Dennis McKiernan - The Brega path

Farlon began to protest, but his words were cut short by Rand: "Horse rider, think! Would you gamble our quest 'gainst your desire to join your comrades in battle?" At Farlon's sullen silence. Rand spoke on: "In sooth, horseman, we have more need of you here than there, for someone must lead the wounded south to the haven you have found.''

"Gam/" growled Farlon, "I'm a warrior, not a nurse-maiden."

Cotton, who had been listening to the exchange, flushed with anger. "Warrior? Nursemaiden?" he cried, stepping in front of the scout. "Those words have no meaning in this! Ally! Helper! Friend! That's what's needed now! Come with me, warrior, and look!" And the small enraged Warrow grasped the Man by the wrist and stormed off toward the white waggons standing nearby, hauling die astonished rider in tow.

Long minutes fled, til nearly an hour had passed. Yet finally the two returned to Rand's side. And Farlon was most subdued, for he had seen and spoken with many Dwarves lamed and broken by the- evil Monster's might in the long battle with that hideous creature. "Sire," said the rider to Rand, "I am much shamed by my unthinking words. I do humbly place my service at your command, to succor the needs of the Dwarvenfotc wounded in that dire struggle."

And Farlon turned to Cotton. "Little friend, you spoke truth: neither warrior nor nursemaiden are words to be bandied here; rather ally, helper, or friend best describes the need." And Cotton shuffled his feet and peered at the ground, all too embarrassed by his own temperamental outburst.

Rand clapped the horseman on the shoulder, and the awkward moment was dispelled. "Good! Now we must think upon how best to move the injured south; in this we must seek the advice of a healer. As to when to move them: if the Door opens at the mid of night on the twenty-fifth, and if the Host enters Kraggen-cor, then you must move them no later than the morn of the twenty-sixth, perhaps e'en sooner, to get them out of harm's way should Spawn flee the battle and come forth through this vale."

"Aye," answered Farlon, "there is mat to think on. And there are the horses, too. My original mission was to find them good pasturage, which I have done. Yet how will I get them south? Drovers are needed, but all my brethren are gone, and the wounded cannot move the herd. Yet the steeds cannot be left here."

"You can do nought but loose them and hope that most will follow behind your waggons bearing the hurt Dwarves," stated Rand. "They are horses of Riamon, more tame than the fiery steeds of your Land, more likely to follow. Even so, if they do not come with you, I think they will stay together in a great herd and wander to other pastures upon the western wold, to be found again once the issue of Drimmen-deeve is over and done with."

"Mayhap we should leave some of the horses behind, here near the Door; perchance there will be a need," suggested Farlon. "Come, let us see how that might be done. And, too, let us find a healer and speak upon the move south."

And the scout and the Prince strode away, leaving Cotton behind. And the Warrow watched across the black crater as the work at Dusk-Door went on. The Sun set and darkness fell, yet the toil at the distant Loom continued by lamplight. Shifts changed and fresh workers replaced weary ones. Dwarves not working slept, as Cotton finally did, succumbing at last to his fatigue.

The next morning. Cotton awakened to find that more than half the stone had been removed from the Door, and he was overjoyed until he tallied up the hours to find that more than half the work time also was gone. He breakfasted with Rand, who said, "It is going to be close. Whether we reach the portal-by mid of night depends upon whether any more great stones are found like the one last eventide mat took more than an hour to move." No sooner had he said that than word came that another massive block barred the way.

After breakfast, Cotton went to the remnants of the dam above the falls and sat and once again watched the work. Time passed, yet by midmorn the pile did not seem to have diminished. The Warrow let his sight stray up along the reaches of the massif and down into the black crater. And then his jewel-like eyes swept to the Sentinel Stand. He could see someone-Farlon it was-carrying a bundle of wood up

the steps to the top of the spire. Now why would the rider be carrying a fagot up there? But ere Cotton could puzzle it through, Durek brought his Chief Captains to the buccan, and Cotton began to describe the main features that the Army would see along the Brega Path, starting at the Dusk-Door.

Using copies of Perry's map, Cotton began by telling of the stairs leading up behind the western doors, and he went on to speak of the halls and chambers and passageways they would encounter within Kraggen-cor. The Captains were especially interested in places where there would be bottlenecks, or where maggot-folk could lie in ambush. Cotton had to draw upon all of his knowledge of the Brega Scroll te answer their enquiries, particularly those of Fetor the Driller, who asked many penetrating questions, dwelling almost exclusively upon the first several miles of the Brega Path. Cotton was later to discover that Felor's companies were to be in the forefront of the invasion-the spearhead of the Dwarf Army.

Though he couldn't answer all their queries, Cotton had done well, and the Chief Captains thanked him for the review, and at noon they withdrew. But shortly thereafter, Cotton went over the same information with another group of Captains. Three more times, meetings were held at which the Warrow spoke of the Brega Path in terms of bottlenecks, ambuscades, deployments, and other tactical features. It was sundown when he finished, and at last all the Captains had heard his words.

During the time Cotton was speaking, the work at Dusk-Door continued. At times it went swiftly, at other times slowly, yet progress was being made. More than three quarters of the stone was now out of the way, yet only seven hours remained until midnight. Lanterns were again unshielded, and the toil went on.

Cotton ate his evening meal, then sat once more atop the broken dam and watched the labor at the far wall. The stars began to shine in the vault above, and still the effort went forth. Time passed, and Rand joined the Warrow. "In just three hours night will be at its deepest," remarked the Man, peering at the starfield.

They continued to watch the work in silence, each immersed in his own thoughts. Farlon came and joined them, but said nothing as he, too, regarded the sky and judged the depth of the night. Shortly, however, there came a cheer from the Great Loom, and Cotton sprang to his feet. "They're done!" he shouted. "They must be! See, the light shows only a few rocks remain, and they are being rolled into the black crater even now."

The three watched, and soon the lanterns began bobbing northward as the workers returned to the encampment. Word finally came: the task was indeed finished-the massive job done with. Durek, smiling, came carrying a lantern to the top of the falls. "Well, Friend Cotton," he rumbled, "we have succeeded, and with yet two hours to spare."

Durek summoned a herald to him and spoke a word or two. The herald stepped to the edge of the falls precipice and raised a golden horn to his lips, and blew a blast that echoed throughout the vale, causing all who heard it to leap to their feet with hands flying to axe hafts. And even though Cotton was standing next to King Durek, still the Warrow found himself reaching for the hilt of the Atalar Blade, so compelling was the night to arms of the War Horn.

At this sound, Farlon raised his own black-oxen horn to his lips, and an imperative call split the air. Again Cotton fc]t his heart thud and his blood surge, and his gaze leapt in wonder from Durek's golden War Horn to Farlon's black-oxen horn. And he glanced to the silver Horn of the Reach hanging by the green and white baldric over his own shoulder, recalling its heartlifting voice. The peals of these three clarions seemed, somehow, irresistibly compelling, though their calls were different: the golden horn was resonant and commanding; the black, flat and challenging; the silver, sharp and calling.