by J. C. Staudt
“I’m not the one causing a row. I only meant to run the bloody thing off until this muttonheaded fool took up arms over it.”
“Silence, all of you.” Darion stormed in from the darkness, comfortable and round in his nightclothes. “I swear to all the gods above, you three are worse than children. If I have to break up one more squabble between you, I’ll tie you together blindfolded and leave you in the desert.”
The men put away their weapons and resumed their places by the fire. Darion sat with a grunt. He took a long gulp from his wineskin and sat staring into the fire for a long time before he spoke again. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “The story I have to tell you tonight will be my last. Nothing I’ve done since bears repeating. In a way, it’s fitting you should all be here for this. Had we been staying at some inn tonight, my lady wife would’ve been the only one to hear it. You each deserve to know. Indeed, so do all the people of the realms, who have held me in such high regard for so many years.”
Triolyn folded his arms and gave Kestrel a nudge. “This ought to be good, ey?”
Kestrel slid away from the archer, then sat to listen with his arms wrapped around his knees.
“At the mouth of Palemoon Bay, across from Riverend on the eastern shore,” Darion began, “there once stood a soaring white tower, perched on a great plateau overlooking the ocean. They called it the Seaspire, for it was the tallest, thinnest watchtower in all the realms, and one could stand at the top on a clear day and see for leagues across the waves. The Ogre Wars had been raging for many years by the time the Galyrian Ogrelord brought his fleet across the Aeldalos to aid his cousins in defeating the realms’ last vestiges of resistance. I had long since given up on the war by then and left Dathrond to return to my childhood home in Linderton.
“Sir Jalleth Highbridge, my former mentor, knew the realms would fall into dire peril if the ogres breached Palemoon Bay. The Ogrelord had long planned to use the Seaspire to headquarter his operations when he made landfall. Yet the lords of Riverend disregarded Sir Jalleth’s pleas and refused to send men to garrison the tower. In his desperation, he sent for me.
“When the Galyrian fleets arrived, the Ogrelord avoided Riverend and its shoreline defenses altogether, landing instead on the opposite shore of the bay. They approached the Seaspire only to find Sir Jalleth waiting for them there. Aided by a meager retinue of his most loyal mages, he found himself vastly outnumbered. Yet he fought them with fire and spell, refusing to let the hordes pass north into the lands below the Red Range. The battle raged for several days and nights as Sir Jalleth and his men slung powerful spells from the high tower whenever the ogres attempted to pass. Finally, the ogre hordes opted to lay siege to the tower instead.
“I had received Sir Jalleth’s call for help more than a fortnight before the Galyrian fleet arrived. I ignored it. I dawdled. I was young and stupid. I refused to take it as seriously as I should have. By the time I came within sight of the Seaspire, I can only imagine—” Darion had to stop and compose himself, “—I can only imagine how close Sir Jalleth and his men were to death’s door. My master was of gentle nature, and brave, and desperate to save the realms at any cost.
“Clinging to his last hope, he cast a ritual so powerful it shattered the Seaspire, killing himself and the last of his men and decimating the ogre hordes in the process. I watched the tower rupture with my own eyes. After my shock turned to rage, I made an easy task of defeating the remaining horde. I slaughtered every ogre I came across and burned their ships with bluefire when they tried to sail away. Some survived and fled into the Breezewood. Those ogres have been the source of Lord Mirrowell’s troubles for some years now.”
“I don’t understand,” said Kestrel. “The legends say you defeated the ogre hordes. You are Sir Darion Ulther, are you not?”
Darion nodded. “I am. When I crossed the bay to deliver the heads of the Ogrelord and his commanders to Riverend, I could not bring myself to deny the people’s praises. I did not tell them otherwise when they assumed I was the one who had single-handedly vanquished the most powerful threat the realms had ever seen.”
“You took credit for your master’s deed,” said Triolyn.
Darion nodded. “I wore the cloak of victory on his behalf. Sir Jalleth was dead. I was young and brash, and a fool. I was neither brave nor selfless, as I claimed. In truth, selfishness was the one thing I possessed in infinite supply. I told them I was the greatest Warcaster who ever lived. The worst part of it was… they believed me. Word spread, and my legend was born.”
“You’re not the savior of the realms, then. You’re an impostor. A fake. A fraud.”
“I am all of those things, and worse,” Darion admitted, “and it’s time you all knew. Would that I could go back in time and tell the truth that day.”
“Why haven’t you told the truth in all the intervening years?” Kestrel asked.
“No one would ever believe it now,” Alynor said.
“You have the right of it. Though I suffered a guilty conscience for some time afterward, I found myself unable to convince anyone of the truth when I finally mustered the good sense to try. Acclaim for those great deeds belongs to a man who is dead. A man who taught me everything I had patience to learn, and who was a far greater Warcaster than I could ever hope to be.”
“That was why you were so hesitant to leave home,” Alynor realized. “You didn’t believe you could save the realms because… because you’ve never done it before.”
“Wonderful,” said Triolyn, tossing up his hands. “Now we’re all doomed. And Dathrond will be the first to go.”
“Dathrond can win this war without a Warcaster,” said Kestrel.
“Not when the other side has a Warcaster of its own, and allies from every shore come to fight against us.”
“I thought Rudgar King left his son at home,” said Alynor.
“Only a theory, milady,” said Kestrel. “The whereabouts of Rylar Prince are still unknown to us.”
“I am still a Warcaster, I’ll remind you,” said Darion. “I trust Olyvard King has received more accurate reports than the hearsay and rumor we’ve heard along our way. We’ll find out soon enough whether the Prince of Korengad came to these shores with his father or not. If that proves true, I’ve no fear of facing the young whelp myself.”
“That’s mildly reassuring,” said Kestrel. “Let’s hope you feel the same when the time comes. The future of the realms may depend on it.”
Chapter 16
The sight of Castle Maergath, a bastion of dark stone backed by mountains of identical hue, gave Sir Darion’s dry eyes reason to rejoice. The desert had been hard on them, and crueler than he remembered. Darion’s previous treks across the sands had occurred under the guidance of experienced veterans, Dathiri wayfarers who knew the land and its treacheries. He had not expected the winds to be so harsh beneath the mountains. Yet the foothills had proven every bit as rough and biting as the open desert.
The day before, Lady Alynor had complained of her discomfort for the first time since they left home. She had cried when a gust of sand-laden wind caught her unawares and blinded her in both eyes. They’d had to stop for two hours so she could rinse them out and wait for her vision to return.
Now they were finally here, with chapped lips, sun-reddened skin, dusty bags and clothing, and bodies chafing with grit from every crevice. Darion often longed for warm baths to soothe his aching muscles from the road, but now he wanted to dunk himself in a tub of cold spring water with a mug of frosty ale at hand and a curtained window to block out all except the candlelight. They approached the high windwall girding the city of Maergath and waited at the outer gate.
“State your name and business,” said one of the checker-clad guards who came out to meet them.
“Sir Darion Ulther of Orothwain. I’ve received a summons from Olyvard King.” He unfurled the scroll to show the man.
“And these?” asked the guard, gesturing to his companions.
; “My lady wife, Alynor Mirrowell of the Greenkeep. My three guardsmen, Kestrel, Triolyn, and Jeebo.”
The gate guard wrinkled his mouth. “You may enter, but be warned: the king is under strict protection during this time of war. Your men-at-arms may be denied entry to the king’s keep by royal decree. I suggest you plan accordingly.”
“As you say,” said Darion.
The gates were opened, and the five companions entered Maergath. Copper-skinned soldiers in quilted tabards and aventail helms walked the walls above them. The first thing Darion noticed was how few soldiers there were. Olyvard King has sent the bulk of his forces forward to the ford, he realized. I should think he’ll want to send me there as soon as he can.
Beyond the outer wall lay Maergath township, a few dozen stone dwellings on a bed of hard sand bustling with commonfolk. Darion could hear the iron clangor of the smithy, the bleating of sheep, and the shouts of children at play. Chickens strutted across their path as their horses trudged up the road toward the castle. A few people stopped to watch them pass.
Its dearth of soldiers aside, this did not strike Darion as the capital of a kingdom at war. He had expected to find the people restless and fearful, yet they appeared as blithe and unconcerned as ever. He turned to Kestrel as they neared the castle gates. “You three had better find a room for the night. Maybe longer.”
“There are hardly any soldiers here,” Kestrel complained. “I would go where the fighting is thickest; where the ale and silver are flowing in equal measure.”
“As would I,” Triolyn agreed. “Though I’d sooner fight for my coin than sing for it.”
“If that’s your intent, you ought to take ship for the ford.”
“We must speak with the king first… or at least to his master of arms. We can’t show up at the front without an official order.”
“I don’t know that the king has resorted to hiring sellswords quite yet,” said Darion.
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to ask him for us,” Kestrel suggested.
“I’ve had enough of you lot for one lifetime,” Darion said. “If the king sends me to the ford, I’ll know better than to get stuck on a boat with your like again.”
“Just do what you can,” said Triolyn. “We’ve traveled long leagues to lend Dathrond our aid. We’re counting on you to get us the rest of the way.”
“I wish you wouldn’t,” Darion said.
“Our only other option is to turn up at the ford unannounced and risk being hanged for traitors or spies,” said Kestrel. “My neck is not as thick as those of my two friends, here.”
“Your head is thicker by far,” said Darion. “Pray the noose is tight.”
“I, too, would consider it a great blessing if you were to speak with the king on our behalf,” said Jeebo.
Darion sighed. “Fine. I’ll ask him. But don’t expect a quick answer. Or a favorable one, for that matter. Once we’re inside the keep it may be a chore to get back out again, given the king’s decree. Besides, I’m sure he’s very busy.”
“If the battle at the ford is dire, he’ll have given the captain of his guard leave to draft new soldiers into his army,” said Triolyn. “Perhaps you might check with him.”
“We shall see.” Darion nudged Kalo forward.
“Farewell, gentlemen,” he heard Alynor say.
They left the three men sitting there on their horses and trudged the remaining distance to the castle gates. The guards gave Darion no trouble when he showed them the king’s scroll. The portcullis lifted, and they entered the outer ward to find footmen sparring on the sandy soil. A second wall separated the large outer ward from the small inner ward, but Darion’s summons got them through that gate just as easily.
The keep within was truly massive. Round stone towers encircled the broad building like arches on a crown, though the crenelated battlements were more sparsely manned than usual. Darion and Alynor dismounted and handed their horses’ reins to the stable boy. They entered the keep through its main entrance, passing beneath tall steeple windows and up a set of stairs on their way toward the king’s great hall.
The castellan, an aging but sturdy man with a trimmed gray beard and a head as bald as a sand dune, greeted them without. “It is good to see you again, Sir Ulther,” he said, clasping Darion’s arm. “We are so glad you’ve come. When our messenger returned, he was dubious as to your intentions.”
I was dubious as to that messenger’s wits, Darion remembered. “I’m here,” he said. “It is good to see you again as well, Master Carthag. I would speak with his majesty at once, if I may.”
“Olyvard King is indisposed at the moment, my lord.”
“I’ll wait for him in the high hall then.”
“Certainly.” Castellan Carthag led them through the double doors and down a banner-lined hallway where guards stood in pairs along the wide velvet runner, a crimson stroke extending from one end to the other. Through the throne room doors, they entered the king’s great hall.
A hot desert wind blew through the open windows to ripple the Dathiri pennants hanging behind the empty throne. They were black and white split down the middle, fronted by the familiar two-headed jötun which was the kingdom’s crest. The throne was ornate gold, fashioned with a high arched backrest and embroidered with a matching emblem. Carthag escorted Darion and Alynor down the long carpet and gestured for them to stand before the dais.
“You must be tired from your long journey, Sir Ulther,” said Carthag. “Are you certain it would not please you to wait in your chambers instead?”
Alynor looked at him hopefully.
“Yes, Carthag. That won’t be necessary,” Darion said. “Though my lady and I should like a bath drawn. Not too hot, if you please.”
“As you will, my lord.” Carthag bowed and exited the hall, leaving them alone in the vast room save the two guards standing at the door behind them.
“This was a bad idea,” Alynor said in a loud whisper.
“Maergath grows on you,” Darion said. “Give it time.”
“I didn’t mean that. I meant standing here before the throne in wait.”
“My lady… my legs are as tired as yours, I assure you. There is nothing I want more than to depart this armor and find something cold to drink.”
“Then why are we standing here?”
“Out of respect for the king.”
“Surely he would feel just as respected after we’ve had a short rest.”
Darion smiled. “I could not say, my lady. The king was only a boy when last I met him. Better we start with a good impression.” Darion took a few moments to look around, studying the hall’s every austere detail. To him it looked much the same as it had the last time he was here, though perhaps barer without the king’s court in full session. There were some marks on the floor, he noted after a time. Circles drawn in charcoal. Faint, but recent. Two to the left of the long carpet, two more to the right, spread out like the four leaves of a giant clover. Place markers, so the new guards know where to stand, he thought. Or guidelines for a new dance step come into fashion.
“This is ridiculous,” Alynor seethed, still trying to maintain her whisper. “My legs feel like warm butter. I can barely see. There is sand in my ears, and the lump growing in my belly refuses to let me go a day anymore without a second sampling of each meal.”
“What’s this about a lump in someone’s belly?” Darion turned to see Olyvard King of Dathrond fling open a side door at the back of the great hall and stroll in with a crowd of advisors at his heels. He gave Darion a strange look when he saw him standing before the throne. “Sir Ulther, it is you. Why all the formality?”
“Respect for the king, is it?” Alynor whispered, quieter now.
“You do still claim friendship with Dathrond, do you not?” Olyvard was saying.
“Of course, your majesty.”
“Then let us behave like friends.” When the king came up behind him, Darion turned and bent to one knee. Alynor did the same. The king ex
tended a hand, allowing first Darion, then Alynor, to kiss his signet.
“Rise,” he said, ascending to his throne. His advisors gathered in a crowd beside the dais.
“I thought it best to see you at once,” Darion told the king. “The situation is dire, if what we’ve heard is to be believed.”
Olyvard gave an apathetic shrug, as if that were only half true. “We have the ford well in hand, if that’s what you mean.”
“That is good to hear, your majesty.” Darion was relieved, but the lack of urgency in the king’s manner made him feel as though he’d come all this way for nothing. Much like the commonfolk of Maergath township, the king did not strike Darion as someone in the midst of a war. Not someone who has yet felt the war’s effects, anyway.
“I am glad you’ve come,” said the king. His golden hair hung limp beneath the heavy crown like tufts of cornsilk. Dark rims undercut his eyes; his fingernails were jagged where he’d been biting them, and his ruddy skin shone with oily blemishes.
Merely the signs of a young man amid his growth years, Darion told himself. “I am here to serve your majesty in whatever capacity you require. Your father was a just king, and his is a legacy worth preserving.”
Olyvard snorted. “Your life of ease is what you have come here to preserve, Warcaster. Let us make no mistake about that. My father’s legacy was to stamp out every threat beneath his heel. That is why the kingdoms have enjoyed so many years of peace. After the Ogre Wars, no one else was fool enough to rise against him.”
“Orynn King preserved peace with force, it’s true,” Darion admitted. “Dathrond’s enemies expect nothing less from the largest and wealthiest kingdom in the five realms.”
“The Korengadi expect it. They don’t expect to lose, though. No matter. I’ll crush them and their allies from Berliac and Thraihm just as my father crushed those power-hungry Galyrians.”
“How can I be of aid, your majesty? With your leave, I will take ship for the Dathiri Ford at once.”
The king’s cornsilk hair swished when he shook his head. “I require both your counsel and your protection. You are to remain here at the castle to serve as my advisor and personal guardian.”