Achil & The Dragon Lord Of Osgaroth Page 4

  Chapter II

  Attack of the Muli

  The next day when Achil woke, his head throbbed angrily like a boil ready to burst; he took some deep breaths, which he instantly regretted, as his mouth tasted like putrid flesh. He ate a little and began orderly packing his things together, and readied himself to leave; and mounting his horse, he carefully began to move off. As he rode along the path close to the wild wood of Findolin, he could hear a shuffling hollow movement within it, without turning to look Achil sensed a presence, a large misplaced shadow among the trees, what was worse was that it kept pace with him, it followed for some distance, as though waiting for him to enter the forest, after a while, he heard a low rasping frustrated growl, and the shadow disappeared deeper into the gloom.

  The sun rose higher, and chased away the imaginings of Wild Men and strange creatures of the forest. A cool breeze rustled the branches. Achil‘s mind relaxed, as he began to daydream, when he noticed someone ahead blocking his path. Achil shook himself out of his mild stupor. As he tried to go round the robed figure, the person moved to block his path. Covered from head to foot and walking with the help of a long staff it was difficult to make out the figure about to challenge him. Dismounting from his horse Achil decided that he would proceed on foot, his sword hung loosely from the side of his saddle; Achil glanced at it momentarily making sure it could easily be drawn.

  He called out, but there was no reply, he tried again but still the response was silence. His hand glided over to the hilt of his sword readying himself. And he wondered a moment whether the person could not speak the common tongue of Suberia, which would be unusual to say the least, as it was a language that even the least educated among the peoples of the many kingdoms of his world spoke, and spoke well. The stranger got nearer, and slowly lifted what appeared to be a heavy mud caked hood revealing to Achil’s surprise a young woman.

  “Why did you not answer me?” asked Achil, clearly relieved by the lack of threat from his adversary, he let his hand drop away from the hilt of his sword.

  “I’m on the trail of some bandits,” replied the Woman. “And I couldn’t be sure you weren’t one of them. But now I see you close up I can tell you do not have their aspect. They recently stole some personal belongings of mine.”

  She spoke with a lively tone; and was lithe looking, with long dark hair, and clear green alert eyes. The staff probably more weapon than helper.

  “So, let me get this straight,” asked Achil dubiously. “You are pursuing Bandits, which when found, you intend to fight. On your own, that would have been a short fight."

  The Young Woman took her staff in both hands and before Achil had time to react, up ended him with it.

  “Your right,” she said triumphantly. “All my fights are short.”

  "Point made," he said with a wry smile. "But surprising one man who means you no harm is very different to a group that does mean to wrong you. Here help me up.”

  He took her soft but strong hand and pulled himself up.

  “Thank you for the lesson, but where were you headed? Originally I mean,” asked Achil.

  “I’m a Smithy,” said the Woman. “And I’m heading to Osgaroth, to the City of the Dragon People, to ply my trade.”

  Achil was confused, “That’s the way I’m headed also. If you don’t mind me saying this, I mean I know how poor a woman is at navigating, but are you not going in the wrong direction?”

  She shrugged in resignation of the fact, “And men aren't very good listeners either, isn't that true. In fact as I’ve said I know these parts well, and just to remind you, I intend getting my things back, and the bandits that stole them are in that direction.”

  She grudgingly pointed in the direction Achil had just come from.

  Achil thought a moment, it would be good to have company for a short time at least and remembering his find from the previous night.

  “I tell you what;” said Achil. “I’ll make a bargain with you. I‘ll help to get back your things if, and it’s a big if, you can get enough metal to turn this into a sword.” He reached into his leather bag and pulled out the rock, he then took it from its cover and passed it to the Woman.

  Taking the rock in her hands she studied it for a moment before handing it back.

  “Only once before have I seen such a thing,” said the Woman. “It was a master craftsman that had worked on it. I watched in awe and wished one day to be able to do the same. I accept your offer,” she shook his hand so vigorously he thought it might come off.

  “I am Achil of Findolin.”

  “I am Nishga, and I do not belong to any city or country as I have lived most of my life in the wilds.”

  She tapped the ground with her staff.

  “Look,” spied Nishga. “These are the tracks I’ve been following; as you can see they’re quite fresh.”

  Achil stared down at them a moment, nodded as if in agreement with her, and the two set off together on foot, the horse seemed relieved to not be carrying two passengers. The tracks steadily veered away from the path.

  “Oh, that’s just great,” said Achil. “Why do such people hide in woods? Can they not just stick to open paths?"

  Nishga looked at Achil and patted him on the back.

  “Now where would the fun be in that,” replied Nishga. “And besides I’ve discovered on my travels that the worst type of people are not those that hide away in woods, but those people that hide away within themselves.”

  “Don’t tell me, your mother told you that?” asked Achil.

  “Oh no, I never knew my mother, it was my Uncle actually. He was the master craftsmen that taught me my trade,” replied Nishga, smiling cheerfully. “He used to say people are like raw iron, they can be cast into whatever shape you like, so be wary my dear, not to be taken for a fool, as some are cast as sturdy as iron can be, and others are made as brittle as pig iron.”

  Achil gazed at her thoughtfully for a moment, "Wise man your uncle."

  It was obvious to Achil that the young woman in front of him had more to her than a worn weathered robe and a gnarled staff. He gestured toward the trail, so as to bring them both back to the present, and the two strode purposefully into the wood. The markings were easy enough to follow as bush, bramble and tree had tale of the bandits passing, in fact thought Achil, anyone bent on any form of wrongdoing would surely have tried to conceal their movements better, as such people were usually in hiding from others of their type, or were on the run from those they had affronted.

  They travelled till the sun was across the sky, fighting all the way against the devouring brush. As they ventured further into the forest, the uncomfortable closeness of the air and the odd swallowed midge sat heavily in their throats; soon Achil came to a stop close to where he was sure the bandits were, he gestured for Nishga to remain behind, while he carried on. Carefully, quietly, he made his way past the trees and through the stubborn thicket, to see what type of bandits they faced. Creeping closer he managed to find a secluded spot that was both safe from being observed, and overlooked the enemy camp. The first thing that struck him were the ornately decorated caravans, which indicated that they were not bandits at all; they were Gypsies. Achil tried to recall what he understood of Gypsies. They were territorial; they were often traders of sorts, also known to be scavengers. There was among them usually a Shaman with mystical powers like foresight, or the ability to converse with the dead.

  Most importantly of all Gypsies were unpredictable. Some were welcoming to strangers, others were downright hostile. He would have to be watchful indeed. To the far side, Achil could see what must have been Nishga’s cart. It was less ornate than the other Caravans being filled with tools a smithy might use. He sat there contemplating what to do next, when there was a commotion in the camp. Two Gypsies were holding on to someone, the person twisted out of their grasp and fell to the ground. When the figure looked up, to Achil’s surprise, the person being manhandled was of course Nishga. Growing curiosity and impatience had
made her become reckless; she had decided to break cover, and have a look for herself at what was ahead. Regrettably she had not been quiet about it, and was consequently captured and taken into the heart of the Gypsy camp. What must have been the leader of the troop came forward to ask her questions. She started gesturing towards the cart which held the Smithy tools. Others came to listen amused by her remonstrations and began to laugh. The man who had been asking the questions waved her aside dismissively. One of the men then took Nishga by the arm and pulled her away. She struggled against him, but he, being a burly man, overcame her protestations quite easily. He hauled her to a wooden pole that had a fierce looking hound tied to it, and restrained Nishga there, the dog at first eyed her suspiciously gave a growl of displeasure before settling down.

  “Baskvillia," said the man through gritted teeth. “If she moves eat her."

  Though Achil was some way off he could still hear the exchange, and realising that there were too many for a frontal assault, or even a backward one, he thought he would enter their small camp as a passing traveller that sought shelter for the night, and request the traditional hospitality afforded to merchants on the road.

  He retreated behind the trees to get his horse, and made his way back to the Gypsy camp. As he rode in, people just coldly stared at him in a penetrating manner. The murmuring that had accompanied his approach soon died to nothing. Achil unknowingly took a firm intake of breath; he could feel his heart beating sharply in his chest as the same man that had spoken to Nishga came to confront him. A tall stout looking fellow, with long greying hair, watchful dark eyes and a disarming smile; his hand rested comfortably on his long curved scimitar blade.

  “Hail stranger, what is it we can do for you?” He spoke with a challenging, yet calm tone.

  Achil slipped of his horse and let his hand fall to the hilt of his dagger which was duly noticed by the man standing before him.

  “With your consent,” said Achil. “I’m here in the hope of resting from my travels. I can pay for food and shelter. My name is Achil; I’ve come from Findolin, and am making my way to the Dragon people of Osgaroth.”

  A young seductive looking woman approached the older man. Her long ebony hair strung in a ponytail, matched the colour of her large dark eyes, she whispered something in his ear. The man once more regarded Achil, but this time with more understanding and less distrust than before.

  “Okay, you may stay. This by the way is my daughter, Isabella: my name is Antoine, and that is Antlia and Antifagasta.”

  Antoine pointed to two burly men with matted black hair and grey eyes, one of them, Antlia, had a scar beneath his right eye winding like a tributary to his mouth. They wore typical gypsy dress, short braided waistcoats that hid open linen shirts. Their black baggy trousers were tucked into almost knee length boots. They all carried swords or daggers attached to thick leather belts and appeared more than capable of defending themselves.

  “As I say you are welcome here,” continued Antoine. “There is one thing; and though you may think this strange, I mean it seriously, my daughter has the ability to see beyond this natural world, she senses something in you, or about you, something that may have disturbed your slumber. Once you have rested, she would like to talk to you about it.”

  Achil looked sceptically at Isabella, Gypsies often made money through preying on the superstitions of others, hence why they were known as fortune tellers, they made their fortune by telling others theirs.

  “Interesting and how much is that going to cost me," replied Achil dubiously.

  “Nothing,” said Isabella, as she strode away imperceptibly shaking her head and rolling her eyes as she went.

  Achil watched her leave and glanced over to where Nishga was, he was about to walk toward her, when Antlia stepped across his path.

  “I’m sorry that woman is a thief. She stole something of ours, which we retrieved, and then we caught her trying to do it again.”

  Nishga looked over at Achil straining at her bonds. Achil imperceptibly nodded, he would have to find another way to speak to Nishga, and in the meantime she would have to wait patiently, if that were possible, for him to work things out. Achil strode over to the fire at the centre of the camp, and warmed his hands, the crackle of the flames were quite a comfort to his tired limbs. The camp was made up of different types and sizes of ornately decorated caravans, the centre had been cleared and people were seated, talking casually to one another, or were setting up stalls. To one side was a group with a woman in the centre, dancing to a man playing upon a wooden stringed instrument, shaped like a flower called a Ballooma. It echoed round the camp and even though he did not understand the words of her singing he could see the vibrant colour, and feel the freedom that they enjoyed. As Achil crouched down and stared into the fire, small embers like sparks of gold would leap out to greet him. An old woman came over to him and handed him some broth. He casually enquired as to its contents. The old woman smiled and told him that it was made up of herbs, spices, vegetables and also a little meat, and that it would revitalise his body, it contained all the things that were good for him.

  Achil took a sip, almost choked and with much effort managed to prevent himself from spitting it out; it tasted like dung not that he had ever eaten dung before but if he had done that’s what it would have tasted like. He sheepishly thanked the old woman for bringing him something to eat, he sat back on an old log, and whilst making sure no one was watching him tipped the contents of the broth away, and got as comfortable as you could get when calloused bark bit into your hide. Just as Achil’s drowsy eyes were closing Antoine’s daughter appeared at his side.

  “Hi,” said Isabella. “My father earlier told you that I had something to tell you, I hope you will not become fearful of what I am about to say.”

  “Go on,” said Achil, curious as to what it might be.

  She seemed a little sad as she spoke, “I am the Shaman of my people, I see beyond the natural world.”

  “Yes your father mentioned that, and...,” replied Achil with a mixture of disbelief and amusement.

  “There is a shadow over your heart,” said Isabella quietly. “It is a deep brooding sadness. I feel that you must have lost someone dear to you.”

  “Who hasn’t,” said Achil sternly, and with more than a hint of suspicion.

  Isabella took a deep breath knowing that outsiders had often thought her people strange and difficult to grasp.

  “Have you been feeling unusually tired,” said Isabella. “We call the term melancholic."

  Achil's eyes imperceptibly narrowed, he slowly nodded. She paused a moment before continuing.

  “The Muli is upon you,” said Isabella, in a hushed tone. “It is the spirit of the dead. The demon latches onto the one that grieves when the good has passed on.”

  Achil could not prevent himself from letting out a fierce laugh, before he realised she was actually being serious.

  “I must admit,” replied Achil more soberly. “I have felt strangely fatigued recently. What do you propose we do about it?”

  “Tonight,” said Isabella slowly, “when the dark soul visits you again, we shall be ready.”

  Her eyes tightened with purpose, understanding and a deep determination.

  Achil knew from experience; that such things like dark spirits occurred in nature, its just he had never suspected that such an entity could ever affect him, hence his incredulity at the thought of it. He was also well aware that being open to different people's beliefs was a key requirement of his mission. Something he had better get used to, so what better place to start than with the Gypsy folk.

  “There is a subject I would like to discuss,” said Achil. “And please do not think this as an offence to your hospitality.”

  She was pleased by Achil’s manner and asked him to continue.

  “I do not think it is appropriate to have someone bound like that without trial,” continued Achil. “You say, she is guilty and that you found the wagon with her, but what
if there is more to her tale, which might prove her innocence, and you have not yet afforded her an opportunity to fully explain herself.”

  The smile left Isabella’s face, and her expression became serious, even guarded.

  “What do you mean she is what she is, a thief,” said Isabella. “There's no right reason for her actions. The wagon belongs to us, she was found with it, and therefore she took it. Your sympathy for her is misguided, she shall remain bound.”

  Antoine came over as he had heard this last exchange and crouched down next to Achil.

  “Achil, if you like her so much, under Gypsy law you are entitled to purchase her freedom,” said Antoine. “And as long as you vouch for her behaviour while she is still in this camp, we will untie her.”

  Achil looked from Antoine and then over to Nishga. There was something about her that made him want to help her.

  “How much for her freedom?” asked Achil.

  "You cannot be serious father," said Isabella scornfully.

  “Let's see, there’s all the trouble she’s put us through,” Antoine thought a moment. “I would say ten gold pieces."

  Achil weighed up the cost for a moment, “How about three?”

  Antoine smiled, “Three’s good but it's not ten.”

  “Well what about five,” replied Achil.

  “If that’s five times two, then you have a deal,” said Antoine.

  “It’s good to see the art of negotiation is not lost on you,” replied Achil. “Would eight do?”

  Antoine shrugged, “Eight it is, let's see, plus her food and keep, comes to ten.”

  So they shook on ten.

  Nishga was brought over and informed that her freedom had been paid for.

  She looked at Achil indignantly, “I can take care of myself, and how am I meant to pay you back?”

  Achil looked at her puzzled by her lack of gratitude, and pulled from his tunic the rock that fell from the sky.

  “Antoine is it okay if she uses your smithy to make me something?” asked Achil.

  Antoine looked at Nishga doubtfully, “She can, and I’ll even let her use it for free. Just to see with my own eyes if it is possible to make something from that rock of yours? And also to see whether she has told us the truth, that she is a smithy.”

  Nishga smiled mischievously, the task for such a proficient artisan as herself, was a simple one.

  Isabella interrupted them, pulling Achil to one side.

  “Look,” whispered Isabella glaring up at Achil, “while she’s making your new toy, you need to concentrate and focus your mind on freeing yourself from the Muli. You need to prepare for the rite of expulsion, as per what we spoke of earlier.” There was a blank look on Achil’s face, as Isabella continued in an even more frustrated manner than ever. “Remember what I just mentioned a moment ago, were you not paying attention or has the Muli truly affected your mind. You need to ready yourself for the ceremony, to return the demon from whence it came. Is that clear enough for you?”

  Achil nodded sheepishly; and though he still held misgivings, he chose not to oppose the wrath of a gypsy woman. Isabella led him to a tent that had been arranged according to custom, and ushered him inside. She then began to draw a circle around the tent, with a square within it, and within that some symbols.

  Achil was lying back on a mattress stuffed with feathers; he had not slept on something as soft as that since he had left Findolin. Closing his eyes he let the weariness of his travels overtake him. Isabella entered the tent, lit a candle, lay down on some bedding close to his, and waited, the cool night air brushed against the loose tent flap, the candlelight gently flickered in the breeze, and the nightly murmur of crickets and people outside seemed to slowly subside.

  Darkness soon crept over them; the gentle candle light seemed to be extinguished as if by an invisible touch. In the tent slowly above Achil materialised the shape of a women, it was Achil’s wife, but it was as though she were a reflection from a dark mirror. Her form was wild, savage almost. She began to reach down; as she did energy rose up from Achil’s mouth and was consumed. The more energy she took, the more she began to solidify and take form.

  Isabella woke suddenly, and began to scream but her cry was cut short by the Muli. The demon held her clenched hand out as if she took hold of Isabella; whose body contorted being turned first one way and then the other by the creature. Achil woke he reached up and grabbed the demons hands pulling them together. Isabella momentarily freed from the demons grasp, acted quickly, she picked up the candle by her side and lit it, and began to murmur an incantation. The light from the candle began to throb, glow and erupt, encasing the demon.

  Achil quickly slipped off the bed and onto the floor, he grabbed Isabella’s hand and pulled her outside. Isabella then took hold of a lantern hanging from a pole and set fire to the tent, which ignited as though it were covered with oil. The demon leapt from side to side in a ball of flame, but it could not escape the boundaries set by the symbols drawn on the ground, eventually bursting into a blazing inferno, which incinerated everything within the boundaries of the circle before finally turning to thick gaseous vapour and disappearing. Isabella and Achil were both panting deeply, when Nishga and Antoine ran over to them.

  Antoine gently held his daughter, “Are you okay, why didn’t you tell us that you intended the Rite of Expulsion? You know an encounter with a demon is unpredictable, and incredibly dangerous, anything could have happened.”

  Achil was bent double; it was like some vile matter had been released from him. He gasped for breath, bringing life back to the dead air that had been forced into his lungs, and finally he began to regain his composure.

  Nishga directed him to an area where he could sit down.

  “I’ll get you something to drink,” said Nishga.

  “I'm fine,” said Achil. “I just had the wind knocked out of me for a moment. Hey shouldn’t you be busy doing whatever smithies do. How’s my new sword coming along?”

  “Well,” replied Nishga with half a smile, “tonight I finished the smelting process. Tomorrow I shall begin casting.”

  Nishga decided that if he was well enough to enquire about his sword he was well enough to look after himself, so letting go of Achil, she wandered back to her Smithy. Achil not having Nishga to lean on, held up his hand, as if to wave her goodbye, and slipped to the ground, still partially dazed by his struggle with the Muli. Achil thought it better to sleep the rest of the night in the open, beneath one of the caravans.

  He was woken early the next day by people shuffling round the camp, and by the kindly rooster that had made the effort of walking over to him before raucously crying out. Startled, Achil leapt out of a deep slumber, in such a manner, as to force his head onto the wooden axel of the carriage he slept under. He not too carefully shoved the bird away, before tentatively rising; brushed his trousers down and noticed out of the corner of his eye two young boys seemingly sharing a joke at his expense.

  “Hey Mister, sorry about that,” shouted one of them. “That's Old Feather, he must really like you.”

  The two picked up the bird and ran off to some other unsuspecting member of the troop.

  “Don't worry Achil,” cried Antifagasta with a wink, “we’re eating it later.”

  Achil smiled, at least he felt more refreshed than he had felt for a long time. The old woman came over to him and offered him some more broth. He thanked her, dipped some bread into it tentatively, and hesitantly tried it. It was unlike the broth he had been given earlier, being smoother, not as hot, and much kinder to the pallet.

  When he had finished he went to find Nishga, who was standing by a set of bellows, making sure the temperature of the furnace was at the right level the casting process seemed well underway.

  She stepped back a moment, the golden glow of the heat made her seem flushed. Looking up she saw Achil’s approach.

  “Hi,” said Nishga, “hope you are feeling better from your ordeal?”

  “I’m fine. Than
ks for helping me last night,” replied Achil. "How's it going?"

  "I’ve only been going a little while; I think it will be midmorning before it’s done."

  He stayed to watch her craftsmanship with growing admiration.

  “I am impressed with your undoubted skill,” said Achil. “Actually there is a question I would like to ask you.” Achil spoke softly so as not to be overheard. “These people seem genuine and helpful; which makes me think that that cart of yours was never yours.”

  Her mood seemed to alter. “I’m not a thief if that’s what you're thinking. I purchased the smithy equipment with all the money I had, and I thought I was getting a bargain. The group that sold me the equipment said that they just wanted a quick sale. It didn’t occur to me as to why. It wasn’t until I came here and realised that these were good people that I understood, that what I bought was stolen. The rest is, as you say, history.”

  She looked at him with frustration, as she began smashing her hammer down hard on what was a metal rod to flatten it, and stretch it. Achil stood transfixed by the rhythmic and solid beating of the hammer, and her shear prowess with the tools, and then realising that she did not need an audience distracting her from working, left to find Antoine, who was at that moment talking with his daughter by the ashy remains of the tent.

  “When we’ve finished we’ll be on our way. I just wanted to say thank you for your hospitality.”

  Antoine patted Achil on the back, “That’s fine my lad, your being here has proven mutually beneficial for both of us, and for that young woman too I feel. But there is one thing you might wish to consider.”

  “What’s that?” enquired Achil.

  Antoine took him aside.

  “The Dragon people have of late been affected by a malady,” said Antoine dramatically. “It is a malady of fear.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Achil shaking his head ruefully.

  Antoine paused to consider his words carefully.

  “Do you know how they got their name?” asked Antoine.

  “No,” replied Achil, “I assumed it was due to them being a Warrior culture.”

  “They are a mysterious people that lived in the shadow of the great Dragons of Osgaroth, when they once roamed those lands,” continued Antoine. “Such creatures are from an older age, very few now exist in the world today, and the unusual relationship between them and the Dragon people, began years ago. There is a legend that a great Dragon, helped ward off an enemy that came from across the sea, it was at the time of the founding of their great city. That is why they treat Dragons reverently. Recently though things have changed, one Dragon with darkness in its heart began to attack them. It is said to be a large winged serpent that spews forth fire that can envelop a man and burn him to ash. It comes out of its lair from distant Ruin Mountain, and sweeps down on the people of Dragon City, and its outlying settlements laying waste to crops and to homesteads alike. It is said that its scales are like the strongest armour; with horns on its head which are as large as the ones found on the Grandiseous.”

  “I thought the Grandiseous a mythic creature,” said Achil.

  “And many think that Dragons are mythic creatures, that have not seen one,” replied Antoine. “But they are very real.”

  Antoine drew breath, trying to recall what else he knew.

  “Anyway they have always lived in peace and considered themselves a friend to such creatures, but never before has one made them pay so fearful and heavy a price. It has a rage that cannot be sated, a wild unnatural merciless spirit. So what I’m trying to say is that this is probably not the best time to treat with such a people, as they are in thrall to fear. There is no greater wrong doer than fear, it will not relinquish its control over them without a struggle, and fear often unmasks the true base nature of things in man, and beast alike. Remember this Achil an individual is no good to anyone if the only things they share with others are their demons.”

  Achil reached out and took Antoine by the hand and thanked him for his advice, but his mind and his quest were set. Once his sword was finished, he and Nishga would be on their way. Isabella who had listened silently to the exchange between her father and Achil seemed disappointed that he would not remain longer, but she wished him well and hoped that he would find the life he was seeking. The Gypsies were also to depart the next day for Findolin's second City, Hecata.

  It was mid-afternoon before Nishga beckoned him over. She wanted to show him what her efforts had finally achieved. At the sight of the sword he gasped, the blade was unlike anything he had ever seen before. The metal was not dull like most blades, but burnished so bright with such sheen that you could see your reflection in it. She passed it to him. It was light and well balanced.

  Nishga seemed breathless her excitement growing for what she had crafted, “I want you to slice through something.”

  Achil looked around and went over to the wooden pole that Nishga had been bound to, he swung the blade round and it passed through it as though it were not even there. Nishga smiled and asked Achil to try it on the Anvil. Any normal blade would usually bounce back or snap; and although dubious about such a request he thought he would do as she said. People began to gather to view this extraordinary new weapon. Achil once more lifted his blade and bringing it down hard, it effortlessly sliced the Anvil in half; he held the blade up to the light. It was unblemished by the act.

  “This is remarkable Nishga,” said Achil in awe. “It feels like a powerful tool indeed.

  She grinned and bowed timidly, “I am pleased you like it, there was also enough of the metal to make a cover for a shield which I will tend to, as we travel. So I think you’ll agree my debt to you is paid in full.”

  Achil stood there wide eyed, “Nishga it is I that owe you, not you that owe me.”

  “In that case,” said Nishga, with a cheeky glint in her eye. “Perhaps you’ll be my guardian and I’ll be your guide to the City of the Dragon People.”

  Achil had already thought that they should travel together, so he agreed. She held out a strong yet smooth hand, he paused for a moment before taking it.

  “It’s a deal,” said Achil with as smooth a smile as he could muster. “Do you know how far we are from the City?”

  She started tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Well this is Findolin wood which at length merges with Haven forest as you know, which in turn stretches all the way round the mountains, so I’d say we have a quite a journey ahead of us.”

  “Thank you for that,” said Achil, scratching at his head. “If we have a long way to go, then we’d better start straight away.”

  They packed their things away and said their farewells, Nishga had come to terms with the fact that she would not get back the smithy, and the Gypsies by her craftsmanship realised that she had been no thief, even so, they held on to Achil‘s gold just the same, after all they had got rid of the Muli for him.

  Achil’s horse being rested took them both without a struggle. Nishga's head rested on his back, the softness of the day lay sweetly on them, the gentle air nothing more than a caress; it was thus that they became friends, their first adventure together had ended and they were none the worse for the parts they played in it, and so they rode out of the camp of the Gypsies and on towards Osgaroth.