Chapter I:
The Father
Son-Slayer
'Where?' a deep but feminine voice called out through the window.
'Where?' a gruff man asked, peering down from the thatched roof upon which he labored.
'Where!? Where!? Where!?' three VERY small children asked excitedly.
'I l'Kill my son,' Ereg replied sternly, shaking his head as he walked past the house.
Each questioner was silent for a moment, closing their eyes tight and holding their breath. In a moment the gesture passed, and they went back to their tasks, the adults to their work and the children to their play.
'Luck!' the gruff man shouted, nodding as Ereg passed. The people of Sparka never wished for 'good luck', as the men of the coasts were wont to do. What is bad is not lucky, so why waste words by adding 'good' and 'bad'? - such was their reasoning. They found it laborious to speak to the Coastmen; they have two sentences for every thought, three words for every impression, and a host of other unnecessary additions and duplications in their speech. It was a complete waste of time and thought.
'Help'?' the gruff man asked after a pause.
'Mm,' Ereg grunted in answer. The man returned to working on the roof and Ereg returned his attention to the road. His fear and sorrow swelled up within him again, threatening to undo his resolve. As was the custom among his people, he shut his eyes and breathed slowly for an instant, swallowing his sadness. He did not want to kill his son, but he knew that was probably the only thing he could do. The others knew as much, and let him pass without troubling him. They offered him no condolences. If they were not devils they would pity him; why should they waste words telling him then? At any rate, pity would not save his son, and it would not give him the strength to slay him - it would not give him the strength he needed. Son-slaying was almost never easy, not even for the people of Sparka.
He came to the center of the village and found his wife, Erexmid, waiting for him. They nodded at one another, both pausing to shut their eyes and to swallow their sadness. 'Luck!' was all that she said to him - she didn't need to say anything else.
She lifted a large sack from the ground and handed it to him. It had two leather straps which could be worn over the shoulders, and it was filled to the brim with food.
He looked at her with a puzzled expression. Their eyes met, and for a few seconds they considered one another. Could it be that she yet hoped that there was some way for Dan'ereg, their son, to escape his fate? Ereg breathed in and out through his nose, as if to say, 'Do not tempt me!' But he didn't need to say it to her. He turned away and left her behind.
For an instant her emotions betrayed her, and she reached after him, as if delaying him might change his mind. She knew as well as he did, however, that there were no other options. She shut her eyes and, breathing slowly, swallowed her pain again.
Sparka was a small village, built just north of the Burning Lands, so named because the white soil thereof burned like fire beneath one's feet when the sun was at its highest. The land saw very little in the way of cold weather, but when winter came, mild though it was, the men of Sparka would hunt the deadly Ghilil lizards that dwelt upon the hot sands. Despite the heat of the land, however, the Burning Lands were not a desert. Trees grew in abundance, along with an assortment of flowers and bushes. They were hardier than the plants that grew in the Far North, but they were not quite fit for life in the extremes of the desert - at least, not for the extremes of the Kharku Desert which lay some three hundred leagues to the north. The people of Sparka were as hardy as any in Kharku, and they were known among the men of the coast as great explorers and craftsmen.
As Ereg passed the center of Sparka he came to the elder's house. Kuhaf-Da's home was not the largest in Sparka, but the old man was very meticulous about the building, replacing stones at the first sight of mold or crack. His wooden roof he kept tarred and patched better than any other man in the village. It was said, though it certainly was not entirely true, that his roof had never leaked even so much as a single drop of water, even during the great floods.
Ereg nodded to the elder, who looked at him with understanding. The old man stood outside his house with a small bundle tucked under his arm. 'Skatos,' was all that he said as he handed Ereg the bundle.
Ereg looked at him with confusion, but asked no questions. He was sure that he would understand when he saw what was in the bundle.
Laying his own burden aside for a moment he pulled the cloth away to reveal the bundle's contents. Wrapped in white cloth was a beautiful new sword, polished to perfection with a black hilt. It was as sharp as any blade he had seen before, sharp enough to make a quick end of any foe - or of his own son. He nodded approvingly, fighting back strong emotions.
This was good, he thought. Skatos was a good name too, for it meant 'quick' in their tongue. A quick hand and a quick blade was the very least he could give to Dan. The thoughts came once more as he looked upon the blade - thoughts that he might somehow spare the child. But he quickly shut them away, knowing the torment false hope would give him. Swallowing his sadness, he put his hand upon Kuhaf-Da's shoulder, a show of tremendous gratitude, and then walked on toward the northeast edge of the village. The elder's wife, Kuhapsmid, looked out through the window with a single tear visible on her face. This was as much sorrow as a woman of Sparka was permitted to show. It was more acceptable to shed a tear for the sorrows of another. To shed such tears for your own losses was considered showy or pretentious. But she could shed a tear for her dear friend's youngest son, who was about to die.
Five dark figures stood at the edge of Sparka, each with weapons strapped to their backs, and with large burdens upon their shoulders. When Ereg reached them he stopped, swallowed his sadness, and then walked on. There was no way he could stop them from coming, so he would not waste words in argument. But it troubled him. He did not want to make his mission any more difficult than it had to be.
The tallest of the other men was his eldest son San'ereg. When Ereg died, San would become San-Da, the eldest of his line. He would then inherit all that Ereg possessed, including the responsibility of caring for his mother and his brothers. San carried two swords upon his back, strapped in such a way that they could easily be drawn from over his shoulder. On each side of his pack he had strapped six darts with long steel tips. At his belt there hung a small hatchet, good both for light woodcutting and for the heat of battle. Every man of Sparka, regardless of his other armaments, carried such a weapon. San had ruddy brown hair like his mother, Erexmid.
Fas'ereg was nearly as tall as his brother San, but he came short by a mere half-inch, much to his frustration. He strode beside his father, his long blonde hair tied behind his head by a leather cord. Upon his pack was strapped a great battle-axe with a broader head than even the people of Sparka, who were ever fond of such extraordinary weapons, thought to be necessary. The axe was his own creation, however, and he would not be parted from it. If he was not so incredibly skilled with it, the other men might have accused him of carrying it just to hide the fact that he had erred in his fabrication thereof. But no other man of Sparka could match him in combat, not even his father or the elder Kuhaf. And when he carried that strange axe, the distance between his own might and that of all the other men was all the greater, leaving all doubt behind as to the utility of his mighty weapon. At his belt he also carried a small hatchet, which looked all the more insignificant beside the great axe on his pack.
Haf'ereg came third by birth. He was considered the strongest of Ereg's sons, though any of them were more than strong enough even by the standards of Sparkans. When a fire had sprung up suddenly within their house, Haf had carried his sleeping mother and two of his brothers from the house in one trip. He carried no weapon in the proper sense of the word. But upon his back was an enormous bronze shield, large enough to hide his entire body. Haf's hair was a light brown like his father's hair. All of his sons, and indeed, Ereg himself, had rath
er healthy beards.
Walking beside Haf, both now and at all other times, was his younger brother Jah'ereg. Jah's hair was the darkest of all the siblings, and as if having less of it would make the difference less, he kept it cropped short. Tied to his pack were a dozen darts, like unto the darts of San, and five short throwing spears. In his hand he carried a longer spear which, of course, could also be thrown in a pinch.
Trailing behind all the others, with a pack nearly twice his own stature, was a very distraught Naj'ereg. His hair was, like Ereg his father, light brown. He was the closest in age to Dan, and he could not quite swallow his sadness as the others. It seemed his sorrows would catch in his throat, and force his breathing to quicken and his brow to drip sweat. One day, he thought, he must master this trick of the Sparkans. It would, he was sure, get him in trouble someday. He just hoped that it would not be on this particular day.
Their mission was important, and he did not want to be the one whose weakness led to its failure. At his waist he wore a sword in a sheath (I need not mention the hatchet, which all the Sparkans wore), and upon the side of his pack was a small bronze shield and a small crossbow with ten iron quarrels. On the other side of the pack were tied six steel darts. He could not match any of his brothers with ordinary weapons, but when it came to throwing and shooting, he could not be matched by anyone.
Thus equipped, Ereg and his sons made their way to the northeast, traveling along a little used dirt road. The people of Sparka rarely had any occasion to make their way to the coast. They saw little utility in living in a place so near to the Outer Waters that surrounded Kharku. In their mind these waters marked the edge of all things, and the waters themselves were the infinite chaos out of which the land arose. Moreover, the salty water thereof was not good for either farming or drinking, and the people of Sparka had no interest in eating fish, whether they were caught in the ocean or in a stream. Of Kharku it has been said that what is not enormous is poisonous, and what is not deadly is not in Kharku.
Now and again men from the coast would come to them, usually to trade for iron or to commission a sword or other such weapons. The Sparkans were not the best smiths, but they were better than the people of the coast, who spent their days fishing the shallows and farming the dry soil of the northeastern shore.
Kharku to this day has not quite been fully mapped. A few daring sailors have managed a rather approximate description of its coastline. A jumble of their writings form the basis of most of our maps. The Goblin Peninsula and the Peppered Desert are well known, but seldom traveled. The peninsula occupies the northernmost stretch of the continent and stands equally distant from Kollun, Illmaria and Dominas. Just off the northern coast are the Librantan Isles, which are now ruled over by the democracy of Kollun. It is from these isles that the famed Kharku Pepper makes its way to the known world. The people of the islands trade with the nomadic people of the Peppered Desert, who gather it from some unknown plant that grows only deep in the desert. Those who have attempted to discover the source of the pepper have not returned, either because the nomads would not permit their secrets to be made known to the other lands, or simply because the were not skilled enough to survive the perils of that region. The Peppered Desert, I understand, is so named for the spattering of black stones that litter its sand, and not, it would seem, for the famed peppers.
There are some cities on the northern coast that trade with Dominas, some cities on the western coast that trade with Illmaria and Malgier (though, of course, not with the people of Bralohi, if he yet survives in his legendary kingdom), and, again, the islanders of the Librantan who are governed by Kollun. But beside these things the land of Kharku is almost entirely unknown. There is a great mountain range at its center with great peaks, the least of which rivals Coronis and the greatest of which dwarf that incomparable height. It would be unfitting, it would seem, if there were any extremities that did not find their homes in that mysterious land. Somewhere in the midst of those mountains is the Deplund of the dwarves, where their ancient ancestors battled the Dragon. Indeed, the whole continent seems to have been shaped by some mighty cataclysm of old. How much of this is legend and how much is truth would be impossible to untangle. Indeed, if the purpose of such legends is kept properly in perspective, the difference between myth and history vanishes away. But this is a discussion that belongs to a different sort of work.
Surrounding these mountains on all sides is a great forest, the like of which is only to be found, in a small degree, in Zyprion of Weldera. But in this statement I am assuming that the axe-lords of western Amlaman have not yet felled every tree in that land, rendering the west of Weldera as barren as its center. Within this forest myth and truth are indistinguishable, and the beasts that dwell there are, in some cases, more fantastic than any legend.
There have been kingdoms in Kharku, and there are undoubtedly kingdoms there to this day. They have risen and fallen, conquered and been conquered - all without the observation of either Dadron or the Magic Tower. There are whole nations that have dwelt in the deep forests for ages without number, but whose deeds, whether great or small, have never been spoken or uttered beyond the edge of the forest. There are cities built atop enormous trees, there are goblins of both immense and minute stature, and there are creatures that can only be called dragons, though they are not quite what the stories describe. There are spiders in that dark forest that stand as tall as men, it is said, and some that can speak. The Snakil of Dominas in some way caught wind of this legend, and are superstitiously afraid of all spiders, whatever their stature. They slay them on sight, and believe that if they did not do so, they would grow to be as large and deadly as those they heard tales of in Kharku. I mention this only as a means of illustrating the fact that, in some way, at certain times, there has been commerce between all these lands, despite the pretentious histories of the elves. But the truth is lost to us, and the lies of the elves are in many ways our best approximates. If their purposes are understood, then it is just a matter of interpreting their stories so as to understand the right of it.
Ereg and his sons made camp on the Last Hill, which marked the place where the ocean first came within view. Perhaps it was some ancient memory of an Aguian raid, passed down from age to age, or perhaps it was naked superstition, but the people of Sparka would not sleep within sight of the ocean. Dan must have done so, however, Ereg thought sorrowfully. He must have spent the night listening to the wild repetition of the breaking waters.
That would end on the morrow, however, when Ereg would find and kill his son. The ocean is a powerful thing, Ereg thought, and for a moment he allowed it to tempt him with many possibilities. But as mighty as the water may be, the land broke it to pieces. In this respect the shore represented more than the mere edge of the world. It was the place where the earth broke the power of the sea, and where stone conquered the almighty deeps. To the people of Sparka the working of nature was no mere accident or play of chance, it was a veritable battle between the sundry elements. The wind drove the water, the water resisted the wind, but the earth broke all, and conquered all. And to dwarves like Ereg and his sons, this gave them a deep reverence for stone and earth and all things solid and unwavering.
He would need to be unwavering tomorrow. For Dan had been stolen away by the Coastmen - human folk from the shoreline. And the people of Sparka knew that such men must not be bargained with. But neither could he leave his beloved son to be used by them as they pleased, or held as a hostage to gain power over Sparka. They knew that they had not the power to fight the Coastmen; and the Sparkans had no allies in the land. Nor could they hope to rescue Dan, for such hostages had always been used to lure the dwarves into slaughterous traps. Such a thing had not been done in a century, but dwarves felt all the pangs of their history with as much vivacity as their own present sufferings. When the Sparkans went south to see the Scars, for instance, they could feel within themselves all the sorrows and terrors of thei
r ancestors as they looked upon the place where the Dragon had wounded the earth.
Tomorrow they would kill Dan. The captors would make a demand, and to make it they must show the captive to his kin. But the dwarves of Sparka did not pay ransoms. When the captive was shown, the dwarves would kill the prisoner themselves, as if to spit in the face of all who would attempt to control them through such wicked means. It is very nearly impossible to make a dwarf do as you please.
Illness
The dangers of Kharku are not all of immense stature. Some of the most deadly perils are so small as to be utterly invisible. Around the same time that the Magi Czylost raged against the elves, a small expedition was sent into Kharku in an attempt to expand the trade interests of the Magic Tower. A hundred men went ashore in the north eastern part of the land. This place is populated almost entirely by humans, and is therefore known by the Lapulians as the Manlands of Kharku. But ere they reached the Ung-brusht, the great forest that surrounds the mountains of Kharku, their entire group had been stricken by a terrible illness, the symptoms of which ought not be mentioned in a work such as this one. One man returned to the shore ere he died, leaving the report of their journey and their illness with the fishermen on the northern coast of Kharku.
It is not surprising then that shortly after his arrival on that dark continent, Agonas, son of Parganas, fell deathly ill, and his companions along with him. It was on the nineteenth day of Primus that he set out from Inklas with a single ship named the Crowsflight and a small crew of men that he had personally selected from among his brother's fleet. The two men he trusted the most were Zefru and Gheshtick.
Zefru was a slender elf with dark brown hair from Evnai Port that everyone believed to be a thief, but who had hitherto proved so evasive that there was, as yet, no legal grounds for a proper accusation.
Gheshtick was many things: An accomplished warrior, having proven himself against the goblins of the Talon mountains, a scholar of sorts, having studied in Sunlan Palace and in Centan, and a strategist, having served Ijjan in a small conflict against a group of rebel Essenes.
One thing he was not, however, was a sailor. If he had to do it all over again, Agonas would have selected a few more competent sailors. The Crowsflight was very nearly wrecked when they finally came, after sailing down the entire eastern the coast of Dominas, to cross the Boiling Sea to the northern coast of Kharku. They passed by some of the northern cities and villages without stopping, not wanting to involve themselves in such large groups of men. But they made an attempt to land when they came to a somewhat isolated fishing village built on the shore of a great bay near to the Peppered Desert. As they approached his men had some difficulty navigating the waters, and they struck a boulder, and took on a great deal of water before the fishermen of the village could come to their aid. The village, they learned, was named Thure.
They were welcomed to the village as refugees, and given food and shelter. Agonas wasted no time, however, before he began asking about the Monster of the Earth. When he spoke to the people they grew fearful and wary of them. One of the leaders among the people insisted that they cease from such talk, and wait for the Elder to see to their questions.
Agonas grew belligerent, however, and threatened them with all that Sunlan's army was capable of, and even with things that no nation could manage.
The men stared at him with amazement, but after a moment's observation one of them snorted and told the others, 'The man is feverish. See him to a bed.' This insult was more than the son of Parganas could handle. He drew his sword, raised it toward the man and then promptly dropped it on the dirt floor, its sharp dwarf-steel blade sinking deep into the earth. He made to draw it out again, but he found his arms utterly without strength. He put his hand to his forehead and rubbed between his eyes. Everything became a blur and he collapsed in the dirt, not to awaken until three days had passed. Even then, he knew very little of what came to pass. He had some sense that his men were right along with him, each man emptying their insides and suffering intense pains over every inch of their bodies.
The few mortals he had chosen for his crew perished quickly with the disease, and even a few of the elves, leaving only Agonas, Zefru, Gheshtick, Udraja and Amerlu.
Everything that occurred during his illness became a mystery to him, and he had not the strength to comprehend what little he perceived. He had some notion that there was a woman caring for him, and that she sang to the men in a strange tongue. Each day he was fed a deep red broth that burned his throat, but left him feeling stronger. He could recall seeing several worried faces peering at him from above, though he did not recognize them. The most frequent of these faces was of a somewhat fierce looking man whose eyes and hair were both black as night. He spoke to Agonas and the others, but nobody made any reply.
The survivors remained in this condition for almost two full weeks. Gheshtick recovered before any of the others. He remained silent, however, saying only that he could not speak for his master, and that if they wished to know anything of their purpose or their history, they would have to wait for Agonas to awaken.
This finally came to pass on the tenth day of Paschest, when Agonas opened his eyes and found that he could make sense of what he saw. He was lying in a large round tent with a thick wool blanket upon him. He was covered in sweat and the air was rank with sickness. He sat up carefully, his entire body sore both from the illness and from the posture he had maintained for nearly two whole weeks. No light entered into the tent, which led him to assume either that it was nighttime or that the tent was meant for a permanent dwelling, and therefore was constructed in such a way as to keep insects and rain alike from entering the living quarters. He shook his head as he realized that these were not two opposite possibilities. 'How long have I been sleeping?' he said aloud to himself.
'Sleeping?' a quiet voice asked. 'Two weeks you have suffered and been tormented by visions. But you have not slept; not as far as I have heard.'
'Who is there?' Agonas demanded. He could remember drawing his blade and shouting, and he doubted that those who now had power over him had forgotten. He looked around the room trying to find the source of the voice. The walls of the tent were a deep golden brown and looked like they were made of very strong leather. There were curtains hung upon rods separating the space into several small quarters. There didn't seem to be anyone else present beside he and this strange speaker, however. The floor was dirt, but there were several animal skins laid out to serve as rugs. Beautiful woven blankets with ornate patterns hung upon the walls. A small desk and a large wooden chest with a wooden lock sat in the corner of the room near what looked like an entry flap. Beyond the flap he could see what looked like firelight.
'I an Xan,' was all that the voice said.
'Where am I?' Agonas demanded.
'You are in what was once my own tent,' the voice answered.
'Why did you take care of me? Why didn't you leave me to die?' Agonas asked.
'Because I did not know who you were, and only warriors kill those they do not know,' Xan answered.
'And who do you kill?' Agonas said, confused by the man's speech.
'I kill who I must, and only when I must,' he answered. Silence fell, and for nearly a minute neither man said anything. This struck Agonas as unusual, since undoubtedly the man must have a number of questions for him. It seemed as though the man would be content to wait for Agonas to initiate further discourse.
'Where am I?' Agonas asked, and, fearing the other man might make light of his repetition, he added, 'Where is your tent I mean?'
'My tent is in the middle of the village of Thure,' Xan said.
'Thure?' Agonas said. 'And are you the healer of this village?'
'I am,' the other man answered, but with a tone that suggested that this was the very least of what he was.
'Who are you?' Agonas said, frustrated that he was again repeating his questions.
Xan sighed, and said,
'I suppose a name is but a sound without something more - without something to bind thereto. I am the Elder of this village, and I have been its elder since my father was killed, nearly forty years hence. Thus I am known in this land as Xan-Thure, for being the elder I am the person of the village - I am the village in a sense.'
'You are the village?' Agonas said with confusion.
'Yes,' Xan affirmed without any sign of hesitation. 'The coming together of men into civilization is done by means of the person of the village - he who stands for it, fights for it, chastises it.'
'You mean a ruler?' Agonas said, rubbing his temples.
'Exactly. But in Kharku - at least, in this part of Kharku, we call such a man the person of that which he represents. For all the power and will of the people he protects becomes invested in his own fist to do with as he pleases. But a good person does that which pleases those he personates.'
'I must plead for your understanding,' Agonas said, wearying of the conversation. 'I was not myself when I came to this place. I do not even remember what I said or did.'
'Think nothing of it,' Xan assured him. 'Most of us have already carried the Fever, and shall not need concern ourselves with it again. But you are not from Kharku.'
'My men,' Agonas began, thinking one of his crew must have explained their purposes.
As if he knew his thoughts, Xan said, 'Your men have said nothing, each insisting that I must get my answers from you, lord Agonas. You see, you are their person.'
'If you are here for answers, then why have you not asked any questions?' Agonas asked.
'If I ask you aught that you wish not to tell me, how shall I know whether or not you are lying to me, whether you wish me ill, or whether you mean to bring harm to Thure? Your questions, however, tell me only truth. You do not like to be in a position of submission, as I can tell from the way you demanded to know your whereabouts and also to know that we do not consider you an enemy. You wish to know my name, not because it matters, but because you wish to know whether or not I have the right to speak to one such as yourself.'
'It isn't,' Agonas began, but his pounding head would not allow him to pretend the other man did not understand him.
'Most foreigners do not survive the Kharku Fever,' Xan said after a pause. Only a few of your men have succumbed - only the gray-bearded ones. But you and your remaining men have not a gray hair betwixt the lot of you. Why is that? I do not think that there is any lack of maturity in you; certainly there is no such lack in the one called Gheshtick. Yet your hair is as full of color as it was, I would imagine, on the day of your birth.'
'So we are not gray,' Agonas said, shrugging his shoulders. 'There are many who are not.'
'Of course,' Xan said, stepping from the shadows into the light. 'I am not gray, for instance.'
Xan stood several inches taller than Agonas, with long black hair hanging down almost to his waist. His roughly chiseled face was cleanly shaven save for a small line of dark hair along the edges of his jawbone. It was not a style Agonas had ever seen before. 'I am not gray, but I am older than one might guess.'
'You are an elf?' Agonas said, looking closely at the other man. Xan wore a thick black robe with a broad leather belt fastened around his waist. In a sheath at his side was a long knife with what looked like one half of a human arm-bone for a hilt. Around his neck he wore a silver chain with a bright blue gem hanging upon his chest. The leather sandals on his feet looked as though they had seen many miles.
'I do not know what an elf is,' Xan said, turning his head slightly.
'An elf. An Immortal; one of the undying,' Agonas explained.
'Undying?' Xan smiled. 'I have never heard of such a creature! Perhaps you mean the world, or the gods - but, no,' he smiled. Even the gods perish!'
'How old are you?' Agonas demanded.
'You are not only a ruler of men,' Xan said with a grin, 'but also a born ruler, not a conqueror. A man who come to power by his own might knows the nature of his authority, and its limits. But those born to honors have their nobility within their bones, poured into them with their mother's milk.'
'If I may ask, master Xan-Thure,' Agonas began, but Xan held his hand up to stop him.
'I say it not but as an observation, Lord Agonas.' After a pause he sighed and said, 'I have lived for two centuries and a half of another.'
Agonas could do nothing to stop his jaw from falling open. 'Do all your people possess such longevity? I thought only,' he stopped himself, hoping the other man would be content only to have heard the question.
'No, almost none of them,' Xan said. There are a few lines that produce what is called an Adapnan - a man who does not perish but by sword or disease. I am the last of these, for the people of the Manlands in the east fear and hate us, and when they learn that one of us has come to rule, whether in this village or elsewhere, they seek to slay us. Many of us also have fallen to the Shadowfolk. When my father was killed, I had not yet been made known to any other people - to this day I am not known but by those who dwell here in Thure.'
'Shadowfolk?' Agonas asked with trepidation, thinking to himself, 'What manner of land is this Kharku?'
As if he had heard his thoughts Xan answered, 'Kharku is a land of darkness. Not because the sun does not shine upon it, but because there are no eyes to behold it. Most of the mystery of this land is mystery because it has not been seen, not because there is anything doubtful or strange in the land itself. Howbeit, the Shadowfolk have only ever appeared near the coasts, and so we - I,' he corrected himself, 'I fear that they are not of Kharku. But I do not wish to trouble your mind more than is necessary. There is enough to fear in Kharku without worrying about the Shadowfolk.'
'These Shadowfolk,' Agonas asked, insisting upon the subject, 'They slay only the undying ones?'
'And infants,' he said.
Agonas could not help but laugh, 'What manner of land is this!' he exclaimed, 'Infants?'
'I speak only truth,' Xan said, spreading his arms as if to show that he hid nothing from the other man.'
'And why should they slay infants?' Agonas asked.
'The infants are born only to those whose line has been known to bring forth an Adapnan,' Xan explained.
'But how should these Shadowfolk know which line is which, and why do they not slay all of their infants?' Agonas said.
Xan simply shook his head to indicate that he had no real answer. 'From time to time Adapnan are born, but they are not known as such until at least their fortieth year, when it becomes clear that they show no signs of their age. Adapnan do not desire women with the same,' he paused as if searching for the right word, 'haste - as ordinary men, so there have been many cases where such men were thought to be Adapnan long before the truth was made manifest by their agelessness.'
'But you are saying that these Immortals - these Adapnan - are born of mortal parents? I mean, they are born of two mortals?'
Xan nodded. 'That this sounds strange to you leads me to suspect that this is not the case where you are from. You are an Adapnan, I think - or something very like unto it.'
'I am what is called an elf or an Immortal,' Agonas said, as are several of my crewmen.'
'All of your crewmen,' Xan said callously, though not intentionally meaning any insult. 'The gray ones are all dead, leaving only those who seem to have the spark of life within them.'
'The spark of life?' Agonas said, lowering himself back onto his bed. He sat facing Xan, with his hands folded in front of him.
'This is what we call that which passes from father to son - that which makes a man Adapnan. Fair-skinned mothers and fair-skinned fathers bear fair-skinned children. Men bear men, trees bear trees and birds give rise to birds. But some things, like the form of the nose, the curl of the hair, and many other such qualities seem to pass through the father like blood through the veins, passing from the grandfather into the grandson unseen. So it is with the spark of life, it appears on occasion, sometimes for three generati
ons in a row, and then sometimes not for five. But it always reappears within the line of those who bore it originally.'
'What does that mean?' Agonas asked.
'Your line is not mixed,' Xan stated as if it was certain, although he waited for the other man to answer him.
'My mother and father were both of the noblest of Immortal lines,' Agonas answered, sounding very much like one born to power.
'But here we marry mortal women, and our sons marry mortal women, and so the spark vanishes away, appearing only irregularly and at great intervals. A grain of salt vanishes in the pot, but reappears when the water has been boiled away, and it reappears alone. So the spark passes into mankind and comes out again. With the mortals we take for wives and husbands, the spark is dropped into a greater pot.' Xan seemed to be reciting some kind of tradition as he spoke, for his tone was fixed and almost poetic. Suddenly he abandoned this mode of speech and spoke to Agonas about his own condition, saying. 'Your pot is full of salt!'
Agonas laughed, not fully understanding the meaning of the joke - he was pretty sure it was a joke.
'Have you at all marveled at the fact that we can speak to one another as we do?' Xan said, as if it were the most important of things.
'It seems surprising,' Agonas said, feeling somewhat foolish.
'There are some differences in our speech,' Xan explained, but the language is in most respects the very same. You will not find this to be the case in the Manlands, and certainly not in the east, in Sparka or Turg or Fist. The Kingdom of the Seasons and LufBrusht are all the more foreign to this tongue - this tongue that is spoken nowhere but in Thure - though I believe some among the Sparkans have learned it.'
'And,' Agonas added, realizing the import of this matter, 'in Bel Albor.'
That word seemed to kindle a fire in Xan's eyes, 'B'alboru is the name of the land from whence our ancestors came.' He ended his speaking right then, as if to give his words time to sink into the other man's mind. 'You have solved many mysteries for me, Agonas,' Xan said. 'For that I shall forever be grateful to you.'
'If that is so,' Agonas said with a smile, 'then I am happy to have so assisted you.'
'Now,' Xan said, as if to finally come to the point, 'You have been a help to me, but I imagine this is not the purpose for which you have come to us. Nay, I am very nearly certain of this, for the way in which you arrived speaks against it. It would seem to me that Fate has brought us together, and not purpose.'
'Fate?' Agonas laughed. 'You speak like my brother.'
The Dwarf Child
'So this is what comes out of men who have an eternity to accrue wisdom? Doom Paths and tests unpassible?' Xan marveled as Agonas explained the purpose of his voyage. 'Good fortune to your brother! Your only hope lies in the fact that neither of you are likely to find these great beasts. Kill them?' Xan could scarcely keep himself upright as he laughed at the absurd request.
'You spoke of Fate,' Agonas said defensively. 'But from your own mouth you acknowledge that these beasts exist. Is it not fateful that Ijjan should dream of them?'
'It is more likely that he heard tell of them before he dreamed of them. But still, it by no means follows that there is Fate in this matter. Accidents can be good as well as bad, and everything else in between.'
'But what of the gods?' Agonas asked, 'What of the one who is said to rule in the Far North?'
'Show a god to me,' Xan said sternly, suddenly losing all patience, 'show him to me so that I can believe in him.'
Agonas shook his head, but said nothing further of the matter. 'Whether you think it folly or not, Xan-thure,' Agonas said, recovering his regal demeanor, 'I shall slay slay this beast. I care not for Doom Paths or for anything else, but the hand of fair Indra has been promised to us if accomplish this task.'
'And then you will kill her father? To satisfy your father's ambitions?' Xan asked.
'To satisfy my brother's,' Agonas corrected. 'Parganas will step down from his throne when all is done. If you doubt this, it is because of your ignorance. Mayhap he intends for it never to come to pass, but he will step down. He does not want to fall as many other elves have fallen.'
'To fratricide?' Xan said, shaking his head. 'When my father was killed, I wept for a month and I feel the pain within me - I feel the wound to this day! What devils you north men must be!'
'Devils or not, I am here to slay this Beast,' Agonas said with frustration. 'If you cannot help me, and if you do not mean to kill or keep us, then please at least show me how I can find someone who will help, or who may have some idea what to do.'
Xan's face grew somber and he seemed to lose himself in thought for a time. 'I will help you,' he said suddenly. 'You will need a guide, I think. Someone who knows the whole land of Kharku and its many dangers.'
'Are there any such men around here?' Agonas asked hopefully.
'No,' Xan answered, 'there are no such men anywhere. You will need a dwarf.'
An hour later, after he had bathed in the sea, washing two weeks of sickness from his body, Agonas found himself robed in brown cloth like one of the people of Thure, creeping along a little used trail toward the southwest. 'I do not understand,' he hissed for the fourth time, 'why must we make such haste. He clutched the robe at his breast, being unaccustomed to wearing such a garment. The elves of Sunlan wore trousers at court, and in battle they wore long tunics beneath their armor. But never had he donned such attire as this. 'It is like wearing naught but a towel and a belt,' he grumbled when it was first presented to him.
'Your own clothing must be boiled and mended ere any use can be made of them,' Xan had told him. 'There are some tribes in the UngBrusht who go about in their skins; but the people of Thure would not appreciate it, I think.'
'Why are we in such haste?' Agonas asked as he struggled to catch up with Xan, who seemed entirely at ease in the flowing garment.
'We are in haste,' Xan explained, 'because it just so happens that tomorrow evening is the bathing day for the men of Sparka. How is that for Fate?'
Agonas slowed for a minute, 'And?' he began, but could not think of a sensible question.
Xan sighed, 'We kept you alive, spluttering, leaking, babbling and drooling for two weeks; do you think you can manage a little trust? We may not have much time if we want to have a trap set ere they arrive.'
'A trap? For who?' Agonas said with surprise. He was not one to shy away from deceptive means, but this course surprised him from a man who seemed so full of criticism for the elves of Bel Albor.
'For a dwarf,' Xan said, beckoning Agonas to hurry. 'For a dwarf child, to speak more precisely.'
'You are going to capture one? What for?' Agonas asked.
'Shall we stop for the day, so that I can teach you all that I know, and so that you can teach me what you know? Or shall we make haste and do what must be done. You cannot simply enter a dwarf village and ask them for help. Surely you must have learned at least that in B'alboru!'
'There are no dwarves in the North,' Agonas said. 'I have heard that there are some in the land the Knariss call Dominas, but I have never seen anything from the dwarves besides their methods of ironworking.'
'Dominas? That is another land in the North? It is different from B'alboru?' Suddenly all of Xan's curiosity returned. He quickly recovered, however, remembering that they were supposed to be in a hurry. 'Forget it,' he said, shaking his head as if to toss the questions out through his ears. 'We must hurry.'
They followed this trail for most of the afternoon until, passing a certain cluster of trees, Xan pulled Agonas away from the road by the edge of his robe. 'Hey, hey!' Agonas said in protest, clutching at the garment to keep it in place.
'Quiet!' Xan hissed. 'We are getting close, and we don't want to be seen upon the road.'
The two elves left the road and walked over grassy hills for several hours until at last they came to a large pool of water. 'This, I think, is the place where the dwarves send their children to bathe. The
n, on the morrow, the women come, and at the last, the men follow. We must set a snare-' he began to look around quickly. 'Here!' he pointed down to a group of bushes set away from the water. 'Now, we simply need something a dwarf child will want.'
'You mean like a toy?' Agonas asked.
'This!' Xan said, drawing a long iron blade from a sheath at his side.
'For a child?' Agonas marveled.
'Wouldn't you have wanted such a blade when you were a child?' Xan asked.
Agonas could not bring himself to say that, in Alwan Palace, he had owned many good short swords during his youth. 'I suppose I would,' he answered. He didn't think Xan could quite imagine what a palace was, or what sort of wealth would make it possible for a prince to be given so many fine weapons. 'But is it a good idea to arm he whom we are to capture? Might he not, cut the snare thereby?'
'There are many possibilities,' Xan said, as if the other man's concerns were as natural as they were baseless. 'We will have to take him fast; and flee quickly - and quietly!' he added with extra emphasis. 'If the other dwarf children hear us,' Xan paused for a moment to give it some thought, 'we will be killed.'
'By children?' Agonas said with disbelief.
'They really do not have dwarves in the North,' Xan laughed, shaking his head. He thought he had believed what Agonas had said before, but such talk was proof of its truth.
Xan carefully set the snare and hung the dagger on a branch so that whoever came for the dagger must step within the trap. He then led Agonas to the trunk of a large tree. 'Now comes the exciting part!' he said. As Agonas waited, watching the sun creep by overhead, he found it anything but exciting. When the afternoon was all but spent, he beheld upon the horizon several dark shapes. They were so tiny that at first he thought them to be mere babes. As they drew near to the water, however, he could tell that they were quite coordinated and strong. They looked ready for bathing, each wearing only a brown cloth tunic that hung down not quite to their knees. They were quite playful, lifting and tossing one another with an ease that no human child could have matched. When they came to the water they continued this sort of play. They formed a ring near the edge of the lake and set two of their members against each other. These two wrestled until at last the stronger lifted the other over his shoulders and tossed him, his arms flailing into the pool.
'How did you know that they would be here on this day?' Agonas asked quietly.
'They come here to bathe once every year,' Xan answered.
'Once every year?' Agonas whispered.
'They are some of the cleanest dwarves in Kharku, my friend,' Xan said with a soft chuckle.
The dwarf children continued their game until all of them were in the water, the last of them walking into the pool of his own accord. Some of them wore short beards, from which circumstance Agonas assumed they were the eldest, and therefore the caretakers.
'How can you be sure that they will see the dagger?' Agonas asked.
'Dwarves do not miss anything,' Xan replied.
Nearly a half hour passed before anything of interest occurred. The older dwarf children lay themselves out beneath the sun to dry, nibbling on dried beef and drinking water from the pool. The younger children wandered about the lakeshore, some trying to catch fish while others attempted a fire. As they went about their work, a tiny child noticed something shining in the bushes.
Xan said he could be no older than six years of age, though to Agonas' eyes the boy was the size of a three year old. 'Are you sure that this is what must be done?' Agonas said. 'There is no way to make an alliance with them? To persuade the dwarves to help?'
'There is a way,' Xan said, waving his hand to silence him.
In a moment the child had the dagger in his hands and in the next, his hand was caught in the snare. Agonas expected the child to scream or to panic, but the boy made not a sound. He just stood there examining the cord that now held him with perfect calm. He was moving quickly, trying to figure out how to free himself, but there was nothing of fear in his demeanor. In an instant Xan leaped from his cover and grabbed the child by the feet. The boy hung upside down, swinging and punching the air. Agonas came forward and made to grab his arms, but the child's flailing fists caught him in the eye - and knocked him clean off of his feet.
'The gods!' he shouted, amazed by the boy's strength. 'Release him! We do not want such creatures as enemies!'
'Do not worry,' Xan said, his voice strained from his effort. 'Take his arms again, this time as you would if it were a man we were capturing.'
Agonas obeyed, and soon they were carrying the child away from the lake toward the coast. The boy continued to fight, but he made no effort to warn his companions or to complain. All of his efforts were poured into his struggle - but it was his struggle, and not the concern of the others. 'Dwarves are easy to take in this manner,' Xan said, 'for they are not overly sympathetic, and they do not think to shout for help when they are in danger. At least, not as men do.'
'What do we do now?' Agonas said, his mind spinning with confusion.
'Now we take him to the village and put him in a box under heavy guard,' Xan answered.
'Are you so afraid that he will escape?' Agonas said, thinking it to be a very real possibility.
'No, we must make sure that his family does not murder him before we can hold him for ransom.'
Agonas shook his head as they carried the child along the road. When they had gone a ways from the lake Xan stopped and bound the boy with ropes. 'This will make carrying him much easier,' he said, hoisting the child over his shoulders. 'Come, we have a lot of preparations to make.
The boy's family will send a killer for him; but if they cannot kill him, they will be forced to do that which dwarves utterly detest - that which they would kill their own sons and daughters before doing - they will be forced to negotiate.'