by GJ Kelly
And with that, the young man sprinted away. It occurred to Elayeen that the boy’s slight frame was the result of unbridled energy, the youth never seemed to stand still for a moment.
Watching Arbo race up the track towards the cobble village square brought home the realisation that her anger was mostly with herself. At any time before setting foot in Fallowmead, she could have turned aside from this path, but had not. Now, when battle was joined, and if she had to flee these people, it would be because she, not the ghosts of those long dead and gone, had put herself in this position. A memory of Gawain pressed suddenly to the fore:
“I tell you this, whitebeard scum! I tell you and all your kind and Thal-Hak and every elf hiding behind the skirts of this vakin Dwarfspit tree-filled den of treachery! I ride for the north! I ride to lead the pitiful and utterly futile forces gathering there to face Morloch and all the spawn he can muster and when I die there, when I and all the other kindred races of Man die there, I shall die holding you and all the inhabitants of this ‘spitsucking forest Morloch Collaborators for your betrayal!”
Now, here she stood before a field of shepherds and sheep-shearers making ready for a battle all of them knew they could not hope to win, save by the kind of ignoble and horrific acts anyone laying claim to the adjective ‘civilised’ would shy away from in disgust. And standing there, Elayeen had a sudden and brief insight into the reason for Gawain’s rage that day, there at the foot of the Threnderrin Way. He had suddenly and unexpectedly found himself utterly alone, bearing the hopes of the world upon his shoulders, a burden placed there by Morloch, and by every person east of Elvendere who stood back and looked to him to perform the miracle necessary for their salvation.
He had said or inferred later that it was part of a necessary deception, to keep Morloch’s spies from believing the Kindred Army and its leader a threat. Perhaps the rage and the fury did maintain the fiction Gawain intended that the army was defeated even before the march to Far-gor. But the rage and the fury had been real, and so too the anger Elayeen now felt.
She had left Tarn, in part because the Merionell had compelled her, demanding to be as far from Morloch’s corruption as possible. But in the main, she had left because she wished to remain Elayeen. But who was Elayeen? Where was the giggling child who with her beloved friend Meeya paddled in the fountain? Where the coltish young elfin dreaming of faraway lands and an escape from a fate decreed by the Toorseneth? Where the smiling queen, the blushing bride, the loving soul-mate of the King of Raheen, she who alone could lighten the darkness of strange aquamire in his eyes? Where the beautiful, gentle elfin, slender and graceful, soft of gaze and filled with the serenity of forests and deep water?
They were all she, but gone now, lost forever in the river of time, memories like sand clutched in a desperate fist slowly leaking away to leave behind… what?
Glances up at the woods from which the threat would come, and glances around the vee, once good grazing land where children had played and now sheep stood tethered awaiting murder. Her life was not her own, and perhaps it never had been. Now, here, understanding a little of Gawain’s fury, she also understood that her life was theirs, the path she now trod laid before her by Kistin Fallowmead, age ten, Crellan Jokdaw, Arbo, Chert Ardbinder… even the cowardly Gonvil and Alek had obliged her to act to protect their horses and thus influenced her decisions and actions according their lives, their words, their deeds...
She had changed, as Meeya had rightfully asserted. She was no longer Elayeen. She was the lady Ranger, Leeny, upon whose decisions now rested the lives of one hundred and eighteen good folk of Arrun, and two elves.
oOo
26. Jam on Top
Valin returned, tired, four hours after sunset. He had seen nothing of concern, and after a brief and private exchange of words with Meeya, she patted the emblem on his chest and rode up to the eastern woods to take his place on watch. Valin, wrapped warm in a heavy woollen blanket provided by Arbo, took Meeya’s place on the bench under the eaves of one of the smaller sheds, and slept.
Work in the vee continued by close-shuttered lamplight, and starlight dusting the woodland silver through the scudding clouds. Crellan had assured Elayeen there would be no rain, in spite of the blustery winds and the clouds speeding overhead, and he should know, he said, having lived in Fallowmead all his life. Besides, he’d confirmed his own forecast with an old man oddly-named “Tam o’ The Leg”, ninety if he were a day, who had nodded sagely, declared it would be dry for four days yet, and promptly fallen asleep with a sharpened stake resting on his lap.
“Always a good sign, that, lady Ranger, Tam o’ The Leg fallin’ asleep like that. Shows he ‘as confidence in his forecast. Else he’d stay awake mumbling, like, and then you’d worry.”
Work in the sheds continued apace too. There were several loud bangs, felt through the ground as well as heard, and close to midnight an excited young Arbo found the weary and footsore Elayeen and brought her the good news that the two main engines were ready to be moved into position near the point of the vee.
“Make sure they dim the lamps in the shed before opening the doors wide, Arbo,” Elayeen instructed, and the young man beamed as always. “And have them move slow but sure. We can afford no accidents or carelessness now.”
“Aye, lady, I’ll make sure an’ certain.” And with that, the youth sprinted away into the gloom.
Elayeen drew her cloak tighter, and walked slowly back and forth, patrolling a small area of ground between the shearing sheds to her left, and the workshops and storage sheds where Valin slept to her right.
There was a low rumbling, and she paused to watch as the first great machine was pulled and shoved out from the dark bowels of the shed, trundling on rollers, Urman supervising the small team of men who laid the rollers before the engine and collected them from behind. Progress was slow, but not laboured. The work was cautious rather than back-breaking, the catapult made from the beams and base of a modified wool-press, heavy but not so massive it would take the entire village to shift it into position.
Crellan hurried towards her down the track from the village, bearing a steaming jug of hot wine and a beaker. He poured a small measure and handed it to her. “You should get some rest, lady Ranger, we’ll need you sharp come sunrise. We got our orders, and know ‘em clear as crystal. We’ll wake you if anything happens needs your attention.”
It was true, she had been fighting waves of fatigue, and there were still at least two more engines to be placed, possibly three if Fergal and his team worked with the same enthusiasm they had managed to maintain all afternoon.
“Very well, Crellan, I shall. But wake me the moment I am needed. Do not approach too close though, just have my name called from a short distance.”
“Aye, I shall. There is one thing might ‘elp you sleep easier, lady. Seems Gonvil and his brother, and a handful of others, have taken advantage o’ the dark, and run away into the night.”
“I know. I saw them leave an hour ago, heading south.”
“Aye, Sudshear’s the closer, and down ‘ill a bit from here. I’m sorry, lady Ranger. That’s eleven folk less we got, including the two young ‘uns went with them. We’re down to a hundred an’ seven in Fallowmead now, and only sixty of us sound.”
“Did they take with them any important occupations?”
“No, leastways not important for the plans we put in motion. We’ll get by. Third line of pits is dug, and with the lines shorter the closer to the point, well, the last’ll be done soon too. You go get some sleep, lady Ranger. Ours is the work this night, yours’ll be when them monsters come.”
Elayeen nodded, drained the beaker and handed it back to the headman, and left him making for the engine-party with his refreshments while she herself made for the bench where Valin slept.
She settled as quietly as she could, grateful that the bruises inflicted upon Croptop Hill were now nothing more than colourful memories fading from her skin. The bench was hard.
&n
bsp; “I am not asleep, miThalin,” Valin whispered in the dark from the other end of the bench. “And there is a warm Arrunwove blanket atop our packs under the bench for you.”
“You should be asleep, Valin, and thank you,” Elayeen sighed, and fished under the bench for the heavy wool blanket. When she found it, she simply slung it around herself, too weary to bother removing her cloak.
“I have dozed. It is enough.”
“I shall probably do likewise. Do you think the enemy will come in the morning?”
“I think they will work through the night, and if they succeed in spanning the last sixty feet of the cliff with their platforms, they will eat, and rest. Noon, or afterwards, I would say. They are in no hurry, and expecting no opposition.”
Another wave of fatigue washed over her, and she almost let herself fall into the warm dark of sleep. “They knew Kistin had evaded the Razorwing, and sent the Yarken. Perhaps they now know their dark gaolers are all dead.”
“Perhaps they do. But it changes little. They must still crest the cliffs, eat and rest before the assault. You must rest, too, miThalin. All will look to you on the morrow, as all looked to Thal-Gawain.”
“Yes. I miss him so. I wish he were here.”
“To lead the battle? You have planned well, I do not think were he here Thal-Gawain could have done better with the resources we have.”
“I know. But his jokes are so much better than mine.”
“Bah. I quite liked the one about picking up my teeth this morning. Meeya did, too. Now sleep, miThalin. Dawn will come soon enough.”
Elayeen rested her head back against the rough wooden wall of the shed behind her, then fumbled to draw up the hood of her cloak. Minutes later, or so it seemed to her, someone was quietly calling her name…
“…Leeny… Ranger Leeny…”
It was Meeya, and it was broad daylight, and by the looks of it, the sun had been up for almost two hours. Someone, probably Arbo, had put a tray of food and breakfast wine on the bench near her.
“What is it? Is it late?”
“It is morning, four hours ‘til noon. Valin relieved me on watch earlier, my eyes were getting blurred. He said I should leave our two horses here now, and that the threat to them had left the village last night?”
Elayeen was groggy from sleep, and reached for the spiced wine. “Yes, eleven of them ran south. The engines…”
“Those monstrous things are down at the point. Urman and Crellan have been working to disguise them. The villagers have made stacks of hay covered in canvass sheets, and even moved some of the smaller sheds and some of their own garden sheds down to the line to hide the works, just as you suggested.”
“And the missiles? Are they ready?”
“I don’t know,” Meeya yawned, “I’ve not long been back from the woods. May I have one of those cakes? I’m starving.”
Elayeen nodded, and eased herself up onto her feet. Her back and neck ached and her joints were stiff, but as she blinked away the last of the sleep and gazed down the track to the point of the vee, she stretched, and marvelled at the job of work that had been completed while she slept.
All four engines were in place, two laying on their sides, one each side of the point, and two more, again one on each side, resting on beams further out. Bales of hay served as a wall before them, and taller haystacks had been built from bales and dotted here and there. To anyone not a farmer gazing down upon the scene from the eastern woodland atop the slope and unfamiliar with Fallowmead before work had commenced, all would seem perfectly rustic, peaceful, and normal. Even down to the dozen or so sheep dotted here and there, grazing on the lush and freshly-manured grass between neat rows of wagons and carts put out for winter. The Meggen were not farmers.
From where Elayeen stood, upslope of the small stream which marked the eastern border of the village on her map, only the presence of the immense weapons testified to the preparations they had made for war. And, were it not for the fact that two of the four engines had the appearance of crude wooden grappinbows, a casual visitor might even have mistaken the two large catapults recumbent on their sides for some curious agricultural engines of unknown purpose.
“Where is everybody?” Elayeen whispered, suddenly realising that not a single villager was to be seen.
“Mmfleep, mm the big sheds,” Meeya mumbled through a mouthful of cake. “Oh, you must eat some of these, Leeny, they are wonderful!”
They were, fresh-baked butterscones topped with jam and lightly dusted with ground cinnamon. Elayeen summoned the Sight, saw the dim glowing of the villagers’ life-lights resting within the sheds, and after a glance to confirm Valin’s whereabouts in the woodland, commenced to aid Meeya in the utter annihilation of the butterscones.
“Thal-Gawain would still have preferred frak,” Meeya announced, slurping breakfast wine noisily.
“Yes, which is as it should be. More cakes for us. I had imagined the village would be lively at this time of day, they being farmers. Should we wake them and have them attend their daily routines? I do not wish an enemy to observe anything out of the ordinary.”
Meeya giggled. “Yes, they should probably be rushing around trying to capture the sheep for morning milking.”
“Bah.”
“Even I know there’s nothing to do on a sheep farm except sit around watching for wolves and playing the flute until it’s time to cut their hair. And from what I’ve seen of those tethered out there, their hair doesn’t grow very fast at all.”
Elayeen fought hard against the laughter bubbling up through the quiet tension of impending battle, but lost.
“What?” Meeya asked, deadpan, evincing more laughter.
Arbo appeared from behind one of the sheds, and hurried over to them, beaming happily and with a degree of astonishment at their elvish giggling.
“Marnin’, lady Rangers!” he grinned. “Can I get you ought? More buttercakes?”
“No, thank you, Arbo,” Elayeen smiled, and composed herself.
“Yes please,” Meeya smiled.
“I’ll fetch some more for ye both, right quick…”
“In a moment, Arbo, I am sure Ranger Meemee can wait until you have briefed me concerning the work.”
“Aye, as you wish, lady!” the youth beamed again. “All’s in order, as you can see. Finished up a whisker after dawn. Only, us all do got questions.”
“What are your questions?”
“Who’s to man the engines, who’s to fire they wagons when the fire be needed, and what us all are supposed to do when they come… We don’t ‘ave no swords and such, nought but the tools we use, and I don’t reckon no monster’s going to set still while we give ‘im a stabbin’ with our shears an’ all.”
“In truth, master Arbo, there is little than can be done for Fallowmead’s defence which has not been done already. Did Gwillam and Chert Ardbinder finish their work?”
“Aye, so Gwill said before laying down for sleep. Said sacks and casks both were filled, and bottles too.”
“Have they been placed by the engines?”
“Aye, they have, and tucked away beneath wax-sheet, blanket and hay to keep ‘em dry. The engines were all tested and Fergal says they’ll do. But he says they big bows are the weakest, and don’t know ‘ow long they may be used before summin’ gives.”
“Hopefully we shall not need to use them much at all,” Elayeen said softly. “What is usually done about the village at this time of day? Is it normally busy?”
Arbo shrugged, and grinned, and began a curious little song. “Ah you know, baker does ‘is baking, pie-man makes the pies…” he tailed off, and when he saw nothing but blank stares looking back at him, he blushed. “Ah… old rhyme kids do sing… sorry… People fetch their water from the well. Folks might natter and such, and make and mend on home and garden. Long way off we are from shearing day. When we had ‘orses, Brod and Camran might go out and ease ‘em back that’d strayed too far. Most o’ the flock wanders up there to the west, and ar
e content to stay close to the village in winter. It gets too cold out, they come in the sheds and the warm, see.”
“Then there is nothing too much out of the ordinary in this quiet?”
Arbo shrugged. “Nope,” and he turned and studied the village. “Might be that there’d be smoke from the chimbly-tops, few people gossipin’ at the well. But that ain’t been done for a while. Most folk got their water and got back in, quick, didn’t want the risk o’ being seen by the sword-bird. Wood sheds were all filled for winter afore the shipwreck and the monsters but they logs and stove-lengths won’t last long now. Might be you’d see the woodcutter up in the woods, maybe.”
“Thank you. Are you rested?”
“I ain’t tired, lady Ranger.”
“And the other lieutenants, are they sleeping?”
“Aye, but lightly. They all of ‘em worked late but told me to wake ‘em the moment they was needed.”
“Give them another hour, then. Ranger and Meemee and I will be down at the point, inspecting the work, you’ll find us there. Take what rest you can, master Arbo, the day will be long and I do not know when next we might sleep.”
“Might be later we all sleep a long time, lady Ranger,” Arbo announced, and a glimpse of the strength of the man he might one day become shone through for a moment. “So beggin’ yer pardon now, I’ll tend to your buttercakes, and bring ‘em down to you in a sack when they’s done. Jar o’ jam too, for the tops.”
They watched him jog back up the track to the centre of the village, and after using the rustic facilities on offer, gathered their belongings on the bench, and began to prepare themselves. Boot knives checked, swords and long knives, quivers restocked, strings tested, bows examined with professional and well-practiced eyes.
“The boy never stops,” Meeya said softly, taking off a boot and emptying it out, then taking off a sock and wiping her foot with a grubby towel. Even their cleanest clothes were travel-worn and grubby, washed in streams, but the soap had been lost to the Shasstin.
