4
WARPATH
For two days now, Oren had kept his hood on, and he had made sure that Katarina did the same. He offered no explanation, and little conversation. On the third day, the road descended out of the hills of southern Melloren and into a broad, rocky plain of low grass and few trees.
"We have passed beyond the furthest human settlements of the Border Kingdoms," Oren said. “Men do not often travel this road, but they do watch it, and that never means anything but trouble if you catch their eye.” He leaned back, and looked at Katarina. The excitement of adventure had faded from her face. It had been replaced by the look of frustrated resignation which is often evoked by uneventful or tiresome travel.
"Where are we going, anyway?" And when are you going to start training me?
"Amaru." The elf frowned. "For now, at least. It was, many years ago, the inland outpost of the Borinken. The last time I passed that way, it had become a pleasant little town. We will resupply there before we move on to our real destination." He looked around as though he were about to tell a secret. "We make for Kilara's Keep."
Kilara's Keep! "That's where the Pelethites were once trained!"
"Indeed it was, little miss." Oren sighed. "Tell me, what do you know of it?"
Not much. "I know it was built by Kilara of Black Lake in the elder days, and that she created a Trial to test the hearts of those who would be Pelethites." She looked to Oren for a reply, but he remained silent.
Oren passed her a handful of dried figs. "There is much more to the Trial than a test of courage,” he said. “The entire catacombs beneath the Keep is a great magical construct." His eyes looked into the distance, and he sighed. "It is certain that she had some help in its design from the Menelek, those ancient masters of the magical arts who are thought by most of the world to have passed into legend. They are, of course, still at large in the world, but have for a long time kept to themselves. However, no one knows whether the power of the Keep remains intact, and I myself have not come near it in almost three hundred years."
Katarina ate the fruit and stared at the old elf. "Why are we going there?" Am I to face the Trial and become a Pelethite?
"You are asking better questions already." Oren smiled. "Our reason for going there is twofold. I felt it would be the best place to begin your training in earnest. However, if any notion of attempting the Trial has entered your thoughts you had best forget it, for now. The Trial, if it still exists, is deadly to even the most seasoned warriors." His eyes narrowed. "The other half of our purpose there is that there are rumors that the Keep has of late become the residence of a particularly troublesome dragon."
"Are we going to kill it?" Katarina was once again filled with excitement, and not a small degree of apprehension.
"It is my hope that we shall not have to." Oren directed the cart off the road and into a broad gully that led to the river. "The pools here should make for good fishing," he said brightly, and leaped from the cart.
* * *
The mule was making short work of the winter grass on the riverbank while Katarina stacked a few more rocks around the fire. The elf was picking his way through whatever he kept in his satchel. At length he said, "Here it is!"
Kat turned to see what the elf meant. In his hands he held what seemed to be a tangle of slender cords and sticks. "Come, child. Have you learned to catch fish?"
"Yes." Katarina raised her eyebrows. "But you don't have a fishing pole."
"Poles are the way of Men, and best suited for those with nothing better to do, or who fish for sport." He unfurled the bundle, and strode into the shallows. He secured the strange device among the rocks. "More important to the true warrior than strength or speed is wisdom, little miss. And the wise do not lightly spend their energy, even for the speckled trout of Melloren." He gestured toward his contraption, which, now in the water, resembled a cage of netting. "A pukawa is easy enough to make, and will save you a great deal of time and trouble."
Kat nodded, and studied the pukawa closely. I could make one. Oren strode over to the fire and sat down. He set his boots to dry, and leaned toward Kat. He beckoned to her with a bony hand. "That trap will mind itself." As she came closer, he said, "Sit, and I will tell you about your prey, Dragonslayer."
Katarina sat down across from Oren, and wrapped her cloak around her. She looked up at the elf and saw in his emerald eyes a great melancholy that overtook the hardness of his features. There are so many questions I want to ask. She opened her mouth, but the elf motioned for silence with his hand. He looked toward the road, poked at the fire with a stick, and began to speak.
"The gasharim, or dragons, as they are commonly known, are a race even more ancient than the Elves. They came, as we learned over the ages, from the great continent to the west. The Elder Magisters named it Ra'kash, and though the great dragon lords sometimes make a pilgrimage to that dark land, only once has anyone not of dragonkind ventured there and returned. Of that matter we need not yet speak, except to say that he who made the journey, Syrgestus of Yellow Knife, became the greatest magician of our kind, the first true thaumaturge, through the blessing of the Dragon Lord Moregar.
"For dragons, you must understand, are not mere beasts. The dragon lords were once able to bless and to curse, and some believe that they are the agents of the Maker. Whatever the truth might be, they are powerful and wise, and are eminently dangerous when roused. Why they came here from their own lands it is not known, for they keep close their own counsels and do not often reveal their mind to others. Indeed, the elder dragons are known to regard even the most ancient elves as children.
"It was Moregar, the first of the dragon lords, who formed the great Covenant long ago, and to this day, even in its waning power it binds the dragons of Pellorea to the ways of truth and righteousness, and to the defense of Pellorea from evil dragons who might come from Ra'kash. Rare indeed it is for a dragon to lie outright, though a wicked or mischievous dragon may still deceive through subtle speech. Only a few have gone so far as to wholly turn to evil, and more often than not such dragons have met their end at the talons of the dragon lords."
"Why is the power of the Covenant failing?" Katarina asked, and then bit her lip. The elf showed no sign of annoyance at the interruption, but nodded, and adding a small log to the fire, continued.
"Have you never heard of the Fetters of Wizardry?" Oren looked at the girl, who nodded. "Even the dragons, whose very life is magical, were diminished somewhat by that accursed construct. Thus the Covenant itself was weakened also, and in these last few centuries more dragons have turned to wickedness. What purpose the Stone Prophets had in leaving it behind when they departed our lands, I know not. I suspect, however, that there is a connection between the dragons and the Fetters, and it is my hope that my studies of them may reveal it." His face darkened, and he was silent for several minutes.
Kat stared at him. Did I offend him?
Oren jumped to his feet. "Let us see what dinner we have caught."
* * *
Kat turned the big trout on the makeshift spit. Nearly done, and the others are drying nicely. Where is Oren? The old elf had thrown her the pukawa full of fish, and left her to prepare them while he went up the gully with only a motion of his hands to tell her not to follow.
Even the mule is still. As the minutes passed, quiet engulfed the gully, until Katarina could hear only the fire and her own breathing. What could it be? Oren seemed to think it was safe enough here.
She stifled a cry when the elf emerged from the shadows without a sound. His face was grim, and his eyes seemed to glow with palpable fury. His cloak was thrust behind him, and in the flickering light of the campfire Kat could see that his homespun shirt of brown linen had been badly torn. Beneath it scales of iridescent blackness gleamed. Dragon hide! He came closer, and Kat saw that in his hands were great broad daggers of marvelous workmanship. Of a single piece, the jeweled hilts rose into blades that spread into three points, dripping with blood.
Kat rose to her feet, and made to draw her swords, but a look from Oren checked her. He secured the mule to the cart. "Gather the fish, but let the fire burn itself out. We leave at once."
Kat did as he said, but shot him a questioning look. Oren strode over to her and tore a piece of hemp from her vest. He dipped it in a puddle, and then hurled it across the river. "Now cover your scent. I know that you know how."
"What is it?" Kat mixed her herb-and-mud paste and swiftly applied it. I guess this does work.
"Trolls!" Oren hissed. "I killed a pair of scouts about a quarter of a mile from here." Kat jumped into the cart, and took the reins as Oren stalked ahead. When they gained the road, the elf leaped into the bed of the cart and made a low clacking noise. The mule's ambling gait became a canter, and then a gallop. "I hid the bodies as best as one can hide such things in a hurry. We have perhaps two hours before they are missed, and if I know anything about trolls," he said, looking quickly about, "there's a war party of at least two hundred afoot. We ride till dawn!"
* * *
He can't keep this pace much longer. The mule, however, showed no sign of slowing after nearly an hour. Kat stayed as low as she could on the seat, and Oren, who'd taken on a bearing of menacing watchfulness, crouched in the rear. Overhead, the moon threatened to tear through the clouds and reveal their position.
"I thought Melloren was at peace with the trolls." Katarina glanced over her shoulder, and beyond the broad shoulders of the old Elven war-master she could see pinpoints of amber light. They're at least twelve miles behind us. Maybe they can't see us.
"Child, there are as many kinds of trolls as there are colors of elves." Oren's hands remained in the shadow of the cart, but they still gripped his weapons. "Melloren has long been at peace with the trolls who live under the forest, but we have only been uneasy friends with the trolls of the Glass Hills this past century, and the Rephaim of Norosh have never been at peace with anyone."
Kat looked back again, and imagined that the trolls had found their camp by the river. "Are these Rephaim?"
"No, they never come so far south," Oren said. He exhaled sharply, and stared at the distant lights. "These are from Anqash in the Glass Hills. Blue Hand clan, from what I saw."
"I've never heard of them."
"Be thankful that you haven't. They do not often raid on the plains, and it appears that they are looking for someone, or something."
"Then why did you kill the scouts?" Katarina looked back again. The lights are getting closer.
"Keep your eyes on the road ahead." Oren studied the plains behind them. They turn west toward the gully. "Even if they are on the warpath, their hatred for the Elven peoples is proverbial. Their scouts would have either reported our whereabouts and brought the whole party upon us, or else they might have thought to make a meal of us if they could."
“What about the treaty?”
Oren shrugged. “Even the best of treaties rarely has effect in the wild places of the world.”
Katarina shuddered, and peered ahead. The mule was starting to tire. We'll have to stop soon. What will we do if they overtake us? Oren can't fight them all.
The old warrior looked over his shoulder, then tapped the backrest with his elbow. "Make for that hill just off the road to your right. It should provide some cover while the mule takes a rest."
The cart came to a stop on the south side of the hill, and Oren hopped out. He sheathed one of his weapons and produced a bristled mitt from the cart bed. "A long rest would be better," he said, "but when matters call for haste, skilled grooming can work wonders." He brushed and stroked the trembling mule, whispering in the Elven tongue.
Katarina climbed a small tree and tried to make out the war party to the north. She squinted hard, and her vision blurred, but for a moment she thought she could see the blue-skinned trolls with their weapons of iron and their huge war-chief waving a great axe. I'm seeing things, she thought. She wrapped her cloak tightly around her, and closed her eyes.
Oren roused the mule from its brief slumber and motioned for Kat to take the reins again. She hopped down from the stunted tree and looked up. The clouds had moved on. A bright half-moon cast its pale blue light on the hill, and the south wind was blowing. They'll see us now.
A dark form dropped out of the sky and landed on Oren's shoulder. The elf whispered to the crow, who seemed to nod as it made low warbling sounds. "They have found the bodies, that is for certain, but they have not turned south yet." Oren climbed into the cart bed. "Let us be on our way." Kat flicked the reins. The road was bright beneath the moon, but to Kat it now seemed shadowed and full of nameless terrors.
Twenty minutes later, Oren laid a hand on Katarina's shoulder. "Look back if you must, but do not give in to fear."
Kat looked over her shoulder. "They have turned south! Do you think they see us?" They look to be only a few miles off.
"I doubt it. The trolls of the hills are somewhat near-sighted, as the Elves would regard it. Our scent we have disguised, though it is nearly certain they have smelled the mule." The elf shifted his weight. "The prudent thing to do would be to set the beast loose, or even tie him to a tree as bait so that we can make good our escape. However, this old brute has served me long and well, and I will not abandon him to their cruelty." Oren whispered something to Kalanhu, and the crow flew off into the night." He took out a small pouch and sprinkled a white powder behind them as they went along. "This will cause our dust to settle, and may lead them to believe we have turned aside. Even so, we may have to fight, though the prospect of victory is grim indeed."
Katarina said nothing. She looked ahead, and saw that the overgrown gravel was giving way to cracked and split paving stones. We'll leave less of a trail now. The road dropped sharply, and Katarina gripped the backrest to keep from falling. In moments they rode in the shadow of the valley's rim. "We have some cover now," she said.
Oren chuckled darkly. "No, what we have here in the Valley of Achor is concealment, and that only until the moon sets." He pointed, and Kat saw that the western edge of the valley was broken and ragged, and much lower. "Cover provides protection, like a boulder, or a wall, or a very large tree trunk. Here in the shadows we are unseen, but an arrow could still find its mark. Never forget the difference." He stared at the northern rim. We will not see them until they are nearly upon us.