Why were they called the Singing Mountains? Was it for the western birds, whose song filled the wide expanse from the Kahadlakh to the shores of the Björgrin peninsula? Was it for the east wind, caught up in currents which weaved to and fro through the green highland in composition? Or was it for another purpose, something more peculiar, whether from without or beneath, and which some would say was both natural and unnatural? The real reason behind the name was left to speculation; yet there were many who have said that they have heard the mountains call to them, no matter where in the world they were. Since those who ventured there often mined treasures, the legends brought about by such accounts rung in the ears of countless souls.
Especially the ears of the men of Gemdals, a land that lay nearby to the east, beyond the great river. There were none of that land who were unfamiliar with stories of what had been found beneath these mountains in the West, whether of gems, priceless metals, or, rarest of all, stones of particular and preternatural properties.
Two such men happened to cross over the range on their way back from the north end of the peninsula. Traders from the Far East had sailed the Royal Sea and had docked their ships on its shores; and this trepid duo was sent to fill two wagons with supplies such as linens, parchment and clothing, of the sort that could not be fabricated from material in their country. They had loaded the horse-drawn wagons and had kept to the easiest roads. Their path moved along the lower parts of the foothills, for they would not risk the desert heat of the surrounding lowlands of Pugmorouden. Now for the second time that trip they were spectators of the beauties of the green knolls.
One of these was Finneas, the son of a successful merchant by the name of Jarles Arncourt. It was his father Jarles who had sent him on the journey, and Finneas held no reservations in going. As an eager, up-and-coming tradesperson in his mid-thirties, Finneas was proud to uphold his family’s name and inherit his father’s business.
Finneas had asked of a friend to accompany him, a soldier in the king’s army, who was only slightly younger than he, and already recognized for his abilities. In fact every piece of him manifested a militant association, from the loose chain mail hung around his shoulders to his shortened dark hair and shorter kept beard. Stenley was his family name, though there were few who called him by it. Everyone knew him as Bental, a hardy name and fitting for his vocation. Bental was pleased to escape the grind of his duties for a little while. He was also not so keen to see his friend off on this venture alone.
It cannot be said that they were close friends, for who is able to measure the strength and fidelity of friendship? Bental was a soldier, and Finneas a merchant, professions which even in times of peace are not always the most amiable. They had plenty of disputes, about politics, society, women. But they both had the ability to laugh it off in the end, which made them agreeable toward each other, and friends enough.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Finneas’ face, beardless but crowned by lighter rolling hair, was turned leftward and up, his eyes peering wide. “The way the foothills rise and fall, and form what could actually be the feat of those greater peaks.”
“Indeed.” Bental’s voice was firmer, a fitting product of his more furrowed face. “A pleasanter view than the desert. I’m sure thankful for the breeze; it would be terribly hot on any other road.” He looked southward, toward the great wide expanse of flat nothing spread across both points of the horizon.
“If you ask me,” said Finneas, “I do believe that the mountains are so named because they make you want to lift up your voice and sing. That’s my opinion, anyway. The first travelers to these parts would have had a lyric on their lips, and had been so inclined as to name it after their own predilections.”
“Ha! Perhaps so, friend.”
And such could not have been expressed by the jolly merchant’s son without him breaking thereafter into his own little ditty.
His company was certainly a welcome one for Bental, who was generally of sterner temperament and disposed to concerning himself with heavy matters of state or social affairs. He would have been worried about their return journey if Finneas was not entirely unworried about it. Finneas was the sort who, in response to any expression of concern, would say there was little to nothing worthy of a black sheet to be pulled over the view of such exquisite landscape.
“You’re not aware of any inhabitants about these parts?” asked Bental.
“There are always a couple mining camps. People come for a season or two, and return home during cold months. But then, of course, there is said to be a community of elves somewhere near the northern slopes, though I have never been that way.”
“How long have they resided there, do you know?”
“No idea. Nor could I say whether they are still there. All I know is that there are some among the elves who prefer to live in seclusion. Nomads, you could say.”
Bental wondered if he himself could ever preside in a place like this. It was as lovely and as lonely as a desert flower. And there was the matter of hunting one’s own food, building a shelter, living off the land. No, he didn’t think he could do it. He was a man of the city, and called to the soldiery. Even then he was quite ready to return home.
In a little more than a couple days they had traveled half the length across the range, until they came to the point where the trail veered away from the mountains and into the plains. It would be yet another two days, they knew, until they could be refreshed at the banks of the Kahadlakh. While they were saddened to be leaving the sight of the knolls, the weather at least was agreeable, and their wagons had an easier go of it. It was not so hot as the stretch from the sea to the western slopes.
Upon waking the first morning since their trail left the foothills, and as they were packing their things to depart, a peculiar holler rent the air from the north. When they heard it again, they were sure it was a man’s voice.
“Hullo, there!”
And they saw him, some distance away a rugged chap waving his arms and shuffling through the reeds. The nearer he drew, the greater detail of his shabbiness became apparent, until just yards away he slowed to catch his breath, and his panting only added to his unseemly manner. His shadowy hair was down to his shoulders. His beard, though trimmed, was unevenly so, as if he were in the habit of shaving himself and without a mirror. His nose was crooked, and the skin of his face was rough and marked by textured scars and divets, though miniscule. He was ill-nourished, muscles slender but of a kind that had once held some brawn. He put on an air of friendliness, although his eyes were not that friendly. Around his right shoulder was hung a travel sack that fell down his back. A heavy-looking thing. He seemed all in all to be the sort that was thrown out as rotten wood from society and could never recover.
“Pardon me … sirs. But you wouldn’t be headed to Gemdals now, would you?” He took a long deep breath to compose himself. I’m weary of trudging on my lonesome and could use…”
“Who are you?” asked a bewildered Finneas. Like Bental, he was put off by the man’s dirty second-handed outfit.
“No one, really. Not anymore, anyhow. Only a traveler, myself on my way to Palcor.”
“And what’s your business there?”
“A visit with old acquaintances, to be refreshed until I’ve regained some strength to forge ahead eastward.”
“Do you have a name?” This time the question came from Bental.
“M–Henric.” He seemed to have some trouble spilling it out. The fact that no family name was mentioned did not sit well with them. “I’d be pleased of your company. We’re headed in the same direction, anyhow.”
The friends debated this silently with one another for a minute, with their backs turned toward the fellow. Bental was not comfortable picking up this shoddy individual who might very well be a vagabond. It was rugged business keeping rugged company. Yet Finneas argued that they had no right in denying the man, since it was a free road after all. In the end, it was the merchant’s son who made the final decision.
“Very well, Henric,” said Finneas. “You may come with us. We’ll follow the river to its end and enter the country from the south.”
“Ha! I’d kiss your feet, sirs!”
Bental huffed. His heart reluctant, and his mind moreso, he kept his mouth shut as he mounted his horse and started forward.
This Henric should have no trouble keeping up on foot with their dawdling pace.
“Wherefrom, might I ask, have your travels brought you to us?” Finneas inquired after five minutes on the road.
“From the north, from settlements on the Four Rivers. I’d hope my path returns me there someday. There’s good till – soft ground.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever been.”
The day drew on slowly. Without variation but for occasional rests, Bental and Finneas, astride the animals, tottered along, pulling their wagons steadily, while the man Henric trudged alongside or slightly behind. Little conversation took place, although the man persisted in intermittent murmuring. Along the way they learned that he had passed the place where the elven community had resided.
“Gone now,” he said. “Moved out, or died out – one of the two. Not much was left aside from a few curhuts still erected. But I encountered neither soul nor bones. Completely abandoned, the place was. A sad sight, really. Was a pleasant spot there in the shadow of the foothills.”
In fact, that was the only really interesting thing he said. They found out very little about him except that he’d been traveling for quite some time, from the southlands to the north. He just kept going on about the different types of people he had met on his journeys, from the sedulous dwarf to the northman who was wilder than he.
At last the sun set, and the night’s rest was overdue. The horses were fed, the blankets were laid out, and a small fire was prepared and lit. The nights there in the semi-arid region were quite chilly, so they were glad of a fire. It pleased Henric especially.
“I’ll set one on occasion, but not every night,” said he while he rubbed his hands over the smoldering flames. “Usually all I’ve got to keep me warm are my cloak and my flask.” The latter he extracted from his pack: a cylinder tin with a cap, which he popped off, and took a swig.
“What have you got in there?” asked Bental.
“Only the finest fermentation of the northern sea traders.” He offered them the flask, but they both refused. Bental, for one, didn’t wish to know what vile substance it contained. He was content with his warm water and biscuits.
“You two have homes and families you’re returning to, I reckon?”
“Homes, but neither of us have a family of our own,” answered Finneas.
“Well, one thing I’ll say is don’t let the royalty tax you out of residency. Lost my own cabin in Palcor for that. A plague on the king’s taxes! First the land, then the community – I thought they might start charging me for owning a ferret. Caldradon’s not pure-blooded anyway; his father’s only the cousin to the true king. For all his exploits of so-called heroism, he’s nothing but a misled, spoiled monarch who doesn’t know what’s good for the people.”
At once, Bental’s sword was free of its sheath by his side and aimed at the neck of the rambler. He had been leery of the fellow from the start, and it kept him on edge, but this was too far.
“One more word of our lord the king and you won’t see the light of morn!”
Henric’s hands flew up. “Whoa-ho, friend! I meant no disrespect to you. I’ll keep my tongue in check, don’t you worry.”
Bental held the blade outward for a long tense moment more, then lowered it finally.
“And I’m not your friend.”
He was of a mind to send the man off on his own and leave well enough alone. But he saw in Finneas that he was not as hard-nosed, and maintained a look of curiosity.
“Got me incensed, is all. They took most of my possessions. When I refused them, they threw me behind bars. And the prisons will have you contemplate your life’s decisions, of that you can be assured.”
So, not only was this man a roaming dissenter and a drinker, but he had served time in prison as well. Bental thought he should hit the hay before he did anything to this man he might regret.
“I’m done in. Good night.” Bental went and made his bed just off the trail: one blanket for the ground, one to cover himself, and a small pillow. As he dozed off, the last unpleasant thought to cross his mind was that their uncouth companion could very likely be a thief.
It couldn’t have been three hours later, when Bental jerked awake at the noise of someone’s scream. He shoved his blanket aside, thinking they must have been set upon by bandits. Then again—a horrific thought!—perhaps Henric had done the unthinkable and assaulted Finneas in his sleep.
He stumbled around for his sword, and when he had found the hilt, the voice cried out again. He was reassured that this was not the cry of his friend, but seemed to be the wiley Henric himself!
Finneas, too, had gotten up, and they both scrambled to where Henric had made his sleeping corner, surrounded by several bushes. The man, only half clothed, was on his back on the ground with his right leg brought up to his chest. He was howling and hissing through his teeth.
“What happened, man?” cried Finneas.
With difficulty, Henric mouthed “s–snake!” and pointed toward a bush to his right. They glanced that way, and saw nothing for a moment. Then, just as the man indicated, a slithering tail retreated into the thorn brush and out of sight. Bental fell at the man’s side and examined his leg. There, at the ankle, were several red marks, two prominent that were the creation of fangs.
“Finneas,” he beckoned to his comrade, who was still peering around the bushes in hopes of spotting the hunter, “have we an anecdote for poison?”
“I’m afraid not.”
Bental grit his teeth. Incidentally he had not been taught the first thing in how to treat a snake bite.
“You might try sucking it out, if the bite indeed was poisonous. I can’t see where the thing’s gone, can you?”
Bental brought his lips to the wound and began to draw what he could. All he tasted was blood, and he doubted his effectiveness. After he had attempted this raw extraction several times, and had spit his saliva upon the ground, he ripped a piece of cloth from the man’s frayed cloak and bandaged the ankle. All the while Henric was wheezing like a hound giving birth.
“Hold on.” He tried to sound as reassuring as he was able. “Have you anything for this in your pack?”
“Nothing!” Henric belted, accompanied by a curse. “You think I keep everything in there?”
There was nothing in all their provisions that would serve as a curative. They were compelled to leave the bite wrapped and hope they can return to civilization in time for the chap to be treated. Bental offered to stay beside the man for a while, so that Finneas could return to his sleep. The merchant’s son said he would try, but that he would do so on the wagon, above the ground where no serpent could reach. For two hours Bental stayed awake at Henric’s side, feeling wretched and useless, while the man wallowed in his agony.
Two things kept him alert during that time: Henric’s periodic groans, and the constant worry that the serpent would return. But after a while he was no longer able to hold his own head up, and so he returned to his blankets.
At dawn, when they awoke, they saw Henric had become slightly paler, and as they first found him with his eyes shut they suspected he might have been dead. But then he too came awake. So they loaded him onto Finneas’ wagon, knowing full well he could not walk on his leg, and set off.
There was no pushing a quicker pace than that which they made before, since the trail was rocky and the faster they went the more the wagons rattled. Henric must have grumbled the entire day, being terribly uncomfortable both from the festering wound and the consistent perturbations of his ride. When finally they happened upon the shores of the Kahadlakh they halted and carried Henric to the banks. Unbandaging the wound, they bathed the man’s legs in the shallow rushes for several minutes, hoping this would assuage the pain, or even help it heal. It seemed at least to give him some relief.
They tried to make better time by foregoing additional rests, and that night by stopping for only four hours. They traveled as long into the night as their eyelids and steeds allowed. Judging by how long they journeyed along the river they deemed they were but a little more than a day out from Delmand.
Upon the following morning Henric was shaking under white skin and a surfeit of perspiration. It appeared by his countenance as if he had already met with death and all of its beguiling demons.
What had been a rather pleasant venture to the West Coast had inauspiciously taken a turn for the worse. Bental’s own face went damp with drops of sweat because of the fact that they could do nothing to advance their speed. Indeed they did all they could to keep up their pace, and to feed the man water and food, although he was hardly able to swallow it. Henric’s groanings were much fewer than the previous day, and he kept his eyes upon the clear sky, as if pleading for it to take him away. All the while the unrelenting sun beat down upon them as if with judgment of its own.
A small lake that they passed marked the end of the river, and soon after the trail turned northward. They were entering the king’s country, as evidenced by greener plains and the fresher scent of woodland.
It must have been late in the afternoon when they noticed they had not heard a peep from Henric in two hours and paused to check on him. This time his eyes were closed. They shook him to see if he would wake, but the man gave off no sign of life. His spirit had gone, and he lay stiff as a dry twig.
“Poor feller,” said Finneas — a eulogy of a rather paltry nature.
In one sense Bental was vexed; no man, no matter his past, should have to endure such a fate, and they were unable to save him. In another sense he was glad to be rid of him, and of any possibility of being robbed, or harassed, or molested. He knew from the start it was a bad idea to keep company with him.
They traveled on a little ways in search of a proper burial place, and agreed upon a spot in the proximity of a large oak tree. There they set about shoveling a hole and placing the dead man in it.
There was not much to discuss thereafter except what to do with the man’s provisions. So while Finneas worked at covering the grave, Bental scoured Henric’s pack. As he expected, he withdrew another dirty pair of trousers, more molding bread wrapped in sheepskin, the man’s liquor flask, and—
—But this was entirely unexpected: a box of some refined timber rested at the bottom; no one would ever suspect it was there. Removing it, he inspected the exterior. It was about eight by five inches, beveled on top, and of exquisitely-crafted woodwork. Particularly arresting was its seal, a round lock two inches in diameter embellished by a blue insignia depicting some bird. Having some knowledge of ornithology, he thought it held the resemblance of a whistling thrush. Whatever its representation, its design was beautiful. He played with the seal a moment, pulling it in different ways, until he discovered that it rotated to unlock the box. Upon opening it just a crack, a subtle green glow emitted through, and he shut it immediately. Shock now manifested in heaps upon his face. What had this man been hiding all this time?
He glanced over at Finneas, who proceeded to heave the dirt. Then he opened the box entirely, and initially had to squint from the intensified glow from inside. Not only that, but he thought his ears discerned from within the faintest hum. Both light and sound slowly diffused, however, and he thought that it might have been due to the daylight or even to the breeze that wafted over the trimming. He saw then that the glow was from five stones of rough and ordinary cut. If it were not from their unnatural luminescence Bental would have thought nothing of them, and would have considered it odd that Henric had been hauling ordinary rocks in this exquisite chest. They must have been something special—some very rare jewel.
He almost called out Finneas’ name, when a thought occurred to him. If these were rare jewels they would certainly be of high market value, or even beyond price. Finneas would be ecstatic at the prospect and would not waste the opportunity to sell the stones at the highest cost. Something within him told him he would rather keep them a secret. He would want to learn more about what they were, and how it was they were able to emit such light. Acting upon his impulse, he took a piece of dirty cloth from among Henric’s belongings, pulled the stones from the box and wrapped them, then slid the bundle under his shirt. The chest itself he did not mind sharing with his friend, so he called him over.
“Finneas! Finneas – come take a look at this!”
Presently Finneas abandoned his exertions and walked over.
“This was at the bottom of our deceased friend’s pack.” Bental held up the box for Finneas to examine, whose eyes lit up and whose hands took hold of the box.
“Well, I’ll be! I wonder where the chap came across it! Stole it, most likely. But here, the symbol’s that of the elven tribe I told you about before, from the Northern Slopes. This could make a fine price.”
“The man said that the tribe no longer lives there. Is it theft if the fellow found this among ruins?”
“I suppose not. Unless, of course, he was telling lies and did not want us to know he had stolen from them. The truth is but unwashed gems hewn from marl.”
Bental considered this. So the stones, then, could have been produced by elves as well. Or else they were found in the mines beneath the mountains.
“If the fellow were correct,” continued Finneas, “I wonder what else might be found at this abandoned site.”
Bental cleared his throat. “Can’t be much,” he said. “Or we would have heard of it from Henric.”
“True. Well, I have no need for a chest like this. I’ll split its profit with you, unless you want to keep it.”
Bental shook his head. Suddenly he was beset by guilt. Finneas was being nothing but fair to him, while he refused to share the existence of the stones.
They traveled on from there, both of them quite exhausted from the events of the past few days. At least they were no longer compelled to make haste, and home was only several hours away. There came over them a bitter draft, for it was nearing the end of summer. While the closer they drew to home and the greener everything seemed to be, still the semi-arid plains were not as full of the life and verdure that were so pleasing to the senses.
Stenley tired of the sound of hooves upon packed dirt, and of the rattle from the wagons. It was like a tremor in his ears that persisted in vexing him. What’s worse was the perpetual density in the air from the dust; he preferred even to have a shawl over the bottom half of his face for much of the time. All that day he was wracked by an onslaught of emotion: curiosity on account of the stones he carried at his bosom; remorse for the death of Henric; and a rising regret for hiding the stones from Finneas. Questions kept passing through his mind, such as: was this something a friend would do? Would Finneas hide them from him if they had come into his possession first? Yet he felt that the longer he kept them a secret, and if he were still inclined to reveal them at all, the more severe would be Finneas’ resentment.
Finneas, by contrast, kept up a general mirth, which manifested in expressions of what he was looking forward to upon their return: everything from a bath to a home-cooked meal and even his return to work on the morrow.
Bental said very little at all, until, that is, they came in sight of Delmand’s southern watchtower. The outpost of stone and brick was one of four such structures built in each direction some distance from the capital for security against foreign hostiles. It meant they were only three-quarters of a league from home.
“Finneas, hold up,” Bental pulled on the reins to a stop, and Finneas followed suit.
“What is it?”
Here Bental was at a crossroads, for if he kept the stones a secret from his comrade, there might come a time when they would be found out, and Finneas would never forgive him. Then again, they were his own discovery, and Finneas had no part in it.
The ground upon which his eyes fell for a moment moved with the dust rolling by the breeze.
“I have not been entirely honest with you.” A still small voice spoke through him, and his hand instinctively reached inside his cloak. Slowly he dismounted and approached his friend. “Henric’s box was not empty when I found it.” Then he extracted the cloth and unwrapped it. “It contained these.”
Green reflected in the pupils of Finneas’ eyes. He was off his horse in an instant.
“What in Tharin’s crown are those?”
“I am not too sure.” Bental held out the stones, and Finneas took one in hand. “They must have been mined at one point by that tribe of elves.”
The glow in Finneas’ eyes diminished. “I’m a perceptive man, Bental. I thought you had something up your sleeve all day – or in this case, down your shirt. I can forgive your reticence in hiding these, though I’m shocked you would do so from me.”
“I…I shouldn’t have. I know.”
The severest frown fell over Finneas’ face. For a long moment he held it there. Then he formed a deep intake of breath.
“I’ve heard tell of strange elements found under the mountains, and of stranger deaths and disappearances. Yet as I’m also a rational man, I don’t set great store by such superstition. No doubt they are a rare mineral and likely beyond price, and there may certainly be any number of reasons why the elves would mine and protect them. But… oh, thrash it! you keep them. They were dropped in your hands.”
He shoved the stone in his palm back into the bundle, a gesture that spelled the extent of his irritation.
Obviously Bental was caught by surprise.
“I’d be thankful that you didn’t spread the word about them,” he said.
“Oh, don’t worry.” Finneas hopped back onto his saddle. “But if you learn anything about them, you’ll let me know, won’t you?” For curiosity had triumphed over them both.
Bental nodded. “Of course.” And he meant it. He pursed his lips in a manner of satisfaction. To what extent Finneas truly was forbearing, he could not tell, but he was grateful at least to have escaped a more severe consequence for his actions.
He was about to close his hand and wrap the stones again when he discerned their faint and resonant humming. It was a gentle, soothing sound that came and went, like the wind passing through the foothills of the Singing Mountains.