Forest shadows drifted across their faces as the Moon rode through the night sky. Around them among the trees padded an argent guard, a ghostly silver pack slipping through the wood. To the fore in the distance Greylight ranged ahead, scouting a track toward an unknown destination.
“You need aid,” the Mage had observed upon rising from the corpse of the Vulg. “Too, you are scathed. Come. It is not far.”
“Wind and Digger,” Elyn had said, “our mounts. We must find them. They are wounded too, and I would see to their needs.”
“Fear not, for they are safe,” had responded the Mage. “I will tend them as well, and bring them at your need.” And they had set off down the knoll and toward the encircling shaggy boles of the surrounding Wolfwood.
And now they strode among the enshadowed trees, guardians all about them, silent Moon and stars above. “You are right about the Vulgs. They were after you. It is a sending! Andrak’s sending. His vile touch can be sensed by those who know its spoor.” Elyn and Thork could hear the suppressed rage in the voice of the Wolfmage.
“A sending?” asked Elyn, apprehension coursing through her at these ominous words. “But why?”
“Evil was the day when Andrak was seduced into taking that first step along the ways of darkness,” responded the Mage, “turned from the light by vile Modru. And in his wickedness, Andrak would have it such that he look down upon great suffering; and he would impose his will upon the helpless, and utterly dominate the powerful. And as such, I know not why he would set Rûpt upon the track of just two, for his dark dreams would elevate him above numbers beyond count.”
“Then the Grg seek us both,” queried Thork, “and not just one?”
“That I cannot say,” answered the Magus. “That it was Andrak’s sending, is true. But as to what or whom he would destroy, it is beyond my power to know.”
And suddenly there sprang to Elyn’s mind one of Ruric’s favorite oaths—“By the black nails o’ Andrak!”—but how that bore upon this, she knew not.
They strode on in silence for a ways, coming at last to a tiny grassy clearing within the forest. A small stone cote stood under the eaves of the wood, thatched roof yellow in the moonlight, the walls below a darkling grey. They entered through a wooden door hanging on leather hinges, and light shone palely in through windows, washing over shadowed silhouettes standing inside.
“Be seated my guests.” The Wolfmage passed beyond Elyn’s sight in the darkness; she could hear him opening drawers, and there came the clink of glass vessels. To her right, Thork stepped forward, and Elyn heard the sound of a chair being drawn back upon a wooden floor, and she could dimly make out the Dwarf sitting down.
“Be seated, Lady Elyn,” came the Mage’s voice again.
“But I cannot see,” she returned.
“Ah me, I forget.” Of a sudden there was yellow light filling the cottage, the Wolfmage holding a lamp. Thork sat at a table.
The cottage was surprisingly large—perhaps even larger on the inside than out, thought Elyn, immediately rejecting such a preposterous notion.
Still and all, the room held a table with four chairs; two tall cupboards with drawers; a hearth with fire irons and a stack of wood, as well as cooking kettles and ladles and the like; a sideboard for preparing food, with attendant cutlery; a small scullery table on top of which was a water bucket and soap and a washing pan and pads. A small open door led into a pantry; and another door, closed, led she knew not where. Behind Thork and against a wall stood a cot below a window.
All was clean and well ordered: the oaken floor looked freshly scrubbed, there were no dirty dishes, and the bed was made. Even so, the place had an unlived-in feel to it.
Elyn drew a chair from under the table and sat, and her weariness washed over her like an irresistible wave. She sat numbly as the Wolfmage moved quietly about the room, her eyes gritty with fatigue yet her vision preternaturally sharp, Thork looking almost unreal in his clarity. Next she laid her head down upon the table.
There came a time she remembered being led to a cot, vaguely hearing the silver-haired Mage say, “Sleep, Warrior Maid, for now you are safe. The Draega will ward your night from attack, and I shall take steps to ward the ’Wood ’gainst intrusion of another kind.”
It was late morn when Elyn awoke at last, stirring shadows of soft-blown leaves mingled with sunlight falling upon her cheek, a light zephyr gently caressing the trees outside. She could hear the quiet susurration of simmering water, and turning her head she could see a large kettle over ruddy coals in the hearth, a mist of steam rising upward. An empty bucket sat upon the floor as if in invitation. Wincing from her broken ribs, Elyn gingerly levered herself up from the bed and stood. She was alone in the cottage.
The door that had been closed last night was now open, and behind it lay another room; and therein stood a large wooden tub. Padding upon bare feet—Who removed my boots?—she stepped inward and saw that the tub was partly filled with crystalline water, cool to the touch. Upon a bench lay a soft grey robe.
Repeatedly using the bucket, she added hot water to the cool, raising the temperature until it was heated to nearly beyond enduring. Removing her soiled leathers, she stepped over the side and into the tub, hesitantly, slowly, easing into the bath, cautiously sinking into the steeping heat. Finally she was immersed, and gradually acclimated to the steaming water, until at last she relaxed, luxuriating in the warmth, her cuts and bruises and fractured rib cage completely forgotten.
How long she soaked thus, she did not know, though it was long enough to pucker her skin; yet at last when the temperature diminished noticeably, she began scrubbing with a soft-scented soap she found on a sideboard, starting with the cleansing of her hair. She washed her face and arms, then the rest of her body, and was rinsing when the Wolfmage, bearing bandages, stepped into the bathing room.
Flustered, Elyn attempted to cover herself—finding the wash cloth entirely too scant—and she sank into the water.
Puzzled, the Magus cocked his head. Then understanding filled his eyes. “Oh yes. I had forgotten.” He turned his back. “Regardless, we must bind your ribs. Know you how to do it?”
At Elyn’s quiet “No”—
“Then there’s nothing for it, Lady Elyn, but that I must do it instead,” responded the Wolfmage. “Remove yourself from the tub, towel off, dress in the robe, but remain uncovered from the waist up.”
Red from the hot water, and perhaps from embarrassment, Elyn did as bid, the robe overlarge upon her, held about her waist by a silken cord. Turning her back to the Mage, she said, “I’m ready.”
His hands were surprisingly gentle, but the binding remarkably firm, as it was cinched rigorously about her tender ribs. When the wrapping was done, held in place by cloth ties—“Now you may finish dressing.”
The Magus was waiting for her at the table. “Here, drink this. It will aid in the healing.”
As Elyn downed the small cup of a liquid faintly tasting of salt, “Put not overmuch strain upon those fractures,” admonished the Mage. “Breathe shallowly. Squat, do not stoop. Twist not. Take care when standing. Bear only the lightest of burdens.”
At Elyn’s nod—“Your comrade sits outside,” said the Wolfmage, and then he turned and vanished through the door.
“Wait,” called Elyn, but he was gone. “Thank you,” she said to the empty air behind.
Raising the hem of the overlong robe, Elyn stepped outside. Nearby, a Silver Wolf stood at guard, and another lay on the sward not far away. And the Warrior Maid found Thork sitting on the grass in the shade beneath an oak tree. As she approached, the Dwarf stood, his injured left arm now cradled in a sling. Elyn burst out laughing, which caused her ribs to hurt, bound as they were, for Thork’s robe draggled upon the ground by a foot or two, and he looked much the same as would a child dressed in adult’s clothing . . . except no child sported a forked beard, nor had shoulders too wide for the robe to fasten at the chest and neck, which made the sight in Elyn’s eyes altog
ether hilarious, paining her ribs even more.
Thork at first was puzzled by her amusement, his baffled look causing her to laugh all the harder. Waving one hand in dismissal, and clamping the other one over her mouth, Elyn tried to stop her laughter, tried to stop the hurt in her ribs, and only succeeded in producing explosive gusts of tittering air through her fingers and hurting all the more.
It was then that Thork looked down at himself and at last saw that he was the target of her merriment, and with a growl, he frumpishly plopped back down and would have crossed his arms in scowling disgust except the sling got in the way. Besides, his improvised right cuff had become unrolled, the end of the sleeve flopping down a goodly ten or twelve inches past the tips of his fingers; and he struggled and flapped his good right arm, trying to recover his hand from the cloth. This caused Elyn to gale even more. And holding her aching sides and giggling in distress, she struggled to where he sat and dropped to her knees before him, reaching out to aid him, tears of pain and joy in her eyes.
His jaw outthrust, beard quivering in indignation, eyes bulging, face livid, Thork seemed ready to burst with rage.
“Ah me, my Dwarven warrior, would that the Trolls had seen you thus,” Elyn managed to gasp out between giggles as she rerolled his sleeve. “They would have died of sheer glee.”
And quicksilver swift, the look on Thork’s face shifted from wrath to mirth as he saw the absurdity of it all, and the glade rang with his belly laughter.
Moving gingerly, Elyn sat beside him, her back to the same oak. For a long while she could not withhold tittering now and again, Thork chortling with her as well.
“How long has it been, I wonder,” she asked, “since I have laughed so? Not since . . .” Her words stumbled to a halt, her mind turning upon a painful memory.
Thork, sensing her distress, said nought.
In the trees above, cicadas sang their song of the shift of the season; fall would soon be upon the land, and they called to one another here at summer’s passing, seeking mates ere their own time came to an end. Somewhere near a fallen log a cricket chirruped stridently, this sound offset by the lazy hum of bees among the tiny blue flowers within the grass, gathering nectar and pollen while they could, bearing it to their hidden cache deep within the wood. And in the clearing the Silver Wolves exchanged places, one taking up the watch from the other.
At last Elyn spoke again: “Where slept you last night, Thork?”
“In yon cottage, Lady Elyn,” he answered. “There is another room within, behind the pantry, which holds a cot as well.”
“Another room? Within that tiny cote? A main room, a bathing room, a pantry, and a guest room too?” Elyn’s voice showed her amazement. “Perhaps it is larger on the inside than out. Can it be so?”
“Seek not to delve into the secrets of Wizards, my Lady,” responded Thork, “for I hear they guard them jealously.”
They sat and pondered the enigma for a short while; then Thork’s stomach rumbled. “Secret or no,” said the Dwarf, “let us delve into that pantry. I am hungry, and there is food waiting us within.”
A week went by, and then another, and Elyn’s ribs slowly knitted, while Thork’s shoulder mended. By cooperating, the two wounded warriors managed to care for themselves: cooking, washing and mending their trail gear and clothing, cleaning and oiling their armor and weaponry, sharing the household chores. Daily they went for long walks, discovering crystalline rills and mossy brooks and rock outcroppings and grassy glades among the shaggy forest trees. They held long conversations, taking great care to avoid the hostile ground that lay between Dwarf and Rider.
And every day the Wolfmage would appear, bringing roots and mushrooms, fruits and nuts, wild grains and sweet grasses, berries and tubers, and things of a like nature. Once he brought them a haunch of venison, saying only that it was a gift from the Draega, the Silver Wolves. And Elyn and Thork accepted it gratefully, spending an afternoon slow-cooking it upon a spit above an outdoor fire.
Early during their recovery, the Magus took them to see Wind and Digger, the barebacked mounts roaming loose among fields of clover and wild oats—saddles, bridles, trappings, weaponry and gear, all stowed safely in a great dry hollow of a nearby fallen forest giant. Wind and Digger came at the Mage’s call, and seemed eager to see Elyn and Thork, though more eager still to return to the sweet forage upon the hill. Their wounds, too, had been tended, and the Wolfmage had assured Elyn and Thork that the steeds would be mended when the time came for Warrior Maid and warrior to resume their trek.
And always somewhere near, Draega slipped among the trees, the Silver Wolves warding the twain.
There came a day when Elyn asked the Magus about the Wolves, and his answer brought tears to her eyes: “These are no common Wolves, Lady Elyn, merely grown to dire size. Nay, they are the Draega—the Elden Wolves—from the Hōhgarda. Yet they crossed the in-between and came to this world in an elden time, when creatures of great power strode the forests and plains, climbed the mountains and descended into the valleys, flew through the crystal air, plied the shifting sands of the deserts, swam the clean waters of the world, and delved deep in the sweet underground—creatures now but seldom seen, if at all. And the Draega bowed to none, not even to the Great Bear of the Mittegarda. They were the Lords of all they desired, yet their wants were simple and are simple still.
“But then things upon this Plane changed, for Gyphon sent his minions forth from the Untargarda to come upon this world. And then did the Draega join with others—Elves, Men, Mages, more—to help stem the tide, for among the Rûpt were foul Vulgs, a natural foe of the Silver Wolves, an enemy the ’Wolves were best suited to meet.
“It was not long after that I bonded with the Draega . . . and they with me. And together we serve Adon—oppose Gyphon—from before the First Era till now.”
“The First Era?” said Elyn. “That’s when Rwn was destroyed.”
“Aye,” replied the Magus. “And that’s when I was stranded.”
“Stranded?”
The Wolfmage sighed. “It held the only known crossing to the Mageworld of Vadaria.”
“What of the other worlds?”
“Since the Great War of the Ban, one need be born with the blood of the other-side world to cross the in-between.”
“Ach!” exclaimed Elyn. “The Sundering. I had forgotten.”
A silence fell between them, but at last Elyn said, “The Draega can go to Adonar, but they do not?”
Dalavar nodded. “They remain with me, living in reclusion, for we are friends.”
Elyn plucked a flower and studied its blue petals, and they sat together without speaking. After a long while, Elyn asked, “Will they ever return to Adonar?”
The Wolfmage turned up a hand. “Mayhap. Mayhap after the coming of the Silver Sword upon the dawn, when the ways between the Planes will be open again—at least for one—and we will war for Adon once more, for we serve Him still.”
“What of you?” asked Elyn. “When will you return to the Mageworld?”
“That I cannot say. With Rwn gone, and no other known crossing, I am barred from Vadaria. Even so, even were there a known way, I would not go, for I await the return of the Dawn Sword, and the final struggle to come.” The Wolfmage’s voice became soft, and his words bore a simple but profound message: “And these, the Draega, await with me in my exile, throughout millennia gone by. And all that time they have remained with me, did not abandon me, for I am their friend.”
Long after she was told this tale, tears would spring into Elyn’s eyes to think upon the plight of the Wolfmage: giving to his uttermost to aid in the struggle, yet in the end, barred from his very homeland. Too, it was a tale of a lasting true bond, for the Draega shared his isolation simply because he was their friend. Yet it was Thork who pointed out a remarkable fact: “If the Wolfmage befriended the Draega ere the coming of the Spawn from the Untargarda, then he too strode the world in the elden time. And that would make his age nearly beyond reckoni
ng, no matter his youthful looks.”
Gradually, the two of them mended, and there came a day when Thork’s arm was removed from the sling. And he used his double-bitted axe to work the stiffness out, starting slowly, and day by day extending his efforts. And he bore his Dragonhide shield on his left arm while swinging his hammer with his right. He practiced cocking his light crossbow and sending quarrels with deadly accuracy into the heart of a makeshift wooden bull’s-eye.
One evening after a strenuous workout his thirst was such that, followed by a Silver Wolf, he strode toward a crystalline rill he and Elyn had discovered. And in the foredusk he came upon the edge of the glade and beheld the Princess kneeling beside the stream. From the water she had plucked a white flower and was placing it into her copper hair, gazing at her reflection, her lilting voice singing. And Thork remained at the edge of the forest and gazed upon her beauty, and his heart seemed to fill with an indefinable something that had been absent before. He stood silently, captured, and listened to her clear voice in song:Would you fight to the death
For that which you love,
In a cause surely hopeless . . .
For that which you love?
And Thork recognized the song, for it was the heart-wrenching ballade of Lost Blackstone, a lyric revered by the Dwarves. For it told the tale of an epic struggle, a hopeless struggle, where so many had died in honor. And it was this taking of Blackstone that was at the root of the hostility between the Châkka and the Riders, the conflict that made Elyn his foe. Thork cast his hood over his head and turned and walked away grieving, passing near but not seeing the Draega warding her.
Out of the corner of her eye Elyn saw the movement, and looked up in time to see that it was Thork walking away, his hood cast over his head in mourning. And she divined that it was the words of the ballade that had sent him from her in sorrow, yet she did not guess the central truth lying at the core of his grief.
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 14