by Wayne Mee
***
"Why did Kel do that?", Timin demanded.
Thorn, standing off to one side, smiled at his life-long friend. "Who can say what strange customs a Chin lives by; but whatever the reason, it seems to have worked."
Then it was Erin's turn and the tall manling stepped towards the raised platform. Zorka Agwain nodded and pages rushed in with the manling's gifts. One carried a purple cushion, on which rested an elaborately worked silver helm. Another page, the same one that had told Erin about Gildar's sore ribs, struggled forward with a glittering scale male shirt. Erin winked at the young page, who grinned back at him.
"The Zorka," Mithdar said calmly; "has given you a truly princely gift. Before you is one of his own mail shirts and matching helm, worn proudly by the Zorka himself several times in battle." Mithdar, seeing how the tall mercenary seemed more interested in the glitter of Zoean's eyes than he was in the armour, stepped closer and whispered sternly in the 'manling's' ear. "Mind you're manners, damn you, and look here! Why, the silver alone is worth a king's ransom!"
Erin glanced quickly at the glittering shirt. "Faith now, it be a right handsome gift to be sure," he said casually in his own native tongue; "but in my business a man wearin' that fancy get-up wouldn't last a bloody day. It's worth too quiffin' much! While I slept some bugger would slit my throat to get his hands on so much silver! Besides, I might just as well carry a lit torch as strut 'round in that out-fit! Thank ye kindly, but no thank ye."
Most had been able to follow Erin's speech, though few could believe that he had refused the Zorka's gift. The word of it flew round the grassy field like wildfire. Mithdar took Erin by the elbow and led him to one side. "Have you taken leave of what little senses you have?! You can't insult the Zorka this way. Your friend Thorn needs his help! Besides, you can always sell the damn thing later!"
Erin was about to reconsider when Zoean stepped forward, hands on hips. By the look in her green eyes she clearly had something to say, and knowing Zoean, it wouldn't be long in coming.
"So, 'manling', you don't fancy the bright silver shirt my sire has so graciously bestowed on you? Zoean moved up closer and, standing on tip-toe, leaned toward him menacingly. "Tell me, weapons-man, be there anything in our humble home that you DO fancy?!"
Mithdar groaned, for he guessed what was about to happen, though he was powerless to stop it.
Erin's smile lit up his rugged face. "A 'boon', darlin' girl. T'is an old 'n much revered custom in my homeland that a winner may ask a boon o' any lady he so chooses --- 'n she dare not refuse him."
Zoean cocked her sleek, dark head to one side. "She 'dare not' you say? T'is a dangerous custom --- and a foolish one."
Erin's grin widened. "We men o' Loamin be a foolish lot."
"And 'a dangerous lot' by the looks of things. But out with it then; who is this 'lady' and what would you have of her?"
Erin bowed low, then, drawing himself up again to his full height, grinned down at her with his flashing, wolf-grey eyes. "The 'lady' be yerself, me darlin' girl, 'n as for the boon, it's to be havin' a kiss from your own ruby lips. Also I'd take it kindly if you'd be acceptin' yonder white beastie as a gift, for it's a deck 'n not a saddle I've rode all me days."
The crowd around her seemed stunned. Zorka Agwain grunted at the manling's audacity, while Prince Arthdain rose to his feet, his hand going to his sword hilt. The Lady Elandilmir however, hid a smile behind her scarf. As for the lady's daughter, Zoean, she flushed red beneath her golden tan and fixed the tall outlander with a frown that would have withered many a lesser man. Erin merely grinned back at her like a satisfied wolf.
Mithdar groaned from his place beside the two Kirkwean.
Zoean, her face still flushed, turned and faced her somewhat impatient father. "Sire, since your 'unbeatable champion' has been beaten and since his vanquisher declines your glittering gift, I propose that you offer him The Raven's armour, for by the Blessed Light of Oma, he has well earned it this day!"
Agwain's puzzled expression turned to one of shock. "Daughter!", he managed at last. "Know you what you ask?! The Raven's armour is a priceless artifact of our Silv! Over the long years none have come close to earning the right to bear such arms! Besides, the sacred armour of The Raven cannot be worn by a... a 'Gorgio'!"
Zoean placed both hands on her shapely hips and glared back at her father. "And why not? If yonder manling be good enough to beat the best, than by Quent's curly thatch, he DESERVES the best!"
The crowd began to chatter, both at what Zoean had said as well as the way she had said it! The Lady Elandilmir leaned forward and, with an indulgent frown, schooled her over-forward child to caution. Her father was quite another story.
"Zoean!," he roared. "I'll not have you use such language, especially in public! If you must blaspheme, get you hence from my hearing!"
Zoean bowed formally. "Sire, I but quote an oath I've heard many a time from your own lips. But we stray from the mark. The manling here has won your tourney. You gave him a horse; he gave it back to me. You offered him a silver suit; he refused, saying he 'prefers black'. I but offer him one in the colour of his liking."
Before her father could find an argument, she pressed her point. "Both these 'outlanders' have proven themselves worthy far beyond anything we Nim-Loth could have imagined. Where we thought them unskilled, they proved to be masters; where we thought them crude, they have shown themselves to be courtly. Why, not only myself, but my mother --- your queen and wife --- has accepted their gifts. Can the Zorka of the Ithilian Silv be any less generous?!"
The crowd murmured their agreement, a fact that was not lost on Agwain. The Lady Elandilmir spoke quietly to her husband, and in the end he sighed and tapped his staff of office three times. A hushed silence fell over the green field as he rose.
"Hear me all and heed me well. Yonder manling has won fairly and with full honour the ancient right to wear the armour, shield and 'Cirith' of The Raven. For too long have they lain unused in my treasure room." Agwain went on before the crowd could react.
"Our friend and councilor, the mage Mythdarian, brings grave tidings of war and strife from the north. The Glamroth grow overbold in the Tarn and the Savage Ones of distant Slathland are marching south. Ill times are on the wind for all the races. I had thought that here in Gareth Withrin we could hold back the hands of time, but I see now that I was wrong. The passing of time waits for none, not even we long-lived of Blessed Oma."
He then motioned for both Mithdar and Erin to approach him. "In the past Mythdarian has often urged against this self-imposed isolation. Now he presses me to join forces with the other Free Races and fight the evil that presses down on us from the north. In the past I rejected the idea, but no more! "
Those listening began to repeat the Zorka's words, filling the glade with their cries, but once again Agwain called for silence. "Mythdarian has also brought us two of the 'Wandering People' out of our own legends. With these Wee'ns comes that which even the wisest of our race thought to be long lost. Shard has returned, and where Shard goes, The Shadow Lord, Lucfelian can never be far off!"
The silence that fell over the gathering was like a wet blanked dropped on a fire; there was some hissing and smoke, but the flame had gone out. People turned to each other and silently mouthed the two names that most had thought never to hear again; 'Lucfelian' and 'Shard'.
Zorka Agwain raised his staff of office and once again a hush fell over the startled crowd.
"It shall now be as the High One desires! Nim-Lothian shall join forces with the other Free People of Oma-Var! The host of Gareth Withrin shall go forth! and this manling shall wear the Raven's Black Armour and the Dragon Circlet! He will be the bond that binds both his race and ours together! Long live The Raven of the Nim-Loth --- and death to our enemies!"
Amid the cheering, Erin turned to Zoean. "N' just who, me wild-eyed beauty, was this Raven?!"
Zoean's face could not conceal her mirth. "He was our bravest hero who long ago slew a
great worm single handed. My people have taken him as a symbol of bravery and courage ever since --- and I am not your 'beauty' --- nor anyone else's!"
Erin, ignoring her last remark, concentrated on her first one. "N' what, prey tell, ever became o' this 'shining symbol o' bravery'?"
Before answering, Zoean jumped down, strode over to the white stallion and vaulted into the saddle. "Oh, he died," she shot casually back at him. "Killed by the great worm that he himself had just slain. Legend has it that's why the armour is all black --- the fool was roasted alive by the fire from the creature's dying breath!" With that she whirled around an was gone, leaving her servant Nob to hurry after her.
Erin looked over to where Thorn and the others stood and swore. Kel gazed back at him from beneath a raised eyebrow.
***
Chapter 21: 'THE CALL TO WAR'
The feasting went on long into the night. It seemed to the two small Kirkwean that they had never before seen so much food and ale in one place. Timin, never one to pass up a free meal, indulged himself to the point where he had to let out his belt not one but two notches!
"Well", Mithdar grumbled as he settled down at their table. "A fine mess of things your big friend has made this time!"
"Who, Erin?", Timin said round a mouthful of hot bread. "Why, he's a hero! Him and Kel both!"
Thorn saw the uneasiness in the old man's eyes. "Gildar still lives. Erin just knocked him senseless. Do you think he'll cause trouble for us?"
"Undoubtedly," Mithdar replied. "But that's not the real problem." The mage fiddled with his untouched horn of mead. "If only the young fool hadn't refused Agwain's gift!"
Thorn decided to press further. "Just what is this 'Raven' business anyway? Has it anything to do with my --- sword?"
"Yes and no, lad. Both are made from Twain or 'Black Gold', but more importantly, both have had fierce spells of power cast over them. Your 'sword' we at least know something about, for though it is terrible, we still can take certain steps to ward against it; but this other ---"
"Who was this 'Raven' fellow anyway?", Timin asked, interested enough to have finally stopped eating. Mithdar leaned back and began to fill his pipe.
"'The Raven' is a title, Timin. Long, long ago, before this particular group of Nim-Loth came to settle here in Gareth Withrin, there came to the Greenwood of Finfairin a great worm."
Timin nearly choked on his mug of ale. "You mean a real dragon?! I thought they were only in stories and legends!"
Mithdar smiled. "There are many that think you Kirkwean are but tales out of legend."
Timin closed his gaping mouth, remembering Zorkana Elandilmir's words of surprised delight when she first saw the two 'Wee'ns'.
Mithdar continued. "This great worm was both very old and very cruel, even by dragon standards. Old wounds and age had tightened her joints so that she lived in constant pain. Therma-Dag-Rexus the Nim-Loth of Finfairin called her, 'The Queen of Fire'."
"Was she alone?" Timin's voice had sunk to a whisper, while his wide eyes roved the lengthening shadows of the large hall.
"Again I must say both 'yes and no'. She had no mate when she entered the Greenwood, but when the High Zorka sent his best warriors, his famed 'Hawks-of-War', out to slay her, they found only her cave --- and her young."
"Baby dragons?!" All thought of bottle and plate now fled from Timin's mind. Even brooding Thorn leaned closer as the old mage continued. About them music, dancing and laughter filled Agwain's large hall, but in their little corner it was though a dark hush had descended.
"To come to the point, the warriors slew the newly hatched infants and fled, for so great was the 'worm-fear' upon them that none dared stay and face the mother's wrath --- and such a wrath it was! The 'Queen of Fire' lived up to her name and then some! So great was her ire that whole villages were leveled, forests were set ablaze and streams and lakes boiled beneath her vengeful breath! In desperation the High Zorka called once again for his warriors to sally forth and slay the worm --- yet none came save one. A lowly half-wit named Sul. He was taller than most, but simple minded, or at least so it was said."
Timin grunted. "He'd have to be to face an angry dragon alone!" Thorn frowned at his friend and turned his attention back to Mithdar. Blue smoke from his pipe wreathed the old man's head. "When Finfairin saw that 'Sul the Simple' was the only one willing to fight Therma-Dag-Rexus, he gave Sul his own armour to wear; ring-shirt, shield, sword and spear. He also gave Sul a special circlet or small crown made from a very rare, red metal that somehow acted like a 'negative load-stone', repelling iron rather than attracting it. Finfairin called him his 'foolish raven', daring to go where even his fierce Hawks-of-War feared to tread."
"Did he really go all alone?", Timin asked, his eyes wide with wonder.
Mithdar nodded. "Tales tell that the skies over the Greenwood blazed forth as they fought. The very earth itself was said to have trembled."
"And this Sul actually killed the great worm?", Thorn asked, now as caught up in the tale as his cousin. The mage nodded again, though there was sadness both in his old eyes and his whispered words.
"'First with spear and then with sword, The Raven faced his foe'".
"That sounds like a poem." Timin's love of stories overcame his awe. "Tell us the rest!"
Mithdar drew on his pipe and then set it down gently. "It is a line from 'The Lay of the Raven', a very old story-saga and also very long, but I'll give you the ending, though I don't think you'll like it." Both Kirkwean urged him on, so that soon his deep, clear voice filled their corner of the hall.
"'First with spear and then with sword,
The Raven faced his foe.
Therma-Dag-Rexus,
The greatest of the great worms,
Back was forced to go.
The sun waxed cold, the mountains shook,
And never was seen again,
The dragon's ire, The Dark Queen's fire,
For The Raven was her bane.
But when the smoke and fire had died,
No trace of either was seen,
Just blackened mail and smoldering tail,
Where once Raven and Worm had been.'"
Mithdar's deep voice rolled away like distant thunder, then fell silent. "But what happened to him?!" Timin demanded. "If all that was left was the armour, he must have been---
"Burnt to a cinder," Thorn whispered, more to himself than to anyone else.
"I'm afraid so." Mithdar reached for his mead-horn. "And now the Nim-Loth have found another witless fool to wear The Raven's armour!"
A lilting voice suddenly cut through their dark thoughts. "What's this? Gloomy faces from the legendary Wee'ns?" Zoean's piercing blue eyes swept over the two Kirkwean and came to rest on the old mage. Behind her stood the tall Woodsmaster, Flynnial the Narthrond. "Mythdarian, here I come to ask you to tread a measure or two with me and what do I find? You've been spinning tales of doom and woe again!"
"Guilty as charged," Mithdar said, offering the tall blonde and her companion a chair. "And I'm afraid my bones are far too old for dancing."
"Nonsense!", Zoean beamed. "Flynn, or should I say, 'Master Narthrond' here outright refuses to even try. Far too 'dignified' to be seen strutting about the floor with a former student. But you, for all your talk about 'advanced years', seem as spry as any of the young bucks here! Come, they're just starting a very slow fila, and my mother has often told me that you and her---"
"That was a very long time ago, child," Mithdar cut in pleasantly. "Before you were even born." Zoean smiled and the dimly lit corner seemed to glow with light. "Ah, but the heart remembers even after the head forgets. Come, dance with me."
Mithdar started to object when Flynnial came to his rescue. "Perhaps one of the Wee'ns would care to try the fila, for legend has it that they are as light as air on their feet."
"A splendid idea!", Mithdar agreed. "Go on, Thorn. Show this fair Nim-Lothian maid what a nimble-footed lad from The Wold can do!"
Thorn, tu
rning suddenly red, tried to protest, but Zoean pulled him to his feet and whisked him away into the swirling crowd. Timin chucked to himself and nudged the mage in the ribs. "Erg strike me, but if Fern could see him now! She'd have something to say about him cavorting about with such a fair-haired maiden!"
"'Fern'?", Mithdar repeated. "You don't mean old Broadleaf's daughter?" Timin grinned from ear to ear. "Well!" Mithdar beamed. "There seems to be a great deal more to our young 'Wanderer' than even I thought possible."
Out on the crowded floor Thorn was trying to follow the slow, sweet sounds of the fila. The music of the Nim-Loth had a timeless quality to it, and Timin, sitting watching his cousin, found himself drifting off to a land somewhere between myth and reality.
Flynnial leaned forward and caught the old man's eye. "I've been meaning to talk to you."
"Oh," Mithdar replied, taking up his pipe and knocking the dottle into a glazed bowl on the table, he began to search about in his bag for his tobacco. "About what?"
"Please. Try some of mine," the Woodsmaster smiled, taking his own pipe and a worn leather pouch from his belt wallet. "It's called Moon-Leaf. I found some growing wild deep in the woods near my cabin."
Mithdar accepted with a smile and they both filled their bowls and shared the candle. "Mmmm, quite good, though a bit strong. Found this growing wild you say?"
Flynnial shrugged. "As Woodsmaster I'm required to see things that others often miss. Take your travelling companions for example".
"What about them?"
The Narthrond's weathered features creased into a warm smile. "Well, to begin with, the Chin is a wonder with a bow. Never have I seen his like before! And as for the tall 'manling', in a single, day he has managed to do what others have spent their lives striving for --- to best the Zorka's champion and become The Raven."
"A title that you yourself had wanted?" Mithdar's dark eyes were sharp and piercing.
Flynnial laughed deeply. "You know better than that. To be The Woodsmaster is more than I deserve. I have no desire for any loftier perch."