Galaphile

Galaphile

One

The tall man walked out of the dust and grime of the windblown flatlands toward the village that sat huddled by the only river within twenty miles. He was cloaked and hooded against the weather, although the day itself was hot and desolate—as if whatever life was out there in the near desert had long since burned away. The clouds and dust devils whipped past him, blowing in an easterly direction toward the Highlands of Leah. Dry today, dry tomorrow. The weather had been that way for better than two full moons, and the likelihood of any sort of change was low.

The boy who stood on the roadside in front of the general store watched the man approach with no small amount of wonder. The stranger carried himself with purpose and radiated a certainty that suggested he was here intentionally. But what in the name of sanity would bring anyone to this shades-forsaken piece of discarded civilization? Friends and relatives? No, not a man such as this. Something else drew him. Something dark.

The boy glanced down the roadway behind him toward the few buildings that lined the street and formed almost the whole of the village of Parrish Rahn: the general store, leatherworks, iron forge, weapons and tools works, and medical clinic. That was all there was, save for Jark’s Stables, which sat on the right at the far end, stuck in and behind the forge. A few small cottages nestled together at the town’s edge, and farther on, farms and ranches held distant, dust-scoured dwellings and barns. Not a place anyone would bother to seek out without a good reason.

So what was it that had drawn this stranger?

He was tall but bent, too, in the way of one whose life had dealt him more than a few disappointments and hardships. Yet he moved with ease and calm.

The boy straightened as the man continued to approach. A tray of household goods and yard tools hung from a strap about his neck—an invitation to buy something from inside the shop. This was his current means of employment, but he didn’t think the man who approached was a buyer. Usually, he could tell, but not always. In any case, a sale was a sale.

The man stepped right up to him. “Morning, son.”

The boy bristled. With his parents seven years dead, no one had the right to call him son anymore. Still, he smiled and nodded and said, “In need of any tools? Got all kinds inside the shop. Maybe something you could use?”

The man pulled back his cowl to reveal a bearded face roughened by age, weather, and life. A huge scar ran down his left cheek from forehead to jaw, and his long black hair had turned white where the injury extended across his scalp. It was a look that would have intimidated many, but not this boy. He had seen worse in the short course of his life. No, it was not the injury or the worn look that troubled him. It was the man’s eyes. One eye looked left; the other looked right. The boy didn’t understand how the man could even see.

The man saw his regard and gave him a quick smile. “The left one’s fake. Lost it in the fight that won me this.” He pointed at the scar across his brow. “Only the other one works as it should.” A pause. “You got any writing quills inside your store? And ink?”

The boy stared. “You can write?”

Right away, he wished he had kept his mouth shut. But out here, almost no one could write besides him. They hadn’t learned, didn’t care, and had no need to communicate with anyone at a distance.

“I mean,” he added, “not that many can around here.”

The tall man laughed. “I can read, too. How about you?”

The boy straightened. “Read and write. Mama taught me before she died. After that, I just kept practicing on my own. If I don’t understand something, I ask about it. But no one else reads or writes much.”

“No, I don’t suppose they do. Don’t need to do either this far out from everything.” He paused. “But you do, and that says something.”

The boy shrugged. “There’s just me and some of the couriers that come through that can write.”

“You seem a bright lad,” the man offered. “You said your mother’s gone. My sympathies. You live with your father, then?”

“He died same time as my ma. Sage fever—the one that spots you, then chokes you.”

“Hmmm. No parents, yet you seem comfortable enough. With a job and all. Do you know your way around here?”

“Of course. Not much to it, after all. What can I show you? Give me a coin and I’ll be your guide, if you want one.”

The scarred man reached into his pocket and pulled something out, then held it in the palm of his hand for the boy to examine. It was a gold piece, and the boy felt his mouth go dry. That coin was worth a lot. More than he would see in two weeks of work at the store.

“I’m looking for someone,” the man said. “Maybe you can help me find him in exchange for this coin. He’s called Ratcher.”

The boy nodded slowly. “I know him well enough to keep my distance.”

“Oh, so he’s a dangerous man, is he?”

“Dangerous enough. He’s killed two other men since he arrived last year. Barehanded. Saw him kill the one myself. Down by the stables. Fellow picked a fight with Ratcher, called him some bad names, flashed a knife at him. Didn’t matter. He never had a chance. Ratcher was twice his size and much quicker.” He eyed the gold coin and saw it vanishing if he continued. Still, there were things more important than coin. Honesty, for one. His mother had taught him that. He shrugged. “I’ll take you to him if you insist, but you should think twice about it.”

“Thought it through before now, and that’s enough thinking for me. Take me to him and the coin is yours. What happens after that is my problem. Fair enough?”

The boy shrugged. “Wait here. I got to ask for time off before I can leave.”

He ducked into the supply goods store and found old Wrent behind the counter as usual. He asked permission and was summarily excused with a warning about loss of pay if he was gone for more than ten minutes. He set his tray aside and was out the door in a flash.

“Ready when you are,” he said.

The stranger nodded. “Well and good. Show me the way.”

They walked deeper into Parrish Rahn, following the sole street, which was mostly empty at this time of day. The boy was used to it, comfortable with the village’s desolation. The stranger was harder to read. He looked around as they walked, scanning everything. Comfortable but clearly of a cautious bent. The boy wondered again what it was that had brought him to this place in search of Ratcher.

“You’re Elven,” the man observed, glancing over. “Full-blooded, I suspect. Yet you live here in the Southland?”

The boy nodded. “I lived in the farmlands east of the Rhenn until my parents died, then I caught a ride with a train hauling Westland grains and ended up here. I didn’t want to stay in the Westland anymore. I had no relatives, and I didn’t mean much to anyone.” A shrug. “I needed to be somewhere else, so I went east. I ran out of means when I got here, so I decided to stay.”

Though, in truth, it was less a decision than a lack of choice. He had no desire to end up in a home for unwanted children, but he was not saying that. He was also not admitting that it was too sad to stay where his parents had died. That was the other part.

“I noticed the ears and the slant of your eyes. Those narrow features. Elf blood is hard to hide—not that you should try. It’s a heritage to be proud of. I’ve had more than a few Elven friends. I was in the Westland about a year back, though mostly I spend my time in the Midlands.”

The boy nodded. “Travel a lot, then?”

“All the time. Guess you don’t get to?”

“Naw, I just stay here. Got to make enough to live on. No one helps an orphan these days. Not out here. It’s been hard times for all. The clans and the families all protect their own when they’re not picking fights with one another.” He shrugged again. “I tried the city life once. Lived up in Kern for several months a few years ago, but it was too rough. Too many bad people. So I came back. I like it better here.”

The stranger nodded. “I noticed your hands. Strong, supple. You’ve got some skills?”

“Some. I’m a good tracker. I can hunt down anything; I work on it in my spare time. One day, I’ll make my own way in the world. Maybe go back to the Westland and live with the Elves again, if they’ll have me.”

“Hmmm. Yes, you might be wise to do so, if you really are as able as you seem.”

The heat was intense, but the tall man didn’t seem to notice, his attention focused on his surroundings. The boy found himself looking over at his companion repeatedly, trying to unravel his mysteries. He thought of warning him about Ratcher again, but the other’s determination suggested it wasn’t a good idea. Best to just let things be and see what came of it. Hopefully nothing bad, but there was only so much you could do in this world to protect others.