by Lela Markham
The floor of the cave had cut his shoulder and left large bruises. The taste of coppers in his mouth revolted him. He rolled to the side to vomit and lay there limp as a wet rag until a seizure shook his body. Then he lay stiff as a board waiting for the rigor to subside.
The pain finally eased so that he was able to crawl to the table and nudge the scrying bowl. The lantern burned low, but the window in the scrying vessel didn’t require light for Talidd to see into it, only light at the other end and there was enough there to see Balastyr collapsed amid a group of others in similar condition. Not one of them moved.
FoundingYear 1028
Mandorlyn
Oddly enough, the return journey with Duglas was considered the safer one. Braeden explained that the caravans had had little trouble when taking the gold out, though it was not unheard of.
“The baseborn bastards are usually too lazy to turn their hand to honest work and they’d have to work to transport the gold. Still, it’s not unheard of. The year Duglas began the caravan another caravan was beset, but they haven’t tried since. Duglas hires too many guards to make it worthwhile.”
“The quality of his guards would also make it a poor wager,” Tamys noted. They were arranging the gear and goods for the journey, which would commence the next morning. The wagons with the gold were still locked safely in the repository. They would not roll forth until dawn when the caravan would set out.
As they were outside of the repository, Tamys looked at the walls, which were as high as any dun in Celdrya and thick as well. The gates, of which there was only one set, looked stout, the oak bound with iron, then covered with more iron to make it difficult to burn. There were guards aplenty on the catwalks at the top of the walls and Tamys thought he would not want to stand siege under those walls. It seemed to him, though, that the construction differed from what he might expect, though he couldn’t quite place his unease.
“The dwarves left that behind,” Braeden announced, as if reading Tamys’ mind. “There are a number of strong buildings about the valley that are used as repositories and arsenals. They’re the best built forts I’ve ever been in. Walls seemed built of solid rock.”
“Solid? Nay, man, that’s impossible!” Tamys replied.
“Actually,” Padraig corrected. “It isn’t. The elves in the eastern mountains live in old dwarven holts and much of what is there was carved from the living rock.”
Tamys looked from one man to the other, uncertain of their veracity. The older men laughed at his uncertainty.
“When you’ve lived as long as I have, traveled the whole kingdom many times over, you will believe the impossible,” Braeden assured him.
Tamys wondered if he’d live that long and then shoved the thought aside. There was much to do for the journey.
The Mandorlyn town militia saw them through the settlement and into the hills before turning back round to continue their protection of the town itself. The first day proved a pleasant journey through the farms that fed the people of Mandorlyn proper. They slept in a caravanseri and continued on to a drizzling rain the next morning, leaving the truly settled areas behind. By late morning, they’d neared the river and the rain had been replaced with fog thick as wool. The men grew restive, trying to see into the swirling mist. They could hear the river somewhere to their right, but not see it and for fighting men, what could not be seen was dangerous. Their nerves played out in short tempers with their fellows.
The odd exception to this state of heightened emotions was Tamys, who seemed blithely unaware of the danger they might be in. Padraig wondered if his “touch” of the second sight might not have somewhat to do with it. Certainly Tamys had shown signs of sensing danger before and if he did not now, mayhap there was naught to worry about.
Padraig’s own nerves drew tight as they traveled into the fog. Surely this was the sort of situation where brigands might lay ambuscade. With the river to their right and a cliff to their left, it just seemed a precarious position.
Tamys was in the act of handing Padraig a water bottle when he hesitated, eyes suddenly scanning the fog. Padraig forgot the water bottle as it dropped to the ground and he reached for the hilt of his elven long knife, which he’d donned this morning. Suddenly there was movement in the fog.
“ ‘Ware!” Tamys hollered and reached for his sword as two brigands mobbed his horse, trapping him in the saddle.
Padraig saw a brigand headed his way and kicked the man in the teeth as he kicked free of the stirrups. He dropped to the ground, elven long knife in one hand and sword in the other. He had a moment to realize that the brigands had trapped most of the riders in the saddle before he was beset by a big, strong brigand with the long arms of a swordsman. Padraig dropped to a crouch with his back against Joy and parried the man’s first strike off the long knife. Knowing that this was a fight to the death, Padraig brought his sword round, but the brigand expertly blocked with his shield and the fight was on.
In the back of his mind, Padraig felt the tug of Joy’s mind on his.
Your friend’s in trouble, she remarked.
Busy now. You can handle it.
You might need my help.
I’ll call you if I do. Help Tamys.
Joy left his back then and Padraig used the change as an opportunity to use both blades to good advantage. Chopping, striking, swinging, parrying, he began to drive the brigand back toward the river. Padraig could sense the man was not used to fighting two blades at once and certainly not someone who could use both arms to equal measure. The brigand fell back, overwhelmed by the attack and forced to retreat.
Joy and the pony charged up against one of the two brigands who had hold of Tamys’ legs and saddle. Joy used her deep Eastern Regal chest to slam the brigand into Tamys’ horse’s shoulder. The bay sidestepped into the second brigand, but a consummate Mulyn warhorse, he didn’t panic or dance at this behavior. Joy nipped the brigand’s sword arm, causing him to drop his weapon. Fearing for his life, he fled the field.
Tamys brought his left fist round into the remaining brigand’s face, which was inadequately protected with only a mail hood. The brigand staggered back, giving Tamys the opportunity to kick free of the stirrups and drop to the ground, drawing his sword as he was in the air. There was no time for his shield, which hung from his saddle hook, so he slashed the remaining brigand across the face and took his.
Though unused to fighting any real fight on foot, Tamys had been trained in the technique. He charged into the fray, battering unsuspecting brigands in the heads with his borrowed shield as he slashed and parried with his sword. Behind him, he heard the sorrel mare rearing and snorting. He glanced back to see her kill a man with her hooves. The pony bit another brigand who got too close.
Padraig drove his brigand backward off a bluff into the river, where he dropped 20 feet with a scream that ended in a splash. Padraig then turned his attention to rescuing the riders from their saddles, a work that Tamys had already set-to with an efficiency that amazed Padraig. Somewhere in the press, Braeden laughed and howled in the cackle of a berserker while Duglas screamed orders above the din. Not that anyone could understand what he was saying, but at least the man still lived. As riders began to drop from their saddles to enjoin the brigands, Padraig fought his way toward the nearest muleteer, who was using his quarterstaff as efficiently as any swordsman might use his weapon.
Dust rose from the road and fog clung to clothes and skin. The men and horses soon began to sweat in grey gouts of perspiration, sending up an acrid smell that was wholly unpleasant. Padraig began to doubt his ability to fight on for much longer when the brigands suddenly withdrew, disappearing toward the river as easily as they had appeared. A few of the riders pursued them, but soon drew back when Braeden and Duglas yelled at them to return. The resultant quiet echoed with the winded gasps of men at arms following a fight.
“You young louts don’t go haring after the scum!” Braeden ordered. “They’ll sneak back round and take our guard out. Stay
with the wagons, lads! Hold!”
Padraig called Joy with his mind and the mare came trotting, pony beside her, her hooves and legs covered with blood. There was no time to ask her if she’d enjoyed herself. He grabbed his scrap bag and hurried through the caravan, looking for what needed his skills.
Two brigands were close to death, one with his head caved in by one of Joy’s hooves. Sensing no guidance from God, Padraig drew his dagger and slit their throats. Beyond God’s power, there was naught that he could do for them, and herbcraft on the battle field required nothing less than full mercy and a huge dollop of moral courage. A true healer did not leave a man to suffer in the vain hope of healing him.
There were a fair number of serious injuries among the muleteers and riders. Duglas and Braeden had both received cuts in the fray, though neither was deep enough for more than a few stitches. Tamys’ leg poured blood from a cut in his breecs, but he waved Padraig off when the herbman came his way.
“I can staunch the flow myself. You can take care of it when others have been bandaged.”
“It might turn septic,” Padraig warned. “Wash it with some ale.” Padraig lay some bandaging nearby.
Tamys nodded, grimly reaching for the ale bag that hung from his saddle hook.
Padraig did not get back to him for a watch or more. As he approached Tamys, who sat on the ground taking a long draught from his ale bag, he was explaining to Duglas why they couldn’t move on yet.
“I’ve one muleteer with a broken arm that I can’t set until the man is well drunk and I’ve still got to check Tamys’ leg. If we toss the muleteer into a wagon after I’m done, we’ll be able to move on in a watch, most like.”
“I like this spot not at all, herbman. Even with the mist blowing off, it’s a ill-begotten location.”
“Aye, I hear you, man, but we’ll not be helped by more death or sepsis. All right, lad, let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Tamys had staunched the flow with a clumsy, but clean and serviceable bandage. When Padraig unwound the strip, the wound proved a wide gash across Tamys’ muscular thigh. It still seeped sluggish brown blood, but on the whole it was a far healthier wound than Padraig had expected.
“You drunk enough for some stitches?” he asked Tamys. The lad nodded. Padraig prepared needle and thread, using ale because there was no time to build a fire. “All and all, you heal pretty well. It’ll be a few days though before you’ll be sitting a saddle.”
“You really don’t know me that well, yet, do you?” Tamys replied, taking a slug of the medicinal Padraig had offered him, a mixture of mead, opium and herbs. “My father didn’t raise men who couldn’t handle pain. I’ll be all right.”
Padraig shrugged. It wasn’t for him to argue with a rider about whether to ride or not. His hire only said he should say somewhat about it. Ten stitches closed the wound, then Padraig put a clean bandage on it and went to set the muleteer’s arm. When they rode out, Tamys grimaced mightily gaining the saddle, but he managed and without a whimper of complaint.
The men were tired and some were woozy from wounds, thus Duglas called a halt at a caravanseri he hadn’t planned to stay at. They were all worn out from the day’s excitement, but there was stock to tend and fires to start and meals to prepare, all with fewer hands than they’d previously used.
Tamys, despite his pain, offered to take care of their stock while Padraig saw to his patients.
“Joy won’t let you ...,” he began.
“If she won’t, she can wear her saddle until you come back. I’ll take care of the pony at least.”
I’ll let the worm remove the saddle if he’ll brush me down and wash off the blood, Joy announced.
“She saved my life today, so I’m minded to give her a good rub-down,” Tamys announced, causing Padraig to blink at him in surprise. There was no time to pursue how Joy had placed that thought in Tamys’ mind, for Padraig had patients to care for and daylight was growing short. It was well after dark before Padraig returned to their campfire. Tamys already slept, but he’d left a bowl of stew for Padraig with bread and a cup of well-watered ale. Padraig smiled. He sought Joy and found her nearby, her saddle off and her coat gleaming as though she’d been properly pampered.
Did you somehow ensorcel the lad? Padraig asked her, as she nipped tiredly at some grass at her feet.
Horses can’t ensorcel humans, she protested sleepily. He’s able to hear my thoughts when I want. Must be the company he keeps.
She rubbed her nose against his arm. He could tell that she had no more to say on the subject. She wanted her sleep and he wanted his evening’s meal. He left her and the pony to drowse and nibble grass and returned to the fire to eat and think.
As Padraig was drowsing to sleep, he began to wonder about the day in general and Tamys in particular. The lad admitted to a touch of second sight, and it had been clearly evident before the ambuscade had been sprung that he’d sensed somewhat. Certainly his wound had staunched easily. He’d told Padraig enough that the herbman knew that Tamys’ grandmother had haled from somewhere to the east of Mulyn, possibly Denygal. If that were the case, he might have a fair dollop of elven blood running in his veins, enough to account for the second sight, the quick healing, and the ability to pick up on what Joy was thinking. Mayhap. Padraig decided, as he drifted into darkness, that he ought to pursue that investigation sometime during the journey back to Cenconyn. Suddenly, a thought occurred that jolted him awake, fully upright on his blankets.
Have I missed it all along, Lord? Could Tamys be the True King?
Founding Year 1028
Dun Galornyn
Gregyn extricated his arm from Naryna’s weight and slid free of the straw pile they shared. She’d sleep until he returned, he was certain. He’d been borrowing ethereal power from her for weeks now and knew her replenishment cycles well. Because of what he had planned, he left a strand of ethereal attachment between them so he could draw more power if needed.
Sucking the power of another left him feeling a bit drunk, similar to what he experienced from the blood of animals. He began to understand why the black mages favored a mixture of sexual excitation and fear, but he thought they were missing the pure raw power he experienced from Naryna. Fear gave another flavor to it altogether and he wasn’t sure that it was any better.
Gregyn wrapped his aura tightly round him, so as to be virtually invisible in his trek through the dun. Guards looked at him, but didn’t really see him, unless they were looking for him, which was not likely at this time of night. It allowed him to slip down the stairs to the cellars and the unused one he had appropriated for his own purposes. He’d found this cellar months ago and outfitted it for what was needed to work the ritual Talidd had planned. The murals bothered him a bit with their elves and mythical creatures. He supposed that was one reason the dun used this cellar to hold items they never cared to find again.
Since the first night with Naryna, Gregyn had been stretching his abilities after every session. It coincided with Talidd’s desire to perform a ritual of high order. Talidd had been encouraging him to push his limits as often as possible. He cautioned Gregyn not to draw more than he was capable of and had suggested using his acolyte, but Gregyn found Naryna more than enough supplement. Gregyn had chosen to keep his relationship with Naryna to himself. He allowed Talidd to think what he wanted.
I’m here, he said as soon as Talidd appeared in the scrying link. What is your command?
Hello, Gregyn of Llyr, son of none, Talidd said. Gregyn felt the power flow down through the link and knew that he was supposed to obey every command now, but it had never seemed to affect him the way it affected others. He pretended it affected him, but his free will remained his own.
Aye, master. What is it you command?
We seek the True King, Talidd announced. You will open the stations and we will locate him and draw him to us.
Aye, master, Gregyn said. The Stations Ritual was powerful. Even at a low level, it sometimes killed acolytes
. Gregyn had been party to the Stations Rituals many times; his strength of gift was favored by many of the journeymen. Pretending ensorcelment, he could not ask the question of his role in the ritual. He assumed they would be drawing his power across the link. His body sang with the glory of sexual energy that he’d drawn from Naryna. There would be no want of power in this bond.
Gregyn and the others in the circle worked the ritual of opening the stations and calling upon the god of Rusks. Talidd guided them in focusing on the True King. Gregyn felt his consciousness slid into an alien mind. Talidd had explained long ago that most mages could not channel another species’ consciousness. It was a sign of great power. Talidd had the raven. Gregyn had … he didn’t know. Something that could fly, but he had only been aware of it for a matter of weeks. He watched the ground glide beneath him, circling a lonely dun in a distant copse of trees. Nay, it was a Temple of the Moon and those mountains behind it must be … Galconyn, mayhap Then the consciousness flowed away to the north and east. Naught but forest flashed beneath his flight and then a tiny dot of light surrounded by a scattering of other lights. The king might be found in Denygal? Curious.