Dragondoom

CHAPTER 15

Late Summer, Early Fall, 3E1602

[The Present]

All around them the Wolfwood stood darkly, and came a juddering howl from Hèl. On the knoll stood two wounded warriors, back to back for protection, waiting for one last battle.

“I am reminded,” growled the Dwarf, “that where Vulgs run, so might run the Grg.”

“Grg?” the Woman asked. “Do you mean the Wrg? Rutcha? Drōkha?”

‘Aye, Grg,” responded the Châk. “ Ghkh and Hrōk, alike. And mayhap more: Khōl, others. But by any name, yours or mine, still they may run with the Vulg.”

“Ah me, Thork,” said the Warrior Maid, her voice laden with fatigue, “would that we were rested, and shoulder and ribs mended, then would we give these Hèl-runners a fight.”

“Lady Elyn,” answered Thork, “let us give them a fight regardless.”

Bringing blade and warhammer to the guard, male and female stood in the night-remote stars wheeling o’erhead, quarter Moon riding silently up the sky-waiting for the foe.

“Ssst,” hissed Thork, “they come.”

Elyn looked, and trotting out from the woods came a great black shape. Wolf-like it was, yet no Wolf this; instead it was a Vulg, huge, standing nearly three feet at the shoulder. Baleful yellow eyes gleamed like hot coals when the Moon caught them just so. A slavering red tongue lolled over wicked fangs set in crushing jaws, drooling a virulent spittle. Vulg’s black bite slays at night: the ancient saying came unbidden to Elyn’s mind. Two more of the great beasts came sliding forth from the shadows, hideous power bunching and rippling under coarse black fur. Then came another dozen or so, slinking to and fro along the edge of the clearing, yellow gazes eyeing the quarry at bay.

Elyn’s heart was pounding, fear coursing throughout, driving away her fatigue. She stabbed her saber into the soil before her and wiped both palms upon her leathers, taking up the blade once more.

More Vulgs joined the pack, circling left and right, forming the arc of a quadrant along one edge of the glade. And Elyn and Thork suddenly shivered, for again they felt the gaze of evil upon them. And in that moment, the waiting was over, for as if they had received some arcane signal, the Vulgs exploded into motion, voicing bone-chilling howls, black doom racing toward the crown of the knoll, racing toward the woefully overmatched victims upon the crest.

“Ready, Warrior?” gritted Thork.

“Ready, Warrior,” answered Elyn.

And onward came hurtling the dire Vulgs, yellow eyes flashing, red tongues slavering, virulent spittle flying, hideous power driving beneath coarse black fur, hurling toward the wounded.

“Châkka shok! Châkka cor!” Thork vented the ancient Dwarven battlecry.

“Hál Jordreich! [Hail the Realm of Jord!]” Elyn turned about to face the onrushing pack, taking now a stance at Thork’s left side, bringing her saber up high, ready for the killing blow. Thork, too, shifted his stance to face the onslaught, hammer raised to strike.

And the hurling Vulgs drove toward the two of them, guttural sounds wrenching from their chests and throats, the hideous pack now upon them, black bodies springing, hurtling through the air.

And suddenly from behind Elyn and Thork, great snarling silver shapes flashed past and whelmed into the black assault.

Wolves! Silver Wolves! As if from nowhere came Wolves of legend, a dozen or more of the argent beasts, the Wolves nearly as large as ponies, yet blindingly quick, long fangs slashing and rending, black Vulgs falling dead. Fury raged all about the twain on the knoll, their own weapons forgotten in their bedazement.

Yet suddenly Thork leapt forward, breaking the trance, Chnk! his hammer crunching into Vulg skull, the creature dropping dead at his feet.

Now Elyn brought her saber into play, Shssh! but the great furrow she cut upon a snarling creature’s flank caused it to turn in rage upon her. Yet lo! It fell at her feet with its throat slashed, though no cut was this of Elyn’s.

From the corner of her eye Elyn thought she saw. . someone, but when she turned no one was there. Even so, another Vulg fell dead, dark blood gushing from a gashed throat.

The glade was filled with a terrible snarling, loud, so loud the sound seemed to fill the whole world, as utter violence gripped, and shook, and rattled the very essence of the clearing, and Death stalked with a raging hand that juddered the very soul to its depths. Silver Wolves slew in a mighty slaughter, great jaws rending and tearing, whelming the Vulg foe.

And the creatures of the darkness fled yawling, for they could not withstand the silver archenemy; but Wolves pursued Vulgs, overhauling them from behind to bring them down unto death. And not one, not a single one of the Vulgs escaped the glade that night.

And when it was over, from somewhere, nowhere, everywhere, sounded a whistle, and the Silver Wolves came trotting back up the knoll, their work done this darktide.

Elyn and Thork watched them return, gathering in a circle around the twain and sitting expectantly, tongues lolling over grinning white fangs. And Elyn now saw that their fur was a dazzling, almost transparent, white, throwing back the moonlight as a silver sheen.

And lo! Suddenly before warrior and Warrior Maid stood a Man, long-knife in hand! Nay! Not a Man, but perhaps an Elf instead! Seemingly from thin air he appeared: first he wasn’t, then he was.

Thork stepped back with a grunt, bringing his hammer to a guard. Elyn’s own weapon was brought ’cross her body in a warding stance.

But the Man, the Elf, stooping to wipe the blood from his weapon upon the long grass, spoke in a gentle voice: “I am a friend.” He stood once more and sheathed the cleaned blade in a scabbard at his belt, then gestured to the grinning Wolves encircling them all. “And these are friends of mine.”

Man height he was, six foot or so, and in this he was taller than most Elves, yet his eyes held the hint of a tilt, and his ears were pointed, though less so than one would expect. His hair was long and white, hanging down beyond his shoulders, its sheen much the same as Silver Wolf fur, though somehow darker; in spite of his white hair, he looked to be no more than thirty. He was dressed in soft grey leathers, black belt with silver buckle clasped at his waist. His feet were shod with black boots, supple and soft upon the land. His eyes were as piercing as those of an eagle, their color perhaps grey, though it was difficult to tell in the light of the pale quarter Moon. At his throat was a glimmer of silver, mayhap an amulet upon leather thong.

“I am Thork, of Mineholt Kachar,” growled the Dwarven warrior, lowering his hammer, “and this be Elyn of Jord.”

The Elf, the Man, stood confused for a moment, head cocked to one side, as if seeking an elusive thought. “Names. . ah yes, names,” he responded at last, shaking his head in bemusement. “I had forgotten. Call me. . call me Wolfmage, a name I held in the past.”

“Wolfmage? But that’s the name of the Wizard of Wolfwood.” Through Elyn’s mind tumbled legends of old, and her eye fell upon the Silver Wolves, her mind recalling Trent the Bard’s song of a Mage that ran with Wolves.

The Magus spread his hands and gestured to the forest surround. “Lady Elyn, this is the Wolfwood.”

“But it is said that evil shuns the Wolfwood”-the Warrior Maid’s gaze strayed to the slain Vulgs-“yet evil came within.”

A flush of anger darkened the face of the Mage, and a huge Silver Wolf stood and growled, uncertain as to the source of the threat. And Wolfmage turned to Wolf and spoke a strange word, and the beast sat once again. “He senses my ire, does Greylight-if you must have a name for him as well. For he is as puzzled as I at this riddle of Vulgs within the ’Wood. Never have they invaded in a force such as this, steering clear instead of stepping within. For they fear the Draega, the Silver Wolves of Adonar.”

“They came into these woods for they sought our blood, these Vulgs” gritted Thork. “Just one of many foe these past nights.”

“Even so,” responded the Wolfmage, “still would they sheer off pursuit rather than run among these trees.”

“Evil has hounded us for nearly a fortnight running,” said Elyn, “relentless in its quest. From the Khalian Mire to here, vile foes have harried us, seeking our doom. Why? We know not. Yet Thork deems, as do I, that the Vulgs came into your demesne because we were here.”

The Magus stepped to one of the Vulg corpses, Greylight standing and padding to his side, hackles up, ready to attack should the slain creature show signs of movement, the other Silver Wolves standing ready as well. Kneeling, the Mage placed a hand upon the dead Vulg’s brow and remained motionless, his eyes closed. A siss of air sucked in between clenched teeth, and he uttered one word: “Andrak.”

Forest shadows drifted across their faces as the Moon rode through the night sky. Around them among the trees padded an argent guard, a ghostly silver pack slipping through the wood. To the fore in the distance Greylight ranged ahead, scouting a track toward an unknown destination.

“You need aid,” the Mage had observed upon rising from the corpse of the Vulg. “Too, you are scathed. Come. It is not far.”

“Wind and Digger,” Elyn had said, “our mounts. We must find them. They are wounded too, and I would see to their needs.”

“Fear not, for they are safe,” had responded the Mage. “I will tend them as well, and bring them at your need.” And they had set off down the knoll and toward the encircling shaggy boles of the surrounding Wolfwood.

And now they strode among the enshadowed trees, guardians all about them, silent Moon and stars above. “You are right about the Vulgs. They were after you. It is a sending! Andrak’s sending. His vile touch can be sensed by those who know its spoor.” Elyn and Thork could hear the suppressed rage in the voice of the Wolfmage.

“A sending?” asked Elyn, apprehension coursing through her at these ominous words. “But why?”

“Evil was the day when Andrak was seduced into taking that first step along the ways of darkness,” responded the Mage, “turned from the light by vile Modru. And in his wickedness, Andrak would have it such that he look down upon great suffering; and he would impose his will upon the helpless, and utterly dominate the powerful. And as such, I know not why he would set Rûpt upon the track of just two, for his dark dreams would elevate him above numbers beyond count.”

“Then the Grg seek us both,” queried Thork, “and not just one?”

“That I cannot say,” answered the Magus. “That it was Andrak’s sending, is true. But as to what or whom he would destroy, it is beyond my power to know.”

And suddenly there sprang to Elyn’s mind one of Ruric’s favorite oaths-“By the black nails o’ Andrak!”-but how that bore upon this, she knew not.

They strode on in silence for a ways, coming at last to a tiny grassy clearing within the forest. A small stone cote stood under the eaves of the wood, thatched roof yellow in the moonlight, the walls below a darkling grey. They entered through a wooden door hanging on leather hinges, and light shone palely in through windows, washing over shadowed silhouettes standing inside.

“Be seated my guests.” The Wolfmage passed beyond Elyn’s sight in the darkness; she could hear him opening drawers, and there came the clink of glass vessels. To her right, Thork stepped forward, and Elyn heard the sound of a chair being drawn back upon a wooden floor, and she could dimly make out the Dwarf sitting down.

“Be seated, Lady Elyn,” came the Mage’s voice again.

“But I cannot see,” she returned.

“Ah me, I forget.” Of a sudden there was yellow light filling the cottage, the Wolfmage holding a lamp. Thork sat at a table.

The cottage was surprisingly large-perhaps even larger on the inside than out, thought Elyn, immediately rejecting such a preposterous notion.

Still and all, the room held a table with four chairs; two tall cupboards with drawers; a hearth with fire irons and a stack of wood, as well as cooking kettles and ladles and the like; a sideboard for preparing food, with attendant cutlery; a small scullery table on top of which was a water bucket and soap and a washing pan and pads. A small open door led into a pantry; and another door, closed, led she knew not where. Behind Thork and against a wall stood a cot below a window.

All was clean and well ordered: the oaken floor looked freshly scrubbed, there were no dirty dishes, and the bed was made. Even so, the place had an unlived-in feel to it.

Elyn drew a chair from under the table and sat, and her weariness washed over her like an irresistible wave. She sat numbly as the Wolfmage moved quietly about the room, her eyes gritty with fatigue yet her vision preternaturally sharp, Thork looking almost unreal in his clarity. Next she laid her head down upon the table.

There came a time she remembered being led to a cot, vaguely hearing the silver-haired Mage say, “Sleep, Warrior Maid, for now you are safe. The Draega will ward your night from attack, and I shall take steps to ward the ’Wood ’gainst intrusion of another kind.”

It was late morn when Elyn awoke at last, stirring shadows of soft-blown leaves mingled with sunlight falling upon her cheek, a light zephyr gently caressing the trees outside. She could hear the quiet susurration of simmering water, and turning her head she could see a large kettle over ruddy coals in the hearth, a mist of steam rising upward. An empty bucket sat upon the floor as if in invitation. Wincing from her broken ribs, Elyn gingerly levered herself up from the bed and stood. She was alone in the cottage.

The door that had been closed last night was now open, and behind it lay another room; and therein stood a large wooden tub. Padding upon bare feet-Who removed my boots? — she stepped inward and saw that the tub was partly filled with crystalline water, cool to the touch. Upon a bench lay a soft grey robe.

Repeatedly using the bucket, she added hot water to the cool, raising the temperature until it was heated to nearly beyond enduring. Removing her soiled leathers, she stepped over the side and into the tub, hesitantly, slowly, easing into the bath, cautiously sinking into the steeping heat. Finally she was immersed, and gradually acclimated to the steaming water, until at last she relaxed, luxuriating in the warmth, her cuts and bruises and fractured rib cage completely forgotten.

How long she soaked thus, she did not know, though it was long enough to pucker her skin; yet at last when the temperature diminished noticeably, she began scrubbing with a soft-scented soap she found on a sideboard, starting with the cleansing of her hair. She washed her face and arms, then the rest of her body, and was rinsing when the Wolfmage, bearing bandages, stepped into the bathing room.

Flustered, Elyn attempted to cover herself-finding the wash cloth entirely too scant-and she sank into the water.

Puzzled, the Magus cocked his head. Then understanding filled his eyes. “Oh yes. I had forgotten.” He turned his back. “Regardless, we must bind your ribs. Know you how to do it?”

At Elyn’s quiet “No”-

“Then there’s nothing for it, Lady Elyn, but that I must do it instead,” responded the Wolfmage. “Remove yourself from the tub, towel off, dress in the robe, but remain uncovered from the waist up.”

Red from the hot water, and perhaps from embarrassment, Elyn did as bid, the robe overlarge upon her, held about her waist by a silken cord. Turning her back to the Mage, she said, “I’m ready.”

His hands were surprisingly gentle, but the binding remarkably firm, as it was cinched rigorously about her tender ribs. When the wrapping was done, held in place by cloth ties-“Now you may finish dressing.”

The Magus was waiting for her at the table. “Here, drink this. It will aid in the healing.”

As Elyn downed the small cup of a liquid faintly tasting of salt, “Put not overmuch strain upon those fractures,” admonished the Mage. “Breathe shallowly. Squat, do not stoop. Twist not. Take care when standing. Bear only the lightest of burdens.”

At Elyn’s nod-“Your comrade sits outside,” said the Wolfmage, and then he turned and vanished through the door.

“Wait,” called Elyn, but he was gone. “Thank you,” she said to the empty air behind.

Raising the hem of the overlong robe, Elyn stepped outside. Nearby, a Silver Wolf stood at guard, and another lay on the sward not far away. And the Warrior Maid found Thork sitting on the grass in the shade beneath an oak tree. As she approached, the Dwarf stood, his injured left arm now cradled in a sling. Elyn burst out laughing, which caused her ribs to hurt, bound as they were, for Thork’s robe draggled upon the ground by a foot or two, and he looked much the same as would a child dressed in adult’s clothing. . except no child sported a forked beard, nor had shoulders too wide for the robe to fasten at the chest and neck, which made the sight in Elyn’s eyes altogether hilarious, paining her ribs even more.

Thork at first was puzzled by her amusement, his baffled look causing her to laugh all the harder. Waving one hand in dismissal, and clamping the other one over her mouth, Elyn tried to stop her laughter, tried to stop the hurt in her ribs, and only succeeded in producing explosive gusts of tittering air through her fingers and hurting all the more.

It was then that Thork looked down at himself and at last saw that he was the target of her merriment, and with a growl, he frumpishly plopped back down and would have crossed his arms in scowling disgust except the sling got in the way. Besides, his improvised right cuff had become unrolled, the end of the sleeve flopping down a goodly ten or twelve inches past the tips of his fingers; and he struggled and flapped his good right arm, trying to recover his hand from the cloth. This caused Elyn to gale even more. And holding her aching sides and giggling in distress, she struggled to where he sat and dropped to her knees before him, reaching out to aid him, tears of pain and joy in her eyes.

His jaw outthrust, beard quivering in indignation, eyes bulging, face livid, Thork seemed ready to burst with rage.

“Ah me, my Dwarven warrior, would that the Trolls had seen you thus,” Elyn managed to gasp out between giggles as she rerolled his sleeve. “They would have died of sheer glee.”

And quicksilver swift, the look on Thork’s face shifted from wrath to mirth as he saw the absurdity of it all, and the glade rang with his belly laughter.

Moving gingerly, Elyn sat beside him, her back to the same oak. For a long while she could not withhold tittering now and again, Thork chortling with her as well.

“How long has it been, I wonder,” she asked, “since I have laughed so? Not since. .” Her words stumbled to a halt, her mind turning upon a painful memory.

Thork, sensing her distress, said nought.

In the trees above, cicadas sang their song of the shift of the season; fall would soon be upon the land, and they called to one another here at summer’s passing, seeking mates ere their own time came to an end. Somewhere near a fallen log a cricket chirruped stridently, this sound offset by the lazy hum of bees among the tiny blue flowers within the grass, gathering nectar and pollen while they could, bearing it to their hidden cache deep within the wood. And in the clearing the Silver Wolves exchanged places, one taking up the watch from the other.

At last Elyn spoke again: “Where slept you last night, Thork?”

“In yon cottage, Lady Elyn,” he answered. “There is another room within, behind the pantry, which holds a cot as well.”

“Another room? Within that tiny cote? A main room, a bathing room, a pantry, and a guest room too?” Elyn’s voice showed her amazement. “Perhaps it is larger on the inside than out. Can it be so?”

“Seek not to delve into the secrets of Wizards, my Lady,” responded Thork, “for I hear they guard them jealously.”

They sat and pondered the enigma for a short while; then Thork’s stomach rumbled. “Secret or no,” said the Dwarf, “let us delve into that pantry. I am hungry, and there is food waiting us within.”

A week went by, and then another, and Elyn’s ribs slowly knitted, while Thork’s shoulder mended. By cooperating, the two wounded warriors managed to care for themselves: cooking, washing and mending their trail gear and clothing, cleaning and oiling their armor and weaponry, sharing the household chores. Daily they went for long walks, discovering crystalline rills and mossy brooks and rock outcroppings and grassy glades among the shaggy forest trees. They held long conversations, taking great care to avoid the hostile ground that lay between Dwarf and Rider.

And every day the Wolfmage would appear, bringing roots and mushrooms, fruits and nuts, wild grains and sweet grasses, berries and tubers, and things of a like nature. Once he brought them a haunch of venison, saying only that it was a gift from the Draega, the Silver Wolves. And Elyn and Thork accepted it gratefully, spending an afternoon slow-cooking it upon a spit above an outdoor fire.

Early during their recovery, the Magus took them to see Wind and Digger, the barebacked mounts roaming loose among fields of clover and wild oats-saddles, bridles, trappings, weaponry and gear, all stowed safely in a great dry hollow of a nearby fallen forest giant. Wind and Digger came at the Mage’s call, and seemed eager to see Elyn and Thork, though more eager still to return to the sweet forage upon the hill. Their wounds, too, had been tended, and the Wolfmage had assured Elyn and Thork that the steeds would be mended when the time came for Warrior Maid and warrior to resume their trek.

And always somewhere near, Draega slipped among the trees, the Silver Wolves warding the twain.

There came a day when Elyn asked the Magus about the Wolves, and his answer brought tears to her eyes: “These are no common Wolves, Lady Elyn, merely grown to dire size. Nay, they are the Draega-the Elden Wolves-from the Hōhgarda. Yet they crossed the in-between and came to this world in an elden time, when creatures of great power strode the forests and plains, climbed the mountains and descended into the valleys, flew through the crystal air, plied the shifting sands of the deserts, swam the clean waters of the world, and delved deep in the sweet underground-creatures now but seldom seen, if at all. And the Draega bowed to none, not even to the Great Bear of the Mittegarda. They were the Lords of all they desired, yet their wants were simple and are simple still.

“But then things upon this Plane changed, for Gyphon sent his minions forth from the Untargarda to come upon this world. And then did the Draega join with others-Elves, Men, Mages, more-to help stem the tide, for among the Rûpt were foul Vulgs, a natural foe of the Silver Wolves, an enemy the ’Wolves were best suited to meet.

“It was not long after that I bonded with the Draega. . and they with me. And together we serve Adon-oppose Gyphon-from before the First Era till now.”

“The First Era?” said Elyn. “That’s when Rwn was destroyed.”

“Aye,” replied the Magus. “And that’s when I was stranded.”

“Stranded?”

The Wolfmage sighed. “It held the only known crossing to the Mageworld of Vadaria.”

“What of the other worlds?”

“Since the Great War of the Ban, one need be born with the blood of the other-side world to cross the in-between.”

“Ach!” exclaimed Elyn. “The Sundering. I had forgotten.”

A silence fell between them, but at last Elyn said, “The Draega can go to Adonar, but they do not?”

Dalavar nodded. “They remain with me, living in reclusion, for we are friends.”

Elyn plucked a flower and studied its blue petals, and they sat together without speaking. After a long while, Elyn asked, “Will they ever return to Adonar?”

The Wolfmage turned up a hand. “Mayhap. Mayhap after the coming of the Silver Sword upon the dawn, when the ways between the Planes will be open again-at least for one-and we will war for Adon once more, for we serve Him still.”

“What of you?” asked Elyn. “When will you return to the Mageworld?”

“That I cannot say. With Rwn gone, and no other known crossing, I am barred from Vadaria. Even so, even were there a known way, I would not go, for I await the return of the Dawn Sword, and the final struggle to come.” The Wolfmage’s voice became soft, and his words bore a simple but profound message: “And these, the Draega, await with me in my exile, throughout millennia gone by. And all that time they have remained with me, did not abandon me, for I am their friend.”

Long after she was told this tale, tears would spring into Elyn’s eyes to think upon the plight of the Wolfmage: giving to his uttermost to aid in the struggle, yet in the end, barred from his very homeland. Too, it was a tale of a lasting true bond, for the Draega shared his isolation simply because he was their friend. Yet it was Thork who pointed out a remarkable fact: “If the Wolfmage befriended the Draega ere the coming of the Spawn from the Untargarda, then he too strode the world in the elden time. And that would make his age nearly beyond reckoning, no matter his youthful looks.”

Gradually, the two of them mended, and there came a day when Thork’s arm was removed from the sling. And he used his double-bitted axe to work the stiffness out, starting slowly, and day by day extending his efforts. And he bore his Dragonhide shield on his left arm while swinging his hammer with his right. He practiced cocking his light crossbow and sending quarrels with deadly accuracy into the heart of a makeshift wooden bull’s-eye.

One evening after a strenuous workout his thirst was such that, followed by a Silver Wolf, he strode toward a crystalline rill he and Elyn had discovered. And in the foredusk he came upon the edge of the glade and beheld the Princess kneeling beside the stream. From the water she had plucked a white flower and was placing it into her copper hair, gazing at her reflection, her lilting voice singing. And Thork remained at the edge of the forest and gazed upon her beauty, and his heart seemed to fill with an indefinable something that had been absent before. He stood silently, captured, and listened to her clear voice in song:

Would you fight to the death

For that which you love,

In a cause surely hopeless. .

For that which you love?

And Thork recognized the song, for it was the heart-wrenching ballade of Lost Blackstone, a lyric revered by the Dwarves. For it told the tale of an epic struggle, a hopeless struggle, where so many had died in honor. And it was this taking of Blackstone that was at the root of the hostility between the Châkka and the Riders, the conflict that made Elyn his foe. Thork cast his hood over his head and turned and walked away grieving, passing near but not seeing the Draega warding her.

Out of the corner of her eye Elyn saw the movement, and looked up in time to see that it was Thork walking away, his hood cast over his head in mourning. And she divined that it was the words of the ballade that had sent him from her in sorrow, yet she did not guess the central truth lying at the core of his grief.

Too, there came the day that Elyn’s ribs were unbound. And she followed Thork’s example, practicing with weaponry to regain her muscle tone and to rehone her skills: swinging saber, warding with long-knife; working her spear as quarterstaff, blade, and javelin; hurling sling stones; stringing bow and loosing missile.

When it came to casting arrows, she and Thork would engage in contests, he with his crossbow, she with her re-curved bow of Jord. And time and again they would prove once more that the crossbow struck truer and harder at close ranges, while the hand-drawn bow was the better afar. And they would come away from these tests of skill in good humor, for both had won, neither had lost.

At last, hale and fit, they finally prepared to leave the Wolfwood. It was not that either wished to go, for they had both come to love the shaggy forest, even the Dwarf of carven stone caverns, even the Woman of wide grassy plains. And both had come to love the Silver Wolves as well. Yet, love of Wolfwood, love of Wolves, neither could hold them, for a higher duty called, and they could not ignore it, though it meant hardship and peril in the days to come. And so they brought Wind and Digger to the cottage, and gathered together that which was theirs, lading the animals with weaponry and food and grain and other goods to see them on the long journey ahead.

And the Wolfmage came unto the twain and said that he must speak with them ere they set forth, but in a place of his choosing. And he led them unto a nearby tiny glade, a wee clearing shielded by a circle of overarching oak trees, a place that they had not seen before. The shadowed round was grown with a soft green sward, a plush carpet of bladed grass tipped with tiny yellow flowers. Nearby, a flowing spring bubbled clear, sparkling over rounded rocks while speaking the gurgling language of clean water rushing along a tumbling path. And in the center of the minuscule glade was what Elyn called a Fairy Ring: a circle of Moon-pale mushrooms within a luxuriant growth of a low mossy fern. Carefully stepping over the edge of the Ring and bidding the two of them to do likewise, the Wolfmage sat them all down in a circle center, deliberately placing Elyn and Thork and himself at what would be the points of an equal-sided triangle. On the outside of the ring sat the gathered Silver Wolves, a circle of five within a circle of nine, the Draega bearing silent witness to those within.

“I have brought you to this place of protection for a reason, for I would speak to you of Andrak. And what I have to say concerns your mission as well. I have not called you here ere now for you were not yet ready, not because you were wounded, but because when first you came you would have found it too hard to accept what now will be revealed. Even at this moment there is a chance that it will force you apart, yet I think not, though it is certain to strain the bonds between you.

“Andrak sits in a strongholt in the mountains of Xian. It is from there that he has been using his dark powers to direct the Foul Folk and others against you. For he fears that you are the ones spoken of in the elden prophecy, the two foes of one another bound together in honor:

One to hide;

One to guide.

From around his neck the Wolfmage removed a leather thong upon which depended a silveron nugget. He held it out to Elyn. “Take this, Lady Elyn, and wear it, for I deem you are the ‘one to hide.’ It is a device for protecting you from enemies, a thing that will keep them from seeing you. I have merely been holding it until it was needed, and I ween that time has come.

“You would perhaps call it a thing of ‘magic,’ but I do not understand what is meant by that word. It is simply a thing of hiding. Nay, not hiding, that is the wrong word; mayhaps instead it should be called a thing of unpresence. Regardless, I was wearing it the night you came unto the Wolfwood, the night you did not see me until I willed it. Oh, I was not invisible, and you could have seen me at any time, had you willed it yourself. Nay, this token does not render the wearer invisible, but, rather, unlooked at. For those who do not have the will, as well as for those who do not know the power of sight, they will glance everywhere but straight at you, peering around your edges, in a manner of speaking.

“It will protect both you and Thork from Andrak’s detection, for its scope is such that he will look around both of your edges, as long as Thork stays near at hand; hence, Andrak will not know just where to send his foul creatures to intercept you. Yet ’ware, the closer you come, the more likely he is to find you, and the closer Thork must be unto you, Lady Elyn. Here, remote from Andrak’s holt, you can ride as always, remaining somewhat apart, taking care of your separate needs, as your privacy demands. But if you draw nigh Andrak, you must be within a step or two of one another, else the one not wearing the nugget will of certainty be found. Yet should Andrak think to look past this. . barrier, then nothing will conceal either of you, nugget or no.”

Slowly, Elyn reached out and took the remarkable gift, and stared in fascination at it glittering in her hand. “I do not have the. . the training, the knowledge to. . command. . it,” she said hesitantly.

“Fear not,” responded the Wolfmage, “for it needs no commanding of yours. Aye, there are those like myself who can use it to its fullest. But for you, no bidding on your part is necessary, for it will ward you and Thork when enemies are at hand, when those of hostile intent would seek to do you harm. Simply keep it with you and you will remain. . unlooked at. . unlooked at by foe, remove it from your presence, and you shall be seen again. But remember, if the foe be one of power who thinks to look past the hindrance, then he will see you, whether or no you wear the token. Put it on now, Lady Elyn, for you are both about to set forth from my domain, and I would not have Andrak find either of you.”

As Elyn slowly placed the thong about her neck, tucking the silveron token down into her leathers, the Wolfmage gave a grunt of satisfaction, though neither Elyn nor Thork could see that aught had changed.

“One last thing about the silver stone, Lady Elyn: if you are the one, then it is written that this nugget will protect you in horror’s domain; yet there will come a time when you will sling it from you. . but that is as it should be, for the token, too, has a destiny to fulfill; it is so ordained.”

As Elyn pondered these bodeful words, the Magus turned to the Dwarf, handing him a large cloth with a draw cord. “Here, warrior, take this shield cloth and cover the Dragonhide, for even the power of the nugget cannot conceal that glittering rainbow from hostile eyes. The cover has no device upon it, but that is as it should be, for you go in stealth.”

As the Dwarf accepted the cloth, the Wolfmage spoke on: “Thork, I deem it that you are the ‘one to guide,’ for you are a Châk and cannot lose your own footsteps. And days will come when this gift of the Châkka will be sorely needed by you both, if indeed you are the wayfinder foretold of long apast, one of the two foes bound together in honor. Even so, it is written in the prophesy that one will die without the other. Hence, beware stepping beyond the protection of the nugget, for then you will be revealed. Stay close. Ward well.”

“You read much into this prophesy of yours, Mage,” growled Thork, folding the cloth. “Yet what makes you think that we are the two it speaks of?”

“It is not only I who deem it so, Warrior Thork,” answered the Magus. “Andrak sends his minions against you because of it.”

“But why?” queried Elyn. “Why would he, why does he, set the Foul Folk upon our track?”

The Wolfmage spread his hands wide, palms up, as if explaining an obvious fact. “Because I ween ye both seek that which he wards so jealously: the Kammerling.”

“The Kammerling?” Elyn blurted out; angrily, she confronted Thork: “Is that what you seek? Adon’s Hammer?”

“Aye. It be the Rage Hammer I am after,” answered Thork. “But it would seem to be your quest as well.”

“You seek the Hammer to gain advantage o’er my folk, o’er the Vanadurin,” Elyn spat accusingly. “Deny it not, for that is your way.”

“I do not deny it,” Thork shot back. “But can you tell me that it is otherwise with you?”

Elyn jerked back as if she had been slapped, and then her face fell and she shook her head no and peered at the ground, feeling betrayed while at one and the same time feeling as a betrayer, refusing to look at Thork, something inside her hurting beyond pain. Thork, too, was anguished, for he cast his hood over his head and stared down at his hands.

The soft voice of the Wolfmage cut through the outrage and shame of both: “Did you not hear me? It was prophesied: two foes bound together in honor would one day come; and that is what you are, and how you are bound. Yet the prophesy does not say that the two will succeed, nor does it say that you are the two; but it does say ‘in honor.’

“Now list to me. . list to me, I said!” When he was certain that he had their attention, halfhearted though it was: If you are the two then you will need this knowledge later: Andrak sits where he can watch Black Mountain, the Wizardholt in Xian. Why he spies upon it, I cannot say. Yet I think he wards it for his vile master, Modru, to report movements upon and within.

“This I also know: You both set out to find Black Mountain, for you believed in the eld legend that the Kammerling would be found therein. Yet it is not so-the Kammerling resides with Andrak. He wards it for Black Kalgalath.”

Thork stirred himself from the depths of his wretchedness. “The Wizard wards the Rage Hammer for Black Kalgalath? Why would that be? Is he in league with the Dragon?”

“I do not know why Andrak protects the Fire-drake,” responded the Wolfmage. “For Kalgalath is not an ally, or was not during the Great War of the Ban. Yet Andrak keeps the Kammerling, and Kalgalath remains safe.

“Even so, still you must search out Black Mountain, for within is that which will reveal the location of Andrak’s holt. Else you cannot find him, for he, too, knows the art of concealment, and weaves his. . magic. . to remain hidden. Yet heed: although I cannot teach you this manner of hiding, nor of seeing, within the Black Mountain is that which will permit you, Thork, to find where Andrak dwells, for as I have said, you are a Châk.

“Heed me! When you come unto the mountains of Xian, look for four close-set peaks that appear to be fingers on a hand, and then look southward for the thumb. Go through the col between thumb and first finger, and fare north and east. There you will find Black Mountain. Seek within the Map of the Wizards of Xian, for this even Andrak’s spells cannot deceive.”

The Mage stood and bade them to stand as well; and he led them from the Fairy Ring, through both wards of the encircling Silver Wolves, and out from under the protection of the oaken grove. And neither Elyn nor Thork would look upon one another, for the heart within each of them felt hollow and empty.

Riding in morose silence, they fared to the far eastern edge of the Wolfwood, the Draega all about them. And when they came to the border, Elyn dismounted, and stepped unto Greylight. The great grinning Silver Wolf stood still as she approached, and she clasped him around the neck, hugging him to her tightly, burying her face in his clean-scented soft silver fur. “Good-bye, my protector,” whispered Elyn, releasing him and mounting Wind once more.

Suddenly the Wolfmage was standing among the trees at a distance, yet how he had come, they did not know. “Thank you for your healing, my Lord Mage,” called out Elyn, “and for the warding of your Wolfwood.” The Magus did not answer, but instead stood in silence, watching the twain as they departed the forest, horse and horseling splashing out across another shallow river crossing.

And as the two gained the far bank and left the water, behind them came lornful cries, Silver Wolves keening at their leaving, voicing the wail of the pack calling out for lost ones. And when Elyn looked back unto the eaves of the Wolfwood, she noted a great Silver Wolf set apart from the others, a Silver Wolf somehow darker than all the rest, there where the Wolfmage had once stood. And then the Draega faded like smoke back among the trees, and she saw them no more.