"Aye, I'll grant thee, tokens of power are mysterious things, perhaps guided by Adon from afar, or by Gyphon… or Elwydd or Garlon or any of the others-who can say? Yet none but perhaps the gods know for certain which things are tokens… until their ordained work comes to pass.

"Hear me, though, for this I do believe: the green stone is a token of power, yet one which I pray never fulfills its destiny."

Silence fell over them all, the stillness broken only by the scrape of Alos turning his empty mug around and around on the tabletop. At last Egil said, "If you are right, then it would seem that we all are driven to fulfill the destinies of these tokens of power. What then does it matter that we strive to reach our own ends? For whether or no we wish it, we are compelled by these things. -I hope I never come upon one of them."

Aiko looked at Egil. "Think on this: perhaps it is your wyrd to, as you say, come upon one of them. Perhaps you have no choice."

Egil gazed back at her. "What do you believe, Aiko? About tokens of power, that is, and whether or no they compel us to pursue their destinies?"

Aiko took a breath and said, "If I were to come upon one, then perhaps I would choose the token for it would suit my aims, and perhaps the token would choose me for the selfsame reason."

"Then you believe that you could also reject the token if it did not suit your aims?"

Aiko nodded.

"Then, Lady Warrior, you believe that the paths of the tokens and their bearers happen to be going in the same direction, aye?"

"Yes, Egil One-Eye, I do. I have free choice, all things being equal."

"All things being equal? What do you mean by that?"

"Just this: the gods may will it otherwise that I do a thing I would rather not. Then I would have no choice at all in the matter."

Egil nodded. "Except for my wyrd, I, too, believe I have unfettered choice in all things. But as to my wryd, I have no choice whatsoever. No matter the path I freely take, in the end I will meet the blade with my name on it, or the ship or spear or come what may; as it is with all men, I cannot escape my wyrd. The power that rules even the gods makes it so, though the gods themselves may have a hand in it."

"Pfaugh!" snorted Alos. "The gods are capricious and visit nought but afflictions down on mankind." He lowered his head and put a hand over his scarred, blind white eye… and of a sudden began weeping. Concerned, Arin stepped to the oldster and laid a hand on his shoulder. Sobbing uncontrollably, Alos looked up at her, his face twisted in anguish. Long strings of tear-driven clear mucus dangled down from his nose. Feebly he groped for his kerchief, blubbering all the while.

Aiko glanced at the old man in disgust. Then she turned back to Egil and asked, "Only men have wyrds? What of women… and what of the Dylvana and Lian and Dwarves and all other of Elwydd's creations? And what of the Foul Folk made by Gyphon? Am I and all of these others completely bereft of wyrds?"

As Alos blew his nose, Egil looked at Aiko in astonishment. Then he cocked his head in inward reflection. Still Alos blew and blew. At last Egil said, "Yes, Aiko, all have wyrds. It's just that I-"

"It's just that you had never considered anyone or anything other than men. Rikotekina otoko!" She turned her back to him in disgust.

Alos finished blowing and held up his sodden handkerchief and peered at it blearily, then wadded it up and squished it into his pocket. Still tearing, he smiled his gap-toothed, ocherous grin at Arin and said, "Let's all have us a drink, aye?"

Arin did not tell more of her tale that night, for Egil was weakened and weary, and she insisted that he get some sleep.

Alos was all for making his usual rounds of the taverns, but decided to stay after Arin told him that there was more of the tale to tell, and that ale would be served on the morrow and she'd rather he stayed in the room. He pondered for a moment and glanced at the door, then smiled to himself and agreed.

And so all settled down for the nighttide: Egil asleep in his bed; Aiko in cross-legged meditation in front of the door, her swords lying on the tatami before her; Alos prostrate on his pallet, disgruntled, unable to get out without awakening the yellow warrior, if indeed she was truly asleep; Arin sitting by the fire, staring deeply within.

Sometime ere dawn, Egil began thrashing abed, crying out men's names, cursing, a berserker look in his open but unseeing eye. Arin stepped to his bedside and tried to soothe him, to no avail. Aiko stood at hand in case there were a need. Still shouting and cursing, he awakened at last and looked wildly about… then buried his face in his hands and wept. Arin sat on the edge of the bed and sang a soft Elven song, and Egil lay back down weeping. After a while he fell deeply asleep. Arin returned to her chair and Aiko to her tatami mat. The Dylvana stared into the fire, but she soon looked away, unable to focus, for her thoughts kept reverting to the man in the bed. Ill dreams, indeed.

The next morning at break of fast, Healer Thar came by to check on the patient, and after the Dylvana applied an unguent to the raw wounds, he and Arin laid on fresh bandages.

Thar stayed long enough to have a bite to eat, but then went onward to make his daily rounds.

Orri came right after-bluff and full of cheer-and he brought with him a leather eye patch, dyed the brightest scarlet with a small golden symbol scribed thereon. " 'Tis a gift fr' th' crew. They wanted ye t' ha'e it. Ach, ye'll make a fine figure o' a Fjordsman when we go back at th' Jutes, lad, and ye take y'r revenge. We e'en had it scribed wi' Aden's sign-th' war-hammer one, it be: th' Kammerling, or so they say 'tis. Right fitting, too, for what better symbol to bear on a raid of vengeance than th' thing the Dwarves call the Rage Hammer, aye?"

Orri stayed till midmorn, sharing a pitcher of ale with Alos, much to the oldster's dismay, for Orri got the most of it before he left.

It was nigh mid of day when Arin took up her tale once again…

Back through Darda Galion they rode-Arin and her companions-back through the soft shadows of this dimlit wood. Across mossy swales they fared and alongside and through the streams of the forested land-some quick running, where the water foamed white and tumbled loudly among rocks; others gliding quietly between low ferny banks, or high stone walls, and whispering a fluid song of flow.

The hush of the soaring Eldwood stole over Arin even as she rode, and she nodded in a doze and lost track of time in the timeless twilight.

And morning and eve the argent songbirds sang their melodies of dawn and dusk and caroled beauty throughout the land, filling the forest with song.

Across the swift-flowing Quadrill they fared, and then the slower Rothro, as they made their way back along the route they had ridden just days before.

At last they came to the march-ward camp, where they spent the night… and Silverleaf told of the felling of the nine. The warders shouted in dismay and railed at the vile deed wreaked by the Spaunen there along the Grimwall flank. Many would have ridden straightaway to join Aldor's force of retribution, but they could not abandon their posts, and so they seethed with impotent rage.

The next morn dawned to a steady rain and glum Tarol accompanied the seven to the dock where they summoned the ferry of Olorin Isle, barely seen in the blowing mist.

They transferred from one Riverman ferry to the other and finally reached the eastern bank of the mighty Argon.

Northeastward they rode through the southernmost tip of Darda Erynian to come that rainy eve to the banks of the River Rissanin.