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.