Shard

by Wayne Mee

  "T'is 'Kith' ye say your from?!", Erin demanded in a voice slightly slurred from Gessler's private stock. "Then it's near kin we be, laddie, for fair Loamin be just a day's sail nor'eastward from poor, rocky Kith!"

  The bard looked up at the towering mercenary, taking in at a glance his black ringed shirt and his great longsword. He himself wore only his belt knife. A hint of a frown crossed his handsome face. "By my faith, I'd not thought to see a blood-letting weapons man from the barbaric Green Isles in this pest-hole!"

  "Nor I a smooth-tongued Kithian with over-eager hands!," Erin countered, sitting down next to Zoean and almost knocking Timin to the floor in the process. Kel, standing silently at the far end of the table, raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

  The two men glared at each other until Zoean spoke up. "Please, good sirs, since you both hail from the same part of this wide world, would it not be more fitting if you greeted each the other as brothers? We Nim-Loth of Gareth Withrin are always overjoyed to see our distant kin."

  The bard smiled and extended his delicate hand to Erin. "The lady princess is right, weapons man, 'n here's my hand on it, given in good faith, as our fathers would have it!"

  "Done!", Erin barked. "'N now, Master Scald, let's be havin' a drink! Gessler my man, another bottle o' that snake-killer ye keep well hidden from yer good wife!"

  "I have no wife, Friend Erin!," the innkeeper bellowed from behind the bar.

  "Ahh!", Erin grinned. "Then it's two bottles we'll be needin', 'n yerself as well, for the air has a sudden nip to it, 'n a bed can be a terrible cold place for a man all alone!" His wolf-grey eyes fastened on Zoean.

  The bottles were brought and the corks tossed into the fire as was the custom in both Kith and Loamin, and the rest of the afternoon and long into the night both Erin and the bard drank and sang and talked of homelands long distant yet fondly remembered.

  Long after moonrise, when Zoean and most of the inn's occupants had wisely sought their beds, Erin and the bard sat facing each other across the table, matching drink for drink and wild tale for wild tale. As for the rest of the Company, Flynn the Narthrond and Cynwulf had stepped out for a breath of fresh air, the two remaining Delgii were snoring soundly in the far corner, Nobert had gone to guard Zoean's door and Thorn and Timin sat dozing in large chairs before the hearth. Ono, the bard's little brother, sat curled up on a bench, his brother's multi-colored cloak tossed over him. Kel sat cross-legged on the floor with his back, as was his custom, to a stout wall. He might have been sleeping, then again, he might not. The large, smoke-filled room had quieted. Outside an owl hooted. A feeling of restful warmth had settled into the bones. The bard reached for his harp and rested it lovingly on his knee.

  "T'is a rare beauty ye have there, Roary. In all o' Loamin I've nary seen its like --- not even among the Rill!" They were speaking in the Loamin tongue, one very close to the bard's own Kithian. The liquid sound of their rich voices filled the night.

  The bard caressed the time-worn wood with a practiced hand, feeling the carved curves like a man does his lover's form. "In all o' Oma-Var there be none like her, eh, My Pretty?" The bard's eyes took on a faraway look that had little to do with drink. "We've traveled far, her 'n I; seen such beauty that would make you weep, 'n such pain that would break your heart."

  Erin suddenly struck the table with his fist. Timin squeaked, Thorn jumped up and Kel swiftly uncoiled himself, his two a-sa flashing in the firelight.

  "Be ye knowin' The Tale O' Brendan Og Kummal? ", Erin demanded. "I dearly love the part where Bloody Brandan takes on Griff Blacktooth n' his cowardly son!"

  Roary drained his mug and reached for his harp. "N' why wouldn't I be knowing the tale o' Kith's greatest hero?"

  Erin leaned forward and growled. "Loaman's greatest hero, ye mean!"

  Roary waved an elegant hand through the air, then lightly caressed the stings, a wise smile on his handsome face. "The world's greatest hero!"

  Satisfied, Erin filled their mugs and added his deep voice to the bard's lilting tenor.

  The two of them continued to drink and sing, not seeking their beds until the gentle kiss of dawn colored the horizon. Gessler had arranged for horses to be ready by the time the party had finished breakfast.

  All that remained was for Mithdar to return from his secretive business --- yet by mid morning the old mage had not returned.

  ***

  Chapter 28:'THE EDGE OF THE WORLD'

  "But we can't leave without Mithdar! He told us to wait for him here!"

  From atop a frisky mountain pony, Cynwulf scowled down at the determined little Kirkwean. It was clear to the Delgi that Thorn would not be moved --- it was also clear that the Rif-Dag did not intend to wait. "I was sent south to seek aid for my people. That I have done. Now I must return."

  Thorn stepped closer, taking hold of the pony's bridle, his wide, sky-blue eyes narrowing. All trace of their once familiar sparkle had vanished, replaced by a colder, more realistic stare. His words, when they came, were as cold as his eyes. "Mithdar would not desert you in your time of need."

  Cynwulf stiffened. For a brief moment it looked as though he was about to dismount and strike Thorn; either that or ride him down where he stood. Then his fierce gaze slowly changed, not softened exactly, but rather grudgingly took on a new look of respect. He turned and barked at Bragi and Snorn. "We will wait awhile longer, for Mythdarian indeed has ever been a friend to our people."

  "And for that I most humbly thank you." The voice came from the shadows still lingering beside the inn.

  Timin whirled around. "Mithdar!"

  "In the flesh," grinned the mage, stepping up to the waiting company. He leaned on his carven staff and placed a slender hand on Thorn's shoulder. "What you said was brightly forged, Wee'n, and may Erg bless you for it." He glanced up at Cynwulf. "Your words, Rif-Dag, also warm my heart, for I deem it a great honour to be counted a friend to the Delgii."

  He smiled at Zoean and the rest, then cocked his head sideways at the thin stranger with a harp slung over his back. The boy, Ono, sat just behind the mounted bard. "And who have we here? Another pair of lost strays?"

  Erin stepped forward. "A bard, good greybeard; one that can sing so sweetly that even that old heart o' yours will long for the passions o' spring!"

  Mithdar's expression briefly took on a pained look, then, just as swiftly, was gone. A hint of sadness, however, lingered in his grey eyes. Erin, seeing none of this, surged ahead.

  "There before you sits none other than Roary Ol'Heath, grandson 'n heir to THE Ol'Heath, greatest bard in the kingdoms o' Kith or Loamin!"

  Mithdar cocked his head to one side and regarded the over-dressed young man. "I once had the pleasure of meeting your grandsire. Long ago that was. You resemble him greatly."

  Roary bowed deeply from the saddle. "You do me honour, my lord. My brother 'n I give you thanks."

  The old mage eyed the half hidden lad and scratched his beard. "We ride into grave danger, my young friend. Are you certain that you and your 'brother' wish to join us?"

  Roary leaned forward in the saddle and swept off his feathered hat. His gaze, as well as his voice, was steady, clear and bright. "The known world lies behind me, kind sir. Soft, steady n' stale. I came westward seeking something else; something bigger n' grand, something 'noble', if ye like; something to set my grandsire's harp soaring to the very stars!"

  "And think you that you shall find it in bloody war?"

  Roary beamed down at the aged mage. "It has been noted, n' by those far wiser than I, that 'bloody war be the forge upon which men temper their souls'". He straightened in the saddle and gazed about the squalid town before continuing. "Sooner or later, the Grim Reaper claims us all. Yet with your brave band I just might find a thing or two worthy of a song. Besides," he said with a winning smile; "Ono 'n I have nowhere else to go."

  Erin laughed deeply and tossed Roary a wineskin. "Drink up, Ol'Heath; after such a grand speech ye must have a powerful thirst indeed!"

&n
bsp; Mithdar frowned and was about to reply when Zoean took his arm. "Let them come, Mythdarian. I feel that both the bard and his brother are somehow already caught up in this tangle." Her deep green eyes washed over Roary, drawn to him in a way that both troubled and delighted her. "Also, we need all the help we can get."

  Roary bowed to her as Cynwulf nudged his pony forward. "It be time to ride, Mythdarian. The Delgii of Tyree have great need of us!"

  And so, just before noon, the mounted company rode out of Blackwater. North and east they went, the dark waters of The Tarn always on their left. The second day found them swinging first directly north, then north by west. Always the brooding blackness of The Tarn was to their left. Shortly after noon on the third day they came in sight of their goal, the Edge of the World, the highland Plateau of Tyree over which the great falls tumbled in timeless splendor --- and there they found a bloody battle already in progress.

  ***

  Bar Gildar looked upwards once more, then nodded. His aid, Degin, sighed and sounded his horn. Its high, clear notes cut through the din and clamor of battle and the Nim-Loth of Gareth Withrin began their third withdrawal of the day. Gildar wiped the blood from his forehead and swore. Casting one angry glance up toward the Karn-held heights, he waved his warriors back down the treacherous slope. Spears, boulders and guttural laughter followed them all the way to the bottom.

  Dinn Orthal limped up to Gildar and sketched a salute. It was ignored. Orthal, breathing hard from both his excess weight and his leg wound, drew himself up with an effort. "My Lord Gildar, nearly a score of our Warders are slain. That number and more are wounded. I beg you, reconsider this frontal approach."

  Gildar glared back at the elder Nim-Loth. "Show me another way up this accursed cliff and I'll gladly take it! But we both know there IS no other way!" His voice dropped as the rage bled out of him. "Orthal old friend, have the Warders pull back to the far end of the pool. Post guards and have food prepared. Perhaps tonight --- " Gildar's voice trailed off into a sigh. Degin came forward with a bandage to bind the Lake Warden's bleeding brow. From far above the shrill laughter of the Karns could still be heard over the roaring of the falls.

  A Nim-Loth ran up and saluted. "Bar Gildar, riders approaching from the east; a half-score or more!"

  Even as they looked, the group from Blackwater rode into the hastily erected camp at the base of the falls. When Gildar recognized the flash of sunlight on Zoean's shining dark main he rushed forward, joy pushing aside the bitter taste of failure.

  "Zoean! Praise Blessed Oma, you're alive!" He caught her as she jumped down from her lathered mount and pressed her hand to his lips, then, suddenly remembering who and where he was, he stepped back and bowed formally. "Your pardon, Zorina, but I had feared you were --- "

  "'Dead'?", she said sharply. "Little wonder, with all this slaughter I see around me! Explain yourself, Lord Gildar; how came so many of my father's people to be slain?!"

  The Lake Warden looked as though he had been struck. "I but tried to gain the heights, Lady Zoean. But the filthy Grel --- "

  "Have obviously outwitted you!" She turned her flashing eyes towards Dinn Orthal, and, seeing the blood still welling from his cut thigh, she knelt and bound the wound with her own scarf. "Orthal, what folly is this? A frontal attack up a mountain? I took you at least to have more sense!" The portly second-in-command winced more from her words than the pain and looked away. Honour bid him hold his tongue, yet deep in his heart he named Gildar a pompous, glory-grasping fool! No coward, certainly, even foolishly brave at times, but a fool none-the-less.

  Zoean rose and called for Flynn. The Narthrond was at her side in an instant. "Your skill, Flynnial, is sorely needed. Seek out an alternate way up yonder slope, for too many of our people have died this day!"

  Cynwulf cut in before the Woodsmaster could leave. "There be no other way, M'Lady. The Edge of the World is aptly named; it has but one path up or down, and the Karn-filth hold that and the heights above it!"

  Zoean looked to Mithdar, her green eyes pleading, yet the silver bearded mage could but shake his head. "I fear that my arts are as useless as your swords, Zoean, for the Karns are both too far away and too well hidden."

  The Nim-Lothian princess looked at each of them in turn. Erin offered to lead another frontal attack, but she forbade it.

  Then the bard stepped forward. His brown eyes looked at her mockingly. "If we ourselves cannot reach the brutes, then we must contrive to make them come down to us."

  "And just how," Gildar sneered; "shall we 'contrive' such a thing? Call up and invite them down for dinner?!"

  Roary plucked an arrow from the Narthrond's quiver and, tugging a colorful scarf from his neck, knotted it around the shaft. "Our 'calling card', good sir. Set it aflame n' a hundred like it , shoot them into the trees and brushes behind your unpleasant friends up yonder and burn them out. They will be forced to flee for their lives or roast where they stand. Either way you gain the advantage."

  Erin thumped the bard soundly on the back, his wolfish eyes already seeing the smoldering Karns going down before his black sword. "Faith, lad, but you've a devilish brain in that pretty heard o' yours! Kel! Flynn! Gather some archers 'n send up your fiery bolts! Cynwulf 'n I shall greet them as they come runnin' down to dinner!" The tall man from Loamin looked the startled Lake-Warden squarely in the eye. "Be you with us, Gildar, or no? for there'll be roast Karn-meat aplenty at this feast!"

  The Nim commander, flushing red, turned to Zoean for guidance. Finding only a regal stare, he nodded curtly then strode off, calling loudly for archers and his helmet.

  ***

  Even from only half way up the slope the tremendous heat threatened to blister exposed skin. Above them great swirls of smoke billowed up into the clear blue sky, sucking up the air at the rim of the cliff and searing the lungs of those left alive.

  Yet still the Karns kept coming.

  Thorn pressed his back against the cooler rock and closed his smarting eyes, his short bow still clutched in his ash covered hands. He was nearly out of arrows, as were most of the bowmen scattered around the slope --- yet still the Karns kept coming!

  The smoke thickened. From all directions the screams of the dying could be heard, mixed now with roar of the falls and the clash of weapons. Thorn caught a glimpse of Cynwulf, with Bragi and silent Snorn guarding his back, slashing out at what a first glance seemed to be a large, burning stump. Then the stump moved and the Kirkwean saw that it was a Karn on fire! Cynwulf's long pole-axe flicked out and relieved the screaming creature of its head.

  Timin pressed up close to Thorn, his trusty fish-spear clutched in his hand. Thorn turned to his cousin with a frown. "I thought you were going to stay and guard the princess?!"

  Timin rubbed his smarting eyes. "What, and let you get your fool self killed without me?! Besides, Mithdar told me to stop you from --- " Just then a large creature with its hair ablaze came hurtling down the slope directly at them. Thorn stood and sent a shaft into its chest, but the momentum carried it on downwards. Heavy mace still raised, the creature's short, muscular legs continued to pump. While Thorn dropped his bow and fumbled for Shard, Timin ran forward and plunged his small spear into the throat of the flaming beast.

  Yet even in death the Karn kept coming, gasping out one last strangled snarl before collapsing on the tiny Kirkwean. Thorn cried out and began dragging the dead Karn off of his beloved cousin. The tears in his eyes came not from the swirling smoke, and a choking groan of despair escaped from the depths of his being as he tried to lift the heavy, still burning corpse and failed.

  Then other hands were helping him. The Narthrond heaved and the lifeless Karn was rolled over. Through the smoke and stench of burning flesh, Timin's blood-smeared face greeted them.

  "Erg strike me!", he gasped. "That thing -- was as heavy --- as -- a mountain!"

  Thorn and the Nim archer half dragged Timin behind a large boulder. Flynn went to recover his longbow and stood looking up the slope.

>   "There's less of the poor creatures now," he said quietly, seemingly more to himself than the two Kirkwean. "What few we don't kill the flames will soon claim." There was sadness in Flynnial's voice as he spoke of the dying of the enemy, a sadness that touched a seemingly long forgotten chord in Thorn's heart. The blood-spattered Wee'n looked around him at the dead and the dying enemy and, for the first time in what seemed like forever, he too felt pity, not hatred for the mounds of just recently living flesh that now lay scattered about like so muck burnt and hacked meat fallen off a butcher's wagon.

  Then his hand strayed to the hilt of Shard and he had a sudden powerful urge to draw the black blade and strike the unguarded back of the sentimental Narthrond. With a startled jerk he pulled his hand away, inwardly both shocked and disgusted that such a vile idea could even enter his thoughts!

  "Thorn, give me a hand up," Timin weased as he pulled himself slowly to his feet. "Erg save me, but that creature stinks!" Timin's eyes met his cousin's and he knew instantly that something was wrong. "I was terribly afraid, Thorn --- but when I saw you were about to draw Shard, well, I just

  had to do something! Mithdar told me that the more you, er, 'use' it, the more it 'uses you', so to speak."

  Timin's pudgy hand took hold of his cousin's trembling one and the two of them stood there on that blood-covered slope; then Thorn's gaze moved to the shortsword at his side. Through the smoke and flames his smarting eyes seemed to see, just for a fleeting moment, the hilt glow a crimson red, like fresh spilt blood. Then Flynn called out and the vision vanished, yet not before Thorn felt a sudden wrenching in his stomach.

  "There's Erin! He's made the rim and is waving us up!"

  Together the three struggled towards the dark figure with the raised sword. Thorn was reminded of a great black bird of prey.

  ***

  "He lies, m'lord! All our weapons were taken from us by that filthy Loamin slave!" Nex's words were out before he had time to consider their true meaning. The Law of Slath clearly stated that any officer who surrendered his weapons to an enemy should be stripped of all rank and considered an outcast. Tarus Brag, long time councilor to the High Gnash, narrowed his bird-like eyes and stepped back, seeking to distance himself from the disgrace Nex had just blurted out.