Theft of Swords

by Michael J. Sullivan

  Thrump. Thrump. Thrump.

  He could hear a slow beating overhead, a dull, deep pumping. A blast of wind came from above, a massive downdraft of air. Along with it came the frightening sounds of cracking, snapping, splintering. The treetops shattered and exploded.

  “Log!” Royce shouted as the horses jumped.

  Hadrian kept his seat only by virtue of Royce’s agile grab. In the darkness, he heard Thrace’s scream, a grunt, and a sound like an axe handle hitting wood. The thief reined Mouse hard, wrestling with her, pulling the animal’s head around as she reared and snorted. Hadrian could hear Millie galloping ahead.

  “What’s going on?” Hadrian asked.

  “They fell,” Royce growled.

  “I can’t see them.” Hadrian leapt down.

  “In the thickets, there to your right,” Royce said, climbing off Mouse, who was in a panic, thrashing her head back and forth.

  “Here,” Theron said, his voice labored, “over here.”

  The farmer stood over his daughter. She lay unconscious, sprawled and twisted. Blood dripped from her nose and mouth.

  “She hit a branch,” Theron said; his voice was shaking, frightened. “I—I didn’t see the log.”

  “Get her on my horse,” Royce commanded. “Theron, take her and ride for the manor. We’re close. You can see the light of the bonfires burning.”

  The farmer made no protest. He climbed on Mouse, who was still stomping and snorting. Hadrian picked up Thrace. A patch of moonlight showed a dark blemish on her face, a long wide mark. He lifted her. Her head fell back, limp; her arms and legs dangled free. She seemed dead. He handed her to Theron, who cradled his daughter to his chest and held her tight. Royce let loose the bit, and the horse thundered off, racing for the open field, leaving Royce and Hadrian behind.

  “Think Millie’s around?” Hadrian whispered.

  “I think Millie is already an appetizer.”

  “I suppose the good news is that she bought Thrace and Theron safe passage.”

  They slowly moved to the edge of the wood. They were very close to where Dillon and his boys had been hauling logs earlier that day. They could see three of the six bonfires blazing away, illuminating the field.

  “What about us?” Royce asked.

  “Do you think the Gilarabrywn knows we’re still in here?”

  “Esrahaddon said it was intelligent, so I presume it can count.”

  “Then it will come back and find us. We have to reach the castle. The distance across the open is about—what? Two hundred feet?”

  “About that,” Royce confirmed.

  “I guess we can hope it’s still munching on Millie. Ready?”

  “Run spread out so it can’t get both of us. Go.” The grass was slick with dew and filled with stumps and pits. Hadrian got only a dozen yards before falling on his face.

  “Stay behind me,” Royce told him.

  “I thought we were spreading out?”

  “That’s before I remembered you’re blind.”

  They ran again, dodging in and out, as Royce picked the path up the hillside. They were nearly halfway across when they heard the bellows again.

  Thrump. Thrump. Thrump.

  The sound rushed toward them. Looking up, Hadrian saw something dark pass across the face of the rising moon, a serpent with batlike wings gliding, arcing, circling like a hawk hunting mice in a field.

  The bellows stopped.

  “It’s diving!” Royce shouted.

  A massive burst of wind blew them to the ground. The bonfires were instantly snuffed out. A second later, a loud rumble shook the earth and a monolithic wall of green fire exploded in a great ring, surrounding the entire hill. Astounding flames, thirty feet high, flashed up like trees of light spewing intense heat.

  No longer having any trouble seeing his way, Hadrian jumped to his feet and sped to the gate, Royce on his heels. Behind them the flames roared. Above them they heard a chilling scream.

  Dillon, Vince, and Russell slammed the gate shut the instant they were inside. The bonfire in the courtyard, which had been unlit so far, startled everyone as it exploded into a brilliant blue-green flame, reaching like a pillar into the sky. Once more from the darkness above, the Gilarabrywn screamed at them.

  The emerald inferno slowly burned down. The flames lost their green color and diminished until only natural flames remained. The fires crackled and hissed, sending storms of sparks skyward. The men in the courtyard stared upward, but there were no further signs of the beast, only darkness and the distant sound of crickets.

  CHAPTER 6

  THE CONTEST

  I can assure you, Your Royal Majesty,” Arista said in her most congenial voice, “there will be no change in foreign or domestic policy under King Alric’s reign. He will continue to pursue the same agenda as our father—upholding the dignity and honor of the House of Essendon. Melengar will continue to remain your friendly neighbor to the west.”

  Arista stood before the King of Dunmore in her mother’s best dress—the stunning silver silk gown. Forty buttons lined the sleeves. Dozens of feet of crushed velvet trimmed the embroidered bodice and full skirt. The rounded neckline clung to her shoulders. She stood erect, chin high, eyes forward, hands folded.

  King Roswort, who sat on his throne wearing furs that looked to have come from wolves, drained his cup and belched. He was short and immensely fat. His round pudgy face sagged under its own weight, gathering at the bottom and forming three full chins. His eyes were half closed, his lips were wet, and she was certain she could see a bit of spittle dribbling down through the folds of his neck. His wife, Freda, sat beside him. She, too, was large, but thin by comparison. Whereas the king seeped liquid, she was dry as a desert—in both looks and manner.

  The throne room was small with a wooden floor and beams that supported a lofty cathedral ceiling. Protruding from the walls were heads of stags and moose, each covered in enough dust to make its fur look gray. Near the door stood the famous nine-foot stuffed bear named Oswald, its claws up, mouth open, snarling. Dunmore legend held that Oswald killed five knights and an unknown number of peasants before King Ogden—King Roswort’s grandfather—slew him with nothing more than a dagger. That had been seventy years earlier, when Glamrendor was just a frontier fort, and Dunmore little more than a forest with trails. Roswort himself could not claim such glory. He had abandoned the hunting traditions of his sires in favor of courtly life, and it showed.

  The king held up his cup and shook it.

  Arista waited and the king yawned. Somewhere behind her, loud heels crossed the throne room. There was a muttering, then the heels again, followed by the snapping of fingers. Finally, a figure approached the dais, thin and delicate—an elf. He was dressed in a rough woolen uniform of dull brown. Around his neck was a heavy iron collar that was riveted in place. He approached with a pitcher and filled the king’s cup, then backed away. The king drank, tipping the cup too high, wine dribbling down, leaving a faint pink line and a droplet dangling from his stubbly whiskers. He belched again, this time more loudly, and sighed with contentment. The king looked back at Arista.

  “But what about this matter of Braga’s death?” Roswort asked. “Do you have evidence to show that he was involved in this so-called conspiracy?”

  “He tried to kill me.”

  “Yes, so you say, but even if he did, he had good reason, it seems. Braga was a good and devout Nyphron and you are—after all—a witch.”

  Arista squeezed her hands together. It was not for the first time and her fingers were starting to ache. “Forgive me, Your Royal Majesty, but I fear you may be misinformed on that subject.”

  “Misinformed? I have—” He coughed, coughed again, then spat on the floor beside the throne. Freda glared rigidly at the elf until he stepped over and wiped it up with the bottom of his tunic.

  “I have very good information gatherers,” the king went on, “who tell me both Braga and Bishop Saldur brought you to trial to answer charges of w
itchcraft and the murder of your father. Immediately afterwards Braga was dead, decapitated, and accused of the very charges he leveled against you. Now you come before us as Ambassador of Melengar—a woman. I fear this is all too convenient for my tastes.”

  “Braga also accused me of killing His Royal Majesty King Alric, who appointed me to this office, or do you also deny his existence?”

  The royal eyebrows rose. “You are young,” he said coldly. “This is your first audience as ambassador. I’ll ignore your affront—this time. Insult me again, and I’ll have you expelled from my kingdom.”

  Arista bowed her head silently.

  “It does not bode well with us that the throne of Melengar was taken by blood. Nor that House Essendon pays only lip service to the church. Also, your kingdom’s tolerance for elves is disgusting. You let the vile beasts run free. Novron never meant for this to be. The church teaches us that the elf is a disease. They must be broken into service or vanquished altogether. They are like rats and Melengar is the woodpile next door. Yes, I have no doubt that Alric will continue his father’s policies. Both were born with blinders. Changes are coming and I can already see that Melengar is too foolish to bend with the wind. All the better for Dunmore, I think.”

  Arista opened her mouth, but the king held up a finger.

  “This interview is over. Go back to your brother and tell him we fulfilled the favor of seeing you and were not impressed.”

  The king and queen stood together and walked out through the rear archway, leaving Arista facing two empty wooden chairs. The elf, which stood nearby, watched her intently but said nothing. She half considered going on with the rest of her prepared speech. The level of futility would remain; empty thrones could not be any less responsive and most certainly would be more polite.

  She sighed. Her shoulders drooped. Could it have gone any worse? She turned and walked out, listening to her beautiful dress rustling.

  She stepped outside the castle gate and looked down at the city. Deep baked ruts scarred the uneven dirt roads, so rough and littered with rocks they appeared as dry riverbeds. Sun bleached the tight rows of similarly framed wooden buildings to a pale gray. Most of the residents wore drab colors, clothes made of undyed wool or linen. Dozens of people with weary faces sat on corners or wandered about aimlessly with hands out. They appeared invisible to those walking by. It was Arista’s first visit to Glamrendor, the capital of Dunmore. She shook her head and muttered softly, “We have seen you too.”

  Despite the meager offerings, the city was bustling, but she suspected few of those rushing by were locals. It was easy to tell the difference. Those from out of town wore shoes. Wagons, carriages, coaches, and horses flowed through the center of the capital that morning, all heading east. The church had opened the contest to all comers, common and noble alike. It was their shot at glory, wealth, and fame.

  Her own coach waited, flying the Melengar falcon, and Hilfred stood holding the door. Bernice sat inside with a tray of sweets on her lap and a smile on her lips. “How did it go, my dear? Were you impressive?”

  “No, I wasn’t impressive, but we are also not at war, so I should thank Maribor for that kindness.” She sat opposite Bernice, making certain to pull the full length of her gown inside the door before Hilfred closed it.

  “Have a gingerbread man?” Bernice asked, holding up the tray with a look of pity that included pushing out her lower lip. “He is bound to steal the pain away.”

  “Where is Sauly?” she asked, eyeing the man-shaped cookies.

  “He said he had some things to speak to the archbishop about and would ride in His Grace’s coach. He hoped you did not mind.”

  Arista did not mind and only wished Bernice had joined him. She was tired of the constant company and missed the solitude of her tower. She took a cookie and felt the carriage rock as Hilfred climbed up with the driver. The coach lurched and they were off, bouncing over the rutted road.

  “These are stale,” Arista said with a mouthful of gingerbread that was hard and sandy.

  Bernice looked horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Where did you get them?”

  “A little bakery up—” She started to point out the window, but the movement of the carriage confused her. She looked around, then gave up and put her hand down again. “Oh, I don’t know now, but it was a very nice shop and I thought you might need—you know—something to help you feel better after the meeting.”

  “Need them?”

  Bernice nodded her head with a forced smile, and reaching out, she patted the princess’s hand and said, “It’s not your fault, dear. It really isn’t fair of His Majesty to put you in this position.”

  “I should stay in Medford and receive suitors,” Arista guessed.

  “Exactly. This just isn’t right.”

  “Neither is this cookie.” She placed the gingerbread man back on the tray minus the leg she had bitten off. She then sat raking her tongue with her upper teeth like a cat with hair in its mouth.

  “At least His Royal Majesty must have been impressed by how you looked,” Bernice said, eyeing her with pride. “You’re beautiful.”

  Arista gave her a sidelong glance. “The dress is beautiful.”

  “Of course it is, but—”

  “Oh dear Maribor!” Arista cut her off as she glanced out the window. “How many are there now? It will be like traveling with an army.”

  As the carriage reached the end of town, she saw the masses. There could be as many as three hundred men standing behind the banners of the Nyphron Church. They all waited in a single line, but they could not have been more different—the muscular, scrawny, tall, and short. All ranks were represented: knights, soldiers, nobles, and peasants. Some wore armor, some silk, others linen or wool. They sat on chargers, draft horses, ponies, mules, or inside coaches, open-air carriages, wagons, and buckboards. They appeared a strange and unlikely assortment, but each bore the same smile of expectation and excitement, all eyes looking east.

  Arista’s first official session as ambassador was finished. As bad as it had been, it was over. With Sauly gone, she could shelve thoughts of church and state, guilt and blame. Stress that had smothered her for days evaporated and at last she was able to feel the growing excitement that bubbled all around her.

  From everywhere people rushed to join the growing train. Some arrived with nothing but a small linen bag tucked under one arm, while others led their own personal train of packhorses.

  There were those who commanded multiple wagons loaded with tents, food, and clothes. One well-dressed merchant carried velvet upholstered chairs and a canopy bed on top of a wagon.

  A loud banging hammered the roof of the coach, shocking both of them. Gingerbread men flew. “Oh dear!” Bernice gasped. A moment later Mauvin Pickering’s head appeared in the window, looking down and inside from the back of his horse so that his dark hair hung wildly.

  “So how did it go?” He grinned mischievously. “Do I need to prepare for war?”

  Arista scowled.

  “That good, huh?” Mauvin went on, heedless of the commotion he had caused. “We’ll talk later. I have to find Fanen before he starts dueling someone. Hiya, Hilfred. This is going to be great. When was the last time we were all camping together? See ya.”

  Bernice was fanning herself with both hands, staring up at the roof of the coach, her mouth slack. Seeing her and the little army of gingerbread men scattered on the benches, in the curtains, on the floor, and in her lap, Arista could not help smiling.

  “You were right, Bernice. The cookies did cheer me up.”

  “See him?” Fanen pointed to the man in the brown suede doublet. “That’s Sir Enden, possibly the greatest living knight after Sir Breckton.”

  After another day’s travel that left her drowsy, Arista was at the Pickerings’ camp, hiding from Bernice. The two boys shared an elegant single-peak tent of alternating gold and green stripes, which they had pitched at the eastern edge of the main camp. The three
sat out front under the scallop-edged canopy held up by two tall wooden poles. On the left flew the gold falcon on the red field of the House of Essendon, on the right the gold sword on the green field of the House of Pickering. It was a modest camp compared to most of the nobles’. Some looked like small castles and took hours for a team of servants to erect. The Pickerings traveled lightly, carrying everything they needed on their stallions and two packhorses. They did not have tables or chairs and Arista sprawled in a modest gown on a sheet of canvas. If Bernice saw, the old woman would have a heart attack.

  Arista did not mind. She thought it was wonderful to lie back and stretch out under the sky. It reminded her of Summersrule when they were kids. At night the adults would dance and the children would lie on the south hill at the Pickerings’ home of Drondil Fields, counting the falling stars and fireflies. It had been all of them then—Mauvin, Fanen, Alric, even Lenare—back before the boys’ sister became too much of a lady. She remembered the feel of the cool night breeze rushing over her, the sensation of grass on her bare feet, the vast spray of stars above, and the faint melody of the band as it played “Calide Portmore,” the Galilin folk song.

  “And there, see the large man in the green tunic? That’s Sir Gravin; he’s a quester. He does most of his work for the Church of Nyphron. You know—recovering artifacts, slaying monsters, those kinds of things. He’s known to be one of the greatest adventurers alive. He’s from Vernes; that’s all the way down near Delgos.”

  “I know where Vernes is, Fanen,” Arista replied.

  “That’s right, you have to know all that stuff now, don’t you?” Mauvin said. “Your High Exulted Ambassadorship.” The elder Pickering offered an elaborate seated bow.

  “Laugh now—just you wait,” she told him. “You’ll get yours—one day you’ll be marquis. Then it won’t be all fun and games. You’ll have responsibilities, mister.”