Trek to Kraggen-Cor (10 page)

Kian smiled at Cotton's words, then grew serious once more. "Heed me now," he said. "Time is short and much needs doing. We must take advantage of every moment to train you at swords. While travelling in the waggon we will speak on the art of swords and the strategy of fighting Rukha and

Lokha—for your tactics must vary according to the size of your opponent, the weapon he is wielding, and the armor he is wearing and bearing. And at each of our stops to rest the horses we will put that art and strategy into practice, drilling at swords."

"But we've only been stopping a short while each hour," protested Cotton. "Is that enough time to learn? What I mean to ask, Sir, is, well, with such a little bit of practice, will we actually be able to fight Rucks and Hloks?"

Upon hearing Cotton's question, a surge of uncertainty washed through Perry, for now that it had come to the reality of beginning to learn swordplay, the buccan felt strangely reluctant to be schooled in the art of killing—as if some inner voice were saying, Not for you, Warrow.

Kian noted this hesitancy in Perry's eyes, and he knew that it was now or never: he had to start the training immediately, for it was vital that these gentle Waerlinga be able to defend themselves. "Let me show you, Cotton, Perry," he said, and turned to Anval, at the reins. "Anval, stop here. We must begin now."

Anval pulled off the road and into the eaves of the bordering woods. All jumped down from the waggon, Borin tending the horses. And then Kian revealed the product of his previous night's whittling: three swords made of hickory wood—two Warrow-sized and one Man-sized—blunt-tipped and dull-edged: the wood was green and supple and not apt to break. Unlike some who would have been chagrined at wielding wooden "toys," both Warrows seemed relieved at not having to practice with real weapons.

Kian allowed them each in turn to do unschooled "battle" with him, Cotton stepping back to allow Perry to "have the first go." Trie buccan started timidly, but the Man cried, "Ho, Waerling! Be not afraid of hurting me! Swing hard! Though I am not a real enemy, you must learn to strike with force as well as with finesse!"

With this encouragement, soon Perry was slashing and hacking at Lord Kian with abandon, yet the Man fended off the crude assaults with ease. Shortly, the Warrow began to see that swordplay was more than just wild swinging; furthermore, it came as no small surprise that no matter how cunningly he planned a cut, Lord Kian fended it, seemingly without effort.

When Cotton's turn came he attacked with a furious flurry, the clack of the wooden swords clitter-clattering among the trees of the verging forest, but he, too, could not pierce Lord Kian's defenses. Yet, on his part, the young Man was astonished at the native quickness of this small Folk. Each Warrow was breathless and panting in a matter of minutes; but their exuberance had grown, and each had collapsed upon the ground in laughter at the end of his turn at mock battle, whooping and guffawing at his own ineptness. Even so, they had passed the first hurdle; and now they were ready to begin their genuine schooling, with its slow, step-by-step, often tedious buildup of skill.

Much to the buccen's surprise, as breathless as they were, only a short while had passed; even so, it was time to get under way again. As the wain

rolled back onto the road, Lord Kian began their formal instruction: "For your swords to be effective weapons in battle, the grip is critical: hold it too tightly and you cannot move the weapon quickly enough; hold it too loosely and you will forfeit your sword at first engagement. You must grasp the weapon as if it were a small live bird, firm enough so that it cannot escape your hand and fly away, yet gentle enough so as not to crush its life. . . ." And thus, in the bed of a rolling waggon, the young Lord began their first lesson, each Warrow repeatedly grasping his sword under Kian's critical eye while he spoke of defense against the Spaunen.

At their next stop, their drill followed the lesson of the wain: the grip. Lord Kian directed the buccen to deliberately grasp the sword too loosely, and showed that this would lead to their being disarmed immediately; then the opposite was purposely tried, where too hard a grip was used, so that the Warrows could experience the limited speed of response and the swift tiring of the wrist and forearm.

As the waggon got under way once more, Cotton exclaimed, "Well now, not only do I understand the right way to hold a sword, but the wrong way too! I like the way you teach, Lord Kian, and that's a fact!"

"It is the way I was taught, Cotton," replied the Man. "Not only did I learn the fit ways of fundamental swordsmanship, but the unfit ways as well, the differences between them, why some ways are superior to others, and, as it is in your case, how they all relate to fighting Spaunen. Yes, Cotton, my own swordmaster taught me by this means, and a good method it is."

"Tried and true," rumbled Borin, then fell silent.

"Well, in any event," interjected Perry, "if what I've learned about the grip alone is any example of how well your approach works, then I just hope that you continue it throughout our journey."

"Fear not, Wee One," responded Kian, "I plan on doing just that; in the days that follow, there'll be little or no time for aught else.

"Now, let us speak of balance: When facing a foe . . ." And again the Man took up the lessons of the sword, and the Warrows listened intently as the waggon rolled toward the next stop.

On that first day alone, by the time they reached their evening campsite on the southern slopes of the Battle Downs just after sunset, the Warrows not only knew how to grip a sword, but also the importance of balance, several stances, and how to fall and roll with a weapon in hand. And though they had not again crossed swords in mock battle, after but a single day's training, Perry and Cotton, though rank beginners, knew more about sword-play than nearly all other Warrows in the history of the Boskydells. And the two buccen were to become much more skilled in the long days ahead.

That night Cotton sat on a log near the campfire, polishing his Atalar sword with a soft red-flannel cloth. The golden runes inlaid along the silver blade glistened and sparkled in the firelight. For long moments Perry lay on

his bedding and watched Cotton work, then reflected, "Your steel, Cotton, is but a long-knife to a Big Man, yet a full-sized sword to a Warrow. Recall, your blade was found north of here, in an ancient barrow, in the clutch of a long-dead seer of the Lost Land. Though nothing is known of its early years after forging, that weapon has a noble history after its finding—for it saved Gildor from the evil Krakenward."

Cotton paused in his rubbing, and his voice took on the rhythm of a chant as he recited the runes that foretold that deed: .

"Blade shall brave vile Warder From the deep black slime. "

"Just so," replied Perry, sleepily yawning. 'That is the very same long-knife Galen used to hack at the Monster when it grasped Gildor, and the Elf was saved; Gildor, of course, later saved Tuck; and Tuck at last slew the 'Stone; and so it rightly can be said that because of that keen-edged sword you hold, Modru finally met his end."

"Lor," breathed Cotton upon hearing these words. And he returned to his task with renewed vigor, the cloth in his hand fairly dancing over the golden runes; and Perry fell aslumber among the sparkling shards of glistering light.

Trie third day of the journey was much like the second, with sword lessons in the waggon bed and practice drills with hickory swords whenever the horses were given rest periods. The Sun climbed upward through the morning and passed overhead to begin its long fall unto the night as slowly the travellers wended their way toward the hamlet of Stonehill.

Stonehill, with its hundred or so stone houses, was a hillside village on the western fringes of the sparsely settled Wilderland. But because the hamlet was situated at the junction where the east-west Crossland Road intersected the Post Road running north and south, strangers and out-of-towners were often seen—in fact, were welcomed. Stonehill's one inn, the White Unicorn, with its many rooms, usually had at least one or two wayfarers as well as a couple of nearby settlers staying overnight: travelling crafters and traders, merchants, or a Man and his wife from a faraway farmstead. . . . But occasionally there would be some real strangers, such as a company of journeying Dwarves, or King's soldiers from the south, or a Realmsman or two; in which case the local folk would be sure to drop in to the common room of the inn to have a mug and hear the news from far away.

On this night, as the waggon rolled onto the causeway over the dike and into the village through the west gate of the high guard wall, there was only one guest in the 'Unicorn: a distant farmer who had come to the hillside hamlet to buy his winter supplies, and who had gone to bed with the setting of the Sun. Thus, when the two Warrows, the Man, and the two Dwarves

stepped in through the front door, the proprietor, Mister Aylesworth Brewster, was pleased to see more guests for his inn; he bustled to meet them, moving his large bulk past the long-table where sat several locals who looked up from their pipes and mugs at this strangely mixed set of wayfarers. They'd seen Dwarves, of course, but not many. And Warrows were not a strange people to them, since many of the Wee Folk lived in the Weiunwood over the hill—though travelling Warrows were not very common. Men of course were not at all uncommon. However, for the three Folk—Man, Dwarf, and Warrow—to be travelling together, well, that was an event never before seen.

Lor, look there! Well that's a strange sight if ever I saw one. 1 wonder if they re together or just came in the door at the same time. Oh, they re together all right. See: they re talking together. Dwarves, they don t talk to just anyone, only other Dwarves, or those in their party, or those they re doin ' business with. Dwarves is close people, right enough. The little uns are most likely from the Bosky, by their accent; but the Man, well, he has the look of a Realmsman, if you ask me.

Ignoring the hum at the long-table, Aylesworth stepped up to Lord Kian, his ruddy features brightening. "Well now, Sir, welcome back to the White Unicorn. Will you and your party be staying overnight?" At the young Lord's nod, Aylesworth glanced out the front window at the team and wain. "Ho, Bill!" he called. Responding to the innkeeper's cry, a slender young Man popped out from behind a door. "See to these folks' waggon and horses whilst I fixes 'em up with rooms."

As Bill hurried to stable the team and house the wain, Mister Brewster led the wayfarers out of the common room and into one of the spacious wings that contained the guest quarters. The White Unicorn was accustomed to housing Men, Dwarves, and even an occasional Warrow; thus its rooms were suitable for the various sizes of the guests. Hence, Lord Kian was escorted to Man-sized quarters, and two more rooms with small-sized furnishings were shown to the others: Anval and Borin in one, Perry and Cotton in the other. As he was getting his guests situated, Aylesworth suggested, "If you want to eat, there's a lamb on the spit that Molly will have ready in two quick shakes. In any case, you're welcome to join us in the common room for a bit of ale." And, wiping his hands on his white apron, he went bustling back down the hall.

Perry and Cotton quickly stepped into their quarters and removed their cloaks and began washing the dust off their hands and faces. "I don't mind telling you, Sir, I'm hungry as a spring bear, what with all this travelling and the exercise we've been getting with the swords," announced Cotton, splashing water on the back of his neck. "And I have a need for a mug or three of old Brewster's beer to wash down some of that dry Crossland Road grit."

"Me, too, Cotton," laughed Perry, wiping his wet face with a towel. "I've been anticipating the taste of the 'Unicorn's ale ever since we sighted Stonehill. By the way, I don't think we should advertise where we're going or

why. Oh, not that it's a secret, but I just feel that if anyone asks, then Borin or Anval should decide what to say about our mission."

Having made themselves presentable, the buccen eagerly left their chamber and hastened down the hall to the common room. They threaded their way among the tables and chairs and past the curious locals to a board prepared by Aylesworth. The news had travelled like lightning, and the ranks of the Stonehill folk had swelled considerably, for many had come to see for themselves the oddly mixed group of wayfarers. In fact, every now and again another local would arrive and make his way to join a friend already there to find out what was afoot.

Gratefully accepting the two frothy mugs offered by a large, cheerful Woman—Molly Brewster, the innkeeper's wife—Cotton and Perry quickly discovered that the 'Unicorn's ale was just as tasty as the rumors back in the Boskydells made it out to be. Soon Borin, then Kian, and finally Anval joined the Warrows; and after a bit they all dug into a fine meal of roast lamb while listening to the songs being sung by the people gathered 'round the long-table. And they could hear Molly's robust soprano joining in from the kitchen as harried Bill popped in and out serving lamb to those who ordered it.

Surrounded by song, and partaking of good food and fine ale, the companions passed a pleasant hour.

The five had just finished their meal when one of the locals—a Warrow, as it were—began singing, and all at the long-table joined in chorus; though rustic, the song brought Perry to the edge of his seat:

From northern wastes came Dimmendark, ft stalked down through the Land; Behind black wall was Winternight, Ruled by cruel Modru's hand.

Our Men and Elves and Warrows, all, Stood fast in Brotherhood; Left hearth and home and lofty hall To band in Weiunwood.

The Rucks and Chuls reaved through the Land, As Cron put forth its might; Before them not a one could stand In bitter Winternight.

But overfull in Weiunwood The battle plans were laid, To ply the strength of Brotherhood, And arrow, pike, and blade.

And nearer came the Ruckish Spawn, And closer came the Chill.

The Dimmendark held back the dawn, The Land felt Modru 's rule.

In Weiunwood — as Gron drew near — The Allies' trap was laid, With Warrow arrow, Man-borne pike, And gleaming Ely en-blade.

Into the Weiunwood Gron came, Pursuing Elvenkind, Who ran before them in false fear And drew the Spawn behind.

In Weiunwood the trap was sprung By Warrow, Elf, and Man; They whelmed the Spawn, and it is sung The Ghulen rabble ran.

Old Arbagon, he killed him eight, And Bockleman got nine. Though Uncle Bill, he got there late, They say he did just fine.

The Men and Warrows and the Elves, In bravery they fought.

Though many a good friend there was killed, They didn 't die for nought.

Modru, he raged and stormed and gnashed When Spawn came running out; They'd entered Weiunwood in pride, But left it in a rout!

And all throughout the Winter War Vile Spawn again did try, But never took the Weiunwood; They had to pass it by.

And so, my friend, drink to War's end,

It happened long ago.

But should it ever come again,

To Weiunwood we '11 go.

And Arbagon, he'll kill him eight, While Bockleman gets nine. And Uncle Bill, oh he'll be late, But he will do just fine . . .

And as for me ... I won't be late . . . And I will do just fine—HEY!

A glad shout and a great burst of laughter rang throughout the inn with the final HEY! at the end of the rustic song. And all banged their mugs on the tables for more ale; Brewster and his helper, Bill, rushed hither and thither topping off tankards from large pitchers that Molly filled at the tap as the rollicking gaiety continued, cheer echoing throughout the rafters.

Amid the babble and happy chatter, Cotton burst out, "What a corking good song! Why, it's all about the Weiunwood and the Winter War and everything!"

"Weiunwood," mused Lord Kian, swirling his ale and taking a sip. "The Wilderland holt that never fell: an island of freedom deep within the clasp of Modru's Winternight—hurling back his assaults or melting away before his force only to strike unexpectedly into a weakness. And Modru's iron grip could not close on those 'puny' forest fighters, for it was like trying to clutch the wind."

"Just so, Lord Kian," responded Perry. "And even though the Stonehill song only narrowly reflects the heroic deeds done in that place, still I must record it for the Raven Book, for it has spirit and it is a song I've never heard before. The Scholars will want it."

Perry stood and stepped to the long-table and sat down with the buccan who had started the song.

Later that night, as he and Cotton were climbing into their beds, Perry remarked, "Isn't it strange, Cotton? Though those folks knew and enjoyed the song, they didn't know its origin or the full part that Stonehill played in the War."

"Well, Sir, it took the Boskydells to set 'em right, sure enough, what with you tellin' them the story in the Raven Book and all," replied Cotton, recalling with pride how Perry had enthralled the Stonehillers with a tale of Tuck and the Myrkenstone. Perry had explained how the verses in the song related to what had happened. The folks in the 'Unicorn were delighted to discover that the roles that Stonehill and Weiunwood had played in the War were actually recorded in a book. But happiest of all was Aylesworth Brewster, for Perry affirmed that the Bockleman of the song was Aylesworth's ancestor, Bockleman Brewster, owner of the inn during the War. "Mister Perry," continued Cotton, yawning sleepily, "in the song there was a part about the Rucks and such runnin' away. Do you reckon they all ran to the Deeves?"

"Oh no, Cotton, the Spawn didn't all run straight to Drimmen-deeve, for the War went on long after—though we now know that many finally made their way there. I suppose that most of the maggot-folk perished in the War." He paused a moment; then: "Oh, that reminds me: I overheard Lord Kian talking to one of the Stonehill folk, and when he found out that we were

going to Landover Road Ford, he warned Lord Kian that there were Trm' south on the Great Argon River—'heard it from a trader/ he said." Perry's face took on a worried frown. "Tilings must be bad down there, Cotton, for people way up north here in Stonehill to hear about it. Cotton, do you think we've bitten off more than we can chew? Maybe we're just fooling ourselves by thinking we can become Ruck fighters."

Cotton did not respond to Perry's question; in fact, he had not even heard it, for he was already fast asleep. Perry sighed, blew out the lamp, and crawled under the covers of his bed. But though he was weary, slumber escaped him.

Something had been nibbling at the edge of Perry's thoughts all evening, but he couldn't bring it forth. He lay for a time watching the flickering shadows cast by the dying fire on the hearth, unable to go to sleep immediately.

Finally, after a long while, just as he was drifting away, it came to him, and he bolted upright in bed. The horn! That's it! I must look at the horn!

Igniting a taper from the embers in the fireplace, he relighted the lamp and turned it up full. Fetching the silver horn from Cotton's pack, he held it next to the lantern and peered closely at the riders. The clarion was ancient, and the engraving was dearly worn by the many hands that had held it through the ages. But faintly, and only faintly, upon the faces of the riders could be discerned the dim traces of forked beards—a feature throughout all history borne only by Dwarves.

CHAPTER 8

SHOOTING STARS AND TALK OF WAR

"Hammers and nails!" shouted Cotton, waking Perry from his sound sleep in time to hear the sharp rapping on the door. "Don't beat the door down! Come in, come in!" Perry opened his eyes just as the door flew open and Aylesworth Brewster, bearing a lantern, bustled across the room and threw

back the drapes. Faint grey light showed that it was foredawn; the Sun had not yet crept over the horizon.

"Wake up, little masters," said Aylesworth as he lit the room lamp, "the day is adawning and the others tell me it's time you were afoot. Your bath awaits you in the bathing room, and breakfast is on Molly's griddle, so don't tarry." And with that he rushed from the room leaving the two Warrows sitting up in their beds rubbing sleep from their eyes.

"Oooahhum, " yawned Perry, stretching to his fullest. "Well, Cotton, it certainly isn't like living at The Root, this getting up before the Sun. But I suppose if we must, then we must." He slipped out of bed, and in his nightshirt, made for the door. Reluctantly, Cotton followed him, yawning all the way. They went down the hall to the bathing room, where they found Bill pouring hot water into a pair of large wooden tubs bound 'round with copper hoops. Soon the two Warrows were splashing and wallowing and sloshing in water and suds, occasionally splashing some over the rim and onto the stone floor. They were in a hurry and so did not loll or sing—though they chattered as gaily as ever.

"You were correct, Cotton," Perry said as they were towelling off, "the riders on the Horn of Valon are Dwarves all right, which helps to explain why no one has been able to read the runes. I think they must be written in the secret Dwarf tongue—Chakur. I wonder what they say."

"Well, whatever they say, Sir, we'll not find it out from Anval or Borin, you can bet your last penny on that," said Cotton. "When it comes to that horn, they're as close-mouthed a pair as we'll ever see. Why, we'd get more out of a couple of rocks as we're likely to get out of them two."

Quickly the two buccen returned to their chamber and dressed, then snatched up their packs, blew out the lamp, and hurried to the common room. There Anval, Borin, and Lord Kian were waiting. As the Warrows entered the room Aylesworth called, "Oh ho, little sirs, you're just in time for hot sausage and eggs." And with that he began serving them Molly's fare.

Across the room sat the farmer, Aylesworth's other guest. Throughout the meal he stared curiously at the mixed group, wondering what he'd missed the evening before by going to bed at his usual time of sundown. He was later to be told by Bill that "them five knew everything there was to know about Stonehill," and that "everything in all the old songs is true," and finally that "Aylesworth's ancestor, Bockleman Brewster, and nearly everyone else that lived in Stonehill at the time, fought and practically won the Winter War single-handedly." In his later years the farmer would often tell of the time that he and the Drimmen-deeve Ruck-fighters all stayed at the White Unicorn together. But for now he merely sat at breakfast watching the others eat and prepare for the road.

Bill had hitched up Brownie and Downy, and he loaded two full burlap sacks into the waggon—grain to feed the horses on the way to Landover Road Ford. Then he drove the wain 'round front just as Cotton stepped

through the door. Cotton rummaged among the waggon supplies and came up with two carrots, one for each horse, which they eagerly accepted, then nuzzled him for more—for ever since leaving The Root the buccan had been giving the horses a carrot or an apple apiece each day; and he spoke gently to them. Cotton scratched each steed between the eyes, then helped load up to be off. By this time the Sun had climbed over the rim of the world and was casting its glancing light across the countryside. Clambering into the waggon, the travellers bade goodbye to Aylesworth and Bill, and to Molly, who popped out just long enough to say farewell before popping back inside.

Mister Brewster stood at the door of the inn wiping his hands on his white apron and watched the clattering wain til it went around the turn and out of sight. "Come on, Bill, there's work to be done," he finally said, and the two of them went back into the White Unicorn.

As the waggon rolled through the gate in the east wall, leaving the cobblestones of Stonehill behind, returning to the hard-packed earth of the Cross-land Road, Lord Kian began instructing the Warrows on the forehand, backhand, and overhand sword strokes—how to deliver them and how to parry them—as he resumed their education in warfare. These lessons were to dominate every waking hour of the journey for the next fortnight or so. Oh, that is not to say that the travellers didn't speak of or do other things, or occasionally break out in song, for they did that and much else too—but only when each lesson was over: not before, not during, but after.

At the fourth or fifth stop of the day—after Perry and Cotton had absorbed in their earlier lessons some of the fundamentals of strokes, thrusts, and parries—Lord Kian again allowed them to do mock battle against him. This time, though he fended without being touched, he had a much more difficult engagement with each, for Warrows learn rapidly; and though they are not fleet, they are incredibly quick, and at times they pressed even Kian's skill to defend against their swift thrusts. Though he could have dispatched either buccan at will, the Man was well satisfied with their rapid progress. Again the Warrows whooped and laughed at the end of their engagement. Each was pleased with his own skill agrowing, and could see that the other was progressing as well. But what delighted them most was that each had not quite but almost touched Lord Kian.

"All right, my little cock-a-whoops," promised the Man above their gay braggadocio, tying his yellow hair back with a green headband, "at the next stop I will press you a bit to begin to sharpen up your defensive skills.

"Now listen, when an opponent comes at you with an overhand stroke, you can step to the side and let the blow slide away on your own blade by . . ." And in the back of the rolling waggon the lessons went on, and on, and on, for the ten or so hours each day that they were on the road; and for about ten minutes in each of these hours, Cotton and Perry drilled, ingraining through practice the art of swords. And though some would say that there were not