Trek to Kraggen-Cor Read online

  Taking the book from Cotton, who quickly retrieved his own mug of beer and took a satisfying gulp—Warrows do love beer—Perry turned back to his guests. "Well, here it is: Sir Tuckerby Underbank's Unfinished Diary and His Accounting of the Winter War. "And he held it out to the visitors. Somewhat to his surprise, it was Borin and not Lord Kian who leaned forward to take the massive volume.

  "So this is the famous book, eh?" Borin rumbled, turning it over and around and back again as if inspecting it for its crafting. Grunting his appar-

  ent acceptance of its outer cover and binding, the Dwarf opened the tome and, after another inspection, began avidly leafing through the pages.

  "Well, not exactly," replied Perry, sipping his beer, "this is a duplicate of the original."

  "What! Do you mean that we are not looking at the real thing?" snapped Borin, slamming the book to, his Dwarf instincts against counterfeits and copies set ajangle by Perry's words.

  "Krukf" spat Anval. "What good will it do to look through a copy when it is genuine truth we seek?"

  "Hoy now," protested Cotton, his temper rising, "wait up! It may not be the original Raven Book you're holding there, but you can bet your last copper that it's the 'genuine truth,' as you call it. I mean, well, Mister Perry made that duplicate himself, and so you know it's got to be accurate. Tell 'em, Mister Perry."

  "It's as accurate as you can get!" exclaimed Perry, flustered, looking from Anval to Borin and back again. "It is an exact copy! It is one of several exact copies made through the years by the Scholars. It duplicates all of the original precisely, and I do mean precisely: even the spelling errors and the punctuation errors made in Tuck's original journal are copied faithfully. And as to the Account: places where words, phrases, sentences, even paragraphs, places where they were written in and then lined out by Tuck's scribes, even those are meticulously reproduced.

  "Look, the real Raven Book used to be here at The Root, but no longer. Some years after the War, Tuckerby's dammsel, Raven Greylock, for whom the book is named—my great-grandam five generations removed—bore it west with her to the Cliffs, the Warrow strongholt that stood fast and did not fall during the Winter War. There, she and her husband, Willen, gathered some of Tuck's original scriveners, and others, and continued the great scribing of the History. Even now the work goes on, for history always has been and ever will be in the making. And it needs recording. But as to Tuck's original Account, the Book remains at the Cliffs to this day, an heirloom of the Fairhills and Greylocks, the Underbanks and Fletchers, and others of Tuck's lineage. There at the Cliffs it is revered and tended by his kindred, occasionally being added to when some bit of lore or history bearing on the Winter War comes to light, appended therein by the family scholars—but only if after due deliberation it is unanimously accepted.

  "But I digress. It's from that original that the copies are made . . . and triple-, no, quadruple-checked. So, if it's truth you seek—the 'genuine truth' —then you hold it in your hands." Having given his pledge, Perry, though nettled, fell silent.

  Regardless of the Warrow's passionately tendered personal guarantee of the book's accuracy, neither of the two Dwarves seemed willing to accept anything but the original. Disgruntled, they glanced at Lord Kian, and at the Man's curt nod, they reluctantly settled back and Borin resumed his search

  through the tome, leafing slowly through the pages. Soon his dark countenance took on a faintly bafRed look. Then he stopped altogether. "Faugh! I go about this all wrong," he rumbled, at which statement Anval grunted his assent. "If what we seek is truly here, Waeran, then you must lead us to it."

  "And what is that?" asked Perry, his vexation with the Dwarves yielding to a strange glow of excitement.

  We ve come to it now, thought Cotton, and he hardened himself as if for a blow.

  "Kraggen-cor. Our ancient homeland. What you name Drimmen-deeve," answered Borin. "Durek the Deathbreaker is reborn, and we go to wrest stolen Kraggen-cor from the Foul Folk."

  "Deathbreaker Durek?" asked Cotton, shivering. "Deathbreaker? That sounds right unnatural, if you ask me. Just who is this Durek? And how did he get the name Deathbreaker?" Lord Kian smiled at the directness of this small Warrow.

  "He is the First, the High Leader," replied Borin, "the Father of Durek's Folk, foremost among the five Chakka kindred. Think me no fool, Waeran, for not even Durek is Death's full master, for all mortal things perish. Yet, once in a great while an heir of Durek is born so like the First that he, too, is given the name Durek. When this happens—as it has happened again—we Chakka deem that indeed the true Durek has broken the bonds of Death and once more trods the Mountain roots anew.

  "And now, being reborn, Durek desires to return to his home. He has gathered many of his kith—those descended in the Durek line—be they from the Mineholt North, the Red Caves, the Quartzen Hills, wherever Durek's Folk delve. And he has raised a great army. And we are to retake Kraggen-cor, to overthrow and slay the vile Squam, usurpers of that which is ours. We are to regain our homeland, the ancient Chakka Realm under the Grimwall."

  "Are there Spawn in Drimmen-deeve?" asked Perry. "The Raven Book tells that the mines were infested by those and other evil creatures during the War, but since then nothing has come concerning the Rucks, Hloks, and Ogrus that were there. Are they still in Drimmen-deeve?"

  Lord Kian spoke; there was anger in his voice, and his countenance darkened. "They raid the countryside and wreak havoc with river traffic along the Great Argon."

  Alarmed by the Man's seething rage, both Perry and Cotton drew back in apprehension.

  Seeing the effect of his ire upon the two Waerlinga, Lord Kian struggled to master his emotion. The young Man stood and walked to the open burrow-window and stared out into the gloaming, taking a moment to quell his wrath and to collect his thoughts. Through the portal could be heard the awakening hum of twilight insects. Cotton quietly got up and lighted several tapers; their flickering glow pressed back the early evening shadows.

  "Let me tell it as it happened," said Lord Kian quietly, turning from the window to face his host:

  "Though I am of North Riamon," he began, "I spent some years as a Realmsman serving the High King. I won the repute of knowing the Lands as few others do. Durek heard of this, and he knew of my friendship with the King; and Durek's emissaries sought me out and bade me to meet with him in the Dwarf halls of Mineholt North. At that meeting he told me of his plans to reclaim Drimmen-deeve and to re-enter it with his kindred and make it mighty as of old. He asked that I serve as guide and advisor to Anval and Borin and to take them to Pellar so that they might make Durek's plans known to High King Darion. We were not then aware that Spawn infested the Deeves, though we had heard rumors of some dark danger along that distant edge of Riamon.

  "At the court, King Darion told us of the foul Yrm. The King explained that after the fall of Gron, Modru's minions either were destroyed, or were scattered, or they surrendered. Many discovered that they had been deceived by the Evil One, and they swore fealty to the then High King, Galen, and to his line, and were forgiven and allowed to return to their homelands. Others fled or fought to the death. The Men of Hyree, the Rovers of Kistan, some fought and died, some cast down their weapons, some ran, some slew themselves in madness. But of the Spawn—Ghol, Lokh, Rukh, Troll, Vulg, Hel-steed—those all fought to the death, or died by the Ban, or fled into darkness; none surrendered, for they had been too long in bondage to the Evil One to yield.

  "King Darion believes that many Rukha and Lokha and mayhap some Trolls escaped to Drimmen-deeve to join those already there. They hid in the blackness for all these many years, too sorely defeated to make themselves known, too crushed by the fall of Gron to array themselves in battle.

  "In the Deeves, hatred and envy gnawed at their vitals, and the worm of vengeance ate at their minds. But they were leaderless, divided into many squabbling, petty factions.

  "Two years ago, belike through treachery and murder and guile, a cruel tyrant seized the wh
ip hand. He is Gnar, one of the Lokha, we think.

  "It is he who is responsible for the renewed conflict with the Free Folk. He lusts for total power, the dominion of his will o'er all things. And to achieve that vile end, he masters his minions through fear and terror, binding them to his ruthless rule.

  "Before Gnar arose, the Yrm made but limited forays from Drimmen-deeve, and then only at night, driven by their dread of the Sun and the doom of the Covenant to return to the Deeves ere daybreak. They did not range far enough to reach any homesteads, settlements, roads, or trade routes—barely coming to the foot of the mountains, reaching not beyond the eastern edge of the Pitch. But now their fear of Gnar's cruelty is such that at his command they issue forth from that mountain fastness to raid many days' journey

  from Drimmen-deeve, besetting Valon—the Land south of Larkenwald the Eldwood—and ranging as far as the Great Argon River.

  "The Yrm lie up in black holes, caves, splits in the rock, and cracks in the hillsides when the Sun is in the sky; thus, the Ban strikes them not. But at nightfall they gang together to waylay settlers and travellers alike—slaying them and despoiling their bodies—and to attack and loot and burn the steads and holts of Riamon and Valon, or to plunder river traffic, pirating the flatboats of the River Drummers. Gnar has decreed that there shall be no survivors from the raids, except when he orders a prisoner taken, upon whom he commits unspeakable abominations.

  "All of this the King learned from a captured Rukh who boasted of it before he died when the dawn came and the Sun rose; for the Rukh was slain by High Adon's Covenant forever banning the evil Spawn to the night or to the lightless pits of the underearth when the Sun is on high.

  "Upon hearing from the King that Spaunen held Drimmen-deeve, Anval and Bonn were enraged, and pledged the Dwarf Host to the task of exterminating the Yrmish vermin from the Dwarves' ancestral home—a pledge since affirmed by Durek. This pledge was swiftly accepted by a grateful King Da-rion, for the Spawn present a grave problem to the Realm: the High King knows that all his cavalry and knights, his pikemen and archers, and his infantry and all other soldiery, though mighty upon any open field of battle, would be sorely pressed to fight the Yrm in the splits and cracks and other black holes under the mountains. Though he had planned to lay long siege to Drimmen-deeve, the problem of routing out the Spaunen still remained.

  "Durek's pledge solved that problem, for there is no better underground waiTior than a Dwarf—and they are always eager to avenge old wrongs upon their ancient adversary, the Yrm. Thus, the Dwarves are to issue into Drimmen-deeve and vanquish the enemy. They have asked King Darion to forego his planned siege that they might more readily take the Spawn by surprise; this the King has agreed to do. During the interim, Darion sends escort with traders and travellers to protect them, and he has gathered the farmers, woodcutters, woodsmen, and other settlers in to holdfasts til such time as the Dwarves smash the foe.

  "Even now the Dwarf Host has mustered and, if things have gone as planned, is on the march from Mineholt North. Though Gnar's raids still go on, soon—we hope with your help, Perry—they shall be eliminated forever." Lord Kian returned from the window and settled back in his chair and fixed Pern with a keen eye.

  "But how can / help?" queried a puzzled Perry, wondering how the Dwarf mission could possibly bear upon The Raven Book and him.

  Borin leaned forward and pushed the 'Book across the table to Pern "Except for Braggi's doomed raid," Borin growled, "Chakka have not lived in Kraggen-cor for more than a thousand years—even though it is rightfully ours —for to our everlasting shame we were driven away long ago by a foe we

  could not withstand: the Ghath, now dead. And though our lore speaks of many things in Kraggen-cor, such as the Spiral Down or the Great Chamber, our knowledge of that eld Chakkaholt consists of legendary names and fragmentary descriptions. Our homeland is a mystery to us. We do not know how to get from one place to another. We do not know the paths and halls and rooms and caverns of mighty Kraggen-cor. If we must, we will fight the foul Grg enemy upon unknown ground and chance defeat—but only if we must.

  "Yet, if our information is correct, it will not come to that end. We are told by King Darion that your Raven Book —at least the original—holds within it a description of a journey through stolen Kraggen-cor. If so, then from that description, that route, we can glean vital knowledge of the layout of at least a part of Kraggen-cor—knowledge needed to smash the Squam and retake the caverns."

  'The High King knows about Mister Perry and his book?" asked Cotton in awe, momentarily overwhelmed by the idea that High King Darion could know of someone in the Boskydells.

  "Aye, he does indeed know of your Raven Book, "answered Anval, "for he, too, has a copy in Pellar—or did have. His book was out of the Kingdom when we were there—somewhere here in the Boskydells ... or so he told us."

  "Why, if it's not at the court it must be with my grand-uncle at the Cliffs," said Perry. "He's the Master of the Ravenbook Scholars—Uncle Gerontius Fairhill, I mean—and if he's got the King's copy, then they're adding to it the marginalia collected by the Scholars over the past fifty years or so. . . . Let me see: this would be only the third time it's been updated since its making long ago—"

  "Be that as it may," interrupted Borin, "King Darion told us that Sir Tuckerby's diary and the original Raven Book were also here in the Boskydells—perhaps at Sir Tuckerby's Warren, being tended by the Fairhills, he thought. Hence we came, and your Mayor led us to you, Master Perry.

  "Heed me: The account of the journey through Kraggen-cor is vital to us. We have travelled far to see the Raven Book. And if the tale is here in your copy, we would hear it for ourselves." Borin pushed the grey book across the table toward Perry.

  Somewhat taken aback by the bruskness of the Dwarves, the two Warrows glanced at one another, and then at Lord Kian. Reassured by the smile upon the Man's face, Perry reached for the tome. "Oh, the tale is here all right," replied the buccan, turning the book around, preparing to open it; but then he paused. "Only, I don't know exactly where to start. I think perhaps before I read to you of that trip through dreaded Drimmen-deeve, we should speak a bit about what went before, for mayhap it will have a bearing upon your quest."

  "Say on," said Borin, "for we know not what may aid." And Anval, too, nodded his agreement while Lord Kian settled back in his chair.

  "Who can say where an event begins?" mused Perry, "for surely all happenings have many threads reaching deep into the past, each strand winding its way through the fabric of time to weave in the great pattern. But let me start with the first battle of the Winter War, for two of the four comrades came together in its aftermath, and went on to meet the third, and they in turn came upon the fourth:

  "As Modru's forces marched from the Wastes of Gron through the Shad-owlight of Winternight and down upon the northern citadel of Challerain Keep, and as women and children and the old and infirm fell back toward the havens of Pellar and Wellen, of Valon and Jugo, and of other Lands to the south, some warriors hastened north, to answer the High King's call to arms. Among those mustered was a force of Warrows, skilled in archery; and one of these Vulg-fighting Warrows was Sir Tuckerby Underbank, known then simply as Tuck.

  "The iron fist of War at last fell upon Challerain Keep, and you all know the outcome of that struggle, so I'll say nothing more of it, except that the order to retreat had been given and Tuck became separated from his companions. He had spent all of his arrows, and Rucks, Hloks, and Ghuls were closing in. To elude Modru's forces, Tuck took refuge in an old tomb; it was the barrow of Othran the Seer. There, too, by happenstance, came Galen, then Prince of Pellar, weaponless, for his sword had shattered in battle.

  "Together the two waited until the enemy passed by, and then, riding double, they struck southward through the Dimmendark, their only arms being the Red Arrow, borne by Tuck, and a long-knife of Atala, carried by Galen—both weapons having been found in the tomb.

  "They had ridden to the north
ern marches of the Battle Downs when they came upon a scene dire, one of butchery, for the entire escort as well as the helpless innocents of the last refugee waggon train had been slaughtered. Yet neither Galen's betrothed, Princess Laurelin of Riamon, nor his brother, Prince Igon, Captain of the escort, was among the slain."

  "Modru Kinstealer," said Lord Kian softly, swirling the ale in his mug.

  "Just so," answered Perry with a nod. "Princess Laurelin was taken captive. The track of a large force of mounted Ghuls bore eastward, deeper into the Dimmendark, toward the Grimwall. In pursuit along this track rode Galen and Tuck, pressing into Winternight.

  "At last they came unto the Weiunwood, that shaggy forest, where they learned that here, too, a mighty battle had been fought; but here the Alliance had won, using Warrow woods-trickery and Elven lore and the strength of Men. Tuck and Galen met with Arbagon, Bockleman, and Inarion—leaders of the Warrows, Men, and Elves—and Galen was told that five days pa^t a Helsteed-mounted Ghulen force had hammered by, still bearing toward the Grimwall. And afterwards a lone rider had followed slowly in their wake.

  "Again, Galen and Tuck bore east, and days later came to the Hidden

  Refuge, Arden. There they found Galen's brother, Igon, sorely wounded. It was he who had been the lone tracker of the Kinstealer force. But his wounds, taken in the attack upon the waggon train, had at last overcome him, and he would have died but that the Elves found him lying unconscious in the Winternight and saved him.