by David Rice
Alain took the bottle from her hand and set it down gently. His jaw quivered around the words. “You’re wrong,” he said. He lifted her chin to force eye contact. “It’s not too late for you.”
Edrie pulled away, burst into tears, and dropped onto the bed.
Alain remembered these displays from their childhood and his shoulders stiffened. “Pack your things. Those guards will be back.” Alain stomped from the cabin.
Balinor shot a quizzical look at Alain.
“Duke’s a cowardly ass. He’s allied with Lornen. He went along with Egrant’s butchering of my brother and the rest of them. If we go to the Duke’s keep, we’re dead, too.”
“Good to know,” Balinor mumbled. “And your—sister?”
“She’s coming with us.”
“We heading to Thunderwall or Wyntress Keep?”
Alain bit his lip and grumbled. “You’ll want to get back to Duke Arundy.”
Balinor nodded. “With Egrant butchering anyone on the road, we’d better. His people were thinking of heading back to the Highlands.”
Alain focused a hard stare northward towards Eohan’s Keep and then turned to face the east. “I’ll go with you as far as I can. We have to warn everyone about Egrant’s crimes.”
“Safer together,” Balinor agreed.
Soon, the three were riding away from the King’s Roads and crossing the windswept plains towards Wyntress Keep.
XXX
Kirsten’s first day of training with Cinn didn’t involve swinging a sword, just carrying it everywhere. Up trees. Down ropes. Up rocky escarpments. Down steep hills. Through snow drifts. Across icy streams full of crippling slippery rocks. By the mid-morning her body was a single aching nerve. And then Cinn introduced footwork and balance exercises. Of course, these were done with the sword moving through thrusts and parries, some performed with excruciating slowness and some faster than thought. Kirsten lost count of the times she wobbled, cursed, and fell. Yet through it all, she didn’t hear a single complaint from her new mentor. Cinn only cared about one thing. That she got back up.
Red faced, sticky with sweat, and struggling to slow her hammering heart, Kirsten resented how Cinn could complete every task alongside her without even breathing hard. When they paused to rest, Kirsten guzzled three cups of water and sprawled against the tree trunk.
Cinn smiled and reminded her to stretch. “Control your body and you control your greatest adversary,” he counselled.
“Oh, shush,” Kirsten rolled her eyes and grimaced. Cinn pretended not to notice and Kirsten decided she’d not give him the satisfaction. She concentrated upon pushing the air from her lungs and reaching past her toes, relaxing the muscles and holding the position, breathing through the tight wires of pain.
“We have a visitor,” Cinn announced pleasantly. “That will be enough for today, Kirsten. You are showing promise.”
Kirsten turned to face the stairs. Showing promise? As a torture victim, maybe. She felt like everything she attempted had been a complete and uncoordinated failure. And who would be visiting her? She shivered. Not Siandros, she prayed. Galen with a surprise sparkweaving challenge? How could she even concentrate upon the weave while her body whined from a hundred muscles? Her thoughts jumped to a happier place. Perhaps it was someone with food?
Not so lucky. It was the elven maid who had saved her life, and she looked like food never brushed her lips. She stepped lightly onto the platform and smiled shyly.
“The Second Warden said you have finished your training for today?”
“Mmm. I think it’s finished me,” Kirsten quipped. She patted the platform next to her. “Pull up some floor and have a seat.”
Dria frowned, then smiled, and lowered herself gracefully.
“I owe you,” Kirsten started. “But why did you warn me? Didn’t that make your, uhh, partner, angry?”
Dria stared at Kirsten with a puzzled look. “What he planned was wrong. He expected me to be quiet about such an act but I could not.”
Kirsten’s eyes softened. “He and Ballok both have it out for me. What’s so important about defending me?”
Dria’s expression raced between shock and acceptance. “All life is sacred. Even yours.”
Kirsten twisted to face the elf squarely. “I don’t get it. I’m an abomination. You all say it. If I was a boy, I’d be dead already.”
Dria looked away but did not blush. When she looked back at Kirsten her smile had returned. “I saw you come into this world.”
“What? How? You don’t look much older than me.”
Dria’s voice dripped with patience. “I am one hundred and thirty-seven.” Kirsten was speechless.
“Your mother was seven hundred and ten when she bore you.”
“By the One,” Kirsten whispered. “I didn’t know elves lived that long.” Her eyes cast about. But my friends. Family. Does that me I’ll live hundreds of cycles, too?”
“You’ll probably live longer than most humans but not that long.”
“Oh,” Kirsten whispered.
Dria flashed another puzzled look and then laughed.
Kirsten’s eyes darkened. “What exactly happened to my mother? My Papa said that you cast her out. What does that even mean? Were you a part of that, too?”
“Oh,” Dria’s voice softened. “The Woodmothers are bound by the Xa’lia. Our sacred texts. She was returned to her home in the Salt Isles for judgement.”
Kirsten’s eyes narrowed. “Is she—okay? Safe there? You must know something.”
Dria looked away again to repackage her smile. “It is not our place to interfere in the workings of another Clan.”
Kirsten wrinkled her nose. “That’s stupid.”
Dria huffed and stood slowly. “I don’t expect you to understand, just to respect that our ways have differences.”
“Well, I’m going to visit those Salt Isles, one day, and see my mother,” Kirsten stated. “If no one here can tell me, I’ll find out for myself.”
Dria’s smile returned. “You surprise me, Kirsten Starwatcher.”
Kirsten gritted her teeth and stood up close to the elf, eye to eye. She was surprised to discover that she was a bit taller than Dria. “I keep being told that,” she said.
Dria smirked inscrutably. “You came into this world physically strong. Your arrival even tore your mother. Big shoulders to bear heavy burdens, I suppose.”
Kirsten frowned. She had socked another girl once for far less. “What did you come here for, really? Just to get a thank you from me because that’s already been served.”
Dria’s laughter surprised even her. “No,” she grinned. “What I really came here to do was to tell you that I admire your spirit.”
“You—what?” Kirsten took a step back.
“Truly,” Dria continued. “Eko tells me this must be why you are fated to carry the Fahde.”
“Eko?”
Dria blushed a little as she explained. “He is a gifted sage, a student of the council elder Alvilas, and he is doing everything he can to discover the secrets of the Fahde, how it was first used, and how this knowledge can assist you.”
Kirsten nodded. “I see. Well, uhh, thank you.”
“You should show the sword to him.”
Kirsten wrinkled her nose. “Don’t think so. Sharing the sword hasn’t worked out so well.”
Dria’s eyes clouded with disappointment. She started to leave but halted half-way and looked back at Kirsten and rubbed her wrist. “I can respect that. I think your spirit, your independence, might be a good example for some of us.”
Kirsten stood motionless as Dria glided down the stairs and out of sight. “How can they be so nice and so irritating all at once?” she grumbled to herself. Was she fated to be half that
irritating?
Kirsten finished her stretching and decided to visit the wardens who kept Longwood’s extensive pantry.
Throughout the evening, a few additional questions continued to nag at her even more
than her muscles. What did Eko know about the sword? Would he tell her everything she needed to know, or was this another way of proving she was not worthy?
XXXI
Olaf crouched under the copse of trees and waited for the sun to set. Behind him, he could hear the Raelyn River’s ice breaking and crashing as it began its journey hundreds of leagues to the ocean. A short jaunt to the west were the stone towers of The Crossing, its boats and chains now still, its approaches along the Halnn Road blocked by a newly built dwarven stockade. A few gnomes trickled along the road after having skirted the dwarven lines. They had left the road and passed to the north through a desolation of stumps where a proud forest had once stood. They were mostly farmers and tradesmen, returning to their homes from Graniteside, Eastfork, or any number of places their skills had been employed. Olaf wished he could go home, too, but he knew that was impossible. The greatest threat wasn’t the drakes themselves, he realized. It was the fearful madness they inspired. A madness that convinced his own people that they could master any force of nature. No. The only chance his people, and all people, had was to learn how to use the artifacts of the past to force the drakes to sleep once more. And for that to happen, the elves would need the gem he carried.
Olaf waited until the moons were shrouded by cloud and the roads were quiet. It took several tries before his nerve was up to leaving cover. He slipped across the Halnn road in an easterly direction. Once the road was out of sight, he swung gradually westward again. In the ghostly light, the stumps stretched in every direction like black tombstones. Olaf smiled, noticing the occasional young tree thrust upward in defiance. As softly as he stepped, the snow still crunched, unseen tree roots still tripped and grabbed, and his breath puffed little clouds of steam like a trail over the wasteland. He felt exposed but feared travelling farther north to the tree line. Wolves would be hunting, bears would be waking, and Olaf had a powerful need not to be someone’s next meal. The sooner he could reach Longwood, the better. Olaf picked up his pace, knowing that the hills would soon be getting steeper.
Olaf had just crossed the ridge of a hill and started down the other side when he tripped over a stick hidden in the snow. He yelped when a line seized his ankle, a young tree snapped upright, and his world turned upside down.
His head rang as he swung helplessly in the air. The sudden force had spilled his backpack and freed him of one boot. How clumsy could he be to stumble into a trapper’s snare? He strained to reach the line holding him. Cursing his pot belly, he gave up and reached for his knife. It had also fallen in the snow. He tried to swing towards the tree trunk but it had grown from the hill at an angle that taunted him and could not be grasped. Who would have set this trapline? Human soldiers looking for food and about to catch a spy? Some of Digby’s bounty hunters? Olaf groaned. He had to keep trying to free himself before someone came along in the morning to check their handiwork.
The wind picked up and he lost feeling in his foot. The sound of an owl gave him chills that would not subside. His vision was filling with red and he found himself struggling to stay awake. If he could just loosen the line then he could wiggle free. Once more he swung, this time with the purpose of grabbing his ankle where the line was sawing into his skin.
Yes. His fingers grabbed his foot, and he gasped at the cold unfeeling weight it had become. Fighting to keep his grip while his head thrummed and his vision cleared, Olaf noticed that a metal clip had been used to lock the line tight. Whoever did this wasn’t a simple trapper. He was someone who used the best equipment. Olaf squinted at it some more and his heart filled with panic when he saw the miniscule imprint of a Halnn crafting house.
Fumbling until his fingernails split and bled did no good. All Olaf could manage was hooking a strap of his glove around the line to keep his head partially upright. His labours left him gasping and spinning slowly. Helpless. His hopes of doing something worthwhile, even heroic, were crushed.
Olaf must have passed out before dawn because the sound of footsteps made him jolt awake. His head bobbed left and right trying to locate the sound. Standing along the crest of the hill looking down upon him was a gnome. He wore fur lined leathers covered in pockets and an elaborate helmet with several tubes mounted on swivelled arms and he was pulling a sled thick with supplies. Across his back, long, silver, and deadly, was a rifle. It was the first rifle Olaf had ever seen closely.
The trapper grinned at Olaf and shook his head.
“Help me,” Olaf pleaded. “Get me down.”
The gnome ignored Olaf. He turned away and disappeared from the crest.
“What?” Olaf yelled. “You’ll let me die out here?” No answer. Why would he leave so quickly and not help? Who could that strange fellow be? If he didn’t work for Digby, how long would it be before he told someone? And why did he have one of the newest of Halln’s rifles?
Olaf’s mind slowed. A rifle. And a helmet with scopes. His body surged with panic. Aldo Corebit? He’d been caught by the infamous Aldo Corebit the elf killer? And then left to die? His mind spun darker options. Or left as bait?
Olaf struggled frantically to free himself, cursing energetically. His glove tore and he fell head down once more. No use. Covered in sweat and as weak as a noodle, he dangled over the snow and let the wind grasp him, hoping the chill would ease him to sleep.
The footsteps returned. Not just one set of footsteps this time. Several. Olaf closed his eyes. Corebit had brought Digby’s bounty hunters. It was over.
Then Olaf heard a familiar voice.
“Bunmor, you won’t believe what was makin;’ all that noise.”
The line was swiftly cut and Olaf was caught by strong hands. He opened his eyes and thought he was hallucinating.
“Grumm?” his voice crackled. “I don’t—”
The burly young dwarf laughed. “Making noise as usual, I see.”
“Careful. There’s a hunter out there—”
Grumm looked up. “Nah. Nothing nearby. Yer safe if I can convince my kin that yer not a spy.”
“Again?” Olaf whispered.
Grumm grinned through his rising concern. “You just let me do the talking. We’re close to The Crossing. That’s where we’re headed.”
“I need to bring something to Longwood—.” Olaf’s voice trailed off.
“That can wait. Rest,” Grumm insisted.
Olaf had no choice. All strength fled from his bones. He closed his eyes as the other dwarves arrived.
Bunmor stepped up and chuckled. “Every time I see this gnome, he’s tied up and needin’ a rescue.”
“He’s freezin’ half to death an’ was talkin’ of goin’ to Longwood,” Grumm stated. “We need ta get ‘im covered up.”
The younger dwarves, one nursing a sore jaw, decided not to raise any concerns that this gnome could be a spy, or might cause them trouble. Instead, they lifted him onto a sled, and covered him in blankets.
Olaf did not move when Bunmor sifted through his pockets and pulled out a magnificent blue gem. Its radiance made all of the dwarves lean in to get a better look.
“Don’t be takin’ that for yerself,” Grumm warned. “I think Olaf wanted to take that gem to the elves.”
“Elves? No. Beru’s gotta see this,” Bunmor replied. “No question he’ll be impressed.”
Grumm reluctantly nodded. “Aye. We’re nearly to The Crossing an’ I’m aching for a good ale by a warm fire.”
All the dwarves agreed to that.
***
Grumm didn’t get to enjoy that ale. At least not right away. As soon as the dwarves reached The Crossing, Jarl Beru and Thane Glandrew commanded their presence for a full report. The party was escorted through the stockade and to the side of the first massive pillar.
With a swift exchange of ritual greetings, the concealed entry blazed white along the seams of an ancient carving, and then opened slowly. Musty air and oily torchlight spilled upward, revealing a wide spiralling staircase that travelled both upward and down. The dwarves plunged
down into the vast half-forgotten ruin, trying not to drop Olaf from the sled, and trying harder not to complain.
There was no time taken for meals or baths. They were immediately whisked into a round hall and the centre of many corridors. Six well armed guards stood to the sides of Beru and Glandrew. Beru grinned briefly. Glandrew scowled and crossed his arms.
The dwarves put down the sled carrying Olaf, then knelt.
“You’ve returned with news worthy of my ears?” Beru thundered. “Better than last time?”
“We hope so, Jarl Beru,” Bunmor answered timidly.
Glandrew pointed at Grumm and Olaf. “It’s never good news with those two.”
Beru ignored Glandrew’s comment. “Have you made any discoveries that could help us against the drakes?”
