Elminster in Myth Drannor - Ed Greenwood [93]
The terrified elf began to gabble, pleading and wildly unfolding all sorts of friendly information about his name, his lineage, his ownership of this mushroom den, the fine 'shrooms it produced, the finer weather they'd been having lately, and-
Galan gave him an unlovely smile, and raised a hand. The elf misinterpreted the gesture.
"Of course, human lord! Please forgive my tardiness in understanding your needs! I have little, being but a poor farmer, but it is yours-all yours!" With frantic fingers the farmer undid his belt, slid off its pouch, and presented it to Galan in trembling fingers, as his loose, baggy mucking-breeches fell to his ankles.
The belt was heavy with coin-small coin, no doubt, but still probably good thalvers and bedoars and thammarchs of the realm. As Galan hefted it in disbelief, the farmer misinterpreted his expression and gabbled, "But of course I have more! I would not dream of trifling with or cheating the great human armathor that Corellon himself has sent to our Coronal to scourge the sinful and decadent from the realm! Here!"
This time his fingers brought out a pouch from a thong around his neck… a pouch that swelled with gems. Galan took it in wide-eyed incredulity, and the farmer burst into tears and cried, "Slay me not, oh mighty armathor! I've no more to give you but my float of 'shrooms and my lunch!"
Galan growled with approval at that last word- well, after all, what would a mighty human armathor speak like?-and extended an insistent, beckoning hand. When the farmer staring at it for a moment, he followed it up with an insistent, beckoning blade.
"Ah- ah- 'shrooms?" the bewildered farmer cried, in a panic. Galan scowled, shook his head, and made the beckoning gesture again.
"Uh… lunch?" the farmer said timidly. Galan nodded slowly and emphatically, treating his guest to a crooked smile.
Mushrooms flew as the farmer burrowed into one corner of the float, cursed tearfully, gabbled apologies, and rushed to another corner, where mushrooms flew again.
Galan took the cloth-wrapped bundle, hefted it, and then slowly held the bag of gems back out to the farmer. Gems were tricky; too many of them, in Cormanthor, bore tracing spells, or even enchantments that could burst forth to do harm when commanded to do so from a safe distance. No, the coins were safer by far.
The farmer burst into tears and went to his knees to loudly thank Corellon, and the volume of his praises was such that Galan was loudly tempted to chop him down where he stood.
Instead, he pointed with his sword, indicating that the farmer should go back down into his mushroom cavern without delay. The tearful farmer neglected to see it, so Galan growled.
In the sudden, total silence that followed he repeated the gesture, swinging his blade grandly-and there was a wet and heavy impact as he was bringing it back down. Galan opened his mouth to emit a startled curse as he saw the slab of stirge fall from one side of his blade, and heard the thump as the rest of it hit the ground somewhere near, but the farmer set up such a deafening storm of fervent praises that the only living Goadulphyn-head of the house, heir, champion, elder, and all-decided he couldn't stand any more of this (it was worse than Athtar), and headed north again. He'd open his bundle and eat when he was well out of whatever territory fervently gullible mushroom farmers dwelt in.
Galan stumped along for quite some time, shaking his head, before he found a tree old enough and large enough to hold Corellon's awareness. He went right up to it and murmured wonderingly, "You do have a sense of humor, Sacred Mother and Father, don't you?"
The tree did not reply-but then, Corellon probably already knew he had a sense of humor. So Galan sat down and devoured the farmer's lunch with gusto. Corellon offered no objections.
"Heirs slaughtered like lajauva birds in spring! Armathors breaking and hurling down their blades in protest! What's Cormanthor coming to?"