The Doitherúna gave fair shapes to the lands and waters of the Midworld, ages back before the ruinous Giants’ wars. The people known at that time as the Silúna loved the waterways and laboured to make them more beautiful. Later they withdrew from the Midworld to the isles and seas and were called the Fâwiengri, the waveriders. In the hills westward of the Dagnath Nebren the Silúna fashioned a broad and wondrous lake, almost an inland sea, fed by several streams issuing from dark caves. Its name was Fleswen ta-Féore, the broad lake of the west.
The first wandering bands of the Hyûvandri who reached this lakeshore, seeing the fertility of its shores and the abundance of birds and fish, settled there with delight. Ingos, Father of Peoples, sometimes sojourned with them there. And it remained quiet and peaceful while Negobith was bound.
Not far from the place where one of the mountain streams entered the lake there was a small dwelling where an old widow lived all alone, except for her donkey, her cow, and her chickens. Her name was Kwífa. She used to go to the lakeshore every day, sometimes to do her laundry, sometimes to gather rushes, sometimes to catch a fish for her dinner. One day she was by the shore, watching the water, when she caught sight of a strange bundle floating not far off. At first it looked like some rags wrapped around a barrel with a great stick or staff protruding from it. She ran to get the pole which she used to support her washing line. With a little trouble, and after wading some way into the lake, she succeeded in bringing the bundle to the shore.
What she had thought was a large staff seemed to be a huge sword. And what she thought were rags were the body of a man on whose back the sword was strapped, a man with brownish skin and curled hair. And he was lying face downward on a huge drum, though how he stayed on the top of it she could not imagine. Was the man dead or alive? It was then, as the body floated in the shallows, that she saw the shaft of an arrow (the feathers had broken off) sunk into the man’s left leg.
As she stood wondering what to do, the body suddenly moved, giving her a fright. The man raised his head and pushed himself off the drum, falling into the mud with a splash, and then tried to pull himself up on land. His hands were clad in great gauntlets. Kwífa hastened to help him. She took one gauntleted hand in both of hers and pulled as hard as she could, while he crawled mostly with his right leg, the other moving feebly. After the effort, the man lay still and speechless on the grass. Kwífa ran to her house. She fetched an old straw mattress and a length of rope. She brought her donkey and secured the mattress to the donkey’s neck with the rope. She helped the wounded man to pull himself on to the mattress and drove the donkey to the door of her house. With great effort she pulled the mattress with the man on it into the front room (her house had only two rooms). Then she went back for the drum and brought that inside.
She gave the man water to drink, and then some wine to ease his pain. She went to unstrap the great sword from his back but he began to struggle with her. The strange man gasped:
‘You must not touch that blade! It has power to harm you.’
She said:
‘Very well, I will loosen the straps and you can take it.’
He seized it by its hilt and held it close to him. Then Kwífa made up a good warm fire in the grate to keep the wounded man warm. She asked him:
‘What is your name?’
The man groaned and said:
‘You can call me Silugíri.’
She said to herself:
‘That means but “waterman”. Can it be his true name?’
Then she covered the man with a blanket while she considered what to do about his wound.
‘Surely your wound pains you? I will find someone who has the skill to tend it.’
‘No, I beg you, mother. Let not my presence here be known abroad.’
‘Kwífa speaks to no man or woman. But you will die if your wound is not tended. Let the old Dabargi man tend you. No one sees him but I.’
Now although Kwífa lived all alone, she was not without help. Most nights, after she had gone to bed, the little old Dabargi man (as she called him) would come to her house to do odd jobs. He might sweep the kitchen floor, clean out the fireplace, churn butter, or turn the cheeses. Once even, when the cow was sick, he tended her until she was quite well again. And in return, Kwífa used to leave him a loaf, some eggs, a jug of milk or home-made wine, or fruit from her trees and bushes (which he could have picked for himself, but never did). No doubt he was in truth a member of the people of the Kabadri, but Dabargi was how Kwífa had refashioned the word, and so for her this remained his name.
Kwífa resolved to stay up late that night and accost the Dabargi man. She would ask him to tend the wounded stranger, for she had not the skills of a healer, and feared even to try to remove the arrowhead, lest he bleed to death.
That night she made up her bed in the kitchen, for the stranger was lying in the parlour where she usually slept, and she sat up to await the Dabargi man. But despite her efforts, she fell asleep. In the middle of the night she was woken by voices from the parlour. She crept to the door and looked through a little crack in the wood. Just as she did so, the stranger gave a cry and she caught sight of the Dabargi man, kneeling by Silugíri’s mattress and holding a broken arrow in his hand. She listened intently through the door.
Now it is out. I will bandage the wound. You must rest here for some days, Slungandi.
I cannot stay, O Tormakkendus. The Prince Groiznath and the Falakkazri are hunting me. This house and the good woman who lives here are not safe.
I perceive that they seek for that sword, which is certainly a great one.
I cannot deny it. That is Gantzor, the coldsword wrought by Dreygan the Frostgiant, which Negobith and Groiznath both greatly desire.
They cannot enter the Berugwanna, O Slungandi.
They are branding the Hyûvandri with the Yoke of Negobith. The Hyûvandri can roam freely. They will send Hyûvanka Yokeservants after the Sword.
The Hyûvandri of Fleswen ta Féor are children of Ingos, like the good Kwífa here. They will surely protect you.
Tormakkendus, I have tried the hearts of both Doitherúna and Hyûvandri. There are many who will do for what they covet, or for fear, that which otherwise they would never do.
Where, then, will you go?
I shall take it to Ingos, to the isle where he lies, as I should have done from the beginning. That place cannot be reached by the slaves of Negobith while Kapatingos stands.
Daybreak is not far away, Slungandi. I must return to my dwelling. Go with goodwill, and may Émarul Sáfa defend you!
I expect no help from that quarter, my friend; for you know that I am a renegade from the Hyilavúna. But may the reward of all faithful nyandri be yours for tending my wound.
Trembling, Kwífa hastened back to bed. She heard the faint sounds of the Dabargi man departing. She had much to think about. The least of them all was that now she knew the Dabargi man’s name, Tormakkendus, which he had always kept secret. And she knew that the stranger had indeed deceived her about his name: for even in the Westlands, tales of Slungandi the Trickster had been heard. And here he was in her house! But he had said that her house was not safe while he was in it. Fearful beings were hunting him and if they knew that he was there they might do her terrible harm. Or even, she thought, as sleep overcame her, if they knew that he had been there.
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