And as the echoes of Ruric’s voice died, the Armsmaster looked up through tear-filled eyes to see Elgo standing in the circle, weak and trembling, yet somehow the burnt-faced, one-eyed warrior had managed to join the arc of mourners.
“What day is it, Ruric?” asked Elgo, his voice faint and thready as he leaned upon Reynor while making his way slowly back to the wain.
“ ’Tis the twenty-fifth, my Prince,” answered the Armsmaster, “four days past Year’s Long Day.”
Elgo’s gaze swept up to the Sun. “When left you the gates of Blackstone?”
“At dawning, Lord.” Ruric began to see where Elgo’s thoughts were taking him.
“Then it has taken twice as long to come back out as it did when we first rode in.” The Prince’s tone was matter-of-fact.
“The load we bear is massive, my Lord.” Reynor’s voice was filled with subdued pride. “Sleeth’s bed was greater than any could imagine.”
The Prince turned to the youthful warrior. “I would see this treasure, friend.”
Aided by Reynor and Ruric, Elgo slowly walked from waggon to waggon, inspecting the trove, a hoard nigh beyond counting. And when they came to the last wain the Prince crawled inside and sat upon his bedding. “Reynor, take Young Kemp and what rations you’ll need and ride for the rendezvous on the Boreal Sea. Tell Arik we’ll be late, but hold the boats. We’ll come draggling in as fast as may be, yet exactly when, I cannot say. I’ll send another rider as we get a better gauge on our progress.”
As Reynor and Young Kemp set about preparing for a swift ride north, Elgo looked at Ruric, and then to the eight mounds. “A vast hoard, Armsmaster, yet bought at a dear price.” Ruric nodded, his own gaze straying across Elgo’s acid-galled face set with a black eye patch.
Alda stepped to wainside, bearing a potion. “Rach, Alda,” growled Elgo, “I would have meat and drink, not herb tea.”
Alda smiled, and inclined his head toward Pwyl, who was at that very moment approaching the waggon, carrying a cut of meat and a chunk of waybread and a canteen of water. “You shall have both, my Lord,” said the younger healer.
The original mission plan had called for a journey of three weeks to get to Blackstone from the Boreal Sea, with five weeks allotted for the return. Yet it was six weeks ere the Vanadurin Warband reached the shores of the water. There they found Reynor and Young Kemp, who had been the first sent ahead, and Arlan, who had followed some two weeks later-once the speed of the column had been well estimated-bearing news to be given to Arik and the Fjordsmen as to when the remainder of the waggon-paced Warband might be expected to arrive.
Yet Arik and the Dragonboats were not there.
“How long do we wait, m’Lord?” Young Kemp’s question was upon all of their minds.
“Mayhap a month, Kemp, but no longer,” came Elgo’s reply, as he stood and stirred the campfire, the Prince’s eye patch dark in the nighttide, the acid burns nearly healed, a ruddy scarring upon the brow and along the left temple. “At the rate these wains travel, we’ll be hard pressed to reach any civilization before snow flies.”
“Aye,” agreed Ruric, “for if the Fjordsmen do not come, then we could fare southward along the Rigga Mountains, through Rian and into Rhone, making for the Crestan Pass. But I deem it will be snowed in by the time we get there; and if we choose that route from here, we will ha’e to winter at the foot o’ the col there along the Grimwall.”
“But isn’t Drearwood along that course?” Reynor’s question caused the Harlingar to eye each other uneasily, for Drearwood was a place of dire repute, a grim land shunned by all except those who had no choice but to pass through that dim forest, or those who sought fame. Many was the bard’s tale that spoke of those vile environs, of half-glimpsed monsters beaten off in the dark, of bands of travellers who had entered, never to be seen again.
“Aye”-Ruric nodded-“but ’tis that or fare across the wide end o’ the wedge o’ the Angle o’ Gron.” Again the Vanadurin glanced at one another, many shaking their heads, for they would not willingly cross into Modru’s bleak Realm, even though it was said that the foul Wizard was fled into the Barrens, into the northern wastes.
“We could winter back in Blackstone,” Arlan suggested, “though I would not care to spend the long cold nights in that dark hole of a stone cavern.”
“Nay,” grunted Elgo, “not Blackstone. We have not much grain for the steeds, and to winter in Blackstone, or anywhere else for that matter, will require fodder to see them through to the spring. And there’s nought such at that abandoned Dwarvenholt. We will make for Challerain Keep instead, e’en though it lies southerly, and we would fare east given a choice.”
“What I mislike, my Lord,” growled Ruric, “be this making o’ plans to traipse about the ’scape lugging a great hoard wi’ us. Why, we’ll be the target o’ every brigand in all o’ Mithgar, once the word gets out. Dracongield, pah!”
“Rach,” spat Young Kemp, “where be them Fjordsmen?”
Indeed, where do be the Fjordsmen? Ruric’s thoughts reflected what all wished to know. This be another thing that escaped our cunning plans.
Over the next week the Vanadurin speculated often as to the whereabouts of their allies. Some deemed that perhaps Arik and his band of raiders had met with a dire fate in Jute; others thought mayhap the Dragonboats had been lost at sea; some voiced belief that the raider Captain had not abandoned them, yet perhaps this was to convince not only others but themselves as well. Regardless, they had no way of quickly ascertaining why the boats were not here, and so they settled in for a month-long stay, knowing that Elgo planned on making for Challerain Keep had Arik not arrived by the end of that time.
The horses were pastured in a nearby green vale, feeding on rich summer grass and clover, what little grain remained from their original stores being saved for their planned voyage back to Skaldfjord. . or being saved for an unanticipated southward trek should it come to that.
Lean-tos were constructed as shelters, saplings being cut from the thickets close at hand.
Arlan the hunter led small forays into the nearby hills, bringing venison to the spits of the camp. And Alda, having been raised in a seaside village, showed Reynor and Elgo and others how to draw fish from the waters; even Armsmaster Ruric joined in this effort, proving singularly inept at the sport. And Young Kemp and Pwyl brought roots and tubers down from the hills to throw into the cooking pots. In all, it was an idyllic time, except for the fretting over the Fjordsmen.
The eighth day dawned to dark clouds hanging low upon the brim of the western sea. Foam scudded on the waters, and wind swirled angrily along the shore. The air burgeoned with the promise of a heavy storm, and Men shook out their oiled rain-cloaks.
Slowly the clouds marched eastward, ramping high up into the darkling sky by midmorn. The wind grew stronger with every passing hour, and waves rolled over the sea in long curling combers.
And as the blustering day pressed toward a sunless noon, from the brow of the hill where stood the lookout came a horncry, the pattern lost in the wind. Reynor glanced up at this faint sound, wondering at its source; and he saw the sentry gesticulating frantically, pointing westward.
“My Lord,” Reynor called out to Elgo, “Haldor espies something.”
Elgo got to his feet and looked at the sentinel’s broad gestures; and the Prince began jog-trotting toward the tor, his gait quickening; and as he ran, the wind at last carried Haldor’s words unto him. “Sails ho!” was the sentry’s cry. “Sails ho!”
And there upon the foam-wracked waves, framed by the black sky behind, came three Dragonboats, racing before the wind.
“Surfbison lies at the bottom o’ the sea, burnt and sunk.” Ariks’ voice was grim. “The Jutlanders are somewhere behind us; a fleet pursues, though I deem this storm ha’ driven them to land, and mayhap will throw them from our track. E’en so, Prince Elgo, we must get ready now to load yer goods when the sea will permit, for as soon as the blow is past, we’ve got to take to the deeps; Atli’s Men follow our wake, though Atli himself no longer walks among the living.”