by Wayne Mee
"We're not going in THERE?!", Timin squeaked.
"And why not?," Nobert demanded. "It's a tavern, isn't it? And that means hot food, a warm fire and cold beer!"
"But it's so --- so BIG!"
The grizzled Dryfallen draped a muscular arm over his small companion. "Come along lads. Old Nob will take you under his wing!"
Zoean snorted her contempt from her place between Erin and Flynn. "Indeed! No doubt with you to guide them they'll both be guzzling swill and wenching before the sun sets!"
Nobert gave his haughty mistress a gap-toothed smile and led them up the worn walkway. One glance at his ready sword and his sun-creased face caused the wide-eyed citizens of Blackwater to step back quickly. Erin made a theatrical bow as he escorted Zoean through the wide inn door, while Flynn, his forest green eyes wide with wonder, followed eagerly. Cynwulf and his two frowning Delgii came next, while Kel, glaring fiercely at the gaping crowd, brought up the rear.
All talking died away until they were past, then resumed at twice its level as the curious inhabitants crowded in behind the strange looking strangers.
The smell, smoke and noise of the large commons room struck Zoean like a physical blow. She took a faltering step backwards, bumping into Erin in the process. The grinning mercenary gave her bottom a pat. She turned, fixed him with her piercingly beautiful eyes --- then smacked him hard on the face. The sound of the smack resounded throughout the crowded room and all noise came to a sudden halt. Startled customers stood or sat clutching their ale horns and stared at the angry vision of loveliness before them. Erin, grinning like a truant schoolboy, rubbed his smarting jaw and strode forward into the now silent room.
"Innkeeper!", he bellowed in a lilting voice. "A table by the fire if ye please, 'n be fetchin' the lovely lady here a glass o' your very best wine! Meat 'n ale for the rest o' her party 'n a bottle o' your strongest spirits for meself!"
Through the continued silence a middle-aged man with a broad chest and sandy hair approached, wiping his large hands on a soiled apron. His beard did little to cover the jagged scar on his chin and his rolled sleeves showed the dirty white welts on both forearms from long ago wounds. Erin was in little doubt that before them stood one who had not always made his living running a tavern. The two men stood and took the other's measure, weaponsman to weaponsman.
Then the ex-fighter-turned-innkeeper thrust out his calloused hand. "Gessler's my name. Welcome to the Maidenhead."
Erin took the hand and squeezed --- hard. Gessler just smiled. Erin grunted and both men released their hold. "If yer grog be as strong as yer grip, friend Gessler, then it's sleepin' under yer table this night I'll be!"
The burly tavern owner cast a quick glance in Zoean's direction and smiled. "I doubt it, lad. But come, I'll clear my finest table for you all, for it's been some time since we've had the likes of your party here at the Maidenhead!"
As Nobert led the group across the still silent room, Erin turned and shouted: "Friend Gessler, make that a hogshead o' ale, 'n see that all these fine gentlemen here n' their ladies drink their fill!"
With that the room exploded with joyous shouts as all there jostled towards the bar. When Erin took a seat beside a still frowning Zoean, she shouted at him over the din. "Did you have to make such a spectacle of yourself?!"
Erin reached for a hot loaf just placed on the table by a buxom barmaid, lingering a moment to ogle her open blouse before turning back to Zoean. "T'was nothin', me darlin' girl, but a wee gesture o' friendship. We be strangers here, lass, 'n strangers in a place like this had best be willing to use their coins as well as their blades if they don't want a dirk in their backs!"
Zoean's flushed face turned thoughtful. "We Nim-Loth have little use of what you 'outsiders' call 'money'. Do you have enough of these 'coins' to pay for all this?"
Erin glanced around the noisy room. Men and women laughed, swore and a few even began to sing, all of them clutching overflowing horns, mugs and jars of beer. "Not I, darlin' girl, but yonder Delgii never leave their halls without their belt pouches brimmin' with yellow gold!"
Bragi, overhearing Erin's words, nearly choked on his own half emptied mug, the taste of it suddenly less sweet as he realized that Erin Longshanks had just stuck him and his kin with the bill!
***
The morning mist still hung like ghostly wraiths in the hollows of the thickly treed peninsula, swirling about the gnarled pines like a giant's long-dead hand. Mithdar, breathing heavily from the steep climb up from the shore, leaned on his staff and peered into the rapidly lightening gloom, his own 'long-dead' dreams struggling to resurrect themselves. Just ahead he could make out the dilapidated hut. The smell of the hearth-smoke and long buried memories had guided him for some time now. Having regained his breath, the old man continued his journey; one that, though short, he dreaded just the same.
The 'cottage' was more an outgrowth of the wooded cliff than any man-made structure, for once past the heavy, time-blackened door and the front hall, it opened up into a large cave, running back into the hollow hill a half dozen spearlengths or more. As Mithdar stood facing that door and all the ancient phantoms it represented, he noticed the trickle of water from the spring high above still dripped into the shallow depression in a large stone off to one side of the front step. The reflection that greeted him when he glanced in was not the one he had last seen so very long ago when he left this place, but that of an old man, bent both with time, troubles and regret.
Once this had been a happy place, full of dappled sunlight and bright dreams; a place of quiet solitude and study; a place where a young man who was 'more than a man' could come to grips with what he was. Then 'she' had entered his life and, for a brief time at least, it had become a place of love. A place of soft sighs and tender caresses; a place of sharing and looking forward; a place of sweet, impossible dreams. But that was long ago, too long ago to be anything more than a vague memory, a half remembered glimpse of a bygone youth, bitter-sweat like morning mist on apple blossoms in May.
Yet standing there, with the early-morning sun on his back; with the birdsong all about and the music of flowing water close at hand, Mithdar slowly felt the long years fall from him like a tattered cloak. He felt the blood surge through his veins like it had when he first came to dwell in this glade, and he felt too the joy of anticipation mingled with the first frightful passion of youth --- for 'she' had been there then, her mind and body open to him, waiting patiently.
Just as she was now.
As he raised a trembling hand towards the door, a voice, rusty from lack of use, called out from within: "Enter, wanderer --- and see thy fate."
Taking a calming breath, the old man did as he was bid. Light from a smoking hearth and a single candle cast dancing shadows on the paneled wooden walls of the front room, though beyond the back of the cave was as black as midnight on a moonless night. A shadowy form sat hunched over a stool before the fire. A gnarled hand stirred the coals.
The silence hung between them like a living wall, a wall built not of bricks or stones but of lost chances and broken dreams, the mortar for the 'wall' being Time itself.
"Thou hast tarried overlong in returning to my hearth, Mythdarian," croaked the hunched form. "Long since hath the flower wilted and lost its scent. That which was once fair, is now dried and withered. The red wine of youth has all turned to bitter dregs. But tell me, what finally brings the busy bee back to this flowerless garden?"
"Many things, Dearia. Time. Regrets. A pulling of the heart --- Also, I seek knowledge."
A bitter cackle erupted from the bent form. "As I recall, it was the seeking of 'knowledge' that sent thee hence!. That it should bring thee back after so many turnings seems both uncommonly apt yet so commonly cruel!"
Mithdar felt the bite of her bitter words cut deep into his being. He went forward and placed a trembling hand on the old crone's shoulder. "Dearia," he whispered. "Sweet Dee, I have need --- of thy powers."
The form turned swiftly, sha
king off his hand in the process. "Speak not that name ever again!", she hissed. "'Dearia' is long gone and your 'Sweet Dee' never existed!"
"But what we shared cannot be denied, regardless of how brief, or of how you now feel. To me you will always be my 'Sweet Dee', running wild over the flower strewn meadows."
The form cast back her ragged hood and leaned forward to catch the candle's light. "See you, Mythdarian, any trace of your 'Sweet Dee' in this Time ravaged face?" Fingers like talons gripped his wrist and pulled him closer. Lines and creases were carved into the parchment-like skin; what hair that remained on the stark skull hung in whitish wisps; the grimace her slash of a mouth showed large gaps and blackened stumps. Only the eyes remained unchanged; deep and dark they were, like forest pools under a stormy sky.
Mithdar knelt down, tears streaming down his own weathered cheeks. "What happened, Dee?! You are of the Nim-Loth and should age as slowly as the mountains! If t'is sickness, perhaps my arts may find a cure!"
The old crone released her grip and replaced her hood. "Have ye found in all thy travels a way to turn back the passage of Time? Unlike you, we Nim born here on Oma-Var be not immune to decay. We age slower than the other races, much slower --- but age we do!The slow passing of the endless seasons has left me such as I am --- withered, old --- and alone!"
"I -- I meant to return; but then one thing led to another. The time just seemed to slip away, Dee, and their was always so much left to do!"
Her silence only deepened Mithdar's pain. When it had all but cut him to the quick, she spoke.
"I was a mere child when first you brought me here. A young Nim-Lothian maid full of love for the wise sorcerer from the Blessed Isle. T'was thee who saw the spark of talent that lay dormant within me. T'was thee who coaxed it into a roaring flame. When the flame dimmed, you left. How I hated thee for that." She sighed and stoked the fire before continuing. "But the world hath changed much and I with it." She raised her gnarled hand and waved it towards the back of the cave. "I have my books and my pets. The simpletons from Blackwater bring me small animals and birds as 'offerings'." She cackled into her ragged shawl. "The fools believe I eat them raw. In return I tell them what they want to hear about the web of their petty lives. I am content."
Mithdar stood and gazed into the blackness of the cave. His words, when they came, sounded hollow, like a distant echo of pain. "I need you to use your powers once again. Not just for myself. I wouldn't ask just for myself --- but, for all creatures that love the light of day, Sweet Dee, I do ask."
She regarded him for some time. "You have changed very little, Mythdarian, since I first beheld you in my father's silv. Oh, the once golden locks have turned silver, and the bloom of youth has worn away, but Time it seems has been kind to a least one of us."
Mithdar was about to say something, but she stopped him with her wrinkled, raised hand. "Strong and wise you seemed back then, full of secret knowledge that my girlish heart hungered for. Our brief spring hath long since gone. And now, after all this time, you come again, looking as you do --- and you dare to ask for my help?!"
"Dee --- it's Lucfelian."
Her scrawny neck turned, ageless eyes widened. Mithdar pressed on.
"He is but a shadow as yet, but it IS him! I must know for certain where he plans to strike! Not only the Nim-Loth, but the Delgii, the Kirkwean and the newer race of Man shall all be trod under his cruel boot --- unless a way can be found to stop him!"
Visibly shaken, the old crone gathered her shawl about her. "Thy words make clear to me what hath plagued me for too long now. Both in my dreams as well as my conjurings I have seen vague things taking form; dark, evil things. I thought them just the approaching of Death, for that dark liberator hath been much on my mind of late --- but now I see it as more than that." She turned her wide eyes towards Mithdar and stretched out her hand. He took it and gently pressed it to his lips. "What wouldst thou have me do?"
When he told her she gave a little shudder. "I fear that I am no longer strong enough."
"I will be by your side."
A wry smile passed her lips for the first time in many centuries. "It will require a blood sacrifice --- my lord."
"I am ready, my love."
The smile widened and a hint of the beauty she had once been filled her eyes
Together they set about the task.
***
Chapter 27:'THE BARD AND HIS BROTHER'
As the sun rose, so too did the excitement inside the inn. Though still early, even by Blackwater standards, ale, wine and other strong drink flowed liberally. A mixture of sounds vied for supremacy as snatches of songs, laughing voices and angry shouts all came pouring out of the open doors and windows. Those unable to squeeze in, jostled for elbow-room on the muddy sidewalk, each curious citizen straining to see the new strangers and the raven haired 'Nim-queen'.
Zoean sat enthralled by the boisterous, swirling din, her forest-green eyes wide with wonder, her half emptied wine goblet forgotten on the rough table before her. Erin, his tanned face flushed from a mixture of strong drink and high spirits, sat down beside her and made to fill her glass.
"Drink up, darlin' girl! The day be yet young 'n the sun as warm as the look in your eyes!"
Zoean, in an attempt to seem angry, regarded him from under arched brows, though in truth she was having the time of her life. Though she wouldn't admit it, she even enjoyed Erin's blatant flattery. "You're deep in your cups, sira, and acting most un-Raven-like!"
"I beg to differ, m'lady! Both good Gessler's brew 'n your own radiant beauty have given me wings to soar like an eagle!" Erin's dazzling smile washed over her, appraising her like she had seen her brother look at a prize mare. She flushed crimson when his gaze lingered on her uncovered, bronzed legs.
"Do all 'manlings' drink so?", she asked.
"When the mood takes them, lass, though were we on fair Loamin the casks would be long dry by now!"
The large room was awash with noise and frantic movement. Gessler's servants wove their way through the jostling crowd with platters of roasted mutton, hot bread and foaming mugs of beer, while the ex-mercenary turned innkeeper was engaged with a hand wrestling match with Cynwulf. The Delgi leader had been reluctant at first, but edged on by Bragi, he had finally agreed to the match. It was one for one, with the third telling the tale. Townspeople and most of the company were gathered round the two sweating opponents as they eyed each other across a cleared table.
"Be quick about it, Cynwulf," Bragi grunted. "The honour of the Highland Tyree be at stake --- not to mention half my purse!"
The Kirkwean watched wide-eyed as the muscular Delgi captain and the burly manling grasped hands. Timin had wagered his bronze little pocket flute that Cynwulf would win and now was seriously regretting it. Thorn just shook his head at his excited cousin. Flynn stood gaping about him like a newborn. Nobert and Kel both sat with their backs to the wall and their hands near their weapons.
Cynwulf seemed to be winning, but then Gessler grinned an applied his extra weight, forcing the Delgii's arm back and down. The room exploded with triumphant shouts as Gessler stood and bowed. The bellowing doubled when the robust ex-soldier declared a free drink for everyone. Cynwulf nodded formally, then allowed his stern feature to crease into a smile as Gessler offered him the traditional warriors hand-clasp.
"T'is a strong arm ye have there, lad. Few in Blackwater have ever won a single round again' me, but you nearly took two!"
"Perhaps you'd care to wrestle the Rif-Dag?", Bragi asked hopefully, knowing that Cynwulf was the champion of all Tyree.
"I think not, master Delgi," Gessler chuckled, weighing Bragi's purse with an experts eye. "I've too many grey hairs and brittle bones to be wrestling like a young colt --- besides," he said, looking in the direction of the door; "I see the bard has arrived. This lad is truly a wonderment! He could charm the pants of a saintly sister; er, present company excluded, m'lady!"
Zoean nodded, smiling and thinking to herself that thes
e 'men' were little more than big babies! Then she turned and saw the bard and her heart skipped a beat. Though surrounded by babbling townsfolk, the thin, attractively gaunt young man strode through the crowd like a zorka, his cloak of many colours gathered around him in a regal flourish. A doeskin bag was slung over his back and he wore a wide brimmed hat pulled down at a rakish angle, from which emerged shoulder-length, sandy colored curls. In his hand was a intricately carved 'bardstaff', proclaiming the bearer to be of the highest order of that lofty profession. He wore neither armour nor sword, his harp and his wit the only weapons needed. Zoean felt herself strangely drawn towards the approaching form.
"Roary!", Innkeeper Gessler beamed. "Your early ,lad, but just in time none-the-less! We've guests at the Maiden Head! Royal guests that have need of a royal bard! Come man, give us a tune!"
Gessler's plea was taken up by a score of other voices. The bard favored them all with a winning smile and bowed low to Zoean. "T'would be an honour to sing for one so fair, but I fear my throat is plaguing me something terrible. Gessler, perhaps a wee drop o' your finest?"
The innkeeper bellowed for a bottle to be brought up from the cellar as the bard bent to kiss Zoean's hand.
"He's laying it on a bit thick, wouldn't you say, Longshanks?" Erin merely grunted at Cynwulf's whispered dig.
A youngish looking lad who had followed at the bard's heels helped him off with his multi-colored cloak and stood behind his chair as he sat next to Zoean. The lad looked overly thin with large, dark eyes. The bard saw Zoean's look and smiled. "My little brother, Ono, fair lady. Devoted to me he is, ever since our sainted mother passed away. Together we've traveled the long road from sea-washed Kith to this backward by-water, fighting for our lives every vel o' the way!" His dark brown eyes washed over Zoean as he gently squeezed her hand. Bragi nudged Timin and pointed at Nobert. The greybearded warrior wore a frown that would have turned a gorgon to stone.