A tremor thrummed through the floor as the earth shivered again.
The old Man spoke, his words resounding in the cavernous hall. “We are Adonites, monks of the mountains. We came here last year to reopen the cloister. But Rutch and such discovered us and raided. For a while we managed to repel them, but no more, for all are slain but Gavan and me, and now he is wounded. Next time they will prevail.”
“My name is Gwylly Fenn,” said the buccan. “My comrade is named Aravan. Our unconscious companion is called Urus.”
The robed Man turned. “Forgive me. I am Doran, former prior, now abbot of this retreat.”
Doran led them through a concealed door behind the altar. Past the panel was a sacristy, hanging with robes and vestments. A door led out one side, and beyond was a hallway, with rooms left and right.
Down the corridor they went, Doran remarking, “The privy’s at the end of the hall.” They entered a modest room on the right—“The infirmary,” announced Doran—where a smokeless fire burned in an iron stove, chimney behind. In a bed lay another Man, a younger Man, clean shaven—presumably Gavan—sleeping, his head bandaged, his arm in a sling. Five other beds were ranged ’round the room, and into one of these they managed to lift Urus, requiring all three of them to do so.
Aravan then took out the packet given over to him by Riatha. Opening it, there were golden mint leaves within. “Gwynthyme,” said Doran, the abbot recognizing the herb. “As a tea, it serves as a stimulant. As a poultice, it draws poisons.”
Aravan looked at the old Man. “Thou art learned in the ways of healing?”
“Somewhat,” replied Doran, glancing at Gavan, “though chirurgeon and physician I am not…would that I were. But herbs and simples I understand.”
Urus drew in another breath, then exhaled.
“Then, Doran, while I prepare a brew of these leaves, wouldst thou examine this Man for hurt?”
Gwylly, upon hearing Aravan’s words, turned and found a kettle sitting beside the stove. And even as the abbot shuffled to Urus’s bedside, the Warrow began filling the container with water from a bucket on a stand.
* * *
It was nearly sunset when Doran wakened Gwylly and Aravan, and the smell of stew was redolent on the air. Aravan stood and stepped to Urus’s side; the huge Man was breathing regularly now. Gwylly groaned and levered himself up and swung his feet over the side of the bed, feeling as if his body had been hammered, feeling the after-effects of last night’s difficult climb up the canyon wall and the exhausting trek to the monastery. After a moment the buccan made his way out the door and toward the privy.
When Gwylly returned, Aravan was holding Urus’s wrist, taking measure of the Man’s pulse. “The beat of Urus is very strong. I think his life no longer hangs by a thread.”
Gwylly felt the Baeran’s hand. It was warm. “When will he waken, Aravan?”
“I know not, for I have never seen such before. Mayhap soon, mayhap on the morrow.”
Doran, spooning stew into bowls, spoke up. “And mayhap never.”
Gwylly turned and looked at the elder. “Why do you say that?”
Shuffling forward, the abbot brought the filled bowls to Gwylly and Aravan. “I have heard of those who fall into a prolonged sleep, never to be aroused. Liquid they take, and sometimes food, yet they do not awaken. They must be cared for until they die. If such is the case here, then mayhap ’twould have been better had your friend died cleanly, for then he would not dwell in a living death the rest of his days.”
“Oh,” protested Gwylly, “do not say such a thing. Surely Urus will awaken.”
Gavan was awake, but had been silent until this moment. “I will pray for him,” he said softly. “Mayhap Adon will show mercy in his case.”
After they had eaten, again Aravan brewed some gwynthyme tea for Urus.
Gwylly, his belly full, lay on his bed and watched Aravan tending Urus.
* * *
The buccan awoke in the night. But for the breathing of other sleepers, all was quiet. Again Gwylly made his way to the privy. When he returned, he saw that Urus was yet asleep, Doran and Gavan as well. Of Aravan, there was no sign.
Quietly, Gwylly dressed, then stepped through the door and into the corridor. He made his way out through the hall of worship and into the courtyard. The night was cold and clear, though wisps of clouds scudded across the face of the Moon. Gwylly walked the length of the bailey and to the gate. A ladder led up to the banquette. Climbing to the walkway, he found Aravan standing watch.
“Get thy rest, Gwylly. This night shall I ward.”
“But you need your rest, too, Aravan,” protested the Warrow. “I can take the watch.”
“Nay, wee one. I slept well this day, and this night I have been resting my mind in memories—a talent of Elvenkind. Nay, Gwylly, argue with me not, but return unto thy bed. On the morrow thou canst take thy turn, but this night is mine.”
Without further debate Gwylly climbed back down the ladder.
* * *
The overcast morning found the Warrow well rested, ready for the day. About the monastery the wind moaned. “Storm coming,” grunted Doran, shuffling out of the room, returning with firewood.
Aravan again was at Urus’s side, and at last the huge Man swallowed the gwynthyme tea freely, though he still did not awaken.
Doran observed the ministrations, watching Urus drink. “Even so, he may never regain consciousness,” mumbled the abbot, and Gwylly’s heart sank.
Gavan came back from his morning prayers and fell weakly into his bed. It was obvious that the young Man had taken a debilitating wound, though his injuries appeared rather light. “Took a Rutchen arrow on the arm,” he had said. “Poisoned, we think. But the poultice took most of it out, and I am getting better.”
Gwylly, on this day, slowly worked at loosening the muscles in his damaged arm. Doran soaked cloths in hot water and applied them to the Waldan’s shoulder. The muscles atop the joint were bruised, but now that he had gotten warm and had slept and had eaten, and after the hot cloth treatments, his arm was much improved. But he felt as if his heart were clutched by a chill hand as he paced the floor and fretted about Faeril and Riatha, wondering at their plight. The groaning wind outside only served to remind him that unless they had managed to take cover, the two of them were out in the elements.
Doran shuffled to a cabinet against one wall, and after rummaging about, pulled forth a large packet of gwynthyme, giving some over to Aravan. “We have a goodly store of herbs,” he explained. “Food and other supplies as well. More than enough. We numbered sixteen when we came, and now but two of us are left.” In response to Doran’s words, Gavan bowed his head in prayer.
* * *
Nigh midday the blizzard came upon the land, the howling wind lashing hard-driven snow onto the grey stone of the cloister. “’Tis a spring storm,” said Doran. “Unpredictable. It could quickly blow past, or stay a week.”
Again Gwylly’s heart sank, for somewhere out in the yawling wind was his dammia—and for all he knew, she and Riatha were without food or shelter.
All afternoon the storm battered the monastery, but as evening drew nigh, the wind began to abate. And as darkness fell, the storm ended.
“I think I’ll go stand watch on the walls,” remarked Gwylly. “Rūcks and such know the monks are here, and I’d rather not be taken by surprise.”
Aravan looked up from Urus. “Here, take the amulet. I’ll relieve thee in four hours or so. Too, we must talk, for there are plans to be made.”
Doran nodded gratefully at the buccan as the Wee One prepared to leave. “There’s an iron hoop hanging on the wall walk up by the gate lantern. Sound the alarm should foe be sighted.” The abbot patted his crossbow. “We’ll give them a battle.
“Needless to say, light not the lamp, for it would serve only to announce our presence.”
Gwylly slipped his hands into his gloves, then stepped through the door. Crossing the courtyard, he mounted up the ladder
. When he got to the sentry walk, he discovered that the wall was too high for him to see over. Yet he found a ledge partway up running the length of the wall, and he clambered up to it.
The wind still blew from the south, driving the remnants of the storm before it. High in the sky, rifts appeared in the clouds, and now and again a star could be seen. The drift of air was raw, and Gwylly shuffled back and forth to keep warm and to stay alert. Behind the clouds the Moon rose, its glow diffuse.
Back and forth marched Gwylly, and except for the tread of his feet and the soughing of the wind, a silence descended upon the world, broken by the occasional shuddering of the land. Even so, the iron bells remained silent, for they only rang when the quakes were severe.
The hours passed slowly, and just as slowly the skies above cleared. At last the Moon shone down on the ’scape, the snow pearlescent in the platinum beams. And Aravan trod through the silver night and climbed up to stand beside Gwylly.
“Wee one, I think to leave thee with Urus while I take supplies and find Riatha and Faeril, and send the Dara back.”
Aravan held out a hand to still the protest springing to Gwylly’s lips, but what the Elf was about to say is forever lost, for in that moment they heard the yawls of Vulgs on the hunt, the baying unmistakable. They turned and peered out beyond the walls in the direction of the howls.
Gwylly gasped, for a furlong or two away, fleeing across the snow came an indistinct figure running. And down the slopes far behind raced howling Vulgs after. Even as he loosened his sling, the blue stone at his throat began to grow chill. Gwylly glanced back and forth between the savage beasts and their quarry, judging speeds. His heart hammered in his breast, and he shrieked, “Run! Run!” for he did not think that whoever fled would escape.
Then Aravan beside him gritted, “It is Faeril.”
And at that instant she fell.
CHAPTER 16
Bolt–Hole
Early Spring, 5E988
[The Present]
As Faeril and Riatha set off down the wide track left by the Rūckish band, the damman could not keep her thoughts on the trail, and instead time and again she looked at Gwylly in the distance as her path and his diverged. He said to me, “Take care, my dammia,” and I just stood there mute. Oh, my buccaran, take care of yourself as well, and of Aravan and Urus, too.
Riatha also glanced often at the comrades afar, her own eyes following the figure on the travois. Yet at last they disappeared from view, rounding the shoulder of a hillock between and were seen no more.
“We shall track for some time longer, Faeril, then stop and sleep. Day will be the time to come upon their lair, for they must take to the splits and cracks in the earth ere the Sun rises. Then we shall see what can be done.”
Faeril nodded, pausing long enough to notch a solitary tree, leaving trail sign for the others to follow should it become necessary. “We will need food, too. I’ll set a snare before we sleep, baited with a crumb of the oatcake I have in my pocket.”
On they strode, treading the track of the Foul Folk. The path Faeril and Riatha followed was level or down slope and crossed relatively smooth terrain, unlike the generally up-slope trend of Gwylly’s and Aravan’s and Urus’s route into the broken land leading to the monastery. And so, down fared Elfess and damman, coming into a sparse forest of arctic pine, first encountering lone trees, then occasional stands, and finally moving among widely scattered pines. Still the route wound downhill, aiming, it seemed, for a deep slot between mountain flanks east and west. Every so often Faeril or Riatha would blaze a score on a tree trunk, or would interlace boughs, or cut branches just so, leaving trail markers for their comrades, just as they had practiced months ago in Arden Vale.
Yet at last, in the shelter of a thick coppice, Riatha called a halt to their march, saying, “Ai, wee one, we must rest. Thou sleep. I will set watch.”
Faeril took a cord from her remaining climbing gear. “First, Dara, I would set a snare, for we must eat.”
The damman found evidence of a stream, though all water was now frozen, and she walked toward a small stand of trees cupped in a curve of stone of the mountain flank. First cutting a peg, she sharpened and notched it, then used her ice hammer to pound it into the frozen soil below a small pine. She cut another peg and fashioned it into a trigger. She tied a snare noose in the cord, then bent the tree, tying the line to its top and knotting the cord to the trigger peg as well. She tied a very short trip line to the trigger peg, too, then set the trigger into the anchor peg. Spreading the loop, she affixed a chunk of oatcake to the trip cord and lay it on the snow in the center of the loop. She covered the noose and line with a light dusting of snow, concealing the snare, leaving the bait in the open.
Returning to Riatha, the damman settled down on the pine boughs that the Elfess had cut and fashioned into a bed. “Well, Riatha, the snare is set. Perhaps tomorrow we will have captured some game. I do hope so, for I am hungry.”
Riatha may have replied, but Faeril, weary to her bones, heard nothing, for she was already fast asleep.
* * *
The light of morning was on the land when Riatha awakened Faeril. A small, smokeless fire burned. Speaking softly, the Elfess handed the damman a section of root. “Here, Faeril, ’tis tannik root. Thou wilt find it somewhat bitter, yet it is nourishing.” Riatha took a bite of her own piece.
Faeril sat up. “My snare…”
The damman started to get to her feet, but Riatha waved her back, pointing to the pegs and cord lying on the snow beside her. “Sprung without game.”
Faeril shook her head. “Then all I managed to do was give up a bit of our only oatcake, neh?”
Riatha smiled, taking another bite, while heating her dagger blade above the tiny flame; she then took up some snow and held it against the metal, and melt ran down the warm steel, dripping from the tip into the open waterskin. Faeril stood and made her way into the pines to relieve herself. When the damman came back, Riatha said, “Nay. Thy efforts were not entirely without reward, for ’twas when I went to see what had sprung the trap that I did espy the tannik bush along the way.”
“Did you see what tripped the snare?”
“I found traces of a vole. She came under the snow to take the bait. The noose snapped upward above her.”
Faeril shook her head. “Clever vole.” The damman then took a bite of the root, and her face twisted into a grimace, her eyes squeezed nearly shut, her lips clamped into a tight, thin line. Still, after a moment she began to chew, swallowing at last. “Whoo!” she exclaimed. “Bitter is right.” She took another bite.
“Say,” she remarked, working her words around the acrid taste, “you did not waken me for my turn at watch!”
The Elfess held the dagger blade in the flame. “Thou didst need thy sleep, wee one, and I can rest and yet keep watch.”
Faeril knew that Riatha referred to the talent inborn to Elvenkind wherein they could rest their minds in gentle memories, benefitting from such meditation nearly as much as if they had slept. Yet Faeril knew that even Elves must take true sleep eventually, for peaceful contemplation alone did not serve all the needs of body and mind and soul.
Riatha and Faeril each ate their entire share of the tart root, for they knew not what the coming events of this day would call upon them to do, but they did know that hunger-weakened warriors could not sustain a prolonged effort. Too, they gambled that they had the skills to obtain more food along the way.
Riatha at last finished her replenishment of the water-skins, handing Faeril’s back to her. “Let us be gone, wee one. Day is upon the land and the Rûpt will have gone to ground.”
Again they set forth, following the wide trail down slope. An hour or more did they travel thus, the terrain gradually falling. The spare forest around them gradually thickened, arctic pine for the most part, though here and there grew whin and other low piney shrubs. All along the way Faeril blazed a trail for Gwylly and Aravan to eventually follow—and Urus, too, should he live.
Riatha also paused now and again to forage for foodstuff alongside the trail. She gathered pine nuts from the few cones she could yet find on the trees; too, she discovered another tannik bush, and with her ice axe harvested the root; last, she collected some yellow lichen growing on the underside of a rock overhang, scraping it free with her dagger. At one point an arctic hare sprang up practically underfoot, startling both damman and Elfess, but before Faeril recovered enough to draw a knife, the hare was gone. “Garn, Riatha! There went our supper.”
But never were these pauses long, for the trail of the Spaunen drew them ever onward.
At one place where Riatha stopped to gather cones and pry open the scales and collect more of the small nuts. Faeril softly asked, “Tell me, Dara, why did the Foul Folk not defile Urus when they were at the glacier? I mean, he was helpless and all. They could have dug him free, as we did, and made certain that he was dead. So why did they leave him undisturbed?”
Riatha shook her head. “I know not why, Faeril. Mayhap they did not despoil him because he was still in the ice, for only as we drew nigh did the quake strip away the outer most cover—though thou art correct in that the Rûpt could have drawn him forth. Mayhap they thought him dead. Mayhap if they did find Stoke, he commanded them to leave Urus be, though I think that Stoke would gladly have murdered Urus had he known. Mayhap their prime aim was to get Stoke to safety. Mayhap they could not abide the golden light of the aspergillum.” Riatha took up the cloth onto which she had shaken loose the pine nuts, tying it with a cord. “There are too many imponderables, Faeril, and likely we will never know.”
At another stop, this time to rest, Faeril examined the long-lost silver knife that Gwylly had discovered in the hollow. It was identical to its mate in her bandolier. She handed the blade to the Elfess. “Riatha, it is said that this knife is made of silver, and I have always believed so; yet look, it is not tarnished though it has lain in a glacier for a thousand years. How can this be?”
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