Thrice nine times they pressed the gates, ever repulsed.
A whirling wind drove o’er the field, a rain against the dead,
Till Kraage himself with miry battle-ax pierced the elven line.
Alik staggered away from the bodies of the rock elf and the many strewn drakes, bloody and faint. And before he knew it, Deran caught him by the neck and yanked him backwards. He felt a knife press into him and felt the string around his neck break, and he fell limply down the embankment. “Breath—breath,” he murmured in his own language—but the shard was no longer there to help him. He sunk into the water.
“You killed him!” Deran shouted at Krythar.
“He was being in the wrong p’ace—give me the shard,” General Krythar replied.
“I said I will bring it to the emperor,” Deran growled. “Or would you like me to sweep you away also?” He held up the shard.
“You not-knowing its using,” Krythar retorted.
“That’s your risk,” Deran answered evenly. “You’re out of drakes.”
“There being more,” Krythar replied. “You not being as precious to the emperor as you think.”
“Nor you,” Deran replied.
Krythar smiled a serpentine smile. “You may come. The emperor wi’ want to castigating you for losing the boy.”
“If it wasn’t for you I would have delivered the boy to him alive; but as it is, he will be no harm to the emperor,” Deran said. “That river runs down to Ristoria. The current is narrow and winding through sheer rock, mile after mile, without a drop of air. If he isn’t crushed or trapped in some narrow space he will be asphyxiated. Not even fish can make the currents.”
“He is said to swimming better than fish,” Krythar said.
“He doesn’t have the shard to help him now, though,” Deran retorted, holding the crystal blue shard by its broken string in front of Krythar’s eyes.
Alik was swept along by the current, groping, bleeding, and delirious, through the narrow windings of the mountain...pressure and flow battered him and washed him over polished boulders and quarried curves...down, down, out, out...blood flowed...the aching fibers of mind and body...drone, drone, onward and onward...here, here: present...present to the river’s flow.
...Late alone Channon held the gate invincible from Kraage
Until the emperor himself the hero confronted; then they fought,
Long and direly, matching blow for blow amidst the dead
Till Channon was pierced and sorely bleeding; but Kraage was laying dead.
Down through the night-like passageways Channon bleeding fled, through Narrissor;
Past Tenebriabula, Urtheka, and the Heart of Night;
Down into the world, from sun, from sky, from creatures of the upper climes;
Into Your care, Preserver of us all; into Your eternal song....
V.i. fratris
W
arm, slow blood stained the water as the sky outside began to redden with morning. Heao wrung out the rag and, as he had been shown, padded it against Alik’s wound and set it back down in the basin. New blood began to well up reluctantly as he picked up the new bandage waiting beside the basin. A scalpel he had not seen that was partly resting on the bandage fell with a little clatter. He pressed the bandage against the wound, tied it in place, and stood back. He absentmindedly adjusted the position of the scalpel while surveying his work. For a moment he thought he saw a movement in Alik’s face. Yes, there it was again, a faint little twitch like dreaming. He turned away, washed his hands, and picked up the basin with the bloody rags. A furry tabby flashed green eyes at him through the doorway and scampered off down the hallway on its hunting rounds. As he exited he could hear over the chattering of birds the flourish of the battle-horns of Ristoria.
Alik woke with a start, alone in a small, bright room smelling of herbs and lye. The misty field of his dreams and the knifelike mountains all were gone. Only a hint of blood, watered down in a drop of splattered water on the otherwise pristine table, remained of it all. But he had dreamt of blood—moving, beating, reaching out—and drakes attacking in the grasses, and other, larger, unseen beasts, twisted and unnatural, perceived only in the corner of the eye—and the mountains, sharp and sterile, ringing round a high plateau, towering in the mist, throbbing, humming, a castle like a needle rising at the top....
Birds chattered. Squirrels, too. He had the sense of something slinking underneath his bed. His eyes slowly adjusted to the brightness. The light was faintly lavender through the violet leaves of the trees outside the window. He was naked beneath the sheets save his ragged shorts and the bandages round his side. There was pain there, where the knife had stabbed and where the rocks had struck, but mostly there was numbness from the salve. Battle-horns called out to one another in the distance, and others answered nearer by. A sense of desolate, desperate pain beset him at the recollection of what had happened to him.
Arran Delossan, Jevan, island scribe and guardian, last scribe of Anthirion, and honorary scribe and courier for Ristoria, was hurrying down the stairs from the signal tower of the palace of Ristoria when Heao caught up with him. Jevan was dressed even more simply than ever, having wrapped his legs and thrown on a spare grey winter cloak due to the autumnal chill. His hair seemed a shade more grey than before. He had removed his glasses for a moment to clear away a spot and therefore nearly ran into Heao before he saw him.
“Master Delossan!” Heao exclaimed, stopping short to avoid the collision.
“Heao!” Jevan answered, “just the person I was hoping to see. How is Alik?”
“Better, better, Sir,” Heao replied, walking with him. “I think he will be waking soon, possibly. The doctors say he heals extraordinarily fast. They are really good. I think they must be the best doctors in the world. Especially Master Ceothryth. How are things with you?”
“I am glad to hear you say he is nearly better. Things are coming quickly to a head, and everything revolves around the boy. Those last signal calls were to inform that the last divisions of the Ristorian Army—besides the city guards—have gathered outside of Belan, and the Therians have likewise gathered in their cities.”
Things were indeed coming quickly to a head, for at that moment a trumpet from somewhere around the city gates sounded. “That is certainly strange,” Jevan said, stopping. Heao was about to ask, but Jevan answered first. “That was the personal signal of the general. If he has sent a personal message...or come himself...then there must be something very important or else very secret. Heao, I have to go. You had best get back to Alik and wait there. I will come directly. If he wakes, please prepare him to leave today if it is possible.”
“Today?” Heao asked.
“Heao,” Jevan replied, “while we have been idle here in Ristoria the enemy has been afoot. The same forces that destroyed the isle and the Anthirians are not going to rest at this most critical stage. The tide is turning—and not in our favor. The results of the next actions may well decide the outcome of the war. Therefore, our only hope of avoiding quick extermination is to strike now, hard and fast. Do you understand?”
Heao nodded and replied, “Aye, Sir.” It seemed to him that the tide had turned long ago, and he saw no way by which it might be re-turned. Then again, he recognized that he was only a boy, ignorant in the affairs of war beyond the little swordsmanship General Rigel had taught him before that man had been caught up in the planning and execution of the coming campaign. He knew, or believed, that if anyone in the world could handle the situation, it would be Master Delossan. With that comforting thought, he found himself at the doorway to the healers’ ward where he had left Alik sleeping.
With one glance he saw that Alik was no longer sleeping. The bedclothes were thrown awry, a parcel of bandages had been upset on the floor, and the room seemed to have been beset by some terrific hurricane. He soon became aware of the hurricane itself: across the room, standing stock-still, wrapped in shorts and a blanket, was Alik. He was tousled, breathing h
eavily, seemingly in pain, and holding up a sharp little scalpel in sign of warning.
Heao wanted to back away and get Master Delossan, but he was afraid to break eye contact with the storm. With Alik. For a moment he did nothing. Alik slowly eased himself but remained on guard—and he did not put down the scalpel. “I am Heao,” he said at last.
Alik didn’t respond but leaned back against the table behind him.
“I know you,” Heao said. “You are Alik, the sea-boy. We left the island with you. Master Arran Delossan was with us...he is here, too. Everyone was looking for you.”
Alik glanced up suspiciously. He remained silent.
“They found you—the Ristorian scouts did—in the Ristor River, upstream of Belan. That is another elf city. You were badly hurt, but they have been caring for you.” He wasn’t quite sure why he was explaining all this to Alik, but it felt like the right thing to do.
Alik’s look flashed from scorn to gloom. “Deran,” Heao heard him mutter...and the boy’s stature seemed to shrink into one of despair. His shoulders shrank, his eyes turned away to nothing, and his hand that was holding the blanket groped uselessly about his bare neck as though for something no longer there.
“How are you feeling?” Heao asked. He tried to take a step closer. This snapped Alik out of his reverie and he whipped his stolen scalpel toward Heao. Heao raised his hands. “I am not going to hurt you, Alik,” he said. “I know you understand me. I am glad your eyes are better. If you want, I would love to hear about your adventures.” No response. Evidently Alik didn’t want. He tried to think of something else to say. “Master Delossan left you an outfit on the table there.” He pointed, but evidently the outfit was no longer there. It, as well as most of the rest of the loose objects in the room, had been scattered across the floor. He saw, however, that Alik saw the clothes. “Shoes, pants, a hide tunic, a grey hooded cloak...they are yours.”
Alik replied in his own language, “Ce dol ceyntan aow teae.”
Heao didn’t understand but he gathered from the tone it was some kind of refusal. “You can keep your old stuff,” he said. “This is yours; it is gift. Everyone is getting ready to move out, and the rumors are that we are heading north, to Labrion. You will need something pretty warm in that case.”
“Labrion?” Alik asked abruptly.
“Yes, Labrion,” Heao answered. “The rumor is that the entire army is preparing to attack the plateau. Master Delossan will be here himself in a few minutes; you can ask him.”
Alik looked at him suspiciously, frowned, but began gathering up the clothes.
Heao looked away as Alik dressed, though it was only with a lump in his throat that he could completely turn his back. Nervously he said, “I never had the chance to thank you, by the way...for helping us all get off the island.” There was silence behind him; then the rustling of clothes began again. “Anyway, thanks,” he said.
“Do hcend,” Alik replied after a pause.
Heao thought of his father. Was he still alive? And his brothers? Was anyone still alive? His father, he knew, would have taken down his share of Northerners before he died. That was some consolation. Though had he taken down the whole army, it would not have healed the loss in the least. He chose to think of the possibility that his father and his friends were all still alive. Maybe even prisoners, but alive. A wave of homesickness came over him.
Alik finished dressing and threw on the grey fur cloak as the sound of footsteps approached from outside the room. Heao glanced at Alik and went to look. He smiled broadly at the sight of Jevan, who was with a group of five others. One he knew was Master Hallethryll, the chief healer.
Jevan, Master Hallethryll, Captain Dendril Courelaine of the city guard, and a young, martial-looking boy flanked by two Ristorian soldiers entered the room. Their eyes went initially to Heao but quickly passed to Alik himself, huddled and holding his pirated scalpel through the folds of his cloak.
“At last, welcome, Son,” Jevan greeted Alik, placing his hand reassuringly on Heao’s shoulder. “I am glad to see you in such good health at last.”
“He can see now, also,” Heao put in.
“Wonderful!” exclaimed Jevan. “It is a true miracle. I am very happy for you; very happy indeed.”
“Do not make too much of him,” the healer, Master Hallethryll, intervened. “He is still unwell.” He might have added, “And sick in the head, too,” but didn’t. “How do you feel, young master?” he asked. He attempted to draw nearer to Alik only to have the scalpel thrust at him. He raised his hands and backed away.
“Alik, let me introduce my companions,” Jevan spoke up. “My boy here is Heao Sedhar, son of Beran Sedhar, the baker...you remember? He traveled with us from the island, though you could not see then. This venerable elf is Master Silren Hallethryll, chief healer of Ristoria, who took it upon himself to personally nurture you back to health. This good elf is Captain Dendril Courelaine of the Ristor City Guard. And finally, this youth is Arrythh Pendrax, the son of Ulaen Pendrax, the chief general of Ristoria.”
As they were introduced, Heao waved, Master Hallethryll nodded his silvery-bearded head, Captain Courelaine bowed low, and Arrythh Pendrax with his two guards bowed. The captain was a strong-looking elf with long, dark blond hair loosely braided to his waist and a thick vest of studded leather emblazoned with the emblems of Ristoria, the falcon volant with a waving cyndan leaf. Arrythh Pendrax was short, no older than Alik, and very fair-skinned. He had wavy golden hair, a modified Ristorian uniform, a short-sword, a simple-looking knife, and a purple cloak. He struck Alik from the first as possessing a gallant and confident charisma, if with something of a glint of disappointment in his eye. Something about him seemed to foretell endurance and friendship, and it put Alik at ease.
“What is your opinion, then, Master Hallethryll? Will you allow us to steal your patient?” Jevan asked.
The healer chuckled and drew closer to Alik again, this time with better reception. “Not steal,” he said. He pushed aside Alik’s cloak and shirt where his bandage was and “hmm’d” solemnly. Before Alik could react he dropped both shirt and cloak and moved away. “The danger is passed,” he declared, “but for the boy’s health I could not advise his being moved. He needs peace and rest. If you must move him, do so by the river pulley. And continue to administer the cyndan treatments for his wound.”
“Most assuredly, most assuredly,” answered Jevan. “You may be sure we will take all these precautions and more.”
“Certainly we shall,” piped up Arrythh Pendrax, the general’s son. “Yet I think we overlook the most important point.” He turned to Alik. “Master Cambrian—Alik, if I may—will you accompany my father’s army and us in a most desperate attack against the finger of the North?”
“Labrion,” Alik replied. “Vea gausai’iai Labrion.”
Arrythh looked blankly to Jevan. He recognized the place name Labrion, but nothing else. “Of course I knew, but I failed to...failed to....”
“You need not worry, he understood you well enough,” Jevan said. “When he wants to, he can also make himself understood.”
Arrythh looked to Alik but Alik only sniffed unconvincedly. “Will you come with us, in mortal danger, to Labrion Plateau, or will you not?” Arrythh asked.
Alik gestured with his scalpel. “Knife,” he said, and threw the scalpel away.
“You shall have the finest blade you could desire,” Arrythh replied. “Will you come with us?”
“Aev,” Alik insisted, holding out his hand.
Arrythh glanced around. It was apparent to him that nothing would happen till Alik was satisfied. “You shall have my own sidearm, then,” he said. “Indeed, destiny would seem to have it so.” He unfastened the knife hanging at his own side and proffered it to Alik. His guards moved tentatively closer but he motioned them back.
Cautiously, Alik accepted the blade. He unsheathed it and turned it over in his hand. It was a fine elven blade, engraved floridly on either side, sharp, firm, and
clean. He sheathed it, biting his lip, and said, a little shakily, “Ce...I...come.”
Alik was unused to getting fine presents from anyone, but he was even more unfamiliar with acclamation. As he was led out of the capitol building of Ristoria by the general’s son, he was greeted by such a hail of cheers from all around that he stopped dead in his tracks. The avenue was filled to overcrowding with thousands of elves, old and young, men and women, soldiers and civilians. Some elves had climbed up into the branches of some of the purple-clad cyndan trees, while others waved from the windows of neighboring buildings. All were cheering, all warm, all shouting, all focused intently on him.
“Let them not worry you, Master Cambrian,” Arrythh spoke. “They wish to thank you for saving them.”
“Saving them? Kyir ce camuuau’u?”
“You will,” smiled Arrythh. “It is written in your destiny.”
Alik turned violently away, but he was partly hiding a tear. “Destiny sa djicewt.”
Arrythh patted Alik’s shoulder (but did not hold him) and put his body between Alik’s and the crowds. He knew that a little breath could fan a spark, but too much would put it out. So he said, “Never mind the crowds, Master Alik, come along.” And so they went.
Even despite the crowd it did not take long for them to reach the royal quays on the Ristor River. The same waters, Alik thought, that had spoken to him in Narrissor. The same waters that had picked him up and carried him away; that had battered him and drained him away...but left him alive. The waters that had abandoned him in Deran’s treachery.... How beautiful they were now, shaded in lavender, sparkling with sun, surrounded by edenic joy.
Arrythh, Alik, Jevan, Heao, Arrythh’s guards, the healer, and the captain of the guards approached a platform over the riverbank. There a light wooden cab sat, large enough for two people or a good-sized load of crates. From the corners of the cab two cables of stout elf rope were swung over a supporting rope. The support rope, which was thick enough to have been woven from seven of the smaller ropes, on one side wound around a great wooden wheel set into the platform which was geared to several smaller wheels, each accompanied by a burly looking elven operator. On the other side the support rope swung away from the platform down along the riverbank into the obscuring trees.
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