The White Arrow

by P. H. Solomon

  Her horse stirred beneath her. Truthfully, this wasn't just for Athson. He needed support. The elves did. Perhaps they'd stop Magdronu. But she also did it for unsuspecting Grendon. Her stomach flipped and knotted. Then there was that prophecy from Hastra. Go and return as if from death again. Like at the Funnel. If this didn't count, she didn't know what would. She inhaled with sudden certainty.

  The merest pearling of dawn lit the road along the slope. The colonel nodded to Limbreth and led his command along the road, toward the clearing of the forest. She followed closely with dwarves right behind.

  Their line paused as shouts echoed along the river near the city. Were they discovered? Limbreth hesitated. The sound of a low bellow followed by rhythmic singing rose in the distance. A dwarven fighting song. She kicked her heels into her horse's sides and rode forward. A mass of shouts now rose across the river.

  Limbreth found Colonel Meegs and hissed, "We ride. That was a dwarf singing a fighting song."

  The colonel nodded as the grays of early dawn brightened further, and he led the horsemen ahead. Limbreth waited and followed their line, since she had no lance for the charge. She fell in with the dwarves, and the pace rose.

  Sounds of fighting echoed from the bridge as they encountered the rear forces of trolls. They rode down trolls in the road and slashed at others within reach. Surprised trolls fell out of their way. The clearing came, and the Grendonese cavalry spread into a tight wedge formation and gathered speed, riding through the encampment as they speared trolls and trampled them beneath their horses.

  Limbreth led the dwarves behind the charge. She glanced left and right as dwarven ranks fanned out on their flanks. Still they uttered not a word but fought in swift clashes as they rushed for the bridge.

  Ahead, the Grendonese horsemen slowed in the press of trolls closer to bridge, and the dwarves filled in behind with a clash of weapons as the trolls gathered near the river turned to meet the surprise foe behind them. Trolls scattered and they rode farther, but the ranks of horses broke into smaller clashes among the responding trolls.

  Where was the bugle? Limbreth urged her horse forward and dwarves followed her, slashing with weapons as they went. Limbreth hewed at several hobgoblins in passing. Ahead, a horseman fought alone, and she saw trolls drag him off his horse. Limbreth’s eyes widened. He had no lance. It was the bugler. She galloped to his aid and stabbed a bugbear in the neck before he could strike with a tulwar. Three dwarves charged into the throng of trolls before they attacked the bugler and cut them down.

  Limbreth paused over the pale-faced man. "Blow it!"

  He snatched the instrument from the ground, put it to his lips, and blew the signal with all he had.

  Trolls swarmed around them, mingling with horses and dwarves. Shouts rose from Limbreth's troops at the bugle's call. The bugler found his feet and kept blowing as he drew his sword. They pressed toward the bridge.

  Hands grabbed Limbreth and dragged her from the saddle. She rolled and slashed as she fell and landed on the packed dirt of the road. She screamed at the trolls and slashed at bellies as she regained her feet. She found herself surrounded as she whirled and parried strokes. She could see nothing of the bridge for the mass of trolls. Dying suddenly seemed more likely than returning as if from death.

  And then the bugle call ended with an uncertain note.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Either it was farther to the cemetery than Athson remembered, or he was tired. But then, he'd been poisoned recently. He walked with the other two Withlings for what seemed like hours, and it was now either very late or very early. By the look of the stars, he guessed very early.

  He yawned. "Let me get this straight. You sing to stop magic?" How was he supposed to learn these old hymns—in a different language, no less—let alone help battle four mages? Spark ranged ahead of them.

  "Not exactly." Howart's long strides carried him with seemingly boundless energy. "It runs on the principle of 'what is needed is given.' We sing in praise to Eloch, and magic is nullified as necessary. My leading is that we sing and stop—or at least slow down—the magic being used to create the shrine for Magdronu to funnel more power to them. With that much localized magic available, they can destroy enough of the elven forces on this side of the river that they cannot hold against the trolls. We need to find a way to stop that."

  Athson gazed toward the early morning sky. "Ralda and I can attack." He lifted the Bow of Hart. "I have this, if it counts for something."

  Zelma smoothed her unruly hair from her drawn face. "That's meant to fight the dragon, I'd think. Maybe his mages."

  Athson considered Zelma's words. How had she made it this far in her grief? "I do have this blessed sword. I've stopped mage-fire with it."

  Howart almost skipped a step. "That's better than nothing, but perhaps you can learn the songs."

  "I don't have time. We're here, and it's not terribly far now." They slipped through the closed cemetery gate and turned down a side lane. "We'll need silence, I think, so we can surprise them. Maybe we can determine what they're doing."

  Howart spread his arms to stop Zelma and Athson. "Something's coming."

  Athson drew his sword. But the large figure exiting the trees moved with a familiar stride. "It's Ralda."

  They waited, and the giant walked up to them. He nodded, and his fingers flicked in the darkness. "Withlings. Find mages. Beyond graves. Ralda watch. Mages do magic. No dragon come." He shook his head. "Yet." He beckoned them, and Athson followed with the other Withlings.

  "Ralda, could you see if they have some pattern on the ground? Is it flat rock, or is there a stone?" Howart whispered as they traversed the cemetery, wary of discovery.

  Ralda spread his arms wide. "Big stone. Mages stand in square." He motioned all around him, his hands twisting. "Glow on them. No move. Stone no with them."

  Zelma looked confused, and Athson explained. "He means the mages are doing magic, judging by the glow around them. The stone is very big, but it's not between them. I'd guess it's off to the side, Ralda?"

  The giant nodded. "Side. Yes."

  "That's interesting." Howart scratched his chin as they continued. "If I remember from what I've seen before—and I've stopped a few of these shrines in the past—they need to move the stone among them for sacrifices. If they have a stone already, they don't need to do that, just hallow it to Magdronu's use. That still takes magic, but less of it, as well as time."

  Athson sighed. Howart shared more knowledge than Hastra. "You seem ready with all this information."

  Howart grinned at Athson. "Hastra was tight-lipped. But I am speaking now because there is need."

  Zelma grunted but said nothing as she walked with her head down. "We need to see what's there, though, Howart."

  "True, but perhaps we can slow them enough to do harm to the shrine." He shrugged. "We'll see what Eloch desires when we get there."

  Athson pointed them on the side lane, and they turned toward the graves of Heth and Cireena. "We'll be in sight of it soon enough."

  Nobody had known what Eloch desired about the White Arrow all week. Athson shoved his hand into his cloak pocket and touched the broken arrow. He'd heard nothing at all about anything. He exhaled slowly. Well, maybe giving the Rokan dagger to Tordug was one thing. But still...

  They crossed over two rises, and the stand of trees rose like huge specters to the left. Athson led them among the trees, where they spied the mages at their secret work. Three women and one man stood in the corners of a square, a green nimbus of light around them. By the glow of their spell, Athson observed connecting symbols around them, all within the defined square. A massive, pale stone stood off to the side, near some thickets.

  Howart closed his eyes and knelt in the leaves. Zelma followed his lead, and they both whispered prayers. Feeling like an untrained outsider, Athson followed their lead though he didn't know the prayer. He laid the broken arrow among them just in case it was needed. Ralda continued standing lookout.
Spark sat and watched.

  After several minutes, Howart whispered, "I'll sing against Paugren's magic."

  Zelma murmured, "Cass. I hear she's uncertain."

  Athson squinted at the other Withlings, who peered at him with expectation. He touched the sword-hilt. The stone weighed on his mind, growing larger in his thoughts. Break it with judgment. He inhaled suddenly. "The stone should be broken. It's been left there for headstones, so it won't be used for evil." He glanced at Howart and Zelma. "I'll use my sword on it." He didn't know what that would do, but that's what he knew to do.

  The other Withlings nodded without question. Curious that they trusted an untrained Withling, but Athson accepted that. What else were they going to do without more help? And none other was coming.

  They rose as one, but Athson took the lead. "You're sure they can't move?"

  Howart scratched his head. "Pretty sure. From what I've learned, spells require precise movement and intonation, or the practitioner risks injury or death. If they move while performing something of this power, they could die."

  Athson brushed hair from his eyes. It had been too long since it was cut. He banished the odd thought. "Well, let's creep down there. Stay behind me, and if they attack, I'll fend it off. If they don't, take them on. Ralda, you go around and get behind them and attack from the thickets as necessary." Withling or not, Athson didn't want to take chances with these mages. He'd seen them in action. He looked at his spear, then unfurled the banner. "Ralda, you've been with me since that day at the Fallendrill River. Would you carry my family banner?"

  "Yes." Ralda's hand-talk was hidden in the darkness. "Carry for you. Show them."

  "That's what I need. It's to declare my freedom from their oppression of my family and others, declare their crimes." Athson shifted the banner to the far end of the haft from the spear-head. "There. At a good time, drive the spear in the ground so the banner shows. We'll wait here a while, but don't take too long. Dawn's close."

  Ralda nodded and motioned something with his hands Athson couldn't see. "Be well, Withling Athson. You walk many step, come here, now."

  "Thanks." Being called a Withling by Ralda made his decision weeks earlier seem official. He seemed to be acting according to Eloch's wishes. At least sometimes. He paused, then spoke to Ralda again, "May your grief fade like mist in the morning sun."

  The giant suddenly embraced Athson. "You brother now. I carry banner for you, for Kralda. I go, fight for you." Ralda released Athson and set out, first heading back the way they had come. Athson spotted him turn north beyond the first rise toward the west and disappear. They waited a while in silence, but then they all three moved at the same time, as if prompted for the same reason. It was time. Athson drew his sword and carried the Bow of Hart in the other, then led the way down the slope toward the mages.

  Athson glanced toward Spark, intending to command him alongside, but the mountain hound loped away east, his hackles raised. He opened his mouth but thought better of calling him back. He'd kill their surprise. With his hackles up, Spark was surely after something else.

  As they approached the mages, Athson heard their spell, spoken in unison. What a harsh language. The mages facing them watched their approach, though they made no move to protect themselves. Athson walked faster. What if their spell ended? He ignored that deadly idea.

  Howart approached the man, Paugren. The gaunt Withling stood at his side and began a hymn.

  Athson skirted the square and headed for the large stone while Zelma stopped by one of the women and added her voice to Howart's song. As Athson made his way around the square, the murmur of two voices in the spell stopped. He glanced at the mages as he walked around the design on the ground. Paugren and the woman no longer spoke the spell, though the nimbus of it covered them. They grimaced their frustration at Howart and Zelma, who continued singing. The other two mages bore strained expressions, their shoulders slumped as if they bore a weight. Good.

  Athson approached the stone and lifted his blade.

  "Don't do that."

  He knew that voice. Gweld. He did it anyway. Athson slammed the edge of judgment on the stone. Light flared with a rush of sound like an enormous wind, and a torrent of green light burst in a whirl from the massive stone until it cracked and crumbled into many pieces.

  "You only delay me for a while, Athson. Even with only two active mages, they are but minutes away from activating the shrine. After I repair that stone. You cannot stop what is to come."

  Athson faced Gweld—no, Magdronu—across the design and the mages. "You've failed."

  Magdronu smiled diffidently. "Have I?" He pointed to Athson. "Have you repaired that arrow meant for me? No?" He spread his hand, palms up. "Then what will you do to stop me? Even now, my trolls have taken the bridge and will kill all the rangers in Auguron City."

  Athson's back stiffened. "Lies. You've told me nothing but lies for years." He walked toward Magdronu and, on an impulse, dragged the sword blade through the glowing design on the ground. Sparks flared across each line.

  Magdronu's lip curled on one side in a snarl. His eyes glowed, and his voice dropped to a growl. "Don't try to stop me." He motioned. "Now, take him."

  Athson whirled as a shadow rushed him. He fell and rolled with his sword over his head. In that moment, he glimpsed the sheen of light in the east, and then finished his roll away from the Bane.

  A snarl broke from the thickets to the east. Spark leapt into the glowing design as the Bane reached for Athson. The mountain hound charged into the cursed creature and knocked it down. The Bane squirmed oddly to escape, but Spark bounded on top of it and, with what could only be assumed was its throat in his jaws, dragged it out of square as if it weighed nothing. Athson remembered Tordug recounting barely lifting it over a rock wall to pitch down a mountainside in the Drelkhaz.

  Fire laced across the ground in his peripheral vision, and Athson rolled and caught it on the flat of his blessed sword's blade. Magdronu spewed more flame, but the blade snuffed it. Athson stood amid the attack and held his sword forward until it ended.

  Magdronu paced sideways, and Athson moved opposite, as if they were about to duel. They circled until the broken stone lay at Magdronu's back. Athson crouched and waited for the attack.

  A thought surged in Athson's mind. "How long have you deceived me as Gweld? Since he fell at the Fallendrill River?"

  A snicker escaped from Magdronu's lips and it abruptly expanded into a laugh of several moments. "You're a fool, Athson. I was ever at your side before that, watching, waiting for my time to steer you into gaining the bow so I could trick you into giving it to me." His smile faded. "I've used this elven form for a very long time and no one has suspected my true identity." He paced several times and his eyes narrowed. "Do you truly believe that a great elf would tolerate you and your frequent mistakes? Do you actually believe you know as much as me, have as much skill as I do? Are you really even close to my equal with a bow?" His expression turned serious. "You're nothing but an orphan that I needed to stop Eloch's plans and further my own. Nothing more, nothing less." Magdronu flashed his teeth in a mirthless grin. "And now I have you, traitor. Son of traitors. Over your blood and that of the elves, I'll establish my rise to rule over Denaria."

  A lump of emotion rose in Athson's throat. Just as he feared. Magdronu had played him for years while holding his parents as future hostages. His face flushed with the heat of sudden anger. But it faded in a moment with the presence of the blessed sword in his hands. "So, I have the truth at last."

  "Yes, I've been the shadow over your life, stalking you since Corgren lost you at the Funnel. We would have had it then with you as a hostage." The mirthless grin returned.

  Athson staggered back. Of course, they always leveraged what they wanted. If he hadn't escaped. If Spark hadn't led him free, the bow would have fallen into Magdronu's hands long ago.

  It's not for him. Athson's eyes narrowed at the thought. It wasn't for Magdronu? Surely it was meant to kill h
im. It's not for him. Athson gaped and blinked. Not for Magdronu? Then who? Break his curse. Athson stared at the length of his sword where the runes glimmered in the rising light of sunrise. Its name was Cursebreaker. Hastra had told him that the morning they left. Traitors deserve death. Curses should be broken. Athson gaped again. Not only had he heard Eloch quite clearly, he also knew what he had to do with the Bow of Hart and the White Arrow.

  At that moment, Ralda charged from the thickets beyond Magdronu, snatching up a massive piece of the stone. The giant grimaced at the jagged weight raised over his head as he finished his charge at Magdronu.

  Athson lifted his arm, still holding the Bow of Hart, a futile motion meant to halt Ralda, who never checked his attack.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Ralda waited and watched from the dark cover of the thickets as Athson and the other Withlings mounted their assault on Magdronu's mages. Athson broke the sacrificial stone against Magdronu's wishes and then faced him.

  He almost rushed the Bane as it attacked, but Athson escaped, and something threw the creature to the ground and dragged it out of the area of the spell. Ralda watched the Bane thrash, unable to rise, while Magdronu prepared to attack Athson again. He tore his gaze from the Bane, and before him, Magdronu stood with his back to Ralda.

  Athson couldn't beat the dragon. He needed help. In his head, Ralda watched the rope slide away and Kralda fall to his death. The act of cutting the rope had saved Ralda, but he carried the weight of living as guilt and grief. He stared at the false form of the elf in the growing light of dawn. He needed to do something. His eyes beheld the broken stone, pale in the growing light of the new morning.

  Ralda charged from hiding, the thickets parted before his strength like smoke. He dropped the spear and his staff, then grasped the piece of rock he gauged best for his attack, raising it over his head. Too late, Athson waved him off.