One evening as spring was just turning into summer and the hills and glens of Glaenavon were alight with the red and yellow wildflowers of late Floranor, they sat down to a dinner of cod cooked in a thick stew with potatoes, cream, and mushrooms.
There was a knock on the door. It was Braemorgan.
The wizard shared in the dinner and the conversation. Braemorgan finally stepped out to take a smoke in the night air and invited Jorn to keep him company. Braemorgan lit his pipe with a snap of his fingers, sitting upon an old stone bench in front of the lighthouse. Jorn sat next to him as the wizard updated him on conditions in The Westmark.
“Einar has begun to seize the lands of the yeomen farmers in The Westmark, as we feared he would,” the wizard said. “Every day more refugees pour into Swordhaven, fleeing his tyranny. He gives their lands to the berserker warlords and enslaves the remaining Westmarkers into serfdom under them.”
“Grang’s teeth!” Jorn spat. “Linlunders, reduced to serfdom?”
“The vast majority of Westmarkers would rise up in a moment,” Braemorgan went on. “If they knew you were at the head of a strong army coming to their succor. In the meantime, the Westmark is fast becoming a spoiled land. When you return to it, I do not know how you shall go about restoring the freemen to their rightful holdings. Property lines will be disputed in every hamlet for years to come. Every freeman will claim more than his due, I suspect. It will be a nightmare to sort it all out.”
“What word of Orbadrin and Thulgin?”
The wizard paused.
“That is why I have made this trip to see you,” he said solemnly. “I am sorry, Jorn, to have to tell you this. Orbadrin has passed on to the halls of his fathers. He went away silently, in the night.”
Jorn stared out over the waves, holding back the tears. His hands trembled.
“When?” he finally asked.
“Last month. He has been greeted with acclaim before the throne of Grang and given a place of honor there among the mighty warriors of his line. He was a good man, Jorn, and he was always very proud of you.”
“He was the strongest man I ever knew,” Jorn said. “Did you know that he could bend an iron bar in his hands? Think of it. An iron bar!” Jorn held up his own hands, staring at them. They trembled. “The strongest men in Linlund would sometimes come up to Hrókur and challenge him to arm wrestling contests. He would beat them all laughing. How can such a man perish?”
“It is the destiny of all men.”
They were silent for long moments. All that could be heard was the sound of the waves crashing against the rocks below the cliffs
“Thulgin is thane?” Jorn finally asked.
“He is. He sends you this letter,” the wizard placed a folded piece of parchment in Jorn’s hand. “He told me how he looks forward to the day when you can return to Falneth. Indeed, he spoke at length of how he yearns to ride into battle at your side against Einar when the day comes. He pledges you every man he can spare, including himself.”
“He’s married Yrsa?”
“He has,” Braemorgan said. “Shortly before Orbadrin’s death. It is hoped she will soon be with child.
“Good.”
Braemorgan stopped puffing on his pipe, eyeing Jorn carefully.
“Your fancy has fallen upon someone else, hasn’t it?” he said. He glanced towards the lighthouse.
“What of it?”
“Nothing.” The wizard took a long puff on his pipe. “It makes no difference to me.”
Sixteen
The travelers continued south the next morning, slowed by some passing rain soon yielding to clear weather by midday. The Llangellan countryside was beautiful here, gently-rolling hills dotted with small farms and tiny villages. Their road wound its way through the pastoral scene, a wide and well-maintained thoroughfare.
Here and there, they encountered other travelers. Most were farmers or shepherds but they also met a merchant and then a wandering tinker riding at the front of an overloaded cart pulled by a single, tired-looking horse. Not long after midday they paused and took their lunch under an ancient oak tree by the side of the road. They ate dried sausages and cheese, talking cheerfully and enjoying the improved weather. As they ate, a lone dwarf came riding by on a scrawny old pony. The dwarf himself did not look much better than his mount. He was old and grey, bent and somber-looking. He saw the travelers, looking them once over wordlessly before riding on without as much as a word of greeting.
“We draw closer to the lands of the hill dwarf clans,” Ironhelm observed. “Aye, laddies, we should be there before two days have passed.”
They set out again. It grew colder as the day wore on and a steady wind came down from the west off the Great Barrier Mountains. They could see the mountains clearly now in the distance. The peaks were an imposing wall of soaring stone rising thousands of feet above the easy countryside all around them.
“That is Mount Heira,” Willock said, pointing out a snow-covered peak directly to their west. “The tallest in this part of the range. More than two miles in height, it is said.”
“Ach,” Ironhelm muttered. “It is but an anthill next to Thunderforge. Aye, tis true. Now there’s a mountain, laddies!”
Willock described the mountains at length. He explained how the line of mountains they were looking at was but the first in a series of ridges. Beyond Heira was a narrow valley dozens of miles long followed by a second, taller line of mountains. The valley they sought was just beyond the second ridge, the Teeth of Kaas looming over the southern end of the first valley. Finding the Teeth should be no problem, Willock assured them.
“We’ll see them from many miles off,” he explained. “They are yet too far to the south for us to see yet, but when we are a bit closer there’ll be no mistaking them.”
“Aye. So you’ve seen them yourself?” Ironhelm asked.
“I have,” Willock said. “Near the Glammonfore Gap. But never any closer.”
“I’ve been far closer, laddie,” Ironhelm grumbled. “Aye, far closer.”
“During the war?” Willock said.
“Aye,” Ironhelm mumbled. “During the war.”
They arrived at the village of Cethin Aber, a small place nestled at the edge of the foothills to the west. Every building in the village was constructed of dark-gray stones which in the waning light almost looked blue. It was beautiful, all in all, situated just on the edge of a rocky stream of dark water flowing swiftly down from the mountains. There was a small trading post, a blacksmith, and an inn advertising itself as “The Dancing Frog” right next door to a tiny brewery. The whole place seemed limited to a stretch along either side of the road, a single intersection in the middle of the town near the inn. The main road continued through town before swinging southwest, a small track leading north branching off from it. Willock explained that the second path led north towards the gates of the great Elven Realm Sollistore
“Why not stop for the day and stay here,” Jorn said, looking at the inn. “It looks like a comfortable place.”
“Ach! It’s an hour yet to dusk at least, laddie,” Ironhelm scoffed.
“An hour at most!” Jorn protested. “You want to push on till dark, go on. Me, I think I’ll sleep in this inn tonight.”
“We may not have many more opportunities to sleep under a roof for some time,” Flatfoot said, getting off his pony. “Come on, Durm. It’s not the best-looking sort of place, but I’m sure it’s better than outdoors.”
Ironhelm shrugged, not in the mood to argue over the matter. Besides, he reasoned, the gnome might be right this one time and it may not be such a bad thing to have a soft bed for perhaps the last time for who knew how long.
_____
"He never had any idea," Flatfoot continued, the others sitting around the table listening to him wrap up his story. "The whole time the troll king was drinking down the drugged wine, in a complete stupor, while the rest of us were loading his gold onto the mules. He probably woke with a headache from the w
ine, and a heartache when he found his treasury empty!"
Jorn smirked, downing the last of his ale. He’d thought Flatfoot pompous upon their first meeting, but the little fellow was turning out to be a pleasant person to be around. For one thing, the gnome seemed to have an endless supply of tales from his various travels and adventures over the years, and storytelling was a talent highly respected by Linlunders. The Skalds, those wandering storytellers of the north, set valiant acts to song and made them immortal. They also kept the old legends and tales alive. Jorn had always been taught that they were important men worthy of much honor. The gnome had few tales of epic heroism to tell, but his stories were still a great pleasure to listen to. Some of them were chilling, others simply hilarious. Even Ironhelm couldn’t help but laugh now and then.
They were almost the only patrons in the inn , save for a pair of sullen dwarven traders headed for Barter’s Crossing who kept to themselves and went up to bed early. The inn itself was small, a low-ceilinged little place with only a few small tables around a small fireplace.
"Of course, after we paid the vintners for their barrels, our profits were quite depleted," Flatfoot said, puffing away vigorously on his pipe. "But it was well-worth it in the end, just to imagine the look on the old rascal’s face when he realized what must have happened."
"Never underestimate the power of the grape," Ronias added grimly, taking a long swig from a bottle of brandy.
"My dear Ronias," Flatfoot said, turning towards the elf. Ronias sat away from the others, the cloak of his hood drawn over his head. "You've hardly talked to me at all since we met. Let’s get to know one another better, shall we? For instance, you describe yourself as 'formerly of Shandorr’. Tell me, whatever does that mean? I assume, as an elf, you were born there?"
"That is correct," Ronias snapped.
"I see. So why not simply 'of Shandorr'? You no longer consider it your home?"
"I do," Ronias sighed, annoyed. He took another gulp of brandy. “If I answer your questions, gnome, will you cease this infernal pestering?”
“It would satisfy my curiosity,” Flatfoot said. “So, yes, I suppose it would cease any further questions I might have.”
“Very well,” Ronias said. “I am ‘formerly of Shandorr’ because I was exiled."
The table went silent. The elf spit out the last word with extraordinary bitterness, like it were some vile curse. Flatfoot, however, was unfazed.
"Exiled!" he said, smiling broadly. "That’s fascinating! What ever did you do? Were you caught screwing the king’s only daughter right in the throne room? Please say you were.”
Everyone laughed, breaking the tension. Even Ironhelm could not hold back a snort.
"If only," Ronias said, taking another drink of the brandy. "I was an apprentice wizard, almost done with my studies. I stole my master's spell books and tried to make off with them. I didn’t know where I was going, just trying to get away from his myriad petty tyrannies. He was enraged and demanded my exile for betraying his trust. It was a farce, the court proceedings a travesty. In the end, his wish was granted and I was banished forever from the city of my birth.”
“If you could only see it but once,” he went on, his eyes taking on a distant look. “Then you would understand my loss. Shandorr…It is the brightest city in all Pallinore. Its delicate spires reaching for heaven, its marble halls and staggered terraces, its hanging gardens and the bright domes gleaming in the sun! To behold it once again, however, would mean my death.”
“The mark on your cheek,” Flatfoot said.
“It is the mark of an exile,” Ronias said, touching it self-consciously. “It is the first letter of the word fanoi, which means ‘banished’ in the tongue of my people. I can never again set foot in Shandorr with such a mark upon my face. This they call mercy!” He sniffed imperiously. “Well, gnome, does that satisfy your curiosity? Not that it matters. I am done speaking, and should like to take some fresh air now.”
Ronias stood, turning from the table and stepping outside into the cool night air. He walked up the road a short distance to the edge of the village and stood by the edge of the stream, watching the water trickling over the smooth rocks by the moonslight and taking another swig of brandy.
He bent down, reaching into the stream and scooping up one of the pebbles. He rubbed it, feeling its sleekness. He wondered how many eons it must have spent in the stream to have been worn so smooth by the constant current. An ancient song from his youth the old elves used to sing was called to mind.
We are rocks in the stream
The water wears us down
We are grains of sand washed out to sea.
All wears down, all is passing
The fool rages against this truth
The elf tossed the rock back into the water and stood. He drained the rest of the bottle, waiting for that sweet forgetfulness which always followed.
“Oh, Shandorr!” he whispered in his native tongue. “I am coming back to you. If you will not welcome me back with open arms, my countrymen, I may have to return instead as your conqueror.”
_____
They left Cethin Aber early the next morning, following the road southwest past a small keep atop a nearby hill. They could see men atop the battlements of the keep. Jorn was silent as they passed, glancing at it again and again.
“That would be the castle of Lord Andelric,” Flatfoot said. “These lands are his domain. Nice fellow. Sold him a chest some years back.”
The road continued south into a region dotted with countless pastures all filled with fat cows. There were also vast fields of grain worked by whole armies of peasant men and women. They were a healthy-looking people, tall and with the blonde hair and fair skin that belied their Linlundic roots.
Ironhelm eyed them sadly. If they failed to snatch the vessel, Amundágor would surely strike at this farming region early in his invasion, perhaps concentrating his forces after a push through the Glammonfore Gap. These people could meet a tide of conquest they couldn’t possibly resist. The dwarven freeholds to the west would be crippled by such an attack, as well, for it was here the dwarves’ food was grown The silver mines at Dunvögen gave the dwarves all the wealth they needed to trade with the men of these parts, and the men were only too happy to trade meat and grain for dwarven silver.
Hard-pressed, the dwarves could withdraw to their mountain strongholds. The only way to draw them out would be to cut off their food supply and wait. Years might pass as the dwarves brooded within their underground halls, but sooner or later their food would run low and they’d be forced out into the open to fight or die. It was the curse of the Dwarven way of life, Ironhelm well knew, this reliance on others for their food. It made them vulnerable even in their strongest halls of granite behind great doors of iron, for grain did not grow in the under-the-mountain dark. Ironhelm had now and again tried to convince his fellow dwarves of Thunderforge of this threat, but to no avail.
“But we don’t need to produce our own food,” a merchant friend of his argued one night over ale some years back. “We trade our handicrafts and our precious ores for food. Let the humans sweat in the sun. You know well the maxim, ‘Concentrate on the things you do best, trade for the rest.’ It is a foundation of our economic system.”
“I know the maxim well, and I concur fully. Yet I speak not of trade, but of security. We may have to give up a little in the way of profits, yes, but -”
“There is no security except through trade,” the merchant said, shaking his head.
And on the argument went. The best Ironhelm was ever able to do was convince a few influential dwarves to increase the stores of salt pork and other foodstuffs held deep inside Thunderforge.
Ironhelm gazed at the fields of amber bounty and sighed. It was here, amid these broad sunlit uplands, that the fate of the deep halls of the dwarves to the west would be decided.
Food supply was always the key to victory in war, Ironhelm long maintained. Armies were not mere chessmen. They re
quired food, and every day. Many military men thought about food simply in terms of delivery. They were concerned with supply trains and efficient distribution. They never gave much thought about actual food production, however, and that was what worried Ironhelm the most. Seize a nation’s food-producing regions and blockade its coastline and you’ve won the war. In a month your enemy will be ready to capitulate. Hunger, Ironhelm was fond of repeating, was the most effective of all the weapons of war. The sword was nothing in comparison.
The mountains, meanwhile, loomed ever closer as the terrain grew rockier and the road ahead became steeper with every passing mile. A few hours before dusk they passed through a tiny village which a stone marker identified as Fjallóttur. It was barely more than a tiny inn surrounded by a smithy, a trading post, and a few small stone cottages scattered about up and down the road. A trio of wizened old men sat in front of the inn, smoking from long pipes and eyeing the company. The travelers paused their only briefly, buying fresh food and then setting off again.
A few hours later they made camp, sitting down to a decent dinner of boiled cabbage with sliced potatoes and a pair of hares bought from the trading post.
Flatfoot prepared the meal, eager to take over cooking duties for the duration of the journey. He boiled water in a pot and threw in plenty of fresh herbs. Next were the potatoes, sliced thin, followed by the cabbage. A few sliced carrots went in afterwards and then he set to roasting the hares over an open fire. He patted them thoroughly with salt and just a bit of black pepper from Shandorr, then hung them on sharp metal skewers. The skewers were placed down upon steel spikes driven into the ground on either side of the fire. The spikes were forked at the top, upon which the skewers rested as the hares roasted. The portable spit was Flatfoot’s own design. He boasted about it as he turned the hares and watched them cooking. Flatfoot saw no reason to suffer unduly while on the road, especially where matters of the stomach were concerned.
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