Читать книгу The Complete Demonwar Saga 2-Book Collection - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 12

THE RIDER RACED UP THE HILLSIDE.

It had taken Alystan three days of hard running to reach the Keep at Carse. He had paused in Carse only long enough to deliver the merchant’s response to the Earl’s request, eat a hot meal, sleep in a warm bed, then leave again at first light. As the negotiations had ended on good terms, the merchants could wait for another to return with the agreement. He had bid farewell to the Earl and his household that evening, for he left as dawn approached, accepting the loan of a sturdy gelding, and promising to return it on his way home.

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

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 the first ten miles 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 woodland occupied some of the land between them, but once a traveller 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. They 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 who had come to the region when the Empire of Great Kesh had expanded northward. Like Kesh’s Dog Soldiers, they stood apart from mainstream Keshian society. When Kesh withdrew from the northlands, abandoning their colonies, the Guides became the de facto intelligence and scouting arm of the local militia. The cities had become autonomous and had bound together in a loose confederation, the Free Cities of Natal. And the Guides became the Rangers.

Rangers lived in large camps, moving as it suited them, always vigilant for any threat to the Cities. They felt more kinship with the elves of the north than the citizens they protected, and felt their only equals to be the present Keshian Guides and the Krondorian Pathfinders, also descended from the original Guides. The three groups shared a traditional greeting, ‘Our grandfathers were brothers,’ which was to them a bond.

Many Rangers had died beside soldiers from the Kingdom and the Free Cities during the Tsurani invasion, and because their numbers had been small, it had taken a devastating toll. Alystan remembered his grandfather’s stories of the Riftwar, and now he feared another threat of that magnitude was approaching; 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, Alystan now feared that he might never see that child should his worst suspicions prove true.

The Ranger rode through the first day without incident, the patrols from Carse 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, had roamed these woods and the Grey Tower Mountains making such a ride suicide without a company of soldiers as escort. Now times were more peaceful and the worst a traveller 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 on the first night, not wishing to draw attention to his presence with a fire. He staked out his horse and moved some distance away, lest the animal draw unwanted attention. He risked losing the horse that way, but gained the advantage of not being surprised.

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 a good pace. With luck he would reach the dwarven stronghold at Caldara within three days. He mounted and returned to the road.

Three days later an 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 looked lovely in the morning light, nestled in a cosy valley. Trails led 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 remembered that beyond well-tended fields, a small stand of apple trees in an orchard marked the eastern boundary of the holding.

The wooden buildings were heavily thatched and plastered to keep out the winter cold. They shone pristine white in the morning sun, save for the massive longhouse that dominated the community. The King and his retainers lived there, with a large part of the local population. The longhouse was the hub of dwarven activity and on most nights any member of the community was as likely to be found sleeping on the floor of the great room before the huge fire as he was to be found in his own bed. Unlike the plastered walls, this building had been constructed in the old way: the boles of huge trees were stacked in cradles, forming the outer walls that defied both the elements and attacking enemies. The floor was made of stones laid upon the earth, flattened and smoothed so one could barely feel the joints when walking over them. But they were as impenetrable from sappers tunnelling up from below as the walls were from assaults above ground. The dwarves were miners and understood the uses of tunnels in warcraft as well as in mining.

Alystan pulled up his mount before the entrance to the longhouse and dismounted. He unsaddled his horse, and put the tack over the hitching log, then quickly wiped down the animal with a rag from his saddlebags. It would have to do until he had time to take the animal to the stables and tend to it properly. Dwarves were not horsemen, and the only horses they did keep were draught animals, all of whom would be out in the fields this time of day pulling ploughs as the dwarves readied the ground for the spring planting.

As he finished, 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. Nearing five feet, five inches tall, Hogni was especially tall for a dwarf. He had a merry light in his eye as he said, ‘Grand father refuses to take his rank seriously, as always. He says he’s still “new to this King business” as it’s “only been a little over a hundred years or so”.’

‘He’s down in the fields ploughing. Come along, I’ll take you there.’

He waved over a dwarven boy and said, ‘Toddy, take that horse to grandfather’s stable and see to him, will you?’

Alystan took his longbow off his shoulder and returned it to the familiar grip of his left hand. He wore a dubious expression: the horse had rendered stout service and deserved to be well treated and 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 that Toddy could somehow reach the gelding’s withers and groom him sufficiently, he wasn’t going to argue. 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 a dozen draught horses pulled ploughs. Crossing carefully over the new furrows, they approached a dwarf with a grey head of hair and a long grey beard. He was perspiring heavily as he wrestled the plough’s iron blade through the hard soil, compacted by a winter’s weight of snow and the morning’s frost. The horses, like their masters, were powerful but diminutive. They looked more like broad-chested ponies than true horses, yet Alystan knew that they were a special breed of horse, used by the dwarves for centuries.

Dolgan, King of the Dwarves and Warleader of Caldara, reined in the gelding pulling his plough and waved a greeting. ‘Alystan of Natal! Well met!’

‘Greetings, King Dolgan. Have you no liegemen to plough your fields?’

‘I do, but they’re busy ploughing their own at the moment, and I wish it to be done right the first time.’ He took a long, well-worn briar pipe out of his pocket and a contraption of flint and steel, a clever device traded from the Free Cities. A big spark ignited the tobacco 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 could do without.’ He puffed again, looked more contented, and asked, ‘What brings you to Caldara, Alystan?’

Alystan held his bow with the tip on the ground, a mannerism that Dolgan knew meant the Ranger was choosing his words carefully. The gesture always allowed him a moment to think. ‘I bring word of something strange and troubling. I seek your wisdom and counsel.’

‘Well, that sounds serious.’ 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 sigh. The King might prefer that the ploughing was done correctly the first time, but he also enjoyed chatting with travellers in the longhouse over a flagon of ale. The youth 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 royal station. Putting the reins over his shoulders, Hogni flipped them and shouted, ‘Ha!’ The horse threw one impatient glance backwards as if questioning the young dwarf’s seriousness; another flick of the reins told the animal it was indeed time to return to his labours, and the animal reluctantly returned to dragging the plough 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 of the marvellous dwarven ale the King’s daughter-in-law had provided. She seemed irritated to the point of saying something, but held her silence before a stranger.

Dolgan shook his head. ‘No. Although I would not have recognized the so-called “mad elves” from beyond the Teeth of the World before they ventured down to Elvandar.’ 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 barely concealed his surprise. He knew that the dwarves were a long-lived race, like the elves, but he had no idea they lived that long, or stayed as robust as they apparently did. The old dwarf seemed content to smoke his pipe, drink his morning ale, and chat of inconsequential matters, such as how his human acquaintances fared along the Far Coast and in the Free Cities, or the news from Krondor, or further afield. It was clear to the Ranger that Dolgan was keenly interested in matters outside his own small demesne, which given the dwarves’ long history was understandable.

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

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

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

The old dwarf looked about the room, and the Ranger realized that he must be blind, or his vision so poor that he might as well be sightless. Those in the room remained silent as he found his seat.

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 dwarf, and Alystan reassessed his previous judgment on his eyesight. ‘Well, you have something to say, else they wouldn’t have required me to come here, so say it,’ instructed Malachi.

Alystan retold his encounter with the strange traveller. The ancient dwarf said nothing, but leant 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, in thought. 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 paused 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 underway. We had chased off a band and my father, and—’ He pointed at Dolgan, ‘—and your father, though he had not the title of King, only Warleader, decided we needed to chastise 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 for two days, and as we camped on the night before the raid, my father told me a story told to him by his grandfather.

‘He said that before the Gods warred, dwarves lived on a distant world and fought long and hard against the great goblin tribes, Lea Orcha, the orcs. Our people also defended their crops and herds from gryphon and manticore and other creatures of myth. Father spoke of ancient legends, of great heroes and deeds, their truth lost even to the Lorekeepers, for he spoke of a time 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 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 Valheru lore while he watched the boy from Crydee grow into a being of unimaginable power; but he knew there was far more untold knowledge.

‘Aye,’ said Malachi. ‘So the elves call their former masters. My father told me the very masters of that world drove us here, by design or chance no one knows. But flee our home world we did.

‘Great tears opened in the heavens above and earth below, swallowing up those nearby. Some, it was said, went to other worlds, but most of us hunkered down and tried to withstand the forces of chaos on all sides.

‘There were races of men on our home world, along with the great goblins and our people. It was they, these masters of magic, who constructed bridges to flee from the destruction visited upon us during the Chaos Wars.

‘We lost almost everything, but this much knowledge remained: in ancient times others ranged across these lands, kin to those we warred with, but they were not those in Elvandar with whom we were at peace. He told a tale of a time when the wars on the ancient birth world forced dwarves, humans, even the magic users of the Dena Orcha—’

‘Orcs!’ spat Dolgan, as if the very word was an insult.

The Ranger looked at the old man.

‘Dena Orcha in the old tongue,’ said Malachi. ‘The true enemy of our blood. The great goblins. None live on this world.’

‘But they live in our memory,’ said the Dwarf King.

Malachi waved away the comment. ‘The magic users of many races banded together to save entire worlds in the time of the Mad Gods and raging Dragon Riders. They formed the Golden Bridge and many of our ancestors came to Midkemia.

‘But the elves and some others, the serpent men and the tiger men, already lived here and we were met with more war and magic.

‘The fighting on both sides of the Golden Bridge continued for a time without time, for the very nature of the universe was twisted and fluid.

‘Then, it was over,’ said the ancient dwarf, quietly.

‘In days after the Crossing, but before the line of Kings was named, in the dim mists of memory, the elves told our ancestors that many of their people left this world as we had fled our own, and to the elves they were known as the Lost Elves.’

The old elf sat silently for a minute and then said, ‘I can only guess, but perhaps one has returned to this world, for never have I heard of such a being before. You’d best ask the elves, for this much I know at least; many things can be said of elven magic, but I have never in my long life heard tell of them using illusion as a guise.’ He said, ‘If I may leave, King?’

His tone left no doubt the request was only a formality, as he turned before Dolgan waved permission.

As the old man was about to leave the chamber, Dolgan said, ‘Malachi, one more question. Why did my father not speak of this to me?’

Malachi shrugged. ‘You would have to be able to ask him. Your father was a quiet, thoughtful leader. He spoke very little.’ Dolgan nodded. ‘Unlike my father, who liked to tell stories.’

‘I remember something else,’ said Malachi. ‘Three great bridges were built on our birth world, or so my father said his grandfather told him. Two were built by humans and dwarves, and one by the orcs. One bridge led to the Tsurani world. If any of our people crossed, no memory of them remains with the Tsurani. The second came here, and it was on that bridge that humans and dwarves came to Midkemia. The orc bridge went to another world, and so from the time of the Chaos Wars we were no longer plagued by that ancient hate. It was said that some humans and dwarves crossed with them. Perhaps,’ posed the old dwarf, ‘the Lost Elves built their own bridge to escape their masters?’ And without waiting for an answer, Malachi left the hall.

Dolgan and the others remained silent for a long while, then Dolgan said, ‘What if the Lost Elves built their own bridge to escape their masters, indeed.’

‘But now one returns,’ said Alystan.

‘Apparently,’ said Dolgan.

‘Know this, wielder of Tholin’s hammer,’ said a voice behind them. Dolgan and the others turned to see Malachi standing in the hallway. ‘One last thing,’ he added, pointing a frail finger at the Dwarf King. ‘It was your ancestor who led our people here, making these mountains our home. His brothers led other bands to Stone Mountain and Dorgin. Our people were once as numerous as the leaves on trees, but where one dwarf crossed the bridge from our home world, five remained to fight the madness that came to destroy our home. No one knows what that madness was, save that it shattered the world.’ The old dwarf seemed fatigued from telling his story. Then, catching his breath, he began again. ‘If the Lost Elves are coming to this world, you must call The Moot and prepare for the possibility of war! Since we’ve come to this world we’ve found enemies, Dolgan, and if these are the Lost Elves, and kin to our friends in Elvandar, they are also kin to the dark elves.’ Dolgan nodded to Toddy to take him back to his quarters.

As the boy led Malachi away, several of the dwarves in the room nodded at his words. Hogni, Dolgan’s grandson, said, ‘When the Tsurani first came, when we first heard of them that night in the cave when you, Father and uncle Udell found Lord Borric hiding from the goblins, Father told me he felt an icy cold in the pit of his stomach.’

Dolgan nodded. ‘I, as well; and I feel it again.’

The Ranger said, ‘I can only tell you what I saw. I could put no name to that creature until this very hour. I had not heard of the Lost Elves until today.’

Dolgan said, ‘It could be a coincidence. The creature might have been some other kind of being that merely looks like our own elves. After all, don’t the Tsurani look like other humans? Or perhaps it was a human you saw, and he was simply putting on a magical guise for a mission on the other side of the rift.’ He puffed on his pipe and was silent for a moment. ‘Still, if it is the return of an ancient race of elves …’

‘Caution urges you to prepare as if they are coming,’ said the Ranger. ‘I’m for Elvandar and the Queen and Lord Tomas.’

Dolgan fixed the Ranger with a stare, then said, ‘And I’m with you. If anyone remembers those days, it will be Tomas. He often can’t recall his distant past until prodded by events, and if there was ever a time for prodding a Dragon Lord, it’s now.’ ‘You’ll ride?’ asked the Ranger.

Dolgan grinned. ‘No. I’m old, but I’m not dead. Thick woodlands lie between here and the River Crydee, and I’ve yet to see a horse I couldn’t run down. I’ll keep up, have no fear.’

Hogni fidgeted and cleared his throat.

His grandfather fixed him with a barely hidden amused expression and said, ‘What is it, boy?’

‘You said that when next you went to Elvandar, I could come as well, Grandfather.’ Dolgan feigned a scowl and then said, ‘That I did. Get ready. And tell your father he gets to play king for a while, until I return. We leave in an hour.’

Hogni grinned and hurried to gather his travelling gear. Dolgan sighed. To Alystan, he said, ‘He’s very young; not quite forty years old yet.’

The Ranger, who was only a few years older, suppressed a chuckle. Then the moment of mirth passed, and the grim prospect of what they were facing returned. The room seemed colder, despite the brisk fire.