Trek to Kraggen-Cor (6 page)

"Step-by-step! The Brega Path!" cried Perry, looking swiftly to Cotton and then back again. "Why, we may have the step-by-step knowledge you seek: Brega's record! It never occurred to me that his record might be of use to you . . . that is, until you said 'step-by-step.' Cotton, run and get the Scroll."

As Cotton bolted from the room, a look of skepticism passed between Anval and Borin; yet Perry ignored this exchange as he launched into an explanation: "Put in mind, one of those four who fled through Drimmen-deeve was the Dwarf Brega, who later became the DelfLord of the Red Hills. Years after the War, he and Tuckerby were reflecting on those dark days and fell to discussing their perilous journey through the Deeves. It was during that conversation that Brega claimed he knew even' twist and turn, every up and down, every hall and cavern, every detail of that path of danger. Tuckerby begged him to set it all down in writing so that it could be appended to the Raven Book, and Brega did so to please his old companion."

Cotton rushed back into the room carrying a yellowed parchment scroll, rolled up and tied with a green ribbon; he gave it over to Perry. "This is Brega's record of that journey," continued Perry, fumbling at the knot, "a record which soon may be added to the Raven Book. I have to make a few more copies to send to the Scholars to study, so that all may agree that it is authentic and belongs in the History. I've already made ... let me think ... ah yes, eleven copies; and Cotton and I have thoroughly checked their

accuracy against this original. If it proves to be of value to your quest, you may take as many copies as you need." Finally the ribbon came off, and Perry handed the scroll to Borin.

With reservation, the Dwarves spread out the scroll upon a hurriedly cleared section of the table, holding the parchment open by placing saltcellars and pepper mills at the corners, and all gathered around to view the document. "Hah!" burst out Anval, his dubious look replaced by one of exultation, "it is signed by Brega, Bekki's son; here is his Chakka rune. And look! Here are the secret marks! And see this! Now we know that this then is no counterfeit!" To each of Anval's exclamations Borin grunted his agreement; but what the secret marks were, or what the Dwarves had seen, neither Perry, Cotton, nor Lord Kian could discern, and not Anval nor Borin would say.

Borin began to read aloud from Brega's finely wrought script: " 'Here begins the journey at the Dusken Door: two hundred steps up the broad stair; one and twenty and seven hundred level paces in the main passage 'round right, left, right, and right turns passing three arches on the right and two crevices on the left; fifteen and eight hundred down paces in the main passage, a gentle slope . .

Anval and Borin then read on silently; and as they read their elation grew, for here at last was the detail needed to invade their own ancestral homeland. Every now and again one or the other would exclaim aloud as some particular detail would confirm ancient lore: "The Long Hall . . . the Upward Way . . . Braggi's Stand . . . the Great Shelf . . ." and many more.

It was Anval who spoke first when they reached the end of the document, his look of triumph replaced by a brooding scowl. "There must be eight or nine hundred major twists and turns here, forks and splits—and twice that many minor ones," he growled, stroking his black beard.

"A good estimate, Anval," said Perry, returning to his chair, "but to be more exact, there are slightly more than a thousand major decisions—and, as you guessed, there are indeed about twice that many minor ones. That's many, many choices which must be made correctly to go from Dusk-Door to Dawn-Gate by this route. I know; I have committed it to memory. It adds up to nearly three thousand branchings and forks and splits in the trail—three thousand places to diverge from the course and lose the way. And to think, this is but one path in Drimmen-deeve; the total of your Kraggen-cor must be so vast as to defy imagination!"

Overcome at the thought of the sheer magnitude of the whole of Drimmen-deeve, Cotton plopped down in his seat, a look of wonder upon his face.

For a few silent moments the Warrows settled back in their comfortable chairs and puffed on their pipes in reflection; Cotton, with his feet up, again blew smoke rings at the ceiling. Leaving the Dwarves studying the Brega Scroll, Kian, too, returned to his seat.

After a while Perry asked a question that had been puzzling him for three

years—ever since he had become Master of The Root and had discovered the Brega Scroll in the far back of a cobweb-laden pigeonhole in a long-unused desk in a dusty storeroom. "It thrills me for you to confirm that the scroll is authentic, but a thing I am curious about, Borin: The Raven Book says that Gildor the Elf, though he consulted Brega often, actually led the way through Drimmen-deeve, for Brega's knowledge was of little or no help. Yet here we are, ready to trust this document written years later by him; though I must say that found with the scroll was a note from that time written for Tuck by Raven where she says that Brega swiftly and easily recalled the route as if he had trod it only yesterday. How can that be?"

"He was a Chak," replied Borin, glancing up from the scroll, "and once a Chak travels a path, it is with him always, graven in his very being. But he must travel it first, for he is no better nor worse than anyone else when it comes to memorizing a route beforehand. But if a Chak trods a passage, it comes alive within him. And though Elf Gildor led that first time, had they ever travelled that way again, it would have fallen to Brega to lead.

"Hence, Master Waeran, we too could memorize the path described by this document, just as you have; yet we would be but little different at it from you. Yet, let us step it out but once, and no one except another Chak will ever equal our mastery of it." The Dwarf paused in reflection. "Without this gift, the Chakka could not dwell in the labyrinths under the Mountains."

As Borin had been speaking, a dark mood had stormed across Anval's features. Glowering at the scroll, he slammed his fist to the table, causing the dishes to rattle, startling both Warrows, Cotton dropping his feet to the floor. "Krukf" spat Anval. "Why did not Brega make such a record for the Chakka? We would have mastered it ere now! This is a long and complicated course—at least forty or more miles in length with many splits and twists." He paused a moment, again in dark thought, then once more struck the table in exasperation. "Pah! We cannot conduct a Squam-War where at every fork in the cavern we must consult a scroll!" He turned to Borin. "One or both of us must memorize this parchment and guide the Army, though mastering it will take weeks, perhaps months—time we can ill afford, for the Army is ready now." His black eyes filled with rage. "And the foul Grg raid, harass, maim, and slay each night."

Perry's heart was racing, and his face was flushed. His breathing was rapid and shallow. All during the evening a sense of destiny had been growing within him, as if a marvelous doom were about to fall. As a lad he had spent endless hours poring over his uncle's copy of The Raven Book and delving into other tomes of knowledge, filling his mind and heart and dreams with epic tales of grand heroism: of Egil One Eye and Arin and the Quest of the Green Stone; of Elyn and Thork and the Quest of Black Mountain, of Tuck and Danner and Patrel and the Winter War Quest; and many other eld tales of derring-do. And his daydreams had been filled with a whirl of Elves, Dwarves, Knights, Men, Wizards, Utruni, Dragons, and other peoples and

creatures of legend. And in his childhood he had yearned to be a Warrow involved in another grand adventure. But quests—especially Warrow quests —never seem to happen to striplings, and so he dreamed and yearned. And his yearning had driven him to the study of the tales and records of Mithgar, and he had become a Historian, a Ravenbook Scholar.

And now Perry had heard the frustration in Borin's voice when the Dwarf had spoken of the time needed to memorize the Brega Scroll. Perry knew how to resolve the dilemma facing the Dwarves—but he was afraid. Yet even in his fear he realized that here was the chance for the adventure he'd always longed for, always dreamed of. But now the adventure was upon him and he found that he was not ready for it, not at all eager to reach out and grab it; he was unable to choose; it was too sudden.

Long moments fled, and no one said aught. And then Perry looked up into the faces of the visitors, and he saw the mixture of anguish and frustration and bitterness in Borin's and Anval's and Lord Kian's eyes as they thought upon the further Spaunen depredations that would occur. Perry was deeply moved, and in spite of his own trepidation, in spite of the risks involved, suddenly and without conscious thought he spoke: "What you need is a guide who already knows the Brega Path. You need me, Perry Fairhill. I will go with you."

CHAPTER 5

GOODBYE, HOLLY, WE'RE OFF

TO WAR

Cotton startled awake to find the late-morning Sun filling his bedroom with light. Cotton Buckleburr, he thought, you slugabed, get up and serve your master. The buccan rolled out of bed and splashed cold water from the pitcher into the basin on the washstand and quickly scrubbed his face. Throwing on his clothes, he rushed out of the room still stuffing his shirttail into his pants; and he nearly collided with Holly, who was at that moment passing by in the hallway, her arms laden with linen. "Oomph/" he grunted

as he twisted aside to keep from running over her, bumping into the wall instead.

"Cotton Buckleburr," Holly laughed, her soft amber-jewelled eyes atwin-kle, "you big oaf, you nearly scared me to death, jumping out of the doorway at me like that. Did you hurt yourself now, runnin' into the wall and all?"

"Oh no, Miss Holly, I'm all right, and I didn't mean to scare you. But I'm late getting up, and . . . say, where's Mister Perry? Is he awake? And the visitors, are they up and about?" asked Cotton, continuing to fumble with his shirttail.

"Why they were up and gone long ago, early this morning," replied Holly.

"Gone? Oh no!" wailed Cotton. "Mister Perry can't go away without me. He needs me! Much as I don't want to go, I've got to—for Mister Perry's sake."

"Wait, Cotton"—a puzzled frown settled upon Holly's gentle features— "only the strangers left this morning. Mister Perry is still here—here at The Root. He's in the study. But what's all this about his going away somewhere and you with him? Going where for what?"

"Why he's going off to Drimmen-deeve to fight Rucks and such," answered Cotton. "And me, well I'm going with him." And a look of wonder fell upon Cotton as he realized what he had said. "That's right, Miss Holly, I'm going with him." Cotton turned and rushed away and did not see the frightened look that sprang up behind Holly's eyes.

Well I reckon he's put both of our feet into it now, right enough, and we 're in a pretty pickle if you ask me, thought Cotton as he hurried toward the study. / wonder where the visitors went off to this morning. And are Mister Perry and me really going away from the Bosky?

Cotton slid to a stop in the doorway of the den, and his mouth dropped open in amazement: Peregrin Fairhill stood before him, armored in the silveron mail and grasping the long Elven-knife, Bane, in his right fist. "Cotton, look!" cried Perry, holding his arms straight out from his sides and pirouetting. "The starsilver fits me as if I were born to it. And Bane, well Bane is just the proper-sized sword for a Warrow hand." The buccan swished the blade through the air with an elaborate flourish.

"Oh, Cotton," continued Perry, his sapphirine gaze upon the upraised sword, "it seems I've dreamed of this all my scholarly years. It will be an adventure of a lifetime: swords and armor, phalanxes of marching warriors, pavilions and pennons, glittering helms, shields, hauberks, pikes. Oh, how glorious it will be!"

Cotton looked doubtful. "But Sir, it seems to me that War is just bloody slaughter. And this War won't be no different, except the fighting and killing will be done in a great, dark hole in the ground. Many a friend will perish. Shiny swords and pretty flags there'll be aplenty, but agony and Death will be there too."

"Of course, of course, Cotton"—Perry frowned—"everyone knows that

killing the enemy is part of War. And you can't have a battle without taking a few wounds." Then Perry's jewel-like eyes seemed to focus upon a distant vision of splendor. "Glorious," he breathed.

"Pardon me, Mister Perry," Cotton interrupted Perry's woolgathering, "but just where have our visitors got off to? Holly says that they've gone away. How can we go off to Drimmen-deeve without them?"

"Oh, they'll be back. Lord Kian has just gone down to the marketplace to get supplies for our trip to the Landover Road Ford, and Anval and Borin are off to Budgens to get the waggon and team." Then Perry looked sharply at his friend. "What did you say, Cotton? Did you say that we were going to Drimmen-deeve? Do you mean to come too?" And when Cotton nodded dumbly, Perry shouted for joy and began capering about the room, slashing the air with Bane. "Take that and that and that, you Spawn!" He stabbed at imaginary foes. "Beware, maggot-folk, the Warrows are coming!" Then, slamming Bane home in the worn scabbard at his belt, Perry took Cotton by the arm. "We've got to get ourselves outfitted properly for this venture," he declared, and began rushing about the room selecting arms and armor for himself and Cotton.

His choices, though somewhat limited, were excellent: Cotton was fitted with an armored shirt of gilded chain-mail; though it was light, it would turn aside all but the heaviest blades. This armor had a noble history, for during the Winter War this was the very chain corselet given over to Patrel by Laurelin from the royal armories to wear in the first great battle of the Dimmendark when one of Modru's hordes swept down upon Challerain Keep. Added to the armor was a rune-marked blade about the size and shape of Bane, but which had been forged years agone by the Men of the Lost Land—and a scabbard to hold it. Each of their belts also held a dagger, and both Warrows had chosen simple leather-and-iron helms. 'Round their shoulders they had fitted Elven cloaks which blended so well with any natural background that even the keenest eyes would be deceived if the wearer covered himself and remained still.