* * * * *
Later that day, along the river.…
A boy and a girl, Greatreeve and Meadowbear, squabbled as they overturned a rotten log and kicked at red-brown punk. Grubs and wood lice spilled loose, legs windmilling to escape the light. The pair scooped dozens of insects into a birch bark cup.
“I still say it’s a waste of time!” Meadowbear stated. “We tried these bugs, and the fish won’t bite!”
“What else is there?” demanded Greatreeve. “There aren’t any worms. The dirt’s too rocky.”
“Quiet!” the girl shushed, though she was just as loud. “They’ll hear us!” The two had sneaked away from their chores to try their luck with the rainbow-speckled fish in the river Delimbiyr. They’d never seen such fish before, but they looked succulent. And fussy, for the creatures rose to no bait the children offered. “And elves live in these—Aah!”
The children jumped so high their birch bark cup flew in the air. Bugs flitted across winter leaves. An elf, tall and green and black and wild-haired, had stepped from behind a tree as if invisible.
“Don’t be frightened,” the elf said. Calm and kind words belied the elf’s fierce appearance. “I see you seek the shalass but lack luck.”
“The what?” asked Meadowbear. “Oh, the fish? Is that what you call ’em?”
“How do you catch ’em?” asked Greatreeve.
The elf smiled, face lighting up. He pointed at the rotten log. “Not with those,” he said. “The best bait is the grub of the mayfly in spring, when the shalass is hungriest, but there are none now. Rather, try here …” The elf crooked a finger and walked away smiling.
“What d’ya think?” Meadowbear hissed to her partner.
“Elves eat babies, my papa says,” whispered the boy. “But we’re not babies … And he lives here—”
“So he knows how to catch fish!” finished Meadowbear.
Together, the barbarian children picked on silent feet after the elf. The tall archer climbed into a tree with thick branches still adorned with dark green leaves. Jumping free of the trunk, the elf bent a branch for the children to reach. “Pick a few nuts,” he told them. “Not too many.”
Wondering, the children plucked a handful of dark green nuts like olives. Releasing the branch, the elf drew a wicked curved knife that made the children step back. The woods-dweller smiled as he peeled a green husk. Revealed was a nut white as chalk. Quartering the nut, the elf handed each child a white curl.
“The shalass is delicious but dim. Bait your hook with this nut and jig the line ever so gently, and Sir Shalass will mistake it for a mayfly grub. Trust me, it works.”
The erstwhile fisherfolk looked at the nut hunks with awe. “My thanks …” said Meadowbear. Remembering her manners, she added, “But what do I owe you? Rengarth Barbarians always pay their debts.”
The elf nodded and said, “Fair enough. Know you the names of the two women who entered the forest this morning? They came after axes soaking in yon stream. One was middling-high and dark, but the other was tall and graceful as a sandhill crane—”
“You mean Blackblossom?” blurted Greatreeve. Meadowbear jabbed him with an elbow, too late.
“Blackblossom.” The elf tasted the name. “Apt, for one so rare and fair … My thanks, fishers. Our debt is square. Good luck!”
Swinging bow and sword hilt, the elf melted into the forest.
“Big mouth!” snarled the girl. “You blabbed Blaekblossom’s name. Now he’ll get power over her soul!”
“I wonder why he wants it,” said Greatreeve. “I hope he doesn’t hurt her.…”
* * * * *
On the slope between forest and prairie.…
Strongsea threw down his axe in disgust. It bounced off a log and flipped over. “Gah!” he spat. “Next to useless!”
“Don’t be silly,” Graysky said as he patiently hammered the back of his axe with a wooden maul to split a log. “Just because you can’t sharpen an axe—”
“It’s not something you can learn. Either you’re born knowing how to sharpen a blade, or you’re not, and I’m not! And I’m damned to walk all the way to the mountain just to have a dwarf sharpen it for me! I hate walking as much as I hate sharpening.”
The bigger man flopped down on a stump. There were stumps everywhere, scores of them, for the barbarians had labored to cut back the forest and build homes for the winter. Already a dozen longhouses striped the hillside and sent smoke curling into the blue-white sky. Stacks of cordwood and piles of burnable slash ran higgledy-piggledy up the slope.
“Everyone’s busy,” Graysky said as he hammered his maul a last time to divide the log, then leaned back and wiped his brow. “The dwarves are too busy forging tools to come sharpen them, so we needs—Hello! What are you?”
“A fairy!” Strongsea hopped off his stump to grab his fallen axe.
“No, sir, I’m not! Please don’t hurt us!”
The barbarian men stared at the tiny being. Barely thigh-high, she was stooped and thin with a narrow head dominated by a bulbous nose and lank brown hair. She wore rags of red and blue once cut for humans, much too large. Huddled behind her legs were two tinier creatures, all noses and eyes.
“We’re gnomes,” explained the female. “Kin to dwarves, but city-dwellers. Or we were until the troubles. My husband was killed by a mob, so we fled with only our tools and the clothes on our backs. We heard this land still knew peace, and trekked across the tall grass—”
“Yes, yes, we know,” Graysky said, shaking his head as he regarded the trio, mother and children, who’d appeared from the nearby woods. The barbarian had heard of gnomes, but had never seen one. These days all sorts of refugees streamed into this mighty triangle framed by prairie and forest and mountains, for the barbarian/elf/dwarf alliance kept at bay the wars and riots and plagues that raged elsewhere. “You’re not the first, nor the last. I imagine you’re hungry.”
The gnomes’ bright eyes glittered, but Strongsea ventured, “Don’t feed ’em! It’ll just encourage ’em to stick around like stray cats.”
“I’ll remember that when next you belly up to the trough,” returned Graysky. He unwrapped an oilskin containing acorn bread and smoked elk meat. The gnomish mother saw that her two children ate before she wolfed down her own portion. Strongsea sighed in disgust.
Graysky sat on a stump and studied the gnome. Her hands were overlarge for her pipe stem arms, but long-fingered and clever. She wore a belt with many pouches of thin tools that jutted every which way. The barbarian asked, “Kin to dwarves, eh? What can you do with this?” Strongsea objected when Graysky plucked away his axe.
The gnome tsked at the dull edge, hastily wiped her mouth, then propped the axe in a cleft of a log. Selecting a short file of jagged crystal from her belt, she worked on the edge, almost pressing her big nose against the hardy tool as she stroked quickly and methodically. Within a few minutes, she handed the tool to Graysky, who passed it to Strongsea.
“Humph. Never saw a file like that. Can’t be much—Whoa!” The bigger barbarian touched a thumb to the edge and cut his flesh. Swearing, he sucked his thumb. Then light dawned. Laying the axe down, he leaped up so fast the gnomes recoiled in fright. Yet Strongsea caught them all in a gigantic bear hug.
“Welcome, brethren!”
* * * * *
Out on the prairie.…
Two dwarves, Cappi and Pullor, stopped at an invisible line anchored by distant horsemen. The riders waved “All clear.”
Cappi huffed, “I guess we part here. Thank you.”
“No bother,” said Magichunger. “I like to get out, see what stirs on our border. Though these days our scouts do the job.”
Dwarves and men gazed over the prairie. There wasn’t much to see. Rolling grass, winter white, marched to the horizon. A pair of vultures soared idly. Behind, the tip of Sanguine Mountain just showed to the tallest men. The barbarians considered that landmark the border of their new country.
The war chief and f
ive fighters accompanied the two dwarves. Laden like donkeys with satchels and weapons, Cappi and Pullor journeyed to the distant Iron Mountains to tell the Sons of Baltar of the promise in the Barren Mountains. Through his message-bearers, Drigor hoped the entire tribe would relocate. The dwarves shook hands, were wished good luck, and stepped off on their thousand mile journey. The barbarians would see them out of sight, but the sudden thrum of thunder underfoot set both teams staring north.
The outriding scout pounded across the prairie on a half-wild horse. Knots lumped her bare arms as she wrestled the horse to a standstill, and jerked her leather-billed cap square. “Tracks!” she shouted. “Many of them! Entering our lands!”
“Show us!” commanded the war chief, and the party trotted after the scampering horse.
A mile on, the rider pointed to crushed grass, a path meandering north. Magichunger stooped, and rolled bruised stalks between his fingers. The trail was only a day old. Without a word, men and dwarves turned north at a trot flanked by the tall rider. Soon the trail wended west into barbarian territory.
Hours on, the rider dismounted, and waited for the war party to catch up. Where the land folded, Magichunger and the rest smelled smoke. Splitting up, they crept forward. Strange voices carried on the wind. Edging to a creek bed, they peered down.
A mix of scruffy soldiers, men and half-ores, and even two half-ogres, hunkered around a small fire. No one ate, for their haversacks lay flat. They only watched an iron pot boil in hopes of weak tea. Their dirty clothing was mixed, but pale gold predominated in tunics. Weapons lay by every hand.
Magichunger pulled back, consulted with Cappi and Crabbranch, then signaled fighters forward silently. When everyone was posted, Magichunger reared to his feet with bow at full draw.
The hungry soldiers jumped, yelped, grabbed, but the burly barbarian hollered, “Touch them and die! You’re ringed by arrows!”
The soldiers cursed, but stayed still. At the war chiefs command, they backed with hands on heads against the sand bank. Most shivered, fearing to be shot. A barbarian and dwarf slid into the ravine to toss swords, war axes, spears, and clubs up on the grass. One older man rasped, “We’re to be left defenseless on this godsforsaken plain?”
“You’re lucky to be alive,” Magichunger told them. “You trespass the lands of the Rengarth Barbarians. We claim all territory to the west and kill raiders. For such you look to me: deserters from the empire’s army hunting easy prey.” The renegades squirmed.
“Yet we value peace and never kill unless provoked,” Magichunger continued. “So I suggest you turn for Northreach to find honest work. Follow the Sled by night. Keep your belt knives, and set snares on the way: these hills swarm with rabbits. On your way. To linger is to die.”
Grumbling, but relieved to be safe, the soldiers grabbed meager packs, filed along the ravine, mounted to the grass, and stepped off northeast. The barbarians watched them out of sight, the half-ogres disappearing last.
Then the war party laughed with relief. Magichunger said to the dwarves, “You’d best be off afore nightfall.”
Agreeing, the dwarves hitched their packs. But Cappi gazed northeast after the departed soldiers. “I wish the lands we must cross were as safe as this corner of the empire has become,” he said wistfully.
“Then hop to!” Magichunger chuckled. “Fetch your tribe home and it’ll be even safer!”
Everyone laughed and waved as the dwarves marched with the long evening sun shining on their packs.
* * * * *
Where the craggy feet of Sanguine Mountain rived the earth, Hilel and his horse-traders had selected a brushy, steep-sided ravine and blocked the ends with stumps and slash. This makeshift corral contained forty wild and half-tame horses, some brought by Hilel initially, others captured on the prairie.
Sunbright walked the ravine’s edge and studied the milling animals as Hilel and his clan cut out individuals with horsehair lariats. The stocky horse-traders in their sleeveless sweaters and canvas vests and leather caps looked much alike, so Sunbright had difficulty telling them apart.
He more watched how they worked. The riders moved with a clever ease that belied skill. Men and women and children of the clan could plunge amidst a hurtling maelstrom of spooked animals to whip a snug noose around a neck while dodging flailing hooves, then somehow jerk the recalcitrant beast out of the herd and pacify it within a few minutes. Such skill bespoke years, generations of practice.
Outside the ravine, Hilel had snubbed a large roan stallion’s forehoof against its chest to sling a saddle across its back. Timing just right, he hooked a boot, bounded to the saddle, and hauled the reins to keep his seat and teach the animal a lesson. Nudging, cooing, occasionally swatting, he forced the huge red mount to limp a tight circle.
Lazily, yet watching everywhere, Sunbright paced alongside and called questions: How many times must you mount before he’ll accept you? Do horses ever strike when your back is turned? How smart are they? Are they loyal? How far can you ride one in a day? How much can they carry comfortably? What precautions are needed at night to protect them? And dozens more.
Hilel answered questions as he worked, puffing but patient, for his clan owed Sunbright a favor. First, the shaman and dwarves had rescued the entire clan from destruction by ores early in the winter, then given clear directions for travel northwestward. But the traveling horse-traders had found chaos and danger in every path, for themselves and their beasts, so had returned to beg sanctuary of Sunbright. The shaman had spoken to the joint council, arguing that the riders could scout, haul supplies, run messages, locate herds of livestock, and perform other useful and unique tasks. So the clan camped, and set to culling wild horses from the plains.
Finally the exasperated trader asked, “Why so many questions, my friend? You pester me as if you’d buy the entire herd. Yet I know your people do not ride, but walk—they declaim it often enough—and view horses as nothing but steaks and sweetbreads on the hoof. So why all these questions?”
“No reason, just curious,” Sunbright lied. “I admire how well your family rides, and wonder whether it’s a skill that can be learned by anyone.”
“Such as yourself? Steady!” Hilel cooed to the horse pacing on three legs. “Would you become a mounted barbarian? A dragoon or lancer, perhaps? Or a carter hauling loads of shoes and ale?” He laughed out loud.
“No, not I,” Sunbright smiled. “I just wonder … Never mind. Who comes?”
At a trot clipped Hilel’s oldest son, a brawny young man named Micah. His canvas vest was laced tight yet bulged. When he reined in, he dug in his vest, withdrew a flat rock, and handed it to Sunbright.
The shaman studied the black rock, which was polished on one side and delicately etched with an odd design. Brushing off dirt, Sunbright saw two thin elves with high-pointed ears who talked amidst unrecognizable glyphs. “Where did you get this?” he asked.
“A dwarf found it,” Micah explained. “They enlarged the area around Drigor’s forge and turned up this stone. It was the only black one. What shall we do with it?”
“Give it to the elves,” Sunbright ordered. “It may be important to them.”
“Oh. Could—could you return it?” Micah made a face. “I don’t fancy riding into the woods. I’m leery of elves. Too many stories of how they drink blood and steal babies—”
“Forget those,” Sunbright cut him off waving a hand. “Everyone’s heard such rumors, but no one’s ever suffered such. Just ride up the vale into the woods, and call across the river. Give it to any elf. ’Twill benefit all of us. They’ll be grateful we value their artifacts and make efforts to return them, and your family will prosper from their good will.”
“How?” asked the boy doubtfully.
“Just do it,” Hilel ordered. “The shaman speaks true. An unexpected favor is returned doubly, our ancestors say. And the gods chalk them against your name. Now get along, or you’ll be late for supper.”
Frowning, Micah obeyed, clucking a
nd thumping his heels to aim the horse for the barbarian camp. The men watched him go.
Hilel huffed, “You have some scheme up your sleeve, friend Sunbright. I thought I was a cagey trader, and always got the best of a deal, but you’re a master. I only wish I could fathom your scheme and somehow profit by it.” He added a laugh to pull any sting of accusation.
Sunbright laughed also. “You praise me highly, friend Hilel,” he said. “I’m just a simple shaman seeing after the welfare of my people, and hardly good at it, but I do have some simple ideas, and if they pan out …” His words ran out as he gazed along the ravine toward the distant prairie. Something turned over in his mind so he finished aloud, “… But if not, even the gods may be powerless to aid us.”
Chapter 19
“Aaaaarrrggghhhh!!!”
The monster Sysquemalyn hefted the black scrying table and hurled it against the cave wall. It shattered into a thousand fragments. The flint creature raged, smashed stalactites with iron fists, blew fire like a dragon, and shot frost from her fingertips. The cave grew murky with smoke and steam and rock dust.
Nothing, she raged, neither scrying device nor spell could penetrate the depths of an elven forest. Damn all ancient peoples and their unfathomable defenses! Yet Sunbright must be hiding among elves, for she couldn’t locate him anywhere else.
“He hides because he fears me!” she ranted. “Because I’ve killed all my enemies and wounded an empire! Candlemas is deader than dead, his soul expunged from the spheres! Polaris, the screaming, putrid cow, was reduced to blubbering terror before I pitched her into the blackest of holes! But Sunbright, a simple, stupid barbarian, eludes me! I should visit him in person, tear his lungs out, blind him—”
An idea struck. Why not seek him out? Her work here was done. By donning the guise of the One King, she’d stirred up hordes of ores and other villains, wounded the Netherese Empire sorely, butchered thousands of innocents, and lured Lady Polaris to a horrible quasi-life. But she needed the One King no longer. She could turn her attentions to—
“Sunbright!” The stony creature raised wicked claws. “Prepare yourself! I come in person to bring you agony and slow, painful death!”
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