Chapter Four
Walker
Some in the district had known this one as Walker. Few in fact still recalled the name by which he went these days. It had been many a year since the stranger, a man with a ragged scar about his throat, had been through these parts. In the days prior to the night of the Telling of the Show at the Last Friendly Inn, Walker had been seen “close and thereabouts” as the Littles like to say of strangers passing along the road to the south, or the smaller lanes and even trails that wove on out toward Olive Hills and the Dry Stretch. Or even further into the unreckoned neighborhoods of Barrows Valley and all that unknown that lay beyond its eastern edge.
But there had been many dark figures on the road and out in the hills lately. Some said Gobs. Others, the Hobbs themselves. Goblins or the larger and nastier variety hobgoblins[NC1] . But of course the Littles always defaulted to their favorite boogedyman… ‘warewoofs.
Now the candles were burning very low within the inn, and the fire within the hearth had reduced itself to little more than ash and an orange glow. This was the last of the night at the inn and now all that lay ahead in the darkness was quiet, and perhaps one low candle burning. And of course, the lanterns out along the roads and lanes kept going by the Night Watch. Outside the inn, occasional bursts of the windy thunder came off the distant coast and roared across Strawberry Flats sending small disquieting moans down its antique length just inland from the shores.
No one moved and there was no sound in the inn until once more Walker began to speak, only the creaking of his road-wearied leathers breaking the silence just before he began.
“The enemy was not defeated at Sirith Osildor,” rasped the stranger the Littles knew as Walker. He moved closer to them, and one would think his old high hard-worn boots would have made some soft thump across the ancient boards as he moved. Like some cheap travelling tragedian playing the stage to effect. But the strange man, and weren’t all men strange, moved without a sound and this gave truth to the rumor that he leagued with the Forest Watchers, a dangerous lot of Northern Men long come down out of the North whose ways and beliefs were strange and mysterious to the elves of Indolién and even more so to the many good folk of the Gentle Lands.
Walker made eye contact with them all and then returned to watching the last embers of the fire. His grim face was made even more so by the little light left in the room.
“The enemy were not turned back and sent to flight…” he paused. Then, “… as you saw in the wizard’s tricks and lying glamours.”
“But we saw the truth?” stammered old Hoot TacMavish who’d been in the kitchen and had sliced his own cut of the wheel. “How cannee be different in what we saw, stranger?”
He chewed his cheese as they waited for the response he’d seemed to angrily demand.
But the stranger did not answer Hoot directly and continued to stare into the orange coals as he moved closer from out of the darkness and toward the hearth so they could see him better.
“Nor did Adoras strike a blow among many against the Wyrm. Coming in against the flanks of the shadow, as you have been told. None of those things happened. And if you want to know what is true… then that is not it and never has been from the lips of the Elves of Indolién.”
“Then Adoras did not ride?” piped up one of the Littles.
Walker smiled. It was not the smile of a man playing with prey. Nor was it the smile of someone who despises a question in the middle of their speech. No, it was a sad, yet kind smile.
“Did you see in the last week a great host move along the road, heading south to the battle you were told of?” asked Walker softly. As though[NC2] it was a real question, and no one had asked was because the answer is known, and the asker merely wants to make the listener seem foolish. No. It was an honest question. One that almost seemed like he’d prefer the answer that made him the liar. As though, a different answer would have been better than the one that was.
The Little said nothing.
“Because surely you would have seen so many of the Elven Cavalry and Spear, glittering and bright in Indolién’s sacred armors. I tell you… you would not have missed such a sight.”
“It’s no[NC3] t like that,” said the Little. Walker replied nothing. The Little stammered and sallied on which is their way when they’re on about something. Not easily dissuaded those Littles aren’t. “Well… ‘tis all tactics like, Walker. Thas’ what your name is, isn’t it? They came at them from the flank as good ol’ Malrond says so. The way I figures the maps, they must’ve taken the Eastern Hills road and gone out through Olive Wood or even Wild Tangle… or maybe…” and here the Little crossed himself and made a sign at this next bit, “Or Even Barrows Valley though I don’t like to even say it much less think it.”
“Aye,” piped in Tom MacTarthy who ran the stable and had come in to find his last pint of the night. Something had made him uneasy out there in the dark all alone, and the ponies had gone skittish, and it had taken him much hay and whispering to calm them down. Like there was some predator about but none that he could see. Maybe it was the wind, he’d decided after a bit, when he’d made up his mind to go pull himself a pint and found Fatty and others still gathered by the main hearth listening to the palaver of the stranger. A man no less. But the mood in the inn felt just as a thunderstorm, he’d tell others later when they’d listen.
Walker stopped and didn’t turn to look at a one of them. He was still before the dying fire. Behind him near the bar, the sound of Tom blowing the froth of his pint was the only sound that could be heard for a moment. Then the wind ran through the eaves high up on the third story and through the ancient section that was known as the Old Count’s Tower that was part of the inn and far older than anyone suspected.
But that is an older tale and has nothing to do with this one. Which is how things often are. There are more stories out there than you can imagine. On every walk in every out of the way place, there are many lying in the shadows and down undiscovered trails.
“And so…” continued Walker, “… no one came from down the Barrow Hills ways and gave account of the long snake of an elven army in full armor and on the march for battle? Not to one of you ever talkative lot of Littles… well, I find that hard to believe.”
Silence.
“Well, t’wouldn’t it be secret-like?” asked one of the other Littles near the fire. “Elves is queer strange and who knows them ways of our betters and all. But ifn’ anyone could do it… well stands to reason t’would be mighty Prince Adoras and the lot o’ his generals.”
“Are you saying Good Ol’ Malrond lied to us?” said another quickly on the heels of this.
“No,” said Walker more to himself than to his audience. “Prince Adoras did not come to battle in the South. In fact… there was no elven host to give battle to the Shadow himself or that wyrm that curls about the tower even now.”
“How say’ee that? How do ye know?” asked another, his eyes and lips full of incredulity.
“Because I was there, my Little friend,” said Walker after a long cool moment, and then sat down in a low chair near the fire. His coal black eyes still intent on the fire regardless.
“I will tell you a story then, my friends,” he began with a tired sigh. A dog barked outside, savagely for a few seconds and to this the man listened. When it stopped, he told Fatty to lock the doors to the inn and gave no reason for it. Fatty, jangling his big ring of keys, dashed off to do just that. Then Walker began to speak.
“The story of the fall of Sirith Osildor, Tower of the Golden Eagle as it was once known by another name. Maldornesoron it was once called. But not now. Not anymore in these dark and treacherous days. The warriors who died holding a line there a few nights ago, held for help that would never come from fair Indolién.”
Now the weathered man cast his tired yet kind gaze about them all and it was not unkind, or even prideful or arrogant as most elves can be. No. It was the look of a long-suffering and patient friend in times that are difficult. Or of the kind one wears when explaining difficulties to young ‘uns. He seemed to nod to himself regarding what he might say next before continuing on. And when he was satisfied with the answer he had decided to give, he began his story in full.
It was just words. Not like magics. Not like the wizard’s smoke and shadows. But there was power in these. And more so some would say later.
“The armies of the Shadow came howling out of the southern waystes on the first full moon of spring. Earlier than expected, but the Tower Watch had gone deeper into the waystes, scouting in small bands, than it ever had before that winter, and it was clear the orcish tribes would be on the move come spring. Some said just another war between themselves. Or against the Eastern lands and the Ancient Kingdoms of Men. Or even the Indaar. But Bear Killer of the Watch said it would be Osildor if it was anywhere. So, we gathered to assist the elves of the Tower where we could, and within days, we found ourselves fighting for the outskirts of the river and dock district as the forces of the Shadow gathered across the waters of the river. The wizard’s sorceries were true enough in some respects, outright lies in others. But isn’t that how the best lies always are… some sweet grains of truth to wash down the bitter lies one finds in the cup. What we wouldn’t have given for a good wall to fight from. But the throne of Indolién has long thought the Black River to be a good enough defense, though why anyone would think that has always been a mystery to Men of the Watch. It’s easier to cross than most and in almost every place, and sometimes near dry as bone when the rains don’t come down in the Eastern Mountains.
“But there was no wall and so we fought side by side with Gaelrandir’s Spear along the docks and into the city dregs near the river. The orcish war chiefs were crafty and very clever the first night. Never coming straight on at the tower where our might was most gathered. But instead forcing us into a battle for blocks and neighborhoods long abandoned and some say even haunted.
“In one such street my brotherhood faced one of the Eld Longdarks, and it was there we gave battle and lost half our number in combat.”
Several of the Littles gasped in amazement.
The Eld were the stuff of nightmares and boogey tales of the long ago from the Age of Darkness before the lands were the way they would be. Longdark Trolls were considered the worst predators of the night and known to dine on the bones of their enemies in preference to the flesh they stripped away with stone daggers.
“A named beast this was,” continued Walker as he watched the embers unblinkingly. As though he were seeing it all as it had been seen on the dark night. “Fell and Eld indeed was this one. Oggrindaar he was known by in the speech of the Eldarin Elves who once ruled from mighty Easold the Lost. He came out from the ruins of an ancient temple, fangs dripping with blood and red murder in his burning eyes. His hide though leathery, was tough and scarred from a thousand years of battle in the deep halls of the earth where few have ever been. And fewer still returned from. Girded with fabled Giant’s Plate, like those of its kind wore who fell in battle before the Malantur, the eld troll who little feared our small company of watchers armed with bow and sword. But they are men of the road, the watchers, and no mere foe to be trifled with even when a dread troll is in the mix. And I will say this, the elves were there too, and the elves do not spend their lives cheaply.”
Silence as Walker turned from the fire to watch their small yet expressive faces. Their minds did more work and saw more truth that the glimmers of the wizard could have manufactured. The mind is so much more powerful than the mere trickeries of image and light. When given the chance, it destroys those things.
“We strove hours into the late night against the enemy there and three of us were killed by dark fire from the black arrows of the shadow orcs supporting the raging dread troll. Greybeard was wounded sorely but fought on at the front of the company, facing down the roaring troll, trading blows with his ancient blade and driving the beast back into the burning ruins of the temple he’d come out from. A moment later the whole rotting structure collapsed when the great troll was mortally wounded and gave out a horrific cry at its last, defeated. But in the same moment our clan lord was gone from this earth. We gave not a moment to our grief and pressed the attack against the orc archers and infantry surging into the street from every direction because even their chiefs, fiends every one of them, knew the battle was here this night.
“I would tell you that right there we won the district and turned the tide of battle, reclaiming the lost street and putting the Shadow host to the sword wherever they could be found. But I cannot for that would be a lie… and a betrayal to my oath as a storyteller.”
Now at the word storyteller all the Littles as one seemed to lean back in their chairs or shift their feet uncomfortably.
Why so, you might ask at such an innocuous word. Isn’t a storyteller a tale teller? A bard? A skald? An entertainer or even a mountebank in some low cases? A tragedian as has been mentioned?
No.
No, a storyteller is none of those things. And so, Walker was not.
During those dark and uncertain times, a storyteller was something much more than just a gossip with a gift for fine speech. In the years since the rise of the wizards in the Emerald Council, the once noble storytellers had long fallen out of favor with the lands. It was rumored, whispered constantly, and even mocked in the murmurings of court before the Emerald Throne and among the pleasures of the Feather Gardens, that to be called a ‘storyteller’ in polite company, was to be awarded the highest insult with the most dismissive of slurs.
To admit to being one, that is another thing altogether. And one you shall see the nature of as we go along here for a bit.
But Walker did not mind their discomfort and continued on with the tale, seeing that they would listen more now. Which is all a storyteller needs.
Someone to listen to the truth the storyteller is telling. Instead of locking it up in a tower, or beneath the lost Vaults of Unthur where living eye has not been for long years to see what truly lies buried there in the deeps of time.
“Within days we had lost the district and many valiant warriors,” continued Walker plainly. No tricks. No smoke. No shadows. “Elves and men who serve despite the pleasures of the throne, fought valiantly to the last for such is the way of warriors. Stagg the Swift, a watcher, fell in the Water Courts beneath the shadow of the tower. Daeanor Longblade himself, against the orcs holding the way between Straight Street and the Mire Warrens where strange things haunt the nights. Daeanir, brother of the Longblade himself, fell too, hours later at the foot of the tower as we sought to make our last stand. I could tell you all on this strange and quiet night, of many others who fell, many names to be recorded in the Book of Deeds when this is done, told in countless tales high in the Eastern Mountains to keep their memories alive during the dark and uncertain times we face, but all the defeats were the same and the endings as grim as we fought to cede as little ground as possible to the ravening orcish tribes streaming across the Black River and coming for the tower.
“There seemed that night to be no end to them.
“In the end we were trapped inside the tower and that’s when she came. A great drake from the south, an ancient thing from the lost Age of Darkness when Vaugamir Blackhand cast aside the ways of elves and became Lord Sauth and did make war against his brothers and the children.
“The drake struck the tower with living black flame, searing the uppermost defenders before trumpet or call to battle could be sounded. We fought it back with our best archers, but no weapons seemed strong enough to drive her off. And meanwhile the orcish host had come against the Mythildor which is the fabled silver gate of the Sirith Osildor crafted long ago by the Eldaar Elves as a gift to men.
At once the tower was struck and the great wyrm landed among the uppermost battlements and began wreaking much havoc against the Silver Guards who have long held that watch. I say this now and will say it until I am convinced otherwise… not one of Foemor’s warriors survived, instead choosing to give their all against the drake in hope of driving her off the tower, even as it began to collapse along the outer galleries, with great sheets of the fabled marble of Easold’s quarries crashing down like foam-tossed surf from the rocky coasts of Nurth.
“It was Bearkiller who bade us understand that the tower was lost now and we should flee to our missions. He speaks for the Watch, and so every one of us did as we must and disappeared among the chaos and slaughter, for there was nothing that could be done. No charge. No Adoras. No Norsus striking a fatal blow. And now I have come north into the Gentle Lands as I was bid, to tell you what has truly happened in the South and to seek the trail of the task I have been given. These are the things you must know instead of the glimmers of the wizards who serve the Emerald Court, who would have you believe many other things instead of really what was, and what now is.”
“And…” asked Old Barley who’d sat quietly with his pipe in the chair as he always did, dozing and listening. Apparently, he’d been listening more than dozing. “If’n the tower was lost and surrounded by orcs and the like even more terrible than such… well then, a simple farmer like me’self has to ask how came ye through the fight?”
Walker studied the crowd of Littles in the inn close to midnight now. Again, he seemed to hear something afar off in the night that none of them could, and it must be said Littles have fine ears for hearing when they’re not going on about something with their mouths. For a moment the man waited, seeking to hear it again so he could confirm his suspicions that it was soon time to move on.
But then he continued after a bit.
“There were ancient halls beneath the old tower. Carved out during the time of the Mad Kings of Men from the Old Age. The Watch knew of its locations beneath the crypts and led the survivors out through wraith-haunted halls, but not…”
And here Walker paused.
For a moment the Littles thought his rasping throat that made the whisper voice grim and determined, had merely gone dry. Fatty swept his great bulk toward the taps like some blustering storm at sea suddenly changing course and filled a mug of his best. A moment later he was handing it to the stranger like an offering and backing away like one might from a wild animal found on a forest path late one winter afternoon far from village and home. And safety.
But that was not the case. No. Not the case at all. Something had happened down there in the crypts, and it was not to be forgotten. Not since, and not ever. And even as Walker had this thought, the siren call of its truth, which seemed a completely ironic thing compared to what it really was, called to him from the bundle he’d left in the darkness near where he’d first appeared.
He cast his dark eyes toward the pack on the floor. It was old, leather, and much used.
It seemed to all the Littles in the room that night that a look crossed the stranger’s face that seemed to say, or indicate, that he only wanted to be free of its burden for a moment.
Wrapped in oilcloth… it… called… to him.
And for a moment, something cold and unseen could be felt by the Littles in the room though they knew it not.
I’m here. Here with you now, outcast wanderer whose true name I know. Here. Touch me.
The man drank the offered pint and wiped his lips with the back of his weathered and dark hand.
That bit, that was not for Little ears. Or for any.
The Truth is a funny thing, Immaradir the Old had once reminded Walker. Sometimes it is so powerful, it convinces you that you must lie for it.
There was that. And there was something else. There were orders. Orders from Bearkiller as he held the hall beneath the crypts, surely dead by now for he’s spent his life against crypt wraiths to see our fellowship free of the dark.
“… Not without cost,” Walker finished after the long, strange moment that had passed there in the inn. “Many of the Watch there at the Battle of Sirith Osildor perished in the flight through the lower reaches of the halls. Dark things long asleep tried to prevent our passage but the knowledges of the Watchers are useful against such old ghosts. Lore and wisdom regarding how to defeat such is kept as ready as sharp sword and a keen knife for any of the Watch. Still… it was not without cost… to us.”
There was another sound out there in the dark tonight. And now Walker could sense the hour and what was going to happen.
He heard them now. Gathering out there in the dark. Coming in from the fields and tracks they’d followed him along from the fields of battle… and slaughter. Or had they been waiting there ahead of him all along? Had the wizard’s tale been bait, to draw him into the inn.
“So why’ee tell us?” asked one of the Littles, unaware of the dark thing at the door to the inn as the Walker was even now. “And who’s to say whether Malrond or ye is right in the tellin’ of such things as don’t concern us of the Gentle Lands. Indoly…” which is what Littles called Indolién, “…is but a day’s ride to the north. The elfs may not have marched south but the Army of the King is still there, and I doubt they’ll abide a black host coming north anytime soon.”
“Tis true enough,” said Walker rising, hand on the hilt of his old sword. “I doubt they’ll abide what they can afford to ignore but little longer.[NC4] But such behaviors as I thought once unexpected have become the norm for such times now and it is best to track by them. Duty and honor are things put on and off like the dress and jewelry of fine elven maids in Indolién. The truth is a piece of thrown pottery that can be shaped as needed and broken when finished with. As long as there is clay, new truths can be manufactured every day and all day. The wizards shape the clay and feed you what they want you to believe.”
“But why?”
“Why is it ever so, my Little friend? For power and power alone is the answer. And so you must ask yourself good people, and you are truly good, for the Watchers and those who still strive against the Shadow know of what stuff you are made and can count on you, you who were once known by another name long before the elves came into the lands, a name the Storytellers have not forgotten though some of you have even now. What will you do with the truth when it has come home to you? That is really the question for this night.”
No one spoke.
Walker moved toward his ruck on the floor. The thing wrapped in oilskin inside an old blanket that had been rolled up along the top of the weathered carry.
He checked his blade. Felt his knife at his side. Knew that was all he had to face the ones waiting out there in the dark for him.
Knew that was a lie.
He had so much more. Craft. Knowledge. Truth.
“And me, outcast. Hecil. One lost or forsaken by friends, waif, outcast. You have me,” cooed the thing wrapped in oilcloth. Don’t forget about me, Hecil.
“If it’s orcs, or even ‘warewoofs’, why we’ll fight ‘em to keep our lands free as we always has, Walker,” cried Cormic, swinging his empty mug aloft like it was one of the great swords of fabled renown.
Many of which were lost now.
Walker watched the burly and brave Little for a moment as he pulled his battered cloak over his head. Piercing eyes stared out from the darkness within at them all. Once more the wind came up like a wild thing from off the coasts and moors and raced along the eaves of the old pile and down into the chimney.
It was a strange night indeed.
“I know you will, Cormic. The Bobbin always have answered when the Old Kings called, even back to the days of Eld when the Dark Elf ruled the land and there was much terror, and few heroes in those days. The stories have always said so of bobbins.
Only a few of the Littles knew that old calling of their race. None were asleep now as they watched the man among them, sure that dark times and trouble were to be had and on their way.
“And the stories have always been true. As they must be,” said Walker.
Then he was gone out into the late night as Fatty let him out, locking the great lock as soon as the stout and well-kept door was closed and the bolt shot.
Also… we’ll be doing a Book Club Discussion tomorrow night, Saturday, on my YouTube
Check out some books by Nick
The American Wasteland Trilogy
The Tragedy of the Strange Company Series
The Tolkien Project Chapter Four