by J. C. Staudt
Kestrel beamed. “Consider it done.”
When Darion and Lady Alynor retired to their room later that night, he couldn’t help but notice how quiet and thoughtful she was. “What is it, my lady?”
“What is what?” she asked.
He favored her with a warm smile. “That gloomy look of yours is never without cause.”
She smiled back, bashful. “Oh, I mustn’t trouble you with my needless worries.”
“If it’s worrying you, it isn’t needless,” he said. “Tell me.”
“Do you think we’ll arrive in Maergath before the Korengadi do?”
“Long before, I should think. Doubtful we’ll beat them to the Dathiri Ford, though. The garrison there should put a stop to their advance. If they break through—which is unlikely—they’ve a long march round the Maergath Sea thereafter. Castle Maergath is shielded by the Mountains of Driftwater and protected from all directions but the south. Maergath has never fallen, and I’ll wager it won’t this time. Olyvard King’s larger worry is the Eastgap, whose farms and hamlets lie unprotected from the west. I’ve no doubt the invading armies will leave plenty of destruction in their wake. What’s your worry?”
“It gets harder from here, doesn’t it?”
He nodded. “As we draw near to the war, we’re bound to feel its effects.”
“What do you intend to do when we reach the Elûnor?”
“Is that what’s worrying you? Don’t concern yourself with it, my lady. I’ll see us through safely.”
“That’s only some of it,” she said. “That man at the bar… he must be the first person we’ve met who knew you and didn’t praise your deeds.”
“People have their opinions. They’re welcome to them as far as I’m concerned. I’ve no reason to doubt my choices because others disagree with them. He’s not required to like me. He fought for the other side.”
“Are you sure we’re fighting for the right side now?” she asked.
“There has never been a war whose every side did not believe itself the right one. Dathrond is being invaded. Whatever the cause, a war is nothing we want in our lands. That is why I’ve answered the call. That I may help bring this war to a rapid end. For our home, and our future.”
“I admire you for that,” Lady Alynor said.
Darion was astonished at his wife’s acclaim, though he did not acknowledge it. “We’d best be to bed. Another long day’s ride tomorrow.”
“Indeed,” she said with an afflicted smile.
When she slipped out of her dress, she laid a tender hand on her stomach.
“Are you feeling alright?” Darion asked.
Alynor’s smile was somber. “Yes, my dearest. Better, now you’ve assuaged my fears.”
Chapter 10
The north road from Vale was the easiest going they’d seen since they left Keep Ulther; the terrain was flat and open, and the well-traveled path was free of weeds and overgrowth. Lady Alynor grew no more enthusiastic about traveling, though. Even as the habit of their daily rides made her stronger every day, the weary leagues gave her a longing for the comforts of home. She wanted her chair by the hearth; her basket of yarn; her dressing room, with its full-length mirrors and wardrobes full of gowns; and her bevy of maidservants to dress and groom her. She wanted to attend a party in a banquet chamber full of cultured women who had more to offer one another than the occasional grunt or belch or bout of flatulence.
At least they had eaten well since Vale; this new archer companion of theirs scarcely let two days pass before he was bringing down fresh game, unconcerned with whose lands they were on or whose laws they might be breaking. Darion had assured her a flash of the king’s summons was all it would take to smooth things over with any local lord who might raise a dispute. None ever did, though. The archer hid the evidence of his kills too well, and the pace of their travel was sufficient to be gone before any were the wiser.
The Elûnor and the Erandor were twin rivers which joined briefly along the southern edge of the Sparleaf before separating to form the Fengate River and Brynhalter Flats. The Erandor Bridge had been unguarded when Alynor and her three male companions had crossed it several days before. Now, as they approached the bridge over the Elûnor, they found it in quite a different state.
Sealskin tents dotted the north bank of the river, where the flat grasslands of western Dathrond morphed into the rocky, rolling Grey Teeth. Alynor could just make out the squat forms of dwarves moving through the camp, individuals of varying height and girth, all with blanched skin and wintry beards ranging from ash-gray to snowy-white. As they drew nearer, she noted the detachment posted on the bridge: forty strong in lamellar scales and nasal helms, bearing tall spears and scutum shields.
“I’ve got five gold says they turn us away and we’re out another three days’ travel,” Triolyn whispered.
“I’ll take that bet,” said Kestrel. “Sir Darion may be bullheaded, but he knows what he’s doing.”
“Shut up, the both of you,” said Darion. “Not another word, or I’ll see to it neither one of you gets through.”
“How do you do, good sirs? Milady,” called the dwarf in charge, a taller specimen than his cohorts.
Alynor gave him a nod, detecting the subtle signs of recent human ancestry in his leanness and stature.
“May I ask what your aim might be?” said the dwarf.
“Our aim is to cross this bridge and make for Barrowdale,” said Darion.
“And your business there?”
“Naught but to move eastward from it. I’ve a summons to appear in the king’s court at Castle Maergath.”
The dwarf gave a brusque laugh. “You’re a friend to Olyvard King, are you?”
“I’ve not seen the king since he was a boy. I was friend to his father, and so I’ve come to honor his wishes in Orynn King’s memory.”
“You do realize our purpose here is to thwart any attempted advance by the hosts of Dathrond and its allies into the Grey Teeth and the Eastgap beyond… do you not?”
“I do.”
“Then why would you presume to think yourself worthy of an exclusion?”
“Because we are no host. The king requested my presence, and mine alone. These are my traveling companions, and this is my wife. We mean no harm to you and your armies, nor do we intend to war with you or smuggle an army across your bridge.”
“Yet you are clothed for battle,” said the dwarf. “How do you explain that?”
“The realms are a dangerous place,” Darion said simply.
“So they are. On that score, what tidings from the south?”
“All is peaceful in the south, insofar as can be expected. I should like it to stay that way, which is why I’m headed for the king’s court.”
“I’m afraid you’ll have to find a different way round. The bridge is ours, and none loyal to Dathrond may cross it until such a time as Rudgar King of Korengad commands.”
Darion sighed. “Perhaps I ought to have lied about my loyalty to Dathrond. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to do this. I invoke gehrgünt and call upon the name Frosthammer to satisfy my claim.”
The dwarf blinked in surprise. “What did you say?”
“You heard what I said. You know the law of your fathers as well as I. Now, do your duty.” Darion dismounted, surrendered his weapons, and bid Alynor and their two companions do the same. There was some hesitation on Kestrel and Triolyn’s part, but they went along with it after seeing Darion’s reassuring nod.
The dwarf gave a grunt, then stamped the butt of his spear thrice on the bridge’s wooden planks. The soldiers behind him slid askance to form an opening in their line wide enough for a horse to pass through. Darion led his stallion forward, and Alynor followed. A unit of dwarves accompanied them to the base of a hill near the center of camp, atop which sat the largest of all the sealskin tents in sight.
Once they were across the bridge, Triolyn sped up until he was beside Darion and asked, “What did you just do?”
“I used the old laws to demand an audience with their commander. I’ve known him and his family for years.”
“You know their leader? Why didn’t you say so at the start?”
“There is a right way and a wrong way to negotiate,” Darion said. “The wrong way is to use your strongest argument first and follow it with weaker ones.”
“This one seems pretty strong,” said Kestrel, noting the tent’s formidable size over the others.
“You’d better hope so,” said Darion. “This is as far as you go. I must enter alone. Pray the next thing you see through that tent flap is my face and not the point of a dwarven spear.” He turned to Alynor and gave her a furtive wink to let her know things were going to be alright. Then two dwarves came alongside to escort him up the slope. Darion had to duck beneath the tent flap when they lifted it for him. Alynor watched her husband disappear inside with consecutive waves of hope and dread.
They waited outside for a long time. Alynor could tell Kestrel and Triolyn were both trying not to be nervous, but their fidgeting gave them away. Kestrel’s fingers wiggled at his side as if playing a lute that wasn’t there; Triolyn kept pinching the thumb of his right hand to the knuckle of his forefinger as if to hold back the shaft of an arrow. From time to time they could hear the stirrings of a great commotion from within the tent. Alynor was too far away to tell whether these moments were inspired by harmony or discord.
What emerged from the tent several minutes later was neither a spearhead nor her husband, however. A dwarf with a billowy beard and a thick head of white hair tossed the sealskin flap aside and started down the slope toward them. He wore lamellar leggings and a heavy woolen undertunic marked with deep impressions from the armor he must’ve often worn over it. He spread his arms and began to speak when he caught sight of Alynor, but she couldn’t hear him over the noises of the camp until he came closer.
“… so thrilled to finally meet the lady of Keep Ulther. I’d begun to worry our little lad would never make himself a match. May all the gods bless you, my lady.” When he reached Alynor, the dwarf threw his arms around her and squeezed, pinning her elbows to her sides. His snowy hair tickled her beneath the chin as he pressed his face into her bosom and lifted her off her feet.
Alynor wasn’t sure what to do. If he squeezed much harder, she was apt to let go of something she hadn’t meant to.
Thankfully, Darion stumbled out of the tent a moment later. “Gruske,” he shouted, laughing. “Gruske, you’re frightening the poor woman. Leave her be, or I’ll see you to the river for a swim.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” said Gruske, releasing her.
Alynor inhaled, overcome with a brief sensation of lightheadedness. “Pleased to meet you,” she managed.
“My, but this is a fine one you’ve roped yourself, Darion Trollsbane. If I were but a mite taller…”
“Or fifty years younger…” Darion said.
“Stow that, you rascal,” said the dwarf.
Darion gave him a playful clap on the shoulder as he came to join them. “My lady, this is Gruske of Clan Frosthammer. He is a far distant cousin of mine, as are most of the Frosthammers. He and I share a grandfather some two hundred years back.”
“A pleasure, eh… Lord Frosthammer.”
“I am no lord, my lady. Not by the laws of men. I do have the honor of commanding this army, however. Please, call me Gruske.”
“You more than know these dwarves, it would appear,” said Triolyn. “You’re related.”
“I do have both dwarf and jötun blood in my veins,” Darion said. “Strange mix, dwarves and giants. I can only assume the intermingling took place in different generations, and not all at once.”
Gruske gave a hearty laugh that shook him from waist to shoulder. “Sir Darion here once courted a daughter of mine, as it happens,” he said with a chuckle. “And I hope you don’t mind me saying so, my lady.”
“By all means,” Alynor said, giving Darion a curious grin. “Do go on.”
“That’s how we found out he was related,” said Gruske. “A bit of research into the family histories quashed that notion right quickly.”
“I wouldn’t call what Grilda and I did courting, exactly,” said Darion.
Gruske’s eyes bulged. “What would you call it then… exactly?”
“A short period of passing interest.”
“There you have it,” said Gruske. “Now will you stop being rude, or must I introduce myself to all your friends?”
“Kestrel and Triolyn,” said Darion, gesturing.
“And are they filthy Dathiri like yourself?”
“I’m no Dathiri, and you know it. Nor are they,” Darion said, still laughing.
Alynor realized this was the happiest she’d ever seen her husband. Can he really love dwarves so much? she wondered. Or is Gruske merely the first of his true friends I’ve ever seen him around?
“I’m Dathiri,” said Triolyn. “I was born in a small village in the Eastgap.”
Gruske gave him a crooked grin. “That’s not a thing you’ll want to say aloud round here, lad.”
“I don’t care. I’m not ashamed of where I’m from.”
“You ought to be.”
“Come now,” said Darion, “surely you cannot blame a man for the kingdom of his birth.”
“No, I suppose not,” said Gruske. “Though you can blame him for serving his king. You’re even worse. You serve a king who isn’t yours.”
“What of Rudgar? Are you not serving a foreign king as well?”
“I serve mine own Craikaar King, and he alone. Wherever he sends me, I go, whether it’s to safeguard his own lands or those of his allies.”
“I should like to believe I could sway your mind in this,” said Darion.
“You have before, a time or two,” said Gruske. “But in this, yours is a lost cause. Now, best be off with you, before I forget the eye I’ve turned you is a blind one.”
“My thanks, Gruske. I shall return this favor a thousand times over when this war is behind us.”
“One time over will be plenty,” said the dwarf, bidding them farewell.
Kalo was wild with the unfamiliar smells of dwarf and sealskin, so Darion walked the stallion as they wove a careful path through the remaining tents. It wasn’t until they’d escaped the thick of the camp and the west winds came to sweep the strange scents away that the stallion eased enough to be ridden again.
“I wish you’d be rid of that dreadful beast,” Alynor told him. “I worry for you every time you take the saddle.”
“Oh, come now. Kalo is a kindred spirit. Aren’t you, my lad?” He patted the horse’s neck. “A little rough-and-tumble at times, but a soft heart for all that. Don’t hold him in contempt for his strong will.”
Alynor spurred her gelding forward without answering. She didn’t know why she bothered expressing her worry sometimes. Back in Vale, she hadn’t told Darion everything she was worried about. She’d been carrying a secret since before they left home, and despite her excitement she couldn’t bring herself to tell him what it was.
Truth be told, she was more afraid than excited. Afraid he would send her packing for home the moment he found out. She was beginning to show, and she knew it couldn’t remain a secret forever.
“Barrowdale is but half a day’s ride from here,” Darion was saying. “We can head there for provisioning, or we can cut northeast across the Teeth and meet the Eventide Road where it joins the Sparleaf. What say you?”
“He’s asking our opinion,” said Kestrel, giving Triolyn a backhanded knock on the shoulder. “Can you believe it?”
“The next time I have to mention that mouth of yours, singer, it’ll be the last you use it for a while.”
Darion turned in his saddle. “Alynor? What do you think?”
While Darion’s back was turned, Kestrel mimed fear.
Alynor was startled. Darion had never asked her advice about anything before. Seeing Gruske had changed him somehow. He was brigh
ter; more alive, and in better spirits. “Oh, me? I think we should go the short way.”
“As do I,” said Kestrel.
“I’m in agreement,” said Triolyn.
“Very well. We make for the Eventide Road.”
When they came within sight of the road several hours later, clusters of people huddled around campfires in the growing dusk. Others trudged eastward and disappeared into the Sparleaf. Most of the travelers were laden with baskets, bags, blankets and foodstuffs. Alynor was startled to see so many; there were elfkind and dwarf-kin and humans of every clan and color, with tinges of greenskin here and there. No matter their heritage, they all shared the same tired, dour look.
“Is the Eventide Road always so well-traveled?” she asked.
Darion shook his head. “Something isn’t right, my lady. These people are not mere travelers. They’re refugees. Come.”
They rode to the nearest fire, where Darion spoke to the circle of dimly lit figures seated there, shaded beneath their cloaks by the oncoming night. “What’s happened here? Who are all these people?”
A gray-bearded man lowered his hood. There was a dark splotch on the bandage wrapped around his head. “Exiles from Barrowdale,” he said. “Bound for Eventide. Some from Altenburg as well, though they’ve largely taken the Seaside Road.”
It was then that Alynor began to notice the others. Crippled and wounded, limping on makeshift crutches or lying beside fires with old wounds, bandaged and bloody.
“What’s happened in Barrowdale and Altenburg?” asked Darion.
“Raiders,” said the old man. “Raiders from the north.”
Darion’s face hardened. “Who were they? Whose colors did they fly?”
“They flew no colors,” said the man. “These were not the soldiers of a kingdom. They were rough and unruly. Murderers and rapers. Child-killers. They took Altenburg from within; trickled into the city over the course of days or weeks, disguised as normal travelers. When the time came, they rioted. They burned and looted every shop on the Street of Banners. Then they headed south and stormed Barrowdale two days later.”
“Where are these brigands now?”
“Still in Barrowdale, for all we know. I heard they’d taken up residence there. That was nearly a week ago.”