The White Arrow

by P. H. Solomon

  People milling nearby paused a moment at this news and then re-doubled their efforts to obtain supplies, their shouts louder.

  Marston groaned. "As if we didn't have enough trouble getting these people served and moving." The crowd pressed around them, and the elf beckoned them away from the counters. "Come, let me hear your tale. I'm commanding auxiliaries to supplement the few hundred rangers left to guard the road."

  Athson cast a hungry eye at the counters as they followed Marston into a quieter section of the station. Here a few rangers readied their gear at a cluster of dining tables. Athson needed to leave fast to head east, and now he needed to escape Marston's notice. He eyed Apeth, who ignored him. "Great. I'll never get moving now."

  Marston turned to them and slapped Athson on the shoulder. "Good to see you made it. Hastra claimed you were coming soon." He eyed the Bow of Hart with arched eyebrows but said nothing of the relic, obvious by its white color.

  Athson's jaw worked a moment. "What? How did she get here?" She'd been prisoner in Rok, with his mother.

  "Yeah, came through a few days earlier with that bunch you left with months ago."

  Athson found a bench and sat as he gaped at the elf. "They're alive?" He stared at his hands a moment and then raised his gaze to Marston. "Who was with her?"

  Marston paused. "She said you'd been separated. You thought they were dead? None of them said much about where they'd been. But everyone was with her except you. That Grendonese woman claimed her white horse and—"

  Athson leaped to his feet. "Limbreth? That can't be." But he'd dreamed of her giving him something, light. He paced away as confusion settled in his mind. He returned to face Marston. "All of them, you said. They were well?"

  Marston nodded and glanced at Apeth before he looked Athson in the eyes. "Yes. Even Limbreth. I'd remember her anywhere, the Silver Lady. Anyway, they left with the main part of the garrison several days back for the landings on the river. A man and a woman arrived in the evening and had a private meeting with Hastra, after which there was some argument among the whole lot of them. Oh, and Hastra's bunch returned with a middle-aged woman who—"

  Athson gasped, and his gaze raced in every direction. That can't be. But Hastra had escaped Rok. "Who was the woman? Did she have brown hair going gray?" He searched his memory of the brief glimpse of his mother he’d received when Corgren threatened his captive mother and Hastra, revealing them through that spell. "She—she had crow's feet wrinkles at her eyes." He latched onto the features he remembered. "She would look like me."

  "Yes, that's her. Called her Danilla." Marston grabbed Athson. "Is she your mother? I remember when they found you years ago. I thought you were an orphan."

  Tears welled in Athson's eyes as he sat down hard. He wiped his face with his palms. His voice was husky. "Uh, yes. Apparently, she was held captive in Rok. My father—Corgren had him. He died on the Funnel with me just a few weeks back. How did Hastra get my mother free? And this far so fast?" It was a miracle. But then, she was a Withling. He glanced at Apeth, who ignored him. Apeth knew something. He turned his gaze back to Marston. "Can we catch them at the landings?"

  Marston shook his head and spoke with a softer tone. "They're several days ahead, Athson. Your best chance is to try one of the landings farther west, but they'll go faster."

  "Where can I get supplies? I need to go."

  "Hold on—we'll need every hand we can to get this mob west without trolls catching them."

  Athson displayed his bow in one hand. It actually worked, at least normally. He'd used up the last of his arrows shooting attacking trolls several days earlier. "You can guess what this is if Hastra's told you something. I can see it in your eyes. I can't let it be taken."

  Marston spread his hands and leaned closer, his voice lowered. "I understand it's important. But we need to protect people too. Make sure there are no thieves and thugs in among them."

  Athson paced a moment and then faced Marston. "Sure, I'll help guard against the latter, but I need to travel as fast as I can rather than stand rearguard. Can I get supplies?"

  Marston watched Athson, then glanced at Apeth. "Sure, I can issue you some supplies. That quiver's empty, so get some arrows too. I'll get you assigned with the next group of guards going out with travelers. They'll have a wagon of supplies and work to keep people from squabbling and stealing." The elf chuckled. "I don't know which will be worse, panicked merchants or the trolls. It's good to see you. And equally good to know your mother is alive and well. Let me issue some orders." He strode away, called for another of his auxiliaries, and issued commands.

  Apeth sat and sighed his weariness away. "Well, you changed your mind fast. Told you to come this way. West was your path all along."

  Athson leaned forward, placing his hands on his knees, his face square in Apeth's. "You knew about Hastra and my mother all along, didn't you?"

  The old Withling smiled and Marston suddenly found something elsewhere to issue instructions. "Hastra actually made the same mistake you did." He lowered his voice and glanced at the other elven rangers preparing nearby them. "Thought I was Eloch, like you."

  "You mean you were with her?"

  "Helped the two of them escape."

  Athson grabbed Apeth by the lapels of his coat. "Why didn't you tell me? Did you—" He choked back a sob. "Did you know about Limbreth and others being alive?" How? His face twitched with relief. His friends were alive. Limbreth was alive.

  Apeth easily pried Athson's hands loose. "I get around, Athson. I’ve helped you more than once since Chokkra, Hastra too. You know what it's like to be a Withling. I can't tell you everything. I didn't know about Limbreth or the others until now, except for your dream."

  "But why not?"

  Apeth invited Athson to sit beside him

  Athson's suddenly weak knees led him to the bench. "Well, out with it."

  Apeth leaned close, his voice low. "Look, I meant no harm, but you were set on your own course. I couldn't tell you, because your choices are your own. You're supposed to become a Withling. No, let me finish." Apeth raised a hand to silence Athson's disagreement. "You have the talent, but you must come to trust Eloch yourself. You had to find out things beyond you for yourself. Athson, you've been caught in this familial curse your whole life. You have to learn to ignore it as a Withling, trust Eloch, and make his path your own. That's why you had to find out now and I had to remain silent. The question lies before you. Will you serve Eloch as a Withling?" Apeth's gaze searched Athson's. "You have the gift already. You just need to trust and choose to do Eloch's will rather than follow your own cursed way. You've been given other gifts to help you along."

  Athson looked away. "You mean I might have known sooner except for my own hard-headedness?" He looked back to Apeth.

  The Withling shrugged and pushed his hat back. "I can't say that for sure. But that curse sure ties you up on knots. Those fits you had and all that. You've believed a lot of negative ideas for so long."

  The bow leaned against Athson. His hands trembled as he grasped it. "Does this work?"

  "Likely so, put to the proper use." Apeth tapped Athson's sword sheath with a fingernail. "This works, doesn't it? It's blessed of Eloch."

  The sword worked, and there was no denying it now that Athson knew the truth of it. So the bow would work, and he'd just made all the wrong choices at the Funnel. And Limbreth still lived, beyond all his hopes. How could he have acted differently at the Funnel? By listening. He'd learned to listen to what? His heart, regarding instructions about the sword. No, it was Eloch's voice speaking to him. He glanced at Apeth. The old Withling was correct, much as Athson hated to admit it. Athson had been acting like a Withling at times, hearing instructions to use the sword and experiencing dreams. If only this curse hadn't distracted him so much.

  Then the truth flooded his understanding. He'd been pulled by that curse to all the wrong decisions much of his life, certainly since Eagle's Aerie. The fits affected him until the blessed sword c
ame into his possession. He chuckled against the tremble in his body. One good decision there. Had he been listening then, acting like a Withling?

  But there was more, he realized. He'd thought he didn't need Withlings and Eloch. He'd thought Eloch didn't help him at all. He had fallen into believing that Eloch did nothing for him, added nothing to his life. But Eloch had helped all this time. If he'd just listened, there would have been answers. There were answers anyway. His mother had been helped. The others were safe. It was his cursed stubbornness and wrong decisions that led to so many problems, though he doubted there wouldn't have been troubles along the way.

  Athson swallowed hard and blinked a sidelong gaze at Apeth Stellin. "Will it mean the curse is gone? What do I do to become—" He glanced around at the others in the room and leaned closer to Apeth. "To become a Withling?"

  "Good to hear you're getting it now." The Withling patted Athson's leg. "I don't think that curse will be lifted just yet. But you have that sword. Use it often, and just listen. Learn to listen, and then act the best you can with the instructions you understand. The more you do that, speak and act according to what you hear of Eloch, the more you'll see and understand. But you'll battle that curse for now, I think." He shrugged. "Doesn't matter if you can hear, though. Other than that, I'll give you a blessing."

  Athson chuckled. "What now, a special set of words or a prayer?"

  Apeth paused and considered that. "I'll ask you a few questions and offer the blessing. But first, let me go check on that mule. You watch our things, and I'll be back. We'll find a quiet place without distractions." The Withling stood and battled his way out of the station to check the mule.

  At a touch to his sword-hilt, deep calm entered Athson's thoughts. It was the correct decision. He'd be a Withling. He'd do what was necessary with the Bow of Hart.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Corgren stood over his maps of Auguron lying on the carved, wooden table, information gleaned from his long time disguised as Domikyas the Rokan trader. Thank the Great One he no longer wore that magical disguise. Within this northernmost ranger fort saved from fire, Corgren chose comfortable quarters furnished with a proper bed with a feathered mattress and woolen blankets from which to direct his troll army, even to the smallest of scouts. His back knotted with residual pain from his wound even seated in the padded chair and elven officer left behind—curse that traitor. But then, a traitor ever acted the traitor. He smiled With magic now flowing better from Magdronu, Corgren traveled often to gather reports from his far-ranging troll army.

  He moved pieces on his map. The elves fled on the river and sought to protect fleeing travelers on their road. He shrugged. No matter. He'd burn every station on the way to Auguron City, every farm and every little hamlet. The smoke of his—Magdronu's—ravaging hordes signaled eventual triumph for them.

  Light flashed at Corgren's finger. Three for urgent, but not the color of Magdronu. Paugren called. Corgren spoke the word of acknowledgment but not that for communication. Let Paugren, who possessed a limited supply of blood on his mission, hold the spell if he needed to speak. Instead, he dropped the coins of the houses of Hart into the bowl in slow succession. Let Paugren wait as Corgren had waited in anguish until their magic was restored. He smiled. He dropped the last of the coins, and spoke the spell, each word pronounced with distinct care.

  Pale blue light flared over the bowl, and Paugren's drawn face flickered in its center. The magic wasn't as strong as before but soon would be. "Brother, you have news?"

  Paugren frowned. "Do you punish me for your previous suffering? It was not my fault you—"

  "You can quibble all you like, since you hold the spell, Paugren." Corgren schooled his face to an even stare.

  His brother swallowed his anger. "We've spotted the Withling and Athson. They travel with the elven guards to quell thieves and quarrels on the road. It seems fear among the defenseless drains resources from the rangers and causes trouble."

  "I would think you know what to do, then. There'll be fewer to stop you."

  Sweat beaded Paugren's face in the spell’s pallid light, but he managed a smile of invitation. "We'll let them spread out on the trail, then strike at night. We'll make the Withling's death look like brigands." He cocked his head. "Perhaps you'd like to be there when we kill this one. He's advising Athson, teaching him Withling secrets."

  Corgren stroked his bearded chin. "Perhaps I might. My primary duties are with this grand army of ours, but a little diversion might keep things interesting."

  "Cass and I will contact you when the time is right." Paugren closed the spell.

  Corgren appreciated the brevity. The longer the communication, the more likely was their discovery. But with their newly restored lines of magic, they could afford a few luxuries as they carried out their missions for their Master. He smiled. And there would only be more magic available with the new shrine, though Paugren's mission delayed that somewhat.

  Eyes traveling across the maps, Corgren chuckled. They had the luxury of time. Victory was inevitable.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Magdronu-as-Gweld gazed into the reflection of sky mirrored in the rippling river water. He'd chosen a barge filled with rangers for his part of the ruse. He suppressed a chuckle at the thought. He bore a fake arrow in his quiver, wrapped in cloth. Far too obvious for their needs, but certainly something to bring pause to any attacker. Far too easy to discard as the real White Arrow.

  He closed his eyes and let the breeze brush across his face, yearning to fly as himself rather than float on this barge. Magdronu-as-Gweld opened his eyes to the forest drifting by. The quiet talk among the elves was a welcome change to the foolishness of the group with which he'd traveled for months. Especially that oafish giant. He'd chosen separation from them for some solitude while he toyed with them over the arrow.

  Magdronu-as-Gweld waved to the familiar figures of the dwarves and Ralda, who traveled in the second barge from the one he occupied. They bore an arrow each, wrapped in cloth. As any if them would be trusted with such an item. The others waved in return.

  Magdronu-as-Gweld sneered inwardly. Those three were more likely to drop the White Arrow in the river than protect it.

  Beyond that floated one of the smaller boats in this pitiful fleet. There the other two Withlings and Danilla each carried their own fake arrows. And even farther down the line of boats and barges, Hastra and Limbreth traveled in a larger hauler mostly carrying what travelers and merchants fit aboard. Crewmen poled and steered each vessel but mostly let them drift on the current of the river.

  His companions signaled often among themselves that all was well. They'd set up a series of signals based on ranger hand-signs so they could communicate anything amiss. So far, Magdronu allowed nothing. But he'd soon let the Bane make several "failed" attempts at the arrow. Best to let them think the ruse had worked.

  When night fell and most of his fellow rangers had settled for the night after a meal from their rations, Magdronu called to the Bane. 'Come'.

  The creature glided over the surface of the river in the shadows of the night. The rangers slept with only a few guards set, thinking themselves safe on the river as they outdistanced the troll army. The Bane slipped over the rail of the barge as Magdronu waited, feigning rest, the fake arrow where the Bane could easily steal it.

  'Take the covered arrow.' He needed witnesses.

  The Bane grasped the arrow and withdrew it from Magdronu-as-Gweld's quiver.

  The whisper of cloth against the arrows and quiver stood out in the silence. Magdronu-as-Gweld grunted and gasped. "Help, something's aboard!"

  The Bane fled overboard and glided away.

  Magdronu-as-Gweld pointed to it. "There!" He set an arrow to string and released it at the Bane.

  Rangers clamored at Magdronu-as-Gweld's warning. Some loosed arrows too. An officer approached and questioned Magdronu-as-Gweld. "What was that?"

  Magdronu-as-Gweld leaned over the edge of the barge's rail. The Bane slippe
d into the shadows of the riverbank. "Something that has haunted the trail of my companions and I for months. We feared it might appear. But I doubt it will trouble us again."

  "Why?"

  Magdronu-as-Gweld turned to the officer's concerned face. "Because it knows what I carried wasn't what it sought."

  He withheld a laugh. He had his witnesses, and the others would be concerned. But he'd lull them with false security regardless.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Athson and Apeth left with the next squad of guards to escort travelers, though they had barely rested. The hum of anxiety at Marston's Station faded as the group put distance behind them. Athson sighed. He and Apeth had found no time for the Withling's blessing. It would have to wait until they stopped. Urgency to get moving superseded the prayer. Athson and Apeth needed to catch up to their companions if possible. Athson slouched in the saddle of the horse provided by the rangers. It would be quieter at a camp than at the station.

  Beside him rode Apeth on the mule. Spark trotted in and out of the forest and among the travelers, who dragged their feet.

  Athson leaned toward Apeth. "You'd think the trolls were weeks away."

  The Withling merely grunted and scratched his side absently.

  By Athson's count, there were at least seventy-five merchants and other travelers in this group of fleeing evacuees. He snorted to himself. Four rangers, including him—and two recovering from injuries sustained in accidents during the garrison evacuations—were not nearly enough to hold back a big fight among them, let alone intimidate any brigands operating on the road. If any trolls scouted this far ahead of the invading army, they'd certainly lose people. He shook his head and twisted in the saddle. Nothing on the road behind them.

  How was he supposed to learn anything about being Withling while guarding a caravan? He doubted his decision after the shock of the news from Marston and the hasty departure settled into the plodding pace. He touched his sword, and the doubt faded. Interesting.