The White Arrow

by P. H. Solomon

  Ralda and Makwi loomed over them. She nodded to the dwarf and the giant. "You've both been just what was needed these last months."

  She turned back to Athson, who spasmed, the beginning of froth in the corners of his mouth. With more certainty than at any other moment she had known as a Withling, she laid a hand on Athson's stomach and head and uttered her unknown prayers to Eloch. Her voice rose and fell with sudden cadence as her awareness floated on the euphoria of doing Eloch's will. That wouldn't last.

  Below her, Athson's eyes widened and his lips formed the word no.

  Hastra continued her prayer, her awareness drawn into Athson's body, seeking the essence of the poison. Magic, dark and venomous, rose in resistance, flaring like flame, the fire of Magdronu. The essence roared in her ears, but she hid in her prayer and sought the essence with her words. Her utterances reached for the poison and the magic alike. Beneath her hands, it siphoned from Athson's body. She lifted her hands away from him, and the glow of magic followed, wisps alight with darkness rose into her hands and her body.

  The poisoned rippled through Hastra and struck her body like a hammer. She prayed on, unwilling to let it beat her into silence. Complete it. Her body trembled with effort at the sudden, deeper weakness that filled her. The ruined organ of her heart protected her from the certain effect of it racing away. But, the poison drained her. She must finish. Her voice faltered and drifted into a hoarse mumble, though she still prayed.

  At last the poison streams left Athson entirely. She fell silent, and her body slumped beside Athson. A spasm rocked her gut. She blinked at the other person in the room. She hadn’t noticed him before. She must be seeing things as her body hastened toward death.

  His blue eyes glittered in the light beneath a floppy hat as he smiled. "Well done, Hastra.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Athson stirred, sat up and wiped spittle on his sleeve. "What happened? I remember Gweld jumping through the window." He almost slumped to the floor, but Ralda, who knelt beside him, steadied him.

  "It wasn't Gweld. It was Magdronu. Come for the bow." Tordug wiped tears from his eyes. "He poisoned you, Athson. He's been in disguise." He shrugged. "Who knows how long he's been this way?"

  Hastra stirred beside Athson. "Ath-son."

  Athson gaped at her. "She healed me? Gweld? He was Magdronu?" His enemy played his friend. For how long? His head spun anew.

  Makwi crouched nearby and nodded. "She did. Drew it out of you with her prayers. I don't think she'll survive it this time. And it was Magdronu who tried to kill you, played Gweld. He had us all fooled it seems."

  Athson leaned over Hastra. She had sacrificed herself for him. She knew better than him what need to be done. "Hastra, tell me what to do, what to say. I don't hear him yet."

  The old Withling's face constricted with the pain of a spasm, and frothy spittle formed at the corners of her mouth. She shook her head, and her eyes rolled. She motioned weakly at the dwarves and Ralda. "Bless."

  Athson nodded as sudden tears blurred his vision. "I'm sorry, Hastra. I've been nothing but trouble for you since we met. I've been so hard on you. I'm sorry. We could have done it if not for me. Please, tell me what to do."

  "Arrow." Her body spasmed again, and she grimaced until the pain passed.

  Athson handed her the arrow pieces from his pocket. She kissed them.

  Nothing happened. He fit the pieces together, but they were still just pieces. He watched her face. No more miracles from Hastra.

  Her lips formed barely audible words as her eyes widened, and she gasped. "Bow. Not. For. Him." She shook her head feebly and clutched at Athson's sleeve.

  "I know, I won't give it up." Tears welled in his eyes and dribbled on his cheeks. Gweld his enemy. His true friend all along had been Hastra and he'd pushed her away. The rotten curse misled him at every turn.

  "Not for him."

  He shook his head. "It's not for him."

  Hastra's body slumped and spasmed. She gasped again, her eyes wide. "Limbreth. Go." Her throat and jaw worked to form words, but no others passed her lips. Only the noise of gagging in the froth.

  Ralda rolled Hastra over as her body spasmed a few last times. Then she lay still, her eyes staring at nothing as the life faded from them.

  Athson slapped the floor with his palm. "I've been such a fool."

  He grabbed the hilt of his sword and lifted his head, eyes closed. Images of Gweld passed through his memory. How the elf led him around, coaxed him into things, taught him more of weapons or woodsman-ship. But there were other details, like his denial of Spark's existence. Athson opened his eyes and found the mountain hound sitting nearby. The medicine Gweld—no, Magdronu—had pushed on him eased his fits but hid all his true visions and dreams, kept him in the dark. The darkness beneath his dragon's wings. It hid the real world from Athson until Hastra and Limbreth and the others came. But still, Magdronu exerted control. The curse, he certainly manipulated that. He'd done that these last days as Athson had languished in his depression. How long since he'd sought the truth of things from his blessed sword? All this time, Magdronu had played the part of Gweld in order to lure Athson into giving him the Bow of Hart with threats, tricks, and poison. He'd hidden squarely under Athson's nose. Everyone's nose. Hastra, Sarneth, everyone. Understanding flooded Athson in a flash of memories.

  Gweld—Magdronu—on the trail to Ezhandun, working against Athson, trying to convince him he needed Soul's Ease, that Spark wasn't real. Athson's stomach roiled, but not from poison. He'd sent Corgren that night to threaten his father as a hostage. Magdronu was there when they escaped. He'd ordered all of them taken hostage for the Bow of Hart. He'd been in the cave when Athson got the bow from Howart, and had taken Limbreth then. Athson uttered a wordless shout of anger and frustration and slapped the floor again, his body wracked with sudden sobs. He'd followed Magdronu's advice—his will—and driven Limbreth away, just to throw Athson off when he needed to do something with the White Arrow. Athson gasped and gaped at the broken arrow lying on the floor. It had come from Gweld's quiver.

  Voices from outside broke Athson's stream of bitter memories. One rose in concern above the others, one that Athson knew. Zelma.

  He stood as the Withling pushed past the people crowded at the door. She uttered a wail of despair and collapsed beside her sister.

  Howart entered the room, paused, and then knelt beside the weeping Zelma. He turned to them. "How?"

  Makwi explained in his terse manner. Athson stumbled across the room, thankful for Makwi's detachment in these moments of harsh truth. The Bow of Hart lay on the floor beside Hastra with the arrow nearby.

  Tordug approached. "Maybe we should go?"

  Howart lifted his head at the question, his sunken-eyed gaze oozing sorrow. "We can handle this for now."

  Athson squeezed Zelma's shoulder before he gathered his things. "She gave her life for my own."

  Zelma nodded wordlessly amid her tears.

  Makwi tapped Tordug, Ralda, and Athson each on the shoulder and thumbed over his shoulder to the door. His look was drawn and his eyes misty in the light. "Uh, we've gotta talk."

  Athson paused. What should he do? Makwi was right, they needed to talk. Things needed their attention. But Hastra had died. What would she want? She had given him instructions. He glanced Tordug's way, and the elder dwarf motioned to him. Athson sighed and followed them through the press of people at the door.

  They tramped to the street, where someone had doused the burning chairs. Glass, broken limbs, and other debris littered the street. Above them, Athson glimpsed stars where the dragon had escaped through the treetops. They gathered at the side of the street, well away from the growing crowd.

  Makwi crossed his arms. "Not a pretty death."

  "Aye, but an honorable one." Tordug scrubbed at his damp cheeks. "She may have died, but we need to take action now." He peered at each of them, holding their attention a moment. He cleared his throat and ran his fingers through his gray hair, paci
ng a few steps away and back while Athson and his other companions shuffled their feet uncertainly. "This is tough, but Hastra and I talked about this on the trail. I guess this is no different. She told us things before she saved you, Athson. We need to think this through before we take action."

  "Gweld knew almost everything about the defenses here and elsewhere." Athson crossed his arms, then lifted one hand to support his chin. "We can assume Magdronu has plans to cross the river, maybe even tonight."

  Tordug nodded, his eyes averted in thought. He smacked his head. "Hastra said it made sense he chose the house. Evil had been done there previously. She implied there was more to consider. Athson, what other places did things occur?"

  Athson's mind churned, remembering Hastra's last moments. She wanted his companions blessed. He supposed he could do that. Where else had evil been done? He inhaled deeply and exhaled slowly. He wished Limbreth were still here, just because he needed her. He snapped his fingers and pointed at Tordug. "I met Limbreth in the cemetery when she followed the Bane there. I was at the gravesites for Heth and Cireena. The Bane could have done anything when we didn't see it."

  "Fine, so we need to know if there's anything magical there for some reason."

  Makwi waved his hands. "Wait just a minute. We need to make sure things are secure too. What about the bridge?"

  "We need to inform Sarneth of this news and have more rangers sent to the waterfront." Tordug shuffled his feet as if to go, but then spoke again. "But I know the most about the troop assignments and guards for the gate, since I've consulted on the plans."

  Athson pointed to Makwi. "You go see Sarneth and tell him all that's happened and that we need more people at the gates in case there are deeper plans there."

  Makwi shrugged to Tordug. "I am faster than you. I can cover the distance faster."

  Tordug nodded. "Aye, you go. Let's hope the guards let you in now."

  Makwi turned to go. "Oh, they'll let me through." He shot them all a wolfish grin.

  "Wait." Athson grabbed Makwi's shoulder. "Hastra said to bless you all. I don't really know what to do, but I'll do it." He offered a one shoulder shrug. "Since I'm a Withling."

  Makwi grinned again. "Already got mine from her days ago, the night we arrived. I'm gone. The sooner I get troops gathered, the better." He waved to them and trotted down the street as rangers rounded a nearby corner to check the disturbance.

  Athson turned back to Ralda and Tordug. "Right, then, I'll bless you both. Then Ralda and I will check the cemetery." He pointed to Ralda, who nodded.

  The other two waited, watching Athson. He placed a hand on Tordug's shoulder. "Uh, Eloch bless you, Tordug." On a whim, he pulled his Rokan dagger and offered it to the dwarf. "I feel like I'm supposed to give this to you. It was used here, but its curse is broken. It almost killed Corgren. Maybe Eloch has placed some virtue in it you may need."

  Tordug accepted the weapon. "Thank you, Athson." He slapped Athson's shoulder. "You've come a long way lately, lad." He nodded to Ralda and shook the giant's massive hand. "If anything happens, I want you both to know that no dwarf could expect better companions on the trail." He left at a trot in the direction of the bridge.

  Athson turned to Ralda and grabbed his forearm. What should he say now? Maybe he had heard something from Eloch for Tordug. Why not for Hastra? He shook his head with a grimace. He couldn't guess about the past. He grabbed his sword.

  "Ralda, we've come a long way since you charged those trolls. Eloch bless you. I know how you've grieved for your brother for a long time. Know that I consider you a brother. Eloch go with you."

  Ralda nodded, and for once his hands remained still. Finally, the giant cleared his throat. "Hastra say watch you. I watch you for trip."

  Athson's jaw worked for a moment. "She put Limbreth to watching me too. I guess I needed a couple of people keeping an eye on me, then." He still had that help, even with Limbreth gone. "Well, I guess we should go check things out."

  "Hold on." Howart's voice halted him. The gaunt Withling approached with Zelma, whose face was drawn into a mask of unreadable emotion. She scrubbed her damp cheeks. Howart pointed toward the house above them. "The rangers asked us some questions, but you need to give the rest of the answers."

  Athson scuffed his feet and set his hands to his hips as he glanced at his feet. He needed to go with Ralda. But the rangers needed the news from him about Gweld. "Right, I'll stay a while. Ralda, take the road out there. It's two turns past to the north, after you enter by the main gate. Then you go over a few rises. There's a stand of trees where they are." He pointed a finger at the giant. "But come back if you spot something, and I'll come help."

  Ralda nodded and took off at a run without another word.

  "He's in hurry." Howart watched the giant disappear into the shadows along the street.

  "Yeah, let me see the rangers." Athson paused. "Where's my mother?" He hadn't seen her since yesterday morning.

  Howart cocked his head. "We've been looking for some Rokans and tracked them down. We got word of Hastra at the inn, and Danilla stayed in case someone came back. We set out in search of Hastra with our news, heard the commotion, and came here."

  Athson tilted his head and held his breath. "What news do you have?" His heart fluttered.

  "Those Rokans aren't what we thought at all."

  "How so?"

  Zelma's voice sounded weak in all the noise. "When we realized there were actually three Shildrans, I finally realized who they might be. We tracked them down to separate inns and confirmed their descriptions. It's the Beleesh sisters for sure. Former Withlings who turned to Magdronu back at Withling's Watch."

  "I don't know of them. What would they be doing here?" Athson's apprehension rose. He'd just sent Ralda off to the wrong place after all.

  Howart glanced at Zelma before he continued their story. "From the other description, the last person is a man from Rok."

  Athson groaned. "Not Corgren?"

  "No, his brother, Paugren." Howart frowned and chewed the inside of his cheek. "They are all mages. They would be here secretly to create something magical. Like a shrine. We know they've been going just out of the city, but not where."

  Athson swore. "I just sent Ralda to check the cemetery. Were they going north?"

  "Why check the cemetery?"

  With a glance to Zelma, Athson answered, "Because Hastra told Tordug it made sense that Magdronu used this house tonight, since the Bane attacked there months ago. It's my stepparents, they're buried out in the cemetery, killed by the Bane with a Rokan dagger, one I'd bought off a merchant. Then Limbreth later followed the Bane into the cemetery, where we met. We think it did something there that Magdronu could use now."

  Howart stared at Zelma. "Sounds like they’re making a new shrine in a quiet place." He faced Athson. "They can focus magic with blood and provide easy magic for themselves. They can use it to work against the rangers."

  Athson gaped. "We need to go there."

  Howart exhaled, blowing out his sunken cheeks. "Sure wish we had Hastra now."

  "Why?"

  "We're three against four."

  Athson’s heart sank to his feet. "And I'm not trained." He arched an eyebrow and tilted his head slightly. "But with Ralda we have four. Maybe that's enough."

  Howart glanced at Zelma, who shrugged. "It's something. Better than nothing."

  Zelma frowned out of the mass of wild, red hair that blew across her face. "Four aren't enough since the dragon is out. But I want to take them on anyway. For Hastra." By her expression, Athson thought she might break into tears again. "I want them now." She smiled at Athson. "You know any Withling hymns?"

  "Uh, no. Why?"

  She sighed. "Hastra taught you nothing these last few days. Not even Apeth over the weeks you were on the road?"

  "No. I don't understand."

  Howart gripped Athson's shoulder and turned him toward the direction Ralda had gone. "It's one way to nullify magic. Looks like you're in for a
quick lesson while we take a walk tonight." He peered into the sky. "Morning, that is. It's well after midnight now."

  Athson went with the other Withlings. They were several blocks away when he remembered the rangers back at the ruined house with Hastra's body. "Uh, we forgot about the rangers. Maybe we should have taken them with us."

  Howart kept walking. "They have enough information and promised to take excellent care of Hastra for us while we went looking for magical trouble."

  "Well, I did forget about the spear with that banner. I might need that." Athson offered an apologetic half-smile.

  Howart turned around with a sigh. "Fine, I'll get the spear. And tell the officer where we're going, maybe they can send a few squads later - just in case." The gaunt Withling's long legs carried him away quickly.

  Athson scratched the back of his head and scrunched his face into another apologetic expression. "One more thing..."

  Zelma rolled her eyes in the light of a roadside lamp. "Always something with you. What now?"

  With a shrug and a flip of his hands skyward, Athson said, "I don't sing so well."

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Corgren stood in his tent at the bowl, the blood of a captured elf brimming in it. Much blood was needed for this large a reach. He spoke the incantation, his hands lifting toward the bridge that spanned the Auguron River as his sleeves receded to his elbows. Time for the scheduled trick as he activated the hidden hexes along the bridge.

  His words passed his lips, as a low susurration. Corgren's murmurs, pitched in a hypnotic tone, crossed the distance toward the bridge at a crawl, dark against the night like a blanket. Too bad he couldn't put the whole city under the spell. But that required far more power than he possessed even from Magdronu. He continued the murmur of the spell as it reached the bridge gates and slipped through the narrow creases between the gates and fixtures that held them in place.

  With eyes closed, as if he too slept, Corgren peered along his spell as it passed among the gathered archers who guarded the bridge from his invading trolls. The unseen shadow of his magic words flowed like viscous water along the bridge and touched each hex until it stretched across the length of the bridge and beyond to the guards gathered around the far gate, then farther up the street.