The Treasured One

It took him a while to locate Narasan and Gunda, since they were about halfway down the slope that led up out of the Wasteland.

‘Back so soon, Torl?’ Narasan remarked as Torl joined them. ‘Things must have gone better than we’d anticipated.’

‘I don’t think “better” is the right word, Commander,’ Torl replied. ‘We burned all those Trogite ships, of course. That only took us a day or so, but the church soldiers, the priests, and even the slavers had already left by then.’

‘Left? Are you saying that they’re marching this way?’

‘I wouldn’t exactly call it a “march”, Commander. “Run” would come a lot closer.’

‘I don’t quite get your point, Torl,’ Gunda said.

‘I think we’d better find Veltan,’ Torl suggested. ‘Something very strange happened down on the south coast, and Veltan’s the expert on “strange”, isn’t he? To put this in the simplest way, the invaders are completely disorganized, and they’re all just blindly running toward these mountains as if their lives depended on it. Somebody has been playing games down there, and they’re the kind of games that only Veltan and his family could understand.’

‘I think he might be down near the geyser,’ Narasan said. ‘Let’s go rind him.’ Narasan’s eyes were bleak, and his expression was grim.

‘I tried it myself,’ Torl told Lady Zelana and her younger brother. ‘Every time I said “gold” to any native down there on the south coast, his eyes went blank and he recited that same silly story. I listened to the whole thing the first few times, but after that, I just walked away and left the native talking to himself.’

Veltan squinted at Torl. ‘Did the story stir any odd feelings in you?’ he asked.

‘Boredom, before long. After you’ve heard the same story five times in a row, it’s not really very interesting.’

‘I’d say that we’re looking at a selective infection, baby brother,’ Lady Zelana said. ‘The story excites the Trogites, but it doesn’t have any effect on the Maags.’

‘It might even go a bit further, sister mine,’ Veltan suggested. He looked speculatively at Torl. ‘Do you think you remember the story well enough to be able to recite it for us?’ he asked.

‘Probably upside down and backwards if you really want me to,’ Torl replied.

‘Let’s hear it, then.’

‘Did you want me to blank out my eyes as well?’

‘No, that won’t be necessary. Just recite the story.’

Torl cleared his throat. ‘It was long, long ago when a man of our village grew weary of farming, and he went up into the mountains far to the north to look at a different land.’ As he continued, he noticed that Veltan was watching Commander Narasan very closely.

‘. . . And having seen what was there, the adventurous farmer returned to his home and never again went forth to look for strange new things, for he had seen what lay beyond the mountains, and his curiosity had been satisfied,’ Torl concluded.

‘Did that story effect you in any particular way?’ Veltan asked Narasan.

‘It was rather colorful, I suppose, but I don’t know that I’d want to hear more like it.’

‘That’s probably because you’re not a priest, Commander,’ Torl suggested. ‘Isn’t it one of the rules of the Trogite church that all the gold in the world belongs to them?’

‘He’s quick isn’t he, Veltan?’ Lady Zelana said. ‘It seems that this “infection” is even more selective than I’d originally thought. It seems to be aimed directly at the members of the Trogite clergy -and their hirelings.’

‘Why did it point them all at the mountains then?’ Veltan protested. ‘Why didn’t it send them running across the face of Mother Sea?’

‘Evidently, whoever came up with this clever idea had something else in mind,’ Lady Zelana replied.

The longer Veltan, Lady Zelana, and Narasan discussed the matter, the more exotic their notions became. So far as Torl could see, they were just scraping things off the wall. Quite obviously he’d chosen the wrong people here. He needed somebody with a more practical approach, and Torl knew exactly who he should be talking with, but he was quite sure that Veltan and Lady Zelana would be offended if he just turned around and walked away.

It was late afternoon before the supposed ‘experts’ had finally exhausted all possible – and several /^possible – explanations and gave up.

Torl politely thanked them and casually sauntered away as if there was nothing pressing on his mind. As soon as he was out of sight, however, he went directly to Longbow’s separate camp back in the forest beyond the geyser. It had been quite obvious during the war in Lady Zelana’s Domain that the continual chatter of the Trogites – and even the Maags – irritated Longbow, since he much preferred quiet. When Torl reached Longbow’s campfire, however the young Trogite called Keselo was there, and so was Rabbit, the smith of cousin Sorgan’s Seagull.

‘We’ve got a problem,’ Torl announced as he joined them.

‘We’d heard about that, Captain Torl,’ Keselo said. ‘I thought your cousin Sorgan had volunteered to take care of it.’

‘Sorgan’s answer didn’t quite solve the problem,’ Torl said rather ruefully. ‘We did burn every Trogite ship that was anchored along the south coast, but I don’t think the Trogs even know that their ships are gone. It seems that somebody is playing some very exotic games down there.’

‘Games?’ Rabbit asked.

‘“Tricks” might come closer. When the church Trogs first came ashore, they rounded up all the people who lived in the villages down there and herded them into pens. Then some other Trogs who were dressed in black uniforms began to threaten their prisoners with all sorts of hair-raising things if the prisoners wouldn’t tell them where all the gold in the entire Land of Dhrall was hidden.’

‘Regulators,’ Keselo said grimly. ‘They’re experts in the fine art of torture.’

‘They didn’t have to use it this time,’ Torl declared. ‘Every time a Trog – or anybody else – said the word “gold” to a native, the native sort of went into a trance and recited a fairy tale kind of story about some farmer who’d gone up into the mountains and found a place that was covered with gold instead of dirt. As soon as any Trog down there heard that story, he took off toward the north like a scared rabbit – no offense intended there,’ Torl apologized to the little smith.