By Ways Unseen Page 23

  Haydren shook his head, glanced at his horse, then down at the ground. “What side of the road is Dasillion’s farm on?” he shouted suddenly.

  Sarah set her jaw, then came around from behind her horse, looking east. Haydren peered over his own horse’s back, sweeping his gaze across the darkness; a flutter of light snapped his gaze back: it looked like a fire – one that could not exist outside in this weather.

  He came around the front of his horse and patted his muzzle. “Good boy,” he said, leading him off the road. Haydren glanced under the horse’s head, pointing after Geoffrey’s inquiring gaze; Geoffrey turned and waved to Pladt, who had come up directly behind him before noticing everyone had stopped.

  The tough moorgrass made for firm footing as they moved toward where Haydren had seen the flame; when Haydren stepped and suddenly sank to his ankle, he knew they had found cultivated land once again. A providential bolt of lightning lit up the farmstead, showing a split-rail fence circling a low stone house. Beyond was another stone building a little smaller, and what had to be stables near that.

  They circled the fence quickly and went to the porch that surrounded three sides of the house. As soon as his boots hit the boards a terrific baying came from within the home. Haydren paused, handed his horse’s reins to Sarah, and walked up to the door.

  When he knocked, the door cracked open almost immediately; Haydren bent backward with a yelp as a sword thrust through the crack and nearly speared his head. At the other end of the sword, eyes wide, stood a man well advanced in years, yet possessing a virility nearly equaling Geoffrey, Haydren judged.

  “I-I’m so sorry!” said the man, lowering the sword and nearly casting it away behind him. “Goblins have been bothering me of late; I thought perhaps you were one. Or four of one, seeing as there are four of you. Though they don’t typically ride on horses; but I didn’t see them until just now! Please, come in and get warm; the fire’ll do nicely to dry out your things. Oh, the horses: Dwereth can get them into the stables. Quiet, Vesta, they’re guests! Come in, come in!”

  Bewildered, but too soaked to bother with questions, the four handed their horses to Dwereth, who had just appeared wearing a thick, shimmering cloak and didn’t look at them. They stepped into the man’s house; as soon as the door was shut, and the wind and driving rain were securely outside, the group felt a little warmer. The farmer went to the fire and stoked it high, and bid them lay out their cloaks to dry. Vesta, a bloodhound, curled up on a blanket in the corner. Dasillion pulled some chairs up close to the flames and told them to sit while he finished preparing a stew.

  “Dasillion is my name, though few speak it anymore,” he said, stirring a pot of steaming golden liquid. “I’ve lived out here on the moors for too many years to have many frequent guests, I suppose. Most people stay at the inns along the road, though I hear more have been closing down like this one, recently. Those goblins are a mighty problem; don’t seem to bother me as much as the waysides. Oh, I have a few now and then: smaller ones, usually, who can’t take on anything else. Look at me! There’s not enough meat on me to bother anyway. Stick ‘em with my sword a few times, and they run howling away. What’s your names again?”

  Haydren fought off a grin; they had never once had the chance to tell him. He gave introductions quickly.

  “Pleasure, pleasure,” Dasillion responded. “I think I remember you,” he said to Sarah with a nod. “But then you folks rarely stay long enough to remember properly. A sort of strange bunch you are, though it’s not a bad thing. Different abilities make for broader capabilities, I always say; one can’t do it all. Though neither can four, if you think about it; but four can do a lot more than one, unless all four are the same, you see? I can farm, but I can’t hunt; how often do you think I eat meat? Except the rabbits which fall into my snares, of course.”

  Pladt, unable to understand a word, sat silent and detached as he gazed into the fire and warmed himself. Dasillion, pausing for breath, glanced at him.

  “He seems distracted,” he noted to Haydren and Geoffrey, “though it’s not necessarily a bad thing; looking inside is the best way to get to know yourself I suppose.”

  “He doesn’t understand Rinc Nain,” Haydren explained. “Only Cariste.”

  “And here I am rattling on!” Dasillion said. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Cariste either. But tell him he’s very welcome in my home. Ah! Soup’s ready!”

  Haydren relayed the message while Dasillion prepared four bowls of the stew. Pladt started, smiled, and asked Haydren to thank the farmer; Dasillion nodded with a large smile, saying “Tho’ve kanem!” loudly and slowly.

  “I don’t think he’ll understand any better, no matter how slowly you say it Dasillion,” Haydren remarked with a smile. Geoffrey concentrated on spooning out a mouthful of the spiced broth.

  “He gets like that, from time to time,” a new, unmuffling voice said behind them. Pladt started, and all four turned to see a dwarf emerging from a pile of blankets against the wall. “Like a penitent thief to the gallows, Dasillion, prattling on and on.”

  “Runacron!” Sarah exclaimed, surprising all. “Why are you down here?”

  “I would ask the same, but we expect you to wander,” the dwarf said, not unkindly.

  “He’s another one who stayed,” Dasillion said with a nod. “Helps out with the farming, a little, like Dwereth. And shoeing horses for plowing. He never said why.”

  “You entertain me, farmer,” Runacron allowed with a gracious bow. “Else I’d be with Dwereth, hiding in the stables no doubt, braver in the face of wind and rain than in front of your hospitality.”

  Dasillion roared laughter. “Too true,” he said. “Dwereth has a habit of leaving every time guests arrive; it took me two weeks to coax him back inside after Runacron showed up. I suppose it gets all bottled up while no one’s here and gushes out when they arrive. But my friend dwarf, you’d be back in the mines as you’d left Jyunta planning, not cowering in some drafty stable.”

  “Trading my battle-axe for a pick-axe,” Runacron said, aside to the travelers. “My father was right, rest his bones in the deep earth’s slumber: war’s no place for me, as I’ve no place for war.”

  “Sometimes war isn’t so accommodating,” Haydren replied, a little testily.

  “And neither are warriors,” Runacron said, seating himself before the fire and pulling a deep-red blanket tight around his shoulders. A finger left his clenching hand and waved over the group. “You lot look like what I mean. And you’ll be needed,” he added with a nod. “‘They are sieged nightly, they will not fall; armies massing nightly to an unheard call: who will come to their aid? No one answers, and they will fall; no one answers the wailing call: where is the dead king laid?’” Runacron shook his head and sniffed loudly.

  “Does it go badly for Jyunta?” Sarah asked. “The Earl was told Garoun defends it.”

  Runacron gazed at her for several moments, then readjusted his blanket, wrapping it tighter. “I expect he did say that,” the dwarf muttered. “They’ve not been overrun yet, so he’s not lying, I suppose. He probably also said he would defend it to the death, defend it till the bleeding castle lay in ruins. Well it will!” The dwarf’s eyes blazed. “And Frecksshire will be next, and what’ll be left but thousands of people who defended the country to the death!”

  “And so you retreat to the mines?” Haydren asked.

  “As an ailing man retreats to his bed when sickness strikes,” the dwarf replied. “And no one thinks him a coward then, do they? But ask a Lord to spend men’s energy on building walls and gates and you’ve abandoned courage. No! It’s sharpened steel that wins the day! Standing and fighting! Faugh. They create fictitious enemies that fight according to their strategies while their young men are slaughtered by the real thing and called heroes.”

  “But winds change, and herald the coming of a storm,” Sarah said with resolve.

  “Jyunta needs a hurricane,” Runacron replied.

  “Is that some
sort of prophecy?” Haydren asked quietly, rubbing his eyes.

  “Prophecy,” Runacron grumbled, settling himself more. “It’s a proverb, lad. Ever notice the winds changing just before a storm strikes?”

  A sudden crash of thunder brought their startled gazes to the windows, and chuckles from their mouths.

  “Yes it did,” Haydren said with a nod. He turned back to the dwarf. “And we’re supposed to be the changing wind?”

  Runacron shrugged. “Hopefully. They need it.”

  Pladt’s face split into a yawn, and he stood to retrieve his bedroll. Haydren, glancing around, took note of it. He gestured to the archer. “Pladt has a good idea,” he said. He turned to the farmer. “May we use your floor, Dasillion?” he asked.

  “Certainly!” Dasillion replied, seeming insulted that Haydren would presume he might kick them out of his house. “He can move closer to the fire, too; if he wants.”

  The next several moments were a bustle of blankets unrolling and dishes being gathered and cleaned. The fire was stoked once more, and fuel added. All other lights were extinguished, and the travelers and their hosts eventually laid down to sleep. Gazing into the flames of the fire, Haydren heard Runacron whispering to himself the lines of an unfamiliar poem.

  “What is that?” he asked, glancing at the dwarf with interest.

  Runacron said nothing, his eyes remaining fixed on the fire.

  Dasillion looked up and at the dwarf. “I think you should, master dwarf,” he said. “The night is dark enough without the talk we’ve just had; and that poem might do the trick.”

  Runacron turned onto his back and gazed at the ceiling. “It wouldn’t sound the same,” he replied gruffly.

  “The same as what?” Haydren asked.

  Runacron paused. “As hearing it in Deewan,” he said hesitantly. “Safety and a communal fire are better accompaniment than raging winds.”

  “We have a communal fire,” Haydren said, his gaze returning to the blazing hearth.

  Runacron glanced around the room: everyone returned it with muted expectance; Pladt alone still lay with his eyes closed.

  Runacron nodded finally, and Dasillion smiled. After another moment’s pause, the dwarf began:

  “From a land across the sea,

  a merry dwarf came happily.

  And so we tell the joyful tale,

  of our friend named Bowin-Dale.

  Bowin-Dale, short and red-haired,

  wondered how other lands fared.

  And so he bought the biggest boat,

  so big it almost didn’t float.

  He sailed here and there in search,

  of the biggest, bestest church.

  And when he found that holy shrine,

  he sallied back into the brine.

  Next he looked both far and wide,

  for the smallest place to hide.

  And when he found that little nook,

  he wrote for it a little book.

  Soon he was in search again,

  this time for the biggest men.

  He found them on a tiny isle,

  and stayed with them for a while.

  But Bowin-Dale could not rest,

  and so he wagered who was best.

  Dwarves or giants, who could say?

  So Bowin-Dale won, that day.

  Satisfied he sallied forth,

  this time turning to the north.

  Looking for the deepest snow,

  also for the blackest crow.

  These he found in one location,

  on a northern island nation.

  Snow so deep he couldn’t walk,

  crows so black he couldn’t talk.

  Leaving there he soon moved on,

  wondering where the wind had gone.

  Though he longed for other sights,

  the wind was still all through the nights.

  Then one day the wind did blow,

  bringing with it heavy snow.

  Bowin-Dale cursed his luck,

  the water froze and he was stuck.

  Biding time and playing sports,

  building little toothpick forts.

  Wandering the snowy streets,

  accosting everyone he meets.

  Winter passed and spring was sprung,

  freshest air filled every lung.

  So entranced by this was he,

  he wrote a little poetry.

  But off he went into the west,

  searching still for all that’s -est.

  Oldest wizards, strongest mages,

  humblest monks and wisest sages.

  East and west and north and south,

  smallest shoe-size, biggest mouth.

  Up and down and in and out,

  smallest whisper, loudest shout.

  And so he circled ‘round the globe,

  clad in finest silken robe.

  Sailing on the many seas,

  drinking wine and eating cheese.

  His thirst for ‘-est’ would never end,

  dull-est knife and sharp-est bend.

  So he loved the very ‘-est,’

  he changed his name to Bowin-Dest.

  His family knew not his name,

  in vain attempt to hide their shame.

  And Bowin-Dest went so insane,

  he grew a beard and called it ‘mane.’

  Of all the manes, his was best,

  according to old Bowin-Dest.

  He steered his ship, hunched lazily,

  his searching eye roved crazily.

  All who saw him ran and hid,

  acting as a rabbit did.

  Bowin-Dest paid them no mind,

  still looking for the ‘-est’est kind.

  Finally as he grew old,

  his wine and cheese turned into mold.

  His sails torn, his ship was leaking,

  his clothes were tattered, he was reeking.

  So the traveled Bowin-Dest,

  laid his weary head to rest.

  Still he dreamed of all that's ‘-est,’

  north and south and east and west.”

  The companions lay for some time in silence, unsure whether to laugh or be sad.

  “Why would they call that a happy tale?” Haydren said finally. “It doesn’t end very happily.”

  “It ends as does any other life,” Runacron replied. “It’s happy because of the way he lived his life.”

  “He went crazy!” Haydren protested.

  “He saw the world as no one else did,” Runacron replied. “And that’s what made him crazy. But it doesn’t mean he didn’t grasp true reality, does it?”

  “And what reality is that?”

  “That something exists that we might never grasp,” Runacron replied. “And those who seem insane are just the one who see it and continually reach for it. Bowin-Dale sought the best, the absolute highest that existed in life, and died without seeing it. But he died still in the hope that it existed. How can we know without searching that nothing exists to fulfill our dreams? And just because he didn’t find it doesn’t mean you won’t.”

  “What dreams do you have, Runacron?” Haydren asked; the silence stretched so long he began to wonder if the dwarf had fallen asleep, and grinned at the irony. Finally, the dwarf spoke in a quiet whisper.

  “The deep earth,” he said. “I used to hate workin’ in the mines, and dreamed for adventure like most. And I found it, sure enough. Some people can have their open air and broad mountain-top views; there’s so much beauty just below your feet that you’ll never know.”

  “And for that you would leave Jyunta to its fate?”

  “I’m not a warrior any more than you’re a miner, lad,” Runacron replied. “If you have it in you, do it; the world certainly needs you. We can’t all be everything, can we?”

  A sudden thought struck Haydren, and he rolled onto his side. “Runacron,” he said; “You’re familiar with a lot of metals, aren’t you? As a miner?”

  Runacron suppressed a chuckle. “I
wouldn’t be much good to my father or my family if I wasn’t,” he said.

  Flipping down the top of his blanket, Haydren reached out and grasped his sword; he pulled it quietly from the sheath. Runacron’s eyes lit up as the fire reflected in the metals.

  “Where did you get that?” the dwarf whispered in awe, flames dancing in fireplace, sword, and eyes.

  “My father gave it to me when I was very young,” Haydren said simply. “Do you know it?”

  “Not the sword itself, though something about it recalls a Deewanian poem to mind,” Runacron said. He held out his hand cautiously. “May I look closer?” he asked. Haydren handed it over, and Runacron held it toward the ceiling. “The edge is Bultum,” he said, brushing it gently with a finger. “The flames,” he continued, tapping those with a knuckle, “are from a very rare ore called Cretal. This – this sword has magic, lad; that I know from the metals, but also from the poem. Four of them were made and scattered abroad, not all alike, but similar. If this isn’t one of those four, I’d go back to Jyunta.”

  “Scattered?” Haydren said, propping up his head. “Where?”

  “I don’t know that,” Runacron replied. “The poem doesn’t say. It only talks about their history and purpose; I forget a lot of it now. But the family who made it will know, if you ever make it to Deewan. And if I’m right about that sword, you should head there with all urgency. I’m afraid I can’t tell you much more than that,” he concluded, handing the sword back.

  Haydren took it and sheathed it slowly, and the glow that had lit their mattresses went out. They spoke at length about the sword and the metals, and Deewan; when they finished, Runacron turned over, but Haydren gazed at the ceiling with hands behind his head, glancing occasionally at the weapon beside him.