Elemenchya - Book One

“Vimagen’s will! What do you feed that thing?” Brista clasped her nose tightly and grimaced, waving her other hand in front of her face attempting to waft away the offending smell emanating from the massive beast of burden pulling the wagon she was seated upon. The beast groaned in discomfort, flinging its tail from flank to flank.

Laughter escaped through the canvas that covered the framed wagon behind Brista. Shortly after different muffled giggles joined in. A strong, mid-tone voice responded in a harsh, bouncy accent, “Don feed Ol’ Eastforth what don’ find on’the ground.”

“Mayhaps Bita-Brista is the one das stink, Dester!” came a young, slightly masculine voice in the same choppy accent through the draped fabric. Again, laughter erupted behind the canvas. The wagon shifted back and forth chaotically despite the even ground. Short, desperate sounds one makes when fighting for air rasped out joyously, forcing Brista to smile behind her protective hand. The giggling grew louder until it infected her until she could no longer keep silent and joined in the moment. Once she started, she couldn’t stop and soon was laughing with the whole of her toned, exposed belly. She grabbed her sides attempting to stop and failed. Her laugh rang out victorious and uninhibited, in choppy, nasal bursts that forced her whole body into spasms.

The wagon ceased its swaying long enough for the first voice to jokingly call out, “Oh no! Mikker! Don’be Eastforth’s death ra’ddle!”

Mikker’s boyish face emerged from the split in the canvas. He had full round cheeks that fought against his chin which had only started to square into manhood. Short, choppy hair that wasn’t red and wasn’t brown but some combination and shifted between the two colors depending on Arovdora’s light. Along with his hair color, his eyes changed from the color of moss-covered bark like the trees he had grown up around to a deep brown the same tree bark changed into after a rainfall. His eyes shimmered the same way the wet bark would when the rain clouds fled from the sky. His brow had not yet begun to harden into a mature shape, giving his gaze a boyish playfulness that betrayed him when he scowled. The thin neck piercing the canvas hinted at a wiry frame still hidden from sight. “Bah! Don’be Bita-Brista moanin’ n’ groanin’ out here,” he accused before he recoiled, and his face scrunched up in disgust from the rancid air that assaulted his face. The boy flew back into the wagon with a thud and a wail of disapproval. “Eastforth be dyin’!” he hollered.

“You thought I was lying?” Brista asked, turning around so quickly to face the canvas curtain that her two braids that hung down the left side of her face swung wildly. On occasion she would weave bright colors into her braid to contrast the fading pink color she had stained her bright blonde hair, but currently they were plain and dropped to just below her ribs. Her remaining hair was cut short for ease on a traveling lifestyle and harder to grasp in a fight. She left the hair in front to the length of her well-defined cheekbones. Pink wisps of hair playfully brushed over her thick, dark brown eyebrows. Her nose was small and round above a thin upper lip. Her lower lip was full and balanced out her strong chin and jawline. Brista mocked dismay but was disappointed to find no one looking through the canvas at her theatrics.

“You do tend to exaggerate given the chance,” said a smooth, aristocratic voice that only hinted at masculinity. Seated next to Brista on the wagon was a slender man sitting straight as a rail. Shaggy, dusty blonde hair softly curled around his face in lazy waves. Cheekbones and a broad chin hinted that if Artim chose to be a fighter like Brista, his body would easily fill out with muscle. Instead, he chose to write and read and sit for hours and his body remained slight. Artim instinctively braced himself for the “playful” punch that was sure to come from Brista. Her strength always made her rough housing feel more aggressive than it was meant, and he knew this about her. When the punch landed, he stifled his vocal response and absorbed the blow.

Eastforth was the massive beast known as a radwen that pulled the wagon, similar to the dwen of the eastern plains. Both creatures are four hooved mammals, but where a dwen has two or three horns protruding from their head, a radwen has a singular flat horn to protect its massive head that it uses for bashing and bumping when mating times occur. Eastforth’s horn extended in a graceful swoop over its towering shoulders, bulky and muscular, made to absorb the punishment of repeated hits. Radwens shoulders also made it good for pulling large, heavy things with little effort. Both creatures have a downward sloping back crested by course hair along the spine. The radwen, however, had a full mane growing from beneath its horn and tapering off around the neck and chest. The tail was like most bovine tails, slender and capped with a tuft of course hair that aided in swatting away annoying bugs from the beast’s hind, or in this case, fanning offending odors. Eastforth groaned through his huge, muscular lips used for grazing, and swatted his tail before relieving himself, pulling the wagon over top his waste.

Brista hollered her disgust, reflexively gagging as the waste passed below her seat on the wagon. “To The Void with you beast! I can’t take it anymore! I’m walking,” she cursed. Brista twisted her body effortlessly sideways over the end of the bench, half rolling off the elevated seat. Her feet landed on the ground simultaneously, facing backwards to the direction they were traveling. Once she caught her balance, Brista spun around to face forward and matched the pace of the wagon to walk alongside it. She favored one leg with each step, distancing herself from the offending beast’s hindquarters.

Artim nodded a small sign of approval for Brista’s acrobatic display. “Maybe we should find a place to camp for the night. Let Eastforth rest for the night and give his stomach time to settle,” he reasoned in a measured, soothing tone. Eastforth responded by grunting softly and relieving himself again. Brista coughed and dramatically stomped further away from the wagon’s side.

The first voice called an agreement from inside the wagon. “I’ba need a break, same.”

“Das close’tah the next town?” asked the boy, poking his head through the split and resting his elbows on the bench where Brista used to be.

“Grab me the map please, Mikker,” Artim instructed. The boy disappeared into the wagon and rustled around until he found the familiar roll of paper wrapped closed with a green ribbon. He re-emerged and handed the roll to Artim, placing his crossed arms on the bench and resting his head on them, turned sideways to watch. Artim gave a gentle tug to the reins that had been resting on his lap. The light pressure across Eastforth’s face was a request for him to slow to a stop. Eastforth patiently waited, shifting side to side.

Artim placed the reins on a wooden knob in front of him and unrolled the paper now that his lap was free. Its contents revealed a hand drawn map with scribbled notes, labels, and symbols detailing places the group had traveled by and lightly sketched places they had yet to go. Artim traced his finger gingerly across the map with the tenderness and care of a lover. He started by pointing to the coastal town of Xolvannler at the Nape Gulf where the river Zyyt emptied. The grand river separated the eastern and western plains along the spine of Loova-am. From there, Artim’s fingertip caressed along the river north, retracing the path they had traveled before. At an iconic bend, the group had chosen to divert away from the river, moving slowly through the trees that hid the river along the incline up to the eastern plains. Artim recalled the steady thrum of running water fading into the persistent hum of wind that raced unobstructed across the expansive land. As the plains flattened out into the golden sea the group found themselves within, they were able to travel further than they could in days prior. Artim lifted his finger to see what was marked on the map near where he thought they were. He imagined the lengths they traveled in relation to his pointing finger. If they shifted their course slightly northward, the group might be able to reach the city of Janoiah before nightfall instead of the direct route east they were on and a couple days out of the river they would follow later.

Artim took a deep breath as he settled on his choice. He rolled up the map, securing it with the green ribbon. Mikker raised his hand lazily and waited for the scroll to be replaced into his hand. Artim obliged and then removed the reins from the knob, returning them to lay across his lap. “Let’s see if we can find Janoiah,” he said hopefully. He snapped the leather strap in his hand against Eastforth’s haunches before giving a tug to one side, turning the beast gently to the north.

It wasn’t long before fences poked out from the swaying golden plains and shortly after rooftops of houses raised above the waves. Spires and lookout towers beckoned the travelers, guiding which roads to follow to bring them closer to what should be the trade waystation of Janoiah. When the road widened into one where two carts could comfortably pass each other, it swung northeastern of the growing city until it pivoted due west in a wide, cleared road that passed under an expansive gateway once one passed the densely populated tent city outside a masterfully masoned stone wall. Arovdora was hovering just over the horizon by the time the group passed through the oddly unmanned border. Further travel up the cobbled road with wooden structures built on both sides where every resident was disinterested in the foreign cart’s arrival. It was not until the radwen-pulled cart passed under a second massive archway that someone attempted to interact with the group.

A robed man approached Eastforth, arms raised to block the creature from leaving the Main Market road. His displeasure was clearly written upon his middle-aged face. The large, billowing sleeves of his yellow robes signified his rank and authority within the city but meant little to the travelers. The radwen finally came to a halt, obscuring the much smaller man behind its massive size and rocked lightly from side to side in displeasure at the obstacle.

“Large beasts-of-burden are not permitted past Main Market! They must be stabled!” commanded the city official. “Turn around and find a stable for your…” he hesitated, analyzing the creature in front of him. “… dwen?” He gestured at the animal staring down at him. “There are places for you and yours to rest for the night and experience the city tomorrow at your leisure, but your beast must be stabled.” The man took a step back after making his announcement publicly, unable to see the vimovan driving the cart behind the massive animal. He searched around for a nearby guard to further his authority over the intruders and found none, standing alone as a barricade to the quickly emptying public space. He waited for the animal to turn around and make its way towards the stables. It did not.

From one side, a woman with hair the color of flowers in spring bounded off the wagon and progressed upon the man. Brista matched his height but was easily two-thirds larger in overall size. The official instinctively shifted uneasily backward and reduced the width of his outstretched arms as she drew near. She smirked. “This man thinks you’re a burden Eastforth!” she said, resting a hand against the radwen’s cheek. “You’re not a burden,” she whispered. She turned to face the official, “So why by The Void were we not told this back at the FIRST gate?” She gestured down the road behind her with her muscular arm. The first gate sat in the distance, only poking above the rooftops of the stores they passed.

“Please accept my apologies on behalf of the city but we are readying emergency preparations on the eve of local news, pulling our men from the front gate to help,” said the official. The woman’s demeanor changed, softening and turning her attention to approaching footsteps on the opposite side of the radwen. The official followed her gaze and found a slender man climbing down from his driving seat on the cart and sauntering over to join the conversation. Artim was similar in size to the official and walked in a measured, easy way that relaxed the man to the oncoming confrontation.

“Would you be able to give us suggestions on a place to rest for the night?” asked the approaching blonde man in a soft, melodic voice.

The official raised a lazily pointed hand, “That red and brown building there has many quiet rooms across the forum where scholars and academics tend to frequent,” he offered. He flinched, recoiling his hand when he remembered the imposing woman on the other side of the beast. He nervously turned to evaluate her as she judged him back. “Midway Down Main is a tavern off Main Market that appeals to a … sturdier crowd,” he voiced with annoyance. He turned back to Artim and considered. “The building just along the forum, here,” he gestured to the north, “past the Communications building requires higher payment, but receives the daily notifications first in the morrow.”

“Don’be the closest?” a higher, masculine voice inserted itself into the conversation as Mikker stepped out from behind Brista. He moved up next to her and mimicked her pose exactly.

“Correct,” responded the official hesitantly.

The exotic cousin of the dwen groaned as the wagon it pulled shifted back and forth noticeably. From the back of the wagon appeared a broad vimovan who walked heavily toward Artim. This vimova stood easily a full head above the slender blonde man. Though they had feminine green eyes and full rosy cheeks that ended in a strong, wide jaw, their broad shoulders that continued into thick arms and large, strong hands befuddled the onlooking city official. The vimovan wore a noncontoured chest plate, hiding any figure the vimovan may have had. Their midsection was shaped much the same, hidden by a large toolbelt full of common blacksmithing tools obstructed any hint of shape along their hips. When the vimovan noticed the official’s confusion, they smirked and covered their mouth as they spoke with Artim. “I’ba take Eastforth to the stable. Mayhaps I’ba stay with’im too,” They gently took the reins hanging slack from the bridle over the radwen’s face. With a light tug, they guided the beast to turn around, affectionately placing their hand on Eastforth’s cheek when he nestled it into their shoulder.

“Don’ see-ya on Arovdora’s rise!” called the young man as the pair receded down the road. Without glancing back, the smith raised their free hand and waved absently in farewell. The tanner, young man turned on his heels and strode theatrically in the direction of the inn near the Communications building. Brista gave a final intimidating stare at the official before following the marching boy.

Lastly, Artim turned toward the official. “Thank you for your time. One final question. You made mention there is a Communications Office?”

The official nodded his head and gestured timidly. “Wind’s Words…” his voice trembled slightly. He smiled to hide his awkwardness.

Artim returned the yellow guards’ smile while nodding his appreciation. He then turned and strode away casually in the same direction as his companions.