Makwi stood guard with Gweld down below with the horses. The dwarf returned to their cave as they bedded down by the fire and touched Hastra. "Withling, come see this wandering star."
Hastra frowned at the dwarf champion. "Wandering star? We've not seen it before now."
Makwi shrugged. "It appears to have risen over the Drelkhaz during the last several days."
Limbreth followed the dwarf and the Withling to the mouth of the cave. A very bright star with a bit of a tail rose over the distant mountains that lay in the shadow of night. Tordug and Ralda gathered behind them.
Hastra gazed at the scene for several minutes, her mouth agape and her eyebrows arched. The Withling shook herself and pinched her lower lip as she muttered to herself.
"It's beautiful, isn't it, Hastra?" Limbreth smiled at the novelty and drew her pale dwarven cloak of fur closer around herself.
The Withling glanced at Limbreth and spoke to everyone gathered. "Someone go down to Gweld and tell him we must leave early in the morning. He should be prepared, as well as our horses." She turned toward the fire.
Limbreth's gaze drifted between the others, who all shrugged their confusion. "Hastra, what is it?"
Hastra whirled back to face them. "It's the prophecy, the last part. The arrow comes, prepared by Eloch. We must find Athson if possible. But I must attend a meeting and soon."
Tordug shifted his stance and nodded Makwi away to tell Gweld the news. "I'll stand watch for you until you return." He faced Hastra. "Where is this meeting to be, and with whom?"
Limbreth's heart surged at the thought of finally finding Athson after the snowstorm. "Yes, and how soon. Shouldn't we have Athson with us?"
Hastra shook her head with a frown. "I'm afraid we must hurry north. If we cannot find Athson soon, we must trust that he will go that way too, maybe to Marston's Station. But we must hurry. If we've seen that sign, then Magdronu and his servants have as well. The arrow comes, and we must be prepared. Athson will come. Or so we must trust Eloch. But the arrow must be protected."
Danilla spread her hands in pleading. "But what of my son? Is he not important?"
Hastra laid a comforting hand on Danilla's shoulder. "Eloch has all this in hand, but we are needed north as soon as possible. I cannot say more now."
Limbreth stowed her belongings in her pack beside Danilla. "I hope we find him."
Danilla offered a wan smile and touched Limbreth's hands a moment. "You are loyal beyond most. I hope you are right. But I'll trust the Withling. She brought me out of captivity with her addled faith. I'll leave him to Eloch's care, as he has had for the last years."
Limbreth's doubts warred with any trust built by recent events. "I hope so. Hastra can be so mysterious, it's hard to trust."
Danilla squeezed Limbreth's hand. "I have little else now. I'll follow the Withling's lead.”
Later, when Hastra roused Limbreth for her watch, the Withling beckoned her to the cave mouth again. There the wandering star rose much higher in the waning night sky. "What is it, Withling?"
Hastra gripped Limbreth's hands. "I know more about what I shared several days ago." The Withling glanced toward the sleeping figures of their companions about the fire, her face drawn with care, perhaps worry. "It concerns us all."
"Go on." Limbreth held her breath and stole a glance at the wandering star. Its message revealed this much to Hastra.
Hastra swallowed hard. "Those three events—the whirlwind I stopped, the others’ survival, and your fall—they all mean something to each of us." She clasped Limbreth's hands tightly. "You must not tell the others, but I feel you must know. I do not know if I... Well, I must tell you so you'll know."
Limbreth's heart thudded with the palpable weight of the Withling's mystery. "I'll hold your confidence until you say so."
Hastra nodded and lowered her head. "You'll know when to share it if necessary. First, I must face Magdronu's magic again." She lifted her gaze to Limbreth. "Directly. It—I don't know if I..." She didn't finish her words, but her hands trembled.
"You mean you're uncertain of the outcome?" Limbreth’s breath left her. By Eloch's light, what would happen if Hastra fell in the conflict to come?
The Withling's jaw worked, and she hid sudden tears. "The others must face death again. I do not know their fates either."
Limbreth covered her mouth and restrained her gasp. "You're sure?"
"They survived for no other reason than because of magic released in an untimely manner. The event is portentous, as is your survival. As I said, three events together point to more that will come to pass. It all revolves around the Bow of Hart." She paused and pointed to the wandering star. "And the arrow to come."
"Me? What of me?" She bit her lower lip and gripped Hastra's shaking hands. Ill news for them all traveled in threes. She nodded. "Tell me. I'll do what I can regardless."
Hastra's lips quivered. "There's not much to go on. I don't know the meaning, so we must wait for it." She took a breath. "You must return again as if from death."
Limbreth's heart skipped. Death. She lived because of a miracle. What lay ahead for her? For them all? Her vision blurred, and she staggered away with a whisper. "I see." She turned back to Hastra. "What is needed will be given."
This went beyond just Athson. Now she understood that, after all the travel and fighting.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Voices speak in a different language, rising and falling in volume. Cadence varies with intonations. Figures wave and dance as light rises among them—three figures cloaked, hidden. Athson moves closer. These people are not dancing. Instead light flickers and shifts in their midst first one way, then the other. The speakers lift their hands in supplication, their voices rise and implore. The light intensifies with the rising cries. The light wavers and slowly fades to one figure.
A woman stands before Athson, her back to him as single braid of dwarven variations knotted along her white armor. Limbreth turns and faces him. Tears roll down her freckled cheeks. She extends her hands to him, palms up, and offers him something. He looks at her hands, and blinding light flashes in his face as he receives it. Again, the light fades.
Light flickers above him, shadows pass between him and the light. His vision clears, and shafts of sunlight pierce smoke and cloud as a shout of despair echoes. Cloth ripples in a breeze, and a banner stands out from a pole for a moment. Ten-tined antlers flutter with a bow below them, and the edges of the banner smolder, seared by fire. Weariness descends in Athson, and darkness encroaches on the scene until it covers all.
Athson gasped awake and squinted into the dim glow of the fire. Where was he? The cave. He groaned softly as Apeth snored away across the fire. Dreams again. The plague of things to come. His head spun, and weakness forced him down. He frowned. He had dreamed of Limbreth. His dreams always interposed into his life. That one was all wrong. She was dead. By his inaction. "No more dreams."
Apeth sputtered a moment, then resumed a rhythmic buzzing like bees around flowers.
Athson rolled onto his side and struggled to his knees. He gathered his belongings and dragged them toward the mule. He touched the animal, and it snorted, then flicked its tail. He leaned against the animal. So weary. But he must go, sickness or not. There was his mother to find. "I'm tired of dreams ruling my sleep and my life."
"Dreams, eh?" Apeth stepped beside Athson. "Don't you think you should be resting?"
"I need to find my mother." He motioned to the cave entrance. "It stopped snowing. The storm's passed."
"You're still sick. You won't make it far, even with the mule." Apeth squeezed Athson’s shoulder. "I can appreciate your sentiments. But come back to the fire. Eat something and tell me of your dreams. You can go then, if you like, though I suspect our way lies north for days together."
The cave tilted in Athson's vision, and Apeth steadied him. "Need to go." He caught sight of a star beyond the upper edge of the cave opening. It was bright. He stumbled away from the Withling, his mouth agape. He leaned against a
rock as he gazed east in the star-clad night sky. One big star rose over the distant Drelkhaz Mountains, a tail extending in a haze below it. "That looks just like an arrow."
Apeth gaped at the scene as well. Then he muttered, "An arrow shall Eloch prepare."
"What?" Athson wheeled toward the old Withling and almost fell over in his weakness. If he had the energy, he'd be angry. Heat rose on his cheeks at the words he'd heard back at Eagle's Aerie from Zelma. "Where did you hear that?"
Apeth stared at the sight a moment longer, then turned to Athson. "I was there when the words were spoken by Zelma, Howart, and Hastra." He motioned toward the sky. "This marvel, this wandering star, foretells the coming of Eloch's arrow for the Bow of Hart."
Athson tucked his chin. "That bow is worthless." It hadn't saved his father, hadn't killed Corgren. No, he'd chosen the wrong target. "That's nothing. Just something in the sky. Dreams and prophecies don't work unless it's ill fortune." He grabbed his head. Maybe he should lie down. No. Time to escape Withlings and help his mother. He stumbled toward the mule and his gear but veered sideways.
The Withling grabbed Athson again and steered him back to the fire. "At least eat some venison. You're still fevered."
At the fire, Athson sat and struggled to keep his balance while Apeth threw wood on the flames. He shut his eyes as the cave spun slowly around him. The memory of another dream rose:
A figure steps from foggy shadows, but not the cloaked Bane. Instead, he sees a familiar floppy hat that shades the face from clear sight.
The trapper from Afratta offers the sword, hilt first. In the slim light, the edges gleam crimson and blue. "Remember what the edges are for."
Athson grasps the hilt.
The mysterious man turns to leave and pauses. "Remember, it's not for him."
"How did you know about the edges of my sword?" Athson opened his eyes and swayed with his dizziness. A coughing fit erupted, and when it cleared, he said, "I dreamed you told me to remember what the edges are for..." He trailed away for a moment. Should he discuss his dreams? He plunged ahead. No reason to hide anything anymore. He had the Bow of Hart now. "Then you told me how to use it back at Marston's Station. It—something spoke to me about when, how, to use the sword. I dreamed about it before I got it back, and the edges were the same as I saw. I was told then that they are for justice and mercy. I dreamed you told me the same thing, and then you did. How did you know?"
Apeth handed him some venison. "Athson, I didn't know what to speak. It would seem you have gifts from Eloch. Tell me, have there been other dreams, maybe visions?"
Athson slouched. This discussion was getting personal. He didn't want a Withling knowing it. He shrugged. What did it matter? It was all done, and the bow was useless to him except as a bargaining piece. He ate the venison, and his stomach rumbled in answer. "Uh, yes. I have. They come true. The details are so precise sometimes, either words or what I've seen or heard."
The Withling leaned back on his bedding. "Please, tell me more. I'd like to hear it."
Athson's eyes narrowed. "Now, why don't I trust you?"
Apeth sat up and leaned close to Athson, his gaze intense but not threatening, his voice steady. "Why wouldn't you?"
"Because..." But no others words formed in Athson's mind. Did he really have a reason? He took another bite, chewed, and swallowed. Why not? "Alright, I'll tell you." He related all he remembered from Eagle's Aerie or visions and dreams, all that had happened on the trail, the sword at Harkey's Post, other dreams along the way. He spoke of Limbreth and how she appeared in his life out of the vision. He spoke of how they were so distinctly accurate. He included his other dreams outside of Chokkra and how they came true in vivid details.
The Withling merely listened, his eyes fixed on Athson throughout the wandering tale of his prescient dreaming and their accuracy.
Athson finished and ate in silence, and Apeth spoke no reply. The fire crackled in the silence between them.
Apeth pushed himself to his feet and then knelt before Athson. He touched Athson's head and whispered a word Athson never heard clearly, but it echoed across his mind in a moment that passed like hours.
Wellness covered Athson in an instant like a raincoat donned in a sudden downpour of rain. The cascade of sickness rolled from him. The fever fell away. The dizziness ceased, and his vision snapped into clarity along with his thoughts. Weariness clattered from his limbs like chains from a prisoner. He gasped in delayed reaction to the Withling's healing.
Apeth Stellin withdrew across the fire and rolled his bedding. "I was wondering why I was withheld from healing you. And now it's clear."
Athson stood. "I don't follow you."
"We need to move." Apeth pointed toward the cave entrance past the mule. "That wandering star is a sign. We aren't the only ones to have seen it. You can bet Magdronu is seeking the arrow. North is our way, but choices lie ahead for you."
Athson shoved the last of his venison in his mouth and chewed. In his mind, there was but one choice. "I see one way ahead."
Apeth tugged at the brim of his hat, and his blue-eyed gaze twinkled at Athson. "Oh, you have choices. What to do with the bow. Whether to finish this quest and find the arrow."
With his arms spread wide, Athson lifted his gaze to the darkened cave roof rising above them. "Don't you see? There's no need for choices. Everyone's dead that matters to me. My father. Limbreth. My companions. I can only see my way to one thing now, and that's bartering for my mother."
"That's a choice to let the curse on you continue to grasp your life, Athson, continue to let Magdronu's evil control you. You have a choice to stop it." Apeth stepped close again, intense but not threatening. "As for Limbreth, by your dream, I wouldn't assume anything about her fate. But there are choices ahead. Will you go as far as Marston's Station with me before you make your final choice with the bow?"
Athson nodded. "I'll go that far. I need supplies. But there's no other choice for me."
"Oh, but there is. Your dreams indicate something you must face." Apeth gathered his things and paused in front of Athson.
Athson crossed his arms. "What must I face?"
"That you are gifted to be a Withling, asked to serve Eloch with everything you've been given." The Withling strode toward the mule.
Athson's head spun anew, but not from fever. Light from the wandering star shone in the entrance of the cave and lit the Bow of Hart where he'd left it near the mule. His anger rose in a sudden shout. "No!"
CHAPTER FOUR
Corgren lay with agony twisting in his stab-wound. It was said the Wolfshead dagger of his people bore the hungry flame of Magdronu. He groaned at the searing pain that gnawed at his body and mind. "Heal me."
Paugren stood close. "We cannot heal you yet, brother. The mountain shrine is broken. We are activating the old one in Rok."
"Water." Corgren's body burned, and sweat poured from his skin. His tongue dried and shriveled in his mouth.
Water touched his lips but did little for his thirst. He drank in gulps, choked, and drank more. Paugren spoke the words of a spell, and Corgren drifted in half-dreams, unaware of his surroundings. Darkness snuggled him, but fire burned his awareness into mindless mutterings as the wound of the dagger tore into him. The passage of time slowed and its weight withdrew, though not the pain.
Corgren woke once, lying on his belly. Someone washed his injury with cool water and changed his bandage. But his limbs quivered with fire. His mind slipped into gray awareness. Voices rose and fell around him, sometimes with anger.
Paugren's face loomed close at one point. "I must use some power or you'll die. It will hurt anew, but magic from our master is still scant." He spoke the spell. "You'll soon bleed out without more healing—enough to keep you alive."
Corgren writhed anew as the spell worked into his damaged back He screamed, and the pain subsided with the spell. If he didn't know better, Paugren had stabbed him again. The stab seared his back, and his eyes rolled. "Curse that traitor.
If he still lived, I'd kill him slowly." Corgren's body twitched, and his voice sounded both weak and hoarse in his ears. "Just heal me or kill me." He lost feeling in his body as his limbs lay limp. Consciousness rolled away with a sigh, his final realization that there may be little magic, but the spells the dragon did allow tortured him for his failures.
Light blinded Corgren after an undetermined time. The fire of his torture no longer seared him mind and body. He lay cool upon the bed—on his back. He inhaled without pain and squinted at daylight through the windows. "Where am I?"
"Still in Rok, at the camp within my cabin."
Corgren's head rolled toward the sound of Paugren's voice. He sat in a chair, his face drawn with concern, if not withheld anger.
"How long since I arrived?" His body felt lifeless, his mind sluggish.
"We kept you alive with small spells while Magdronu rationed magic without a working shrine to send us his magic. The spells were unpleasant for you, no doubt. They kept the knife-wound from killing you, but the curse of the dagger remained without stronger magic. As soon as Esthria got the shrine fully functional and blood flowing, Magdronu allowed us to heal you." Paugren stood and walked to the window, where he stared at the distant mountains, his fists clenched behind him.
Corgren rolled onto his side. "I deserved my punishment for failing at the Funnel." Good to know the dragon's wrath had subsided. "Now I can return to service."
Paugren's head shook as he watched the outside world. "It was senseless. Not everything works according to plan. Others work against us in ways we do not know until someone stabs us. Magdronu discovered there is, indeed, another Withling in play. He's powerful and is the one who broke the shrine, as surely as the dwarves blocked our approach to it. None of what happened was your fault. It merely happened." Paugren wheeled and loomed over Corgren. "You almost paid for your mistake with your life." He waved his hand. "Magdronu promised so much for our service. You'd think he'd reward sacrifices such as yours. Generals hand out medals for wounds, but you suffered his wrath until he confirmed Eloch worked beyond our plans."
The White Arrow Page 5