by GJ Kelly
Emerina, Brethine 15, iHP1~2, Ma Da
So read the inscription on the back of the bracelet. Elayeen swallowed the lump forming in her throat, and carried the bracelet to Pahdreg and the men of Mornland. Pahdreg read the inscription, nodded, and sighed with great sorrow.
“It says, Emerina, a girl’s name once common here in Mornland. Brethine 15. Brethine means ‘Happy Birthday’ in our language. It was a gift from her mother and father, in the 2nd year of the reign of his highness Pandaran the First. He ruled in Princetown some two hundred and seventy years ago. There’ve only been two rulers whose name begins with P, Pandaran the First, and Pandaran the Second. In Mornland we are obliged to learn them all, and the dates of their rule, in school.”
Elayeen remembered her own fifteenth birthday, the laughter and the joy of friends and family. The bracelet suddenly became so much more than a piece of poignant jewellery.
She turned on her heel, and strode across the charnel ground, stooped, and picked up the lump hammer she had been reaching for when first Emerina’s bracelet had caught her eye. Anger ballooned, drowning sorrow, and became a tearful rage, and she stepped forward, swinging the two-pounder at the stone of the column before her. The shock of the blow jarred through her wrist, but stone chips flew. Again she smashed the hammer into the stone, and again sparks and chips flew.
Then she gripped the hammer with two hands, clumsily, and heaved another blow, and another, and then very large, very firm, but very gentle hands stilled her efforts, and moved her well back from the pillar.
Rickerd eased around before her, and gently took the lump hammer from her hands. He nodded, and eased her further back, drawing the three-foot maul from his belt. He clenched his teeth, gave a solemn and heart-felt bow of his head, and then turned to face the column.
Pahdreg and Trigo drew her back to the edge of the glade, and together, elves and men watched while Rickerd began the demolition of the dark-made obscenity which had blighted the land for so long. No black lightning or arcing energy met the crashing impact of the sledgehammer’s six-pound head. Only the crunch of masonry, and they could feel the immense impacts thumping through the ground beneath their feet.
Nor was Rickerd’s demolition simply a workmanlike job of labour. He might not have numbered among the best educated of Fourfields citizens, but he understood the significance of the bracelet, and the profound depth of the evil which had littered the ground so deep and so wide with the remains of those it had touched. Gentle the man might be with the people and animals for which he cared. He most certainly did not care for the graven stone pillar, great lumps of which he was smashing from it as a lumberjack might cleave wedges of wood from a tree.
The more lumps he smashed from the pillar the easier the task seemed to become, and soon a sharp report was heard, a puff of dust following the jagged line of a crack running the length of the pillar from the area Rickerd had pummelled to its very point. Rickerd eyed the crack, stepped around the pillar so his back was to the onlookers, and then took a mighty, upward swing into the base of the crack. Another piercing report accompanied the crunching blow of the hammer, and with surprising speed Rickerd backed away.
Fully half of the column toppled away, crashing onto the bony ground, leaving the remaining half standing like a broken tooth. Rickerd strode forward, swung the sledgehammer, striking the immense shard three times before it too began to teeter, and then toppled backwards, crashing to the ground in a cloud of dust. Only a three-foot stub of the column remained intact.
“We must destroy the black stones,” Elayeen announced, “But I am not sure if striking them with a hammer might not cause harm to the one wielding it.”
“Beg pardon, miss Leeny,” Trigo announced, “I doubt you’ll be stopping Rickerd now. We done three parts o’ the job. He’s about the business o’ tidying up.”
It was true. Rickerd had seen the black stones gleaming darkly in the rubble, and made short work of them before anyone had a chance to call a warning. If Elayeen had expected blasts of aquamire to burst from the wreckage when the huge man struck the black stones, she was happily disappointed. They simply shattered, and smoked, and were gone without drama or catastrophe, their energies perhaps drained by the discharges of black lightning earlier. When all four were destroyed and the column a complete ruin, Rickerd retrieved his lump hammers, stuffed them in his pack, and returned to give them all another clumsy bow.
“Thank you, Serre Rickerd,” Elayeen acknowledged, and handed the sweating labourer a water skin.
“What now, Ranger Leeny?” Pahdreg asked, his voice flat and drained of emotion.
Elayeen regarded them, her injured friend, feeling her own aches and pains too, and she could see the energy and tension evaporating from all those around her, now the danger was past and they had prevailed.
“If there were a trusted wizard in our number I would have him perform the rites, and with white fire blaze away the horror of this place for all time, and bring peace to those whose remains fill this glade.”
“Aye,” Pahdreg sighed, “This is a graveyard. We cannot tell how deep…” and he suddenly sniffed.
“Aye,” Trigo mumbled, and his profound eyes began to water. “Aye…”
“We must do what we can, in honour of those struck down by this evil,” Elayeen said softly. “We shall return to Fourfields, and rest, and tend our wounds. Tomorrow, when our strength is recovered, we shall return with oil. In the absence of a white staff, ordinary fire must suffice.”
“We’ll all come, Ranger Leeny. All of Fourfields, and we’ll honour the dead here with fire and with song, And before spring warmth we’ll plant White Teardrop and Bluebells, all around the hill, so that all Mornlanders who approach will know that nought but a cemetery lies atop Croptop Hill, and will leave it in peace.”
Elayeen took the bracelet from Pahdreg, and walked solemnly to the mess of rubble surrounding the stub of the pillar. She stooped, and gently laid the ancient birthday present on the ground, whispering in elvish a gentle farewell to the unknown girl, Emerina, who once had worn it.
The journey down the hill and back to the ladies waiting at the wagon was made in silence, and though the Rangers employed the Sight from time to time, there was now no need. Before they’d gone halfway down the slope, Trigo smiled, and pointed at a flock of pigeons flashing across the sky directly for the trees, and they all paused, and watched as the birds disappeared into the woodland at the summit. Nature, so it seemed to them, was anxious to reclaim her lands.
Meeya was tended promptly and expertly by Tilda, the healer well used to dealing with such injuries as bruised and cracked ribs. Soon the air around the wagon smelled not altogether unpleasantly of horse-liniment. Nor did Elayeen escape attention, both Tilda and Tilly had seen her favouring her right leg heavily on her way down the steep slope. In truth, the bruising to her hip was not entirely trivial, and in no time at all she too found herself receiving the pungent unguent and Meeya smiling happily all the while that she would not be alone in wearing an eye-watering reek.
Their return to Fourfields was slow, at the insistence of Tilda. Both Meeya and Elayeen were obliged to ride in the hay wain, seated on soft bundles, while Borbo ambled at a gentle pace to keep to a minimum any jolts or bumps. Trigo and Rickerd walked behind the wagon with Tilly leading the elves’ horses, while Valin rode at flank, watchful as ever.
It was gloomy early evening by the time they entered the hamlet, and watched by astonished Fourfielders, they clasped arms, embraced, and wordlessly saluted each other before parting. The Rangers, their horses still led and tended by Tilly, retired to the round-barn, where later the elves were served wholesome hot fare, hot wine, and warm ale, and were then left in peace.
Elayeen did not need to be reminded of the risk she had subjected her friends to. Her aches and pains and the memories of the horrors on the hill sufficed to do that. Nor did Meeya and Valin need to be reminded of the courage of humble Mornland farmers in the face of dark-made terrors,
nor the pride with which they shared the embrace of friendship and dangers shared in full view of all. In many ways, the aftermath of Croptop was for them far more personal and moving than had been the aftermath of Far-gor.
It had not been Elayeen’s path, she knew that, shifting slightly under her blankets hoping to make her aching legs and back more comfortable while waiting for sleep. But she was not a foolish child, and she knew that, too. She was Elayeen Rhiannon Seraneth ní Varan Raheen, and if that bitch-wizard Eldengaze or any other vakin whitebeard ever dared to suggest otherwise, she would kick their worthless backsides to the moon and beyond.
oOo
16. Farewells
The following morning dawned cold but bright, and this time the hay wain contained only barrels of wood-tar thinned with turpentine as Borbo once more led the way out of the hamlet, all of Fourfields’ inhabitants in the funereal procession behind. The three elves rode respectfully at the rear of the column, and two of them had uttered more than one groan apiece while dragging themselves into the saddle; muscles and joints cruelly abused the day before had stiffened in the night, making a pain of the slightest of movements.
Word had spread, as word will in such a small community, and while Pahdreg, his wife and his daughter rode on the seat of the cart, Trigo and Rickerd walked immediately behind it, leading the procession on foot. Judging by the looks of great pride and respect people afforded the eight who had travelled together yesterday, the tale of Croptop Hill had already been told long before breakfast that morning.
When the procession arrived at the foot of the hill, Elayeen was asked to lead the way up with Valin and Meeya, and so the Rangers did, she and Meeya putting a brave face on the discomfort the steep climb induced in muscles and bones already protesting at the three-hour ride.
Men carried the barrels of turps-thinned wood-tar slung on simple litters, women carried infants or young children, all of them respectfully quiet as they made their way up the hill.
Already, birds had rediscovered the trees at the summit, and though it was far too early for nests to have been built, the copse was now no longer entirely silent. Come spring, they knew, and birds would know this place as home, the air would be filled with song, and the insistent chirping of new life would soon follow.
At the glade in the centre of the summit, though, there was still an eerie silence, made heavier by the immense sorrow of all those spreading out around its periphery and witnessing for the first time the scale of the misery which an ancient evil had inflicted over the centuries. Some wept, without shame, and as the men bearing the tar-barrels carried their cargo to the centre of the glade, the people began quietly to hum a simple but moving melody.
The barrel-carriers, six of them, drew the plugs from the casks, and they set off clockwise in slightly different directions, spiralling around and outward to the rim of the glade, and the air was filled with a sweet and slightly acrid aroma as the charnel ground was dowsed with oily, flammable liquid. When the barrels were drained and the carriers had taken them safely beyond the rim of the glade, the quiet melody became a song, soft voices singing a last farewell to all of Croptop’s victims.
The elves did not understand the words of the song, it being sung in the language of Mornland, but the sentiment was clear, the melody simple, and they hummed quietly, and tearfully, with the singers. The breezes were from the north, as ever in this season, and slowly, the circle of singers broke, moving to form an arc around the northern quarter of the glade.
No words were needed, and none were spoken. As the song continued, Trigo held a small torch towards Rickerd, who sparked it into flame with firestone and steel. Trigo lifted it solemnly, and then passed it to Pahdreg while the song continued. The Mayor of Fourfields held the torch high until the end of the refrain, and then swung it out towards the centre of the glade.
With a muted whoosh the wood-tar caught, flames rushing deep through the mesh of intertwined bone wherever the liquid had seeped. Fire spread at once, following the spiral-armed pattern the six carriers had made, heat from the burning oil driving off the moisture from leaf litter and mosses, and within a minute, the crackling of flames became a continuous sound like a rushing stream, building towards a roar.
The song began to fade and once again became a gentle humming, and the funeral party turned, and began slowly walking away from the conflagration, still humming the melody, heat rising behind them as quickly as the smoke which billowed high above the surrounding trees, drifting appropriately south towards the far distant River Shasstin, and the town of Fourbanks, from whence many of the victims had come.
For the sake of their own comfort, and Meeya’s especially, Elayeen elected to remain in Fourfields for the rest of that day, and the day following. The usual cheerful nature for which Mornlanders are rightly famed returned quickly after the funeral ceremony, and though none would ever set foot on Croptop again, it was now out of respect that they would leave the hill undisturbed, not fear.
Only Pahdreg, Trigo and Rickerd seemed to take longer to regain their humour, but Elayeen, and they themselves, knew that the evil of Croptop, though destroyed, had touched them, and the three men could never be the same as once they were. But not all changes wrought by adversity are the germs of future bitterness, and the three who had stood by the Kindred Rangers and for each other knew now a measure of the depth of their own courage and fortitude, and Fourfields would long be the richer for it.
Tilda and Tilly did their level best in trying to persuade the Rangers to remain longer in the hamlet, but Pahdreg knew only too well that duty is a harsh mistress, and also that it was serendipity brought the three elves to Fourfields in the first place, and that their duty lay elsewhere.
Thus it was, on the evening of the thirty-first day of January, Elayeen drew Pahdreg aside from the farewell party in the round-barn to speak with him alone, stars an ocean above them as they walked, the night clear, and distinctly chilly.
“There are no words which’ll adequately express our thanks, Ranger Leeny, for what you and Rangers Meemee and Valdo have done.”
“That you and all in Fourfields stood with us is thanks enough, Mayor Pahdreg. In truth, it was a difficult decision to come here, our duty lies elsewhere and we must continue on our path. I am glad though, as are my friends, that we came, and were able to honour our oaths to Gawain of Raheen, and to the Kindred.”
“But you didn’t want to speak to me about this,” Pahdreg announced quietly, when they were far enough from the round-barn not to be overheard, not that anyone was eavesdropping.
“No. I would ask of you and your people a favour, once we are gone.”
“Name it.”
Elayeen smiled a sad smile, and gathered her thoughts.
“We have enemies, Pahdreg,” she finally began, arms folded beneath her cloak as they walked through the village square, “All elves of the Rangers do. And they are doubtless seeking us even now. I would ask that you and your people refrain from mentioning us to any travellers who might come this way.”
Pahdreg chuckled. “Ranger Leeny, we’re more than a week’s ride from Fourbanks, and it’ll be the middle of March before a newsrider comes this way. Who would we tell?”
“Well, should any strangers venture this way…”
“Have no fear.”
“I do not wish you or the people of Fourfields to place yourselves at risk, Pahdreg. If you are asked a direct question, by all means answer it. In truth, we also have friends, and one in particular might come seeking us later in the year. I… we would just like a little time to put distance between ourselves and Fourfields before word spreads of our actions upon the hill. As long as such word remains behind us and does not travel ahead of our path, we shall be safe. I am sorry if this sounds mysterious. I would that I did not need to ask for such precautions. I hope it does not lessen your regard for Rangers, should any others pass this way.”
“Nothing could do that. You may rest assured, there’s no chance of word proceeding ahea
d of you, not from anyone in Fourfields. As I said, it’ll be the middle of March before the next newsrider, and April before he’d be able to spread word out of Fourbanks along the river.”
“Thank you.”
Pahdreg shrugged Elayeen’s gratitude away with a cheerful smile. If he felt the slightest uneasy or concerned by the request, there was no hint of it in him, and guile was a complete stranger to all in this small farming community.
“Is there anything else you might need for your journey, Ranger Leeny?”
It was Elayeen’s turn to chuckle quietly. “No, thank you. We have so much in the way of provisions I fear we’ll all be fat and a danger to our horses within a month.”
“At least you’ll all eat well enough for a while before you have to resort to the miner’s cake. Awful stuff.”
“There are some who like it,” Elayeen smiled, and glanced at the stars, for the moon had already set, wondering where Gawain was, and if he too was looking at them.
“Not ‘round here there aren’t,” Pahdreg muttered.
No, Elayeen thought sadly, Not around here.
For a last time, the entire population of Fourfields turned out before dawn on the first day of February, and shared a final meal with the three elves who had touched their lives so profoundly. The stars were fading in the grey of imminent sunrise when, breakfast over and horses readied, Elayeen and her companions stood facing Pahdreg and his family, Trigo and Rickerd standing a respectful distance from their Mayor.
“Now is the time of our parting,” Elayeen announced, “For we are Rangers of the Kindred, and must attend to our duties. Thank you, Pahdreg, Mayor of Fourfields, for the hospitality and kindness of your people, who are well-led, and known to us now as ‘friend’. Be well, and know that you shall not be forgotten.”
