The White Arrow

by P. H. Solomon

  She followed him to an open doorway, where they found Zelma and Howart. To her slight surprise, Sarneth stood looking out the window, his hands clenched behind him. She nodded to her fellow Withlings as Athson found a seat. "Sarneth, what a pleasant surprise."

  The ranger commander crossed the room to Hastra's waiting hands, which he grasped in greeting. "Hastra, we had little enough greeting yesterday. But I came to offer my thanks for diffusing yesterday's...affair in the street." He glanced at Athson with an expression bespeaking both judgment and curiosity. He cleared his throat and continued, "I also came to confer with you about the current circumstances."

  "Thank you, Sarneth. I only meant to serve as always, regarding yesterday's misunderstanding." She sat at the commanding elf's offer of a chair. "I suppose the issue is being resolved?"

  Athson stirred. Not surprising to Hastra, since Limbreth held the key to his heart. Athson propped his head in his hands and rocked it sideways several times but held his tongue, though not a sigh.

  "I believe it is." Sarneth sat. He motioned to Athson. “I can only suppose this bow is what you mentioned last fall in this very room?"

  "It is." Hastra glanced between Sarneth and Athson. "I've asked Athson here, though I didn't know you were coming, as both the bearer of the bow and as a new Withling."

  Sarneth's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "What she says is true? You've chosen to become a Withling?"

  Athson responded with another one-shoulder shrug, what Hastra took as his calling card for the day. "Sure, though as much called as choose. It's a long story. As long as the trip or more. Dreams and visions, you know."

  Hastra nodded her agreement, as did Howart and Zelma. "That it is."

  "So those were more than just trauma?" Sarneth rubbed his chin and eyed Athson as if appraising a horse or a bow.

  Athson held out a hand and tipped it side to side a few times. "Some, not all. Spark's real, though."

  Sarneth shot Hastra a glance.

  Zelma threw her hands in the air and dropped them on the table with a soft smack. "I could have told you that." She glanced at Howart.

  The gaunt Withling shrugged. "First I heard of it."

  Zelma observed everyone in the room, lastly Athson. She pointed between them. "You mean he and I are the only ones who see this dog?"

  Hastra chuckled. "That's no surprise, since you're the only one that sees that eagle."

  Athson lifted his hand hesitantly. "Uh, I've seen it."

  Sarneth snorted. "It seems more is going on than anyone in Auguron ever suspected. I'm sorry I ever doubted you, Athson."

  Athson, to his credit, straightened his shoulders, possibly remembering Sarneth was a ranking officer, and saluted. But Hastra noted a lingering sense of disinterest in him nonetheless. "Thank you, sir."

  Sarneth turned to Hastra, then observed the others. "Well, to the business at hand. We have trolls advancing on the city. As of my latest reports, Marston died yesterday in an ambush."

  Hastra gasped and covered her mouth. Dangers abounded in these times, but she'd not foreseen this. Of course, she couldn't, but still... "He was a good man."

  The elven commander slouched slightly, then recovered his air of command. "That he was, Withling. However, I must consider more than his death if we're to beat back this attack. That same ambush took out many of the remaining skirmishers. The trolls advance without much to hold them back from any refugees. They'll arrive across the river several days sooner than expected, and I cannot send enough forces to save the refugees. However, I've sent smaller boats to the nearest landing and instructions to those remaining to evacuate everyone they can. All who want to leave this city must do so within a few days or risk death on the road. I expect the main bridge traffic to grow today as many of our foreign merchants flee south or west."

  Hastra watched Athson finger the Bow of Hart until he met her gaze and looked away in continued disinterest. She opened her mouth to reprimand him and then shut it with the inclination to hold back. She brushed at the wrinkles in her rough skirt. "I'm sure you must do what you must. Is there anything we can do for you?" She motioned to her fellow Withlings, including Athson, who took note and sat up straighter.

  Sarneth pursed his lips. "It's hard to ignore this bow in the room and the possibility that you've brought this attack on us." He raised a hand to forestall several protests. "I know better, as do many in the city who know far less about this bow—or nothing at all. We've watched Corgren's trolls for decades and prepared. Marston knew his danger all this time. But many have seen the sign in the sky and questioned its meaning."

  Hastra lifted her chin. "It is a sign of our prophecy." She laid her book on the table and flipped it open, running her hand along the page upon which she'd written the words. "All has come true. The wandering star was for his arrow, sent by his blessing at our hands." She pointed to Howart and Zelma.

  Zelma nodded vigorously but bit her lower lip with apprehension.

  "And you have this arrow? What is its intended use?" Sarneth pulled the book closer and inspected the passage.

  Hastra opened her mouth to explain the arrow's condition and what the prophecy read, but Athson spoke first. "I do have it." He rummaged in a cloak pocket as he leaned the bow against the table and produced the broken pieces. "But I do not know how I shall use it, unless we determine something else.”

  Hastra gaped. Limbreth had already bestowed it upon him?

  Sarneth stood, his brow pinched, and loomed over the table at the sight of the broken arrow Athson laid upon it. "What's this? A useless arrow."

  Howart stood, walked over to Sarneth and placed reassuring hands upon the elven commander's shoulders. "It is the White Arrow of promise. It was broken by Magdronu's Bane. But do not lose hope in Eloch over mere tokens and their condition."

  Zelma cackled softly and nodded. "True words, those."

  Hastra recovered her wits. "It's true. The arrow was broken, and we have convened what Withlings remain to determine Eloch's will in fulfilling the prophecy."

  Howart seated himself as Sarneth paced across the room, hands clenched behind his back once again. The gaunt Withling added, "Nothing happens by chance. It came into Limbreth's hands for its protection and presentation to the bearer of the Bow of Hart. It was broken, but Eloch foresaw it. He is not shaken by the event at all."

  Athson slouched in his chair at mention of Limbreth. "What will we do? What's my part in this?"

  Hastra cocked her head as she faced Athson. "The prophecy is clear that the bow is not to fall into Magdronu's hands, and you've played your part in bringing it here safely. But the words we spoke long years ago indicate the bow shall be used to thwart Magdronu's plans, to bring to naught his attempted rise to rule Denaria." She turned to Sarneth. "You've known all this time that the trolls threatened Auguron, but this is but Magdronu's first target since taking Chokkra, and he aims for all of Denaria in the end. The Bow of Hart has come here, and that is not by chance, as Howart aptly points out."

  Sarneth tucked his chin in thought, then nodded, after which he lifted his gaze to those in the room. "What would you have of me, of my rangers?"

  Hastra spread her hands, palms up. "You must defend your home. We've come to do what we can in your aid and that of Eloch's plan. We are at your service as much as Eloch directs us. At present"—she paused and motioned to the arrow—"we must determine Eloch's next instructions to us."

  "I would have assigned Athson elsewhere, but it seems he is needed here, so I leave him in your care." Sarneth stood. "You are gracious to lend us your aid. But I fear without that arrow, it won't be enough. May Eloch guide your hands." He turned to leave. "Hastra, will you share your tale with me this evening? I'd like to know more of what we face in any way." He reached for the door, but hesitated. "Oh, and what am I supposed to do with these two dwarves who've offered their services? I can only assume they are who they claim to be?"

  "They are indeed, the former ruler and champion of Chokkra. I should let them
do what they do best." Hastra refrained from informing the elven commander that she'd blessed Makwi to some end over which her heart lent her misgiving. He needn't presume they were ill luck.

  Sarneth opened the door. "What would that be?"

  Athson stirred from his preoccupation. "They kill trolls."

  "I wish I had an army of them, then." The elven commander closed the door as he left.

  They sat in the room in silence after Sarneth left them, until finally Howart stirred. "I have pondered the condition of the arrow for days, but I've no leading from Eloch in the matter." He spread his hands across the table and signaled for any other input.

  Zelma scratched her chin. "I've only sought these rumors of Rokans in the city. Nothing about the arrow. We haven't even heard any rumor of Magdronu's approach."

  "Indeed, sister, that would seem something upon which we might gain some inkling of what's to come." Hastra's irritation toward Athson grew at his apparent disinterest. "Athson, what of your thoughts on the matter? Did you learn enough from Apeth to listen?"

  He pushed the arrow pieces farther onto the table with a grimace. "I hear nothing at present about this or anything."

  Hastra's patience broke at sight of his disgust. "Athson, if you're upset with Limbreth, that's misplaced anger. Perhaps it's the curse at work. But don't blame her. As Howart said, nothing happens by accident."

  Athson fixed his gaze on Hastra for a moment before his face constricted into grief. "Then I guess it's not an accident that Limbreth is leaving with Dareth and his soldiers today."

  Hastra gaped. "What?" She stared at the broken arrow and almost snorted at the irony that they sat in an inn named the Broken Bow.

  "She gave it to me this morning when I found her. She's leaving because of me." His eyes narrowed as he regarded Howart and Zelma. "Because I acted in revenge in attacking Corgren. Because I told her what I did."

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Limbreth rode out of Auguron City beside Dareth, her stomach knotted with anger and her mind awhirl with thoughts unspoken. She ground her teeth all the way across the bridge. She'd intended to fight, to stand with Athson. But he had betrayed her at the Funnel. When she had fought for him, tried to fix all her failures, he had betrayed her. The horses' hooves rang on the metal of the bridge.

  After they'd left Auguron behind, Dareth spoke and she ignored him until he rode in silence. Let him understand now. Even if they were married, he'd never be happy with her. She wanted—well, not him. She resisted the urge to put her heels to her horse and gallop away, never to return. The one she wanted had failed her utterly, miserably. The one she despised spoke only of his favors won. Limbreth lifted her chin and rode south with the cavalcade of Grendonese soldiers, passing fleeing refugees by the hundreds.

  At nightfall, Limbreth vomited her dinner behind her tent. She had abandoned her friends and all their labors. She had abandoned the gracious honor of the dwarves. She felt like she'd carried her horse all day. The steady number of dwarves who hurried on the southern road from Auguron City served as a constant reminder of her abandoned cause. She wiped her face. Why should she feel sick about it? She didn't do the abandoning at the Funnel. Her stomach roiled at all the dwarves on the road, at the thought of all their honor lost, her wasted efforts.

  "Limbreth," Dareth called into her tent. He must have ducked into it. "Limbreth?" He wandered off, looking for her.

  "Good." Her voice sounded as feeble as her stomach felt. A deep sigh escaped her lips as she sat against a tree. Who was she kidding? A hero? The death-grip was just something left over from an injury. Brave? Nothing but an act, mostly for herself. But she hated the thought of what awaited her in Grendon. Her lips suddenly trembled at that thought as much as at her lost honor and failures.

  Limbreth buried her face in her hands. But Athson had betrayed her, thoughtlessly, carelessly. She stood, rounded her tent, and crawled into it. She lay holding her sickened stomach.

  Dareth sought her again. "Limbreth, love, come have some wine and sit by the fire. Listen to the men sing songs of our home."

  Anger flamed in her in an instant. She shot to her feet and yanked a sword loose, holding it at Dareth's face. "Get out. Don't come to my tent again."

  He backed away, his hand raised. "Easy with that." His eyes narrowed but he left and didn't return.

  She curled into a ball and lay awake most of the night. The world twisted tighter than a hangman's rope. A love lost. A wasted cause. Honor falsely earned. Betrayal heaped on her failure. An empty marriage at the end of this journey as empty as the one just completed. How stupid of Dareth to think he could marry a woman who despised him. Finally, Limbreth slept.

  The next day, she rode stiffly as they passed more dwarves.

  "I should think we're out of danger, if that upset you, love." Dareth offered a welcoming smile that never touched his eyes.

  Limbreth's lips pursed in reaction. "I'm not your love, and I don't care about danger." She showed him the repairs in her leather armor. "I've got scars you'll never earn."

  "All the fearsome things you got yourself into on that foolish journey. You'll do better, I think, with other clothes and forgetting all these troubles. We'll keep riding farther from the trolls. You'll feel better and change your mind. You'll see." Dareth watched her with empty affection.

  Limbreth wanted to kick him from his horse. She bit back her snarl, stared at the road, and attempted to ignore all the dwarves clogging their progress.

  "Why do you bind your hair? What are those silly things in your braids?" Dareth sounded like he was admonishing a child.

  Limbreth held out her braid and leaned closer. "This one with the ax names me an ax-maid among the dwarves. I got it charging three-score or more trolls one night to save one companion. This one is for the death-grip because they had to pry a sword from my hand when it was over. This last one, the prince's crown, that's for being a royal representative. They are all earned and honored."

  A few passing dwarves swore when they overheard her. Limbreth glanced their way, and they saluted her. They spoke in dwarvish, "Hail, honored one!"

  Limbreth smiled, noted the trinkets in their beards for merchants, tinkers, and warriors, one an officer. She answered in dwarvish. "Well met, honored warriors. May your beards grow long and your axes never dull. May the count of your enemy dead be higher than the count of your years."

  Dareth sniffed and lifted his nose. "Speaking to these people. You've learned all the wrong things on this adventure."

  "Foolish words from a foolish fop." She glared at Dareth.

  He lifted his hand as if to slap her.

  She half-pulled her sword in a blink. "Do it, and you ride home with one hand less than when you started."

  He lowered his hand. "Your father will hear of all these things."

  She laughed. "I'll tell him myself."

  Trying Dareth's patience proved Limbreth's only entertainment. He understood nothing. She'd been held captive by a creature beyond his reason. His threats and insults meant nothing against that or trolls’ arrows in the night or soldiers fighting on a cliff road.

  Limbreth looked over her shoulder, saluted the dwarf officer again, and called in dwarvish, "You are welcome to exchange the count of your enemies with me." The dwarf likely wouldn't seek her out that evening, but if he did, she'd welcome a good tale of battles fought. Her heart soared a moment. Maybe she was brave even if she returned home. She hadn't done the betraying. Nothing was on her. She told herself that all day, though she never believed it.

  The dwarf found their location that evening, since the cavalcade traveled only as fast as the foot and wagon traffic. Limbreth received word from the Grendonese guardsmen, and she went to meet him. She approached the guards, who wore the Grendonese uniforms of blue with matching capes, their breastplates shining, as did their other equipment. One man addressed her with a bow. "Your highness, this dwarf says he's answering your invitation to visit you."

  Limbreth almost laughed at the
Grendonese ignorance of dwarven customs. "Yes, he is invited by me. He's a veteran of the Chokkran military with several honors, and I would like to speak with him."

  The dwarf doffed his hat and bowed, wide-eyed. His bulbous nose bore smudges from travel on the road, while his wrinkled and worn clothing bespoke nothing of his former honor. But the knots and braids woven with trinkets indicated his honor and rank among his people. "Uh, your highness? I didn't know you were of higher station." He pointed to her braided hair. "But I see that now. If I'm a bother, I can go."

  Limbreth switched to dwarvish. "Nonsense, you are not bothering when you come at my invitation. You have shown me honor by recognizing these." She pointed to her own trinkets. "I merely wanted the company of a dwarf to swap tales. I see that you bear the honor of a captain and a medal for bravery. What's your name?"

  The guards observed them with sudden suspicion and muttered to each other at the foreign tongue. "Your highness, shall we turn this dwarf away?"

  "No, he's to come with me." She spoke the common tongue, then switched back to dwarvish. "Please forgive the interruption. They do not know the formalities or the tongue."

  The dwarf bowed as a warrior, his hands on his hips and feet shoulder width apart. "I am Erskwe of Chokkra, former captain of the Granite Brigade. My honor is offered for the tale of yours."

  Limbreth resisted a smile as she sketched her own bow of rank with far more pretension. His words were a polite way of asking for proof she was who she claimed to be. "An honor to meet the captain of the Granite Brigade." She motioned to show the dwarf into the camp. "You shall have the tale of my honor with the hospitality of my fire." She switched to common tongue and addressed the guards. "He will come with me and share my meal."

  The guards bowed. "As you wish, your highness."

  Limbreth led Erskwe through the camp, but took care to avoid Dareth's campfire. She led the captain toward her own campfire and called for food and drink. They sat, and Limbreth returned to dwarvish. "I must apologize that I do not have beer or ale available. But such as is available, we'll share." She'd never hosted a dwarf, so it was new territory. Limbreth racked her memory of Duliwe's feast in Ezhandun. "But for now, the tale of my honor."