Once more Bram blew, his essay so fierce that he fell whump! on his bottom. And again Elyn’s and Arianne’s laughter rang forth, tears of merriment streaming down each face.
And Ruric stepped forth from the enshadowed doorway and into the ruddy firelight, his armor casting back scarlet glints, except where stained darkly with the blood of a Prince slain five days past, a stain now seeping with the soak of the rain.
Faces full of mirth, both Elyn and Arianne looked up to see the travel-worn Armsmaster, bespattered with mud, water dripping from drenched cloak. “Ruric!” exclaimed Elyn, yet with but a glance she knew something dire was amiss. Arianne, too, sensed a doom; “Elgo,” she breathed, clenching her fists, bracing, but said no more. And both Women held themselves in check as Ruric knelt upon one knee.
“Princess”-whom he addressed, Elyn or Arianne, it is not certain-“my Lord Elgo be slain-”
— What he said beyond that, Arianne did not hear, for a great numbness fell upon her spirit, and she felt as if her heart had died in that dreadful moment-
“-by the hand o’ Brak, DelfLord o’ Kachar, whom Elgo slew in return-”
— Elyn could not believe the words that were coming from Ruric’s lips, and she stooped and picked up Bram, holding onto the child as if he were an oak in a windstorm-
Ruric’s words went on, yet Elyn did not hear aught till “-a courier to fetch King Aranor, for War be upon us-”
At that moment from the bailey below came the mournful funeral knell of the Vanadurin, the black-oxen horn slowly calling out far and wide to all within hearing that Prince Elgo was slain in combat: Roon!. . Roon!. . Roon!
And in that same moment Arianne slumped to the floor unconscious, her mind and heart and soul fleeing into oblivion, while outside the bleak sky wept cold grey tears.
The next day, under a somber overcast, Elgo was laid to rest among the barrow mounds. He was dressed in full armor, and his weaponry and shield-battered and scarred by Dwarven axe-were interred with him, a new saber in his scabbard. Too, in a mound alongside their Prince, Bargo as well as the four slain in Kaagor Pass-Brade, Pwyl, Larr, and Fenn-were laid to eternal rest as well.
During the ceremonies, Elyn glanced up to see five warriors standing across from her on the opposite side of Elgo’s grave: Arlan, Reynor, Roka, Ruric, and Young Kemp. Five warriors: none else lived from the forty-one that had ridden forth to slay Sleeth.
Desolate, Ruric knelt at the graveside; and he reached down and pressed a small golden coin into his dead Prince’s palm, closing Elgo’s cold fist about it-a coin retrieved from a blood-stained floor of a stone Dwarvenholt, a coin that in more ways than one had led to the death of this proud youth.
Eyes filled with tears, the Armsmaster stood, and solemn attendants carefully covered the Prince. And then they began lading the barrow with sweet earth, mounding it, mantling all with green turves, while stricken mourners stood beneath drear skies, stood grieving while Elgo was buried, the dead youth clad in princely raiment, bearing his arms, wearing his armor, and grasping a small golden coin.
Late that day, Elyn set out from the castle, riding forth upon the plains in the long light of the foredusk, Elgo’s horse, Shade, on a trailing tether behind. A time she rode until at last she came unto the Kingsherd, and there she dismounted and loosened the bridle, slipping it away from Shade’s head. “Run free, black horse, run free,” whispered Elyn, her eyes brimming. “Run as Elgo would have you, could he but say. . ” Suddenly Elyn’s grief welled up within, and bitter tears choked her; and she held onto Shade sobbing, the black standing patiently, nickering softly, while a Princess clasped him about the neck and wept for a brother slain.
Four days following, in early afternoon, King Aranor rode in with his retinue, his eyes bleak with unresolved grief. He had set forth but a month or so past, and all was well within his Realm. He had concluded an agreement with the Naudron that would set to rest this eternal skirmishing between them, exchanging a gift of horses for a gift of falcons, sealing the treaty. But now all seemed shambles, for three days past as his train fared southwesterly toward the castle, a courier had come galloping among them bearing dire news: his son was slain and his nation verged upon War.
On the steps before the great oaken doors stood Arianne, and at her side Bram. Elyn, too, awaited the King, as well as Mala. Wearily, Aranor dismounted, handing the reins of Flame to an attendant. “Bear word to those who accompanied Elgo on his fated mission to Kachar,” he grated to a nearby page. “I would see them in the War room at sunset.”
With leaden feet, Aranor trudged up the steps, and Arianne stepped forward and embraced him and kissed him on the cheek, her eyes laden with tears. Elyn, too, clasped her sire, hugging him long ere loosing him, though her eyes remained dry. Aranor bent down and swept up Bram, pressing the child close unto him, turning his face away, peering to the west so that none could see his grief. And Bram’s small hands tugged at Aranor’s red-gold beard, age-streaked with grey; and Mala would have taken the child then, but Aranor shook his head, for Elgo as a wee bairn had done the same. Then it was that grief came unto the King, and with tears streaming down his face, he clasped Bram in his strong arms and strode across the bailey and out the foregate and unto the barrows. And none followed him on his pilgrimage. And only Bram heard what he had to say.
Aranor entered a room illumed by horizontal rays of the foredusk Sun, and at a small table before a window sat Elyn, her saber in one hand, a whetstone in the other, sharpening the weapon’s edge to a bitter keenness, the upheld blade slicing the very sunlight itself, the orange rays slashed into glittering shards where sunbeam met steel. Sshkk, sshkk, sounded stone on metal. Sshkk, sshkk. Methodically, slowly, her hands drew the oiled hone along the cutting edge. Sshkk, sshkk. Behind her, soft grey leathers hung upon a stand, readied for combat, her black-oxen horn adrape o’er a shoulder. Too, Aranor could see that her bow gleamed with wax, and full quivers depended from wall pegs, the green-fletched arrows carefully arranged. There as well leaned her spear-lance, sharpened blade glistening. Sshkk, sshkk.
Before the open fire stood Arianne, gazing into its depths as if seeking a vision beyond seeing. She did not look up as Aranor stepped to her side. And he took her chin in his hand and turned her face to his. Her eyes were sunken in dark hollows, and were filled with a desolation nearly beyond bearing. Aranor’s hand dropped back to his side, and his words fell softly: “Daughter, they tell me that you’ve eaten little, and spend your time within the private quarters, ne’er joining the others below.”
Sshkk, sshkk.
Arianne turned her face to the fire once more, her lashes trembling with unshed tears. Her voice came low, and was filled with a soft agony: “Oh, Sire, why did Adon take him from me? My heart’s very beat is gone. My breath is no more. My blood has fled. I want to die.”
Again Aranor reached out to her, gently taking her by the shoulders and swinging her to face him. “I’ll not answer for the Allfather, my Daughter, for only He knows His plan, only He can pierce the veil of what was, and what is to be. But this I do know, Child: ye must press on, keep up your strength, for Bram needs ye. And wee Bram is all we have left of Elgo.”
Arianne’s soft reply was nigh lost in the pop of burning log. “Yes, Bram needs me. But I need Elgo. He was my life.”