait, with you, until such time as you are ready.”
Aramin’s eyes flashed. “I have invited you – all of you – to but remain until the morrow. I now am beginning to question my kindness.” The Rornman clenched his fists. “Perhaps I should cast all of you out into the cold winds-”
Baden looked up from his tankard. “Try it.”
Aramin wrung his hands, shoulders slumping in apparent defeat. “I had thought you mercenaries, certainly, but honorable men despite such a regrettable profession. We struck a deal – need I remind you? – and the deal has been satisfied by both parties. It is over.”
“It is not over,” John opined, “until that staff is destroyed. You said such was your goal - why do you now hesitate?”
“It cannot be done, Pellman! Not here!” Aramin jabbed a bony finger toward the bard. “The staff must be destroyed where the wood was first culled.”
“Oh?” Amelyssan brushed dirt from the hem of his cloak. “And where might that be?”
Once again silence reigned until Aramin sighed. “Fine. If you wish to accompany me – to see the deed done – then I will allow such.”
“We accept,” Kellus said. “Where are we going so that the staff may be destroyed?"
“Olgotha,” answered the Rornman. “There is a mound there, rising above the plains like a wart, where the woodsfolk once made sacrifice. The hill is bare now save for the old dolmens. Yet during Margate’s day it was covered with saplings that grew twisted from the blood of those slain. That was where the Bishop gathered the wood to fashion his staff.”
“Then we leave in the morning,” John announced with a flourish. “Tonight, however, let us finish your drink, eat your goats, and piss upon the first of us to settle into slumber for the evening.”
Aramin smiled with the others, but for far different reasons.
