“So what happened?” I demanded. This seemed like important information, and I didn’t know why I hadn’t heard the full story before. None of the Karshak wanted to talk about it, and neither did the Alka Alon.
“In the aftermath, the Alka Alon Council called to the Kilnusk for accountability. The datavors of the Karshak were blamed for the fault. It was politically convenient,” she dismissed, “but also politically significant. A few years later a moot of the entire dwarven race was held to discuss the matter. That’s when the Kilnusk were found too arrogant by the clans that they ruled and protected, and were ordered into exile – to here, in Anghysbel, to punish them for their foolish judgement. The Dradrien and the Karshak divided up the other clans and ruled themselves for a change.”
“That sounds like a positive development,” I pointed out.
“You would think,” agreed Lilastien. “Alas, that is not what happened. Instead, the two groups of clans settled into a kind of perpetual hostility to each other. Bereft of the Kilnusk nobility – who had traditionally managed interactions between the clans – the Dradrien attacked viciously. The Karshak and their kin retreated from the world, settling in remote glades or palaces deep underground.
“And the stonesinger? He was sent into exile with the Kilnusk who ordered his punishment for his crimes. When you see a Karshak whose beard has been shaven, you have seen the face of disgrace and disownment.”
“You’d think a simple execution would do,” I mused.
“That is not generally the way of the Alon,” she assured. “Execution is reserved for very special circumstances. Why kill you when they can torture you into madness first? The Kilnusk abandoned their responsibilities as leaders of the clans and agreed to exile and obscurity, as punishment for their crimes. The council of clans, led by the Karshak and the Dradrien, might have argued at every other point, but of this they were in sure agreement: that the Kilnusk were responsible for the release of the beast. Despite their nobility, they had to go.”
“And this fellow with them,” I realized.
“Oh, he was central to the retreat. After all, who could endure the ignominy of releasing such an ancient horror, one that wiped out a goodly portion of their people? Davachan himself was guilty and prideful. Any accountability would have to encompass his crimes.”
“So the Karshak justice system employs barbers?” I asked, confused.
“Minalan, you’re merely human so I’ll excuse you this time,” Lilastien said, patiently. “When you see a Karshak, Dradrien, or any of their kin without a beard, it is the greatest of disgraces. Death would be preferable. The entirety of the Kilnusk were forced into exile, here, because of what he did. To be shaved is to be cast out.”
“All right,” I decided, “not a bad answer to capital crimes. But why was he so intent on me?”
“I have no idea,” she admitted. “But when the Kilnusk came to exile in this land, with Davachan as their prisoner, they shaved him and then condemned him to some perpetual service for his crimes. Not with them – they despise him, thanks to the result of his folly. But with some other power. I was able to figure out that much, when I started drinking with the Kilnusk last night.”
“Some other power?” I asked, confused. “Did they enslave him to the Tal Alon? Is he condemned to growing potatoes, now?”
“Oh, no,” Lilastien said, sadly. “There are powers in this lost land that are older than all of us, perhaps. They gave him over to one of them, in perpetual service, as his punishment. Whatever power it was has extended his life by double, according to our accounting. I thought he would be long dead by now. His name has been officially forgotten.”
“So this stonesinger was responsible for . . .” I started, desperately seeking a straight answer.
“The release of the Beldurrazeko,” she said, her voice a whisper, now. I could tell she did not relish relating the tale. “A force so powerful that a King of the Alka Alon and dozens of great Alkan warriors died slaying it. A beast so horrific that it slew thousands of Karshak masons.
“That caused a scandal so great it saw the exile of the Kilnusk, nearly brought down the Alka Alon Council, and invited intervention by the High Kings across the sea. This entire realm was demoted. Our new king was executed, over Beldurrazeko – that’s how serious it was – and we became a mere principality. As was the Kilnusk king of the Karshak. Davachan was spared not because we were lenient and merciful, but because we wanted him to suffer. That poor Karshak,” she said, sadly, “is responsible for more tragic history in Callidore than anyone you have met – Korbal the Necromancer, included.”
Chapter Fourteen
The Road to Anferny
In Anghysbel, the fair and the foul frolic with each other daily, and the fearsome and the friendly oft come to unexpected terms. It is this admixture of the mundane and the exotic that captivates the imagination. We rode the road to Anferny finding that in this strange land knights turn out to be maidens, great monsters are forbidden to be slain by noble knights errant, and salvation oft comes by means of a llama.
Yet this is a fair and attractive land, with abundant hills and inviting valleys made lush by a wet and fertile climate. It sparkles with liveliness in the warmth of summer. The aroma of fecundity and flowers is ever in the breeze on your face. It rouses the desires and passions of the traveler as he explores its exciting and unexpected nature and the questions it inspires.
What wonders lie beyond that gentle curve in the road? What perilous pleasures lie between those perfectly rounded hills? What tantalizing treasures lie betwixt the limbs of that dainty grove? It tempts a knight to take lance in hand and go boldly exploring this savagely beautiful land, devoid of magic, but filled with enchantment.
From the Expedition Book of Anghysbel,
Recorded by Viscount Tyndal of Callierd
Our stay in the village of Midmarket had been intriguing, but it had also had my head reeling at the revelations I’d discovered there. Rolof. Davachan. Beldurrazeko. Alya. This lost land produced answers to secrets like Gilmora produces cotton. And we had yet to be here a week.
“I like the place,” Tyndal proclaimed, as we rode out on the eastern road that morning. His rouncey kept pace next to our wagon along the surprisingly wide and flat road. “It’s got a lot of character. And that market was amazing,” he added. “I ordered another six cases of beet rum from the Lakeshire Tal – they call it asaloda. If I can lug it back home, it will make my tavern famous.”
“You want to be famous for a tavern?” Alya asked, amused.
“Among other things,” he agreed, with a grin. “My tavern, my town, my domain, my viscounty. And the Knights of Callierd,” he added. “As well as my magic, my scholarship, and my amazingly good looks.”
“Don’t forget your overwhelming humility,” I reminded him, dryly.
“I’m too humble to mention it. Pity Rondal couldn’t come with us,” he sighed. “He would have loved this place. And it would be good to have been back on the road with him. After getting soggy by the sea and contending with dull, boring court politics, a bit of adventure would have done him good.”
“He has an intended bride,” Alya reminded him. “I have the feeling he’s getting all the adventure he can stomach.”
“Yes, he’ll be as boring as old Arborn, before he knows it,” I added, dryly. The Ranger Captain was the ducal Master of Wood, which meant that, in addition to his oversight of the Kasari lands and his Wilderlands domain, he had dominion over every major forest in Alshar. And he was married to Pentandra. I doubted he’d had the time to ruminate about how much he missed a bachelor’s life. I could not imagine his life was boring in the slightest.
“That’s why a knight should avoid marriage,” Tyndal said, philosophically. “It robs you of your vitality and ambition.”
“Yes, things have been so placid since we were wed. Haven’t they been, my love?” I said to Alya, with a sarcastic chuckle.
“Oh, yes, it’s almost depressing,” she assu
red, in the same manner. “I’ve considered making eyes at the blacksmith at market just to give me some excitement. Tyndal, marriage isn’t guaranteed to kill your ambition. For some men, it ignites it.”
“And some men are content with bean porridge every day and feel lucky to have it. I prefer more variety,” he said, as he rode away from us, toward the head of the column.
“Did he just compare me to bean porridge?” Alya asked, aghast.
“I’m sure he meant it well,” I soothed, with a chuckle. “He likes bean porridge. I do, too. And I’m lucky to have it,” I said, with sincerity. “Every day. Sometimes twice.” That earned me a gentle punch in the arm.
“That’s just Tyndal’s way,” she demurred. “He’s a good lad. When Ishi is ready, she’ll mess up his life well enough.”
“I have no doubt. But Tyndal does like variety. He’s the patron of a new temple to Ishi in Nandine. To ensure that there is a steady stream of lovely young lovelies in his new town.”
“And he prowls the taverns of Vanador every time he is there seeking lonely ladies,” she sighed. “All it will take is the right one . . . “
“Who could be the right one for Tyndal?” I mocked. “I thought, perhaps, Noutha might appeal to him, but he has more respect for her as a warmage than as a woman. No, I think my former apprentice is a permanent bachelor. Not a chaste bachelor, but a permanent one.”
“We shall see,” my wife murmured. “I never saw you coming into my life. I suspect Tyndal is just as blind to such things.”
“I was sneaky,” I reminded her. “I distracted you with my competence. And you wanted a discount on my fee that I was willing to give.”
“Sounds like fate to me,” she shrugged.
I was pleased, I must confess. Alya sounded and acted more like the old Alya than ever before, and I was enjoying it. While I missed my children desperately, I also had missed my wife. Seeing a bit of her back in old form made losing magic a bargain, from my perspective.
Perhaps the scenery contributed to my romantic perspective. The countryside we were rolling through was gorgeous, like the lushest portions of the Wilderlands punctuated by the strange and exotic.
We passed by meadows and glades, and forests and groves, as we made our way to Anferny, and it was all lovely. Twice I thought we were under attack, when it was just a unique creature I’d never seen before blundering across the road. We stopped at luncheon to water the horses at a stream and enjoy a bite and – for some – a brief nap. At some point we’d crossed into the Anferny domain, proper, but I couldn’t tell you precisely where that was. I just wasn’t paying attention.
I must admit, our party became a bit merrier without our dour dwarven friends. At luncheon that day there was more singing (thanks to Lilastien’s new machine) and more laughter with the Anferny merchants as we traded tales. After the torturous crossing of the wastes, that merry sound felt like a drink of cool, clean water.
We were nearing more civilized parts of the domain a few hours later. The first human homestead appeared on our right, and then two more on our left as we proceeded down the road. The native folk of Anferny were eager to tell us who lived there and what function their freehold had – I’d gotten the impression that freeholding, not the building of estates, was the norm in Anferny.
What is the difference? In general, freeholding is the result of one or two families developing their lands as well as circumstances permitted. Estates tend to be more communal affairs, and therefore larger and – theoretically – more resilient. Yet I’d seen dozens of freeholders who prospered while estates stagnated or withered altogether, thanks to the strife of internal politics. Conversely, there were freeholders who endured bitter poverty, thanks to a lack of determination, foresight, and vision. Neither institution was technically superior, but for some reason the freeholder example held true for most of Anferny. There were only a few actual estates.
We knew we were in civilized parts when we came to the first tavern – a tiny little public house with the sign of two blessedly normal stylized boars charging at each other. We stopped for a quarter-hour to water the horses and sample the ale – which was bitter, strong, and tasty.
I don’t think I’m wrong to suggest that a large part of our eagerness was the desire for normalcy, after what we’d encountered in Anghysbel thus far. That desire had been whetted by our time at the Midmarket Inn, but somehow stopping into a local pub for a quick pint on our journey restored our spirits more than a day spent browsing an exotic market. The tavern keeper was pleased with the unexpected surge in business, and our presence immediately ignited a wave of gossip and news, as we casually disclosed our plan and purpose.
After that, we could have been traveling through any domain in the Wilderlands, our surroundings were so normal. The fields and pastures, and meadows and woods that we passed seemed delightfully ordinary – with the exception of a few unusual trees, and the herding of animals I’d never seen before. The peasants waved from the fields, and the occasional traveler we encountered moving between settlements grunted and nodded at the sight of strangers like any goodman in Vorone.
The first village we passed through, Gorluinol, was a placid hamlet only a little larger than Midmarket. It lacked the market town’s palisade, but there was a well-manned watchtower that rose five stories above the High Street. And there were guards at the gated entrance who looked reasonably alert. But before I could properly admire the architecture and appreciate the charm of the place, we had ridden through it.
Beyond Gorluinol, the road opened up to a wide lakefront to the north, beyond lush-looking grassland. It would have been perfect, on that cool summer’s day, had we not sighted an aberration in the landscape.
The line of our caravan, by then, had stretched out for a quarter mile as we followed the winding road uphill and down. Our wagons were of different weights, and our horsemen regularly rode up and down the column on various errands. Some teams pulled more resolutely than others. It was natural to see gaps in our line. Perhaps the normalcy of our surroundings had made us lax. But when someone at the head of our column suddenly blew two loud notes on a horn, we could not even see the danger the notes indicated was ahead.
I readied my newfound weaponry, anyway. And a moment after the horn, the box on my belt hissed at me, before Ithalia’s voice reported what she observed from the sky.
“Minalan, there’s some beast crossing the fields toward the road,” she informed me over the radio, her voice distant and tinny, as if she was speaking through the Mirror Array. “A big one, too. Half the size of a siege beast . . . but it’s . . . it’s odd,” she said, as I watched her bird dive in for a closer look.
“Everything is odd, here,” I muttered, as I fumbled with the device. It was actually fairly simple to use, once Lilastien showed me the basics. There was a switch that you pressed when you wanted to speak. I finally managed to activate it. “Is it acting belligerent?”
“It looks like it came out of the lake. It’s moving with surprising speed toward the road. I don’t think you’ll discover its disposition until it arrives,” she replied. “It looks like some of the knights are going to investigate.”
“Let me know if it eats them,” I concluded, then released the switch. I turned to Alya as I pulled the team to a halt. “There’s a monster or something menacing the vanguard, ahead. I should probably take a look,” I said, grabbing the plasma rifle and sliding down off the cart.
“Be careful!” she urged. “Don’t do anything stupid!”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that. I was a wizard. I had to reserve the right to do something stupid. But I didn’t want to explain that, so I blew her a kiss, instead, before I started walking.
Less than a quarter mile up the road from our cart was the lead wagon, where Ormar and Lilastien were sitting and staring out across the meadow to the north. I followed their gaze and caught sight of the creature that had brought our column to a halt.
It was large – about half as big as a sie
ge beast. It was difficult to make out details from this distance, but it appeared to be two connected lumpy shapes about three feet taller than a man at the height. The head of the thing – at least, I was assuming it was a head – was small, far smaller than you would think a beast that size would be, about as large as a big pumpkin. The entire surface of the beast was covered in gray bumps the size of bushel baskets, and I could see pinkish flesh underneath.
“What in three hells is that?” I asked, my jaw agape.
“I’ve never seen anything like it in fifteen hundred years on this world,” admitted Lilastien, shaking her head.
“That’s comforting,” Ormar said, dryly. “It looks like two giant mushroom caps trying to drunkenly hump each other,” he observed.
“Where are the Kasari?” I asked.
“Scouting ahead,” Ormar reported as he squinted into the distance. “That thing came out of nowhere after they left. Duin’s wrinkly scrotum, that thing looks nasty. Damn, I miss magesight!” he sighed.
Lilastien nodded, and then realized something. Quickly, she raised her plasma rifle – but did not fire at the beast. She peered through the sight. “Minalan, these things have electronic telescopic sights!” She lowered the weapon, and then showed me how to activate it. In moments I was able to observe almost as well as I could have with magesight.
It looked no more pleasant up close. There were details of its features that suggested an aquatic life, but that was about all I could discern about it. It didn’t have legs, as such, but a ring of small, stubby feet lined the bottom edge of the thing and propelled it forward at an impressive speed, for its size. It moved in a way that seemed as much comic as horrific, like nothing I’d ever seen. And the head . . . up close, it looked like a fleshy, toothless mouth that continuously churned in a disgusting fashion, and the three round things I presumed were eyes were glassy and oozing some slime from the edges.
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