Shard

by Wayne Mee

  They were half way through the gap when the grappling lines came. Three or four missed, yet at least that number held fast. Frantically Erin sought to cut the thick ropes, but all too swiftly their craft was being pulled towards the fallen pine. Howls of delight went up from the Karns as they saw their victims being dragged towards them. Several over eager ones leapt towards the boat, only to be cut down by Erin and Kel, yet it was like fighting back the tide and all aboard knew it.

  It was then that Mithdar stood up.

  The long paddle had been replaced by his gnarled staff. As he held it up, his shadow seemed to grow, filling the gap. The words that came from his mouth held no meaning to any on board, but their effect was clear for all to see. With a quick hand movement, he pointed the staff like an accusing finger at the swarming mass of Karns. A shimmer not unlike that seen on a hot summer's day seemed to come from the end of the staff, spreading out to blur the center of the log. For a long moment nothing seemed to happen, then clothes and fur began to smolder. A blinding burst of light erupted from the heart of the log. Hungry flames licked over branches and bodies. Bits of wood, flesh and bone exploded into the air. The smell of pine resin, rotten eggs and charred flesh hung over the river like a cloud.

  The remaining Karns scattered. Those on the bank shrunk back in terror. The boats that had followed, however, had little choice, for the current was propelling them toward the still grappled craft.

  "Cut the lines!", bellowed Erin, brushing by the tired looking tinker who now sat winded and spent in the bottom of the boat. "Kel, to me! Timin, help Thorn with those lines!"

  As the two fighters lashed into the nearest boatload of wide-eyed Karns, Timin hastened forward, his small belt knife in hand. "What was THAT?!", he whispered to Thorn. "Did MITHDAR ..."

  "Shut up and CUT!", Thorn yelled. "They can't hold them off for long!"

  Timin sawed away at the thick rope, but did little damage. "My knife's too small!", he said. "And so am I! I haven't the strength!"

  "Stand back!", Thorn hissed. Then, drawing Shard, he swung at the three remaining ropes. Like strands from a spiderweb the thick ropes were severed by the black sword's keen edge. Timin beamed and began to push away from the log, using a paddle for leverage. Just then however, the river swept them under an overhanging willow and three burly Karns dropped down on them from above. Their combined weight all but swamped the boat, pitching them all to one side. Thorn went down with two of them atop him, while the third fell at Mithdar's feet. The old tinker, sitting like a ragged bundle in the bottom of the boat, seemed not to notice.

  Timin, regaining his footing, swung at the back of one of the brutes bending over Thorn. The paddle broke as it struck the Karn's broad back, causing the creature to grunt and turn slowly. Part of its body was badly burned, and the stink of smoke and fire rose up with it. A wicked grin on its evil face, the yellow-toothed monster shambled towards Timin.

  Then a scream rent the air, causing all within its hearing to freeze. The Karn that had been struggling with Thorn suddenly stood up, its paw-like hands holding its stomach. Steaming entrails slipped like glistening, wet ropes about its feet. A swishing sound followed and the creature's head flew from its body. Black blood pumped like a fountain from the severed neck. Then the knees buckled and it toppled into the water.

  The Karn that had been heading for Timin turned. Seeing what had happened to its comrade, the creature bolted for the river. As the frightened beast jumped, Shard flicked out and pierced it in the heart.

  That left the one near Mithdar. The Karn had landed poorly, spraining its ankle and cracking its head in the process. As Thorn strode forward, a wild look in his eyes, his infamous black blade dripping gore, the terrified Karn could do little but cower and whine. Slowly Thorn stretched out his left hand and grabbed the creature by the hair. Pulling back to expose the bared throat, Thorn raised Shard.

  "NO!", bellowed Mithdar, suddenly seeing what was about to happen. "DON"T DO IT, Thorn! DON"T give in to the evil!"

  Thorn paused, still holding the trembling Karn ready for the slaughter. Every fiber of his being cried out to take the pathetic creature's life; to strike out and bathe the black blade in sacrificial blood.

  And then a strange thing happened; the quivering creature seemed to shiver, and its fear dulled eyes blazed forth with a evil cunning and words in Thorn's native tongue rumbled forth from its overlarge mouth. The 'force' that dwelt in Shard, a sliver of Lucfelian's evil shade, was using the terrified Karn to pass on its master's message.

  Pleased to meet you, Thorn.

  Hope you guess my name.

  But what's troubling you,

  Is the 'nature' of my game.

  "NO, Thorn!", Mithdar yelled, his voice once again strong and stern, for he now stood towering over both the entranced Kirkwean and the speaking Karn. "I FORBID IT!!"

  Don't listen to the old fool, Thorn.

  His time is past, but yours has just begun!

  Follow me and I shall make thee great!

  Suddenly Mithdar once again thrust forth his staff, touching Thorn ever so lightly on his helm. The wild-eyed 'Wee'n' jerked, stiffened, then dropped like a stone, while the terrified Karn lay rooted to the keel, its red eyes rolling white in their sockets.

  "Begone, foul carrion!", Mithdar commanded, pointing his staff at the trembling creature. "And tell your master that his days are now numbered!"

  The Karn bolted from the craft and was swallowed by the river. Those still left alive in the other boats, seeing what had befallen their brethren, hastily disengaged from Erin and Kel's attack and fled to the far shore. The boat drifted free from the still burning log and was carried through the gap and on around the bend. Soon the scene of the carnage was left far behind.

  But Thorn knew none of that, for he lay unconscious in the bottom of the blood-washed boat.

  ***

  Chapter 18: 'THE NIM-LOTH OF GARETH WITHRIN'

  Thorn, wrapped in his tattered cloak, lay sleeping in the bottom of the boat. Timin, after bailing out the watery blood, sat by his cousin in stony silence. His Slath shortsword across his knees, Timin glared at the strange old tinker. The gentle rocking of the boat, however, slowly lulled the pudgy Kirkwean into a world of fitful dreams. Mithdar roused himself long enough to spread his cloak over them both before dropping into an exhausted slumber of his own.

  It was well into the afternoon when they first saw the lake. The river emptied out into what at first glance looked like an inland sea. Sparkling water stretched away before them for as far as the eye could see. Scattered about were scores of islands. Some were no more than a rocky knoll with a few lone pines crowning them, while others rose up out of the blue lake like miniature continents, complete with rolling plains and towering peaks.

  Erin was about to wake the others when an arrow smacked into the mast.

  Before Glenrig could clear its scabbard, two more shafts followed the first. Then the voice came. It was in heavily accented Common, quaintly old fashioned. Though friendly on the surface, it was also strangely menacing.

  "Hold ye there, wayfarers, and kindly state thy business in Gareth Withrin."

  Erin stood and looked about him, Glenrig now bare in his hand. "Show yourself, 'friend', for I'd be seein' who greets harmless strangers so!"

  The voice replied, though seemingly from a different place. "If ye be 'friend' or 'foe' shall be judged anon. For now, lay aside thy weapons."

  Erin was about to offer a cutting reply when, out of the weeds to the left, glided a long, narrow skiff. Another materialized from the right. Both craft held armed bowmen, their weapons pointing directly at Erin. Standing in the prow of the first skiff was a tall, slender form dressed all in silver scale-male with a high silver helm. A long scarlet cloak was draped casually over his shoulders. He spoke again, a smug look on his handsome face.

  "And now that thy hast had thy wish, 'manling', surrender thy weapons --- or die."

  Mithdar stood up and spoke in a strange lilting ton
gue. Erin was surprised to find it very close to that of the ancient Loamin speech, for he could easily follow the conversation.

  "Tis a poor way, Gildar, for a Bar Warden to greet a returning friend --- especially one that has grave tidings for your liege lord!"

  The tall Nim-Loth gazed coldly at the old tinker. "Mythdarian! What ill wind brings you back to Gareth Withrin? I had thought to be well rid of you and your outlandish ways!"

  "An 'ill wind' indeed!," Mithdar replied curtly. "And one that may well shake the very foundations of all our hopes. But my task be not to bandy words with a 'watery gatekeeper'! Lower your bows and lead me to your lord, for already the hour grows late!"

  The tall Nim-Loth seemed taken back by the tinker's bold words, and was about to answer in kind when Thorn suddenly roused himself. Bleary eyed from his long sleep, he gazed about him in wonder.

  "What's happened, Mithdar? Are we there yet?"

  Timin, awakened by Thorn's rising, beamed from ear to ear when he saw his cousin had returned to the 'land of the living'.

  Several of the Nim-Loth gasped when they saw the two Kirkwean. Gildar, their tall leader, turned to them and barked out an order, then faced Mithdar.

  "Well, Mythdarian, I see that thou hast in truth brought something that the Zorka might wish to see! Two of the 'Lost People' out of legend! Where did you capture them?"

  Mithdar visibly stiffened. "If either your eyes or your wits were as sharp as your tongue, Gildar, then you would see that these two Kirkwean come as friends, as do the rest of us. Now, waist not my time any further, for it is your lord I wish to speak with, not his servant!"

  Erin was well pleased by the way the old tinker put the silver-plated dandy in his place, and said as much, using the old speech of his distant homeland.

  Gildar's eyes narrowed at both Erin's cutting words and his use of an ancient Nim-Lothian dialect. Mithdar, however, turned and growled in the Common Tongue. "Speak when spoken too, weapon's man, and not before!"

  Thorn, catching only this last part of the conversation, looked up at a still smiling Erin. "What's the matter? Why is Mithdar angry with you?"

  The tall man from Loamin chuckled. "The 'old greybeard' just ruffled that silver-plated rooster's tail feathers. I but agreed with him. Faith!, but he can be a terrible old man when his ire's up!"

  Timin hid a grin while Kel stood silently by the mast, his dark eyes watching the Nim-Lothian archers.

  Gildar barked some orders and the skiffs made for the largest island. "Come along then, Mythdarian! My liege lord will indeed judge the importance of your words. For your own sake I hope they are not found wanting!"

  "Pleasant chap," Timin quipped, though he hadn't understood a word. "Rather fancies himself though."

  Erin's smile had vanished. "Aye, lad, that he does."

  The Wanderer and his companions had at last arrived at Gareth Withrin.

  ***

  "Ahhh now, would you look at that?!", Timin muttered as he gazed upon the rolling hills and green meadows of Gareth Withrin's main isle.

  There were none of the fabled glittering castles or soaring white towers that most tales claimed the 'Fair-Folk' dwelt in. What did greet the eye was lush green fields dotted with sheep; sparkling brooks that danced over miniature falls; roads lined with wild flowers; arched stone bridges and quaint cottages with high, thatched roofs.

  Timin sighed again. "Erg strike me!, but it's as much like The Wold as a place can get and not have its Great Pines! Why, every dwelling reminds me of The Forge, only grander!"

  Mithdar smiled. "There are few places like your beloved Wold, good Timin. Gareth Withrin is one such place. Let us pray that they both remain so."

  Timin felt the worry in the old man's voice, but a shake of Thorn's head caused the portly little Kirkwean to let it go.

  Gildar's skiff had already docked and the tall Nim-Loth was waiting for them when Erin swung around and lowered the sail. As the five climbed out, the Bar Warden looked directly at the wolf-eyed mercenary and scoffed: "Was it that worm-eaten Karn-skiff or your own lack of water-craft that made you lag so far behind?"

  Again, though Gildar spoke Nim-Lothian, Erin understood him with ease, though it was plain to all that the Bar Warden was openly baiting the 'manling'.

  "Faith, friend, the scow is a might sluggish, but then in this mill pond a real seaman could hardly expect much more."

  Gildar reddened and was about to answer when a half score of guards trotted up to the warf. The leader bowed curtly and waited for orders. Both Erin and Kel noted their silver scale-male and shining spears. This isle may not have fortress or walls, but neither warrior doubted its inhabitant's ability to defend themselves.

  Bar Warden Gildar turned back to Mithdar. "It seems the Zorka has already heard of your return and awaits you in his hall. Go now with these Warders. Your 'fiends' will be cared for till you return."

  Thorn was not pleased to hear this, but the old tinker assured them that they should go with Gildar, as a guest house had been assigned them. While half the guards escorted Mithdar up the road, Gildar and the remaining five led the others to an isolated cottage further down the lake.

  ***

  An hour or so later, after the two servants had cleared the dishes and left, Erin began to pace back and forth before the hearth. "I don't like it! That silver plated quiffer was far too sure o' himself 'n the tinker's been gone longer than expected!"

  Timin, still eating, mumbled something about Mithdar knowing what he was doing when the door opened and in walked the old tinker himself. He lost little time in telling of his meeting with Lord Agwain, the Zorka of Garth Withrin.

  "And when I told Lord Agwain not only had I brought two Kirkwean, but that one of them bore 'The Wanderer's Sword', he was very interested indeed. You are to be presented to him and the Zorkana Elandilmir tomorrow at the beginning of some 'games' they have planned."

  "That fellow, Bar Gildar, mentioned something about games earlier," Thorn put in. "Though I couldn't follow his speech, it seemed quite plain that he was goading Erin. The two of them, er, 'exchanged a few heated words' on the subject."

  The old mage turned to frown at the weapons-man. "And just what trouble did that glib tongue of yours get us into now?! I warned you about baiting Gildar!"

  Erin grinned and helped himself to another mug of dark ale, while openly ogling the taller of the two Nim-Lothian maidens that had brought their food and drink. "The pompous ass was goin' on about what great fighters his Nim-Loth were. All I did was agree to a small contest of skills. Kel will enter the archery match 'n I will teach these silver-plated lads a little Loamin swordplay. You need not be frettin', friend tinker; Kel 'n I will go easy on 'em all."

  "'Go easy on them'?!", Mithdar repeated. "Those 'silver-plated lads' as you called them are probably the best warriors in all of Oma-Var! The Nim-Loth are a wise and ancient race. They were developing the art of warfare when your ancestors were still digging for roots and living in caves!"

  Erin finished his brew, smiled at the shorter, raven haired maiden and held his mug out for a refill. "Ta, darlin' girl. That may well be, 'master wizard', but we o' Loamin have come a long way since we crawled out of our quiffin' caves. As for Kel, he'll best anything these fancy dressed Nim's have got! That dandy with the stick up his arse gave me three to one odds --- 'n I don't plan on losin'!"

  Mithdar shook his head. "Zorka Agwain is a powerful ruler and we need his help --- Thorn especially. He has no great love for the other races, and 'Mankind' most of all, so I think it extremely unwise to do anything to turn them any more against us than they already are!"

  Erin stood up quickly, his wolf-grey eyes gone suddenly cold. "You look to your pots 'n your spells, greybeard, 'n let me worry about handling the likes o' Bar Quiffin' Gildar!" With a few long strides he reached the door. "I'm off now to check out the lay o' the land! Come along lassies n' I'll be teachin' ye both a drinkin' game we have in far off Loamin. N' you o' the sun-kissed tresses, be bringin' that extra j
ug along with ye, there's a darlin girl!"

  As the door slammed behind him, Mithdar sighed and motioned for Kel to follow the hot-headed mercenary. "Stay close to him, lad, for he's well in his cups and we can't afford to antagonize the Nim-Loth any further; and for the Love of Oma!, keep him away from Bar Gildar!"

  The Chin gave a slight bow, then glided out of the room like a shadow. Thorn came to the table and sat across from the old mage. "How is it that Erin can understand the Nim-Loth tongue?"

  Timin, who was over by the hearth brewing tea, looked up. "I was wondering about that as well. He get's everything that Gildar fellow says, and though it's Slath to me, Erin kens it all!"

  Mithdar took out his pipe and began to pack the bowl. "I'm only guessing now, but I think you'll find that our young weapons-man from The Isles of Loamin and the Nim-Loth have a common ancestry --- though very distant."

  Timin nearly dropped his beloved tea kettle. "You mean that Erin has Nim-Loth blood in him?!"

  "Hardly!", Mithdar smiled through a wreath of smoke. "You recall when I first mentioned the Nim-Loth he scoffed and told us that back on his isles they had a race called 'Rill' or 'Na-Rill', and how he scoffed about them having certain 'magical qualities'?"

  The two Kirkwean nodded and Mithdar continued.

  "Well, the Nim-Loth are a very old race. On Oma-Var only the Delgii have been here longer. There coming marks the beginning of the First Age of Oma-Var. This, by the way, is the 1,745th year of the Second Age. For you Kirkwean it is the year 1127, while for Erin is probably somewhere near the end of the 9th century."

  "But how can that be?!", asked Timin, clearly at a loss to follow the old man's reasoning.

  "Because, Timin, each race marks the passage of time from a special event in their own history, usually the founding of either their homeland or their religion."

  "But I still don't see why Erin can understand Nim-Loth!"

  "Perhaps you would if you'd cease interrupting me!", Mithdar barked; then regaining his composure, he continued. "Soon after the Second Age began there was a 'Scattering' of the various races, especially the Nim-Loth or the 'Faireen' as some call them. Far and wide they wandered, each clan or 'silv' settling in the far-flung parts of Oma-Var. With the passage of time these isolated 'silvs' slowly 'adapted' to their new homelands. Where the land was uninhabited, as it has here in Gareth Withrin, the true Nim-Lothian culture survived. Where the land was NOT empty, the 'Scattering' became a 'Mingling' of the races. Perhaps the Rill of Erin's Loamin are one of these."