Authors: Dennis L. McKiernan
A
los smacked his lips and peered at his mug and men at the ale flagon, both empty. “You tell a powerful tale, Lady Arin. Works me up a great thirst, you know. And there’s none left in the pitcher, what with Egil here drinking, too.”
Egil smiled and glanced at his mug, his first, and still half full.
Aiko stared impassively at the old man.
Alos peered into the empty pitcher once again and then looked at Arin. “Is the story done? Surely not. And don’t you think that Egil here needs some more ale to last him through the rest of the tale? I know I’ve worked up a great thirst, or did I say that already?”
Arin sighed. “Nay, Alos, my tale is not yet complete; there is more to tell. Much more.”
“W’ll, if that’s the case, then I say we’ll need another flagon or two, eh?”
Aiko stalked to the window and stood peering out at the growing day, her fists clenched behind her back.
Arin stepped to Egil’s side and felt his brow and took the measure of his pulse. “Art thou able to listen to more? I would not overtire thee.”
Egil flashed a smile at her. “I am well enough.” Then his face grew somber. “I would hear further of this doom you have foreseen and why it brought you to this place.”
Alos took up the pitcher. “But first we get some fresh ale, Lady Arin. Right?”
The Dylvana shook her head. “Nay, Alos. First I shall tell more of the tale and then shall I let thee see to the replenishment of the flagon.”
The old man’s face fell, and he peered wanly into the empty pitcher.
Egil smiled and held out his half-full mug. “Here, Alos, perhaps this will hold you a moment more.”
With alacrity, Alos stepped to Egil’s bedside and took the offering, grinning his brown-stained smile. He bore the precious cargo to the table and eased down in his chair.
Aiko remained standing and staring out the window as Arin returned to her seat by the fire and took up the thread of her tale once again:
“We had just come unto the marches of Darda Galion…”
B
ordered on the north by low-running foothills and an open windswept wold, on the south by the Great Escarpment falling a thousand feet sheer, on the west by the jagged fangs of the towering Grimwall Mountains, and on the east by the ever-flowing mighty River Argon, there lies a twilight land, an Elven land, a land known as Darda Gallon, as the Eldwood, as Larkenwald, as the Land of the Silverlarks. It is a vast forest of gigantic trees, Eld Trees, trees not native to Mithgar but borne one by one as seedlings from the Hohgarda to the Mittegarda, from the High Plane to the Middle, and planted in this rich land of many rivers. A weald from Adonar borne as seedlings yet now they are giants; the scale of the work undertaken by the Elves to bring an entire forest of these trees to Mithgar is truly staggering.
And the trees now tower hundreds of feet into the air; and the girth of each bole is many paces around. The ages needed for them to reach this height?…only the Elven foresters know.
Yet the enormous reach of time required is of no moment to the Elves. After all they are an immortal Folk whose lives are forever just beginning, no matter the span of their age. And so what matter that it had taken a thousand years or ten thousand for the forest to be born and soar upward hundreds of feet toward the sky?…What matter? Why, none at all to the Elves; the only thing that matters is that the presence of the Eld Trees reminds them of home.
The wood of these forest giants is precious—prized above all others—but none of these trees has ever been felled by any of the Free Folk. Yet at times a harvest of
sorts is made in the soaring timberland, for occasionally lightning or a great wind sweeping up from the wide plains of Valon below the escarpment in the south will cause branches to fall; and these are collected by the Lian storm-gleaners and the wood cherished, each priceless limb studied long ere the carver’s tools touch the grain. And gentle Elven hands make treasures dear of this precious debris.
It is said that time stands still in the lofty silence of this twilight land, yet that cannot be, else the trees would still be nought but seedlings.
And to the edge of this vast forest came Arin and six others, their mission urgent.
A
s the ferrymen hitched the mule to the barge, the Elven warden—Tarol—continued speaking in Sylva: “Tonight ye shall stay in our campsite, and tell us whatever news ye have.” He glanced at the men now ready to hale the float upriver along the tow path. Turning to the Elven band he lowered his voice and said, “But first we shall follow these Rivermen and make certain they gather no wood but return instead straightly to Olorin Isle.”
Silverleaf raised an eyebrow. He canted his head toward the men. “Is there some cause for distrust?”
“Rumors,” answered Tarol. “We shall speak of them once the boat is away.”
The Riverman on the shore called to the men on the barge, and upon receiving their grunted replies, he began leading the mule upstream and towing the ferry by a long rope behind. On the boat turn by turn each of the three men stepped to the bow and set his pole against the bank and pressed away from the shore, all the while keeping his place by slowly walking toward the stern, only to do it all over again when he reached the end of the deck; in this way the three men kept the boat from grounding. Pacing along the tow path behind came the Elves, Tarol leading, seven following, horses in hand. Stars wheeled up into the spangled sky and traveled nearly a third of the way across the vault ere the ferry arrived at the west-shore dock somewhat north of the northern extent of the midriver isle. The Rivermen took a short rest. Then they unharnessed the mule and walked it aboard and coiled the rope and stowed the poles and unshipped the oars. One of the men hawked and spat in the Argon and they shoved off for Olorin, torchlight along the far dock glimmering in the distance.
* * *
The Elven band sat at the campfire in the march-ward camp down among the enormous Eld Trees and took a late meal along with members of the Lian border patrol. The seven had arrived at the change of shift, and Lian drifted in and out, some departing for their posts, while others, now relieved of duty, came to the fire and a warm meal. Some spoke briefly with Silverleaf and the Dylvana Elves, looking for news from Darda Erynian, trading news of Darda Galion. Of their mission, the seven held tongue, saying instead that they would speak of it to Coron Aldor first.
During a lull in conversation, Melor gestured at the camp and turned to Tarol and asked, “Why is it ye need a border patrol?”
Tarol smiled. “Two reasons, my friend: first, we protect the Eld Trees. They are precious and we would not have any come unbidden to steal the wood away—such as at times the Rivermen try to do.
“Second, unlike Darda Erynian, this mighty forest harbors no Hidden Ones—not that they would be unwelcome; nay, they would be greeted with open arms.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Melor. “Do they shun Darda Galion? If so, why?”
Tarol sighed and shook his head. “They do not, as you say,
shun
these woods. Instead, none dwell herein because this forest was not in existence when the Fey came unto Mithgar; they put down their roots elsewhere.”
Silverleaf nodded in agreement. “Aye. ’Tis true. They were well settled in Darda Erynian even as we began riding the dawn to bring the seedlings from the High Plane to this land of many rivers. As Coron of the forest aborning, I sent emissaries unto the Hidden Ones to welcome them to abide herein. They declined. —Not out of malice or dislike, but simply because they were favorably set in their own warded wood.”
Tarol turned to Silverleaf. “Thou wert Coron of Darda Galion?”
“Aye, once, long apast, when the forest was but yea high.” Vanidar held his hand a foot or so above the
ground. “But then my interest was drawn elsewhere and Elmaron took on the task.”
Tarol looked ’round at the immense trees, then canted his head to Vanidar. “Well done, Silverleaf. Well done.”
Vanidar smiled but said nought.
Melor peered deeply into the shadows of the Eldwood, then said, “Hm. No Hidden Ones. It must be…lonely.”
Tarol shrugged. “Mayhap. I cannot say, for I have dwelled only in Darda Galion since riding the dawn.”
Melor reached out and clapped Tarol on the shoulder. “Wert thou to come among the Fey, thou wouldst discover they are boon.”
* * *
In the aftermath of their meal, while taking tea and bits of mian, Vanidar asked, “Tarol, what are these rumors concerning the Rivermen?”
Tarol replenished his cup and Melor’s as well. As he set the pot back on the grille—“Ill words, my friend, ill words. It seems that too many merchant boats may be finding the rocks in the Race.”
Biren stopped chewing on a last bit of bread. “What has this to do with the Rivermen?”
Perin turned to his twin. “Didst thou not see? The Rivermen salvage wrack downstream from the Race.”
Biren shrugged. “Aye. Yet the Race is perilous, and wrecks occur.”
They looked at Tarol. He sipped from his cup, then said, “Of recent, too many good pilots have been lost, or so the merchants say—pilots who have run the Race many times.”
Ruar helped himself to a small portion of mian. “And thou thinkest foul work is afoot and the Rivermen are to blame?”
“We know not,” answered Tarol.
Arin paused in thought, then said, “It would take someone either in the Race or somewhere upriver to set the boats to ruin in those hazardous waters.”
Tarol nodded. “Exactly so, Dara. Forget not that thirty-five leagues north of the Race the Rivermen occupy their fort on Great Isle—Vrana, or some such, I think they
name it, and River Guardians they style themselves…and collect tolls as protection fees.”
“That nest of Rivermen was in my mind,” replied Arin. “Say on.”
Tarol shrugged. “One possibility is that the River Guardians found that more profit is to be made in so-called river salvage, and with their kindred on Olorin Isle they make certain that salvage enough occurs.”
“
Hai!
” exclaimed Perin, leaping to his feet and flashing his blade on high. “But I would like to catch them at it.”
Biren clenched his fist and sharply nodded at his twin in agreement.
As Perin sat back down, Rissa asked, “Is aught being done to confirm or lay to rest these rumors?”
Tarol nodded. “The woodsmen of the vales—the Baeron—now set watch on both the Race and the fortress isle, while we keep an eye on Olorin.”
“Huah, Baeron on watch upriver?” exclaimed Ruar, cocking a skeptical eyebrow. “We saw them not.”
Vanidar smiled. “That is because they did not wish to be seen, my friend.”
* * *
Soon the change of shift was complete; the returning Lian took their meals and conversed a bit, and then settled down to sleep. At last the seven took to their bedrolls as well, guarded this night by others.
* * *
A sweet caroling heralded dawn as the
Vani-lêrihha
sang high in the boughs overhead, the Silverlarks having flown
in-between
with the coming of the sun.
Arin yawned and stretched and rubbed her eyes and peered up among the shadowy leaves of the enormous trees, trying to espy one of the warblers.
Where art thou, little Silverlark? Thou hast ridden the dawn from the High Plane to here and I would see thee ere thou return to Adonar with the setting of the sun.
A silvery grey flash caught her eye as one of the larks darted away. Arin sighed.
Aye, little bird, thou hast the right of it, flying off on a venture of thine own. ’Tis time we, too, set forth.
She
sat up and looked ’round at the others, most of whom were awake as well.
* * *
After the breaking of fast, the seven set forth amid fare-thee-wells from the march wardens, Tarol wishing them fortune on their mission. And into the towering forest they rode at a canter.
Through the soft shadows of the great trees wended their trail, the hoofbeats of the horses muffled by moss underfoot, and what little sound they made was lost in the dimlit galleries below the umbrous interlace high overhead.
As they passed among the massive boles, Arin studied the Eld Trees: mighty were these great-girthed sylvan giants, soaring into the sky. And even though the morning sun shone brightly, down below in the forest the world took on the cast of twilight…for these were Eld Trees from the High Plane, from Adonar, and Elves lived among them, and so the leaves turned dusky green and
gathered
the gloaming.
At one point when the Elves had dismounted to walk the horses through the quiet of the woods, Arin turned to Rissa and asked, “How tall wouldst thou say these stand?”
“The trees?”
“Aye.”
Rissa looked into the branches above, gauging. “Vanidar says out here near the marge they are not as tall as those deep in the central woods, for these were planted last.” Rissa raised her voice and called out to Silverleaf: “
Chier
, what is the measure of these trees…their height?”
Without turning, Vanidar called back, “I would judge that if we could step up their sides, one hundred or so Lian strides would pace the full length of each; yet the first ones we planted nigh Wood’s-heart stand at least a hundred and eighty paces tall.”
Arin glanced ahead at Silverleaf walking and judged what his stride might be—a bit less than a yard when stepping out a measure. “Then it is as I thought: these are not yet as great as the trees in Adonar.”
With his free hand, Vanidar made a negating gesture. “Nay, they yet have tens of millennia to grow ere reaching their full height.”
Arin gazed into the twilit galleries. “The trees, Vanidar, they gather twilight in the presence of Elvenkind. Dost thou know how they do such?”
Silverleaf turned and smiled and shook his head. “Nay, Ring. I can only say that somehow the trees sense Elvenkind. Somehow we are connected.”