Across from the two sat the five companions: two Warrows, two Elves, and a Baeran—Folk not often seen in Pendwyr. Because of this fact, they had bypassed most of the bureaucracy and had gotten swift audience with the Steward. And now they were in one of the Steward’s private chambers in Caer Pendwyr, the castle on the first towering rock pinnacle jutting up from the sea beyond the headland.
Hanor shifted his mass in the broad chair. In spite of his girth, great strength lay within his bulk. “I mean, trapped in a glacier for a thousand years? Why, look at him: he has the appearance of a Man no more than thirty. Yet are we to believe the tale, he was some sixty years old when he fell in—”
“I was fifty-nine,” rumbled Urus.
“Fifty-nine, sixty, it is of no matter,” replied Hanor. “By your youth, given that you are now more than a thousand years old, why, were it not impossible, I would say that you have Elven blood running in your veins.
“Mayhap, though, it was the ice that preserved you and your youth….”
Aravan leaned forward. “How this Man survived is not at issue here. That he did is enough.
“What we came for was to redeem a pledge made long past by Aurion, son of Galvane, a pledge made unto this Man, Urus, to Dara Riatha, and to Tomlin and Petal, the ancestors of these Lastborn Firstborn Waerlinga, Gwylly and Faeril. And that pledge was to render aid—”
“Wait!” interjected Faeril. “Let me read his words to you.”
The damman turned to Gwylly, and the buccan dug out his copy of the journal from a pocket, a journal he had constantly kept with him ever since he had begun to read.
Faeril opened it to the appropriate page.
But ere he went, he came unto Tommy and me. “I am but a Prince of the Realm,” he said, “yet I deem my sire will hew to the pledge I make this day, and it is this: Should you or Urus or Riatha need the aid of the High King, come unto Caer Pendwyr or unto Challerain Keep and ask. We will help in running to earth this monster you seek. So do I pledge in the names of all High Kings of Mithgar forever.”
Faeril closed the journal. “The words were written by Petal, my ancestor, a thousand years ago, and the Prince making the pledge was Aurion. And now we come to redeem that pledge, for we need help in running the monster Stoke to earth.” She handed the diary back to Gwylly, and he in turn passed it across the table to Leith.
The Steward glanced at it, leafing through a few pages, passing it on to Hanor. “Hmph,” grunted the stout Man, cocking an eyebrow, “what language is this?”
“Twyll,” answered Gwylly, “the tongue of the Warrows.”
Of a sudden Steward Leith stood. “There is much to consider here, and I have business elsewhere that awaits me. Yet this do I say: Only High King Garan can honor in full the pledge made by his ancestor. However, we shall send messages to the Realmsmen that a menace stalks the land. We will ask for word as to this creature’s whereabouts. Beyond that, the commitment of resources and Men to run this foe to earth must await Garan’s seal.
“Where are you quartered?”
“The Silver Marlin,” answered Riatha.
“I would have you move your quarters to the caer.”
“We have horses,” interjected Aravan.
“Ponies and mules, too,” added Gwylly.
“Stockade them in the enclave,” answered Leith. He crossed to a pull cord. “I will have an attendant accompany you and arrange for rooms and aught else you might need.”
A page hastened into the chamber, and after a few words from the Steward, left. Leith turned. “We will speak more upon this anon, but for now I have several ministers waiting, no doubt pacing the floor in agitation. Stay here; the page will bring you your escort. Hanor?”
Lord Hanor stood and stepped to the Steward’s side, and together they strode from the room, and Faeril overheard part of what Hanor was saying, “…written in Twyll, a language we’ve never seen. And I have never heard of this Baron Stoke, and it seems to me…”
* * *
They moved into the castle that very afternoon, housing their animals in the stables in the enclave. The enclave itself stood behind the guarded wall running across the tip of the headland, the wall separating the enclave from the city proper. Within this warded tract were a hundred buildings housing agencies and offices of the Realm, providing as well the living quarters for many of the officials and aides within.
The five comrades, though, were given chambers within the caer itself, the walled castle occupying the whole of the spire, the fortified island pinnacle connected to the headland by the bridge.
Beyond the castle spire were two more sheer-sided pinnacles: the first containing lodgings for the King’s closest advisors; the second holding nought but the High King’s private residence. Each was connected to the next by a short suspension bridge a hundred or so feet above the rolling sea.
* * *
Two days later, they related their tale to Commander Ron, captain of the Realmsmen, and within the day the commander sent horsemen galloping forth from Pendwyr, bearing details of Baron Stoke and his monstrous deeds.
Rori, a tall Vanadurin of forty-five or so, his yellow hair and beard in braids, suggested a search through the archives to see if they held any record of Stoke or his Barony.
Following Rori, they crossed over to another of the buildings in the enclave. There they met an elderly Man, Breen, Chief Archivist. “I would not hold too much hope for such an accounting. Most of the records of that era were destroyed by the Hyranians in the Winter War, when the city fell to them,” said the eld archivist.
“What about the records at Challerain Keep?” asked Rori.
Breen ran his hand over his bald head. “Destroyed as well. Burnt by the Horde.”
“Nevertheless,” rumbled Urus, “search what you have and let us know.”
* * *
Weeks passed, and in that time Gwylly and Faeril spent hours at the library, Gwylly continuing his lessons at reading and writing and ciphering. Faeril guiding him and reading as well on her own. In the caer, Riatha and Aravan earned all of their keep by entertaining courtiers, playing harp, and singing and reciting verse. And Urus, it seemed, prowled as would a caged beast.
Yet all were under tension, for Stoke roamed, and they knew not where.
They often took the horses and ponies—and mules as well—out into the plains beyond the walls of Pendwyr, exercising the animals, keeping them in condition for a journey to an unknown destination. All five companions relished these outings, for Pendwyr, though exciting at first, came to be looked upon by them as a crowded anthill, or as Gwylly once laughingly put it, “…a crowded dunghill.”
“The odors are horrific,” said the buccan. “I mean, it seems as if they merely dump sewage and refuse in the streets.”
“Nay, Gwylly,” responded Aravan. “Instead, they spoil the ocean below. It is the way of Humans to do so.”
Faeril looked at the Elf. “That sounds rather grim, Aravan. ‘The way of Humans’?”
Aravan sighed. “Aye. Mankind seems not to know that the world itself can be slain, just as if it were a living creature. It can be stripped bare, poisoned, burnt, drowned, strangled, ruined, and destroyed in any other number of ways.
“Humans are ingenious creatures, inventive, and in this they are much like unto the Drimma, the Dwarves. They make things which are marvelous to behold, yet in doing so they destroy the land.
“Look at Pendwyr: a great city, full of wonder, full of interesting items of manufacture, things of Mankind’s inventiveness.
“Yet look at the ocean beneath Pendwyr, poisoned by Mankind’s offal, his refuse, his swill and slops and sewage; and the very walls of the stone headland which supports the city, those walls are stained with his feces, his urine, his filth.
“And the air itself is fouled by his excretions, by the effluents of his manufacture, by the outpourings of his furnaces.
“He destroys forests, poisons waters, fouls the air, rapes the land.
�
�Does this have to be? That Mankind destroys the very world? Is it the destiny of Humans to drown in their own spoilage?
“In the Boreal Sea lies the Land of Leut, a vast island. On that isle lives a tiny creature, in length no more than a handspan, a rodent, called lemen by the island dwellers though in Common it is named lemming.
“In the spring lemmings breed and breed, and breed in the summer as well. In the autumn lemmings breed. Two to five litters throughout the year, their numbers increase without bound. Yet soon the food runs short and shorter, until there is nought to eat.
“Then a great migration begins, lemmings eating everything as they go. During such migration, predators come—the Wolf, the fox, the hawk and falcon and eagle, more—and they feast without limit, lemmings falling to fang and claw and talon.
“Too, lemmings fall prey to disease and starvation, yet the march goes on, the tiny creatures devastating the land of plants and grains and aught else that they can consume. Frequently the migrations end at the sea, and with no food behind them they hurl themselves into the waters, lemmings swimming to reach distant shores, yet all drown.
“Humankind seems to be set upon this same course, overbreeding, devastating the land, rushing to his destruction. That he has not already done so is due to War and plague and pestilence, drought and floods and fires and famine, and other calamities wherein Mankind dwindles in numbers, and the world rallies somewhat from his ravagings. Yet, as do the lemmings, Humans breed swiftly, and soon their Race recovers, and the pillage and plunder of the world begins again.
“Elvenkind nearly destroyed its own world once, yet we saw in time what the outcome of our ravagement would be. We stopped, barely soon enough, for our world was greatly damaged. And now we limit our births, holding our numbers to well under that which our world can sustain without harm. And we limit our activities to those which do no permanent injury to the land or waters or air, or to the growing, living things thereon and in.
“But Humankind has yet to learn such…may never learn such. For Man is a short-lived creature of many appetites, and as such does not consider what sating those hungers has already done and will eventually do to his world; he thinks not of long-term consequences, but only of gratification of his current needs, no matter where it leads, no matter the ultimate end.
“Mayhap it is this short-livedness that is at the root of Mankind’s destructive tendencies, for unlike Elves, who are immortal, a given Man does not exist over the centuries to witness what his and other hands have done.
“Yet mayhap not all is dark, for the children of Men provide a link from the past to the future—an immortality of sorts. Perhaps by passing knowledge from one generation unto the next down through the ages, perhaps Mankind will become aware of and will heed the distressed signals of his world.
“His very inventiveness may lead to his own destruction, for he may in time build machines and devices that will ultimately poison his world beyond redemption. Yet by the same token, perhaps his ingenuity will lead him to reverse the damage he inevitably causes.
“But now I look about and see what Man hath wrought, and I think that this world will die gasping, poisoned by Humankind.”
When they rode back into Pendwyr that day, Faeril and Gwylly looked ’round at all the remarkable things within the city, at the markets and shops and sturdy stone buildings with their brightly colored doors, at the plenitude of manufactured goods all about, at weavers and cobblers and greengrocers and merchants of all sorts, hawking their goods, a hubbub of voices and calls filling the bustling streets. Through this swirl of commerce rode the Waerlinga, and as the noisome smell of middens washed over them, they did not marvel anymore.
* * *
High King Garan returned to Caer Pendwyr on the second day of October, and within the week held an audience with the five. Rather short of stature and brown-haired, Garan was a Man in his late thirties, having ascended the throne a decade past, when his sire, Orwin, had died of a seizure.
His Queen, Thayla, was a plump Woman, not quite five feet tall, with mouse-colored hair.
At the side of the throne stood Fenerin, Elven advisor to Garan, the Elf some five and a half feet tall, his shoulder-length hair a deep chestnut.
Other courtiers filled the chamber with a low hum of conversation, but silence fell as Alor Aravan and Dara Riatha, as Sir Gwylly and Mistress Faeril, as Chieftain Urus were announced. Though Fenerin nodded in recognition of Riatha, it was the first appearance by the five before most of the courtiers, and a gasp flew up as the Waerlinga entered, the elfin pair smiling, their tilted, jewel-like eyes aglitter, as they came forward to meet the High King.
Dara Riatha, Alor Aravan, and Chieftain Urus all knelt briefly before the King, but Gwylly and Faeril, tutored in Court protocol by Riatha, merely bowed and curtsied. As Riatha had said, “No Waerling has knelt before royalty since the War of the Ban, for it is their privilege to remain afoot, ever since Sir Tipperton requested such of the then High King.”
Garan stood, sweeping his arms wide, his brown eyes alive and taking in the five of them, his voice vibrant. “Welcome to Caer Pendwyr. On the morrow we will break our fast together, and you will tell us your most remarkable tale. ’Tis not often that we get to set aside the humdrum affairs of state to list to an adventure true.” Queen Thayla smiled, joy and beauty filling her face.
* * *
Garan pledged resources to their cause, honoring without question the vow made long ago by Prince Aurion. Yet none knew what might be needed, since Stoke’s whereabouts was unknown.
A month passed and then another, and in spite of Gwylly’s fears and Riatha’s warnings, Faeril spent time in the city searching for a mentor to teach her scrying…yet all she found were frauds and charlatans, and so her plans to locate Stoke via her crystal came to nought.
In early December, Archivist Breen told them that all surviving documents had been examined, and there was no record of Stoke or of a Barony by that name, and no record of such name associated with Vulfcwmb in Aven, or with Sagra in Vancha. And “…Yes, I know that you say he lived there. But there are no records of such. If ever there were any, they must have been burnt by the Hyranians.” No record of such a name was associated with Garia either, though Aravan had been uncertain that Stoke was the yellow-eyed Man whispered of in the rumors, for they had named Ydral instead.
Rori, too, came to say that the last of the Realmsmen had been notified. “Now there’s nought to do but wait,” he said. “If this Stoke creature be anywhere in the High King’s Realm, we will know. Word will come from some Realmsman somewhere.”
And wait they did: Gwylly reading, writing, continuing his lessons in Twyll, and now learning as well the language of the Baeron, Urus teaching him. Too, he continued to search out Aravan and Riatha, seeking knowledge concerning how the Elves care for their world, for he did fear that one day Mankind would ruin the earth, and he sought a way to prevent such.
“What will you do if it seems likely that Man will destroy Mithgar?”
“Ere he does so, in the last days Elvenkind will leave this world, never to return.”
“What about the others who are trapped here with Mankind? What about the Dwarves, the Utruni, the Warrows? What about the Hidden Ones? Will you just leave them, leave us, to the mercy of Man’s destructiveness?”
“Someday, Gwylly, the Wise Ones say there will be a Separation: Adon in His own manner will divide Mankind from us all—from the Drimma, from the Waerlinga, from the Hidden Ones, from Elvenkind, even from the Utruni. This they say will be to Mankind’s loss, for when we fare forth from his world, wonder and enchantment will fade from whatever is left behind.”
“Wise Ones? Who are these Wise Ones?”
“I deem thou wouldst name them Wizards,” answered Aravan.
“Oh.” Gwylly’s face fell glum. “But I like Mankind, Aravan. I would rather stay. If what you say comes to pass, are we to be separated from Humans forever?”
“As long as Mankind’s world
is in jeopardy, ’twill be so.”
“Will they remember us, Aravan? Will Mankind remember us at all?”
“Mayhap, Gwylly, mayhap. Mayhap in their legends and fables. Mayhap in nought but their dreams.”
* * *
Months passed by. Winter came, and then spring. They spoke with Commander Rori often, but among the reports posted by the Realmsmen, as yet there was no word concerning Stoke’s whereabouts. He seemed to have vanished from the face of the earth.
And as the days passed and grew into weeks, and the weeks into months, they cudgelled their minds for something, anything that they could do to speed the search, anything to locate Stoke, something that would allow them to go after him…but always they came to the same conclusions. Although it was difficult to remain at the caer while others searched, and although feelings of uselessness filled their breasts, still, if they themselves went searching, where would they go? The world was wide, and Stoke could be anywhere. Hence, the Realmsmen represented their best hope, for hundreds searched, covering more ground in weeks than the five of them could in years. They knew that if Stoke were anywhere within the High King’s Lands, the Realmsmen would succeed.
And so, they waited.
…Yet if Stoke were not in the High King’s Demesnes…
* * *
Summer followed, and more and more the five of them rode away from Pendwyr, ostensibly to exercise their animals, but in reality to get away from the cloying closeness and artificiality of the city. There were days that it seemed as if the stench and noise and crowding would o’erwhelm them, and Gwylly and Faeril at times could not seem to draw a clean breath of air.
Gwylly could not but help compare Pendwyr to Arden Vale, the vale a place where art and literature, sculpting and metal working, jewel carving and floral works and the growing of tiny trees and other such, occupied Elvenkind. Where elegant rock gardens with running water and crystalline pools filled with flashing fish were shaped and cultivated, Riatha once telling them that often a century or more would pass ere an Elf would finally decide upon the placement of a particular single stone or flower or shrub.
The Eye of the Hunter Page 38