by Lela Markham
Ryla, Druidess of the Krystan Celts, FY 39
Founding Year 931
Galconyn Mountains - Kylly’s Mine
This is a dream, Donyl thought as he walked along a corridor that seems to be the dun at Celdrya, but built of logs like the walls that surrounded his physical body. He could hear rain pounding on the roof above his physical body, though he knew logically that he could hear no such thing in the high dun. Be wary! Dreams are tricky things!
The thought caused him to stop walking and look round. The dun at Celdrya was a complex of brochs, half-brochs and connecting corridors, so that he could not be absolutely certain of where he was, but he thought himself near the chapel where the priests of Bel attached to the royal family plied their ministry. As dreams do, the wall beside him dissolved and he found himself standing beside the new priest, Perryn’s brother-in-law by now, Blethry. When Donyl had met him a matter of a month ago, he’d just had his head shaved as part of his induction into the priesthood, but in this dream he had a full head of hair as if many moons had come and gone. That his tonsure was not shaved reminded Donyl that this had to be a dream as that was a symbol of status among the Bel.
Blethry dipped his quill in a pot of ink and scratched somewhat on parchment. Donyl recognized that he was invisible to the priest, but as this was a dream, Blethry wasn’t really there either. Knowing this, Donyl walked round to Blethry’s right elbow and watched what the man wrote.
I will remain here and continue my study of the culture, he wrote. I know the Lughans have requested we convert them by force if necessary, but I do not see this as a feasible course of action. The Denygal are like the Old Faith and will not bow quickly to what they consider sacrilege.
Donyl’s thoughts stumbled. Denygal? This must be a dream for Blethry is in Celdrya. I must be anticipating my destination.
Donyl turned from Blethry and recognized the room had changed. They were not in the priestly library at all, but in an odd room he’d not seen before with a low ceiling and, shudder, square walls.
This does not have the feel of a nightmare, yet do not daemons lurk in corners?
Blethry suddenly appeared before him as they walked down a corridor that lead to his father’s chambers … not his father’s chambers anymore, but Perryn’s now. A fresh wreath of flowers hung upon the door handle.
This is his wedding night then, Donyl thought. He continued to follow Blethry, curious as to why the young priest, now with a short stubble of hair appearing on his scalp round a small tonsure, was going into Perryn’s chambers during what was meant to be a private time. Blethry stopped just inside the door, so that Donyl nearly ran into him. If the young priest felt his presence, he showed no sign. Donyl could hear the low tones of a young woman talking with Perryn through the partially opened door, but somewhat of greater importance seized his attention.
This is a nightmare! This is not happening!
Blethry stared at the man who stood with his left hand upon the door to the bedchamber. Deryk was unaware of his observers as he pushed the door open enough to gain passage to the room. The wall dissolved before Donyl so that he could see Perryn and his bride upon the bed. Perryn nuzzled her neck and she giggled. Deryk raised his right hand as Perryn spotted the shadow spreading across the blanket. The knife came down into Perryn’s side and sunk deep. Blood sprayed the wall behind the bed as Perryn’s young bride twisted and stared at Deryk in horror. With his left hand, Deryk grabbed her throat and lifted her free of the blankets. Her eyes bulged as she scratched desperately at the hand choking her. With incredible strength, Deryk drove the back of her head into the stone wall behind the bed, adding her blood and brains to Perryn’s congealing blood.
Donyl could hear himself screaming as Deryk backed away from the murders, mouth working in horror at what he had done. Men rushed into the chamber as Deryk let the knife drop to the floor and covered his face with his blood-dripping hands.
The scene dissolved as Donyl sat up upon his blankets, but he still saw Blethry turn to him and shout “Flee, you fool! Send them to the five winds and run! She must not be allowed to have them.”
Heart hammering in his chest, Donyl stared around the log-walled room and at the two men who had awakened when he sat up.
“The rain’s stopped,” Nedd announced, sitting up on the other side of Donyl. He pulled the amulet free of his wrist where he’d wound it. “I think that mayhap not be a good sign.”
“Nay,” Pedyr agreed, pulling on his boots as he spoke. “What I did just dream did not comfort me in the least and can you not feel what stalks our way?”
“Mayhap … what did you dream?” Donyl asked, breathless as his heart hammered behind his ribs. Pedyr looked at him, then slid his gaze aside. “Did you dream that Deryk of Cenconyn did stab King Perryn?”
Pedyr’s mouth dropped open.
“I dreamt it as well,” Nedd did add, reaching for his boots. “I think there’s naught time to waste.”
The next half-watch was a rush of activity. They’d planned to send the riders to the winds with the artifacts in the morning, but all three were in silent agreement that they needed to go now. They were not in immediate agreement whether to wake the village and warn them of what was coming. Deciding to keep the secret to their chests, they quietly woke the men they could gain easy access to and explained, in hurried and hushed tones, the need.
“Rogyn can take the amulet,” Pedyr told Nedd as the Dunmaden man came toward him with his saddlebags over one shoulder.
“Nay, I think naught of that idea,” Nedd replied. Pedyr frowned. “Please listen. I can make the amulet work and surely this thing knows someone in our party can do so. By using it, I can draw that thing away from Donyl. As he may well be our king now, we must protect him at all cost, which is why I will remain in the dark as to whether you are going forward or returning to Celdrya.”
Pedyr thought to argue, but how did one argue with good sense? He nodded and briefly clasped his friend’s shoulder with one large callused hand. They left their thoughts unspoken and got about the grim business of surviving evil.
Founding Year 1028
Highway to Mandorlyn
The caravan broke camp before dawn, taking to their saddles just as the sky was turning blue. The night had been cold and the morning was frosty, making the animals prance lightly and the men to shiver in their cloaks. Padraig noted as they rode that he had been missing somewhat on this journey. In the elven lands, women rode herd along with the men, owning animals of their own and pulling an equal share of the care. He hadn’t seen a woman since leaving Dun Wllean and the lack was wearing on him. It wasn’t that he desired romance, for his heart was secured with Ryanna, but simply that the sound of a female voice and the thoughts of a female mind were lacking here and he felt the want.
Tamys had chosen to ride with some of the freesword guards this morning, so that Padraig might have been riding alone all day if Duglas had not joined him before the warmth of the sun touched the canyon.
“I haven’t heard a complaint about the bowels yet, herbman. Good job.”
“I earn my hire,” Padraig replied pleasantly. They smiled at one another. Duglas glanced around nonchalantly.
“I hope I didn’t make you uncomfortable last night.”
“A bit, but only because talk of elves in the east will get you hanged.”
“Aye, well, we’re a bit more realistic this side of the kingdom. Most acknowledge the existence of the dwarves, so the existence of the elves isn’t so hard to countenance. The Southern Confluence was a tragedy that Celdryans ought to apologize for, but won’t, I’m sure. I was speaking more of the elven god.”
“Another topic that can bring a noose with it.”
“Aye, but I have wanted all these years to meet someone who knew about their god. Jesu, they called him, familiarly.”
“Aye,” Padraig grunted.
“They said that you had only to believe, to confess your disobedience to Him and He would enter your heart a
nd tell you who you are.”
“Aye,” Padraig agreed.
“I did that as a youngling,” Duglas admitted. “Now, I’m trusting that you’re not going to tell anyone about that. Over the years, I’ve not met anyone who would understand it. Do you?”
“Aye,” Padraig grunted. Duglas smiled at him.
“Well and good then. I am not far off the mark and I am grateful for you joining my caravan.”
“If we could but find some privacy to talk, but alas ....”
“Aye, well, He talks to us both, I think. Thanks to you. I should ride round now, so that folk don’t go guessing at what they cannot know.”
“Indeed,” Padraig replied and they parted company. For the rest of the morning, Padraig rode silently praising God for this brother in Kryst.
By late-morning the heat, the dust and the bugs clung around them as the day before. Relieved only by the abundant fresh water they had collected at the caravanserie, thirst parched men’s throats and made mule and horse alike surly. Even Joy complained of the biting gnats. Padraig resorted once again to his mask and saw other men do the same. As before, the muleteers did not complain, for like their charges they lived for hard work and balked only when the pull was off their shoulders. Walking as they were at the level of the road, the dust was worst for them, but they had naught a word of complaint.
Toward late mid-afternoon, the caravan ground to a halt and Braeden came back to ask Padraig to join him. He didn’t know where Tamys was, but passed him in the column as he rode forward. Tamys followed at a discreet distance, showing that he was still Padraig’s friend. Duglas had pulled the caravan to a stop at the entrance to a cave that ran directly under the mountain that had been looming for quite sometime.
“Another dwarven highway,” Duglas told Padraig. “I have men who panic at this every time. Do you have somewhat to take the edge off?”
“Nay. Ale is as good as we have. Some men just don’t like being underground.”
“That I know, but it’s the only way to Mandorlyn and not as bad as they think.”
“I have traveled on such in the east. If you like, I will stand here and encourage the men with my knowledge. I’m not sure if it will assist, but I will do as you like.”
“Thanks to you, herbman. I also remain here, but they do not always believe such as me.”
The first man to protest going under the ground was Tamys, whose horse also shied.
“Men were not meant to go under the ground, Padraig,” he protested.
“The dwarves do disagree and the elves have sheltered in their mines in the eastern mountains. Tamys, there’s adventure and possible honor on the other end of this tunnel. Are you going to tell me that you’ll turn back to join the brigands rather than follow me?”
“Nay, but .... It is unnatural,” Tamys assured him, then schooled his horse and rode under the mountain. There were still many men behind him, but the younger freeswords hesitated only and then followed Tamys. Braeden rode up at that moment.
“You can ride forward, herbman,” he assured Padraig. “I’ve many a trip to this place and not turned back a man yet.”
“Thanks to you,” Padraig said. He turned Joy and the pony to follow the column. Going under the shadow of the mountain instantly cooled the air and drove the bugs away. The tunnel was dry with a good thick layer of the moss the dwarves lined their highways with. Joy sent him a thought of pleasure and even Ernest’s step lightened. The ceiling was high with plenty of room to sit upright in the saddle, somewhat that Padraig had never understood, since the dwarves were short and didn’t ride horses, but he supposed they had reasons he was not meant to understand. The holt also had unnecessarily high ceilings. Mayhap they just liked the look.
Two wagons could ride abreast in the tunnel, so the column relaxed a bit. Padraig lapsed into a reverie concerning Blue Iris Holt and the folk he knew there. He could only scry through the fire and then not well, but it was almost as if he saw them working and talking within the cavern of the Wise. At one point, he thought Ryanna was urgently waving her hands before his face, beseeching him to listen, but Tamys interrupted him and the vision faded. Tamys had stopped hunching in the saddle to avoid a ceiling that was not low.
“Tis an ingenious way to get round a mountain,” he noted. He nodded to an air shaft ahead. “Those bring in fresh air.”
“Aye. In the east, there are a few of these tunnels. There, the dwarves maintenance some of them – the ones they still use – but leave others to nature. They last a long time. I’ve heard there are some tunnels in the kingdom, but none of the elves I know knew where to find them.”
“Tunnels? That would be a nice knowledge for an army to have,” Tamys noted. “I’d wager to guess that if my fa – Mulyn knew of tunnels, he’d have used them a long time ago.”
“The high city was a citadel in the days of the basketlands. The dwarves didn’t serve the same gods as the elves, so I don’t know if they would have built tunnels to it.”
“So there’s elven ruins under Dun Celdrya?” Tamys asked.
“I don’t know. I know there’s elven ruins below Dun Galornyn and Dun Cenconyn – I’ve seen them. I know there’s most likely elven ruins beneath Dun Llyr. If I had to wager, I’d say there are – or were -- tunnels between those three. They were major cities that the dwarves would have traded with. Of course, that was a thousand years ago and the tunnels may long ago have fallen in.”
“The men of Mulyn don’t know these tales,” Tamys announced. “Your corner of the kingdom must be well-read.”
“Aye. There’s not much to do in the long winters. And, we had a good bard as well. Learning’s well and good when the bard entertains.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Tamys said. “How long will it take us to reach daylight?”
“Don’t know,” Padraig announced after a moment. “The tunnels I’ve traversed before were not so large. I’m thinking we might be spending the night.”
“Spending the night!” Tamys exploded. “But – they say there are trolls in the mountains at night!”
“Lad, there are trolls here in the day if there are any at all,” Padraig assured him. “They’re naught but dwarves of a different tribe. Now, goblins, those are truly scary, though, in all my wide travels I’ve not met a goblin and I’ve seen some wild things. Methinks goblins are a dwarven folktale to scare Celdryans away from their mines.”
“Was this a mine, herbman?” Aethyn asked, having drawn to the rear of them.
“I’m thinking it wasn’t. The mines in the eastern mountains have many tunnels, not just a straight one through the heart of the mountain. Nay, the dwarves use these sorts of tunnels as highways. I think this is just that.”
“Too bad. I would brave a goblin or two for some gold or pretty rocks.”
“Aye, well, you’d best be worried about dwarves rather than trolls. As I said, I’ve met dwarves, but never a goblin and the dwarves are a fearsome people when you go touching their pretty stones.”
The travel under the mountain seemed to take forever. Occasionally an airshaft would let in some light, but this became rarer as the day wore on and they went deeper under the mountain. The air remained fresh and the torches drafted well, but light simply couldn’t make its way down the air shafts. Finally, the caravan ground to a halt near a huge hearth cut into the living stone where the cook was roasting on a spit and a camp was starting to take shape.
“How many nights will we be spending underground?” Padraig asked Duglas.
“Just the one. There’s men who have heard strange noises behind the walls at night, so I set a quick pace to the other side.”
“Strange noises?”
“I’ve never heard them myself and I suspect it’s all a dream, but I don’t need my guards panicking under the mountain. I’ve always thought the brigands ought to set up their ambuscades here rather than out in the open, but I suppose that’s why I’m a caravan leader and they’re brigands.”
“Mayhap,
” Padraig said. He knew from experience that stone was not silent. Sometime you could hear water running behind the rocks or ..., well, he didn’t know what all made the noises, but he thought them natural enough.
“Tis a pleasant campsite despite being underground. There’s water, a hearth, fresh air. I can see why the elves live in the abandoned dwarven mines.”
Padraig smiled, but did not correct Duglas. The Mountain People had given the mines to the elves. They were, as far as he knew, played out, but they were not abandoned.
“When you lived at the Southern Confluence, did you know a girl by the name of Ryanna?”
Duglas looked sore surprised.
“Aye, I remember her. Pretty little thing. Part-Celdryan. Used to beat us lads at archery. She lived? Or, well, I suppose she must have if you know her.”
“We met in the mountains,” Padraig explained. Although he thought about her everyday with whimsy, speaking of her caused warmth to spread throughout his body.
“I suppose, them being so long-lived, she wouldn’t look like more than a lass.”
“By elven standards, she is only an adolescent. By half-elven standards, she’s the equivalent of my age.”
“Is she now?! That do explain much. The elven lads were not exaggerating about their travels, merely not telling us that they were four times our age.”
“Aye.” Padraig smiled, thinking about the elves he knew.
“So you met Ryanna and fell in love,” Duglas noted a twinkle in his eye. “She didn’t marry that half-elf who used to follow her about like she were a bitch in heat. Good for her.”
“Which one was that?” Padraig asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.
“Well, I suppose he might have died in the Purge. Lad by the name of Gil.”
“He lived,” Padraig provided. “And, he married Ryanna. He died about five years ago, though. I never met him. Sounds as if he had an unseemly attraction.”