Edan dashes off a note after his dawn absolutions; addressed to Caine, it is simply a note that he is heading back to Xanadu, and that his intention is to try and lay a path through shadow while doing so.
He arrives at his ship hours before departure, mostly to recheck his math for the third or fourth time. The intention is to maximize the time the path will function. In addition, he will bring a few difficult-to- find foodstuffs that won't be so available in Xanadu.
The captain wants to know how many ships you can lead and if it's alright for him to book regular passengers from those wishing to migrate to Xanadu immediately. Given those answers, the ship will sail with the tide.
How hard does Edan wish to push his shadowpath making? Paths with fewer hops (landmarks) are shorter and more difficult to make and tend to have shorter lifespans. [We'll do the maths once we know what Edan wants from a path.]
How easy/hard does Edan want this trip to be?
Edan chuckles and wonders if they won't be sailing with the next tide after all... but if you're going to do a thing, it needs to be done right.
Regular passengers are fine, though Edan wants it understood that there won't be layovers at the landmarks except in the case of ship repair or resupply. More people = more time to get started, but shouldn't affect travel time as much.
Similarly, more ships = less nimble = slower = more of a splash in shadow, but that might actually have some small positive effect in laying a path. Harder to defend, too, and Edan's attention is going to be on moving through shadow, not fighting off pirates or spear-throwing natives. Say, a total of five ships, and put in a request through the harbormaster for at least one to be navy.
A Naval vessel is made ready, and passengers are booked. If they can take an extra tide cycle, the captain will do so, but it's your expedition and he'll leave when you say.
The path itself is also going to be an exercise in compromise. The top concern is that it's going to hold; it is, after all, his first practical attempt. Second concern is lifespan, since it's getting a lot of use, but the more ships that use it, the stronger it will be. If one end of this is a short path that gets Edan off to his other concerns quickly, and the other end is a long, slow trip that makes this path last longer, Edan will opt for somewhere in the middle. More towards the longer-lifespan option, though.
[Numbers are inauspicious: A three month trip will get a path that will last for a year. Part of the problem with this is that it takes time to lay a path. Edan has some advantages they didn't have during the Regency (like a Pattern at one end), but it's just a long process. 3 months for a useful but not permanent one. Edan doesn't have the Earth score for much more, either.]
[We need to consider if this is a workable plan. In addition to 3 months of game time down for Edan, there's also the questions of other things coming up. Perhaps we should leave the actual path until there's planned "time passes".]
[Ew... now that I see the actual numbers, I agree. What Edan needs to do is take one more group back to Xanadu, collect Aramsham, head off towards Clarissa, then try a path if/when he returns. Unless something happens on the way, he'll just pen a note to Random before he takes off.]
[Yeah, we set a precedent in Pre-gaming and we need to be consistent. Our original thinking was, IIRC, that if it was easy, all the princes would spend a few days a decade and we'd be overwhelmed with paths, which didn't seem to fit...]
[But enough meta-chat, Edan needs action! Sailing action. Two ships can be ready on the tide, or five on the next tide. The trip back is ... uneventful.]
Edan spends part of the time wondering if he shouldn't try the trip to Clarissa on a ship. Then he shakes his head and wonders if he hasn't lost his mind.
Edan stands on the harborside dock, the Captain thanks his for his services, and Xanadhavians are unloading ships while passengers take in the new city. People are pointing at the Castle (because they're tourists, nothing exciting going on that can be noticed from here).
And unless anyone stops him, that's exactly where Edan will head. The first stop will be at his rooms...
Edan's rooms are as he left them, more or less. They have been cleaned and a very Amber-ish vase and flowers are sitting on a side table, but no other changes have been made.
...where he will pen a note to Random:
::Your Majesty-I have brought a few more ships from Amber to Xanadu. A delay has come up, one that I must attend to, for it would interfere if I tried to lay a path now.
I shall be heading past Ygg, and will strive to address this problem of a path when I return. My father, my sister, or Aunt Fiona can likely reach me if needed. I crave your pardon in my delay, but I believe this is the wisest course.
Your servant,
Edan::
A page takes the note and runs off.
The second stop is to pack his saddlebags, go to the stables and get Aramsham ready for an extended trip.
He starts slow; it is obvious that Aramsham has been well cared-for, and Edan does feel sorry for the unfortunate stablehands that no doubt had been bitten and stepped-on for their efforts, but he wants Aramsham to have a large part of his energy when they start to shift shadow.
Down the mountain they go, following the same road they took coming there, but this time Edan avoids most of the city if he can help it. Around to the ferry, across to the other side, and then outward in the direction of the forest.
When they pass the cairn that would otherwise signal the location of Faiella-Bionin, he kicks Aramsham into a canter. Eventually, as they go farther, he reaches out to make small changes in shadow: a change in the quality of sand here, a spot bare of grass there... outward, with the changes coming faster as the stuff of shadow appears.
Faster, the canter... he leaves the trees to the side, but the beach widens... the color shifts, no longer the stripes of coral and black, but more reddish... the trees begin to thin a little, their character changing... the ocean becoming more distant, great salt tidal pools to his left, with the wink of green farther away...
Still the trees to his right, but the air loses some of its blue. The ocean is far away now, out of easy sight... the tidal pools becoming great white salt flats... the trees themselves becoming smaller, gnarled, twisted, responding to the arid air and the salt... Aramsham snorting now, sweating, the sweat vanishing, a light crust of salt on him... draw rein.
He dismounts, breaking out a curry comb, letting his horse take a breather; they walk for a distance, until small pools bubble out from nearby rocks, free from the taint of salt, and they both drink their fill.
Edan nods, knowing that they will be wandering into a true desert soon, also knowing that this is by far the easier part; once they reach Ygg, once they pass beyond, that will be much more of a test.
Aramsham leans down and begins to drink.
"Hey!," says a voice from behind the rocks. "That's ma water. You gonna pay for that?" The face that peers over the rock is bearded and so craggy with lines that it reminds Edan of the Pattern itself. The old man is wearing some sort of weapon, but he hasn't drawn it yet.
"Indeed, I will," Edan says, cursing himself for being inattentive. But he stands, and bows, and touches his fingers to his forehead as he does so.
"Assalmu Alaykum, man of the desert," he says. "I thank you for the gift of water, which is the gift of life." The words sound rhythmic, almost singsong, oddly formal, intended to show that this is indeed a big deal where he comes from.
"A thousand apologies, for I did not see the markings for your claim. What coin do you accept in payment?"
"Heh. Your apology is good enough, I guess." He stands back. "You don't look like a bandit and there's enough for you and your horse. What's his name? For that matter, what's yours?" He cocks his head at an angle when he asks questions.
Edan places a hand on his horse's neck, withdraws it as the beast snorts and tosses its head. "His name is Aramsham," he says. "It means 'exalted one'. He knows his name well."
Gold eyes lift to meet the gaze of the stranger. "And my name is Edan. In my homeland, where a name can be a language unto itself, it would be, 'Edan ibn Bleys ibn Oberon al-Kehribar al-Salaam al-Djinn-al-Ghanii'. I am pleased to make your acquantance."
"'at's a mouthful to be sure. Aramsham is fine lookin' horse. I'm Larson. Are ye' here for the race?"
I set my feet upon the path, O Most Merciful One, Edan thinks, but it is your path, and it is you who direct my feet.
Outwardly, he shakes his head. "I was just passing from place to place," he says. "A race, you say? From where to where? And what is the prize for the winner?"
"So you are here for it! It's no use pretending you're not. It's the Race to Madness, of course. Each rider goes from here to the Great Tree at the edge of Madness and back to the Ducal Palace. The Duke's son is supposed to be in this time, and he's wagering a magical figurine he got from the Djinn."
The man looks around. "Aramsham looks fast, Mister. Can he handle distance?"
"Aramsham is a warhorse, born and bred," Edan says, as if that explains everything. "My only worry, as you can see, is that he is not as tall as most horses. On a straightaway..."
The stallion, hearing his name and something of the tone, casually tries to step on Edan's foot. Edan, just as casually, moves out of the way.
"Ah... who is this Duke?"
"Mad Duke Ofallion? Surely you've heard of him? Why he's practically a legend himself. Said to have gone further beyond The Edge than any living man, and still more sane than most." The old man leans towards Edan and doesn't whisper. "Rumor has it that his son comes from Beyond, you know."
"I did not know," Edan says, and his brow creases. "I have travelled a long, long way, and these names are strange to me." His face clears, and he smiles. "But, come! It so happens that I seek a Tree that is also a boundary. They sound one and the same, these places. You have lived here a long time, yes? You could show me the path that such a race would take, and the people who oversee this?"
"I reckon as I have and I can." The man unfolds himself and stands. He makes a few gestures with his hands and the water from the pool rises into the air in a fountain. It spreads itself out at waist level and becomes like a mirror. In one corner, a palace appears. Not a reflection, it looks as if it had been carved of ice, except the water is not frozen.
On the far side, a great spreading tree appears, the same as the castle.
Edan looks almost as fascinated with the sudden display of magic as he is the artistry involved. "Been here a while, indeed," he says.
"There's two things with the race. First is the far side, where you've got to go into madness and back."
He raises a hand, and between the icewater tree and the icewater castle he raises icewater mountains.
"And in between are the Mountains of Regret. How you get through 'em is the question of who wins, who loses, and who dies."
Edan reaches out, not quite touching the water, his fingers automatically tracing what had to be one of the more popular routes. Then he traces another, one that would require a much more agile mount.
"The madness, that is what it is. But the mountains... are there more hazards to face, beyond the struggle with rock and stone that one would expect?"
"Around to the north, that's Grackleflint country. To the south, it's swampy." The old man spits and there is a cloudy area where he indicated swamps would be. "There's paths there, but it's slow and people sink, or worse. There's two passes, the one you showed, which has the troll bridge and the Camino Real, the King's High Way. Nobody knows why, but it's safe except during the race. Nobody's made it during the Race." He looks up at Aramsham. "It'd be a shame to waste such a good horse on that way. And rider, of course."
Edan meets this with a raised eyebrow. "And the other pass?"
"The Troll bridge? Depends on how you get on with Trolls. They don't exactly acknowledge the Duke, but they know what shape trouble has." As the old man speaks, the sun sets, with an alacrity that borders on whimsicalness. Across from it, a moon rises, followed by a second.
The old man looks at the moon. "You'll have to hurry over to the castle. Race starts at moonset."
Edan nods, smiles slightly, and says, "I thank you." Mounting his horse, he guides Aramsham's desire to turn into slow, sideways steps. "Peace be with you, Larson of..." he hesitates. "Larson-of-the-Water."
Larson says, "Good luck to ye both. I'll be wagering on you. I'd bet on you getting 'cross the tree, and most don't their first time."
Edan raises a hand in farewell, and Aramsham nearly prances until they are out of sight. "Showoff. Peacock," Edan says to him.
They make some distance towards the castle before he speaks again, half to his horse, half to himself. "I do not know, Aramsham," he says, giving the terrain a critical look. "This race may be a manifestation of my desire. It may be placed here as a test, a way to gauge my abilities without bloodshed. It may be a trap. It is... convenient... that such a thing would be here, just as we arrived."
He gets a snort and a head-toss in reply.
"But it is still a long way to the Tree, apparently. If there is a race, we will not be a lone target crossing the mountains; the other riders will be a screen for us. Until the race is over, our path is not safe in any case. But this would be a hard thing, this test of endurance... as hard on you as it is on me. Harder. My needs will not be as great as yours." He pauses. "It is the fastest way, if not the easiest. Despite appearances, safer than most. Let us see what we are up against, my friend. Let us see if sorcery is allowed here. I am inclined to do this thing." He pats Aramsham's neck. "You would like to run, yes?"
Aramsham knows that word, at least, for the stallion tosses his head again and breaks into a gallop.
They ride to the castle, where he announces himself as Edan, son of Bleys, of Xanadu and the Land of Peace, and that he intends to enter the Race to Madness.
This causes a stir, and the servitors point him to the stable and send a message into the castle. A well-dressed young man comes up as he is dismounting. "I'm Orlon Ofallion. They tell me you're here to race." He looks at Aramsham. "What are you wagering?"
"Ahhh-h, I have been pondering just that very thing," Edan says. "I have traveled far, and it is hard to know just what is considered valuable from one place to another." He gives the simple bow, one reserved for 'when unsure of another's station'. "You are the son of the Duke Ofallion, are you not? I have heard of you. It is said that you bring something from the Djinn, which is a feat in itself. They drive hard bargains, very hard."
He scratches Aramsham's nose a moment, just below the 'jibbah', then attends to removing the saddle. He glances at the other man as he does so, watching for a reaction. "Aramsham is a pretty horse, is he not? His pedigree goes back a hundred generations and more, in my homeland. I would wager him, such is my confidence, but I will have great need of him even after the race. And I would worry that offering him for stud would be enough."
Orlon nods. "Yes, I am the ducal heir, not that it's mattered much recently." Orlon looks at Edan's sword. "I have heard of your father, very famous. Supposed to be quite the swordsman. Would you wager, instead, a service to me?" He's particularly nervous about this, despite his casual demeanor.
Long brown fingers pause, then continue with the saddle after a moment. "Forgive me. You have dealt with djinni," Edan says. "It would depend... very much... on the nature of such a service. And you are assuming that no one else would be the winner of the race." His smile is immediate.
"It is also said that you have been Beyond the Tree, in the madness. You would understand, then, when I say my path takes me there after this trial is done."
He smiles, looking at Aramsham. "We are the only two competitors who have a chance. The nature of the service I require is simple. Kill my father."
Edan continues at his task, until the saddle is off his horse, and a currycomb is in his hand. Only then does he look back at Orlon.
"Heed the words of the One Prophet," he says, "who said this: 'A man may sleep peacefully even in the depths of evil and suffering. But if a man inflicts evil and suffering on others, he will never truly know rest.'" He pauses. "Why would you wish to place that burden upon yourself?"
Orlon Ofalion pauses for a moment. "I have three reasons. The first is that it is my duty as his heir, and a man must pursue his duty. The second is that his madness causes my father's rule to be unjust, and mine would be less so. The third is that he jeopardizes his place in heaven by continuing to live as a madman here rather than ascend. In addition, you are not of us and so are not under the jurisdiction of either my father or the Erwonian Popess." He looks at Aramsham again. "If you wish to meet my father before you decide, it can happen. But the race starts at sunset, and we have little time."
"So," Edan says. "You would claim that your father is no longer himself. You would see his life ended, as a matter of compassion and love. You wish to kill him in order to honor him. You want me to do this, in order to circumvent the laws of your land."
He breaks off and holds Orlon's gaze for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Then Edan says, "It is also said in my homeland: 'That which is lawful is clear, and that which is unlawful likewise, but there are certain doubtful things between the two from which it is well to abstain.' But actions will be judged according to intentions." He looks down, then back at the heir. "Yes. I would see him. And to save time, let us assume that I will be in this race. I will need supplies, a servant and tent if there are waystations, butter of the camel or llama or alpaca, a supply of salt... you know that which I seek. Preparations made for the man who has no time. And perhaps you would tell me the rules as we walk, what is allowed, what is not."
"There are no waystations." He turns and raises his voice. "Merav!", he says. When a young woman, no more than 15 pokes her head out of the tack room he says nods to her. "Give Edan ibn-Bleys my saddlebags, and prepare another for me."
A pause. "But if I agree to this, I will not wager such a thing. You will accept my reputation as the stake for your race. I will not kill a man as a prize. If I do so it is due, as you say, for the sake of mercy."
"You mistake me, son of Bleys. I am obeying our law by finding an outsider to kill my father. Our poor land sits on the shores of madness and madness is our fate, no matter how we fight it. One day my son will have me killed, and his after that, as my father killed my grandfather."
Edan's jaw only drops a moment, and he only hesitates a step. If he has a response, he holds it back.
He gestures towards the central keep of the castle and [assuming Edan walks that way...] leads Edan towards it. "The race has few rules. One must start here. One must pass the tree. One must return here. First back wins."
Edan nods in return. "I understand. I also understand there are perils that do not only deal with endurance and terrain and weather."
Orlon Ofalion smiles, as if Edan is a clever student. "It is those nuances that make the race interesting." Orlon nods to two soldiers at the entrance to the castle. They look tough, but not particularly alert. "My father will be in the solarium," he says, leading the way to a large central stairway. "Have you selected your route yet? The perils of each route are unique."
"It is difficult to decide," Edan says, then deadpan: "I shall likely choose the route whose perils are the most flammable."
Orlon smiles. "Through the grackleflints to the north, then. They live in the grasslands, but a big fire there may outrace the diversion it causes. The swamp isn't flammable, except where it's explosive, and the you might catch fire to some mountain trolls, but they're fast."
Edan nods, smiles a little himself, noticing that the prince doesn't mention what his own route will be.
At the top of the stairs, he turns to the left and opens a door. Inside a man sits, staring out a window into bright sunlight. The same sunlight was not visible in the courtyard.
"Father? It's Orlon, with a competitor."
The man, older turns towards you. One eye is milky white with cataracts and his face is a mass of small scars. "You've come to race? I bested the course twelve times when I was young." That was, apparently, quite a long time in the past.
"I have." Edan kneels and kisses the ground in the manner of meeting a king. Likely too much courtesy than is due, but he errs on the side of caution. It gives him time to concentrate, as well, for he looks at the Duke and the room with his third eye when he rises. His intent is to see if the Duke is under a spell; it is more to help verify Orlon's words and discount an arcane plot for regicide, more than anything else.
No spell or other obvious effect is upon him. He looks both somewhat dimmer than Edan would expect and slightly indistinct around the edges.
"I am Edan, ibn Bleys ibn Oberon, of Amber and the Land of Peace," he says as he does this. "I have heard of this Race to Madness, and wish to compete."
The Duke looks at him. "Are you insane?"
Edan smiles, just a little. "I do not think so. Though I have been called so, more than once." He pauses. "There are many races. But none like this. I would be suprised to learn that my father had not raced here, some time in the past."
He gets up and walks to a desk. He pulls a paper out of it--a long scroll filled with tiny spidery writing. "What was his name?"
Many of the lines are crossed out.
Edan glances at Orlon, eyebrows raised, before saying, "Bleys, son of Oberon, son of Dworkin, Prince of Amber."
He frowns. "Yes. He was here." The man, whose crinkled brow now looks older than it did mere moments before, traces down the list with his finger, stopping near the top. "Four Thousand Two Hundred and Seventeen years ago. I didn't like him."
Edan gives a slight, smooth bow in response. "My father would be crushed to know this," he says. "He has ever striven to stay amicable, exept those rare few whom he has designated as his enemies."
He screws his face into a questioning look, then keeps it that way. "That's not how I remember him. As you describe him he sounds ... constant!"
Orlon has a courtier's glazed expression on his face.
"There are some, Mushir, who would describe him thus," Edan replies. "That the only thing that could be relied upon was that he would remain inconstant. That has not been my experience." He raises slightly. "I hope that I fare at least as well as he did."
The older man scowls. "He won. You can fare no better. But I have learned since then and will not be beaten again."
Orlon speaks at last. "I will be racing this race, father."
"Of course you will!," snaps the old man. "And I expect you to win. Prince Bleys doesn't look formidable."
"Yes, father."
Orlon turns to Edan. "Shall we return to the stables?"
"As you say," Edan says with a bow, and follows with another one towards the Duke. "Peace be with you, and yours," he says.
"Hmf. Yes, that seems to be the case." The old man is still somewhat petulant.
[Edan] waits until they are back outside and heading towards the stables before he adds, "I am no chiurgeon, but I have heard that called 'dementia' in the Land of Peace. Your father lives in the past."
He waits another long moment before he says, "I am satisfied. I will take the wager."
Orlon nods, grimly. "Thank you, Edan. Based on what I saw, it should be Prince Edan, shouldn't it? If you wish not to use your title, I will not press the issue."
Edan shakes his head. "No, it is accurate. But it can be confusing. I am a Prince of the Blood, son of a Prince of Amber. Were it not for a slip on a blood-soaked step, I might have been the son of a King."
He stops, blinks, contains his suprise at the vehemence of his own words and the fierce pride contained therin. "I may tell you the story someday... I do enjoy relating stories. I have many cousins, some who would tell a different version."
He looks over at Orlon. "We have reached an accord, and it is proper to let you know whom you have reached it with. I have as strong a claim in another land." He pauses. "I am the grandson of a Padishah of the City of Brass, who claims rulership of the largest conclave of the afriti. I am Sultan of the seven tribes of the Deep Deserts of the Dar-es- Salaam, won by blood and fear and flame. I do not claim the Caliphate," he says, a rueful smile forming, "for I am not yet humble enough in the sight of God. Someday, I pray."
"You honor us with your presence, Prince Edan. That should change the bookmaker's odds." He smiles. "And sometime when we are not pressed for time, I would enjoy hearing the tale of the blood-soaked step."
The Duke's son looks back at the door to the inner keep. "Someday I will be as he is. I do not relish the thought. Uneasy lies the head that wears the Ducal Coronet."
Edan nods, for it is all he can do. "May that day be long in the future," he says.
He reaches the stables door. "Do you need aught else or are you ready to race me?"
A shake of Edan's head in response, then bows. "Peace be with you, Prince Orlon, and luck as well. I shall be looking forward to our contest."
Once Orlon leaves, Edan doesn't waste time; there is much to do. He starts with Aramsham, inspecting his horse thoroughly to make sure that the stallion is in good enough shape for the race. Once that is done, he goes through the pack of supplies, checking each thing with all three eyes to determine if they are acceptable.
Last but not least, using his memory of the watery map as a guide, he meditates on a spell that will let him know time and direction and distance, perhaps as a fiery arrow that only he can see. If it looks like he's going to run out of time, he'll hold off on the actual casting until they're properly in the race.
Edan mediates and clears a space in his mind for stillness and flame to grow and grow they do. He spends most of his preparatory time on this. He finds that he has created a miniature image of a dragon breathing flame, mounted by a rider. Only he can see it, and it points to the mountain in the distance. The dragon is ghostly and is only visible when Edan concentrates on it.
Shortly after the image is created a stableboy approaches Edan. "They're calling for the racers, My Lord."
Edan nods and straightens from his kneeling position in one easy movement; he ties his rug into a roll as he follows the stableboy out.
The supplies are packed, and a lighter saddle has replaced the original. All the equipment looks well-worn, but obviously in good repair and familiar to both rider and horse. A pouncing tiger is worked into the saddle blanket in gold thread.
Aramsham is as proud as ever. He leads well out of the stables, but snorts and begins to prance as the smell of the other racing horses reach them. No giant courser, he, and no plodding ranging horse. A light warhorse, bred for speed and endurance, smaller than most, but his muscles are strong cords and his coat is a glossy, glossy black. Even the continual battle with Edan is forgotten as he half-rears in impatience for his rider to mount.
There are seven contestants, none of whom have mounts as impressive as Aramsham. Orlon seems to have something resembling an ostrich, while one competitor is on foot.
Prince Orlon waves him over, and gathers all the racers. "Well met, friends. We may not all return to this place, but during this race no man has precedence and all is fair. The custom is that we shall toast first each other then his Serenity the Duke, then the Tree.
"My fellows, our newest companion is Prince Edan ibn Bleys, whose father once raced an ancestor of mine and beat him. The black is his, and I could not convince him to wager it."
The ghost of a smile plays about Edan's lips. He bows slightly from the waist to the others.
"I have accepted his wager and will make good on it if another beats us both. He is a stranger to these lands."
The others look amongst themselves and the man without a horse nods. "That is acceptable."
Edan nods in turn, mentally marking the runner (and the only one to speak up) as officially Dangerous.
Orlon nods and a servant brings a tray with eight small glasses. They hold enough liquid for three gulps, at most. "My fellows, " he says, picking up a glass, " to this year's competitors, we shall live through the race or in history forever." The others pick up glasses and all take a small drink.
Edan hardly hesitates. If it is poisoned, he thinks, well, he would have hoped for something a little more subtle. If it is alcohol, then it is another failure to the Merciful One. Ai! La afham! Am I becoming an alcoholic? Will I someday be found drunken and unconscious in an alley? The first step is admitting I have a problem...
Of course, none of this shows on his face as he quaffs a third of his drink, like the rest.
Water. Pure water. Very pure, Edan suspects.
The other two toasts go as smoothly, and the Castellan climbs to the top of the gateway to the castle. The portcullis is closed.
"Honored Competitors! The first of you back to these gates with a token from the far side of the tree shall be adjudged the winner of the Race To Madness." The crowd, which is louder than Edan would expect for the size of it, cheers. "Open the Gates!" shouts the Castellan.
The gates turn ponderously. Just before they reach knee height, the runner starts running for them. He dives into a roll and out and the crowd erupts again.
Edan may be the only one who notices that he seems to be changing forms as he goes, heading apparently for the southern route.
Edan nods; he expected at least one of the others to be able to do that. He holds Aramsham back, stamping and champing at the bit, until the gate is high enough to let them exit. To run alone, it is a two edged sword; faster in many ways, but Edan himself believes that the team of man and horse is stronger under duress and distance...
"Hold... hold... hold..." he says as he pats the stallion's neck, feeling the tremble beneath his fingers. I wanted a slow canter, he thinks, but it may be better to give him his head...
And when the gate is high enough, he gives the lightest of kicks to Aramsham's flanks, and the stallion is off like a shot.
Edan and Aramsham are neither first nor last, but they are perfectly timed to ride under the portcullis without slowing. They exit to bright sunlight and shadows which suggest that a second sun has risen, redder than the first. The two suns cast fascinating pairs of shadows on the baked ground. Of the dozen competitors, Five seem to be heading north, the same to the south, and only Edan and Orlon head towards the mountains directly.
Of course, there's plenty of time to double back.
Orlon seems immensely pleased with his choice and his competition. His horse is good, but not the fastest even amongst the competitors. Edan believes it looks like it might be useful in tight places.
After Edan has set a sustainable pace, he sees a river cutting through the plains. It doesn't seem to be greening the land, though. He will have to get closer to see if it can be forded, jumped, or avoided.
[OOC: Taking the old man's advice to heart, they will avoid the Camino Real and aim for the Troll Bridge. Four thousand plus years of no one getting through the King's Highway is good enough empirical data for Edan. If the other pass can be reached by going north through the Grackleflints and then over through the Troll pass, that will be plan 'A'. If that's not possible, then they're taking the southern route. Also, as soon as Aramsham has run off a little of his extra energy, Edan will pull him back to a more acceptable speed.]
[So, here's what I have in my head: The castle is at home plate. The prize is at second base. The mountains are in a line from first to third, over the pitcher's mound, with two known passes somewhere in the infield. The swamps are at first base and the grackleflint's savannah is at third base. Oh, and home plate is "west" and the prize is "east" on a compass. Does that clear it up? Southern and Northern routes are for those avoiding the mountains and the passes. Shortest is "due east" straight to the mountains.]
[Ah, yes, very helpful. Thanks!]
The river definitely needs examining. Edan is behind all the others here, in that they likely know most of the hazards that might be faced, and he has to learn them as he goes. Once they mark where the Prince is going, they'll arrow off that way.
If the river does look like it's going to become an obstacle very soon, now is also the time to see if Pattern will mitigate the problem. He fully expects to have to rely on sorcery more and more as they all approach the Tree and go beyond...
The river is not made of water. It steams, though. It's probably narrow enough to jump here, and widens to the south. It looks like it flows from the mountains to the swamps. It may be feeding them.
It's not clear what it's made of, but it's shiny. Aramsham doesn't like it.
Orlon is heading for a point where it has bowed out a bit from the castle.
[Well, if it's the Lethe, that solves the problem of Edan remembering to kill someone if he loses...]
This is where Edan relies on his knowledge of Aramsham and his own skills as a rider. Aramsham can jump, and jump well, but also dislikes this river. Edan will go for a jump here, unless he's getting signals that Aramsham is going to balk. If it feels too unsafe, they'll race along the river, tweaking probability until there's a better spot.
Probability is difficult to manipulate here, as if it is slick. Edan approaches and Aramsham balks. A creature of sorts rears its head from the bank. It steams like the river, and on closer examination it seems as if the river is composed of nothing but creatures like this. Most do nothing but move mindlessly forward, but this one has fixated on Aramsham and Edan. It hisses and Edan thinks it sounds less impressive than it looks.
If this land were inhabited by Djinn, this would be some Marid servitor, made of liquid metal.
It spits and Aramsham prances aside. The ground steams where it landed.
"Thanks for the distraction, Prince Edan! They're not dangerous!" Orlon rides to the nearest point, clearly planning to leap his horse across.
"Let us hope not!" Edan yells back.
Apparently, it is already too late to rely on the wiles of Pattern. Very well, Edan thinks. If skill alone will not suffice here, and probability cannot easily be bent, then it is time for it to be broken...
Some sorcerors love time. Some love space. Edan, of course, favors the magics of fire, but gravity comes a close second. If the creatures are all moving one direction, then an interruption at a point would mean the 'downstream' would keep moving along and away from him. His hands move into positions and gestures, and he aims a spell towards peeling the 'upstream' creatures up and away in a silvery fountain (and if Orlon happens to be upstream of them, in the prince's direction). This will include the one assailing them. If he can create enough space, he will kick Aramsham into a leap across the 'dry' riverbed.
Sorcery works well here, much better than Edan expected it to. The very air must be filled with the power of it, or so it feels.
The creatrures peel up and away, and Edan sees no evidence of them landing near the Prince or at all. Aramsham leaps the riverbed with ease.
Orlon gives him a theatrically large round of applause, and spurs his horse to the east.
Edan smiles in spite of himself. I like this Prince. He reminds me of Father, he thinks.
He takes a second to get his bearings against the location spell, then kicks Aramsham into a gallop in the direction of the troll bridge. That is one difference; unlike Orlon's choice, Edan opts not to wear spurs for Aramsham...
Aramsham is happy enough to race and beat Orlon's Snowflake Appaloosa, and it's clear that unless Edan holds him back, the great horse will outstrip his rival quickly.
Before they get to the bridge and the mountains, there are foothills. Orlon seems to be angling away from the most direct path to the bridge.
Even if it my result in a little lost time (even though Aramsham is faster here, he likely won't be in the mountains), Edan will hold his horse to a slower, steady pace; it won't do to rush headlong into the next obstacle. They'll hang back and see what the prince is up to...
Orlon stops at the mouth of a cave in the foothills and dismounts. He pulls a blade from a scabbard at his saddle. "Will you join me, Prince Edan? This way is dangerous, but will make the way easier, later!" He enters the cave.
Edan stares at the cave, then Orlon's unattended horse. After a slight pause, he sighs.
"Baquiyy huna, Aramsham," he says. "Stay here." He dismounts near the mouth of the cave, draws both his swords, and approaches the cave mouth in an oblique movement that might be called "slicing the pie" in another shadow. He does not call out, but intends to mark the prince's position relative to the rest of the cave.
The cave is shallow. It is no more than 30 feet in diameter, although there could be passages downwards in the shadows at the back. Seated by a small smoke-filled brazier is a creature that seems to be made of rock. Orlon bows to it and speaks in a foreign tongue. "Come, Prince Edan. This troll is a fortune teller. She can tell us how each of us can cross the troll bridge. Unless she tells you that you may only do so by bringing them my head, I suspect that this is where we part company."
Edan feels muscles relax he didn't know had tensed, and his expression as he sheathes his off-hand blade is a mix of relief and faint disgust. "You should have told me," he says. "I was prepared to wade in and leave a bloody path through a horde of enemies."
"Don't be impatient, Prince Edan."
A smile, a flash of white teeth in a cinnamon-colored face. "Do not mistake me, your Highness. Talking is always better. But now I may have to change my breeches."
He bows to the troll, the same as Orlon, and says, "Peace be unto you... ah... do you understand my words, Lady-of-the-Sight?"
"I do, unhuman one. Why are you here?"
If Edan harbors thoughts of pots and kettles and name-calling, he does not voice them. "For now, I seek to cross the bridge of trolls... to return, after I pass the Tree... and if I survive all this, to go back into the madness, afterward."
The woman looks into a bowl containing three live frog-like creatures. She croaks at them and they croak back. "Beyond the Tree, different rules apply, but there are still rules. There are some with an affinity for it, who thrive there. There are some who live on the edges. There is another range and another keep on the far side. Seek answers there."
She looks up, and Edan can see that one of her eyes was lost in some ancient fight. "To get past my sons, unmolested, you shall need a token from me. Why should I give you one?"
Acutely aware that Prince Orlon is there next to him, listening, Edan says, "I am a son of Amber, a grandson of Clarissa, and a grandson of the afriti. I will not stand here in my hubris and fling titles at you and claim that I am worthy... I will merely say, without pride, that I could offer unique gifts in return. I will live a very long time, Seeress, if I am wise and careful. My memory will live quite as long."
He glances back at Orlon, then to the troll. "Indeed, I did not have to come this way. I did not have to enter this race at all. I could go onward and never have to return. But this is not how I wish things to be. I want to be able to come back someday, to see you or your children or your children's children, to be remembered as an ally. To help them or be helped by them, as needed. I want us all to benefit now," he says, directing his words to both, "not only so that my path will be eased on my way past the Tree, but so that I will have allies in the future."
She nods, silently, for longer than you expect. "Your alliance would be quite a thing, but we are poor and cannot hold so great a favor when we can spend it to save ourselves now. I would trade you, son of Kings, Queens, and Gods, a favor for a favor. My sons fight well, but we are bad at parley. Would you speak for us and our rights to the Counts of the two realms? It can wait until after your race, if needs be. They will not attack us immediately, but we live in constant danger." Orlon looks impassively at her.
Edan nods, almost in reflex. I saw this, he thinks. The comment Orlon made about his head. Bared steel for a single troll. It must have been an effort to come here, even if it helped his race. He smiles, suddenly. But happy that I was coming the same way. This Prince is cunning.
"It will be as you say," Edan says. "Give me guestright for a short time, after the race. Allow me to experience your needs and your wants. I will speak for you."
He glances back to the prince. One. Then to the troll. Two. A glance in the direction of the Tree. And three? I have much work to do.
"To be honest," he says. "I am amazed that you both have not reached common cause long before now. Mother-of-trolls, your sons are an advantage. A resource. I would have thought both sides would have courted your people against the other." He looks back to Orlon. "Such a thing is possible. No matter the past."
"We... buffer. But we always suffer when the madness waxes. For we are poor creatures of the unwanted middle, between order and chaos."
Orlon waits, silently. The troll stands, and she pulls a feather from a string at her waist. She smooths it and approaches Edan, as if to tie it to him. "You shall need to know something few this side know. There is another bridge, another troll, and another Count past the tree. Another race, as well, my sister tells me. That count has no son, but he has a daughter."
Edan lets her approach, but his eyes are wide. "Another... and a daughter? By the One Pr... do these races happen at the same time?" Then a frown. "Would your bretheren accept this token, as well?"
"You should not meet them, not unless you continue as far past the tree as we are from it now. But things are different there. There are rules, but they are not the same. I would beat my sister's children to death with their own limbs if they did not honor my agent. They know this." She doesn't seem to consider the contemplated violence extraordinary, although Orlon blanches slightly.
Orlon looks at her. "I offer to present your ally to the Count and support his petition, is this acceptable?"
She looks at him, turns her head almost 180 degrees from shoulder to shoulder, and then nods. "It is."
Edan smiles at this. "Things work out," he says. He turns to the prince. "Do you still think that our paths will diverge here? I think we are ready to continue."
"I hope so. Stave and I cannot beat Aramsham in a flat-out race, so we will have to be resourceful. Still, there is the far side itself to split us if we cross the bridge together, so I have hope even if I cannot shake you." He gestures towards the cave entrance and the light outside. "After you, Prince Edan."
"Thank you, Prince Orlon." Edan bows to him, then to the troll, before going back outside. If all is well, he mounts up and sets off at a canter towards the troll bridge.
Although Stave could beat Aramsham's current canter over a brief distance, Prince Orlon holds his horse back, knowing he cannot beat the stallion and not wasting his horse's energies. Soon the foothills are left behind in a final sloping valley and Edan sees the bridge ahead of him. Given the difficult terrain, the bridge is the only likely way to cross this mountain chain that does not involve extreme altitude and snow.
On the bridge Edan can see two or three trolls. They seem very large.
[How close an eye do you keep on Prince Orlon?]
Edan keeps apace with the Prince of the Keep; not unusually wary, but not ignoring him, either. He stays close enough to be heard with a loud call.
Once they come to the bridge, if nothing happens beforehand, Edan draws Aramsham to a stop and lets him rear. He will make sure, as his horse stands up and trumpets, that his token is visible from the bridge.
There are three trolls on the bridge. They're ignoring the two horsemen because they're fighting with each other. Two of them seem to be gaining the upper hand on the third, but it looks like another troll is climbing up the side of the bridge. The chasm below is deep enough that the bottom is covered by clouds.
[OOC: What kind of bridge is it? Assuming that it's wood or stone with supports that drop down below the clouds (and which the tardy troll is now climbing), and assuming the fighting trolls leave no room to pass, is there some kind of support on each side, or just a sheer drop?]
[Stone arches and long pillars into the clouds, with a sheer drop into them on either side. Beautiful and terrifying, if you don't like high, dangerous places.]
Edan waits until Orlon moves close. "I do not wish to break the bridge," he says. "Nor do I wish to start an avalanche with a Great Shout. But light and a little heat..."
He reaches into a pocket and produces a small handful of acorns. Holding them in his left palm, he passes his right hand over them and chants a rune. The acorns rise, one by one, and flare into fire as they fly into an orbit around Edan's body.
Once he has them all leaving fiery trails around himself, Edan extends both arms, palm upward. Three of the acorns maintain their fiery ellipses, but the rest streak forward to explode in a series of colorful fireworks above the heads of the trolls, all the way down the bridge.
"Hold!" he yells, as the last shower of fat purple sparks disappears into the clouds below.
The trolls turn, huge and dull-looking, towards Edan. Their eyes are small and set deeply in their faces and the troll who was fighting alone helps the fourth troll onto the bridge. They all look at Edan and Aramsham, waiting.
Edan dismounts and begins to lead Aramsham onto the bridge. Now that he has their attention, he turns so that they can see his token as he advances. "Dominance, that is the way of it," he says in an aside. "That is how the Mother acted. That is what they will respect." He turns back to the trolls, hands apart.
"So we're counting on filial piety? If we have to fight, slash, don't stab. They're quite rock-like. Better yet, if we have to fight, run."
Edan smiles.
"Your mother, the seeress, gave me leave to cross," he calls out. "She said something about tearing off your limbs and beating you to death with them." A little further out. "Fight yourselves all you want, but make a path! Else I may not wait for her to settle things."
The troll looks at Edan, and at the token. Finally it nods. "You. Horses have no tokens."
The smile turns brittle. It only takes Edan a moment to decide that racing without Aramsham would be an unmitigated disaster, that the Mother troll probably didn't intend to betray his plans this way, and that he's not going to kill Orlon to get an additional token. Instead, he shakes his head.
"How about this as an alternative. You forget that we are riding horses, and I do not break the bridge and ruin everything for your people forever and ever. Honestly, I have no desire to test and see if you are able to fly."
"Hmm. Traders, you. How about you give us horses as gift?" He smiles at both princes.
The newest one, who has just climbed onto the bridge, says "How about we allow you to take horses across if you can throw our cousins off the bridge?" After a pause, he adds. "We'll help."
The first two trolls are puffing up. Apparently, they don't like that plan.
"That may be our best deal," Orlon says quietly.
Edan smiles again. "It was my next thought, though not my best one." He yells across, "I accept!" to the newest troll, and advances.
[Is Edan mounted?]
[Nope! We're playing hobilar today. No sense letting Aramsham be troll play-dough if Edan can do it himself.]
Orlon draws a weapon. It is a flat-headed hammer. He swings it once experimentally.
The trolls roar, shaking even this massive bridge. They immediately engage each other, and they seem evenly matched. They are ignoring you and pounding on each other with force sufficient to break bones. Edan gets the feeling that if he had not come this way, this is still how the trolls would have spent their time.
[How do you attack, my Prince?]
Assuming the trolls have height and strength and toughness on their side...
[The first is assured. They are taller. Also, wider.]
...and Edan has quickness and sorcery and maybe intelligence (and two bruisers and a prince) on his, he takes advantage of this.
No head-on combat; the first move will be a feint edge-ward, with a roll past the first troll and a slash at what passes for its Achilles tendon on the edgeward side.
The first troll goes down, and Edan is past him.
He will duck under the attack of the other troll, if it's not busy, grab one of his acorns out of its orbit, and slap it against the creature's skin with a Word. That one should take at least a few seconds to grow white-hot and explode, giving Edan time to turn back to the first and dazzle it with fireworks from his last two acorns.
All the trolls are dazzled by the white-hot explosion, and the second troll seems to be damaged and bleeding green goo.
Orlon is hitting the downed one in the injured leg, preventing it from getting back up.
After that, it will be lots of parrying and movement and openings...
The fight continues but the two trolls seem confused and somewhat hapless. Orlon's forehead is bleeding, but it's not clear why.
"Now what?" shouts the son of the Duke.
"Watch my back!" Edan shouts back. Since the downed one is, hopefully, still down, the injured one standing becomes the best target for losing his balance. Edan ducks or parries a swing (if there is one), puts his shoulder down, thrusts with his legs, and tries to shove the second troll backwards and over the edge.
Edan shoves hard, just above the knees, and is rewarded by the sight of the troll starting over the edge. However, his feet seem attached to the bridge and he merely dangles over the edge. His feet seem to have grown roots. The two trolls on your side seem to be grinning, as if this is all good fun to them.
Edan gives the troll a mildly exasperated look. It occurs to him that all the legends of trolls and their toughness might not be based on lies and falsehood.
They use the stone, he thinks. Fool! Of course they do. They are strong when they are on the stone. How can I use this against them?
A look back shows Orlon in worse shape. His mace has shattered, probably against the troll or the bridge, and the troll has lumbered to it's feet. Orlon has gone back to his horse to get a replacement weapon. Just as he does so, the troll reaches back and grabs the horse by the neck. It whinnies in terror.
Edan turns and sprints towards Orlon and his horse. "He's yours!" he yells back to the two troll allies as he runs.
Hopefully they will do something useful behind Edan's back.
The thought comes, dimly, that he's about to ruin a perfectly good sword, probably the second best sword he's ever owned. But if Orlon was right and swords have limited usefulness... Edan's arm twists like a snake, and his off-hand sword glows and elongates and stretches... it transforms into a whip of fire and magic and molten metal, which he snaps towards the wrist of the arm holding the horse. His own hand trembles with the proximity of the force and heat he's created, but he doesn't test the whip's strength yet; he's confident to let the pain of the fire do the work for him.
Edan lays the whip across the wrist and the troll roars, yanking his arm away from Orlon's mount. The horse falls to the ground. Still roaring, the troll twists his wrist and grabs the whip, and pulls.
There is little tension; the whip elongates as the troll pulls, as if it were thread coming off of a spool. Edan twists his own wrist as he advances, creating loops in the whip, as if he were doing some kind of ribbon dance. He settles the loops around the troll, body and arms and legs, even as he dances past. The whip continues to lengthen, the loops thickening, and if anything it looks to be emitting more light and searing heat than before.
Edan's smile is almost sad. "It was not just a whip, you see," he says, "but a whip of magic." He hurls his end of the weapon off the side of the bridge before it becomes too heavy for him to do so, knowing that it will be a suitable anchor for the troll soon enough.
[and did I mention that I love it when a plan comes together?]
[We are firm believers in having PCs show their awesomeness... :) ]
The whip wraps around the troll, who soon becomes too entangled to do more than struggle. The whip of magic doesn't burn flesh, but Edan can see where the troll becomes red-hot in the embrace of his spell. The weight of the anchor pulls the troll across the ground.
It hangs for a moment on the edge of the bridge, the thin lip tightly grasped in the troll's thick fingers. The moment does not last, and the troll is falling. Edan notices that the fingers are lying by the lip, apparently pulled free by the weight.
The other two trolls are standing over the one Edan knocked over. "He won't let go, so we hit him. Still won't let go." The troll on the ground is not moving and its feet are still attached to the bridge.
Orlon is looking at his horse, lying on the ground with blood on its face. He sighs, and draws a knife.
Edan knows the significance of this, and bows. "I am sorry, Prince Orlon. I had hoped to catch the troll sooner."
The knife does its work. "I am as well, but we did what we could. I shall have to find another way to stay in the race. There's still the second troll if either of us is to cross. And I am open to your suggestions on how I can compete."
Edan shakes his head. "I do not know. But, perhaps, our remaining friend might give us a clue." He leads Orlon to the other group, their two allies standing over the third, and looks to see if the prone troll is still conscious.
The troll is. It seems to have grown more roots. It grins at Edan. "Got my brother, won't get me!"
"Indeed," Edan says, squatting down to look more closely at the rock around the trolls's feet. "You fight valiantly. And your bodies, they are incredibly tough and resistant to sorcery. I had thought, since your brother had killed the horse of my companion here, that I would have to change you into a horse... let him ride you for the rest of the race. But looking back, I do not think that would work."
He feels the rock with his fingers, winces at the mild pain his burning whip had caused, and stretches out his hand. "Well. Traders, us. We do not actually have to throw you off the bridge. You will get up and leave the bridge yourself. You will give us another horse, if you have one- after all, you have to keep something around to eat. Once you leave the bridge, we can continue. You will do all this willingly."
The troll on the ground looks at Edan for a second and at the token he wears. "Hmm. What is the trade? What do I get and what do you threaten if I do not? Throw my cousins off the bridge?"
"Would it not be an advantage unto itself?" Edan asks. "Everyone wins. Eventually we could throw you off the bridge- the roots of your feet tell the tale of the rock you bind to yourself, for one. Walking off guarantees a faster return that being thrown off- if you survived it. My friend gets a horse, and our allies get a welcome respite." He smiles. "Must I threaten? Very well. Your body is tough... but your mind is vulnerable. Refuse, and you will spend the next few centuries under the impression that you are a breeding female of your species."
He scowls. "Yes, must threaten Zelthrith. The formula must be complete." He scowls, and says something in another language which causes the first two to laugh.
The one who hasn't spoken yet finally speaks up. "His Thari is passable, as long as you don't need pronouns. Or any tense other than the present. Do you speak Troll?"
Edan shakes his head. "I'll be learning," he says.
Prince Orlon smiles at the Troll. "Zelthrith, if you carry me around The Tree and back to the Castle, I will give you the horsemeat I have here, and more food at the Castle. Is it a deal? We need to beat the Prince on the stallion. It's the best deal you'll be offered this day."
The troll's jaw slides around under his face as his thinks on this. "Deal," he says. His feet come quickly off the stone and he jumps to his feet. Prince Orlon gets scooped up and the troll starts running for the far side of the bridge.
"Clever," says the first troll. "You may cross once he is off the far edge."
That won't be very long. The troll is fast.
Edan grumbles, but he smiles as he turns away. The race is returned, and the outcome of this encounter is better than he himself expected.
Since he has a few moments, Edan checks on Aramsham before he mounts, and takes a reading of his direction and distance. When Orlon reaches the edge, Edan kicks at his stallion's flank and lets Aramsham show what a gallop is truly like.
"Fare thee well!" he calls at the other trolls as he passes.
"And you, Prince of Order!" the Troll calls at Edan's back.
Last modified: 23 April 2007