“Yet, even though the War be fought in a distant Land below the heights, still, this castle may not remain safe. The Dwarves might think to send an army by secret mountain ways to assail the keep while I and mine Host swarm upon the slopes before the iron gates of their Realm. Too, other enemies of Jord might think to attack this place during the time we are away.
“Hence, Bram must be taken to safe haven, for he is the living heir of Elgo, and now is next in line to take my place and be King. And so I deem that Arianne and Bram must ride under escort unto Riamon, and stay with her sire, Hagor, until this matter be settled.
“There is this as well: should I fall, Jord will need a strong hand to guide it until Bram has reached his majority.
“Elyn, that hand must be yours.” Aranor held up a palm to forestall the protests springing to Elyn’s lips. “Hear me out, Daughter: The Realm needs a Steward, a Guardian, one who can rally the Castleward if need be, to protect these walls, someone skilled in the ways of battle to keep the castle safe. And I need someone to rule here in my stead while the War is carried out in a distant Land. You have served frontier duty and know how a fortress is to be defended. Too, you know that no army can remain long afield without proper supplies, and you have the training to know what is needed. And these Dwarves will hole up in that mountain fastness of theirs, and we will be long in the field.
“Finally, there is this: Those remaining behind need to know that the royal family has not abandoned them. I will be at War before the gates of Kachar. Bram and Arianne will be gone to Riamon, to safety. That leaves you, Daughter: the one best fitted to serve as the heart of the Land; the one best fitted to serve as lifeline to mine Host; and the one best fitted to ward the Realm in my absence; and lastly, the one best fitted to serve as Steward should Death claim me.
“Again I say that none shall bar your way should you decide to ride to War, for you are a Warrior Maiden. Yet often it is that Duty has each of us hew to a course not of our liking or choosing. You may ride to War if you so choose. But should we both fall, then Jord may fall too.”
Aranor fell silent, and but for the occasional crack of the small fire aburning, a stillness descended upon the room. Elyn sat unmoving, staring down at the saber lying across her knees, its edge winging glints of cloven light unto a gaze filled with bitter tears. Long they sat thus, father and daughter, sire and get, and slowly the Sun slid below the horizon.
Aranor cleared his throat. “You need not make your decision now, for it is dusk, and we need be in council. But it is there that I expect your answer, among all the counsellors, for plans need be made, and in the end your decision will sway what we say and do.”
Aranor stood and reached out his hand, but it was long ere Elyn responded, for tears blurred her vision. But at last she grasped her saber in her left and slipped her right in his and rose to her feet. Taking up her scabbard, she sheathed the glittering blade, and turned and stepped to the armor stand. For a lengthy time she stood with her back to the King, gazing at her readied accouterments. Finally she squared her shoulders and swiftly looped the scabbard belt diagonally across her racked leathers. “Let us begone, Sire,” she said, turning, tears glistening upon her cheeks, and together they strode from the chamber, leaving the weaponry of War behind.
“Aye, Sire,” rumbled Ruric, “if ye be looking for any to blame in this, then it be me, for the Prince was under my care when we sallied into Kachar. I should ha’e seen it in his eye. That the Prince strode unto Brak’s throne wi’ such an insult wrapped in cloth, ’tis no surprise now that I look back on it. My fault plain and simple. I should ha’e guessed . . . I should ha’e guessed.”
Aranor gazed across the great map table at the Armsmaster. At Ruric’s side stood Reynor, and flanking them were Arlan and Roka to the left, and Young Kemp to the right. At Aranor’s right hand stood Elyn, slender as a willow reed in her dark leathers. Torchlight and candles illumed the hall, driving back the shadows creeping inward with the waning dusk. “Nay, Armsmaster”—Aranor’s voice was filled with bitterness—“the blame lies not here within this chamber. Instead it rests squarely upon those who seek to gain that which they abandoned long ago: Damn those grasping Dwarves! Such a claim. Such an outrageous claim!” The clench of Aranor’s fist crashed down upon the table, and rage flared in his eyes. But then his gaze softened. “Yet would I give it all, and gladly, if it would but restore Elgo to the living.”
The King fell silent, and long moments stretched out within the shadow-wrapped room. And nought was said by any to break the moody dolor. At last Aranor stirred. “All things come clear in hindsight, Old Wolf,” growled the King, “so take no blame upon yourself. Elgo’s pride was his undoing, as well as that of Brak.
“But this assailing of emissaries . . .” Aranor’s voice dropped into silence.
Reynor glanced at his comrades, guilt showing in their very stances. “Sire, I do not deny my own wrongdoing. The Prince that I loved was dead by the hand of these Dwarves, Bargo too, and when Brade charged forth and was slaughtered by bolt, my rage knew no bounds. Given the chance, I would have slain them all, yet Armsmaster Ruric stayed my hand.
“My King, I seek no pardon, nor do my comrades, I deem”—Arlan, Roka, and Young Kemp stood with their heads bowed—“levy what punishment fits the transgression, yet whatever that punishment may be, I ask that you let us fight at your side in the coming conflict.”
Long Aranor stood in thought. At last he turned toward the five of them. “This, then, is my decree: should there come a time I need emissaries to carry word ’neath a grey flag, you five shall bear that flag. And should some hot-blooded foe decide as you did that the flag has no meaning, then so be it. Justice will be served.”
“Sire,” objected Young Kemp, “tha ha’e tarred Armsmaster Ruric wi’ the same brush as ha’ rightfully slathered us. Yet he were no’ a part o’ it, an’—”
“Quiet, lad”—Ruric’s voice stilled the protest—“the King ha’ spoken.”
Aranor rubbed his gritty eyes with the heels of his hands, his voice weary. “Ruric, remain here. You too, Reynor. You other three are dismissed. And on your way out, tell Hrosmarshal Gannor and his Captains to attend me.”
Clenched fists to hearts, Roka, Arlan, and Young Kemp saluted the King and spun on their heels and marched from the War room. Pages were signalled and chairs were drawn to the table. And when Gannor and his retinue entered, they found King, Princess, Armsmaster, and Castleward Captain seated ’round the great table, awaiting them.
Aranor shook his head and sighed. “Ah me, this I do not relish. Yet let it be so: Let the balefires atop the Warcairns be lit throughout Jord; ride the Realm with the red flag, for War is come upon us, and we must muster to drive it back whence it came. Let those who can come now do so in haste, for in a fortnight we shall set forth. Let those who come later ride straightaway to Kachar, they will find us encamped before the Dwarven gates. It will take much to bait these badgers from their den, and we will need all strength to do so.”
Gannor nodded to one of the Captains, who called a chief herald unto him and spoke in a low voice. And as the Captain gave over his words, the look in the messenger’s eye became steely, resolute. And upon receiving his charge, the herald withdrew. Within moments the fire atop the beacon spire would be lit, its ruddy message burning in the night. At distant points, on knolls of hills and rock built towers, watchers would see the flare, and put the torch to their own beacons, the signal flashing across the Realm, searing through the darkness. And horsemen would hammer out from gates to spread across the Jordreichs, red flags whipping in the swift air of their passage. And everywhere the Harlingar dwelled the call to arms would sound, the knell of War upon the Land.
After the rider had gone, all eyes fell upon the King. “Well then, Fortune has turned her second face to scowl down upon us, and I deem long it may watch. Let us now make careful our plans to keep her unseen third face gazing elsewhere.”
Aranor stood, sliding back his chair
and leaning forward on his arms, palms down upon the great table. “Unroll the maps and let us lay out this campaign, and see to the needs of the Realm as well, for we cannot let the Land lie undefended.” All about the table, chairs scraped back as others rose to their feet, Gannor reaching for the map case. “Too, we will have an army afield, and much will be required to sustain it.” Aranor paused, glancing at Elyn, awaiting some signal from her.
After long moments, her eyes met those of her sire, anguish in her gaze, and she nodded but once, bitterly accepting the fact that the Realm needed her as Steward during the long days that were to come. At this sign, Aranor stepped to her and held her close. Yet this time his embrace did little to take away the bitterness she felt at accepting this onerous duty, for it was vengeance her heart cried out for and not the care of a Kingdom.
Hrosmarshal Gannor unrolled the chart showing the area of Jord where lay Kaagor Pass. Elyn could not help but note that beyond the Grimwall where stood the Realm of Kachar the map was blank, and she wondered at this portent.
O’er the next fortnight, swift heralds bearing red flags raced ’cross the Land, and every day the muster at Aranor’s keep grew. In ones and twos riders accoutered for War drifted into the campsites ’round the walls. At times, Warbands of twenty or thirty arrived. And slowly the ranks swelled.
On the third day ’neath overcast skies six wains stood in the bailey. And to and fro, in and out of the castle servants bustled, lading the waggons with goods for a lengthy journey. In her chambers, Arianne took one last long look about and sighed, for on this day she and Bram and three Ladies-in-waiting—Kyla, Elise, and Darcy—were to set forth under heavy escort for the Court of her father in Riamon. Seeing nought to keep her in these barren quarters, Arianne hoisted Bram up and stepped toward the door. But as though he realized that they would not soon if ever come again to this room, the young Prince reached out his wee hands calling for something, using words from his own private language, a language only he could understand. Arianne cooed, but Bram was not to be mollified, and struggled to be let free. Setting the child down, the Princess watched as Bram scurried across the floor and scrambled under the bed, emerging triumphantly bearing his favorite toy: the little silver horn.
“Ah, Brammie, I should have known we could not leave that behind,” said Arianne, smiling . . . smiling perhaps for the first time since . . .
Again Arianne took up her babe, and this time he contentedly allowed himself to be borne from the room.
As Arianne stepped down the long straight staircase, below she could see the great entry hall; and at the foot of the steps awaited Aranor and Elyn. There, too, stood Mala. And from the left just entering the vestibule came Elise and Darcy, weeping, their arms about one another. Bringing up the rear was Kyla, her countenance somewhat stricken, yet at the same time looking as if a great romantic adventure awaited her, an adventure that beckoned irresistibly.
And as the three Ladies-in-waiting came to the staircase, Mala snapped, “Hush, you silly gooses. Don’t you know that the Court where you are bound puts this one to shame?”
Elise and Darcy cried all the harder, and Kyla pouted up and began weeping as well.
Exasperated, Mala turned her back upon the trio, though Elyn stepped to each and embraced them in turn, whispering, “Care well for Bram, he is the future of Jord. Care well, too, for the Lady Arianne, for in these darkest of days she needs you most desperately.” At these words, Elise and Darcy managed to stifle their tears, though Kyla’s weeping intensified.
Arianne came to the bottom of the steps, and Bram reached out for Aranor. Taking the babe from his mother, the King turned and strode for the hall doors, followed by the six Women. “You shall be borne down through Jallor Pass, south and west of here some one hundred fifty leagues. Then it’s south and east to the Court of your sire, eighty or ninety leagues more.”
“I relish not this prospect of being so far from home,” whispered Elise.
“But don’t you see,” quavered Darcy, “this is the adventure we have longed for since we were but little girls: travel to a great Court in a far Land.”
A muffled sob was all that Kyla could utter.
Attendants opened the doors, and the entourage paced out onto the marble veranda and down into the bailey. There awaiting them stood the escort: fifty Men ahorse; but for one. Red-haired Aulf stepped forward, Captain of the escort. “My Liege,” he said, saluting the King, his voice resonant. Then, turning to Arianne, “My Lady.”
“Aulf,” responded Aranor, “from this moment on, I be your Liege no more. ’Tis this wee bairn that be your Lord and master now. This I charge you with: that you and your Men take him and his mother to safety in Riamon. Remain at his side, and when it is his time to return, when Jord be free of War, then bring him home. Keep him safe from all harm, for it is his destiny to one day rule this Realm.
“Here, take him, feel the weight of him”—Aranor held the boy out to Aulf, who gingerly received the tot, carefully cradling his arms about the Prince—“for he goes under your protection now.”
Bram struggled to be held upright so that he could see. And the Captain realized that this was no suckling in his arms, and so he raised the child up to sit on his shoulder, much to the lad’s delight. Aulf’s eyes shined, and he turned to the mounted Harlingar. “All hál Prince Bram!”
And all the Harlingar shouted: Hál, Prince Bram!
Bram crowed in delight, and Aulf, beaming, turned to Princess Arianne, and for the second time that day Arianne smiled at the joy upon Bram’s face.
“Come, Daughter,” growled Aranor, turning to Arianne, “the day grows older as we stand here, and there be a long journey ahead of you.” Aranor stooped and embraced her, his voice gruff with emotion. “We shall miss your brightness at Court. Care well for our Bram. We will let you know when it be safe to return.”
Arianne hugged Aranor fiercely, for she had come to love him as if he was her own sire. “Take care, Father,” she whispered, tears streaming down her face, and then she turned to Elyn.
They embraced and kissed one another farewell, and all that saw them marvelled at their beauty. Like daughters of Adon, Himself, they looked: one copper haired, one with tresses of wheat; one tall with willowy grace in every movement, one tiny with the exquisite bearing of a Princess of fable.
“I shall miss you dearly, my Sister,” whispered Arianne.
“And I you, Arianne,” responded Elyn. “Care well for Bram, for Jord needs him.”
“Fear not, for he is all I have left of Elgo, and I would not have his memory fade from this world.”
Releasing Elyn, Arianne turned and stepped toward the wain indicated by Aranor, and the King helped her to mount up. Aulf passed Bram up to her, and then sprang to his saddle.
Three Harlingar gallants leapt down from their mounts and aided the three Ladies-in-waiting into the waggons: Elise moving forward matter-of-factly, Darcy uncertain, and Kyla somewhat warily.
At a nod from the King, Aulf sounded a call upon his black-oxen horn, and at the fortress wall Men at the winches began cranking, and with a clatter of gears the portcullis was raised. Others haled the great bar from the fore gates and swung them wide, opening out into the land beyond. Drivers flicked reins and called to the teams, and slowly the waggons moved forward, bearing their precious cargo from the keep. Iron-rimmed wheels ground out their messages of movement, and the column of mounted Harlingar surged forward as well, steel-shod hooves clattering upon flagstone and cobble. Out from the bailey trundled the waggons, and faces of the passengers and of those remaining behind peered at one another for perhaps the last time: Arianne smiled wanly; Elise and Darcy wept as if their hearts would break; but in a quicksilver shift, Kyla’s features bore a great wide grin. And behind stood Aranor, grim was his look; Elyn’s countenance was stoic; Mala’s face bore its usual air of disapproval. Only Bram in his mother’s arms seemed unaffected by it all.
Out through the portal clattered the train, and when it was t
hrough, with a rattle of gears and a grind of metal the portcullis lowered and the great gates swung to. And when the keep was shut, Aranor turned and made his way back into the castle, his arm around Elyn.
On the ninth day, Reachmarshal Richter came, tall and graceful, and with him rode nine hundred Harlingar, the muster of the East Reach.
On the twelfth day came the Legion of the west, some eight hundred strong, led by Reachmarshal Einrich, a great shouting, laughing, barrel of a Man.
From the north, throughout the final four days, three Warbands came: some twelve hundred Men altogether, commanded by Marshals Roth, Boer, and Mott, all united under the hand of Reachmarshal Vaeran, a small fox of a Man said to be a master of military strategy.
And from the South Reach, the land in which stood Aranor’s keep, the muster raised nearly eleven hundred, and they rode under Gannor’s flag. And Gannor was Aranor’s blood cousin, yet a mighty warrior in his own right.
And so they gathered in a fortnight, nearly forty-five hundred warriors in all, counting the stragglers and strays. Forty-five hundred Vanadurin to face an unknown number of Dwarves.
During this same fortnight, Elyn trained as she had never trained before: But it was not in missile weapons nor in those of mêlée combat that she prepared herself. Nay! Instead, it was waggons and supplies that occupied her mind, and the governing of a Kingdom gone to War. Figures danced in her head as counsellors advised her: food for Men afield, fodder for horses, medical supplies needed by healers, armor and weaponry and other such accouterments, blankets and bedrolls, boots and clothing, cloaks and tents; the lists went on and on. Often she would hurl a ledger from her in a fit of frustration, vowing that she never would master all the details needed to supply an army in the field. Yet after a cooling off of her temper, and at Mala’s urging, reluctantly she would retrieve the offending journal and once again take up the study of the provisioning of legions.
Dragondoom: A Novel of Mithgar Page 24