Elvenborn hc-3

by Andre Nolton

  And, of course, while on campaign he'd had no such luxuries as this. Just the thought of all the times he'd gone to bed aching and bruised and bathless made this all the more pleasurable.

  It might be a while before I get to enjoy it again. Although his hunt for the non-existent Wizards was by its very nature a wild-goose chase, he would have to conduct it as if it was serious. The bare essentials for camping, no more than six men, and they would have to keep themselves fed off the land as much as possible. There would be no hot, soaking baths out there in the forests.

  He was, however, too energetic by nature to relax for too long in a hot bath when he wasn't bone-tired and wasn't currently aching and bruised. Soon enough he was out and dressed, and went looking for his father's notes. They were still where he had left them, in the library. A quick glance through them told him everything he needed to know.

  He sent his bodyservant Lynder to find Gel. Just about now, Gel should be frantic for a way to escape the two females who were planning a wedding around him, will-he, nill-he.

  Sure enough, within moments Lynder and Gel were back, Lynder's eyes dancing with merriment, Gel looking distinctly harried. "Before everyone gets wrapped up in this festival business, I want you to help me pick out six of our trackers for this pseudo Wizard-hunt," he told Gel. "I want men who didn't go out as fighters, but who can still be spared. It's getting close to the first hay-harvest, and I don't want to leave Mother short-handed even by a trifle."

  "I can tell you who without even thinking about it," Gel replied immediately. "Kar, Tem, Shalvan, Resso, Halean and Noet. They're all the junior foresters; they don't help with the harvest and their da's can live without 'em for a bit. Why so many? You plan on actually doing anything in there?"

  "It's dangerous; it isn't going to be a pleasure trip," Kyrtian warned. "Even if the new Wizards are a fabrication, there are still a lot of deadly creatures in that area. And you aren't going to be along."

  Gel's face fell, but he also looked resigned. "I was afraid you were going to decide that," he grumbled. "Damn it all, Kyrtian—"

  "Gel, you're a fighter, a tactician; you're neither a hunter nor a forester," Kyrtian pointed out. "You'd be of less use to me than one of those boys. You'll be of more user here to me—and Mother—on the bare chance that Aelmarkin tries something while I'm gone. Mother is many things—but not a soldier."

  Gel's mouth tightened. "You're not thinking he'd convince Kyndreth to put this place under siege?"

  "I'm not thinking anything," he lied with a straight face—because that was precisely what he was thinking. He didn't trust Aelmarkin—and he didn't trust Kyndreth, either. Maybe he was still useful to the Great Lord—but maybe he wasn't, anymore. "Kyndreth still needs me as long as he thinks there's a tribe of Wizards hiding right on our borders. I'm more worried about what Aelmarkin might do—or try. But between you and Mother, with Moth to feed you gossip, you'll see through anything he tries before he's done more than make a tentative probe." He clapped Gel on the shoulder. "I am not trying to put you out to stud like my favorite warhorse, although I suggest you make that charming little dancer into a very happy wife! I am allocating my resources where they'll do the most good. I need you and Mother here, watching for trouble, while I go into the forest and wait for the Elvenbane to contact me again— which she will, since the forest is the most logical place for that." He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "There's one other thing—before we had to leave Moth's, I was reading some personal journals, and something I ran into reminded me of some of Father's notes that he left behind. It's possible we've been looking for the Great Portal in the wrong place. I think it's underground, and the area around Cheynar's estate has a lot in common with the forest our ancestors fled through when they first arrived."

  Gel knew exactly what he was hinting. "Those hills are riddled with caves!" he exclaimed. "Come to think of it, if your ancestors found that their Portal dropped 'em into a cave, they wouldn't have been displeased about that, I wouldn't think; coming into a strange world in a protected spot."

  "It's one possible place to look," Kyrtian agreed. He didn't tell Gel the one thing that concerned him deeply—the Ancestors had fled the vicinity of the Great Portal in terror, but why? That was the very last thing he wanted Gel thinking about when he was gone. "That's why I want your hunters and trackers. As long as I have to pretend I'm hunting for Wizards living in caves, I have every excuse to check every cave we come across."

  "Then you don't want hunters and trackers—or, at least, not all hunters and trackers," Gel said decisively. "You'll need men that can keep all of you fed, but you'll also need men who're used to clambering around underground. Instead of Kar and Tem, I want you to take Kar's brother Hobie, and your laddy Lynder, there."

  "Lynder?" Kyrtian turned to his bodyservant in surprise. "Lynder? Why Lynder?"

  "Because Lynder and Hobie have been trying to kill themselves climbing down holes in the ground on their spare time ever since they were in their teens," Gel replied, wryly, as Lynder flushed a brilliant scarlet. "If you're going to be doing the same, I suggest you take people who've had the experience of nearly drowning when a cloudburst outside flooded the cave they were in."

  "We got out ahead of the flood!" Lynder protested, turning redder. "We heard it coming!"

  "And it would be useful if you had a couple of lads who'd been stuck in a passage they realized a bit too late was too small for them." Gel was clearly enjoying himself.

  "It wasn't too small originally," Lynder muttered. "The rock shifted."

  "I can see Lynder has plenty of experience," Kyrtian interrupted, trying not to laugh, although he also felt very sorry for the poor young man. "Haven't you told me, time and time again, that the best teacher is experience?"

  "Hobie and I have been cave-exploring for three years now without a single serious mishap," Lynder said, getting his blushing under control and trying to gather the scattered shards of his shattered dignity. "And the kinds of minor injuries we've had could happen scouting through a forest or doing some heavy work on the farm." He didn't glare at Gel, who was still clearly amused, but Kyrtian sensed that he wanted to.

  Gel finally took pity on the lad. "Kyrtian, I wouldn't have recommended young Lynder if I didn't think he could guard your steps as well in his world as I can in mine," he said generously, and now Lynder flushed with pleasure rather than embarrassment.

  Kyrtian nodded. "In that case—Lynder, I want you to get the cave-exploring gear together for seven. Gel and I will take care of the rest of the supplies we'll need. I'd like everything ready by—" He thought, and impishly decided to tease Gel a little more. "I'd like to leave tomorrow, but—"

  Gel turned white. Lynder shook his head. "Gear for seven— we'll need some special climbing equipment and we don't have anything like that here. I'll have to get straight to the blacksmith, and he and his helpers will have to work the rest of today and all tomorrow. The rest will take a bit of hunting among the stores."

  "But you can have it by the day after tomorrow?" Kyrtian persisted.

  "If you dare leave before this wedding folderol—" Gel growled under his breath, glowering.

  Kyrtian couldn't hold back his laughter—and then he had to run, for Sargeant Gel lunged for him, and he knew that if Gel got his hands on his master, the "master" would wind up in the bathtub again, but this time fully clothed.

  They couldn't get away in less than three days, after all.

  On the evening of the second day, Gel and Rennati were wed at sunset in an open-air ceremony, presided over by an old man wearing a long, black robe. So incredibly dignified was this individual, and so full of solemnity, Kyrtian had a difficult time in recognizing Hobie's father Rand, the manor's chief stablehand, who always had a joke for everyone, usually ribald.

  Rand first wafted smoke over the couple, then, while chanting under his breath, sprinkled them with water, waved a lighted taper around them, and blew dust at them. Then he drew a wobbly circle around all three of th
em with the pointed end of a staff. Still droning a chant that Kyrtian couldn't make head or tail of, he conducted a long ritual that involved an amazing amount of sprinkling of herbs and water and salt on the part of the happy couple, a great deal of walking in circles and figure-eights, and the sharing of bread and salt.

  Finally, at Rand's low-voiced order, they held out their conjoined hands, and Rand bound their hands together. Then, turning to the crowd, as the last wink of the sun descended below the horizon and the first stars came out, he spread his arms wide behind them.

  "Hands are bound as hearts are bound; two are one!" he shouted.

  A tremendous cheer arose from the huge crowd come to see the ceremony. Then, of course, came the celebration. There was a very great deal of wine and beer available, there was dancing and willing girls to build up a thirst, and all of Kyrtian's chosen party were young men with hard heads and the usual inability of young men to remember what a hangover felt like during the time that the drink was sliding smoothly down their throats. As a consequence, none of Kyrtian's six were good for much on the following day.

  However, that was not so bad, because that was the day of some of the riskier competitions—the wrestling, the hurling of large objects, the game pitting two teams against each other in competition for an inflated bladder, with no holds barred. Nursing headaches and uncertain stomachs, it was easy to persuade the six that they should be spectators, not participants.

  On the morning of the third day, a day devoted to the gentler pursuits and competitions of the women-folk—footraces, target-shooting, milking, sewing, and cooking competitions— they were in fine fettle and high spirits, and quite ready to go. So was their equipment, and Kyrtian was not going to allow the temptation of another feast, dance, and drinking soiree incapacitate them all over again. By mid-morning he had them all lined up at the Portal, fully-laden, with still more of the servants equally burdened.

  Lord Kyndreth had promised horses on the other side, and Kyrtian was going to hold him to that promise. He sent his party and all of the servants through first, and waited for the servants to return before passing through the Portal himself. There were no farewells this time. He had chosen a time when Lydiell was busy supervising and judging a contest, and as for Gel—well, he hadn't seen his old friend since the ceremony, and he hoped that Rennati was teaching him a few of the tricks she'd shown him. ...

  He passed the dark and cold and disorientation of the Portal— and with a jolt, came out on the other side.

  "Lord Kyrtian?"

  He shook his head to clear it, and forced his eyes to focus. The person who had addressed him was a rare creature—an elderly Elvenlord, whose thinning, silver hair and faintly-lined face came as something of a shock. "Yes," he said, "I'm Lord Kyrtian."

  The elderly gentleman bowed. "I am Lord Rathien. Lord Kyndreth directed me to supply whatever you require."

  Well, that was pleasant. "I need enough horses to carry all of this lot," he said, waving at the supplies and equipment heaped on either side of the corridor leading to the Portal.

  Lord Rathien eyed the piles with an experienced glance. "Seven riding-mounts and as many pack-mules," he said with authority. "You will find the mules can carry more than horses, and their tempers are steadier. When you camp in the forest, tether each horse to a mule before you stake out the line— should anything attack, the mules will run unfailingly away from danger, they will not plunge blindly into further danger, and they will stop when pursuit stops." He smiled then, with great charm. "I am very fond of mules, myself."

  "So I see." Kyrtian smiled back, but Lord Rathien had already turned away, and was ordering a set of human slaves to pick up the piled goods and take them to the stables. All Kyrtian and his party had to do was to follow.

  By noon, with the mules loaded, horses saddled, and a mule tethered behind each rider, they were on their way. His task completed, Lord Rathien was gone by the time they rode out of the gates; Kyrtian wondered if he was one of Lord Kyndreth's underlings, or was a legacy from Lord Dyran. He was certainly efficient—and if he treated the slaves exactly as he did the mules, well, at least he didn't treat them worse. Kyrtian's own young men had been cautioned as to how to behave once they were off the estate, so they had not done anything to arouse Rathien's suspicions. Their tension had been palpable during that time; they hadn't dared to speak, lest they say something un-slavelike, or to raise their eyes above Kyrtian's knees, lest their posture or demeanor betray them.

  Once they were all on the road, however, they relaxed. "Sargeant Gel told us that we were going down in caves, m'Lord," Hobie said, urging his horse up beside Kyrtian's, as Lynder did so on the other side, and the rest of the six got in as closely as they could, the better to hear what he had to say. "Why's that?"

  "Well, you know that we're chasing after Wizards that don't really exist," Kyrtian began.

  "Aye sir. Better than chasing ones that do!" replied Hobie. One of the men in the rear laughed.

  "They're supposedly living in an underground stronghold where we're going, so we'll be exploring caves. Now, as it happens, I think my father may have been hunting these same caves when he disappeared, and I'm hoping we'll find some sign of him there." The man who had laughed sobered immediately, and there were some sympathetic murmurs from all of them.

  "You—surely don't expect to find him after all this time, do you, m'Lord?" Hobie asked hesitantly.

  Kyrtian sighed. "Not after all this time, no—not alive, at any rate," he said sadly. "But, you know—my claim to the estate is clouded as long as no one knows what became of him. And until Mother and I find out what really happened ..."

  He let the sentence trail off. Hobie dropped his eyes for a moment. "Well, m'Lord," Lynder said into the silence, "if there's a sign to be found, we'll find it. Hobie and I have found a great many strange things in caves."

  "Such as?" Kyrtian asked, to change the subject and cheer the men up again. Touching as their sympathy was, he'd far rather have laughter around him than gloom.

  It was, after all, a long ride to Lord Cheynar's estate, and there was no reason to make it under a cloud of depression!

  There was quite enough that was depressing about Lord Cheynar's estate to have suited a dozen funeral processions.

  The manor, surrounded by pine forest, boasted nothing in the way of magical amenities; no mage-lights to illuminate the darkness, no illusions, all work done by slaves or mechanical devices. The pines were of a variety that Kyrtian was unfamiliar with—so dark a green as to be nearly black, and inhabited by flocks of crows. Cheynar, a taciturn individual with very little magic of his own, warmed slightly to Kyrtian when the latter congratulated him on some of his mechanical devices—and when Kyrtian at darkness made cheerful use of the lanterns, rather than showing off by creating his own mage-lights.

  He warmed still more over dinner, and finally came out with something entirely unexpected.

  "I knew your father," Cheynar offered. "I mean, I met him— he was here just before he disappeared."

  That electrified Kyrtian, and he could not conceal his shock. "What?" he exclaimed. "But—why didn't you—"

  "Why didn't I say something?" Cheynar asked shrewdly. "I did, to Lord Dyran. I suppose he didn't think it important enough to pass it to your Lady Mother. But then, he wasn't at all pleased with what your father was hunting."

  "The old devices the Ancestors brought with them." Kyrtian was torn between excitement and despair. If his mother had known where her husband had last been seen, would it have made a difference? Could they have found him still alive?

  Cheynar nodded. "One of those—your father said—would put those of us with weak magic on a par with those who are stronger," he told Kyrtian. "I don't know if Lord Dyran knew that. Your father told me, at least in part because he saw all the mechanical devices I use around here instead of magic, but he might not have said anything to Dyran." He shrugged.

  "And Lord Dyran was one of the Great Lords of the Council, anyway,"
Kyrtian sighed. "And my father and I—well, we're nothing like the equals of any Great Lord. I doubt that Lord Dyran even paid any heed to anything father said. You know." He half-smiled at Cheynar, hoping that Cheynar would warm a little further, and see himself in the same position as Kyrtian. "When we're useful, we're equals at the feast-table, but once they don't need us anymore ..."

  Cheynar took the bait. "Probably he just thought that the man was half-crazed, if he even took time for a thought at all," Cheynar said, and with some sympathy. "But I can tell you this—"

  He paused significantly.

  "If you are going Wizard-hunting in those caves, you'll be walking in the steps of your father. Because the last time anyone saw him—that was where he was going, too."

  27

  One set of items in their packs was immediately useful the moment they entered the forest: rain gear. Kyrtian had never seen so much rain in his life; he was glad that he'd checked on the climate when arranging for the supplies. And oh, the advantage of being on equal terms with one's females in an elven household! He had not realized that silk could be made so completely waterproof. Evidently that oft-derided "women's magic" used for flower-sculpting had a great many other purposes that the women themselves knew but seldom shared. He certainly didn't blame them, the "lords of creation" that Elvenlords considered themselves to be would probably greet such innovations as trivial and women kept pent up in their bowers, disregarded and discarded as toys themselves could hardly be expected to share such knowledge voluntarily. He could well imagine several disgruntled ladies sitting around in their bower, contemplating their dripping menfolk, and saying to each other with glee, "Well, why don't they just stop the rain?"