~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Limbreth gulped water and thrashed in the river, expecting to slam into a rock. No, that was the Funnel. She gripped the White Arrow in her hand and kicked to the surface. The Bane kept throwing her into water. She was getting tired of that. The boat drifted away.
Crewmen and rangers waved torches across the water from the deck. "Overboard!" they shouted across the water.
"Here!" Limbreth waved her hands, one still holding the arrow. "I'm over here." She thrashed and splashed for emphasis until they tossed a rope from the bow. She grabbed the life-line, and they hauled her aboard the boat.
Hastra grabbed her face. "Are you well? Did it harm you?"
Limbreth laughed. "I got it back. I got it!" She waved her left hand in Hastra's field of vision.
The Withling fell on her backside amid the spreading water from Limbreth and gasped, her eyes wide. She clamped one hand over her mouth and pointed.
Limbreth’s laughter died as she glimpsed her death-grip hand frozen around the arrow shaft. It was broken halfway along the length. She wailed. "No! It's still got the other half!" She stood and searched the darkness for the Bane, and crewmen and rangers had to hold her back from falling into the river again.
The captain approached and bellowed, "What's going on? What's all this commotion?"
Limbreth shook the broken arrow toward him. "It's broken!"
The captain gazed at everyone else in the sudden silence. "All this about an arrow?"
"Uh, you looking for this?" One of the crewmen stooped farther down the deck and approached with what he'd retrieved. "Saw that thing drop this. Then it went over and just slid across the river." He motioned with his flattened hand across the water and shivered. "Creepy, that."
Limbreth snatched the other half of the arrow from the crewman and held the pieces in each hand. She whirled to Hastra. "Do something! You can mend it with a prayer."
Hastra shook her head. "I've got nothing."
The Withling's face was stricken with terror. Limbreth grasped both halves of the arrow to one hand and grabbed Hastra's shoulder. "Don't just sit there. Pray!"
Hastra took the pieces and lowered her face, and all fell silent. She raised her face after a few moments, now composed but tense. "I'm sorry. There's nothing for me. Perhaps Zelma or Howart can."
"What's wrong with you? You've always got the answers."
Hastra handed the pieces back to Limbreth. "It's not about answers. Perhaps it will be mended in due time. Either that, or..." She looked toward the darkened riverbank, then lifted her gaze to the sky. "It's still there."
Limbreth gaped at the night sky. "The sign. It still means something, then?
Hastra watched Limbreth a moment, her lip trembling. "It means we go on. As long as it's there, we have something to do, broken arrow or not."
"What does it mean if no one can mend the Arrow?" Limbreth raised the pieces high overhead.
"I don't know. Maybe..." Hastra slouched. "Maybe the prophecy is thwarted." She glanced at Limbreth sidelong.
Limbreth whirled and strode to the prow. Her shoulders shook with a sudden sob. What had she done? She never should have taken the arrow. It wasn't meant for her to keep for Athson. She'd failed him, failed the prophecy, failed everyone. Including Hastra. That mattered to her. She admitted that much to herself. What the old woman thought of her mattered as much as everything else. She gazed at the broken arrow in her hand, the holy light gone from the pieces. They were worthless. Limbreth stretched her arm behind her.
Hastra grabbed her arm. "Don't."
Limbreth pulled away and swore. "They're worthless now. It's over." Tears came. All the travel, the sacrifice. It meant nothing. It was over with these two broken pieces of arrow.
Hastra embraced Limbreth. "Listen to me. Just listen a moment." Limbreth grew still in the Withling's embrace, who then continued, "I've suffered losses before, but I'm still here. Eloch still had his plans. It's not over, and these may not be worthless. Who knows how Eloch will lead us from here." She took the pieces from Limbreth. "We know nothing of what this means."
Her sobbing faded, but Limbreth slouched, her energy gone. She shivered from the cold and the chill of the river. Hastra led her below to their room and helped her out of her sodden gear. She lay in the lower bunk and gathered the arrow pieces from where Hastra had set them.
"Hastra?"
"What, my dear?" The Withling's voice sounded husky, less energetic than Limbreth ever remembered.
"The Bane, it won't bother us anymore. We can get this to Athson without trouble."
Hastra slowly turned and gaped at Limbreth.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Athson turned and found the man and woman he’d helped standing in the shadows. "Know anyone with a shovel or spade?"
The woman stammered, "He h-hit me in the face when we tried to stop him, and punched him in the nose." She pointed to the man.
Athson squinted at them. Her lip was busted and bloody, and his nose trailed blood. Athson watched them sidelong as other people crowded near. Still looking at the man and woman, he asked again, "Anybody got tools for digging?"
"I do." Someone at the back of the throng raised a hand in the shadows of night. "I'll go fetch them." Athson watched the man's head bob through the crowd as he went for his things.
"Was it thieves?" A woman, not the one Athson had visited for several nights, hugged herself, her face pale in the firelight.
Athson stepped close to her as her knees wobbled. Other people nearby caught her as she collapsed. He glanced at his hands, covered in Apeth's blood. He motioned to the couple he'd been feeding. "They were knocked down by the killer."
The low voice of a dwarf rumbled out of the crowd. "He get anything?"
Athson almost ran his bloody fingers through his hair, then thought better of it. He shook his head. "Don't know. This man has traveled with me for weeks. He didn't have much."
He squinted at his "friends" as they edged back into the crowd. A few people asked after them and offered a cloth to wipe the blood from their faces. Athson retrieved his sword and sheathed it.
A figure in dark clothing left their campfire.
Now that was from Eloch. Why not a prayer to save Apeth Stellin? Still, Athson had seen something familiar in that mysterious figure’s stride, the set of the shoulders, the angle of the neck—even if they were cloaked and hooded. Athson glanced back at Apeth. Killed by a Rokan dagger? That too was familiar. It had to be Corgren, just like Apeth said. He clenched his jaw. Corgren needed dealing with.
Minith arrived, and Athson told her what had happened. She backed the bystanders off and told them to keep their weapons ready. Some folks mumbled about trolls scouting the road. The elven sergeant asked several stout men and the dwarf to help with the digging, since someone had procured several tools. They all obliged, and Minith took Athson aside to clean him up after she gathered his gear, including the Bow of Hart.
"This about your mission? With the Withlings?" She pitched her voice low.
"Probably." Athson’s stomach knotted. "I'm pretty sure it is. He told me it was a Rokan dagger. I've faced a certain wizard, named Corgren, who owns one."
"I see." Minith washed Athson's hands and cocked her head toward the grave being dug. "Why him?"
Athson fixed his gaze on Minith. Could he trust her? He should. She was a ranger and an elf. Athson whispered, " Just like I told you before who he is. That's why."
Minith's eyes widened. "There are few enough of them left. Who was he?"
Athson gauged his setting. Apeth had said to ride out. "I shouldn't say. But I need to ride out in the morning. I’ve got to finish this." He glanced at the Bow of Hart.
Minith paused. "I see. Well, there are several merchant's guards we can depend on and several dwarves and other men who are pretty stout. We'll do well enough."
Athson nodded. "I'll see him buried first. But if I leave, much of the immediate danger leaves too. Thanks for understanding."
They buried Apeth in the morning. Athson helped cover the grave. He was doing a lot of that lately. Well, just one other, but it was starting to add up. He didn't think this was part of being a Withling. With the last shovel of dirt, he paused, sweating in the chilly morning air. Hastra and Apeth had both mentioned the slaughter at Withling's Watch centuries earlier. Maybe death was more of being a Withling than he expected, at least when Magdronu was involved. Athson returned the shovel to its owner with his thanks.
Most of the people who slept nearby left before Athson and the other few men completed the burial. Some stopped off and paid their respects, even mentioning small kindnesses done for them by Apeth. Those little tales surprised Athson, since he hadn't noticed most of them. Apeth would be missed. His stomach felt like an empty pit.
He gathered his belongings and mounted the horse but kept the mule in tow, a hard reminder of his missing friend and mentor. He caught sight of Spark nearby and motioned to him to follow. Best just trot on through, clear the crowd, and then ride hard. He'd trade the mule later for supplies.
As he passed Minith, Athson nodded to her and the other rangers. He hated leaving this duty, but the bow was important now. His father and others had died for it. There was some reason behind all that, and Athson wasn't going to squander their sacrifices.
Athson yanked on his reins near Minith. "Do you have something I can use as a pole?"
"Yeah, got a spear here in the wagon." Minith rode over by the wagon and pulled the spear out. "Will this do?"
Athson took the pole-weapon from Minith. The haft was long and sturdy, the head still tight. "Good enough. You don't need it?"
"No, not for this kind of work. We have our bows and long-knives. Take it. You're still with the rangers."
"Thanks." He was still a ranger, he supposed. With the butt of the spear braced in his stirrup, Athson wheeled away and set out at a fast clip, the mule still trailing. He'd stow the spear with the mule later. But now he had what he needed. If everyone around him had died for a purpose, then he still carried the banner of his family's house for a purpose. He'd tie that onto the spear and furl it until he needed the banner of the ten-tines. If he was going to beat back the curse, he'd best declare his freedom from it as well as not being from a family of traitors. He set his jaw. Maybe that was something from Eloch. He didn't know but it felt right somehow.
He rode hard all day, bypassing Huffer's Post, though he hated missing the chance to see Huffer and his wife. But by the looks of it, they knew trolls were approaching in numbers, as they appeared to be selling or loading their inventory to evacuate. Athson rode on and passed the turn to the landing farther north on the river. He reined his horse to a halt and considered the road. What was needed just now?
Horses approached from the east in the distance. Spark's hackles rose, and he snarled. So not normal riders. Athson waited, letting them get closer. Best see who was following him.
They drew close and pulled their reins, slowing to a trot. They rode with their hoods fallen about their shoulders. A man and a woman, the ones he'd helped.
Athson drew his sword. Not them. He held his sword aloft until he could shout to them. "Close enough. What do you want?"
The woman urged her horse forward a few steps. "You helped us. We want to ride with you and help you in return."
Athson's horse danced beneath him. He shook his head. "I don't think so. Ride on back where you came from and return the horses."
"These are ours. We mean you no harm.” She raised her hands.
"Maybe they are yours, but you're not going with me." Athson brandished his sword. "Do not try me."
The woman eyed the sword, then Athson. She swallowed and said something over her shoulder to the man. Athson doubted they were married.
Athson's hair rose like Spark's hackles. The mountain hound still snarled. Athson had a thought, but first he said, "Look, I befriended you because I was supposed to. I've offered you blessings. I suggest you take them and turn from whatever it is you're doing. But for now, you're leaving." Was he even doing this right? He missed Apeth more than ever.
"And who will make us?" the man shouted, his accent suddenly tinged with that of a Rokan.
Time to see if they knew about Spark. Athson smiled. "My friend here will do the honors. Spark! At 'em!"
The mountain hound charged. The man and the woman hesitated, but their eyes followed Spark's snarling approach. They both wheeled their horses and galloped away.
Athson whistled Spark back. Good to know he could use Spark against them. They were likely Rokan mages of some sort. The woman had recognized his sword, so she'd attacked the dwarven tower that night.
Athson eyed the landing road. Now for the decision.
Make your best choice and ride. Time's getting short.
Why he felt that, Athson didn't understand, but he turned and rode hard until dusk. Other landings remained downriver, and he was more likely to catch the fleet of river vessels carrying the bulk of the ranger garrison and his friends—not to mention his mother.
After nightfall, Athson watered the mule and the horse and let them rest awhile. But he soon mounted the mule and walked the animals into the night, leaning onto the mule's neck and dozing as he rode. Spark kept watch for him. As he nodded, Athson wondered if a mule walked faster than the current in the Auguron River. He snorted. Likely not, but at least he was moving. Just like Apeth wanted.
But Corgren was somewhere out there.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Hastra sat awake half the night or wandered onto the deck. The arrow lay broken in Limbreth's care. The Bane no longer pursued them. Presumably. Upon the deck, she considered the implications as the wind brushed against her face. Without interference, they'd make Auguron City without more trouble. The boat rolled in the current beneath her, and she shuffled her feet. Their entire journey shuddered beneath them if Limbreth's statement proved correct.
Less trouble suited Hastra well. The entire trip weighed on her now. How long until...? Well, not worth considering. She touched her midsection where the old wound lay hidden behind her blouse. She wasn't as young as she used to be. Less excitement suited her fading energy now. Her exhale billowed her cheeks. If she survived the confrontation to come—and there would be one—she needed retirement, or a nice long stay somewhere. Withling's Watch, perhaps. She doubted that would ever happen for her.
She found a seat on a crate, her legs worn out. Limbreth and the Bane proved far quicker than she. Weariness dragged at her daily now. Hastra cast her gaze skyward. With the arrow broken and the sign fading quickly in the sky, she needed direction. If Athson still retained the Bow of Hart, then certainly Eloch planned something with the White Arrow. All of the prophecy's elements had been presented to them already. That was no mistake. The arrow was always Eloch's provenance. She chuckled. Well, all of it really. Who was she kidding? She trusted Eloch. No sense giving up now. Not after all this time guarding, struggling, and sacrificing.
Limbreth had almost tossed the arrow in the river. Good thing Hastra stopped her. She shrugged. But then, Eloch always provided, so no use considering what had never happened.
A ranger guard walked by Hastra. "Withling, can I help you?"
"Ah, no, just thinking." She offered a wan smile in the light of a nearby lantern.
"Well, my apologies that the intruder got aboard without our notice." The ranger turned to go.
"That thing has been a bother to me for months. Someone threw it off a mountainside and still didn't kill it. Limbreth's brave but over-matched."
The ranger gaped. "Really? Off a mountainside?" He shook his head. "That's dark magic if I ever heard tell of any."
"Dark indeed. But you needn't worry about it. I doubt it will return now." She patted the ranger's arm, and he left.
She sniffed. Likely that Corgren and his lot, maybe even Magdronu, thought they'd won this contest already. Eloch could use a broken arrow if he wanted.
She chuckled and wobbled below decks, where
she found Limbreth fast asleep in the top bunk. Hastra wedged her way into the lower bunk and put her hands behind her head. She stared at the upper bunk in the near darkness. Things weren't good at the moment, but they weren't hopeless. She'd been in a dungeon after being stabbed to death and still escaped. Things could always be worse. Hastra closed her eyes and went to sleep for what was left of the night.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Tordug's heart sank with the morning news. The White Arrow broken in a fight with the Bane overnight. He walked away from Makwi and sat on some crates, his belly suddenly as empty as raided treasure chests. He rested his head in his hands and grimaced. What hope had they without Eloch's prophecy? Without everything they needed? Corgren's trolls marched for Auguron City, and they could easily win that fight with Magdronu’s help. Tordug tried to swallow the lump in his throat.
Makwi approached and stood by him. Nearby, Ralda rumbled some song of his people.
"Pass the word to Gweld." Tordug lifted his head and stared into Makwi's eyes, where suffering mirrored his own losses. What use was serving needlessly?
Makwi clutched his shoulder. "We'll fight on, regardless."
Tordug nodded silently and swallowed hard. "That was our hope against the odds. This fight could have freed our home." It could have restored his lost honor. What was he to leave Makwi now but an empty future? Suddenly Tordug wanted to pound something, hack it with his ax.
"We'll win it back." Makwi crossed his arms and stood impassively, gazing at nothing in the distance over Tordug's shoulder.
"How? Our people are scattered across this forest, across other lands. They'll never return. Not to my banner. Ezhandun..." He trailed off into silence. They'd barely provided help. "Ezhandun proved I'll gain no help from anyone."
The White Arrow Page 14
