by Wayne Mee
As it turned out, they managed to lose the Karns --- and themselves as well.
***
Thorn felt as though he was caught-up in a dream; some terrible, bizarre nightmare --- and he desperately wanted it to end! His body seemed to vibrate, calling out for relief-giving sleep, but at the same time his mind raced. Visions flashed before him, obliterating the actions of the others around him. The harsh clash of battle seemed to rage in his ears; his inward-looking eyes relived the hacking and slaying he had just gone through, while at the same time scenes from the distant past could be glimpsed behind the blood and gore.
Granther Higgs seemed to smile at him warmly as he saw himself cleave a Karn's arm from it's grotesque body; the gentle face of Fern, his betrothed, turned lovingly towards him as he thrust his sword up to the hilt in another attacker's hairy form. New-past mingled with distant-past in an unreal present, swirling about inside his head until he thought it would burst!
"Thorn!"
The voice seemed to come from far, far away --- yet it carried such power!
"Come back, Thorn! Come back NOW!!"
Like a swimmer bursting to the surface, the small Kirkwean opened his eyes, blinking them to clear his vision as he gasped for air. Before him was the stern face of Mithdar. Behind him stood Timin, tears running down his round face.
"What --- what happened?!"
" The old man attempted a smile, yet his deep frown still clearly showed his concern. "You were being 'pulled away' from us lad. Some sort of 'scrying' I believe, but it is gone --- for now at least. How do you feel?"
Thorn tried to stand but found his legs wouldn't hold him. Timin eased him back to his seat. "Like I've just returned from the grave! It was all light and sound and fear --- and then it all turned dark, as though a great shadow had washed over me!"
"Hmmm", Mithdar grunted. "You're description is more accurate than you think, for a 'shadow' has indeed 'washed over you', though I think it has not seen you, or at least, not clearly."
"What do you mean?", demanded Timin, his arm still protectively around his cousin's shoulder. "And what is this 'scrying' you mentioned? I don't like the sound of that!"
This time the old wizard's smile lit up his face. "Scrying is the art of 'searching' for something or someone with your mind. It is a rather simple spell really, though one I myself have never been too good at. Let us hope that The Shadow's talents are likewise as poor"
" 'The Shadow'?", Thorn repeated, his wide eyes opening even wider. "You mean that HE was looking for.--- ?!"
Mithdar cut him off. "I think it best that we speak not those names here. It is enough to say that the 'Master' seeks that which was his, and I fear he will not rest until he has it."
"Then we are lost!", Thorn whispered.
Mithdar shook his head. "I think not. The Shadow is but a pale replica of what it once was. Until it regains that which it seeks, it's power is greatly diminished. The scrying spell, though seemingly strong, was easily countered. For that you have my arts to thank, and that green cloak-pin you wear."
Thorn's hand went to the heavy broach pinned at his right shoulder. It was a beautifully wrought round pin. It also had been the Kirkwean maid, Fernleaf's most prized possession, for it had once belonged to her mother. Made of twisted silver wire, fashioned in the intricate spirals and interlocking circles the Kirkwean love so dearly. At its center lay a deep green river-stone that seemed to catch the light and hold it. Fern's mother had often called it her 'talisman', and had claimed that it had 'secret properties', since it was said to have been crafted by the 'Fair Folk' ages ago.
Thorn had merely smiled when he was first told the story years ago, for it had been many turnings since any 'Fair Folk' or Nim-Loth had passed through The Wold. When his betrothed had given it to him as a 'leave-taking' present, he thought it the most precious thing he had ever seen; not so much for its obvious beauty, nor even because of the tale of its strange origin, but rather as a remembrance of the gentle heart that had given it.
And now Mithdar was telling him that the cloak-pin did indeed hold some 'secret power' to ward off danger. Thorn fingered the cool green stone and thought of his beloved Fernleaf, wondering in his heart if he would ever see her again.
"And so long ago," Mithdar continued; "when the Nim-Loth had heard that The Shadow was looking for that which it had been broken and later reforged, Gerdolin Fingolfin, greatest of the Children of Oma, had a 'talisman' made and presented it to the smaller Wandering Race, for these folk had but recently broken free of the Dark One's evil power and had escaped northward into the wilds --- taking with them the one object that HE prized most." Mithdar's gaze fell to the short sword at Thorn's side; a fact that was not lost on either of the small Kirkwean."
" Then the old tales are true!?", Timin blurted out. "We really ARE the 'Wandering Race' spoken of in ancient lore?!"
" The old wizard nodded. "And the Green River-Stone Pin that Thorn's lovely Fernleaf gave him as a parting gift carries with it far more than her love --- though that in itself may yet prove the most potent power of all."
Thorn caught the strange tone in the old wizard's voice, but Timin, greatly excited, pressed on.
" So all that old stuff about us being slaves to --- HIM long ago must also be true?! That we somehow broke free of HIS power and wandered homeless until we at last settled in The Wold?!"
Again Mithdar nodded, though his graying brows raised as he gazed upon the little Kirkwean in a new light. "T'is a great deal of 'learned lore' you yourself seem to know, Master Timin Goldenberry. How came you by so much ancient knowledge?"
Timin's chest swelled up and he spoke proudly. "From Granther Higgs. Often, when Thorn was off 'roaming', I'd sit by the fire and he'd tell me about his travels and trading adventures --- but it was the really old tales that I loved best, though I always thought he was, er, 'stretching' them a bit. But now -- !"
" But now," put in Mithdar, "you find that he was telling you the truth all along." Mithdar smiled and stood up as the boat glided into a small cove and Erin called for the sail to be lowered. "I think you will find that there is a great deal more to Granther Higgs than the two of you might think --- just as there is to the two of you as well. "But come, our friend from distant Loamin has finally put us ashore, and my old bones have need of a stretch."
As Timin leaped ashore with the others, Thorn caught the old man's sleeve. "Mithdar, what -- what should I do about -- the Sword? I fear it is all far too much for me to bare."
The silver-haired mage place his hand on Thorn's shoulder, and his voice, though kindly, held an edge of iron in it. "All of us at times, lad, feel cast upon the wind. You and the others are caught-up in something far beyond either your control or your understanding, but you, because of the burden you carry, feel all the more 'adrift'."
The old man's eyes took on a far-away look as he gazed into the splendor of the setting sun. "What I had feared for some time now has apparently come to pass; The Shadow is indeed awakening and, like a wild mountain bear called back to life with the coming of spring, it casts savagely about, seeking to fill the emptiness in its belly --- only it is not food this beast craves, but 'power'!"
Once again his friendly eyes washed over the little Kirkwean. "This gathering of Karns and the attack on the Delgii are but his first clumsy attempts, a 'flexing of long unused limbs' if you will. But it is Shard that he really wants, lad, for without it he is condemned to remain forever just a shadow --- a malignant, evil one to be sure, but a shadow just the same!"
Thorn's voice held a strange quiver to it. "And he is really searching for it then? For me as well!?"
" Yes, but his attempts are random and unfocused. Even the other night's 'sending' was probably just one of many he sent out hither and yon, and though he now knows that I am 'back in the game', I doubt very much that he knows about you or the Sword --- but you must try NOT to use it, Thorn, for each time you do increases his chances of finding it. The Cloak-Pin will protect you up to a certain point --- but af
ter that --- "
" Can't I give it to you, or simply throw it away? At the bottom of one of these lakes he would never find it!" Thorn's voice had more than a bit of panic in it."
Mithdar shook his head sadly. "No, Thorn. If anyone besides your were to carry it then he would surely know of its existence --- most especially me. As for hiding it or even destroying it, I'm afraid that can not be done, for it has all been tried several times before. Besides, I seriously doubt that you could now 'give it up' even if you tried. It's power is such that it slowly 'claims' the one who wears it, making a bond of sorts that is not easily broken."
" Then what CAN be done with it?!" The panic was now all too clear in Thorn's eyes as well as his voice."
" For now, very little. I had hoped that Zorka Agwain would have been able to help, but this problem with the Karns attacking the Delgii of Tyree must come first. Perhaps when the Karns are pushed back we may return to Gareth Withrin --- but for now you can do little more than put your trust in the Cloak-Pin and try not to use the Sword."
Thorn gazed up at the tall, lean figure, as though really seeing him for the first time. "Who ARE you, really?", he whispered."
Mithdar's warm smile returned. "Just an old 'friend of the family', my boy --- and like you, one that will never give up!"
Together they made their way to the shore where the others were busy setting up camp, while all about them the shadows slowly deepened."
***
Nex was sure that he was going to die. For a full week now he dwelt somewhere between the half-worlds of burning fever and teeth-chattering chills. Only the fires of his all consuming hatred gave him the strength he needed and kept him from giving up --- and so, in the end, he lived.
Rousing himself from the crude army cot, he threw one leg over and attempted to rise. He had time to notice that he was in a small room and that his feet were still bandaged before he passed out. It was a day and a half before he regained consciousness.
"You're awake, sir!", a voice commented as Nex grunted and sat up. The man spoke in a guttural Slath and wore the Eagle Crest of the High Gnash Dragoons on his worn, leather jerkin. His high boots and shortsword marked him as cavalry. Nex grinned to himself and attempted to stand. The man rushed to help but was swated away. "You know who I am?", Nex growled."
The high boots clicked together in the horseman's salute. "Aye, Lord Nex! You raved some in your sleep, though I'd have known you even without that. I saw you once when I was posted near the capital."
"And you are?"
"Dragoon Sagan of the Third Royal Lancers, m'lord!"
"And just how far are we from the capital?"
The young dragoon drew himself up once more, for he had indeed seen Nex before --- seen him nearly whip a man to death for little or no reason. "Six days, m'lord. Five if you've a good horse and know the way."
" Good," Nex grunted. "Now bring me food, wine and weapons --- and find me some armour and a good pair of boots!"
As the man turned to leave the log hut, Nex called him back. "Find two good mounts as well. I leave at first light and you're coming with me!"
Sagan hesitated. "What of the foreigner, sire? He's been up and about for two days now."
Nex cursed under his breath. "We'll bring him along, though if he can't keep up that's his problem."
Going out the door the lancer smiled to himself. He had little doubt that Halfhand would keep up, for he had seen the foppish dandy at court as well, and knew that, despite his outlandish ways, he could be as cruel and hard as the legendary Nex. With thoughts of the teaming capital and the bejewled and willing 'ladies' of the High Gnash's court before him, Sagan began shouting for three horses and provisions to be made ready."
***
Chapter 25:'A CHANGE IN PLANS'
With the waterways crawling with Karns, they had decided to leave the boat and walk around the Tarn. Woodsmaster Flynnial, who had often hunted the area, led the way. The late-spring moon was all but full, giving the eleven travelers enough light to negotiate the often treacherous path through the hills and watery dales of the great swamp. Still, by midnight most were wet, weary and ready for a rest.
The Narthrond called a halt by a sheltered cleft. With a sandy bank on one side and a thick stand of gnarled pines on the other, a small fire , well screened, was even dared. Timin busied himself with his beloved pots and pans and soon all had a hot meal of 'travel rations' and a steaming cup of mint tea.
"Care for some more, my lady?" The little Kirkwean held out a battered but shiny pot. Zoean nodded and Timin self-consciously sat down beside her.
"Begging your pardon, my lady, but these here Karns; why do they hate the Delgii so?"
Zoean undid the leather thong that had tied back her hair and shook it free. A glistening black cascade flowed all about her as she sipped at Timin's minty concoction. "It's the nature of all Grel or 'Karns' as you call them, to break and trample all living things. It has always been that way. As to why they hate the Delgii so, perhaps you should ask them, but I think you will find that both claim the mountains to the north as their homeland. Long before my people came to Gareth Withrin the Karn-Delgi wars had raged across the northern peaks."
"Have your people and the Delgii been friends for long?"
"Ever since I was a little girl the Highlanders of Tyree have come to Gareth Withrin to trade and build. I first met your friend Dingle when he was just a lad. He came one summer when his father built our great hall." She laughed and Timin was reminded of a clear stream dancing over smooth pebbles. "He was such a curious little boy, all red hair and freckles."
Timin tried to picture the grizzled, red-bearded Tem Riflin as a 'freckle-faced little boy' and couldn't. Then the realization of Zoean's words struck home --- if she remembered Dingle as a lad, then she must be at least his own age or more! Zoean must have seen the surprise written on his face for she smiled and said: "Good Master Timin, do not fret so. I had forgotten that you Kirkwean, like the Race of Man, are not as 'long-lived' as we Nim-Loth. Even the Delgii, for all their long beards and gruff ways, live but three or four hundred of your 'years', yet even that is far less than half the span granted to the Children of Oma."
Timin's mouth fell open. "Then --- then you are ancient!"
Zoean's blue eyes fluttered, and the gold specks deep within them suddenly came alive. "I am NOT! I'll have you know that I have not yet seen two centuries roll by, and that I'm still considered a 'maiden'!"
"And a very beautiful one indeed", a deep voice rumbled.
Timin closed his mouth long enough to look up. What he saw made it drop open again; for there stood Rif-Dag Cynwulf leaning on his long pike, the firelight dancing off his armour and turning the beaten features of his lowered 'fekir' or 'war-mask' into a hideous night demon.
Before Timin could shout, Cynwulf raised the mask and squatted down by the fire. "Pardon my words, Zorina Zoean, but I couldn't help but overhear."
Zoean tossed her hair back and smiled. "It's quite all right, Rif-Dag; I was just explaining to Master Timin here about the different aging times of the various races. It seems that he finds me 'ancient'."
Timin fumbled for the right words. "But my lady, it's not that you LOOK old, it's just that --- that --- "
"That anyone near two hundred should be either a toothless old hag or dead --- is that what you meant?"
"Yes!, er, no! Or BOTH! I mean I don't know WHAT I mean --- except that you ARE beautiful; more beautiful than the sun coming up on my garden!"
Zoean held Timin spellbound and sputtering for a moment longer before bewitching him with a radiant smile. "Now THAT I will take as a compliment!", she beamed, giving the befuddled Kirkwean a kiss on his forehead.
A slight noise behind them caused Cynwulf to spin around, his wicked-looking pike held ready.
"Ease off a might, friend Delgi," Erin's lilting voice said. "I be not over-eager to end up spitted on your fancy pig-sticker. Have you any more o' that foul brew left Timin, or has the 'beautiful
maiden' here made off with that as well as your heart?"
Timin flushed red with embarrassment, while Zoean's colour came from another source. She faced Erin across the snapping fire. "These two good sirs were just showing me some kindness --- a thing you seldom feel the necessity in doing!"
"T'was 'feeling' I showed you earlier this day, darlin' girl. I thought we might continue with a bit more o' the same."
Zoean stood up and glared back at the grinning, arrogant face. "Aye, I'm sure! T'is 'feeling' a maid your overly good at, and groping and pawing as well!" Zoean glanced around at the others, saw their grins, then strode up to face Erin. "Males!", she said through perfect, clenched teeth. "You're all the same! A few sweet words and you become all hands and heavy breathing! Well 'manling', I be not one of your dockside doxies or willing camp followers! I am Zoean Ithilian, Zorina of the Silv of Agwain and am no-one's toy!"
As she stomped away into the night Cynwulf smiled up at Erin. "Take care, Longshanks, for I think she's taken a 'fancy' to you."
Erin's only response was to toss his empty mug at a befuddled Timin and go in search of a flask of something stronger.
***
For three days they skirted the Tarn. Several times they had seen wandering bands of Karns, yet each time either the Narthrond Flynn or Kel's woodcraft had saved them. Once their had been a brief skirmish with some wild looking men they had stumbled upon while both Flynn and Kel were out scouting, but Erin, Nobert and the three Delgii had made short work of it, killing all seven of the dark, swarthy-faced men in a short, savage fight.
Mithdar had been angry that none had been left alive for questioning. When Cynwulf told him that several times he had seen 'men' like the seven corpses now laying before them fighting alongside the Karns, the aged mage seemed very upset. When Zoean asked why, he fixed her with such a stare that she took a startled step backwards. Nobert, Zoean's servant-bodyguard, drew himself up and spit.
"No need to work yourself into a lather, Mythdarian. They be just a few wayward Balikie from far-off Jarlish-Xyx. Probably crossed the Sea of Dross in search of easier prey --- or maybe they just got tired of picking sand out of their teeth. It don't matter none, seeing as how they're dead."