by J. W. Webb
Then the black-clad messenger arrived from the north, and at his heels came the first heavy snows of winter.
“I bring greeting from the new lord of Kelthaine!” The man had shouted boldly up at the city walls. “Caswallon an Kella rules throughout the land. Only Kelthara and Car Carranis hold out in the east and that first city shall soon capitulate. Its inhabitants shall be punished for their folly, as were the citizens of Reln and Fardoris before. And Car Carranis has its own problems these days.
“But my lord Caswallon wishes only peace with Kelwyn, a land that has always been dear to his heart,” continued the messenger with a haughty arrogance that rankled the guards above. He sat astride his sable steed scanning the walls with shrewd cold eyes concealed beneath the black horned helm.
“The lord of Kelthaine will protect this land despite its reckless queen fleeing the seat of power,” he assured them. “Caswallon demands only this; that the renegade, faithless Ariane be brought to him on her return. Your foolish queen has plotted treachery against our lord and must be chastised. This is only reasonable.
“What have you to say to that?”
The messenger spurred his horse, trotting to and fro across the turf, awaiting their response with growing impatience. He raised his helmed head when a tall white-haired old man appeared on the battlements above.
Dazaleon had been informed of the messenger’s arrival by the new captain of guard. The high priest of Elanion had left his silent vigil at the Crystal Temple at once. Aided by his sturdy staff, he’d struggled up the many steps, emerging red-faced on the west wall. Dazaleon was feeling all of his seventy-six years this morning, he was breathless and weary and worn down by worry.
But anger blazed within him too—gave Dazaleon just enough strength. He looked coldly down on the horn-helmed rider below.
“Who is this canard that dares mouth lies about our noble ruler? Speak, oh servant of night!” The high priest’s voice rang out with clear authority but the armoured horseman below merely laughed at his words. He eased his mount forward and called up again.
“I am Lord Derino an Reln. High Captain of Caswallon’s army, second only to Lord Perani in Kella City. I come in peace—this time. So be sensible, high priest, and do as I request.”
Derino leaned forward on his saddle; Caswallon had told him to use diplomacy at first rather than force, to give their contact space to move inside the walls. If he, Derino, or their man inside could fool these weak Kelwynians into relenting and opening their gates to his force, then so much the better. Trouble was, diplomacy wasn’t Derino’s strong point.
“I assume it is you who holds council in this satellite kingdom.”
“You are over-hasty, Derino an Reln,” replied Dazaleon with a scoff. “Were our champion here you would not speak thus about our queen!”
“Your champion?” Cold metallic laughter could be heard issuing from beneath the helm. “Your champion is dead, Dazaleon! His headless body feeds the fishes of Crenna. Your little bitch-queen’s feeble quest is in ruins. Soon she’ll return here with her tail between her legs.”
“Did you not know Parantios was dead?” Derino laughed when he heard the woeful cries beyond the battlements. “I so hate to be the bearer of woeful tidings!”
“Let me kill him!” Yail Tolranna, hawk-faced captain of guard, had seized a bow from a soldier. Eagerly he leant out across the battlements.
“Wait, captain.” Dazaleon placed a placating hand on Yail’s shoulder. “He is only a tool—this Derino. Besides I would know more. The rumour of Roman’s death is no new thing. I had already suspected it were so.”
Dazaleon stared coldly down at the rider below. “Have you come hither to gloat on old news, fool? Or do you carry real threats from your master?”
The black-armoured rider had withdrawn out of bowshot. He glanced up warily at the figures on the wall. “You are the fools,” he answered, the voice muffled beneath the heavy helm. “Weak fools. I will return one month hence for the false queen Ariane. If I am refused, the full might of Kelthaine’s new master will descend on Kelwyn and tear it asunder. You will perish in fire and ruin. You have been warned.” With a mocking bow Derino whipped his sable cloak behind him and spurred his steed into motion.
Dazaleon watched in thoughtful silence as the horseman cantered off down the broad, tree-lined road, leading west towards the sparkling lake. Beyond that hallowed water the road met the Great South Way. That ancient highway ribboned up from distant Raleen to the city of Kelthara, five score miles to the north.
So Kelthara still held out against Caswallon. Good. Those few nobles that survived the earlier massacre must have fled there. But it was true they couldn’t hold out for long. But would the Usurper crush Kelthara before invading Kelwyn? Dazaleon doubted that. Caswallon’s deranged lust for Ariane would most likes take precedence. Kelthara could wait—Caswallon wanted the queen. And so their peril was grave indeed.
Dazaleon continued to watch the dust settle on the road ahead as the distant rider vanished from view.
“Derino will be back soon,” he said quietly. Beside him the captain of guard slammed a mailed fist into the wall.
“I don’t believe that villain!” Yail hawked and spat down angrily on the battlements below. “Roman Parrantios still lives. I am sure of it!”
“No. He is dead,” answered Dazaleon in a soft voice. “Alas, that much is true, captain. The cold winds have carried his voice these last nights.
“Our champion’s soul rides with the Hunt now. Roman is trying to warn us. I fear our queen is in direst need. Green Elanion, please protect her, your faithful child.”
Dazaleon leant hard on the staff he always carried. At its tip the huge emerald glistened under the cold sun. He rubbed it thoughtfully, thinking of the visions he had had recently. His weariness abated and his thoughts cleared on touching the jewel. Dazaleon smiled bravely down at the worried faces of the young captain and his men.
“Fear not!” Dazaleon called out, his deep voice carrying easily down to the crowded streets below. “Queen Ariane shall never kneel before that sorcerer impostor. This much I have seen! We must have courage until our beloved ruler has returned. It will not be long.”
After those words the high priest left them to their vigil and moody mutterings. Dazaleon made his way back down the spiral stone steps until he reached the crowded streets of the city below. People watched in respectful silence as their wise custodian strode across to the Crystal Temple close beside the palace. Nobody spoke as he disappeared within.
***
Captain Tolranna watched from the battlements. His thoughts were bleak and troubled. He felt like a traitor but what choice did he have? Dazaleon was wrong about everything. A noble old fool, blinded by naive devotion and unanswered prayers. Daring to hold out to a fruitless useless cause.
Queen Ariane had already lost, and her rash actions only hurried the inevitable. Yail’s careful manoeuvres would soften that coming blow. He owed that much to his people. Caswallon was rumoured cruel and twisted, but even he wouldn’t wipe out an entire city without cause.
Caswallon’s spy had sent word of General Derino’s visit. Yail Tolranna had felt as much hatred as the others lining the walls when the arrogant bastard so openly scoffed their queen. Tolranna loved Ariane. He always had. That was his torture, his dread, the ice worm inside his belly. Yail loved the queen but was willing to sell her to the enemy for the greater good.
It was beyond hard. Fate had dealt him a cruel hand. Golden wonder-boy Tamersane would doubtless die valiantly, a hero in her cause, whilst he, the darker elder brother, would be cursed as a turncoat for evermore.
But that was of small account. Someone had to see a way through this mess. Kelwyn needed a steady ruler. A man for all seasons and situations. Tolranna was cousin to the queen so it was logical he fit that slot. Yail didn’t relish it though. This wasn’t personal, it was business. Hard brutal business that would enable Kelwyn’s survival. Dazaleon was an old fool and
Queen Ariane a deluded hothead. Between them they would prove the ruin of Kelwyn. He, Tolranna, couldn’t let that happen.
That was why he had sent four coded birds to Derino after his departure, informing Caswallon’s general that he would do as was required in return for the crown of Wynais—and his people’s safety of course. Ariane was headstrong and reckless. She had dug her own grave.
And yet he loved her so.
***
When Dazaleon entered the temple he immediately cast himself at the feet of the serene statue of green robed Elanion. “Oh Queen of the Forests and Guardian of Ansu. Help us in this our hour of need! Protect brave Ariane and those who aid her. And protect our Silver City from the hounds of Caswallon.”
As he prayed Dazaleon thought of the day he’d watched the brave young queen departing on her secret journey. Ariane was like a daughter to him, particularly after her father’s untimely death. And Roman would be sorely missed in the coming strife. Without him to protect her Ariane was vulnerable indeed. It was two long months since her departure. Past time that she should have returned to them.
Elanion, Goddess—keep her safe…
Above Dazaleon’s head the majestic serene face of the goddess watched him in silence. As he watched, Her fathomless gaze filled with sudden emerald light. Dazaleon felt the familiar fusion within. She is answering! All was not yet lost. As he stumbled to his knees, Dazaleon heard the words of his goddess fill the temple.
Ariane comes… even now she comes! And with her the first ravens of war…
***
Hooves drummed the well-worn road. Wind cried forlorn out of the east as the austere walls of Atarios faded into distance. Ahead rose the gentle slopes of the southern wolds. The Great South Way led up through those hills, its cobbled coating concealed by their wooded undulations.
For four days they had ridden hard since leaving Port Sarfe. Queen Ariane had set the pace. She was most anxious to return to her homeland.
She cut a proud figure in her borrowed Raleenian armour with rapier at her side, the steel-clad horsemen of Raleen and Belmarius’s Bears clattering behind her, their spears and hauberks gleaming beneath the winter sun. A combined force comprising six hundred strong. When they’d reached Atarios they’d found two hundred riders waiting for them, the promised aid from Silon.
Ariane had spent a single night in that beautiful city, allowing Belmarius’s rangers and their hard-faced captain, Valentin to arrive. Next morning they’d ridden out. A strong and confident force, Queen Ariane at their head. She might look magnificent but Ariane had no delusions. They rode north into the eye of the coming storm. A storm so dark and destructive it could bury them alive.
At Queen Ariane’s side rode Galed her squire and the boy Cale. Both travel-worn and weary. Galed yearned for Wynais, his home. Cale was excited; he’d got over his disappointment of not being allowed to join the desert quest. Instead Cale was part of an army and that filled him with pride.
It was the first time he’d accompanied real soldiers. These Raleenians were smart and ordered, showing a discipline that made Hagan’s band seem like drunken louts. And Belmarius’s Bears were mean-looking and, (in Cale’s military assessment), a doughty durable lot.
Cale grinned at Galed, who slumped in his saddle stoically beside him. His friend had a new blade hanging from his belt. Unlikely warrior he might be, but fierce determination had gripped Galed as he’d cantered behind his queen through the arid country of northern Raleen.
Then at last they came upon Greystone Bridge marking the gateway into Kelwyn. A brave sight, the riders clattered across whilst far below the icy, frothing waters of the Glebe tumbled through cloven hills on their quest west from the mountains.
Even Galed had managed a smile then. He’d winked at Cale and pointed down at the wild dancing water.
“We’re in Kelwyn now, boy!” Cale had grinned back. They’d cantered beneath the creaking beech trees of Elglavis wood, and once free of that forest espied far off the deep blue lazy waters of Lake Wynais.
Cale’s eyes were agog; the boy had never encountered so panoramic a vista. White-capped mountains, their shoulders cloaked by firs, held the east while due ahead the lake glimmered calm. Wedged between both was the Silver City he’d heard so much about.
Wynais.
Cale smiled with pride. The queen caught his stare. “Your new home, master Cale.” Ariane turned in her saddle, raised her right hand to those following. “Behold the city by the lake! Silver Wynais! Ride content, my friends, we are almost home!” To the north storm clouds beckoned shrouding the mountain peaks. Queen Ariane spurred her mare to gallop; the last miles flew beneath them.
They reached the fertile fields between city and lake. Cale saw tiny figures watching and waving from the distant walls. They eased to a trot nearing gates. Those gates opened wide and the young queen’s borrowed army rode through. There to greet them stood her people. In their midst Dazaleon, High Priest and Yail Tolranna, Captain of Guard. Dazaleon was smiling but Tolranna’s dark gaze was haunted by doubt.
So it was Queen Ariane returned to the Silver City on the very eve of war.
Chapter 23
The High Dunes
Hundreds of leagues south that same winter sun scorched the shifting sand of the Permian Desert. Beneath its fiery mantle six men struggled over steep ridges of sand, their horses in tow. The High Dunes lived up to their reputation.
It was the third day since their departure from Agmandeur. Close by, the stone-strewn waters of the river Narion had shrunk to a babbling brook, whilst to their right the great mountains of sand that Yashan aptly named the High Dunes reared ever upwards blocking the way ahead.
Corin’s throat was dry, he felt tired and irritated in the relentless heat. And Thunderhoof didn’t care for the desert much either. “Come on, ya great lummox!” Corin urged the horse to struggle up to join the others. Thunder blinked at him but didn’t budge.
Yashan had already left the ridge, and Corin’s other companions soon caught up with their guide, stopping to survey the land ahead. Ulani laughed when he saw Corin struggling with his horse. Handing his own mount to the grinning (unsympathetic) Tamersane, the ebony-skinned warrior dropped down to assist Corin. Together they half dragged and pushed the reluctant Thunderhoof up the shifting face of the towering dune, until panting, they reached the crown.
Ulani laughed again, “He doesn’t like the sand! He’ll get used to it in time.”
“He’ll bloody well have to,” growled Corin and then managed a wry smile. “He’s got a strop on—misses his oats and good fresh water.”
“Don’t we all.”
Ulani’s good humour was infectious. Corin was glad the huge warrior had accompanied them. Such an impressive array of weaponry would doubtless come in handy. But it wasn’t just that. Ulani of the Baha folk was witty, clever and resourceful—even Bleyne grinned at his banter. He had Tamersane in hoops.
Though bare-chested beneath his cloak, Ulani still sported his spotted fur kilt, girdled by a broad gold-studded leather belt. From this hung two curved swords, five knives, two heavy clubs and a crescent-shaped, evil-looking hatchet—all were of the finest steel, save the clubs that were capped with gold.
Fastened to his horse’s saddle were three short ash spears and a horn bow with a bristling quiver of spotted shafts. Alongside those hung a great wooden mace similar to the clubs though double the size and again capped with gold.
Corin remembered Silon talking about the warrior king from Yamondo who had saved his life in Cappel Cormac. Ulani had been seeking the merchant for reasons of his own. Those now satisfied, the big man desired to return to his far flung land as soon as he was able.
Corin had asked Ulani if he really were a king. Ulani had nodded, and grinning added that he had three wives and nine daughters, though only two sons. “They are wild children,” he’d informed Corin. “Particularly one of them. And my wives’ tongues are sharper than my daggers.”
“No wonder yo
u need some time in the desert,” Tamersane said.
Yamondo, so Ulani told them, was a huge country of steamy forests and green-cloaked mountains that belched flame hundreds of feet into the air. His people the Baha lived in the east of that country. To the west dwelt the Vendel, another proud folk who had no love for the Baha. Border skirmishes were common and even sometimes open war. Most times they traded to mutual advantage, kept their distance and remained content.
Yamondo, Ulani told them, was rich in savage beasts and weird coloured insects. There were worse perils too. Demons lurked the in the swamp-infested lowlands to the south of his country. And foul-tempered warlocks rode the humid night air on weird hairless birds.
Corin had enquired how far away Yamondo was. He couldn’t imagine any land existing beyond these vast deserts. And a fertile one too. Ulani had responded that it lay many days south of the Crystal Mountains, their destination. Ulani spoke often about his country and the ways of his people. The tales amazed all his companions save the aloof superior Zallerak. However, he said little concerning his visit north. Corin remembered Silon’s words at the council: ‘dark days have come upon Yamondo’. He didn’t press the matter.
Yashan kept his distance from Ulani. Whilst liking the king he was wary, having heard ghoulish stories about those southern countries.
Once he’d recovered from his exertions with Thunder, Corin took a look about. It wasn’t encouraging really. He shaded his hand, surveyed the arid scene ahead and muttered something.
Mile upon mile of towering dunes ridged westward like some surreal golden ocean. To the south the distant terrain appeared flatter, though it was difficult to be certain as the shimmering heat distorted his vision in that direction.
Corin followed the Narion’s journey with his eyes, the odd palm and show of reeds marking its path long after the sparkling water had faded from view.
“Well, now what do we do?” Corin said as he caught up with the others skirting the ridge of another dune. At least Thunder seemed resigned and was clumping behind him without issue. Corin’s question was ignored, the others already deep in conversation. All except Bleyne who was scratching his ear, and Zallerak who was staring southwest with a mournful expression.