“Surely you cannot object to this, Madam,” murmured Aranor, glancing at Mala, who held a delicate lace kerchief, to her nose and mouth as protection against the drifting vapors. “Ladies have ever cast arrows at the mark.”
“Sire, you jest,” hissed Mala. “The target is hideous—not genteel. And ’tis not e’en a Court Lady’s bow she holds, but rather one more brutal, meant for warriors—a killing weapon.”
“’Tis not the ugly bow that kills the foe, Madam, but the slender arrow instead,” responded Aranor curtly.
The two fell silent, the air between them thick with Mala’s disapproval and Aranor’s vexation, their attention now focused on the two archers in the field, watching as Ardon and Elyn winged deadly bolts toward the silhouette.
Shkkk! Sssthock! Thk! Thock! Swiftly the arrows slammed into the target, and all four judges strode forward, Ruric accompanying them.
“All are killing strikes, Sire!” called Agnor, eldest of the judges. “Three of Ardon’s are more tightly bunched than Princess Elyn’s, yet his fourth lies outside her pattern! Sire, I ween ’tis a draw!”
Annoyed by the call, Ruric snorted and spun on his heel, striding away from the target.
“Four more!” called Aranor, ignoring Mala’s hiss of exasperation.
As Ardon and Elyn prepared once more to let fly at the silhouette, Ruric stepped to the Princess. “Steady, lass. Clear yer mind o’ all distractions. Think only o’ that which ye were taught. And think o’ seeing yer missile strike into the heart o’ yer aim.”
Again eight arrows ssthocked into the target, and once more the judges strode forward and stared at the intermingled patterns.
“All are killing blows again, Sire!” called Agnor. “A warrior’s hand would cover Ardon’s four”—Elyn’s heart sank—“but a child’s palm would cover the Princess’s! She is the winner!”
Casting a great wide grin at Elyn, Ruric took her bow and handed her a quarterstaff.
On the pages’ bench, as Ardon came to sit, there was a low grumbling among the other lads about him letting a girl defeat him.
And Elgo struggled to remain unseen.
In the pavilion, King Aranor smiled at Lady Mala, but she refused to glance his way.
Twelve-year-old Bruth was to be Elyn’s opponent in the staves. Again the Princess faced a larger adversary, for he, as did Ardon, stood half a head taller than she. Yet whereas size was not a factor in archery, Bruth’s greater bulk in the quarterstaff would weigh in his favor.
The judges stood four square ’round the combatants, their eyes alert; the square would move with the battle.
At a signal from Agnor, Bruth rushed at Elyn, bearing her backward with the fury of his charge. Bok! Nok! Clak! Dok! The staves knocked against one another violently, Elyn yielding back and back, her wrists jolting with the hammering of Bruth’s stave. Yet in her mind whispered Ruric’s voice: “Fall back before a stronger foe, lass. Let his own attack weary him. Look for his weaknesses, and wait for the due moment; when it comes, strike like a viper: swift and deadly!”
And so the princess fell back before his onslaught, fending Bruth’s sledge-like blows with her own staff, slipping his strikes down and aside, or up and away, all the time seeking a vital chink through which she could strike.
In the pavilion, Mala turned in outrage to the King. “Aranor,” she hissed, “stop this at once! That lout is whelming upon a Princess!”
“Madam,” Aranor’s voice grated with exasperation, “on a field of battle there be no rank between combatants. Strife does not stop because one warrior be highborn while the other be not. ’Tis the same ’mongst fighters upon these training grounds. Here there be no Royalty. Here there be only Vanadurin!”
Mala ground her teeth in fury, but noting the jut of the King’s jaw, said nought further.
In spite of his words, however, the knuckles of Aranor’s hands were clenched white.
Long did Bruth whelm stave on stave, yet he could not batter past Elyn’s defense, as his hammering noks were deftly deflected, and slowly the fury of his strikes ebbed. And tentatively the Princess brought into play her own offensive skills, testing, gauging the degree of his arm-weariness. Suddenly, swiftly, Elyn’s staff flashed over Bruth’s, and he was felled by a blow to his helm, his stave lost to his grip as he crashed heavily to the hard earth.
As Agnor’s stentorian voice called out Elyn’s victory, angry shouts erupted from the pages’ bench, the bitter words directed at Bruth for failure. But in the pavilion Aranor smiled in triumph, while Mala did not deign to notice.
After a short rest period, Elyn stood before Hrut, a lad of thirteen summers, the youth a full head taller than she. In his right hand he held a blunt-edged wooden saber, and there was a faint sneer on his face.
Ruric stepped up to the Princess and placed a like blade in her hand. “This be yer third and final test, lass”—his voice was low, carrying to her ears alone—“and heed me, ye need not win it, for ye’ve already taken two o’ the three.” At the faint shake of Elyn’s head, her gaze clear but resolute: “Ah me, girl, I ken ye be as determined in this as ye were in that. So list to me, for he be stronger and perhaps e’en swifter than ye, yet cunning will out: he favors his right, lass, he favors his right.” With no more instruction than that, Ruric stepped back, leaving Elyn small and alone.
Again the judges stood four square ’round the combatants, the square to move with this battle as well.
At Agnor’s “Begin!” Hrut saluted Elyn with his weapon, and she did likewise. The lad extended the saber, its tip circling, and he warily engaged her blade.
Tik! Tak! Wood tapping on wood sounded across the field as each felt out the other, Hrut’s confidence growing as he saw what his swift probes revealed about her skill: he was clearly her superior. Yet he was no fool as was Bruth, to charge in and arm-weary himself with wild blows. Nay! No fool he. Instead, he would wear her down with his superior skill and greater strength.
Clik! Klak! Clack! Hrut’s swift saber darted this way and that, barely fended by Elyn’s blade, her native quickness all that stood between her and defeat.
Clik! Klick! Klak! Clak! Now the field rattled with the clitter-clatter of wooden blade on blade. Shouts came from the lads upon the pages’ bench, encouragement for Hrut, derision for Elyn, for they could see that Hrut was winning, was defeating this girl. At last! She was to be put in her place.
Elgo was silent, his lips pressed into a thin white line.
Back and back Hrut forced her, with stamp and lunge and parry and running flèche. Back and back fell Elyn, desperately fending Hrut’s brutal skill, knowing that she was defeated, yet refusing to yield.
And she could not abide the prideful sneer growing upon his face.
“. . . cunning will out . . .” Ruric’s words echoed in her mind. “. . . he favors his right, lass, he favors his right.”
Hrut threw a swift overhand stroke, barely fended by Elyn, followed by a lunging stab at her midsection.
Frantically twisting aside to Hrut’s left, Elyn skidded on wet turf, and with a helpless cry she fell to her knees, the tip of her sword to the earth, her eyes wide, the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling a gasp.
Exultation flushed across Hrut’s leering features, and he stepped forward for the sudden killing blow. Yet just as suddenly the wounded quail became the cat-a-stalk, a move she had planned all along, as Elyn, still on her knees, thrust upward into the foe’s unguarded underbelly, replacing Hrut’s sneer with a mouthed O! of surprise and pain, the lad dropping his sword and clutching his gut, falling to earth next to his conqueror, gasping for air and retching.
With shouts of rage and cries of Foul! the other boys leapt up from the pages’ bench and charged at Elyn, their wooden sabers raised to strike. Last of all came Elgo running swiftly, overhauling all, running through to the fore of the onslaught. Ruric shouted some command, yet his words were not heeded. And Elyn, looking up, cast aside her sword and ran.
Aranor leapt to his
feet, his fists clenched, yet he said nought, while at his side Mala shrieked, “Stop them! Stop them! They seek to harm a Princess!”
Out from the judges’ square darted Elyn, toward her horse. Yet it was not her horse she strove for; it was her quarterstaff instead, lying on the ground. As she snatched it up, Elgo ran nigh, and placed his back to hers, his saber raised high, spitting vengeful oaths at the other lads.
Crack! Klak! Thdd! Flying stave and slashing saber took their toll. Lads fell aside, holding heads and ribs and battered hands as they rocked in stress and pain. But Elyn and Elgo, too, took their share, for they were sorely outnumbered and could not fend all.
Yet the battle quickly ended as Ruric and Agnor and the other judges waded in shouting and flinging youths aside like jacks-o’-straw.
At last, of all the younglings, only Elyn and Elgo stood—battered, bruised, a trickle of blood here and there. Yet they stood straight, heads held high, facing the King’s pavilion.
“My Lord,” Elyn’s voice rang out, “ ’gainst fair fight as well as foul, Elgo and I have defeated those you sent here to test me. Now I would have you declare me fit—to declare us both fit—to train in earnest upon these grounds.”
At Elyn’s words Ruric began to roar with laughter.
And from the pavilion: “By the hoard of Sleeth, daughter,” declared Aranor, a great proud smile wrinkling his face, “you shall have your wish!”
At these words, Mala’s eyes flew wide, and she rounded on Aranor: “But, Sire, you cannot mean it! You have let her accidental victories befool you! Surely you jest! After all I’ve said and done, you cannot—”
“Shut your clack, woman!” Aranor lashed out, his face flushing livid, grim . . .
. . . and from that moment on, nothing else was said by any to gainsay the Warrior Maiden training of Elyn, daughter of Aranor, sister to Elgo, Vanadurin Princess of Jord.
CHAPTER 5
Blackstone
Year’s Long Night, 3E8
[Centuries Apast]
Deep under the burden of the Rigga Mountains, the very air of the eld Dwarvenholt of Blackstone was charged with anticipation. The solemn, twelve-day fast was drawing to an end, and the joyous twelve-day feast was about to begin. Cheol—Winterfest—would commence at mid of night on this longest of darktides, and once again would bright light and industry fill the carven halls.
It was a reverent time of renewal, not only for the Châkka—the Dwarves—in Blackstone, but for Châkka in all Dwarvenholts throughout Mitheor: in the Red Caves and Mineholt North, in Bluehall and the Quartzen Hills and Skyloft, in Kachar and mighty Kraggen-cor and elsewhere—wherever Châkka dwelled.
Twelve days past they had laid aside their tools—all work halted: picks and mattocks ceased delving treasured ores; carts moved not; forge fires died, furnaces fell cold, crucibles turned dark; hammers and anvils rang with silence; neither did whetstone grind nor auger bore; ovens baked not, nor did spits turn nor pots stew. All stopped: all delving, forging, crafting, shaping, turning, baking, cooking . . . all.
And for twelve days an intense stillness fell upon the caverns. And Châkka thought deeply upon Honor and Life and Death, upon their proud History, and upon the Shades of their revered Ancestors. Aye, twelve long days and nights of brooding contemplation consumed each Châk’s life, and only calamitous War or other dire necessity would or could cause a Dwarf to break from this inward questing for the essence of Châkkadom.
In this time, too, the Loremasters would gather Châkka youth, as well as others, and speak of Creation and Death and Purpose. These are the words of the Loremasters:
When Adon made Mitheor, it was lush and green. And fish swam in the waters, beasts roamed the lands, birds filled the air. Rain and Sun, wind and night, the Moon, the stars, the day, Mountains and rivers, grass upon the plains, hot desert sands and barren wastes of ice and snow: all these and more were part of Adon’s design—and they were wondrous to behold.
Yet Elwydd looked down upon Her Sire’s handiwork and saw that there were no Folk upon the world. And so she set Her gentle hand unto this creation. Utruni, Men, Châkka, Waerans: from the large to the small, these—and mayhap more—She brought forth upon the face of Mitheor.
As for their manifold purposes, Elwydd did not reveal these, though She knows what they are; instead, She allows each Folk to select their own course, to find their own way, but no Folk know for certain that their chosen paths bring them closer to the hidden goals.
Yet this we do know: to the Châkka She gave the underMountain realms, and the mastery of stone and fire. . . . Stone and fire: it governs how we live and it aids us when we die, for it is through pure stone or the cleansing fire that our spirits are set free after death . . . free to roam among the stars until again it is time to start another cycle: to be reborn, to live, and to die and once more walk the vault above.
And as our spirits stride among the stars, we touch their wondrous beauty and know their shining secret. And though it is that each time we are reborn we cannot remember the way of their crafting, still the stars are marvelous, and their echoes haunt our dreams. And all that we do, all that we craft, is but an attempt to match their grace—for we believe that Elwydd has given that task to the Châkka: to touch the stars.
Thus it was that Adon made Mitheor. . . . But it was Elwydd, His Daughter, who placed Folk upon the world. And it was She who set before them the tasks that they are to fathom, and the mysteries that they are to resolve . . .
. . . or so the Loremasters say.
For twelve days and nights the Dwarves had fasted and pondered upon these enigmas, as well as History and Ancestors and Honor and Life and Death. Yet this annual quest was once more drawing to a close, for with the Starlight Invocation, held at mid of night on Year’s Long Night, the contemplation and fasting would come to an end, and twelve days of revelry and feasting would begin. And when these twelve days also came to a close, forges and furnaces would be new-fired, ores mined, metals refined, gems carved, and the great crafting of arms, armor, jewelry, tools, and all the other items of Châkka industry would commence once more.
And as Year’s Long Night deepened, the aromas of succulent roasts and baked breads and rare spices and hot pastries wafted throughout the halls and chambers of each holt, for at sundown the preparations for the feasting had begun.
In Blackstone—known as the Jewel of Châkkaholts, for here was delved silver and gold and precious stones—DelfLord Bokar watched as Châkka began to gather in the great West Hall, for mid of night drew nigh.
Bokar stepped through the postern at the side of the mighty gate. Out into the clear Mountain air he came, out into the winter night. He nodded at the sentries on watch, and strode into the wide foregate courtyard, his boots stepping upon smoothed granite. Pacing to the center, he stopped, gazing at the star pattern above.
It was time.
At Bokar’s signal, a sentry stepped back through the small side-door. Swiftly, the bolts were thrown and the great bars withdrawn, and the massive gates ponderously swung outward, till they fetched up against flanking stone walls: Boom! Boom!
Yellow light streamed out across the courtyard, and chill air seeped into the holt, washing over the assembled Dwarves, causing some to shiver. And all had gathered: young and old, hale and lame, male and female; even the ill and infirm had been borne to this place, for all would worship this holy night.
At another signal from Bokar, the gathered Châkka surged outward, out into the pellucid night under the brilliant stars. Yet even had the skies been overcast, even had a blizzard raged, still all the Châkka would have marched out from under the Mountain to stand in the open beneath whatever sky there may be—for this was the night of the Starlight Invocation, and mere weather would not stay the Dwarves from reaffirming their faith . . . clear cast, dark cast, starlight, or no. But this night was crystalline—perfect—and a bright full Moon stood overhead.
And when all the Châkka had gathered, Bokar mounted up a massive rock p
edestal in the center of the expanse, and every Dwarven eye focused upon him; and thus none saw the great sinister silhouette slide across the silvery face of the Moon to quickly vanish, becoming virtually undetectable against the spangled vault.
The DelfLord lifted his face and arms to the star-studded heavens and raised his voice unto the sky, speaking the great litany, the unified response of the gathered Châkka alternating with his, cantor and chorale, the echoes of supplication resounding among the stone of the Rigga Mountains:
[Elwydd—
—Lol an Adon . . .]
Elwydd—
—Daughter of Adon
We thank Thee—
—For Thy gentle hand
That gave to us—
—The breath of Life
May this be—
—The golden year
That Châkka—
—Touch the stars.
Bokar lowered his arms, and long after the belling echoes had ceased to ring, reverent silence reigned. And all that could be heard was the soft churning gurgle of water running ’neath ice somewhere nearby.
At last the DelfLord cleared his throat, and all faces turned expectantly toward his. He gazed once more at the stars above, the spangle wheeling silently overhead. And again he marveled at their scintillant pattern, fixed, but for the five known wanderers charting courses of their own. What destiny lies in your matrix this night, he wondered, what omens do your lights conceal? Shaking his head to clear these thoughts, he came to the matter at hand, for the skies had swept to the depth of the darktide. And his voice cried out, “Here now at Blackstone it is mid of night. Let the winterfest of Cheol begin!”
A glad shout rose up into the sky, and Dwarves turned from the chill winter night toward the warm yellow light of the cheery Dwarvenholt beyond the massive open portals.
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 4