Trek to Kraggen-Cor

by McKiernan, Dennis L. , 1932-

  Perry, with Cotton on his heels, rushed down the hall and into the study. The study: in this The Root was peculiar, for it was one of the few Warrow homes to have such a room.

  Instead of books, Warrows in general much prefer their gardens and fields and fens and woods. Oh, not to say that most Warrows aren't educated to

  read and write and do their sums—oh no, not at all. Many of the Wee Folk can do these things well before their second-age-name change—much pride being taken by the winner of a spelldown, or by one who can recite from memory the names of all the local heroes, such as naming those of the Struggles. However, although many W'arrows are educated, most would just rather be in their vegetable patch or down at the One-Eyed Crow or Blue Bull or Thirsty Horse or any of the other Bosky taverns, with a pipe and a mug of dark beer, than to be tucked away somewhere with a dusty tome. xnd even when they do read books, they prefer those filled with things they already know about—such as the familiar hearth tales containing numerous stories of Warrow cleverness at outwitting Giants, Dragons, Big Folk, and other Outsiders. In any case, books are to be found in the proper places— such as in the libraries at the Cliffs or at the Great Treehouse or at Eastpoint Hall—and not in a private dwelling.

  Thus, the study at Trie Root was a curiosity among Warrow homes.

  It was a large, spacious room, with burrow-windows opening to the west. The floor was made of oak, but the walls and ceiling were panelled with walnut. There were many comfortable seats inside, and there were two desks and a writing table against three of the walls. There was also a low table in the center of the room, with a lounge and different-sized chairs arranged around it. There were several floor-to-ceiling bookcases with manuscripts and pamphlets and tomes and scrolls jumbled haphazardly upon the shelves. But most striking of all, there were a number of large and small glass cases in which were displayed weapons and armor, flags and pennons, and other items of a iike nature—all of a suitable size to fit Warrows.

  It was in this study that Tuckerby's scriveners had transcribed most of The Raven Book, a journal started by Tuckerby Underbank on his way to join the Thomwalkers at Spindle Ford in the year the Winter War began. Tuck was the most famous Warrow in all history—even more renowned than Danner and Parrel—actually being the subject of Elven songs: it was Tuckerby who loosed the Red Quarrel and destroyed the Myrkenstone, and with it Modru's power and Gyphon's threat. And his journal, The Raven Book —or, as it is more formally known, Sir Tuckerby Underbanks Unfinished Diary and His Accounting of the Winter War —contained his story and the tale of the Dimmendark.

  As the buccen swiftly entered this place of History, Pern- hurriedly placed the baldric and the silver horn—still wTapped in its polishing cloth—into one of the glass cases. Then he turned to the other W'arTow "Cotton, while I unpack the Raven Book, find Holly and tell her that there'll likely be guests at The Root tonight: three—perhaps four if the Mayor stays—extra places at the table if you please and beds as well. And, Cotton, have her set a

  place for you, too; for you've become versed in the tales of the Book and you've met these strangers . . . and, well, stick by me; I'd just feel better if I had you at my side "

  Cotton, flustered and pleased that his master wanted him at hand when these Outsiders came to The Root, bolted away to find young Holly Northcolt, youngest dammsel of Jayar and Dot Northcolt.

  Jayar, a former postmaster and now a country gentlewarrow, was well known for the cold spring on his land suitable for chilling buttermilk and melons. A no-nonsense buccan with definite opinions, Squire Northcolt had always greatly admired the Ravenbook Scholars; and he was deeply disturbed when he learned that the new curator of The Root—a Mister Peregrin Fairhill, as it were—was not only deeply involved in scholarly pursuits but also was struggling to keep up with the cleaning and dusting and ordering of foodstuff, and no doubt probably starving on his own cooking. And so Jayar overruled Dot's weeping objections and sent young Holly driving a two-wheeled pony-cart the fifty-one miles north from Thimble to Woody Hollow to "take charge of that Scholar's welfare."

  Thus it was that one day Perry answered a knock at the door, and there before him stood pretty Holly, suitcase in hand, her dappled pony munching calmly upon the lawn. "I've come to manage this burrowhold," the golden-eyed damman announced matter-of-factly; and though Perry couldn't recall having advertised for a homekeeper—for in truth, he hadn't—he welcomed her in glad relief, for he was practically starving on his own cooking, at least he felt so.

  And so Holly's timely appearance enlarged Perry's "family" to two; and, after she'd had a chance to size up the situation, through her insistence the household grew to three by the hiring of a handywarrow: Cotton. And things got mended and the lawn trimmed, and Cotton provided an eager ear for Mister Perry's scholarly thoughts and notions.

  Hence, thanks to a determined Southdell Squire and his equally determined dammsel, The Root had acquired the gentle hand of a competent young damman to steer it past the shoals of starvation and beyond the reefs of untidyness and into a haven of domesticity.

  And while Cotton dashed off in search of this young damman, Perry carefully slipped The Raven Book out of its rich-grained Eld-wood carrying case and placed it on the writing table. Looking around, he could see nothing else to do to get ready; so as soon as Cotton rejoined him, they returned to the stoop to wait for the visitors to arrive from Woody Hollow Hall.

  Meanwhile, Holly was hurriedly bustling about inside, preparing for the unexpected guests while muttering to herself: "Gracious! Guests here at The Root! And Cotton said they were a Big Man and two Dwarves! And maybe Mayor Whitlatch, too! I wonder what it is that Dwarves eat? And where in the world can the Big Man sleep? Men being so tall as they are: twice as high as an ordinary Warrow, I hear. Now the Dwarves, though it is said that they are nearly of a proper size, I don't know what they eat. Perhaps they eat mushrooms, or rabbit stew, or . . ."

  Perry and Cotton had just stepped back outside when Mayor Will

  Whitlatch, the Third, and the strangers arrived. Taking Perry by the arm, the Mayor turned to the visitors and said, "Master Peregrin Fairhill, may I present Lord Kian of Dael Township, and Mastercrafters Anval Ironfist and Borin Ironfist from the Undermountain Realm of Mineholt North."

  And for the first time ever, Perry set his sapphire-blue Warrow eyes upon Man: How tall they are ... I wonder if the ceilings in The Root are high enough; and Dwarf: So broad and sturdy — as strong as the rock they delve.

  Lord Kian was a young Man, slender and straight and tall, almost twice the height of Perry. In his right hand he held an ash-wood stave, and he was dressed for an overland walking journey: soft boots, sturdy breeks and jerkin, and a long cloak. His clothing was an elusive grey-green color that blended equally well with leaf, limb, or stone. On his head was a bowman's hat adorned with a single green feather. And belted over his shoulder was a plain quiver of green-fletched arrows and a curious bow—curious in that it was not a yew-wood longbow, but rather seemed to be made of strangely shaped bone, like long, curved, animal horns set into a silver handle. Kian's golden hair was cropped at his shoulders, and though his cheeks were clean-shaven, his fair countenance was graced with a well-trimmed yellow moustache which merged 'round the corners of his mouth with an equally well-trimmed yellow beard. At his waist he wore a grey belt with a silver buckle that matched the silver brooch clasping the cloak around his shoulders. The color of this metal seemed somehow to live in the grey of his sharp, piercing eyes. Is this the way all Men are? Silver and gold? Silver-grey eyes neath yellow-gold brow?

  In contrast to the tall, fair Lord Kian, Anval and Borin were only three hands or so taller than Perry, but were extraordinarily wide of shoulder, even for Dwarves, seeming at least half again as broad there as the young Man. They were outfitted in dark earthy browns for their journey, but otherwise were dressed little different from Kian. However, instead of a rude stave, they each carried a carved ash-wood staff shod with a black-iron ferrule and
topped with a cunningly shaped black-iron stave head: a bear for Anval and a ram for Borin. Strapped across their shoulders by carrying thongs were sturdy Dwarf War-axes, double-bitted, oak-hafted, rune-marked, steel-edged weapons. The Dwarves themselves, though not as fair-skinned as Lord Kian, had light complexions. But their look was dominated by black: Each had a black beard, long and forked as is the fashion of Dwarves. Not only were their beards and hair as black as the roots of a mountain, the color of their eyes was that of the blackest onyx. And unlike Kian's smiling face, the look upon the Dwarves' visages was somber, dark, wary. Gracious, I can r tell the one from the other; why, they are as alike as two lumps of forge coal!

  Both Anval and Borin doffed the caps from their raven locks and bowed stiffly, their black eyes never leaving Perry's face. Lord Kian, too, bowed, and Perry returned the courtesy to all with a sweeping bow of his own. Mayor Whitlatch, not to be outdone and thoroughly caught up in the ceremony,

  bowed to each and every one there in front of The Root—except the two tag-alongs, who were busily bowing to one another on the far side of the hedge.

  "And this is my friend and companion, Cotton Buckleburr," announced Perry, after which there ensued a second round of bowing, including a repeat performance by the Mayor. "I understand you want me—and my Raven Book, too," continued Perry. "Let us all go inside, and I'll see what I can do for you."

  Much to Perry's surprise, Mayor Whitlatch declined: "Oh no, Perry, I've got to get back to the Dingle. Lots to do, you know. I have to be getting down to Budgens tonight as well. A Mayor's work is never done."

  Lord Kian turned to the Mayor. "Long have we journeyed to reach Sir Tuckerby's Warren. And you have guided us on the final leg so that we may speak with Master Perry ... so that we may complete the King's business. For that we thank you, Mayor. No longer will we keep you from your pressing duties." Although Lord Kian had not said it in so many words, it was clear that Will Whitlatch was being dismissed.

  Realizing that he was free to go, the Mayor, with visible relief, said his farewells and left after again bowing to them all. It is certain that Mayor Whitlatch was to a small degree disappointed, because he knew that he was going to miss one of Holly's guest meals at The Root; and since Warrows love to eat—as many as five meals a day—and since guest meals are by far the best meals, it was no small sacrifice that the Mayor was making. But on the other side of the balance scales, it was, after all, "King's business" that was to be discussed, and that was very tricky indeed. It was best that small Warrow Mayors of small Warrow towns keep their noses where they belong, otherwise who knows what might occur. Lawks! Look at what happened the last time Warrows got caught up with the King—why, there was all that business with the Myrkenstone. Oh no, that sort of thing was not going to happen to Will Whitlatch, the Third—even if he did have to miss a grand meal! Will hurried faster and faster down the pathway and was soon out of sight.

  "Welcome to The Root," said Perry, and he turned and opened the oak-pegged door.

  CHAPTER 3 THE KING'S BUSINESS

  Perry need not have worried about the ceilings at The Root, for Lord Kian could stand comfortably—though he did stoop a bit when going through the doorway.

  But Perry hadn't been the only one who had wondered about the room heights, for as Lord Kian remarked, "I would have guessed that Waerling homes would be smaller, not large enough to permit a Man to roam about freely without knocking his head up against the beams."

  "I thought you might be bumping up against the ceiling, too," laughed Perry as the visitors removed their hats and cloaks, "but /at least should have known better: you see, The Root is special."

  "Special?" asked Lord Kian. "How so?"

  "Well, it's not like most Warrow dwellings," answered Perry, "be they the burrow-holts of us Siven-Warrows, the tree flets of the Quiren-Warrows, the stilted fen-houses of the Othen, or the stone field-houses of the Paren."

  "Your Folk live in four different kinds of dwellings? One for each strain?" grunted Anval, his dark scowl replaced by surprise.

  "Ah," said Perry, "in the past that was true. But now many of us don't follow the old ways of the four Warrow-folk, and we live willy-nilly, skimble-skamble: burrow, flet, stilts, or stone, we lodge where we will, no matter what our lineage.

  "Yet I stray . . . and, Lord Kian, you are right: The Root is extra large, as it were. Oh, it wasn't always this way." Perry gestured with a broad sweep of his hand. The visitors were being led down a wide central hallway, oak-panelled with rough-hewn beams overhead. There were many doorways issuing off to either side into unseen rooms. Trie hall itself contained several high-backed chairs and two small, linen-covered tables set to either side against the walls. Each of the tables bore a vase of dried flowers placed there by Holly, and here and there hung pieces of tapestry and needlepoint. At the entrance end of the hallway an umbrella stand held two bumbershoots and a cane, with a many-pegged cloak-and-coat rack on the wall above it—which

  the visitors did not use. The other extent of the passageway terminated in a cross-hall, and the wings of that corridor disappeared around corners: on the westward side to the kitchen, scullery, and, further on, the storage rooms; and on the eastward side to the bedrooms.

  "The original Root," Perry went on, "was an ordinary Warrow-sized home, scaled to fit Warrows—and, grown up, we range from three to four feet in height. I'm rather average at three and a half feet, with Cotton here a jot taller—by an inch or so. Anyway, as I was saying, the original Root was ordinary, but it was destroyed during the War: Modru's cruel reavers—Ghuls —finding no plunder, gutted and burned it along with many other dwellings in Hollow End. But after the War, Kingsmen came, as well as others, to help rebuild the homes—but especially to work on this burrow, Tuckerby's Warren, to make it better than new. And they did, as you can see—though it's not exactly 'new' anymore, those matters being some two hundred thirty years in the past. In any event, it was at that time Sir Tuckerby asked that the new Root be dug out large enough to house any future guest who might be a Man, Tuckerby having made many friends who were Men.

  "So you see, Lord Kian, the ceilings are high enough for you, and there are many sturdy—and I hope comfortable—Man-sized chairs sprinkled throughout the rooms to accommodate one of your size." (And though Perry did not yet know of it, in one of the long-unused burrow-rooms Holly had rediscovered a Man-sized four-poster, much to her surprise and delight—for now she had a proper bedroom for each of the guests, including this "Man-giant," whom she had glimpsed simply towering over Perry and Cotton, the Man soaring up to an awesome height of six feet or so.)

  "Do you mean that in any other Waerling home I would have to get about on my hands and knees?" asked Kian, reaching up and touching the oak panelling overhead.

  "Not quite"—Perry smiled, warming to this tall young Lord—"though you would have to bend a bit."

  Halfway down the length of the hall, Perry ushered the group through a doorway to the left and into the walnut-walled study. As they laid their hats and cloaks aside, Perry gestured at the surrounding glass cases: "The Root is special not only because of its scale; it's also special because it is a repository. You see, Warrows don't hold with memorials, the Monument at Budgens commemorating the Struggles being an exception. But this, my home, is an exception, too. Look about you; you see armor and weaponry, Elven cloaks, and many other things that are of the past. The Root is a home and a museum, a gallery dedicated to the Warrow heroes of the Winter War. It is a shrine, tended by the kindred of Sir Tuckerby: he who loosed the Red Quarrel; the Myrkenstone Slayer; and the last true owner of The Root. And I, Perry Fairhill, am the present curator of those glorious days."

  Perry turned to one corner of the room. "Look, Anval, Borin, here's something that will surely catch your interest: a simple coat of chain mail."

  "Simple coat of mail!" burst out Borin, his black eyes aglitter. He saw before him a small corselet of silver-shining armor. Amber gems were inset among the links, and a bejewelled bel
t—beryl and jade—was clasped about the waist. But the gemstones were not what caused Borin to cry out; he was amazed by the metal from which it was forged. "This is starsilver! A thing like this has not been crafted in centuries. It is Chakka work, and is priceless."

  "Starsilver. Silveron," spoke Anval, his sturdy hand lightly brushing over the finely wrought links. "Stronger than steel, lighter than down, soft as doeskin. This was forged in the smitheries of our ancestors—it is Kraggen-cor work." Suddenly Anval smacked a clenched fist into his open palm. "Hah! I have it: this is the legendary coat given to Tuckerby by the Princess Laurelin, as the world stood on the brink of the Winter War."

  "Given to Tuckerby at War's beginning and worn by him to the very top of the Iron Tower." Perry nodded, surprised that the Dwarves knew of this armor—surprised, too, by the reverence that the silveron metal brought forth from the two of them. "But I ramble. Please be seated."

  As they settled comfortably, Holly bustled into the room, her pretty face smiling, her eyes twinkling like great amber gems, and she carried a tray upon which rode an enormous pitcher of dark beer and several mugs. "I was thinking the travellers would have a thirst, Mister Perry, what with their walking and all." She set the tray down on the table in the center of the room and wiped her graceful hands on her solid blue apron. "Mind you now, Mister Perry, dinner will be ready in about two hours, so don't you go nattering on beyond that time; your guests look hungry." And with that she swept from the room as abruptly as she had entered it.

  "Well"—Perry smiled, a bit discomfited at being shepherded in front of strangers by the slim three-foot-tall young damman—"as you can see, I have been given my marching orders by the Lady of The Root." He began pouring beer into the mugs and passing them around. "And we have but two hours before dinner. Yet that is perhaps time enough to satisfy my curiosity, which abounds. Imagine, two Dwarves and a Man in the Bosky, here on a mission to see the Raven Book, and from what you said to Mayor Whitlatch, it's the King's business that brought you." He set down the pitcher and turned to get the Book, but Cotton had anticipated his move and was at Perry's elbow, holding forth the grey tome.