by J. C. Staudt
There was no time to stop the longships, and no area clear of debris in which to weigh anchor and let the men wade ashore. Instead Rudgar ordered the remaining boats run aground and evacuated in haste. Darion nearly toppled over the prow when the prince’s ship scraped to a halt on the beach. He flung himself overboard and landed on a gentle slope of coarse, rocky sand. He stood beside the boat to expend the last of the spells he had cast, shielding himself with protective mage-song and sending a blaze of green darts across the sky toward the city.
Then the Prince was beside him, tackling him to the sand as a wave of coldfire crackled over the longship and blasted it to splinters. Rylar pulled Darion to his feet as frozen chunks of wood rained down around them. He shoved Darion up the beach, spouting a string of Korengadi curses to get him moving.
Together they trudged across the open expanse, stumbling over black rocks and seaweed toward the tall dune grasses and the solid ground beyond. Darion was still unsteady on his legs; the padding beneath his armor was soaked and twice as heavy as normal. When he looked around, he was startled by how few of the men were with them.
The beach was clogged with longships. Behind them, a tangle of boats floated on the waves with nowhere to make a landing. Some of the men were attempting to wade ashore in the freezing waist-deep water while others thrashed their oars, vying for position.
Rylar dove behind a stand of grass to wait for the army, motioning for Darion to join him. “We make run. Have more men.”
Darion came down beside him, shivering and numb. He nodded. “Straight ahead. That’s the only way.”
Between the mainland and the high rocky plateau on which Cronarmark was built, there lay a long wide bridge of natural stone. This bridge was the only way in or out by land; the walled city was otherwise surrounded by the sea on all sides.
Rylar frowned. He touched a finger to his lips. “Mouth blue.”
“Yes, I’m very cold,” Darion said.
“No move.” Rylar put a hand to Darion’s breastplate and spoke the sigils of a spell.
Warmth flooded him, subduing the chill for a few precious moments. When the tundra winds blew over him afresh, though, Darion was still wearing the same soggy gambeson and frozen armor. He and Rylar helped each other to their feet as a meager host of soldiers clambered over the dune, many as wet and cold as he was. The King stood among them, silent and determined.
Rudgar gathered his men around him and gave a brief but impassioned speech, most of which Darion did not understand. When the men gave a shout and began to move, he knew it was time.
They advanced up the beach until the sand turned to hard permafrost beneath their feet. A fresh layer of snow blanketed the expanse of tundra between themselves and the bridge to Cronarmark. All fell silent as Rudgar’s army drew into position, stamping to shake off their nerves as much as the cold. Dathiri archers stood vigilant on the city walls, preparing to thwart the charge they knew was coming.
Rylar raised his sword, shouted a command, and began to cast. The Korengadi army broke into a sprint toward the city gates while Darion and the other casters followed at a slower pace, flinging spells at the waiting defenders. If they stood any chance at victory against these odds, Darion did not see it.
Chapter 2
Eldrek Lyrent possessed no dearth of stories to tell, yet he had grown ever wearier of telling them. Whenever his tales made the children praise Sir Darion Ulther’s heroic exploits, their parents would whisk them away from the crowd with sharp words and swift punishment. Those same parents would come to Eldrek’s hut from time to time, determined to impart their advice about what would become of him if he continued to spread falsehoods about known traitors.
There was one problem with entertaining visitors at his home, though.
Most of the time, he wasn’t there.
At least not in the way they expected him to be.
Eldrek checked over his shoulder as he hobbled down Briarcrest’s north road this late afternoon, supporting himself on the gnarled walking stick he carried without fail. His wife Stoya was pinning clothes out to dry, fresh from a washing in the river, while their young son sat playing in the grass beside her. She looked up when she heard him coming, as did the boy. When they saw it was only him, each returned to their respective activities. Eldrek passed them by to enter the hut without a word or touch in greeting.
Closing the door behind him, Eldrek crossed the tiny room and bent to his wicker chair with a grunt. He was still out of breath when Stoya came in carrying an empty basket in one hand and leading the child with the other. She lowered the basket and studied the old man with a sympathetic scowl.
“It’s wearing thin,” Eldrek said.
“Run outside and play for a few more minutes while Mommy starts dinner,” she told the boy.
“Will Poppy play with me?”
“Not right now, dear. Poppy must go away for a while.”
“Again?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said, kneeling to face him. “Don’t you fret. He’ll be back just as quick as you can snap your fingers.”
The child gave it his best attempt, but couldn’t quite manage.
“Run along,” Stoya said with a laugh and a pat. “I’ll be out to get you.”
“To get me?” he asked, eyes widening.
She made her hands into claws. “Yes. Mommy’s coming to get you.”
He gave a little scream and scampered out the door.
“Don’t run too far,” she called. She left the door cracked, then turned to Eldrek. “Sometimes I wonder how long we can keep this up.”
“For as long as we need to,” Eldrek said. “Until he returns.”
“If he ever—”
“That’s enough of that.”
“Draithon is getting older now. He’s starting to suspect. If he were to say something to the wrong person…”
“This is the best we can do, Stoya.”
“You don’t have to call me that while we’re alone.”
Eldrek raised his voice. “Never assume we’re alone. That would be the gravest mistake.”
“I feel as if I can’t stop making mistakes these days. I’m so afraid of what might happen.”
“It isn’t a matter of what; only when. Nevertheless, we must be careful, not cowardly.”
Stoya set her jaw. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Are you ready? Give it here.”
“I grow older each time,” he said, removing the ivory pendant from around his neck.
“I’ll wait as long as I can before I bring you back,” Stoya said.
Eldrek shook his head. “You mustn’t. We must continue what we’ve begun so that when the day comes, you will be ready.”
“I feel I nearly am, thanks to you. I wish there were something more I could do to alleviate your pains.”
“Worry not for me, my lady. I have seen worse. Farewell.” Eldrek tossed the ivory pendant across the room.
Stoya caught it, then looked up to find a regal white bird perched on the wicker chair where Eldrek had been sitting. “Fly, Ristocule. Range far, and hunt wide, and let your worries not follow you into that realm.”
Ristocule gave a screech and took flight through the open window. She watched him soar toward the mist-laden Wildwood, the vast forest which began along the northern border of their tiny village. At times when she watched him fly, Stoya wished she herself had the means to experience such freedom. Apart from time spent on the river with her father as a child, she had never ventured into trackless wilderness like the lands which spread from the fork in the Hightrade River for miles into the southern Dailfeld. Never, except the once. But that was long ago, in another life…
When Stoya peeked outside to check on her son, there were three men standing in the yard before him. She knew the men as Kent Norch, Bertram Ward, and Pater Ackmard, and she liked not a one of them. Kent Norch bent at the waist and held out a hand to little Draithon. There was something on his palm, but when Draithon went to take it, Kent yanked his ha
nd away and wagged a finger in the boy’s face. Stoya pushed open the door and marched outside.
“Mistress Lyrent,” said Kent, a gangly youth with black hair and a wisp of beard on his chin. “Ain’t we a picture.”
“Stay away from my son,” she said, drawing near. “Draithon, come here.”
The boy retreated to her skirts.
“We was only playing with him, Miss,” Bertram Ward insisted.
“It’s suppertime,” Stoya said. “We’re done playing for the evening.”
“Actually, we was wondering if we might have a word with your husband.”
“I’m sorry. Eldrek is indisposed at the moment.”
“We’ll wait. Won’t we, lads?”
Bertram and Pater Ackmard nodded.
“He’s not at home.”
Kent frowned, mocking confusion. “Now that’s awful curious. You see, the boys and I here was having a stroll down by the brewer’s barn, and we seen him doddering along home from the village square. You might tell us where he’s gone, yeah? I’m sure we’ll catch him up, what with these young legs of ours, and them not-so-young ones of his.”
“Please leave us to our evening and come back another time,” Stoya said. “Better yet, speak to him the next time you see him in the village.”
“It’s an urgent matter,” said Kent.
“Can’t it wait?”
“It can’t, I’m afraid.”
“It’ll have to, or Lord Einrich will hear of this.”
Kent and his friends exchanged glances. “You think milord will mind a single wit what happens here? When has he ever lifted a finger in protection over the likes of you?”
“I’ve never had reason to ask before,” said Stoya. “Provoke me, and I promise you I will.”
Kent’s smile turned black. “I’m the one what’s been provoked. Your husband made a fool of me in front of the whole village today.”
“Really. He mentioned nothing of it to me.”
“Well, it happened. He was telling one of his tall tales. I happened to be walking by, and he says, ‘Now, this troll was one of a right hideous nature. The thing had a posture not unlike Master Norch’s, here.’ Everyone laughed at me.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Stoya said, stifling a laugh of her own. “I’m sure Eldrek only meant it in jest. He’s that way with people.”
“Jest or no, I’m a laughing stock. We was walking down by the river and someone called me hunchback.”
“You three seem to do a lot of walking and not much getting anywhere. If this is between you and my husband, why did you bring your friends?”
“Who knows what the old man’s capable of. He’s always telling stories about magic. For all I know, he’s a wizard himself.”
Stoya tried not to smile. If you only knew, she thought. “I will tell Eldrek you came looking for him. Though I’m sure he didn’t mean any offense and he will be happy to apologize.”
“You tell him I was here. You tell him.”
“I will.” She stood and watched until the three young men were a ways down the road, then took Draithon inside and barred the door.
“What did Master Norch want with Poppy?” Draithon asked as they sat to supper.
“Never you mind. It was only a misunderstanding between adults. Poppy will get it sorted when he returns.”
“Where does Poppy go when he goes away?”
“You are full of questions tonight. And empty of supper. Eat up.”
Draithon scrunched his nose.
“What’s this all about?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat. You’ll have to grow big and strong if you want Poppy to take you with him when he goes.”
“Will he?”
“Only if you do as your mother tells you.”
Later, when Draithon was asleep in the loft, Stoya sat beside the hearth to start her knitting. When she reached into her yarn basket, she caught a glimpse of the long cylinder of polished bone resting at the bottom. She pulled it out, along with the beginnings of the project she’d been working on for the last few evenings, and ran her fingers over the bronze clasp. I must find a better place to hide this, she thought, scanning the room.
Kent Norch was not the only villager grown suspicious of Eldrek Lyrent and his tall tales. The villagers were the least of their problems, though. Dathiri soldiers still passed through Briarcrest from time to time, searching the Orothi countryside for Olyvard King’s quarry, the wife of the traitor Darion Ulther. Apart from being wanted for her aid in Darion’s treason, it was believed that Lady Ulther, wherever she might be hiding, possessed something of great value to the king.
There was a spot where the roof met the rafters and formed a little cubbyhole beneath the thatching. Stoya pulled her stool across the floor, careful not to scrape the legs, and stepped onto it. She glanced at the sleeping child as she lifted the scroll toward her hiding spot. She had to stretch her arm and stand on her toes to get close enough.
Her balance faltered, and the case slipped through her fingers. She caught it before it could fall, but had to hop off the stool and land on the floor with a thud.
Draithon stirred in his bed, but did not wake. Stoya stepped up once more. This time she kept her balance long enough to slide the scroll case into position and tuck the thatching around the opening to conceal it. When she was done, she got down and circled the room, pausing at intervals to look at it from every angle. Satisfied it was as well-hidden as could be, she sat down and took up her knitting.
It is the only copy, Darion had told her the day they parted ways. The only copy of the four parts of a ritual which, when performed, would destroy the mage-song and strip their world of its magic forever.
Stoya rested her knitting in her lap, too distraught to go on. I must, she told herself. I must finish this. I must be ready. When will you come back, my love? When will you return to me, and to the son you left behind? She had wondered this every day for as long as she could remember. Each day the longing faded a little. Each day, the hope of his return faded with it.
Chapter 3
The meager remains of Rudgar King’s army lay at camp outside Cronarmark. At the far end of the long stone land bridge stood the city’s gatehouse, from which Dathiri Warpriests had repelled Rudgar’s attacks thrice so far. Rylar Prince had warned both his father and Darion that Cronarmark’s gates would be impenetrable while protected by casters, but neither man had listened.
The prince had been right.
And so, after rampaging north across the continent in a bloody swath of vengeance, what Rudgar had foreseen as a victorious one-night attack on the capital had degenerated into a siege. And not a very good siege, at that. Rudgar’s armies may have held control of Cronarmark’s only entrance by land, but Dathiri Regent Dask Gardwald had arranged trade with a group of Thraihmish sailing merchants from Frostport, thus rendering Rudgar’s blockade all but ineffectual.
Rudgar’s mages had attacked and sunk any Thraihmish merchant vessels that wandered too close to shore. Yet the king and his men were dismayed by the lingering understanding that in bringing hardship upon the entrenched Dathiri, they were also starving out their own people. Rudgar was certain the Dathiri would surrender before the city starved, but Darion was not so sure.
True, the Dathiri would eventually run out of gold with which to pay the sea merchants, but not before they drained Cronarmark’s coffers. They would never flee the city until it became their only option, and the only army without options was an army without gold to buy them. Moreover, Olyvard King had expended a great many resources to conquer Korengad, and he would sooner see his army die of hunger than give up. If there was any hope of saving the citizens of Cronarmark, perhaps it lay in appealing to Dask Gardwald.
Gardwald was a cunning man who had long served Rudgar as Castellan of Cronarmark. In truth, the man was a spy for Dathrond, and loyal to Olyvard King. It was his command which had opened Cronarmark’s gates to the invading Dathiri army, and his rul
e which now prevented Rudgar’s own entry into the city. Rudgar could at least take some consolation in the fact that his loyal servant Hakon had secreted away his wife and helped her escape the city during the invasion. Solveig Queen of Korengad was now living comfortably in a small castle many leagues away.
As for Rudgar and his men, there was little comfort to be had. The forest of tents on the open tundra left them vulnerable to the northern winter raging around them. Better to be behind Cronarmark’s high walls and beneath its thick rooftops, with stone fireplaces and warm food to keep the elements at bay.
The soldiers were a battered and freezing multitude, grown no stronger in the waiting. They had long ago burned the remaining longships to fuel their fires. Constant watch needed to be kept on the city, and at least one mage posted at all times to ward off any magical attack the Dathiri might organize. A stalemate for the ages, said Rylar Prince through his translator, whenever his father wasn’t around.
Rudgar King was around today, and making it known to the whole camp. The longship bearing the king’s tent furnishings had sunk during the attack, leaving Darion and the rest of his war council to sit on the hard earth inside his tent and listen as he bellowed his frustrations.
Vaeron Shask leaned over and whispered to Darion, translating the king’s words. “This cannot go on. The dogs of Dathrond have… defecated in my home… long enough. Something must be done. Any man with an idea… speak now.”
No one did.
“Tell him I have an idea,” said Darion, “though he will not like it.”
Rudgar listened to Vaeron’s translation, then gestured toward Darion and flung himself down on his furs.
“I could march south to Halavard with a small contingent of soldiers. There, we would hire a boat and sail to Thraihm. If we can find the merchants in Frostport who are delivering supplies to the Dathiri, we can infiltrate the city—”
Rudgar interrupted Vaeron’s translation.
“His majesty says this will take too long,” Vaeron said. “The Thraihmish would never betray Dathrond. I have tried. A host of Korengadi soldiers would be discovered and defeated before they could march a single league.”