Old Arbagon, he killed him eight, And Bockleman got nine. Though Uncle Bill, he got there late, They say he did just fine.
The Men and Warrows and the Elves, In bravery they fought.
Though many a good friend there was killed, They didn 't die for nought.
Modru, he raged and stormed and gnashed When Spawn came running out; They'd entered Weiunwood in pride, But left it in a rout!
And all throughout the Winter War Vile Spawn again did try, But never took the Weiunwood; They had to pass it by.
And so, my friend, drink to War's end,
It happened long ago.
But should it ever come again,
To Weiunwood we '11 go.
And Arbagon, he'll kill him eight, While Bockleman gets nine. And Uncle Bill, oh he'll be late, But he will do just fine . . .
And as for me ... I won't be late . . . And I will do just fine—HEY!
A glad shout and a great burst of laughter rang throughout the inn with the final HEY! at the end of the rustic song. And all banged their mugs on the tables for more ale; Brewster and his helper, Bill, rushed hither and thither topping off tankards from large pitchers that Molly filled at the tap as the rollicking gaiety continued, cheer echoing throughout the rafters.
Amid the babble and happy chatter, Cotton burst out, "What a corking good song! Why, it's all about the Weiunwood and the Winter War and everything!"
"Weiunwood," mused Lord Kian, swirling his ale and taking a sip. "The Wilderland holt that never fell: an island of freedom deep within the clasp of Modru's Winternight—hurling back his assaults or melting away before his force only to strike unexpectedly into a weakness. And Modru's iron grip could not close on those 'puny' forest fighters, for it was like trying to clutch the wind."
"Just so, Lord Kian," responded Perry. "And even though the Stonehill song only narrowly reflects the heroic deeds done in that place, still I must record it for the Raven Book, for it has spirit and it is a song I've never heard before. The Scholars will want it."
Perry stood and stepped to the long-table and sat down with the buccan who had started the song.
Later that night, as he and Cotton were climbing into their beds, Perry remarked, "Isn't it strange, Cotton? Though those folks knew and enjoyed the song, they didn't know its origin or the full part that Stonehill played in the War."
"Well, Sir, it took the Boskydells to set 'em right, sure enough, what with you tellin' them the story in the Raven Book and all," replied Cotton, recalling with pride how Perry had enthralled the Stonehillers with a tale of Tuck and the Myrkenstone. Perry had explained how the verses in the song related to what had happened. The folks in the 'Unicorn were delighted to discover that the roles that Stonehill and Weiunwood had played in the War were actually recorded in a book. But happiest of all was Aylesworth Brewster, for Perry affirmed that the Bockleman of the song was Aylesworth's ancestor, Bockleman Brewster, owner of the inn during the War. "Mister Perry," continued Cotton, yawning sleepily, "in the song there was a part about the Rucks and such runnin' away. Do you reckon they all ran to the Deeves?"
"Oh no, Cotton, the Spawn didn't all run straight to Drimmen-deeve, for the War went on long after—though we now know that many finally made their way there. I suppose that most of the maggot-folk perished in the War." He paused a moment; then: "Oh, that reminds me: I overheard Lord Kian talking to one of the Stonehill folk, and when he found out that we were
going to Landover Road Ford, he warned Lord Kian that there were Trm' south on the Great Argon River—'heard it from a trader/ he said." Perry's face took on a worried frown. "Tilings must be bad down there, Cotton, for people way up north here in Stonehill to hear about it. Cotton, do you think we've bitten off more than we can chew? Maybe we're just fooling ourselves by thinking we can become Ruck fighters."
Cotton did not respond to Perry's question; in fact, he had not even heard it, for he was already fast asleep. Perry sighed, blew out the lamp, and crawled under the covers of his bed. But though he was weary, slumber escaped him.
Something had been nibbling at the edge of Perry's thoughts all evening, but he couldn't bring it forth. He lay for a time watching the flickering shadows cast by the dying fire on the hearth, unable to go to sleep immediately.
Finally, after a long while, just as he was drifting away, it came to him, and he bolted upright in bed. The horn! That's it! I must look at the horn!
Igniting a taper from the embers in the fireplace, he relighted the lamp and turned it up full. Fetching the silver horn from Cotton's pack, he held it next to the lantern and peered closely at the riders. The clarion was ancient, and the engraving was dearly worn by the many hands that had held it through the ages. But faintly, and only faintly, upon the faces of the riders could be discerned the dim traces of forked beards—a feature throughout all history borne only by Dwarves.
CHAPTER 8
SHOOTING STARS AND TALK OF WAR
"Hammers and nails!" shouted Cotton, waking Perry from his sound sleep in time to hear the sharp rapping on the door. "Don't beat the door down! Come in, come in!" Perry opened his eyes just as the door flew open and Aylesworth Brewster, bearing a lantern, bustled across the room and threw
back the drapes. Faint grey light showed that it was foredawn; the Sun had not yet crept over the horizon.
"Wake up, little masters," said Aylesworth as he lit the room lamp, "the day is adawning and the others tell me it's time you were afoot. Your bath awaits you in the bathing room, and breakfast is on Molly's griddle, so don't tarry." And with that he rushed from the room leaving the two Warrows sitting up in their beds rubbing sleep from their eyes.
"Oooahhum, " yawned Perry, stretching to his fullest. "Well, Cotton, it certainly isn't like living at The Root, this getting up before the Sun. But I suppose if we must, then we must." He slipped out of bed, and in his nightshirt, made for the door. Reluctantly, Cotton followed him, yawning all the way. They went down the hall to the bathing room, where they found Bill pouring hot water into a pair of large wooden tubs bound 'round with copper hoops. Soon the two Warrows were splashing and wallowing and sloshing in water and suds, occasionally splashing some over the rim and onto the stone floor. They were in a hurry and so did not loll or sing—though they chattered as gaily as ever.
"You were correct, Cotton," Perry said as they were towelling off, "the riders on the Horn of Valon are Dwarves all right, which helps to explain why no one has been able to read the runes. I think they must be written in the secret Dwarf tongue—Chakur. I wonder what they say."
"Well, whatever they say, Sir, we'll not find it out from Anval or Borin, you can bet your last penny on that," said Cotton. "When it comes to that horn, they're as close-mouthed a pair as we'll ever see. Why, we'd get more out of a couple of rocks as we're likely to get out of them two."
Quickly the two buccen returned to their chamber and dressed, then snatched up their packs, blew out the lamp, and hurried to the common room. There Anval, Borin, and Lord Kian were waiting. As the Warrows entered the room Aylesworth called, "Oh ho, little sirs, you're just in time for hot sausage and eggs." And with that he began serving them Molly's fare.
Across the room sat the farmer, Aylesworth's other guest. Throughout the meal he stared curiously at the mixed group, wondering what he'd missed the evening before by going to bed at his usual time of sundown. He was later to be told by Bill that "them five knew everything there was to know about Stonehill," and that "everything in all the old songs is true," and finally that "Aylesworth's ancestor, Bockleman Brewster, and nearly everyone else that lived in Stonehill at the time, fought and practically won the Winter War single-handedly." In his later years the farmer would often tell of the time that he and the Drimmen-deeve Ruck-fighters all stayed at the White Unicorn together. But for now he merely sat at breakfast watching the others eat and prepare for the road.
Bill had hitched up Brownie and Downy, and he loaded two full burlap sacks into the waggon—grain to feed the horses on
the way to Landover Road Ford. Then he drove the wain 'round front just as Cotton stepped
through the door. Cotton rummaged among the waggon supplies and came up with two carrots, one for each horse, which they eagerly accepted, then nuzzled him for more—for ever since leaving The Root the buccan had been giving the horses a carrot or an apple apiece each day; and he spoke gently to them. Cotton scratched each steed between the eyes, then helped load up to be off. By this time the Sun had climbed over the rim of the world and was casting its glancing light across the countryside. Clambering into the waggon, the travellers bade goodbye to Aylesworth and Bill, and to Molly, who popped out just long enough to say farewell before popping back inside.
Mister Brewster stood at the door of the inn wiping his hands on his white apron and watched the clattering wain til it went around the turn and out of sight. "Come on, Bill, there's work to be done," he finally said, and the two of them went back into the White Unicorn.
As the waggon rolled through the gate in the east wall, leaving the cobblestones of Stonehill behind, returning to the hard-packed earth of the Cross-land Road, Lord Kian began instructing the Warrows on the forehand, backhand, and overhand sword strokes—how to deliver them and how to parry them—as he resumed their education in warfare. These lessons were to dominate every waking hour of the journey for the next fortnight or so. Oh, that is not to say that the travellers didn't speak of or do other things, or occasionally break out in song, for they did that and much else too—but only when each lesson was over: not before, not during, but after.
At the fourth or fifth stop of the day—after Perry and Cotton had absorbed in their earlier lessons some of the fundamentals of strokes, thrusts, and parries—Lord Kian again allowed them to do mock battle against him. This time, though he fended without being touched, he had a much more difficult engagement with each, for Warrows learn rapidly; and though they are not fleet, they are incredibly quick, and at times they pressed even Kian's skill to defend against their swift thrusts. Though he could have dispatched either buccan at will, the Man was well satisfied with their rapid progress. Again the Warrows whooped and laughed at the end of their engagement. Each was pleased with his own skill agrowing, and could see that the other was progressing as well. But what delighted them most was that each had not quite but almost touched Lord Kian.
"All right, my little cock-a-whoops," promised the Man above their gay braggadocio, tying his yellow hair back with a green headband, "at the next stop I will press you a bit to begin to sharpen up your defensive skills.
"Now listen, when an opponent comes at you with an overhand stroke, you can step to the side and let the blow slide away on your own blade by . . ." And in the back of the rolling waggon the lessons went on, and on, and on, for the ten or so hours each day that they were on the road; and for about ten minutes in each of these hours, Cotton and Perry drilled, ingraining through practice the art of swords. And though some would say that there were not
enough days left for the Warrows to become sufficiently skilled at battle, as in other times and other places the press of War left no choice.
The first evening out of Stonehill the wayfarers camped in the woods north of the Bogland Bottoms; yet the plaguey gnats of these fens were not a problem, for the nights were now too chill.
The next day the five pressed on, and the evening of the sixth day of the journey from Woody Hollow found them encamped on the western slopes of Beacontor, a weathered mount at the southern end of the chain of the ancient Signal Mountains, a range so timeworn by wind and water that it was but a set of lofty hills. Beacontor had been the site of the First Watchtower, now but a remnant of a bygone era; the ruins still could be seen on the crest of the hill; the jagged ring of tumbled stonework yet stood guard in the Wilderland between Stonehill and Arden. Neither Perry nor Cotton nor anyone else in the party climbed up the tor to see the remains. Instead, the Warrows made the most of their last short practice session, and then they helped pitch camp; by this time it was dark, so they would have seen little of the ruins anyway. As before, during the night they each took a turn at ward.
It was midwatch when Borin wakened Perry for the buccan's s f and at guard. JTie night was brilliant with stars, the air so crisp and clear that the Bright Veil seemed close enough to grasp, spreading its shimmering band from east to west across the star-studded sky. Perry noted that Borin seemed reluctant to turn in, preferring instead to gaze in wonder at the countless glints scintillating above in the spangled vault. "You seem spellbound by the heavens, Borin," remarked Perry.
"It is not often we Chakka come out from under the Mountains and see the stars, friend Perry," replied Borin. 'They are special to us: more brilliant than the brightest diamonds we delve, more precious than all we have ever or will ever unearth. They are celestial gems coursing through the night above— changeless, eternal, except for the five known wanderers that slowly shift across the wheeling pattern of the others; but even these nomads, in time, cycle through the same long journeys. Aye, the stars are special, for they give us their light to steer by—that one yon is forever fixed in the north—and they tell us the time of season or the depth of the night or the nearness of dawn. Never can we craft anything to rival their beauty or purpose, though we have striven to do so through the ages. We believe that each star has some special meaning—though we know not what it is—and that destiny and omens are sometimes written in the glittering patterns."
Perry was filled with a sense of discovery at hearing Borin speak thus of the stars. The Warrow had seen them all his life, and til this moment he had not considered the impact that the heavenly display would have upon those who lived most of their lives under the mountains. Perry gazed with new eyes at the celestial blaze, entranced as if he had never before seen its glory. And as
he watched a streak flashed across the sky, flaring and coruscating, leaving behind a trail of golden fire that slowly faded. "Borin!" he cried, pointing. "Did you see that shooting star?" His voice was full of excitement, thrilled at the display. But Borin had cast his hood over his head and was looking somberly down at the earth. "What's the matter, Borin?" asked Perry, disturbed by this dark change in his companion and wanting to help.
"When a star falls it foretells that a friend, too, will soon fall and die," replied Borin. And without uttering another word the Dwarf went to his bedroll and lay down and did not look at the sky again that night.
The next morning, as the wayfarers broke camp, Perry looked up at the ruins on the crest of Beacontor and remarked, "If ever we come this way again I'd like to see the remains of the old Watch tower; they mark an age of greatness." Anval glanced sharply at Perry and seemed troubled, but said nothing.
That day and the following were much the same as those that had gone before, and the waggon slowly rolled eastward, finally coming to the western edge of the Wilderness Hills.
Dawn of the ninth day of the journey found the skies overcast, and as the five got under way beneath the dismal glower, Lord Kian predicted rain by nightfall.
The instruction went on as always, and Anval and Borin continued to take turns driving the waggon. Though progress with the sword training was rapid, the mood of the travellers was as glum as the brooding skies. Except for Lord Kian's instructions and an occasional question from either Perry or Cotton, little was said, and no songs were sung. Even the landscape seemed unredeeming, consisting of monotonous, relatively barren, uniform hills.
To dispel this gloomy mood and restore their former high spirits, Lord Kian decided to advance one stage of the training. Looking somberly at Perry and Cotton, he announced, "It is time you each fought your first Rukh."
"Wha . . . what? Ruck?" Perry's heart leapt to his mouth, and he looked quickly all around.
Cotton, also, scrambled to his knees and held on to a waggon sideboard, searching the empty countryside for an enemy. "Hey, now, just a moment here, it's daylight," protested Cotton, plopping back down. "Rucks won't be about in the daytime."
Kian broke out in laughter, and the two Dwarves smiled. Perry, realizing that Cotton was right, slumped back into the waggon in relief. "No, no," said Kian, "not real Rukha. What I meant is that at our next stop you shall cross wooden swords with one another. But wear your armor; henceforth you shall train in battle dress."
By the time they rolled to a stop in a sparse roadside glade with a thin stream running along the eastern tree line, both Warrows were armored and wore their empty scabbards—leaving their true swords in the waggon.
At first when they faced one another, neither seemed eager to strike, and they began a timid tap-tapping engagement. Lord Kian, seeing the reluctance of two friends to confront one another, stopped them momentarily. Using blue clay from the banks of the stream, he daubed their faces, giving each a hollow-eyed, sunken-cheeked appearance, and made their mouths look broader and thinner and their eyebrows long and slanted. He turned each of their helms backwards on their heads and then had them face one another again. "There now," he said in a deep, sepulchral voice, "before you stands a Rukh." All broke out in raucous laughter, in the midst of which Cotton leapt forward with Ruck-like treachery and took a broad overhand cut at Perry; and the battle was on.
Though Cotton was stronger, Perry was more agile, and the duel between the two was an even match. During one engagement Perry maneuvered Cotton into falling backwards over a log; but on the other hand Perry was forced by Cotton into the stream bed and spent that contest splashing around in ankle-deep water trying to fight his way back onto the bank held by Cotton. They shouted battle cries and whooped and laughed, or fought long moments in grim silence. It went like this for the full practice: the buccen hacked and stabbed and parried and slashed all around the glen, each "killing" the other at least a half-dozen times. And when Kian called, "Enough!" Cotton and Perry collapsed together in laughter.
Trek to Kraggen-Cor Page 9
