The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

  “That’s because there wouldn’t be anything left to find.”

  She was being uncharacteristically petulant and Vancien knew why. Telenar had been, as usual, surly to her and he suspected she didn’t cherish the idea of his constant company. But now was not the time for petulance. If they didn’t move quickly, Amarian would set another trap to frustrate Kynell’s purposes—a thought the growing Advocate within him could not abide.

  “Pack your things please. We’re leaving tomorrow morning.”

  His tone was chastising and she received the message. “I’ll be ready, of course. Who else will be going?”

  “As few as possible. Only us three.”

  They departed before dawn, in the frigid early hours of a day that promised no warmth. So cold was the air that Vancien clutched his chest, reminded forcefully of his personal tormentors, the Destrariae.

  Telenar was speaking quietly with the stable’s head groom, trying to persuade the leathery man to part with three of his best steeds. So far, little progress had been made.

  “No deal, priest. The money you offer wouldn’t buy a dying nag. And you want three of my best?”

  Telenar shook his head, frustrated. “I wouldn’t ask this of you if it were not important. You know the work I’ve been doing, Trun. If this young man is harmed, it could be the fate of Rhyvelad.”

  Trun grunted, unimpressed. “Where’d you say you were going?”

  “I didn’t. The less you know, the better.”

  “Then I can’t help you. These steeds’re destined for the front. The king would have my head, an’ my job besides.”

  “There’s nothing I can do to convince you to part with them?”

  “Nope.” The man turned away, but not before hesitating a little.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Well,” He kicked at the snow before he continued. “Word has it that you and General Chiyo are good friends.”

  The priest held his breath. Implication of Chiyo in this matter was out of the question. “Go on.”

  “For several cycles now, he’s been buying my steeds and then getting ‘em killed in battle. Now he’s paid me for every one, but it just tears at my heart to see him take those fine voyoté and spear ‘em on some Cylini’s blade. If you could put in a word for me, askin’ him to take better care of my stock—real nicely, of course—then I might be able to see my way to loaning you three fine beasts.”

  The ease of his request was deceptive. Relieved but wary, Telenar agreed. “I will put in a word for you, certainly. Now then, may we have the animals?”

  “’Course. Right this way.”

  They followed him through the warm stables, grateful for the reprieve from the cold. Around them, voyoté of all shapes and sizes greeted them with the hoarse coughing sound that was their trademark. They were all fine examples of Keroulian breeding, but Trun paid them no attention as he trudged to the king’s end, where the mightiest of the voyoté were housed.

  “You got a couple of choices ‘ere,” he began in the manner of a condescending teacher. “Here’s Kate; she’s a fighter, an’ she always wins. Best for tearing out Cylini throat. Nagab over there will take you to the Plains of Jasimor and back without a night’s sleep. He’s a bit off in a fight, but he does the trick. Then the twins, Cetla and Lansing. They watch each other’s back and are as loyal as they come. Cetla here took a blow for her brother that knocked her down for three fortnights. But she’s on the rebound and Lansing hasn’t left her side. There’re a couple more, but these are the best.”

  Telenar eyed them all carefully; a lifetime in the service of the king and the friendship of Chiyo had served him well. It only took a glance for him to see that these were indeed fine animals. Another glance told him which ones he wanted.

  “We’ll take Nagab, Cetla, and Lansing. We’re not looking for a fight, so we’ll leave Kate to the army. Saddle them up, please, Trun, and we’ll meet you out front.”

  “Right. And I’ll expect payment with interest when you return.”

  Telenar did not protest. He should have known not to trust the wily groom. Still, he and Vancien were hoping to return in triumph. If they did not, a debt to the stable would be the least of their concerns. He waved for Vancien and N’vonne to follow him outside. As they waited, stamping their feet, he issued his few orders.

  “I’ll take Lansing and N’vonne will ride Cetla. Vance, that leaves you Nagab. I don’t know how far we’ll be going, and if Kynell desires you to separate from us, then you don’t need one of the twins. Each voyoté gets a fair share of the provisions but Nagab will carry the Ages as well. If anyone needs them, it will be Vance. Today, we’re going east of the Pass. There’s an old camp about halfway up. Barring any difficulties, we can make it there by orbset. Perhaps after that—”

  Any further words were forestalled by the approach of Trun and their steeds.

  “All right then, priest,” he announced resignedly, handing over all three pair of reins to Telenar. “Take good care of ‘em.”

  “I will do my best.”

  “An’ don’t forget about General Chiyo. I’d like to see ‘im come back on the same animal he left with.”

  “I promise to tell him next time I speak with him.”

  Trun nodded and stepped back. “I suppose that’ll do.”

  They mounted and set off for the nearest gate. A few eyes gazed at them with curiosity as they passed, but most were fixed on finishing their pre-dawn chores and getting back to warm houses. For a moment, Vancien envied them; for him, all that lay ahead was cold night after cold night. Yet this was what he wanted, he curtly reminded himself. Just yesterday he had had a warm bed and cooked meals and was not content. Today, faced with a cold, dreary ride toward an unknown destination, he felt more at peace than he had since the attack at the Glade. At least now he was doing something for Kynell more than just reading and play-fighting.

  The jingling of the harnesses made little more sound than the padded step of the voyoté as they crept through the morning. The entire world seemed to slumber around them and N’vonne was certain that the pounding of her heart was the only disturbance to be heard. An unusual sense of alarm had gripped her. What if, during the course of this journey, Vancien were to leave her? Even after several fortnights of civility with Telenar, she did not trust him; indeed, she barely even knew him. If Vance were to be called away, she would be out in the wilderness, alone, with a man who despised her. The possibility of such a situation made her long for Hull, whose image had begun to arise more and more frequently before her. What would he be like on such an adventure? How graceful and easy he would sit atop Lansing—a stark contrast to the upright but sullen figure of the priest. His arms, she knew, would encircle her protectively against any danger and his dark eyes would look on her in love, not the scorn she imagined of Telenar. Her body and soul instinctively sought the warm days of his friendship, and when a sudden burst of cold air sent a shiver through all of them, it struck her particularly hard. Under her bulky hood, she struggled against tears.

  A day of hard riding brought them to the foot of the great mountain chain, but Telenar had underestimated the effect of the weather on their mounts. The cold slowed them all down as the voyoté had to plow through high snow drifts and pick over rocky paths made slick with ice. As night drew near, Telenar realized that his proposed camp was still a morning’s ride off. But to continue up the mountainside after orbset would be fatal. Camp had to be made, whether he liked it or not. He and Vancien chose a location under a protruding ledge, which obligingly protected the ground underneath it from most of the snow. Circling the voyoté around them to conserve most of the heat, they started a small fire with a bundle of wood brought from Lascombe. A warm meal would be had tonight, but there was no telling what tomorrow would bring.

  “This wood will last only a few days,” Vancien sighed as he eyed their stock.

  “I know,” Telenar replied. He was weary after the day’s ride and frustrated with himself for
not gauging their progress correctly. “But we couldn’t bring a forest with us, could we? The voyoté can only handle so much.”

  Vancien looked at the beasts, just beyond the fire’s glow. He knew their habits, and knew also that soon one would disappear for the hunt, leaving the other two to guard the camp. They would thus take turns until each was fed, though what they would find out in the snow to eat was anyone’s guess. He wished them all success; he was grateful to them already for fighting the hiverran winds with heavy loads and tired riders weighing them down. Kynell had been kind, despite the mounts’ inability to carry several bundles of wood.

  “Come on, Vance,” Telenar’s voice cut through the wind. “Why don’t you lead us in a prayer of thanks before we eat? Then we need to catch some sleep. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow might be longer.”

  Vancien nodded and slid one hand through each of his companions’. Telenar and N’vonne, without looking at each other, cautiously joined hands as well and bowed their heads. Then the three knelt on the cold ground as the Advocate began.

  “Lord Kynell, mightiest of all above and below. We kneel here in gratitude for your kindness, awe of your power, and supplication for your favor. Help us in this mission, throughout which you are our Champion, and through which we endeavor to serve you. May we do so in love. Thy cause alone.”

  “Thy cause alone,” they repeated as they raised their heads.

  “Now, then,” Telenar resumed, jumping to his feet with renewed vigor. He loved to hear the prayers of the Advocate. Although Kynell listened to all, he always felt especially blessed when Vancien called upon the Prysm. Partly as a result of this fervor, and partly because the day’s journey had weakened his defenses, he turned to N’vonne.

  “Lady, would you mind taking the first turn preparing dinner? Vancien has told me you are a good cook, but I would like to see what you can do with hard bread, cold cheese, and meat sticks.”

  Startled at his playful tone, N’vonne smiled involuntarily. “Of course, Telenar. I will do my best.”

  Vancien grinned as well, grateful for Telenar’s banter. Nothing would please him more than to see these two closest of his friends enjoy each other’s company. “I’d be careful, N’vonne. If we like what you do, we might make you cook every night.”

  “But if you cook as well as you eat, then it would be a disservice to Telenar if I deprived you of the chance.”

  While Vancien tried to look hurt, Telenar chuckled at her wit. “Be careful, Vance. You’re in her line of fire.”

  Much to her surprise and chagrin, N’vonne felt herself blush at the comment. Quickly, she turned her head and started rummaging for their dinner. But the damage was already done. In the blink of an eye, frustration gave way to fascination, resentment started to fade, and a second image, though dim, began to take shape beside that of Hull.

  The next day was as bitter as the day before, but a night’s companionship and rest had renewed their spirits. The climb began as soon as they broke camp, with Telenar following Lansing on foot, N’vonne doing the same with Cetla in the middle, and Vancien bringing up the rear. The path to Telenar’s base was almost completely covered, so that Telenar prayed with every step that he would not lead them all onto the deceptive sheetrock, and thus to their ends (at least for himself and N’vonne). The voyoté were more than able to carry them and would be more wary of natural traps, but the way was often so vertical that riding any beast proved impossible. Every creature—two legged or four—had to find the footing for himself.

  Communication between the three was confined to signaled directions and shouted questions: the wind tore away everything else. Heads tucked into their hoods and frozen hands clutching the tails of the voyoté before them, they struggled and scrambled forward until they reached the relative quiet of Telenar’s camp. The small cave was warm enough with all three voyoté crowded inside. Exhausted, all of them collapsed in a deep slumber, from which they would not awaken until the night’s fall prevented further progress.

  __________

  The three sleepers could not have known they were being followed; the snow erased their footsteps as soon as they made them. For Corfe, it was a frustrating continuation of his task at Lascombe. Seeing without being seen—not a simple undertaking in any situation, but nearly impossible in a mountain snowstorm. The company of the Urabi Sentry made it doubly unpleasant, though Ranti was very effective.

  “They have camped for the night,” the creature hissed, sliding into their small shelter.

  Corfe nodded, choking down the revulsion he always felt at Ranti’s presence. With a sigh, he prepared to sleep, knowing the Sentry would watch them through the lunos hours. In the morning, he would disappear, presumably to rest, although Corfe doubted the creature needed any such human luxury. Then he would take up the watch himself. He occasionally wondered what Amarian would do if his mute servant were lost, deciding every time that Darkness would find someone else just as, if not more, useful, without bothering to discover his fate. It was an unpleasant job any way one looked at it, but the perks were undeniable: unlimited funds and the promise of unparalleled power were two temptations Corfe could not resist. He had an especially covetous eye toward the lord’s mistress. It was obvious Amarian cared nothing for the Lady Verial and did not even bother to benefit from her attributes. He crossed his arms over his chest. If the Dark One could not find a use for her, maybe his servant could. These thoughts and other unmentionables warmed him through the freezing night and on into the next morning, when his struggle of surveillance began again.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Thousands upon thousands of humans, all armed to the teeth, mounted on the fiercest of voyoté, and wearing Keroulian blue. Amarian smiled at the sight. Things were going well. Good King Relgaré had been more than willing to form an alliance—anything to stave off those dreadful Cylini. Amarian almost laughed out loud. Dreadful Cylini. Nothing more than a ragtag group of swamp dwellers who presented the king with a useful distraction. All of Keroul’s resources were being wasted on insignifant border wars; nothing could please Amarian more.

  He allowed himself a few more laughs these days. Obsidian’s Advocate though he was, he still enjoyed the bright orblight of the lands west of Lascombe. It had been a tedious journey leading his forces over the Trmak desert, across the southern end of the Kingdom of Ulan, and through the farm fields of eastern Keroul. The journey, already long, was made longer still by the fact that he had to send emissaries ahead to the Ulanese royalty, assuring them that he was only passing through on Keroulian business and meant them no harm. The Ulanese had a difficult time believing his tale, given the past hostilities between their kingdom and the Eastern lands. In the end, it took a special dispatch from Relgaré to sort things out. The city of Lascombe had at least been forewarned of his coming, though even then he took the long way around, stringing his forces north of the city, through the trees, so as not to alarm the good people of Keroul.

  Travel went more smoothly after he joined up with the king. Together, they had passed out of Keroul and into the barren no-man’s land that divided Keroul’s eastern border from the northern cities of the Mein peoples, more commonly referred to as the people of the West. The scenery was broad and desolate—wet but not fertile, flat but not smooth. Still, thanks to recent activity, it was now in the hands of King Relgaré. The Cylini had been driven out of their northern expansion, forced back across the mighty River Preshin into their cramped little swamp.

  As Amarian rode out for inspection, the troops fell to ranks in front of him. Humans. Sentries. Fennels. All under one puppet banner, all under Obsidian. His thoughts turned toward the future as he passed the lines. When young Vancien rides out from his Dedication, Amarian told himself, he will look for an army and none will be found. There will be only the risen souls of Kynell to help him and those, Amarian was certain, would be no match for his own undead. He could already feel their fury kindled against the detested Prysm, the power responsible for their impri
sonment. The Chasm was a harbor from which they could watch their enemies flounce their righteousness. But soon, the Chasm would open its gates, the vengeance and hatred of ten thousand score mornings and evenings would spill out, and all of Rhyvelad would be stained with its wrath.

  “Good morning, Commander Hull!” hailed Relgaré as Amarian approached him. The king was in a fine military mood. The battle yesterday had given him control of Taggershack’s Loop, an important tradeway as well as a strategic fortress. All that was left was a bit of cleaning up on the northern end, then the army could proceed south into the marsh in one final, destructive sweep. The king had every reason to be content.

  “Good morning, Sire.” Amarian nodded respectfully, but his insistence on staying mounted placed them on even ground. Relgaré noticed this obstinacy, though he did not remark on it. If the sullen commander wanted to have his quirks, he did not mind. He had just inherited an entire army.

  “How are the Sentries doing? Have they recovered from their losses?”

  “All three of them, yes. The Sentries are quite accustomed to battle, you’ll find. The loss of so many is exceptional. But the Cylini were numerous, as Your Majesty surely remembers.”

  “Hm, yes. It’s hard not to. But our men were brave, eh?” Relgaré treated him to a comradely slap on the back, which Amarian took with a frosty smile.

  “Yes, Sire. Very brave. The combination of our forces is mighty indeed.”

  They were just finishing this gratuitous conversation when another rider joined them. Relgaré greeted him openly.

  “Ah, General Chiyo. We were just talking about our fine achievement yesterday.”

  “And with reason, Your Majesty,” Chiyo responded with forced enthusiasm. “It was certainly a memorable event.” Yesterday was a massacre, he knew. The Cylini were no match for the combined might of the Keroulian forces, Sentries, and fennels. The first charge had scattered their ranks, and the second was nothing but a bloodfest. He was sure the tribes had regrouped, but was just as certain that they would cause no trouble until the confrontations in the south. There would be a small period of peace, but at a great price.