Here There Be Dragons - RPG

[Ealasaide]

Airefalas

Airefalas listened closely to Latah's words. Her Westron, which had started out rather shaky, seemed to be getting stronger the more they spoke. She now expressed herself quite well, without the long pauses or searches for words that had initially peppered their conversations. Thinking over the events that had occurred in the Eagle camp since the time of his and Mithadan's arrival just following the fire, Airefalas realized that Latah's explanations had clarified a great deal for him. For one thing, he had noticed the difference in the way people had responded to Narayad as opposed to Surinen on the evening Airefalas had gone with Latah and the two outriders to the ceremony at the fallen leader's bier. He had noticed a reserve amongst the tribesmen where Narayad and, to a lesser degree, Latah, were concerned. At the time, he had mentally chalked it up to his own presence, but in retrospect, he could see that the unease ran deeper than that. Having also heard from Ráma and others that there was a long-standing rift of some kind between the Eagles and the Wolves, he could see why suspicion might fall on Narayad. Based on his own judgement of character and the outrider's seemingly guileless nature, however, he guessed that Narayad was probably not involved in anything underhanded where the Meldakhar, as Latah had called her, was concerned.

And how would you know that? he chided himself mentally. You scarcely know the man. Aloud, he said to Latah, "He will come back. I'm sure he would not leave you for long if he could avoid it."

Latah gave him a thoughtful look, then shook her head. "Perhaps not," she said softly. She turned her face away, but Airefalas caught a trace of deep sadness in her expression. She must love him very much, he thought to himself, to be so sad at his leaving. He wondered why she did not accompany her husband into exile, but did not ask. If she wished to tell him her reasons, she would do so on her own. Unconsciously, his thoughts shifted toward Isabel and of how he would not have even offered for her to accompany him on one of his voyages. She was such an indoor sort of girl and frightened of boats. She would never have considered sailing with him, even if the mission had not been a dangerous one, even if he had asked her to come. Nonetheless, he wondered if she felt the same sadness at his absense that showed plainly in Latah's expressive face when she spoke of her husband's departure. It must be nice, he thought, to be so loved.

"Ah, that we may all look back in our dotage and say to ourselves, I, too, was once adored," he mused. Latah stopped walking and eyed him curiously.

"What is dotage?" she asked.

"Old age," he answered. Then he smiled. "Please don't mind my rambling. It's just something I overheard once. I meant nothing by it."

"I see." Latah nodded gravely. "It is nice thought," she added after a moment, with an almost wistful look in her eyes. Then, saying no more, she turned and began to walk again in the direction of her father's tent. As Airefalas fell into step beside her, a companionable silence overtook them. Airefalas found himself pondering the things Latah had said about herself, her husband, and the fire in the Meldakhar's tent. It did sound like someone had committed a sabotage on one of her incense pots, thus setting the fire, but who? The idea that Wyrma might have agents hidden amongst the Eagles had obviously already occurred to others in the camp, hence all the tension and suspicion. He was grateful that he and Mithadan had not arrived earlier. By pure luck of timing, the two Gondorians had been left beyond suspicion. Nonetheless, he resolved to mention what he had learned to his captain at the first opportunity. It might serve them well to keep their eyes open and their minds alert to any hint of treachery.

Upon their arrival back at Fador's tent, Latah took her leave, sending Airefalas into the tent alone. He found Mithadan not only awake, but standing near the center of the large tent beside a maenwaith elder that Airefalas had not seen before. The man was tall for a tribesman and rather thick through the middle with gray-streaked black hair and a neatly trimmed black beard. He was dressed rather conservatively in the robes of a maenwaith elder, but the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his belt shimmered with inlays of gold and lapis lazuli, hinting that this was a man of power and relative wealth. The man looked toward Airefalas with brown eyes that were both bright and shrewd.

"There you are, " said Mithadan to Airefalas as though he had been expecting him. Turning back toward the waiting tribesman, Mithadan said, "Allow me to present Airefalas of Gondor, first mate of the Lonely Star."

The tribesman made a shallow bow, which Airefalas returned.

"I am Fador, humble elder of the Eagle clan," said the tribesman. "It has been my honor to offer you the hospitality of my tent. As I was telling your captain, I can only apologize for my delay in making your acquaintance, but my absence was unavoidable. I hope that you have been comfortable."


*******************

Fador

Leaving Hasrim behind in the field, Fador had returned quickly to the Eagle encampment, his absence seeming to have gone unnoticed. Knowing what he had to do, Fador moved amongst the dark tents finding the men he needed to speak with. His plan to send the Gondorian sea captain and his first mate as gifts to Wyrma would have to be put into play quickly, before Thorn and Narika were given control of the clan. Bearing that thought in mind, he spent the remainder of the night making secretive arrangements for the trip. He found the guards who would be loyal to him and, rousting them from their tents, set them to the business of gathering provisions and preparing their own and Fador's horses for the journey. Finally, as dawn began to touch the eastern edge of the sky, Fador sought out the tent of his fellow elder, Mumtaz, for a few hours of sleep, his plan being to meet and persuade the Gondorians to do his bidding when his mind was clear, not clouded from lack of sleep.

Waking a only few short hours after laying his head down on to the sleeping mat, Fador returned at last to his own tent. Upon his arrival, he found the Gondorian captain awake and standing near the flap of the tent, looking out across the encampment. The first mate was nowhere to be seen. As Fador approached, the Gondorian captain stepped back inside to let him enter the tent, but instead of passing him, Fador stopped in front of the man and gave him a polite bow. The two of them exchanged introductions, with Fador offering his apologies for his delay in making the acquaintance of his guests. The Gondorian captain had barely begun to respond, when he hesitated. Fador’s daughter had just appeared outside the tent with the Gondorian first mate in tow. Fador and the captain waited in silence as Latah took her leave and sent the young man into the tent alone.

"There you are," said Mithadan mildly. Turning back toward the waiting tribesman, Mithadan said, "Allow me to present Airefalas of Gondor, first mate of the Lonely Star."

Again, Fador exchanged bows and made his excuses. "Please," he said, gesturing to the mats and cushions surrounding a low table in the center of the large tent. "Let us sit. There is much I would like to talk with you about."

"And much we would like to talk with you about as well," said Mithadan with a smile.

The three men took their seats around the table. Fador began the conversation cautiously, asking first about the Gondorians’ escape from Umbar and the burning of the docks. As the captain patiently told the story yet again, Fador listened, watching both of his guests’ faces with interest, trying to read what sort of men they were from their mannerisms and gestures. He had only a short while to figure out how best to convince these two strangers that their best course of action would be to go to Wyrma’s city. After only a few minutes, Fador came to a quick conclusion. These men could not be bullied or coerced. If they went on his errand at all, it would be because they chose to do so. He must befriend them, convince them that the Eagle clan needed their help. Inwardly, Fador smiled, although outwardly he maintained an expression of friendly neutrality.

As the Gondorian captain concluded the tale of their escape from the clutches of Falasmir, Fador applauded with enthusiasm. He asked a polite question or two and then, leaning forward, lowered his voice, allowing his face to go grim with worry. "You are brave and intelligent men," he said, choosing his words carefully. "You no doubt have heard the rumors that circle our camp like vultures."

"We have heard some talk since our arrival, yes," said Mithadan, nodding. The first mate nodded as well.

"Then you have no doubt heard that there is much trouble amongst the maenwaith people. An assassin has struck at the very heart of our clan, taking the life of our beloved leader." Fador paused as the first mate opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again, his words going unspoken. A troubled look flitted over the young man's face like a shadow, then was replaced by a look of calm neutrality, the same look worn by his captain. Fador plowed ahead with his plan. "There is talk that this assassin was sent by none other than Wyrma of the Dragon clan, a maenwaith woman of great power and influence in Umbar."

"I believe we had occasion to meet her briefly during our stay at Falasmir's palace," Mithadan replied.

"Then you know of whom I speak." Fador eyed him sternly. "There is talk that she builds a walled city somewhere to the south of Umbar, which she plans to use as her fortress. From there, many of us believe, she intends to enslave all of the maenwaith people, forcing us to give up our nomadic ways, to live in her city and to exist only to do her bidding." He paused looking from one Gondorian to the other for emphasis. "She must be stopped."

Receiving no immediate reaction from his audience, Fador continued. "You may ask of what concern this is to you, what the problems of a few scattered desert clans might matter to the citizens of such a great nation as Gondor, but I tell you, it does concern you, in the most serious kind of way. Wyrma's ambitions are not bound by the borders of Harad. Ultimately, not even your Minas Tirith will be beyond her grasp."

"And you know this for certain?" asked Mithadan.

Fador smiled wisely. "Nothing is certain. I only speak of rumors and images sent to me from the dreamtime. I sit and I think on these things for hours on end, but when I put them all together, I can see that there is only one solution. We must act at once. We must prevent Wyrma from establishing her stronghold in the desert. Only then can we, as a people, be safe. Only then will your people be safe."

"And why do you tell us?" asked Mithadan. "We are only two men a very long way from home. How can we hope to stop these threats from becoming fact?"

Fador leaned forward, his dark eyes locking on to the gray eyes of the captain. "You are experienced men of war. You know how to attack a walled city. We nomads of the deep desert know nothing of city warfare. We have never laid siege to a city such as the one Wyrma seeks to build. We would not even know where to begin. You... you can help us. With your knowledge of warfare, you can tell us how we might attack this city and defeat it."

Mithadan smiled, casting a sideways glance at his first mate. "Yes," he said at last. "We may be of some eventual help to you, but I'm afraid we will not be able to offer much advice without seeing this city for ourselves. One city is as different from another as one man from another. We cannot tell you how to attack it without first knowing its layout, its strengths and weaknesses, where its vulnerabilities lie."

"Then you must go there." Fador rose to his feet and walked to the open tent flap. "I ask you to do this, not just for the welfare of my people, but for the safety and welfare of yours as well." Then, with his back turned to them, Fador waited to see if the Gondorians would take the bait.

***********************************

Airefalas

Airefalas watched as the tribesman turned and walked to the tent flap, stopping there with his back to him and Mithadan. For an instant, a tense silence prevailed. Then Mithadan spoke.

"Well, what do you make of that?" he said quietly to Airefalas in Quenyan, the barest hint of a smile playing on the corners of his mouth.

Airefalas shook his head. “I don’t like it,” he answered in the same language. “Or rather, not to put too fine a point on it, I don’t like him. While I’m sure what he says is true and while he has been nothing but a gracious host, there is something about him that puts me in mind of a certain type of eel you can find if you pick up the right rock in a coldwater river delta.”

Mithadan’s eyes twinkled, though his expression grew grave. “I was thinking the same thing, although perhaps not quite in those terms. Nonetheless, I am inclined to take him up on his offer.”

Frowning slightly, Airefalas nodded.

“You disapprove?” asked Mithadan, having caught the dark look on the younger man’s face.

Airefalas shrugged. “It’s not my place to approve or disapprove,” he said honestly. “It’s just that - didn’t he say that this walled city is located somewhere near Umbar? It seems to me, by going there, we would simply be walking out of the frying pan right back into the fire. We went to a good deal of trouble to get away from Umbar. I find it surprising, considering our situation, that you are thinking of heading back that way. If there were a chance of catching an outbound ship, I could see it, but this...” He trailed off. “Aside from the possible defense value to Gondor...”

Mithadan nodded. “It could be of tremendous value to Gondor, or it could be of no use at all. It is hard to predict. But I have reasons of my own for wishing to see this city, quite apart from the reasons this man puts forward. Frankly, I don‘t think that even he is quite as sincere in his motivations as he would have us believe. Whatever his game is, however, I think we should play along.”

Airefalas gave his captain‘s words some serious consideration, then nodded as well. “As long as we play with our eyes open, I suppose I have no objections. Anything is better than sitting around here in idleness.”

Mithadan nodded again, but before he could say anything else, the tribesman turned back toward them, a shrewd look visible on his dark face for a mere fraction of a second. Then the sharpness vanished, replaced by a mask of hopeful congeniality.

“Will you go?” he asked. “For the good of my people and yours?”

Mithadan rose and approached the tribesman, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I will consider it,” he answered, dropping back into Westron. “But I do have some questions.” He paused. At an encouraging gesture from Fador, he continued. “When would this trip take place? You speak of urgency and haste, yet we would need a guide, horses, supplies. Those things take time to assemble. Do we even know precisely where this city is located?”

Fador nodded. “We do, and I shall supply you with all that you ask: horses, supplies, a guide, and an additional pair of my kinsmen to go with you and assist you as needed. They are loyal to me and can be trusted. If you agree, you shall go at once.”

“At once?”

“Yes.” The shrewd smile flitted again across the tribesman’s swarthy features. “I had anticipated that you might agree to this mission. My men stand ready with horses and supplies enough for five. I have but to speak a word to my nephew who shall serve as your guide, and your number will be five.”

“You assume much,” said Mithadan mildly. “Why such haste?”

Fador’s expression turned solemn. “An assassin haunts this camp. Perhaps he sends word to Umbar of our movements, as well. I am sure that you, as a captain and a strategist yourself, understand the need for secrecy. If too much time is taken up in preparations, then word may seep out to our enemies. If that should happen, then you and my kinsmen alike should amount to nothing more than lambs on your way to the slaughter.”

“Salmon to market...” muttered Airefalas. A vivid image of the sharp knives of the fishmongers, slitting and gutting the silvery, scaled bellies of a day’s catch rose starkly in his mind. He knew he should not like to meet the same fate, but somehow the image remained stubbornly ensconced in the forefront of his mind. Finally he sighed, pushing the graphic vision away from himself. Following Mithadan’s lead, he rose to his feet and walked to the corner of the tent where he and Mithadan had left their packs and swords. At least the forced idleness of the past few days had left them uncommonly well-prepared for immediate travel, their weapons all sharpened to a razor’s edge and their packs well-organized and as well-provisioned as they could manage under the circumstances. Picking up his sword belt, Airefalas smiled grimly to himself. He had walked knowingly into dangerous situations often enough in the past. This would be no different. After all, as he had said to Mithadan only moments before, anything would be better than idleness.

As Airefalas buckled his sword into place, behind him, Mithadan and Fador made the final arrangements for an immediate departure. Airefalas was pleased to hear that the guide who would be leading them was none other than Surinen, the outrider who had gone with him and Latah and Narayad to Ayar’s bier the night before. Surinen seemed like a solid fellow, with a good head on his shoulders and an excellent command of Westron. He would be a good companion, even if he was a little gruff and standoffish at times. As for the other two... while Airefalas hoped that they would be tribesmen of the same caliber as Surinen, he decided to reserve his opinion of them until later. After all, for all he knew, they could turn out to be eels.

Moments later, with their swords and packs in place, Fador led the two Gondorians out of the tent and to the edge of the Eagle encampment. He took a circuitous route between the many tents, a route that kept them well out of sight of most of the other Eagles. Arriving at a meeting place that had been prearranged by Fador and his kinsmen, the northerners found two sturdy horses saddled and waiting for them, being held by two hard-looking tribesmen, one of them as stout as the other was lean and wiry.

“Fador’s kinsmen,” thought Airefalas to himself as he pulled himself into his saddle. “They look more like jackals than Eagles to me... or even eels for that matter.”

Having seen his charges delivered into the hands of his kinsmen, Fador left again briefly to find Surinen. A short time later, he returned with the guide in tow. Shortly thereafter, the five travelers left, riding single file northward into the desert. Looking back, Airefalas saw Fador disappear again between the tents, a shadowy figure, moving surreptitiously back in the direction of his own quarters. Losing him at last, Airefalas’ eyes continued to search the outskirts of the camp for a long moment before he understood what it was that he was looking for. Finally, as the realization hit him that what he sought was not there, Airefalas turned swiftly forward again in his saddle.

Of course, Latah would not be there to see them off. She did not even know they had gone.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Day 3

It was noon of the third day. The original watchfire beside the bier burned low and was finally extinguished with the help of many buckets of water. As the last of the red flames reluctantly spluttered and died, plumes of smoke swirled upward until an overhanging curtain of grey was visible across the desert even from a distance. For the past two days the maenwaith tending Ayar’s watchfire had fed the flames with small twigs or dried bracken gathered from the watering hole. But such a fire would not be large enough for the new job at hand, since this was the final day of mourning, a time when family and clan would offer their last goodbyes. Ayar’s spirit would depart and fly free across the heavens. The maenwaith would burn her body and inter the remains beneath the desert sand, with a cairn to mark the grave.

Some weeks earlier, once the council had understood that their leader would not regain her strength, the Elders had dispatched swift messengers to the south on horseback. Now these messengers had returned dragging sledges behind their horses, each one bearing a sizeable bundle of logs . These horsemen had journeyed to the lower slopes of the mountains in the south to secure the precious wood of the cedar, an aromatic pine that burns sweet and clear.

On this afternoon, the crowd of mourners was even larger than the first two days. Clan members removed the cedar logs from the sledges and arranged them in a single giant stack. On top of this pile, they lovingly placed Ayar’s body. The Eagles stood and watched as tiny tongues of gold and blue flared, taking hold of the sweet smelling bark. This time there was no singing. The two sisters stood erect at the foot of the bier, struggling to hold back tears as they held each other’s hands and watched the flames creep up and tinge the hem of Ayar’s gown. In another instant, a massive sheet of red and orange leapt forward, rising some ten feet above their heads. Ayar’s body and features were blurred and then lost forever beneath its relentless spread. The men of the clan would remove the charred remains, bury them late at night, and pile up the stones, once the ashes were no longer so hot to the touch.

That evening just before the burial, the gathered crowd of mourners again lifted their voices in a final song, urging Ayar to fly free in whatever direction she chose and learn to master her true form, whatever that might be. As the last notes of the melody died away, the two sisters left the gathering and returned together to their tent to await the ceremony at dawn when they would upturn the pot of water, which had sat there from the first day of mourning. This simple act would signify that the clan was now free to go forward and begin to rebuild its life.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Ráma slowly made her way back through the small cluster of mourners that still circled the ring of ashes; the latter was the only physical evidence remaining of the three days of mourning now drawing to a close. The moon stood high in the heavens. In just a few hours it would be dawn. She stopped and lingered at the entry to the tent, glancing over her shoulder at the vast expanse of sand extending southward, an ocean of blackness enshrouded in heavy shadow. Her sister already awaited her. Narika crouched near the dying embers of the hearth and idly fingered her mother’s ceremonial brooch with its flying eagle engraved in silver over a base of jade. With all its beauty and memories, the piece would belong to her as head of the clan after the Elders met later that morning.

“Come inside.” Narika gestured to her sister. “Only an hour or two till we overturn the pot. Lay down and rest a while.”

“I cannot. I am restless. There is still much to do.” Ráma hesitated as she wondered whether this was a good time to bring up what Ayar had said. Impulsively, she reached out to touch her sister’s hand. “You and I must talk. I have put this off too long. The afternoon before mother died, she spoke of several things. She planned to share all this with you the next day….” At this juncture, Ráma’s voice trailed off.

“I knew you were bothered by something, even beyond mother’s death. What is it? Speak, and I will help if I can.”

“Mother said the time for talking had passed. You and Thorn must marry and jointly lead the Eagles. Ride out to the other clans and speak with all who will listen, urging them to come together. Use every sword and talon, every tooth and claw, to combat Wyrma and her ilk. That is what she told me.”

“It brings me little joy to take arms against my own kin,” responded Narika with a sigh, “but Thorn and I have come to feel that we have no other choice. If Wyrma is not stopped, the Eagles and all others who follow the old nomadic ways will be destroyed.”

“There is something else,” Ráma noted. “Mother said the strangers may be willing to help us, and we should not turn away from them.”

A look of displeasure flitted over Narika’s face, one that was slowly replaced by a calmer and more thoughtful gaze. She chose her reply with care, “At one time not long ago, I would have scorned such a thought, but as I know these men better—especially this Aiwendil---my feelings have softened. Perhaps these outsiders are meant to be here. It is likely the strangers will flee at the first hint of war. And even if they are willing to stay, I can not promise what others will say. But I give you my word: I will not oppose them or you in any reasonable request.

“In fact,” she added with a hint of a smile, “Perhaps, I will ask Thorn to put you in charge of keeping track of them. That would serve you right. Is that all, then?”

Visibly relaxed and emboldened, Rama continued, “There was something else. Mother related an ancient tale how Thorondor and the other Great Eagles befriended our clan in return for some small service we’d done for an injured eaglet. Because of this, he granted us the gift of taking the eagle form.”

“I have also heard this. But how does it involve Wyrma?”

“Mother spoke of an ancient promise. The Eagles swore to come to our aid if the clan ever found itself in terrible peril. She even mentioned a wise woman dwelling in the southern mountains called Ayka. Ayka may know where these Eagles are and can help us find them. I must go south and beg her assistance. And not only the Eagles,” she continued, “Mother even spoke of wyrms--members of the dragon clan who scorn Wyrma and her evil ways. Perhaps they too can join our fight. ”

“Stop, Ráma. Enough.” Narika raised her hand as if to ward off any consideration of these ideas. “You have a strong sword arm, and Thorn would welcome you into the ranks of those who fight. Do not waste time chasing after old dreams.”

“But these are not my ideas. They are Mother’s, and she spoke with great urgency. I dare not ignore the promise I made to her, nor would I wish to do so.” Ráma planted her feet apart and glared obstinately at her sister.

“I can see nothing good coming from such fancies. Perhaps near the end, Mother was confused, with all the poison spreading through her body. But if you feel compelled to follow this course, do what you must. There should be a group going south to alert the clans in that region. Go with them. Take a few friends and make a quiet side trip to visit this strange maenwaith who lives by herself in the mountains. You will probably find her old and addled with little of worth to share. But at least you will have done your duty and can come back with a clear heart. Only say nothing of this to the Elders, for some are less friendly to Thorn, and they would laugh at such silliness or use it as a pretext to stand against him.”

“Thank you. I will tell only a few, and those whom I trust. Not a word to the Elders, I promise.”

At that instant there was a slight stirring outside the entrance to the tent. Narika went to look if anyone was there, but she saw no one. “Only the wind,” she reported. Come now. With all our chattering, the remaining night has fled. It is dawn. We should go now to overturn the pot.” With that the women headed out of the tent. The period of mourning had ended; the time for action had come.

[Nerindel]

Save: Sorona

[piosenniel]

Miri and Rama

Rama embraced her sister once the pot was overturned then bid her a quick farewell. She had already said what was needed; now it was time to put her thoughts into a plan of action. She was restless, still, and her feet took her to the edge of the camp, to the rocky outcropping where she had often gone in her younger years to think. Her head was down as she walked along, cloak wrapped about her in the cool dawn air, her attention seeming on the movement of her boots . . . right toe . . . left toe . . .right toe . . . left toe . . . a moving meditation as her thoughts collected themselves into some semblance of order.

She was near the rocks, when she looked up, her eye caught by a quick movement of someone’s slender little legs and the trailing hem of a brown cloak as it slipped behind a pile of sandstone. She stopped, smiling a little to herself as she recognized the one who was so desperately trying to stay quietly hidden.

‘Miri! What are you doing out here? So early in the morning?’ Rama waited patiently before a resigned voice spoke up, and a familiar little face peered around the rock.

‘I’m waiting,’ Miri said, matter of factly, plopping down on the flat, smooth worn surface of the little outcropping.

Rama climbed up the short way to where the girl sat, facing south. ‘For the sunrise?’ she prompted, knowing that with Miri this could be a drawn out process of fact finding.

‘Well, no,’ returned the girl, looking up at Rama as the woman sat down beside her. ‘Though it is awfully pretty, don’t you think?’

Resisting the sidetracking ploy, Rama cast her net again. ‘Something in the south has caught your interest then?’ She narrowed her eyes and looked hard into the brightening day as it slid slowly over the southern vista.

‘Yes, that’s where he said he would come from.’ Miri could feel Rama fidgeting in irritation next to her. ‘Rôg! He said he would be back soon. I’m waiting to welcome him back.’

Rôg, again! Bit by bit Rama prised out the story. Rôg had gone for a visit to his clan. To see his family. This so far seemed reasonable, and reasonable still that he would promise his little friend to return. After all, Aiwendil was still here, and they had been traveling companions for quite some time, or so Rama understood. She asked if Rôg’s clan were somewhere near. Miri screwed up her little face, thinking; distances were all very relative to her. ‘Well, they’re just on the other side of the mountains, I think he said . . . at the end of them. That way,’ she said pointing south.’

It was Rama’s turn to have her brow wrinkle as she considered what the girl had said. It was forty days of hard traveling to reach the southern end of the mountains by camel; and perhaps he might get there in twenty if he flew, but the forms she’d heard he’d taken in the Eagle camp might not even make it in that time. Rama shook her head, saying that Miri must have misheard. But the girl was emphatic. He had promised, the very day he left, to be back in a week, ten days at the very most.

Taking a small chip of stone in her hand, Rama traced a crudely scratched map on the flat surface of the ledge between her and Miri. She explained patiently to the girl how far it was to the end of the mountains and how long it might take just to get there. Miri pursed her lips as Rama talked about distances and days. She stood up, putting her hands on her hips and shook her little head. With a scrape of her boot sole over the drawing she obliterated it from the sandstone. ‘He’s my friend. He said he would be back then and he will. You can’t tell me he won’t! I don’t believe you!’

The voice of Miri’s brother came ringing from somewhere near, calling her home to break her fast. ‘Mami’s making griddle cakes with honeycomb,’ she said, remembering the pot of sweet honey comb her mother had gotten out from the food chest. As quickly as she had been angry at Rama’s words, the little girl changed focus, inviting her to eat with them. The subject of Rôg was closed in her opinion; she was inviting her other friend to eat with her.

Rama walked along with Miri back to her family’s tent, only half listening as the girl chattered on about this and that. She was trying to remember an earlier conversation Miri had had with her on Rog’s clan. And yes, the girl had mentioned how most of the clan lived to the south . . . but what was it she had said about the mountains in the north . . . about the Elders . . .

[piosenniel]

Rôg - the Elders speak . . .

‘So, Little Wanderer . . . you’ve come back alone? Not with the others . . .’

He laughed at this old name, remembering how his aunts and uncles had chided him for his explorations. Caught up in following some little bird or bug or even a trickle of water back to its source, his feet sought out the answers to his wonderings. It was often he would be called back from his inquiries only by the frantic calls of his family as they sought him. And here the old woman was now, saying Little Wanderer . . . herself so tiny beside him.

She had loomed so large for him as a child, when the story of the Star Isle was told, and now he stood head and shoulders above her thin, weathered frame. Her gnarled hand still grasped the crooked yew wood walking stick as she looked up at him. Beside her was a very old man, even thinner than she, if that were possible. Bald as a buzzard, his dark eyes looking kindly at Rôg. And suddenly he felt very young in their presence and small. He stammered out some greeting, trailing it off at the end, unsure of what to call them.

‘Just call me Old Mother, if you wish. That will be easiest,’ she said. She crooked her forefinger at her companion. ‘And him, Old Father.’ The old man’s eyes twinkled at her words. ‘It doesn’t matter. Our names flew away in the dry winds long ago, I think.’

The old man turned and motioned for Rôg to follow after him. Back into the foothills a short way. Supper was cooking and hot water on for tea, he said. Rôg followed along behind them, the ridiculous thought running round and round his head. I knew it! They do eat! When they were children, Daira had tried to convince him the Elders lived on wind and sand. Rôg smiled smugly at the thought of proving her wrong after all these years.

~*~

Dinner passed in a pleasant manner. The stew of roots and grains and desert hen was tasty and filling, the tea strong and sweet. The warmth of both drove back the chill that fell as the sun sank. The old man poured each a second mug, then added a few sticks to the small crackling fire. ‘Well,’ he said, sitting down on his mat next to Rôg. ‘Why have you come?’ ‘Two things, two questions I have that I hope you might help me with,’ answered Rôg, thinking hard about which he should ask first.

‘Aiwendil, I think,’ he muttered to himself, biting his lip.

‘Speak up, boy!’ the old man said, scooting closer to him. ‘These old ears can’t make out your mumblings.’

He began with the meeting of his traveling companion in Rivendell; their shared interests in birds; the large store of knowledge about the varieties of birds and other creatures that Aiwendil seemed to have. ‘He is a keen observer of their habits,’ Rôg said, ‘but in that respect not that different from others I have met who followed such pursuits.’ He plunged on, taking a deep breath, telling them of the peculiar things the Aiwendil sometimes did. He had seen the old fellow talk to birds and to a few other animals. And not just talk, as someone who is fond of the little creatures, but listen to them and respond to them in their own way. They were not afraid of him, these animals Rôg had seen speaking with the old man, and often they brought him messages of happenings in the area. Still he seemed just a well-learned fellow, Rôg went on . . . pleasant, if not a little vague as older folk are . . . until they had come south.

The old man and woman kept quiet as Rôg paused in his explanations. Into the silence Rôg blurted out the recent events that he simply could not make heads or tails of. The sandstorm and the old fortification they had sheltered in; Aiwendil’s reference to himself as an old dreamer; his talk of the Men who had built the fort, interlaced with a darkness that had come and wrong choosings. The distant land across the sea from where these Men had come . . . he’d named it the Star Island . . . and he spoke as if he had been there himself . . . It seemed, so Rôg explained, as if the old man was waking from a hazy dream. Aiwendil’s eyes were bright, their gaze purposeful now, and he had begun to talk of a ‘purpose’, as if he had remembered something he had set out long ago to do.

‘A need he spoke of, a need to act, to stand up, face a problem, a rising darkness - unlike those of the Star Island who ignored what was happening and were destroyed.’ In a more hesitant voice he continued, ‘He tells me I am also called, but I cannot think how. Though I think not just me in particular, but all Skinchangers. Though Ibar says it really is not our problem . . . he is clan-leader, I know, but still I feel he may be wrong.’

Rôg frowned. ‘Well, really this all leads into my second question, too.’ And with this he launched into the brief story of what was happening in the south to the other clans, as he had gleaned from Narika and Miri and others of the Eagle clan, throwing in his own observations and the observations of the larks who had spoken with Aiwendil. ‘Oh, and I forgot to mention this, too . . . Aiwendil can change shapes . . . I saw it with my own eyes. He seems a bit rusty at it, but can do so when need calls. He’s not a Skinchanger, not a member of a clan, or so he says. And now that I think about it he was rather vague just how he could do what he did . . . telling me it was a long and complicated story.’

Finished speaking, the young man looked up at his two listeners wondering if they had understood at all. He had meant to be clear, but somehow his thoughts had gotten all jumbled together. Expecting to see frowns of confusion on their faces, he was taken aback at the hoots of laughter that issued from the both of them.

‘And here we thought you were coming to ask us about which woman you should choose to marry!’ the old woman laughed, her eyes twinkling at him. ‘About time, don’t you think?’ she asked, nudging the old man in the ribs. ‘We had her all picked out, you know,’ he said, grinning broadly at Rôg. The old woman stood up and picking up the tea kettle, refilled their mugs. Then, settling her haunches back down on her woven mat, she spoke quietly to Rôg, all hints of levity now gone.

‘When the children first hear the stories we tell, they enjoy them for their grand excitement, for the funny things that happen, and how the heroes, bigger than life, win the day and save the people. Darkness is pushed back, evil laid low. Light shines through and the goodness of creatures in the stories prevails.’

‘This is so,’ continued the old man. ‘The pattern is set and as the children grow older it begins to shift from the fantastic to the ordinary, as situations arise in their own lives. Choices are reflected in the old stories, and are reinterpreted. And not all choose well.’ He paused for a moment. ‘This Aiwendil, that is a name from the Nimîr, I think. Its meaning I don’t know. But have you heard his Mannish name?’

‘Aiwendil is an Elvish name. It means “friend of birds” . . . but he was called Radagast, also,’ Rôg answered. ‘Though what that means I could never discover.’ ‘Some called him fool and simple, too,’ he added as an aside, remembering some unkind whispers he had heard.

‘Radagast! Hmm?!’ murmured the old man. ‘That is an old name, is it not?’ asked the old woman, nodding at him. She picked up a stick she had used earlier to stir the fire and drew three figures in the sandy soil – two near each other and one standing a little apart.

From long ago, she said, there were stories handed down of three travelers who came east from over the western sea. One all in white, the other two in sea blue. The one in white, it was said, was clever . . . wise, perhaps . . . and he soaked up tales and other odd bits of information like a dried up cactus in the wet season. Their little clan avoided him; it was said by others his roots seemed twisted and that he did not grow true. He stayed only a while and then returned westward, or so it had been handed down. They had heard no more of him.

Now the ones in blue - they came east together, it was said, but even when they reached the shores of the Inner Sea they were drawn further east and passed over the waters to the lands near the rising sun. The Elders now long gone never knew the blue ones’ real names; one they called Giant Man, the other Far Traveler. They were friendly enough it seemed when they passed through and they spoke a little of themselves, though in veiled terms. From what the Elders understood, they were to be helpers of some sort. But what help they offered was not clear and then they were gone.

There was some brief reference those two had given that they were only two of five who had been sent. The White one, of course, and then, one garbed in grey. Grey Pilgrim, the Elders knew him as, though he had never come east, and there were no tales they knew of him. But there was one, it was said, they hoped would come . . . one of gentle spirit . . . a tender of beasts. One sent by a most gracious Lady from West over the Sea. It was long they looked for him to come, but he never did.

‘Yes . . . yes, that was him,’ affirmed the old man, his eyes bright with the remembered story. ‘There was a verse . . . oh, now how did that begin, old woman,’ he said a little fretfully. ‘We were to speak it to him, to remind him of his promises to the Lady.’

From beyond the fringes of the little group came the sound of a phlegmy cough. ‘You mean that old saw that starts out:

Wilt thou learn the lore . . . . . that was long secret
Of the five that came . . . . . from a far country? . . .

And so on . . . and something about hidden counsels and the Doom cometh . . .’ offered a tall, angular man, his few strands of white hair, thin and wispy against the tanned skin of his head. Several others of the Elders, seeing the small fire and its attendant tea kettle had come down to join the trio, mugs in hand. ‘That’s it,’ said another old fellow in a fringed red shawl, holding his cup out as the kettle passed. ‘Never much liked it . . . too serious and somber by half . . . what with all its goings on about Dagor Dagorath and the world’s unmaking. Bet one of the old Nimîr wrote that one. Never were ones for the lighter side of life.’

Another old woman, her skin pulled tight over the contours of her skull, chortled as she plunked herself down next to Rôg, startling him as she had slid in so silently beside him. ‘We had a better one than that . . . remember?’ She poked Rôg in his ribs with her bony finger. ‘You know it, too . . . the old counting out rhyme for games . . .’ ‘Come on,’ she chided him, ‘say it with me.’ Rôg’s frown turned to a smile as she started the sing-song verse, and in old habit, he pointed round the circle that now sat about the fire and chanted with her . . .

Eagle chooses
Earth advises
Send the five
As Shadow rises

White is cunning
Grey hides flame
Hand in hand
Blues leave the game

Brown it is
Who’s sent to mend us
Gentler One!
From dark defend us!

Intry Mintry Cutry Corn
Rock, Sand, Grass and Thorn
Fur, feathers, worm to hawk
Five wizards in a flock
Some came east and some went west
Choose the one you think the best

Earth and twig
Bear and wren

Brown, it’s brown!

You’re IT!

There was a short span of uncomfortable silence as Rôg looked about the group. All the fingers now pointed to him. The old faces looked at him expectantly then cracked into smiles, laughing at his discomfiture.

[Child of the 7th Age]

Until mid-day, Ráma had little time to think about the promises her sister had made or even to consider what Miri had told her, although something about the young girl's news tugged insistently at the back of her mind. For now she set these worries aside. Many important duties had been neglected during the days of mourning that now required the immediate attention of the clan. Despite the growing urgency felt by many of the Eagles, the clan could not wage an effective campaign unless practical needs like food and supplies were given their due attention.

For the next few hours, while the Elders sat by themselves and talked, Ráma worked alongside Yalisha and Miri who were helping to water the herd of goats and sheep sheltered nearby. Finishing up her chores, she headed back to the tent intending to take her noon meal. But before she could reach her destination, Narika came running to greet her with a serious look reflected in her eyes, "News from Thorne. The Elders have finished their meeting and have asked the clan to gather around the firepit. They have approved mother's request that Thorne and I wed and jointly assume the headship of the clan."

Ráma laughed and reached out to clasp her sister's hand. "But this is good news then!"

"Yes, and no one spoke against us. Mother's influence was still too strong. If some felt otherwise, they held their peace, at least publically."

"And did they discuss the war? Did they agree that the clan should stand against Wyrma?" If the Elders had already reached a decision to rouse the other clans and march against Wyrma's city, her own voice would not need to be raised at the council, and she could begin immediate preparations for her journey south.

Narika shook her head. "They talk and talk in circles, but still there is no agreement. Thorne has explained that you were the last to speak with Ayar. They have consented to listen to your words, and to learn what Mother said. But it will not be easy. Some feel that continued resistence will only infuriate Wyrma. They genuinely fear for the safety of the clan. But there are others.... I do not know about these. Only that Thorne does not trust them."

"I had hoped to stay silent and be able to slip off quietly to the south. But I can see that is not to be." Ráma looked beseechingly at her sister, "I am no speaker. You are the one with the silver tongue. Perhaps you can explain things."

"No, I was not there with mother. If anything can persuade them, it is her words. Speak from your heart, as she would have done. Only say nothing of what we talked about earlier today. That must be a secret between the two of us and Thorne. And do not be too disappointed if they refuse to accept help from the strangers."

Ráma nodded, and the two sisters continued on to the meeting.