The White Arrow

by P. H. Solomon

  "Got your gear ready?" Gweld appeared at Athson’s side. "It won't be long until we arrive."

  "Yes, I'm ready." And Athson was, in more ways than one. He hefted the Bow of Hart, its white wood shining even in the wan winter sunlight.

  His gaze returned to the bridge as they drifted closer. Details pricked his present from the vague past, details that meant little even months ago but now meant everything in his understanding. And no less so than for the entire population of Auguron City. Five hundred paces the bridge stretched over the river between spits of rock that extended into the river. Ahead, sunlight flashed in the choppy wavelets. The river was a defense, and the bridge a weakness.

  But Athson's eyes spotted, even from this distance, the preparations on the bridge. The steel and wood gates stood open, ready to seal the bridge from invading trolls, where once they'd been stored away during peace. Plates of metal now festooned the length of the bridge, which served as protection for defending archers as well as fire resistance. On the city side of the bridge, heartier defenses had likely been erected, should the bridge defenses be breached, but only as a last resort. Any true invasion across the bridge faced one detail: it was rigged to collapse if necessary. A series of levers, well-oiled and maintained, served as a system to release the span and plunge any invaders upon the bridge into the river.

  For now, the gates stood ajar, allowing those who wanted to escape the coming siege access to the southern or western roads. Athson inhaled in anticipation of the coming siege. Any attempts to cross the river near the city were accounted for as well. Barges and boats such as the one he now traveled aboard would be drawn up along the city's docks and riverbanks and used to repel a river crossing with archers and rams behind portable fortifications. Higher up on the docks and banks, more screening fortifications were likely being erected by work crews, which served as additional cover for archers as well as a second line of defense for a retreat from the vessels at water-level.

  Since so many elves of Auguron served among the rangers at various points of their long lives, there were plentiful reserves with experience ready to serve in the defense. Athson's chest swelled at the thought. His adopted people gathered, even now, to defend their homes from invading trolls. Corgren's army faced a daunting task with or without magic and the Dragon's aid.

  The barge slid under the bridge, its shadow passing over the gathered rangers in the open hold until they cleared the span. The barge was guided out of the deeper channel with the rudder. Other crewmen used poles to ease the barge close to the dock as lines were tossed to waiting hands.

  Shouts erupted from the barge and the docks as various commands and activities began or continued. Athson gathered his weapons and pack and joined the other rangers. Gangplanks banged across the breadth of space between the barge and the dock, and the rangers marched into Auguron City. Athson had come home—to war.

  Upon gaining the dock, Athson ignored the shouts from officers to form up in ranks. With no assignment among these rangers, he wandered toward the trailing vessels with Gweld at his side, in search of his other friends. He raised his voice above the tumult on the docks. "Who's next?"

  "Ralda and the dwarves. Look, there they are." Gweld pointed toward their friends, awaiting their turn to disembark.

  Athson peered down the length of the docks. "How far back is Limbreth?"

  Gweld waved his hand. "Much farther. We'll collect everyone else before they’re docked, I should think. It's never this busy, so it will take time to bring all of them in."

  Athson stood back with Gweld as more rangers marched off the barge. How much time had this river-fleet gained over the trolls? How many of the refugees traveling west were now caught by trolls? Smoke had sent them fleeing in haste, no doubt. Marston had likely forced people to leave several days ahead of the trolls, and the latter likely dallied as they enjoyed destroying buildings wherever there was a croft, village, or station. But Athson had little doubt Corgren kept the trolls marching on the heels of Marston's reserves, who meant to clear the road and surrounding areas of lingering disbelievers. Athson worried little for the elves and more for travelers.

  Ralda gained the dock first, the gangplank creaking under his weight. The giant gathered Athson in a near-crushing hug before he stepped back with grin. "Worried for you." His hand flashed hand-talk.

  Athson grinned. "It's good to see you well, Ralda. We made it back."

  Tordug grasped Athson's forearm with a wide grin splitting his beard and mustache. "Lad, I thought you were gone for good." He fingered the Bow of Hart. "Glad you got it this far." He shook his head and blinked at Makwi, who stood nearby with a dour expression. "Shame about the White Arrow, though." He grinned again, but it didn't reach his eyes. "We'll make the best without it, eh? It's just one arrow, right, Makwi?"

  Makwi grunted in answer and grasped forearms with Athson in greeting. A slim grin touched his face. "We'll make do with that, I guess. Could be a song in that bow of yours yet."

  Athson shrugged. "We'll trust Eloch, who's gotten us this far, eh? What is needed is given."

  The dwarves arched eyebrows at Athson's words. He'd never been one for avid faith. Not like them.

  Tordug clapped Athson on the shoulder. "Well said. I guess the bow's grown on you. That or we'll make a dwarf out of you yet. Like that gell."

  "Speaking of which, we need to move on and meet them." Gweld hefted his things after greeting their comrades, and they dodged through the crowd for the next boat.

  Athson held his breath. The Withlings and his mother were aboard one of the next boats. He pushed ahead of the others, searching the following boats for sign of a familiar face. He almost missed them until he spotted tall, gaunt Howart standing with two women among the rangers and other refugees who'd gotten passage somehow. He knew Zelma immediately by her wild, red hair waving in the breeze and the crooked grin on her face. By her receding jaw he now recognized her relationship to Hastra.

  Beside the two Withlings, Athson spotted a familiar face, though now worn by years of captivity. Guilt flooded his thoughts. He'd lived well and free while Rokans worked her as a slave.

  Her face brightened as she spotted him. She waved and flashed a smile Athson remembered from his boyhood. He stilled his feet lest he jump aboard. The Withlings let Danilla cross ahead of them. Athson pushed the Bow of Hart into Ralda's arms, then dropped his pack and the spear as his mother faced him.

  Nearby, Spark wagged his tail.

  "Mother." The single word exited his lips with a bashful tone. Her face, lined with care and her dark hair now fading to gray with age, still held a touch of her younger years from his memory. He remembered the stalwart expression the last night he'd seen her when the trolls attacked but now that melted into trembling lips and a crinkled brow as tears of relief and joy suddenly burst like a summer storm on parched ground.

  Danilla gathered Athson in her arms with sudden tears, and they swayed in the embrace for long silent moments. Athson reveled in his mother's arms, sniffing amid tears and ignoring his other companions, who greeted the Withlings respectfully.

  He found words at last and spoke them in her ear. "I've missed you. I thought you were gone."

  "I'm here, son, I'm here. I've come at last, thanks to Hastra and that other man. Is he here?" Her embrace tightened.

  "No, Apeth didn't make it. Corgren killed him on the road before I made it to Gweld's barge."

  Danilla wept anew. "I owe him much for freeing me."

  "Mother, Father died at the Funnel after I got the bow. I tried..." His voice trailed into tears as he buried his face in her hair. "I tried so hard."

  His mother found words amid her renewed sobs. "I'm sure you did, Athson. We found him in the grave. I thought I'd wept out my sorrow long since."

  They finally parted enough to look each other in their tear-stained eyes. Athson wiped his cheeks and said, "Father knew you were alive. I don't know how. He told me as he died."

  She wiped her face, but her lips still
quivered. "I don't know how either, unless Corgren brought him to Rok and he heard my voice. I knew they'd blinded him."

  Athson swallowed another sob. "Corgren gave him back one eye. He said he’d do the other if I gave him the Bow of Hart."

  His mother gasped and brought one hand to her neck. "You think he saw me and I never realized it was him?"

  Athson shook his head. "I don't know, but you can't worry about it. He got free in the end. He stabbed Corgren. I'm sure he wanted to help you if he could."

  She nodded wordlessly. Danilla touched her hand to her mouth at the sight of the Bow of Hart in Ralda's arms, then touched it almost reverently. "It's been a long time since I've seen this." Her eyes traveled to the spear lying at their feet with the banner furled around the haft below the spear-head. Her eyes widened. "Is that what I think it is? I've heard there was one, from your father but he knew nothing of it."

  Athson squared his shoulders. "It's for everyone that died because of them. They call us traitors but I'll stand under the family's banner, declare that we're not theirs to curse and abuse any longer."

  Zelma cackled. "Good to see family together at last. She talked of you the whole length of the river. That's what the banner is for by the way."

  Athson wiped his face on his sleeve as he took Zelma's hand in one of his own. "Thank you for holding that inheritance so long."

  Zelma blushed and fanned her face. "You're embarrassing me." Her voice, though craggy as a dwarf's with her age, somehow sounded almost girlish in response.

  "And you, Howart. My thanks for holding the bow for me these past years." Athson clasped hands with the gaunt Withling, who seemed to loom over them as much as Ralda did.

  "You're welcome, Athson."

  Athson stepped back. The trip home and becoming a Withling had changed him. He'd greeted and thanked these Withlings and his friends in a way he’d not done in many years. He grasped the blessed sword and then adjusted his grip for reassurance. It was different just trying to live out of the shadow of the curse.

  Tordug clapped his hands together. "Well, let's go find Hastra and Limbreth."

  Athson collected the bow from Ralda along with his pack and the spear, and they strode down the dock, still crowded with travelers and rangers. They pushed through the seemingly endless throng, and then it seemed to part in an instant, and they found Hastra and Limbreth standing on the dock, gazing at the crowd.

  Hastra strode forward the instant she spotted them and greeted Zelma, then Howart, in embraces that struck Athson as the most emotional reaction he'd ever seen from Hastra. She greeted everyone in turn, and when she came to Athson, he hugged her and said in her ear, "Thank you for everything you've ever done for me. This curse is awful and I've been horrible too often. But I've been learning."

  Hastra stepped back, her face etched with suddenly rosy cheeks and a sunny smile. "My apologies as well, Athson. I've too often been bent on recovering this instead of stopping to understand." She touched the Bow of Hart in his hands almost reverently. But then she paused and gazed into his eyes with sudden amazement. "And I think we have our first new Withling in centuries." Her head turned as she searched the faces around him. "But I thought there was another Withling, perhaps Apeth Stellin? Where is he?" Sudden worry flooded her face.

  Athson glanced around as the others greeted Limbreth, who'd hung back. He cleared his throat. "Uh, Apeth died. Corgren stabbed him one night on the road. Rokan agents tricked me away from him. They even tried to follow me, but I had Spark chase them off."

  "Oh, I had much to thank him for." Hastra blinked away a tear. "But what's this I hear of Spark? You command him now? I doubt anyone but mages would note him."

  "Uh, yeah, I suppose so." He glanced at Limbreth and her pale face, drawn with what? Apprehension? Fear? "But as I said, I've been learning. And the sword helps me clear the curse some."

  "Right, well—oh, Ralda! I'm glad to see you too." The giant knelt and embraced Hastra.

  As Athson stepped away from the Withling, Ralda peered around. "Me say things. Think long on big boat."

  "Later, Ralda, later." Hastra patted Ralda’s huge hands.

  Athson approached Limbreth and spread his arms.

  She hesitated a moment, then stepped into his embrace. She pressed her face into his neck. "I've missed you."

  Athson wanted to hold her forever. "And I've missed you. But why the long face?"

  She drew back, and he saw tears brimming in her eyes. She mustered a half-hearted smile and drew close again. "Can we talk later?"

  "Yes, of course. I have so much—"

  "Thanks." Limbreth withdrew again and climbed the steps toward the street.

  Athson glanced at Hastra, who shrugged.

  Tordug shouldered his pack. "She's thinking right. Let's find a place to bed down."

  They followed Limbreth onto the street. Athson walked quickly to catch her. Did she know he'd chosen the wrong target on the Funnel? His heart lurched in his chest. Or was it about the White Arrow? "Limbreth, wait for the rest of us." He watched her walk away and wanted to hold her and tell her what he'd done, that everything would work out. If only she would wait.

  Then Limbreth did stop, her posture poised as if to flee. Men on horses approached her, garbed in dark blue tabards and bearing a pair of sigils, one a leaping mountain lion and the other a fighting bear.

  Athson half-turned his head to Gweld beside him. "Wonder who they are. She looks ready to run or fight."

  Gweld grabbed Athson's arm. "The mountain lion is the sigil of the royal house of Grendon."

  The men drew closer to Limbreth, and Athson's heart beat faster for a reason he didn't quite understand.

  The man who led the cavalcade stopped in front of Limbreth and offered her a crooked smile. He looked older than Athson and Limbreth, perhaps thirty, his hair dark and curly. His dark eyes glittered as his face beamed a victorious expression. "My lady Limbreth. How good you've returned."

  Limbreth stood rigid as Athson and his companions gathered around her. She answered, her voice sounding low with that dangerous tone she reserved for tense moments, "Dareth. What are you doing here?"

  Dareth glanced at everyone around her. He shrugged and answered with an almost nonchalant tone, "Aside from preparing to leave this city for the trolls, I've come to collect you for our overdue wedding, which your father has so graciously agreed to host."

  Limbreth gaped, her forlorn expression suddenly gone.

  Athson's ears rang with sudden anger.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Limbreth stepped back to put space between her and Dareth but bumped into Ralda, who edged away, reading her intent. Beside her, Athson's face flushed red and his jaw clenched. She didn't blame him for being angry. She’d promised him that her father's wishes and this suitor meant nothing to her. Now she was caught between them. What would Athson say? She resisted slouching. An idiotic suitor meeting the man she most likely loved but had failed repeatedly. Her stomach flopped.

  Makwi stepped up beside her and chuckled. "Gotta see this. For the songs, you know."

  She almost rolled her eyes. Crazy dwarf. But her nerves calmed, and her hands drifted toward her shoulders.

  Dareth's eyes flicked to Makwi with a frown, and he almost said something, no doubt derisive. Limbreth really hoped he'd get his head chopped off by Makwi. But Dareth’s eyes slipped back to her the moment her hands moved. "You should think before you draw swords on the king's emissary."

  The soldiers behind Dareth urged their horses forward and slipped their swords free.

  Limbreth drew her swords and ground her teeth. "Seriously? You'd draw on a royal princess of Grendon?"

  Beside her, Makwi gaped a moment but recovered when he heard Tordug's rumble of laughter from behind. The dwarf-champion grinned. "This I have to see."

  Tordug leaned between Limbreth and Makwi. "Now, Makwi, let's not join a fight that's not ours."

  Makwi actually guffawed, and Dareth looked down his nose at him. "No, I'm j
ust interested in seeing this ax-maid of the death-grip send this rabble running for their mother's aprons." He sighed. "Mounted men may actually present a challenge for a few moments—until she takes a horse from them."

  Tordug laughed. "Always a joke from this one."

  Athson stirred. "Tell your men to stand down or you'll all find yourselves leaving in caskets."

  Dareth sneered at Limbreth's companions. "Who are these—people?" He glared at them one and all.

  Limbreth laughed. "I'm sorry you've not met my friends. Let me introduce Tordug, Lord of Chokkra, and his champion, Makwi." The dwarves saluted sharply, dwarf-style. "Oh, I'm sure you remember Withling Hastra. And there are two other Withlings here, Zelma and Howart. As you can see, I'm not just with people beneath your courtesy, Lord Dareth. Now call your men off!"

  "That depends on you, Lady Limbreth."

  "How's that?"

  Makwi grunted. "Wish I had a chair for the front row of this show."

  Dareth's horse danced beneath him, sensing his agitation. "Well, you see, as I mentioned, I've come to collect you."

  "I heard that much, Dareth." She took two quick breaths through her nose to steady her icy tone. "But I left and don't want to be collected."

  Dareth advanced his horse. "You don't have a choice in the matter."

  Before Limbreth moved or replied, Ralda pushed forward and grabbed Dareth's horse by the bridle. The giant pointed his staff at one of the men-at-arms who advanced. "You come, I throw in river. From here. You stay." He pointed his staff successively at each man, and they drew their reins. Then Ralda leaned directly in Dareth's face. "Have respect."

  Dareth's face paled. "Who is this?" He drew back from Ralda's stare into his face. He lifted his chin. "Your friends seem intent on threatening an emissary of the King of Grendon. I'll—"