The Fulcrum of Dreams -- Chapter 3.1

Three

“My sword?” Arden asked in surprise.

“It’s not your sword,” the storyteller said. “It’s my uncle’s.”

Arden looked in astonishment at the hilt of the sword his hand rested upon. He had carried it since the Fall. To him it had always been the Captain’s sword, ever since he had watched the Captain of the Mountain Gate of Narinen wield it with skill and courage the day the dragons came. Once the Gate was broken, the Captain had led them in a desperate struggle to hold back the enemy for as long as they could. He and every other man there that day had perished when a building collapsed upon them and blocked the street they were defending, every man but Arden, who pulled the sword from the rubble which denied the dragon’s men entry. He carried it in the Captain’s memory, but to this day he did not know the man’s name.

“What was his name?” Arden stammered.

“Damlann. He was my father’s brother, twenty two years my senior,” the storyteller replied. “I was a very small boy when my father and I put him on a ship for the City. After that we seldom saw him. His duties kept him away for years on end, but whenever he came home, he told me tales of the City and of other places he had been. That’s where I got my taste for stories, he told them so well. Then the City fell and he did not return again.”

Arden studied the storyteller’s face as he spoke. It was a hard face, line by cares and the desperate laughter of tavern dwellers, but in it he could catch a reflection of the Captain’s features. He knew the man spoke the truth. They stood looking at each other. Niall had retreated with Argos to the dockside end of the alley where they could keep watch for the others.

“How do you know this is his sword?”

“The green jewel in the pommel. When Janan – the innkeeper, I mean – opened the lantern behind me, the gem caught the light and then my eye. From the time I was a boy, I have remembered how that gem flashed. I looked at you, too, Ranger, but you had eyes only for my brother, Torran’s wife.”

Arden was startled and abashed to hear how obvious his attention had been.

“I meant no offense.”

“No,” he answered, “you didn’t. I could tell it was a ghost you were seeing, that you have a tale of your own to tell. Many do.”

Arden stared at this man who seemed to see so clearly.

“But that’s not the story I want to hear.”

“I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“Good. Then we can do business. But not here. The sun’ll be up soon. I know a place.”

“There’ll be three more coming to meet us here. They’ll be dressed as we are, and will have a wolf with them.”

“My brother can wait for them. Leave the dog – what’s his name?”

“Argos.”

“Leave the dog with him, so they’ll trust him. He can bring them to us.”

“Agreed.”

“Wait here,” the storyteller said and left to return to the tavern.

After he left, Arden joined Niall at the end of the alley. To Niall’s look of inquiry, he answered that he trusted the storyteller, and that was enough for Niall. In a few minutes the man returned with his brother from the tavern. To Arden’s relief the young woman was not with them. He felt sure he would have out blushed the approaching dawn, if he saw her just now.

They left Argos with Torran who sat down on a piling by the water. The hound quickly took to the young man, and sat beside him. After they fetched their horses, the storyteller led them along the many twists and turns of the narrow ways near Inshanar’s docks. Finally they came to a door in a high brick wall, twice the height of a man. It all looked as sorry as most of what they had seen since entering the town, but it seemed at least strong and secure.

But once they were through the door, their impressions changed. For a garden planted with flowers of many hues and scents greeted them. White roses were everywhere, climbing trellises all around the outer walls. Between the walls and the brick house at the center stretched a rich, green lawn, and on one end of the house they saw a spacious roofed porch, on which stood an eight sided table as wide as Arden was tall. The last thing they had been expecting to find near the docks was a peaceful refuge, secluded from the noise and filth of the streets outside.

“Have a seat,” the storyteller said, gesturing to the porch. “I’ll see to your horses.”

At the table Niall and Arden found themselves enjoying the morning. Within these walls it was serene and for a while they nearly forgot the cares which brought them here so unexpectedly, the dragons, the war, the ship, and the two Rangers they were seeking. This garden was an island in the midst of a calm sea. They took pleasure in it while they could, but neither Arden nor Niall were the men of peace they had been raised to be. Before long their thoughts again reached out beyond the walls to seek for their troubles.

The door to the house opened and the young woman they had seen in the tavern came out. Her blond hair was tied loosely behind her head now and she wore a dress of a rich dark blue. She was barefoot and moved noiselessly towards them. In her hands she carried a tray with three mugs and a simple pot which she set down on the table near them.

“I have brought you some tea,” she said. “He will join you shortly, but he asked me to tell you that your friends, the ones you are looking for, are already being sought.”

Both Rangers bowed their heads to her as she poured out green tea into two of the cups and set them before them.

“Tell me your name, young woman,” Niall said to her, “so we may thank you properly.”

She laughed.

“Why do you laugh?” Niall asked.

“We are not used to such courtesy here on the docks of Inshanar.”

“Even so, your kindness to us this morning merits our thanks.”

“My name is Mirah.”

“Mirah, I am Niall son of Erinor, and this is Arden son of Tyr, and for your kindness you have our gratitude. We thank you for the tea.”

She smiled and laughed again.

“Gentlemen, you are welcome. You are guests in my house, which is first the house of my husband and his brother. I could do no less.”

Without looking, Niall could feel Arden wince from across the table. Mirah noticed his reaction, and looked at him briefly, with curiosity in her eyes, but Arden’s face was composed. He smiled back at her politely.

“Could you also tell us the name of our host?” he asked.

“He didn’t tell you, did he?” Mirah said, laughing. “He’s like that. His name is Rafenor. Now I must go speak to the cook about your breakfast before I sleep.”

She left them then and did not return, though for some time they could catch the sound of her voice from within. Arden had little more to say, so Niall sipped his tea and waited for Rafenor to return. He joined them shortly and sat down to a pipe and a cup of tea. Niall offered him his thanks, which he declined.

“We’re doing each other a favor. His story,” he said, pointing at Arden with his pipe, “is all I require.”

He sat drawing on his pipe for a minute.

“Mirah told you that we are already seeking your Rangers?” he asked, and when Niall nodded, he continued. “So far, we have learned that they’re in the rebels’ part of the city. It will take a little time to persuade the rebels to listen to our inquiries. They’re not too fond of us over there.”

“Why?” Arden asked.

“When the rebellion began, the people in Inshanar rose up as well. They hated the dragon and his men. But few had ever seen a dragon, do you see? All they knew were his servants, who were men like us, and from them they knew what to expect. Life was hard, cruel, but they could predict it. Then, about two months ago, we heard what happened to Narinen and soon after that the silver dragon came here. That was a different story altogether. It scared people. Some around here started thinking that maybe life before wasn’t so bad. When you make your living from the sea, you learn there are some storms you can’t weather, and that’s how they see the dragons. So the rebels don’t trust us any more than the troopers do.”

“Finding them may prove difficult then,” Niall said.

“No,” Rafenor said and thought about it for a moment. “Tricky would be the better word.”

“Is there anything we can do to make it simple?” Arden asked.

“Better let me handle it. They know me,” Rafenor said. “Though, now that I come to think of it, once we’ve convinced the rebels to admit that the Rangers are with them, we’ll need a way to convince the Rangers themselves that they aren’t walking into a trap.”

“We can help there, I think,” said Niall. “There are passwords, of course, but those change. One of us could go to them.”

“It may come to that,” Rafenor said, “but for now all we can do is wait. Once my brother arrives with your other friends, he’ll go see the rebels himself. That will help.”

Rafenor leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. Sitting there with his pipe in his mouth and his cup by his elbow, the storyteller seemed as much at home in his quiet garden as he had last night amid the noise and laughter of the Dark Lantern. As Arden watched him he could easily imagine him in that chair every morning, engrossed in a book and enjoying the quiet. Several hours ago Arden would never have guessed as much. The storyteller had seemed a creature entirely of the night. Suddenly Rafenor looked up at him.

“Now tell me where you got the sword,” he said to Arden.

Though Arden was normally averse to recounting the tale of Narinen, he felt no reluctance today and began at once with his arrival at the Mountain Gate. Telling Rafenor the tale of his uncle’s hopeless courage struck him as a debt he owed the Captain’s memory. Even if Arden rued outliving that day, he had no doubt that he would have died then, had it not been for the Captain, and in the months since he had met Evénn, Arden had come to see that he had perhaps survived for a reason. Because of the Captain, he had been in the square to save Mahar’s bow; he had met Jalonn who brought him and the bow to the Rangers; he had met Evénn who carried the sword and revealed the identity of the bow; and together they had slain the red dragon. Arden did not understand the reason, but reflecting on it made him see that there was more to this world than he had long wished to believe. It did not lessen his pain or loss, but he felt less alone with them. Telling Rafenor the Captain’s story was almost a pleasure.

And a surprise. To Niall who listened to Arden as he spoke with pride of fighting beside the Captain, no less than to Jalonn and the others who came in with Rafenor’s brother in the middle of the story. Master Jalonn knew Arden longer than anyone, and all he could do was raise his eyebrows when he heard him. Evénn and Agarwen exchanged a look of quiet pleasure. Even the storyteller, who rarely took his eyes off Arden during the tale, could see in the faces of Niall and the others that this was a departure for Arden. For that reason he appreciated the favor, as he called it, all the more. He waved the others to seats at the table and poured them tea from a fresh pot brought out by Torran, but he would not allow Arden to be interrupted.

There was little need. Since Arden spoke only of what happened at the Mountain Gate, his story was soon done. Niall introduced Evénn, Jalonn, and Agarwen to Rafenor, and explained to them the steps Rafenor was taking to find the other Rangers. Almost immediately breakfast arrived on steaming platters full of fresh bread, eggs, and bacon. It was so plentiful that not even the wolf and Argos left the table hungry. Safe behind the walls, the hound and the wolf lay sleeping in the sun, while one by one the companions entered the house to rest. In time Evénn withdrew from the table to sit quietly beneath an arbor by the outer wall. It was covered with at least twelve dozen white roses that gleamed in the morning light. Only Jalonn and Rafenor were left at the table, where they sat and smoked.

“You keep a good table, Rafenor,” Jalonn said, “and you treat your guests well. Thank you for your hospitality.”

“You are welcome,” he responded, “and Niall has already thanked me.”

“But I have not. Your kindness will not be forgotten by the Rangers.”

“Arden’s tale of my uncle is all the thanks I require.”

“The Captain of the Mountain Gate was your uncle, then?”

“Yes.”

“I cannot claim to have known him, though I met him several times during my time in the City. More often I heard him spoken of, always with praise.”

The storyteller did not reply to this, but nodded slowly as if pleased, and continued puffing on his pipe. To Jalonn’s eye he seemed to be engaged in an inner debate, weighing whether he should give voice to his thoughts or keep silent. As a man who did not speak much himself, but constantly observed others, Jalonn was familiar with that expression in a man’s eyes, which told of a moment’s inward glance as the man watched the scales of decision balance in his mind. That was the look in Rafenor’s hazel eyes this morning.

At breakfast Jalonn had seen him talk much, plying Arden and the others with questions, but never pressing a point or lingering, always moving on to the next point, then telling a story or two of his own about Inshanar or Rangers he had known. He made himself the center of their attention, but he was clearly using his stories and questions to observe them. He was shrewd. Now Jalonn watched and let him be, knowing that no seemingly innocent question of his own would draw the matter of Rafenor’s inner debate from him. When the storyteller’s gaze turned outward again, he met Jalonn’s eye as if he saw reflected there what the Master had seen. One corner of his mouth went up slightly and he looked amused. Jalonn decided that he liked Rafenor.

“Do you think you will win?” he asked Jalonn.

“Yes,” Jalonn answered without hesitation.

“That simple?”

“Nothing’s that simple, but, yes, we shall win.”

“The cost will be dreadful.”

“It already is.”

“To you, I mean, and to those with you.”

Jalonn turned and looked at him closely. Rafenor gazed steadily back at him. Now no smirk was on his face, no glimmer of laughter showed in his expression. His face was grave, asking Jalonn only if he understood how dear the price of slaying the dragons would be.

“Yes, I know,” he said.

“Someday this may be a story someone else tells, but for now it is a tale of blood and sorrow that you must all live and die in.”

“So be it.”

And in Rafenor’s glance Jalonn could see that the debate within him was resolved. Rafenor leaned back in his chair and lay down his pipe.

“I must go see about your Rangers,” he said. “We should have heard something more by now.”

“There is one more thing,” Jalonn said, reaching a decision himself.

Rafenor gave him an inquiring look.

“We are waiting for a ship.”

“A ship?”

“Yes, it should have been here last week or the week before.”

“Few ships come to Inshanar. This is a fishing port, mostly.”

“It is a dragon ship, the packet that comes once a year around this time. It belongs to him,” Jalonn said and tossed his head in Evénn’s direction.

“The Spindrift? Really?” Rafenor answered, half smiling and clearly amazed.

“Really. It is how we plan to cross the sea to attack the other dragons in their own lairs.”

Rafenor grinned, then threw back his head and laughed.

“How perfect,” he said. “The dragonslayer hides in the service of the dragon. I shall inquire about this ship.”

He walked away, still chuckling. He let himself out the door and closed it behind him. Jalonn arose and went inside to sleep.

Across the garden Evénn raised his head to watch Jalonn go. He had been listening to their conversation and decided that he, too, liked Rafenor. It eased his mind that Jalonn had enlisted the storyteller’s help to discover what he could about the Spindrift. Coming into Inshanar after the mysterious Rangers was a sword that cut two ways. They were now closer to the quay where the Spindrift would dock when she came, which would make their swift departure easier, but they were also more exposed in the town, despite the high walls surrounding Rafenor’s home. It was one thing to pose as dragon’s men to slip past a weary officer in the middle of the night, but quite another to keep up that deception once their presence became known in the port. If the Spindrift came today or tomorrow, all would probably be well. But if another week passed, their position would become riskier as each day went by.

And what if one or more of the dragons came? Even now he could feel them searching for him, trying to get through the barriers of his mind and pin him down. What of Arden? Could he keep them at bay in his own mind, in his dreams? Arden’s embrace of prayer and meditation over the last four months had been impressive, as had the openness with which he usually discussed his dreams with him. Several days after the red dragon was killed, Arden had come to him, saying that he did not want the dragons’ ability to find him in his dreams to endanger the company again. He could not, he said, rely on his unwilling taste of the black dragon’s blood to overcome the dragon’s magic again. The last time had been too close. And the blood drew them on as much as it gave him the ability to resist.

No doubt because of his efforts, Arden was stronger. He was more at peace and less bitter from day to day than he had been when they had met in the autumn. The release Arden had found beside Sorrow’s grave the day after the red dragon’s fall had changed him. Evénn had seen it from a distance and he had been glad, though he had said nothing of it to Arden. But if Arden was more at peace, he was also more distant and dreamier. Casting off his burden even in part had opened doors within him which seemed to lead beyond this world. If some of these places could give him a moment’s joy, none of these places were hidden from the dragons.

Evénn sighed. Where was the Spindrift? Where were the dragons? And what did the red dragon’s dying words mean? “I shall not die entirely.” Nothing died entirely, least of all great beings of the world of spirits. The dragon knew that as well as Evénn. There seemed little point in the remark if it did not have some special meaning. But what was it? The words troubled him, as they had since the moment he heard them. Evénn sighed again and wished he had Jalonn’s confidence.

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The Fulcrum of Dreams -- Chapter 2.3

With that Arden and Niall put on the cloaks of the silver dragon, and chose two of the dead troopers’ horses. At first the horses shied when they tried to mount them, but Niall softly repeated a spell he knew to calm them. Arden and Niall then spent a few minutes talking to them. They stroked their heads and necks, and allowed them to become familiar with their new riders.

Once mounted, they moved away from the beech tree and down the road at a trot. It did not take long to cover the mile and a half to Inshanar. They slowed a little as they neared the open gates. No guards were in sight. No torches were burning on the walls or in the tunnel behind the gates. It looked just as it had every night since they had arrived almost a month ago. They loosened their swords and daggers and entered.

“Much depends on whom we meet first,” Arden said to Niall in a hushed voice as they walked their horses inside. “The rebels will attack us, dressed as we are. The soldiers will accept us at first, but may ask questions we cannot answer. Those who have given up the rebellion will fear us because they’ll know troopers will despise and distrust them. We won’t get much of a welcome in any event.”

“No, but whoever meets us first will probably have met the other two already,” Niall replied.

“If they came this way.”

“It’s the shortest path, and what else can we do?”

“Nothing.”

Emerging from the tunnel, they found the city only slightly less dark. Inshanar had always been a small port used mostly by fishermen and a few merchants. Its chief importance lay in the sheltered but small anchorage it offered to ships moving up and down the coast to trade. There they could find refuge from a storm or a small but lively market for their wares that could carry them through until the wind better suited their needs. Messages could be sent by horse inland or to other cities to the north and south. In the time of the dragon Inshanar had also provided a useful, out of the way, spot for packets, like the Spindrift, to land or pick up the many spies and hunters who roamed the Land of Narinen and sought to root out the discontented or outlaws like the Rangers. Both now and in the days of the Republic Inshanar was most well known as a haven whose quays were lined with taverns frequented by men hardened by the sea. Ships of the Republic had put into Inshanar only at need, and the officers never let their seamen out of sight while there.

After a few minutes Arden and Niall found themselves at a crossroads, looking down unpaved streets wide enough for two carts to pass each other with care. The buildings on either side had white washed walls, which were framed by dark wooden beams, and were just tall enough to keep the light of the waning moon out of the street. A few upper windows were open to catch the hope of cooler air from the sea breeze. Here and there a ragged curtain fluttered. But no light shone anywhere. Nothing moved. Not a dog barked. All was still and silent.

“This isn’t good,” Niall muttered. “Whoever claims this part of the city, they’re letting us come far enough in to trap us.”

“Aye,” said Arden. He was looking down at Argos, who was alert, but had not growled once. “He hasn’t picked up anything yet, though.”

“Perhaps we should have brought the wolf instead,” Niall responded. “These cloaks and Argos don’t suit each other. No one will know what to make of us.”

“That could be a good thing, under the circumstances.”

“We could also get shot full of arrows, under the circumstances.”

Arden laughed softly, but the sound was out of place in this empty street and seemed to fall dead upon the ground before them. Yet Arden knew well the truth in Niall’s jest, and brought his horse to a halt as they reached a cross street, the first they had come to. They sat and studied the shadows around them.

“The harbor will be this way,” he finally said, gesturing to his left.

They reined their horses around and slowly moved out of the crossroads. Twenty yards from it, a voice cried out to them to stand their ground. Men appeared from doorways all around them, dragon’s men, and both Arden and Niall felt sure that bowmen stood hidden inside the open windows above them. Argos snarled but made no move.

“Whom do you serve?” Arden called out to the men, refusing to let them speak first.

A figure stepped forward. Now that they were on a street, which ran east and west, the light of the moon, four nights past full, illuminated the man dimly. Arden could make out the lower half of his face and caught the glimmer of eyes beneath his hood as he raised his head to Arden. A white beard, an older man then, and perhaps less likely to be hasty.

“For many years we served the red dragon,” he said in a tired voice, “but no one has come here since he fell. At least no one has stayed. So mostly we serve ourselves and wait.”

“We did not expect to find any of you still here,” said Arden and Niall laughed, earning himself a long stare from the man. “The silver dragon of Talor is our master. We come seeking two Rangers. They fled before us into this city not quite two hours ago. Have you seen them?”

“Oh, I doubt two Rangers fled before the two of you,” the man replied.

“We had a dozen companions to start with,” Arden answered him calmly. “They are all dead, but our duty is not yet done.”

“And a dog I see, a wolfhound.”

“You should read a book or two before you burn them,” Niall broke in. “Wolves are more rare across the sea than here. Many of us use dogs.”

“I read many a book before you were born, lad.”

“And since?”

“Enough,” Arden barked at Niall, then turned back to the man. “Pardon him. He lost his brother earlier tonight. So he is rather eager to find these Rangers just now. Have you seen them or not?”

The man looked at him for some time before answering.

“Yes, as you say, not quite two hours ago they came through here riding hard. Before we could get into position, they burst through our line, killing three of my men, my youngest son among them,” he said, and flashed another hard look at Niall, who turned away as if ashamed of his former words. “They went towards the harbor. I sent six men after them, but since they have not returned –”

“They are likely dead now.”

“Aye.”

“Will you let us pass, then? We have no papers. We’ve been chasing those Rangers for four days and could not stop to secure passes. We will share the bounty with you.”

Again the man paused. Arden sensed that he was weary and grieving and did not much care whom he let pass. For tonight at least his duty was a formality which he performed to keep worse things at bay.

“Kill them if you can, and keep the bounty,” was all he said and stepped aside. His men also backed away.

“Three more of us will be coming this way before long,” Arden said, “and they will have a wolf with them. Let them pass, too, if you will. We may need their help.”

“You will,” the man answered as Arden, Niall, and Argos moved off.

“Sorry about your son,” Niall said as he urged his horse back to a trot.

“And your brother,” came the answer.

Inshanar was not large and presently they noticed that the houses and shops with dwellings above them were giving way to storehouses with docks for loading and unloading what few goods were brought in by sea. In the moonlight Niall and Arden could see the crest of the dragon on some of the doors, but the streets here were as deserted as when they had first entered the city. Midnight was well past when they came to the harbor itself.

True to their reputation the dockyards of Inshanar teemed with taverns and other establishments even less well esteemed. Here Arden and Niall came upon the first lights they had seen in the city. Braziers smoked and guttered outside open doors, shedding a faint light upon the cobblestones. After some searching they found a tavern which had a dark lantern hanging from a hook beside its door, its hatch slightly open to reveal the thinnest beam of light. No name could they see above the door or on either side. Now and then a raucous laughter erupted within. A fiddler was playing soft and low.

“This looks like it,” Niall said, gesturing at the lantern as he dismounted.

“I’d say so.”

“I like the look of it,” Niall remarked and walked in, ignoring Arden’s glance.

The name was surely apt, as they saw once inside. All light within came from dark lanterns, several behind the bar, each barely open, and a few more scattered about the tables. No one sat at those tables. Even that little light was too much. The air was thick and humid, smelling of salt, sweat, fish, and a hint of blood. Over it all lay a reek of pipe smoke that curled and spun when the patrons moved about or a breeze dared enter.

From the back of the room men with their backs to the wall and faces to the door watched Arden and Niall cross the room. If either looked back, their stares did not waver. These men, whoever they were, were unafraid. Others seemed more uneasy, keeping their backs turned or shading their eyes.

“What’ll it be,” said the innkeeper to Arden and Niall when they reached the bar. Though he was hurrying past, his pale blue eyes never left them as he moved, talking, pouring, joking, winking at the women. He never missed a customer, never brought the wrong drink, never the wrong change. The room was packed, but he was in control of it. His eyes seemed to look at them from far, far away.

“Come on, what’ll it be?” he asked as he strode past them again. “Don’t have all night here.”

“Two mugs of beer,” Niall said, smirking at the thought that night was all they ever had in places like this one.

The mugs appeared. Arden laid a Republican silver penny down in front of the innkeeper.

“Staying for a while then,” he said and was gone, talking and pouring, always dallying a bit if the customers were young women.

“We don’t see many of those anymore,” said a man beside Arden, and leaned over his pipe to peer at it, “especially not in hands like yours.”

“I imagine not,” Arden answered, doing his best to ignore him while he looked down the long bar towards the door and window. Two or three seats down was the source of the laughter they had heard coming in. A tall man, surrounded by a half a dozen listeners, was telling stories, not of great heroes and events in distant times, but of the everyday lives of the men and women known to the patrons of the inn. As he spoke he waved his hands about and swore frequently. Arden watched him closely, found that he was amusing, and knew how to hold his audience’s eye. So much the better, he thought, since that would mean fewer on him and Niall, who gave every appearance that he was minding his business and enjoying his beer.

“Well, they’re not here,” Niall murmured as if to himself, “but the beer is good.”

Again the innkeeper strode past, looking Arden in the eye the whole way. Behind the storyteller he stopped and opened one of the lanterns wide to fetch a light for someone's pipe.  In the sudden brightness, Arden saw shock flicker in Niall's eyes, followed by an involuntary glance at Arden. At once he looked down at his mug of beer.  Arden turned and there in the light of the open lantern, beyond the storyteller, he saw what Niall had seen. His breath hissed sharply between his teeth.

There in a small open spot of floor between the bar and tables a young man and woman were dancing to the fiddler's honey-slow tune.  It was a traditional dance that everyone learned as a child and danced a thousand times in a lifetime.  Arden had done so when a young man, as had Niall, and even Master Jalonn once confessed that he knew it. But never had Arden seen it danced so beautifully.  For the young couple moved through its slow turns and half steps with such harmony that they seemed made for each other, to dance this dance together. Every touch, every movement intimated their love.

The young man was tall, his brown hair shaggy, his beard untrimmed, his manner proud until he smiled at her. But it was she who had caught Niall’s eye.  From beneath the graceful arch of her brows and long lashes glittered the bright green eyes of Sorrow as they had known her so many years ago. And when she returned the young man's smile, she was as radiant as Sorrow had been in her joy.  Though her hair was straight and golden, and though she was not as tall, her face and form were those of Sorrow.  As they ended their dance in each other's arms, Arden's heart flinched to see them kiss and smile once more, but he could not look away.

Then the dark lantern was closed and night returned to the inn.  Niall was studying the patrons and sipping his beer.  He did not meet Arden's gaze.

“What do you see, Niall?”

“The men at the back wall almost certainly know about the Rangers, but they’re not the sort who like questions.”

“True.”

“And the innkeeper has kept his eye on us, like he sees us as one bit of news that fits another. So he knows something, and knows we’re looking for it.”

“But he never stands still, and there is no privacy here.”

“So then you better talk to me,” a voice beside him said. It was the storyteller. “I can tell you what you want to know.”

“And what would that be?” Niall asked as he swung around to face him.

The storyteller gave them the smirk and sidelong glance commonly reserved for idiots. He tossed his head towards the door, and held up two fingers.

“Outside,” he said in a voice that could just be heard over the fiddle and commotion of voices, and walked back to his drink. He finished it, leaned over to the young man sitting next to him, but facing the young girl. With a hand on his shoulder he said something in his ear, at which the young man turned his head slightly and nodded. The storyteller clapped him on the shoulder, looked up at the girl and smiled. She smiled back and he headed for the door, ignoring Arden and Niall entirely. Arden was not watching, but had crouched down to talk to Argos, who lay between them and the crowd. All his attention seemed engaged with the dog.

A minute later Niall tapped Arden on the shoulder and started moving towards the door. Arden and Argos followed. Unlike in most crowds, Niall noticed, not everyone immediately stepped aside for men wearing the dragon’s cloak. Some did, with fearful looks, but others he had to shove aside. A few he asked to let them pass. Clearly the docks were not under the control of the dragon’s men, if they ever had been. But Niall perceived no threat here aside from the danger such places always hold for the unwary and the foolish. As they stepped out into the street again and he could see the first hint of dawn reflected in the sea, he remembered something his father had told him as a child, the day he began to teach him to sail.

“There are three things you must remember about the sea, Niall,” he had said. “It never sleeps, never rests, and it’s not your friend.”

For the people of the docks and the fishermen these facts governed their outlooks and their lives, and they applied them to far more than the sea. Some accepted them, some feared them, but no one ignored them. They knew that life, like the sea, could turn fierce in an instant, and all they could do was trim their sails and run before the storm or die. To them the dragons and the rebellion were both storms to run before.

Niall and Arden looked up and down the street for the storyteller, but Argos found him first. A puff of pipe smoke from around a corner several taverns away brought his head up and his ears forward, and he began running down the street towards it. Arden and Niall followed cautiously. As they turned the corner, the storyteller withdrew further up the alley, beckoning to them. In the narrowest part of the alley he stopped. Crates and barrels were stacked high along either wall.

“What do you want to know?” he asked.

“How much?” Niall answered.

The storyteller gave them that look again.

“Less than you think. What do you want to know?”

Niall did not answer. Arden, his hand on the hilt of his sword, was looking up and down the alley and scanning the roof lines above them.

“Let me tell you something,” the storyteller went on. “You’re looking for two Rangers who entered the city tonight. Why, I don’t know. I don’t care. Am I right?”

He asked but it was not a question.

“The bounty on a Ranger’s head is high,” Niall said, playing his part. “The bounty on two –”

“Let me tell you something else,” he interrupted Niall impatiently, waving his hands at him to stop. “I know you’re Rangers, too. No two dragon’s men, no two hunters even, would have come down here alone, not in the middle of the night. They wouldn’t pay in Republican silver. And that dog? Don’t even try to tell me you’re not Rangers.”

Niall opened his mouth, but before he could reply, the storyteller went on.

“Lie to me again and we’re done,” he said, emphasizing his point with a finger in Niall’s shoulder.

Niall closed his mouth and turned to Arden, who was now watching them both closely. He shrugged and Niall turned back to the storyteller.

“Listen,” the storyteller continued, “I can find them for you. Quicker than you can. Even with the silver and gold you have in your purse, you’ll have a hard time learning what you want to know. Down here the people don’t much care about your war or your rebellion. A lot of them think killing the dragon only made things worse. Three times the dragons have come here since then, and the word is they’re coming back. A lot of these people will take your gold, then sell you to the dragon’s men as soon as you’re out of sight. I won’t.”

“Why not?” Arden asked.

“Because I need you to tell me something. That’s all I want. Then I’ll help you and we’re done.”

“What do you want to know?”

The storyteller studied them both, his gaze drifting back and forth between them. Then he pointed at Arden.

“I want to know where he got that sword.”

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The Fulcrum of Dreams -- Chapter 2.1

Two

In the evening Arden walked down to the water’s edge, where the sun’s last rays met the small waves rolling in from the east. It was, as always, a fine moment. The heat was just off the day. The cool of the sea was rising on the air. The sand and foam glowed with the rich hues of sunset. At his back drifted the west wind, laden with promises of heart’s ease and all the sleep a tired soul could want.

Down by the sea he pulled off his boots and waded into the water up to his knees. Standing there with it swirling around him, Arden listened to the sounds it made, breaking upon itself, washing the shore, bubbling and hissing as it slipped back again. And he breathed, breathed the salt air deep into his lungs and sighed it out again. This world filled his soul and senses up entirely. In a place like this, he could take a year just breathing. In a place like this, doubts and fears almost vanished. It was his home. It was where he belonged. It was where he wished to be. In a place like this, he knew there was a god, and that god cared. Here it could not be otherwise.

Within minutes the sun slipped beneath the horizon behind him, and the golden red of sunset gave way to the violet ghost of the day. Arden returned to the shore to sit and wait as the night came in over the sea. Each year of his life since the Fall he had come here for just this one night, always arriving just before sundown and departing with the dawn. He would gladly have stayed forever. In all, this place and time was his one escape from the starless dark in which his heart dwelt. From the moment he left he was counting the days until he could return again. So he sat watching the dusk merge with the blue of the evening sea, and waited for night to fall. Each year it was just so.

“But this year is different. This year there is hope,” Arden said quietly to the sea. “Even if not for me.”

For with the unexpected appearance of Evénn that night last fall at the burning farm, the world had changed. Evénn had brought the sword of adamant, the slayer of darkness. He had revealed that the bow called by the Rangers the bow of Mahar was in truth the bow of the Tree of Life which Telkar had wrought centuries ago to slay the spirit dragons. Together now, with these weapons in hand, they at last had a chance to rid the world of the dragons and their servants.

One indeed had already fallen, the red dragon who ruled from the City of Narinen, and all across this wide land the people had risen up in joy and anger to strike at his servants. But in the hour of their first victory, in the City itself, as the people celebrated their deliverance, the silver dragon had arrived in haste from across the sea. Two days later the golden dragon came, and three more sufficed to bring the black from the far side of the world. On their wings came death and vengeance.

For weeks thereafter the three dragons had punished the City with fire, might, and enchantments until, it was said, nothing that could burn remained unburnt, until no stone was still set upon another. The City of Narinen was dust and ashes scattered on the wind. Only the eastern tower of the Hall of Kings had defeated them, now as thirty years before. It stood proud of the bones and the ruins, battered and blackened by flame, but whole.

Yet none could say who told this tale. None could say how many survived of those who had fought that day to take back what was theirs. Some few had escaped to speak of the coming of the dragons. So Arden had heard, but in the four months since then he had not met any. Neither he nor any of his companions had spoken to anyone else for many weeks now. What they knew they overheard from around corners or behind hedges. The story of Narinen’s destruction had been passed from mouth to mouth, league upon league through the towns and mountains and hills of Narinen, and with every mile rumor changed it, shaping it into a legend of courage and terror.

Arden looked up from his thoughts. It was almost fully dark now, and she would be here soon. He resisted the urge to turn and look for her. Why it took longer for her to arrive when he looked, he did not know. He did not ask. The long years had taught him patience at least. He had learned simply to let her come. One moment he would be alone with his thoughts and the sea. The next he would hear a footstep in the sand behind him and feel her hand upon his shoulder. For that sound, that touch he waited all year. His heart now quickened its beat. He stopped thinking, no longer heard the sea nor felt the breeze.

Then came her footstep, her hand upon his shoulder. Sorrow knelt down behind him and wrapped him in her arms. Long she held him and wordlessly, nestling her head upon his shoulder. Arden reached up and she took his hand in hers.

“Arden,” she said in a small, hushed voice, barely a whisper of the breeze.

Sorrow held him more closely then until the darkness of the night was complete and the stars shone upon them there beside the sea. When she released him at last, he turned to look at her. Though the years could not touch her and she appeared to him every bit the girl of seventeen he had known in his youth, yet her beauty had grown with time, as if somehow – in his eyes only perhaps – she was now both that young girl and the woman of beauty and grace she would now be if she lived still in the world. Her eyes were as bright even in the darkness, her smile as radiant, the tilt of her head as charming as ever they could have been.

“Sorrow,” he said finally.

“Arden,” she replied, “call me by my name.”

“I cannot,” he answered. “I have forgotten it.”

“No, you haven’t,” she smiled at him. “Please, Arden.”

He leaned towards her and rose up on one knee. Putting his cheek beside hers, he whispered her name in her ear. For a long moment he lingered, feeling how close they were and reveling in the scent of her skin and hair, wanting more, nearly drunk with it all. But he knew they were farther apart than they seemed, even here. He sat back, relinquishing the moment.

Arden sighed, wishing he could conceal it from her, but she had always understood his heart too well despite the words he had never spoken. She took his face between her hands, and, pulling him close, kissed him three times, softly, so gently, but with the unspoken love and passion of a lifetime. With her fingertips she brushed the tears from his face and looked at him amazed. Then she wiped away her own and pressed her fingers first to his lips, then his to her own.

“You’re crying,” she said. “You’ve never done that before.”

“It’s a new skill I’ve picked up,” Arden said in jest, though he choked upon his words.

“I’m glad. It’s one you’ve needed,” she said, smiling at him and stroking his hair, while he looked at her, desperately.

“I wait all year for this one night,” he said.

“So do I,” she answered. “So do I.”

“Every day I regret the choice that cost me you. Every day I look at what the dragons have done to our land and our people. But, but none of that means anything to me compared to you.”

“Arden, that’s not true, you have fought all your life for our people. You and Evénn slew the red dragon.”

“But all I have is one night a year, one night in which all is as it should have been, one night when all my dreams come true. Then you return to the other side and I am left alone here and empty-handed. You cannot come with me nor I with you. And when you are here, I can’t even touch you unless you touch me first. So even now when we are together, you are out of my reach. Even here, you are a ghost. I love you, Sorrow, and all this is very hard to bear.”

And saying that he looked into her eyes as he had never looked before in all the years he came here, because he had been afraid of saying those words he had never spoken and he had been afraid of her eyes: that if he dared let himself speak and look, he would be lost forever; that having to leave her then and be left by her, as must be, would wound his soul more than any strength of will could master; or that, if he dared to speak and look as he wished without being able to have her as he wished, he would be unable to go on with his life in the world, bitter as it was. Yet he would not unsay the words, nor look away again.

And Sorrow looked back at him, looked as she had been looking for all the years, while she waited for the night when he would no longer turn his face away from her. She smiled at him then in the dark beneath the stars, and to him the stars seemed to be reflected in her eyes. It made him think of when they had been young together and sat beside the living sea in the living world, not this dream world of shades and shadows which was all that remained to them.

“I love you, Arden,” she said.

Briefly Arden was happy. It had been so long since he had felt truly happy that he had forgotten the power of this feeling and it took him off guard. Impulsively he reached out to caress her cheek, but his hand passed through it as through the air itself. Happy as the moment was, he could not touch her of his own will. She did not belong to him, but to death, or god, or the world of spirits. Which it was he did not know and did not care. The dead could reach the living, but not the living the dead. The distance between them was too great for the powers of the living to span. Even in a place like this, there was only so far he could go.

But Sorrow reached out, and, taking his hand as it grasped at the empty air, pressed it to her cheek. Still she smiled at him. Still she looked.

“I do love you, and if I could choose to be with you I would,” she said.

“I know.”

“You’re different this time,” she said after a long moment’s reflection. “You never spoke before, and you looked at me. I feared you never would.”

“This quest, the dragon, being with these people, it’s changing me.”

“But you must want to change, or you never would.”

“Since you’ve been gone, Sorrow, I’ve been alone, with nothing of that world to take comfort in. All I have known has been my duty, my hatred of the dragon, and the pain of losing you. But there is no solace in duty for duty’s sake when all that you love is gone. Slaying the dragon for justice did not bring you back, and as vengeance it was just as empty. For you are still gone.

“These people, though, Evénn and Jalonn, Agarwen and Niall, make me think sometimes that I want more than I have known. In them I see what is possible instead of only the impossible, and what can perhaps be found when all seems lost. I have been praying and meditating to try to find at least some peace and maybe to see what they can see. And it has helped. But it is hard to lay aside the anger and hatred, the grief and fear of a lifetime, when I can never give all of myself to life. Because my heart is with you, here and in your garden.”

“But, my love,” she said, “there is so much you can give. I know. And I have so little to offer you, now.”

“How could I give a divided heart to someone? For if I tried to love another, that is what I would be doing. There isn’t enough left for anyone else. It would not be right or fair to try to love someone like that. I would be to denying my own heart, and that could only lead to grief for everyone. Once I knew a man, another Ranger like me, who had also lost everything in the war, and more. For he had a wife whom he loved, and she was killed. He tried to go on, and after a time he seemed to have found another he loved. And he did love her, but too much of his heart was with the wife he had lost, and their marriage never prospered. For me, it would be impossible to do that. All I would do is cause misery for us both, no matter how much she loved me, because I could never be wholly hers. And she would know that in her heart if nowhere else. So would I. It is impossible. It is wrong.” 

They fell silent then, thinking about all they had never said before tonight, and all that could never be. Both understood the divide that would keep them apart for as long as Arden lived. To speak and hear their hearts spoken after so many years of silence was a release of burdens, a joy itself unspeakable, but to know they remained divided for all that gave as much of grief. After some minutes Sorrow touched his cheek again and kissed him.

"I remember once after a day by the sea," she said, as if far off in a dream of her own, "we sat on the steps of your porch with a cool drinks of water you’d drawn from the well.  The sun was going down, and the shadows of the trees stretched out east across the beach.  I remember how those shadows moved with the breeze, and how the air smelled of salt and flowers, of honeysuckle and sycamore. You took my hand, so gently, and I thought all things were possible.”

"I remember, too," Arden replied.  "My hand remembers the softness of yours.  And all the rest.  But that was before."

"It wasn't my choice."

"I know. I'm not blaming you."

She looked at him and smiled, her eyes shining with starlight, like stars themselves.  He smiled back.

"You shouldn't blame yourself either."

"I don't."

"You can't lie to me," she said, half laughing.

"Not for that I don't.  It wasn't your fault or mine or Niall's."

"But you do blame yourself. You think that if you had impressed my father more, he would have made the arrangements with your father instead of Niall’s.”

"What I think is that I should have chosen to stay with you instead of going into a doomed city."

"You would have died, too."

"That doesn't sound so bad sometimes."

"Don't say that,” she said. “You don't know what you’re talking about."

"Forgive me."

She reached out and placed her hand over his.  To him it felt as warm and soft as it had that one evening long before.  They watched the stars wheel slowly above them, and listened to the waves lap gently at the sands.  Sometimes a wave spent its last strength hissing up the shore to touch their feet.

"I wish I could understand why you can touch me, but I can't touch you,” said Arden.  “This is my dream."

"Is it?"

With that they again fell silent for a time, and when they began to speak once more, it was of small things and memories, of their families and friends, of things that Arden had seen in the wide Land of Narinen. They spoke long and quietly. They walked up and down the beach, hand in hand, and bathed their feet in the cool of the sea. They laughed much as the night wore on towards dawn. At last their time together was nearly done, and from the sea rose the morning star, for this night at least the sun’s cruel messenger. As every year, Sorrow told him she must go soon. He nodded and wondered why she must go, why they could not simply rest here in each other’s arms, but he did not ask her why. Instead he told her again of the love for her that he had guarded in his heart for thirty years and could leave unsaid no longer. For he had reached the end of his strength. She held him close and once more he whispered her name to her. With a brief kiss, she rose and was gone. Then it was day.

Arden stood up and walked again down to the sea. Bending over he splashed its waters on his face and licked the salt from his hands. But as he bent once more to pick up his boots, he thought for an instant that he felt somewhere a displeasure and frustration not his own. It was strange, as if someone else were present and watching him. He looked up and down the shore, following its crescent from headland to headland. He allowed his eyes to rest on the tower that rose at the head of the bay. Until today he had never paid much attention to it. His business here was not with the tower, but with her. Now he studied it.

Two arched entrances he could see, one on the east facing the ocean, another on the south side, his side. Through this door a light shone, as from a crystal lamp that caught the radiance of the morning sun pouring through the eastern archway. Arden let his eyes travel up the tower’s white walls. At regular intervals above the doors were large windows, but he could see no one looking out of them. Nor was anyone to be seen on the roof, which Arden deemed to be three hundred feet above the sands. From what he could tell there was no one here but him, and when he searched his heart for some echo of that momentary presence, he found none. He picked up his boots and walked away.

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The Fulcrum of Dreams -- Chapter 1.3

Three days later Hansarad led a ragged column of Rangers clad in black towards the Mountain Gate. By his side rode Baran, bearing the black and scarlet banner of the red dragon. Behind them marched seventy Rangers looking for all the world like the remnants of the two companies which had left Prisca two days earlier. But this was no ruse to gain entrance to the City. Without the passwords, he knew they could never get past the Captain of the Gate. If they tried to do so, they would reveal themselves for who they truly were beneath the cloaks of so many dead soldiers. Nor were they enough to storm the gate. A generation ago, thousands of the dragon’s men had succeeded only because their masters had broken the way open before them.

This morning all they needed was for their raiment to allow them near enough for the Captain of the Gate to come out to meet them and ask for the password. As soon as he did, the rebels would attack the enemy from behind, and the Rangers would rush the gates from without. To this end a dozen Rangers accompanied by Garalf, who was younger and more fit than Imlan, had scaled the walls last night, so Garalf could bring word of this plan to the leaders of the rebellion. Two of Berandan’s best had watched them go up and over the battlements. Almost at once they had heard the sounds of a brief combat, then nothing. Some minutes later the alarm was raised, but by then Garalf and the Rangers with him were gone from the walls. When Hansarad and the other captains heard the report of Berandan’s Rangers, it was clear that now all depended on whether the leaders of the rebellion were still alive. Imlan had no doubt they would be. Hansarad hoped he was right.

Yet even as his horse slowly paced off the distance to the Gate and as his Rangers marched in order behind him, Hansarad’s heart ached within him. It was not only that yesterday’s victory at the crossroads had come at a cost. For Hansarad had long been aware that some Rangers never came home again. It was a lesson he first learned as a boy, on the day word came to the Valley that the camp at Skia, where his father was second in command, had been overrun. Weeks dragged by before it was possible to begin to sort out who had survived. For him they were weeks of terror. Every report that arrived, every inquiry his mother made of the Masters, affirmed that his father was one of those who stayed behind to defend the camp, so that the rest could escape.

But even when he learned that his father and Jalonn had managed to cut their way out, still there were so many others, Rangers he knew by face or by name, who never came back.

In the years since then Hansarad had become accustomed to saying farewell to the dead and the lost. As a simple Ranger he had found it difficult enough. Once he became a captain, whose every order sent Rangers into peril, he soon decided that the honor was not equal to the burden. Friends and comrades, commanders and those under his command – he had spoken over their graves, jested in their memory, brought loathsome word to their families.

But yesterday at the crossroads – As Baran had warned, the dragon had bowmen of his own, and the last of them shot Elénna from her saddle when she was so nearly out of bowshot. Friends since childhood, lovers since youth, many long years beloved, she and Hansarad had never married. No child would bear her name and likeness as he had hoped. To his shame he had to force himself to think of the other Rangers who fell, but for him her loss had no equal. No words could voice it. For all the years of their love he had trembled to think of this day. Now that it had come the pain of it was beyond his every fear.

He urged his horse onward. There was nothing else to do. Elénna would have done the same.

The Gate was close now. He could see the faces of the troopers looking down from the battlements above. It had been many years since so many Rangers had approached the City, and never in their long history had they done so with hostile intent. When they were twenty five yards away, a commanding voice rang out from the walls, bidding them halt. Hansarad raised his hand and nodded to Baran. The column stopped and Baran lowered the standard in respect to the Captain of the Gate.

At first nothing happened. The silence from the walls began to worry him. They were being assessed, he knew, by the officers up there who gave long consideration to the sight before them: a ragged, muddy band not half the size of what they had been expecting. Without turning, Hansarad signaled the men directly behind him to set down the half dozen litters they were carrying on which rested those feigning serious wounds. The urge to glance at Baran beside him was strong. This was a show of patience he did not feel.

At length a series of commands were barked down from the tower, as one soldier after another passed the word for the gates to be opened. The ironbound timbers which barred the gates were drawn noisily back, and after a pause of a few heartbeats the doors pivoted smoothly towards him, each of them pushed by three troopers who took up positions on either side of the gateway as soon as they were done.

Out of the tunnel came a party of five horsemen, the captain, the standard bearer, and three others. They stopped halfway between them and the gates, so the standard bearer could dip his standard in return for the respect shown his captain. Beyond them Hansarad could see through the tunnel, across the bailey and into the street beyond. As the Captain of the Gate and his standard bearer nudged their horses forward again, Hansarad saw armed men begin streaming around the corners of the first cross street beyond the bailey. At the head of each line, hugging the walls as they ran, were Rangers in gray or green. It would take only seconds for them to begin their assault.

He and Baran needed to hold the attention of the captain and his men only a little longer. They advanced to meet them. In Hansarad’s hand were the orders he had taken from the body of the officer commanding the two companies summoned back from Prisca. He held it out to the Captain of the Gate, who nodded and thanked him. As he did so, Hansarad could see the man searching his memory for his face.

“You don’t know me, sir,” Hansarad said quickly and respectfully, laying one hand on his chest and bowing his head. “Sergeant Raynall, sir. The officers are dead.”

The captain was about to reply when hundreds of voices suddenly cried aloud behind him. He spun around to stare back down the tunnel and into the street beyond. A glance told almost everything. Hundreds of men were pouring into the bailey. The guards stationed at the entrance to the street had been overwhelmed, and the sounds of combat atop the walls and tower were already beginning. The Mountain Gate, his gate, was being taken from within. He swung back to glare at Hansarad, who did not move when the arrow hummed past his head and took the captain in the throat. Other bows sang. The rest of the captain’s party and the men posted outside the gates fell dead.

Led by Hansarad and Baran, who hurled down the dragon’s standard, the Rangers charged towards the Mountain Gate. In an instant they were there, within the tunnel, casting off their black cloaks and drawing their swords as they ran for the bailey. Suddenly, with a clatter of chains over spinning gears the portcullis plummeted downwards. Baran and Hansarad cried out in frustration, to come so close and be denied. Then just as suddenly it stopped not three feet above the pavement. Leaping from their horses, they dove beneath the portcullis and jumped up again, inside the City. The Rangers swarmed through behind them, splitting at once into smaller bands, some to rush into the tower, some to climb up to the walls to aid the rebels fighting there, some to cross into the street beyond and await the response that would surely come from Machlor.

After fifteen minutes of hard fighting the Mountain Gate belonged to the rebels. Unskilled in war, they had hurled themselves upon the dragon’s men with a ferocity that even six days into the rebellion astonished their enemy. On every floor of the tower, in every room and corridor, the evidence was plain to see. Rebels had died by the score, and there were no prisoners. Blood painted the walls, blood dripped from the ceiling, here where it had sprayed from a severed limb, there where the mortally wounded had lurched back into a wall and sunk inch by inch to the floor. Crimson tracks crossed and re-crossed the pools which mingled the gore of both sides. And everywhere the rebels stalked the halls, wild eyed with the lust of death.

At the threshold of the chamber which housed the machinery of the portcullis Hansarad had to step high to cross over the bodies. Alone in the center of the room sat Dara, with a sword resting on her knees. Her face was a mask of red. Her broken spear was jammed deep into the gears of the mechanism.

“You owe me a new spear, captain,” she said when their eyes met.

“Are you unhurt, Dara?” he asked.

“Yes, captain.”

“Hansarad, Dara. Call me Hansarad. You are a captain now yourself.”

She nodded quickly, regretting the death that had made a place for her.

“Hansarad, then” she said decisively and stood up, wiping her blade on a dead man’s cloak. “You owe me a new spear.”

“You shall have the finest in the armory, Dara,” he smiled in spite of himself, “but first we must move out before more dragon’s men arrive and pin us down here. How many of them were here, do you think?”

“A company or a little more,” she replied as they left the room and headed for the stairs.

“So, about a company at each gate. That leaves two or three others held in reserve somewhere, probably near the square.”

“Yes, the rebel leaders told me as much last night.”

“Good to know. Some of those troops will be coming to try to retake the Gate.”

“Well, captain,” she said out of long habit, “there’s more to be told about that. You see, the rebels are going to attack the other Gates as well, to draw off some of those reinforcements, or immobilize them completely.”

“They have enough men for that?”

“Yes, to start with,” Dara said as she stepped over a tangle of bodies near the top of the stairs. “Machlor’s reprisals have been so severe that they have only driven more people to rise up against him. The people fear him, it’s true. He is cold and cruel and pitiless. But he is not the dragon, and neither are his men.

“And almost all of Machlor’s watchmen have been killed already. The few who haven’t been caught yet had better hope they’re not. Last night I saw two of them hunted through the streets like animals, then stoned to death when they were brought to bay. It’s as if the people’s hunger for their blood grows with every taste they get of it.”

She stopped and thought for a moment, looking at the slaughter all around them, then a Hansarad.

“So,” she went on, “it’s only the regular troops we have to contend with, and they hold only the square and the other gates securely. Whenever they try to go anywhere else, they have to go in force. Even then they are pelted from the upper windows and rooftops with stones and roof tiles, with buckets of hot water or night soil. Quite a few of them have been killed or wounded that way. It’s been pretty grim in here the last week.”

As they stepped back out into the sunlit bailey Hansarad gazed around him at further proof of her words.

“How many rebels will attack the other gates?” he asked a moment later.

“More than have done so here,” Dara answered. “And their leaders believe that many others will take the risk of joining them once they see what’s going on. That’s what’s been happening here so far, they tell me. Now they are hoping, what with the attacks on the Gates and the knowledge that the Rangers have come – news they have been whispering about since this morning by the way – that the rising will become general.”

“Imlan said they were organized,” Hansarad said.

“Again he spoke the truth.”

Outside in the courtyard, the Rangers and rebels were preparing to move again now that the Mountain Gate was theirs. Half of the rebels would stay to hold the Gate against any attempt to retake it. Someone was winching the portcullis slowly upward again. Presently Baran appeared from the tunnel with their horses. As Hansarad mounted, a loud roar came across the City. He looked to Imlan and Garalf who stood nearby.

“The attacks on the other Gates have begun,” Garalf said.

Hansarad nodded and gave the signal for them all to advance. As before, Baran rode with him. Berandan walked beside the middle of the column and Dara followed in the rear. Rangers were already scouting ahead of them. With a wave of their hands indicated that the first street they had to cross was clear. At each street along the route to the square, they found no sign of the dragon’s men, but the farther they went the more people of the City they saw. The scouts on the streets parallel to theirs reported that hundreds of men and women, armed with knives or rusty swords, hammers, bows, and staffs, were spilling from their houses onto the streets and moving along with the Rangers into the heart of the City.

At times in the distance several streets ahead they saw small groups of troopers watching them approach, but they always fell back before the Rangers and the rain of missiles from the houses and buildings around them. Hansarad ordered some of the scouts to the rooftops, to look across the City and make sure that Machlor had not concealed bowmen there to shoot down at them from above. Each time they reported that no soldiers were in sight. Along the way they could still hear the echo of the battles being fought at the other Gates, but as they neared the center of the City, the voices of the people flooding towards the square drowned out every other sound. They were shouting out their hatred and defiance or singing hymns of victory they had learned as children.

When at last they came to the square, Hansarad gazed around him in awe, not at the vast expanse of the space, but at the thousands of people filling it from end to end. In all his life Hansarad had never seen so many people gathered in one place, though he had been taught by the Masters about the magnificent assemblies and festivals once held here. And his father had told him that at such times a man could feel the emotions of the crowd flowing around him like the current of a river, that the very air seemed to vibrate with life. Hansarad learned now that all they had taught him was true and more than true. The recognition left him stunned.

But as he paused there upon his horse with Baran, Baran who breathed in the vibrancy of the many and threw back his head and laughed, the crowd saw him there beneath the arch. A hum began to run through the crowd as their heads turned towards him, and the light of the afternoon sun shone on their faces. Then he realized that they were calling his name – which the rebels had told them – and as it spread from mouth to mouth it became clearer and louder. Then they were shouting it, as if he were their deliverer. He looked over at Baran, who was beaming, his red hair and beard like flame and his eyes glittering. He glanced over his shoulder at Garalf with displeasure. The man grinned a bit and shrugged an insincere apology.

“They probably think you’re your father,” Baran said, choking on his mirth. “They probably didn’t tell them that.”

“Aye,” was all Hansarad could get out.

“Well, let’s not disappoint them, captain,” said Baran.

“Aye,” Hansarad replied and spurred his horse forward. Across the square to his left, he finally saw the dragon’s men. In the open space before the Hall of Kings they stood drawn up in square. There looked to be about three companies of them. In the center of their square was the dragon’s standard and beneath it clustered a small group of horsemen. Machlor would be among them.

Hansarad turned his horse that way and the column moved behind him. Before him the crowd parted to allow them through, first watching them closely as they came, then reaching out their hands to them, then gazing after them when they had passed. But Hansarad and Baran never took their eyes from the troopers who awaited them at the Hall of Kings. For their part, despite the raging of the crowd, the soldiers did not move or waver. As Hansarad studied them, he never saw one look to either side or shift his feet nervously. Clearly Machlor had kept the best of his men here.

“They know all is lost,” Baran said to him as they halted some distance away, “and they mean to die like soldiers. This is their last stand.”

“Surely no better fate awaits them, not at their hands,” Hansarad said, nodding toward the crowd, “not after all these years of terror.”

With that Hansarad drew his sword and advanced. The Rangers and rebels spread out to either side of him and Baran. At his command a volley of arrows struck the enemy, then a second and a third. As the third was loosed, Hansarad cried aloud and they charged. The crowd surged forward with them, passing them by with a deafening roar. It struck the front ranks of the enemy, and swarmed against their two exposed flanks. For a few seconds the troopers held their ground, but the next moment the weight of the people’s wrath swept them away completely.

Hansarad and Baran burst through the disintegrating line of soldiers and sped towards the officers beneath the standard. One rode out to meet Hansarad, unsheathing his sword as he came. He sat upon his gray horse, tall and straight, a lean, elegant man who held his head high amidst this the downfall of all his ambitions. It was Machlor. Hansarad knew him from his description.

They met, swords clashing, passed each other and wheeled about to meet again. In the midst of the swirling, howling mob, they fought as if all alone. After a few passes Hansarad knew that his opponent was a worthy swordsman. They traded blows, and once only by suddenly jerking his head back and to one side did Hansarad survive a thrust which cut his cheek to the bone. But Hansarad had learned the sword from his father and Raynall and Jalonn, and his experience of single combat was more recent. In a few more passes the point of his sword slipped beneath Machlor’s guard, deeply piercing his ribs. The crowd rushed in from all sides. Dozens of hands reached up to seize him and pull him from his horse. Hansarad’s sword was nearly dragged from his grasp before he could pull it free.

The battle was over. For a time at least Narinen was theirs once again. The people in the square shifted and roared like the sea in a storm. Hansarad rode his horse up the marble steps of the Hall of Kings and turned to survey the thousands who stood before him, now cheering, now shouting their joy on this day long in coming. For a while he sat there and took in this vision of triumph after suffering. From the sea of people before him emerged Baran laughing, and Dara, and Berandan, then Imlan and Garalf, and so many of the rebels and Rangers with whom he had fought this day. They, too, mounted the palace steps and stood around him. In time the people grew quiet as they all looked at each other and knew they were free.

From the crowd stepped a young man, his hands and arms bloody to the elbows, his old clothing dirty and torn, but his eyes were bright with passion. In his hands he carried the banner of the dragon, equally torn, equally bloody. He climbed the steps to face Hansarad and held out the banner to him as a token of victory, but Hansarad would not accept it. He bade the young man turn and face the people. He told him to raise the standard above his head, and as he did so, Hansarad pointed to the banner and then to the people, to tell them that this victory was theirs, that the banner and the battle had been won by them.

In response several nearby cried out his name. The cry spread through the square until it seemed that everyone was calling his name again, shouting it as loud as they could. All the square echoed it back. Hansarad was abashed, and feeling his mood, his horse moved nervously beneath him. Not in all the centuries since Stochas, the last king, had summoned the people here to tell them that the days of the kings had ended and the days of the Republic had begun, had anyone stood in this place and heard thousands cry out his name. This knowledge and this tribute overwhelmed him. In his eyes he felt the sting of tears.

A dark shape passed between earth and sun.

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