Shard

by Wayne Mee

  It was not that he didn't love her, for he did --- at least he thought he did. He sure as quiff DESIRED her! But then he had often 'desired' other well-trimmed lassies! Aye! And them with far less sharper tongues!

  Such thoughts as these were racing through his befuddled head when Zoean herself slammed her fist down on the table. The others in the large hall looked up at the commotion. Only Dingle and Mithdar sat quietly smoking their pipes, looks of wry amusement on their bearded faces.

  "'Marry' him?!", Zoean yelled. "By Great Lear above and Quent below, I'd not marry that --- that swill guzzling, skirt chasing 'manling' if my very life depended on it!"

  Erin leaned over the table until only the width of a blade separated them. "I did na hear anyone ask ye to!"

  "Good! Because I wouldn't!

  "Fine! Because I won't!"

  The room fell silent except for the crackling of the fire and the cackling of two old friends. Arthdain smiled on, more than a little pleased with himself.

  ***

  It had been over a fortnight now since Thorn had awakened and heard about the Slathland invasion of his homeland. Since then the two Kirkwean had talked of nothing else but returning to their now occupied land and organizing some sort of resistance.

  At first Erin had been against it, reasoning that there would be little that a few could do that many had already failed at. But when Thorn had told him that he and Timin would be going regardless of the odds, Erin had thought of the oath he had sworn to the beautiful little Erg-Leath back in The Wold.

  Many had been the time he had cursed himself for being a moon-struck fool for having given his word, for he strongly believed a person's 'given word' was the one thing in this hard world that a man could truly call his own. Time and again his foster father, Conn ap Connell, friend and weapon's man to the late Griff of Loamin, had drilled that concept into his adopted son's hard head. 'It be also the one thing that can n'er be taken from ye, lad, only lost by its foolish owner --- 'n if a man loses that, son, then he has truly lost everything!'

  And so Erin had agreed to go.

  Though the 'Winter-War' was officially over, there were still pockets of Karns and even a few Balikie left to be driven out of the mountains around Tyree. Arthdain and Bar Gildar were both impatient to head south and clear the Tarn of the hated vermin and so open once again the line of trade and communication between the Delgii and the Nim-Loth of Gareth-Withrin. Dingle wanted the two Kirkwean to wait until Tyree was free from the threat of murdering Karns and then he himself promised to lead a host of his bearded warriors north to aid The Wold. Arthdain also pledged that he would 'come to his shield-brother's aid' as soon as he could, but that his first duty lay with the safety of his own homeland.

  Yet there were some who were willing to make the dangerous trek northwards. Besides Zoean and her ever-present guardian Nobert, the bard, Roary Ol'Heath and his golden-haired consort, Onooga, asked leave to join the party. The bard had laughingly said that he'd seen more than enough of the watery Tarn for a lifetime, and that the 'Freeing of the Wold' had a 'grand ring to it' and would make a magnificent title for an epic. Flynnial the Narthrond also agreed to go, saying that he had long wished to see the great northern forests. Kel, faithful as ever, would naturally accompany Erin wherever he went.

  And so it was settled. Seven friends would set forth with the two Kirkwean, making a total of nine. Thorn, touched by their loyalty, turned to the aged tinker. "Well, Mithdar, it seems that this is farewell. I've no words to thank you for all that you have done. But be assured, I shall never forget you."

  The often stern yet kindly mage sat shaking his head. When at last he spoke, there was a note of grim determination in his voice. "I fear, Thorn, that your road will be a long and dangerous one, not the least of which will come from within as much as from without. On such a road you will have great need of loyal and trusted companions; and, though it may be just an old man's folly, I too will accompany you and your brave, foolish friends --- if that is, you'll have me."

  Thorn's large blue eyes began to twinkle and Timin gave a shout for joy. "'If we'll have you'?", Thorn beamed. "Erg shatter me, but I was dreading the thought of going without you! It's just that I thought that you ---"

  "That I would be off once again on the elusive trail of The Shadow?" Mithdar smiled. "And so I shall, my impetuous friend, but I feel that your fate and mine have become entangled and, for better or worst, our paths lie in the same direction --- though just where it will end none can now say."

  Thorn squeezed the old man's hand, his sky-blue eyes misting with tears. "I'm so happy you're coming with us! But we are going far to the north where Slathlanders have invaded into the very heart of The Wold. I know little of such things, but an invasion of such grand scale as to capture all the Kirkwean settlements must have taken many long months of preparation and planning. How is it that you suspect Lucfelian's evil hand in this, when all the time he was here leading the siege against Tyree?"

  Mithdar sighed. "Rats seldom stay with a sinking ship, Thorn. And though Lucfelian may not have had his 'evil hand' in on the planning of the act, I feel in my bones that he is somehow now involved --- or at least, soon will be. The Shadow is ever drawn to the evil that men do, and Slathland has long been a blight on the face of Oma-Var!"

  "And what --- of the Sword?" Thorn's voice was hesitant. His legs, having suddenly gone weak, forced him to seek out a stool by the hearth. He had worn Shard constantly since his awakening, but had fought against the desire to draw it from its scabbard, though his eyes longed to look on the glittering black blade. His hand trembled as it brushed the silver pommel in the shape of an acorn.

  Mithdar bent to light his pipe. "That is yet ANOTHER reason I am going with you." He leaned closer and lowered his voice. "Lucfelian now knows that you have the Sword."

  "What?!", Thorn stammered, jumping to his feet and upsetting his stool. "But how...?!"

  "When you so bravely yet foolishly used it against those two Nar-Graith, one of them, the leader known as Skatha, escaped. Later, during your fever, you repeatedly made mention of a 'burning voice' questioning you. In your ravings you often mentioned the The Wold."

  Thorn's face paled. "But if, as you say, he knows that I have the Sword here with me, why do you think he has gone to The Wold?! Might he not be even now close by, waiting and watching for a chance to get it back?!"

  The old mage shook his head. "Both Dingle's and Arthdain's troops have been far too successful for him to chance staying here and being caught." There was a slight pause. "I fear, Thorn, that The Shadow has fled northwards."

  Thorn's voice was near the breaking point. "But why go north to aid the Slathlanders? Why leave the place where the Sword IS and go to the place it WAS?!"

  "Thorn's right, Mithdar!", Timin put in, his plump face as red as the fire. "Why go so far away when he knows the accursed thing is HERE?!"

  Mithdar's snowy eyebrows creased into a grim line. "For two reasons, my young friends. Firstly, for revenge. Long has He sought to 'punish' your small race for defying Him. Now more than ever."

  "'N what be the second?", Erin demanded, coming to stand stone-faced behind Thorn's chair.

  "Because, dear friends, Lucfelian knows the awful truth that I have only recently discovered --- though O was a fool not to see it earlier!"

  "N' that terrible truth be?" Erin asked

  Mithdar reached out and gently touched the wide eyed Kirkwean. "That, sooner or later, Thorn must bring Shard too Him."

  Silence; silence so thick that the very world itself seemed to be holding its breath. Then a long, low wail of such anguish rose up from Thorn that all in the room felt their hearts ache for his sorrow.

  ***

  The warmth of the sun had just taken the dew from the lush green grass when The Ten Friends made ready to take their leave. Ringed, save for the south, by the lofty snowcapped peaks of the mighty Tol Eldars, the rolling Plateau of Tyree stretched out before them like an undulating sea of green.
>
  Each race had its own name for this life-giving season; the bearded, straight-forward Delgii called it 'Calving Time'; the mysterious Nim-Loth poetically called it ' Quent's Awakening'; the younger, more impatient Race of Man simply called it 'Spring'. But to the Kirkwean it would always be 'Ma~iss Ahyee' or 'Shining Splendor'; a time when the snow melts beneath a golden sun and brave green sprouts of green hope thrust their way upwards. A time of warmth and dreams and laughter.

  Thorn stood with the others, lost in bitter-sweet memories of the past. His mind's eye seeing The Wold once again bathed in Ma~iss Ahyee; the way the light played across the rolling hills, dappled the towering forests and twinkled and danced like diamonds on the crystal clear lakes. His inner ear heard the twittering of newly hatched birds, the gurgle of running streams and the warm, rich laughter of his people. To his nose came once again the scent of opening flowers; hot, home-cooked bread, and the fresh, clean smell of Fernleaf's long hair as he held her in his arms.

  All gone now; crushed under the iron heel of a cruel invader! A searing heat suddenly welled up inside him, burning away the tears that had threatened to flow, filling him instead with a raging fire. Without knowing how it got there, Shard was in his hand; sharp, pulsing, lethal. Through blue eyes gone ice cold Thorn sought out something to kill.

  "No, Thorn!"

  The words struck him like a cold slap. He blinked, shuddered, and nearly fell. Erin caught his hand and forced the black blade down. Thorn's arm moved woodenly, yet still he clung to Shard. Before him stood Timin, tears streaming, a look of shocked disbelief on his face. Mithdar came and spoke again, this time in soothing, gentle tones.

  "Put the blade away, Thorn, for you are among friends here."

  The little Kirkwean, sweating, wide-eyed, looked up at the old mage. Like the passing of clouds or of wind blown smoke, his vision cleared. Gone was the grinning face of the mocking Slathlander, replaced by the familiar one of his cousin and life-long friend.

  Shard fell from his hand and he embraced Timin. "Forgive me!," he sobbed. "I -- I thought you were -- one of them!"

  Timin held him tight and patted his cousin's back. "I know, laddie. I know."

  Mithdar gently put his hand on Thorn's trembling shoulder. "It has passed now, Thorn. I felt it too, only far weaker."

  Thorn looked around, still clinging to his cousin.

  "It was a spell," Mithdar continued. "A scrying of some kind, though unlike any I have encountered before. See, your broach is even now fading."

  Thorn rubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand and gazed at cloak pin fastened above his heart. Deep within its green surface a reddish flame was dying. Even as he watched it flickered once and went out. Thorn suddenly felt as though a great weight had just been lifted from his shoulders.

  "It was Him, wasn't it?"

  The old mage nodded.

  "And you say you felt it only slightly, as though from a great distance?" Thorn's voice was low and cold.

  Again Mithdar nodded.

  "But --- ," Timin stammered, his own eyes rimmed with red. "But if Lucfelian can do THIS, over a long distance, what must he be able to do when Thorn is NEARER?!"

  "With our aid, and his own brave heart, I believe Thorn will be able to overcome such attacks."

  "You 'BELIEVE'?!", Timin bellowed. "That accursed sword has been taking over Thorn's mind for months now! I've watched it slowly eating away at him, sucking the life and joy out of him day by day! Turning him into some --- some TOOL of The Shadow's! And all you can say is that you 'BELIEVE' he can overcome it?!"

  Mithdar's bent form suddenly straightened; his own shadow lengthened and for a brief moment he seemed to rise up above the two Kirkwean; a towering, terrible figure of wrath and raw power.

  Then it was gone, and he once again stood before them, his kindly eyes showing no trace of the fiery force that had been there but a moment before. He gently placed his hand on Timin's dented helmet. The smile that came forth somehow made the day seem brighter.

  "Sometimes, Timin, a 'belief' is all that we have to cling to. I DO believe in Thorn, as I do in ALL of you. I also believe that our cause is just, and that evil must be fought against --- no matter what the cost."

  "And --- if we loose?" Timin's anger had vanished like a wisp of smoke before a gale, yet his concern for his cousin remained. "What if we try, struggle, suffer, even die --- and in the end it all comes to naught?!"

  Mithdar held the defiant little Kirkwean with his kindly gaze. "The greatest belief I have, Timin, is that one must always try. The winning comes in the striving, even if we fail."

  Mithdar straightened again, only this time he remained a kindly old man of wisdom, yet a look of determination flashed from his eyes. "Besides, there is more than a good chance that we WILL win! We have the Sword; we are of sound mind and purpose; the enemy may know we are coming but not how or from where we will strike. As for these 'scrying spells', I am better prepared now to counter them, perhaps even shield Thorn from them altogether! So, let's shake off this pall of doom and make a brave start! Come, Dingle, Arthdain, gather round and let us drink from the horn of leavetaking!"

  The awed group that had stood silent during the charged encounter now pressed forward, laughing and smiling and wishing good cheer. Dingle drank long from the large horn and passed it round, saying once again that he and his Delgii would soon be hastening northwards to give the troubled Wold their aid. Arthdain renewed his pledge again and kissed his sister farewell.

  A short time later, mounted on spirited horses and sturdy ponies, their packs well laden with food and weapons, the Ten Friends waved goodbye and rode off northwards.

  Dingle and Arthdain, both lost in their private thoughts, stood silently watching long after the small, brave group had vanished into the towering Tol Eldars.

  ***

  Chapter 39:'THE OCCUPATION OF THE WOLD'

  Nex should have been a happy man. Within two blood-drenched days after landing they had taken the Wee'ns largest settlement, set up a base of operations and were now spreading out to occupy the smaller hamlets scattered throughout the thick forest.

  He should have been happy, but he wasn't.

  The reason for this unhappiness was the High Gnash, Alexis V.

  Nelock, the young dragoon that had been recently been assigned as Nex's aid, came to attention just outside the tent. He saluted smartly and held out a duty list for Nex to sign. The veteran officer took the parchment and tossed it unlooked at on his camp table, strode past the young dragoon and stood glaring up at the towering pines. Nelock, ever mindful of his superior's moods, stood by patiently, his crafty mind watching for anything that would help further his own career.

  "Why do you think they did that?", Nex asked, his eyes taking in the multitude of bridges and walkways connecting the miniature Kirkwean houses in the towering trees high above him. "Why the Slath would they build their homes in trees?!"

  Nelock, who could care less why stupid creatures like the Wee'ns did anything, searched his agile mind for an answer that would put him in his best light.

  "For defense, my lord?"

  "Don't be a fool, Nelock! They could easily be burnt out like we did with that lot over yonder!" Nex waved at a still smoldering section of blackened stumps on the far side of one of the little lakes.

  Nelock coughed politely. "I meant from animals, sire."

  "What? Oh yes, perhaps --- but somehow I think not."

  "Er, the duty list, my lord? Commander Skatha will be waiting for it."

  Nex rounded on the young dragoon so swiftly that the aid was startled and jumped back.

  "Oh he will, will he?! Well, give it back to the silk-tongued, quiffing foreigner and tell him that he can wipe his ass with it for all I care!"

  Nelock swiftly recovered, at last seeing the chance he had been waiting for. Like Nex, the young dragoon had little love for the High Gnash's new 'commander-in-chief', the high and mighty foreigner, Lord Skatha from Jarlish-Xyx; yet unlike Nex, Nelock was will
ing to bide his time, to wait for the right opportunity before he put his 'grand plan' into motion. That time, however now seemed at hand.

  "My lord does not care overmuch for the new commander-in-chief?" Nelock took care to keep his voice as neutral as possible; after all, lords were lords, and this wily old killer could just be testing him.

  Nex snatched a flask of wine off his camp table, drew the cork out with his teeth and spit it out. "You got that right, lad!" Red wine ran down the front of his costly scale-male. "I'd like to see the fancy quiffer lying face down in the bloody dirt!

  Nelock moved closer, dropping his voice. "In that, sire, you are not alone. I've heard several other officers say much the same thing, though not, perhaps, so strongly."

  Nex grunted. "Aye, I've heard rumblings too, Nelock. But they're all scared shitless of the bastard! He kills too damn easily for their weak bowels to stand!" Nex drained the flask, tossed it after the cork, and began to rummage for another. "Besides, the High Gnash has taken a great 'liking' to the bastard and the two of them think it 'great sport' to 'sally forth and kill the filthy Ween's' as our liege lord now often puts it!"

  Nelock produced one from an inside pocket of his cloak and offered it to the captain.

  Nex took it, grunted, and drank deeply. "Belish, by Slath! Where did a green sprout like you get hold of Belish?!"

  Nelock shrugged slyly. "I am not without connections at court, my lord. Also, the quartermaster is very poor with the dice."

  Nex grunted again and handed the flask back to the young dragoon. "Have a pull yourself, boy. You were in the Third, weren't you, lad?"

  "The Fifth, sire. Lancer, Second Grade." Nelock took a small sip and handed the expensive wine back. "I wanted a position with the Royal Guard, but ended up instead on a Dragon Ship."

  Nex laughed and swore at the same time. "Shit, lad! Traded a sore ass in the saddle for a sorer one rowing a quiffing Glitch-Slath!"