In the aftermath of anti-climax that was our almost destruction, our final last stand by the side of the river, the morning turned to early spring pastoral. Maybe it was just a trick of the seasons. A hint that we’d come at that time of the year that can’t seem to make up its mind about whether it’s April or May, winter or spring… or even on some really fine days, perhaps a promise of summer. A lie that everything will be as it was when we were young on that last day of the school year. Endless days and long warm nights ahead. That sounded really nice right now.
I was, bloody—some mine, most not—dirty, tired, not really hungry, wet, and cold even though I was standing in direct and very wonderful sunshine. And I was alive.
Cloodmoor the Immense was still fading out there across the landscape, disappearing over the ridge like some unbelievable nightmare that wouldn’t quite leave with the morning light. The orcs and the wolves had vanished into the tall grass of the prairie like dawn’s mist on the water.
Last of Autumn approached me. Her cloak muddy near the hem. Dried blood on her face. Not hers.
“Come… ’tis time to meet… Old Vandahar. He is a friend… to my people. A Halbard.”
Then she added in Grau Sprache German, “A graybeard.”
I looked around. Chief Rapp had McGuire stabilized and was hitting him with an IV. Someone else was on IV holder duty. The NCOs were gathering their squads, counting wounded, counting ammo… counting what was left of us. To be honest, we looked like we’d been dragged through the mud by the cat and left out on the porch for three days too long.
Birds flitted about, racing in the sunshine and seeming not to care much about battles or dead, taking no heed of blue sky reports or the fears of petty little linguists that there might not be any more real coffee left in this jacked-up world.
Birds don’t care.
I finished my not-real-coffee of instant grounds and the last of my canteen water. We’d have to refill soon and the river I was looking at was filled with dead orcs and wolves. That was a problem. But probably not for
long. The water was moving, pushing the corpses away with the rising sun and disappearing morning mist. And we had chlorine tabs.
I nodded to myself. I didn’t know why. It was just something I could do that the dead couldn’t. Not anymore. Movement instead of eternal repose. Life instead of drifting lifelessness.
“Are… you well?” Last of Autumn asked as she came close. The elf girl. Autumn. Earnestly. Staring up at me like she was the only good left in the world and she was looking for a friend. There was dried blood on her forehead. She noticed me looking at it, then reached up to wipe it away.
“It was close…” she said to herself, rubbing at the blood that wouldn’t come off. “But… we made it.” She paused. Then added, “Talker.” And smiled.
I felt myself walk back from the edge of some cliff where I wasn’t going to be all right ever again if I’d have let myself go over. I walked away from that cliff. The one I felt like I’d been standing on for four days and nights now. Wondering if I was gonna fall, or just jump.
Are you well? she asked. But the meaning was… are you going to be all right?
I nodded again. To her this time. Focused my eyes with the realization that they’d been unfocused and somewhere not good. Yes, I was… well. Or at least that’s what I’d tell myself for as long as I could.
I gathered my gear and said, “Let’s meet…” I couldn’t remember the name she’d used. But I knew she’d meant the old man. The wizard from Central Casting. The guy who made a shock wave of a thunderclap with the spoken word.
She saw my struggle to remember his name. The one she’d used. “Vandahar. He can help… sometimes,” she said. Cautiously.
Vandahar.
In German that meant wanderer. Kinda. Not exactly. But her pronunciation was close enough. So maybe it was.
We crossed the grass between the river and the ruins and found the old wizard sitting on a log, smoking a long-stemmed pipe.
Of course.
I caught sight of the sergeant major and gave a shrug and nod to let him know what I was about as he organized the NCOs. The captain was moving among the wounded, assessing and encouraging, platoon leaders getting
new orders. Reorganization underway. The Rangers, despite the situation, would be ready for the next fight if it went that way.
The wizard looked up, noticing us only at the last second it seemed, with baleful eyes like some ancient and tired bloodhound. There were deep lines in his cheeks and folds under his blue eyes. Arctic-blue eyes that were clear and vibrant. He seemed much older and more tired than the imposing figure of just moments before who’d driven back our enemies with only a word. Who’d faced them down at the river’s edge with nothing more than an old stick of a staff.
Now he seemed like he was just an oldster sitting in a garden among the ruins. Not much concerned with anything but how the day was shaping up. And maybe some old memory he was still working out in his head.
She began in Korean. In Shadow Cant, as she’d called it.
“Noble Vandahar, I had no idea you would be here. It was good… that you happened along.”
“I had to,” began the old man absently, nursing his pipe. Intent on the coal within as he sat in the shade of a broken vine-covered section of wall that still stood along the outer edges of the ruins. “The old contracts don’t hold as well as they once did now that the power of the Nether Lord waxes full in these last days.” He looked afar and sucked on his pipe before adding, almost to himself, “Not like they used to.”
The icy blue eyes snapped back to attention, resting on Last of Autumn. “These are dark times, Little Raven. What brings you out, and all alone, seeking strangers? Not much of your kind are left in the world now. Can the Old Mother spare none of her night warriors for such a fruitless task?”
She nodded, and it felt like a reverential bow. Accepting what the elder had said instead of disagreeing—if she did disagree—if just for form’s sake. Some long-lost hint of the Oriental still surfacing ten thousand years later.
She waited for a moment of customary respect to indicate she’d let the old man have his say, and had heard him. Whether she agreed with him or not.
Then…
“Five nights ago, the Fae Dragons told us of the arrival of these… men… from… the sky. There is no one else left who can hunt at Hidden Cave, Old Father. And the King of Mourne no longer sallies.”
She’d called the wizard Old Father. A term of respect. But it had felt like a jab in some way.
And who was this King of Mourne? Possibly an enemy of King Triton.
A rival to Chief McCluskey?
“I came through the dark host by guile and stealth,” continued Last of Autumn. “I found them to be men of honor, Vandahar Halbard. Brave and not like those of the Southern Cities.”
Oh ho, I thought. Southern Cities. Humans. Coffee?
I know. I have a one-track mind.
“Not all those of the so-called civil places are full of cowards, Little Raven,” began the old man. His voice was rich and sonorous. A born storyteller’s voice. Shakespeare in the Park kind of guy, definitely. But still old and breathy. “Mighty and great warriors serve in the legions of Accadios even if their rulers are corrupt and vain indeed. And the Eastern Waystes are filled with reckless adventurers who dare dungeon-haunted ruins and even the Cracks of Time itself to pull out lost treasures and baubles, despite living amid that endless misery, bearing hardship and striving against the wakening Saur. Bravery, Little Raven… there is still some of it left in this old ruin. And now…”
He looked up at me and then fanned his pipe hand, drizzling fragrant smoke out across the Rangers who were getting ready for the next mission. Taking in the cool ruins and the almost idyllic river.
“Well! It would seem there is more of it, perhaps, now. More of bravery, that is. Do they speak… at all?” he wondered slyly. He had a comfortable familiar old nature. A cross between a grandpa and a likable con man who might take you for a beer at least and maybe a twenty at most. Someone you could trust a little, but maybe not a lot. Even though you wanted to.
“They do,” I replied in Germanic.
His eyes showed mock surprise at my ability to use the language he had stopped Cloodmoor with.
Then in Shadow Cant I added, “We are warriors from…” I wasn’t sure how much to give away here. Probably best not to show all the cards until the captain gave the green light. “… from far away,” I finished awkwardly. “We have no idea why those…” I turned toward the prairie and the dead orcs floating away in the river. “… attacked us.”
I’d used Shadow Cant, even though it was forbidden according to Last of Autumn, in hopes of showing common cause. I was getting the feeling that Gray Speech was the language of other peoples and used as a kind of common battle tongue. Maybe it was even the language of their enemies. And I didn’t want to start off on the wrong foot with what was apparently a powerful new ally. Then again, who knew, maybe I was making an even bigger mistake.
It’s tough being a linguist. Don’t let anyone tell you different.
The old man blew smoke and seemed to think about this for a moment as he took little sips from the stem of his long pipe, staring off out over the river.
“Oh,” he said softly. Almost to himself. “I think you are from very far away, young warrior. Very far away… indeed.”
You don’t know the half of it, I thought to myself. Then he turned as if he’d heard something I hadn’t. He regarded me for another long moment, staring right through me with those endless arctic eyes. And I could see into them, and though I couldn’t see what he was seeing, or what was there, I could tell those eyes had seen strange things, wonderful sights, in the frozen north. Sights no man living would ever see. These eyes had seen many of the secrets of the world. That was what I thought when I looked into Vandahar’s eyes.
Maybe it was just a cheap tragedian’s trick. The one card this third-rate Shakespeare in the Park actor had to play at the first and the last. Or… I thought to myself… maybe in this world now… it was true.
The old man continued to watch me as I thought these things. Then he said: “And I think there’s more about you than you know just yet, young warrior. Much, much more.”
He continued to study me, sucking at his pipe softly, his baleful and watery eyes regarding me as the captain and the sergeant major approached. “Tell your king,” he said, nodding to Captain Knife Hand a few steps before he reached us, “that we must move now if we are to make the cave by dark. Tell him you are safe now in this realm of the Charwood. Ol’ Gren Longfingers has guaranteed it even though his kind—that being the Eld— are mostly asleep these nowadays. I understand you’re tired; it’s just a pleasant walk now to our resting place. There will be no more danger to your fellowship. And… there will be feasting when we arrive.” He made
this point grandly. “Along the way we shall discuss… matters. And see what cards we’ve been dealt. And how, exactly, we might play them this time.”
He turned to Last of Autumn.
“I speak with her still, Little Raven,” muttered the old man. “She has told me of your mission. And asked me to be along shortly to see things proper, as is my way, if not always in a timely fashion, then at the last, if not the least of moments. All is well for now, my wayward girl. But we will have to walk for the rest of the day. And it is time to be going.”
