Trek to Kraggen-Cor (11 page)

enough days left for the Warrows to become sufficiently skilled at battle, as in other times and other places the press of War left no choice.

The first evening out of Stonehill the wayfarers camped in the woods north of the Bogland Bottoms; yet the plaguey gnats of these fens were not a problem, for the nights were now too chill.

The next day the five pressed on, and the evening of the sixth day of the journey from Woody Hollow found them encamped on the western slopes of Beacontor, a weathered mount at the southern end of the chain of the ancient Signal Mountains, a range so timeworn by wind and water that it was but a set of lofty hills. Beacontor had been the site of the First Watchtower, now but a remnant of a bygone era; the ruins still could be seen on the crest of the hill; the jagged ring of tumbled stonework yet stood guard in the Wilderland between Stonehill and Arden. Neither Perry nor Cotton nor anyone else in the party climbed up the tor to see the remains. Instead, the Warrows made the most of their last short practice session, and then they helped pitch camp; by this time it was dark, so they would have seen little of the ruins anyway. As before, during the night they each took a turn at ward.

It was midwatch when Borin wakened Perry for the buccan's s f and at guard. JTie night was brilliant with stars, the air so crisp and clear that the Bright Veil seemed close enough to grasp, spreading its shimmering band from east to west across the star-studded sky. Perry noted that Borin seemed reluctant to turn in, preferring instead to gaze in wonder at the countless glints scintillating above in the spangled vault. "You seem spellbound by the heavens, Borin," remarked Perry.

"It is not often we Chakka come out from under the Mountains and see the stars, friend Perry," replied Borin. 'They are special to us: more brilliant than the brightest diamonds we delve, more precious than all we have ever or will ever unearth. They are celestial gems coursing through the night above— changeless, eternal, except for the five known wanderers that slowly shift across the wheeling pattern of the others; but even these nomads, in time, cycle through the same long journeys. Aye, the stars are special, for they give us their light to steer by—that one yon is forever fixed in the north—and they tell us the time of season or the depth of the night or the nearness of dawn. Never can we craft anything to rival their beauty or purpose, though we have striven to do so through the ages. We believe that each star has some special meaning—though we know not what it is—and that destiny and omens are sometimes written in the glittering patterns."

Perry was filled with a sense of discovery at hearing Borin speak thus of the stars. The Warrow had seen them all his life, and til this moment he had not considered the impact that the heavenly display would have upon those who lived most of their lives under the mountains. Perry gazed with new eyes at the celestial blaze, entranced as if he had never before seen its glory. And as

he watched a streak flashed across the sky, flaring and coruscating, leaving behind a trail of golden fire that slowly faded. "Borin!" he cried, pointing. "Did you see that shooting star?" His voice was full of excitement, thrilled at the display. But Borin had cast his hood over his head and was looking somberly down at the earth. "What's the matter, Borin?" asked Perry, disturbed by this dark change in his companion and wanting to help.

"When a star falls it foretells that a friend, too, will soon fall and die," replied Borin. And without uttering another word the Dwarf went to his bedroll and lay down and did not look at the sky again that night.

The next morning, as the wayfarers broke camp, Perry looked up at the ruins on the crest of Beacontor and remarked, "If ever we come this way again I'd like to see the remains of the old Watch tower; they mark an age of greatness." Anval glanced sharply at Perry and seemed troubled, but said nothing.

That day and the following were much the same as those that had gone before, and the waggon slowly rolled eastward, finally coming to the western edge of the Wilderness Hills.

Dawn of the ninth day of the journey found the skies overcast, and as the five got under way beneath the dismal glower, Lord Kian predicted rain by nightfall.

The instruction went on as always, and Anval and Borin continued to take turns driving the waggon. Though progress with the sword training was rapid, the mood of the travellers was as glum as the brooding skies. Except for Lord Kian's instructions and an occasional question from either Perry or Cotton, little was said, and no songs were sung. Even the landscape seemed unredeeming, consisting of monotonous, relatively barren, uniform hills.

To dispel this gloomy mood and restore their former high spirits, Lord Kian decided to advance one stage of the training. Looking somberly at Perry and Cotton, he announced, "It is time you each fought your first Rukh."

"Wha . . . what? Ruck?" Perry's heart leapt to his mouth, and he looked quickly all around.

Cotton, also, scrambled to his knees and held on to a waggon sideboard, searching the empty countryside for an enemy. "Hey, now, just a moment here, it's daylight," protested Cotton, plopping back down. "Rucks won't be about in the daytime."

Kian broke out in laughter, and the two Dwarves smiled. Perry, realizing that Cotton was right, slumped back into the waggon in relief. "No, no," said Kian, "not real Rukha. What I meant is that at our next stop you shall cross wooden swords with one another. But wear your armor; henceforth you shall train in battle dress."

By the time they rolled to a stop in a sparse roadside glade with a thin stream running along the eastern tree line, both Warrows were armored and wore their empty scabbards—leaving their true swords in the waggon.

At first when they faced one another, neither seemed eager to strike, and they began a timid tap-tapping engagement. Lord Kian, seeing the reluctance of two friends to confront one another, stopped them momentarily. Using blue clay from the banks of the stream, he daubed their faces, giving each a hollow-eyed, sunken-cheeked appearance, and made their mouths look broader and thinner and their eyebrows long and slanted. He turned each of their helms backwards on their heads and then had them face one another again. "There now," he said in a deep, sepulchral voice, "before you stands a Rukh." All broke out in raucous laughter, in the midst of which Cotton leapt forward with Ruck-like treachery and took a broad overhand cut at Perry; and the battle was on.

Though Cotton was stronger, Perry was more agile, and the duel between the two was an even match. During one engagement Perry maneuvered Cotton into falling backwards over a log; but on the other hand Perry was forced by Cotton into the stream bed and spent that contest splashing around in ankle-deep water trying to fight his way back onto the bank held by Cotton. They shouted battle cries and whooped and laughed, or fought long moments in grim silence. It went like this for the full practice: the buccen hacked and stabbed and parried and slashed all around the glen, each "killing" the other at least a half-dozen times. And when Kian called, "Enough!" Cotton and Perry collapsed together in laughter.

They washed away their blue-clay Ruck faces in the stream and climbed back aboard the waggon, chattering happily with Kian and the Dwarves and laughing over the pratfalls of one another. Even the usually taciturn Anval smiled at their antics, and Borin chuckled, too, as he drove the wain back onto the Crossland Road. Kian's tactic had worked: the somber mood had been broken.

The lessons went on in high spirits as Kian, using examples from the battle to illustrate his points, spoke on many things, such as the importance of holding the high ground and of knowing the obstacles behind as well as the enemy before. Every now and again the buccen broke out in broad laughter at mention of some blunder occasioned in their battle, but Kian drove home the lesson.

That evening the travellers pulled off the road next to a wooded draw. They could feel rain approaching on the wind across the Dellin Downs and over the valley of the Wilder River. The coming storm promised to be a heavy one, for as Cotton remarked, "This is sure to be a real frog strangler; why, the leaves on the trees have been turned right round backwards all day." All looked to the south and west and could see a dark wall of rain stalking the land and marching toward their campsite.

Among the trees, Anval and Borin skillfully used their axes to hastily construct a large, crude lean-to out of saplings as proof against the rain, with two smaller slant-roofs to either side. The Warrows scurried thither and yon to gather a supply of dry firewood and place it under shelter. And Kian unhitched the team, leading the horses beneath the eaves of the wood and tethering them in the protection of the trees. The companions had but barely finished preparing their camp when the first drops began to fall, followed by an onslaught of water cascading from the black skies.

It rained all that night, and though the watch was kept, the guard's main duty was to tend the fire under the large lean-to, for nought could be seen or heard beyond the curtain of hard-driven rain. Kian spent his watch shaping some new wooden swords, for the old ones were badly tattered from the beatings they had received; each of the other guardians simply kept up the fire in his own turn and huddled close to the blaze to ward away the wetness.

Toward morning the rain slackened as the storm moved away to the east, and by dawn it was gone and only the leaves dripped water to the ground. The Sun rose to a freshly washed land, and the day was to be crisp and bright with a high blue October sky.

In spite of the storm-troubled sleep, spirits in the waggon were as bright and cheerful as the day itself, and after each lesson there was much singing and laughter. In the early afternoon the travellers emerged from the low foothills and saw the road falling before them, down and across a short flat to the River Caire, the waterway curving out of the north and disappearing to the south and sparkling in the midday Sun. Perry, filled with the clarity of the day, burst out in song:

The Road winds on before us — A Path to be unwound, A surprise around each Corner lust waiting to be found.

And we, the happy travellers Who trek upon this way, Look forward in our eagerness And glance aback to say:

The Road turns there behind us — A Path that we've unwound. Yet sights around the Corners Remain there to be found

By those who come behind us And see what we have seen:

The wonders will be as fresh As if we 'd never been

Along this way before them

And gazing on this Land

With beauty spread before us all . . .

I say, oh isn 't it Grand!

I say, oh isn't it Grand!

Both Perry and Cotton—who had joined in the singing—burst out in laughter. The hearts of the Man and the Dwarves were uplifted by the simple song the Warrows sang in celebration of the passing countryside. In the words of the song Lord Kian beheld two more facets of the nature of Waerlinga: Not only do they take pleasure in seeing things of beauty, but they also take pleasure in knowing that others will share these things, too. And this gift of sharing is just one of the things that makes these small Folk special. The Man was so moved by this knowledge that in the back of the rolling waggon he gruffly hugged Cotton to him with one arm while smiling and tousling Perry's fair hair with his free hand. Yet neither Warrow knew why.

"Ah, my wee Waerlinga," said Kian, "I think that every Kingdom, even-court in every Land, needs a few of you little ones to keep up the good spirits and the cheer of the people—oh, not as court jesters, for I deem you too tenderhearted to fulfill that task. Instead, as a small, rustic Folk, close to the earth, of indomitable will and gentle good sense, you would set an example for all to see and hear of living life in the spirit in which it should be lived. You are an openhearted, cheerful, gentle, sturdy Folk, and this old world is leagues ahead of where it would be without you."

Somewhat embarrassed by the praise, both Cotton and Perry said nought; yet each was pleased by the young Lord's words.

The waggon trundled across the Stone-arches Bridge over the river and came into Rhone, the share-shaped region of land known as the Plow, bounded on one side by the River Caire and on the other by the River Tumble, and extending north to the Rigga Mountains.

The road rose up again out of the river valley and wound into the middle regions of a dark-forested hill country known as Drearwood, in days of old a place of dire repute: Many were the tales of lone travellers or small bands who had ridden into the dim woods never to be seen again. From here, too, came accounts of larger, armored groups that had beaten off grim monsters half glimpsed in the night. And the Land had been shunned by all except those who had no choice but to cross it—or by those who sought fame let no fell creatures had lived in the area for almost three hundred years, since the time of the Great Purging by the Lian Guardians. And the Crossland Road wound among the central regions of this hill country for eighty or so miles.

At sundown the waggon had just come into the beginning western edges of the slopes, and the travellers made camp.

That night was crystal clear, and a gibbous Moon, growing toward fullness, shed bright light over the landscape. When not on watch, each of the wayfarers slept extraordinarily well, partly because their sleep during the rain of the previous night had not been restful, but mainly because this day had gone so well.

Trie order of the watch remained the same, and at the end of Perry's duty he awakened Anval, this time with a cup of tea ready for the Dwarf. The two sat together in silence for a while, listening to the call of a far-off owl. Perry noted that Anval seemed more than just taciturn; the Dwarf appeared instead to be brooding. "Does something bother you, Anval?" asked Perry, sipping his own tea and huddling in his cloak.

"Aye, Small One, and it is this: although your feet are set upon one course, your thoughts trace another path; and if you do not change, you will come to great harm," growled the Dwarf. He looked with his eyes of black at the buccan, whose mouth had dropped open in astonishment at Anval's reply. But before Perry could say aught, Anval went on, "You dwell too much in past glories and not enough in the reality of today, Waeran. Heed me: we are marching off to War—not to heroism and grandeur, but to slaying and horror —and I fear what the truth of War will do to you. War is not some Noble Game. Only in time does the vile stench of War become the sweet smell of victory. Whether in ballade or ode or book, History alone looks upon War as a grand achievement; all else look upon it as a dreadful last resort. And you, Perry, seem to see the world through events and eras of the past: past Kingdoms, past glories, past deeds, past trials, past victories. But time dims the horrors of those events and magnifies the good. We Chakka have a saying: