by Miles Owens
Tellan lunged, sword stabbing for the near eye. Almost contemptuously, the horror swung a wing forward to cover its face like a shield. Tellan’s thrust bounced off the leathery surface and did not leave a mark. Whipping the wing back, the beast knocked him sprawling.
Then, open-mouthed and terrible, it bounded straight at her.
She ducked just under the snapping jaws, but the sharp teeth caught the hem of her cloak and she was jerked off the ground. Swinging back and forth, choking on the chain clasp, she watched helplessly as one front claw grabbed for her. But her dangling movement swung her out of reach, and one talon only slashed through her dress, missing her flesh. She was swinging toward the other front claw when the clasp chain broke, and she tumbled back to the ground, stunned. Somehow she maintained her grip on her sword as she scrambled away.
The horror roared its frustration and bounded at her again, rear feet churning. Rhiannon turned to face it. It was something out of a nightmare. The monstrous head, with its long snout and ridge of knobs, was right before her. She lunged at an eye, knee bent, sword straight, wrist locked. Caught by surprise, the horror twisted its head to the side. Her point hit a bare finger’s thickness below the lower lid but did not penetrate. The shock of the impact traveled down her arm and almost tore the hilt from her grasp.
The wedge-shaped head flew back and crashed into her side. She skittered across the hard ground, and the creature rushed upon her. Everything melted into a mass of slashing teeth, talons, and fear; swishing wings, the powerful stink of oily musk, and desperate, mind-numbing fear.
She found herself flat on her back, bruised and battered, staring up at the underside of the horror as the head darted down for another bite at her.
Then suddenly . . . she sensed the same shift as had happened during that first attack months ago.
The beast hesitated right above her, its breath hot and fetid in her nostrils. With mounting hope Rhiannon thrust upward. She drove her sword hilt-deep into the soft tissue between the mandibles of the jaw. The sharp blade penetrated through the beast’s tongue, the roof of the mouth, and into the base of the brain. Hot blood streamed down her hand and arm and splattered her face and hair.
The horror lurched away with a muted, closed-mouthed moan that turned into a death rattle as it collapsed a few paces beyond.
“Aim for their hearts, lads,” Serous bellowed above the clamor. “They’ve been bound! Give them cold steel and watch ’em die!”
It was over quickly after that. A few horrors fled back into the night sky, wings beating franticly. Most died from a hail of arrows, their bodies crumbling quickly into dust.
Tellan helped her to her feet and wrapped his arms tightly around her. His face was bruised. Blood ran from a deep cut above his eyebrow. He checked her head to toe. “Your arm is bloodied. Are you all right?”
She nodded, still in a daze. “Not my blood.” Ignoring the pain that racked her body, she walked weak-legged to the pile of dust that had been the horror. She bent down and picked up her sword. The blade seemed unharmed. Her hands trembled a bit, but she managed to slide it back into the scabbard. She took a deep breath and looked at her father.
“Come, my lady warrior,” he said with quiet pride, “we must see to the needs of our men.”
Tears verged, but she struggled to hold them back. Squaring her shoulders and determined to project a calm she was nowhere near feeling, she went with him to do their duty.
Amazingly, they found that only one warrior had been killed in the mêlée. Another warrior and a herder had suffered burns. Phelan was incensed at the Rogoth warriors who had kept him out of the fight.
Rites were said over the dead man. Burns, cuts, and bruises were tended to, and the camp was put back into some semblance of order.
Tellan, Rhiannon, Llyr, Lakenna, and Branor sat around the fire and tried to come to grips with all that had happened.
“When you were doing your part,” Tellan said to Lakenna and Branor, “did you see Maolmin?”
As had become usual when discussing these matters, the two looked at each other. Lakenna answered first. “I don’t think so. This time I could clearly see the demon controlling the horrors. We were able to go straight to it and bind it with a rope that was in our hands.”
“In the distance,” Branor said, then stopped himself. “Distance is not exactly correct, but it is as close as I can come to describing it. In the distance, I felt another presence lurking. Much larger and more powerful than the demon Lakenna and I were binding.”
“Much more powerful,” Lakenna agreed. “The demon we encountered here tonight must have been Lomas. When I prayed during the very first attack on the road to Lachlann, it was against a larger presence. With all that we have learned since then, I believe that stronger force was the siyyim inside Maolmin. I think all I did then was surprise him enough that he lost contact with the horrors, and that rendered them vulnerable.”
Llyr poked a stick in the fire. “Can you get to the siyyim now and bind it?”
“Not unless he gets directly involved, as he was careful not to do tonight,” Branor said.
“Explain,” Tellan demanded. “I renounced my partnership—did that make no difference?”
“It made all the difference, m’lord,” Branor said. “Had you not done so, the battle would have . . . ended differently.”
Tellan fumed. “Then why can you not get to Maolmin?”
“It is a matter of free will.” Branor paused, gathering his thoughts. “We know that the Eternal does not force anyone to follow him. He respects our will. He will love us, hound us, pursue us, and close doors in our faces, but he will never force us to go against our will. Once we do turn our will to him, he overwhelms us with his presence and love. Unfortunately, it works the same way for Maolmin.
“It is obvious now that Sim Anwar, the former Dinari High Lord, was not the one dabbling in ceremonies of the old gods. It was Maolmin. He called the siyyim forth. He freely chose to welcome it into his mind and soul. Now that it is inside Maolmin, we cannot go against the man’s free will. In order for us to get at him, he will have to become directly engaged in the battle somehow, as he was when he first used the winged horrors and Lakenna was able to come against him.” Branor shrugged. “If he continues to do as he did tonight, keeping a lesser demon between himself and us, we will be stymied in the spirit realm.”
Silence ensued.
“So,” Llyr growled finally, “our High Lord can use both his demonic power and the power of his position to harm Rhiannon, and there is nothing we can do about it short of convincing a majority of Dinari kinsmen lords that he is unfit.”
“Is there any way,” Branor asked Tellan, “to get around this protection of the High Lord?”
“Well,” Tellan said, “there is one way. Maolmin would have to accept a challenge to personal combat. In such duels all rank and privileges are left behind.”
Lakenna clearly did not understand the ensuing silence. Perplexed, she looked around the fire until her gaze rested on Llyr.
He met her eyes and answered, “Maolmin won the Dinari sword bouts three years running before he became High Lord. After that, he won seven more years with no one even coming close to matching his level of skill. I faced him the year before and the year after he became High Lord. The one before, I was a bit past my prime, but not much. Maolmin defeated me, but he had to work at it.” Llyr shook his head grimly. “The year after, it was over in less than ten heartbeats. I have never faced such strength and speed and power.”
“Even so,” Lakenna pressed, “this may be the only way to deal with Maolmin’s threat to Rhiannon.”
“If we could find a reason to issue a challenge for personal combat,” Llyr said, “it would take a very special swordsman indeed to face Maolmin. Personal challenges are fights to the death.”
Lakenna stared into the fire. “We must set ourselves to pray for the Eternal to provide such an opportunity and for that warrior to be sent forth.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
HARRED
ENOS RILYN WAS built like a boar, and he had the manners of a stag in rut. Gravy dribbled down his chin and bits of cheese decorated his green satin doublet. It was rumored that this jewel merchant from Clan Landantae had gotten his start by selling loot accumulated from earlier days as a highwayman. Harred could believe it.
Enos took another loaf from the wooden platter in front of him, sawed out a trencher, and waited as a serving girl ladled in a dipper of stew. Picking up a spoon, he took a huge mouthful and chewed noisily. He was not a man for small bites.
They were in the common room of the best inn in Maude, the village where the wool train had been attacked. Not hungry, Harred only picked at his food.
A Rosada spice merchant named Decart sat across the table, next to Enos, eating with impeccable manners. Although in late middle years, with black hair shot with gray, the spice merchant was still lean and hard. He was dressed in a light blue silk coat and had sun-darkened skin and brooding eyes.
Harred ran his fingers across the scarred surface of the white pine table varnished with years of accumulated grease and glanced at the other two occupied tables in the common room. In the far corner, enshrouded in a fog of blue smoke from their long-stemmed pipes, two elderly men hunched over a game of Kings and Queens. The sound of their pieces slapping down on the wooden board mingled with the clank of spoons at the other occupied table. At the other table a tired mother in travel-stained clothes cradled a nursing babe in one arm and ate with her free hand. Her husband and young son leaned over their bowls and shoveled food into their mouths with the single-mindedness of the famished.
Enos followed Harred’s gaze. “Running from the fever, most like,” he declared around his chewing. “The whole area from Denoch to Balliolium is said to be involved for weeks now.” He took a long draught from his mug and belched. With a wide mouth and no chin, his face reminded Harred of a frog’s. “Any more best hurry. Bad storm brewing higher up. The passes will be closed soon. Everybody’s been predicting an early winter. Looks like they’re correct.”
Enos had just bought all the amber Harred had brought back from the second trading trip with Lord Gillaon’s Broken Stone partner. Clan Sabinis tightly controlled amber’s import into the Land, and its price was exorbitant. The cold seashores and forests of the Broken Stone Land provided the substance in abundance. Lord Gillaon’s eyes always gleamed when he discussed the potential profit from that one item alone.
On this second trip Keto, Thoven’s retainer, had met Harred at the same mountain plateau. Besides the amber, Harred had purchased silks, fine porcelains, fur, and perfumes. All available in the Land only though Sabinis merchants—until now. Elmar and the warriors guarded the Tarenester wagons, which were camped at the outskirts of the village.
Decart brought the conversation around to business. “I sell you everything, yes?”
With the money from the sale of amber to Enos, Harred was authorized to buy spices from Decart. The import of spices, like many other valuable items, was otherwise tightly controlled by Clan Sabinis.
“What do you have?”
“Spices of the highest quality and variety.” The merchant removed a folded sheet of parchment from his vest and slid it over to Harred. “This is what I have in my three wagons, and the price.”
Scanning the list, Harred struggled to keep his face expressionless. He figured a minimum twenty-gold-coin profit per wagon. When he glanced up, he found Decart watching him closely. Something about that gaze tugged at Harred’s mind, but his thoughts were reeling at the immense profits.
The spice merchant smiled, but it did not reach those piercing eyes. “We do business, yes?”
“Yes. We do business. And next spring, we meet here again?”
“Next spring I will come to Lord Gillaon’s hlaford with ten, maybe twelve wagons. The same price. You buy everything, yes?”
“Yes.”
Decart nodded. He held Harred’s gaze. “One fine tomorrow.” He rose and took his leave.
Enos brushed crumbs from his belly, rose ponderously to his feet, and promised to return for more amber next year.
The innkeeper bustled forward while wiping his hands on a dirty white apron. “Weather be turning. First snow of the season coming. Not a night to be sleeping out.” He smiled hopefully. “Five coppers and you gentlemen be dry and warm tonight. By morning, best be leaving these mountains or you be staying until the storm passes.”
Elmar had talked about little else on the trail. The last two days he had kept sniffing the wind and growling that they needed to hurry to the lower regions.
Enos dug into a leather pouch and dropped coins for the three meals into the innkeeper’s outstretched hand. “One room.”
The coins disappeared under the innkeeper’s white apron. “And you, warrior?”
“I sleep with the wagons,” Harred said. Something about the spice merchant kept skittering around Harred’s mind as the innkeeper escorted him to the door.
“Not a night to be on the trail,” the innkeeper was saying. “A family stayed here a few nights ago, traveling to bring back kin from the fever area. The wife and grown daughter be sweet and loving. A fine catch, that one. If I were but a young man . . . ” He sighed. “The father be a loreteller and a prickly sort. Didn’t take kindly to my warning about how quickly the weather can turn this time of year. Still, he left coins to reserve two rooms for their return. They intended to be here yesterday.” He shook his head. “You would think any Dinari be more aware of winter storms and be listening to my advice.”
Harred froze. “A Dinari loreteller? You say he had a grown daughter?”
The innkeeper tsked. “The loreteller be a hard man to deal with. I hope his family be safe and not caught in this storm.”
“Their names!” Harred’s voice strengthened. “What were their names?”
“Caemhan, it was. Abel Caemhan. He be the loreteller to the Dinari High Lord.”
“You be killing these horses, we don’t slow down,” Elmar warned.
Harred paid no heed. He glanced at the roiling mass of fast-moving gray clouds that hid the sky and encompassed the granite peaks towering above them. It was well past dawn, but the narrow mountain trail remained dark and foreboding. The wind gusted, bringing a few snowflakes, and the temperature dropped steadily.
“How much farther we be searching?”
“As long as it takes.” Breanna was out there. Harred felt it in every bone in his body.
Elmar sniffed deeply and shook his head. “This storm we be riding into be a bad one.”
“You sure this is the trail to Balliolium?”
“My daddy and I be hunting this area since I could sit a horse. This be the only trail between Maude and Balliolium wide enough for a wagon.”
They had left Maude near midnight. Elmar and the innkeeper had both failed to dissuade Harred from leaving. A strong gust came howling down the trail, blowing leaves and snowflakes, startling the pack mule tied to the back of Elmar’s saddle. The mule carried all the heavy cloaks and blankets the innkeeper could spare. Harred’s pack mule carried food, horse feed, and a supply of medicinal herbs. The Tarenester warriors had been left in Maude to guard the wagons.
Tugging the wide-eyed pack mule forward, Elmar groused, “How do we know the Caemhans not be safe and snug in Balliolium?”
Harred surveyed the rugged landscape. “They’re out here. I can feel her.”
Elmar raised his eyebrows but remained silent. They trotted on, straight into the gloom of the approaching storm.
Half a glass later it was much colder. Snow was beginning to cover the trail, and the wind was biting through Harred’s cloak.
“This thing be right at us.” Elmar pointed down a ridge to his left as his cloak billowed out in the stiffening wind. “There be a cave not far from here. My papa and I camped there for years to smoke elk meat. We always left a supply of wood.”
Harred nudged his horse into a
faster trot. “A bit more.” Somehow he knew that Breanna was in mortal danger from this brewing killer storm. He could feel her more strongly then ever.
Around the next bend they caught whiffs of wood smoke. A little farther on and they came upon a boy carrying an armload of branches and struggling against the cold wind.
The boy might have been eight. He looked up, eyes wide with surprise when Harred and Elmar cantered up through the falling snow. “Can you help us?” he called out. “My family is over this way. Our wagon axle broke yesterday.”
Harred jumped from the saddle and came to the boy. “Breanna and Loreteller Abel—are they with your family?”
Feldan nodded. His jaw was shivering. “How did you know? Uncle Abel broke his leg.”
“We will help you, son,” Harred said. He took the bundle of firewood and gave it to Elmar. Then he put Feldan into the saddle with him atop Coal.
“Our wagon axle broke yesterday,” Feldan said as they started off in the direction the boy pointed. “My cousin Breanna and I were helping Uncle Abel lever the end up so he could put on a new one, when . . . my end slipped and the wagon dropped and caught his leg. We got it off, but his leg was all twisted.” The lad’s voice cracked and the words spilled out in a rush. “Now it’s swollen bad and Aunt Cyndae says a storm is coming and we need plenty of wood . . . ”
“We’re here to help, lad,” Harred said. “You’re going to be all right now. Just hang on.” Harred dug his heels into Coal’s side.
Harred and Elmar spotted the disabled wagon through the falling snow. They galloped to it and found Abel propped up next to the wagon. The wind whipped the flames of a small fire over which a pot steamed. A light dusting of snow covered the wagon and the bundles on the ground. The sky continued to darken.
Feldon slid off from behind Harred and ran to the woman kneeling beside Abel. A young girl snuggled in the woman’s lap, wrapped within the folds of a cloak. On the other side of the fire sat another person, face concealed within the deep hood of a cloak. The figure stood, turned to Harred, and pulled back the hood. The wind whipped Breanna’s hair around her face as her dark eyes fixed Harred with an unblinking stare.