Paul Edwin Zimmer - A Gathering of Heros

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A Gathering of Heros
By Paul Edwin Zimmer
CHAPTER ONE
The Call
The forest-scented wind hinted at magic as it blew across the water of the bay. Above his head, Istvan
DiVega heard the sharp slap of canvas, and the shouting of the seamen as they scrambled in the rigging,
but his eyes were held by the storied shore, and his mind by memories of tales told him in youth.
Behind him, unbroken ocean reached the horizon where the twin suns sank toward his distant home,
halfway 'round the world. Their light gilded the great bay before him, gleaming on crystal towers rising
from the thick green trees, and painting little houses mystic hues. It had been more than fifteen years since
he had last walked the streets of ancient Elthar, or spoken with those eldest of all Immortals who dwell
there. Deeply as he longed to be home in Carcosa far away, after all these months of fighting on the far
eastern shores of the island continent of Y'gora, still Istvan found himself wishing that the ship could stop
longer here . . .
There was a soft whisper of displaced air at his back. Swordsman's reflexes brought him around, hand
flying to hilt: he heard men gasp on the deck. But his hand dropped away from his sword as he saw the
blue robe on the red-haired man who had appeared out of the air behind him, and recognised the broad
face and blue eyes of Aldamir Hastur.
2 Paul Edwin Zimmer
Istvan DiVega was Carcosan born and bred: his bow, though forma], bore no hint of the deference
another might have shown to one of the Guardians of the World, for to the proud nobles of Seynyor, the
House of Hastur is but one of the great families of the Land of the Lords.
"My Lord Aldamir," he murmured, and smiled at the gasps of the Nydorcans as the Hastur mirrored his
bow, the greeting of one Seynyorean nobleman to another.
"My Lord Istvan," Aldamir replied. "I understand your company has finished its term of service with the
Airarian Empire? That you are now free for hire?''
"A Hastur need never speak of hire to a DiVega," Istvan said stiffly, rebuke in his voice. "Where shall we
march? When? It will take us—" he paused, thinking, sorting with his mind the gear below decks—"three
hours perhaps, and we will be ready. Command us."
"It is not the company whose services we need," die Immortal said "but your own." Istvan blinked in
surprise, and ran fingers through grizzled black hair. Aldamir smiled. "It is your sword-arm we need, and
not an army." Pride rose through Istvan's confusion: trumpets played in his heart. "No army could fight its
way to where we ask you to go: your road is a path for a few. Have you ever heard of—"his voice
dropped to a whisper— "Rath Tintallain?" Istvan shook his head; Y'gora was filled with similar names.
"It is an elf fortress, built above a city of die dwarves, and there elf and dwarf together guard for the
Hasturs a secret of which I will not speak. But on alt the paths of the Future, now, we see an attack, and
great danger and destruction should Rath Tintallain fall. Will you go?"
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Glancing quickly around, Istvan saw Nydorean sailors openly staring, while his countrymen pretended,
with amused tolerance, that the appearance of an Immortal upon their ship was an everyday affair, not
worthy of curiosity or notice.
"I—of course I will go," said Istvan. "But I do not understand how my single sword can aid you. Ani why
should a city warded by elves—and by your kin—need the aid of any mortal man?"
"Not even the Hasturs can see die true future," said Aldamir, ' 'nor know which of the many branchings
we do see it may take. Our meeting today I have seen on many branchings, and always the future is more
hopeful upon those roads
A GATHERING OF HEROES 3
that lead from it. And you will not be alone. But remember that die sword you bear was wrought by
Earnur Hastur, and some call the arm that wields it one of the most skilled in the world."
"Aha!" Istvan exclaimed. "I knew it! You've got me mixed up with my cousin Raquel!" Aldamir laughed.
"Not so! Your cousin Raquel is in Heyleu, counting up the money from his last campaign and considering
an invitation from his old friend Birthran, swordmaster of the House of Ore, to visit at the Court of
Kadar. No, my lord, there is no mistake.
"A party of picked warriors will gather tonight: if you would join them, you need but ride before midnight
to the Inn of the Silver Axe, at the crossroads by Nockarv."
"Should I not take Alar D'Ascoli with me?" Istvan asked. "He is trained both as wizard and warrior,
while my only skill is the sword."
"Of wizards, Lord DiVega, there will be no lack," said Aldamir. "But time grows short. It is a long ride to
Nockarv hill. You may go or stay, but you must decide soon, to be there by midnight. Fare well!"
The Immortal vanished as suddenly as he had come, and Istvan faced empty air that rippled like the air
above a fire.
He was aware of the curious eyes of the Nydoreans, and of furtive glances from his own men. The twin
suns had reached the sea, and were sinking in a splendour of peacock light. Alar D'Ascoli came slowly
toward him, curiosity raging in dark eyes.
"Take command," Istvan told him, "and when you get home, see that every man is properly paid. It
seems I am to stay in Y'gora for a time." D'Ascoli's eyebrows rose.
"What is it about?"
"Ifl knew that," Istvan snorted, "I might have the sense to go home and forget it all!"
It was full dark by the time the boat put him ashore, and then he had to arrange for a horse. A flight of
little moons soared up ahead of him as he picked out his road and urged the horse to a steady trot
through the streets of Elthar.
Midnight, Aldamir had said. As he left the docks behind, me houses grew wider apart, nestled among
groves of trees. That made him homesick for Carcosa. Bright archways opened
4 Paul Edwin Zimmer
in the ground, doorways down into the dwarf city. On either hand, the guarding towers flamed atop the
great black hills that cradled the city between them.
The trees thickened as he left the mortal sector behind; the trees themselves were citizens of Elthar, with
rights protected by the Elf-Folk. Leaves rustled in the wind, and faint music and laughter sounded in the
trees. A bright-eyed, delicate face glanced briefly from the branches above the road. Elf-lights glimmered
among the leaves.
Earth reared up in a sudden wall before him, while the road dived into a well-lit tunnel, iron gates ajar.
Dwarf soldiers in gleaming mail leaned on broad axes. Their eyes moved over him quickly; they saw the
Hastur-blade at his side, and nodded. He left Elthar behind, and rode east on the broad road that led to
the mountain land of Tumbalia, at the edge of the Forest of Demons.
Tiny moons hurtled between the stars: shadows around him shifted and changed. His horse was nervous
and his sword-hand tense, although he knew it was seldom any Night-Thing dared come so close to
Elthar. This was elvish country, and their eyes would be upon him.
He pondered Aldamir's words. It was true, perhaps, that-he had some talent for coming through battles
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alive, and he did bear a Hastur-blade.
But it still did not make sense. He had grown up at the feet of the Mountains of the Clouds, where
Hastur's fortress of Carcosa rises amid eternal snow, and he knew well the power of its Immortal
dwellers. The thought of the Hasturs asking anyone's aid was not comforting.
The big moon, Domri, rose like a huge white mountain from the horizon, and by its wan light he saw the
slopes of Nockarv hill a pallid green. It was still an hour or more before midnight. He rode toward the
window lights that clustered in the hill's shadow.
He came to the crossroads, and trotted across the broad highway that stretched across the long miles
from Cpiranor and the Dwarf Kingdom, south beyond Elantir. He had never ridden that way, although he
had ridden north on that road, to the realm of the Two Kings in Galinor. He hhd been little more than a
boy, then, serving with Cousin ftaquel in old Belos Robardin's company. The Two Kings had*hired them
to drive back an invasion from Sarlow . . .
A GATHERING OF HEROES 5
So long ago! He reined his horse before the gigantic, earth-brown inn, its peaked and gabled roof like a
range of triangular mountains against the moon-filled sky. Four smaller buildings stood dark, but the
windows before him blazed with light.
Domri climbed free of the horizon, floating like some gigantic pearl, dwarfing lesser moons to mere
sparks. The sight took Istvan back to his childhood in a surge of emotion: the big moon had not been
visible from the continent since his youth, and would not rise there again for more than twenty years. He
might well be long dead by then.
Two harried-looking small boys with excited, grimy faces, were dashing about outside the door, trying to
tend what seemed a herd of horses: more than a dozen were still tied under the painted silver axe, though
the boys led them to the stables by twos and threes.
Dismounting, Istvan wrapped his reins around the hitching post, and then, after a moment's thought,
pulled his shield and the heavy bag that held helmet and tight-rolled mail-shirt from the saddle. He tossed
a coin glittering through torchlight into a grubby urchin's hand. Stepping up the stairs to face the richly
carved old brown door, he heard behind him high boys' voices.
"Where's he from? Never saw no one like that!" "From over the Western Sea. A Seynyorean he is, from
Hastur's Mountain!" Awe in the voice reminded Istvan that here he was the wonder, from tfie world's
other side.
The curlicues and spirals and legendary heroes on the story-carved oak door swung back from his touch,
opening on a booming noise of men's voices and laughter, and a glare of firelight.
The room throbbed with light from a huge hearth, piled high with flaming logs. Pillars and panels of brown
polished wood glowed warm wine-red: tiny fluttering candles were like stars around the room. As Istvan
stepped through the portal, the many-voiced roaring fell to murmuring, and he felt dozens of keen eyes
turned upon him, searching him from head to toe.
"DiVega!" a voice shouted, and Istvan saw a big-boned blond man waving at him from one of the tables.
The voice was familiar, but he could not place the man, dressed in a
6 Paul Edwin Zimmer
brown shirt and a kilt of smoky blue tartan, bare-legged in the usual Y'goran way.
Noisy voices rose again as he felt gazes turned away. He set out for the table where the man had stood,
dodging out of the path of a bustling servant woman with a roast and four beer mugs balanced on a tray.
A massive man, broad-shouldered, black-bearded, in a tunic of purple and blue checks, moved out of
his path between the tables with cat-like grace, surprising in so huge a man.
Now individual voices rose out of the crowd.
". . . summer, the daughter of Falmoran, and she was as sweet as the piping of Ciallglind, and her eyes
were as ..."
". . . cut his way out, they say, and fled into the forest. So now Conn Mac Bran is in exile, and some say
that he is in Cotarjon, and plotting with Athprecan's younger brother—they do say that one fancies
himself quite the kingmaker." Cups rattled loudly.
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". . . and struck it off. 'My curse upon you!' says the head ..."
"... under the ground, and a good vein it was, too. But the posts must be set in carefully, or the roof will
go . . ."
". . . safe, but Grom Beardless came down from Sarlow with a horde of his butchers, and a skull-headed,
shriveled sorcerer to aid them, and slaughtered men, women, children, and dragged off as slaves those
left alive."
"Aye. Vor Half-Troll would have done the same at Ardaraq, had Carrol) and Anarod not chanced to be
there. It was Anarod who drove back the . . ."
". . . if his song cannot move her, then I am forever lost and alone in the evil world, and mocked by . . ."
". . . near a jest. Tormac himself laughed as he died. You never saw a merrier fight. And even his own kin
did not like that stingy little tyrant, Tormac Beag Mac Cuon. Yet the Piper Athev made a lament for him
some call the saddest music ever made by mortal man ..."
"Even old Komanthodel stirs, they say, and the young dragons roam each ..."
". . .the black one from the hills ..." 1
Istvan. rounded a table of dwarves. The man who) had hailed him was sitting alone, and he saw in
surprise that it was Tahion, Prince of the House of Halladin, Lord of the
A GATHERING OF HEROES 7
Living Forest across the sea, exiled heir of the ancient Kings of Aldinor.
At the prince's side was the blade his father had taken into exile, the enchanted, two-handed Sword of
Kings: he wore kilt and shirt in Y'goran style, and Istvan remembered that TahJon's mother had come
from here, a woman of the Clan Gilteran, who live at the edge of the Elfwoods.
"Well met!" Tahion rose, and his grip was firm on Istvan's arm. "I did not know you were in this part of
the world at all. Serving the Empire during raiding season?" Istvan nodded. Tahion's smile widened.
"Now, it would be an odd chance that could bring us both here tonight, unless . . ."
"Then the Hasturs summoned you as well?"
"The Hasturs?" Tahion's eyes widened. "Why—no, it was Dorialith of the Sea-Elves who sent word tt
me, through my kin in the Elfwoods, to meet him here." Istvan was startled: few men at any time had
dealings with the Elves of the Sea. "And when I came—" he waved a hand at the crowd around them, "I
recognise half the famous names of Y'gora, and then you walk in. A strange clientele. So! It was the
Hasturs called you here?"
Istvan nodded, and tugged thoughtfully at his dark, greying beard.
"Aldamir Hastur appeared on our ship—we'd put in at Elthar for provisions and some last bit of
cargo—and asked me if I would go to aid in the defense of—" Istvan*paused, trying to remember the
name, "Rath—Rathtallin or—Rathtain-linn—something like that."
"So," said Tahion, thoughtful. "I think in truth you may know more of this matter than I. Yes, the elves
who bore Dorialith's message said that some great danger marches on Rath Tintallain. What all this may
mean I cannot guess, unless one of the greater terrors from the Dark World has broken through once
more; perhaps one of the Great Dyoles, or the Sabuath."
"Not the Sabuath, at least!" A deep, resonant voice broke in, and looking up, they saw a lean man,
black-bearded, hawk-faced, standing by their table, a polished staff in his hand. "All that live know when
that one enters the world, and sleepers wake screaming for a thousand miles around." A dark cloak was
around him, over a tartan robe with a pattern of grey, black and gold. "And I am surprised at you.
8 Paul Edwin Zimmer
Tahion Mac Raquinon, that you should have forgotten that. Do you remember me? We studied together
at Elthar."
"I do indeed, Arthfayel Mac Ronan, though it has been long and long," said Tahion. Istvan, noting the
threads of silver in Arthfayel's beard, wondered at that, for the man was plainly older than Tahion,
perhaps as old as Istvan himself. "Join us." The wizard pulled out a chair and sat.
"I cry your pardon for breaking so rudely into your speech," he said then, turning to Istvan. "I heard you,
my lord, addressed as DiVega. Are you not Istvan the Archer?"
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"No," Istvan lied, cursing the poet who had coined that hated name. "You must be thinking of someone
else." Prince Tahion quickly hid a smile behind his hand.
"What do you know of all this, brother Arthfayel?" Tahion gestured at the room around them.
"That both the Elf-Folk and the Clan of Hastur gather warriors for the defense of Rath Tintallain. That
you knew already: by looking among the company here, you see that only the pick of the Champions of
the World have been summoned. As to why?" He stroked his beard and his eyes were somber. "You,
Tahion, will surely have noticed there is some mystery about Rath Tintallain. Rarely will the Immortals
speak of it, and their speech is well-guarded. I have been there—once, long ago. It is deep in the Forest
of Demons, and not far from the borders of Sarlow. But there are other cities, both of elves and
dwarves, that are as near.
"A mist of illusion guards it, and cloaks—a very strange feeling. A tension. And a sense of—evil. Have
you ever heard the legend of—Osadkah?" Tahion looked up, startled. "Other tales there are, too, of evils
so great the Hasturs could neither slay them nor drive them from the world."
"1 have always doubted that tale," said Tahion. "It is like the tale of Anthir and his Stone: it goes against
all I have learned of magic."
"I dare not claim it is true—one must ask a Hastur for that—but the tale goes that Osadkah was sealed
by spells into a mound. It is my belief that Rath Tintallain is built atop such a mound, to guard it, and I
believe that the servants of the Dark Lords now seek to free—what is buried there—ipm its prison."
"But wait, now," objected Tahion. "Rath Tintallain is a
A GATHERING OF HEROES 9
city of dwarves, as well as elves. Is not a great part of it underground?"
"Indeed," Arthfayel nodded solemnly. "The mines of the little people stretch under the earth for miles
around. You are asking how the dwarves dare tunnel with such a thing in the earth? I have pondered that
myself. But the dwarf city is very old: my belief is that it was there before, and that the Hastur-kin
imprisoned the creature in some chamber of the mines, and ..."
"I'm sorry, Master," a woman's voice broke in, "but the dwarves have drunk the last of the beer, and the
roast is gone, too!" Looking up, they saw a harried-looking woman with iron-grey hair, balancing a tray
of empty mugs in her hands. "Would you like whiskey, perhaps?" Tahion nodded. "And your friends—"
A voice bellowed somewhere in the back of the hall, and she started. "Ah, they're calling me. I'll be back
as soon as I can. What a night!" She bustled off.
The door slammed loudly, and they all started. Two men had come in, wearing bright plaids of red and
blue. Tumbalian hillmen, Istvan guessed: small round shields were on their backs, broad-biaded swords
at their sides; each wore a belt bristling with daggers, and bore three javelins—two light, long-bladed and
wooden-shafted, the third a sharpened iron" stake: the terrible iron javelin that is the distinctive weapon
of the Y'goran warrior.
Silver gleamed at the throat and belt of the smaller, dark-haired man, and on the jutting hilts of all his
weapons. A silver brooch, richly worked and set with moonstones, pinned his plaid at the shoulder: his
shirt was fine white linen, and the feathers of a chief rose from his cap.
His companion was a red-bearded giant, towering over the other, even stooping; his shirt was
rough-woven saffron-cloth, his belt plain leather, and the hilts of all his weapons unadorned.
Tahion and Arthfayel looked at each other.
"It is a bard's repertoire of hero-names tonight," said Arthfayel.
"Who are they?" Istvan asked.
"The dark man with the silver trim is Starn, chief of Clan MacMalkom of Benbiel. He has led his Clan in
many a fight: at the battle of Quol Ardavin, he slew sixteen men with his own hand. It was he killed
Duvnal VicMahan, a man skilled
10 Paul Edwin Zimmer
as any here, who might well have been called, had blood-feud never risen between the Clans of Mahan
and Malkom.
"A good man of his hands, Starn MacMalkom, but the man with him is a better: his bodyguard, Flann
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MacMalkom. He has stood at Starn's back in every battle, and for every man his chief has killed, Flann
has slain two. When the sorcerers of Sarlow raised the demon-host against the Tumbalian hills a few
years gone, Flann wrought great deeds with the enchanted blade that the elves gave him; and it was he
alone who sought out and slew the dragon-bird, S'thagura, who ate a hundred men in one day. Not a
champion in Y'gora has more songs about his deeds, saving only Carroll Mac Lir: the songs of the
harpers ring with his name."
"Except for Tahion," said Istvan, "I know no one here. And what songs from Y'gora cross the ocean
usually tell of things long past, so I know little of living heroes. Tell me, who is that at the next table? The
islander there, with his war-flail? And the other, with the scythe?" He gestured at the gaunt, big-boned
redhead, who wore the long tartan robe of an islander from east of Airaria. Across his table lay the
bladed war-flail, which Istvan had seen used in battle: a tricky weapon, that only an expert might use
safely, with a- long flattened iron bar attached to a longer handle by a length of chain, part of the bar filed
to a chisel-edge.
"That is Ingulf, Son of Fingold," said Arthfayel, "of the Clan Hua-Eliron from Tray Ithir in the Eastern
Isles. Some call him 'the Wanderer,' but others call him Ingulf the Mad. He is a strange one: they say he
served in the Emperor's army for some years, but came west and wandered about the Three Kingdoms.
Some say he has been to the City of the Sea-Elves, where men do not go, and that it was there that he
got the enchanted sword that he calls Frostfire. It was he, with Carroll Mac Lir, who led that wild raid
into Sarlow which freed so many men and women from slavery. The other islander is Fithil of the
Curranach, Swordmaster of the Clan MacAran, from the Isle of Tongorem. Some say he is the best
swordsman of the Isles."
The man he indicated was blond: his eyes pale blue on each side of a nose hooked and lean, that stood
out like a beak from the thin face. His red-and-blue checked robe was held shut by a broad leather belt
with ornate buckle. The handle of the scythe stood up by his chair.
A GATHERING OF HEROES 11
"Being from the continent yourself," said Arthfayel, "you may not know how deadly the war-scythe of the
Curranach may be—"
"I've seen it used in Airaria," said Istvan.
"Ah, have you indeed?" White teeth flashed in the black beard. "During this last Raiding Season, no
doubt. I hear tell of a grim battle there against Norian Raiders, and of great deeds done by your kinsman,
Istvan the Archer."
Istvan looked away, wordless, but Tahion's voice cut in. "There is another islander here," he said,
gesturing toward the shadows near the back of the hall, "whose face is not known to me, nor is his plaid
familiar. Do you know him?" As Arthfayel turned to see, Istvan shot Tahion a silent look of gratitude.
The third islander sat alone in a far, dark corner of the room, away from the fire, and with no candles
near. He was a short, heavy-set man, black-haired, with skin as brown as ale, and the dark checks of his
tartan robe were set aslant, in strange diamond shapes. He seemed ill at ease, gripping a short spear or
staff in his brown fist, and casting wary glances around him.
Arthfayel's brow crinkled, and he turned back with a puzzled shake of his head.
"He must be from far away indeed, from the Duvgall Islands, or beyond. His sword is straight, or I might
guess his Clan some kin to the McDymio. But I do not know the plaid. It is not the MacRu nor the
MacArik, but those are the only Clans from that far away I have seen."
"Is there no rumour of any such traveler in Elthar?"
"None, unless it be that brawler, Karik Mac Ulatoc," Arthfayel snorted. "He is not one the Elf-Lords are
likely to summon!" He rubbed roughly at his beard. "I wonder, now—?"
"But who is that, at the table beyond?" Istvan asked quickly, waving.a hand at the black-bearded man he
had ;; passed on his way to the table.
|; "Yon black-beprded bull of a man? That is Fergus Mac f. Trenar, the Champion of the King of Elantir.
Ruro Halfbreed, if famed wizard-smith of the dwarves, wrought that glittering ^ sword of heroes,
Aibracan, that Fergus had from his father, and with which he has again and again stood off invaders from
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the Forest of Demons. His defence of the Ford of
12 Paul Edwin Zimmer
Avabor will be sung while the world lasts. Only he and Carroll Mac Lir survived the battle of Girt Fullav."
"And the group of forest-runners, there beyond?"
Arthfayel turned to look: there were five of them, naked but for kilts in varying patterns of green and
brown. Bundles of javelins lay by their chairs, and small, dark shields. One wore a Hastur-blade, like
Istvan's own, the rest, short stabbing swords. One had a bow and a quiver of arrows, and all had long
knives and short-handled throwing axes.
"Ah, I keep hoping that my foster-brother Anarod will be here," said Arthfayel, turning back. "The tall,
lean one, with the catfish moustache and his brown hair tied up atop his head, is Ronan Mac Carbar.
There was a monster like a great worm lived in a mountain tarn at Galenor's border: slaying it was a
notable deed. That ugly, gnarled, red-bearded, hairy man, with shoulders broad as any dwarfs on him,
that is Dair Mac Eykin. He bears a Hastur-blade, and has studied at Elthar. Men say he can walk
through a thicket of dried leaves and make no sound. The slender, dark-haired boy next to him is Finloq
Mac Alangal. It is said that he is half-elf, or perhaps a Changeling, and an elf indeed: certain it is he is still
beardless, though long grown to a man's years."
"He is as good as an elf in the woods, surely," said Tab ion. "He is of my kindred of Clan Gileran, and
also an Adept of Elthar.''
"Aye, and he has lived near elvish country all his life," said Arthfayel. He shook his head. "It still troubles
me that Anarod should not be here. Though indeed, he lives now nearer to Rath Tintallain than to this
place. Ah, well. That little dark-bearded man next to Finloq is Ailil Mac Ailil, and a good friend and a
dangerous enemy he is. He has been a good friend to Anarod: the two of them together went into the
dread valley of Baelgor to rescue the stolen daughter of Undaetur. I think it may be his brother Cahir
who is next to him, but it could be Colin Mac Fiacron, they are all—"
"Here I am at last!" It was the grey-haired woman, but this time she bore no cups. "I fear the whiskey's
gone, too. There is a little wine, still, and . . ."
"Wine then," said Istvan, laying a gold piece on the table. "What food have you left?"
"We are plucking chickens, to be roasted and stewed, and there are hams, I think—"
A GATHERING OF HEROES 13
' 'We may have to leave before there is time for anything to cook," said Tahion. "Midnight is near upon
us, best have something quick. Have you cheese, perhaps?"
"And a loaf of bread," said Arthfayel, "if any is left."
"There may not be," said the woman. "A pitcher of wine, then, for the three of you? And a wheel of
cheese, and bread if there is any. I'll be back." She took the gold piece, bit it, and dashed off.
"Ah, now, where were we?" Arthfayel said, leaning back in his chair. ' 'Had I spoken of Cahir Mac Ailil
and Colin Mac Fiacron?"
"Who is the big blond man, there at the next table?" asked Istvan. Arthfayel looked, and his teeth flashed
in his beard.
"Ah! I was wondering when you would ask about him! They say you Seynyoreans are accustomed to
heroes, yet were your famous kinsmen Istvan and Raquel DiVega here, and all the great heroes of your
continent, Birthran of Kadar, Ironfist Arac, or Tugar of Thorban, they could not outshine the glory of that
one! Look well, Seynyorean, for you are never likely to see a greater hero than Carroll, the son of Lir.
"Bards sing of him that his sword is like blue lightning unleashed upon the wall of shields." Arthfayel
almost chanted the words. "Too many to tell, the deeds of Carroll Mac Lir." But he looked as though he
were about to try.
"And what of the dark man at the table with him?" Istvan asked quickly.
"The one with the harp, you mean? Ah, that is only Cormac Mac Angdir, the harper. He will be the envy
of every bard in Y'gora. For he is a good man of his hands, as well as an Adept of Elthar; a hero of many
deeds who deserves a place at this gathering. And surely that will give him matter for song such as few
harpers ever have."
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Poets! There was no escaping them, Istvan thought. There was always one around somewhere, to pester
you with questions and get all the answers wrong, and weave your name into dieir songs with the most
outrageous lies . . .
"Luck is with you tonight!" The grey-haired woman appeared out of the crowd, and set down a hot,
steaming loaf of bread. "No butter, though, but here's your cheese—half a wheel—and the wine."
She set the things on the table and vanished into the crowd once more. Arthfayel cut himself a generous
slice from the
14 Paul Edwin Zimraer
loaf, and reached for the cheese. Tahion poured wine for Istvan and then Arthfayel, and finally for
himself.
"It was Cormac who made the song," Arthfayel said after a moment, "telling how Carroll Mac Lir
escaped from the slave-pits in Sarlow." He smiled and Istvan guessed he was about to sing.
"Who is the young man in the armour there, at the table with the dwarves?" Istvan gestured, and
Arthfayel craned his neck to look.
"Garahis of Ordan," Arthfayel said. "A knight of Cairanor. He is young, but his life has been spent in
battle along Cairanor's northern border. When dark things from the forest swarmed into the Border
Kingdom, three years ago, he rode with scarce a hundred men to the aid of Monacard." He seemed
about to say more, but Istvan forestalled him.
"What of the dwarves? Are they heroes, too, or are they here on some other business?"
Arthfayel blinked at him. Tahion covered a smile. Arthfayel opened his mouth to speak, then stopped,
listening.
All around them the murmur of speech died.
CHAPTER TWO
Secret Paths of the Elves
At first, in the sudden stillness, they heard only the crackle of the fire and the crying of the wind.
Yet Istvan felt a sudden prickle on his skin, and a lifting of his heart.
Music began, weirdly sweet: music such as no mortal man can play. Unbearable longing was in that
music, and an unquenchable joy that somehow mingled with infinite, heartbreaking sorrow.
The heavy oaken door was suddenly and soundlessly open. Istvan blinked tears from his eyes, and
stared. A figure stood outlined in crystal moonlight.
At first Istvan took him for a man, black-haired and beardless, slender yet tall. But as he stepped into the
light of the room, Istvan saw the fine, fragile bones of the face, and the wide, ageless, glittering eyes, and
knew him for an elf—big-boned for one of his kind, his shoulders broad even for a man. ^^
"It cannot be!" Tahion gasped. "Surely that is—" there was awe in his voice— "Unless my eyes deceive
me, that is Tuarim Mac Elathan, who rode with Fendol: Tuarim Mac Elathan, the greatest of the heroes
of the elves!" Istvan
15
16 Paul Edwin Zimmer
stared, while his spine pricked and thrilled: Legend stood in that door.
Five thousand years had passed since Fendol, Hero-King of Galdor, had brought a great fleet over the
ocean to the aid of beleaguered Elthar. The very land he had ruled was barren desert now: generations of
poets had mangled the tales of his deeds. Ruling houses of a dozen kingdoms pointed proudly to his
name in their genealogies.
But Tuarim Mac Elathan still walked the earth—stood now in the doorway with wind blowing his dark
hair and huge eyes gleaming like jewels . . .
In the doorway behind him, two others appeared: long beards covered their chests, but the faces above
them were lineless, delicate, like children's faces, or young girls'. And the sight of one took Istvan back
twenty years.
"That is Ethellin the Wise behind him!" he gasped.
"And Dorialith of the Sea-Elves," said Tahion.
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Now voices joined the music, rising in song. Higher and higher the voices rose and wove, while men in
the inn sat like stone.
Suddenly, the song ended on a note like high-pitched, maniacal laughter, and every man in the room
started.
Then the voice of Tuarim Mac Elathan rang all around them, not deep, like a man's voice, but high and
clear as a bell.
"I greet you, dwarves and men! 1 am Tuarim Mac Elathan, and I ride to war!" Istvan heard gasps all
around him: few had guessed who had come among them. "My kin, and the sons of Hastur, have sought
you out; they tell me mat the greatest living warriors are garnered here. 1 ride now to Rath Tintallain,
ringed by dark powers: goblins and demons from the forest, as well as warriors of Sarlow, and the
sorcerers they serve."
Istvan felt his blood soar and sing in his veins—and deep within him, angry independence burned. The elf
s voice was playing upon their emotions, and there was no need!
He heard his own voice, as harsh as a bullfrog's after the melodious chiming of the elf.
"We know all that! but what is so precious about Rath Tintallain that you assemble such a company as
this to defend it?"
A GATHERING OF HEROES 17
Tuarim's wide eyes blinked in surprise, and elves and men stared. But it was Ethellin the Wise who
answered.
"Your question, Lord DiVega, deserves an answer. This much I will say: whether Rath Tintallain stands
or falls will shape the fate of the World. But what it is that is guarded at Rath Tintallain, and why mortal
warriors are needed for its defense — these are secrets I dare not tell — even to Istvan the Archer; even
in such company as this."
Men muttered all around as the Sea-Elf named him, and Istvan became acutely aware of the eyes upon
him — and most of all Arthfayel's.
"Well, if we are to trust you, let us trust you, then," he mumbled, and was about to say something about
free will and spells, when Tahion's voice broke in.
"It has been long since you have been among mortal men, Son of Elathan, and you have been forgetting
much in all those years. Remember that you speak for mortal ears, and forget not the doom of Ranahan!"
Tuarim's huge silver eyes rested on Tahion. Istvan wondered who Ranahan had been — but it was plain
that the elf knew.
"It is the truth." Tuarim's voice was still inhumanly beautiful — but the edge of compulsion was gone. "My
thanks for the warning. You are Raquinon's son, are you not? Your father. . . ?"
"Dead these many years."
"I feared so." Long lashes swept down over the wide eyes. "He was a good man. So." Tuarim
straightened again, and the closed eyes flashed open, shining like stars in the firelight. "So! We must ride!
An age indeed has it been since I was riding with a company of mortal men!" Clear laughter bubbled out
of his mouth. "Glad will I be to know the names of those with whom I ride. Istvan DiVega has been
named to me, and Tahion Mac Raquinon I remember from his youth. Not long ago a bard was telling that
Mardil O'Corrie was the greatest of mortal heroes living. Is he here?"
"He died more than fifty years ago," Tahion said, quietly. Tuarim was silent.
"Ingulf the Wanderer is here," said the Sea-Elf whom Tahion had named as Dorialith. His voice was
deeper than
was common among the elves, and in the firelight escoul have been taken for an old, frail man, had not
the winothat blew through the open door shaken his beard like a maiden's
18 Paul Edwin Zimmer
hair. "I hear he has done great deeds upon the paths of the World with the sword that we gave him.
Carroll Mac Lir and Flann Mac Malkom arc here, and Finloq Mac B'an, and. . ."
"And Cormac the Harper!" Cormac himself came pushing between the tables, his harp clasped to his
breast. "If it is knowledge of heroes you want, is it not a harper you should ask?"
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Istvan groaned. Poets! He wanted to go to bed. Morosely, he stuffed his mouth with cheese.
"Time passes." Dorialith's voice cut through the harper's. "We must depart. There are thirty or more here
to name, counting these dwarf-folk. There will be time on the road, and more within the fortress, to learn
the names and deeds of our companions."
"That is so," said Tuarim sadly, to Istvan's great relief. "Come, harper! You shall ride by me, and tell me
the name and fame of our comrades. But it is many a mile to Rath Tintallain, and hard riding it will be for
mortals! We must be there before three days have passed, or we shall be cut off!"
Arthfayel whistled, and Tahion sat up straight, blinking. Istvan heard exclamations from all around the
room.
"What is it?" he whispered. "How far away is this place?"
"Hundreds of miles," said Arthfayel. "Nearly a month's journey, as men reckon distance."
Outside the door, the sweet music had begun again. Then, just inside the threshold, two blue-clad figures
appeared. Copper hair gleamed in the firelight.
Istvan blinked in surprise, recognising Kandol Hastur-Lord, the oldest living Hastur. Rarely did any
mortal who dwelt outside Carcosa see him: his presence here was itself proof of the importance of this
matter.
"Kandol!" shouted Tuarim Mac Elathan. "Kandol Shadow-slayer!" With a chime of wild laughter he
bounded across the room and caught the Eldest of the Lords of the World in an exuberant embrace. "Is it
riding with us you are?" Next to the Hastur-Lord, he seemed fragile.
"No." A smile spread across the calm, ageless face of the Hastur-Lord. "No, I travel by swifter means.
But when danger closes on the fort of Rath Tintallain, you will see me there, old friend."
"We shall be glad of that," Tuarim said.
"Well, it is good someone is glad," said Kandol, som-
A GATHERING OF HEROES 19
beriy. "There will be much to mourn ere all is over," Tuarim nodded. "There always is."
"My Lord Istvan," a low voice murmured, and Istvan looked up to see Kandol's companion beside the
table. It took him a moment to recognize the Hastur, then rising, he bowed in the Carcosan fashion.
"My Lord Ringion." Was there a twinkle in the Hastur's eyes? Ringion spoke to Tahion and Arthfayel,
and went from table to table, greeting each of the assembled champions by name.
"Some day it must end," Kandol was saying, his voice somber. "Either we shall hurl them back to their
own place, and imprison them, as Hastur did in the beginning—or else they will overcome us at last, and
eat all living things, and darken the stars themselves."
"Even that would not be the end, for us," said Ethellin the Wise. "There are worlds beyond this, which
must still be guarded if Carcosa falls." Kandol nodded.
Dorialith stepped to the door and looked outside. In a moment he turned back, lamplight gleaming silver
on his long pale beard. His voice rang loudly through the room.
"All now is ready." Men began to gather their weapons and move toward the door. Istvan gulped down
the rest of his wine, and cut himself a large piece of cheese. Arthfayel and Tahion divided the rest, and
Tahion cut the loaf into thirds. Istvan slung his shield on his back and the bag of mail over one shoulder,
and moved away from the table thinking of the unfinished wine he had paid for ...
"Tell me, Karik Mac Ulatoc," Ringion Hastur said loudly, "who was it bade you to this gathering?" l
The brown-skinned islander in the strangely slanted tartan stopped short, only a few feet in front of
Istvan: brown knuckles whitened on the wooden shaft of the strange weapon he carried.
"I—I was with Fithil of the Curranach when—when one of—your kin came to—summon him. I
heard—" the islander's stammer hinted at a voice normally deep, but shrill now. "—They said you needed
warriors ..."
"Indeed, Karik," Ringion Hastur said, "you are brave enough, to be sure. But your weapons are all of
plain steel or bronze or wood, and little use against the enemies we face. And you are young yet, and
have not gained the skill or the
20 Paul Edwin Zimmer
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K:eMuleIncomingimmer,PaulEdwin-AGatheringofHeros.prcPDBName:CreatorID:REAdPDBType:TEXtVersion:0UniqueIDSeed:0CreationDate:16-8-1973ModificationDate:16-8-1973LastBackupDate:1-1-1970ModificationNumber:0NJUBLWQNEM24-01-2003AGatheringofHerosByPaulEdwinZimmerCHAPTERONETheCallTheforest-scentedwindhint...

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