Rose Estes & Tom Wham - Runesword 06 - The Store of Time

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IHE STONE OF TIME

This book is an Ace original edition, and has never been previously published.

RUNESWORD: THE STONE OF TIME

An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Bill Fawcett and Associates

HUNTING HISTORY

Ace edition / March 1992

Cover art by Larry Elmore.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,

by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.

ISBN: 0-441-73699-8

Ace Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group, 200 Madison Avenue,

New York, New York 10016.

The name "Ace" and the "A" logo are trademarks belonging to Charter

Communications, Inc.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERJCA

10 987654321

CHAPTER 1

Revenge

The ominous cloud swirled heavily about the dark shapes that moved silently

forward in the night. A cold autumn wind blew torrents of rain into their

faces, and icy water trickled down through the gaps in their ragged cloaks. It

froze into slush on their shoulders ... but they did not complain. A flash of

lightning briefly illuminated the scene and revealed hundreds of axe blades

and spears pointing upward, and beneath the cloaks, thousands of cruel red

glowing eyes. The Mistwall was on the move again, and these creatures of the

darkness felt not the cold, for they were filled once more with the fire of

victory.

An enormous war horse plodded among the figures, and its rider loomed above

the others in the freezing blackness. Schlein was happy. More than merely

happy. He was ecstatic. His thin blood coursed rapidly through his veins, his

body quivering with the anticipation of a child awaiting a present He could

feel a song of victory building at the back of his throat Death and

destruction stretched in all directions as far as the eye could see. Even in

the cold and rain, blood saturated the ground and the anguished cries of

2ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM

the dying rang in his ears like the crystal notes of some glorious song.

Torrents of black rain pelted the miserable defenders of the village of

Cairngorm—those few who were unfortunate enough to still be alive—and a layer

of freezing sleet coated the forms of the dead who would never rise again,

their swords still clenched in their lifeless hands, cold steel trampled into

the bloody frozen mud. The battle was in its final stages and none of

Cairngorm would survive.

In the distance could be heard sporadic sounds of battle where Schlein's

minions, those hideous battalions of ores, goblins, and other unspeakable

creatures were eradicating the last bits of human resistance. Around them all

came the Mistwall, a sinuous curtain of writhing vapor that swallowed forever,

whatever and whomever it encompassed. The village, and also Castle Cairngorm,

had been valiantly defended by its loyal citizens, but, thanks to the workings

of Schlein, their magic protection was gone... and the defense was now

hopeless. Soon, all would be enveloped by the Mistwall.

Schlein rose in his stirrups. There was another flash of lightning and the

huge magician was startled to see a small group of mounted knights, charging

down upon him from a nearby hill in what seemed like slow motion. Schlein

reached under his frost-covered fur cloak, pulled out a compact ebony wand,

and pointed it in the direction of the impending attack.

"It's almost too easy," murmured the magician to himself with a smile. The

sound of thundering hooves was now clearly audible above the din of battle and

the noise of the storm. Schlein uttered a rhyming incantation, just as another

flash revealed the knights almost upon him. A small ball of fire flew off the

tip of the wand and grew into a massive roaring flame which enveloped the

unfortunate horsemen before they could strike. When the smoke and fire had

cleared, the few dazed survivors vanished under a solid wave of axe-wielding

goblins.

THE STONE OF TIME 3

The Second Battle of Cairngorm was over and done. The miserable village and

those who had died defending it were now but a memory, swelling the Mistwall

to slightly greater proportions and extending its black border of death.

Schlein nodded to himself and stroked his blond beard, which had grown in

nicely following his fiery encounter with the sorceress Elizebith of Morea.

Were it not for her and her meddling cohorts, this worthless village would

have been his long ago. Now its conquest gave him a satisfaction all out of

proportion to its real importance in the grand scheme of things.

His thoughts returned to Elizebith. Schlein had managed to imprison the girl

for a short time, in an effort to wed and bed her... a deed which would have

greatly increased his own power while diminishing hers.

Unfortunately, things had not worked out the way he had planned and Elizebith

had managed to escape, along with the elf Endril. The two had been aided in

their effort by their companions—Hathor the troll and the boy warrior Caltus

Talienson. Schlein marked these names well; they were at the top of his list.

He had not climbed to the position of dark prominence, which he so enjoyed, by

being soft and unforgiving. He was nothing if not a vengeful man. Only these

four had bested him and lived to tell the tale; he did not intend to let this

situation continue. The accursed companions, Bith and her friends, had managed

to foil and escape him at every turn for the last two years. A mere moment in

history, a brief moment, but he would see to it that they paid dearly, and

with interest, for the discomfort they had caused him.

The massive man twisted in the saddle, and grimaced slightly at the pull of a

stiffened muscle, marking the long hours he had sat astride his war horse,

overseeing the destruction. His presence had not really been necessary; the

duly required death and destruction could have been achieved without him, for

the ores and goblins had merely to be pointed in the right direction and

loosed on their

4ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM

hapless opponents. They needed no supervision in how to kill. The hard part

was getting them to stop. Once the blood lust set in, only exhaustion and the

lack of victims could put an end to their wanton slaughter. It was not unheard

of for them to fall upon each other, murdering their own kith and kin when

their base desires were unslaked at the end of a battle. Fortunately that had

not been the case here at Cairngorm, for the defenders had been massed six

deep and there had been enough bloodshed to satisfy even the most savage of

goblins.

Schlein reined in his horse at the top of a knoll. The rain had let up and an

eerie blue glow lit up the field; it was almost dawn now. He stretched

luxuriously in the saddle, smiling down at the ores and goblins as they moved

through the mounds of the dead, retrieving their spoils—weapons and clothing

and whatever bits of finery caught their eye— and dispatching those few

unlucky souls who had survived the carnage. Scavenging among the dead after a

battle was, for the horrid army, like a sumptuous dessert following a banquet.

Such activities held no interest for Schlein, however, and he directed his

horse toward a certain beechwood forest which stood a few leagues to the

north. He rode alone in the receding darkness, along a narrow rutted path. His

horse needed no urging; it feared its master, and sullenly plodded on through

the freezing mud. At length the man and rider surmounted a low hill. The path

led through a tiny village and then into a peaceful wood. Soon it would be

peaceful no more. Schlein dismounted and strolled among the stately trees

which rose above him in a graceful manner. Their white trunks were massive and

bore the marks of great age. Here, there had been no rain, no sleet, and the

Mistwall had not yet arrived. Battles and bloodshed meant next to nothing in

such a place. Many battles had been won and lost in the long years that had

passed since these proud tree-patriarchs were but tiny saplings, and there

were few alive who even remembered why the battles had been fought

THE STONE OF TIME 5

The silvery leaves whispered above him, soft murmurings whose meanings Schlein

was unable to decipher, although he was certain that there were those for whom

the message was perfectly clear.

The forest had been a source of deep pleasure for the elf Endril, and had

renewed his spirit and fortified his courage nightly as he wandered among its

peaceful groves.

Endril was far away now, and on the ground layer upon layer of fallen leaves

absorbed the sound of Schlein's passage as though the step of a mere mortal

were incapable of making an imprint on that magic grove. Schlein lifted his

face to a ray of morning sunlight and smiled at the thought. He would make his

mark on this forest whether or not it approved of him. Its magic was powerful,

but then, so was his, now.

Schlein rummaged in his pouch and withdrew two items: a craggy flint given to

him (although not without persuasion) by a recalcitrant fire giant, and a

striker forged by a master dwarf, which never failed to produce a spark. The

wood fell silent. No bird sang; no leaf fluttered. Even the sunlight seemed to

lose its warmth. Schlein smiled while the forest held its breath.

He looked around him, and a tiny twinge of pity pierced his breast as he

realized the magnitude of what he was about to do, of the peace and beauty

that would be lost forever. For a moment he almost stayed his hand, and then

he shook off the aberrant thought, snarled hoarsely, and touched striker to

flint. A single magical spark appeared, trembled, and then fell to the dry

mast, where it glowed crimson, pulsing slightly as it fed, growing swiftly in

strength and size.

Schlein stepped back as the tiny flames began to rise, crackling as they

burned down through the centuries-thick carpet of fallen leaves.

The trees seemed to shrink back in horror from the flames, but enchanted

though they were, they were incapable of flight, and in the end they burned

just like any other

6ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM

bit of wood. The sap, the lifeblood of the birches, steamed and boiled and

bubbled up through thousands of tiny cracks, uttering shrill wails of anguish.

The trunks swayed and moaned in agony, and die silvery leaves writhed and

twisted in torment as they were consumed by the flames.

Schlein remounted quickly and his horse, its eyes rolling in terror^ bolted

out the far side of the forest and raced up the side of a nearby hill where it

stood with bowed head and heaving flanks, trembling from more than the

considerable weight of its rider.

Schlein tightened his grip on the reins and watched as the billowing clouds of

smoke boiled upward, merging with the impenetrable blackness of the swiftly

advancing Mistwall. Cairnwald, die enchanted forest, had kept Schlein and the

Dark Lord at bay, unable to advance their foul cloud either forward or around

it. The destruction of die forest was inevitable, part of die larger plan.

Then too, it had given succor to his opponent, and one of the basic strategies

of warfare was to destroy anything, any place, and anyone that might aid the

enemy.

Still, as Schlein gazed upon the destruction he had wrought, witnessing the

last of the forest fall beneath me flames, its beauty and serenity gone

forever, some-thing moved inside him, and he twisted uneasily as he was swept

with sorrow and remorse. He had not always been so cold, so heartless, so

dedicated to evil. Once, he had been different.... Schlein closed his eyes,

and in spite of himself, remembered a long dead past... a woman with green

eyes, and long, flowing red hair....

A fearful ore tugged at his stirrup and broke the spell.

"What is it?" Schlein roared, over die din of the fire. He raised his hand to

swat at the intruder, who cowered low and handed up a battered scroll widi a

trembling claw. The wizard grabbed the parchment, and the ore quickly

scampered off into the confusion of die fire and disappeared. Schlein shook

his head to clear it of thoughts of die past He couldn't understand what had

come over him.

THE STONE OF TIME 7

He unrolled the scroll. New orders from the Dark Lord himself Schlein grunted,

wondering what had gone wrong, and turned his mount away from the fires and

headed back to camp.

CHAPTER

2 Evil Tidings

Endril awoke with a start and looked around him. He had fallen asleep against

a tall oak tree, and there was frost on the leaves of the forest floor. Stiff

and chilled, he slapped his shoulders to restore his circulation as he arose

in the red glow of early morning light. The first frost of the year. He should

be enjoying this ... but there was something undefinable that was troubling

him. It was just a feeling, but it persisted, gnawing at the back of his mind.

The elf crunched his way through the wood, his feet breaking through the thin

layer of ice that had formed on the forest litter. He turned left at the creek

and started back toward the manor where his companions were staying. He

shivered, watching his breath in the crisp morning air, and the thought of the

warm fire at the lodge was very appealing.

A great house with rows of arched windows, and several pointed spires stood at

the base of the next rise, and Endril hurried down the path. Smoke poured out

of the chimneys, and the welcome smells of breakfast came to him on the

ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM

cool morning air. He pushed open the kitchen door and found himself among a

throng of bustling cooks.

"Good morrow, Master Endril," said Bertha, the woman in charge, as she stirred

a great iron kettle with a large wooden spoon. "Spent the night in the wood

again, did yer

The elf forced the frown on his face into a smile, waved, and then pushed on

into the dining hall. The large room was so dimly lit at this time of the

morning that the elf could barely make out one of the servants putting logs on

the fire. Endril made his way silently to the hearth, and then addressed the

man.

"Good morning, Sam!"

The man dropped his bundle of logs on the floor widi a clatter. "Oh, 'tis you,

Master Endril, You gived me quite a start, you did!" The man set about

gathering up his load from the stone hearth, and Endril lent a band. "I be

edgy ever since awakenin* this mom. I canna ken what is the matter wi' me."

Sam threw a log into the fire, and a spray of sparks bounced out onto the

stones. "There be somethin' wrong but I jus* canna put me finger on it!"

"I know how you feel," replied the elf. "There's something wrong. I can feel

it too." He moved closer to the flames and rubbed his hands together while Sam

put the rest of the wood into the fire and then poked at the logs with a long

stick.

"Mebbe that 'ere Mistwall is gobblin' up another kingdom summ'ere," ventured

the man, glancing sideways at Endril.

The elf nodded silently, "I fear you may be right; there's evil afoot!" He

turned toward the front door, paused for a moment, and then made up his mind.

"Tell my companions, when they arise, that I have gone to the crossroads to

seek news."

"Aye, sir!" Sam replied, raising his hand to bis forehead in a kind of salute.

The elf walked silently across die hall to the door and was gone without a

sound.

THE STONE OF TIME

Elizebith of Morea stood rubbing her hands together beside the fire. Her

silver eyes shone brightly in contrast to die long raven-colored hair that

flowed down the back of the shimmering black dress that she always wore.

Seated nearby was die troll Hathor and the boy warrior Caltus. Bith was

worried about Endril; he had been gone too long. She turned to her companions

with her hands on her hips.

"Cal, I want you to ride out to the crossroads and see if he's all right."

The boy was not keen on the idea, having just finished an enormous meal.

Relaxation was all that was on his mind. "That elf can take care of himself.

You know how he is when he takes on one of his moods...."

"No!" insisted the dark-haired girl, stomping her foot for emphasis. "Get up

now, and go check on him!" Bith reached over, grabbed Cal by the collar, and

yanked him unceremoniously to his feet.

"Okay! All right, already. I'll go!" answered the reluctant boy.

"And go to the kitchen and fetch him some food too," declared the girl.

"Endril's been out there for a day now with nothing to eat."

"Yeah, sure!" came Cal's grouchy answer as he skulked off toward the door,

grumbling beneath his breath.

"I swear, I don't know what's gotten into him," said Bith as the door slammed

shut.

'Too much food!" said Hathor from his place by the hearth. "He know his duty.

He take food, get news...." The troll looked into Elizebith's worried face. "I

go too?"

"No, no, Thor," replied the girl, wrapping her arms about her shoulders and

sitting again before the fire. "I'm just edgy, like everyone else around here.

And I fear that the news, when it conies, will not be good."

The troll edged forward, placed his mighty paw on her fragile shoulder, and

gave the girl a reassuring pat.

ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM

Endril leaned against the signpost and watched as yet another ragtag band of

refugees hurried along the road. He finished the last bit of bread from the

bag of food Cal had brought him the night before and dropped the sack to the

ground. Last night, there had been no news, good or bad, but now things had

changed. His expression was troubled.

All morning long he had watched the road, and the steady flow of travelers,

all pouring out of the north, was not a good sign. Most of the refugees had

panicked at the sight of his dark, solitary figure, and had fled in terror

into the woods before be was able to speak to them. No ordinary travelers,

these, they included whole families with their possessions piled

helter-skelter atop creaking wagons, with milk cows, goats, and pigs tied on

behind and crates of chickens clucking their dismay.

Finally, after several frustrating hours, he was able to approach an old man

pulling a cart, who had stopped and was seated on a rock, too exhausted to run

from the elf. The news he told was dire indeed.

Endril was shocked to discover that some of the refugees were among those few

residents who had survived the destruction of the village of Cairngorm and the

nearby village of Caimwald. To his sorrow he also learned of Schlein's

destruction of the beautiful beech wood forest. Endril closed his eyes and

pressed a hand to his chest, feeling the pain deep within. It was always so

when something died, but there was no greater pain than the death of a forest

caused by a wanton hand.

The oldster, unsettled by the elf's grief, and anxious to be on his way,

quickly related the advance of the Mistwall, telling how it had swallowed his

ancestral farm and how he had fled for his life, and of those unfortunates who

had not been quick enough to do so.

Endril had been unable to speak, numbed by the news of the swift advance of

the Dark Lord. How had it happened so quickly? The exhausted old man picked up

the shafts of

THE STONE OF TIME

his cart and hurried away with many a backward glance. A swaybacked,

sharp-hipped milch cow tied to the end of the cart rolled her eyes at Endril

and lowed piteously, perhaps mourning the loss of her familiar stall.

Endril stood and watched until the forlorn duo passed over the rim of the hill

and vanished from sight. Only then did he turn his gaze in the direction from

which they had come, the direction of Cairngorm. He stared intently, and there

it was, dark clouds billowing up from the edge of the horizon into the sky,

obliterating everything from view. Those were not ordinary storm clouds, which

would have their moment of violence and then vanish, but something far more

ominous, with far-reaching implications. They boiled and surged as though

alive, the outer skin of some ravenous beast who would consume the very world

itself if given the opportunity.

Endril shivered and drew his cloak more tightly about him, knowing that the

image was not far wrong. The Mistwall was a manifestation of the Dark Lord,

whose intention it was to bring the entire world under his dark rule. The

Mistwall had advanced rapidly, and in the struggle of good against evil on

this sad morning, it appeared that the Dark Lord was winning.

At last, Endril turned his back on the awful vision and walked slowly down the

empty road to the manor where he and his three friends were guests. His news

would not be welcome.

The elf's companions were at the dining table, halfway through the evening

meal when he entered the room. Etizebith of Morea, raven-haired sorceress, was

seated across from Callus Talienson, boy warrior, and the strong and steady

troll Hathor. The four of them, once outcasts, now seemed destined to fight

against the Dark Lord for the rest of their lives. The elf had not eaten since

morning but, at the moment, all thoughts of food had vanished. He told his

friends of the fall of Cairnwald, the magic place where

14 ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM

they had spent an almost idyllic winter of rest.

"But how can this be?" Bith asked, shocked and upset. "When we left Cairngorm

it was safe in the hands of the villagers. And Cairnwald was protected by a

magic

spell...."

"Not enough," Hathor said tersely. "Them not strong enough to hold. Spell

broken. Dark One win."

Endril walked closer to the fire, with a pained look on his face. "Things have

been too quiet for too long, and once again, we have been caught napping.

While we rested on our laurels, the Dark Lord has been busy."

"I'll wager it's the work of Schlein again," snapped Bith angrily. "Who else

would lead the Dark Lord's forces back into Cairngorm? That evil beast has

caused us more than our share of troubles."

"I would imagine that our old nemesis is, indeed, the power behind this," said

the elf rather matter-of-factly. "Burning Caimwald would give him great

satisfaction. The place protected us from him for so long."

"And Malendor is no more!" said Cal, sitting up in his chair. It had not been

long since Schlein had fallen into disfavor and the Dark Lord had called upon

Endril's old enemy Malendor, an undead elf with hideous power. Yet the four

present had easily disposed of Malendor.... "Who else remains to lead the Dark

Lord's forces?" "New foe," suggested Hathor. "Worse than Schlein or

Malendor."

"No! Only Schlein would bum Caimwald." Cal pushed his chair back and stood up.

"It looks like war again, and we four are called to action." The boy warrior

flexed his arms, feeling the muscles move under the skin, reassured by the

simple matter of his own healthy existence. He unsheathed his sword, and

moving apart from the small group, began a series of moves calculated to stir

the blood and quicken the responses. "No sense brooding about it," he said as

he went through the graceful motions, his blade cutting the smoky air of the

room. "There's nothing we could have done to

THE STONE OF TIME

prevent this from happening. If we had been there, we'd likely have been

swallowed by the Mistwall as well. Now mere's nothing left to do but fight"

Bith watched the play of Cal's muscles with fascination, once again aware of

her increasing attraction to the boy warrior, an interest that had grown,

against her will, ever more powerful since his ill-fated romance with Yvaine.

The girl gave herself a mental shake and turned her eyes away, frowning at the

gleam of amusement in Hathor's eyes. "Well, what are we to do?" she asked.

"Roanwood lies several leagues distant," replied Endril. "We can make it by

midday if we start in the morning. Or by midnight if we start now. Perhaps we

will learn more along the way."

"Better make it tomorrow," said the girl, "I must pack, and we have to bid

farewell to our gracious host. Lord Rotherham will be quite put out if we

leave without a word."

"Perhaps he can lend us horses." added Cal.

"Indeed I shall," said a deep voice from the far end of the hall. It was Lord

Rotherham himself, and he approached the four companions on unsteady legs,

tapping a walking stick with each step. "I knew action would be your choice

when trouble came again. Not only shall you have horses, but Fll see to it

that you have plenty of food for your journey." The bent old man leaned on his

cane in front of the table. "Were I not so old and feeble, I too would go with

you."

"We are all most grateful for your help," said Bith, with a smile that melted

the old man's heart.

"Yet you should not leave blindly without a course of action. I would counsel

you to go to the court of King Ethelrud. News I have had from there would lead

me to believe he is calling together all those on this side of the dreaded

Mistwall, to form a grand alliance to stop the Dark Lord."

The four companions and their noble host walked over to the fire and discussed

options and plans. Bith spent

ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM

much time thanking Lord Rotherham for his hospitality. Since their victory

over the Dark Lord at Trondholm, the four heroes had stayed as guests at a

succession of noble houses. Their mere presence brought honor and prestige to

their hosts. Lord Rotherham had been different, taking none of the glory and

giving freely of himself. Their stay had been most pleasant, if too short.

The group talked well into the night, until, at last, near midnight, the old

man fell asleep in his chair. Cal noticed the lord's closed eyes and motioned

to the others.

"I think our host is talked out," he whispered.

"We'd better get some rest ourselves," said Bith as she stood up and walked

over to the old man. The girl kissed him gently on the forehead, and then she,

Hathor, Cal—and for once Endril—retired to their rooms, some to sleep, and the

rest to restlessly ponder what the future held in store.

CHAPTER

A Summons

Rotherham was better than his word, and at sunrise the heroes found themselves

presented with four magnificent war horses, and three strong mules to bear

their gear. Bith's services were required to calm the horses, so that Hathor

could even approach the animals, let alone mount. Trolls and horses do not

ordinarily mix, but a spell taught to Bith by the dwarf Gunnar Greybeard did

the trick, and soon all the animals were nuzzling up to the red-haired troll

and he grinned with embarrassment.

The air was crisp and cold, and the sky a brilliant blue. The gathering loom

of the Mistwall, now just over the horizon, was fortunately hidden by the tall

trees to the west The manor staff had turned out to see the four companions

off. A crowd of shivering servants and guests gathered together for warmth on

the front lawn while Lord Rotherham stood on the high marble steps making a

rather long-winded speech before the final farewells. Once again he cautioned

mem to travel to the coun of Ethelrud, King of the Westwoods, for counsel

before they took any action against die Dark Lord.

At last the speech was over, and the crowd let out a feeble

ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM

huzzah. Cal flung his cloak over his shoulder and led off, pointing his fine

horse out the gravel path that made toward the crossroads. He turned back to

look at the crowd, and they cheered, this time in earnest. The boy warrior

waved and then prodded his mount into a trot. The great house and its spires

disappeared behind the crest of the hill, and the four heroes of Cairngorm,

those who slew the Queen of Ice, the Conquerors of Murcroft, the Victors of

Trondholm, rode on to what would surely be yet another duel with the Dark

Lord.

During the long evening chat with Lord Rotherham, the group had secretly

resolved to ignore the old man's warning and proceed directly toward the

Mistwall to face Schlein. Hathor rode silently in the rear, uneasy in his

saddle despite the spell cast on the horses by Bith. The troll was bothered

most, however, by the headstrong manner in which his companions were rushing

toward action without any real plan. Even though he had no runesword, Cal had

blathered on about duty, honor, and confidence. Elizebith had bragged that her

magic was equal or better now than that of Schlein. Endril was enraged by the

destruction of Cairnwald, and seemed to have lost all reason ... so,

outnumbered, Hathor had silently acquiesced, knowing that any objections he

might raise would be met with scorn.

By the time the group reached the crossroads and turned west, grey clouds had

rolled across the sky and the temperature dropped. The breath of the horses

emerged as great plumes of white mist as the animals snorted nervously in the

gathering gloom. On the main road, the four found themselves riding past a

steady stream of refugees, some with carts and wagons, but most on foot,

fleeing the blackening menace of the Mistwall, which was advancing across the

free world. The wind picked up and whistled through the evergreens, sending a

chill down Hathor's back. He hunched down under his bearskin cloak and wished

that he had a crisp root to munch on.

THE STONE OF TIME

Occasionally, Cal or Endril would stop a passerby in an effort to gain

information on just what it was they were likely to find ahead. Bith remained

unusually silent, intent upon a small book, given her at parting by Lord

Rotherham—a book from which she hardly lifted her eyes. Hathor too, remained

silent, and to keep his mind from the Mistwall, dreamed of food.

By midday, they had reached Roanwood, a small dense forest that was skirted on

the north by the road they had followed. Cal and Endril talked for a moment

and then led the horses into the shelter of some trees where the four stopped

to confer and eat a bit of lunch.

"Those two men I just spoke to," said Cal, leaning against a tree, "were

soldiers from the Duchy of Glenn. An entire army of men has been destroyed."

"Then it is not just Cairngorm which has fallen?" asked Bith, finally looking

up from her book.

"No, the alliance sent forth an army as soon as the trouble began." Cal put a

bottle of wine to his lips and drank, then wiped his lips with his sleeve.

"Now it is destroyed. It looks as though we are the only hope."

Hathor could remain silent no longer, and looked into the boy warrior's eyes,

"You say we go fight! You say we last hope!" The troll turned to Elizebith,

"You say your magic powerful now!" Hathor then turned to Endril. "We do not

practice. We do not discuss. What is plan?"

The elf smiled and patted the troll on the shoulder, "Well put, my friend. At

the moment we have no plan, but I am confident that as we near the enemy,

something will come to us."

"Perhaps Vili will come to us with advice," suggested Bith. She had put away

her mysterious book and was now picking at a cold roast hen.

"That thought had crossed my mind, too," remarked Cal.

"Hope so!" grumbled the troll, who then pulled a fist full of roots out of a

brown sack and began crunching noisily on a particularly large red one.

ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM

The cold meal was soon finished and they returned to the road. The black cloud

that was the Mistwail merged in the distance with the grey overcast so that

all seemed one great blur, and the Wall seemed to draw closer even as they

urged their horses in its general direction. Again the four passed one group

of refugees after another, all of whom told their own version of the disaster.

By mid-afternoon they overtook a strange wagon which was also traveling in the

direction of the Mistwail. It was drawn by a team of six fine horses, and was

heaped with grain which could barely be seen, for it in turn was covered by a

wriggling swarm of furry black, grey, and brown creatures. Above all, waved a

multitude of long, thin tails. The man who held the reins was himself covered

with the creatures.

Hathor shook his head in amazement. Endril let out a little shout of joy,

nudged his horse to a gallop, and rode ahead to talk. Bith looked up, took in

the loaded wagon, and let out a shriek.

It was a wagonload of rats. Rats in all sizes and colors. Rats rode on the

brim of the driver's hat like the figurehead of a ship. Sniffling rat noses

poked out of his pockets, several tails snaked out the neck of his shirt, and

bright eyes peeked over the edge of his shoulder, diving beneath his vest as

Endril rode alongside. Now, ordinarily this would be an unusual sight, in any

place, at any time, but not so for Endril. The elf had spent many days in a

dungeon with the driver of this wagon, and with the rats as well. The rats, in

fact, had provided Endril and Bith with the means of escaping from Schlein's

grasp, not more than a year before, and now the creatures were honored, if not

welcome, around the land.

"Purkins!" the elf cried happily, overjoyed to find that his friend, who had

shared the cell in Murcroft's dungeon, was on the same road, going in the same

direction.

The man in the hat covered with rats hunched over and glanced sideways. The

dark, angry expression on bis face

THE STONE OF TIME

vanished as soon as he recognized the elf.

"Endril!" he shouted, hauling back on the reins, bringing the team up, short

and sending a wave of rats and grain sliding forward. "Endril, old friend,

never did I think to see you again!" He looked back into the pile of grain and

rats and called out, "Blackie, look who's here!"

One of the rats, a fat black fellow with a sleek pelt and long shiny whiskers,

climbed out of the mound and jumped, somewhat heavily, onto Purkin's shoulder.

This was no ordinary rat, either, for he had been charmed for life by the

dwarf Gunnar Greybeard, and now spoke the language of men. "Hey, it's our

friends from the tower! I din't think we'd see ya again so soon! Bad news this

Mistwail business, huh! An' jus' when I thought things was gonna get good! Oh,

well, it's still a whole lot more excitin' than bein* back home."

"We only learned recently of the fall of Cairngorm," said Endril. "But tell

me, why are you all on the road, and what's more, traveling in what is

obviously the wrong direction?"

"Well, climb aboard," said Purkins, dusting off the bench beside him, sending

another wave of rats scurrying. "We have only a small distance more to travel,

and I like not the way that evil wall is gaining on our path."

Looking up, Endril could only agree; the Mistwail seemed closer than ever.

Grasping the edge of the wagon, the elf dropped from his saddle onto the seat

beside Purkins and tied the reins of his horse to a metal fitting. Hathor and

Cal rode up and made their hellos but preferred to stay mounted, as did Bith,

who forced out a greeting of sorts and then directed her mount to the far side

of Cal, putting distance between herself and the rats. They may have saved her

life once, but they still gave her the creeps.

Purkins made a clucking noise and the six horses lurched forward in unison,

pulling the wagonload of grain and rats forward along the bumpy road.

ROSE ESTES AND TOM WHAM

"The boys and I," said the driver, "and by boys, I mean our furry friends

here, are on a kind of secret mission." Purkins leaned back and shoved his arm

elbow-deep into the pile of grain. A moment later he pulled out a shiny gold

bar and twirled it about in his hand.

"Hey," screamed Blackie the rat "Put that back under; you never know who might

be lookin'! Ya wanna blow our cover?"

"Okay! Okay!" Purkins said sheepishly, and he shoved the gold back into the

pile of grain. The rat hopped down and proceeded to bury the treasure more

securely with a flurry of tiny feet and a spray of kicked-up grain.

The driver turned to Endril. "We have to deliver this gold to a bunch of ogres

in a cave up the road a ways."

"Ogres?" asked Cal in amazement. "Why ogres? Don't they work for the Dark

Lord?"

"I thought it was a funny idea, too," remarked Purkins. "But, heck, this fancy

lot of riders came into my stable the other day ... said they come from King

Ethel—"

"Ethelrud," prompted Endril,

"Yeah Ethelrud, that's the name! Anyway, they said they'd give me three o*

them gold bars if I'd take the rest to these ogres in the Cave of Casneer.

Well, I asked 'em why, an' they said them ogres would work for anyone if the

price was right!" Purkins reached into his vest and pulled out a crumpled roll

of paper. 'The deal is all here on this scroll, I guess."

"Well, I sure hope you've got enough there to convince those ogres," said Cal

with a smile. The boy turned to the troll. "Now, Hathor, see. What did I tell

you? Things are already looking up. We've run into an old friend, and he is

about to buy us some allies."

Even Elizebith seemed cheerful, and looked up again from her book. "What's

more, Thor, this book given me by Rotherham is a spellbook he's had in his

family for generations. I'm learning a lot of new tricks."

Hathor shook his head. "Believe, when I see."

THE STONE OF TIME

Ethelrud, crown ruler of the three Kingdoms of West-wood, and nominal head of

all forces that opposed the Dark Lord, drew a shaking hand down over his eyes,

shielding them for a brief moment from the piteous sight of the streams of

refugees, visible through every window of the castle, clogging the roads as

far as the eye could see. The king's sad eyes and stooped shoulders gave

testament to the fact that the task ahead of him was monumental.

"Well, what shall we do next, Geoffry," asked the king, turning to his

companion, Geoffry of Glencoe, a short, slender man who was seated next to

Ethelrud. "Now that our wizards have failed at Cairnwald, Hamm, and Kilmorec,

and three armies have been destroyed?" It was not so much a question as it was

a statement of failure. Geoffry shook his head sadly and remained silent. The

others present grumbled in unison and twisted uneasily in their seats.

This was no ordinary gathering, but a convocation of the most powerful kings,

princes, dukes, and landowners in all the world. Many of those seated around

the table had already lost their kingdoms and in many instances, loved ones,

to the Mistwall. And those whose lands had yet to be threatened knew that it

was but a matter of time before they too fell to the inexorable advance of the

dark cloud. No longer could they deny the threat which many of them had

scoffed at only a short time before.

They had assembled here at the Castle Glencoe, in the Middle Kingdom of

Westwood, by mutual accord, bringing with them their armies and their personal

magicians, spellcasters, and servers in an attempt to find a final solution, a

plan, a way to defeat the Dark Lord. To a man, they were willing and ready to

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IHESTONEOFTIMEThisbookisanAceoriginaledition,andhasneverbeenpreviouslypublished.RUNESWORD:THESTONEOFTIMEAnAceBook/publishedbyarrangementwithBillFawcettandAssociatesHUNTINGHISTORYAceedition/March1992Allrightsreserved.Copyright©1992byBillFawcettandAssociates.CoverartbyLarryElmore.Thisbookmaynotberepro...

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