The Drinnglennin Chronicles Omnibus

by K. C. Julius

  Nicu and the others had ridden out at the sun’s set. “If we’re not back within two hours,” Nicu had told her, “leave our horses and ride to the main camp. Should something go awry, perhaps one or more of us can escape.” He chucked Halla gently under the chin. “Such a frown, Åthinoi! All will be well, and we’ll bring you your former master in chains. You’ll enjoy that, won’t you?”

  But she wasn’t thinking about Palan now. The stars that formed the White Ship had already sailed high in the night sky, the Serpent was descending, and still they had not returned. The gnawing worry in the pit of her stomach had long ago bloomed into dread.

  Something had gone wrong.

  But if it had, wouldn’t she have heard shouts, or men riding out to ensure there were no others, like her, waiting with the horses?

  Halla’s hair lifted in the rising wind, and bits of grit and pebbles began to strike her face. A storm was coming out the east. The dry leaves on the hedges rustled and puffs of dust swirled and eddied over the ground. The horses grew restive—Haize flicked her ears and raised her lip to scent the air, and Nicu’s grey snorted, shying from the gusting wind.

  Halla rummaged in their saddlebags for anything that might protect them from the dust-filled air. She found several soiled tunics, and set to work with her knife to fashion covers to protect the horses’ eyes and nostrils. While she was wrapping the last one on Haize, the stars suddenly disappeared and the temperature plummeted.

  Halla’s heart gave a jolt as the wind surged to a roar, giving voice to the towering wall of darkness that roiled toward them across the land. Stones were now hurtling at her from all directions, and the horses squealed in terror and pain.

  She tied a strip of cloth over her own mouth and nose, then pulled her hood down over her face, curled into a ball, and waited for the storm to sweep her into its gritty maw. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, and held her breath for as long as she could, but still the dust found its way into her lungs, making her choke and cough. If the horses were still whinnying, she couldn’t hear them; her ears were filled with the racing wave of angry, churning wind.

  She lost track of how long she huddled under its assault, but after what seemed an eternity, the storm’s howl diminished to a whine, and it was over as suddenly as it had begun. Venturing to lift her hood, Halla saw that the stars had returned to the heavens, and the horses were still there. She rubbed the grime from her face and tended to the animals, soothing them with her hands and voice as she removed their wrappings and examined them for injuries. They were covered, as she was, in a fine coat of dust, but miraculously were unhurt.

  The storm had prevented Halla from following Nicu’s orders to return to camp, but Baldo, who was in command there, was no fool. By now he would have assumed that their plan to kidnap Palan had failed, and the å Livåri would have moved on. They did not need her to warn them. Still, as a good soldier, she knew she should mount Haize and ride like the hounds of Blearc after them.

  But leaving was not an option. She could still feel the warmth of Nicu’s arms encircling her. She wouldn’t, indeed couldn’t, desert him. If Nicu and the others had been captured, she was their only hope of escape.

  She knew she must act.

  Yet it was beyond foolish to try to enter the camp right after rebels had attempted to waylay its commanding officer. There were sure to be sentries posted now.

  So how do I get past them?

  She thought ruefully of the fine silver gown that King Crenel had insisted she take with her, now balled up in her pack back at the å Livåri camp. Not that it mattered—even if she had the appropriate attire to try to bluff her way into the Albrenian camp, how would she explain the presence of a lady alone in the near wilderness?

  Think. What would Nicu do in your place?

  No flash of inspiration came. She would just have to follow her instincts.

  She untethered the horses so that if she too was captured, they might find their way to water and new caretakers. Then, tightening her sword belt, she headed toward the enemy camp, offering up a silent prayer to any god listening that she would find her comrades still alive.

  If they weren’t, Palan was a dead man.

  Chapter 20

  Fynn

  Fynn opened his eyes to harsh light that shot a bolt through his brain. Gasping at the pain, he squeezed them shut again.

  “Water,” he croaked, for his mouth felt like it was lined with leather, but all that came out was a strained breath. “Grinner?” This time he managed a garbled sound.

  The cold voice that answered was not that of his cellmate. “He lives.”

  “Grinner?” he mumbled again.

  “Shut yer trap.” A different voice this time. He recognized it—it belonged to Strawman, the guard with the pale, spiky hair. “Or should I shut it fer him, me lord?”

  “Carry him out and put him in the cart,” ordered the first speaker, “and make sure you’re not seen.”

  “Where’s Grinner?” Fynn whispered.

  “Gag him if he makes another sound.”

  Fynn heard retreating footsteps echoing against the stone, then he was hoisted like a sack of grain and slung over Strawman’s bony shoulder. He wanted desperately to find out what had become of his friend, but the thought of a cloth stuffed into his parched mouth forced him to hold his tongue.

  Swinging upside down, he ventured to open his eyes again. He saw only the stone floor passing under him. Strawman grunted as they started up the stairs, and the clumsy oaf was heedless to Fynn’s cry when his head struck the wall.

  A bolt slid and keys rattled, and they were out into the cold. Fynn drew a deep, hungry breath. After the long months underground, the fresh air was almost enough to quench his terrible thirst.

  Within the space of ten steps, he was dumped onto the hard slats of a cart. For only a moment he stared up at a midnight-blue sky peppered with glittering stars; then a tarp was thrown over him, blotting them out. The canvas smelled of damp earth, and he felt a thrill of terror. This must be what it feels like to be buried alive.

  The cart listed as someone settled onto it, then lurched forward. “One peep,” Strawman hissed, “and I’ll bludgeon ye cold.”

  As they rumbled over the cobbled streets, Fynn’s foggy mind began to clear. He had cast a dream and survived it, but what he’d learned in the process made him wish he hadn’t. Old Snorri had sworn that a bloodtooth vision was always true. Which meant Fynn was not the son of Aetheor Yarl. But why had Fynn’s mother never told him this? Had she been afraid Aetheor would somehow find out as well, and make Fynn a thrall?

  Fynn’s heart ached for the loss of the birthright he’d so treasured. No wonder I’m such a craven, he thought bitterly as he bumped along in the bed of the cart. No Helgrin blood ran through his veins. His real father was one of the enemy, a man Fynn would never even know, for according to the dream, he was dead and buried.

  Coming here to his mother’s homeland had deprived him of everything he cared about. Now he had no family at all. He should have died in Restaria, ignorant of the loathsome truth his dream had revealed.

  To make matters worse, while he’d been dreaming, something had happened to Grinner. If his friend was dead, Fynn was to blame.

  His fingers crept to the small sack hidden under his tunic. At least he still had the means to end his misery once and for all.

  Eventually the cart rolled to a halt. When the heavy tarp was lifted, Strawman’s broad face loomed over Fynn’s.

  “Not a sound,” the warder reminded him, shaking his truncheon.

  Fynn let himself down from the cart, his legs rubbery beneath him. Tall houses lined the deserted street, so he knew they were still in the city.

  Strawman kept a meaty hand curled round the collar of Fynn’s ragged tunic as the gaoler half-dragged him up the steps of one of the houses. The door swung silently open, and they
crossed the threshold into a dark corridor.

  A stern voice addressed them from the shadows.

  “You will forget this house and this night’s work, else your life is forfeit. Leave us.”

  Strawman needed no further encouragement.

  When the door closed behind the gaoler, a man draped in a dark cloak emerged from the gloom. “Can you walk?”

  Fynn nodded.

  The stranger stepped aside and gestured for Fynn to go ahead, pointing toward a thin ribbon of light showing beneath a door at the end of the corridor. It led into a musty room where a single candle burned on a sideboard.

  Two men, both wrapped in heavy cloaks, awaited them.

  “Come over to the light, boy,” said the taller of the two. His auburn hair was combed back from his high forehead, and the sharp, pointed beard on his long face put Fynn in mind of a fox.

  Fynn stepped forward, and the shorter man, with long grey hair and wiry whiskers spouting from his chin, leaned over to study his face. “Why, he looks like… ” He glanced over at his companion, his expression one of surprise.

  “Never mind who he looks like,” said the other. He jerked his chin at Fynn’s escort. “You’d best get on with it.”

  This directive was met with a heavy silence. When the man behind Fynn at last spoke, his voice was low. “I’d prefer to be alone when it is done.”

  Fynn didn’t care at all for the sound of that. He edged back and turned slightly so that he had all three men in his line of sight. He saw then that the one who had met him at the door was young—younger even than Jered. His dark hair was neatly tied back, and he was dressed all in black, except for the silver buckle on his belt. Unlike the other two, he wore no sword, but in his grip he held a long, twisted staff.

  “We’re to bear witness,” said Greybeard, “to see that it’s done.”

  “That it’s carried out, my lord,” the young man amended coolly.

  The offender inclined his head. “My lord.”

  “You’re aware of the curse said to befall the murder of one with royal blood in his veins? It may well extend to any who cold-bloodedly stand by while such an abomination is carried out. Besides, the magic is complicated. I can’t guarantee that it won’t produce unpleasant… reverberations.” The staff-bearer lifted a suggestive eyebrow, and his companions exchanged an uneasy look.

  “I suppose we could wait outside the door,” conceded Foxface, “and view the body afterward.”

  Fynn had been pondering the mention of magic, but now his heart began to race. The body?

  Greybeard remained adamant. “Vetch said we were to see it done, with our own eyes.”

  So Vetch had finally decided to have Fynn done away with, and had sent a wizard to do the job. Death by magic. It struck Fynn as a fate even worse than drowning. A brave Helgrin prayed to die with his sword or axe in his hand.

  But you’re no Helgrin, remember?

  He cast a swift glance at the door, weighing his chances of dodging around the wizard to reach it.

  The young man laughed. At first Fynn thought he’d read his thoughts, but the wizard’s wide grey gaze was focused on the others. “And what do you two think your lives will be worth,” he said, “after witnessing the murder of Urlion’s son?”

  Fynn’s heart sank. So the bloodtooth vision was true.

  Foxface gasped and Greybeard’s eyes widened. “Wha—the lad’s an imposter!”

  “It would be easy enough to prove that, wouldn’t it?” said the wizard. “So why order the boy’s death? Look at him… or do your eyes deceive you?”

  The two men gaped at Fynn, and Foxface went suddenly pale.

  “If I were you,” said the wizard, “I’d get on my horse, flee to the harbor, and find a ship departing on the next turn of the tide to somewhere far from the Isle. And I wouldn’t look back.” He smiled pleasantly, but his eyes held danger. “I hear Gral is hiring mercenaries. Perhaps there, you might escape the long arm of your commander.”

  Greybeard scowled. “What about you?”

  “I have nothing to fear. Lord Vetch knows that my part in this deed ensures my silence. Indeed, it will further prove my loyalty to His Majesty. Perhaps he would thank me if I took care of you two as well.”

  Both men’s hands went to their swords, but the wizard was quicker. With a strange cry he raised his staff, and an ear-splitting crack rent the air. Greybeard and Foxface scrambled across the room, the force of their pounding boots making the candle wobble. Greybeard clawed at the latch and flung the door open, and in the next moment, both men were gone.

  Fynn was under no illusion as to what was to happen next, but he was determined to face it head-on. Ignoring his shaking knees, he forced himself to square his shoulders and lifted his chin. He may have lived as a coward, but he refused to die as one.

  To Fynn’s astonishment, his executioner held out his hand. “I’m Whit. You can relax—I mean you no harm. If you’re who they think you are, we’re actually related by blood—on my mother’s side,” he added, with a sudden vehemence.

  If the wizard planned to murder him, he was going about it in a strange way. Numbly, Fynn extended his own hand. “Fynn,” he said, still anticipating the fatal flash of light that would put a lie to the wizard’s words.

  “Very well, Fynn. My little performance just now may have bought us some time, but we’ll need to be on our way. Once we’ve put a few miles between us and Toldarin, I can explain more. Will you trust me?”

  Fynn didn’t see that he had a choice. He nodded. “Are you really a… ”

  “Wizard? Yes. But as I said, you needn’t worry. I’ve never killed anyone by magic, or any other means.” He frowned. “Though I suppose it will come to killing, soon enough.” Seeing Fynn’s expression, he added, “I don’t mean you. This way.”

  In a daze, Fynn followed him to a door on the opposite side of the room.

  “Gadewch fod golau,” Whit murmured. A light sprang from the head of his staff, revealing a narrow staircase winding downward into darkness. “I’ll go first. Have a care, and hold on to my cloak.”

  The strong scent of apple wafted toward them as they descended into a cellar lined with old oaken casks. Fynn’s thirst reasserted itself with a vengeance. “I need something to drink.”

  Whit raised an eyebrow. “Have a fondness for cider, do you?” He rummaged inside his cloak and pulled out a small flask. “Try this instead, but just a few sips, mind you.”

  Fynn brought the flask to his parched lips and took several deep gulps. The liquid tasted of honey and berries and summer all at once, and filled him with warmth.

  Reverently, he handed the flask back to Whit. “Is it magic?”

  “You might say that.” The wizard tucked the bottle back into the folds of his cloak. “It’s brewed in the north by… friends of mine.”

  Without warning, the light disappeared, and in the sudden dark Fynn heard a bolt slide. He realized he was no longer frightened; perhaps the magical draught had quenched more than his thirst.

  They passed through a door and emerged onto the street that ran behind the house. Whit immediately set off at a run, and Fynn had to scurry to stay on his heels. They made for two horses tethered to a ring on the stone wall—one white, one chestnut.

  “Up you go,” said Whit, hefting him onto the white horse’s back. To Fynn’s surprise, Whit then swung on to the same horse, sitting astride behind him. “Hold tight!”

  Fynn wrapped his hands in the horse’s mane as it shot forward; the larger chestnut barreled along behind her.

  The air smelled of brine and fish, reminding him of home. He cast his eyes to the stars and saw the Anchor, Vron’s Hammer, and the Maiden wheeling above; they felt like old friends returned to him after a long absence. Although the cold rushed through his tattered tunic to the core of his bones, he welcomed it. He was grateful to be alive�
�and free.

  Shortly, they slowed to a canter, making a number of twists and turns through the city streets before the wizard reined in on a narrow lane. Only then did he notice Fynn’s shuddering.

  “Dylar take me for ashes!” Whit cursed. “You’re freezing, aren’t you?” He swept his voluminous cloak over Fynn’s head. “Stay as still as you can under there. The town gates lie just ahead, and I want to be remembered as leaving Toldarin alone.”

  Fynn guessed the cloak must have come from the same friends in the north as had the drink in Whit’s flask, for in the short time before the horses drew to a halt again, his trembling ceased and he could feel his fingers and toes again.

  “Leaving us so soon, my lord?” a voice boomed to his left.

  “My movements are my business.”

  Fynn hoped the porter wouldn’t be angered by such a brash reply. The last thing he wanted was to be returned to his dismal cell. He held his breath until he heard the rattle of the grille winding open, and the horses trotted on. They were out of the city.

  Almost at once, the horses picked up their pace. They raced on for what seemed like hours before finally slowing to a walk. When Whit pulled the cloak from over Fynn’s head, the day had broken to a world rimed with frost under low, heavy clouds. Nearby, a brook ran over dark stones, frothing with white foam.

  “Where are we?” Fynn asked.

  Whit swung him to the ground and dismounted after him. “Unfortunately, we’re still in Nelvorboth, but a stop is required. The horses need rest, and to be watered and fed.”

  Fynn raised a hand to the mare’s snowy neck. “What’s its name?”

  The wizard patted the horse fondly. “Her name is Sinead.”

  “Grace,” Fynn said, for it was a runic name. He watched the mare step lightly down to the brook, and decided her name suited her.