by Peter Plasse
The same voice that she had heard when she first entered the Enchanted Northland, spoke.
“You have had and passed your first lesson in the Bindu-ward art of magic and spell. I am pleased that you seem to enjoy flying.”
Doreen was more than a little unsettled by all of this, but got control of her own voice and said, “Begging your pardon, Ma’am, but, if I may, who are you? I know you told me you are the Dukkar, but what exactly does that mean?”
“I go by many names, depending on the circumstances of things. Most refer to me as ‘The Old One’. In the same book of Prophecy that mentions you, I am referred to as the Dukkar which, believe it or not, translates, ‘the Old One’.” The wraith laughed, which sounded somewhat like the tinkling of tiny bells. “Imagine that, just because I’m older than anybody else,” her tone changing to that of a two year old stamping her foot in a tantrum.
“I have been since the beginning of time on Inam'Ra, so I suppose the term does fit. I lost my body so long ago, I don’t remember what it is like having one, but now … having had nothing to do but experiment and study for a few million years, I can somewhat control things. I do these things entirely with my mind of course. Storms and such, those are child’s play. Impelling free-minded creatures to do things, now that is where it gets interesting. In different parts of the world I carry different names. The names change, but, for better or worse, I do not.”
“I think I get it,” said Doreen. “So… well, first of all, it’s an honor to meet you.” She bowed her head again. There was a brief silence.
“Why am I here?”
“To fulfill the prophecy that was penned after the Great War, when the survivors used methods of that day to look into the future and know you would come. After your arrival, they were unable to see any further out. The visions wouldn’t appear for them after that. So, despite making a concerted effort to author the prophecy of your coming, taking great pains to write it down in many places I might add, when nearly all of the books were burned, the prophecy only showed up in a few hidden texts. In books saved and secreted away by men and women of great courage. I find it compelling that it survived enough that word of mouth has managed to carry it down through the centuries. And remarkably unchanged, I might add. Interesting, don’t you think?”
“I suppose.
“But as I see it, the only thing that really matters right now is that the Trolls are soon going to completely rid this planet off all of the Humans, Elves, and Dwarves. Then, when they see fit, they’ll probably get rid of the Gnomes too, although using them as slaves serves them well enough right now. Or so I am told … have learned … whatever … ”
“Do you see yourself as having a part in that whole mess, given the choice? What I am asking you is, are you willing to risk your own life to try and save the free races that are being systematically massacred?”
“Of course,” said Doreen. “No question.” She lifted her sword in its scabbard.
“Well then. You have passed your second test in the Bindu-ward art of magic and spell.”
“Wow,” said Doreen. “Way cool. What was the first?”
“When you sensed danger a few minutes ago, you reached for your sword. It is the first commandment of the Bindu-ward art of magic and spell: that all creatures have a right to do what is necessary to protect themselves. It sounds simple enough, but it is often forgotten by those who think in terms of profit, greed, even murder … opportunists who feed off of the efforts of others.
“We always knew the one prophesied would have acted in this manner. To protect herself from danger.”
“And I passed the second test by being willing to throw in my lot with my own kind, who are getting slaughtered every day in fields, and forests, and caves, and wherever else they’re found hiding? I don’t mean to sound forward, but these tests seem pretty simple to me.”
“Yes. The fact that you are willing to risk your own life to protect and serve those who cannot protect themselves was the second test. But the difficulty of the tests is immaterial,” said the Dukkar, “what matters is that you pass them all.”
“How many are there?”
“Eight, so six more.”
Doreen put her hands on her hips and laughed. “Well bring it on, Old One,” she cried, smiling all the while.
The sound of the tinkling of tiny bells came forth from the shadow-creature.
“It is done for today. I will sleep now.
“Eat. Work out your sword arm. Get not lazy. You will need to be strong in the weeks … months perhaps, to come.”
And with that, the entire cavern shimmered, as the listening bioforms all extinguished their tiny lights, and she suddenly found herself back in her little apartment surrounded by a bounty of good food and juices. She ate a little, looked at herself in the mirror for a while, did some stretching, grew tired, messed with her sword a bit, then lay down and went into a deep sleep.
She dreamed.
The leaves of the trees around her were colored orange, butter yellow, and deep, lush reds. She rode along a trail on her favorite horse. She wondered suddenly why she couldn’t remember his name. “Oh, no mind,” she thought, “he knows what he’s doing.”
After a short gallop, the horse launched from the face of a cliff and soared upwards on the underwings that deployed as soon as they were floating in free space. The headwinds were vicious, biting gusts of tremendous power, with pauses of whispered silence. And she rode them. Up and up she flew, in short bursts of lightning speed, as she fought the winds. And won.
She then began the long glide to… … It was an afternoon outdoor cookout on an autumn day in New England. A log home stood on a bluff overlooking a pond in which swam a family of beavers. A large red tractor and blue Ford pickup sat in the dooryard. She could smell the burgers cooking, and the fresh cornbread. She set the horse gently down, dismounted, and began to run towards the festivities, but it was not the smell of the burgers that drew her forward so, it was the need to see a face. Any face. Someone she knew
It all faded.
She awakened.
She was still dressed in her warrior’s attire, body armor and all. Resting in an inner pocket was a compass that dug into her belly, annoying her. She shoved at it and rolled over.
It slapped her in the face that she could not remember her past. Up until now she had more or less kind of accepted that it might be this way for a while, but now it burned at her like a flame. Anger welled up inside of her.
She felt her sword begin to tingle slightly against her mid-back, and she felt a distinct pressure on it as though her sword was pressing up against her, but, no, someone had removed it while she slept. Or had she taken it off? She couldn’t remember. There it was, slung by its baldric over the back of a chair. She walked over to it and strapped it on.
The voice of the Dukkar spoke softly, the sound coming from all around her. “The time has come for your third lesson in the Bindu-ward art of magic and spell. Are you willing to attempt it? Please know that there is danger involved.
“You could die.
“If you choose to decline, merely say, and shake your head, ‘No’, and you will be returned to the life you had before you ever came to our world.”
With not a moment’s hesitation she answered,
“Yes. Bring it on.”
Chapter 27
“As you know, we do not question the orders of our King,” said Thargen, “We follow them without hesitation. I realize that they are always thought out by the leadership, discussed at length and bandied about, but this one I wonder about.”
“As you said, Sir, we don’t question the orders of our King,” was Luke’s only comment as he worked on one of the tie-down ropes for the load. Thargen heard him loud and clear and the discussion was ended.
They were slaving away with the army regulars, throwing barrels of fish onto wagons. They only had nine more days of the single-moon winter and tonight, the weather readers had said, it was going to be bad. Thus
, they wanted to move the vast quantity of supplies forward under the cover of the approaching storm.
“The northern faction will undoubtedly split fifty/fifty,” said Thargen, “when they learn of the attack on King’s Port. We will have to be very good to take this to them on two fronts.”
“I will give you what you need from the north,” said Luke, tossing a barrel of fish onto the wagon like it was a pair of socks. “Make sure you are in good enough shape to fight your way back out. Don’t get caught in too deep. The whole success or failure of this plan depends on you not getting cut off on the way out. You lead them to us, and we will cut them down like so many shafts of wheat.”
“And what of the support from our wizards?” asked Dorin. “A little magic can go a long way in a fight such as this. Nothing like a little wizard’s flame to roast a few dozen Trolls.”
Thargen laughed. It was a hard laugh. Nothing would please him more than watching some of the Trolls go up in flames before the Ravenwild troops descended from out of the north. “Aye,” he said. “We are promised the support of the entire wizard contingent. That will give them something to think about, eh?” As he laughed, however, ancient feelings of abhorrence surfaced inside him at the mention of magic. Much though he was glad that these strange fellows would be there to help in the battles that loomed on the horizon, the greater part of him wished that they could do this without them. He had never liked magic, and never would.
“Come lads,” he said to the military leadership. “Time to walk the line.” He looked at the regular soldiers, who continued loading the wagons, padding the wheels, greasing the axles and all of the harnesses to prevent any squeaks that might alert their enemies to their presence, and taking care of dozens of tasks in preparation for the march to come. “You know what to do,” he said to them. “We move swift. We move silent. We hole up one hour before dawn in the shelters at the base of Nesting Eagle Cliffs. We make for Lexington the following night. We will take the bridge at King’s River South, and the Old Road straight to King’s Port. We move swift. We move silent.”
All present saluted him with their fists across their heart, but none broke away from their assigned chores. All knew that every one, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant, could be the difference between success and failure. All wanted a chance to do battle, having been hiding out for weeks in the woods around Salem, but all wanted the battle to go their way, and they knew that strict attention to the details would give them their best chance.
After they had walked the line and assured themselves that all was in order, Thargen, Luke, and Dorin presented to the tent of Rolan. The two guards outside saluted and stood aside for them to enter. Inside, Rolan was finalizing the attack plan with the wizards: five in all. On a map in front of him, Rolan was indicating where he wanted them positioned.
“Our southern attack force,” he summarized, “will come in to King’s Port via the Old Road. Hopefully, we will arrive undiscovered, but if we have to fight our way in, so be it. Our northern force is moving down from the valley at King’s River North. Singular Night has already met with the leaders of all the clans, and I’m told they’re all with us. We will be the hammer, they the sickle.”
“And how is it that our little gray friends are going to be able to fight alongside of us?” asked Luke. He pulled at his massive beard. “Isn’t it a might cold for them yet?”
“As it turns out,” said Rolan, “these northern Gnomes have proven they can adapt quite well. They will all be wearing a body armor that not only shields them from sword and lance, it also keeps them warm enough to fight.” He held up a suit. “You see,” he said. “One of the messengers brought me this directly from Stihl. It has these inner pockets that they fill with a mixture containing Burnfast. In a week, they won’t need them, of course, but we don’t have a week to spare.”
“My, my,” said Luke. “They may be more clever than I gave them credit for. I, for one, will be interested to see how well they fight.”
“Don’t worry, my capable Dwarf friend,” said Dorin. “In the next few days you’re going to see as much fighting as you’ve ever seen. This is the way it should be, the free races all finally united against the Trolls and taking the fight straight to them. If we die, we die. But we die free. I, for one, will live. I will live by killing a lot of Trolls.” Several cheers and, “Ayes” and, “Praise the Old Ones,” sounded in the tent.
“We move out in two hours,” said Rolan. “All of you get some sleep. Commander Dorin, safe journey to Salem.”
No sooner had he spoken the words than all of his commanders slid from the table and onto hides to sleep. The wizards eased from the tent, Rolan right behind them. He would get no sleep. This was too important. Too many lives were at stake, and this was not the time for errors.
The clouds were thick across the night sky and the wind was howling mightily. It was the perfect night.
As he made his rounds, he ran into Borok.
“We missed you at the meeting,” he said.
“I don’t suppose there was anything discussed of which I am not aware, My King.”
“No,” said Rolan. “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be. Time to go.”
“Well, if you prepare the remaining troops as well as you have prepared the ones with us now, they will be the better for it.”
“Thank you, My King.”
“For Ravenwild.”
“For Ravenwild.”
“Watch it, watch it!” cried Saviar Murlis. “Don’t let that fall!”
The mast for the great ship was perched precariously beside it, suspended by a single rope that had started to slip. If it fell, it would most likely shatter and there was no chance that they would have the time to harvest and fashion another. “Don’t do anything!” the Gnome second in command called to the Gnomes on the rope. “Just hold her steady.”
He quickly climbed a ladder, a rope in his teeth, into the loft alongside the ship. Now at the level of the gunwale, he skipped onto the deck of the suspended vessel, removed the rope from his teeth, and climbed high onto the suprastructure of the loft itself, after having taken a wrap around the mast above the rope that had slipped. He climbed as high as he could go and called out, “Get that block and tackle up to me. I have to do it from here.”
In a half-hour the block and tackle was secured, upside down because that was the only way Saviar could make it work. He pulled slowly, firmly on the bitter end of his line. It came taut, and as he pulled further, the mast slid nicely upwards, coming to rest high enough so that with one more line they would easily be able to slip it into place aboard-ship.
The theory then went that they would slide the massive vessel, suspended and all, down to the Western Sea itself on the very frame that now cradled it, built from the great oaks of the Western Vulturan Foothills and hewn to perfection by Gnome craftsmen who toiled in their underground workshops right alongside the construction of the ship itself.
Crews of willing Gnomes, under the protection of Burnfast and working in shifts, had labored for months now to prepare a road upon which to roll their ship of hope to the launch site. It had not been an easy task in and of itself, and as much as half of the overall effort had gone into camouflaging the site to keep it hidden from the Trolls.
Able-bodied riggers replaced Saviar Murlis high above the deck. He gave them their orders and climbed back down.
Back on the floor, Titan Mobst, fisherman, inventor, metallurgist, and master-builder of the ship, approached him.
“Nice work, Saviar Murlis,” he said quietly, then, “Would you come with me please?”
Saviar did not like the sound of this. The way he said it told Saviar that there might be a problem. They plainly couldn’t afford a problem right now.
Messengers had arrived saying the invasion had already begun. There was not time for a problem.
They walked back alongside of the hull and into the underground workshops, where Gnomes labored furiously
at their appointed tasks.
“Not too thin, Sopras,” said Titan to one who was rasping away at a massive piece of oak laminate that was about twenty feet long and curved throughout its length. “Too thin and she’ll split for sure. That’s a good lad. Get her nice and round and nice and smooth. Feather that leading edge. That’s right. Good.
“The tiller,” he said to Saviar over his shoulder as they continued along. “You know, to steer her once she’s underway.”
They stopped at a room in which had been set up a large, round, iron tank, perhaps twenty feet across. In it floated a small replica of the ship. “It’s pretty obvious what the problem is,” said Titan. “She won’t float straight. And the reason is, she is going to need rock in her belly. Like this.”
He bent forward and picked up a handful of stones. He removed the deck from the model and placed a few of them in the hold, replaced the deck, and put it back in the tub. “See,” he said. “Right as rain!”
The ship floated perfectly straight now. He gave it a gentle shove, and while it rocked slightly, it quickly came back straight upright.
“I take it we need to add stone to the big one,” said Saviar Murlis.
“Correct.”
“And where are we supposed to get this stone, and how much of it do we need?”
“Well,” said Titan, with a glint in his eye, “we would need to get it from the stone quarries up by Kohansk. But that would take weeks. I figure pig iron would work as well. Now as it turns out, I know a Gnome who knows a Gnome … who is a smithy. I am told that yesterday he received a very large shipment of the stuff from a certain Troll supply man, with orders to turn it all into weapons, and tools and such. It would be a simple matter to arrange that it “arrived” here by sundown tonight, but the crew boss tells me he is two Gnomes short of help. That leaves you and me. Pig iron is not light material, as you know.”
