A Promise of Fire

The knives hidden up Nyks’ sleeves seemed heavier than usual.

She’d only been to Singard once before. It’s countryside was much different from that of her homeland Fâlem: it wasn’t as bright or colorful, and the lack of flowers made the air smell foul. Instead, the land was wide and hilly, with trails that dragged on for miles and miles. The only change in scenery was the occasional small woodland she’d needed to cross through, or the river she needed to wade. Occasionally, she’d see a nice bit of farmland near those rivers, but that was rare. Such a dreary country was Singard, she thought. But she needn’t stay for long; once her job was done, she could finally rest.

Finally, she’d be free.

She wore a long black leather coat and hood over a black tunic with red velvet embroidery around the collar and sleave ends. Around her waist was a brown leather belt adorned with numerous pouches containing her various medicinal herbs, and over her shoulders she carried her muddy, disheveled travel pack.

Nyks set her eyes upon the great Gallerlûn River, and across from it, the town of Elbridge. After three long, dreary days on the road, her destination was finally in sight. All she needed to do now was cross that river.

The sun had set, and the moonlight was weak, but thankfully Nyks had trained her eyes to excel in the dark. She scanned the horizon and spotted a small, derelict hut lining the Gallerlûn with a small dock and boat not far: a ferryman’s hut, she figured. It had crossed her mind to just hijack the ferryboat herself, but she wasn’t that kind of person anymore. To fix what had been broken, she needed first to fix herself.

Nyks strolled down the tall hill and up to the front door of the ferryman’s hut. She gave three quick, strong knocks and awaited answer. After a minute of nothing, she knocked again, this time pressing her ear to the door; inside she heard two men–one older and one younger–complaining about something going on at “this hour.” When she heard footsteps approaching, she stepped back to try and make herself look less suspicious.

The door creaked open just an inch or so, and inside, Nyks saw an older human with thin, dark gray hair and a full beard poke his head out. At first, he looked right over her head, and how could he not. The man almost certainly had little experience with gnomes.

Nyks cleared her throat, and the man looked down. His dark eyes widened in surprise at the sight of her. She lowered her hood to expose her long, pointed ears; vibrant silver, red, and blue hair, as well as her bright colorful eyes: her left was red–the color of her mother–and her right was green–the color of her father. Unlike the nightly violet skin of the elves, a gnome’s skin was green like that of grass or flower stems.

The old man cleared his throat and said, “G’evening, mademoiselle, er milady, er…sorry, we don’t get many of you lots around these parts.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” said Nyks. Her thick Flemese accent seemed to confuse the man for a moment, but he quickly got over it as she pulled a square half-regalian from her coat pocket. “I need to cross ze river, please.”

The man took the coin without hesitation, but quickly bit into it to test its legitimacy. Nyks rolled her eyes.

“Alright, seems good,” said the old ferryman tucking the coin into his pocket. “Er, it’s a bit late, so I’ll have my son getcha ‘cross. Gimme just a moment.”

As the man quickly closed the door, Nyks turned back to the boat that sat near the little dock.

It would’ve been so easy to just steal it and go. Why didn’t I just do that? Now I’m out a half-regalian; if I try now, those pea-brained buffoons will send word about the gnome who’d stolen their boat.

Nyks groaned in frustration and stared out across the river. Starlight twinkled in its rippling waves, and beyond its bends, the fishing hamlet of Elbrdige was all but asleep.

So very soon, she thought.

Inside the hut, Nyks heard the old man speaking to his son in hushed whispers. Despite her years of study, the Singardian language still alluded her; many of their words and sounds just didn’t make sense or sound right on her tongue, but she did recognize certain words like, “suspicious,” “coin thief,” and “forgery.” Like most Singardians she’d come across, the humans were often the worst when it came to treating gnomes like thieves and padfoots.

From her pocket, Nyks pulled out a small sapphire, elegantly cut into the most pristine prism. She gently caressed its sharp edges that were so fine she thought it would cut her if she pressed hard enough. Her heart ached as the light from the moon and stars reflected upon its blue surface.

Has it really been a year already?

Nyks heard rustling coming from inside the hut and quickly palmed the sapphire in her hand. She turned back to the door as it opened and saw a man carrying a lantern who looked like a much younger version of the previous man step out. So, this was the old man’s son, thought Nyks? Looked more like his grandson.

The young man looked down at her awkwardly and said, “So, uh, you’re the gnome, eh?” He stretched out his back and looked out at the dark river. After a disgruntled yawn, he said, “Alright, get aboard. I’ll getcha across.”

Nyks bowed her head in respect to this man who she’d clearly inconvenienced, but he barely acknowledged her, instead pushing past and hobbling his way toward the ferry.

As the two hopped aboard the little boat, Nyks tucked the sapphire back into her pocket. The young man set down his lantern and began untying the ropes from the dock, and Nyks said, “It is goblins you are tinking of.”

The man briefly stopped and looked at her in confusion. “Beg pardon?”

“Goblins are ze coin takers and forgers, not gnomes.”

In the faint light of the lantern, Nyks saw the man’s face tense and recoil. “Sorry, y-you weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“And yet I did,” said Nyks.

“I hope you didn’t take offense. Y’see, we—”

“Don’t see much of my kind here, I know,” she said.

But they see plenty of goblins. And what difference is there between a goblin and a gnome to a human?

After an agonizingly long minute of silence, the young ferryman had finally gotten the ferry unsecured from the dock and set them off across the river. Eventually, the man built up the strength to say, “So, what’s a gnome doin’ in Singard anyways? I don’t pay much attention to politics–don’t really gots the time too–but isn’t there some tension going on between Fâlem and Singard?”

“Zere is, at least for ze moment; from what I understand, zere are a lot of angry eyes on Singard,” said Nyks. “If you must know, I’m here to visit someone.”

The man cleared his throat and awkwardly tried to change the subject. “Who you visitin’?”

“My…what’s ze word? Brosher? No, zats not right. My…” Nyks hated the Singardian language and the strange noise it required her to make. She pressed the tip of her tongue to the back of her teeth and breathed, feeling a little spittle flicker from her lips. She groaned and said, “My brother. I tink zats ze word.”

“Well, I ain’t see many gnomes in Elbrdige,” said the young ferryman. “In fact, I ain’t see many gnomes in a long time. You sure he’s here?”

“He is not a gnome,” said Nyks scratching her chin. She wondered if she misspoke and used the wrong word, but nothing else came to mind. She said, “Zer is no word in your tongue zat can describe zis man to me. Brother—” she grimaced “—is simply ze best I can do.”

“Not a gnome,” he said, “but still Fâlemese?”

Nyks shrugged. What a curious man, she thought. Perhaps he was just being cordial, or perhaps he was testing her. No, that was her paranoia talking. Still, better to be safe than sorry. “We have a phrase in my tongue: Hal adar.” The young ferryman didn’t seem to understand, but Nyks continued. “Meren tul hal adar. It’s someting we say back in Fâlem zat means, ‘Travel far for justice,’ but zat is such a burden to say, so we just say hal adar.”

“Hal adar,” the man said. It sounded wrong in his Singardian dialect. “Hal adar; for justice?”

Nyks laughed. “No, I suppose it sounds a bit strange for you, does it not? No, I tink in your tongue it would be more fitting to say, ‘good luck’ or ‘fare travels.’ It is just an old Fâlemese idiom.”

“For justice,” said the man ignoring everything Nyks had said. He turned to her, and in the lantern light, Nyks saw the man jostle in place as a wave bumped against the ferry. In that moment, she saw something under the man’s gray coat: a pistol.

How wise. The man knows not to trust a stranger in the night. Good, not all Singardians are fools.

He adjusted the oar of the ferry and said, “For your brother? Justice?”

The man’s expression was stern and rather frightful. If not for the various things she’d seen in her life, Nyks thought she would’ve been rather intimidated of this man, but alas, he was just a scared young man escorting some strange foreign woman across the river in the middle of the night. Whatever could he possibly be thinking?

“Yes,” she said, “I suppose.”

When they arrived at the river side near Elbrdige, Nyks hopped off the ferry and fished a few copper pennies from her coin purse. She handed them to the man who eyed her confusedly.

“I’m sorry, I forget,” she said, “is it polite to tip in Singard?”

“Huh?”

“Ah, you see, in Fâlem, when someone does a good job, we like to give zem a little extra.” She gently placed the coins into the man’s hand. “We call it a tip; I’m not sure why.”

The man stared down at the glimmering copper pennies and said, “Oh, well, uh, thank you, miss…”

“Tobirhal.” The man scoffed and asked her to repeat herself. “In Fâlemese it means ‘Apple Blossom Tree’,” she lied, “so I suppose in your tongue you would call me Miss Appleblossom? Zat sounds nice, yes?” The man thanked her awkwardly and Nyks said, “And zank you for not pulling zat pistol on me.”

The man’s face flashed red, and he backed away. Nyks laughed, but before he could say anything further, she turned and made her way into town.

Though there weren’t many out that night, the people of Elbrdige looked just as surprised as the two ferrymen as a gnome girl meandered through their streets. It was as if a fae had escaped from Helhaym, or some small demon had slipped through the cracks of Dozgir. Nyks thought her presence would brighten up their dreary lives with a little color and excitement, but alas, she was but a small gremlin to these people.

How distant their nations had become. Back home in Fâlem, humans and elves were as common as the flowers and trees, yet here in their homeland, the very presence of a gnome was alien. And then she remembered: these people didn’t think of her as a gnome, but as a goblin. Nyks scoffed.

If they want a goblin, I’ll give them a goblin.

After several long minutes of wandering the streets, Nyks eventually found what she’d been looking for: a comfortable little inn signed The Swordfish. She stepped inside, and much to her surprise, most of the patrons didn’t seem to mind her presence. There were some eyes on her, and she heard the stray comment made about her eyes and hair, but most of the patrons were far more interested in the massive Dwarven man at the back: nearly eight feet tall with a short golden beard and long gold hair that he tied in the back.

He wore a bulky rust-brown coat, large black silk gloves, and resting on his nose were a pair of dainty spectacles. Perhaps most eye-catching of all though, was the massive multi-barreled pistol that the man kept strapped to his hip.

Upon her arrival, the massive dwarf turned to her and bellowed, “Oi, jackielass! Long time no see, eh?”

Nyks approached, bowing her head in respect, and said, “It is good to see you too, Pottran Voltragon.”

“Oi, no need to be so formal, mademoiselle. Potts is good enough for me.” Still sitting, he bowed his head low enough to meet her eyes and said, “Do you like that? Mademoiselle? Ha, imagine calling a gnome that!”

“You know this gremlin, Pottran,” said one of the patrons.

Nyks scowled. Though the insult was slung at her, she wasn’t nearly as offended as Pottran it seemed. Though a smile never left his face, Nyks could see the disdain in his eyes as he licked his lips and stood to his full height. His head nearly brushed the ceiling. At his tallest, he was over twice as tall and nearly three times as wide as she. “This jackielass, here,” he said, “Yeh, we go way back! Back, er…”

“About ten years, I tink,” said Nyks.

“Right, about ten years.” Pottran sneered and looked down at some of the other bar guests. He flourished his coat tails to brandish the massive dwarf crafted firearm on his hip; to Nyks it looked like a cannon, but to Pottran it was no different that one of those flintlocks used by humans and elves. Engraved upon its barrels were various arcane runes, something the common Singardian would be incredibly ignorant and fearful of.

Pottran leaned on the table oh-so gingerly as to not appear threatening, but the message was clear: if you insulted Nyks, you insulted him.

After the message was sent and the rabble had calmed down, Pottran took his seat and offered Nyks to join him. Once seated, Nyks said, “How have you been, Potts?”

“I’ve been well. Oi, barkeep! A drink for the jackielass, eh?” After a moment, the barkeep had brought not only a drink for Nyks, but two large pints for Pottran. “No trouble gettin' here, I hopes.”

“None at all,” said Nyks smiling. Nyks brought the cup of beer to her nose and sniffed. The scent made her gag. “How can you drink zis?”

“Because zis is good,” said Pottran mocking her accent. He took his two pints in one of his massive hands and slurped them both down greedily before slamming them onto the table. “Zen again,” he continued laughing to himself, “I suppose you’re much more fond of your fancy Fâlemese teas, am I right?”

Nyks ignored him and reached into one of the pouches on her belt. She pulled out a couple pinches of dried leaves and flower petals—zakur, vasumi, and wulohka—and stirred the herbs in with her little finger before passing the cup to Pottran and said, “A little help?”

“My pleasure,” said Pottran. With his left hand, he picked up the glass from underneath. Wisps of shimmering blue Aether spread from Pottran’s fingertips and into the glass, causing the liquid within to start bubbling and steaming.

The other patrons at the bar stared in horror at Pottran’s blatant use of Aether. From what Nyks understood, Singardians didn’t approve of public use of Aether by those not officially authorized by the government; something about sanctions and keeping the public safe from chaos and discord. She couldn’t fathom not being allowed to cast Aether freely; if they truly viewed it as a weapon, then why not ban the usage of swords, or guns? She shook her head; Singard truly was a backwards country.

After a minute, Pottran set the glass down, blew on his hand in a theatrical fashion, and said, “Voila! How’s that for you, mademoiselle? Better?”

Nyks gingerly picked up the steaming glass of beer and tea leaves and took a deep breath. It was a strange mix of the senses: wonderfully sweet herbs mixed with the acrid stench of fermented barley. The smell may have been strange, but the taste even more so. It wasn’t bad, but it certainly wasn’t good, however, Nyks thought that she’d gladly drink it rather than the normal piss water the Singardians drank.

She smiled, giving the drink another refreshing sip. “It is delicious, brother. Now, shall we talk business?”