Authors: Dennis L. McKiernan
* * *
Sometime ere dawn, Egil began thrashing abed, crying out men’s names, cursing, a berserker look in his open but unseeing eye. Arin stepped to his bedside and tried to soothe him, to no avail. Aiko stood at hand in case there were a need. Still shouting and cursing, he awakened at last and looked wildly about…then buried his face in his hands and wept. Arin sat on the edge of the bed and sang a soft Elven song, and Egil lay back down weeping. After a while he fell deeply asleep. Arin returned to her chair and Aiko to her tatami mat. The Dylvana stared into the fire, but she soon looked away, unable to focus, for her thoughts kept reverting to the man in the bed.
Ill dreams, indeed.
* * *
The next morning at break of fast, Healer Thar came by to check on the patient, and after the Dylvana applied an unguent to the raw wounds, he and Arin laid on fresh bandages.
Thar stayed long enough to have a bite to eat, but then went onward to make his daily rounds.
Orri came right after—bluff and full of cheer—and he brought with him a leather eye patch, dyed the brightest scarlet with a small golden symbol scribed thereon. “’Tis a gift fr’ th’ crew. They wanted ye t’ ha’e it. Ach, ye’ll make a fine figure o’ a Fjordsman when we go back at th’ Jutes, lad, and ye take y’r revenge. We e’en had it scribed wi’ Adon’s sign—th’ war-hammer one, it be: th’ Kammerling, or so they say ’tis. Right fitting, too, for what
better symbol to bear on a raid of vengeance than th’ thing the Dwarves call the Rage Hammer, aye?”
Orri stayed till midmorn, sharing a pitcher of ale with Alos, much to the oldster’s dismay, for Orri got the most of it before he left.
It was nigh mid of day when Arin took up her tale once again….
B
ack through Darda Galion they rode—Arin and her companions—back through the soft shadows of this dimlit wood. Across mossy swales they fared and alongside and through the streams of the forested land—some quick running, where the water foamed white and tumbled loudly among rocks; others gliding quietly between low ferny banks, or high stone walls, and whispering a fluid song of flow.
The hush of the soaring Eldwood stole over Arin even as she rode, and she nodded in a doze and lost track of time in the timeless twilight.
And morning and eve the argent songbirds sang their melodies of dawn and dusk and caroled beauty throughout the land, filling the forest with song.
Across the swift-flowing Quadrill they fared, and then the slower Rothro, as they made their way back along the route they had ridden just days before.
At last they came to the march-ward camp, where they spent the night…and Silverleaf told of the felling of the nine. The warders shouted in dismay and railed at the vile deed wreaked by the
Spaunen
there along the Grimwall flank. Many would have ridden straightaway to join Aldor’s force of retribution, but they could not abandon their posts, and so they seethed with impotent rage.
The next morn dawned to a steady rain and glum Tarol accompanied the seven to the dock where they summoned the ferry of Olorin Isle, barely seen in the blowing mist.
They transferred from one Riverman ferry to the other and finally reached the eastern bank of the mighty Argon.
Northeastward they rode through the southernmost tip of Darda Erynian to come that rainy eve to the banks of the River Rissanin.
The next day dawned to overcast skies, but the rain had ceased. Up the westward bank of the river they fared, and the day slowly cleared as they rode. And just as eve drew nigh they sighted in midriver the grey stone towers of Caer Lindor glowing orange in the setting sun.
They crossed the western pontoon bridge to come to that fortress isle, a legacy of the Elven Wars of Succession, a relic of the elder days, when neither man nor Fey nor Dwarf nor Mage nor aught other bestrode the world of Mithgar, and only the Elves walked the land, and they yet filled with madness. But those days were long past and the Elves now sane, yet the huge, square fortress still remained. It was an outpost in event of future want, but served these days as a way station for travelers in need. Yet located where it was, on the border between the warded Blackwood to the north and the Greatwood to the south, seldom did many come this way, and they mostly Elves or Baeron, though now and again a venturesome soul or two would come trekking past.
On this eve six Dylvana and a Lian came across the bridge seeking mules or pack horses as well as provisions for a long journey to the east. But of their mission they said nought, though they did tell the warriors of the Elven garrison of the felling of the nine.
That night, in spite of the grim news, they were cheered somewhat by two Waerlinga, whom, it seems, were on a float trip down the Rissanin and then the Argon beyond—“On our way to look at the Avagon,” said Tindel, the tall one, standing some three feet three, simply towering over Brink by a full two inches.
“Going to see the sea,” added Brink, his tilted sapphirine eyes atwinkle, “and perhaps ship out on an Arbalinian trader.”
“He wants to go as cabin crew,” said Tindel, disparagingly, jerking a thumb toward Brink.
“W’ll it’s not likely they’ll take us on as pilots, y’ninny,” responded Brink. “Nor as loaders or haulers or any other such. —Or would you be the captain?”
“We c’d be lookouts, I say,” said Tindel, pointing a finger toward one of his own gemlike eyes, amber in the lanternlight. “Especially at night.”
“What, and get up on one of those tall masts? Not me, bucco. If you want to climb atop a high swaying pole, well, that’s your own doings. But as for me…”
And so it went between these two, squabbling, the best of friends.
And the Elves smiled at their antics.
* * *
The next morning, towing six mules laden with supplies, Arin and her companions prepared to set forth. As they came to the eastern pontoon bridge leading across the Rissanin and into the Greatwood, they saw the Waerlinga readying to cast off their cargo-laden float.
Arin handed over the tether of her mule to Melor and then rode down to the raft. “Beware of Bellon Falls, wee ones; ye wouldn’t want to get swept over.”
“Bellon Falls?” asked Brink.
“Aye. On the Argon—some twenty leagues south of where the Rissanin joins that river.”
Brink scratched his head. “Twenty leagues? Sixty miles?”
“Yes, you ninny,” answered Tindel. “Twenty leagues; sixty miles.” Tindel then turned to Arin. “But what’s this about a falls?”
“Where the Argon flows over the Great Escarpment. It plummets a thousand feet into the Cauldron below.”
“A thousand feet!” exclaimed Brink. He reached into a map case and hauled out a roll of parchment and peered at it a moment, then shook his head and said, “No falls. No escarpment. No Cauldron. We’re going to have to get this map corrected, Tin.”
Arin’s eyes flew wide in astonishment.
Imagine these two setting out on a float trip without knowing the perils of the river before them.
“Thank you, Lady Arin,” said Brink.
“Ar, yar, thanks,” added Tindel. Then he jerked his head toward the fortress. “Come on, Brink. Daylight’s aburning.”
As the Waerlinga trudged back toward the caer, Arin could hear Tindel proclaiming, “I told you you couldn’t trust a Riverman, Brink. Why, we almost drowned in
those rapids upstream, and now we discover the map we bought also doesn’t show the falls or escarpment or…”
Arin rejoined her comrades across the pontoon bridge, and just before entering the woods she looked back at the Waerlinga. They waved a cheery good-bye, then disappeared under the raised portcullis and through the gateway beyond.
Arin turned and followed her companions into the green galleries of the Greatwood. Swiftly Caer Lindor was lost in the foliage behind. And as they entered the timberland, Arin wondered what unexpected rapids and cataracts sheer and unknown perils lay on her own path ahead.
B
ounded on the north by the River Rissanin, on the east by the plains of Riamon, on the south by the Glave Hills, and on the west by the broad Argon and a portion of the Great Escarpment, there lies a vast timberland stretching some seven hundred miles in length and two hundred in width. It is the Greatwood, one of the mightiest forests in all of Mithgar.
In this woodland dwells the race of men known as the Baeron. Huge they are, the males growing to six feet ten or more, the females to six feet six. And like their kindred in the Great Greenhall to the north, they revere and husband the land and all it brings.
In the Greatwood, too, it is rumored that Hidden Ones dwell, yet this forest does not have the warded air of Blackwood, Darda Erynian, the Great Greenhall. If Hidden Ones dwell within, they signal it not.
In the midst of the northern half of the Greatwood there exists an immense area where only grass grows; trees encroach not upon this mighty meadow, some eighty miles by forty. It is simply called The Clearing, and here it is that the Baeron gather the week preceding and following each Mid-Year’s Day to sing of the deeds of their kindred and to seek wives or husbands. These are powerful days of kinship and courtship and celebration, there in The Clearing, and when they are over, the Baeron men and women, some newly mated, fade back into these wide woods, returning unto scattered thorps or to isolated dwellings…
…there in the vast Greatwood.
I
t was not the time of the solstice when Arin and her companions rode through the Greatwood; it was instead July, and the sun shone down bright and hot. Yet under the sheltering bower of the leafy forest canopy, the dappled shade remained temperate throughout the long days as the Elven band slowly made their way through the dense woodland. They did not meet any Baeron during the easterly trek, nor did they see at the corner of the eye any evidence of the Fey. Hence only woodland birds and forest animals saw them passing through—or so it seemed—as they picked their way among the trees by day and camped in the forest by night. And one late afternoon some seven days after entering the Greatwood they emerged onto the rolling plains of Riamon.
The following day dawned to a mizzling rain as the Elves set out across the open wold on their eastward course, bearing a point or two northerly. In the distance to their left they could see through the drizzle the low crests of a spur of the Rimmen Mountains. They rode parallel to this spur for the next four days ere the mountains swung away to the north to join the main chain running east and west.
In the days that followed, the mountains remained in view ‘gainst the distant northern horizon, as the Elves made their way across open rolling land. And another fifteen days elapsed ere they came in mid of day to the village of Bridgeton, there where the Landover Road crossed over the Ironwater River. There, too, the Sea Road began, following southward alongside the Ironwater all the way to Rhondor, a city in the foothills above the great basin known as Hèl’s Crucible. The road then followed alongside
the foothills and the river and down to the shores of the ocean, rather than go through the Crucible itself, for that place was aptly named: hot, barren, arid, it was a deep bowl stretching a hundred miles onward to abruptly fetch up against a high stone barrier between it and the Avagon Sea.
Arin and her companions put up in the Red Goose in Bridgeton, in this traders’ town, and rested the remainder of that day and all the next, replenishing their diminished supplies and enjoying as well hot baths and hot meals and cool ale and rich red wine…and sleeping on soft featherbeds. And they sang sad and sweet and rousing songs in the common room of the inn, to the delight of the townsfolk and guests alike, for although bards came through now and again, it was well known that Elven songs and Elven singers were the best of them all…or so it was said. Regardless as to whether or not this belief is true, the tavern was packed to overflowing when the news spread that “Elves, real Elves, are singing in the Goose.”
The following day Arin and her comrades crossed the stone bridge above the Ironwater, and as they did so, two men on a great, rough, rope-bound raft of logs waved gaily up to them as they floated below downstream, perhaps logger-merchants from Dael riding the timber to Rhondor, a city of tile and clay and brick, where wood is precious.
Eastward fared the Elves along the Landover Road, intending to follow the tradeway all the way to the town of Vorlo on the border of Aralan. Steadily they wended along the road, an arc of the Rimmen Mountains in the distance to their left, the miles passing dustily beneath the shod hooves. They rode by day and stayed in crofters’ haylofts or in wayside inns or in open-air camps by night. On the ninth day after leaving Bridgeton they rode up a long slope toward a low set of hills, and late on the following day they crossed over this running ridge connecting the Rimmen Mountains in the north to the Skarpal Mountains in the south. They had come into Garia and they rode down onto the broad plains of this land. It was the twentieth day of August, and they had yet some eighteen hundred miles to go to reach Darda Vrka.
On they rode easterly, along the Landover Road, now running parallel to the Skarpals in the south. And as they rode, there were signs all about that the summer was beginning to wane as farmers in their fields harvested grain and drovers with dogs rounded up livestock and herded them down from the mountain meadows and toward their winter pastures. And at these signals of the passing seasons Arin fretted, for she had had her vision on the first day of July, and now it was nearing September. She chafed at the pace she and her comrades maintained, yet they could go no faster for they had to spare the horses and mules. And so past ripened crops and fresh-cut fields they rode, and herds coming down from the mountains, and all the while Arin wondered if the terrible doom were rushing pell-mell toward them all and if it would fall ere she or any could do aught to avert its horror, if indeed it could be averted at all. And slowly the miles receded behind them as they crept across the face of the world.