When at last he was finished, the Dwarf Elder leaned forward slowly, his rough hands folding on the table before him, his gaze still holding Jair’s.
“Twenty years ago, I fought with Allanon to keep the Demon hordes from the Elven city of Arborlon. It was a terrible battle. Young Edain Elessedil—” He indicated with his hand a blond-haired Elf barely older than Brin. “—was not even born then. His grandfather, the great Eventine, was King of Elves. That was when Allanon last walked the Four Lands. Not since that time has the Druid been seen, Valeman. He has not come to Culhaven. He has not come to the Eastland. What say you to that?”
Jair shook his head. “I don’t know why he didn’t come this way. I don’t know where he has gone. I only know where it is that he goes—and my sister with him. And I know, too, that he has indeed been within the Eastland.” He turned toward Slanter. “This Hunter tracked him from the Maelmord west to my home.”
He waited for confirmation, but Slanter said nothing.
“No one has seen Allanon for twenty years,” another Elder of the Council repeated quietly.
“And no one has ever spoken with the King of the Silver River,” a third said.
“I spoke with him,” Jair said. “And my father also spoke with him. He helped my father and an Elf girl flee the Demons to Arborlon.”
Browork continued to study him. “I know of your father, youngster. He did come to Arborlon to aid the Elves in their fight against the Demons. It was rumored that he was the possessor of Elfstones, just as you have said. But you say that you took the Elfstones from your home and then gave them up to the King of the Silver River?”
“In exchange for magic I could use,” Jair affirmed quickly. “For a wish I could use to save Brin. For a vision crystal to find her. And for strength for those who would help me.”
Browork glanced now at Garet Jax. The Weapons Master nodded. “I have seen the crystal of which he speaks. It is magic. It did show to us the face of a girl—one he says is his sister.”
The Elf identified as Edain Elessedil came suddenly to his feet. He was tall and fair-skinned, his blond hair reaching to his shoulders. “My father has spoken to me of Wil Ohmsford many times. He has said that he is an honorable man. I do not think a son of his would speak anything but the truth.”
“Unless he mistook fantasy for truth,” one of the Council suggested. “This tale is difficult to swallow.”
“But the waters of the river are indeed fouled,” another pointed out. “We all know that in some way the Mord Wraiths poison them in an effort to destroy us.”
“As you say, common knowledge,” replied the first. “Hardly proof of anything.”
Other voices rose now, arguing the merits of Jair’s tale. Browork raised his hands sharply.
“Peace, Elders! Give thought to what we are about!” He turned back to Jair. “Your quest, if it be true, requires that we give you aid. You cannot succeed without that aid, Valeman. Armies of Gnomes lie between you and the thing you seek—this place you call Heaven’s Well. Understand, too, that none among us have ever been where you would go or seen the source of the waters of the Silver River.” He glanced about for confirmation; heads nodded and no one spoke in contradiction. “For us to help you then, we must first be certain of what we do. We must believe. How are we to believe a thing of which we have no personal knowledge? How are we to know what you tell us is the truth?”
“I would not lie,” Jair insisted, flushing.
“Not knowingly, perhaps,” the Elder mused. “Yet all lies are not intended. Sometimes what we believe to be truth is but a falsehood which deceives us. Perhaps that is what has happened here. Perhaps . . .”
“Perhaps if we waste enough time talking about it, it will be too late to do anything to help Brin!” Jair lost his temper completely. “I have not been deceived in anything! What I spoke of happened!”
The voices murmured in dissatisfaction, but immediately Browork signaled for quiet. “Show to us this pouch of Silver Dust that we might gain some measure of belief in what you say,” he ordered.
The Valeman stared at him helplessly. “It will not aid you. The dust appears as common sand.”
“Sand?” One of the Council members shook his head in disgust. “We are wasting our time, Browork.”
“Let us at least see the crystal, then,” Browork sighed.
“Or prove to us in some other way that what you say is true,” another demanded.
Jair felt his chance of convincing the Dwarves of anything slipping rapidly away. Few, if any, of the Council believed what he was telling them. They had seen nothing of Allanon or Brin; none of them had ever heard of anyone speaking with the King of the Silver River; for all he knew, they didn’t even believe that such a being existed. Now he was telling them he had given Elfstones for magic they could not even see.
“We waste time, Browork,” the first Elder muttered once more.
“Let the Valeman be questioned by others while we get on with our business,” another said.
Again the voices rose, and this time they drowned out Browork’s pleas for silence. Almost to a man, the Dwarves of the Council and those gathered with them called for the matter to be disposed of without further delay.
“I could have told you this would happen,” Slanter whispered suddenly from behind him.
Jair went crimson with anger. He had come too far and endured too much to be shoved aside now. Give us proof, they were telling him. Make us believe.
Well, he knew how to make them believe!
Stepping forward suddenly, he lifted his hands high, then pointed into the shadows of the aisle leading back from where he stood. So dramatic was the gesture that the voices went abruptly still, and all heads turned to look. There was nothing there, nothing but darkness . . .
Then Jair sang, the wishsong quick and strident, and a tall, black figure wrapped in cloak and cowl emerged from out of the nothingness of the air.
The figure was Allanon.
There was a sharp gasp from those assembled. Swords and long knives slipped from their sheaths, and men bounded from their seats to defend against this shade that had emerged from the dark. Within the cowl, a dark lean face lifted to the light, eyes fixing on the men of the Council. Then Jair’s song faded and the Druid was gone.
Jair turned once more to Browork. The Dwarf’s eyes were wide. “Now do you believe me?” the Valeman asked quietly. “You said you knew him; you said you fought with him at Arborlon. Was that the Druid?”
Slowly Browork nodded. “That was Allanon.”
“Then you know that I have seen him,” Jair said.
All assembled turned back now to stare at the Valeman, uneasy and shaken by what had happened. Behind him, Jair heard Slanter chuckle, a low nervous laugh. He caught a glimpse of Garet Jax from the corner of his eye. The Weapons Master had a curious, almost surprised look on his face.
“I have told you the truth,” Jair said to Browork. “I must go into deep Anar and find Heaven’s Well. Allanon will be there with my sister. Now tell me—will you help me or not?”
Browork glanced at the other Elders. “What say you?”
“I believe what he says,” one old man ventured quietly.
“But it could yet be a trick!” another said. “It could be the work of the Mord Wraiths!”
Jair glanced quickly about. A few heads were nodding in agreement. In the smoky light of the oil lamps, suspicion and fear clouded many eyes.
“The risk is too great, I think,” yet another Elder said. Browork rose. “We are pledged to give aid to any who seek the destruction of the Wraiths,” he said, blue eyes quick and hard. “This Valeman has told us he is allied with others of like mind and purpose. I believe him. I believe we should do what we can to aid him in his quest. I call for a vote, Elders. Give me your hands in support if you agree.”
Browork’s hand lifted high. Half a dozen more from the Council lifted with it. But the dissenters were not to be silenced so easily.
“This is madness!” one shouted. “Who will go with him? Are we to send men from the village, Browork? Who is to go on this quest to which you have so unwisely given your blessing? I call for volunteers if this is to be done!”
A scattering of voices muttered in support. Browork nodded. “So be it.” He looked about the chamber silently, his eyes shifting from one face to the next, searching, waiting for someone to accept the challenge.
“I will go.”
Jair looked around slowly. Garet Jax had come forward a single step, gray eyes expressionless as he faced the Council.
“The King of the Silver River promised the Valeman that I would be his protector,” he said softly. “Very well. The promise shall be kept.”
Browork nodded, then looked about the room once more. “Who else among you will go?” he called out.
Elb Foraker pushed away from the wall against which he was leaning and walked over to stand with his friend. Again Browork looked out among those gathered. A moment later there was a stirring from among the men of Callahorn. A giant Borderman rose to his feet, black hair and beard close-cropped about his long, strangely gentle face.
“I’ll go,” he rumbled and came forward to stand with the others. Jair took a step back in spite of himself. The Borderman was almost as big as Allanon.
“Helt,” Browork greeted him. “The men of Callahorn need not make this quest their own.”
The big man shrugged. “We fight the same enemy, Elder. The quest appeals to me, and I would go.”
Then suddenly Edain Elessedil came to his feet. “I would go as well, Elder.”
Browork frowned. “You are a Prince of the Elves, young Edain. You are here with your Elven Hunters to repay a debt your father feels he owes from the time the Dwarves stood with him at Arborlon. Well and good. But you carry the price of the debt too far. Your father would not approve of this. Reconsider.”
The Elven Prince smiled. “There is nothing to reconsider, Browork. The debt owed in this matter is not to the Dwarves but to the Valeman and his father. Twenty years ago, Wil Ohmsford went with an Elven Chosen in search of a talisman that would destroy the Demons who had broken free of the Forbidding. He risked his life for my father and for my people. Now I have a chance to do the same for Wit Ohmsford—to go with his son, to see to it that he finds the thing he quests for. I am as able as any man here and I would go.”
Still Browork frowned. Garet Jax glanced at Foraker. The Dwarf merely shrugged. The Weapons Master looked over at the Elven Prince for a moment as if measuring the depth of his commitment or perhaps simply his chance of surviving, then slowly nodded.
“Very well,” Browork acquiesced. “five, then,”
“Six,” Garet Jax said quietly. “An even half-dozen for luck.”
Browork looked puzzled. “Who is the sixth?”
Garet Jax turned slowly about and pointed to Slanter. “The Gnome.”
“What!” Slanter’s jaw dropped. “You can’t choose me!”
“I have already done so,” the other replied. “You are the only one here who has been where we want to go. You know the way, Gnome, and you are going to show it to us.”
“I’ll show you nothing!” Slanter was livid, his face contorted with rage. “This boy . . . this devil . . . he put you up to this! Well, you have no power over me! I’ll throw you all to the wolves if you try to make me go!”
Garet Jax came up against him, the terrible gray eyes as cold as winter. “That would be most unfortunate for you, Gnome, for the wolves would reach you first. Take a moment and think it through.”
The Assembly went deathly still. Weapons Master and Gnome faced each other without moving, eyes locked. In the eyes of the man in black, there was death; in the eyes of Slanter, hesitation. But the Gnome did not back away. He stood where he was, seething with anger, trapped in a snare of his own making. Slowly his gaze shifted to find Jair, and in that instant the Valeman actually found himself feeling sorry for the Gnome.
Slanter’s nod was barely perceptible. “I’ve no choice, it seems,” he muttered. “I’ll take you.”
Garet Jax turned back once more to Browork. “Six.”
The Dwarf Elder hesitated, then sighed in resignation. “Six it is,” he declared softly. “Fortune go with you.”
XV
Late the following morning, their preparations completed, the little company departed Culhaven for the deep Anar. Jair, Slanter, Garet Jax, Elb Foraker, Edain Elessedil and the Borderman Helt, armed and provisioned, slipped quietly from the village and were gone almost without notice. Only Browork was there to see them off, his aged countenance reflecting a mix of conviction and misgiving. To Jair, he gave his promise that warning of the Mord Wraiths would be sent to the elder Ohmsfords before their return to the Vale. To each of the others, he gave a firm handshake and a word of encouragement. Slanter alone evidenced an understandable lack of appreciation for the good wishes. No other fanfare accompanied their departure; the Council of Elders and the other leaders, both Dwarf and outlander, who had participated in last night’s gathering remained divided in their feelings as to the wisdom of this undertaking. More than not, were the truth to be made known, felt the entire venture doomed from the start.
Yet the decision had been made, and so the company went. It went alone, without escort, despite strenuous objection from the Elven Hunters who had accompanied Edain Elessedil east from the home city of Arborlon and who felt more than a little responsible for the safety of their Prince. Theirs was but a token force, after all, dispatched hurriedly by Ander Elessedil upon his receiving a call for aid from Browork and, until a larger force could be mobilized, dispatched in recognition of an obligation owed the Dwarves for their aid in the Demon-Elf struggle of twenty years earlier. Edain Elessedil had been sent in his father’s place, but without any real expectation that he would see battle unless the Gnome armies advanced all the way to Culhaven. His offer to join the company on their quest into the heart of enemy country had been completely unexpected. But there was little that the Elven Hunters could do about it—since the Prince was free to make his own decision in the matter—other than to insist that they, too, be made a part of the undertaking. There were those among the Dwarves and Bordermen who would have gone as well, but all were refused. Garet Jax made the decision, and it was supported by the others who comprised the company of six, even Slanter. The smaller the group, the greater its mobility and stealth and the better its chances of slipping through the great forests of Anar unseen. With the unavoidable exception of Jair—and he had the magic to protect him, he kept reminding them—all were skilled professionals, trained in survival. Even Edain Elessedil had been tutored by members of the King’s Home Guard during the years he had grown to manhood. The fewer they numbered, they all agreed, the better off they would be.
And so only six went—on foot, for the forest wilderness prevented any other form of travel—eastward from the Dwarf village into the darkened woods, following the bend of the Silver River. Browork watched them until they were lost from sight in the trees, then turned reluctantly back to Culhaven and the work that awaited him there.
It was a clear, cool autumn day, the air sharp and still and the skies bright with sunlight. Trees shimmered in myriad hues of red, gold, and brown, leaves falling to blanket the forest earth in a soft carpet that rustled beneath the feet of the six as they marched ahead. Time slipped quickly away. Almost before they knew it, the afternoon was gone, the evening settling in across the Anar in dark shades of gray and violet, and the sun sinking slowly from view.
The company made camp next to the Silver River in a small grove of ash, sheltered on their eastern fringe by an outcropping of rocks. Dinner was prepared and eaten, and then Garet Jax called them all together.
“This will be our route.” It was Elb Foraker who spoke, kneeling in their midst to clear the leaves away, a broken stick tracing lines in the bare earth. “The Silver River flows thus.” He marked its passage. “We stand here. East, four days or so, is
the Dwarf fortress at Capaal that protects the locks and dams on the Cillidellan. North of that, the Silver River runs down out of the High Bens and the Gnome prisons at Dun Fee Aran. Further north still lie the Ravenshorn and Graymark.”
He looked about the little circle of faces. “If we can do so, we must follow the river all the way into Graymark. If we are forced to leave the river, the path through the Anar becomes a difficult one—all wilderness.” He paused. “Gnome armies hold everything north and east of Capaal. Once there, we will have to watch ourselves carefully.”
“Questions?” Garet Jax glanced up.
Slanter’s snort of derision broke the silence. “You make it seem a whole lot easier than it is,” he growled.
“That’s why we have you along.” The Weapons Master shrugged. “Once beyond Capaal, you’ll be the one choosing the path.”
Slanter spit disdainfully on the drawing. “If we get that far.”
The group broke up, each member moving off to make up his bed for the night. Jair hesitated, then started after Slanter. He caught up with the Gnome on the far side of the clearing.
“Slanter,” he called. The Gnome glanced about momentarily, saw who it was and looked away at once. Jair stepped around in front of the Gnome and faced him. “Slanter, I just want to tell you that it was not my idea to bring you with us.”
Slanter’s eyes were hard. “It was your idea, all right.”
Jair shook his head. “I wouldn’t force anyone to come who didn’t want to—not even you. But I’m glad you’re here. I want you to know that.”
“How very comforting,” the Gnome mocked. “Be sure to remind the walkers of that when they have us all in their prisons!”
“Slanter, don’t be like this. Don’t . . .”
The Gnome turned away abruptly. “Leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you. I want nothing to do with any of this.” Then he glanced back suddenly, and there was a fierce determination in his eyes. “First chance I get, boy, I’ll be gone! Remember that—first chance! Now—are you still glad I’m here?”