"But what shall we do with these slippery jacks, Old Jock? It's not often we see strays in these woods. What shall we do with them, then? Shall we bring them to Jock's table?" The old man's words rose in tone. He no longer muttered under his breath. The three Holdsmen regarded one another with uncertainty. Kal crept forward for a better look. The strange old man seemed to start.
"What should we do, then? Perhaps they'll follow us home?" The old man gathered up his basket, turned his back on the Holdsmen, and began to walk away. Briefly, he stopped and scratched his head and then continued on his way.
"Old father!" Kal stepped out from the bushes and called out. "Old father, who are you?" It was as if the old man had not heard him. He did not break his slow shuffling stride.
"Stay, old man, stay!" Kal called again.
"Stay, Old Jock, stay!" The old man said, his voice lilting in mimicry. He checked his pace and turned, casting a feeble gaze in Kal's direction from eyes moist and milky with age. Galli and Gwyn had advanced and now stood by their companion's side, staring at the stranger.
"What shall we do then, Jock? Three young clansmen traipsing about in our forest. From southern parts. Shall we take them home with us? Three jacks for Jock's table?" The old codger knit his brow in thought. "No. What do we do with strays, then? Word's gone out. Aye, we take strays to them what are looking for these ones. That's what we do, then." With low chuckling noises he nodded, his long white beard brushing along the front of his threadbare jerkin.
"Master Jock, sir—?"
But before Kal could question him further, the aged woodsman turned on his heel.
"Aye, Old Jock it is. This way. Come, come, fall in behind Old Jock," he said, treading along a path that wound through the clearing and into the trees again. The three Holdsmen stood rooted to the spot. "Come, come, there's naught to fear, not in Asgarth, not from Old Jock, nor the others," said the strange old man of the woods, glancing back over his shoulder and grinning broadly, his face lit up with mirth. "No telling but that we'll find more mushrooms—shaggy manes or pig's ears."
Was he to be plagued by curious oldlings, Kal thought to himself? Jock put him in mind of Gabaro; however, Jock's madness seemed not to be without purpose, as Gabaro's most certainly had been. Kal shook his head and chuckled, but it was only after Gwyn stepped forward that the other Holdsmen abandoned their hesitation and fell in behind the old man, who began mumbling to himself unintelligibly once again.
Through the forest, they wended their way. Old Jock set a brisk pace, matched by Gwyn, who kept to the old man's heels. Sometimes, when Kal and Galli lagged behind, their old guide would chivvy them along in a spirit of crotchety good humour. Other times he would stop to harvest plant life for his basket, not just mushrooms and woodland edibles, but weeds and flowers, strips of bark and odd roots, often burrowing and scrabbling for the object of his desire, laughing toothlessly over some choice discovery, over which Gwyn would show great interest.
"Strange old bird, a rag and bone collector," Kal whispered to Galli as they scrambled towards the crest of a hill along a stepwork of tree roots.
"But should we trust him? Could this be a trap?" Galli replied under his breath.
Suddenly, the old man halted again and swung around, glowering down on Kal and Galli. "Old Jock's no old bird. Nor's Old Jock hard of hearing, neither. Mayhaps Old Jock's a fool, though! Aye, a fool to play waywarden to foot-draggers and mocking young jacks!"
The rebuke was so keen-edged, so direct and unexpected, that it brought the two Holdsmen up short. They fumbled with an apology, but Old Jock had already resumed his progress, only to stop again just short of the brow of the hill to dig in the leaf litter.
"Except for the mute lad," the old man muttered aloud. "Wisest of the lot, he is. All for Jock, he is. Old Jock'll bring him to those that seek him, him and them other two strays." The old man stopped scrabbling and stood rooted to the spot as if lost deep in thought, then started to walk again. "Aye, stray sheep to the Flockmaster. Come then, lambs."
Lapsing into silence, he continued to a clearing that crowned the hill. From the clearing, the ground fell away in long, gentle slopes to an expanse of marshland that stretched off, footing the mountains of the Sheerness Spur. A path, much wider than the one they had been treading, ran into the distance over the rolling ground and down into the marsh, a line straight as an arrow, though broken and indistinct in many places, until it vanished into the trackless bogs.
Kal smiled at Galli. They had come to the Marshes of Atramar. Somewhere ahead of them, deep in the vast expanse of marshland, stood Aelward's Cot. Kal followed with his eyes the line of the Sheerness Spur along the horizon from the coast in the southwest to where it met the Radolans in the southeast. The range of the Spur broke midway, its mountains' flanks falling into the Marsh of Atramar, and, in the narrow gap, just visible to him, stood a black finger of rock, the Llanigon Mark Stone.
With Galli and Gwyn to his left and his right, Kal couldn't help but wonder if Ardiel himself and the Seven Champions of Ruah had at one time, long ago, stood on this very spot and looked ahead to the place where they would seek shelter and find safety from the dire predations of Tardroch. Had Ardiel himself, Kal wondered, experienced the same emotion that he now felt—the sharp sense of relief and elation at a journey nearly completed, muted and blunted by the realization that it was in fact only the first leg in a much longer, more arduous and far more dangerous journey? Perhaps his remnant folk were there already—
The strong blast of a hunting horn rent the air over the clearing in which they stood.
"What? What's he doing?" Galli shouted as Kal looked about the clearing. "If he's betrayed us, I'll . . ." Galli, his face fierce and full of fury, his mouth open, yelling, rushed at the old man. As Galli charged, Old Jock pulled the white horn from his lips and, pivoting sharply, struck him backhanded across the face with it. Galli reeled away from Old Jock, off balance, and fell sprawling on the ground. A fresh line of crimson creased Galli's cheek beneath the purpled eye. Calmly, the old man drew the horn back and held it before his mouth in readiness while he spoke in low chanting tones. With the back of his hand, Galli wiped his cheek where the hard edge of the horn had caught him and looked at the blood that stained his hand. His eyes narrowed, and he glared up at the old man. Kal stepped forward and laid a hand on his companion's shoulder.
"Wait, Galli. Stay back. Listen. He's no enemy," Kal said.
"Old Jock summons Broq. Old Jock summons Broq. Old Jock summons . . ." The strange old woodsman kept repeating the same words in rising tempo, staring down the broader trackway. Then he winded the horn again in a longer, louder burst, a burst so long and hard that his face reddened and his cheeks swelled. Once more, he took it from his mouth.
"Old Jock summons Broq . . . ," he said, but with longer intervals of silence between the words, wherein he cocked his head to one side and seemed to be straining his senses, waiting. Gwyn put a hand on Kal's arm and cupped a hand to his own ear.
"Aye, Gwyn. Do you hear that, Galli? From way down there." Kal pointed down the incline towards the widening path. "It's another horn, isn't it? An answering horn."
His face softening into a gap-toothed smile, Old Jock advanced a few steps and brought the horn to his lips again. This time he winded it still longer and louder than before, then stopped to listen. The answering blasts drifted to them more clearly, the sound, once distant, coming closer and closer.
"Follow the straightway," Old Jock said as he let down his hunting horn, still staring into the air. "Heed the horn. Follow the Lyndway."
Turning silently, without so much as a glance in the direction of the Holdsmen, the old man retraced his steps, seeking his basket. Gwyn raced ahead and retrieved it for him, leaving Kal and Galli frozen in their places, stunned for a moment at the unexpected turn things had taken.
"Time for Old Jock to trundle homeward with his dainties," said the aged woodsman as he took the basket held out to him by Gwyn. "Old Jock's had his fil
l of wayward clansmen from the south. Present company excepted, of course. Go on, lad, strays with strays." He flicked his hand in a gesture of dismissal, but, grinning, caught Gwyn's eye with a broad wink. "Your friends will need someone with a head on his shoulders, else they'll miss the straightway. Scarce seems possible, though, for any but a fool to misfollow it." He chortled to himself. "Briacoil, lad," he said and turned his steps away. Gwyn raised a hand in silent farewell to the lone figure as he marched towards the far side of the woodland clearing.
"Many thanks, Old Jock, old friend. Peace, and may the woodland ever be your home," called Kal, who now stood beside Gwyn and lifted his hand as well. The old man strode away, disappearing into the woods.
Galli glared at Kal from where he remained seated on the ground.
"What?" Kal said, turning to him and shrugging.
"It's what you just said."
"What did I say?"
"Those are words from the Pledge of Peace," Galli said in a low voice that sounded almost a growl.
"It seemed appropriate—"
"But you're not Telessarian."
Just then, the blare of a hunting horn lifted through the air again.
"I'm sorry, Galli. I didn't mean to cause offence." Kal stepped over to his friend and, extending a hand, pulled him to his feet. "I didn't realize . . . Anyway, we should 'heed the horn,' eh? 'Follow the straightway'? 'Follow the Lyndway'?"
"Aye, if the mumbling dotard is to be trusted."
Gwyn stepped forward and clapped Galli on the back, grinning, then turned onto the path that led down into marshland.
"Right you are, Gwyn!" Kal called cheerily. "Nothing for it but to carry on. Straight ahead then. Broq awaits us, as do the folk. Come on, Galli."
Twenty-Two
ENTRY OF KALAQUINN, NINETY-SEVENTH HORDANU IN SUCCESSION FROM HEDRIC, DATED THIS THE 10th DAY OF FORE-SUMMER'S MONTH IN THE 3019th YEAR OF THE GREAT HARMONIC AGE, THE YEAR OF THE FALL OF THE GREAT GLENCE.
It has been a full three days now since my arrival at Aelward's Cot in the Marshes of Atramar with Galligaskin Clout and Gwyn Fletcher, boon companions both, and fellow Holdsmen who have journeyed here with me from the Black Cape.
In the Woods of Tircoil, which cover most of the Black Cape, Gwyn and I visited Ruah's Well, a place ancient and legendary, and enshrouded by mystery. At the Well, I was favoured with a vision of Ruah herself and obtained her healing water—too late, alas, to help my father, Frysan Wright, for little did I know then that his prayer of passage had already been sung, and he had already crossed the Birdless Lake. I pray that Kenulf's spirit may find some measure of peace in Wuldor's mercies on those nether shores; although how the traitorous wretch may, I know not. The mortal remains of his last victim are laid to wakeless sleep in this place, beneath a cairn which stands not far from Aelward's Cot. Frysan Wright is deeply mourned, not only by his wife, my mother, and his son, my brother, as well as the surviving folk of the Stoneholding, but by all who live in these Marshes, who knew him by hearsay from Aelward as having been a man of honour and courage. I am proud to be called his son.
It was in the wooded depths of the Black Cape that Gwyn—himself strengthened in limb, if not voice, by Ruah's favour and the healing waters of her Well—and I found safety and shelter with Katie Woodencloak, the Wood Maid, as she is called by her folk and the much-fabled waldscathes. The waldscathes that populate dark lore and night-time tales and fire the horrors conceived by a fanciful mind are, it would appear, little more than bogles, creatures that have no substance beyond myth and imagination. The waldscathes, in truth, are but men of the Woods, a fellowship garbed in wolfskin that play upon the terror of outsiders. By this ruse, by this trickery perpetuated by generation upon generation of Tircolian Wood dwellers, do they secure their solitude and ensure their peace. I hope that, by herein making this revelation, I have not shattered the surety of their life of peace; they are a people of the goodest will, a people whom I hold in great respect. It was in the wisdom of Wuldor and by Ruah's hand that I was guided to them, haplessly blazing a trail into their sequestered society, and I trust the final purpose, even if I do not see the immediate end.
But, a marvel greater than the waldscathes' true nature was to me revealed by Katie Woodencloak in the Black Cape's depths. There I was shown the wondrous Gleacewhinna—the glence tree—a living semblance in root, trunk, limb, and leaf of a stone-built glence. According to Mistress Katie, the Gleacewhinna is, in truth, and to my utter amazement, the very origin of the glence, the dead stone structure being but a poor imitation of the living thing.
Under the spreading canopy of the Gleacewhinna of Tircoil, Mistress Katie sang to me a part of the "Lament of Beldegrayne." It is an ancient ballad of her people that renders an account of the Gleacewhinna and the flight of her ancestors, the Ina Pik Whinna, from their homeland of Beldegrayne, even at the time of the First Undoing. This history is a rare discovery, indeed, for it may well provide one of the few accurate descriptions of the happenings of that time, which form a common foundation to the histories of all peoples in Ahn Norvys. Mistress Katie has promised that her bard, a fellow of the most blithesome disposition named Gelanor, shall make a copy of the "Lament" and also all of the writings of her folk. These I shall include in the Hordanu's collection. Needless to say, I shall dwell at further length on this in a later entry, when I have received and studied these writings.
From the Woods of Tircoil, Gwyn and I hastened to Kingshead Cove, where a ship waited ready to carry us up the coast and to safety. We hoped to meet Broq the Bard at the Cove, and those of our folk who had escaped the ravages of Ferabek the Boar. Instead, we were met by Galligaskin, who had insisted upon remaining behind to watch for our coming. He informed us that the remnant folk of the Stoneholding had been forced by threat of an enemy warship to weigh anchor and sail without us up the coast to Aelward's Cot.
The three of us—Galligaskin, Gwyn, and I—borrowed a small boat in order to follow and join them at the Cot. Caught in a storm, a Calathros gale, we were blown off course and shipwrecked near Swanskeld in the seaholding of the Oakapple Isles. Here the King's own daughter, the Lady Bethsefra, mistook us for spies and held us captive. However, we were once again in the keeping of Wuldor's gracious gaze. The healing of Bethsefra's ailing father was effected by Ruah's Water, some of which we had brought with us, and this became the warrant of our friendship, prompting King Uferian to grant us passage to the Keverang of Pelogran on one of his ships.
Without incident, we made landfall and began the journey on foot to the Marshes of Atramar. Thanks to the good offices of an aged woodsman named Old Jock, whom we happened upon, we were led safely through the Asgarth Forest to an outlying picket of Aelward's men. They had been posted to watch for us, though they did not expect us to approach the Cot from the north but rather on foot from the south. Taken in hand by Aelward's men, we set upon the mouldering trackway that follows the Horn of Lynd. This songline runs through the Marshes of Atramar and skirts Aelward's Cot, to which we were guided to meet the remarkable man himself.
The word "Cot" is a quaint misnomer. The place bears closer resemblance to a stronghold, ancient and well-fortified, than to the shepherd's humble dwelling conjured to the imagination by the word. The castle lies nestled among the rugged peaks of the Sheerness Spur in a fastness just below the Black Rock Gap. The Cot is of a construction dating back, they say, even to the time of Ardiel and the Seven Champions of Ruah. Its halls are filled with a colourful array of shepherd's implements and oddments.
Though wondrous and ancient-seeming be the Cot, still more so is its master, Aelward. My predecessor Wilum was correct—words cannot describe the ageless peace and wisdom of his demeanour, of his bearing.
Flockmaster of the West, Wilum called him. Never a title more just, for he has shown a care and concern for my people that is overwhelming. He has lodged them in long-abandoned dwellings that are situated near the Cot—the remains of a village. Although fallen into disuse, these stone houses are
still remarkably sound, for they were sturdily built. Aelward's folk have come forward from every corner of the marshlands and have helped to make them snug and habitable. Even Old Jock, I am told, has lent a hand in the work of restoration, although they say that he is far more expert at scavenging the marsh and woodland for all manner of root, herb, mushroom, and natural medicament than he is at repointing old stone walls.
Now, once more, smoke lifts from the chimneys of these homes and warmth glows from their windows. Gardens long bound by weeds have been turned and seeded. My mother, Marina, says that the rich dark soil promises a bountiful harvest. Flocks of sheep have returned and throng the pastures that are nestled in this boggy waste, which no stranger dares to broach. The pathways that are sound to travel upon lie hidden in a vast expanse of sedge and reeds, so subtle in feature that only those native to this area know where they may be found. Other pathways, however, seem to offer firm ground for a person to tread on, but are, in reality, deadly traps to the unwary. Even the ruined remains of Hoël's Dyke, upon which we were led, have, in many places, disappeared into the boggy mire of the Marshes of Atramar. Clearly, it is a natural haven protected from outsiders by the fatal treachery of the marsh, the secret approaches to which are the privy knowledge of the local folk. These people compose a fellowship no less close-knit than the waldscathes, fiercely loyal to Aelward, just as surely as it is a point of ancestral pride to them that they once harboured Ardiel and the Seven Champions of Ruah.
The sound of laughter and light banter livens the air, but it leaves me strangely forlorn and cheerless. Yesterday, unknown to her, I caught sight of Marya Clout, Galligaskin's winsome cousin. She was training an apple sapling across a trellis and was aided in her delicate task by a young fellow of Aelward's. A demure smile lit her face at words spoken by the young man. It caused me no small pang, for at one time, before the Great Glence fell, she and I had an understanding. Alas, it is sundered, for now, more clearly than ever, I know that I cannot linger here. Duty calls me, with ever-increasing urgency, to a long and arduous journey—a journey fraught with danger, a journey from which I may well never return. Nonetheless, I am glad that the Holdsfolk are settled and can start to rebuild their shattered lives—especially my mother and brother.
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