Into the Forge

Chapter 27

"And that was when Galarun and the march-ward saved us!" exclaimed Beau, but then he clapped a hand across his mouth and mumbled through his fingers: "Oops. Sorry, Loric, I didn't mean to interrupt."

Coron Eiron's grey eyes widened, and then he smiled in pleasure. "My arran was one of those who rescued you?"

"Your son? Galarun is your son?" blurted Beau, then slapped his hand back across his mouth.

Eiron grinned at the Waerling. "Aye, Galarun is my son."

By the light of the eventide lanterns, Tipperton looked at the Coron, and now the buccan saw the resemblance: Eiron's hair like Galarun's was brown, though not as deeply so, and his tilted grey eyes resembled that of his son's, yet were of a lighter shade. And Eiron was tall, five foot nine or ten, perhaps an inch or so less than Galarun.

"Then that must mean he's a prince," said Beau, unable to keep his mouth shut.

Eiron shook his head. "That I am Coron does not make it so, Sir Beau. Among Elvenkind we oft take up duties we will shed seasons hence. I am but recently Coron, and will lay the burden down some seasons from now-just when, I cannot say-and someone else will accept the duty."

Beau opened his mouth to ask another question, but closed it again when Tip, sitting beside him, kicked him under the table and whispered, "Later."

Now Eiron turned to Phais and Loric and slowly shook his head. "Ye bring woeful tidings: of Draedani and Drakes and Hordes run amok; of the fall of Challerain Keep and the unknown whereabouts of High King Blaine. We knew of the Swarms to the north and east, and of the men to the south-the Lakh of Hyree and the Rovers of Kistan as well as the Askars of Chabba-but the others, the Drakes and Draedani, 'tis ill news, indeed. Even so, we simply cannot let Modru reach out his iron fist and seize Mithgar, else Gyphon will rule all, to our woe everlasting."

"North and east?" blurted Tip. "You said north and east. There's Hordes east of here?"

Eiron nodded. "Aye, wee one. To the north, as you know, a Horde sets siege not only upon Crestan Pass but upon Drimmen-deeve as well." The Coron gestured toward the outside, where the night was illuminated by the lanterns of Lian making ready to march. "Even now we prepare to ride to the aid of the Drimma. In two days we shall set forth to break the Ruptish hold upon the Dawn Gate."

"But what about to the east?" pressed Tip. "I mean, Aven lies to the east and north. Do Hordes bar that way as well?"

"The way to Aven? That I cannot say," replied Eiron, pushing the pewter token on its thong back across the table. "There are reports that Foul Folk stride across the marches of Riamon on the east of Darda Erynian."

Tip shook his head yet remained silent as he reached out to take up the small metal disk.

Eiron's glance swept over them all. "That ye may find the way to Dendor rife with Spaunen, that I do not doubt, yet the land is broad and if ye take care, they can at best only hinder thy mission."

"Do they enter Darda Erynian?" asked Phais.

Eiron frowned. "I think not, for therein dwell the Hidden Ones, and even a Swarm gives them wide berth… though with Draedani and Dragons to aid them, who can say? -Yet no word has come of any such."

"Well then," replied Phais, smiling at Tip and Beau, "we can at least make our way north through that woodland."

"But say," asked Beau, "isn't Darda Erynian-Blackwood, that is-um, closed? To outsiders, that is? Like parts of the Weiunwood? I mean, with us being outsiders and all, won't they-?"

Phais shook her head. "Nay, Beau, for though the Hidden Ones for the most remain apart from Elvenkind, still on occasion in the past we have come to their aid… and, I hasten to add, they've come to our aid as well."

"Dylvana more so than Lian," amended Loric, "yet Elves nonetheless."

Eiron raised an eyebrow. "Aravan, though, seems to have a special bond with the Hidden Ones."

Beau frowned. "Aravan, hmm…"

"The one with the Elvenship," said Tip.

"But no more," added Phais.

Beau brightened. "Oh, yes, now I remember the name."

"Regardless," said Tip, "they will let us make our way north through Darda Erynian, the Great Greenhall?"

At a nod from Phais, Tip smiled. "Well, at least it's a start."

"A start!" exclaimed Beau. "What do you call all this we've been doing so far? I mean, I thought we started when set out from Twoforks."

Tip now grinned at Beau. "Actually, it all started when a Kingsman gave me a coin."

Beau shook his head. "No, it really started with a debate between Adon and Gy-"

Tip raised his hands in surrender. "I know, I know, Beau, everything is connected. Next you'll be telling me that it started with a sneeze in the Boskydells."

Beau's chin shot out and he said, "And just who's to say it didn't?" And then he broke into a fit of giggles with Tip joining in, while Coron Eiron looked on in wilderment at these tittering Waerlinga, while outside goods were packed and blades were sharpened and armor was polished fine.

They stood at the brim of a wide pool in a small glade in the heart of the Larkenwald. Mist curled up from the clear surface in the dawntime air, and dusky twilight glowed from the Eld Trees all 'round.

"So this is a point of crossing," said Tip, his words a comment rather than a question.

"Aye," replied Phais, "an in-between, linking Mithgar and Adonar. The Eld Trees and the glade and pool make it so. See the mist: 'tis neither air nor water but an in-between, and always at dawn and dusk it rises. See the glade: in its smallness 'tis neither forest nor field but an in-between. And now see the dawn: neither night nor day but an in-between, as is dusk, and the in-between is somehow made easier by the light of the Eld Trees, here and in Adonar."

"There's Eld Trees on the other side in Adonar?" asked Beau.

"Aye, as is needed for a crossing point, there must be a fair match on each side, and between here and there it is nearly exact. Some say Vanidar Silverleaf made it so."

"The one who started this whole forest," said Tip.

Phais nodded, confirming his words. "It is told that three of the crossings are deliberately designed to be so: the one here, the one in Atala, and the stone ring in Lianion. As to the latter, mayhap Elwydd Herself made it so. It is said all other crossings are natural, such as the Oaken Ring in the Weiunwood."

Beau sighed. "If we had only known the rite, we could have crossed at the stone ring and come back across here and avoided all our delays and woes."

Phais nodded. "Aye, and if that were true and if we but knew of an in-between near Dendor… Ah, but we don't, and so we must needs take the perilous way."

The following day, armed and armored Lian-Alor and Dara alike-mounted fiery steeds and rode out from Wood's-heart, Coron Eiron at their head, all riding north for Drimmen-deeve to break the siege of the Horde. And though both Loric and Phais yearned to go with their kindred, still there was a pewter token to deliver in a land far away.

In spite of Tipperton's protests, Phais would not set out in the dark of the moon, but insisted upon waiting for it to come full, for the past eight weeks of riding and running and hiding and combat and living on the land had taken its toll on the Waerlinga, and by waiting they would regain some of the stamina they had spent.

And a week and two days after the Lian had ridden forth, dispatches began coming from the siege at Drimmendeeve, where the Elven forays into the Foul Folk lines became increasingly bloody.

And Death Redes came all unbidden to loved ones left behind, final messages somehow passed from love to love though no messengers arrived. And grief settled like a pall upon the forest entire, as if the trees themselves somehow knew of many deaths afar.

"Lord, oh lord," said Beau in hushed tones to Tipperton, "endless lives lost, lives they had just begun no matter their age."

Tip did not reply, but instead strummed his lute, while tears ran down his cheeks to fall glittering like diamonds upon the silver strings.

In the dawn of the twenty-second of July, as Silverlarks returned to sing sweetly overhead, Loric, Phais, Tip, and Beau all set out from Wood's-heart, the four once again mounted upon four horses, Loric and Phais riding in the lead, Tip and Beau upon packhorses drawn behind.

Due north they rode through the towering trees, aiming for a shallow ford across the Quadrill, some eight or nine leagues away. And enwrapped in the soft gloaming shadows down among the trees Beau fell adoze in his makeshift packsaddle, while Tipperton strummed his lute.

And thus they made their way through Darda Galion, a land of many rivers-the Rothro, the Quadrill, the Cel-lener, and the Nith, and all of their tributaries, their sparkling waters flowing down from the northern wold or from the nearby Grimwall Mountains to course easterly through the forest and issue at last into the broad rush of the mighty Argon. In all, the four companions would have to cross two of the great forest's primary rivers- the Rothro and the Quadrill-though they would splash through many of the lesser streams.

And as before, they rode at times, at other times walked, and occasionally paused to relieve themselves or to give the horses a drink in a stream or to feed the steeds a bit of grain. And little was said on the journey, for the Eld Trees were hush, and to gravely disturb the quiet seemed at odds with the nature of these woods. And so Beau drowsed and Tip strummed softly, mastering notes and chords.

It was late in the day when they came at last unto the Quadrill, where they splashed into the crystal flow, pausing in the pellucid stream just below the eastern end of a mid-river isle to let the horses drink, while Silverlarks caroled their evensongs and flew, to vanish in midflight as well as midsong, the forest somehow bereft with their absence.

"We will camp just beyond the far bank," said Loric, Phais nodding in agreement.

Horses watered, they surged on across and up, and into the twilight beyond.

The next day they turned to the northeast, aiming for Olorin Isle, and in early morn they splashed through the Rothro, the river running down from the wold lying beyond the north marge of the Larkenwald.

"Ten leagues," answered Loric to Beau's question, "but we will not ride that far. Instead we'll spend the night with the march-ward and cross the Argon midday on the morrow."

And in the evening they came unto an Elven camp, where warders on these bounds of the Eldwood were eager for any news of the progress of the war. And even as Loric and Phais told what they knew, one of the listeners cried out in anguish dire and fell stunned unto her knees.

A Death Rede had come.

In a sudden burst of wings and song, Silverlarks heralded the dayrise, appearing from nowhere, from everywhere, from the between, as they crossed on the morn into Mithgar.

After break of fast, while Tip and Beau rolled blankets and gathered gear, Loric and Phais saddled the horses, then lashed the goods to cantles and pack frames.

Bidding farewell unto the warders, they made ready to depart, but ere they did so Beau stepped unto the rede-stricken Dara, she yet pale and grieving, and he hugged her and whispered something into her ear, then turned and let Loric lift him to his mount.

Tipperton did not ask him what he had said, and Beau didn't volunteer.

"Lor'," breathed Beau, "but what a river."

Out before them stretched the mighty Argon, its broad waters sparkling under the midday sun. Beyond midriver lay Olorin Isle, and at its northern end they could see smoke rising from a few sparse dwellings of the River-men. Down before the comrades a ferry dock jutted out into the river, and from the pier an overgrown path bore southward alongside the stream. They all dismounted and led the horses down to the jetty.

"Why, it must be more than a mile across," said Beau, yet marveling at the width of the river, as Loric haled on the pull-rope to ring the summoning bell.

After a while they could see the ferry, with four men rowing, leave an island pier; a mule stood in their midst. As the oared barge crossed the wide stretch, the river current carried the float southerly; it would land somewhat downstream below the dock.

"So these are the Rivermen, eh?" said Tip, staring over water at the rowing men, their backs to the near shore, though now and again they turned their faces 'round to gauge their progress. "The ones whose kith pirated from an island upstream?"

Phais nodded. "From their fortress on Great Isle-Vrana was its name, I've heard."

"Hmm," mused Beau, "from here they don't look like looters."

"Those who are seduced by the Evil One oft look fair," said Phais. "Yet recall, these on Olorin Isle claimed innocence, and nought could be shown otherwise."

"Besides," said Tip, "that was long past… some twenty-five hundred years."

"Maybe they're like the Chabbains," said Beau, "and hold their grudges long."

Still the ferry drifted southward.

"Should we ride along the path to meet it?" asked Tip.

Loric shook his head. "The mule will haul it here. Else on the journey back we could miss the island altogether."

Beau frowned. "Why are we going to the isle when it's the other side we want?"

" 'Tis the way of the Rivermen: one ferry to carry us to the isle, another from there to the far shore."

"A twofold toll?" asked Beau, grimacing.

"Grudge them not their double fare," said Phais, "for they are few and scrape for every silver penny, and without the twofold toll there would be no shuttle at all."

"Oh well, then…" said Beau, yet the frown did not leave his face.

Some time later, harnessed to the ferry, the mule came plodding along the pathway, one man leading the animal while the three other men fended with poles to keep the float from grounding against the shore. And when the men saw the Warrows they whispered among themselves of children of Elvenkind.

The barge landed nearly five miles downstream on the long shores of Olorin Isle, where the comrades offloaded and mounted up and rode along the tow path toward the northern point of the island, where the second ferry was docked on the eastern side.

The sun moved two hands across the sky ere they reached the north end and rode in among ramshackle cabins, collapsed and abandoned for the most part, though here and there stood an occupied dwelling. A few men and women and a child or two-all ill-clothed-watched as the four rode past, some to step from their cotes to do so. And they too looked wide-eyed at the buccen. And when the strangers were gone, they spoke briefly among themselves before resuming whatever tasks they had pursued ere the Elves and their children had come, some Rivermen to step back into their dwellings, others to resume a vigil for river flotsam, hoping for a wreck upstream.

When the four reached the east ferry and dismounted, once again four men and a mule were there to greet them. Loric paid the second fare and then he and Phais led the horses onto the barge, Tip and Beau coming after, the men and the mule already aboard.

This time the crossing was swifter, for from the eastern side of the island it was but a quarter mile to the eastern bank of the Argon, though the rowed ferry was carried some three miles downstream ere it arrived at the opposite shore.

They rode into the southernmost tip of Darda Erynian, a forest known to some as the Great Greenhall but to most as sinister Blackwood, for its reputation was dire. And Beau gazed all 'round, looking for Hidden Ones and finding nought as he wondered if the forest were "closed." East-northeast they fared the remainder of the day to come to the banks of the River Rissanin, where they made camp.

A light rain fell that night during Loric's watch, but the next morn dawned bright, though no Silverlarks came to sing them awake.

They followed along the west bank of the river, riding and walking and resting, their route carrying them northerly. And once again they camped in the woods, and the night was crisp and clear. And during Tipperton's watch he thought he could see from the corners of his eyes foxes skulking among the trees, but when he looked straight-on, only shadows seemed to be there.

The next day they continued following the banks of the Rissanin, and just ere midmorn they sighted in midriver the grey stone towers of Caer Lindor, her turrets aglint in the rising sun.

They had come to a fortress isle, a legacy of the Elven Wars of Succession, a relic of the elder days, when neither man nor Fey nor Dwarf nor Mage nor aught other bestrode the world of Mithgar, and only the Elves walked the land, and they yet filled with madness. But those days were long past and the Elves now sane, yet the huge, square fortress still remained. It was left as an outpost in event of future want, and until these troubled times had served as a way-station for travelers in need. Yet located where it was, on the border between the warded Blackwood to the north and the Greatwood to the south, seldom had many come this way, and they mostly Elves or Baeron, though now and again a venturesome soul or two would come trekking past. But now war bestrode the land, and a bastion once more it was.

And toward this looming strongholt Phais now led them all, aiming for the western end of a pontoon bridge crossing to the fortress isle.

At the entrance to the bridge there stood a picket at ward; he was the tallest Human either Tip or Beau had ever seen, nearly seven feet in all. Dressed in buckskins he was, and his face was bearded rust-brown, its color matching his hair. And swinging from his belt was a two-handed mace, though Tip thought in this huge man's grip, one hand would be enough. Huah! He could probably hold this narrow bridge all by himself against a full Horde, if they could only come at him one at a time and had no missiles, that is.

"Hal, Baeran," called Phais.

So that's a Baeran.

"Lady," rumbled the man, his amber gaze sweeping across the four.

Eyes of a Wolf… or a Bear.

"Who is commander here?"

"Lord Silverleaf, with Aravan as his second."

Tip's eyes flew wide. Silverleaf and Aravan? Oh my, legends come to life.

Phais looked back at Loric and smiled. "Vanidar is here, Aravan as well." She turned to the Baeran and gestured at the fortress entire. "Ye all are in safe hands."

Apparently satisfied that these visitors represented no threat, the Baeran stepped aside, and Phais spurred forward onto the bridge, drawing Tipperton's horse after, Loric and then Beau coming after.

Toward an enshadowed stone archway they rode, with great iron gates standing open. Atop the castellated walls with its merlons and crenels, Tip could glimpse warriors standing ward, peering down from the battlements to watch the strangers approach. But then Tip's eye was drawn downward toward the arch, where a tunnel led under the wall, and he could see the fangs of a raised portcullis within. Into his shadowy passage they went, horses' hooves aclatter on the cobbled pave, and overhead in the stone ceiling above, machicolations-murder holes-gaped darkly, and somewhere above stood vats of oil to pour burning down on any invader who had breached the gates. And high along each side of the passage were arrow slits, set to rain piercing death.

The corridor itself wrenched 'round a sharp corner and then another beyond, the turns set there to prevent the passage of heavy rams and other engines of siegecraft. And beyond the second turn another archway stood, daylight streaming inward.

Beneath another recessed portcullis they rode and past the heavy panels of a second iron gate standing open, and thence into the bailey beyond.

A massive stone building loomed before them, fully six storeys high, with turrets and towers rising even higher.

The yard itself was abustle with activity and filled with Baeron men and Elves working at tasks and moving to and fro: some shoeing horses or repairing tack or cleaning stables, others haling crates and sacks and such from standing wagons and into the main building or one of the storage sheds, and still others practicing at swords and spears and other weaponry.

But to Tipperton all of these sights and sounds faded to insignificance when his wide gaze swept past the movement and stir and across the bailey to alight on a leather-clad group of archers flying arrows into dark silhouettes fastened to shocks of hay.

Small and quick were these archers, and Warrows all.