Trek to Kraggen-Cor (8 page)

Then Borin turned a curious eye to the other Warrow. "Cotton, show me that silver horn upon which you blew the clarion call that stirred my spirit and made hope leap into my heart."

"It's the same horn, you know," said Cotton, rummaging in his pack. "It's the one Captain Patrel used to rally the Warrows in fight after fight with Modru's Reavers. That's why I blew it; it was back to Budgens again. Usually we blow it here once a year, on the battle anniversary; but it seemed like the thing to do today also, since we're setting off on a mission." Cotton passed the small bugle to Borin.

Perry spoke up: "It's called the Horn of the Reach, and it was given over to Patrel by Vidron himself, General of the Alliance, Whelmer of Modru's Horde. The Raven Book says the horn was found almost twenty-six hundred years ago in the hoard of Sleeth the Orm by Elgo, Sleeth's Doom; but of its history ere then, nothing is said."

"Elgo, Sleeth's Doom, you say? Thief Elgo, Foul Elgo, treasure stealer, / say," snapped Borin, angrily setting the horn aside, ire flashing in his eyes. "He slew the Dragon, true, but then he foully claimed the Chak treasure for his own. But it was not his! The Dragon hoard was ours! Sleeth came to Blackstone—the Chakka Halls of the Rigga Mountains—plundering, marauding, pillaging, slaying; we were driven out. Sleeth remained, sleeping for centuries upon a bed of stolen gold. Then Thief Elgo came and slew the great Cold-drake. By trick! When we heard that Sleeth was dead, we rejoiced, and asked for that which was rightfully ours. In sneering pride, Foul Elgo came to Kachar, to the throne of Brak, then DelfLord of those halls. And False Elgo laughed at and mocked us, flinging down a great pouch made of Dragon's hide at Brak's feet, scoffing. 'A purse such as this you must make ere you can fill your treasuries with Dracongield; yet beware, for only the brave may pluck this cloth from its loom.' " Borin chopped the edge of one hand into the palm of the other. "Such an affront could not be borne, and we were avenged against Jeering Elgo, who japed nevermore. But nought of

Sleeth's stolen hoard was ever recovered by us, the Chakka, the true owners." Bonn's eyes flashed darkly, and the muscles in his jaw clenched, and he breathed heavily.

Perry had listened with growing amazement to the anger in Bonn's voice, and saw that Anval, too, was grinding his teeth in suppressed rage. "But Borin, Anval," said the \\ arrow, baffled by the Dwarves' intense manner, "those events took place ages past, far from here, and concerned people long dead; yet it is you who seem ired, though it happened centuries and centuries before either of you were born."

"Elgo was a thief!" spat Bonn. "And an insulter of my ancestors' He who seeks the wrath of the Chakka finds it! Forever!" Borin turned his face away from Pern , and his smoldering eyes stared without seeing over the passing countryside, and Anval sullenly fingered the edge of his axe.

Interminable moments passed, but at last Pern- spoke: "Whether Elgo was a thief as you say, or a Dragon-slaying hero as some tell it, or both, I cannot say; but the silver horn at your side perhaps came from that disputed treasure."

And in the back of the rolling waggon, slowly and with visible effort, Borin at last mastered his Dwarvish passion; grudgingly, he began to examine the trumpet. "This was made by the Chakka," he muttered, and then he turned his attention to the engraved swift-running rider-mounted horses winding through carven runes twining 'round the flange of the horn-bell. Borin gave a start and sucked in air between his teeth, and looked hard at the clarion; and he hissed a Dwarf word— Warokf"

Xarok: Bonn's taut utterance seemed to jerk Anval upright, and he stared sharply at his brother.

After a long while Borin passed the bugle to Anval, who studied it as intensely; and then, after another long while, Anval reluctantly gave the clarion back to Cotton, warning, "Beware, Waeran, this trump must be blown only in time of dire need." And about it neither Anval nor Borin would say more.

In wonder, Cotton took back the horn and looked at it with new eyes, studying it closely for the first time, driven by the Dwarves' curious behavior to seek what they had seen.

The companions had followed Woody Hollow Road to Byroad Lane, and then they had joined the Crossland Road, which would earn them all the way to the Gnmwall Mountains. And the wain continued to roll eastward during the day, through Willowdell. and Tillock, and beyond, one person driving while the others lounged in conversation on the packs and bedrolls in the cargo bed. Often they changed position when some bone or joint or muscle protested at being held in one place too long or at being jounced against a hard waggon-plank by an occasional rut or rock or washboarded section in the road—not that there were many; for the most part the road

was smooth and the pace was swift. Nor did the travellers engage in continuous talk; at times they lapsed into long silences and simply watched the countryside roll by, the trees beginning to change hue in the quickening autumn—many reds and yellows and a few browns starting to show amid the predominant greens.

Frequently they would stop to rest the horses and water them, and to trade off driving, and to take care of other needs. At one of these stops they saw another sign of the changing seasons: two flocks of geese flew southward overhead, high in the sky, one wedge flying above and ahead of the other. Their lornful cries were faint with distance, and Perry, as always, felt a tugging at his heart. Lord Kian shaded his eyes and looked long: "Year after year, since time immemorial, they pass to and fro, their flight locked to the seasons. Little do they care that Kingdoms and tyrants rise and fall; it is as nothing to them in their unchanging journey through time. They fly so very high above our petty squabbles and fightings and Wars and slayings. How small we must seem to them."

At another stop they fed the horses some grain while they themselves lunched on the contents of a basket provided by Holly: cold beef sandwiches and crisp Bosky apples. Anval sighed when the food was gone. "I somehow feel that may be the last I eat of Holly's cookery," he said, rubbing his stomach. "You are a fortunate Waeran, Master Perry." Perry did not answer, though he gazed thoughtfully back to the west, his mind seeing amber dam-man eyes brimming with tears.

It was nearly sundown when the waggon drove through Raffin, where, as in each of the other hamlets the wayfarers had passed, the citizens gathered to gawp at this strange assortment of travellers. Yet though it was late in the day, the wain did not stop, for Lord Kian planned on reaching the Happy Otter, an inn located on the western edge of Greenfields, the next town, ten or so miles east of Raffin. He and Anval and Borin previously had noted the 'Otter when the trio had passed in the opposite direction on their journey to The Root to see The Raven Book. Upon hearing that they were heading for the inn, Cotton perked up, for he had heard of the 'Otter's beer, and, as he said, he had a mind to try it. Anval, too, smiled with anticipation and relish at the thought.

It was night when the waggon at last came to Greenfields; the inn was dark, for the hostelkeeper, Fennerly Cotter, had gone to bed. Borin leapt down from the wain and strode to the door and hammered upon it with the butt of his fist. After a long moment a lantern-light appeared in a second-storey front window, and the shutters banged open as Fennerly looked out, and then slammed shut again. Borin continued to pound the door in exasperation as the innkeeper's light slowly bobbed down the stairs and across the common room. Fennerly, in his nightcap, at last came grumbling to the door and opened it. Raising his lantern up to see just who in the Dell this door-banger was, the innkeeper swallowed half a yawn with a gulp and stumbled a

step or two backwards as his now wide-awake eyes found a fierce Dwarf warrior, towering within his doorway, muttering something about Waeran innkeepers that went to bed with the chickens. But then scowling Borin was shouldered aside by smiling Anval with Cotton in tow; and he drew the Warrow to the taps, where he demanded they be served with the best ale in the house.

As Fennerly was to relate later to a rapt set of cronies, "Wull, at first I thought it were a Dwarf invasion. Gave me right a. start, they did, and I was thinkin' about escapin' and soundin' the alarm bell at the Commons. Oh, I knowed that the strangers was in the Bosky, right enough, but I can't say as I was expectin' even one of them, much less all three, to come bargin' into my inn in the middle of the night—and draggin' two sleepy Warrows with 'em, no less. But in they came, the Big Man stoopin' a bit to miss the overhead beams while he and that Mister Perry was chuckling at some private joke of their own.

"Wull, let me tell you, them five drank up half my best beer and ate all the kitchen leftovers, they did. And then them two Dwarves got to arm wrestling, and they grunted and strained and fairly turned the air blue, what with them strange, bloodcurdling Dwarf oaths they yelled. And each time one of 'em lost they'd take a swill of beer and change hands and go at it again. And the one was better with his right arm whilst t'other was better with his left. And the Big Man sat back and roared his laughter and puffed on his pipe. Then he arm wrestled with each, and though he finally lost, let me tell you it was a mighty struggle for them broad-shouldered Dwarves to finally put his knuckles to the wood. And all the while there was that Mister Perry sittin' there smilin' and yawnin' and blinkin' like a drowsy owl tryin' to stay awake, and Mister Cotton runnin' back and forth around the table, judgin' the contests and declarin' the victor when an arm was finally put down. But after a while the Big Man noticed that Mister Perry had fallen asleep, and so we all went to bed, and it was about time too.

"But it seemed I had no sooner got to sleep than that Dwarf, Mister Borin —the one as pounds doors—well, he were at it again, only this time it was my own bedroom door though. And he was glarin' and mutterin' something about Waeran innkeepers what don't get up with the chickens. I fed 'em breakfast, and they were off at the crack of dawn.

"Of course they paid me with good copper, they did, even though I hadn't got a bed large enough for the Big Man, who slept in the stable hayloft above the horses, slept right there even though they was callin' him 'Lord'—Lord Kian, that is. Don't that beat all if it's true? A Lord sleepin' in my stables! Him what is probably used to sleeping on silks and satins." Here Fennerly paused to fill the mugs and let the startling facts sink home, and sink home they did, for all the Warrows looked at each other in wonderment, and an excited buzz filled the taproom.

"Ahem," said Fennerly, clearing his throat, announcing that he was ready

to resume his tale, and silence quickly fell upon the inn's common room. "Of course, by the time anyone else in the 'Fields was up, the strangers was long gone, miles east of this village. Didn't say what they was doin' or where they was goin' or nothin'. But I'll tell you this: whatever it is they are doing, I'll bet a gold buckle that it's somethin' big." And with that pronouncement, Fennerly fell silent; and all of his cronies and listeners sighed and mulled over their ale, for they had missed the biggest event to happen in Greenfields since Tuckerby Underbank himself had passed through on his return from the Winter War. And no sooner would Fennerly finish his tale than another 'Fieldite would come into the Happy Otter, agog with the news, and the innkeeper would recount the events again, and all of the Warrows—each and every one of them—would sit forward on the edges of their seats so as not to miss a single one of Fennerly's words—though some of the enthralled listeners were hearing the tale for the sixth or even the eighth time.

It was indeed the crack of dawn when the travellers left, after breakfast, with Cotton's head pounding but Anval seeming no less for the wear. Lord Kian was smiling and Borin scowling and Perry rubbing sleep from his eyes. Yet the road was smooth and the air crisp and fresh and soon Cotton was his normal chipper self, and all the others were wide awake and in cheerful good humor as the waggon continued to roll on toward the Boskydell border some fourteen miles to the east on the far side of the great barricade.

In late morning they drove into the thorn tunnel through the Spindlethorn Barrier, and then over the bridge above the Spindle River, passing again into the spiked barricade beyond. At last they emerged from the thorns on the far side, coming once more into the day, leaving the Boskydells behind. Looking backward, Cotton remarked to Perry: "Well now, Sir, I really do believe that we are on our way. Into what, I can't say, but on our way at last. I guess I didn't believe it til just now; but somehow, lookin' back at the Spindlethorn, well, Sir, it has smacked it home to me that we have really and truly left the Boskydells and are off to a Ruck War. And I don't know nothin' about War and fighting, that's for sure. Why I'm along at all is a mystery to me, except I somehow know I'll be needed before we're through with this. And I don't mind telling you, Mister Perry, I'm scared and that's the plain and simple truth."

"Oh piffle, Cotton!" snorted Perry, whose spirits had been on the rise all day. "That's not fear you're feeling, it's excitement! And as to why you're here, Cotton, well you've come along to help me, and I've come along to guide the Dwarves in the great adventure of our lifetime. But you are dead right about one thing: for our own safety we've got to learn to use the weapons we brought along. You'll see, Cotton, once we can protect ourselves, nay, rather, once we can carry the fight to the Spawn, then all thoughts of fear will vanish forever. I'm sure that Lord Kian here will show us how to use

our swords, and we have many days to practice before they'll become necessary."

"Well, my little friends," responded Kian, looking a bit askance at the two Waerlinga, "it isn't quite that simple. One doesn't become a master swordthane overnight. But I'll see what we can do between now and then to prepare you." Inwardly, the young Lord was relieved, for he had been about to broach the same subject to the Waerlinga. Ere now, those gentle Folk had had no need to learn the arts of War. But on this venture, like as not there would come a time when these two buccen would have to defend themselves, at least long enough for aid to reach them. The Waerlinga themselves had recognized their need to learn the rudiments of defense, thus he would not have to convince them of that; but they would have to train hard every day under deft guidance to be able to handle their long-knives by the time they reached Drimmen-deeve. Fortunately for the Warrows, Lord Kian possessed the needed skill to instruct them properly.