The Dragonstone (11 page)

Now the ringing of the bugle became strident.

“—none here knows of the green stone, but the Wizards may. Meanwhile, I will do all in my power to uncover its import.”

A horse and Elven rider came thundering into the thorp, a brace of remounts running behind on long tethers. Again the rider sounded the bugle.

Aldor stepped out the door, the others following after.

The rider and horses skidded to a halt at the Coron-hall, and the rider flung himself from the blowing, lathered steed and raced up the steps, only to be redirected toward the oncoming band by the warder at the door.

His bugle still clenched in his fist, the rider met them halfway between the hall and the lodge and gritted, “My Coron, the
Rûpt
along the Grimwall, they have felled in malice nine of the Eld Trees.”

“
Kha!
” Aldor clenched his fist in rage as cries of dismay rose up from the others. The Coron took a deep breath and blew it out, then asked, “And the
Rûpt
, Loric, what of the
Rûpt
?”

“Dead. Slain by the march warders.”

“Blœ!
” spat Elora, her look grim. “Too easy. They should have suffered.”

Aldor ground his teeth. “The
Rûpt:
Rucha, Loka, Ghûlka, what?”

“Rucha in the main, though two Loka were among them.”

“How many?”

“A score and two.”

“When?” asked Aldor.

“Yesternight,” replied the rider. “Nay, wait, I rode all yesternight, so two nights back it was.”

Arin’s eyes flew wide.
Two nights back? My dream, the screams, the flashing blades.

Arin looked at Perin and silently mouthed,
My dream.
He nodded, and then both looked at Rissa, remembering that she had moaned in her sleep that same night as well, but Rissa seemed unaware.

Arin now glanced at the Eld Trees nearby.
Vanidar said we are somehow connected, and connected we are: they sense our presence; I sensed their pain.

“These
Spaunen
, who sent them?” asked Silverleaf.

“We know not,” replied the rider. “We were bloodlust mad with grief and the
Rûpt
were all dead ere we thought to take prisoner.”

Silverleaf slapped his leg and said to Aldor, “More than simple killings need answer this rape.”

“Of that I am aware,” replied Aldor, his eyes narrowing.
“We must uncover the ones behind this vile deed and bring a hard message home unto the Foul Folk.”

“Retribution,” growled Elora, baring her teeth. “Swift and hard. This must never happen again.”

Arin’s eyes widened at the Consort’s bloodthirsty visage.
Is this how it begins? The war of my vision?

Vanidar took a deep breath and said, “Aye, retribution for my trees.”

“Thy trees?” asked Talarin.

Vanidar nodded. “I was Coron when this forest was first set in the ground.”

Now Talarin’s eyes widened, and he said, “Then the claim of this Darda upon thee is greater than most here. I would be honored to ride at thy side when we wreak vengeance upon the
Rûpt.
”

Aldor made a sweeping gesture, taking in Lian and Dylvana and all of Wood’s-heart. “We would all be honored to ride at thy side, Silverleaf. Wilt thou be my warleader?”

Vanidar looked from one to the other of the company, but when his gaze passed to Arin, she shook her head. “Silverleaf, as much as this felling of the nine pains me, I cannot sheer away from my first duty.” She turned to the others. “Ye all go with Vanidar and the Lian to render vengeance for this terrible thing the Foul Folk have done; thy presence will let the
Rûpt
know the Dylvana, too, will not allow such deeds to go unpunished. But I…I must instead fare to Aralan, fare to Darda Vrka to seek the advice of the Wizard Dalavar. It was the charge of mine own Coron for me to follow the trail of the green stone and try to set aside its doom.”

Vanidar clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles shone white. Then he turned to Aldor. “Arin is right. As much as I grieve at the felling of the nine, as much as I crave retribution, I cannot be thy warleader. We were charged by Coron Remar in Darda Erynian to accompany Arin on her mission, and accompany her I will.”

Silverleaf looked at the others, and one by one they sighed and nodded their heads.

Aldor’s gaze swept over them all. “So be it,” he declared. He turned to the rider. “Loric, sound the muster. I would ride in force unto the Grimwall marches.”

As Loric’s bugle sounded the call to arms, Arin stepped to Silverleaf’s side. “I am sorry, Alor Vanidar, for thou didst engender this woodland, and if any should seek vengeance for the slaying, it should be thee.”

*   *   *

With all of her goods packed, Arin took one last sweeping look about her quarters in the guest lodge to make certain she had left nothing behind. Then she stepped through the open doorway and onto the porch of the long, low, thatch-roofed lodge, where her companions waited. Little was said as slowly they walked toward the stables, passing Lian dwellings, where inside they could see Elven warriors—male and female alike—girting themselves for war. Now and again a rider thundered past on an urgent mission, and Arin’s heart hammered in her chest.
Is this clamor in any way tethered to my Seeing?
She sighed and continued walking, her question unanswered, for at this time there was no way of knowing.

The stables were practically empty—few horses and little tack remaining. As did the others, Arin bridled and saddled her own mount and filled her saddlebags with grain and affixed her traveling gear to the ties behind the rear cantle. At last all was ready and Arin and her escort slowly rode out and away from Wood’s-heart and into the twilit forest, while behind Rael watched them go, a troubled look on her face.

Into the airy silence of lofty Eldwood they rode, the horses’ hooves making little sound on the mossy way. After a while Arin looked back; nought but towering trees met her gaze. She faced front once more, following behind the others, heading for the ferry at Olorin Isle and to Caer Lindor beyond. At that fortress on the Rissanin River they would provision themselves for the long journey to the land of Aralan and shaggy Darda Vrka within. There they would seek out Dalavar to see if he knew aught of the green stone, aught of that token of power, and whether or not he knew of a way to avert its terrible doom.

T
oken of power?” Despite the amount Alos had drunk, his speech was not slurred by ale. “And just what might one of these tokens be, hey?”

Aiko snorted, but Arin said, “Something empowered to fulfill a destiny.”

“Eh?” Alos shook his head. “Empowered? Destiny? You speak in riddles, and I need another drink.” He held out the empty pitcher, his blind white eye fixed on Arin.

Aiko growled and shifted a sword, its blade glinting wickedly. Alos hurriedly thunked the empty pitcher back to the table and held out his hands and whined, “No offense, Lady. I meant to give no offense. It’s just that posers work up a thirst…and tokens of power are posers all right, what with their destinies and dooms and all.”

Egil shifted in his bed. “I would also like to hear more about these tokens. From what you say, my
engel
—my Lady, it seems they, too, carry wyrds…as do we all.”

“Wyrds?” Aiko raised an eyebrow.

“Aye,” answered Egil, his good blue eye glittering in the lamplight, for eve had fallen during Arin’s telling and the room was now illuminated by a soft, yellow glow. “Wyrds: that which drives men in the deeds they do…or the thing that awaits them in the end.”

“Hmph. Just men? You grunt like the priests of Hodakka.
Baka-gojona dokemono.
” Aiko turned her face and stared out the window.

“Dost thou believe thou hast a wyrd, Egil?”

“Aye, Lady Arin: a spear through my heart, a sword thrust, a death at sea, or some such. What it is I cannot say, but surely a wyrd awaits me.”

Aiko again fixed him with her dark gaze. “And what if you die of old age in bed?”

Egil barked a laugh. “Me? Die in bed? Not likely.”

Arin cast a glance at Aiko and then turned to Egil. “Mayhap thy wyrd has already come to pass, Egil. Mayhap it did so in Jute.”

Egil raised a hand to his bandages but did not reply.

Alos peered into his empty mug and sighed. “Wyrds I understand. —Oh, not that I believe in them…. But these tokens of power, well, they seem to be another thing altogether.” He looked up at Arin. “Just what are they and how do you know?”

All eyes shifted to Arin. She turned up a hand and said, “Tokens of power—at times hard to recognize, at other times known to all. They can be for Good or Ill: Gelvin’s Doom was a token of power for Evil—a feartoken. So, too, was the Black Throne of Hadron’s Hall. Those for Good are sometimes known: one is the Kammerling, Adon’s Hammer, destined to slay the greatest Dragon of all—though where the Kammerling is, none can say. Too, there is a sword in Adonar, Bale by name, and it would appear to fit the mold, though what its destiny may be, none can say. Others are unknown and seem to be one thing—jewels, poniards, rings, a trinket—but are truly something else altogether. Many look as if they hold no power at all, until, that is, they manifest their doom.”

Alos took a deep breath and blew it out and shook his head in puzzlement. But Egil said, “What if I bore one of these tokens of power—say, a ring or some such—but when the time came I did not know how to use it, or tried to use it but failed? What then of the destiny?”

“Aye,” blurted Alos, “what if Egil failed?” Alos held out an apologetic hand of denial toward the younger man abed. “Not that you are likely to fail, Egil. No offense. No offense.”

They both looked at Arin.

The Dylvana returned their gazes. “What then of the destiny if thou didst fail to use a token as it was meant to be?”

They both nodded.

“A token of power seems to have ways of fulfilling its
own destiny,” answered Arin. “If thou didst fail, still would the token strive to achieve its doom. By another’s hand, if not by thine.

“Aye, I’ll grant thee, tokens of power are mysterious things, perhaps guided by Adon from afar, or by Gyphon…or Elwydd or Garlon or any of the others—who can say? Yet none but perhaps the gods know for certain which things are tokens…until their ordained work comes to pass.

“Hear me, though, for this I do believe: the green stone is a token of power, yet one which I pray never fulfills its destiny.”

Silence fell over them all, the stillness broken only by the scrape of Alos turning his empty mug around and around on the tabletop. At last Egil said, “If you are right, then it would seem that we all are driven to fulfill the destinies of these tokens of power. What then does it matter that we strive to reach our own ends? For whether or no we wish it, we are compelled by these things. —I hope I never come upon one of them.”

Aiko looked at Egil. “Think on this: perhaps it is your wyrd to, as you say, come upon one of them. Perhaps you have no choice.”

Egil gazed back at her. “What do you believe, Aiko? About tokens of power, that is, and whether or no they compel us to pursue their destinies?”

Aiko took a breath and said, “If I were to come upon one, then perhaps I would choose the token for it would suit my aims, and perhaps the token would choose me for the selfsame reason.”

“Then you believe that you could also reject the token if it did not suit your aims?”

Aiko nodded.

“Then, Lady Warrior, you believe that the paths of the tokens and their bearers happen to be going in the same direction, aye?”

“Yes, Egil One-Eye, I do. I have free choice, all things being equal.”

“All things being equal? What do you mean by that?”

“Just this: the gods may will it otherwise that I do a
thing I would rather not. Then I would have no choice at all in the matter.”

Egil nodded. “Except for my wyrd, I, too, believe I have unfettered choice in all things. But as to my wryd, I have no choice whatsoever. No matter the path I freely take, in the end I will meet the blade with my name on it, or the ship or spear or come what may; as it is with all men, I cannot escape my wyrd. The power that rules even the gods makes it so, though the gods themselves may have a hand in it.”

“Pfaugh!” snorted Alos. “The gods are capricious and visit nought but afflictions down on mankind.” He lowered his head and put a hand over his scarred, blind white eye…and of a sudden began weeping. Concerned, Arin stepped to the oldster and laid a hand on his shoulder. Sobbing uncontrollably, Alos looked up at her, his face twisted in anguish. Long strings of tear-driven clear mucus dangled down from his nose. Feebly he groped for his kerchief, blubbering all the while.

Aiko glanced at the old man in disgust. Then she turned back to Egil and asked, “Only men have wyrds? What of women…and what of the Dylvana and Lian and Dwarves and all other of Elwydd’s creations? And what of the Foul Folk made by Gyphon? Am I and all of these others completely bereft of wyrds?”

As Alos blew his nose, Egil looked at Aiko in astonishment. Then he cocked his head in inward reflection. Still Alos blew and blew. At last Egil said, “Yes, Aiko, all have wyrds. It’s just that I—”

“It’s just that you had never considered anyone or anything other than men.
Rikotekina otoko!
” She turned her back to him in disgust.

Alos finished blowing and held up his sodden handkerchief and peered at it blearily, then wadded it up and squished it into his pocket. Still tearing, he smiled his gap-toothed, ocherous grin at Arin and said, “Let’s all have us a drink, aye?”

*   *   *

Arin did not tell more of her tale that night, for Egil was weakened and weary, and she insisted that he get some sleep.

Alos was all for making his usual rounds of the taverns, but decided to stay after Arin told him that there was more of the tale to tell, and that ale would be served on the morrow and she’d rather he stayed in the room. He pondered for a moment and glanced at the door, then smiled to himself and agreed.

And so all settled down for the nighttide: Egil asleep in his bed; Aiko in cross-legged meditation in front of the door, her swords lying on the tatami before her; Alos prostrate on his pallet, disgruntled, unable to get out without awakening the yellow warrior, if indeed she was truly asleep; Arin sitting by the fire, staring deeply within.