Straightaway the fiery horses were unladen, prancing and nickering in their eagerness to feel the land. So too were the ponies debarked, little hooves clattering down the gangways and scrutching in the sand. Lastly came the waggons and other Harlingar supplies.
As they set up camp, they traded airs, the Fjordsmen canting sea chanteys, the Vanadurin rendering songs of the plains.
Fires were built from the nearby scrub to provide light and warmth, and heat for the cooking of a great, thick stew.
And as is the wont of young Men in all times and ages, they sat and spoke of many things as the darktide swept o’er the Land, of things remembered and things to be, and things worth living for, as well as those worth dying.
Yet though the Fjordsmen spoke often of their bloodquest ’gainst the distant Jutes, the Harlingar said nought of where they were bound. Instead they spoke of family and of past deeds of derring-do; and not a word of Blackstone or Sleeth or Dracongield passed any’s lips
Elgo talked much of his beauteous Arianne as well as his wee son, Bram, the tiny bairn but a suckling at his mother’s breast—yet already he had grasped the silver hilts of his bold sire’s black-handled sword. “. . . liked to have wrenched the blade right from my very own grip.” Firelight danced in Elgo’s glittering eyes. “Ai, but he will be a mighty warrior once he reaches his years.”
At last their bellies were full and their eyes heavy and so they bedded down, all that is except for the Fjordsmen’s beachwatch, and the Harlingar wards of the horses, picketed in a nearby sward.
Early next morn, as the Vanadurin saddled their mounts, the Fjordsmen made ready to set sail. Arik, Elgo, and Ruric stood off away from the others, speaking in low voices.
“Aye, Prince Elgo”—Arik gazed westward o’er the cold sea—“’twill be a drawn-out raid into Jute. Yet two fortnights and a week past Year’s Long Day will find us back on this shore, give or take a day or three. We’ll wait a week or so, if necessary, then sail on should ’ee and yer Warband not be here.
“I’ll not say aught o’ what I’ve guessed o’ yer mission, but again I offer ’ee shares should ’ee sail wi’ me on our bloodraid, rather than set forth on this wild quest o’ yers.”
Elgo laughed and shook his head no. “A fair offer, Captain Arik, yet our scheme is not as jobbernowled as you deem.
“Eight weeks, then, and we will see your great Dragonboats upon this strand, and perhaps we’ll have something fitting to fill their bellies with.”
A fjord horn sounded, and Arik clasped Elgo’s and then Ruric’s grip with his own. “Remember though, Prince, ’tis said that Dracongield be cursed. I’d not like to fill my Longwyrm wi’ doomsgold.” With those ominous words echoing in Ruric’s like mind, Arik broached the surf and boarded his ship.
At his command, again the horn sounded, and the wading crews of each longboat hove the hulls aback, sliding the keels sternward off the sand; swiftly they clambered over the wales, and oars plashed into the waves to the beat of a timbrel.
The Harlingar watched their remote kinsmen back water, then come about, the crew of each ship setting the beitass pole to turn the sail into the wind, catching the braw breeze.
Slowly the Dragonboats gathered speed, till they fairly leapt o’er the waves, heading out of the cove and to the west.
Ruric barked a command, and all the Vanadurin mounted up. Elgo turned in his saddle and raised his black-oxen horn to his lips, sounding a farewell horncry to the distant Fjordsmen: Taaa-tan, tan-taaa, tan-taaa! [Till we meet again, fare you well, fare you well!] And so sounded all the horns of the Harlingar, to be faintly answered by the belling of Dragonboat horns afar.
Then the Vanadurin turned and set forth on a southerly course, moving at a measured pace, a long column of horses, with three pony-drawn waggons trundling in their midst, heavily laden with sailcloth, the bleak stone of the Rigga Mountains looming off to their left.
And so began the next stage of two quests conceived in the long winter nights, when the spectral werelight dances in the crystalline skies . . . the ghostly light perhaps dancing as well in the minds and hearts of bold Men: Dragonboats racing to the west, seeking vengeance and bloodgield; Harlingar faring to the south, Dracongield and fame their goal.
CHAPTER 8
Words of the Bard
Spring, 3E1594
[Eight Years Past]
“They say that she’s as quick as any of the boys, and “what she lacks in strength, she more than makes up with cleverness.” Needles popped and thread hissed through taut cloth as the Ladies of the Court considered Aldra’s remarks. As was often the case, their subject was Elyn, for even though she’d been at it for five years, still, the thought of anyone, much less a Princess, becoming a Warrior Maiden was a thing of wonder and daring to them all.
“’Tis said that none are quicker, save perhaps Elgo.” This comment was followed by a longing sigh, and the other Ladies knowingly glanced at one another, covertly smiling, for it was blatantly obvious to all how young Jenna felt about the brash Prince.
“Perhaps so, Jenna,” responded Aldra, “but at fifteen, they say that her prowess with weaponry equals or betters that of her peers.”
“Fifteen now, but soon to be sixteen: the marrying age.” Lissa’s voice took on a tone and demeanor that mimicked the absent Mala so well that the other Ladies broke out in smothered laughter.
Jenna sighed. “I wonder what it is like, being a Warrior Maiden.”
“Yelling and cursing,” replied Kyla, “that’s what it’s like. Have you not gone by the training grounds and heard Ruric roaring at them?”
At that moment, Mala stepped into the room, moving to take up her customary place at the needlepoint frame before the northern window; a momentary silence fell upon the group, for at least within her sewing circle the spinster aunt of Elyn forbade any discussion of Warrior Maidens. The subject was quickly changed, turning to what songs and tales the visiting bard might sing this night.
And out upon the training field Ruric smiled unto himself, for the Princess was weaving a swift attack upon the lad before her, forcing him back and back and ever back, the tip of her blade a whistling blur. Indeed it was true that what she gave away in strength, her finesse more than made up for. And quick? Ach, none were quicker, save perhaps Elgo.
Each and every day, the Armsmaster could see the skills of the twain honing fine.
Too, he also knew that their understanding of strategy and tactics grew as well, for they were canny. In this, Ruric believed that they would both surpass their sire.
Still, at times Ruric would loose a string of oaths, calling down the wrath of Gods, Wizards, and Dragons when a lackadaisical attitude on the part of the twins demanded it.
“—By the hoard o’ Sleeth, Elyn, do ye think a spear be only good for jabbing? Look at me, lass! A spear be good for stabbing thus wi’ the tine, cutting and slashing wi’ the edge, warding and knocking wi’ the shaft as a quarterstave, and hurling the whole o’ it as a thrown weapon! By the beasts o’ the Wolfmage, heed me: use yer cunning as well as yer skill, and for the foe at hand select the best attack, be it point, blade, stave, or missile.”
“—Adon’s own blood, Elgo, what do ye think the sharp tip o’ a saber be for? Aye, hacking and slashing be a mighty offense, at times cleaving the very armor o’ the foe, but why this ceaseless bashing, lad, when a well-placed thrust will swiftly end it? Sleeth’s spit, boy, when the chance presents itself, skewer the enemy: run him through!”
“—By the great Drake, Kalgalath, ye two, couch yer spears thus when lancing from horseback! And watch the foe’s own weapon, else ye’ll ha’e your heads bashed in, or worse. Now bring yer skill to bear in the next pass.”
But for the most part, Ruric was well pleased, for even though he castigated them at times, praise more often fell from his lips.
Elyn stepped quickly into the great hall, taking her place at the head table. She was dressed in her warrior’s leathers, Mala refusing to look at her. Yet Elyn�
�s heart was light, and she did not even note her aunt’s disapproval, having become accustomed to it.
The hall buzzed, and every seat was taken. Trent the Bard was to sing again this night, his last, for on the morrow he would depart for Aven in the company of Aranor’s retinue, and none wished to miss this, the final eve of tellings and sayings and singings. It was rare that bards came to Aranor’s court, bearing important news and delicious gossip as well as enduring legend, for the Steppes of Jord are remote and wide. It was an untamed Land of small villages and isolated dwellings and drifting campsites, its population scattered o’er the rolling plains, tending horses, raising grain, hunting the beasts of the wold—not like the civilized Realms to the south, where bards and minstrels are plentiful, as well as other artists, where culture reigns supreme, as Mala reminded everyone.
Throughout the meal, talk was rather sparse, for all wanted to hear Trent once more. Even Aranor’s upcoming departure to visit Aven was spoken of only in terse terms, though it was to seal a final trade agreement that would mean much to the Kingdom: fine horses in exchange for arms, armor, and other manufactured goods, including silken cloth, spun from the webs of worms, some claimed.
And the King was to be accompanied by a large Warband, for of recent the roads to Aven were unsafe, especially at night when the Foul Folk were free of the Ban.
And this armed escort would provide safe passage for Trent as well. Hence, this was his last night to perform.
The meal done, at Aranor’s behest Trent took up station, before the King’s table and to the right, his back to a stone column. Dressed in blue, his white hair shone argent in the lantern light, his clean-shaven countenance fair to look upon, belying his fifty-nine years. His fingers fell upon the harpstrings, a silvery glissade of notes slid through the air, hanging like a loom upon which to spin a tale. And as the echoes died, all fell silent, awaiting his words.
When he saw that he had the eye of everyone, slowly, Trent stepped across the stone floor until he stood directly before Elgo, not looking explicitly at the redheaded youth, but instead addressing the King: “I’ve had a request from a young green-eyed copper-haired warrior”—the bard’s resonant voice filled the hall—“who shall remain nameless”—there was not one in the hall who did not know that it was Elgo to whom Trent referred—“who says that his Armsmaster”—the Bard swung ’round to stare directly at Ruric—“turns the very air blue with oaths of Gods and Drakes and Wizards and snakes.” Now there was a great smile upon Trent’s face, and all in the hall returned it, except perhaps Ruric, whose false look of innocence fooled no one, and Elgo, who maintained an appearance of studied aloofness, and, of course, Mala, who never seemed to smile.
“This young warrior, hearking unto his teacher’s oaths”—once more Trent addressed the King—“asked for the tale of Sleeth’s Rape of Blackstone, no doubt preparing to slay the beast . . . a hero in the making.” At these words the hall erupted in laughter, and Elgo’s face flushed in sudden anger, and he would have risen, except that Elyn placed a restraining hand upon his arm, silently urging him to bide his time.
Now Trent began to sing, and in spite of his ire, Elgo was caught up in the tale, his rage diminishing before the words of the saga.
Down from the sky he came,
A great roaring beast.
And he fell upon the Dwarves in fury,
Slaying left and right.
Down he came,
Among the Stone Folk,
His great wings thrashing
To their ruin.
Death he spat
’Tween his fangs,
Burning stone and metal alike,
As well as the bold and the brave.
And none could withstand him
In his might,
His claws slashing and slaying,
E’en the young and helpless.
Brave were the Dwarven fighters,
Forming into bands,
Rushing unto their Destinies,
Defending a Realm of dead stone.
Swift were their axes,
To no avail,
For Dragon armor
Scaled his sides.
And they perished,
Those that were not fled into the night.
And their dead stone Realm
Drank life’s coursing blood.
Ere the night was done
The great Cold-drake had won Blackstone,
Rending the gates asunder
As he slithered inside.
Sleeth took that which was not his,
And now sleeps upon a mountain of treasure,
A bed of stolen gold,
Dreaming of this deed he has done.
It was the Jewel of Dwarvenholts
Sleeth took upon that night of slaughter,
Richest of their delvings,
This dead stone Realm.
Yet would you not die
Fighting for that which was yours,
Though nought but the cold grave await you
Should you fail?
Be it palace or cottage,
Or a hovel in the dirt,
Still it is precious,
To a given heart.
Thus a dead stone Realm to some
Is a precious Kingdom to others,
And worth yielding up a life
To defend.
Here, Trent silenced his harp and spoke in a soft voice, his words heard by all: “It is told that twice the Dwarves tried to regain their lost cavern, yet each time the Dragon’s might was too great for them, and at last they abandoned their dream, their hearts falling into sadness for a Realm lost forever.”
Now the Bard raised up his voice once more:Would you fight to the death
For that which you love,
In a cause surely hopeless . . .
For that which you love?
When the Bard fell silent, a great quiet filled the hall, some eyes glimmering with tears, each in his secret heart trying to answer Trent’s last question.
The sayings and tellings and singings went on through the night, as wondrous Bardic tales filled the hall. Some brought great laughter; others, tears. Still there were those that filled brave hearts with fire; Elgo’s eyes burned brightly with these.
There were tales to fill the very soul to the brim with a longing for the times of legend; songs that brought a glitter to the eyes of a Warrior Maid; songs of the Wolfwood where beasts of the elden days once dwelled: High Eagles, White Harts, horned horses named Unicorn, Bears that once were Men . . . the forest ruled o’er by great Silver Wolves—or mayhap the Wizard that ran with them—shunned by those who would do evil.
And there were those roundelays that all joined in to sing. But even these came to an end, and people—filled near to bursting with the argent echoes of Trent’s silver harp, as well as his treasured voice—at last took to their beds.
CHAPTER 9
Warrior Maid
Spring, 3E1594
[Eight Years Past]
“Great bard or no, he mocked me before all!’ Elgo “paced back and forth upon the throne dais as would a caged beast.
It was early the next morn, and except for the few servants at the far tables, cleaning up the clutter of the morning meal, he and Elyn were alone in the great hall, where they’d gotten to after the departure of Aranor and his retinue . . . and of course Trent, the subject of Elgo’s ire.
“Aye, Elgo, what he did was thoughtless,” responded Elyn, seated upon a dais step, using her dagger to scrape a dottle of mud from her boot. “Yet he said it in light jest, for Men do not slay Dragons, I am told, except in hearthtales.” The Princess stood and made her way to a sideboard, where she wiped the blade clean upon a soiled breakfast napkin.
“Fie! Light jest?” Elgo stopped his padding and faced his sister, his eyes burning with rage. “He sneered at me, and would be taught a lesson were he not a bard.” Again the youth took up his angry pace.
“Elgo, I think you make too much of this small j
ape of his.” Casting aside the napkin, Elyn returned to the step and sat once more.
“Then let me ask you this, dear sister.” Elgo faced Elyn again. “Were the slipper on the other foot, would you feel the same? Would you call it but a light jest had Trent said”—here Elgo’s voice took on a fleering tone—“ ‘. . . no doubt preparing to slay the beast . . . a Warrior Maid in the making’?”
An angry flush swept over Elyn’s visage.
“See!” Elgo flung himself into the throne chair, one leg draped over the armrest, one foot on the floor, a dark brooding upon him. “One day, Elyn, I will slay Sleeth . . . by Adon, I swear it! And then will Master Trent sing a different tune.”
At these bodeful words, Elyn’s mood turned quicksilver swift from one of anger at an imagined slight to one of troubled concern. “Take not an oath in vexation to do such a deed, Elgo, for such hasty swearings have a way of turning upon the oath taker.” The Princess rose and gazed down upon her twin. “Ah me, Ruric says that your pride will be the death of you yet, my brother, and I begin to think it is so.”
“Ruric!” Elgo leapt to his feet. “Elyn, let us speak to that canny dog. He would know if any have slain a Drake, and if so, how they did it.”
As the two left the hall, the few servants within whispered among themselves.
They found the Armsmaster in the stables, perusing the horses, for he was castle War Commander in times when Aranor and his retinue were absent from the holt.
“Nay, lad, none that I know of,” responded Ruric when Elgo put the question to him. “Aye, Drakes were slain in the Great War, but I don’t know how ’twas done. Neither did my da’, Alric, and he was a Loremaster and told me much. Yet as to how Dragons be killed, ’tis beyond my ken. Mages and Drakes, say some, combined to slay the renegade Dragons. Others tell that it was the Elves. But in this, I don’t know the right from the wrong.”
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