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Yet now I saw a fresh wonder, for a small figure bustled about the table, sometimes standing upon blocks placed just so, giving access to its height. He looked almost childlike, but his proportions were fully adult and he had a dark, well-braided beard only lightly touched by grey. Even Flokin my father’s oldest warrior might envy said beard, for it reached his knees.
“Quite interesting,” the small man said in crisply accented Old Tongue, peeling aside a piece of rent black shirt and peering beneath; his gaze was odd, for his eyes held flecks of gold like sparkling rivermud from an ore-rich hill. “I have not seen these burns before.”
I realized what he must be. “Athrayndverger?” I said blankly though chattering teeth, and the fire spark-crackled in reply.
“Indeed.” The man who had greeted us was tall and somber, his dark hair indifferently cut and his clothing rough black. His armorwas blackened as well, ring-and-scale very much like Arn’s except in its heaviness. For all that, the sword upon his back was of Elder make and his boots, though worn, of high quality. His entire air was of tight restraint; his nose was proud, and his features echoed Lady Hajithe’s.
Indeed they should, for he was her son Tarit.
In his dark eyes and tight mouth lurked something very familiar as well, a cousin to Bjorn’s temper or my father’s battle-madness. In spite of his size—he was tall as Aeredh—and the brace of daggers at his hips as well as the shortbow strapped for easy use, not to mention his mail and the lightness of his step, I felt a curious comfort.
This was a manner of fellow I knew quite well how to handle.
“This is Mehem son of Dísara of the line of Ivaldi,” the hill’s lord continued in thickly accented southron, indicating the dverger, who snorted and bent to his work, spreading some manner of paste from a shallow wooden bowl onto Eol’s burns. “Redhill is his home, and we but guests. I am Tarit son of Taliurin, and any friend of Aeredh’s or Eol’s is most welcome wherever I lodge.” His gaze lingered upon my bruised face, but he did not ask how I had suffered the wound.
“Guests.” Mehem poked somewhat ungently at Eol’s side, and the Northern captain, only half-conscious, did not even twitch. The dverger’s handling of my language was very precise as well, each syllable clear and sharp. “Is that what it is called?”
Arn stretched her legs as far as they would go, drinking deep from a wooden goblet. Her eyes were half-lidded; I had rarely seen her so weary. My own exhaustion had passed the point of rest; I could barely believe we had gained any shelter at all. Aeredh poured another measure of winterwine from the tapped cask and drank deeply, his ear-tips all but twitching. The harpist and other Elder attended to their own business after our journey, and while most of the Northerners followed suit Efain and Soren hovered near their captain instead, watching the dverger work with narrow-eyed, intense interest. Eol breathed shallowly, submitting to the small man’s ministrations as he would not to mine.
“We can leave you and this place to the Enemy’s mercy, Mehem my friend, if this is indeed your wish.” Tarit did not shrug, but healso did not glance at the dverger. “I am surprised to see you here, my lord Aeredh. How fared you in the South?”
Aeredh broke his steady consumption of winterwine, drawing a deep breath instead. His blue gaze held renewed fire, and his shoulders relaxed. “We did not find what we sought, but something far more precious.” He indicated Arn and me with a brief, economical motion. “Lady Solveig and her shieldmaid Arneior are in our care; we visited your mother not so long ago. She sent tidings and gifts with us, but sadly the latter lie now in Nithraen’s ruin.”
“Ruin? That is heavy tidings indeed. I would ask—” Tarit glanced at a carved stone doorway; motion within it was one of his men, peering at the new arrivals. “Kaedris. What news?”
“Orukharand lich.” The man, bearded and broad-shouldered, lingered in the doorway. Despite his rough cloth he was too well-bred to express curiosity at our presence, though it shone in his gaze and he glanced often in my and Arn’s direction. “Some other foul things, too, no doubt tracking our new guests. Shall we harry the filth, or simply watch?”
“How many?” The lord of Redhill was abrupt, true—but he was also fey in battle, and no few of the Enemy’s servants had met their end at his blade or bow.
He was like his father in that respect, and consequently had earned the hatred not only of the thralls but of their master too.
“Two war-bands, a score each.” The bearded man’s gaze flickered toward me again, cut away to settle upon his commander. His hand rested easily upon a sword that had to be of Elder make; the plain metal hilt’s curve was too lovely to be aught else. “A larger group just at the edge, aiming south for the Cleft. As far as we can tell Dorael’s Cloak still holds, but…”
The lord of Redhill had heard enough, and his tone was now very like Lady Hajithe’s. “Make certain all our men are accounted for, then close every entrance. Some misfortune has befallen Nithraen, and until I know its tale I will not risk any of our number. Have Gerell and Flokis strengthen the watch, and ready a safe room for our gentler visitors.”
“Women here.” Kaedris did not quite grumble, but his disapprovalwas plain. Still, he no longer stared at me and my shieldmaid. “It will make trouble.”
“Better here than in the Enemy’s clutches, my friend.” Tarit half-turned, staring into the fire. His dark eyebrows drew together, and his fingertips lingered upon a knifehilt, tapping thoughtfully. Though his hands were dirty and mud daubed his clothes, he possessed all his mother’s nobility. “Have Mehem’s sons returned?”
“At the far northern entrance just past dawn. Right glad we were to see them, and they come once they have stowed their burdens.”
“That’s something, at least,” the dverger grumbled, and dropped the bone implement into a bowl with a faint clatter. “Fear not, this one shall live. He merely needs rest; the burns are not envenomed.”
“Blessed be praised.” Efain sagged with relief, leaning against the table. All of us were draggled with dust and wet with snowmelt, not to mention splashed with battle-grime—a sorry lot indeed, though the Elder shone through the dirt as if they could step out of it at a moment’s notice, leaving all smears and stains to collapse upon the rush-strewn floor. “Our thanks for your care, my lord Mehem.”
The dverger merely grunted. I was too exhausted to wince at the reminder of my failed duty. It took a concerted effort to lift my own cup, and though I am not overfond of ale, at that moment it was sweeter than any Elder drink. I had thought I would never be warm again, but a trickle of strength returned as the fire shared itself with the entire room. I did not even wonder how they had such a luxury without smoke rising to warn enemies of their location; later, I learned it was a trick of many dverger dwellings.
Their forges burn clean, and they consider flame an honored cousin instead of a mere helpmeet.
Kaedris disappeared to carry out his lord’s instructions. Tarit approached Aeredh, and they fell into murmured conference. Aeredh clasped the tall man’s shoulder, and it looked as if he were delivering even heavier tidings than Nithraen’s fall, for that was the only time I saw Tarit son of Hajithe pale and almost stagger.
The songs say he loved one lost in that cataclysm, an Elder maid—but I do not know. He never spoke upon it afterward to me, or indeed to any other I heard from.
Arn’s gaze met mine, and her relief at the fire, not to mention a chair to settle in, was palpable. Flakes fell from her woad-stripe, and her eyes bore dark rings underneath. Her boots were filthy, and mine scarcely better.
“My ladyalkuine?” Soren left his captain and approached, bowing when I looked to him; I almost flinched, thinking him about to take me to task for not aiding his lord despite Eol’s refusal. “Efain tells me you worried for my safety. My thanks for the compliment; I am well enough, as you see.”
“I am glad of it.” What does one say to a man one had thought dead? “Your captain, is he…”
