Chapter 28|Thandryll
The narrow crush of the mountain peaks opened onto a lush, green valley. A precarious trail ran down the rocky slope, where it met a narrow dirt path. Shanis’ eyes followed the dirt walk up a gentle slope to where it vanished among a cluster of small buildings. Most were small houses with stone foundations and wooden roofs. Some houses had small kitchen gardens, all healthy and heavy with produce. A few people moved about, busy with their daily regimen. It had been a week since they had seen other people and looking down upon the scene from afar gave her the disconcerting sense of being somehow removed from reality.
The village disappeared over a hill. In the distance beyond, the valley sloped upward again to meet the encircling arms of the mountain range. The peaks continued on as far as she could see. She sighed. So they wouldn’t be leaving the mountains anytime soon. She head bleating and looked down to see an old man wandering behind four goats.
The man looked up at the same time, and stopped short. He stared, mouth hanging open. Finally, he spoke.
“Hello?” he squeaked. He raised his hand, palm open, in cautious greeting, then let it fall limp at his side. A short, wiry fellow, his gaunt face was partially obscured by a gray beard, peppered with bits of black. His hair, the same specked gray, he wore short and parted in the middle. He was garbed in deerskin leggings and tunic, and a homespun cloak dyed a hideous shade of red.
Shanis raised her hand, and was about to call down to him when she heard a light scraping of footfalls on stone. She glanced back to see Allyn coming up behind her.
“I didn’t find anything down the path I scouted. I see you had better luck.” His eyes took in the village. As he moved to her side, Shanis elbowed him and nodded down at the man who still stared up at them.
Nonplussed, Allyn greeted the man. “Good day to you sir! We are travelers seeking accommodations. Is there an inn about?”
“An inn?” He cackled, closing his eyes, head tossed back. “An inn!” The fellow collected himself, and opened his eyes. “We have no inn here, young sir, but we can find a place for you and your woman to stay.” He motioned for them to come down.
“I’m not his woman,” Shanis shouted. She immediately felt foolish. The man did not care what her relationship to Allyn was or was not.
He shrugged, as if confirming her thought. “We will feed you and give you a place to stay. Have you any wine?” His face took on an expression of childlike hopefulness.
“Our companions have wine. We will be glad to share it with you.” Allyn said.
“Oh no!” he said. “We must trade. We must trade.” He made a strange crossing motion with his hands. “Come down, bring your companions, and we will trade with them.”
Shanis found herself wanting to be anywhere but with this strange, manic little man. Something about him made her feel very uncomfortable. Perhaps it was his odd voice or his eccentric manner. Either way, he and his village suddenly seemed very sinister.
“Let’s not go down there,” she said softly, her mouth frozen in a false smile. “Just ask for directions, or something.”
“No,” Allyn said. “We need vegetables, fruit if they have any. We need to sleep in a warm, dry place for at least one night. Why would you not want to go?” His brow furrowed and he cocked his head as he looked at her.
“I don’t know.” The feeling of discomfort was gone. She looked down upon the little goat herder, still gazing innocently up at them, his head tilted to the side like a puppy, and wondered why he had given her a moment’s pause. In this desolate place, he might never have seen an outsider. Perhaps fatigue was clouding her judgment. “Don’t mind me.”
Allyn nodded and turned back to the little man. “What is this place?”
“It is called Thandryll.”
The knock came again. Oskar rolled over onto his stomach, and raised his head. Foggy, his awareness returned slowly. He felt as if he had slept for weeks. He looked down and was surprised to find that he was lying on a bed. After all these weeks of sleeping on the ground, a real bed. He sighed contentedly and flopped back into the straw tick mattress, closing his eyes.
This time the knock was accompanied by a shout. “Oskar! Time to wake up.”
He heard the sound of a door scraping across the floorboards, light footfalls, then he felt the covers stripped off of him. He groaned, turned his head, and opened his eyes. Allyn leaned over him, grinning.
“Is the roof afire?” Oskar grumbled. Allyn frowned and shook his head. “Then there’s no need for me to get up.”
“Fine by me,” Allyn said, “but you’ll miss the feast.”
That got Oskar’s attention. He sat up too fast, and his head swam. He squeezed his eyes closed and pressed his hands to his temples. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Since we arrived this morning. I fear your snoring will become part of the local folklore when we leave. People kept coming to the window to listen.”
“So what is this place like?” As the cobwebs of sleepiness were cleared away, he recalled their arrival in the small village. The villagers crowded around them, all of them small and pale, talking in strange, high-pitched voices. They spoke the same language as Oskar and his friends, but in a stiff, almost formal manner. Even in the short walk through the village, he noticed that sometimes, in place of words, they communicated with strange, hooting sounds. The experience was so surreal as to contribute to his sense of tired confusion.
“It is all right,” Allyn said, sitting down on the bed. “The people have an odd manner of speaking, and they insist on ‘trading’ with us, whatever that means to them. Larris has been meeting with the leader of their village, trying to understand something of their customs. We don’t want to offend them if we can help it.”
“In that case,” Oskar said as his stomach growled, “we don’t want to offend them by showing up late for the meal.”
Allyn led him to a large, low-lying, round structure at the end of the village. The walls, built stockade-style with vertical logs, were only shoulder high, surmounted by a humped thatch roof. Smoke rose from a hole in the center. They arrived at a small, square door. Allyn drew back the hide draped over the entryway, and motioned for him to enter.
Oskar froze as he stepped inside. The floor sloped downward at a sharp angle, gradually smoothing out into a broad, shallow depression, more than fifty paces across. The floor was covered with furs, and people were seated all around, eating, drinking, and quietly conversing. Near the fire in the room’s center, a scrawny man beat out a gentle rhythm on a small drum. In the sparse firelight he could just make out his friends sitting in a cluster near the fireplace along with a local man and woman.
He took his time weaving between the clusters of people. His mother had always said he had all the grace of a drunken bull. Fatigue and inadequate light did not help matters. As he picked his way through, he realized that people were staring at him, and whispering. It’s my imagination, he thought, but the deeper he went into the room, the more obvious it became. Some folks were actually gawking. Joining the others, he sank to the floor next to Hierm, who was chewing on a generous hunk of deer meat on a skewer. Allyn took a seat to Oskar’s right, next to the villagers.
“Why are people staring at me?” he asked the others. “Did they do that to any you?”
“You must forgive us, I pray,” the man seated next to Larris said, leaning forward and fixing Oskar with an overeager smile. “We have never seen anyone as...large as you before. All of you are taller than anyone in our village, but you are...”
“Large.” Oskar completed the sentence for him as he reached for a chunk of meat from the platter of meat, vegetables, cheese, and bread that sat on the floor in the midst of the group. “Do you not have many travelers pass this way?” A slip of a girl dressed in a loose-fitting homespun robe belted with a strip of rawhide knelt down beside him and held out a bottle of wine and an empty cup. Oskar took the bottle from her and turned back to the conversation.
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“You are the third to visit us in my lifetime. The others were wanderers. Half-mad mountain men, to be perfectly frank.”
Seated next to the speaker, Larris nodded knowingly. Apparently they had already had this discussion. “This place is quite far from civilization,” the prince said.
“I suppose.” The man shrugged, taking a sip of his wine.
Oskar took a long pull from his bottle. The wine was sour and weak, but it had a hint of some unusual flavor, like green apples. He swished the drink around his mouth and mulled over the idea of living somewhere so remote that you were virtually cut off from the rest of the world. He swallowed, the wine stinging his throat as it went down.
“Oskar, this is Malram, the chief councilor of Thandryll.” Larris indicated the man with whom Oskar had been talking. “And this is his wife Ramilla.”
Ramilla was a tiny, kind-faced woman with gray-streaked light brown hair, which she wore in a bun. She nodded politely when Larris introduced her. Her husband’s hair was of similar color, and he wore it in a ponytail. His neatly-trimmed beard was generously sprinkled with gray.
Oskar felt a soft touch on his shoulder. He jerked his head to the side and was startled to see that the young girl who had brought his wine was stroking his arm. His first instinct was to jerk away, but he did not want to seem rude. Also, seated at close quarters as they were, he couldn’t have moved very far in any event. He looked at her face, eyes glistening with…he didn’t know what. Some sort of worship, he supposed. No girl had ever looked at him that way. In his fantasies, it had felt a great deal more comfortable than he felt right now. Besides, she was so young.
“I see my wife fancies you,” Malram said with a smile.
“Your wife?” Khalyndryn, seated next to Larris, leaned across the prince to speak to the councilor. “I thought Ramilla was your wife.”
“I have four wives. Some have more, but I fear I am too old to be, shall we say, a satisfactory husband to any more. Lilan is the youngest of my wives. I fear her needs are quite great.” He smiled indulgently at the little girl the way a man would smile at a favorite dog.
“You are very strong,” Lilan said in a high, almost birdlike voice. She squeezed his arm and her smile grew wider.
If anyone in Oskar’s party was as taken aback as he was, they didn’t say so. It was as if the man wanted him to… He shook his head. This was crazy.
“Isn’t she awfully young to be married?” Shanis asked.
“I am seventeen winters this turn,” the girl said. “I hope to give my husband a child soon.”
Shanis screwed her mouth into a grimace. Appearances notwithstanding, she and Lilan were the same age. Doubtless, Shanis was trying not to imagine having a husband and children.
Oskar grinned at his friend’s discomfort. Lilan, mistaking his smile for encouragement, pressed her body against him, and laid her head on his shoulder.
“A new baby would truly be a blessing to our community,” Malram said. “Perhaps our new friend could help us in that respect? He is obviously of solid stock.”
Oskar coughed and held a fist to his mouth, hoping to hide his blushing. He had read about such a thing once, but thought it little more than a fanciful legend. This man truly wanted him to get a child on his wife? Surely this was some elaborate joke that the fellow had conspired with his friends to play at his expense.
“If not Oskar, perhaps Hierm could oblige you,” Allyn said, his voice dry, and his eyes dull over the top of his upraised wine cup.
For an instant, Oskar thought Hierm was going to jump on Allyn, but he merely smirked and stared intently at the fire in the center of the room. Next to him, Shanis cleared her throat and frowned at Allyn. This was a change. Apparently, Shanis was the only one permitted to needle Hierm about his indiscretion back at Horgris’ camp.
“If I have given offense in some way, friend Oskar, please accept my apology.” Malram formed a diamond shape with his thumbs and index fingers, and bowed, touching the tips his joined fingers to his forehead.
“No offense was taken, I assure you,” Larris said, covering for Oskar’s obvious disconcertment. “Being married to more than one woman is not something that is part of our culture. We are simply unaccustomed to it.”
“It is of necessity, truly,” Malram said. “We have many more women than men. Being isolated as we are, it is not as if we can marry off our young women to men of other villages. And if we do not reproduce,” he held his hands open, palms up, and shrugged.
Oskar was about to ask about the dearth of males in the village, but Khalyndryn spoke first.
“Where are the old people?” she asked.
“I beg your pardon?” Malram said. He had an odd look on his face, as if he had been affronted in some way. Next to him, his wife Ramilla stared down into her wine cup, looking sick.
“Men aren’t the only thing you don’t have many of,” she said. She swept her hand in a circle. “Look around. You are one of the oldest people in this room. Where are your elders? Your grandmothers?”
“Khalyndryn,” Larris said carefully, “perhaps that is not a subject that is proper for us to discuss…”
“It is all right.” Malram had regained his serenity. “Life is difficult here. The winters are long and bitter. The growing season is short. Food is always scarce. Sadly, our life expectancy is obviously much shorter than that to which you are accustomed.”
“I am sorry. I did not intend to bring up such a painful subject.” Khalyndryn actually looked sincere. She reached across Larris’ lap and laid a hand on Malram’s arm.
“Your apologies are unnecessary, I assure you. You are correct that I am one of the oldest in our village. I sometimes wonder how many more winters I will see. It is a difficult thing to reflect upon one’s mortality.” He stared despondently down at the ground for the briefest of moments, then looked up, forcing a smile. “Enough somber talk.” He stood, and clapped his hands three times. The soft murmur of voices faded away, and he moved to the fireside to address the crowd.
“My friends, it is our privilege to welcome our esteemed guests to Thandryll.” He motioned for them to rise, then bowed deeply. They were greeted not by polite applause, but by odd hooting sounds, as if a flock of owls had settled in the rafters. “Let us entertain them with words and music.”
The drummer, who had been tapping out a gentle rhythm while they ate, accelerated his pace, striking a primal beat. Everyone clapped along, and Oskar found himself tapping his foot in time to the music. Many of the young girls moved to the center of the room, and began whirling about the fire. They spun one way, then the other, arms outstretched, heads thrown back so that their unbound hair flew about them. At various places around the room, young men stood and stomped out a muted back beat on the earthen floor. One by one, more girls joined the circle until the area around the fire became so full that Oskar wondered how they avoided crashing into one another. Lilan’s gaze flashed from the dancers to Oskar, then back to the dancers. With a flash of regret on her face, she rose to her feet and joined the other girls around the fire.
Despite the raucous atmosphere, Oskar noted with interest that the girls’ faces remained solemn as they danced. Lilan turned round and round, like the others her head was thrown so far back that he could see her serious expression and closed eyes. The way she held her arms out, her throat exposed, reminded him of a sacrifice. A vision came to him unbidden of her lying spread-eagle on a stone altar, a knife held above her throat by an unseen hand. The image settled onto him like a dark cloud, and he turned his thoughts and his gaze to his bottle of wine.
“Are you going to share any of that?” Shanis asked, holding out a cup. Her back remained turned toward the dancers. Such things had never been of much interest to her.
“Why don’t you join in the dancing?” Oskar poured generously, laughing at the sour expression on her face.
“Tell you what,” Shanis said, ignoring her wine. “I will take that challenge if you
’ll take Lilan up on her offer.”
Oskar choked on the sour wine, and spat it on the ground. “What are you talking about? I barely know her.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. The others made no attempt to conceal their amusement.
“She is a lovely girl, Oskar,” Allyn said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “In any event, perhaps it is time you became a man.”
Larris had the grace to shake his head at Allyn, but Oskar could see the twinkle in the young prince’s eyes. Hierm was keeping quiet, while Khalyndryn was doing her best to look offended, but Oskar could see the amusement in her eyes as well. Become a man. Who was Allyn to say that he was not a man? He was tired of being laughed at. Everyone complimented him for his knowledge, yet treated him like a fool. It’s because I’m big. If I were some slender, pasty-faced fellow, they’d treat me like I knew something. I’m tired of being mocked.
“How do you know I’m not already a man?” He regretted the comment almost immediately. Rather than shocking or silencing the others, it made them laugh aloud. All of them. He looked down at his wine cup and tried to pretend that his face was not burning. “I’m just saying you don’t know,” he muttered.
He was spared Allyn’s reply when Malram stood and clapped his hands thrice again. The sharp, staccato sound caught everyone’s attention. The drumming and dancing ceased, and the hooting started up again. Malram raised his hands and looked around the room, waiting for quiet.
“My friends,” he said, as the sounds faded away, “may we enjoy the words of Barthomes.” The hooting erupted again, filling the domed gathering place with its otherworldly sound. A tiny man stood and daintily picked his path to where Malram stood. They greeted one another by making the odd triangular shape on their foreheads, and bowing.
Barthomes’ hair was snow white, but otherwise he appeared to be several winters younger than Malram. He stretched his hand out in a grand, sweeping gesture, and the room fell silent as frozen night.
“And how shall I entertain our guests this evening?” he asked the room. His voice was deep and rich. Oskar wondered at the plotting of the Gods, that such a small body should contain so large a voice. “A poem, perhaps? A story from ages ago?”
“Raw Bruce!” someone shouted, eliciting more hoots.
“Yes!” another cried. The hooting started up, but was quickly overwhelmed by eerie chants of “Raw… Bruce… Raw… Bruce…”
Oskar looked around the room, and was frightened by what he saw. The looks on the local’s faces could only be described as zealous. This must be quite a story, he thought. The whispered chant, the semi-darkness, and the wine he had drunk gave the scene a surreal air. He glanced at Shanis, and was not altogether pleased to see that she, too appeared uncomfortable.
“Very well,” Barthomes replied. “Raw Bruce it shall be.” He lowered his head, his hands together in a gesture like supplication. He stood there for so long that Oskar was wondering if the man had forgotten the words. But finally he lifted his head and stared not so much at, but through the audience. His face had taken on a wooden quality, as if it were a mask, hiding something sinister. He opened his mouth, and the words flowed forth in a rich cadence that seemed almost ritualistic in its ebb and flow.
“We live our days like dying flame,
but none will remember our name,
lest we rise up and defeat fate,
and become one anointed great.
So open your ears.
My tongue I will loose.
As I tell you the tale
of the brave man Raw Bruce.”
The chanting resumed. “Raw Bruce! Raw Bruce! Raw Bruce!” It ceased, as if on cue, as Barthomes began the next stanza.
“All vested in green his warriors they came.
But our brave Raw Bruce had no thought of fame.
For down from the hills, and cold mountain peaks,
came minions of ice. Midst their angry shrieks,
Raw Bruce he did turn, and urge his men on,
knowing full well they would not see the dawn.”
He spread his arms and lowered his head again. This time, there was no chanting. Everyone waited, anticipating the rest of the story.
He is quite the showman, Oskar thought. The others in his party were as enraptured as he, wondering how the story would end. They all gazed intently at Barthomes, their wine forgotten. Even Khalyndryn, who rarely showed interest in old tales, was paying attention.
The story continued, and Oskar was spellbound. The beauty of Barthomes’ voice, and the hypnotic cadence of his retelling captivated the audience. Oskar listened eagerly as Raw Bruce led his forces in a reckless charge into the left flank of the Ice King’s army. The creatures of ice, and coldheart soldiers were caught off-guard by the aggressive tactic, and Raw Bruce’s charge ripped through their lines. Not slowing, they fought their way through the reserve forces, paying a dear price. Raw Bruce himself led the way. The powerful warrior, half again taller and broader of shoulder than his biggest soldier, fought with a broadsword in each hand, and cold blood flew wherever he led. Oskar supposed the man’s size, and perhaps his prowess had been exaggerated over time, but the thought was merely a minor one in the back of his consciousness, and did not detract from the tale.
Raw Bruce and his men fled into a narrow pass, leaving behind one of every three men lying dead or wounded on the field of battle. Their enemies, surprised by the fury of Raw Bruce’s attack, were slow to pursue. Just over a rise and around a bend in the pass, the heroic leader placed himself and a company of his most loyal foot soldiers directly in the path of the assault. The remainder of his forces he sent up onto the ridges on either side. Moving with haste, they got into position before the bulk of the Ice King’s forces engaged them.
Bravely, Raw Bruce and his finest held the line in ferocious hand-to-hand, and hand-to-claw combat, standing against overwhelming odds until all of the forces of ice were backed up in the pass. That was when the archers opened up from above, raining death upon the coldhearts and ice beasts. Other soldiers hurled boulders and logs down onto their enemies. The ice creatures tried to climb the walls, but were summarily brought down by the arrow fire that raked the sheer stone walls. As the rear elements of the Ice King’s army faltered, Raw Bruce and his men fell back. The front ranks, now reduced to the wildest and most ferocious of the coldheart warriors, charged recklessly after them, to be met by the cavalry Raw Bruce had held in reserve just out of sight. Their resolve broken, the minions of ice fled from the pass, harried by the cavalry and peppered by missile fire all the way out. They poured out through the valley, their numbers reduced by more than half, and scattered into the mountains.
“And so, my dear friends, this story now ends,
but remember you ev’ry word.
His men he did save, for Raw Bruce was brave,
and cunning as the fox on his standard.”
Oskar frowned. Suddenly, the tale sounded familiar, as if he had heard it long ago. What was it that caught his attention?
“And remember with pride, that here many men died,
their blood crimson on the green grass.
For our homes we have wrought, on the site where they fought,
in the shadow of brave Raw Bruce Pass.”
Oskar’s stomach lurched, and he staggered to his feet, scarcely hearing the hoots of approval raining down upon Barthomes. He felt cold inside, but he trembled with excitement. His head was dizzy with the thrill of discovery, a feeling he had not felt since he had learned that he possessed the map to the lost city of Murantha. He had to be right!
“Are you all right?” Larris asked. He clambered to his feet and grabbed hold of Oskar’s arm, as if to steady him.
“I’m fine,” Oskar said. He was surprised that Larris had not made the connection. Perhaps the prince had imbibed a bit too heavily. “Come outside with me for a moment. I want to talk with you.”
Larris frowned, looking Oskar in the eye. With a shrug, he turned to Malram
, who made his strange, fingers-in-a-diamond bow, and indicated that the two might take their leave.
Outside, Larris stepped in front of Oskar and grabbed his shoulders. “What is this about? Are you ill? Is it Allyn? He doesn’t mean anything by his jests. He is just so dry that people take him…What are you looking at?”
Oskar drew away from Larris, and turned slowly about, admiring how the setting sun shone golden on the knife tips of the mountain peaks. This had to be the place!
“I’m marveling at how the setting sun makes the peaks encircling the valley look like a golden crown.” He paused, waiting for Larris to react. It was only a moment.
“A golden crown! Raw Bruce…Robrus. Oskar, this is it! You did it again!” He wrapped an arm around Oskar’s neck and jumped up and down. “I was so discouraged, so distracted by the army we saw, it did not even occur to me.” He laughed.
“Stories change over time,” he said, his words coming faster, “and so do names. Barthomes’ account of the battle is the reverse of how I have always read it, though his version makes more sense. The valley… Robrus’ Pass. These are the descendants of those soldiers. They’ve been cut off for so long from the rest of the world for generations. That is why they seem so small, so unhealthy. No wonder Malram wanted you to mate with Lilan. A robust fellow like yourself would add strong blood to their lines. Oskar, how did I not realize it?”
“It was not until he mentioned the fox standard that I connected the two stories,” Oskar explained. “Then he said ‘Raw Bruce’s Pass’, and it sounded so much like Robrus’ Pass that I knew it had to be true.” He realized, as he stared at the overjoyed Larris, that his feelings of resentment had abated. Some might think him a great oaf, but he knew better. Twice now, he had come through. He just stood there for a moment, enjoying the heady feeling of vindication, but eagerness to explore quickly got the better of him. “Should we tell the others?”
“Not yet. Let’s find the pass first, just to be certain. It must be on the far end of the valley, over that rise.”