by Lela Markham
“What are you sent here for today?” Naranddal asked. He had a thin face and graying hair. His eyes were a deep dark brown. His accent suggested central Celdrya. Sawyl tried to ignore the shimmering image in the alcove behind him. The master of this guild looked to be in his middle years, but like Talidd, Sawyl suspected he was a great deal older. Talidd said he was not a true dark mage, but Sawyl thought anyone who could capture an ethereal spirit had superior magick.
“My master has requested these items in exchange for these vials,” Sawyl reported, opening the bag of poisons and spreading them on the table. Then he began writing the order on a wax tablet he’d brought with him for the purpose.
Naranddal inspected the vials carefully, opening each to sniff them. He restoppered them and set them aside so he could read Sawyl’s list.
“I won’t provide the last item,” Naranddal announced. “That is a forbidden item.”
Sawyl turned that over in his mind before replying.
“You do not say that you haven’t got it, only that it is forbidden.”
Naranddal smiled subtly, his thin lips curving ever so slightly upward.
“I provide what I am able and willing to provide.”
The delay was not insurmountable, but Sawyl did not wish to remain in the city any longer than absolutely necessary.
“A full payment should buy a full request.”
“I provide what I am able and willing to provide.”
The shimmering image, previously a translucent silver, began to radiate with red threads and to take on a more solid visage.
“Aye,” Sawyl said, not showing his alarm. “I can find such elsewhere. Do you have incantations to ward off this plague?”
“There are some, but your master is the only one I know of who has effectively resisted it. Mayhap you should go see one of your fellow journeyman in the city.”
“Mayhap,” Sawyl agreed.
“Sawyl, do you know this spell?”
“Aye, I’ve read of it.”
“Then you know what it is for?”
“For killing specific people.”
“For killing specific people who are protected by the gods,” Naranddal corrected. “Has Talidd found the king, then?”
“Not to my knowledge. Mayhap he wishes to be prepared.”
“I would hope that is all he wants if he hasn’t found the king. Talidd knows better than any of us what may happen if a mage works this spell when he doesn’t know where or against whom it will be directed. It’s been a long time, but surely he still bears those scars of his own master’s ill-considered haste.”
“I am unfamiliar,” Sawyl admitted.
“Truly? Think of what happened to the last king and then you may be more familiar.”
“And this final item?”
“I will provide what I am willing and able and that will never be given.” The spirit floated away toward a door at the back of the oddly shaped room. The corners creeped Sawyl’s soul. The elven murals turned his heart to ice. “Wash well, Sawyl. That is as likely to keep the bad humours away as incantations.”
The spirit returned and four jars appeared on the table before Sawyl.
“The requested items that I can provide. A century ago, Talidd might have averted disaster, but he did not act when required. You are now tasked to consider what you will do.” Naranddal then stood and strode to the door. “I’ve duties to attend. I’m sure you know your way out.”
With ice-water running down his back, Sawyl packed up the potions and fair fled the chamber. He’d always been curious about Naranddal and once had wondered if he’d be a better master than Talidd. Now, as he strode into the light of the fog-enshrouded day, Sawyl knew with a cold certainty that Naranddal held what Talidd lacked -- a soul of compassion and a caring for his pupils. Sadly, that knowledge would do him no good now. His life was not his own, as Naranddal well knew. To betray Talidd was to die and above all else, Sawyl valued his own life.
Founding Year 1028
Near Dun Llyr (Five Cycles Past)
Llyr had the best port in all the kingdom and her rigs knew it. They well-protected the deep estuary mouth of the Avercelt with fortresses on both headlands and a net of chain that could be lifted to block the entrance. The city had stood attack by Morikan pirates during the Troubles and more recently after the desolation of the Trevellyns, but it had never fallen because of its impregnable harbor. All who had attacked the great city had been repulsed.
Until now, Gilyn thought with a smile. A part of following the goddess was trusting her guidings, but he had wondered this time. Surely the rig of Llyr would know of a portal within the perimeter of his defenses. Nay, his father’s people were not so wise as that.
Tucked into a crevasse not much wider than two longboats abreast, there lay a fissure in the stone that led into a deep pocket where a wide shingle of rock would allow long boats to be easily staged for a push into the city. Across the water, the city climbed the cliffs of the ancient Kin city. Gil wondered that the Celts never wondered about the broad avenues that gracefully climbed the heights to the ramparts protecting the city from land attack. They apparently thought themselves safe. He smiled.
“If any vik had known of this, the city would have fallen a long time ago,” Jarl was telling Erik. “They are defenseless within their defenses.”
Erik had not immediately warmed to the idea. Behind his young face rested a kong’s mind. He knew a city was not as easily captured as a village in the Northern Isles.
“We should find out what their military strength is,” he announced. “Dress some of the men in Celdryan clothing and send them to the shore. They are to listen and observe and return here three days hence with a report. They are not to fight and they are to not drink the ale except watered. Understand?”
Jarl smiled like a father hearing his son take charge of the herds for the first time.
Erik unrolled a map they’d picked up in High Celdryan and studied it.
“This river is the key to taking the center of the country. It joins north and south. Is there a portal here?” he asked, pointing to Dun Galornyn.
Gil smiled and nodded.
“With enough ships and men,” Jarl said.
“Jah. And the Vik are hungry, waiting for the next great conquest.” Erik put a big, callused hand on Gil’s shoulder.
Do not kill him now. He will be useful for what we want ... for now.
“You’ve done a great thing, Gil, and you will be well rewarded for your service. Can you teach my men to operate the portals?”
“Nay. Only one of the Kin may activate them. It will require planning, these attacks. I’ve not seen so many long ships in your father’s fjord.”
“Nah, but he is building more and we will build more for the future. This will happen. Let’s go to see the portal at Galornyn and then return to my father with the news that we only need men at arms to strike.”
The two vik turned toward the portal. Gil glanced back at the harbor. All looked so quiet and calm … for now.
Sanctuary
The wild goats live in the high mountains; the rock badgers find safety in the cliffs.
From the Scriptos of the One, Songs of Ysrael
Recorded by Blethry, Priest of Bel, Moryn FY 943
Founding Year 931
Galconyn Mountains -Kylly Mines
The horses labored up the rise to the point where Pedyr ordered the band to dismount and lead them before they foundered. There were tall trees to either side of the road, thick-trunked evergreens with moss growing on the uphill side. It had been two days since they’d left the foothills and it began to feel as if they had been climbing for years. A steady drizzle of rain added to the misery. It wasn’t enough to make the road muddy, but enough to dampen clothes and make joints ache. Donyl’s weak leg throbbed when he’d been riding; now it pulsed with every step.
He’d begun to wonder if Nedd had somewhat to do with the rain. The lad claimed not to possess the powers his parent
s wielded, but the rain had begun shortly after Donyl had asked him if it was true that rain disrupted ethereal powers? He’d claimed not to know what Donyl was talking about, but if Donyl knew of it, the son of a druid and a grania had to be aware of it. Still, Donyl didn’t push the lad on the subject because it wouldn’t do for the other riders, already on the verge of panic, to mark Nedd as a mage. Donyl expected they would not treat their fellow, whom they liked well-enough in ignorance, with gentleness should they come to suspect.
Pedyr, walking at the front of the column, raised a hand for halt.
“Do you smell that?” he asked in a low voice that carried.
“Wood smoke,” Nedd noted in the same sort of low voice.
Donyl led his horse to join them, then pointed out a wisp of fog that was a bit too dense to be fog.
“Might be a village nearby,” he suggested.
“Nedd, take Remry and Stegyl to see what’s what,” Pedyr said softly. Nedd obeyed without question. Pedyr dolled out journey bread and someone passed an ale bag. Donyl leaned against a tree, exhaustion weighting his limbs. Nedd and his companions returned a bit later than expected with a man from the village just over the nearest rise.
“This is Marstyn,” Nedd explained to Pedyr. “He’s the village headman.”
Marstyn was a tall red-headed fellow with a barrel chest and dark blue eyes.
“You’re welcome at our hearths so long as you will peace-bind your blades,” he explained.
“Why ever for?” Donyl demanded.
“We are of the Way of Peace. We’ve no quarrel with how you conduct your lives outside our village, but here we expect you to honor our ways.”
Pedyr drew Donyal a bit away.
“I’ve heard of these. I met some during a traverse of this mountain range as a young man. It’s safe enough. There’s not that could come against us so far up the mountain.”
“Naught but the raven bitch,” Nedd said. “The good of it is that iron is said to ward her and they’re miners of iron ore.”
“Our horses want rest and the men are spent,” Pedyr added. “I think it’s safe enough. They’re a variety of Believers, so I trust their word as bond.”
Donyl wasn’t sure if he entirely agreed, but truth be told, he was not the captain of this band. He could overrule Pedyr as any lord might a commoner, but wisdom instructed that Pedyr knew far more about these situations than he did.
“Let us at least spend the night,” Donyl agreed.
The mountain believers lived in half-buried homes of logs piled one upon another and notched to hold them together. There was no inn in the village, but the headman found beds for all of them. Donyl bedded with Pedyr and Nedd as guards in the home of Bandar, a loquacious fellow with a smiling wife and several children. They were given a comfortable chamber just above the main room outfitted with a mattress and metal hooks for clothing. The window looked out at ground level since this was the second floor.
As they prepared for bed after a pleasant evening of music and laughter, Marstyn brought his eldest son to them in the chamber. The lad had his own family now, just across the way, Marstyn had explained earlier in the day.
“You must listen to my son, for he is a seer. Jeryd, please to speak with these men as you would with me.”
The lad looked a lot like his father, except that his hair was dark, mayhap from his mother.
“I have no certain knowledge, you understand, but I believe you are stalked by daemons.” What could they say? Their faces mayhap expressed it all. “You carry somewhat on you that they want,” Jeryd said, looking right at Donyl. “That is all the Lord has given me to say.”
“Thank you, Jeryd,” Pedyr replied. “I swear by the One, whom you call Lord, that we will find answer to this.”
Jeryd and Marstyn both nodded and departed to allow the three conversation.
“What have you kept from us?” Nedd demanded.
“Only what my brother charged me to keep secret,” Donyl replied reluctantly. He limped to his belongings and brought the haversack to them. One by one, he pulled out the objects and laid them on the blankets for his guards to view.
“These are Kin work, mayhap,” Pedyr noted. “Royal jewels, you say. Hmph!”
Nedd picked up the amulet. Outside, they could hear the drizzle immediately increase to a downpour.
“I knew you were not sharing the whole of it,” Donyl said. The rider smiled.
“It’s a small gift not worth mentioning until it comes in contact with the right sort of talisman. I rather thought we had somewhat among us when the drizzle started right when we needed, but I couldn’t be sure. These are part of legend -- the treasure of the Fey. Do you know of it?”
“I did not, nay.” Donyl glanced at Pedyr.
“I wasn’t raised in Denygal, so I always thought them stories my mam told to amuse us, but aye, she may have told stories of these.”
“So what do we do with them?” Donyl asked.
Pedyr and Nedd were quiet for so long that Donyl feared they’d leave the decision to him, but then they spoke at the same time.
“Get them as far from these good people as we can,” they said, “and hope that is enough,” Nedd added.
Another long silence ensued.
“How do we do that?” Pedyr asked at last.
Founding Year 1028
Dun Wllean
Duglas’ caravan had many wagons and horses and mules and was indeed longer than Dun Wllean was wide. The town guards threw open the Celdryan gates at dawn so that the caravan could form up before the Mandorlyn gates. Padraig and Tamys had been assigned a squad about halfway back in the column, almost to the Celdryan gates.
Padraig watched as the men sorted themselves out, watched as Tamys made tentative friends with some of the freeswords in the caravan. The freeswords, being young, were boasting of their exploits, of the wars they’d fought and the places they’d traveled. Padraig noted that Tamys seemed circumspect, holding his resume to his chest. While this might just be reticence in an unknown situation, it occurred to Padraig that he’d never asked an important question. After a bit of thought, he called Tamys to help him check Earnest’s panniers, giving him excuse to draw him away from the group.
“I never thought to ask, for clearly you’ve been well-trained in arms, but there’s naught for it and you need to answer me truly right now. Have you ever ridden to war?”
Tamys cut him an odd stare and then stood silent for several heartbeats. Padraig’s own heart contracted, realizing that upon this answer much rode. Presently Tamys began to laugh somewhat maniacally, causing Padraig to stare at him in confusion.
“You might have asked a good deal sooner,” he chortled.
“I made an assumption and now I am checking my facts. Answer my question.”
Tamys laughed a moment longer, shaking his head, but eventually he recognized that he owned Padraig somewhat. Drawing a calming breath, Tamys glanced around him.
“I’m a Hawk,” he whispered, then walked away laughing to himself, leaving Padraig to mull that information over.
Clan Manahan of Mulyn claimed the hawk as their device. Corbryn of Manahan was a principal claimant to the throne. If Tamys were a son of his, and that seemed likely, he’d likely ridden to war his first summer out of page, which likely meant he’d killed a man or a dozen. It was hard to gauge how old Tamys was, for he acted much older than he looked, but Padraig guessed 18. He’d ridden to war as many as five times then, which would likely make him the most experienced of the young freeswords. Assured that he need not worry about Tamys in a scrap, Padraig returned his attention to his hire and let go his concern somewhat.
Leaving the Mandorlyn gate was quite something, for the road to Mandorlyn had been cut into the living rock of the mountains. Above the gate, to the outside, were ramps hung upon the walls, set with boulders and buckets that likely held tar to be set afire if needed. Dun Wllean remembered well the attack of the dwarves and stood prepared for what might come.
As the day wore on, the path climbed steadily upward and the men and animals labored. The mules set their shoulders to their heavy wagons and the horses started fresh. Yet, as the day wore on, Padraig noted that the altitude began to affect some. He thanked the One God for reminding him of the mountain sickness and providing him with the means to treat it. Personally, having spent the past four years in the Eastern Mountains, Padraig felt no effect. He noted that Tamys also didn’t seem affected. Although Manahan sat in the southern part of Mulyn, it was near to the mountains and Tamys might have spent a good bit of time there.
“What made these walls?” Tamys asked, whispering in awe.
“The dwarves,” Padraig told him.
“How?” the lad asked.
“That I do not know. I have seen such in the east, but I don’t know how they built them.”
Tamys reached out to graze his fingers along the stone.
“It’s actually smooth like glass in some places.”
“Aye, though this is for rude outdoor use. Their interior work is finer still.”
Tamys gave Padraig a skeptical look, but he didn’t argue. Mayhap it was due to his awe of the workmanship.
Toward mid-morning the caravan stopped and a barrel of water was hand-carted along the line. Braeden rode the line, checking on everyone.
“When will we stop to eat?” Padraig asked. “Duglas did mention the bowels affecting previous caravans and I have medicinals for it, but it wants boiling water.”
“We’ll not stop to eat until the evening meal. This canyon does grow very hot during the day and there are few places to camp, so we rest where we can, some at midday, but we don’t cook except at night, so as to spend as little time as possible in the canyon.”