The Willow Branch

by Lela Markham

  “I think they believe they missed us,” he whispered.

  “I think so too. You are indeed a soldier that you could sense that coming our way.”

  “Aye, well, I’ve been well-trained,” Tamys said prosaically. “Do you think it was the chirgeon of Clarcom?”

  It took Padraig a moment to reply, for he was shocked that Tamys had known this. True, the lad had complained of the man’s manner, but Padraig would have thought him less astute than that. He is indeed no mere soldier.

  “Traegyr, aye, that I do. We’d best stay off the King’s road for now. There’s a cart road to the south, leads through more of those farms you’re not interested in. Any objections to traveling at night until we reach Blyan?”

  “You’re paying me not to have objections,” Tamys reminded him. He glanced at the sky which might have grown a bit lighter than a few minutes before. “Still lots of night left.” He unlashed his bedroll from behind his saddle, pulled his mess bag from a pannier, and wrapped himself in one of the blankets. “I’ll take the first watch,” he told Padraig, settling his back, standing, against a tree, drawing his dagger to cut himself a chunk of cheese.

  Padraig wanted to protest, but he sensed that Tamys was a better choice. The lad was used to such shortings of sleep. Padraig felt desperately tired and chilled to the bone. Accepting this, he rolled into his blankets and slept, comfortable with Tamys’ guardianship. He awoke at midday to find Tamys eating a cold lunch of bread and cheese and watching the mill wheel across the pond. Night had given way to a beautiful, even somewhat warm day and Tamys had doffed his blanket, though he remained standing against the tree. The trees were newly green with erupting buds and Padraig’s nose was suddenly quite aware of growing things under the dusty smell of leaf mold.

  “I’ve heard folk upon the road when it’s quiet, but I think Traegyr did give up,” Tamys reported, storing his food. He looked candidly at his traveling companion. “Do you want to tell me why he’d follow you with a warband 10 strong?”

  “I’ve somewhat he wants, but I wouldn’t sell it to him. I hope Annan and Heledd are well.”

  “No doubt they reported that you’d moved on and he left them as he found them. It wouldn’t do for the chirgeon of Clarcom to be abusing a prosperous merchant,” Tamys assured him, proving once again that he’d had a nobleman’s training. “Those must be some precious herbs,” he said doubtfully, but then shrugged, retrieving his blanket from the tree he’d hung it in. “I’m for my blankets. We’ll set out at sunset, aye?”

  “Aye,” Padraig told him. Tamys gathered his blanket, spread it under a bush and wrapped himself in another. Quickly, he was asleep, leaving Padraig to sit up and watch the mill wheel and wonder why Traegyr had pursued him. Was it just for the herbs or was there another reason? The second had a resonance to it that he could not explain. Traegyr would have counted the herbs as an added incentive, but he had another reason for pursuing Padraig. What was it? Padraig could not say, yet he knew in his heart that Traegyr had meant him harm and that he would not give up so easily. They’d best be on their toes for the next few days, wary as cats and twice as sly.

  Founding Year 1028

  Dunmaden - Spring

  Gregyn stared at the clouds, trying to scry. It was difficult to do in the saddle, moving down the road, in the company of riders. Truly, he would avoid such, except that it be needful. Lord Teddryn had brought his war band north to hunt brigands and he wanted them found. Talidd’s last instructions were to distinguish himself so as to gain the nobles’ trust. Roprick, the tracker, hadn’t picked up the trail yet (thanks to the wildfolk covering the tracks on Gregyn’s request), but not finding the brigands wouldn’t do what Gregyn needed. Finding the brigands was imperative, enough to warrant scrying in the saddle.

  Gregyn had recognized that he had skills other apprentices did not. He could scry using clouds, for example, and call the wildfolk. He remembered their humor and pranks from his childhood in the city. They’d helped him find food and shelter and kept him from feeling utterly alone. He had grieved when they had stopped coming to him on the island and been quite surprised when they had reappeared at the dun. The longer he was out in the world, the more wildfolk seemed to flock round him, except for the few days he’d spent back with Talidd. He realized, as he had been too young to realize before, that ordinary folk and black mages could not see the gnomes, nymphs and sylvans. More than seeing them, Gregyn could command them in small and growing ways. This morning they had erased the tracks of the brigands that were near the road, but now they were seeking the tracks that would lead them to the camp.

  There was just one problem – wildfolk were unreliable at complicated tasks and finding a brigand camp in the woods was apparently more complicated than erasing a few horse prints at a crossing. Having come this far by trickery, he must now rely on true magicks – in the middle of the warband, on the road, in the saddle. Would the apprentice prove his worth this day?

  An etheric window opened in amongst the clouds. Gregyn could see his band upon the road. To the south lay forest as far as the eye could see. To the north, there were hills wrapped in trees. Reasoning that the brigands would seek shelter, Gregyn turned his attention toward the north, toward a granite tor thrust up from a round hill. Gregyn narrowed his vision and swooped down toward the tor, spying men squatting round a low fire, talking. Gregyn broke the vision by tapping three times on the saddle peak. A stream ran north to south at a ford they’d already crossed. It was very close to where the prints had been before the wildfolk had erased them. He turned his horse out of line to ride up to Teddryn, who was berating Roprick in a low tone for his inability to pick up the trail.

  “A word, my lord?” Gregyn said to Teddryn.

  “Aye, lad. What is it? You are in Wergyn’s squad, aye?”

  “I am. I think we missed the trail.” Roprick, a thin dark man who reminded Gregyn of a whippet, subsided into his saddle, sighing. Gregyn couldn’t tell if he was irritated by the interruption or grateful that Gregyn was presenting himself as a target for the lord’s ire.

  “That’s obvious, lad,” Teddryn remarked. “Tell me somewhat I do not know.”

  “I worked for a caravan before I came to Galornyn. One of the guards knew a lot about hunting brigands and he told me somewhat about streams and hiding their trails.”

  “There were no tracks near the stream. I checked wide,” Roprick objected.

  “If they walked in the water, there would be no tracks to see,” Gregyn explained.

  Teddryn looked at Roprick who shrugged, then nodded. Teddryn turned to stare back on the road.

  “It’s a short distance, my lord,” Roprick said. “The lad is right, that we should take a second look. The water was deep. I judged too deep for men to walk, but mayhap horses could have managed it. They’d not have stayed to the water long. We should be able to pick up a trail if it exists.”

  Gregyn sent a picture to the wildfolk of a river bank. There was naught more he could do than that. Teddryn, Roprick and a squad of five, Gregyn included, rode in advance of the main vanguard. The stream crossed the road without a bridge, leaving a muddy mess at the crossing. Roprick didn’t even bother to quit his saddle. Any prints left by brigands would have been destroyed by the passing warband.

  “Lad, did this guard give you any ideas to look right or left?” Roprick asked, just the slightest hint of mockery under his tone.

  Gregyn knew this was a dangerous game he played. If he didn’t deliver brigands, he’d face mockery and a loss of status. Still, he couldn’t make it seem too easy. The spring leaves were out on the trees, so that just the top of the tors could be seen above the forest.

  “The tors might provide shelter,” he suggested. “Caves and suchlike.”

  The water to the north of the road was too deep for horses, but Roprick said naught, for he wouldn’t want to call too much attention if it turned out the brigands were indeed in the woods near the ford.

  Gregyn dropped out of his sa
ddle and looked about the ground as if he had some clue what he was doing. The trees nearest the road were not thickly grown, so leading his horse, he walked a bit off the road, still scanning the ground. Teddryn had used the search for brigands as a training exercise and ordered the war band to wear full padding and mail shirts. Sweat trickled down Gregyn’s back as he searched the ground for clues. The wildfolk had done their job – else the tracks were left from before. Here and there, near the stream bank, he could see scuffs in the dirt that suggested horses passing. Roprick saw them too and moved to the fore to lead the squad toward the tors. Gregyn swung up into the saddle to follow as Teddryn dropped back to direct the rest of the guard.

  The squad rode silently through the trees along a narrow trail that might have been made by deer. Green-dappled sunlight shone down on them. Gregyn felt a tug on the reins of his horse and looked down to see the green gnome that most often came to him pulling on the reins and pointing round the other side of the tor. Oh, clever brigands. They had gone off trail.

  Gregyn knew they were far too many for one man alone, but Wergyn was right behind him, so he stopped his horse and pretended to be tracking.

  “Lad?”

  “I think they’ve missed the trail again,” Gregyn whispered, pointing to what might have been a rabbit trail.

  Wergyn made room for Lord Teddryn, who nodded as if he could see what Gregyn was showing. Gregyn considered ensorcelment to speed things along, but it seemed subterfuge would work as well. Truly the nobleman seemed not to understand tracking at all.

  “Should we recall Roprick?” Wergyn asked.

  “Nay. He’ll meet us on the other side, catch them in a pincher. You may lead, Wergyn, with your clever young rider.”

  Gregyn managed not to startle when the green gnome popped into existence riding on his horse’s neck. Wildfolk were unreliable, but they could be very useful. The gnome had scouted the area and while incapable of speech or useful knowledge like distance, it did know the location of the camp. Before long, the gnome proved its worth, waving its warty hands and pointing with long skinny fingers. Through the trees, Gregyn could see a shed roof for sheltering firewood and a line with clothes hung upon it. Since he was second in line, he raised a hand to stop the guard. Wergyn recognized a gap behind him and reined to a stop. Gregyn gestured that he’d found the camp. Wergyn responded with gestures of his own. The men dismounted and spread through the trees, surrounding the camp in a wide arc. Gregyn scanned the band and marked the leader – a tall man with a coat of mail instead of stitched-together leather.

  Gregyn drew a war dart and awaited Wergyn’s call. For a moment, the forest held its breath. The signal came soon enough – two long whoops – and the war darts flew. Gregyn struck the leader in the shoulder and spun him round, but it was merely a graze. The war dart fell away, leaving a ragged tear in the mail which soon shone with blood. The man staggered back, then drew his sword and rushed straight for Gregyn as men throughout the clearing broke into fighting duos. Gregyn drew his sword and met the leader’s charge. Steel clanged against steel and sparks flew. Gregyn slammed his shield into the man’s face. The leader was as tall and heavier than Gregyn, but Gregyn had youth and vigor on his side. The leader stumbled back, trailing blood from his shoulder, then swung his sword again. Gregyn blocked it with the shield, slipped under and up and felt his blade turn on the mail. The leader’s blade slapped into Gregyn’s mail, stinging his shoulder. The heat and weight of mail were beginning to tell on Gregyn’s fighting prowess. Gregyn slammed the shield forward, but the leader braced his arm against it and pushed back, bearing Gregyn backward into a tree. The wind driven from him, Gregyn landed on his back and cowered beneath the shield, realizing this was not going to be an easy victory. This fellow had been a soldier before he’d become a brigand. There were men dying round him and he’d best make quick work of this before the tide turned. The leader hammered on the shield, which was painted wood, and it began to split just left of the boss.

  There is power in aethyr, earth, air, fire, and water. The blood flowing down the brigand’s siarc glowed with ethereal power. Gregyn drew from the aethyr, felt it flow into him as pure energy. He pushed with his crumbling shield, kicked with a up-flung leg and sprang to his feet. The brigand stumbled back, surprised at the strength, and fell. Gregyn’s sword cleaved the juncture of the mail twixt torso and arm. The man’s eyes showed shock as Gregyn drove the sword deep into his guts. Gregyn lowered him to the ground on the tip of his sword, placed his foot against the man’s chest and pulled the sword free. Blood welled and the man’s eyes grew unfocused as life fled.

  Another brigand roared and charged Gregyn who, in his aethyr-empowered state, merely parried, swept down and under and back up to gut the man with hardly an effort.

  It was a rout. The brigands were no match for a trained band of riders. All round Gregyn lay bodies of men killed by his fellows. A few brigands had escaped into the surrounding forest, but they’d gotten most of them and that was enough.

  Gregyn was wiping his sword off on the dead brigand leader’s threadbare breecs when Teddryn strode up. The tall, broad-shouldered lord had apparently taken part in the fighting, for there was a spray of blood cross his face, globs of red hanging in his light brown beard.

  “Lad, well done!” he announced. “Truly, you may well be a better tracker than Roprick.”

  “Nay, sir. There is much Roprick knows that I do not. But I appreciate the honor, sir.”

  “You’ll make a fine rider, lad. Two kills and one against a trained swordsman. You’ve done well. I’m asking Roprick to train you as his second.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Gregyn replied. As Teddryn walked away, Gregyn turned and looked across the brigand camp and saw somewhat that pricked his heart. The wildfolk stood on the edge of the encampment, watching as the war band stripped the bodies preparatory to burial. If a word described what Gregyn saw there it would be sadness. The wildfolk were deeply grieved over the bloodshed here this day, standing off to the side, sucking their fingers, their mouths gaping with soundless mourning.

  Gregyn felt anxiety swell within him. He’d killed many animals in his life and dealt his share of cruelty. A black mage’s apprentice needed to be hard. Yet this was the first man he’d ever killed. He’d seen others kill their first. They always cried or retched. It was mayhap a rite of passage. Yet he had just killed his first and he felt, barely, sadness. The death itself did not truly bother him. And it was that lack that truly did needle him. If the wildfolk grieved the death of men this day, was it not human to feel grief at the taking of a life? And if he did not feel grief did that mean he was truly not human?

  Shadowplay

  The priests parted ways during the Time of Troubles. By all accounts, the archives show that there was but one sect of Celtic religion when our people came through the Portal. It appears to have looked a great deal like the Old Faith. I can understand why people moved away from that. So messy and time-consuming. Yet we had but one set of priests from the third century on until that time. Records are sketchy, but it would seem that the priests disagreed about how to solve the Troubles or mayhap which king should rule following those times, so they split and moved into two sects. The priests of Bel remain the wisest of the wise, but the Lughans do have the ear of kings.

  Halidd, Royal Historian, FY 753

  Founding Year 931

  High Celdrya – Late Spring

  Perryn saw Donyl to the bolt hole on the night of his departure. The man he had selected as journey captain had served bravely at Maryn’s death and Perryn felt certain Pedyr would be a loyal honor guard captain for as long as needed. Deryk had recommended him and Donyl seemed comfortable with him. Indicative of his intelligence, Pedyr entered the bolt hole, saying he’d wait a bit in for Donyl. He’d already been given ample instructions by both Deryk and Perryn and understood that the brothers needed a moment of farewell. Truth be told, Perryn wanted a moment for more than just formality.

  “Learn al
l that you can and come back to guide me,” Perryn said while Pedyr’s lantern disappeared down the corridor. It faded around a corner. Perryn dropped his voice to a whisper. “I’m entrusting you with somewhat of great importance.” Donyl gave him a quizzical look. Perryn opened a chest he’d placed right at the bolt hole entrance just for this occasion. Inside were set five objects worked in elven gold – a key, a cup, a ring, a locket with a white stone, and a message tube. “It is said that the Fey king used these as the crown jewels – the symbols of his sovereignty. King Branioc took them and the power of the land passed to him. During the Time of Troubles, the items passed to our line and secured our rule. We must keep them safe at all cost.”

  “And you believe they would be safer with me journeying to the wilderness than here in the treasure vault?”

  “Aye. My gut says this.”

  “Then I am honored with your trust,” Donyl assured him. He cocked an eyebrow as Perryn opened a tuck sack and began placing the items, wrapped in squares of cloth, within.

  “It can’t look as if you’re carrying the most valuable treasure in the kingdom,” Perryn answered the unspoken question. “Secure these in a pannier or better yet, this haversack so that they are with you at all times. Put clothes on top. Keep them out of view.” Perryn worked to hide the tuck sack and secure it as he spoke. “When you get to Denygal, find someone trustworthy and ask after them. None know how they actually work.”