by Brian Fuller
“Quietly, Highness,” Mena admonished nervously.
“I should have known!” Mirelle repeated, voice subdued. “Chertanne would never have the brains or the guts to kill Ogbith. There will be a reckoning for this!”
“What are you talking about?” Mena asked, face inquisitive but apprehensive.
Mirelle walked to the window, needing fresh air. She told Mena the story of Regent Ogbith’s murder, the young woman agape at the information.
“But wait!” Mirelle burst out. “This is it! This is all I need.” She turned toward the window. “Show me Gen!”
Mena scooted close to her her, eyes wide as the mirror swirled blue, finally settling on a cloaked figure walking down a street in a breezy snow. Gen stopped suddenly, rubbing his chest and turning to the side, eyes searching. The face was unmistakable. His eyes peered directly through the small Portal at the two of them.
“Who are you?” he asked, eyes searching.
Mirelle ripped the veil from her head with her free hand, Mena following suit. Others crowded in around Gen.
“Father! Gerand!” Mena said, voice soft with wonder. Mirelle thought she detected a particular note of pleasure in her voice for the Prince of Tolnor.
“Mirelle,” Gen said. “Are you all right? The Chalaine. . .”
“I am fine. Listen to me Gen, listen carefully. The Chalaine, well, the pain that you feel from the Chalaine is Padra Athan’s doing. He is. . .”
Behind Mirelle, the door hinges creaked. Fire shot through her veins and she stumbled. Beside her, Mena gasped in pain. Mirelle gritted her teeth, turning. Padra Athan stood in the doorway, Joselin behind.
“You are done, Mirelle,” he growled.
The agony intensified. Mirelle fell back against the desk, the mirror spinning out of her hand and shattering on the corner of the table. Padra Athan released the spell, the pain subsiding. She felt like someone had twisted her into knots. Athan sprinted to inspect the shards of the mirror that lay scattered about the floor reflecting the brilliant light from the window.
His dark gaze fell on her. “It’s ruined! You meddlesome woman! You have meddled your last!”
Mirelle struggled to her feet, rubbing the muscles in her neck. “How dare you accuse me of meddling when you slaughtered Regent Ogbith! You are a murderer and a coward!”
“Leave us, Joselin,” Athan ordered, “and take Mena with you to the kitchens until I come for her. Not a word of this to anyone, or you’ll regret it.”
Joselin, properly cowed, grabbed Mena by the sleeve and fled. Athan closed the door and leaned heavily against it, rubbing his temples. “Yes, I had Regent Ogbith assassinated. His bungling command doomed the caravan, and you know it.”
“And killing him was the only way to deal with the issue? He followed the plans meticulously drawn out and endorsed by the Church. How is he to blame for what happened? If Shadan Khairn had command, it would have ended just as badly. We should have followed Gen and Maewen’s advice.”
“I disagree, and I won’t take the time to debate what has been. I have to deal with what is to be done. While I can’t always see a clear path before me, I can see the one in front of you, and you should thank me. You and Mena will enjoy more difficult accommodations from now on, but I think you’ll like your company better. Guard!”
“You’ll pay for what you’ve done, Athan!” Mirelle warned him. “You cannot do Eldaloth’s work with Mikkik’s methods. You are the most faithless of us all!”
Athan appeared stung by her accusations, but anger burned deep within his eyes. “Take her to her beloved Dark Guard,” he ordered the sneering Eldephaere. “The First Mother will spend the rest of her stay in Ironkeep enjoying the squeaking of rats and madmen!”
The Portal to Kingsblood Lake and Mikmir awaited not one hundred yards down the road, but everyone in the group stood in befuddled amazement at what they had just witnessed. Mirelle’s desperate and painfully terminated communication angered Gen and stoked his worries afresh. For several long moments they merely stared at each other or at nothing at all as thoughts and emotions wrangled with reason to form some sort of plan.
“I cannot go to Ironkeep,” Maewen said first. “I have errands to accomplish for the First Mother and for Ethris, as do Hardman and Torbrand. Gen, I know what you will do, but it is exactly what Athan wants.”
“We’ll see if it’s what he wants after I get there,” Gen growled, mind set. “I cannot hide in Mikmir while Mirelle and the Chalaine are treated in such a manner.”
Torbrand stepped in front of Gen and met his gaze. “Remember what I taught you. Athan knows you care for Mirelle and the Chalaine more than anyone. He is using them to get to you. They are bait. If you want to frustrate Athan, then get to Mikmir and do not go near the people you love.” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “You know what I feel for Mena, and I would go to set her free from that place, but not on Athan’s terms. All the sword training in Ki’Hal cannot overcome magic! Mirelle and the Chalaine would agree with me on this.”
Gen was unmoved. “What you argue is wisdom. I know very well that this trap is set for me. But Mirelle’s communication convinced me that their pain is real. If Athan wants me badly enough to hurt the Chalaine—of all people!—then they cannot be safe while I live. An end to their suffering will only come by their escape or by my death. I will go to Ironkeep so that one or the other can happen.”
“I will go with Gen,” Gerand announced after a short silence. “If Mirelle and the Chalaine are being treated in such a fashion, then the Dark Guard must be dead or imprisoned. I go for my brothers and for my Queen.”
“As do I,” Volney joined in. “I will not let Aughmerians maltreat my countrymen and my Queen without answering for it, though the journey be hard and cold.”
Hardman appeared torn, face scrunching and hand caressing Destiny’s handle. “A rescue in Ironkeep does sound like more fun than I’ve had in years. . .”
“General, you cannot go back on your word to Mirelle!” Maewen reproached him. “Your part is critical! We need you in Mikmir, and there are no two ways about it. If Gen succeeds in Ironkeep, it will be through stealth and cunning, not a rousing fight against an entire fort full of soldiers.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” Hardman relented. “Stealth and cunning are rather dull. Oh well. We part ways here, lad.”
“Thank you for coming for us,” Gen said.
Maewen came forward and stared into his eyes with as much authority as she could muster. “What you are doing is a mistake, Gen. I cannot give you my blessing, but I do hope to see you again. You will be on your own. We do not dare say a word of what we just witnessed to any of the Rhugothian aristocracy, or there will be war.”
“I understand.”
“May Eldaloth bless your foolish heart.”
“Thank you, Maewen.”
“Gen,” Torbrand said, “I am with Maewen on this, but if you insist on going, I can shorten your journey by a couple of weeks and get you inside Ironkeep more easily than you might think. Maewen, can we spare an hour so I can teach Gen a few things about Ironkeep and speed him on his journey?”
“Certainly.”
“Very well, let’s get inside for a little while.”
“I’ll just go to a tavern while. . .” Hardman began.
“No, you won’t,” Maewen insisted.
They started back along the street, searching for a suitable place to talk.
“I wonder who the gorgeous dark-haired girl was with Mirelle?” Volney asked.
“She was very pretty, but probably one of the slaves,” Gerand speculated.
“She is not a slave. That was your wife,” Gen informed Gerand, “Mena.”
“What!?”
“You heard him,” Volney laughed. “Perhaps your marriage doesn’t seem quite as repugnant as it did a few months ago?”
Gerand glowered, but to Gen’s eye, it did not seem as determined a glower as it was when Gen first handed him Torbrand’s letter in Mikmir.
Chapter 63 – Eldephaere
“I swear those two have been following us for at least two miles,” Volney warned them again. “We need to lose them.”
Bitterly cold winds had lashed Rhugoth from the time they had set foot on the shard cluster after parting ways with Torbrand, Maewen, and Hardman in Tenswater. As yet the wind had kept little company with snow or sleet, but the cold carried a moist weight that breached any fortification set against it. The chill in Tenswater, by comparison, was a whimpering mewling.
The road took Gen, Volney, and Gerand through a Portal that led to the less inhabited northern provinces of Rhugoth while their companions proceeded through a different one leading to Mikmir in the south. The Portal opened into the small and charming village of Aberlee set alongside a line of low hills of long grass. They passed the night in comfort in the Sweetberry Inn and set off early in the morning to follow a lightly used road that hugged the Deer River to their right. By riding hard, they hoped to reach Chale a little after nightfall and then Nowain, their intended destination, a day after that.
Gen glanced over his shoulder. “They’ve been with us since this morning. We picked them up at the Sweetberry Inn last night. Didn’t you notice them in the common room? Eldephaere.”
“No,” Volney answered. “Did you, Gerand?”
“I noticed one of them. Why do you think they are Eldephaere, Gen?”
“They all seem to have the same glassy look,” Gen said. “It’s as if they are somehow stripped of every desire except to serve the Church or the prophecy, so they sit blankly, tools waiting on the workbench for a hand to put them to use.”
“Do you think they are following us?” Volney whispered.
“Most likely.”
“How could they possibly have tracked us from Tenswater?” Gerand asked incredulously.
“I don’t think they tracked us at all,” Gen speculated. “I think the Church placed a few of them outside every Portal as soon as they shut down Tenswater. They probably did not expect us to come this way, which is why there are only two rather than twenty.”
“Do you think that Maewen, Torbrand, and Hardman ran into trouble, then?” Volney questioned.
Gen smiled wryly. “Well, I think we could safely say that Maewen and her companions are the trouble. They do have one advantage. The Portal to Lipgate is heavily used and easier to sneak into.”
“Sneaking Hardman anywhere is like trying to sneak Mikkik into a packed Church. The man is terrifying—especially those teeth and the disgusting pants.”
Gerand smiled and turned to Gen. “What do you think the Eldephaere will do? Ambush us?”
“They would if they had greater numbers. But as it is, I think they will be content to watch and report. I don’t know if they have members in Chale or Nowain, but we’ll need to be on our guard.” And, Gen thought, if they believe I’m the Ilch, they’ll fear my magic.
“Do you think they know where we’re going?” Gerand followed.
“My guess is they’ll assume we’re heading to Mikmir or some hideout here in the north. According to Torbrand, a couple of Church lackeys shouldn’t know about the existence of the Portal in Nowain. Chances are, however, that Ironkeep will be crawling with Eldephaere. You must be wary when you fight them. They have no thought for their own lives. They will take a blade to the gut if they can put one through your heart.”
“That’s nice,” Volney commented after another troubled glance behind them.
During the day they tried to coax the persistent pair into passing them or into a situation where they might get a better look at them, but if Gen and his companions stopped, the two Eldephaere stopped. If they rode toward them, the Eldephaere would ride away.
“Maybe we should ambush them before we get to Chale,” Gerand suggested. “If there are other Eldephaere there, we cannot risk them informing others about our whereabouts or growing in numbers to attack us.”
“I’ve thought the same,” Gen agreed. “I have tried to think of a way we could accomplish it, since they seem determined not to approach us. We could try galloping ahead and out of sight so we could lay the trap, or we could split up and force them to follow one of us while the other two double back.” But then something Gen had read in the books about Trysmagic came to mind. “But let’s ride on a while longer and see if we can’t scout a place that might provide us with a tactical advantage.”
They rode on, the Deer River flowing steadily by, the water cold and dark, but not frozen. Gen turned his head around briefly and used magic to break the saddle buckle of the rider closest to the river. As expected, the rider tipped, and in doing so pulled the reins to the right. The horse careened toward the river, stopping short of going in, but not before the Eldephaere landed unceremoniously in icy water along a shallow bank lined with brown grass.
Gen found grins on both his companions’ faces. “Here’s our chance!” he exclaimed. “Ride hard!”
Heels jabbed into horseflesh as they bolted down the road, wind numbing their faces. They raced around a low hill and slowed in shock. Along a low rock wall a handful of Church soldiers stared anxiously in their direction as they fumbled with equipment in an attempt to hastily remount their horses. These wore no disguise, white tabards with a sliver of a moon covering jangling chain mail.
“Cut through them!” Gen commanded, reasserting his heels into his mount’s flanks. Their speedy flight and drawn swords prompted most of the soldiers to a scrambling retreat to the side of the road, the single brave soldier willing to accept the charge paying for his courage with Gen’s sword taking his arm off at the elbow. The three pushed the horses until they lathered before slowing down and listening behind them for signs of pursuit.
“How many did you count, Gen?” Gerand asked.
“There were eight on the side of the road. The one in the middle will likely not be joining the pursuit. If we leave the road, the grass will make for easy tracking. If we can keep ahead of them, we may be able to turn down a side road for some of the farms and take a more indirect route to Norwain. Worse comes to worse, I think we can take them. The weather, however, I do not think we can overcome.”
They rode on at a steady pace, necks sore from frequent twists to watch the road behind. Twice they caught sight of a single Eldephaere rider just behind a bend, but he would turn his horse and ride away before they could accost him. After a third occurrence, Gen grabbed his bow and quiver and hopped down.
“Take my horse ahead. Ride slow, and I’ll catch up to you soon.”
Gerand and Volney required no explanation. Gen strung his bow and ducked into the thick grass and shrubs along the river. He blew on his hands to warm them, and, hearing the expected patter of horse hooves, strung an arrow and waited. The scout emerged a short time later, riding cautiously, eyes searching. Gen pulled back into the undergrowth, waiting until the back of the rider was toward him before stepping out and loosing the arrow in one fluid motion.
The rider’s back arched, arms flailing, as the arrow struck the small of his back. Writhing in pain, he fell from the horse, screaming a warning. Gen sprinted forward, commandeering the horse and darting ahead to join Gerand and Volney.
“Did you kill him?” Volney asked.
“No,” Gen reported, taking the reins of his original horse from his friend. “A wounded man is much more difficult to deal with than a dead one, provided they care about their men.”
The three pressed forward at an even pace, the air chilling with each mile. They ate from horseback, eyes and ears wary for any sign of ambush or pursuit. During the afternoon, broad snowflakes drifted down from low dark clouds, their density slowly increasing as the sun dropped. An inch of fresh powder lay on the ground before they paused to rest the horses and take their supper.
“We’ll be easy to track now,” Gerand observed as he took a swig from the waterskin he kept near his body. The icy cold seeped through their clothing, the horses’ breath shooting out in clouds from their nostrils as they sta
mped uncomfortably at the ground. Gerand asked, “Are we going to have to spend the night out here?”
Before Gen could answer the question, the sound of galloping hooves behind them brought them on guard. “They’re coming for us,” Gen announced. “The pursuit ends here. Mind what I told you about how they fight.”
Gerand and Volney drew swords while Gen dropped to the ground and unlimbered his bow. He barely had time to nock an arrow before the first rider of the galloping charge came into view through the falling snow. The man stood in the stirrups, sword high. Upon seeing his prey he yelled fiercely. Gen’s first shot took the soldier in the chest and off the horse backward, and Gen’s second shot took another Eldephaere in the neck.
Snow flew from hooves as the remaining six Eldephaere pushed their horses and accelerated toward their victims. Gen dropped his bow and swung up onto his horse before drawing his sword.
“Take a defensive posture!” Gen yelled. “Let them pass through!” Gen doubted Volney and Gerand heard a word of his instructions over the roar of hooves and the battle yells of the Eldephaere. The charge tore through them like an ill wind, and, to their dismay, the Eldephaere struck at the horses rather than their riders, sending all three of the young men hard to the ground amid equine blood and the pained screams of wounded horses.
They gained their feet as the charging soldiers slowed and wheeled about. Desperately Gen and his companions hunted for some advantage in the terrain.
“Get into the scrub brush near the river!” Gen yelled sprinting toward the river’s edge. Their pursuers urged their horses forward, anxious to trap their prey before they could reach the inconveniencing cover. Brittle branches snagged on clothing and broke as Gen dove in between two thick bushes, Gerand close behind. A grunt from Volney spun them around, their lumbering companion crashing into a bush, a gash across his shoulder bled through his clothes. The lead Eldephaere who had inflicted the wound nudged his horse closer for another strike.
Frantically, Gerand lunged forward, chopping down on the horse’s foreleg. It screamed and fell, rider crushed beneath it. Gerand grabbed Volney, straining to drag him deeper into the undergrowth. Another Eledephaere took his companion’s place, sword arcing toward Volney’s exposed, bleeding back. The stroke never fell, and by the time Gerand turned, the horse had run off dragging its lifeless, fallen master down the road, boot stuck in the stirrup.