The Sons of Hull

by Lindsey Scholl

  “Well, my friend, it seems you have kidnapped me.”

  The Ealatrophe only stared at him with its bright eyes.

  For lack of anything better to do, Vancien began to pace and start a one-sided conversation. “Yes, sir—I’m going to assume you’re a ‘sir’—correct me if I’m wrong. We’re out here in the middle of nowhere, far away from any humans, and me without a thing to eat. I don’t suppose you would let me go back and get my things, would you?”

  His companion had no answer, but its resolute gaze followed him as he strolled back and forth.

  “Don’t suppose you have a name?” He stopped to ponder the idea. What would be an appropriate name for such a magnificent creature? All the animal names that came to mind seemed childish and demeaning. After a little more musing, his lessons with Telenar began to tug at his memory. Heptar had been the only Prysm Advocate known to ride an Ealatrophe, but he had been killed by Varrin immediately after the Dedication—an untimely murder that had caused all Rhyvelad to slide into a second era of darkness. Maybe the beasts weren’t such a gift, after all. Looking at his new mount, he could hardly believe this to be true. Heptar had been caught unawares; the Ealatrophe had had nothing to do with it. It had been thelámos—Kynell’s inscrutable will.

  Vancien snapped his fingers at the old Patroniite word. That was it. The coming of the Ealatrophe, his inability to return to his friends, even the entire drama about to unfold between himself and Amarian: all of these events were thelámos. And in getting back on this wild but holy creature, wouldn’t he be fully submitting himself to Kynell’s will?

  He allowed himself one more splash of water in order to buy time and build courage. Then he approached his ride. “All right, Thelámos. Where are we going?”

  Thelámos flapped his wings, bowed his head, and made no reply.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The time was drawing close. Amarian could feel the power well up within him as he flew Ovna over the camp. Some of the soldiers looked up at his approach, but most went about their business. Far from feeling slighted at such indifference, Obsidian’s Advocate was well-pleased. Only a few fortnights ago, any good Keroulian man would have grabbed the nearest bow for a shot at a dragon. Now, they were so dulled to the presence of Zyreio’s forces that nothing shocked or appalled them. Besides, they had other things on their mind. Today was the arrival of that fledgling prince, Farlone. The thought of obsequiously greeting the boy was not pleasant, but as much as he’d like to root out all of Relgaré’s brood, he had to admit that they might still serve a function. Farlone would be no different than his father.

  Trumpets blared as Ovna landed, but not for him. The prince had just arrived. The captains, as brightly polished as the stakes that surrounded the camp, lined the main thoroughfare with fierce rigidity, and the figure that rode before them was just as rigid. It was Farlone, second son of Relgaré, heir to the noblest blood in Rhyvelad, and the fighting hand of the House of Anisllyr. He was riding astride the largest voyoté north of the Range, which put him several feet higher than even the mounted officers. The height gave him confidence, a quality he rarely lacked.

  On the day of his arrival, he had every reason to be self-assured. Though his elder brother, Relgaren, was now king, his father had left Farlone a campaign that was all but won and an ally with unprecedented strength. Plus, the soldiers revered him. He had spent most of his young career in the military; riding, fighting, and bleeding with the men now standing at attention had given him a unique caché among them. Though he had not been in the fray the night Relgaré died (he had been called to Lascombe on state business), none held it against him. To a man, the Keroulians were simply glad to see a representative of Anisllyr’s house among them again. And if the prince also accomplished the expulsion of Commander Hull and his hordes, so much the better.

  Amarian knew their thoughts but was not troubled by them. Instead, he dismounted and watched as the entourage approached the generals, who stood as tall as they could, particularly since the prince remained mounted while addressing them. Much to their embarrassment, however, Farlone soon excused himself and rode boldly up to Ovna’s snout. General Tengar, although officially dismissed, walked beside him to perform the introductions.

  “Commander Hull,” he barked, determined to maintain his authority. “Our lord prince has arrived.”

  Amarian stepped out from behind Ovna’s wing, where he had been casually inspecting a harness strap. “I see that, General. And I daresay the prince needs no introduction.” He allowed himself a gracious bow.

  Farlone nodded in response, then signaled to a man in his party dressed in Patroniite robes. The young man, whose face was still full of freckles, came forward to scrutinize Amarian, much to the Advocate’s annoyance. The Patroniite then dismissed Tengar and asked Farlone to dismount. Soon, only the three figures stood under the shadow of Ovna’s bulk. The priest was the first to speak.

  “Look, brother, how he stares us down. Perhaps he thinks to brainwash us as he did our father. Does he think the House of Anisllyr so weak?”

  Amarian’s smile was cold. Who did these two pups think they were? “I assure you, your holiness, I did no such thing. Your father’s will was his own.”

  Farlone’s hand rested lightly upon his fancy sword hilt. “Lors thinks differently, Commander Hull. And though he is young, he is very wise. Tell us again why we shouldn’t send you and your hordes back to the Chasm from which you came.”

  Amarian ignored the bait and repeated his bow. “My princes, you have misjudged me and you have slandered my soldiers. We did not start this war of yours, only come to help you finish it.” He stopped. Perhaps he should call their bluff? “If you desire, we will pack up and leave at first light.”

  Lors began to nod enthusiastically at the plan, but was stayed by Farlone.

  “There’s no need for such a drastic withdrawal. Keroul appreciates the sacrifices that your. . .” He searched for the right word and came up with the wrong one. .” . .men have given in our fight against the Cylini. Please stay and finish the struggle.”

  Amarian nodded, not a little mystified at the man’s indecision. But before he could reply, Farlone continued.

  “But we are not ignorant of your true identity and we will not be allied to Obsidian any longer than necessary. My young brother would gladly break all ties and declare you our mortal enemy, but then, what can you expect from a Patroniite?”

  Lors was openly offended at Farlone’s speech, but held his tongue as his brother finished.

  “You and I are men of the world, Amarian, and we know there’s little room for idealism. Our paths are joined for the time being. Redayo et lo redayo sun lon heiro. ‘The enemy of my enemy is my friend.’ So we shall be friends under those pretenses and none other. Agreed?”

  Amarian was so pleased by this pompous speech that he allowed himself a third bow. “Agreed, my prince.” He then turned quickly toward his tent, trying to hide his pleasure. The princes watched him go, Farlone trying not to show his annoyance at his departure and Lors staring in open exasperation at his brother. Neither said anything as they remounted and followed Tengar to their accommodation.

  __________

  Corfe did not take note of prince’s arrival, nor did he dread the appearance of his master, mostly because he was pre-occupied by a crushing realization: he was going mad. He turned the events of the preceding day over in his mind and found that insanity was the only explanation for them. The incident with the prisoner had not been his only moment of weakness. Later that day, he had remitted an execution sentence of a treasonous Keroulian. Even this morning, he had spared a fennel—a fennel!—the punishment it had deserved for insolence. What was happening to him? He shook his head, nervously pacing from one end of his tent to the other, stopping only when a shadow fell across his path.

  He turned and bowed.

  Amarian seated himself at Corfe’s camp desk, gazed at his servant for a moment, then spoke.

  “You were
not present to greet the princes.”

  Corfe smirked. The lordlings were of no interest to him.

  Amarian seem pleased by the response. “It is just as well. The only thing you missed was a show of bravado. Farlone will be no trouble. Like his father, he thinks only of the Cylini. But his brother will bear watching.”

  Corfe nodded at the assignment, well aware of what a useful spy he made. After all, if he were caught, what amount of torture could overcome his disability?

  Amarian continued. “I leave tomorrow for the Plains. Only Obsidian knows when or if I’ll be back, so you must keep the army in readiness.”

  Again Corfe nodded, but the gesture was not unaccompanied by surprise. Was it possible that Amarian did not know of his recent behavior? He must not have taken time to talk with the Keroulians: after yesterday’s reprieve a whole battalion had set about rejoicing in their good luck. Corfe had to send Sentries to quell the demonstrations.

  Amarian rose, calling an end to the one-sided conversation. “Tell me, Corfe, are you afraid of my return from the Plains?”

  Yesterday, Corfe would have nodded reflexively at the question. But the change that was working in him prevented him from giving an immediate response. In truth, fearing the Dark Advocate was becoming secondary to fearing himself and what he might be becoming. His confusion was so distracting that he forgot to answer the question.

  Amarian took note of his hesitation. “I did not expect such indecision. Perhaps you have found someone else to fear?”

  Finally gathering his senses, Corfe hastily shook his head and, for good measure, bowed obsequiously. Whether Amarian was mollified by this response he could not tell, but he left without another word. Corfe watched him go, trying to ignore the sinking feeling that, yet again, he had not done himself any favors. The sooner Amarian departed for the Plains, the better. Besides, there was always the small hope that Obsidian’s greatest servant would fail to return. He cringed at his audacity. No one was ever sure if the Advocate could read minds, but if telepathy truly had been a gift of Zyreio’s, Corfe was certain that his master would have returned to kill him immediately for his treason. Yet he remained alone in the tent; perhaps Amarian’s powers were more limited than he had suspected. This curious thought attended him throughout the day and into the night. By the time Amarian took his leave the next morning, though he could give it no logical explanation, Corfe felt as if he were breathing freely for the first time.

  The farewell assembly was brief and cheerless. Amarian mounted Ovna, bade farewell to the generals and the princes, and promised he would return soon with reinforcements enough to wipe out every last man, woman, and child of the Cylini. The generals were pleased with his little speech, as was Farlone, but Lors only glared. After waiting for dragon and rider to disappear over the horizon, he pulled his brother aside.

  “Do you realize he’s planning on murdering all the Cylini?”

  “Of course. He is Obsidian’s Advocate; do you really think he’s squeamish about genocide?”

  Lors could have suggested that perhaps it was they who should be squeamish about genocide. Instead, he said curtly, “His intentions don’t surprise me. It’s your reaction to him that I’m worried about. Do you honestly believe that after he returns, he’ll help you with the Cylini, and then go off to fight his little war somewhere else? He means to use us, Farlone. And then dispose of us. I really don’t think that—”

  He was cut off by Farlone’s sharp look. Amarian’s second, the mute called Corfe, was approaching, accompanied by a Sentry. The young man looked even more haggard then usual. Nevertheless, he gave a shallow bow as he drew near, then held out a sheet of parchment. Farlone seemed reluctant to have any contact with him, so Lors received it with a polite nod and read it aloud: “Majesties, it is my great regret that I cannot vocally deliver my salutations. This brief note will have to suffice. As you know, Commander Hull has left me in charge of his forces, a command in which my effectiveness extends only so far. I have consequently appointed the chief Sentry, Tarl,” (the Sentry nodded at the mention of his name) “as operating commander. Should you need to discuss anything, you should speak with him. All decisions must meet my approval.”

  Lors tucked the parchment into his vest. The man before him was a committed enemy of Kynell, and the creature beside him the spawn of Obsidian, yet he felt some pity for them. They, too, were caught in Amarian’s web.

  “Thank you for the courtesy, Corfe. The Commander had informed us of your post, but unfortunately, we have not had the pleasure of your company. Would you—both of you—care to dine with us tonight?”

  Farlone stiffened. Lors ignored him while Corfe watched them both with feverish intensity. It was Tarl who spoke, his rough voice raking over the polite words. “Your generosity is much appreciated. But a Sentry would be a poor dinner guest. My master…” He paused and waited for a cue from his superior. Corfe bowed slightly. “…would be honored to attend you at dinner, although he fears he does not have much to say.”

  Lors was so surprised at the creature’s eloquence and humor that he laughed. Tarl continued, disregarding the interruption.

  “My master will join you at orbset. Then, tomorrow morning all the generals will meet to discuss our plan for the commander’s absence; please inform General Tengar and the others.”

  Farlone finally decided to speak, if only briefly. “We look forward to your visit, Corfe. Until this evening.”

  They nodded and turned away, although Lors noted that Corfe stayed in Tarl’s company no more than a few yards before abruptly veering off to the left. Funny how evil could not stand its own presence.

  __________

  Corfe headed straight for his tent. He was at his desk before it occurred to him to check on Gair, unceremoniously bound several paces away and kept under close surveillance by a Mholi. The Sentry saluted as he approached. Awakened by the movement, the prisoner stirred from his uncomfortable afternoon nap.

  “Corfe.” His voice was barely audible, so weakened and dehydrated he had become.

  Corfe nodded, stepped over the chains, then crouched down and looked closely at the unfortunate figure. This man had gained nothing by his treachery, but then, few men do. Corfe was no idealist, of course; he was not bothered by the betrayal itself, rather the stupidity of it. What could motivate this man to not only stay alive, but maintain his loyalty to the Prysm? Amarian had told him of the Gair’s affection for Verial—perhaps that was it. Certainly the sight of that woman was enough to drive any man to reckless behavior. But she had been gone for several fortnights now. If Gair had been bewitched by her beauty, he had had plenty of time, separation, and painful distractions to recover from the spell.

  No, the look in Gair’s eyes suggested that he was hoping for something more than a woman, even more than personal deliverance. Corfe wanted desperately to ask him what he was hoping for, but he couldn’t bring himself to write such a question down. So he stalked off again, but not before motioning for the Sentry to get Gair some more water.

  Relgaré’s original fortification had shifted closer to the marshes ever since their great victory over the Cylini. Now Keroulian soldiers guarded the bridge, though they did not bother going deeper into the swamp; no one had any desire to discover its mysteries. It did not take long, therefore, before Corfe was alone with the damp undergrowth and foul orbmoss. His delirium deepened as the trees grew thicker. What was he doing out here? What had he ever been doing, other than trying to get by on his crimes? Why, in all those cycles since his mother had died, before he met Amarian, had he not considered becoming an honest worker? When had he decided to become a scoundrel? Was it when his father had abandoned them during his sixth cycle? Or when Kynell wrongfully took his mother from him a few cycles later? But where had any of his schemes got him?

  He thought back on the night that Amarian had offered him the choice between bondage and death. Why didn’t he choose to throw himself over the cliff into the sea? Surely that would have saved him
a great deal of suffering. But when a man is offered life, he takes it, even if it means a life of silence. Now that silence weighed heavily on him; his dark mood thickened until all he wanted to do was shake his fist at both Obsidian and the Prysm. But what good would that do?

  The orbs were setting by the time weariness overtook his frustration. He needed to return to camp, an impulse that became even more urgent when he remembered he had a meeting with the two princes. Why hadn’t a Sentry been sent to remind him? Surely Tarl had sent a scout to keep an eye on him. No matter. He would issue a half-hearted apology to the young royals and then be on his way.

  When night had fully descended, he still had a good distance to go. Yet to his dismay and surprise, his knees began to buckle with fatigue. His hips and arms soon followed; he began to feel as if his entire body was filled with lead. Before he knew it, he was forced into an unnaturally prostrate position on the swampy ground. Only with great effort was he able to lift his face up out of the mud so he could breathe.

  He had no idea how long he lay in this uncomfortable position, but it seemed like an eternity before he felt a presence nearby. He suppressed a groan. Had Zyreio come to deliver punishment for his unfaithfulness? Fear gripped him, causing his breath to come in short gasps. Why didn’t it—whatever it was—say something?

  After a while, he could sense it moving. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and strained to look in the direction of the sound. His gaze fell on a swamp marmet, with greasy fur plastered against its small body and big eyes peering thoughtfully back at him. It was standing in the one spot accessible to the lunos-light. The entire situation appeared so ridiculous that Corfe couldn’t hold back a chuckle. The creature blinked, then added some staccato squeaks to his laughter.