“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.
CHAPTER 16
Early Summer, 3E1601
[Last Year]
Ruric, Reynor, and Pwyl-the senior of the two healers in the Warband-led Elgo out across the courtyard, the Prince in such agony that his breath came in moaning gasps between clenched teeth. From forehead to cheek, the left side of his face was nought but a fiery wound, his eye a burning hole in his face.
They took him to the crystalline stream gurging below the wall. “My Lord,” bade Pwyl, “lie on your stomach here at stream’s edge. Take a deep breath and hold your face in the clear water for as long as you can bear; the dregs of the Dragon spume must be washed away. Force open your left eye-use your fingers if you must-for the orb and lid must be washed clean; blink if you can, else let the waters flow o’er open eye.”
Belly-down, Elgo took in a great gasp of air and plunged his head into the water, and a moan escaped his clamped lips as his scored face met the icy chill. Long he held his visage under, but came blowing to the surface at last. And he sucked in gulps of air until he’d caught his wind. Wiping water from his right eye he looked at the Armsmaster squatting alongside the gurging rill, bitterness in his one-eyed gaze. “I did not think, Ruric! I did not think! It never entered my thoughts to question the speed of a charging Drake,” gritted Elgo, “and because of that, good Men died.”
“My Lord,” admonished Pwyl, “talk not; instead, immerse your face in the stream over and again until the water has done its work.”
Once more Elgo thrust his features into the cold rush.
“My Prince,” growled Ruric, “it entered none o’ our thoughts to ask after the speed o’ a Dragon in his lair. Hold yerself not at fault for such.”
Again Elgo surfaced, gasping and wheezing.
“My Lord Elgo,” said Reynor, “we all knew the risk we took when we went into the Dragonholt; that perhaps some would die was in all of our minds. Yet we went in gladly, knowing that we served the Realm.”
“Realm, Hèl,” responded Elgo, and would have continued, except Pwyl’s words cut him off-
– “The water, my Lord, the water.”
Time and again Elgo plunged his face into the chill stream, its soothing coolth flowing o’er his tormented features. Yet the water could not take away the hideous agony within his left eye socket, and only partly did it soothe the fiery burn raging leftward along his forehead and down beside his eye.
Finally the healer closely examined the Prince’s face. “Well, Pwyl,” Elgo asked, “what say you?”
Pwyl, heedful of the raw flesh, carefully studied the acid scoring, confirming what he already feared: the quilted cloth mask that Elgo had worn had protected his face somewhat from the splash of Dragon spray, perhaps due to the limestone and charcoal; yet along the left, the unshielded skin had been dreadfully seared, and the eye itself had been holed. “Your brow and temple will heal scarred, my Lord,” answered Pwyl finally, “but the eye is lost. What little remains must be removed, else it will rot and kill you with its poisons.”
Elgo blenched to hear such dire news, yet with his one good eye he looked Pwyl square on. “Then have at it, old fox. And, Reynor, make me a patch; I shall be as Thorgald of old.”
Pwyl put away his pitifully few instruments, the grisly business done: tweezers and small fine knife as well as a narrow searing blade used for cauterization. The Prince, still drugged with a sleeping potion, lay upon blankets within the west chamber, his acid-burned face smeared with a salve, his left eye covered with the black-leather patch Reynor had made.