Ravenwild: Book 01 - Ravenwild (55 page)

“But before our forces get there, they will disappear farther to the north towards Salem, and from there to the woods via the King’s pass where they will fashion rafts for the troops who will be retreating from the direct assault on Ghasten. For in truth, none of these first thousand are soldiers at all, but woodworkers. They will not even be carrying weapons, but the tools they will need to fell the trees and fashion the boats. In less than a week’s time, they should be able to assemble the rafts that our retreating troops will use to cross Wolf Lake on its southernmost aspect. Having done that, our retreating forces should be able to easily crush any resistance forces between the western shore of the lake and The Gate. Half of the main force will then proceed straight past the fortress and attack the flanking Troll forces to the east, where the valley is wide enough to permit a frontal assault. The other half will enter the fortress and secure it from the inside. They will then rearm themselves and join the half that has taken the fight straight to the flanking Trolls. We will use a straightforward pincer move to subdue any that survive the frontal assault.”

“So the main force will be hiding out in the mountains to the south of Salem while the woodworkers complete the task of fashioning the rafts?” asked Rolan.

“Correct, My Lord. They are en route there at this moment. We are moving them no more than a thousand at a time under the cover of darkness.”

“And once they have vanquished the Troll flanking forces, and the troops have turned back to hole up at the Gate, how do we intend to feed them?”

“That,” said Thargen, “could be a problem, but maybe not. Because we have not been able to gain access to the fortress, we cannot speak to the status of the food stores. If there is not enough to feed them, we will need to organize supply deliveries from the north but, by then, we will have secured the Pass of Defiance, as Borok has discussed.”

“All right,” said Rolan. “Now we need to address the first point made by the good wizard. Do we attempt to strike an alliance with the Gnomes or not? I want an opinion from everyone here. Thargen, what say you?”

“I agree with the wizard. They are a slimy lot, the Gnomes. Never once have we authored an act of war, nor made the slightest move against them, other than the trivial border skirmishes of the north, yet they have thrown in their lot with their ugly second cousins and would have all the free races of Ravenwild exterminated like insects without so much as lifting a finger in protest. No, to throw in with them is a fool’s mission.”

“Luke, how say the Dwarves?”

“Well, with my fellow Dwarves the history is a little more muddied than it is with either the Humans or the Elves. We all know of the border disputes in the north that have been going on for longer than any of us has been alive. And I would never call them trivial. Blood spilt is never a trivial matter.

“But with this one, it’s hard to say. I, for one, do not believe that they have taken up the cause of Malance Venomisis by choice. Their fate was decided when the Trolls slew Hanz Night years ago and left the nation with no leader, save for his second in command, who saved his own gray hide by slipping away in the middle of the night to parts unknown. Word was that there had been born a prince, but as with their second in command, nobody has ever seen or heard from him since that fateful day.

“By my reckoning he would still be as yet just a boy, if he survived, and nowhere near old enough to speak to policy in his land. So the biggest problem, as I see it, with striking an alliance with the Gnomes is: With whom would we strike it, even if that were the path down which we decided to walk?

“Our spies tell us that the country has gone completely to the dogs. Their citizens, like ours, have largely fled to the wilds, although now, of course, they are all inside somewhere taking refuge from the winter cold.

“But, bottom line, desperate times call for desperate measures, and these are the most desperate of times.

“I say this then, while we lay siege to the fortress in Ghasten, the chance for success of which I see as too small to measure, take a small party and try to seek out the leader of the Gnome nation, whoever that might be, and see if an alliance is in our best interests. If you, My Lord, decide that it is, I see no downside. If we’re lucky enough to survive, we can always kill them all later.” He laughed at his own joke. Nobody else did.

“All right. Dorin?” asked Rolan, “What say the Elves?”

“My King,” answered Dorin, “There are so few of us remaining, it almost seems preposterous for me to speak on behalf of the few of us that
have
managed to survive. However, if Prophecy holds true that most of my people remain trapped in a lost city somewhere in the Northland, perhaps there
are
enough to be spoken for.”

Heads all around the table nodded at Dorin’s words, for such was the teaching: That the Elves had mostly disappeared shortly after the Great War and had been living for centuries in some sort of enchanted place in the Northland.

“But having said that, we cannot begin to guess how the hearts of the Gnomes lie, and this we would have to know before we were to consider a united effort. So, make the journey to Round Lake. Seek out the witch who lives there and find out if the Gnome nation even
has
a leader that can speak for it. If one can be found, and we can trust that he indeed does speak for the Gnome nation, and he will have it, strike the agreement. As Luke said, there’s no downside. If we don’t, we will all, as free races, surely die. Not right away, but certainly before our children’s children have grown old in their beds.”

“Very well. The vote stands at two for and two against. My Queen?”

“My Lord,” she said, “I will abstain. If you and I vote differently, we get a tie, and our situation is such that we cannot afford that. You, My King, will cast the final vote.”

Rolan folded his hands. “We leave in the morning for Round Lake,” he said. “We will attempt to meet with the witch. Provided we can locate her. Provided she even exists. I must confess, I feel the fool chasing a fairytale. But as Luke pointed out, desperate times call for desperate measures. This said, if there is a suitable leader of the Gnome nation, and we can find him, we will attempt to strike an accord. If there is not, we will meet in Ghasten and fight to the death. Agreed?”

All clasped fist-to-heart and said, “Agreed.”

Ubri Gall cried. His father, Andar Gall, and his mother, Isandora, both wore long faces, but neither could bring themselves to cry for the passing of Bram’s father. It was not that either of them did not feel sadness at his passing. They did. But both felt, in truth, that his passing was for the best. It had been years since they had more or less adopted his son Bramwith in order to save him from the beatings at the hands of his father. Bramwith’s father had put up a terrible fight, repeatedly petitioning the Kohansk town council to force a decision that would send his son back home, but Andar and Isandora Gall had had the overwhelming support of virtually every citizen of Kohansk, all of whom knew that as long as Ansten could not avoid spirits, he would always be not only useless, but a dangerous abuser of his only son. All agreed it was a shame, and that his problem with spirits had only surfaced with the passing of his wife, but nevertheless, to continue to allow Bramwith to live under the same roof with him was indisputably wrong. Consequently, it was decided by due process that Bramwith would continue to live with the Galls, and there was nothing Ansten Jebwickett could do about it. Some said the decision broke his heart, and that was why he died. Most did not, saying that he had plain drunk himself to death while Bramwith grew up in the home of the Galls.

Bramwith not only did not cry, he barely paid any attention to the whole affair, clearly more interested in two pretty young Gnome girls than he was in paying his last respects to his father.

As they made their way from the grave, he made it a point to position himself in between Ubri and his mother.

“Mrs. Gall,” he said softly.

“Yes, Bram.”

“I want to thank you for all you have done for me; taking me in and all. I know we just buried my father, and … and I know I should feel sad, but I don’t. He was a terrible father, a terrible Gnome, really. It wasn’t so bad until Mother passed away, but after that… he turned mean as a snake.” His eyes filled with tears as he flashed back to the horror that had been his childhood after his mother had passed on.

Isandora put her arm around him and said, “You go ahead and cry, Bram. Don’t be ashamed. You’ll need time to heal. Don’t worry, in time you will, and then you’ll be able to forgive him. I think the pain of your mother’s passing was too much for him to handle. It pushed him to some dark place from which he could never escape. In time, you’ll be able to remember the good times and make peace with him.”

Hearing her words, and the love woven into them, proved too much for the young Gnome to bear, and he broke down completely, sobbing inconsolably for several minutes. All the while Isandora held him and made soft, reassuring sounds, the kind only a mother can make, as he buried his face in her chest.

Ubri and Andar wandered on a bit to give the lad a chance to get it all out. Ubri looked nervously at his father. He had never seen anyone carry on like this before.

“He’ll be all right,” said Andar, “He needs to get some things out of him, that’s all. He carries some very bad memories. We’ll give him some time. He’ll be okay.”

“Promise?” asked Ubri.

“I promise,” said Andar, and put an arm around his son. “Come on,” he said, “Let’s walk on over to the inn and make sure that we’re ready to receive company. We’ll give him the space that he needs.”

They walked along the main street of Kohansk in silence. Andar looked around at the town that had grown up as much as it had since he and Isandora had founded their inn. The population had nearly tripled and was still growing. New houses were being built everywhere, and it gave Andar a warm feeling that prosperity was now a word that could be used to describe the place they called home.

“Smell that,” he said.

Ubri took a whiff.

“Is there any smell that is better than that?”

“Than what?”

“The smell of summer, of course. You can smell the hay in the fields, the beets growing, the fruit ripening on the trees. I tell you son, there is no finer smell than that of the earth producing all the things we need to live. And of course half of those smells would not be there, were it not for the labors of our fellow Gnomes. Always remember to take the time to smell the world we live in. Good smells mean good times. Plenty for all.” He took another giant sniff and sighed in satisfaction.

“You’re right, of course,” said Ubri, with a smile. “But Mother’s cooking will always be the finest smell.”

Andar tousled the head of his son. “No argument there,” he said, “No argument there.”

“Father,” he said, “don’t you think it’s time that we gave the inn a proper name? All it has ever been called is ‘The Inn’. Shouldn’t we come up with an actual name?”

“Interesting,” said Andar. “All right, your idea, what should we call her?”

Ubri concentrated hard, scrunching up his face in thought.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Hmmm. I know, let’s ask Bramwith to help. This is a very hard day for him, and it might make him feel a little better if he helped name it. It must be terrible to go through what he’s going through. What do you think?”

Andar stopped and looked down at his son. He kept his voice under control, but inside he was swollen with pride. “Ubri,” he said, “that is a beautiful thought. Yes, tonight we’ll propose it at dinner. You boys are going fishing tomorrow, right? Why don’t you talk it over then and try to come up with something. Yes, a proper name. Great idea.” He began to whistle a traditional Gnome ballad. Ubri hummed along with him.

Arriving at the inn, Ubri went immediately to the kitchen where at least a dozen workers bustled all about preparing for the dinner that would wrap the day. They were expecting at least a hundred, and all were engrossed in their chores. Spoons clattered on pots and pans. Spatulas made scraping sounds on the frying pans as the cooks cleaned them. Stacks of flat bread stood proudly on the great oak tables. Roasts over the coal fires made sputtering noises as they sizzled their way to perfection. Ubri’s thoughts drifted back to when he was a little guy and how he had loved this kitchen so.

Isandora and Bramwith entered. She went right to the task of organizing the final preparations. One of the cooks approached the boys and said, “Come here now, and don’t be touching anything. I have made you each a plate. Get yourselves a glass of cider and sit here.” She gestured to a table where two plates were stacked high with slices of roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a mixture of greens. “Now, don’t touch anything,” she repeated with a broad smile, waving a large spoon in mock warning for emphasis.