by Wayne Mee
"I'll get you one day!", he bellowed, shaking his tiny fist at the distant clouds. "I swear by Erg and all that's holy I'll see you dead!"
The others, each deep in their own grief, turned away. Onooga draped her cloak over Flynn's still form and then turned to Roary's waiting arms.
"It could have been you, my love," she said through her tears. "It could have been any one of us."
The bard held her tightly. "Aye, lass, it could have been. I was wrong to want the thing to live. Such beasts be utterly evil!"
Mithdar, overhearing Roary's words, moved closer to them. "I think it better to blame the evil mind that guided the beast than the dumb beast itself. That 'flyer' WAS guided here, probably sent to guard the river."
Roary pulled Onooga closer to him. "N' it's this Lucfelian that sent it?"
"I know of no one else who could command a Firimar Dragonus."
Onooga looked up at the tall mage. "The Karns were bad enough; but this!"
Thorn and the others joined them. Erin, buckling on his sword belt, took charge.
"This scow be finished. We'd best be takin' the longboat and continue down river. Though I doubt it, that 'thing' may yet come back."
"And what about Flynn?!", Zoean demanded. "We can't just leave him here!"
Erin's wolf-grey eyes still scanned the sky where the 'flyer' had vanished. His voice sounded distant, impatient. "We'll take the body with us n' bury it in the forest."
Zoean, her mouth set in a thin line, pulled the weapons-man around and slapped him hard on his face. "You cold hearted bastard! Flynnial was not an 'it' to be tossed into the bushes at your convenience! He was The Narthrond of Gareth Withrin, as well as my brave and trusted friend, and he will be given a proper burial!"
Erin turned and looked down at the Nim-Lothian princess, her handprint still clear on his face. "It's knowin' I am full well what he was, lass, perhaps even better than you --- for it's lovin' you he was, yet, when he thought that you n' I --- "
"He TOLD you that?!" Erin's words had suddenly drained away all the anger, leaving her in a state of shock.
"That he did. Back in The Tarn it was. I told him what was between us was but a 'harmless flirtation', but he believed otherwise."
"I --- I never knew..."
"Well, it's knowin' you be now, lass, for I'd not be sendin' him off without his true feelin's clear. I want no phantoms nor spectors between us. He was a good friend, but he's dead, n' life be fore the livin'! Now, it's into the longboat we'll all be goin', Flynn along with us. We'll build him a carin downriver."
The ice in his voice left little room for further debate.
***
Chapter 45:'THE BATTLE BARRENS'
The longboat, equipped with a small sail, had taken them several kilvels downstream when Thorn, pointing to a small brook off to their right, told them that he recognized where they were.
"Crooked Creek its called. Its waters come all the way down from Mill Lake in The Root!"
After pulling the longboat well back into the trees, they carried the body further up the little stream. There, in a shallow depression under an ancient willow, they laid Flynn to rest. Wrapped in Zoean's embroidered cloak, his shortsword on his breast, they quietly raised a cairn of stones over him.
When it was done Zoean placed a wreath of wildflowers on the stones and sang a short dirge in her own tongue. Upon finishing, she turned to Roary and asked if he would play his harp.
"Something from your own homeland will do," she said softly; "for he loved to hear of far and distant places."
The wordless lay that Roary played was short, sad and bitter sweet, much like the life of Flynn himself. When it was over Zoean bowed to the harper, then, settling Flynn's long, green, hunter's cloak about her, she slipped his quiver over her shoulder and took up his longbow.
"For years he was my teacher as well as my friend. I will take these to remember him by." Turning back to the pile of stones, she continued, her voice now all but a whisper. "Rest you gentle, sweet Flynnial, and sleep you sound."
Erin was the first to break the heavy silence. "Over the years I've seen many a good friend die --- perhaps too many." His grey eyes darted to Zoean, but she refused to meet his gaze. "It's not a thing you get used to, nor should you. It hurts down deep, and leaves a scar of a different kind --- but somehow you go on." He moved closer to Zoean and took her hand. "Flynnial gave his life for us, all of us. By remembering him as he was and by going on with a brave heart, we give meaning to his death."
With a muffled sob, Zoean folded herself into his arms. He rocked her gently as a child. At length, when she had regained her composure, Erin turned to Thorn.
"You know this place well you say? How far be it to your tree-house village?"
"A full days march will get us to the Cat Woods," replied the little Kirkwean. "If we start now, by this time tomorrow we could be near the West Gate."
"And West Gate Lane takes you all the way into The Root!", Timin added breathlessly. "By nightfall tomorrow we could be home for supper ---though I don't suppose we should travel out in the open."
"No, Timin-lad, we'll not be takin' any roads or lanes," Erin said. "Slather patrols will be out in force, so its Shank's pony through fields n' forests for us."
The Company, now nine in number, shouldered their packs and, with Thorn leading the way, continued walking silently up the little stream, thoughts of Flynn bitter-sweet in each of their minds. After some distance, Erin continued to question Thorn about the geography of The Wold.
"The Root I remember well, lad, but as for the rest, it all seemed forest, lakes and hills. How best may we be approachin' the village?"
"This stream will take us through The Cat Woods, right up to the western shore of Mill Lake. From there we can take a little used trail south and then east around the lake and into the back portion of The Root. The main part will be north of us, near West Gate Lane."
The tall man from Loamin tensed as someone behind him stepped on a dry branch. "Be there any dwellings between here and this lake?"
"Well, it's been some time since I was down this way, but I seem to remember a cottage or two on the far side of The Cat Woods. We'll have to pass through a swampy bit before long, but it shouldn't take us more than a few hours."
Erin caught the slight hesitation in the Kirkwean's voice. Thorn's blue eyes refused to meet Erin's grey ones.
"Out with it, lad," Erin said firmly. "This be no time to be holdin' back on your friends! What about this 'little swamp'?"
"It's nothing, really. Just old wives tales about the place being haunted".
"'Battle Barrens' it's called!", put in Timin from his palace at Thorn's elbow. "And a dark, fell place it is too! Folks say a great battle took place there ages ago, and that on moonlit nights the dead still walk the watery bog."
The pudgy Kirkwean suddenly caught hold of his cousin's sleeve. "You're not thinking of going THROUGH there, are you?! Why, no Kirkwean in his right mind has been down there ever since old Edgeroot Shale disappeared in there when we were just wee tots!"
Thorn turned and spoke sharply to his cousin. "If we don't pass through The Barrens we stand a good chance of being caught by a Slather patrol! And I didn't come all this way to get captured just when I'm about to reach Granther Higgs and Fern!"
Erin placed a gloved hand on Timin's shoulder. "Also, if we don't follow Thorn's advice, come nightfall we'll be stuck up on some bare, rocky hill, with little shelter, no fire n' that great, leather-winged 'beastie' still roaming the skies just waitin' for a nice, plump Kirkwean to show himself!"
Timin gave a little squeak and rolled his large eyes. "Erg save us, Erin! Do you REALLY think that 'thing' is still out there?!"
The stern-faced weapons-man shrugged. "Yourself saw it fly off, n' it with a great gash from Glenrig in it's scaly neck!"
"But the Battle Barrens?!", Timin continued. "I've heard such terrible tales --- !"
"T'was no old 'tale', laddie, that snapped up poor Flynn,"
Erin said gravely. "Better to face wet feet, bugs n' a little mist than to be caught up on a bare, dry hill by a real dragon."
"It's also the one place they'll not bother to guard," Thorn said.
By now the others had caught up and Erin explained the problem. Of all the group, only Kel seemed uninterested in which route they would take.
"I -- I know Iswore I'd see it dead for what it did to Flynn," Timin said. "But now that the rest of us are safely away, I hope never to see the ugly thing again!" Timin cast quick, furtive glances at the lengthening shadows. "But to go willingly into the Barrens --- I just don't know."
"I think, Timin," Mithdar said slowly; "that we have little need to fear this place you call the 'Battle Barrens', for I too have heard of it, and what I know of the place came not from old crones cackling round the hearth nor from the bottom of empty ale horns."
They pressed closer, the two Kirkwean level with his belt.
"Selderack Ovlum is its true name, though there are few left now in Oma-Var that would remember the tale."
"'The Treacherous Heart'?", Nobert repeated, translating from the shadows. "I seem to recall something by that name long ago. Before I came to Gareth Withrin. A lay it was, all dark and full of evil deeds!"
"Evil indeed, old Nob!", Mithdar said. "For it is a dark tale that took place many ages ago, when first the Nim-Loth came to New-Oma. Lucfelian had a part to play in it even then, though he himself was never actually here. It tells of two brothers, Nim-Loth both, who were bringing their respective hosts westward to join with the High King, Gerdolin, to hunt down the newly outcast Lucfelian. Both brothers were haughty, brave and proud --- perhaps too proud, for in the end it proved their undoing. They quarreled over who should lead. It is rumored that one was given aid by Lucfelian himself, but that was never proven. The youngest, Ithenial, did dark treachery on his older brother and, while camped on a marshy plain, slew him in his sleep."
There was a collective gasp from the Company, and Onooga moved closer to the bard.
"Ithenial's 'victory' however, was short lived, for before dawn a great band of Brakarns swept down from the mountains and attacked the sleeping Nim-Loth. The Brakarns, being both taller and more savage that their distant southern cousins, killed most of the twin hosts. Those few that escaped are said to have wandered ever deeper and deeper into the marsh, cursing with their last dying breath the treacherous heart of the one who had slain his own brother."
"Slath strike me!", Timin muttered. "And all that happened long ago right here in The Wold?!"
Mithdar smiled. "What year is it, Timin, according to Kirkwean reckoning?"
Timin looked puzzled. "Why, everyone knows that! It's the Planting Season of 1128!"
The wizard turned to Erin. "And the year in Loamin?"
The weapons-man thought for a moment before replying. "It be the 27th year o' the House o' Liam, the ruling High Griff o' Loamin."
Again Mithdar smiled. "And for the Nim-Loth of Gareth Withrin?"
Zoean's answer came swift and sure. "The 3,109th year of the Second Age, though I've heard that some Nim-Loth in the distant west call it by some other date."
"They do indeed, Zoean!," the old mage chuckled. "Your father's silv, in its efforts to preserve the 'old ways', has rejected the fact that in the west a new age has been declared. In fact, this is the 26th year of the Third Age!"
"What has all this got to do with us takin' either the swamp path or the longer way?!" The impatience in Erin's voice was plain for all to hear. "Countries n' kingdoms give new dates every time some foppish king farts!"
"Well put, my impetuous friend!", said Mithdar. "That is precisely the point I meant to impress on good Timin here! This land we now find ourselves in is called The Wold, and has been called so for over fourteen hundred years, but BEFORE that it was something else. A battle was fought in the very marsh now called Battle Barrens, but that was a very long time ago. You'll find nothing there to harm you now!"
Erin sighed. "Well, for takin' the 'short way round the tale', you certainly took your time! We could o' been THROUGH the quiffin marsh by now!"
As the others smiled, Timin tugged at Mithdar's sleeve.
"But what happened to him? The one that killed his own brother?"
"Oh," Mithdar said with mock gravity. "Ithenial was never seen of again. Some say he was killed, some say he drowned in the swamp --- still others hold that he's out there still, cursed to wander lost till he finds someone that will forgive him for his foul deed, but that, of course, is ridiculous."
"'Of course'," Nobert said, shouldering his pack. "All the same, I'll be glad when we're through the quiffin' place!"
"You'll not be gettin' an argument from me on that!", Roary added. "But the sooner started, the sooner done! Besides, after that flyin' beastie, a 'wandering shade' should be child's play!"
As the Company moved off, Timin found that his joy at being home again had been greatly reduced.
***
"There, Skatha! You see them! Just entering that swamp!" Lucfelian, still in the perfectly healthy body of the High Gnash of Slathland, bent over a large bowl of blood and gazed intently at the shifting images. Skatha, coming closer to peer over his master's shoulder, grinned evilly. "I see them, my liege! And the thrice cursed Wee'ns are leading them!"
Lucfelian looked up at his last remaining Nar-Graith. "I told you he'd come! And he's bringing It with him!"
Skatha's sneer faded as fear flickered across his cruel features. "But, my lord, if the Wee'n draws Shard, how shall you take it away from him? The last time I tried I --- "
"Failed miserably!", Lucfelian said coldly. "But you shall be forgiven, faithful Skatha. And to prove my confidence in you, I shall give you one more chance to bring Shard to me. Do that, and not only shall you be forgiven for past blunders, but I will raise you up high and sit you by my right hand forever!"
Skatha visibly paled at this sudden turn of events. The thought of having to face that searing bright sword again turned his bowels to water, yet the twin desire for power and the chance to become an 'equal' with the hated creature that created him overcame his fear of Shard. Full of arrogance and twisted pride, he drew himself up to his full height and struck his fist to his chest. "Your will be done, My Liege!"
"Naturally," Lucfelian replied, then, with a wave of his hand the images in the bowl blurred, revealing another scene. A pack of running 'Hecket'; great, black hel-hounds, their emaciated bodies long limbed and as high as a tall man's waist. The slavering pack was led by a great, red-eyed hairy brute with gleaming, yellow fangs.
"Look you here, Skatha!", Lucfelian commanded. "Even now more of my 'pets' are running to meet them! From distant Weirwood I have summoned a pack of Hecket, just as I did the 'flyers'!"
He waved his hand again and the image shifted. Skatha's reddish eyes widened. He pointed with his hook at the bloody bowl. On the rippling surface a large group of creatures loped across a windswept plain. Man-like they were, yet broader, taller and strangely Karnish. Helms, shields and spears caught the glittering light of a fading sun while their massive legs pounded over the darkened prairie.
"Brakarns! But I thought they all perished ages ago?!"
"And so they did, Loyal Skatha. But, as I did with you and your late brethren, my powers have caused them to rise up and once again do my bidding."
Skatha was clearly shocked. "But how can this be, lord? And if you can call forth the long-dead Brakarns, can you not also bring back the lost Nar-Graith?! Kar'im, Dwill and the others would aid us greatly!"
Lucfelian turned on him viciously. "Fool! Think you that I have not already tried?! But without Shard it would take years, for you Nar-Graith were once humans, while these Brakarns and the others are mere simple minded beasts and much easier summoned and bent to my will!"
Once again Skatha bowed to his lord and master. "How may I serve you, my liege?"
Lucfelian drew from his robes a leather pouch and carefully took out a small, round object. It looked t
o be a stone or a birds egg, yet it was shot through with many colors that seemed to swirl in the palm of his hand.
"I have conjured up these 'Dragon Tears' to aid you in retrieving Shard. Dropped from on high each one explodes, causing a fire of such intensity that even water will not quench. Pretty, are they not?"
Skatha reached for one, nearly dropping it with the sudden heat that scorched his dead-white hand. Lucfelian grabbed it back.
"Idiot! If you had dropped it here we both would have gone up in flames! Put your glove on, fool, for only leather counters the spell!"
The Nar-Graith, gingerly tucking the leather pouch into the larger one at his waist, drew himself stiffly erect. "And just how, my lord, shall I 'drop them from on high'?" There was just a tinge of sarcasm in Skatha's voice, but Lucfelian chose to ignore it --- for now. The rest of his little plan was too delightful to spoil by becoming angry with a mere servant.
"You saw my 'flyer' return this morning?"
Skatha nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He inwardly loathed these 'flyers' almost as much as he loathed Lucfelian himself --- yet he knew that without his 'lord and master', he himself would not exist. The Shadow-Lord had created him, dragging him and the others out of limbo ages ago. If Lucfelian's spirit were ever to be snuffed out, Skatha himself would wink out of existence. It was a thought that filled him with dread, though at the same time had an almost magnetic appeal to it.
"It's wounds have been healed and I have instructed it to carry you on its back. You will find the Wee'n and bombard him and his misguided companions with those pretty little pebbles I gave you. You won't even have to land, dear Skatha. Just drop your deadly cargo and retreat. I myself will sift through the ashes and retrieve that which was taken from me!"
"But, lord?! If the flames are as hot as you say, is there not a danger that Shard will melt?!"
The cold laughter that followed sent a shiver of fear down the Nar-Graith's spine. "Gold, silver, even iron will be consumed, as will the very bones of these ignorant fools! But Shard will remain; cold, dark and waiting for my touch."
