by GJ Kelly
“There were five of us went up there looking for him this time, not just me and Trigo. Harald, the boy’s father, was with us too, and insisted we looked in the trees, at least a short distance…” Pahdreg sighed, eyes clouding, and Elayeen could see the memory of his fear flitting across his face.
“Weren’t none of us too brave that day neither,” Trigo drained his wine, “Not even with three more of us than afore. Same mess on the ground, nought to see but the boy’s tracks. Bow laying there, arrow beside it, untouched. Empty bottle, satchel with half a pork pie and a lump o’ cheese.”
“But still we went in, a short way. Stayed close together, Trigo to the fore with his eyes to the ground and us with ours all around watching for danger while he looked for spoor.”
“Found some, too. Couldn’t make ‘ead nor tail of it though. Seemed to me like there’d been a badger there, and then, between two trees looking down the slope to the boy’s camp, someone had stood a time. I thought the marks looked like a child, or someone otherwise small, had stood there, where the badger had been, stood there in bare feet looking down the slope. It weren’t the boy, he’d worn his boots, could see that in his trail all the way from the plough-shed.”
“We looked where Trigo showed us, but couldn’t see much, and nothing of the detail Trigo told us he could see. But we didn’t stay long, nor go too far in.”
“Weren’t no point. Even Harald could see there weren’t no blood nor any other sign o’ what became of his boy. And it was silent as a grave in there, and gloomy, and a cold miserable day. Weren’t no point going in no further.”
“Harald declared he’d seen enough. We came back. No-one’s been up there since, and no-one intends to. Trigo and Harald went out about a week later, and posted signs on the south-facing approach to the hill, simple warnings to keep away from the place. We didn’t think to put any up facing in directions north; never had anyone approaching from that direction before. Most folks who visit are up from the river, not down from the highlands.”
“Then it would seem we are fortunate indeed that Tilly saw us there, and gave warning,” Elayeen acknowledged. “And this evil has blighted the land for more than two hundred years?”
“Aye,” Trigo nodded, “Least that long, maybe longer, though weren’t until folk from Fourbanks ventured further afield when the price o’ grain got steep.”
“Has word never been sent to Princetown, and a wizard sent for to investigate these events?”
Pahdreg treated her to another of his sad smiles. “Alas, friend Ranger, we are a very long way from Princetown, and wizards are rare enough in Mornland. Those that did arrive here before the war soon found themselves on their way to the orchards and groves nearer the coast, where most of Mornland’s wealth lies. In Mornland, we look to ourselves, and hope for the best.”
oOo
11. Echoes
“You mean to investigate this Croptop,” Valin stated flatly rather than asking the question. “Without a wizard, and with no idea what awaits us upon the hill.”
Elayeen nodded, outwardly calm and dignified, inwardly trying to crush the urge to flee back into the mountainous wilds of the north.
They were strolling together near Borbo’s corral, just the three of them, using the excuse of walking off their early lunch of Tilda’s magnificent pie to discuss the events which had overtaken them. Their horses were well-tended, as they themselves had been, and the weakly winter sun had swung past its zenith when Trigo and Pahdreg had finished answering their questions.
“And the Merionell?” Meeya whispered.
“Is demanding I abandon the good people of Fourfields and flee. I can feel it. Yet still, my life is my own, and the decision I must inevitably make remains a long way off. We are here, now, and we all swore oaths to Gawain.”
“And thanks to my personal clodwit Valdo we must now honour them.”
Valin sniffed. “Not all the words we learn from these Eastlanders sit well upon elven tongues, mihoth Meemee. The folk of this hamlet have a certain rustic charm and so too their colloquialisms.”
“Are you suggesting that I am without charm?”
“Hush you two,” Elayeen announced. “You are not helping.”
There was a brief silence as they continued their walk, the great shire-horse watching their progress past the paddock he shared with an elderly pony. The plough-shed stood a short distance away, a large and well-maintained structure with a sloping roof, and far enough away from the dwellings of Fourfields to be attractive to youths equipped with pilfered wine and a yearning for a little excitement in the depths of winter.
Valin drew in a breath, and walking with his hands behind his back beneath his cloak, announced to no-one in particular: “Perhaps our honour could be satisfied by approaching close to the copse atop the hill and regarding it with our eldeneyes. If we see nothing, we may continue south in good conscience, and ask any wizard we might encounter along the way to journey here and reassure the people further.”
It was Meeya’s turn to sniff. “Since when would such sly around-the-fountain artfulness satisfy the honour of a Cincturion Thalangard of Elvenheth and ‘Hall?”
“I had not worn the belt for a long while before we left Elvendere the second and final time,” Valin said quietly, and though his voice remained flat, elven ears could detect the reproach in his tone.
No, Elayeen thought with genuine sorrow, not since G’wain took me from Faranthroth, and Yonas of the ‘Hethgard attempted to kill him, and thus through the throth, to kill me…
“The Cincture of the ‘Hethgard was an honour rightly earned and bestowed, Valin,” Elayeen reminded him, “Few achieve such high honours.”
“It was sullied by the hand of the Toorseneth, and by your leave, I would rather speak no more of it.”
“As you wish. But Meeya is right. Your suggestion of a cursory examination is indeed artful. I understand your wish to protect me, and I know you believe that encompasses protecting me from myself. But we cannot simply leave and cast but a glance at the threat which blights these people’s lives. We carry more weapons about us now than are likely to be found in this entire hamlet.”
“I know. They are a gentle people, as are those of Arrun. Yet you are the target of powerful enemies. Even if we had succeeded in avoiding all habitation and Thal-Gawain found us, still you would be the target of powerful enemies. If the prophecy is true, if your child is the Merionell, still you will be the target of powerful enemies and shall remain so until the child is old enough and able enough to fulfil its destiny. To put yourself in harm’s way now is foolish, and defies common sense.”
An irrational anger began to darken Elayeen’s expression, and her best and oldest friend knew well the signs of her ire.
“Valin speaks truth, Leeny, and does so at your own behest. If there is evil to be found atop the hill, then mihoth and I shall deal with it.”
“Leaving me holding the horses, I presume?”
Meeya shrugged, attempting to diffuse Elayeen’s anger with humour. “If you like. A goodly and safe distance away from the hill, though. Borbo’s paddock should do quite nicely.”
Elayeen stopped, and felt the anger ballooning deep inside her. She closed her eyes, and breathed through her nostrils, teeth clenched. The air was rich with the scents of farmlands the world over, and perhaps the most powerful was the rich and evocative odour of tilled earth. It reminded her of graves, and of Faranthroth…
“I am still Elayeen,” she heard herself say, her voice quiet, menacing, and charged with outrage, and she opened her eyes. “Hoth to Thal-Gawain I may be, and yes, I hold in trust his seed, and yes perhaps I shall bear the Shimaneth Issilene Merionell of prophecy, but here and now I am still Elayeen! I swore the same oath as you! I shall not abandon these gentle folk nor shall I break my oath to Gawain and the free kindred peoples who stood together at Far-gor, no matter what vakin eldenbeard compulsions may drive me! I was slave to them long enough on the journey from Raheen to Ostinath, I shall b
e enslaved by them no more!”
Elayeen could hear her own heart pounding in her ears, and the whistling of her breath through her nostrils. Valin studied her, his eyes calm and professional as always. Ever had his impassive appearance made her wonder whether that expression changed when he and Meeya were alone together. But now he spoke again, his voice flat, like the dead-calm of still air and the mist that had clung to the surface of the lake that very dawn.
“And are you certain that this decision is Elayeen’s, or is it merely the poor judgement of a last rebellious act against the destiny the Shitheen foretold? Was it the wisdom of leadership brought us to this place, or the petulant stamp of a foot against those compulsions which drove you from the warmth and walls of Tarn?”
She felt the hot flush of rage in her face and knew it coloured her cheeks and darkened her eyes. Her heart pounded even louder, she could hear it in her breath as she exhaled, teeth clenched against the rising fury that made her tremble.
“You stand close to catastrophe, Valin Thalangard,” she hissed through those clenched teeth, but stand Valin did, utterly unmoved.
“I have stood thus many times in your company, miThalin, though most often while you were standing with Thal-Gawain. In Tarn you spoke of needing friends rather than sullen or sheepish warriors. Has that need now changed?”
Elayeen felt her eyes snap, and saw Valin’s gingerbread life-light glowing in place of the impassive officer. And then she saw the bright pin-points of his own eldeneyes staring straight back at her.
Flee this place. An ancient and familiar voice rasped inside her head, insistent but faint, as though calling from afar. This is not your path.
No! She screamed back through the ages. Leave me alone! I am still Elayeen!
Foolish child. Flee this place. This is not your path.
No! Leave me alone… you… vakin eldenbeards!
The epithet, always imagined in Gawain’s voice, summoned the image of the King of Raheen, as it always did, and the brief moment of Eldengaze thrall was shattered instantly. Elayeen flinched and stepped back a pace, blinking away the Sight, breathing hard, and found Meeya at her side, a concerned hand upon her arm, and an arm around her shoulders. Valin stood before her still, a look of shock and perhaps a little horror in his eyes, his features otherwise impassive.
Then he stepped closer, too, and for the first time, Elayeen saw immense sorrow wash over him like a wave. And then he was his normal, stoic self again.
“I heard it,” he whispered.
Elayeen shuddered, the shiver running the length of her spine. “Did you hear me?”
“No.”
She felt utterly deflated, the rage gone, leaving her empty. “I am still Elayeen,” she managed, and though her voice trembled a little, still it bore an edge of defiance.
“Yes,” Valin announced. And then he stood to attention. “What are your orders for this Ranger, miThalin?”
A glance at Valin’s eyes sent confidence flowing through her like a zephyr on a hot and sleepless night, and Elayeen stiffened, gathering her resolve. “It is too late in the day for exploration. Even on horseback the hill is too far from us to venture there now; I would not risk an unknown enemy in the dark of a winter’s evening. We must find somewhere to spend the night, and leave before dawn. Tomorrow, we three shall attend to our duties as Rangers of the Kindred.”
Meeya glanced at her husband, a little astonished by the salute he gave and his complete acquiescence after what had been, for him at least, an unbelievably impassioned speech earlier.
“By your leave, I shall speak with the Mayor of Fourfields, and find accommodation for ourselves and our equipment.”
“Thank you, Valin. Meeya and I shall walk a little more, and meet you at Mayor Pahdreg’s house in a little while.”
Valin’s head bobbed, and he strode away, briskly, and there was great purpose in that stride.
“What happened, Leeny?” Meeya whispered, her hand still on Elayeen’s arm.
Elayeen blinked, and sighed, and drew in a shuddering breath. “What did you see? Did you hear anything?”
“Nothing. One moment the two of you were staring at each other with eldeneyes and looked to be on the brink of violence, and the next you seemed to give a jolt as if slapped backwards. Did Valin hurt you somehow? If he did, I’ll…”
“No, Meemee, it was nothing like that. I heard a call from ancient times… an echo from darken days of old.”
“Not the one Thal-Gawain calls Eldengaze?”
Elayeen nodded. “Though he calls it other names, too. Don’t be angry with Valin. I think he understands now why I must remain true to myself, at least for as long as I can. I still doubt myself, and perhaps I always shall. I have neither G’wain’s strength nor his leadership. But Valin has given me back my confidence, and a little dignity. He, and you, are helping to keep me who I am, and not what some long-dead she-wizard would have me be. If I cannot be me, then I am nothing but a puppet, and with the dead tugging the strings. It was G’wain gave me back my life. I am determined to live it for myself, in honour of him and the freedom he cherishes.”
Their accommodation for the night was to be the round-barn, which was surprisingly well-appointed considering its principle function as a storehouse for winter grain and the many supplies intended to keep the people of the hamlet and all their livestock hale and hearty through the dark and cold of winter.
At first, Pahdreg had insisted they take Tilly’s room in his house, but Elayeen had declined the invitation with good grace, refusing to take the bed of one who had risked much to give warning of the perils of Croptop. Besides, she’d said, there was also the matter of their early start and the need to be close to their horses and equipment.
Pahdreg then in turn insisted that the Rangers dined at his table that evening, an invitation which Elayeen was delighted to accept. So the horses were stabled in the round-barn, well watered and fed, and after accepting the loan of clean clothing, their grimy garb was whisked away to be washed, dried, and aired at various homes in the hamlet. More supplies and provisions were added to those already in the bundles carried by the pack-horse, and Valin eyed them with great satisfaction; Mornlanders clearly had a better idea of what constituted ‘supplies for a journey’ than did the dwarves of Threlland.
The simple and honest welcome they received only served to reinforce their desire to do their sworn duty by the gentle farming folk of Fourfields. Which was why, after a dinner of hot and hearty farmhouse fare the like of which the elves had never experienced before, Elayeen carefully and politely declined Pahdreg’s offer of assistance at Croptop in the morning.
“I am the Mayor,” Pahdreg announced with great solemnity, “I can’t let you go in there alone. What you do, you do for all the folk here, and I would be ashamed forever not to do my part.”
“And I am a healer,” Tilda said with equal resolve. “You may have need of me there, though I hope with all my heart you shall not. I shall accompany you all. Borbo can draw the smaller hay wain, we shall not slow you down.”
“And we’ll take Trigo, and Rickerd too. Rickerd was apprenticed to a blacksmith in Fourbanks in his early days, he’s without doubt the strongest man we have. His strength may be needed.”
“We are Rangers of the Kindred,” Elayeen tried to explain again. “It is our duty to guard against such darkness as Morloch may send against the lands, and to…”
“You shan’t go in there alone, friend Ranger,” Pahdreg said again.
Tilda nodded. “Gentle folk we may be, Ranger Leeny, but we’re folk who’s used to waiting out the seasons and battling against the weather and all the worst that nature sends our way. You’ll have more luck persuading a rock to change its mind than my man and me.”
“Then you may accompany us to the hill, and we shall take comfort in knowing a healer is close by should one be needed. But whether or not the Mayor of Fourfields, or indeed any of his people, accompanies us into the copse shall be decided on the morrow, an
d that decision shall depend upon what, if anything, is revealed to our Sight when we arrive there.”
“So be it,” Tilda announced hurriedly, while her husband was still drawing breath for a reply.
Later, in the gloom of a half-shuttered glowstone lamp in the round-barn while they settled and waited for sleep, Elayeen gazed up through the darkness and through the unseen thatched roof above them. She wondered where Gawain was, and where he was sleeping this night. She wondered whether he would allow humble villagers to accompany him into peril, as Pahdreg seemed to be demanding of her. Then she remembered the dwarf, Ognorm of Ruttmark, riding proudly by her husband’s side they day he left Tarn to go where she herself could not. And that made her remember all the others who had followed Gawain into danger, willingly and without hesitation. She remembered Kahla and Jaxon, former slaves from Goria, who’d ridden all the way to Far-gor. She remembered the healers, helpers, cooks, and general hands of Mornland and Arrun on whom the Kindred Army came to depend so much. And she remembered them all, standing-to, standing firm, waiting with the rest of them for the first wave of the Meggen to crash upon the shores of the farak gorin.
Perhaps, she thought, strength attracts strength, and a dazzling light attracts bright lights to it. Perhaps Gawain drew his own strength, and his own light, from all those who gathered around him, though even alone he had been a force to be reckoned with, as the Ramoth would testify had any lived to speak of the DarkSlayer.
She knew he felt the loss of all those who fell at Far-gor. They’d all heard the pain in his voice when he’d read the names of The Fallen at the rough cairn made there to honour them. Yet he’d also shared their strength and pride, and added his own to theirs. She’d seen all their lights burn brighter the day she and G’wain and Allazar had toured the camp outside the walls of Ferdan.
Who was she to deny the Mayor of Fourfields, or anyone, for that matter, their right to choose their own path, and to stand for their people in the face of peril and adversity?