The White Arrow

by P. H. Solomon

  Ralda slammed the rock onto Magdronu, who fell, crushed beneath the rock.

  Chest heaving, Ralda bent over his stricken enemy and grinned at Athson. Moments of silence passed. Strained expressions fluttered across the faces of the mages. Howart and Zelma sang on, undeterred by the events. The Bane flopped in whatever grasp of Eloch's doing held that creature.

  Ralda retrieved the spear where he'd dropped it and jammed the point into the ground. The slight morning breeze rustled the banner at the end of the haft.

  The giant left the spear in the ground, snatched his staff and walked toward Athson who stared at him wide-eyed, passing Magdronu's prone body.

  At Ralda's feet, Magdronu stirred. His legs twitched and his arms flexed. Ralda backed away, his eyes wide and his grin of triumph sliding away.

  Magdronu shot off the ground from beneath the rock, which flew sideways. Ralda watched as the form of the elf flamed for a moment in his rising. Smoke formed around him and then solidified into wings. The black head, with rippling horns and maw of fangs as long as swords, transformed at the end of an elongated neck. The dragon's body and legs formed out of the ashen cloud, covered in glimmering, black scales. Its feet ended in hooked claws longer than a spear-head. Magdronu's tail flicked the air with roused anger as he glared at the giant.

  Ralda hefted his staff as Magdronu transformed into his dragon shape. The dragon flapped its wings, rising into the air and then dove at Ralda, who stood his ground and rolled away at the last moment. But as he regained his feet, the dragon's tail slapped into his legs.

  The dragon roared in its passing. Magdronu soared overhead, tattered wings snapping in the morning air.

  Ralda's legs snapped beneath him. He roared in pain and fell onto his back, writhing. He'd never gotten a chance to land a blow on the dragon. One thought glimmered in his mind. If he hadn't cut the rope, he would have gone over the cliff with Kralda and never been here.

  Magdronu wheeled and descended on Ralda again, one clawed foot extended.

  Ralda tried to swing his staff in defense. He missed.

  The claw raked his torso and his blood sprayed.

  Ralda laid breathless like he'd fallen into the chasm from his memory with his brother.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Athson watched the short fight helplessly. Magdronu dove on Ralda and scored his body with his clawed foot. The giant screamed as blood sprayed into the air, the dragon’s claws trailing more gore in his wake.

  Athson rushed to Ralda and gaped at the giant's broken and torn body. He knelt. Tell me what to do. Nothing arrived in his mind.

  Magdronu spoke from across the growing shrine, once again in Gweld’s form. His eyes flicked to the spear and the banner that flapped fitfully on the breeze in the growing light of morning. "You hope in a dead house of traitors? You dare to defy me with this banner? You are mine. The arrow is broken and the prophecy stopped. That banner is truly pointless."

  "No, it's not." Athson stood and eased close to the spear and the displayed banner of the ten tined antlers and the bow. "As I said that night on the river-barge, I declare my freedom from you. You enslaved my family centuries ago and slaves cannot be traitors. I’m not. But I'm free of your deceptions." If he died it would be standing in the truth.

  Again, Magdronu's mirthless grin spread on his face. "As you wish, Athson. Sometimes I like to toy with my prey or I would have killed you already. So, you have two choices, Athson. Trade blows with me, or I kill these others."

  Heat rose around Athson. Sweat beaded on his brow. Above his head, the banner smoked at the edges in a sudden smolder as did the grass around them.

  "I'll burn you all unless you cross blades with me. Just for my satisfaction." Magdronu's eyes glowed, rimmed with fire.

  Choices? Not two but three. What about Ralda? Athson eased to his feet into a fighting stance as sudden anger rose like fire in his chest. He lifted the blessed sword. Magdronu charged, his simple ranger's long-knife on guard.

  Athson hesitated an instant before the blades met. This was the wrong choice. He parried the attack, but Magdronu twisted and turned his blade. The blessed sword flew from his numb fingers and landed, point in the ground, a dozen paces away, where it rocked with its momentum.

  Athson backed away from his enemy. He rushed his sword, but Magdronu followed his sideways move and feinted at him with a mocking grin.

  "We're at our end, it seems." Magdronu stood in a casual stance, almost daring Athson to make his move.

  "I know what you want." He shook the Bow of Hart, unused in his grip until that moment. "This. You can have it and go your own way. Here..." He pulled the broken arrow from his pocket and flung the pieces at Magdronu's feet. "That's useless, and the bow never worked right." At least he didn't think so. He hoped not.

  Howart paused in his singing, and Paugren rejoined the spell. "Athson, don't. It's not for him."

  “I know, Howart. Just see to Ralda when this is done. I don't know how this works out." Athson chanced a glance at the gaunt Withling, who nodded and cocked his head sideways.

  Athson flung the Bow of Hart at Magdronu's feet.

  Magdronu shook with deep, rumbling laughter. "At last. I've won!"

  Athson's stomach turned over. Certainty that he'd done the right thing fled his mind. He'd probably messed up completely this time.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Limbreth whirled, slashed, and parried. A sword tip slashed her calf, and she grunted. She stabbed a goblin in the throat and spit out a word to her horse to attack. The animal neighed and reared, front hooves pawing the air and several troll skulls. Limbreth ducked past her horse.

  "Rally to the ax-maid!" A single voice rose from nearby, and dozens answered amid the clash of weapons. And then a song formed along with dwarven ranks.

  Trolls charged Limbreth. Her horse kicked and reared. She parried an attacking hobgoblin's sword and stabbed it in the gut, then slashed its throat. Dark blood sprayed. She parried and whirled from a kobold's lightning-fast stab, her second sword slamming into its collarbone, which audibly cracked. The troll squealed as a dwarf hacked it in the back.

  Dwarves flooded the area around Limbreth, and trolls fell dead to hammers, long-knives, and hand-axes.

  Limbreth called off her horse and mounted as the dwarves defended her in those spare moments. She guided her horse with her knees and wheeled toward the bridge. She pointed one sword in that direction. "Form up! We fight to the bridge!"

  The melee grew vicious as the trolls around them counterattacked. Colonel Meegs and the Grendonese cavalry fought in a dwindling knot, but they edged toward the bridge. Around Limbreth, dwarven companies held their flanks.

  The dwarves fought to form a wall of defense and marched toward the bridge. Hundreds had fallen, but more still stood against the trolls.

  "The bridge!" Colonel Meegs's voice rose over the noise of the fighting.

  Limbreth's head whirled, and she glimpsed hundreds of trolls fleeing the bridge, followed by a stream of rangers led by a single dwarf. Limbreth laid about herself with renewed vigor and a shout of glee. "They're coming!"

  The dwarves sang of reaping their foes in a deadly harvest, and she joined the song. Her grip locked and she didn't care as she slashed from her horse.

  Rangers flooded the field as the trolls milled in sudden confusion, then broke and ran. Colonel Meegs quickly re-formed his surviving command and mounted a charge after the rout. Arrows sang from elven bows, dropping trolls as they fled. And the dwarves sang on as they engaged those bands of stubborn trolls that rallied around ogres and bugbears. The dwarves hewed into the greater trolls and felled them like trees. Limbreth raced around them and cut down any escaping goblins. Dwarves held no mercy for trolls, and neither did she.

  Officers called to re-form their ranks as the surviving trolls fled into the forest. The rangers advanced in disciplined ranks, still releasing arrows. Meanwhile the Grendonese cavalry swept east along the road and trampled any resistance before them. Limbreth calle
d for an officer.

  "Here, ax-maid!" Erskwe stepped forward at attention, blood streaming from a cut along his scalp.

  Limbreth gave him a stern look. "That's going to make one ugly scar."

  Erskwe flashed a grin. "Better than yours, ax-maid."

  "I'll show you mine if you show me yours." They both laughed a moment. "Form up a guard for the bridge. It may be a while before the rangers return with defense on their minds."

  Erskwe saluted and called for dwarves to form ranks. More than half formed up around Limbreth while the rest swept the field for surviving trolls or their fallen comrades.

  She rethought her command. "Just a hundred for now, let the rest search among the wounded."

  Erskwe called out a hundred dwarves and marched them behind Limbreth toward the bridge. She approached the gates and found one figure sitting on a makeshift chair.

  Makwi hawked and spat as she approached, his ax laid across his knees. "I suppose this means another verse, ax-maid." His eyes narrowed.

  "Only if you don't short me words, Makwi." She wiped each sword and sheathed them.

  Makwi snorted as if unimpressed. "Guess you want to cross my bridge."

  The dwarves behind Limbreth guffawed.

  "What's the toll?" she asked.

  Makwi's gaze swept the scene of dead trolls around them. "Oh, I think you've paid the toll for yourself and that lot behind you several times over."

  She laughed and worry for her friends returned. "Where are the others? You seen them? Tordug?" She left the other names hanging between them. "Are they chasing trolls?"

  One of Makwi's eyes narrowed as both filled with tears. "Tordug's dead. Defended the yonder gates alone and killed Corgren."

  Limbreth gasped in spite of being among dwarves, and her troop murmured among themselves.

  Erskwe shouted, "Honor to Tordug, Ruler of Chokkra and wizard-slayer!"

  Limbreth's head turned at the shout and the sound of her troop of dwarves as they took a knee. The honor lasted several moments, until Erskwe ordered them to their feet. Tordug had won back his honor.

  Tears dribbled down her cheeks as she faced her dour comrade. When she spoke again, her voice sounded husky in her ears. "And the others?" Please not Athson.

  Makwi then spoke in his terse way about all that had befallen their group. Limbreth wondered as he spoke how he'd ever compose verses for her. Her tears fell faster at word of Hastra dying to save Athson, but she truly gaped at the news that Gweld was really Magdronu. She recovered her wits, and her anger rose at the betrayal. Athson's enemy among them all this time, his friend for years.

  "Where has Athson gone?"

  "He thought they might build a shrine in the cemetery. Don't know where, though." Makwi scratched at his bearded cheek.

  Limbreth gasped. "I know. I'm going."

  "Want me to go?"

  She wagged her head. "You see to your father." She could speak of that now that Tordug had won his honor back. "Erskwe!"

  "Ax-maid!"

  "I leave you in the worthy command of Makwi, champion of Chokkra and its heir."

  She urged her mount across the bridge with a final salute to Makwi. The horse wove among the bodies of trolls and elves. At the gates, she found they'd pulled the ogre mentioned by Makwi out of the way. She found the bodies of the dead and wounded laid out along the street and caught sight of a gray beard. She paused and gazed at his face in death. He'd been like a father to her. She hoped he was proud of her today, but knew he would be. His beard needed re-braiding to display his honor. She'd leave that to Makwi. However, she dismounted, took a knee, and said, "Honor to Tordug, ruler of Chokkra and wizard-slayer."

  Nearby, Limbreth found Corgren's body laid out. She spat on him and called an elf over. She pointed at the wizard. "That's Corgren the wizard. He has no honor here. Remove his body and dispose of it how you will."

  With those words, Limbreth reined her horse around and rode through the city for its cemetery, where many of the honored dead would soon rest. If Athson was able to defeat Magdronu with the Bow of Hart and the White Arrow.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Athson backed away from Magdronu, his hands raised. Could he make a dive for the sword? "You have what you want. Leave Auguron alone. It's not worth all this. The bow doesn't work, and the arrow is broken."

  Magdronu laughed and snatched the Bow of Hart and the arrow pieces from the grass. "You're a bigger fool than I marked you for, Athson. You gave it without a fight, without bargaining." He shook his head and offered an all-too-familiar smile. "So often you've thought me your friend and ally. To think a mighty elf of age and wisdom would bother with a troubled, bothersome kid. Such foolish thinking.”

  "Others with good hearts bothered with me. Heth, Cireena, Sarneth." Athson backed farther away but ground his teeth. Easy, follow blessing, not anger. He angled for the sword. It was his only chance to defeat the bow.

  Magdronu fit the arrow pieces together in one hand. “The arrow is not so broken.” He stared at Athson with a mocking grin so discordant with past memory as the "elf's" hand glowed green. He released his grip and held the arrow out for Athson to see. The arrow glimmered white. "See, the power of magic, straight and unbroken." Magdronu nocked the arrow to the ancient bowstring. "And you always thought you were a hair better than me with the bow?" The dragon-as-elf wagged his head with another grin of mockery. "Never the truth there, either."

  He drew back the arrow and released it as if an afterthought.

  Athson dove for the sword. The arrow glowed white as it curved toward him and pierced him above the heart.

  Athson fell well short of the blessed sword. Pain shot through him, and he groaned. He touched the wound with both hands and drew them back covered with blood thick like wine. Just like the wine sloshed on my hands in Howart's Cave. More visions coming true. He put pressure on the wound and stretched for the sword.

  Magdronu cocked his head. "Now you try to fight? Foolish. That arrow is well placed to let you bleed out slowly, painfully.”

  Athson grimaced at the pain. His strength waned, and his breath sounded ragged in his ears. He rolled his eyes. Ralda lay on the other side of the marked shrine, his chest no longer rising with breath. No help there. Athson flopped his head toward his other companions. The Withlings withheld Paugren and one of the Beleesh sisters with their song. The others could do nothing or risk the searing power of the magic.

  Howart shook his head, reading Athson's thought. "If we release them, they operate the shrine. Why did you do it? It's not for him."

  "Not for him." Athson's voice croaked, and weakness grasped his limbs ever tighter. His body shook. "Spark."

  The guardian spirit growled where it held the Bane by the throat.

  Athson watched Magdronu through fluttering eyes. The arrow was for him, for his family's curse and betrayals. But the sword was blessed. And he couldn't reach it. His eyes drifted skyward, and his family's banner flitted in the breeze. Another vision fulfilled. Smoke drifted from the old cloth as it still smoldered in Magdronu's heated presence. Sweat poured from Athson. He was out of friends and help. He chuckled. "What is needed..."

  Magdronu leaned closer and laughed. "That's it, die with your faith in Eloch. But he can't help you now either. You chose poorly, Athson. And now you pay for your family in blood."

  The thrum of hooves vibrated on the ground and pounded in Athson's ears. He turned his head, his eyes hardly open, and gasped while blood pulsed around the arrow.

  Magdronu stood. "Ah, pointless help at the last moment. And you'll never guess who it is." He drew his elven long-knife and faced a charging white horse.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Limbreth rode through the Auguron City graveyard, a wide expanse mostly unused, since elves lived so long. If Magdronu and his mages were making a shrine there, it had to be in a quiet place where they could work undisturbed. The Bane had led her there once.

  She sat up in the saddle and almost reined her horse to a halt. The Bane
. It had marked the place for future use on that visit. She guided the horse along a lane that led deeper into copses interspersed with open fields. She avoided graves and headed in the general direction toward her first meeting with Athson. The vague notion of direction from that misty afternoon strained her memory. She kicked her heels into her horse's flanks, and the animal snorted in weary response but gained speed along the even lane.

  The white horse crested a knoll, and a wide expanse opened below Limbreth. Figures stood among the trees in a wide circle. The little-used gate stood beyond, among the edge of trees marking the cemetery grounds. In moments, Limbreth and her horse passed the graves of Athson's foster-parents and, as she drew closer, her breath caught in her throat. Two figures were down in the glade. The others stood motionless. What were they doing?

  She approached at a gallop and drew her swords. Quick glances informed her that the Withlings were engaged with two mages, leaving two others busy. Gweld stood with—her heart sank. He bore the Bow of Hart. The larger of the two on the ground, that was Ralda. She forced her sorrow and dismay away at the realization of who the other person on the ground was. Athson lay, feebly struggling, pierced with an arrow. How could that be? For an instant, fear surged through her, followed by anger.

  The horse entered the glade, and Limbreth screamed her fury. Protect Athson. She guided her horse toward Gweld and attacked in a crazed charge.

  The elf turned and waited in her horse's path. At the last moment, he leapt aside. His elven long-knife struck Limbreth's swords like lightning in a less than a blink. She reeled at the force of the blows, and her swords flew from her hands. She rolled off her horse, cartwheeled off her feet, and landed hard on her left arm. Numbness and sharp pain flashed up her arm. She scrambled to her feet and backed away from Gweld, who advanced with his elven long-knife held on-guard.

  A mocking smile, an unfamiliar expression, spread across Gweld's familiar face. "I see Dareth failed me. Something to deal with later. And, really, Limbreth, this isn't Marston's Station, and I'm not a pack of unreliable trolls."