Trek to Kraggen-Cor (3 page)

"So you see, Lord Kian, the ceilings are high enough for you, and there are many sturdy—and I hope comfortable—Man-sized chairs sprinkled throughout the rooms to accommodate one of your size." (And though Perry did not yet know of it, in one of the long-unused burrow-rooms Holly had rediscovered a Man-sized four-poster, much to her surprise and delight—for now she had a proper bedroom for each of the guests, including this "Man-giant," whom she had glimpsed simply towering over Perry and Cotton, the Man soaring up to an awesome height of six feet or so.)

"Do you mean that in any other Waerling home I would have to get about on my hands and knees?" asked Kian, reaching up and touching the oak panelling overhead.

"Not quite"—Perry smiled, warming to this tall young Lord—"though you would have to bend a bit."

Halfway down the length of the hall, Perry ushered the group through a doorway to the left and into the walnut-walled study. As they laid their hats and cloaks aside, Perry gestured at the surrounding glass cases: "The Root is special not only because of its scale; it's also special because it is a repository. You see, Warrows don't hold with memorials, the Monument at Budgens commemorating the Struggles being an exception. But this, my home, is an exception, too. Look about you; you see armor and weaponry, Elven cloaks, and many other things that are of the past. The Root is a home and a museum, a gallery dedicated to the Warrow heroes of the Winter War. It is a shrine, tended by the kindred of Sir Tuckerby: he who loosed the Red Quarrel; the Myrkenstone Slayer; and the last true owner of The Root. And I, Perry Fairhill, am the present curator of those glorious days."

Perry turned to one corner of the room. "Look, Anval, Borin, here's something that will surely catch your interest: a simple coat of chain mail."

"Simple coat of mail!" burst out Borin, his black eyes aglitter. He saw before him a small corselet of silver-shining armor. Amber gems were inset among the links, and a bejewelled belt—beryl and jade—was clasped about the waist. But the gemstones were not what caused Borin to cry out; he was amazed by the metal from which it was forged. "This is starsilver! A thing like this has not been crafted in centuries. It is Chakka work, and is priceless."

"Starsilver. Silveron," spoke Anval, his sturdy hand lightly brushing over the finely wrought links. "Stronger than steel, lighter than down, soft as doeskin. This was forged in the smitheries of our ancestors—it is Kraggen-cor work." Suddenly Anval smacked a clenched fist into his open palm. "Hah! I have it: this is the legendary coat given to Tuckerby by the Princess Laurelin, as the world stood on the brink of the Winter War."

"Given to Tuckerby at War's beginning and worn by him to the very top of the Iron Tower." Perry nodded, surprised that the Dwarves knew of this armor—surprised, too, by the reverence that the silveron metal brought forth from the two of them. "But I ramble. Please be seated."

As they settled comfortably, Holly bustled into the room, her pretty face smiling, her eyes twinkling like great amber gems, and she carried a tray upon which rode an enormous pitcher of dark beer and several mugs. "I was thinking the travellers would have a thirst, Mister Perry, what with their walking and all." She set the tray down on the table in the center of the room and wiped her graceful hands on her solid blue apron. "Mind you now, Mister Perry, dinner will be ready in about two hours, so don't you go nattering on beyond that time; your guests look hungry." And with that she swept from the room as abruptly as she had entered it.

"Well"—Perry smiled, a bit discomfited at being shepherded in front of strangers by the slim three-foot-tall young damman—"as you can see, I have been given my marching orders by the Lady of The Root." He began pouring beer into the mugs and passing them around. "And we have but two hours before dinner. Yet that is perhaps time enough to satisfy my curiosity, which abounds. Imagine, two Dwarves and a Man in the Bosky, here on a mission to see the Raven Book, and from what you said to Mayor Whitlatch, it's the King's business that brought you." He set down the pitcher and turned to get the Book, but Cotton had anticipated his move and was at Perry's elbow, holding forth the grey tome.

Taking the book from Cotton, who quickly retrieved his own mug of beer and took a satisfying gulp—Warrows do love beer—Perry turned back to his guests. "Well, here it is: Sir Tuckerby Underbank's Unfinished Diary and His Accounting of the Winter War. "And he held it out to the visitors. Somewhat to his surprise, it was Borin and not Lord Kian who leaned forward to take the massive volume.

"So this is the famous book, eh?" Borin rumbled, turning it over and around and back again as if inspecting it for its crafting. Grunting his appar-

ent acceptance of its outer cover and binding, the Dwarf opened the tome and, after another inspection, began avidly leafing through the pages.

"Well, not exactly," replied Perry, sipping his beer, "this is a duplicate of the original."

"What! Do you mean that we are not looking at the real thing?" snapped Borin, slamming the book to, his Dwarf instincts against counterfeits and copies set ajangle by Perry's words.

"Krukf" spat Anval. "What good will it do to look through a copy when it is genuine truth we seek?"

"Hoy now," protested Cotton, his temper rising, "wait up! It may not be the original Raven Book you're holding there, but you can bet your last copper that it's the 'genuine truth,' as you call it. I mean, well, Mister Perry made that duplicate himself, and so you know it's got to be accurate. Tell 'em, Mister Perry."

"It's as accurate as you can get!" exclaimed Perry, flustered, looking from Anval to Borin and back again. "It is an exact copy! It is one of several exact copies made through the years by the Scholars. It duplicates all of the original precisely, and I do mean precisely: even the spelling errors and the punctuation errors made in Tuck's original journal are copied faithfully. And as to the Account: places where words, phrases, sentences, even paragraphs, places where they were written in and then lined out by Tuck's scribes, even those are meticulously reproduced.

"Look, the real Raven Book used to be here at The Root, but no longer. Some years after the War, Tuckerby's dammsel, Raven Greylock, for whom the book is named—my great-grandam five generations removed—bore it west with her to the Cliffs, the Warrow strongholt that stood fast and did not fall during the Winter War. There, she and her husband, Willen, gathered some of Tuck's original scriveners, and others, and continued the great scribing of the History. Even now the work goes on, for history always has been and ever will be in the making. And it needs recording. But as to Tuck's original Account, the Book remains at the Cliffs to this day, an heirloom of the Fairhills and Greylocks, the Underbanks and Fletchers, and others of Tuck's lineage. There at the Cliffs it is revered and tended by his kindred, occasionally being added to when some bit of lore or history bearing on the Winter War comes to light, appended therein by the family scholars—but only if after due deliberation it is unanimously accepted.

"But I digress. It's from that original that the copies are made . . . and triple-, no, quadruple-checked. So, if it's truth you seek—the 'genuine truth' —then you hold it in your hands." Having given his pledge, Perry, though nettled, fell silent.

Regardless of the Warrow's passionately tendered personal guarantee of the book's accuracy, neither of the two Dwarves seemed willing to accept anything but the original. Disgruntled, they glanced at Lord Kian, and at the Man's curt nod, they reluctantly settled back and Borin resumed his search

through the tome, leafing slowly through the pages. Soon his dark countenance took on a faintly bafRed look. Then he stopped altogether. "Faugh! I go about this all wrong," he rumbled, at which statement Anval grunted his assent. "If what we seek is truly here, Waeran, then you must lead us to it."

"And what is that?" asked Perry, his vexation with the Dwarves yielding to a strange glow of excitement.

We ve come to it now, thought Cotton, and he hardened himself as if for a blow.

"Kraggen-cor. Our ancient homeland. What you name Drimmen-deeve," answered Borin. "Durek the Deathbreaker is reborn, and we go to wrest stolen Kraggen-cor from the Foul Folk."

"Deathbreaker Durek?" asked Cotton, shivering. "Deathbreaker? That sounds right unnatural, if you ask me. Just who is this Durek? And how did he get the name Deathbreaker?" Lord Kian smiled at the directness of this small Warrow.

"He is the First, the High Leader," replied Borin, "the Father of Durek's Folk, foremost among the five Chakka kindred. Think me no fool, Waeran, for not even Durek is Death's full master, for all mortal things perish. Yet, once in a great while an heir of Durek is born so like the First that he, too, is given the name Durek. When this happens—as it has happened again—we Chakka deem that indeed the true Durek has broken the bonds of Death and once more trods the Mountain roots anew.

"And now, being reborn, Durek desires to return to his home. He has gathered many of his kith—those descended in the Durek line—be they from the Mineholt North, the Red Caves, the Quartzen Hills, wherever Durek's Folk delve. And he has raised a great army. And we are to retake Kraggen-cor, to overthrow and slay the vile Squam, usurpers of that which is ours. We are to regain our homeland, the ancient Chakka Realm under the Grimwall."

"Are there Spawn in Drimmen-deeve?" asked Perry. "The Raven Book tells that the mines were infested by those and other evil creatures during the War, but since then nothing has come concerning the Rucks, Hloks, and Ogrus that were there. Are they still in Drimmen-deeve?"

Lord Kian spoke; there was anger in his voice, and his countenance darkened. "They raid the countryside and wreak havoc with river traffic along the Great Argon."

Alarmed by the Man's seething rage, both Perry and Cotton drew back in apprehension.

Seeing the effect of his ire upon the two Waerlinga, Lord Kian struggled to master his emotion. The young Man stood and walked to the open burrow-window and stared out into the gloaming, taking a moment to quell his wrath and to collect his thoughts. Through the portal could be heard the awakening hum of twilight insects. Cotton quietly got up and lighted several tapers; their flickering glow pressed back the early evening shadows.

"Let me tell it as it happened," said Lord Kian quietly, turning from the window to face his host:

"Though I am of North Riamon," he began, "I spent some years as a Realmsman serving the High King. I won the repute of knowing the Lands as few others do. Durek heard of this, and he knew of my friendship with the King; and Durek's emissaries sought me out and bade me to meet with him in the Dwarf halls of Mineholt North. At that meeting he told me of his plans to reclaim Drimmen-deeve and to re-enter it with his kindred and make it mighty as of old. He asked that I serve as guide and advisor to Anval and Borin and to take them to Pellar so that they might make Durek's plans known to High King Darion. We were not then aware that Spawn infested the Deeves, though we had heard rumors of some dark danger along that distant edge of Riamon.

"At the court, King Darion told us of the foul Yrm. The King explained that after the fall of Gron, Modru's minions either were destroyed, or were scattered, or they surrendered. Many discovered that they had been deceived by the Evil One, and they swore fealty to the then High King, Galen, and to his line, and were forgiven and allowed to return to their homelands. Others fled or fought to the death. The Men of Hyree, the Rovers of Kistan, some fought and died, some cast down their weapons, some ran, some slew themselves in madness. But of the Spawn—Ghol, Lokh, Rukh, Troll, Vulg, Hel-steed—those all fought to the death, or died by the Ban, or fled into darkness; none surrendered, for they had been too long in bondage to the Evil One to yield.

"King Darion believes that many Rukha and Lokha and mayhap some Trolls escaped to Drimmen-deeve to join those already there. They hid in the blackness for all these many years, too sorely defeated to make themselves known, too crushed by the fall of Gron to array themselves in battle.

"In the Deeves, hatred and envy gnawed at their vitals, and the worm of vengeance ate at their minds. But they were leaderless, divided into many squabbling, petty factions.

"Two years ago, belike through treachery and murder and guile, a cruel tyrant seized the whip hand. He is Gnar, one of the Lokha, we think.

"It is he who is responsible for the renewed conflict with the Free Folk. He lusts for total power, the dominion of his will o'er all things. And to achieve that vile end, he masters his minions through fear and terror, binding them to his ruthless rule.

"Before Gnar arose, the Yrm made but limited forays from Drimmen-deeve, and then only at night, driven by their dread of the Sun and the doom of the Covenant to return to the Deeves ere daybreak. They did not range far enough to reach any homesteads, settlements, roads, or trade routes—barely coming to the foot of the mountains, reaching not beyond the eastern edge of the Pitch. But now their fear of Gnar's cruelty is such that at his command they issue forth from that mountain fastness to raid many days' journey

from Drimmen-deeve, besetting Valon—the Land south of Larkenwald the Eldwood—and ranging as far as the Great Argon River.

"The Yrm lie up in black holes, caves, splits in the rock, and cracks in the hillsides when the Sun is in the sky; thus, the Ban strikes them not. But at nightfall they gang together to waylay settlers and travellers alike—slaying them and despoiling their bodies—and to attack and loot and burn the steads and holts of Riamon and Valon, or to plunder river traffic, pirating the flatboats of the River Drummers. Gnar has decreed that there shall be no survivors from the raids, except when he orders a prisoner taken, upon whom he commits unspeakable abominations.

"All of this the King learned from a captured Rukh who boasted of it before he died when the dawn came and the Sun rose; for the Rukh was slain by High Adon's Covenant forever banning the evil Spawn to the night or to the lightless pits of the underearth when the Sun is on high.