“He was my son.”
He was my brother. Sshkk, sshkk.
“He was my love.”
“He was my heir.”
He was my twin. Sshkk, sshkk.
“Ah, god, my soul is filled with grief.”
“. . with regret.”
. . with hatred. Sshkk, sshkk.
“I would have solace.”
“. . justice.”
. . revenge. Sshkk, sshkk.
Slowly the rays of the Sun crept up the far wall as the golden orb slid down the sky, the disk now sinking beyond the far horizon. None said aught, the only sounds being the siss of the fire and the steady sshkk, sshkk of hone on steel. What thoughts spun through the webs of their minds, it is not known. But at last the hush was broken:
“We will get them, Father.” Elyn’s voice was low-sshkk, sshkk-barely audible, her eyes focused upon the razor-sharp saber, her gaze burning with a bitter fire. “They will pay. They will pay.”
Now Aranor stepped to his daughter’s side, the King reaching out his hand and stilling the whetstone, removing it from Elyn’s grasp and setting it down next to the oil flask on the table beside her scabbard.
With deliberate slowness, Elyn laid the saber across her knees and then looked up at her father, a darkness deep within her eyes. “I ready for War, Sire.”
“Nay, Elyn, you ready for the coming of Death.” Aranor’s voice held a chill bite. “I have seen this look of yours upon the faces of other warriors as they, too, prepared for battle, and they did not survive to tell of it.”
“He was my twin,” she whispered, as if that explained all. “He was my twin.”
“Aye, twin yes,” answered Aranor, “but that gives you no leave to think of”-his words struck with deadly accuracy-“riding alone among the teeming enemy, reaping their blood to pay for that which they took from us, riding alone into battle to wreak a vengeance beyond bearing, knowing that Death will find you hacking and slashing unto the very end.”
“But that’s what I would do, Sire!”-her voice filled with venom-“Slay as many as I can before they bring me down.”
With an agonized cry, Arianne ran from the chamber ere any could stop her, though Aranor called out, “Arianne!” Yet Elgo’s widow heeded him not, and was gone.
Wearily, the King dropped into a seat opposite Elyn, the small table between them, fatigue dragging at his frame. “Now list to me, Daughter: Once I promised you that none would gainsay your right to ride into battle. . and none shall. Still, War is come upon us, and this is what I propose to do: I mean to take the battle unto Kachar, unto the very Dwarvenholt itself.
“Yet, even though the War be fought in a distant Land below the heights, still, this castle may not remain safe. The Dwarves might think to send an army by secret mountain ways to assail the keep while I and mine Host swarm upon the slopes before the iron gates of their Realm. Too, other enemies of Jord might think to attack this place during the time we are away.
“Hence, Bram must be taken to safe haven, for he is the living heir of Elgo, and now is next in line to take my place and be King. And so I deem that Arianne and Bram must ride under escort unto Riamon, and stay with her sire, Hagor, until this matter be settled.
“There is this as welclass="underline" should I fall, Jord will need a strong hand to guide it until Bram has reached his majority.
“Elyn, that hand must be yours.” Aranor held up a palm to forestall the protests springing to Elyn’s lips. “Hear me out, Daughter: The Realm needs a Steward, a Guardian, one who can rally the Castleward if need be, to protect these walls, someone skilled in the ways of battle to keep the castle safe. And I need someone to rule here in my stead while the War is carried out in a distant Land. You have served frontier duty and know how a fortress is to be defended. Too, you know that no army can remain long afield without proper supplies, and you have the training to know what is needed. And these Dwarves will hole up in that mountain fastness of theirs, and we will be long in the field.
“Finally, there is this: Those remaining behind need to know that the royal family has not abandoned them. I will be at War before the gates of Kachar. Bram and Arianne will be gone to Riamon, to safety. That leaves you, Daughter: the one best fitted to serve as the heart of the Land; the one best fitted to serve as lifeline to mine Host; and the one best fitted to ward the Realm in my absence; and lastly, the one best fitted to serve as Steward should Death claim me.
“Again I say that none shall bar your way should you decide to ride to War, for you are a Warrior Maiden. Yet often it is that Duty has each of us hew to a course not of our liking or choosing. You may ride to War if you so choose. But should we both fall, then Jord may fall too.”
Aranor fell silent, and but for the occasional crack of the small fire aburning, a stillness descended upon the room. Elyn sat unmoving, staring down at the saber lying across her knees, its edge winging glints of cloven light unto a gaze filled with bitter tears. Long they sat thus, father and daughter, sire and get, and slowly the Sun slid below the horizon.
Aranor cleared his throat. “You need not make your decision now, for it is dusk, and we need be in council. But it is there that I expect your answer, among all the counsellors, for plans need be made, and in the end your decision will sway what we say and do.”
Aranor stood and reached out his hand, but it was long ere Elyn responded, for tears blurred her vision. But at last she grasped her saber in her left and slipped her right in his and rose to her feet. Taking up her scabbard, she sheathed the glittering blade, and turned and stepped to the armor stand. For a lengthy time she stood with her back to the King, gazing at her readied accouterments. Finally she squared her shoulders and swiftly looped the scabbard belt diagonally across her racked leathers. “Let us begone, Sire,” she said, turning, tears glistening upon her cheeks, and together they strode from the chamber, leaving the weaponry of War behind.
“Aye, Sire,” rumbled Ruric, “if ye be looking for any to blame in this, then it be me, for the Prince was under my care when we sallied into Kachar. I should ha’e seen it in his eye. That the Prince strode unto Brak’s throne wi’ such an insult wrapped in cloth, ’tis no surprise now that I look back on it. My fault plain and simple. I should ha’e guessed. . I should ha’e guessed.”
Aranor gazed across the great map table at the Armsmaster. At Ruric’s side stood Reynor, and flanking them were Arlan and Roka to the left, and Young Kemp to the right. At Aranor’s right hand stood Elyn, slender as a willow reed in her dark leathers. Torchlight and candles illumed the hall, driving back the shadows creeping inward with the waning dusk. “Nay, Armsmaster”-Aranor’s voice was filled with bitterness-“the blame lies not here within this chamber. Instead it rests squarely upon those who seek to gain that which they abandoned long ago: Damn those grasping Dwarves! Such a claim. Such an outrageous claim!” The clench of Aranor’s fist crashed down upon the table, and rage flared in his eyes. But then his gaze softened. “Yet would I give it all, and gladly, if it would but restore Elgo to the living.”
The King fell silent, and long moments stretched out within the shadow-wrapped room. And nought was said by any to break the moody dolor. At last Aranor stirred. “All things come clear in hindsight, Old Wolf,” growled the King, “so take no blame upon yourself. Elgo’s pride was his undoing, as well as that of Brak.
“But this assailing of emissaries. .” Aranor’s voice dropped into silence.
Reynor glanced at his comrades, guilt showing in their very stances. “Sire, I do not deny my own wrongdoing. The Prince that I loved was dead by the hand of these Dwarves, Bargo too, and when Brade charged forth and was slaughtered by bolt, my rage knew no bounds. Given the chance, I would have slain them all, yet Armsmaster Ruric stayed my hand.