Rides a Dread Legion Page 9

  The Conjurer bowed, turned, and hurried from the hall. He had a great deal to do between now and the morning, and had no illusions he would get any rest. It took a great deal of energy to plot treason.

  CHAPTER 4

  HARBINGER

  The rider raced up the hillside.

  Alystan had paused in Carse only long enough to deliver his messages and eat a hot meal, sleep in a warm bed, then leave again at first light. It had taken him three days of hard running to reach the Keep at Carse and deliver the merchants’ replies to the Earl’s request. As the negotiations had ended on good terms, nothing more needed to be said, and the merchants could wait for another to return with the Earl’s agreement.

  The Ranger kept his own counsel on the matter of the elf, not wishing to involve the Kingdom in any of this unless it became necessary. At this moment the only evidence he had was what he had seen and nothing more, and there might be some explanation that would remove his foreboding. Yet there was something in the manner of that elf, the way he carried himself for the brief moment that Alystan saw him, something that communicated menace. If he was anything, he was dangerous.

  Alystan bid farewell to the Earl and his household that night, for early the next day he was out the gate of the Keep as dawn approached. He accepted the loan of a sturdy gelding from the Earl and promised he would return it on his way home.

  The quickest route to the dwarven stronghold at Caldara was through the Green Heart, the thick woodlands dominating most of the Duchy of Crydee. For ten miles or more from the sea inland, the coastline was dotted with small hamlets and solitary farms, trails and roads, and three towns of some size: Tulan, Carse, and Crydee. Light woods occupied some of the land between them, but once a traveler moved farther inland, heavy forest was all one encountered.

  The Rangers of Natal were second only to the elves in their ability to move swiftly and quietly through the heavy woods, but when it came to the open road, they had no difficulty in letting a horse carry them swiftly. The Rangers were a close-knit society, the inheritors of a unique birthright. Their ancestors had been Imperial Keshian Guides, the elite scouts of the Empire’s army, men who had come to the region when the Empire of Great Kesh had expanded northward. Like Kesh’s dog soldiers, they were apart from the mainstream of Keshian society, living by themselves when not on duty. When Kesh withdrew from the northlands, leaving their colonies abandoned, the Guides had become the de facto intelligence and scouting arm of the local militia. Cities had become autonomous and had bound together in a loose confederation, the Free Cities of Natal. And the Guides became the Rangers.

  Rangers still lived apart, though from time to time a Ranger might wed a town girl. Mostly they lived in large camps, moving as it suited them, always vigilant for any threat to the Cities. They felt kinship with the elves of the north more than the citizens of the cities they protected, and their only equals in their own eyes were the Keshian Guides and the Krondorian Pathfinders, also descended from the original Guides. The three groups had a traditional greeting—“Our grandfathers were brothers”—which was, to them, a bond.

  But during the Tsurani invasion, many Rangers had died beside soldiers from the Kingdom and the Free Cities, and because their numbers had been small, it had taken a devastating toll. Now Alystan feared another threat of that magnitude was approaching, and remembering his grandfather’s stories of the Riftwar, he knew another such invasion might mean the end of the Rangers.

  Alystan was newly wed, and as he rode through the dark pathways of the Green Heart, he thought of his young wife, staying with his own mother and father as they broke winter camp down near Bordon and prepared to move up into the mountains for spring and summer. They had spoken of having their own child someday, and while they had yet to conceive one, Alystan now felt the fear that he might never see that child should his worst suspicions prove true.

  The Ranger rode through the first day without incident, as the patrols from Carse eastward had kept the King’s Road clear of bandits and other troublemakers. He had seen game sign, bear and elk, so he knew few hunters were nearby.

  In years past, the Moredhel, the Brotherhood of the Dark Path, inhabited these woods and up into the Grey Tower Mountains, and such a ride would have been suicide without a company of soldiers to escort him. Now times were more peaceful and the worst a lone traveler might face was a small band of poachers or the occasional outlaw. Still, goblins roamed the Green Heart from time to time, and more than three or four could prove dangerous to a solitary rider.

  Alystan made a cold camp the first night, not wishing to draw attention to his presence with a fire. He staked out his horse and moved some distance away so should the animal draw unwanted attention, he would not be close by. He risked losing the horse that way but gained the advantage of not being surprised in the night.

  The night passed without incident.

  Alystan quickly saddled his horse after inspecting it to ensure it was sound. The animal was one of the best the garrison at Carse had to offer, a solid gelding, well-trained and fit. Not the fastest mount available, but one capable of long journeys at good pace. With luck he would reach the dwarven stronghold at Caldara within three more days. He mounted and returned to the road.

  Three days later a nearly exhausted rider and horse approached a gap in the mountains, across which a large wooden palisade had been erected. Two dwarves stood on either side of the road, dutifully taking their turn at watch, though for years it had hardly been necessary. They waved him through, recognizing him from previous visits, and Alystan entered Caldara.

  The village was lovely in the morning light, nestled in a cozy valley with trails leading up to the high alpine meadows that were used for summer grazing, and down to lower valleys where the cattle and sheep were kept during the winter. Alystan knew that to the east were well-tended fields and a small stand of apple trees in an orchard that marked the eastern boundary of the holding.

  The buildings were all of a kind, heavy thatched roofs atop wooden structures plastered over to keep out winter’s cold. All were pristine white and shined in the morning sun, save the massive longhouse that dominated the community. Here lived the King and his retainers, as well as a large part of the local population on any given day. The longhouse was the hub of dwarven activity and on any given night any member of the community might be found sleeping on the floor of the great room before the huge fire as much as he would be back in his own bed. Unlike the plastered walls, this building had been constructed in the old way: huge boles of trees stacked in cradles, forming outer walls that would defy both the elements and attacking enemies.

  The floors were stone upon the earth, flattened and smoothed so one could barely feel the joints between them when walking over them. But they were as impenetrable by sappers digging up from below as the walls were by those above the ground. The dwarves were miners and understood the uses of tunnels in war-craft as well as in mining.

  Alystan pulled up before the entrance to the longhouse and dismounted. He unsaddled his gelding, and put the saddle over the hitching log, then quickly wiped down the animal with a rag from his saddle bags. It would have to do until he took it to the stables and tended to it. Dwarves were not horsemen, and the horses they did keep were draft animals, all of whom would be out in the fields this time of day, pulling plows as the dwarves readied the ground for the spring planting.

  As he finished up, a dwarf emerged from the building. “Alystan of Natal!” he said with pleasure. “What brings you our way?”

  “I come to see your grandfather, Hogni. Is he inside?”

  The young dwarf’s grin split his long black beard. The dwarves were small compared to humans, but still broad of shoulders and powerful of frame, averaging a little over five feet in height. Hogni was especially tall for his race, nearing five inches over five feet. He had a merry light in his eye as he said, “Grandfather refuses to take his rank seriously, as always. He says he’s ‘new to this King business’ as it’s ‘only�
�� been a ‘little over a hundred years or so.’

  “He’s down in the fields plowing. Come along, I’ll take you there.”

  As he moved away, he waved over a dwarven boy and said, “Toddy, take that horse to Grandfather’s stable and see to him, will you?”

  Alystan smiled as he took his longbow off his shoulder and returned it to the familiar grip of his left hand. His expression was dubious, as the boy barely reached three feet in height, topped with a shock of red-blond hair and an apple-cheeked grin, but if Hogni was confident in his ability to somehow reach the gelding’s withers and clean him off, he wasn’t going to argue. The horse had rendered stout service and deserved to be treated well. Only the urgency of his news kept him from properly tending to the mount before seeing the King.

  They quickly made their way through the village to the eastern fields where a half-dozen draft horses pulled plows. Crossing carefully over the newly plowed rows, they approached a dwarf with a completely grey head of hair and beard. He was perspiring heavily as he wrestled the plow’s iron blade through soil packed hard by a winter’s weight of snow and the morning’s frost. The horses, like their masters, were powerful but diminutive, looking like broad-chested ponies as much as true horses. Yet Alystan knew they were a special breed of true horse, used for this work by the dwarves for centuries.

  Dolgan, King of the Dwarves and Warleader of Caldara, reined in the gelding who pulled his plow, and waved a greeting. “Alystan of Natal! Well met!”

  “Greetings, King Dolgan. Have you no liegemen to plow your fields?”

  “I do, but they’re busy plowing their own at the moment, and it’s in my nature to wish it done right the first time.” He took a well-worn long briar pipe out of his pocket and quickly produced a contraption of flint and steel, a clever device fetched up from the Free Cities in trade. A big spark ignited the tobac in the pipe, and Dolgan took a long pull. He made a face and said, “This is a useful enough gadget, but that first taste of burning flint I can do without.” He puffed again, looked contented, and asked, “What brings you to Caldara, Alystan?”

  Alystan held his bow with the tip on the ground, a habit Dolgan knew meant the Ranger was being thoughtful at choosing his words. The gesture always gained him a moment to think. “I bring word of something strange, and troubling. I seek your wisdom and counsel.”

  “Well, that sounds serious enough.” He tossed the reins to Hogni and said, “Finish up here boy, and then go help your father. I’ll be in the longhouse with our guest.”

  “Yes, Grandfather,” said the young dwarf with a resigned smile. The King might like to see the plowing done right the first time, but he also enjoyed chatting with travelers in the longhouse over a flagon of ale. The youth glanced upward and smiled. It was barely two hours past breakfast, hardly the time his mother would approve of her father-in-law tapping the ale keg, despite his being King. Putting the reins over his shoulders, Hogni flipped them and shouted, “Ha!” The horse threw one impatient glance backward, as if asking if the young dwarf was really serious and did he have to return to his labors; another flick of the reins told the animal it was indeed time, so he reluctantly returned to dragging the plow through the rich mountain soil.

  Dolgan listened carefully as Alystan finished his narrative. The old dwarf was silent for a very long time, then said, “This is troubling news.”

  “You recognize this newcomer?” asked the Ranger, before taking a long pull on the marvelous dwarven ale the King’s less than pleased daughter-in-law provided. She seemed irritated to the point of saying something, but held her silence before a stranger.

  Dolgan shook his head. “No, though I would not have recognized the so-called mad elves from north of the Teeth of the World before they ventured down to Elvendar.” He turned and shouted, “Amyna!”

  Hogni’s mother appeared a moment later and said, “Yes, Father?”

  “Send Toddy to find Malachi. Have him join us here, please?”

  She nodded once and departed.

  Dolgan said, “Malachi is the oldest among us.” He chuckled. “He was old when I was a boy and I’m nearing three hundred years, myself.”

  Alystan’s expression was barely held in check. He knew the dwarves to be a long-lived race, like the elves, but he had no idea they lived that long, or stayed as robust as they apparently did. Whatever consternation he had glimpsed in the Dwarf King vanished with the boy. The old dwarf seemed content to smoke his pipe, drink his morning ale, and chat of inconsequential matters, how fared his human acquaintances along the Far Coast and in the Free Cities, what news from Krondor, or farther. It was clear to the Ranger than Dolgan was keenly interested in matters outside his own small demesne, which, given the dwarves’ history, was understandable.

  An independent people, the dwarves nevertheless found their fortunes tied to those of the surrounding humans and, to a lesser degree, the elves to the north. Twice in the last hundred years, war had visited the west, first the Tsurani invaders in the very valley where Alystan had seen the stranger, and later by the armies of the Emerald Queen, from a land across the sea. The second struggle had involved the dwarves indirectly, but the repercussions had echoed through the land for a long time. Trade had been reduced to a trickle for years, the west nearly forgotten by the Kingdom for a decade, and banditry and piracy had risen. Things were nearly back to the way they had been before the coming of the Tsurani, Alystan’s grandfather claimed; in fact, he insisted it was better, as the dark elves no longer hunted the Green Heart or the Grey Towers. Given the history of bloody warfare between the Rangers and the Moredhel, Alystan was inclined to grant his grandfather’s view had merit.

  Time passed, but Alystan was like all Rangers, possessing patience born of generations of woodcraft and hunting. A fidgeting hunter was a hungry one, his father had told him many years before, on his first hunt.

  At last the boy Toddy returned, quietly and slowly escorting the oldest being the Ranger had ever encountered. The dwarf moved slowly, his steps tiny, as if he feared losing his balance. He appeared shrunken with age, so he was barely a head taller than the boy, and slight of frame. In contrast to the robust stature of the other dwarves the Ranger knew, this was startling. His skin was parchment-white and almost translucent, so the veins of his hands stood out over knuckles swollen with years of inflammation. He used a cane, and the boy held him firmly by his left arm. His hair receded, and fell to his shoulders, and whatever color may have once graced that ancient pate had fled, leaving snow-white wisps. Cheeks sunken with age were marked with small lesions and sores, and Alystan knew this was a being at the end of his days.

  The old dwarf looked about the room, and the Ranger realized either he was blind or his vision so poor he might as well be sightless. He sat and those in the room remained silent.

  Then he spoke. “So, what reason have you to rouse an old man from his nap?” he demanded. His voice was surprisingly strong and deep for so frail a figure.

  Dolgan said, “Malachi, this is Alystan of the Free Cities.”

  “I can see he’s a Ranger, Dolgan,” said the old man, and Alystan reassessed his judgment on Malachi’s eyesight. “Well, you have something to say, else they wouldn’t have required me to come here, so say it,” instructed the ancient dwarf.

  Alystan retold the tale of the traveler. Malachi said nothing the entire time, but he did lean forward slightly, as if paying closer attention, when the Ranger began describing the creature’s true appearance.

  When Alystan was finished, Malachi leaned back and let his chin drop, as if thinking. The room remained silent for several minutes, then the ancient dwarf said, “It’s an old tale, told by my grandfather’s grandfather, from the time of the Crossing.”

  Dolgan said nothing, but he glanced around the room at the other dwarves who had gathered there while Alystan had spoken. There were now perhaps twenty dwarves, most of whom Alystan recognized as being part of the King’s Meet, Dolgan’s council of advisors.

  Malachi p
aused, then said, “At the end of my days I am, but I remember this tale as if it were told to me yesterday.

  “My first raid was against the dark elves to the north, who had been troubling our herds in the lower meadows, when calving was under way. We had chased off a band and my father”—he pointed at Dolgan—“and your father, though he had not the title of King, but Warleader, decided we needed to carry chastisement to the miscreants and let them know there would be no stealing of calves from the dwarves of Caldara!” He took a breath, and said, “We followed the thieves through two days, and the night we camped before the raid, my father told me a story told him by his grandfather.

  “He said before the Gods warred, dwarves lived on a distant world, and fought long and hard against the great goblin tribes, Lea Orcha, the Orcs, the great wryms, like our dragons, but stupid, yet cunning. They defended their crops and herds from gryphon and manticore and other creatures of myth. Father spoke of ancient legends, of great heroes and deeds, lost to even the Lorekeepers, for this was before the Crossing.”

  Alystan said, “The Crossing?”

  The old dwarf nodded. “A madness consumed our world, a war visited upon us by beings of power beyond even our most puissant Lorekeeper’s art. We know them as Dragon Lords.”

  “The Valheru,” said Dolgan, thinking of his time spent with Lord Tomas, during the war against the Tsurani. He had learned much since then of Valheru lore, while he watched the boy from Crydee grow into a being of unimaginable power; but there was far more untold, he knew.

  “Aye,” said Malachi. “So the elves call their former masters. My father told me it was the very masters of this world who drove us here, by design or chance no one knows.