Just ere mid of night of the second day, Thork quietly rose up from his cot and donned his winter garb and stepped unto the gate. He spoke the name of the Allfather and trod out into the crystal dark. Long he stood, peering at the spangle above, his voice whispering unto Elwydd. For it was Year’s Long Night, and he repeated the great litany, the Starlight Invocation, unto the Giver of Life, his words in Châkur, the Dwarven tongue. And to the invocation he appended words of his own, but what he said is not recorded.
And when he turned and came back inside, there he found Elyn waiting at the open gate, wrapped in a blanket, her saber in hand, ready to ward him should trouble be afoot. Assured that he was alright, saying not a word, she padded back to her cot and fell again into sleep, while behind, Thork watched her go, his eyes filled with unfathomable emotions.
Thus passed two more days for the twain, days spent planning, resting, contemplating, regaining their energy, going through their belongings, abandoning that which was not absolutely necessary, or that which they could bring themselves to leave behind, lightening their loads, until at last it was time to press onward.
And early on the morn of the following day, Elyn and Thork restored the tapestry to its hooks along the wall-except for that first night and next morning, they had not again huddled together under its warmth, instead bunking down upon the cots provided in the chamber within-and after the wall hanging was replaced, they gathered up their gear and stepped to the iron gates, opening them with the name of the Allfather.
Angling downslope, around the shoulder of the mountain they went, aiming to the north, Andrak’s holt their goal.
Behind them, the carven iron gates swung to, closing off the seven chambers within, and the myriad unexplored rooms hidden beyond, concealing the Mages in deep sleep, a sleep that had lasted for sixteen centuries and would last millennia more, as the Magi made ready for the final confrontation, preparing for the prophesied apocalyptic War. And when and if the Wizards ever awakened, they would discover abandoned in the outer chambers two saddles, bridles and bits, saddlebags of grain, a small amount of warm-weather clothing sized to fit a Dwarf and a slender Human, and a Harlingar spear and a Dwarven warhammer leaning against a wall. And the Mages would nod sagely, and perhaps sadly, knowing the tale of the twain who temporarily gained refuge herein.
But that was yet to be, and in this time and place, the two now trudged northward and downward through the deep snow, seeking a dark castle and what lay within.
And in a dark room within that dark castle, an invisible aura about a silveron warhammer shouted out for any who had the power to perceive, that a champion, that two champions, were coming to claim the Kammerling.
CHAPTER 32
The Quest of Black Mountain: Elyn
Early and Mid summer, 3E1602
[This Year]
Groggily, Elyn opened her eyes. Framed by the blue sky, Mala’s features swam into view, fretting, and the Princess wondered why she was lying down, her head cradled in her aunt’s lap. Momentarily confused, Elyn groaned and looked left, seeing a shattered stone wall. With a rush, memories flooded back: Black Kalgalath! The keep!
The Princess started up, and pain lanced throughout her being-“No, no!” cried Mala. “Don’t move! Devon is on the way.”-and Elyn fell back. Now she remembered the Drake whelming her into a wall.
Slowly, gingerly, over Mala’s protests, Elyn rolled leftward and pushed herself up into a sitting position. All about, the stone of the keep lay in ruin, the main tower of the castle nought but rubble. Groaning, the Warrior Maiden stood, Mala gaining her feet as well, lending support to the Princess.
Elyn could hear moans coming from the wreckage. “Get them help,” she hissed through teeth clenched against the pain. “They’re trapped, hurt, broken; mayhap some are slain.”
“Help is on the way,” responded Mala. “It was the first thing I called for after that monster took wing.”
In that moment, Old Devon came picking his way through the ruins. As the healer examined the Princess, Elyn asked, “Who dragged me from the wall where Black Kalgalath hammered me?”
Mala answered, “I got you out when he went to tear down the gate-”
“Here, get her to a bed and give her this,” interrupted Devon, handing Mala a small vial taken from his healer’s bag. And ere Elyn could protest: “Dispute me not, my Princess. You’ve taken a nasty hammering. Black and blue all over tomorrow. The Realm needs you, but it needs you healthy, not banged up. Now go! I’ve got more important things to do than to argue with a stubborn Woman.”
From other parts of the ruins came members of the Castleward bearing victims of Black Kalgalath, the rescuers calling for healers. Devon turned his back upon Elyn and clambered across the rubble to aid the other wounded.
Mala led Elyn to one of the outbuildings, where she found a cot and bade the Princess to lie down. Elyn swallowed the contents of Devon’s vial, and as her aunt gently washed grime from the Princess’s face, the Warrior Maiden fell asleep.
The rest of that day and all the next the Princess slept, waking but a time or two to take long drinks and to relieve herself. And just ere dawn on the following day she awakened full. By the dim light of a small oil lamp Elyn could see Mala asleep in a chair beside her bed, the lines on her aunt’s face softened in slumber. Quietly, Elyn sat up, discovering that Old Devon had been right: she was black and blue, great bruises blotching her back and side, some on her legs as well. And she hurt. It hurt to sit still and it hurt to move. Even so, she got to her feet and gathered clothing unto herself and slowly, painfully dressed, for she was ravenously hungry.
Slipping out through the door, gritting her teeth against the soreness, the Princess slowly made her way to the dining hall of the Castleward; meals for the guards were served there at all odd hours. She entered a hall buzzing with conversation, for a shift of the ward was about to take place. As she stumped toward the mess line, talk within the hall ceased, and the old Men and boys sprang to their feet to offer aid. First to reach her was Ardu, the fourteen-year-old brother of Reynor.
“My Lady, let me help,” Ardu’s words tumbled out, and the slender yellow-haired youth caught up one of the wooden trenchers as well as a knife and spoon. Ushering her through the line, Ardu spoke of the Dragon’s raid and Elyn’s well-aimed but futile arrow shot ’gainst the mighty beast: “None else had the courage to stand up to the monster, my Lady. But by Ardon, you did! This will be a tale long told: that a Warrior Maiden would face a Drake with nought but bow and arrow. Hai! It be a thing that bards sing of.”
All through her morning meal, Ardu’s words rushed one atop another, and she heard that Mala had commanded the rescue teams as well as organized repair crews. “Not only has she been the guiding hand behind the work, but she’s been sitting beside your bed each and every hour that she’s not been directing the efforts of others. No disrespect intended, Princess, but that Mala, well, she’s a tough old bird,” confided Ardu, his voice filled with the knowledge of youth. “All the warders jump at her command, and gladly, for she’s the one who seems to know what to do; while all the rest of us argue about what should be done first, she thinks things through and decides what’s important and what’s not. Then it’s crack the whip and we hop to; and you know, Old Devon says that Lady Mala is right more than she’s wrong, and that’s all that counts.”