Introduction
One evening in 1990, Brian Thomsen, a senior editor at Warner Books, called and said that he and Baird Searles were planning a theme anthology to be titled Halflings, Hobbits, Warrows & Weefolk. He had a great piece of cover art for it—a Hildebrandt!—and wondered if I'd write a story to go with the cover.
I said I'd have to see the picture first. When I saw it, I loved it. "The Stoor's Map" is the story that grew out of it.
Rory Hoy heaved on the stout oak pry pole with all the hard strength of his forty-four pounds, and felt the stone pallet's edge lift a bit. Liam Maqsween got a deeper purchase with his own then, and in a moment the granite block slid off both pallet and cart, thudding heavily to the ground. Liam straightened and wiped sweat from his forehead with the big red kerchief that normally hung like a flag from his pocket. Then both men hopped down from the low cart.
"Well, lad," said Liam, "that's it for the day. Come in and I'll pay you." They went into the low shed, one end of which served as his office, and from a chest beside his writing table he took a purse, loosening the drawstring and peering inside. Plucking out a silver half crown, he pressed it into the younger man's thick hand.
"Thank thee, sir."
Liam nodded. "Thank you for the help," he said, completing the formula. Then added, "I've got odds and ends to tend to in the smithy in the morning—small tasks that won't need help. Meet me at the quarry after lunch."
"Noon at the quarry. I'll be there, Mr. Maqsween."
Rory stuffed the half crown in his pocket and left the office. That last block had taken a while to cut and drag. Then add the loading and hauling . . . And his mother didn't stand for coming late to the table: he'd best take his supper at the inn. That was an advantage in being the innkeeper's son; he could eat there without charge, since he paid full board at home.
The graveled road, the only road, wound through Meadowvale, curling around low stone houses that had been built not in rows but wherever the builders had built them, starting four hundred years earlier when Meadowvale was newly settled. The inn was near the village center, at one end of the common, where spreading elms awaited picnickers, and where, on fall evenings, young tomtaihn, kin to hobbits, stood in the dusk, rakes in hand around burning leaf piles, talking in the fragrant smoke.
Hoy's Inn was more a tavern than an inn, for Meadowvale, being well within the Great Forest, was small, and saw few travelers. In olden times, the founders of Meadowvale had lived in or around the town of Oak Hill, thirty leagues away. Until, some four hundred years back, the big people arrived, and said the land belonged now to King Gnaup of Saxmark.
Around Oak Hill, the countryside was rolling farmland, with woods mainly on the steeper slopes and along the streams. And Oak Hill itself had been—no doubt still was—a town, not a village. A sizable stream, the Abhainn Hobb, flowed past it from the south, and a highway passed through from southwest to northeast, with a bridge over the Hobb. There'd been both barge traffic and wagon traffic, and folk traveling through on ponyback. Thus there'd been a need in Oak Hill for a sizable inn, with rooms and beds large enough for stoors. (The rare big people who'd come by, however, had slept in the stable, in the hay; the rooms hadn't been that big.) The Oak Hill innkeepers, the Hoy family, had been both well-to-do and influential; Hoys had been sheriff, even mayor.
Here in Meadowvale though, they were no more than most other families. Which grated on the Hoys, even after four hundred years.
Just now, Rory Hoy wasn't thinking about that, though. He was thinking about roast beef, parsnips, and buttered beets, or maybe sweet yellow peas, with wheat bread and butter, a wedge of good Mirrorudh cheese, and perhaps a mug of his father's ale, if the old tomteen wasn't watching closely. (Nob Hoy didn't approve of youngsters drinking, especially on the house, and the tomtaihn regarded twenty-five-year-olds as youngsters.)
Rory went in through the kitchen—the front way was for paying guests—though he'd eat in the pot room, the common room, with the customers.
"Rory!"
The sharp voice was his father's. "Yessir?"
"Doney's off on an errand for me, and there's a customer waiting to be served; a stoor. See to it!"
"Yessir." It wasn't fair, Rory thought; he'd worked hard all day. But he put a good face on, and went into the pot room.
The stoor was hulking and angular, ill-fitted to the bench and table. Meadowvale could go months without seeing one, and the villagers had mixed feelings about them. Stoors were wanderers, not settled reliable folk, though surely they had homes somewhere, with mothers and fathers. Mostly they traveled singly, which in itself made them strange to the social, even gregarious tomtaihn. They traded, bought, and sold. Bargains could be had from them, or what seemed like bargains—things you couldn't otherwise get, at a price you were content with, or at least willing to pay. But people had been fleeced by them, too, and it was rumored that some were spies for King Hreolf.
"Sir," Rory said, "may I serve you?"
The stoor's black eyes were level with Rory's own, though the stoor was seated and the bench low. He was far smaller than big people, but he'd probably stand an ell in height, Rory thought, about half again his own thirty-one inches. The face was lean and knobby—cheekbones, brows, and jaw—flagged with great flaring eyebrows like wings, and topped by a thatch of stiff, curly hair. The hands were knobby too, with tufts of wiry hair on the fingers.
The stoor looked the tomteen over and spoke in a thick stoor brogue. "Tha's weerin' a smith's leather apron," he said, ignoring the young tomteen's question.
"Yessir. A quarryman's apron, actually. May I serve you?"
"Tha's just koom fra work, then?"
"Yessir. To eat my supper. My father's the host here, and the potboy is off on errands, so he told me to serve you. What would you like?" He recited the fare to the man, then, and the stoor ordered, seeming not to consider cost, though his clothes were rough and worn. When Rory brought his food, the stoor motioned to the bench across from him.
"Tha hasn't eaten. Happen tha'd sup wi' me."
The temptation was strong. Rory had never talked with a stoor before, had scarcely seen one close up. In fact, he hadn't talked to a stranger of any sort more than three or four times in his life, and those had been tomtaihn from other villages. And if the stoor was a spy for King Hreolf, surely there was nothing he could tell him that would harm Meadowvale.
So though his father might well berate him for it afterward, he brought his own meal to the table, and they talked. The stoor, instead of pumping Rory, told him of places the young tomteen had never heard of. He favored the Great Forest and the districts adjacent though, he said. For the stoors, like the other halfling folk, had the protection of the Forest Soul. Otherwise he'd not travel here, where trolls, it was said, could be met with.
When he'd finished eating, he took his purse from his pack and shook out some coins, to sort the cost with knobby fingers. Several of the coins seemed to be gold! The young tomteen's eyes widened. "Sir," he said, almost in a whisper, "are those—gold pieces?"
The winglike eyebrows rose while the stoor's voice lowered. "Aye. Would tha keer to be toochin' one of 'em?"
"If I might. I've never seen one, before." Rory picked one up. The currency used in Meadowvale was mostly old and worn smooth, minted long ago at Oak Hill in the days of tomtaidh dominion there, though other coins, mostly Saxi, were also seen, having entered the Meadowvale economy through trade with the occasional traveler. This one looked—not fresh minted perhaps, but not worn. Though the marks on it, he thought, might be dwarf runes. "Do you know where it came from?" he asked.
The stoor looked around before answering, as if to be sure that no one else heard. "Oh, aye! Tha mought say, in a manner of speakin'. Near enough ah'd gaw for more, if ah—Though 'tis a dangerous place, s'truth. 'Twere a long time agaw, an ah'd plenty of time, ah tawd maself. But theer were always another place to see, an' ah were never one to set great store on wealth. Long as ah'm eatin'." He gestured as if pointing out his own worn clothes, then shrugged. "An naw that ah'm so near the place, ah dawn't be yoong an' venturesome naw more."
The stoor didn't look so old to Rory, maybe fifty. Stoor bodies must wear out more quickly than tomtaidh bodies, he decided. "There's more gold then?" he asked. "Near here?"
"Hoo! More? A whole cask more!" He motioned with his hands as if to indicate size, a chest more than two feet long, and half as wide and high. "Thaw not all gold; some o' it's jewels—rubies and emeralds and pearls. Ah only tewk a handful. Ah were afoot—hadn't naw pony—an' . . . 'Twas near the Dank Land, tha sees, wi' trawlls an' bears abawt, an' wargs an' worse. An' the Forest Soul dawn't tooch there." The stoor's brow knitted, as if in troubled thought. "The Dank Land's got its awn soul, dark . . ." He shrugged. "Though naw doot a bold lad with a good pony, if he didn't linger . . ." Another shrug. "But ah'm nae yoong naw. Mah awd knays dawn't let me climb brants naw more, nor clamber through rocks and windfalls.
"As for bein' near—It's naw farther, or not mooch, than a long day's pony ride. Even given that the way's through trackless forest and rough hills." He waved toward the west, then suddenly thrust his face at the young tomteen, his voice a whisper. "Why? Were tha thinkin' of gawin' theer?"
Rory didn't flinch. "If you'd draw me a map," he murmured. "I'd pay."
The black eyes examined him thoughtfully. "Can I troost thee?"
Rory nodded vigorously, though unsure where trust entered in, or where it might lead.
"What would tha pay for sooch a map?"
Rory knew exactly how much money he had, including the half crown in his pocket, and being a Hoy, named a sum that left room for dickering. "Twenty-five crowns."
The stoor shook his head. "Tis worth far more than that."
"Thirty then."
The stoor examined him thoughtfully. "Ah'd take naw less than a hoondred."
Rory felt his hopes fall like the granite block had when pried from the cart.
"Ah'll tell thee what. Tha'rt an honest-lewkin' lad, an' ah have little doot tha's a man o' thy word. So ah'll take the risk. Besides, ah'm gettin' naw yoonger. An' if a hoondred crowns is more than tha has naw—why later, with the treasure cask in thy cellar, payin' a hoondred will seem like nawthin' to thee." The stoor looked around again, then murmured: "Fifty crowns naw, an' a hoondred more when ah next koom through Meadowvale. Which ah'll make a point of doin' within the year."
"Thirty-eight," the young tomteen said desperately. "It's all I have." Then he remembered the coin in his pocket. "Thirty-eight and a half. And the other hundred for sure, when I've got the treasure."
The stoor seemed to brood on it a long minute. Then, "Bring me a paper," he said. "Naw, a parchment. Paper's naw good for sunthin' 'portant as this."
Parchment? Where could he lay hands on a parchment? . . . "Wait here a minute, sir," said Rory, "I'll be right back." He left the room then, deliberately not hurrying. Once outside though, he speeded to a trot. His home was less than forty yards away, and as he walked through the front door, no one was in the living room. He could hear his mother in the kitchen, rattling pans. What he sought was on the wall, a parchment perhaps a dozen inches on a side, with a motto inked on it:
HE WHO WOULD HAVE
MUST FIRST LABOR
THEN HOLD
and coins in watercolors. A great-grandmother had made it. With a tough thumbnail, the young tomteen pried the tacks from the corners, then went quietly to his room, where he kept his money, and left with it.
It could be days before anyone missed the parchment, he told himself. It had been there forever; people rarely looked at it anymore. And by the time it was missed, he'd be rich. Then no one would mind, not even his mother.
Sween Maqsween, his missus Aleen, and Megh, their only daughter, were in the sitting room. The supper things had been put away, and Megh, like her mother, sat embroidering. Megh was good at needlework, as at most things she did.
The figure her needle was shaping was a young tomteen, well formed and with the rare, coppery red hair that made all the lasses of Meadowvale cluck and coo at the sight of Rory Hoy, the handsomest lad in the valley.
There was a knock at the door, and as the only offspring present, Megh got to her feet and answered. At twenty-six inches in height and twenty-eight pounds, to get off a chair was no effort at all, surely not for someone just nineteen years old.
It was Rory Hoy she opened to. Pleased, she asked him in.
Among the tomtaihn, a young person, child or grown, doesn't enter the home of a peer and begin a conversation until respects have been paid to any parent present. Thus when he stepped in, Rory bowed deeply.
"Good evening, Mister Maqsween, Missus Maqsween. I trust the Forest Soul is being good to you."
"Come in, young Hoy," the old tomteen grunted. "The Forest Soul is as good to us as we deserve, no more, no less." The formula complete, he raised an eyebrow. "I suppose it's Megh you've come too see."
"Begging your pardon, sir, ma'am, it is indeed."
"Well, then," the old man said, and gestured to two chairs in a corner by the family bookshelf.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but I'd hoped to speak in greater privacy than this."
Both eyebrows rose this time. "Did you now? Are you thinking we'd eavesdrop, the missus and me?"
"Sir," Rory answered, "I have no doubt you'd never strain to listen, but the room is small, and it would be hard not to hear."
"Hmh!" Rory could feel the old tomteen's eyes sharpen. "And what might it be you'd not want us to hear?"
He dug in his heels. Politely. "Sir, ma'am, you were young and unwed once. What was it you said to one another then?"
Aleen Maqsween hid a smile, while old Sween's eyebrows, instead of rising again, drew down in a knot. "You're overbold, young Hoy."
"Yessir. I'm sorry, sir."
"And you Meghwan, do you wish to step outside with this young scoundrel?"
She blushed. "Yes, Father."
The frown relaxed and died. "So." He reached to his smoking stand, then turned to his daughter while he packed his pipe with pipeweed. "Meghwan, you may go out and sit with this young man in the arbor for the time it takes me to smoke two bowls. But by the time I knock the dottle from my pipe, you're to be back inside."
She brightened. "Thank you, Da. We'll be perfectly nice."
"Hmh!" Old Sween watched them move to the door. "And Meghwan!"
"Yes, Da?"
"No kissing!"
Megh Maqsween blushed. "Da! Of course not!" The young people stepped outside then, closing the door behind them.
Aleen Maqsween laughed quietly, gently, when they'd gone. and mimicked her daughter. " 'Da! Of course not!' " She laughed again. "You're hard on the lad, Maqsween."
"Indeed. He'd not know what to think if I wasn't. And after all, he's only twenty-five. He's five more years, or four and a half, before he's of marrying age." Maqsween grunted again. "It's too bad he got interested in the girl so young." He reached, and squeezed his wife's hand gently. "It's not easy, being in love with the prettiest girl in the valley, and having to wait. I know. But it's my duty to see that he does."
Megh let Rory hold her hand while they walked to the arbor. A humpbacked moon rode high, the moonlight shining on her straw-blond hair. There'd not been a tomteen with hair like hers, in Meadowvale, since Maev the Lovely, some hundred years since, and Maev lacked the sweet disposition of Megh Maqsween. Also Megh was lovelier, Rory was sure, a fairy child grown to womanhood. He longed to cup her face and kiss it tenderly. He had once, and it had troubled her.
Now, at the arbor, she sat down on the single seat, leaving him to sit alone on the double seat opposite. "What was it thou came to tell me, Rory?" she asked.
And her eyes were blue, in Meadowvale a rarity almost as great as her blond hair, though her grandmother had blue eyes before her.
"Rory?"
"Oh! Yes. I—I'm going to be rich, Megheen."
"Rich?"
He reached inside his shirt, took out the parchment, and held it so the moonlight shone on it for her. "Look!"
She peered, straining. "He who would have . . ." she began.
"Oh! Sorry," he said, and turned it over. "This side."
"It . . . Is it a map?"
"A treasure map."
"Treasure map? Where did you get it?"
"From a stoor, at the inn. He sold it to me."
"And it's real? How do you know?"
The question jarred Rory, jarred words out of him. "He was wealthy. Oh, not that he dressed wealthy, but his purse . . . I waited on him, and when it was time to pay, he opened his purse and poured part of it out on the table. So full of gold pieces it was, he had to sort through them to find coppers to pay with! Old coins, with dwarf runes on them! And pearls, emeralds, rubies! My eyes were out to here!" He gestured.
"And he sold you the map?"
"He did!"
"For how much?"
"All the money I had—thirty-eight crowns. Thirty-eight and a half, but be left me the half crown. Plus another hundred I'm to pay him when he next comes by. He trusts me. And a hundred crowns will seem like nothing to me then, I'll be so wealthy."
"But—Why would he sell you the map? He could go there himself and get the treasure."
"You'd have to see him to understand. He's old, old and lame. And the treasure's hard to get to, in a cave in the Cliffy Mountains. On the side toward the Dank Land!"
Her eyes were large in the moonlight, large and shadowed dark.
"Oh, Megheen!" he whispered, "my love, you're so beautiful! And I love you so much! I can't stand to wait another four years. With the treasure, I'll be rich enough, no one will complain if we marry young. We'll give a wedding party they'll talk about forever!"
He looked longingly at her.
"And I love you, Rory Hoy. Enough that, wait or not, rich or not, you're the one I'll marry."
He slid off the seat onto his knees before her. Her hands had been folded in her lap, and he took them in his own, kissing them passionately. Gently she removed them. "Da will be smoking that second pipe by now."
Rory Hoy got slowly to his feet. Surely not the second pipe already. But she was right: it wouldn't do to stay out here kissing her like that in the night. It would tear him up inside.
She stood too, and hand in hand they walked back to the house, saying nothing.
When he left the Maqsweens', despondency settled on Rory Hoy, and a feeling of unworthiness. He saw himself now as gullible, a fool, and he'd lied to Megh—been less than truthful. Even the night was darker; clouds covered the moon now. It would rain tonight, he guessed. He hoped it would be over by morning.
It was pitch-dark when he awoke, as he'd intended when he'd laid down. He went to his window and, looking out, saw stars. Which meant dawn was near, for the moon was down, and it was late in the second quarter.
It was time.
He'd packed everything he needed, before ever he'd snuffed his candle. Now he had only to pull on his clothes, buckle his belt, grab his pack, and leave. He'd left his window open to the night; even mosquitoes don't bite halflings where the Forest Soul rules. Now he climbed out and trotted softly to the pony barn.
Not only the grass was wet, but the dirt as well. It had rained while he slept, as he'd thought it would.
In the barn he'd prepared too. The pack saddle and straps he'd set on the floor, just inside the door. He went to Blacky, the pony he'd chosen, led him outside and strapped the pack saddle to his back. The pony nickered softly, and Rory hushed him. His mother was a light sleeper (though not as light as he thought), and it wouldn't do to waken her.
As he led it toward the road, he saw a rider approaching, a large, dark figure on a large, dark pony, with a pack pony trailing. The stoor, he thought, and held back, not wanting to meet him. An emptiness filled him as he watched the stoor ride by. It seemed to him the man had tricked him, that there was no treasure, that he'd given his life savings for—a piece of sky.
He pushed the thought away. It was done now. The stoor had cheated him or he hadn't. If he hadn't, there was a treasure out there, waiting. A treasure that could make the Hoys rich again, important again, that would make his father respect him at last. A treasure that would let him marry Megh Maqsween without waiting all those years.
The stoor and his animals passed on down the road, and Rory Hoy started off, jaw set. He stopped at the inn, tying his pony to a pear tree in back. Lantern light shone through the rear windows; his cousin Doney would be inside, firing up the big cookstove, and the ovens for the morning's baking.
Doney was surprised to see him, and even more to see the short sword at his side. As Rory packed food for three days, he explained to Doney that he had business to attend to. Doney, who was seventeen, stared wide-eyed; it sounded very mysterious.
The first hint of dawnlight was showing in the east when Rory left. He paused at the Maqsween smithy, and on the anvil left a note to Liam, prepared the evening before, weighting it with a chisel.
Visibility was improving notably when he reached the upper end of the meadow from which Meadowvale took its name. According to the rough map the stoor had drawn for him, he needed to follow the Mirrorudh west to its source in the Cliffy Mountains. There'd be a pass above the headwaters, of course, and on the other side, the headwaters of another stream, one that flowed into the Dank Land. Where that stream flowed out of the mountains, the map showed a talus slide at the foot of a steep, a "brant" the stoor had called it, and near the talus slide, a cave. The cave. According to the map.
The young tomteen ground his teeth. The treasure he'd believed in without questioning, the evening before, he greatly doubted now. Disbelieved. And was sure that Megh had disbelieved when he'd told her. But he'd carry through with his plan; it was the only way be could truly and finally know.
At age thirty, a young man was sent out of his father's home, unless of course the old man was dead or disabled and he the inheriting son. And while old Sween Maqsween had had a foot crushed by a granite block that slipped from a sling, he could hobble well enough to take care of a man's duties about the house and garden.
Thus Liam Maqsween lived in a bachelor house at the upper end of the valley, against the very edge of the forest, not a furlong from where Rory Hoy had passed in the first faint light of dawn. At Oak Hill, their ancestors had followed the old custom of living in hillside burrows, and this bachelor house, with its thick rock walls, was dug into the side of a low hummock, looking like a stony extension of it. On the hummock stood a huge golden birch with curling yellow bark that seemed almost to grow from the mossy, sod-covered slate roof.
An old widow came in each evening to cook a proper meal; the others were each bachelor's own responsibility. The sun was up, and Liam Maqsween had eaten bacon and eggs, with bread toasted in the oven and spread with butter and marmalade. Now he sat outside in the sunshine, which felt good in the morning cool, smoking his pipe and drinking a cup of shade-mint tea before going to the smithy. It had rained in the night, laying the dust and sweetening the air.
While he drank, his young cousin Tom came trotting up. "Liam," said the lad, "I've just come from your da's. Megh's gone! Disappeared!" Tom's job it was to climb the ladder into Sween Maqsween's hayloft each morning and throw down hay for the cow and ponies. While he was doing it, old Sween had stumped out to the barn and told him, asking him to bring the message. The old man was upset, as well he might be.
Liam thanked him, quickly finished his tea, and hurried off to his parents' house. Megh had left on her pony before they'd wakened, they told him, taking only her cloak and raincape, a loaf of bread, and some cheese.
"And have you no idea where she might have gone?" Liam asked.
"I've a suspicion," his father answered. "Rory Hoy was here last evening and asked to speak to her alone. I agreed, and they went to the arbor to talk. She was back sooner than I could smoke a pipe, but long enough to set some plan in motion, something they'd thought out beforehand. I think they've run off," he finished glumly.
Liam went out and saddled a pony, thinking as he did. He didn't believe she'd do that, or that Rory would ask her to. But then, he didn't know what else to think. He'd ride by the Hoys and ask for Rory, then decide what next to do.
Margo Hoy was no help to him. She didn't know where her son was, she said. He'd gone before breakfast. If Liam found him, he was to tell him his mother was upset with him. It scarcely needed telling; Margo Hoy was usually upset with someone, most often her son. Liam promised and left.
So. Rory and Megh had both disappeared. It seemed his father suspected rightly. But where would they have gone? Five leagues north was Troutrudh, the largest of the three tomtaidh villages in the forest. Four leagues south was Mulberry, smaller than Meadowvale. If a lad was to run off, he'd need to find work, and Troutrudh was the likeliest for that. But . . . Liam shook his head. It didn't add up. Rory had at least some idea what it cost to keep a home and wife. What would there be for him in Troutrudh, or anywhere else? His whole family lived in Meadowvale, and all his friends.
Muttering a coarse word beneath his mustache, Liam touched the pony's ribs with his heels and rode home. If he was going to ride to Troutrudh, he'd want his raincape, and happen his cloak to sleep in, if it came to that.
On his way, he stopped at the smithy. He'd forged an ax head for a customer, earlier that week. He'd lay it out on the bench, with a note, so the purchaser could pick it up, should he stop by. On the anvil he found the note that Rory had left him. "Dear Mister Maqsween—I'm sorry I won't be able to meet you at the quarry after lunch. Something has come up. I hope to be back in a few days. I'll tell you about it then. Respectfully, Rory Hoy."
Somehow it made the hair bristle on Liam's neck. He stared hard at the note, as if to see what lay behind it, but saw nothing that wasn't written. On an impulse he went outside and scanned the moist ground for tracks. And found hoofprints, shod, left since last night's rain. They had to be Rory's.
He jogged his pony home, where he got not only his raincape and cloak, but his short sword and bow. Then he took the sporting arrows from his quiver and replaced them with the broad-headed arrows that each male tomteen kept to defend the village, should it ever be necessary. As he did, he wondered why. He'd never shoot Rory, or strike him with the sword.
He took them anyway, then rode back to the smithy and followed the tracks. Near the forest's edge they came to the Mirrorudh, where he found a second set, of a smaller pony. Megh's, he had no doubt. So they'd connived. He shook his head.
They'd ridden into the forest, along the stream. Her pony followed; here and there its hoof marks lay atop the larger. In the forest though, in places, the tracks separated, as if Megh was picking a different way around the occasional patches of blowdown. Then they'd rejoin. Almost as if they hadn't ridden together—as if they were going to the same place separately, with the Mirrorudh their guide.
None of it made sense. There was nothing for them in the forest—no way to live, to shelter and feed themselves. Yet if they were looking for privacy—if that was all—they needn't have gone more than a furlong into the woods. Nor would they have run off in a way to make themselves missed, and invite pursuit.
Liam shook his head as if to shake off confusion. He thought of simply following the stream himself—it would be faster than watching for hoofprints—but if he did and they left it, he'd lose them. Best keep on as he was. They'd surely stop to rest along the way; he'd catch them then.
As a boy with other boys, Rory had explored up the Mirrorudh as much as a mile, a long distance for short tomtaidh legs, particularly in pathless wilderness. Now he'd gone well beyond that, dismounting at times to lead his pony through sapling patches or awkward terrain. For the low rolling hills of home had given way to higher, rougher hills, and pack saddles weren't made for comfortable riding.
Here the Mirrorudh had cut a ravine, and he'd had to leave it, riding and walking along a bordering ridge, sometimes on the crest, sometimes picking his way along the side. It was noon, give or take a bit, and broken ground had shunted him into a notch, shaggy with firs. Now, close before his pony, a rivulet rattled over a pebbled bed toward the Mirrorudh, itself audible a distance to his right.
He paused to wipe sweat, and wondered if these were the Cliffy Mountains yet, or if there was worse to come.
Meanwhile it seemed a good place to eat. He led the pony to the rivulet, then on hands and knees, lowered his face to the water, just upcurrent of his thirsty mount. Thirst slaked, he refilled his leather flask, and moved to take his rucksack from the pack saddle.
A jay began to shriek on the slope behind him, the same jay, he guessed, that had called alarms at his own passing, minutes earlier. What's roused it now? he wondered. Bear? Wolf? Troll? The possibilities interested but didn't worry him. The Forest Soul had laid her protection over halflings. Within her domain, only creatures with souls of their own—men and other halflings—could harm him. Even his pony was immune when he was with it.
He stood with a hand on the reins, hoping to spy something interesting. In his whole life, all he'd ever seen of wolf and bear was tracks and dung, though once he'd thought he'd seen a troll at twilight, peering from the forest's edge.
The jay continued for a noisy minute, and having done its duty, stilled. Then Rory heard shod hooves clatter on rock outcrop, and curiosity became concern. Quickly he led the pony behind a thicket of sapling firs, and peered out. Shortly he saw movement, glimpsed first a dun hide, then a bobbing pony head. Then the entire pony came into view, with its rider.
Rory stared. "Megh!" he called softly, and led his own pony out where she could see.
"Rory!" Her expression was of relief, gladness.
He met her at the rivulet, took her hand and helped her down. "What are you doing here?"
"I—It seemed to me that—you might not come back. If you were disappointed. If the stoor had lied to you. But if I was with you, you would." She paused, then spoke more softly. "And I don't want to lose you."
"Ah, Megheen!" He longed to take her in his arms, but held back. It would be risky, and unfair to both of them.
Her eyes met his, soberly. "Have you eaten yet?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Neither have I."
"Well then—"
They ate by the rivulet, side by side on a rock, while their ponies, one dun, one black, grazed a patch of clover on the bank. When they'd finished, they looked again at the map. With her there, somehow hope took root in Rory's heart. Maybe there was a treasure; maybe they'd return rich to Meadowvale.
Then they got on their ponies again and rode west.
In midafternoon they reached a bowl-like cove, the birthplace of the Mirrorudh, the spring that gave it being. The climb to the divide above, though not rough or long, was steep; the two tomtaihn hiked it to spare their ponies. The crest was mostly stone, its trees sparse. From it they looked back over miles of high hills that diminished eastward. Westward they dropped more sharply, to the Dank Lands that stretched flat to the horizon, partly wooded, partly open fen, bathed in sunlight but somehow murky.
The two young tomtaihn stood for a minute. "Best we go on," Rory said at last and, meshing his fingers for a step, boosted Megh atop her pony. Then he climbed onto his own, and they set off downhill. The creek below, according to his map, would take them to the cave and wealth. Or not, as the case might be.
They'd gone scarcely a furlong when a fly bit Rory's temple. He'd never been bitten before.
The troll had little tolerance for daylight, and in summer, when nights were short, he grew restless toward sundown.
On this particular day he'd sheltered in a hole where a pine had been uprooted by wind, and hung up in the tops of others. Between the uptilted root disk and the lip of the hole, there'd been just room for him to crawl in. He'd slept there most of the day. Then hunger had wakened him, strong hunger; he hadn't eaten for two days, and trolls are notorious for their appetites.
Now he lay peering out, eyes squinted nearly shut against what to him was blinding glare, though the late sunlight was soft, mellow. A movement caught his eyes, and through the blur he saw two animals moving down the creek, each big enough to feed him for a day. They'd pass him seventy or eighty yards away. Their scent on the breeze was complex and unfamiliar, though perhaps long ago . . . His mouth began to water, and he strained to see more clearly. One of them had two necks, one at the front where it belonged, the second rising from the middle of its back. The other—The other seemed to be following something that walked upright.
He shook his shaggy head. Before long the sun would set. When the dusk was thick enough, he'd come out and follow them, follow and kill them, for he trailed by scent.
They were passing in front of him when the spider came, one of the great spiders that even he took care to avoid.
Rory saw it before Megh did, saw it charge from ambush across the foot of a talus slope, charge so fast, so shockingly fast, he had no time to draw his sword. He didn't see Megh's dun rear back, didn't see her fall, and her scream didn't register. Then the spider was on him, clawed front limbs grasping, palps clutching, and in a moment beyond horror he saw the two great jaws gape, each with its curved fang, then mercifully passed out. The fangs sank into his shoulders, and from them venom flowed.
Because he'd gone limp, the fangs withdrew more quickly than they might have. Then the spinnerets secreted thread almost as thick as wrapping cord, and sticky, the spider wrapping them 'round and 'round him till the tomteen was nearly mummified. But the mummy was porous. It was no part of the spider's intention that he suffocate.
When he was wrapped, it went to Megh Maqsween, who lay in an unconscious heap where she'd landed. It bit her briefly and wrapped her too. Then, with its palps, it picked Rory up and carried him to its lair. When he was deposited, it returned for Megh.
It crushed neither of them against its hard sharp shoulder plates. It didn't intend to eat them itself.
Liam Maqsween had traveled without a break, eating in the saddle and walking from time to time to rest his pony. He too had been bitten by flies and mosquitoes after crossing the divide; he'd left the domain of the Forest Soul.
He knew he wasn't far behind the others now. Twice, where they'd crossed the small creek, the water that had dripped from their horses hadn't entirely dried yet on the rocks.
Here and there along the creek were narrow stretches of meadow, and as he entered one of them from a stand of pines, he saw two ponies plodding uphill toward him. He recognized the dun at once, his sister's. The other wore a pack saddle, like a saw-buck on its back. They slowed down when they saw him, then stopped, waiting. He kicked his own pony to a trot, hurrying to them, and they stayed for him. He stopped when he reached them, examining.
Nothing all day had made much sense: his sister's departure, Rory's note, the nature of their early trail, or their coming to this country of fearful reputation. Now here were their ponies, riderless, with lathered sweat drying on them. Megh's still wore saddlebags.
And the sun was low; in an hour, dusk would begin. Liam Maqsween shivered. Sliding from his saddle, he gathered their reins and remounted. At first the other ponies were reluctant to follow, but he was firm, and after a moment they fell in behind him.
In a quarter hour he came out of forest into open grassy meadow, flanked on one side by thick pines and on the other by a talus slope, a fan of loose rocks, with boulders heaped and jumbled in places at its foot. The hair bristled on his neck; it seemed to him he was watched. Rory and Megh had been thrown from their ponies. Must have been. And being no expert rider—no one in Meadowvale was—he stopped. He transferred his quiver to his back, unholstered his bow and slung it from his right shoulder, then dismounted, to lead the animals by the reins, gripping his short sword with his left hand. The way led downward, the slope tapering, easing. A hundred yards more brought him to Megh's cloak, lying on the ground. She'd have removed it in the heat of day, perhaps laying it loose across the pony's withers. This must be where she'd been thrown.
Again his neck hairs crawled, and he stopped to scan about him. He saw nothing, but felt danger, and detoured to his left, to put more distance between himself and the forest edge. He'd passed the foot of the talus slope before he saw the two cave mouths, the smaller nearby. Tunnel mouths more likely, for they were square.
Then he saw movement in the larger. Something extended from it, and he dropped the reins. Behind him the ponies stamped, snorting nervously; Liam edged upslope toward the smaller opening.
The spider came out then, looked at him, and for just a moment Liam froze. Behind him the ponies stampeded; he didn't notice; his attention was riveted on the spider. Even at eighty yards it looked huge, taller than the ponies, and the spread of its legs was several times its height. Then it charged, and the spell was broken. Running faster than he'd have thought possible, Liam sprinted toward the smaller hole, and when it seemed he'd be too late, stopped abruptly. Bristly legs swept to clutch him, and he swung his sword with all the strength of his rock-hard body. It struck, severing a leg at a joint, and at the same instant he ducked low. The other leg missed, and somehow Liam found himself in the tunnel entrance, scrabbling for safety on all fours. Two spans inside he stopped, panting, eyes stinging with sweat. Half a minute earlier there'd been none.
He was aware of a dry, high-pitched chittering close outside, and a bristly limb reached in, groping. There was no room to swing freely—there was little more than room to stand—but with his short sword he struck at it as best he could, and cut it deeply behind the claws. The limb jerked back, and the chitterlng shrilled almost beyond Liam's frequency perception, setting his teeth on edge. Then it stopped, and silken threads the size of stout string began to lash the opening. Liam took quick steps backward, afraid of being snared. After a moment though, he realized that the spider was simply closing the opening with a tough silken mesh.
He sat back onto the floor and examined his surroundings by the thin light that shone through the newly woven door. The tunnel had been roughly squared, its walls and ceiling showing chisel marks. The floor had been spread with sand, and now was littered with small bones; some predator had denned there, might still den there, might be behind him now. He rolled to his knees and peered back into the dimness, seeing nothing. Who, he wondered, had carved it, and when?
Crouching, sword in hand, he began to explore. Gradually the tunnel curved, darkening, and in some seventy or eighty yards met a larger tunnel, high enough for a big person to walk upright. He stood at the junction, evaluating. Was it big enough for the spider? In height perhaps, but clearly not in width, which he judged at four arm spans. To his left, deeper in the mountain, he thought he heard water splashing on stone. To his right he could see the daylit square of the large entrance, distant enough that where he stood, the tunnel was almost as dark as night. Slowly, softly, sword tightly gripped, Liam moved toward the light.
He'd gone most of the way when he heard a sound, faint and dry, as if something had scuffed against rock. Holding his breath, he stopped. The sound did not repeat. There was more light here, but he saw nothing to account for the sound, and moved forward again, even more cautiously, hardly breathing. Suddenly the spider was in front of him, blocking the light, its row of eyes, like big black beads, staring at him from scant ells away. Its bristly palps groped, and with a cry he jumped back.
He crouched panting, heart thudding. The groping palps couldn't reach him, and striding forward, he struck at one with all his strength, felt the sword bite. The spider jumped back, cluttering wildly, the move jerking the sword from Liam's hand. The tomteen pounced after it, snatched it up, and scampered well back in the tunnel.
The spider had jumped to his right, out of view. Clearly there was a larger room, an entryway of some sort, between him and the entrance. Its lair, he decided, the place it took its victims, its food. Megh and Rory might well be there, or their bodies, what was left of them.
Liam knew more about spiders than was comfortable just then. The forest tomtaihn, normally unthreatened by other life forms, and being small themselves, close to nature, and typically unhurried, tended to watch things like spiders and insects—study them if you will. Especially during childhood and adolescence. He knew, for example, that spiders, after biting their prey, commonly crush them before sucking the juices from them. Sometimes though, the crushing and feeding are postponed, while at least sometimes the prey still lived after being bitten.
Megh and Rory might be alive in the entryway, though no doubt well wrapped with silk.
So despite the frenzied, high-pitched chittering, Liam edged toward the room again, keeping close to the right wall, his short sword in his left hand. From just short of the tunnel mouth, he could see much of the entryway's left half. It was square, about twelve yards long and twelve wide, and perhaps twice as high as the tunnel he was in. High enough for the dwarves or orcs of old, or big men if it came to that, to stand with long spears upright, ready to sally forth. There was even a ledge along the wall, for them to sit on while waiting.
On the sand-covered floor, among bones and other debris, were six silk-wrapped objects. Five were oblong, of various sizes. The other was larger and round, its diameter possibly twice Liam's height; an egg sac, he decided, and felt hope. The silk-wrapped food might well be alive, alive and fresh, awaiting the hatch.
Then the mother would crush the bundled victims as food for her hatchlings. He'd have to act before then.
The chittering had died. Quietly Liam moved back down the tunnel to the smaller branch he'd come from, and up it to its entrance. Cautiously he touched the silk that covered it. It was less sticky than he'd feared. Seemingly the stickiness dried in time, and was lost. With his sword he cut till the door covering was free, then pulled it inside and folded it against a wall. Warily he looked out. The sun had nearly set, and daylight had begun to dim, the beginning of dusk. He stepped outside, picked up a stone the size of his fist, and threw it as far downhill as he could. It struck audibly on bare rock and bounced, and as he'd hoped, the spider came half out the other entrance, looking not toward him, but in the direction of the sound.
Slowly he stepped back into the opening, watching. The spider moved farther, a step at a time, then rushed downhill a few steps and paused. A thought occurred to Liam, a plan. He backed inside, then hurried down the narrow tunnel as fast as he dared in the darkness, into the larger tunnel, and up it to the entryway.
The spider was still outside. Quickly he went to the bundle he suspected was Megh, and dragged it into the tunnel, then returned for the one he hoped was Rory. One at a time he dragged them to the side tunnel, and up it to near its opening.
It was time to learn the worst. He started with the smallest bundle, using his pocket knife to saw the tough threads, not sticky at all now, only tacky. Once cut, the casing peeled off readily. Inside was Megh, her face slack, her limbs limp. Liam wet his cheek, held it to her open mouth, and felt faint cooling. She breathed, barely.
Then he freed Rory. The lad's short sword was still in its scabbard, and his rucksack on his back. Liam removed them and laid them aside.
For a few minutes he massaged and pummeled first Megh, then Rory, hoping to stimulate circulation, but his mind was on other things. Assuming he could revive them, how could they escape? Was the spider active at night? Many small ones were. He'd injured it twice, but not seriously. Could he somehow cripple or kill it?
He stopped his massaging to peer out the entrance. He couldn't see the spider. Was it hunting? Had it returned to her lair? Or was it crouching in ambush on the steep slope just above his door? A typical spider could cling to a wall or cross a ceiling, but not one weighing hundreds of pounds, even with eight feet to grip with . . . It would be a matter of steepness and surface.
His eyes found a pebble just outside the opening. He snatched it up and jumped back, then hurried again through the tunnels. The entryway was darker than before. He threw the pebble in, against the wall. There was no response, so sword ready, he followed it.
One of the other food bundles was small enough for him to drag readily. He pulled it from the room, and through the tunnels to where Megh and Rory lay. There he freed it, a wildcat as large as Megh, or larger; so far, so good.
Again he looked out, then jumped out and back. Nothing had pounced. Grabbing the wildcat by the tail, he pulled it just outside the opening and arranged it in a pose of natural sleep. The sun was down now. Would the spider see it? Would she be fooled?
He went back inside, laid his unsheathed sword on a piece of casing, and massaged the comatose tomtaihn, first one, then the other, positioning himself so he could see the wildcat as he worked. Shortly Rory responded, muttering incoherently for a moment. When he stilled again, his breathing was more nearly the normal breathing of sleep, and Liam gave his full attention to Megh.
It was full twilight when suddenly the spider was there. Liam saw her crouch over the wildcat, grasp it awkwardly with wounded palps, and thrust her two fangs into the body. Moving quickly but smoothly, Liam took his sword and was at the opening, striking hard at the spider's head. He felt the blade bite through thick chiton armor. The creature didn't try at once to grab him. Instead she jumped backward a dozen feet, chittering wildly, gathering herself as Liam scurried back inside.
Had he damaged it critically? Enough that it might die, or . . .? Again it began weaving threads of silk across the opening, this time not stopping so soon, and his shelter grew almost pitch-dark. He crouched in the blackness, massaging his sister till at last she too muttered something briefly and lapsed into sleep.
That accomplished, Liam took a swallow of water from the leather flask on his belt, lay down beside his sword, and slept himself.
But only briefly. He awoke, galvanized by a snuffling outside the tunnel, and rolled to a crouch. His hand found his sword. Something pushed on the door mesh, then abruptly it burst inward as a hand thrust through, huge and hairy. With a spasm of energy, Liam hacked at it. Its hardness startled him; the blade cut, but not as deeply as he'd hoped.
The hand jerked back, accompanied by a roar of pain and rage, and Liam grabbed first Megh, then Rory, pulling them farther into the tunnel. The huge hand thrust in again, six feet or more, groped and withdrew empty. Liam shook like an aspen leaf. A troll, he thought. It's a troll.
There was silence for a long three or four minutes, then he heard something grunting, coming nearer, until it was just outside. Abruptly there was a loud thud, and the moonlight was gone, except for a little that came in at one side. The troll had brought a boulder, and blocked the opening with it.
Liam felt chagrin; he'd lost an option, his exit. On the other hand it had been a dangerous option, with a troll snooping around. He lay back down, but this time sleep failed to come. He thought of the egg sac. When would it hatch? And what? A hundred young the size of his head? Likelier, he thought, a dozen the size of Megh. And in his experience, the young were simply small copies of the mother. Suppose they hatched tonight? Would they come down the tunnel hunting?
He sat up, found the door mesh where he'd set it aside, and with his pocket knife cut off a fistful of strands. Then he groped for Rory's rucksack; perhaps there'd be a match pot. There was, and striking a match, he held its yellow flame to the strands, which lit, burning more strongly than he'd hoped, too rapidly for good torches. It lasted long enough, though, for him to cut several more, should they be needed.
That done, he lay down again, and this time slept.
He awoke to Rory's hand on his shoulder. His first thought, as he shook off an evil dream and sat up, was that the Dank Land had its own vile soul.
Enough light got in past the boulder to see by, dimly; day had come. The younger tomteen's face was drawn as if he had a bad case of grippe. He spoke in a near whisper.
"Liam! What happened?"
Despite Rory's whispering, Liam touched finger to lips, then answered as quietly. "What do you remember?"
The young man's eyes went out of focus. "A—spider. Huge! Taller than the ponies! It was on me almost before I knew it."
Liam gestured at the intact shells that had been Rory's cocoon. "It stung you and wrapped you up in that. Then took you to its lair. Both of you; you and Megh."
There was accusation in his voice. Then Rory told him what had happened: the stoor, the map, everything. "How did you rescue us?" he finished.
It was Liam's turn to recite, all of it including the troll, the boulder, and the egg sac. "And now," he finished, "it's time to do away with her. And her eggs. Then we can go home."
While Liam described his plan, he took the lid from the match pot and handed matches to Rory, who put one in each pocket. Then, by the thin light, he tied patches of silk to several of his broad-headed arrows. Meanwhile Megh awoke, and Rory talked to her briefly in an undertone. "All right," Liam murmured when he'd finished his work, "let's do it."
"Right," said Rory. He'd already buckled on his scabbard, and had his short sword in hand. Liam looked at Megh, who nodded, and the two male tomtaihn moved off quietly down the tunnel. At the junction, Liam took two arrows from his quiver and held them, with his bow, in his right hand. Then they moved up the larger tunnel even more quietly. Liam didn't know if spiders slept, but if they could catch her sleeping, they might drive several arrows into her before she could leave.
She was awake. Almost unbreathing, they peered at her. She was palpating the egg sac, and Liam could see it move. It reminded him of kittens playing in a bag. The arrow he nocked had a swatch of silk tied below the head. His left hand held the arrow at his ear; the right held the bow, slightly bent. "Now!" he hissed. Rory struck a match against the rock wall, once, then again before it flared. The spider had turned, the row of beady eyes fixed on them. Rory touched flame to silk; it caught, and in the manner of his people, Liam straightened his bow arm, thrusting the bow forward, and let go the arrow. It drove into the egg sac, the swatch of burning silk sticking to the outside, and instantly it began to burn.
Almost as quickly the spider rushed at them, her already damaged forelimbs reaching futilely. Liam nocked and loosed the other arrow, driving it almost to the feathers between breastplate and head. She rose tall and curved her abdomen, pointing her spinnerets forward between her legs, and began to spew silk wildly, loops of it snaking into the tunnel, sending the two tomtaihn stumbling backward out of the way. Before Liam could shoot again, the opening was half-obscured, but he sent another arrow through it, and another, hearing them sock into flesh. His head hurt fiercely, and he realized it was from the chittering, which had risen above hearing. Together they turned and ran, missing the side tunnel the first time. Before they got back to Megh, both of them had stopped to retch, their already empty stomachs spasming.
They dozed briefly, then returned to the junction of the two tunnels. The chittering still went on, dropping to audibility, then rising above it, so they retreated again. Next they tried to move the boulder, to no avail. Of all the times not to have hammer and chisel, Liam thought. Surely, though, the spider couldn't keep it up indefinitely. Either she'd die or go out to hunt, perhaps after laying more eggs if she was able.
After a bit they slept again, again with evil dreams, and awoke to hunger. The younger tomtaihn were hungriest, and weak from the venom. Liam and Rory went to the junction, this time with all the torch material they could carry, then deeper down the large tunnel, lighting their short-lived torches one by one. They found the water Liam had heard the first day, drank and filled their leather flasks. The last quick torch burned out, and they walked back in darkness.
The curtain the spider had woven was thick enough that little light glowed through. Gathering his resolve, Liam struck it with his sword, and at once the chittering began again. Once more they fled. Back in their side tunnel they paused.
"She didn't sound as strong as before," Rory said.
Liam considered. "I think you're right," he said. "She must be weakening. Maybe tomorrow she'll be dead, or the day after. We've got water, and we can do without food a few days."
So they went back to Megh, and all three lay about dozing. Liam woke again to Rory's touch. "Liam! I've been back down the tunnel, to the entryway. I tried the curtain and heard nothing, so I cut a hole to see through. She's down, Liam, she's down! I saw a leg move, but it was weak!"
Liam rolled to his feet, reaching for belt and sword, then slung his quiver and strung his bow. Together they went down the tunnel, this time with Megh following.
At the silk curtain, Liam peered through the hole. It was as Rory'd said. Together they began to chop on the thick mesh, clearing the way entirely, dragging the segments aside. There was a smell of charred protein, the young in the egg sac. Meanwhile the spider didn't move. When the doorway was clear, Liam stepped forward and drove a broad-headed arrow into the thorax, just in front of the waist. It drove through the chiton and disappeared, feathers and all. He sent another, and another, and they became aware of a different smell, vile gases issuing from the arrow holes.
"She's dead," Liam said. "She must be." But still he didn't move to strike her with his sword; there might be a final spasm of life left in her. Turning, he looked at the egg sac. Rory was already staring, but not at the charred remains of spiders half his size. On the ledge behind them was a casket, half an ell long, a foot wide, and higher than its width. He kicked dead spiders aside and opened it; when he spoke, it was with awe.
"Liam! It's real!"
Liam strode to it. It was nearly full of gold and jewels. "Well!" he said. He could think of nothing more. Megh had come in, and stood peering between them without enthusiasm, saying nothing at all.
"We'll need the ponies," Liam said. Before they left, though, he went to the spider after all and drew the arrow from between her head and breastplate, putting it in his quiver. While he did this, Rory put a handful of coins into each front pocket. They hurried out then, into the sunshine, hunger forgotten. Fingers in their mouths, they whistled, loud and shrill, then stood waiting, intent for the sound of hooves.
"They could be halfway home by now," Rory said.
"Let's see if we can find tracks," Liam replied. "My Tam would hang around if he could. If the troll didn't take him."
The troll. Rory looked about, despite the sunshine. They went to the creek and started up it, going half a mile or more, then stopped. Ahead three ravens were flapping up, and the tomtaihn went to see what had drawn them. The bones of a pony lay strewn about, with patches of hide and black hair. The pack saddle lay smashed.
"I can make another saddle," Rory said. He picked up the pack saddle straps, folded them, and stuffed them in his rucksack. "I'll use saplings and spider cord."
Liam nodded. "If we can find a pony to wear it."
He'd hardly said it before they heard hooves. Megh's little dun came galloping out of the woods ahead, slowed when it saw them, and trotted the rest of the way, stopping beside its mistress.
"Well then, Megh," Liam said, "are you willing that she carry the chest?" He turned to Rory. "We'll have to dump part of it out. It's too heavy as it is."
"Liam." It was Megh who spoke. "I'm not sure I am. Willing, that is."
Her brother stared, brows raised, but it was Rory Hoy she looked at now. "What would you do with it?" she said. "The treasure, I mean."
Rory stammered, confused. "Why—I'd—I'd take some of it to—to Abhaihnseth, and hire a builder to build a grand home for us beside the rudh. And you could buy the furnishings. And some of it . . ." He stopped. "Between the two of us, we'd find things to use it for. Buy old Connorleigh's farm; he's getting old for all that work and has no children. The money would keep him well the rest of his life."
"You'd make the village famous then? For its wealth?"
He stared, beginning to see her point.
"What's kept Meadowvale safe these years?" she asked. "Since our grandsires settled it, four hundred years ago. And what would happen when it became known there was wealth there?"
Rory looked at Liam for help. The rock cutter looked back thoughtfully. "How much gold could you carry in your pockets, Rory?" he asked.
"I suppose—a hundred pounds' worth in each, or a hundred fifty. Five hundred pounds, more or less."
"More than I'll ever own," Liam said.
Rory shook his head. "Not so! I'll share! Without your help I'd be spider food right now."
Liam shook his head. "For a bit there, the sight of all that treasure went to my head. But Megh's right: for us, wealth is dangerous. Even deadly. And I live well, Rory, without riches. I'll live even better when Caithlain A'Duill comes of age, three months hence."
Rory stared sullenly at his furry feet. "My family was wealthy once," he said, then turned defiantly to Liam. "Wealthy and important."
"A different time, Rory, a different world. Before the big folk came. And old Connorleigh would sell for two hundred pounds, or so I've heard."
"And a hundred crowns for the stoor, when he comes," Megh put in. "That comes to twelve pounds more." She frowned. "Even four hundred pounds would cause talk, if people knew."
Liam took it from there. "You can say the stoor told you about a map to a pot of coins he'd heard of. Hidden in a hollow tree on the South Fork of the Mirror, near where it crosses the Mulberry Road. He less than half believed in it, so he sold it to you. You told Megh of it, and she told me, and the three of us went to look. Found it, too, we did, though it took us a while. The map was rough, and there are lots of hollow trees. It was a clay pot, with two hundred twelve pounds all told. Enough to buy old Connorleigh out. You can give me ten, to help make the story convincing. Anything more than two hundred twelve you can hide, and use later."
Rory Hoy looked first at Liam, then Megh, seeing not friends now but antagonists. The treasure was his to decide on. They'd played their part, to be sure, but he'd led them. Paid his life savings for the map. And wealth would buy more than a mansion and goods, it would buy the respect of his father, his . . .
Howling broke his thoughts and galvanized all three of the tomtaihn. They turned downstream to see. A pack of wolves was running toward them. Beside the tomtaihn stood a pine, not large, its dead lower branches within reach. "Climb!" roared Liam, and grabbing Megh, boosted her, then he and Rory followed, using branch stubs like ladder rungs, breaking some of them in the scramble. They didn't stop till they were among green branches, a safe height up.
The wolves stopped in a ring around the base, seven of them. The leader was bigger than any wolf ought to be, Liam thought. "Who are you, and what do you want?" he called down.
The leader grinned, tongue lolling. "You killed one of my master's sentries here, and the other cannot abide the daylight. So we were sent."
Each of the tomtaihn heard the unspoken words. "Well then," said Liam, who sat lowest. He took the bow from his shoulder, nocked an arrow, and shot at him. An awkward shot, from a branch, but not awkward enough to explain the result. The shot seemed straight, then turned aside. The other wolves moved about restlessly now, but the leader still grinned.
"Your arrows cannot harm me, halfling. I have my master's essence."
"Well then!" Liam drew again, but this time sent the arrow at the nearest other wolf. It struck between ribs, and with a yelp the animal went down. The others scattered, all but the leader, to circle at a little distance.
Now the grin was gone. "No loss, halfling, no loss."
"Maybe not. But you cannot reach us, any more than my arrows can reach you."
"I need not. At dusk the other sentry will come, and pluck you like cherries, or shake you out, or break off the tree if he'd rather."
Liam glowered, then spoke, not to the wolf. "Rory, take the bow," he said, "and the quiver. The soul of the Dank Land didn't send seven of them by accident, and now they're only six. And I'm left-handed."
Staring, Rory took bow and quiver as Liam had ordered. Seven was the perfect number; there was power in it. And stories had it that the left hand had strength against magic. "What are you going to do?" he asked.
"It's one thing for sorcery to stop a flying arrow. It's something else to stop a blow delivered by a living arm. Be ready to shoot any of the others that try to enter in." With that, the tomtaidh rock cutter drew his short sword and jumped from the tree.
The move was so unexpected, the lead wolf jumped back, and Liam set upon him, hacking. The first stroke took an ear off, and a cheek, and dug into a shoulder, but the next missed as the animal jumped aside. The others moved in then, but warily, and from his perch, Rory downed another. They drew back.
"You took me by surprise, halfling." The leader's thoughts seemed to hiss like a snake. "You will not surprise me again." Then it drove at Liam. His blade seemed to land, as if the creature lacked the power to stop it, but this time did not cut, striking like a cudgel. Again the others drew in, again one took an arrow deeply, and again the survivors retreated, far enough that from his branch, Rory had no shot at them.
Now the leader circled the sturdy tomteen. No trace of a sneer remained on its damaged face. Its right eye was swelling where the last blow had struck.
"Hold the bow," Rory told Megh. She took it, and he clambered quickly to a lower branch, then took the bow back. The lead wolf moved in again, slashing, shed a blow off its shoulder and tore Liam's sleeve half off before he beat it back. Another wolf rushed. An arrow took it in the neck, and after spinning, snapping at the shaft, it fled. But bright blood ran from Liam's right arm now, dripping on the ground.
Again the leader circled, and again drove in. This time though, instead of slashing, it held on, and with a terrible snarling swung the tomteen like a doll and dashed him to the ground. Another darted in, and Rory's arrow missed. It grabbed Liam by a leg before a second arrow took it in the flank. It yelped, grabbed again, and again Rory shot, felling it.
"The bow! Take it!" he shouted, then moved the quiver from his shoulder to a branch stub and jumped even before he drew his short sword. The sixth wolf had also moved in; now it sidled away, and Rory attacked the leader from behind, taking it by surprise as it shook Liam, his blade slamming its hindquarters—but not biting!
It dropped the mauled, unmoving tomteen and turned. "You are dead, halfling," it thought to Rory. The other wolf, paler than the rest, circled to get behind him.
As a girl, Megh Maqsween had often shot with her brother at the archery butts. Sisters sometimes did. Now she nocked the last arrow, not heeding its corroded head. From where she sat she had no shot at the pale wolf, so she drew down on the leader and let fly.
The arrow struck, but not deeply. It hit the shoulder, then sliced along ribs and flank, leaving an ugly bloody streak, but no major wound. The leader started, stared upward a long moment in surprise, then staggered, fell, got half up and fell again. The final wolf, the pale one, turned away and trotted off.
Rory stared up at Megh, then in amazement at the pack leader. Then he moved to Liam and dropped to his knees. "Liam! Liam! Oh, Liam!" The rock cutter's arm and shoulder were deeply lacerated, and blood soaked his torn breeches. Quickly, Rory pulled the breeches off him. The leg bites too were deep, but the flesh was not greatly torn.
"Megh!" Rory cried. "He'll live! Get the dun, if you can. We'll tie him on. Quickly, lass, before something else comes!"
She tossed down the bow and empty quiver and climbed down. While she whistled for her pony, Rory gathered arrows and put them in the quiver, noting the corrosion on one. The one from the spider, he thought, and poisonous. Then he gave bow and quiver to his sweetheart, hoisted the thick-bodied Liam onto his back, and started hiking up the pass, Megh following. They hiked for three or four furlongs before the pony reappeared. Then, with a struggle, they got Liam across its back and tied him on with the straps Rory had salvaged. That done, they hiked again, driving hard, sweat blurring their eyes, their legs burning with fatigue. They'd not have dreamed they could go uphill so far so fast. At least the forest was sparse here, with fewer blowdowns to bypass.
They went a mile, another, in little more than an hour. And always with a sense of pursuit. At last, on an overlook, they paused. Ahead, it was as far again to the divide. Behind—Behind something was coming, a pack of somethings, seven great wild hogs, led by a boar far bigger than the pony. "Megh!" said Rory, "get on the pony and ride!"
She stared at him.
Grabbing her, he half slung her up behind Liam. "Now ride!" He slapped the pony with the flat of his short sword, and it jumped forward, almost unseating the girl, who pale as milk, held on to the body of her brother as the pony went uphill at a hard-driving run.
Rory turned then, sheathed his sword and strung his bow. I'll use the poison arrow first, he told himself. On the boar. He'll have the essence of the Dank Land's Soul. If I kill him, the others may take me, but they'll likely go no farther.
Again the hogs came into view, their thick hair dark. No pony could keep pace with them; he doubted that other swine could, unpossessed. O Forest Soul! he thought, help me if you can! Then he nocked the corroded arrow.
They thundered on, disappeared again among some trees, then reappeared scarcely a hundred feet away, the hair along their spines a bristling ridge.
And stopped abruptly, actually skidding in the dirt. The towering boar stared at Rory, red-eyed, then looked past him, upward toward the divide, and Rory could hear his thought. "He is mine, this little one! And the others are mine! This is my domain!"
The answer was not in words, but Rory felt the message. Not this time, evil one. Your master died long ago; two others of these halflings destroyed him. You have no source to renew your weakening strength now. Your days are numbered.
The great boar snorted, pawed the ground, and, instead of turning back, charged at Rory. His arrow met it, glanced from its thick skull, furrowing the scalp, stopping in the shoulder hump. Then it was on him—and yet it wasn't, for it seemed somehow to pass through him without impact. Rory fell, not knocked down but overwhelmed. Then the boar wheeled, as if to try again, stopped, and fell over.
At once the other swine turned and thundered off downhill.
They were waiting with the pony, on the divide. Liam was lying conscious on the ground, his wounds bandaged with strips cut from shirt and breeches. When Megh saw Rory laboring up the trail, she ran to him, throwing herself into his arms.
"I was so afraid for you, darling!" she said.
"And I," he answered. They walked to Liam, arms around each other's waists. "How are you feeling, Mr. Maqsween?"
Liam grunted. "I'll live, Mr. Hoy." He paused. "If you're ready to go on, I think I can ride without being hogtied."
"I'm ready, Mr. Maqsween."
Liam chuckled. "Good. And on the way down, you can tell me what happened. I'll see what I can do with Da when we get back to Meadowvale. He'll be upset with you, but I've a strong influence on him. And the business is mine now."
They brought the dun and boosted him on.
When the wave of pain had settled and the grimace left his face, Liam looked down at Rory. "I know you took two fistfuls from the chest. That should be enough to pay down on Connorleigh's and buy a good keg of ale for the wedding. And still pay the Stoor his hundred crowns."
He chuckled then, and they started down toward the Mirrorudh.