The Inheritance

Chapter 3

In the sky, ravens swirled like storm clouds gathering. Their cries echoed, sharp as knives, in Elansa’s ears. They quarreled at feast, vying for good places on corpses.

Names drifted through her mind. Wing-gloss, Oaktrue, Emberbright, Starglance…

These were the family names of Kethrenan’s trusted warriors. Grief tightened round her throat, a necklace of pain.

Glimmergrass, Slenderbirch, River-reed, and Forrestal… all the names of bright and shining men and woman, all devoted to her husband, all pledged to keep her safe. All dead, surprised by goblins and outlaws in the home forest and murdered.

In her mind, Elansa recited their names over. She must remember them. She must be able to speak them like a litany of praise so she could tell her husband how they'd tried to defend her, how none of them broke and ran, how each stood ground until a goblin's arrow or blade snuffed out his life.

Elansa’s stomach turned, sickened by the stench of the outlaws crowding her close, before and behind. They smelled of old beer and ale, of sweat and untanned leather. They smelled, she thought with bitter disgust, like humans. You'll never mistake the scent of them, an old elf wife had told her. "Humans," she'd said, "why the span of their lives is so short you can smell them dying."

Elansa’s head throbbed with pain. Each step she took, stumbling and weary, seemed to drive the pain deeper, like a hammer driving a nail. She tried to look up the trail, the stony defile that grew more and more narrow. Lifting her head, she stumbled and fell to her knees. Kicked from behind, amid curses and laughter, she staggered up again.

Had they crossed Qualinesti’s borders yet? The thought made her tremble. She'd never in all her young life been outside the forest. Since she was a child, thoughts of the world outside were images of howling wilderness, a place peopled by beings rough and strange. Godless folk-all but the dwarves of Thorbardin and the Silvanesti, those distant cousins of the Qualinesti. Wretched and fallen from sense, since the Cataclysm some of these were engaged in a wild and fruitless search for gods other than those who'd been forever known to the peoples of Ansalon. Seekers, these were called. You heard about them sometimes the way you hear about people's nightmares. Elansa shuddered. Others simply didn't care about gods, believing them to be fictions of the long-lived, superstitions and perhaps demonic agents of a magic they no longer understood. Into these hands she had fallen.

But not for long, she told herself. Not for long. Demlin would be on his way back to Qualinost. He'd tell his tale-his mutilation would scream it!-and Keth would come to fetch her home. He'd not bother with that absurd ransom demand. He'd not care about the orders of outlaws. He'd ride to the Notch with such a force of warriors as these miserable ragtag bandits had never seen. Keth would come to bring her home, and she need only keep herself alive and whole so she could watch her captors receive from the prince's hand what they had earned.

Elansa looked up, a brief glance, and saw only a hard bright sliver of sky, no sun to mark the passing hour. Ahead she saw nothing but the backs of outlaws, bent to climb, their leather shirts greasy and stained black with sweat. On each side, the stone walls grew taller, closer, and sometimes Brand, the most broad-shouldered among them, had to turn sideways to slip through.

Ravens swirled above, like black ash drifting across the sliver of sky. Ravens feasting on the flesh of good men and women, in the forest reveling. Elansa shivered, as though she walked in winter. Did not the name Brand, in some old dialect of Thorbardin, mean Raven?

Climb now, she told herself, climb. Bend your back and climb. Bend and climb, bend and climb. This darker, more brutal chant drove out the litany of the warriors’ names, overriding until it formed her only thought. Mindless as a beast, she climbed, and when at last the way before her cleared, bandits parting and moving right and left, she hardly understood what it was she saw, nor was she able to look at it long.

Noon sun shone overhead, the light darting and glancing from bald stone, a field of rock spread out before her. Elansa tried to lift her hands to shield her eyes. The motion dragged a groan from her. She fell, and it didn't seem to matter to anyone that she did. She lay with her cheek on stone, a princess who had never felt any pillow harsher than satin. A cool wind from the heights passed uncaring hands over her still form, tangling her sweat dampened hair. She opened her eyes and saw that she lay upon a high place, a barren table of rock. Ahead she saw no forest, only fields of stone and tall towers formed by a long-ago tumbling of boulders. Behind, she saw only the dark opening that led back into the defile.

Two hands grabbed her under the arms and dragged her up. A knife flashed, just out of the comer of her eye. She hadn't the strength to be afraid, not even the strength to be grateful when she felt the rope binding her hands fall away. Blood rushed back into her limbs, like blades in her veins, racing. She cried out, then forced herself silent.

Brand stood above her, tall and dark. He dragged her to her feet, grabbed her wrists and tied them again, this time in front. He attached a rope to the one binding her wrists, a long line as if she were a mule to be led. This he gave to Dell, who jerked hard so Elansa must follow. At the brink, she saw a vast field of stone spread out below, chunks of granite like the waste fallen from a sculptor's hammer, heedless as he worked. And the hammer, why it seemed she saw that, too, thrusting up from the stony field as though the sculptor had left it standing on its head, the haft pointing to the sky.

First over the edge was Brand, like a mountain goat as he leaped from stone to stone. Others followed, and now Elansa saw the full count of them. She counted eight bandits before Dell urged her forward. Then she looked at nothing but the ground, making her way by taking each stone right after Dell did. There would be no room for error, and she knew it. One stumble, and she would be dragged.

Thus they went, until at last the stonefield grew leaner, allowing for small trails between the boulders. Brand chose one that seemed no different from the others, a winding way downslope. Always he kept the hammer-shaped rock in the center of the horizon. The ground leveled, the path wound between piles of stone, and the shadows of them were deep as night. High up in the sky, a hawk screamed.

Brand stopped, and all those behind him stood still. Nothing moved but the wind, and then, head back, the outlaw echoed the hawk’s screech. A challenge had been offered and answered. Somewhere on the stony piles watchers waited. Dell tugged at the rope and Elansa stumbled forward, eyes on the ground again, until they came to the high pile of stone known to elves and dwarves and outlaws in between as Hammer Rock.

Brand took them into the shadows pooled at the bottom of the stone that made the hammer’s shaft, and then the group disbanded, some going left, some going right. Only Dell and Brand remained. Too weary to look around or mark where she was, Elansa went where Dell directed, muscles aching, legs trembling now from exhaustion. They stopped for a moment before a gap in the stone that measured only a little wider than the breadth of Brand's own shoulders. He grunted something, a word of command, and Dell severed Elansa’s bonds. Behind her now, she shoved Elansa forward, into the darkness, into the gap in the rough stone. They stood a moment in cool silence, like guests upon a doorstep.

As can all elves, in even the darkest place, Elansa saw the warm red outlines of life-aura surrounding all living things. She did now, looking down into darkness. People were down there, though folk of what kind or race she couldn't tell. She closed her eyes, then opened them again, letting them adjust to normal sight. Now she saw lights twinkling below, torchlight and campfires. People gathered around the fires, sitting or standing, and several hounds wandered, looking for bones and bits of meat. A faced turned up, white and looking at the three on the ledge. One by one, the outlaws drifted toward the stairs.

Elansa looked around and saw that she stood not upon a doorstep at all, but upon a ledge of stone, like a gallery above a stony hall. Mute since she'd first been dragged away, she swallowed, trying to ease her dry throat, trying to find a word to speak She managed one, "Where?"

Brand turned, and in that instant Elansa saw him decide not to hit her. "Shut up," he said, but no more than that.

Silent, Elansa looked out over the edge. The stone path dropped off, but gradually, winding round and again like a stair round a castle wall. No dwarf had delved this place. It had been born of ages when rivers ran and earth sank and caves were made. His hard hand on her neck, Brand shoved her forward, down the stairs.

She went, and anger stirred in her. Banked until then by weariness and fear, it roused again. She turned and, cold as ice, she said, "Take your hand off me, human."

Her words echoed hollowly in the well of the stony hall, and derisive laughter came howling up. Brand gripped tighter, the laughter swelled, and he did take his hand from her. With the back of it, he hit her. Crying out, she staggered, stumbling at the edge of the drop. She tasted blood. They sounded like demons at the bottom of the stairs.

"Get down there," said the outlaw, "or I'll kick you down."

She went, staggering down the stairs, into the dark depths of the place. Tripping on the last step, she fell hard to her knees. The crowd surged in, hoofing and shouting. Hands plucked at her hair, at her face, her tom blouse. Crying out in Elvish, cursing them, she fought back.

Like thunder, Brand's shout. "Char!"

Hard hands grabbed from behind. The black-haired dwarf with the bright green patch over his left eye pulled her up and dragged her away. Shouts of protest and leering laughter followed.

"C'mon, Char! Share!"

"Pass ’er ’round, y’ damn stingy dwarf!"

Elansa’s stomach tightened, clenching in cold terror. Held helpless, her arms wrenched behind her back, she could do nothing but pray.

"O my Blue Phoenix-"

Char shoved her away from the others until Brand's hand gripped her shoulder hard, halting her. Char let her go, and Brand turned her to face him.

"Not a word out of you, elf, in any language. You don't want them paying too much attention to you, so keep your mouth shut." He pushed her toward the dwarf again. "Take her, Char. Her pretty hide’s worth a fat ransom. See it stays on her bones."

Char did as he was told, grabbing Elansa by the wrist and pulling her along into the darkest part of the wide cavern. Some of the outlaws followed, curious or simply mocking. This the dwarf allowed, but not for long. With a growling word and his hand on the short haft of the throwing axe he wore at his hip, he sent them away.

"There," he said to Elansa, pointing into darkness where the only light was that reflecting thinly on lines of moisture trickling down a stone wall. "Settle in, girl, and keep yourself still and quiet. He's got the most of us willing to listen to him, our Brand, but some-" He cocked his head to get the sight of her with his one eye. "Some ain't so long among us and ain't used to heeding. Keep your head down, and you'll probably be all right."

Probably, he said. The word set Elansa to shivering- the uncertainty of it, the possibility of harm lurking behind it.

When the dwarf left, she collapsed, her legs giving way at last. I will not sleep, she told herself. I will not close my eyes in this place. Yet every muscle in her body ached, crying for sleep. I will not, I will not.

She tried to see out into the cavern, but all she saw were figures without feature. One was a woman, but she was not Dell. That one stood almost as tall as Brand himself, and this woman was shorter. For the men, some were tall, but most were thin as mongrels. She could spot Brand easily by the breadth of his shoulders.

I will not sleep. I will not. I will stay here waking, and never sleep until Keth comes to find me and kills every one of these vermin.

She reached for the talisman, the phoenix rising that had long hung round her neck, but that was gone, vanished into a robber’s pouch.

O my Blue Phoenix, she prayed, ward me and keep me safe. Never let me sleep. Never let me relax my guard….

The iron toe of a thick boot nudged Elansa hard, rolling her over. She woke with her heart thundering, the memory of groping hands screaming along every nerve. Scrambling back, she had no place to go. Stone stood at her back. She reached around in the darkness searching for a rock, anything to use to defend herself.

"None of that, now. Just sit still, I ain't going to hurt you."

The dwarf Char stood over her, a dripping tin cup in his hand. She knew him by the size and shape of him, by the reek of dwarf spirits, and because he stood over her bearing no light. He was a dwarf, and be they of hill or mountain kin, in dark of night or cavern deep, a one-eyed dwarf sees better than elf or human.

Awake now, she became aware of every afflicting ache and throbbing bruise. She heard other voices, gruff and snarling curses. Laughter rang in the stony chamber, harsh as a crow's. Char placed a battered tin cup of water on the stony floor before her. He never took his eyes from her as she reached for it, and she never took hers from him. She drank, the water tasting like finest wine on her lips.

"Is there food?" Elansa asked, watching him over the rim of the cup.

Char appeared to consider this, then nodded. "Up. On your feet."

Weary and unrested, still she managed to get up with some grace. "Lead," she said, the elven princess captured.

Laughing at the rag of her dignity, he led her toward the little lights and commanded her to sit.

Shuddering, Elansa sat before a low fire, a round of rock and flame in the shadow of the high stony staircase. Watched by Char and a few others, she tried to manage her meal. She ate out of a rough stone bowl, dipping her fingers into thin gritty gruel and spooning it into her mouth. The food tasted like a mixture of corn and barley with the barest flavoring of meat. Tiny globules of fat rimmed the bowl itself, so she knew someone else had lately used it. Her stomach turned, but turning, it also growled with hunger. She pressed three fingers together, made a hook of them, and scooped up more of the awful porridge.

Char watched her, not afraid she'd flee-afraid she'd be stolen out of his charge. So, that's you, she thought, gauging him. Given a charge and determined to see it through to its proper end. She didn't know what that understanding would do for her, but she was a princess, used to navigating the troublous waters of court life. She'd learned how to look at courtiers and servants and lords and reckon out the core of them, to know who was trusty and who was not. She'd learned, as well, that any insight gained was worth remembering.

Eating, she looked around, her glances small and not obvious. Though she wanted to see, she wanted less to call attention to herself. The place held little light. A few torches were tucked into stony niches on the walls, and one wide brazier smoldered in the center of the cavern. That might have flared high with fire sometime while she slept, but only embers winked in it now. The robbers’ den, yesterday filled with people and noisy, was almost empty now, so quiet it seemed her breathing must echo. She heard the distant trickle of water, a spring she could not see, perhaps in another chamber. Other chambers there were, of this Elansa was certain.

Three dark gaps in the walls yawned like the mouths of tunnels or hallways leading to other places. Yesterday the bandits had split and some returned to the cavern by another way. Did one or more of these openings lead to those other ways?

A few hounds lay nearby, chins on paws, eyes half-closed and ears up. They all looked like they shared the same parents, long limbs, prick ears, short yellow hair and curling tails. This, she knew, is what dogs become when they are not under the care of kennel masters and breeders: tough and wild and far removed from their sires who might well have once lain at a hearthside or gamboled with their master's children. She looked past the dogs where a half dozen outlaws lay wrapped in their cloaks, sleeping. They were only hunched shapes, and Elansa had no way to know if they were men or women.

Behind Char, a lanky tow-headed boy stood talking with a pot-bellied elder. The boy had a sun-reddened face of one who'd been long outdoors. The old man's face was pale and pasty, his skin unhealthy and dry. The two cast covert glances at her, elbowing each other and leering. In the darkness beyond those two, another watcher lurked, red eyes glaring in the firelight. The figure moved, and Elansa’s heart leaped with sudden fear as she caught a glimpse of a long slanted head, narrow eyes, and orange hide.

"That’s the goblin," Char said. "Never mind about him."

Elansa looked away from the glaring eyes, but she didn't stop listening to the sound of the goblin's breathing, a hoarse, wet sound that made her skin crawl. She finished her meal, such as it was, and drank another cup of water. Then, because she could withhold no longer, she said, "Char, I want to wash and tend my needs."

The boy behind them snickered, and the old man said something in a voice so low that Elansa couldn't make out his words. One of the hounds picked up his head, and Char scratched his bearded chin, thinking.

"Well," she said, "there is a place for that, isn't there?"

Char allowed there was. "But I ain't sending you there unguarded."

The skinny boy’s snickering became outright laughter. Elansa swallowed hard as Char’s eye narrowed, a look she was getting to recognize as the dwarf considering. Then he slapped his knees and got to his feet. "All right then."

He rose, gesturing her to do the same. Behind, one of the hounds, a large raw-boned male, got to its feet to stretch and watch him curiously. "Follow me."

She did, and when she moved the dog fell in behind.

They went past the sleepers, some of whom stirred when they passed. One of the sleepers, snorting and cursing, cracked an eye and rolled over again. When he moved, Elansa shuddered. This one was an elf! How far had he fallen to find himself among this rabble? And where was he from? Not from Qualinost, she knew that much. No elf had been cast out from there in as long as she could remember, and none had left voluntarily. What elf would? Yet here he was among outlaws, a dark elf, driven from his home for some terrible sin or crime, forbidden the forest and communion with any of his race.

The dog trailing, his nails clicking on the stone, Elansa followed Char past the sleepers, past the place where she had slept, to the first of the openings in the stone wall. The sound of water came stronger now, splashing. They stepped into the darkness of the opening, and she stumbled a little when the ground dropped. Catching herself against the wall, she said, "I need light."

Unimpressed, Char said, "Too bad. Let your eyes adjust. They will. Fang," he said, naming the dog. "Keep." He hung back, saying no more, and the dog slipped in behind her, another guard.

She stood in the dark, trying to focus on nothing. The dog's aura was the only light she saw, his breathing sounded loud, hollow, and so she knew she stood in a narrow space. The music of water falling echoed, perhaps a small stream slipping down the stone. She stood still, waiting for her eyes to adjust. Soon she saw the smooth, level floor curving ahead. Following the sound of water, she walked until she came to the curve in the way. There the passage changed, dropping at the left. Looking over the side, she saw a series of three ledges like broad steps. These didn't look worked, they seemed like the craft of river and time, rough but not unlovely. Beyond the last, two streams ran, one narrow and slipping along the ground, the other a steady trickle of water issuing from a crack in the far wall. Someone had placed a basin beneath the fount to catch the trickle. She peered downstream, wondering if there was a way out. None, or not a very big one. The hound sitting beside her wouldn't be able to wriggle through the opening. Certainly a grown woman couldn't. It was the same upstream, only a little space in the stone from which the water issued.

Pale light drifted now from the distant ceiling. Elansa looked up to see a narrow fissure through which the light came. It looked like dawn light, gray and weak. I've been a day gone, she thought, a day and a night in the hands of outlaws. The moons would rise full in six more days. She smiled, a chill smile to contemplate what must come at the rising of those moons. In six days she would see herself avenged, and the blood of outlaws would paint the tale on the very stones of the borderland.

She found what she needed, a privy space at the running stream where waste would wash out of the cave, and cool fresh water from the crack in the wall with which to wash. The dog, clearly a long inhabitant of the place, crossed the stream beside her and lapped from the water fallen into the basin.

Clean, or cleaner, she watched the dog drink and, watching, she decided to test him. One small step she took, back from the basin. The hound never lifted his head, but his low warning growl gave a clear message. He'd been told to keep her, and keep her he would. When she left, he followed her, shadowing her steps, close beside as they came to the entrance again, the darkest place where the light leaking in from the fissure in the stony ceiling didn't reach. Char stood waiting, arms folded across his chest, head back, watching her.

"Fang," he said, never taking his eyes from Elansa. "Go."

The dog brushed past her, past Char, and vanished into the wider cave.

"Come along," Char said. He jerked his head. "There's something to see."

Elansa heard a rush of voices like the sound of a gale in the forest. One voice, a man's, cut through all others. Like a knife it slashed.

"The doing's mine, Brand! Not yours. Mine!"

Voices swelled again. Char shoved her ahead to the fires where many more men stood now than had before. Elansa tried to take a count and guessed at a dozen. They ranged in a semicircle round the bottom of the stairs. Char kept her on the edge of the circle, away from the light and the attention of the outlaws. Brand stood on the high place, the entrance like a gallery above a rough hall. He had the goblin by the scruff of the neck, and the cringing creature's hands were tied behind its back. Halfway up the stairs another outlaw stood, the elf Elansa had seen sleeping.

Cold fear washed through her, only to see that exiled elf, the dark elf whose name she would not speak if ever she came to know it. To see such a one was to see a dead man, lost to decency, lost to his kindred, forever banished from his kind.

The circling outlaws fell silent, so quiet that it seemed to Elansa all she heard was Char’s breathing. Brand, up on his gallery, had the look of a soldier rolling the bones, a gambler reckoning his odds for greatest gain. Elansa’s belly tightened, and her breath caught in her throat. A wave of excitement ran through the outlaws-shouts then sudden silence as Brand reached for the knife in his belt. With one swift motion, he turned the knife and offered it hilt first to the elf.

Behind Elansa, the dwarf said, "You see. You don't keep it all for yourself."

Shivering, Elansa thought his words made no sense. Keep what? She turned to Char and said, "What-"

The goblin threw back its head to scream, its orange neck thin and long. Like fire flashing, the knife in the elf's hand, and then that fire was quenched by dark goblin blood, the scream drowned to a gurgle as the elf kicked the corpse down the stairs.

Elansa’s knees turned to water, and she groaned.

"Now," said Char, his voice quiet but not gentle, "that was a useless hostage. Took him a day or two ago, filled up his father's ears with the promise he’d get his pup back if his miserable tribe killed your escort in the forest. It was a good enough deal. They got the loot; Brand got you. Thing is, Brand never had a mind to send him back to his stinking little goblin town. Hates that goblin’s da, he does. Hates him hard and reckons he's owed this killing and more. He wanted to do it himself, but Ley made his point. Ley had the better claim."

Char grabbed her and shoved her back into the darkness, into the little niche in the wall that had been her sleeping place. There she vomited onto the stone floor and the hem of her sage-green cloak. The cloak had been a gift from her father, she thought, her mind racing on mad tangents as her belly heaved. It had been made in the Street of Weavers by an elf woman of surpassing skill. The sweet scent of apple blossoms perfumed the cloak on the day her father had presented it to her. The Street of Weavers is lined up and down with apple trees….

Shuddering, her belly empty of the thin gruel of her breakfast and giving forth only burning bile now, Elansa sobbed. The cloak had been her bedding, and she'd fouled it.

The elf ran like cloud shadows, swift over the stony ground. Leyerlain Starwing ran south with the wind at his back and a sack in his fist. The sack dripped blood, and the blood followed him in small spatters. In the sky, ravens gathered, for they smelled death and dinner. Leyerlain wasn't sharing, though. He had a use for what was in the sack.

He ran, finding paths in the stoneland that few would think existed. He knew the place as he used to know the shady groves of Qualinesti. He knew where to find water, even in these dry days, and he knew where to find caves if he had to go to earth to hide from an enemy. He'd long ago lost that stubborn elven pride that forbade a man to turn from a challenge or fight, no matter the circumstance. He'd lived a long time in this land, the dark dry realm between Qualinesti and Thorbardin, and so he knew the dicta of elven honor had little to do with how to stay alive outside golden towers.

He ran, and the ravens forsook him as he went up stony slopes and down, going southward and eastward. By midmorning, Hammer Rock lay far behind him to the west, the forest a misty line beyond that. He ran in the direction of ancient Pax Tharkas, but he'd no mind to go so far as that place. When the sun sat noon high, he slipped into a shallow defile, and a new flock of ravens came to see if he would die or let fall the dead thing he carried. He did neither, and now he stopped running and sat quietly in the shadows, the sack close to hand, between his booted feet. He drank from the leather water bottle hung from his belt, then settled. The ravens dispersed, the day grew long, and the light old. A chill breeze awoke, prowling down the defile. It carried the scent of smoke and meat cooking. That was goblin-town food, and he'd have sooner died of starvation than eat it. He sat in stillness until the day ended and the short twilight vanished. Not until darkness filled the defile did he move again.

Standing, he stretched and made ready to run. Most of the blood had leached out of the sack, but Leyerlain reckoned the sack and what it held would serve just fine. His way took him up now. He left the defile and ran along the ridge. The moons still below the horizon, the stars not yet awake, nothing lighted him on the height. He was but a shadow.

That's how they saw him in the goblin town, or how one goblin did. When the watch looked up to the ridge, an old fat goblin half-drunk and sleepy, he saw a shadow. He scowled, and he shook his head. He turned his back, looking for his jug of ale. Something hard hit him, like a stone right between the shoulders. Staggered, he fell to his knees, howling and cursing. He scrambled up again and turned to see what had hit him. He saw the sack.

"By every evil god," he snarled, cursing by deities nearly forgotten. A shadow ran on the ridge, tall and thin, and high keening laughter rang out to mock. The shadow vanished, slipping over the hill, and the goblin howled in fury, calling for his fellows.

He snatched up the sack, smelled the blood, and dropped it. Out from the mouth rolled a head, jaws gaping, eyes wide in the last terrified expression of dying. The headman’s son had come home.