Shard

by Wayne Mee

  Timin's eyes opened wide and he nodded at the strange old man, his mouth already watering.

  "Well now," he said, his ageless eyes catching the light of the fire. "This is getting to be a well travelled path! First a Karn and now four hunters. These mountains are becoming downright overcrowded!"

  "What know you o' the Karn?", Erin demanded, stepping forward, his hand resting on Glenrig's hilt.

  The old man took out a pipe and lit it with a burning twig before answering. He was dressed in a dark blue robe that had once been very costly, though by the tattered silver hem around the bottom and the billowing sleeves, it had obviously seen far better days. The robe was belted by what appeared to be a silver girdle and a worn leather wallet hung over the hilt of a plain but serviceable shortsword. His flowing silver locks escaped from beneath a wide-brimmed black hat, flattened and shabby, but crowned with a pheasant feather and tilted at a rather rakish angle. A long, gnarled walking staff leaned against the log he was sitting on. The smoke from his pipe floated like a wreath above his head, then vanished in the mid-day breeze. His hazel eyes seemed to twinkle as he looked up at Erin.

  "I 'know' very little, good sir, but I can 'guess' quite a lot. Being a humble tinker, one learns to read faces the way others read books. For instance, you have the look of a 'weapons man' about you, and from the lilt in your voice I'd say you hail from the far north-east. Dur perhaps, or the Isles of Loamin?"

  Erin grunted, never taking his hand from his sword hilt. The old man drew on his pipe and turned to Kel. "Ah, a traveler from distant Chin! And a student of the martial arts by your stance. Tanj-ka I believe? Fourth level?"

  "Fifth," Kel said, placing his hands together and bowing formally to the old man.

  "Ah, fifth it is. My pardon, young sir. It's been some time since I was last in your marvelous homeland. "He turned and gazed at the two Kirkweans, a smile lighting up his weathered face.

  "And here we have two bold adventurers from the Wold. How is dear old Granther Higgs these days? Is he still brewing that foul concoction of his?"

  Thorn's mouth dropped open. "You KNOW Granther Higgs?!"

  The old man smiled. "My dear boy, not only do I know Granther, but I know YOU as well. But allow me to introduce myself; I am Mithdar the wandering tinker."

  "Mithdar?!", Thorn blurted. "You used to visit the Wold when I was just a lad! You would give me rides on that big red wagon you had!"

  The old tinker chuckled. "And as I remember, both you and your cousin Timin here would help yourselves to my candy barrel when you thought I wasn't looking!"

  "It IS you!", Timin beamed. "But you've gotten so old!"

  Mithdar smiled and stroked his long, grey beard. "Time is the one thing that waits for none of us, good Timin. When I last saw you, you were no higher than a young pup, yet now look at you! A full grown Kirkwean, and with a Slathlander blade at your side and a helm that shows the ware of many a battle!"

  "Thorn's got a blade too!", Timin continued. "A real beauty! The Erg-Leath gave it to him before we left!"

  "Timin!", Erin cut in. "Perhaps we'd best be savin' that particular tale for another time. Besides, your old friend here has yet to be tellin' me what he knows o' a certain Karn who passed this way." It was clear to all that Erin at least was not over willing to accept the tinker into their 'inner circle' quite yet.

  "Right you are, warrior from Loamin. It's a wise man that chooses his friends with care. Time enough to hear about sweet Layla after we've eaten." He turned to Timin. "I fear I've few candies on this trip, but I recall you were also partial to cheese. I have a piece here somewhere." He rummaged in his packs and produced a large wheel and handed it to Timin.

  "Woldish!", Timin exclaimed. "I've not tasted Woldish since last Yule Tide! Old Hemroot Yipes hardly ever makes it any more!"

  The tinker chuckled and relit his pipe. "It might be a tad over-aged. I haven't been to the Wold for quite some time."

  "The older the better!", beamed Timin, cutting off a large wedge and stuffing it into his mouth. "Ahhh! Almost like being home!"

  "The 'Karn'?", Erin pressed.

  Mithdar glanced at the tall mercenary from under his wide brimmed hat. For the briefest of moments there seemed to be a charged haze in the air, almost like a shimmer of heat on a hot summers day, but then it was gone. "There is really very little to tell. Earlier this morning I heard something big and noisy moving southward. When I went to look I saw tracks. Big boots shod in steel like a horseshoe. Only one race that I know of does that --- Karns. And now here the four of you come along. A tracker, a warrior and two Kirkwean, all armed to the teeth and also heading south." The tinker shook his head and poured some tea into a dented cup and handed it to Erin.

  "It takes no great leaps of logic, my suspicious young friend, to see that the four of you are 'Karn-hunting', though for the life of me I can't picture two 'Wee'ns' following such a dangerous trade! I seriously doubt that Granther Higgs would approve."

  "But the Karns kidnapped two Delgi children!", Timin blurted out through a mouthful of cheese. "They got me too when I went to help, but Thorn and the others rescued all three of us! Dingle took the children home, but we're still chasing the last one!"

  Mithdar scratched his long beard. "Well now, you four have had your share of adventure and then some! I've just come from Hyree myself. Though I missed Dingle, apparently you four did not. But come, the rabbit is getting cold and the tea is over-brewed. You can tell me all the news as you eat."

  After the meal the two Kirkwean helped the tinker load his packs onto the small donkey. Erin sat honing his weapons and Kel had gone ahead to scout. While Timin was busy tending to the fire, the old tinker had a chance to talk with Thorn alone.

  "I'm heading southwards myself. Perhaps we could travel together --- for awhile at least?"

  "I'd like that!", Thorn said. Ever since their meeting he had been strangely drawn to the old man. It seemed more than just fond memories from his childhood, but he couldn't quite explain it, not even to himself. He felt as though he had been 'led' to this very spot, and that the one-time 'friend of the family' had been somehow 'waiting' for him.

  Thorn watched the old man out of the corner of his eye. As a child Mithdar had been a strange, mysterious figure, coming into the Wold on his big, red wagon; trading and selling all sorts of 'wonders from the outside world'. Silver fishhooks and tea kettles that whistled; mirrors and magnets and a chair that folded for Granther Higgs. He had been much younger then; his hair had been brown and his beard much shorter, but it was undoubtedly the same Mithdar --- yet now Thorn seemed to see the travelling tinker in a new light. He was still as friendly and open as ever, yet there seemed an air of mystery about him, something almost 'magical'. Whatever it was, Thorn was glad that their paths went the same way, for awhile at least.

  "I see you carry a handsome sword, Thorn. Unlike Timin's, it doesn't appear to be a Slathlander blade, yet it's not exactly a 'Kirktooth' either".

  Thorn felt a strange fear grip him, but he pushed it away and drew his blade, reluctantly offering it to the old man. The tinker's eyes opened wide and he took a hasty step backwards, at the same time thrusting his gnarled staff up before him as though to ward off a blow. Startled, Thorn lowered the black blade.

  "I meant no harm, Mithdar! I only wanted to show it to you!"

  "Put it away, lad! Quickly!" There was an edge in the tinker's voice that made Thorn jump, and Silverleaf rammed home into its scabbard seemingly all on its own. The little Kirkwean blinked in amazement. Then Mithdar smiled and a weight seemed to fall from Thorn's shoulders.

  "No harm done, Thorn, and I'm sorry if I startled you. Just put it down to an old man's foolishness. It's a fine looking weapon --- and a rare one as well. Where did you get it?"

  "The Erg-Leath gave it to me before I left. Sort of a 'leave-taking' gift." Thorn was somehow reluctant to say more, even to this long absent 'friend' --- yet inwardly he longed to tell all.

  Mithdar, his composure regained
, took out his pipe and began filling the bowl. "Then you'd be 'The Wanderer' then, and I take it the tall weapons-man is 'The Watcher'. The other two, Timin and Kel, just tagged along for the adventure I suppose?"

  Thorn's jaw dropped open. "You KNOW about 'The Wanderer'?!"

  Mithdar smiled. "Legends and ancient lore are my hobby, lad. 'The Tale of the Wanderer' is the most famous of the Kirkwean legends. Though your sword is another matter altogether."

  "Why?", Thorn said, the strange feeling of fear once again rising up inside him. His hand went to the silver hilt seemingly all on its own.

  Mithdar waved the thought away, though Thorn could still see the concern in his hazel eyes. "Most legends are little more than a small seed of truth that, over the years and telling, grows into a fanciful tree with many branches. You having that particular sword however, tends to shed new light on an old tale. But enough for now. You and your friends are here and we both seem to be heading in the same direction. Perhaps you'd like to travel with me to Gareth Withrin? I've some business to tend to there and I recall you were always pestering me about tales of the Nim-Loth."

  "You mean actually visit the 'Fair-Folk'?! But I thought they had all passed away long ago!"

  Mithdar began to lead the small donkey over to where the others had gathered around the fire. Kel had returned and the tinker bent to light his pipe from one of the few remaining coals. "It's true that many of the Nim-Loth have departed from Oma-Var, though there still be far more remaining than most folk think. South of here there is a large group or 'silv'. They have settled on the many islands in Long Lake, or 'Gareth Withrin' as they call it, meaning 'Sparkling Crown' in their own tongue."

  Timin was as eager to see the legendary 'Fair-Folk' or 'Nim-Loth' as Thorn was, yet Erin seemed somewhat skeptical.

  "Back on Loamin we have a race some call the Fair-Folk. The Rill they name themselves. My step-mother was one. They follow their own laws 'n customs. Mostly they live on their own in the Outer Isles. Though the lassies tend to be better lookin' than most, there's little 'magic' about them, save woodscraft."

  Mithdar drew on his pipe. "I know very little of your 'Rill', but the Nim-Loth of Gareth Withrin are another matter. Their leader or 'zorka' is called Agwain Ithilian. He is both very learned and very powerful, a fact you, my skeptical young friend, would do well to remember!"

  Erin's smile flashed in his weathered face. "Your point be well taken, my long-bearded friend, 'n faith if you haven't wetted my desire to see these fabled 'Nim-Loth' myself --- especially the females! So lead on, good tinker, 'n perchance we'll even stumble over that great ugly Karn we've been chasin' on the way!"

  ***

  A day later the five arrived at Lands End, the southern limit of the Plateau of Tyree. Before them the ground fell away and a huge waterfall, called by some 'The Edge of the World', tumbled down the escarpment. Amid roaring thunder and billowing clouds of spray, it emptied into a vast green waterway known simply as the Tarn. Kel had followed Shag's trail directly to this spot, and Mithdar guessed that the Karn had made his way down by a hidden stair that Dingle's folk had carved into the cliff-face centuries earlier.

  "It's too dark now to look for the stairs," the tinker said. "I suggest we stop here for the night and rise with the sun."

  The four travelers agreed, made camp and prepared to descend into the Tarn come first light.

  ***

  Chapter 15:'LEGENDS COME TO LIFE'

  The climb down the falls was harder than expected, for though Mithdar had found the hidden steps, they were covered with wet green moss and sadly in need of repair. If Dingle's folk ever did carve them, they had long since given up passing this way. It was early evening by the time the five weary, wet travelers and one long pack-mule finally reached the bottom.

  Timin, standing by the large pool created by the thundering cataract, looked up and shivered. Mist from the falls glistened in the fading light.

  "Erg shatter me, but THAT was a climb!", he said. "One I'd not care to try it in winter!"

  Mithdar smiled. "Ice buries the stairs by late fall, Timin; though few attempt to scale them at any time." He turned to the others. "You've all done exceedingly well. Now, how about a warm fire? Dry clothes and a hot meal will restore our strength."

  While Timin started their dinner, Erin and Kel saw to the cleaning and oiling of their weapons. Thorn meanwhile, strode over to where the large pool emptied out into the dense marshland. Just a few bowshots away the land became a green mass of lily pads and snake grass, stretching off southward for as far as the eye could see. A sudden shiver ran down Thorn's back as he recalled the many stories Granther Higgs had told him about this deceptively treacherous place. As he gazed out in the lengthening twilight, the dark pools and lush vegetation seemed to take on a sinister beauty all their own.

  "Before you, young Thorn, lies the Tarn." Mithdar's voice startled him and he involuntarily reached for the hilt of Silverleaf.

  "Quite 'beautiful' is it not?", went on the old man, seeming not to notice Thorn's nervous reaction. "It remains a marvel to me why the Creator would make such a thing of glowing grandeur, while at the same time allow it to abound with such evil."

  Thorn, not sure of what to respond, kept silent.

  Mithdar continued. "There should be a few old dug-outs down there at the end of the pool, for I used one several months ago when I came up from Long Lake. First thing in the morning we'll take a look, for crossing the Tarn on foot is a very dangerous, if not impossible, task."

  "I was wondering how we would cross all that water," said Thorn. "But what about your mule and trade goods? If you crossed by boat the last time, how did you bring the creature here in the first place?" A slight edge of suspicion had crept into the Kirkwean's voice, and once again he found his hand moving towards his black blade.

  Mithdar chuckled to himself. "You've a keen head on your shoulders, lad. Old Granther taught you well. But the truth is simple enough; I crossed alone and brought the mule back with me when I left Dingle's folk in Hyree. In the morning I'll turn the creature loose and in less than a week it will be back in Dingle's barn chomping its well deserved oats. As for my 'goods' as you called them, they are nothing more than a few books and blankets, along with some cooking gear and such. What we can't carry in our packs I'll send back to Dingle by way of the mule."

  Thorn felt more than slightly sheepish at having doubted Mithdar.

  The old tinker continued. "One thing more before we sample good Timin's cooking. While we are in the Tarn, try not to draw your sword. If weapons are needed, trust to your stout little bow or even your sling. I remember you were quite good with it even as a lad."

  "Why shouldn't I draw my sword?", Thorn demanded, somewhat taken back by Mithdar's odd warning. The dark cloud of suspicion returned.

  The tinker smiled. "Because swords often cut both ways, Thorn --- and because an old friend asks you not to."

  Thorn was far from convinced. "What of Erin's sword, Glenrig?"

  Mithdar gazed down at the tiny Kirkwean. "Your friend is a weapons-man. He would be lost with out a sword. You, Thorn, have other alternatives."

  Though what he said was true, still Thorn sensed that the tinker had not told him all. His blue eyes narrowed. "There's something else, isn't there? Another reason you don't want me to use my sword?"

  Mithdar frowned. "What makes you say that?"

  Thorn continued boldly. "The way you reacted when I first tried to hand you Silverleaf. It was almost like you couldn't bare to touch it!"

  Mithdar glanced around, as though the lengthening shadows might harbor unfriendly ears. When he did speak it was in a whisper. "What I now tell you is to be kept to yourself. Not even your cousin Timin can be told. Do I have your oath on it?"

  Thorn was caught completely off guard. This strange old man was serious! Pausing for a moment, he finally nodded.

  "I have to hear it from your lips."

  "Really!", Thorn grumbled. "Is all this 'oath-taking' necessary?!
"

  "It is if you wish to know the truth about the blade you carry."

  Thorn's patience was nearly gone, yet he had to know. "I give you my word to keep silent about all that you now tell me --- though I think this is a bit over-done!"

  Finding a comfortable seat on a nearby log, Mithdar began his strange tale.

  ***

  "Your shortsword, the one you know as 'Silverleaf', carried into the Wold so many generations ago by the 'First Wander', Brand Silverleaf, is really one of the three lost Swords of Power. For many years most believed that all three had perished when the First Great Age of Oma-Var came to an end. Until a little while ago I too thought as much. Alas, it now seems that such is not the case."

  Thorn's eyes grew wide with wonder. "What do you mean by 'one of the three Swords of Power'?! Silverleaf is a fine weapon and a costly work of art, but I have neither seen nor felt any 'power'!"

  "Have you not? I think otherwise," Mithdar replied. "Can love be weighed and measured? Can hatred be held in the hand? Yet you would not deny that either exist. We recognize these and other emotions by the deeds they cause us to do --- so it is, Thorn, with a Sword of Power."

  The old man held the small Kirkwean with his stern gaze, reading volumes in Thorn's silent expression before continuing. "But you have not been trained as I have to notice such things --- and even if you were, the very nature of these blades is such that they blind the one who wields them and slowly bend them to their own ends."

  Thorn was having a hard time believing all this. "Are you saying that my sword is not only 'alive', but 'evil' as well?!"

  Mithdar dug in his belt-pouch and began to fill his pipe. "A thing can only be neutral, Thorn. It is only living creatures that can be 'good or bad'. Like any other tool or weapon, your sword can be used for good or ill. The history of The ThreeBlades however, is long. Far too long to go into now. It is enough for you to know that they were created by the Nim-Loth ages ago on the Blessed Isle of Oma and brought here to Oma-Var. With the ending of the First Age, two of them vanished."