by Ellyn, Court
Degany ignored the assessment. So did Dastyr and Gehart who gathered close. “Trail’s twice as broad as a dwarf,” he observed softly. “Could be litters. But why drag the wounded into the forest when Ristencort lies in the other direction?”
“Outpost?” Gehart suggested.
The dwarves stuck to their fortified cities. Too traditional for their own good, they had no desire or ambition to strike out and establish outposts farther afield. “I don’t know this mark.” Degany nudged a khorzai with his boot. “These dwarves are not native. They might have come from hundreds of miles away. Traders, or an escort. Maybe they’re wanting a share of the gold, too.”
“And the Ristencort clan wanted to keep it from them,” Dastyr said.
“Maybe.” The solution didn’t sit well with him. This wasn’t dwarven warfare, attacking a trading party taking their ease, then leaving the bodies for the elements and the animals to devour. The dwarves were obsessive about their honor, and nothing about this scene hinted at honor.
A shimmer under the trees caught his eye, but turning, he saw nothing. Just a wisp of sunlight maybe, from a break in the clouds.
“Diggs,” said Daelryn. Something in his voice turned Degany’s head immediately. His youngest brother was looking down at his own foot. He had placed it inside another print in the snow. All of Degany’s brothers had outgrown him, and Daelryn was tallest of all. His foot was half again the length of Degany’s, and the print they stared at swallowed it. “Bear?”
The claw marks at the end of each toe supported his guess; the rest did not. The ball of the foot, the shape of the heel were almost human-like.
“Only a bear walking upright,” Gehart said, pointing at more tracks leading away into the trees. “And the biggest bear under the sun, at that.”
“Then what is it?” Fear peaked Daelryn’s question.
“Boggin,” Degany muttered, his glance raking the shadows under the trees. He had heard one dwarf or another mention the word on several occasions. Boogiemen or some such. Until now, he’d thought the dwarves simpleminded or superstitious for believing they were real.
“A what?”
“Nothing. Back away, everyone, stay calm, mount up. We’ll ride double-time to Ristencort, be there by dawn. We’ll eat in the saddle.”
The horses must’ve felt their urgency; they laid their ears back and stamped nervously as the men tried to mount up. Degany’s stirrups had to be so high that he needed Wolf’s help. The mountain horse shied at precisely the wrong moment, and Degany found himself tipped sideways and trying to straddle air. He and Wolf both tumbled. Degany cursed the blasted animal, and Dastyr snorted against a fit of laughter. Before Degany spat out a curse upon his brother, too, Dastyr’s eye caught something farther up the road and the humor turned stale on his face. “What the hell?”
Degany turned to see for himself. A shimmer, like sunrise on breeze-rippled water, occupied the top of the next hill, spanning the width of the road. It advanced, a slow shimmering snake. Snow-powdered wind swirled, carrying the stench of rotten flesh. The horses whinnied, and the source of their nerves became clear.
“What is it? What do you see?” Wolf asked, with hardly any breath at all.
“Are you blind, lad?”
“I don’t see anything!”
“Dwarven magic,” said Daelryn from the saddle.
“Dwarves don’t use magic, dolt. Only in making their hutza. Don’t you know that?” Degany regretted snapping at his brother, but he had the sinking certainty that he and his men had stumbled into a trap. Was it meant for them, or for someone else? In either case, they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Complications. Always complications. “We’re turning around, men. We’ll find another road.” It might have looked undignified, but he grabbed the saddle horn and hoisted himself onto the flighty horse’s back. He hadn’t so much as found both stirrups when a shout erupted from the shimmering snake. With the thunder of a hundred horses and the roar of a hundred lions, that snake surged down into the valley.
The men of the garrison panicked, turned tail and fled back down the road, trampling each other in their fury to escape. Degany did not stop them. If it turned out to be nothing, he could scold them later, but if it didn’t …
He wheeled his horse and galloped after the garrison. His brothers followed. Wolf, lighter in the saddle, raced ahead, terror blanching his face.
The roaring shimmer gained fast. The closer it came, the more the snake appeared to be made of individual shimmering columns. And the columns continued to roll over the hill behind them. What kind of monster was this?
Gehart’s horse collapsed, bugling and bleeding from gaping wounds on its haunches. Gehart somersaulted, shook his head as he tried to rise. The shimmers overtook him. He screamed once, then no more.
“Mother’s mercy!” cried Daelryn, peering back.
Degany unsheathed his sword, slashed at the shimmers reaching out for him. Bright blood sprayed in an arc from the end of the blade. A bellow of pain followed and some of the shimmers dropped back. But there were so many; the shimmers filled the valley now, trampling the dwarven corpses without care. His horse whinnied and rolled, legs cut to pieces, and tossed him into a snowdrift. His brothers shouted for him, wheeled back toward the shimmers to aid him. He kicked free of the snow, found his sword still secure in his fist. The shimmers charged, all around him now, sunlight through multi-faceted crystal, and inside he distinguished shapes, shapes dark and monstrous. They loomed over him, taller than his brothers by far. They leapt back from the reach of his sword.
“Be gone, whatever you are!” he shouted, spinning and slashing. Bright blood, almost orange in color, splashed the snow.
His brothers screamed. Surrounded by shimmering, dancing columns, Daelryn was lifted off his mount, thrashed around like a child’s doll and broken in half. Dastyr slashed at the shimmers with a short sword and dirk, then his head was rolling and his body slipped groundward.
Degany cried out in anguish and tried to get to them. He ignored the searing pain that caught him between the shoulder blades, but the sudden wetness leaking across his belly took the strength out of him. He collapsed in the snow, holding his belly closed and tasting blood.
Where was Wolf? Ah, Goddess, let him get away. More screams echoed down the road. Run, Wolf.
The shimmers surged passed at last, leaving him to silence and sorrow. His brothers. They bled out in the snow, only feet away, and he bled out with them. Truva was going to have a fit. She’d be grateful now, that he had made excuses to leave Drys behind.
Footsteps approached, so soft that they barely crunched across the snow. Degany dared to look, but his vision was going all funny. Through a dim, hazy tunnel he made out a pair of eyes as gray as the winter sky, and just as cold.
~~~~
3
980 A.E. celebrated the twentieth year of the reign of King Rhorek, the Black Falcon of Aralorr. Because of his leniency toward his enemies at the close of the Last War between the Brother Realms, and for his generous contributions given to the rebuilding of the kingdoms, he was thereafter called Rhorek the Benevolent.
—Chronicle of Kings
Kelyn found it difficult to believe the messenger’s story, but the man had no reason to ride ninety miles to lie. In dusty cloak and mud-spattered breaches, Lord Zeldanor’s nephew had arrived in all haste. He sat at the king’s council table, exhausted and desperate for the wine in his goblet.
“All of them?” asked Rhorek. When young Hiller returned a tiny nod, the king paced wildly below the pair of silver thrones perched on the dais. “Then how do you know? How does anyone know?”
“The dwarves found one of the party alive, sire,” Hiller said. “My uncle’s squire. Wolf is what we called him. He was Lord Whitewood’s youngest son. He told them what he knew before he died.”
“Could nothing be done for him?” Always more concerned about the people than the news. It was one of the reasons Rhorek’s people loved him. Kelyn ha
d tried to nurture the same regard in himself, but, as War Commander, he had learned he couldn’t afford to.
“His wounds were too grievous.”
“I thought the killing was done with!” Rhorek’s voice echoed under the coffered ceiling. The peace conferences had concluded a couple of months before, and they had exhausted everyone involved. Though recovery for both sides was well underway, tallies of the dead haunted the king. Kelyn knew only because Rhorek confided in him. In his nightmares, he said, the numbers on long scrolls of parchment grew and grew. Every time he looked, the number had changed and it was always higher than before, higher than he could fathom. Were there so many people in all the world? All of them dead. He walked onto the battlements over a blighted landscape, and there was not a living soul in sight. Only ravens circling carpets of corpses. Little doubt, Rhorek felt responsible for every soldier’s loss. He always had, and Kelyn supposed the loss of the delegation he had sent east would be no exception. “Are the dwarves sure it wasn’t Fierans?”
“Wolf said magic was involved, sire.” Hiller was bearing up under the interrogation admirably. Kelyn knew only too well what it was like being on the receiving end of Rhorek’s anguished tirades. “Strange things, he said. Apparently, Uncle Diggs mentioned something shimmering, sire.”
“Shimmering?”
“Of course, Wolf was near delusional when he was interviewed. Invisible bears, he said.”
Rhorek sighed. “No more talk of that. I will not have this brave boy’s dignity marred because of imaginings of a feverish mind.”
“What if the squire wasn’t delusional,” Kelyn said. The king stopped pacing at that. “It could be my brother’s fault. A Fieran search for magical means of warfare, I mean.” The horrors and wonders that occurred on the battlefield after Thorn Kingshield made an appearance might make any army envious. Was it impossible to imagine that Princess Ki’eva had hunted up an avedra for herself?
Rhorek leant heavily on the back of a chair. “That doesn’t bear thinking about. The dwarves are investigating the slaughter?”
Hiller nodded, running a finger around the rim of his goblet and finding it too difficult to hold the king’s intense gaze. “They have pledged their honor to find the culprits.”
“We cannot ask for more. Except full reports from you, Hiller. Lord Zeldanor had an heir, didn’t he, a son?”
Kelyn shot a glance toward the towering double doors where his two squires waited on hand. Young Eliad was trying not to look at Laral, but curiosity got the better of him. Laral stared at the floor, grief plain on his face. He and Drys had been fast friends since the war began.
“Was he killed as well?” Rhorek asked.
“No, sire,” said Hiller. “He’s squire to Lord Gyfan at Blue Mountain. He’s been informed.”
Once Rhorek dismissed his guest and his councilor, Kelyn started for his quarters with his squires in tow. Eliad, at ten, got over the news easily and complained of a growling stomach, but Laral was too worried to think about supper. “Drys is Lord Zeldanor now, isn’t he?” he asked, keeping his voice low in the echoing corridor. “He’s just sixteen, it isn’t right!”
“No, it isn’t,” Kelyn said, remembering that day of fire and ice when his own father was slain. Pausing under the light of stained-glass lamps, he set a firm hand on Laral’s shoulder. His older squire had grown nearly as tall as himself and might outgrow him yet. “Go write a letter of condolence. Better, go to him yourself. Drys probably needs a friend right now.”
Laral seemed to think the idea of abandoning his post a scandal. “But—”
“Eliad is more than capable of seeing to my needs. Besides I’m a big boy and can handle most things by myself, even if I never admit it to the likes of you. I was a squire once, too, remember. We’ll manage just fine.”
Laral squirmed under the sarcasm. “M’ lord … I won’t know what to say to him.”
“Of course you will. You lost your mother and your brother. Stay as long as Drys needs you.”
A quiet presence joined them. Who else needed to speak with him? Kelyn wasn’t in a gregarious mood.
“Eliad, go help him pack. Pack your own things, too. We leave for home in the morning.” The squires hurried off for the stairs, and Kelyn called after them, “Write to your father, Laral, let him know where you’ll be. And don’t let Drys take off into the mountains looking for vengeance, eh?”
He turned to find the Captain of the Falcon Guard standing at his elbow. How cold and austere she looked in her black surcoat. She had cut off her long pale braid; the heavy bob brushed her jawline. “Bad business, that. His Majesty will sort it out.”
“I’m sure.”
“And you? Her Grace is returning to Windhaven for winter, isn’t she? Taking the child with her?”
Kelyn’s heart sank. Had Lissah mentioned it to sting him? Whatever her motives, they weren’t wholesome. Stiffly, he said, “Yes.”
“Whatever will you do during those long, cold nights without someone to warm your bed?”
Kelyn grit his teeth. “Get a bigger bed warmer.”
“Hnh.”
“You’re fighting a one-sided battle, Lissah,” he snapped, then moved off for the stairs. “Don’t force me to resent you.”
“Resent me?” The indignant cry shuddered down the length of the corridor. “Who’s running now, Kelyn?”
He paused, exhaled, and said, “Yes, it’s wiser.”
She snickered. “Under her thumb already, are you?”
Kelyn whirled, face hot, and hurried back down the steps. “Do not mention Her Grace to me in this manner again, or I will break your teeth as if you were a man.”
Lissah’s eyebrow peaked, and she crossed her arms over the silver falcon on her chest. “Interesting.”
“Interesting? What did you expect?”
“From you? Anything but fidelity.” She turned and beat a retreat toward her offices. If she expected him to follow, as in the old days, she found herself gravely disappointed.
~~~~
Kelyn rode through Ilswythe’s gate, and a cerulean banner inched up the flagpole atop the keep’s roof. Blazoned with a black spread-winged falcon wielding a sword in its talons, the banner flapped grudgingly in the calm night air, as if the hour was too late to bother with grand announcements of a lord’s return. Riding along behind him, Eliad blinked heavily. Making the journey in one day was always hard on youngsters, but Kelyn worried that Rhoslyn may have departed before he could say his farewells.
Captain Maegeth descended the gatehouse to hold his horse’s bridle. Tall, whip-thin, and hardened from keeping the castle garrison in shape, she had never been able to shed a certain feminine delicacy, at least in Kelyn’s eyes. Her short-cropped hair, as black as the falcon on her chest, had started to turn silver at the temples. “All quiet here, m’ lord,” she said. “How’s Bramoran?”
Kelyn snorted, dismounting. “Quiet like a hail storm. Something nasty going on among the dwarves. Doesn’t look like it will trouble us though. But the rest? Goddess! Families arguing over pensions, village elders demanding reparations, soldiers complaining they weren’t paid enough for their wounds. You’ve my thanks, Maegeth, for being content.”
“Well, a girl could use a raise now and then.”
Kelyn glared, then caught her mischievous half-grin.
“Under the circumstances,” she added, “we’ll forego the matter till spring.”
“Hhn, so good of you, Captain.”
Eliad climbed down beside them, groaned out a great yawn. The boy looked more like his father every day, but the king paid his bastard son less than no mind. He took the horses and headed for the stables, half asleep on his feet.
“Only good news,” Kelyn added, “is that Queen Briéllyn is with child again. At least, Rhorek hinted as much. Best keep it quiet.”
“About time Prince Valryk had a sparring partner, eh?”
Kelyn chuckled at Maegeth’s idea of sibling companionship. “He’s not even two yea
rs old, Captain.”
“I’m the third child of six, m’ lord. ‘Sparring partner’ is an apt way to put it.”
“As you say. I’m too tired to argue. I’ll take your reports in the morning.” He started for the keep.
“Very good, sir. Oh, and Captain Drael has arrived to escort Her Grace.”
Kelyn’s stomach lurched. This was their first opportunity to try out their agreement. Rhoslyn had decided to live at Ilswythe during the summer and return to Windhaven every winter. As Duchess of Liraness, Rhoslyn could hardly abandon her people in order to be Lady Ilswythe. In truth, she said, she ought not stay at Ilswythe at all, except for brief visits, but she liked the place and couldn’t a duchess enjoy a summer palace? All summer she had corresponded with her aunt concerning Windhaven’s affairs, with Admiral Beryr about downsizing the navy, with Lord Davhin about Vonmora’s silk production, and with Princess Rilyth and Lord Rorin about reestablishing trade relations damaged during the war. She was anxious to see to these things herself.
Before leaving for Bramoran last week, Kelyn made the mistake of proposing that she leave Kethlyn at Ilswythe. “I don’t like the idea of him traveling over Windgate Pass this late in the year, Rhoz,” he’d said. “Snow may have already hidden the road.”
“Captain Drael will see us safely across,” she argued.
“If the pass is closed, turn around and come back immediately.”
“I’m not one of your soldiers that you can order around. If the pass is snowed under, we’ll go on to Brimlad and take a ship into Windy Coves. I’ll talk to Drael about it when he arrives.”
“Come back if the pass is closed, please.”
The desperation Rhoslyn saw on his face surprised her. “Is our going bothering you so much? I’d thought you’d welcome the freedom.”
“I just want you both to be safe, that’s all.”
She grew suspicious then. “Both, nothing! You mean Kethlyn. I’m not leaving him here! He’ll govern Evaronna one day. He must feel at home with his people.”