by Wayne Mee
Timin's frown lightened somewhat and Erin's grin widened. "Now, be kind enough to be fetchin' us all another skin o' wine. I've a powerful thirst on me 'n I'll be needin' my strength if I'm to use this wee 'death-caster' here!"
Timin smiled, then bounded way, only to return shortly with a skin full of Dingle's most potent brew and the rest of their band. All ten of them sat round the fire and got pleasantly 'relaxed' as they say back in the Wold, even Mithdar, while off in the forest the merry sounds of Gluck's band drifted back to their ears.
***
Chapter 41:'THE PEOPLE UNDER THE HILL'
They rested for several days at Gluck's village, for both the animals and the Ten Companions were more tired than they had thought. Nobert had received a cracked rib and Onooga had a long gash in her thigh that festered and had to be cleansed. She took it in stride as she did most other things, holding Roary's hand and smiling as Mithdar applied the burning salve.
Thorn and Timin used the time to get acquainted with the 'First Folk'. This clan or tribe consisted of around sixty, half of these being females and young children. There were even a few ancients doddering about, but the life of the First Folk was a harsh one. Always following the migrating herds of high mountain goats and wild, longhorn sheep, one had to be strong to survive. The old tended to fall quickly by the wayside.
Still, they did stay in one spot for a season or two, and being wary of all 'Outsiders', built the strangest homes the two Kirkwean had ever seen, (and this was saying something, coming from a race that built their own homes in the tops of trees!)
The fact was that you couldn't see their homes at all! They had dug round pits and roofed them over with branches, dirt and sod, leaving only a small hole that twisted its way into the 'home-made hill' like a groundhog's den. Another opening in the 'roof' let out the smoke from their cookfires.
"Why," Thorn exclaimed as he saw a curly head poke up out of what appeared a solid little hill. "They're like rabbits in a warren!"
"Or like the tiny gnomes and goblins Granther Higgs used to tell us about by the hearthfire!", Timin beamed, for he loved stories almost as much as he loved cheese. "'The People Under The Hill' he used to call them. Slath strike me, but many's the time I've gone to bed afeared after one of his tales! But I always came back for more!"
Thorn grabbed his cousin's arm. "The People Under The Hill'", he repeated. "That's what Mithdar called these folk! Do you suppose ---?"
Both little Kirkwean looked wide-eyed at each other, thinking, not for the first time, that there might be a lot more to old Granther Higgs and his 'tall tales' than most people in The Wold thought.
The First Folk's language was mainly grunts, clicks and whistles, with a great deal of hand waving thrown in, but a few of them spoke a very rough Common, and from these the two Kirkwean pieced together that Gluck's band had come south after some trouble had started in the far north. They traded now and then with 'tall folk' from a land called Weir, a country under the harsh boot of Slathland , the High Gnash's kingdom even further to the north.
A cold, grim land, Weir was said to be, covered for the most part by either rolling grassland or a deep, dark forest called the Weirwood, in which such terrifying creatures as 'gnats' and 'flyers' were said to dwell. They never did find out what a 'gnat' was, but 'flyers' were said to be great lizard-like creatures with bats wings.
"This 'Weirwood' is definitely a place I do NOT wish to go!", Timin said, momentarily loosing his appetite for the strong, white goat cheese a wrinkled old woman had given him.
On their third night there, Gluck proudly announced that there would be a feast to celebrate the tribes victory over the 'Shit Faces', whom, it appears, Gluck's people had first fought several weeks before.
A large fire was built in the open between the 'hollow hills' that were their homes, and several wild goats and deer were set to roasting on spits. Whistles, flutes and small drums appeared and the First Folk began to play and dance around the flames. Men, women and children, clad only in either a kilt of pounded bark or tatters of cloth traded in distant Weir, leapt and jumped round the sizzling meat.
A large, hollow log was dug up and, once the wooden plug at one end was knocked out, clay cups and rams horns were filled to the brim with the dark concoction the log contained.
"It's their ale, or what passes for it," Mithdar said, as he sampled on the brownish liquid. "To refuse would be seen as an insult, but drink sparingly, for it is very potent."
Thorn coughed as he swallowed his portion and Timin's eyes began to water. The rest took polite sips and turned instead to the meat. Only Erin and the bard, Roary, seemed to find the dark brew greatly to their taste.
Several hornfuls later, tossing his mutton bone over his shoulder, Erin called out loudly in a slightly slurred voice. "What say ye to a song, master minstrel? I've about had my fill o' these pipes, whistles 'n drums! The racket o' 'em be 'nough ta drive a man ta drink!" He alone saw the great humor in his poor jest.
Roary, nearly as far gone in his cups as the weapons-man, disengaged his hand from Onooga's and got to his feet, taking great pains to appear sober.
"T'would be me great pleasure, friend Erin, to play for such a renowned weapons-man as yerself! There is a little something I've been toilin' over, though in truth, it be far form finished."
Erin, ignoring Zoean's piercing look, refilled both the bard's horn and his own, spilling as much as he poured. "Faith, man! Be ye goin' ta stand there weavin' like a rudderless bark or be ye goin' ta play?!"
"It's after playin' I'll be," Roary said with exaggerated dignity; " N' t'is yerself that'll be blushin' with shame for doubtin' my skill, for the tale deals with 'great deeds 'n high valor', 'n yerself be one o' the highest!"
Erin, bowing so deeply that he would have fallen had not Kel caught his arm, frowned at the silent Chin, and pulled himself erect. "Well then, good bard, I pray thee, play on!" This time his bow did bring him down, though Zoean's body and not his, absorbed most of the fall.
Gluck and the ring of First Folk thought this great fun, and hooted out their pleasure. Zoean, disentangling herself from the grinning weapons-man, struck him on the shoulder, the effect of which only served to broaden his grin and cause her hand to smart.
"Guzzling oaf!", she snapped.
"Fairest o' the fair!", he beamed, then reached for his horn that Timin had caught on the way down. The front of the little Kirkwean's jerkin was now sopping wet.
"Ta!", Erin grunted, then, seeing it near empty, tossed it back at Timin. "Be a good lad 'n fetch us another --- n' one for yerself as well!"
By now Roary had taken his harp out of its doeskin bag and was lovingly running his hands over the rich carving. Gluck and his clan crowded closer to see this beautiful thing of glittering wire and wondrous wood. When Roary struck a resounding chord to test the tuning, as a body the First Folk leapt back, grunts, whistles and clucking sounds sputtering out of all of them.
Roary, seeing the effect his precious harp had had on these savage hill people, gave Onooga a sly wink and ran his fingers quickly over the glittering strings. The 'ooow's' and 'aahh's' this produced made his flashing eyes come to life.
Gluck, as leader, must have felt it his duty to investigate the source of this sweet magic, for he slowly put forth his filthy hand and gently touched the harp's carven head. Roary, moved by these people's innocent awe, gently drew Gluck's gnarled, thick fingers over the silver wires. Notes, as clear as sparkling water, soared up into the night sky, vying in beauty with the glittering stars themselves.
"Ahhhhhh ---", Gluck crooned, his dark eyes reflecting more than the dancing firelight. "Sweet magics," he said in a voice that promised never to forget. Gluck then spit into his open palm and softly touched it to Rory's forehead.
"Bow to him, Roary," the old wizard said softly from the shadows; "For you've just been given their highest blessing."
To his credit, the bard not only bowed, but graciously went down on one knee. Gluck's painted chest swell
ed with pride as his clan looked on. The rest of the Ten Companions smiled, even the stony faced Chin. Onooga, brushing a tear from her sun-darkened face, felt her heart go out anew to this strutting player she had long ago decided to follow till the end of her days.
Erin, moved as much as the others, felt Zoean squeezing his hand, a broad smile on her lovely face. "Roary-lad, the song," his deep voice rumbled;" before ye have us all weepin' like newborn babes!"
Nodding to the suddenly sobered weapons-man, the bard seated himself on a fallen log before the fire, cradled his harp lovingly and began to play. His long, nimble fingers flowed like water over the strings, casting a spell as sweet as the first birdsong and as old as the earth itself. All there willingly succumbed to its magic as they sat, wrapped in hopes, dreams and bitter-sweet memories, as they became as one with the ancient and timeless People Under the Hill.
The words of his lay were in the common Trade Tongue, but the music was in the ancient tradition of the bards of Kith and their cousins in the Green Isles of Loamin. Legend had it that the early bards first learned their ancient art from the dark, mysterious people known as The Rill, who, in the 'long, long ago', had been as one with the Fair Folk of Oma-Var --- the mystical race known as the Nim-Loth.
And so began the rather long but poignant
'The Lay of the Winter-War'.
The snow, like stars, lay all around,
The wind, like ice, cold hearts it found,
Long days and nights, the blood ran red,
And kith and kin, they mourned their dead.
The Karns, like death, came howling down,
But still the Delgii held their ground.
Then hope, like spring, it came anew,
To bearded Delgii, came a few,
Brave hearts, stout souls, to Dingle came,
Long live their fire, all praise their names.
The Karns, like death, came howling down,
But still these brave hearts held their ground.
In truth, these beasts, were not alone.
Nar-Graith there were, The Shadow's own.
With edge of blade, and soulless heart,
They sought to tare the dream apart.
Fierce of eye, these Walking Dead,
Made bold, brave hearts, shake with dread.
The fiends, like death, came howling down,
Brave heroes all, they held their ground.
Two, that came, above the rest.
Faced The Shadow, and His test.
Small Wee'n born, n' manling tall,
Met the Nar-Graith, one n' all.
With swords, of black, and hearts of light,
They cast Him back, into the night.
The headless-host, ran all around,
And still, our heroes, held their ground.
The Hooded Man, his minions all,
Cast from Tyree, to darkness fall.
The races free and all hand-sworn,
Owe a debt to man, from woman born.
And to him, to whom, the Sword weighs down,
From the birth of Time to this very day
Brave hearts, stout souls, to them we way,
'Long live their fire, all praise their names!'.
And to him, to whom, the Sword weighs down,
May he find the strength --- to stand his ground!"
***
This last line was repeated, without music, in Roary's clear, tenor voice, followed by a rich, deep chord that seemed to hang in the night air like the fading memory of a bitter-sweet dream.
And so ended 'The Lay of the Winter-War'. All there felt the age-old grip of music and verse masterfully played, and though but few of the First Folk could fathom the words, not one missed the meaning that tugged at their heart.
Onooga came and gently kissed the bard on his mouth, then led him back to their bower beneath the hill. Zoean, tears freely streaming down her cheek, held tight to Erin's hand. Most of the others, a far away look in their misty eyes, sniffed and coughed and, draining their mugs, went quietly off to their beds of pine and sweet bracken.
Thorn, however, remained quietly staring into the fire.
It was Timin that first spoke to him, softly repeating the bard's last two lines like a lonesome breeze to a star-filled sky.
"'And to him, to whom, the Sword weighs down; To this very day still holds his ground.' I like that, though it seems a bit sad."
Thorn looked up at his cousin. When he spoke his voice was etched with sorrow. "All wars are sad, for Death is the only true winner."
"But 'Death'," said a calm voice from out of the shadows; "can only conquer the body, Thorn. The 'spirit', that shining thing that a person carries deep inside him, can never be beaten by force alone."
Mithdar stepped close to the fire and sat. "The bard's words caught it well when he said:
'With edge of blade and soulless heart, They sought to tare the dream apart'. Freedom has long been the 'dream' of all races. One which Lucfelian, win or lose, will never erase."
Thorn looked up at the wise, kindly face, and saw the determination in his eyes. "But the Sword DOES weigh me down, Mithdar! I feel its weight, even now; pressing, like a great rock on my back!" Timin put an arm around his shoulder. Thorn fought back a sob.
"I wish I could tell you that your burden will lighten, Thorn", Mithdar said; "but I can't. Shard IS a heavy load to bear, and one, I fear, that only you may carry."
"But to what END, Mithdar?! WHEN will I ever be allowed to put it down?! Must I go on and on, like the bard's sad refrain, only to die in the end from its crushing weight?!"
The mage was silent for a time. The crackling of the fire and the low voices of the others preparing for sleep drifted over the three still forms.
"I believe, Thorn, that an ending will come and that a chance to lay your burden down will be given you. In truth, you yourself are even now heading towards that 'ending'. It was your idea, not mine, to travel north and face Lucfelian. And though just how it will turn out, none can say, an 'ending' at least will be made."
He reached out and gripped Thorn's arm. "Hold on, my young friend! You CAN master Shard's evil lure, if only you BELIEVE in yourself!"
"Mithdar's right, Thorn!", Timin burst in. "Why, just the other day, when those murdering Balikie were all around us, you USED the Sword and but it didn't 'take you away' like the other times! You CAN do it, you CAN still 'hold your ground'!"
Thorn tried to smile. "I'll try, but it is so very hard." He yawned. "But now you must excuse me you two, but I'm bone weary and I think old Gluck's brew has gone to my head."
Timin made a face. "Foul dishwater! I wouldn't feed that stuff to my Uncle Thimbleberry's hogs!"
All three laughed lightly and went to the 'hollow hill' Gluck had given them to sleep in. Behind them the fire, now but a heap of glowing coals, slowly faded as the dark, star-cluttered night closed in --- yet one, stubborn, little flame, blown by the wind and pressed in by others that had lost their fire, refused to give in and flickered on.
***
Chapter 42:'THE LUSTY BISON INN'
The next morning dawned clear and bright, a bit too bright for those that had taken overmuch of the First People's dark, heady brew. Still, Thorn and Timin were eager to be off, and so by midmorning the Ten Companions were once again mounted and heading northeastwards.
Gluck had assured them that he would do his best to convince the other clans to follow as soon as they could, for, as he put it: "World too much full Shit Faces! Slathers, Balikie, all same! All bad! Me, you, big friends. Gluck come, many First Folk come. Help Small Faces free home. Much kill Shit Faces, much drink, much sing. Plenty much Sweet Magic!"
So, laden down with the First Folk's best wishes and two skins of their dark brew, Thorn and Timin found themselves once again headed homeward, though what awaited their 'Homecoming' in none could say.
For two weeks they travelled uneventfully through the mountain passes. By the end of the third week, or 'The Ripening Time' as the Kirkw
ean called late June, they came down out of the foothills and headed west. Two days later Timin gave a rousing shout as they topped a gentle ride.
"Look! The Green Leaf! There's our river!"
As the others reined in their mounts, the pudgy little Kirkwean turned to his cousin. "Home, Thorn! After more than a year away, we're finally home at last!"
Thorn, his large eyes as misty as his excited cousin's, never-the-less held himself in check.
"Yes, Timin, but were still far south of The Wold. This far up river the Green Leaf is called the Nal Verg-Loth. See, it's not half as wide as it is further south near The Root. And that bigger river way off to the right is the Nal Torrent. It flows south of The Wold all the way to Del Lingus and the Port of Rush on the Amon Firth."
"'Rush'!", Erin snorted. "I've been there! Nigh on two years ago now. Got chased by a coastal patrol all the way up into the inland swamp those quiffers in Hep call the Sea of Anon!" The weapons-man frowned at the memory. "'Sea of Shit' be a better name!"
Mithdar shook his head, a look of resignation on his weathered face. "Perhaps we'd accomplish more, Erin, if we let Thorn enlighten the rest of us as to our present position?"
"Faith, man! I was just after helpin' the lad out!"
"Very commendable, I'm sure. Now, Thorn, please continue."
"Well, er, that smaller range south of the Nal Torrent is called the Horse Mountains. Granther Higgs told me they named it after the wild Ishtar that live on the grassy plains just beyond."
Zoean shaded her eyes and peered eastwards. "And what, Master Thorn, be 'Ishtar'?"