by Wayne Mee
***
Mithdar, his leg pumping blood, lashed out at the grinning Brakarn. The gnarled staff struck the creature flat on its overlarge ear. Fang, whose hide was tough enough to ward off even the sharpest blade, felt the sting of the wizard's wand all the way down to his toes. He jumped back and howled.
"Not fair! Not fair! Master said greybeard use only magic! Master make magic not hurt Fang! Not fair use greybeard use stick!"
Mithdar, on his feet now and leaning on the bridge railing for support, grinned back at the Brakarn. "So, your 'master' made you immune to my spells, did he? Gave you that pretty scratch on your forehead and sent you out to find me, eh? How very thoughtful of him."
The long staff in Mithdar's hands suddenly became a blur as he went through the intricate moves he had leaned while traveling in Kel's homeland many, many years ago. The Chin had once confided in him that he had reached the fifth of the seven levels of Tanj-ka, the ancient Chin art of self-defense. Mithdar himself had only achieved the third level. With his wounded leg and his spells useless against the Brakarn, the mage hoped that it would be enough.
Fang, the pain having subsided somewhat, advanced cautiously. His limited brain told him that somehow killing this old manling was not going to be as easy as the Master had said it would be.
Mithdar, realizing that time was against him, decided to carry the fight to the Brakarn. His staff whirling in an intricate pattern, the mage advanced.
Fang swung at where the greybeard should have been --- and received a rap on his hairy shin that left his leg numb. Another murderous swing resulted in the end of the wizard's staff being thrust hard into the Brakarn's ponderous belly. With a whooshing sound the air gushed out of Fang's lungs. Then came another of those stinging, maddening blows to his ear --- both of them this time!
Now almost blind with rage, Fang lifted his spiked club high over his head, bellowed out a guttural curse and charged. Mithdar might have been able to avoid the rushing abomination if it hadn't been for his wounded leg. As it was he did manage to thrust his staff into the Fang's onrushing feet and trip him just before their two bodies collided --- yet this was not enough. The tremendous weight of the creature carried him onward, so that, even as his bulk smashed through the railing of the bridge, he managed to catch hold of Mithdar's cloak with his meaty paw.
Over went Fang, dragging the mage with him.
Mithdar had time for only one regret; not being able to go to Thorn when he needed him most.
Then he was weightless and falling.
Suddenly the hood of his cloak snagged on something and Mithdar felt himself come to a rude but welcome stop. Fang's grip on him was torn away and the Brakarn continued his downward flight on his own. Hanging suspended in mid air by his hood, the mage heard a dull thudding sound far below him. Fang had landed. Looking up Mithdar saw first a bronze hand gripping his hood and then the frowning face of Kel. Timin and Fernleaf were kneeling beside him and together the three of them pulled the old mage back up on the bridge.
***
Though at different parts of the tree village, they both heard the scream and came running. Erin from the inn and Mithdar from the level beneath the bridge where he and the Brakarn had fallen. Before he did so, however, he cast a 'seep' spell over his rescuers, for he knew that if Kel, Timin or Ferleaf followed him, their souls as well as their bodies would be in peril.
Both weaponsman and mage reached Thorn's front door at the same time, one with sword ready, the other with staff raised. The voice that greeted them from inside, however, was almost jovial, though it still grated on the nerves like nails dragged over slate.
"Ah, I see my other two guests have arrived. How nice. Come in, gentlemen. I've so longed to meet you --- in the flesh."
Erin went through the doorway first, followed by Mithdar. What they saw in the shadow filled room froze them in their tracks. The tall form of the High Gnash of Slathland stood before them. Dressed in his silver plated armor and helm, his left arm effortlessly held Thorn's struggling form to him, while in his right hand Shard pulsed with a light that hurt the eyes. An arms length of shimmering blue fire, save for the reddish star that burned brightly from the depths of the blade. The gaze of both mage and weaponsman were dragged to it the crimson star, which, like some evil loadstone, sucked out not only their life's essence, but their very souls
"But I see that you both are at a loss for words. Cat got your tongue, Mythdarian? In the past you were always so quick to denounce me and slander my good name."
Thorn, seeing both his friends seemingly frozen in place, tried to break free, but Lucfelian only clutched him to his breast all the tighter. Shard, a searing brand close by his right ear, throbbed in time with his beating heart. Lucfelian moved its glowing point to just under the Kirkwean's chin.
And this great hulk beside you must be Erin Ap Conn, the slave both Ragnol Halfhand and poor dead Nex hated so much. The weaponsman from distant Loamin. The Raven. The Watcher. So many titles." The sarcasm, that had dripped from his lips like acid, was now replaced with outright hatred. "The two of you and this little runt here have caused me a great deal of trouble! My Nar-Graith, my Hecket, my Brakarns, even my Dragonus Rex --- all gone because of you three! Skatha too! Faithful Skatha, that both hated and loved me at the same time. Gone into the Ether like smoke on the wind --- all because of your meddling!"
Shard's point drew a line across Thorn's throat and blood flowed. Not too deep, but enough to make the blade burn all the brighter.
"NO!" Thorn screamed and, working his right hand free, manage to grab the burning blade half way own from the hilt. The crimson star, hotter than a bellows pumped forge, burned itself into his palm, yet he held on, gritted his teeth against the pain and thrust Shard's point up and into the eyeslit of Lucfelian's silver helm. There was a sizzling sound, and the smell of burnt meat, and the popping sound of the Shadow Lord's eye popping.
Then the screaming started. A long, drawn out wail --- not from Lucfelian, but from the 'other' that dwelled deep within him, chained now in the dungeon that was once the mind of Alexus V, High Gnash of Slathland.
Thorn , still clutching shard by the burning blade, dropped to the floor and rolled. Mithdar and Erin, free now from the spell they had been under, used the weapons they were accustomed to. Mithdar raised his staff, shouted out some ancient words and the legendary Bliss Necro shot fort, point black into Lucfelian's chest. As the body started to sag and them melt, Erin stepped forward and struck off the Shadow Lord's head with a two handed blow.
The half melted body went one way, the head another. It rolled across the floor and came to rest at the feet of the man who put it there. Erin's wide eyes looked down into lifeless ones --- and saw the lips suddenly twist into a smile and then speak: Erin Ap Conn of Loamin --- till we meet again!"
Then, through the smoke and the still smouldering body, while Thorn scrambled over to a bent over and exhausted Mithdar, Erin saw a dark shadow, more like a stain than smoke, leak out of the open mouth of head lying at his feet, twirl upwards, linger ever so slightly, then blow out the door and into the darkening twilight. Whispered words seemed to float back to him --- his name and country, and then: 'Till we meet again.---.'
Chapter 63: 'EPILOGUE'
********************
'THE ENDING OF THE TALE'
It had finally come to an end.
Ragnol, Shag and the few Slathers that had escaped were being hunted down by Arthdain. As for the Brakarns and the other 'dark creatures', they had vanished with the passing of the Shadow Lord. Narya, the Erg-Leath, had been buried with great ceremony and Thorn and the others were recovering from their wounds. Plans for the double wedding of Fernleaf and the returning Wanderer, along with the bard, Roary Ol' Heath and Onooga, were well under way.
Peace had once again come to the little Kirkwean village of The Root.
Or had it?
"All's well that ends well I always say, though I guess we can't rightly say that now, can we?" Grant
her Higgs puffed away on his pipe before continuing. "Far too many good lads lost for that! Aye! And lassies too!"
The old Kirkwean was sitting in a rocker on the broad, open-air platform outside of the Green Branch Inn. Erin sat at a small table, close by the railing where the remains of a Slather whip still blew in the breeze. The owner of the inn had wanted Nex's charred remains left dangling as well, arguing it would be 'good for business'. In the end it was decided by the Root that the whip was more than enough.
Though it had been over a week since the ending of the 'War of the Wanderer' as it was being called, Erin seemed in an unusually dark and quiet mood. Kel, his ever-present shadow, stood silently off to one side.
Leaning forward, a cup of his homemade spirits in one hand and his pipe in the other, the old Rover stabbed the stem in Erin's direction. "Thorn tells me you're not planning on staying with us much longer? Going 'back home' he tells me? Way up to the north-east somewhere?"
The weaponsman, for once clad in something besides his black chainmail, grunted and reached for the bottle. His longsword Glenrig, however, rested close at hand.
Granther began rocking again, wreaths of smoke billowing round his thinning, grey hair. "You'll be staying for the wedding, though?"
"Wouldn't be miss it!", Erin replied with a quick smile, then seemed to sink back into his black mood.
Granther raised his glass. "Just two more days and Fern will finally get her hooks into him! The bard and that good-looker with the golden hair are getting hitched right along with them! Erg strike me!, but I've not seen so much fussing and dress-making in the Root for years!" He then lifted both his glass and himself up and said loudly for all to hear:
"Wee'ns of The Root! I ask you one and all to join me in a toast. To my nephew Bramblethorn Higgs and his beautiful bride-to-be, Fernleaf. May their days be long and sunny, their children be strong and many!"
The Kirkwean sitting at other tables all happily joined in. Just then Timin came out of the Green Branch, followed by Dingle and the large, blond Nim, Cal Gwailith. The last two each held a tankard of ale and had quite obviously been celebrating for some time. Hearing the toast, the tall Nim and the bearded Delgi eagerly joined in.
Gwailith's deep voice rebounded off the towering pines. "To Thorn the Kirkwean, Sword-Bearer, Karn-Killer and famed Dragon-Slayer!" Then, to the applause of the gathered patrons, he drained his tankard and banged it down on the table.
Not to be outdone, Dingle jumped onto a stool and addressed the crowd.
"Good people of The Wold! I too give you a toast. To Thorn Starhand and his chosen mate, Fern of the Flaming Hair! Long may they find comfort in each other!" With a flourish he downed not one tankard, but two, then threw them both over the railing. The local patrons of the Green Branch yelled and cheered. Soon the names that Dingle had coined ran the length and breadth of the tree-village.
"Long live Starhand! The Wanderer Returned!"
"Health and happiness to Fern of the Flaming Hair!"
Timin lurched over to Erin's table and plopped himself down. The little Kirkwean's mood was almost as black as the weaponsman's.
"I should of been there!", he muttered more to himself than to Erin. "Thorn might not be so hurt if I'd been there!"
For the past week, Timin had brooded about little else, spending most of his time moping around Thorn's recovery room until both Fern and Mithdar had shooed him away. Erin decided it was high time to put an end to it.
"What kept you?"
"Slathers, that's what! Four of them were hiding out on the second level! One jumped poor Twigg from behind and nearly throttled him! It was all me and Spangle could do to save him and do for the other three!"
"You and Spangle faced four slathers all on your own?!" Erin had already heard the story from the blustery pirate from Del-Lingus, but he saw no need to inform Timin.
"Yes, and beat them too!", Timin growled. "But it took too Erg-cursed long! When it was finally over Spangle's was bleeding like a stuck pig and Twigg could hardly breathe. By the time I brought them down for tending and went back up with Gwailith, it was all over!"
Erin leaned forward and poured some of Granther's brew into Timin's empty mug. "Faith, man! But it's a right hero you be!"
"Right you are there, Raven!", Gwailith bellowed, engulfing the last chair at the small table. "Why, Timin here saved my life as well! When we went back up he was in such a hurry that he left me far behind. I'm not made for swinging through these quiffin' trees!" He drained his mug before continuing. "It was then I came upon a bloody great Brakarn! Oh, I could have taken the quiffer on solid ground, but up here -- ? Anyways, Warrior Timin came chargin' back with that wee fish-spear of his! Rammed it right into the bugger's guts he did!"
Erin looked at the little fellow. Timin, though he tried to hide it, looked far more pleased with himself than when he first sat down.
"A hero twice over, n' all in the same day! Faith, Timin, I knew you had the makin's o' a real weaponsman! Its takin' you to come back to fair Loamin I should be!"
Timin blushed, his chest swelling as he got to his feet.
"Me? Go trapsing off again with you and Kel?! Why, I couldn't do that! My old mum nearly died of worry the last time!" Timin blushed again and nervously looked down at his feet. "Besides, I've, er, I've sort of been seeing someone."
Gwailith grinned and nudged the pudgy Kirkwean in his considerable belly. "Someone of the female gender I'll wager?"
Timin's blush reached the roots of his hair. "Her name is Bell. Her father's old Hamroot the cheese maker. Makes the best Woldish there is he does! Curls your toes after just one bite!"
"Sounds like quite a lass!", Gwailith said with a wink.
Timin's wide eyes opened even wider. "Oh no! It's not like that! Bell's a good girl! Why she wouldn't --- "
Gwailith, still chuckling, held up his hand. "I'm sure she wouldn't, Timin; not at least till after the ceremony. So tell us lad, will there soon be three weddings to celebrate?"
Thoroughly flustered now, Timin smiled sheepishly and excused himself, muttering something about 'having to check in on Thorn'. They watched Timin scurry over the arched bridge and disappear in the twilight. The Nim warrior then turned to Erin, his large, handsome features suddenly creasing into a frown.
"So, Raven! What's this I here about you leavin'?!" Gwailith leaned over none too steadily and draped a massive hand around Erin's shoulders. "Quiff, man! You can't be leavin' that dark haired daughter o' Quent behind! Why, the poor lassie'll pine her poor heart away!"
The tall Nim moved closer and lowered his voice to a whispered shout. "The lass loves you, Erin, n' you love her! So what be all this nonsense about leavin?!"
Erin took a long, deep breath, his grey eyes sweeping over the northern horizon. "I have my reasons, old friend."
"Name them!"
Erin stiffened. He had never been one to share his innermost thoughts. His involvement with Thorn's quest had been the only unselfish thing he had done since his banishment from Loamin eight long years before. He allowed himself very few close friends, yet somehow he considered this boisterous giant one of them.
"All right, you great, shaggy hound, I'll tell you! I do love her, but she's o' your kind, not mine!"
Gwailith blinked his bloodshot blue eyes and shrugged.
"So?"
"So, you Nim be damn-well long-lived!", Erin growled. "I've seen near two score winters; she's seen over thrice that n' look at her! As fresh as a spring morn in the highlands! Quiff, man, I'd be an old toothless gaffer, shittin' me pants n' livin' in the past when she's just comin' into her prime! I'll no live like that, n' I'll not force it upon her!"
Gwailith for once had nothing to say, so Erin continued, filling in the silence with the ache of his inner being.
"Besides, there be this matter o' her father. He's none too fond of me as it is. Besides, Arthdain brought word that the Zoreana is not well n' Zoean feels she must return to be with her mother."
"You could g
o with her. Return to Gareth Withrin with us."
Erin frowned. "As what? A rapidly agin' husband to an ever-young wife? A champion too feeble to lift his sword? Faith, man, that be not the endin' I seek!"
Gwailith leaned forward, all trace of the drink suddenly having passed away. "You once told me that you'd been banished from this Loamin o' yours n' that a death sentence awaits you. Has that changed?"
Silence. When Erin finally shook his head, Gwailith sighed.
"Then why return to the headsman's axe?!"
More silence. Erin continued to toy with the hilt of his longsword. At last he spoke, the words as cold and cutting as an icy wind.
"I don't believe Lucfelian's dead."
"Great Lear's balls, man!", Gwailith exclaimed. "Mythdarian melted the quiffer n' you yourself took off his head!"
Erin's gaze locked on to the tall Nim's and held. "Oh, the body be dead enough, but what about that shadow I told you of? The one that came from the skull's mouth?"
"A trick o' the lamp, or a puff of smoke from the fire," Gwailith rationalized. "You were exhausted, man! Your eyes played you false."
"It called my name, Gwailith." He said quietly. "My name and the name o' my homeland. It also said that we'd meet again."
"N' this is why you're goin' back?" Gwailith ran a calloused hand through his long, golden locks. "I take it all back, manling. You're not as crazy as I am --- you're quiffing crazier!"
Erin leaned back, feeling suddenly better now that he had released his inner fears. "I've spoken to Mithdar about it n' he agrees that it could be possible. Though he himself didn't see the 'shadow', he still believes that the only way to truly kill Lucfelian is with Shard."
"N' you mean to do just that? Follow this 'puff of smoke' all the way back to your homeland, wait till it once again takes on human form n' then kill it?"
Erin shrugged. "I mean to try."
For a long time neither of them moved. Off to one side of the large veranda Granther Higgs was halfway through one of his 'tales'. Dingle and a crowd of eager listeners urged him on.
