by Angus Wells
“It shall take awhile,” she answered. “Are you to be Ellyn’s general, you must be strong.”
“But when you are,” Ellyn announced, coming to join Shara on the bed, “we shall go to find the Dur, and …”
Shara silenced her with a raised hand. I saw then that some further understanding had passed between them as I lay fevered. Ellyn deferred to Shara, as if the child had aged and learned her lessons, and now recognized when she must listen and not speak out.
“We’ve no other choice,” Shara said. “Sooner or later, Nestor will find us, so we must quit the castle. The Dur are our best hope. Has Eryk not conquered them, they’ll shelter us. Perhaps Mattich—does he live still—will ally with us.”
Almost, I laughed at that. The Dur in alliance with us three fugitives? But it was as she said: our only hope. So I said, “I’ve claim on the Devyn, no matter my banishment. Can I defeat Eryk in combat, I could win the clan to our cause.”
“You’re not yet well enough to fight,” Ellyn declared.
“But I shall be,” I said. “Thanks to you two. I owe you both a life now.”
Ellyn smiled; Shara frowned and said, “I did what I must.”
But when I asked her, “No more than that?” she turned her face away, and I thought I saw her blush.
I lay swaddled and tended like a babe for some longer time. I no longer saw the shadows fleshed, but still they danced attendance on me in their insubstantial forms, and I believe their phantasmagorical attentions healed me swifter. In time I was able to rise and walk the confines of my chamber, then essay the descent to the lower floors. At first, Ellyn or Shara must accompany me, ready with a shoulder or an arm, to support me as I stumbled, but then I was able to walk unaided, and went out to pace the yard and exercise as best I could with such stitchings in me as threatened to tear apart whenever I grew too vigorous.
I chafed at the delay. I feared that Nestor should find us, or Talan send an army, and wondered all the while what transpired in Chaldor. I organized great plans inside my head: we’d find the Dur and persaude Mattich to support us; I’d face Eryk in honest combat and slay him, claiming the Devyn for my own. And then all the clans would ally with us and we’d ride down into Chaldor like the olden days, when the land dreaded the clan raids. Save now we’d ride only against Talan, who would die for what he’d done to Andur and Ryadne—him and his Vachyn, both.
But first—as Shara insisted—I must heal and regain my strength.
I do not know whether it was her ministrations or the magic of this strange valley, but I healed faster than any man had right to do. Within weeks I began to practice with my sword, then took up my buckler, and began to ride again. I still felt pain, and I knew that I could not face real combat yet, but I also knew that we could not linger here. What season it was outside, I did not know, but I sensed a building storm as surely as if I saw clouds gathering over the Highlands, and knew that we must go out or be destroyed. Ellyn spent time with me, honing her battle skills, but more with Shara in what I supposed was the further honing of her magical abilities. I supposed those lessons were shielded by the valley’s innate magic, but neither spoke to me of that, and I did not ask what they did, for while I no longer felt that mistrust of magic, it still held no appeal for me. I’d sooner trust my own strength and my blade, and leave the working of magic to those who understood it better.
My old gear was ruined now, but I found armor in the castle’s halls that fit me well, and kitted myself with a surcoat and breastplate, greaves and vambraces, a half helm. I kept my shield and buckler—they’d served me well, and I trusted them, even did the buckler carry the marks of the hunters’ attack.
And then one sunny day, Shara declared me fit enough to ride, and announced that we should leave on the morrow.
Ellyn whooped with joy, and we went to the armory to kit her out. She looked, when she was done, like some warrior maiden, and swung her sword in great expectant arcs. I thought that she’d not need a blade, given she could summon lightning from the sky, but she insisted that were we to ride to battle, she’d fight beside anyone who’d follow her. I respected her for that, then wondered why Shara did not choose some battle kit. After all, even a sorcerer could be slain by honest steel, or an arrow.
I got my answer the day we left the castle. We ate our breakfast and retired to our chambers to kit ourselves. I found Ellyn eager in the hall, armored, with a bow and quiver slung across her back. I, too, was dressed for battle. And then Shara appeared. She was dressed in dull blue armor—breastplate, greaves, and vambraces, a light helmet covering her bound-up hair; she wore a sword and had a buckler slung across her back. I gasped, for did Ellyn seem like some warrior princess, then Shara appeared to me an empress ready to defend her cause.
“So,” she said, “do we go?”
Without waiting on an answer, she strode past us, and we went out into the castle yard, where our horses were waiting, saddled and provisioned, with shadows dancing around them and us.
“This shall not be easy,” Shara said. I wondered if she directed her words at me or Ellyn; likely both. Surely there was a great sadness in her eyes. “This shall not be any story out of legend, where the princess rides out to shouts of joy and all her enemies fall at her feet. This shall be bloody and long, and there will be little joy in it.”
“This shall be war,” I said. “And I know somewhat of that.”
Shara nodded solemnly. Ellyn smiled, her eyes alight with anticipation. And, unbidden, the portcullis lifted, the drawbridge lowered, and we rode out.
Shara’s valley remained locked in its seemingly eternal summertime; the Barrens seemed winterbound. We came down from the walls of the Styge toward that grey and dismal land with a chilly wind blowing around us, cold enough our breath steamed and the horses huffed their displeasure. When we camped the first night, still on the mountains’ flank, the wind set our fire to streaming sparks, and I saw frost on the grass. When I saw the Barrens at close quarters, they were overhung with dark clouds, penumbras building into great thunderheads that sent brilliant shafts of light dancing over the oppressive landscape. There was neither sun nor moon there—only shadow and the threat of lightning—and my spirit dropped at the thought of traversing that horrid place again.
And it was worse when we came out from the foothills and headed south. The land was even more spare than I remembered, as if the Barrens welcomed the bleakness of winter and clung to that season. The earth was grey and frozen hard; streams lay iced, so that they seemed like transparent veins in the body of the world, all dull and turgid, carrying no life. What trees there were were stunted and twisted and entirely empty of leaves, and bushes rattled thorny fingers as we passed. I had grown accustomed to the birds’ singing in Shara’s valley, but here there were no birds, nor any song save the keening of the wind, which was a dirge.
At least we were not attacked, though several times I saw tracks in the frozen ground and wondered what insensate strength it must take to drive claws into such hard soil. Those nights we built our fire high and took turns on guard, armored and listening for the warning our mounts might give. Once, I saw the ravaged body of some vastly tusked beast that had been pulled down and eaten—the ground was trampled in the struggle, but all that remained of the animal was scattered bones—but we were not attacked. We nervously crossed that dread ravine which, this time, did not flood, though I saw fresh bones there, tumbled and distorted, and in time we found the plateau’s edge weary and hungry, but unharmed.
Below us, then, lay the Highlands, and there it was the beginning of summer. Blue skies stood drifted with streamers of windblown cloud like the tails of racing horses, and the heather blossomed all purple and blue, interspersed with stands of yellow gorse. I saw the spartan dots of hawks, and caught the sweet scent of my homeland on the breeze. But I could not see the Dur.
“They’ll find us,” Shara said, “or not. We can only go on.”
“And if they don’t?” Ellyn asked.
; “Then still we must go on,” Shara returned her. “We’ve no other course now.”
We took our horses down the slope and made camp. The gods knew, but I was happy to be out of the Barrens, with a warm wind on my face and some country I understood better around me. I even managed to snare a couple of fat rabbits for our dinner.
And in the morning the Dur found us.
Ellyn was on guard, and I woke to the clatter of her sword on her buckler. I roused from my tent and went out in only my breeches and unlaced shirt, though I carried my sword and shield.
“Riders!” Ellyn pointed north as Shara came to join us. “Three of them.”
I peered into the early morning light and saw the clan colors the men wore. “Dur,” I said.
We sheathed our blades, but we could not then know if these Dur riders were loyal to Mattich, or minions of Eryk. Not until they came closer.
They halted a little way off. They wore their bucklers ready, and two held swords; the third a nocked bow. Their faces were hard and tired, and one bore a recent scar across his cheek. They studied us awhile, as if not sure of what they had found, then one ducked his head and eased his shaggy mount a little way forward. He carried his blade across his saddle, and I saw that he was ready to swing; I was also aware of the arrow pointed at my chest. I smiled, thinking that they did not know I was the least threat, that either Ellyn or Shara could strike them down with a gesture.
“I am Rob of the Dur,” he said. “Who are you?”
“Gailard of the Devyn,” I answered. “This is Ellyn, Queen of Chaldor, and Shara.”
I did not know how else to describe her, but it mattered not to Rob, who threw back his head and laughed and shouted, “We’ve found them! Clayre was right.”
He sheathed his sword and looked at me, awaiting permission to dismount. I said, “Do you join us? We’ve not much food left, but there’s tea you’re welcome to.”
Rob dropped gratefully from his horse, followed by the others. “Tea is welcome,” he said. “We’ve been hunting you awhile now. Indeed, the gods know, there are Dur out seeking you everywhere. We’d thought you dead in the Barrens, or …” He shrugged, glancing from my face to those of the women. “It’s been so long.”
“A season or two?” I posed the question warily, sensing that more time had passed.
“Three years, Gailard.” Rob stared at me as if I were crazed. “It’s been three years since you left us.”
It was as simple an explanation as magic can ever provide, which is to say little explanation at all. The Dur wise-women, just as Shara had predicted, had dreamed of our arrival and sent men to meet us. Rob and his companions—Shawn and Maerk—were the lucky ones. Or not, if what I believed must come of this should happen.
But they had food they shared, so that we ate a fine breakfast as they told us that Eryk had pledged his loyalty to Talan in return for Ellyn and me, and pursued the Dur since we left the clan.
“So we skulked,” Rob said, clearly not liking the embarrassment of such an admission, “until Clayre dreamed of your return, and Mattich sent men to find you. And then … Ach, no! Let Mattich tell you the story. Come, and I’ll take you to him. The gods know, but he’s been waiting long enough.”
We struck our tents and saddled our horses and went off to find Mattich. I was somewhat confused, for I no longer owned much idea of just how long we had sojourned in Shara’s secret valley. It seemed to me not long enough that so much time had passed—but then she had told me time was different in the Barrens and the Styge, and I trusted her.
So we mounted and went to find the Dur.
They were camped in a pretty little combe, its walls dotted with blue pines, a narrow stream at its center, and lush grass all around. It was a small site, and I thought there were fewer tents than I’d seen before, and whilst we were greeted well enough, still I thought there some who looked at us askance.
“We lost too many,” Mattich said when we were settled and seated before his tent. “Your brother took it hard that we rescued you, and worse that he could not find you or us after. When we came down from the Barrens, he was waiting …” He shrugged.
Shara said, “I’m sorry.”
Mattich said, “We made a choice, my lady,” and turned to me. “He’d have your head, Gailard. And”—he looked to Ellyn—“yours. He’s allied with Talan, who offers much for you.”
“How much?” Ellyn asked. And before I could stop her: “Enough?”
Mattich studied her awhile in silence. His face was grave, and disappointed as he shook his head. “I do not trade in children, or queens. Do you understand what honor is?”
“Yes.” Ellyn had the grace to blush. “Gailard taught me that.”
“Then you should know,” Mattich said, “that you insult your mother’s clan.”
“Forgive me, Grandfather.” Ellyn ducked her head so low it touched the floor of the tent. “I am new to this.”
Mattich’s frown faded into a smile. “And you’ve fine tutors. So believe them and me, and know that the Dur stand with you.”
Ellyn said, “Thank you.”
I asked, “What of Eryk and Talan?”
“Your brother’s not a man for winter fighting,” Mattich said, “so we had a respite. But Talan sent emissaries with fat and fanciful promises. Can Eryk deliver Chaldor’s heir to the Danant bastard, he’ll have Talan’s troops to conquer the Highlands, and a place in Talan’s court. All the clans have that message.”
“And how,” I asked, “do they take it?”
“The ambassadors could not find us,” Mattich said, and laughed. “I heard that the Arran sent them back naked, tied backward on their horses.” Then his face grew grave again. “But the Quan listened—and the Devyn and the Agador are bonded under command of Eryk and Rytha. So …” He shrugged. “I do not know how safe you are. It might be better that you…”
“I go to Chaldor,” Ellyn said. Her voice was firm. “Talan stole my throne. He slew my father and my mother, and I’d avenge those murders. Must I go alone, I shall. But I’ll go back, even do I die!”
We all stared at her. Shara was no less shocked than I, and Mattich spluttered tea. Only Clayre seemed calm, as if her talent had foreseen this.
“You’ll need an army,” Mattich said.
“I have an army,” Ellyn returned, “are the clans with me. What better army?”
Mattich looked to me. Doubtless, he wondered what power this girlish woman owned. I said, “What other choice? Save we unite the clans and all ride against Talan, he owns Chaldor. And he’ll give Eryk men to conquer all.”
Mattich glanced at Shara, who nodded her agreement. Then Clayre spoke for the first time.
“I dream strange things,” she said. “I dream of great boats that I’ve never seen before. I dream of them on a vast river—wider than any we know here—and that they fight with Talan. I think you’ve friends you do not know.” She looked at her husband and asked, “What choice do we have, save to lose our honor?”
Mattich grunted. “The Devyn and the Agador were always the greatest—and Eryk owns them. The Quan listen. So, what have we left? We Dur, and perhaps the Arran? Not enough against allied clans, supported by Talan’s army. And his Vachyn.”
“Gailard,” Ellyn said, taking me by surprise, “will slay Eryk. He shall claim rightful leadership of the Devyn. And as the Agador are sworn to alliance, they must acknowledge him. Then we’ll command three clans. Must we conquer the Quan, we shall; and the Arran will follow us.”
I stared at her. So simple? All I must do is face my brother in battle, slay him, and give the clans to her? I scratched my healing wounds—they still itched—and wondered at her … I was not sure of the word … Presumption? Arrogance? Trust?
Shara said, “There’s no other way, Gailard. I wish there were, but …”
She touched my cheek, like a moth’s landing with soft wings, fluttering gently—disturbingly. I wondered if Ellyn scowled.
Mattich said, “Could you … then per
haps …”
Clayre said, “The clans might unite. The gods know, none like what Eryk intends, or have much love for Talan.”
I turned my face around the circle of watching, waiting eyes, and knew that my fate was sealed. Andur had set that geas on me, and I had given my sworn word to Ryadne. I could not deny what those eyes demanded.
So I said, “There are conditions,” and turned a finger to Ellyn. “Understand that I do this for Chaldor’s heir, and do I win, you follow her where she commands. Even to Chorym’s walls; even do you fight alone.”
Mattich ducked his head. “To Chorym’s walls, even alone, the Dur shall follow.”
His voice was hard as his eyes, and I knew that he’d take his clan in support of Ellyn, even did it mean they be annihilated. I could ask no more of any man, nor wished to.
“So be it,” I said. “I’ll fight my brother.”
“And I mine,” Shara whispered, which set a chill in my heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Sail ho!”
Kerid shaded his eyes as he followed the lookout’s pointing hand, seeing the distant shape of a two-master in the morning’s early light. The sun sparkled on the water of the Durrakym, reflected in shimmering patterns of brilliance that dazzled his eyes, and the vessel rode too low, and too far off, that he could see her clearly. But he knew that no boats out of Naban or Serian plied the river without the Mother’s permission in the years since Hel’s Town went to war, so he assumed it must be an enemy craft.
“What’s her flag?” he shouted.
“Danant’s,” came the answer.
“Battle stations!” Kerid barked the order, then shouted for more canvas, that the oarsmen speed the Andur’s passage. He saw the Ryadne and the Ellyn draw alongside, matching pace.
“She runs,” the lookout called.
“Then we catch her,” Kerid muttered.
“Catch what?”
Mother Hel joined him on the steering deck. She wore a silk robe over what little she had worn in their pleasantly cramped cabin, and the wind blew it taut over her body. Her hair streamed unfettered about her face, and Kerid felt a flush of excitement as she touched his shoulder. He saw the eyes of those men not yet concerned with the possibility of combat turn toward him, and saw them grin. He was not sure whether he felt proud or embarrassed. “A Danant boat,” he said.