Loathing Magic

IV. Jonthar

In western Draalia, summer was shorter and cooler. Elm town rose on a strip of land on the peninsula; it was so narrow that the sea lapped it on both sides. Only a sandy shore stood on the northern end, which was in the shape of a pike. In order to get there, Elydia had opened a magical portal. She was full of excitement for her first mission - she was tramping on Draal soil!

Winds blew from all directions. Luckily, she was wearing a tight tunic; had she worn a dress, it would have been torn apart by the thorns on the bushes. The main problem was her hair, continually covering her eyes. During the past years she had let it grow, and it would have gracefully wrapped itself around her shoulders, if it hadn't been for that terrible wind. She tied it up in a ponytail. Better!

Jonthar was the man she was looking for. With her clairvoyance, she had tracked him down in a place that looked like a sailors' dive. They were not so loud, though. She hadn't come close enough to him with her magic senses yet, but he looked younger than Falibor. She couldn't say how old he was; it was hard to tell with Mages.

Elydia stopped a few yards away from the town gates. All sorts of people were freely coming in and out of the city. She wasn't wearing any disguise. Would that be a problem?

She stepped away again, muttering something impolite. She couldn't cast a spell: If Jonthar were a Mage, he could unmask her. She was far enough away, so she conjured up some clothes from a cottage in the neighborhood. They were made of rough wool, but they were clean and fit well. The skirt was so heavy not even the strong wind could move it.

Nobody stopped her at the gates. She took another couple of steps before locating her target again: he was still in the tavern. Good.

She walked up to the entrance, where she stopped and took a deep breath. A big fish, sword-shaped and with pointed teeth, was sketched with scarce accuracy on the wooden transom. It didn't look reassuring.

As she entered the narrow and smoky room, the smell of fishbone soup pierced her nose and drenched her clothes. Elydia sat down at a table not far from Jonthar's, so that she might watch and listen without raising suspicions.

Jonthar was sitting between two other men. He had dark hair and a dark complexion; it wasn't a tan, just the natural tone of his skin. His short beard grew from his sideburns down to his larynx, concealing his cheeks, lips, and chin, where the beard grew thicker, softening his hard features. He was attractive, in a different way from Raon and Dórel, but no less.

"The southern regions are dry again," said the short sidekick, turning his back on her.

Jonthar puckered his thin lips and looked at him harshly. Elydia glimpsed his eyes a moment before she had to turn away so as not to be noticed. His eyes were plain brown, but had a light that reflected a vitality only matched by his massive body.

"We could do what we did last year," suggested the other sidekick, who was as tall and skinny as a stick.

Jonthar turned his head to whisper something to the man, showing a pair of large earlobes. They had to be flat on his skull, because she hadn't noticed them earlier. And yet they looked just right on him.

"That woman's looking at you," the weedy guy said so loudly she could hear.

Elydia felt the blood draining from her face.

Jonthar pushed his chair back and got up. He was as tall as Falibor, but his shoulders and chest were so big that he looked twice his size. He resembled the picture of a giant in one of her childhood books. And now that giant was staring at her.

For Iss's tail!

Elydia pretended to look at the short man still sitting at the table, keeping her face neutral.