The Slave Knight Part 1: The Dagon

Chapter Sixteen: A Way Around To Elves

It was a solemn leg of their journey. It was a trudge, it was heavy, and it was silent. None sought out conversation or stories as before. Sir Jabberjaw sang not, and all that could be heard was the tick tack of boots on the ground. They walked through Newbrit, weary and wisened to what may lurk behind each husk, shrub, and rubbish, each secretly hoping they could finish their trek without any further bother or distraction. Just the road. Just the road. They all thought together, without knowing.

Sir Jabberjaw and Sir Winifred were quite distant, at the behest of Sir Winifred, as her own nightmares implicated Sir Jabberjaw in some evil that she could not quite shirk. She knew in her heart of hearts that Sir Jabberjaw had no real hand in her nightmares, nor would he ever be capable of drowning his beloved, but it was a feeling that she could not throw away. She had obligations and duties to her Wenches, that took up most of her time, so it made it easy for her to get away, and Sir Jabberjaw felt the sting of the distance. He tried to content himself with the company of Sir Jonus.

Sir Jonus had tarried alone more often than not, and Sir Jabberjaw preferred the company of the big oaf more than most others. So they tolerated one another, with each other's presence. It was a good vacation from the realness of the world and brought them back to some surreality, as too much of the real was painful and hardening. To a time when they would wine and dine and joke and jab. To a time when they were closer than the occasional jest. To a time of true friendship.

Neither started any true conversation, but it was nice for both of them to just walk side by side. Sir Jonus dwelled heavily on the past few days, especially on the passing of Sir Jared, and the nightmares of the Graysons, but those thoughts were too hard to bear. He found himself tearing up and close to sobbing at all odd hours of the day, and took great pains to ensure no one would notice. Sir Jonus had a great desire to have his mind distracted by something else. Something better.

"Jabs..."

"Yes Sir Jonus."

"Tell me one of those stories that you know."

"What stories?" Sir Jonus looked at Sir Jabberjaw incredulously.

"By my beard, I heard you tell a bar wench that you knew a thousand thousand stories. You can bear to tell me one or some if you feel so generous." Sir Jonus smiled at that and clapped Sir Jabberjaw on the back. The smile was forced, and the clap was awkward, but it was all he could do not to cry out in his misery. It was the closest they had been in some time. Warmth had spread through Sir Jabberjaw's chest, making him flush red. He secretly thanked Sir Jonus for such closeness, as he was sorely lacking in this area.

"Fine fine, but know that you can hardly trust a word I say to bar wenches, especially when I have been deep into my cups. Let me think and let us walk and soon enough I will have something to peak your interest." Sir Jonus looked away and shrugged absentmindedly. He then dug into his small travel sack and pulled out an apple which began to nibble at daintily. Sir Jabberjaw's eyes brightened and his voice got low as if he was to tell the deepest darkest secret known to man.

"Have you heard of Jubs the apple farmer?

"Who!?"

"Jubs! The story of the apple farmer and his magic apples that he used to woo the world."

"Never heard of him or such a story. Tell me quickly because it sounds quite boring if you ask me."

"Well no one has, Sir Jonus, and I tell you it is a marvelous story."

"Go on then. Stop talking about talking and talk." Sir Jonus took another bite and Sir Jabberjaw began.

"He was just a simple apple farmer, Jubs that is, and tarried all day and all night on his apples. Trying to make the apples in his orchard the best that coin could buy, the best the world had seen. Jubs has put his life blood into these apples, some think, just figuratively, others actually—