Easterly she rode throughout the long summer days across the northern fringes of Aven, her solitude broken only by an occasional animal scurrying athwart her path, or by birds on the wing. To the left through the high clear air could be seen the jagged white crests of the distant Grimwall. Of Black Kalgalath, she saw him four more mornings, each time more distant, winging west with the dawn, returning shortly thereafter. What he did on these flights, she knew not. But on the fifth morning and those following, she saw him not again.
East she rode through the land, fording an occasional stream, at times swimming across a river, passing among still forests, riding ’cross open grasslands with but an occasional thicket to break the horizon. At rare times she would come upon a farmstead or a hunter’s shack, but in all she met few people; even when she did, they would eye this strange Warrior Maiden, helmed, gleaming weaponry at hand, grey leathers showing beneath her cloak, as if she were a hearthtale come to life. When possible, she would replenish her supplies from these steaders, from these hunters, paying with good copper for the grain and waybread, for the smoke-cured meat and flour, for the jerky and dried fish.
At times, while Wind cropped grass, Elyn had to hunt to have aught to eat, walking afield with sling or bow, stalking the woods likewise, now and again grubbing for roots or foraging for berries. And although she did not truly go hungry, at times she dreamt of sumptuous banquets at her sire’s table.
And summer crept forward as days and weeks and the leagues behind her fled into the past.
At each crofter’s place or hunter’s cote she would ask the way to Xian or to Black Mountain, receiving nought but a vague wave of a hand to the east, though occasionally one would tell her that it was a place to avoid at all cost, for who knows the ways of those who dwell within.
And at the very last place, not only did Elyn receive a warning about the Land of Xian, she was also warned of the Khalian Mire: “They be bad things in there, Miss,” cautioned the trapper. “Best you go around.”
“How far through; how far around?” asked Elyn.
“Well now,” answered the trapper, “if ye be wise to its tricks, then it be a full day through, sunrise to sunset. Around, it be three, four days. Yet, Miss, around be the way to go, for vileness is said to dwell within.
“Ye ought to be like t’other what I seen yester: on a pony, he was; I saw him at a distance. I think he went around. If he didn’t, then he’s a damned fool.”
Thanking the trapper for the advice and paying him for the grain and meat and bread, Elyn set out to the east once more.
That night she stopped within sight of the mire, a great bogland standing across her way.
As the Sun rose the next morning, Elyn broke camp. She had decided last night that she would ride through the swamp this day rather than take the extra time going about. And so, into the marsh she headed.
Large hoary old trees, black cypress and dark swamp willow, twisted up out of the muck, looming, barring the morning light, their warped roots gnarling down out of sight into the slime-laden mud. A greyish moss dangled down from lichen-wattled limbs, like ropes and nets set to entangle and entrap the unwary. A faint mist rose up from the bog, reaching, clinging, clutching at those who would seek to pass through. Snakes slithered from drowned logs into green-scummed water, and swarms of gnats and flies and mosquitoes filled the air like a grey haze.
And into these environs rode Elyn, she and her grey mare swathed with the stench of gyllsweed to repel the bloodsucking insects.
As the day wore on, the heat became oppressive. Clouds of swarming pests flew all about, and at times Elyn would have to smear more of the odiferous juice upon herself and Wind to keep the insects at bay.
The bog itself was a veritable maze of water and mire and land. Often Elyn had to backtrack to get around some obstacle, and at times she and Wind had no choice but to wade the scum-laden pools; and they would emerge with leeches clinging to the mare’s legs, razor mouths clamped tight, bodies bloating with blood. Elyn scraped them away with her dagger, treating the oozing wounds left behind, while insects, driven mad by the smell of blood, darted and swarmed and clotted upon the horse’s shanks.
Slowly the Sun crept up and over, glaring down upon the swamp, the mire steaming in response; and it seemed as if the air itself became too thick, too wet to draw a clean breath. The marsh heaved with gases belching from slimy waters, bubbles plopping, foul stenches reeking the air. And Elyn had no idea how far she had come, nor how far there was left to go. Yet she pressed onward, for now she had no choice but to push on through.
Seeping downward, the Sun sank into the west, and lengthening shadows streamed from the hunched hummocks, from the twisted trees, from the sharp-edged reeds and saw grass, filling the bog with gloom. And above the incessant hum of the swarm of flying pests, other noises began to fill the air: a chirruping and breeking and peeping of swamp dwellers, along with ploppings, splashings, wallowings, slitherings.
The Sun began to set. Long shadows slanted across the darkening bogland. Elyn and Wind came among a stand of tall, thickset marsh reeds, the rushes blocking Elyn’s view: she could not see more than a few feet ahead. She was yet some unknown distance from the far edge of the Khalian Mire, and she did not want the night to find her still within the clutches of the swamp, in the grasp of this place of dire repute, stranded here within these malevolent environs. Wind skitted and shied, and snorted nervously, as if she sensed some evil.
And then from beyond the reeds, past the foul moss adrip and lifeless branches of a twisted dead cypress standing in the oozing muck, a panic-stricken scream of a terrified steed rang out, filling a sudden silence.
CHAPTER 33
Early and Mid Summer, 3E1602
[This Year]
Boom! shut the gate.
Clang! fell the bar.
The metallic clash of iron on iron belled above the frightened cries of Men and Dwarves and the squeals of horses.
“By damn,” roared Aranor, his voice lost among the shouts of others, “open up those gates. I have Men trapped out there-”
DOOM! The great iron portal juddered from some massive strike, as if Black Kalgalath himself had crashed into them. And rock dust drifted down from the stone above.
And in the sudden silence that followed within, the wrathful roaring of an enraged Dragon and the terrified shrieks of dying Harlingar could be heard from without, the terrible sounds of death and slaughter muted by the iron.
“Open the gates!” cried Reynor. “They die!”
The Dwarves stood fast.
“By Hèl, I said open the gates!” Reynor drew his saber and started forward, but Ruric grabbed his wrist and held him back.
“’Tis too late, lad,” gritted the Armsmaster, tears in his eyes. “Too late.”
In horrified silence they stood rooted, while outside, the slaughter went on and on. And Men and Dwarves alike clapped hands over ears, trying to shut out the hideous sounds.
And then the dying stopped.
But a moment later a massive thundering whelmed endlessly upon the gate, and it juddered and jolted and sounded with a great clangorous hammering. Men and Dwarves reeled back and horses reared, and the very stone they stood upon trembled and rattled. And it sounded as if the mountain itself were being torn asunder.
Suddenly, the whelming stopped, and except for the clatter of skitting hooves of frightened steeds upon the stone of the chamber floor, and the hoarse breathing of Châkka and Vanadurin within, once again silence reigned.