By Dennis L. McKiernan
Caverns of Socrates
THE FAERY SERIES
Once Upon a Winter’s Night
Once Upon a Summer Day
Once Upon an Autumn Eve
Once Upon a Spring Morn
Once Upon a Dreadful Time
THE MITHGAR SERIES
The Dragonstone
Voyage of the Fox Rider
HÈL’S CRUCIBLE
Book 1: Into the Forge
Book 2: Into the Fire
Dragondoom
Stolen Crown
The Iron Tower
The Silver Call
Tales of Mithgar (a story collection)
The Vulgmaster (the graphic novel)
The Eye of the Hunter
Silver Wolf, Black Falcon
City of Jade
Red Slippers: More Tales of Mithgar (a story collection)
ROC
Published by the Penguin Group
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Copyright © Dennis McKiernan, 2014
All maps by Dennis L. McKiernan except the maps on pages 119 and 269 by Daniel Kian McKiernan.
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REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Stolen crown: a novel of Mithgar/Dennis L. McKiernan.
p. cm.— (Mithgar)
ISBN 978-1-101-62461-6
1. Mithgar (Imaginary place)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3563.C376S76 2014
813'.54—dc23 2013031230
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
Contents
Also by Dennis L. McKiernan
Title page
Copyright page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Forward
Notes
Epigraph
Maps
1: Downfall
2: Ocean and Seas
3: Boskydells
4: Challerain Keep
5: Grimwall
6: Kell
7: Caer Pendwyr
8: Jord
9: Rood
10: The Maw
11: Darda Coill
12: Seer
13: Necromancer
14: Rune Stones
15: Demonspawn
16: Arden Vale
17: Kraggen-cor
18: Emissary
19: Sjøen
20: Enlightenment
21: Assassins
22: Arms
23: Astral
24: Gambit
25: Revelations
26: Schemes
27: Allies
28: Escort
29: Ryngar
30: Progression
31: Rage
32: Fury
33: Thornwalkers
34: Stonehill
35: Drearwood
36: Battle Downs
37: Viper
38: Enigma
39: Ascendancy
40: Muster
41: Northward
42: Southward
43: King’s Herald
44: Bards, Minstrels, Jongleurs
45: Red Flags and Bale Fires
46: Complication
47: Jallor
48: Waiting
49: Intervention
50: Long-march
51: Wolfmage
52: Redholt
53: Gûnar
54: Long-ride
55: Darda Galion
56: Guarantee
57: Gûnarring Gap
58: Fruition
59: Troll Hole
60: War
61: Wrath
62: Reckoning
63: Aftermath
Afterword
To the memories of those who came before And the promise of those who come after
Acknowledgments
To Martha Lee McKiernan for her enduring support, careful reading, patience, and love. Additionally, much appreciation and gratitude goes to the Tanque Wordies—John and Frances, in this case—for their encouragement throughout the writing of Stolen Crown.
I also thank Jim Grams, who, using one of my maps plus my written and oral descriptions, made a more detailed rendering (map) of Caer Pendwyr, a modified version of which I use herein.
Too, I am very grateful to my firstborn son, Daniel, for redrawing the maps of two legendary places: Stonehill and Arden Vale.
To three friends in Oregon—Thom, Ian, and (the) Brian—for their support of my works on their podcast: The Sideways Tower.
I also would like to acknowledge General and President Ulysses S. Grant, from whom I borrowed part of his quote on the simplicity of war.
Lastly, to those who, through snail mail, e-mail, message boards, at conventions, and via other means, urged me to write this story, some parts of which were mentioned in passing by various characters in other Mithgarian tales.
Foreword
After being vexed, harassed, threatened (not really, but, what the heck, it’s my foreword), and chivvied into writing this tale, I found that I was really enjoying getting into the story. It was, however, a tale that I was certain would be no longer than a short story, perhaps a novelette at most.
Wow, was I wrong.
You see, although I knew the relatively simple story I had envisioned was really quite straightforward, what I hadn’t considered was how the doings of those who became involved in the tale complicated everything. So, the story wasn’t really about what one central character did, but instead was about the involvements of all of those people caught up in the events surrounding him. And that’s the nub of it: most stories are about how conflicting interests swirl about the characters caught in the grip of events, and what they do in response. Some drive the story, some merely respond to whatever might come, others are quite passive and their conduct one way or another has no lasting effect.
The trick is to make the actions of the principal characters drive the story down expected as well as unexpected paths.
I hope I’ve done so herein.
—Dennis L. McKiernan
Tucson, 2011
Notes
In many instances I have used various foreign-language words and phrases—some completely made up—to denote that people in different countries speak their own tongues. In the main I have not provided a translation, yet the context alone should provide the meanings.
DelfLord is but a single word, though an uppercase L nestles therein. And I really do mean to use the word “waggon,” spelled with two g’s.
Research shows the long-rides described herein are
at the far edge of both horse and rider abilities, and, though improbable, are possible. (Come on, guys, both riders and horses are heroes.)
In this Era of Mithgarian history, depending on the quality of the chandler, there were between ninety and one hundred candlemarks in a full day (from sunup to sunup), hence the duration of each candlemark was approximately fifteen minutes. It wasn’t till the beginning of the sixth Era that High King Ryon changed the definition of the candlemark so that it was approximately one hour in length.
The maps used come from several different sources: some have the coastlines correct, but the interiors of various countries are lacking in fine detail; others have good interior detail, but the coastlines are sketchy. It all seems to depend upon whether the cartographer was a seafarer or instead an overland explorer.
Finally, always in Mithgar, a league equals three miles.
Lady Fortune favors the bold.
—JORDIAN ADAGE
1
Downfall
Faster, Jamie, faster! I can hear them at the main door.”
“I’m going as fast as I can, Ramo. This blasted lead has turned to steel.”
The distant dull thump of the battering ram against the great bronze portal thudded through the deep stone in counterpoint to the steel-on-steel ping of Jamie’s hammer against the chisel as it peeled metal from the seam.
“You think they got away?” asked Ramo.
Not pausing in his task, Jamie replied, “We can only hope.”
Behind the two, a lad—a court page—wept but said naught as he held one of the two lanterns on high.
Ramo held the other lantern for Jamie to see the lead-sealed joint. “Lor! Lor! I can no believe it, the Queen bein’ dead and the King hisself not long to live, him with the arrow lodged in his gut.”
“He might”—Ping!—“already”—Ping!—“be gone,” said Jamie, while far above the ram crashed against the door.
With a clatter, Jamie dropped his hammer and chisel. “There! I think we got it! Help me with this.”
Ramo set the lantern down and, grunting, he and Jamie shoved against the heavy granite cover.
The page behind stepped forward and held his own lantern aloft for them to see by.
And with stone grinding against stone, the lid gave way, and they pivoted it aside.
“There he is,” said Ramo.
Jamie reached in and lifted the bundle out. He turned and gave it to the youth. “Now, fly, lad, fly, else all is lost.”
Lantern in hand, bundle in arm, the youngster darted away and up the twisting stairs.
“Back to work,” said Jamie, and he and Ramo shoved the heavy stone lid into place. Then Jamie retrieved his hammer, while Ramo took up a mallet of his own.
Even as they began their task, the boy raced up the stony flight, his breath coming in gasps. Zigging this way and zagging that, among the many confusing turns and levels he sped, the bundle faintly clattering as he ran. At last the boy burst onto the main floor of the castle and dashed toward the throne room. Behind him servants slammed the doors shut.
And still the great ram—Boom! . . . Boom!—smashed against the main bronze portal, demanding entry.
As the page scurried into the Chamber of State and passed among the few survivors of the King’s guard, he broke out in tears anew, for the slain Queen lay upon a mass of wood set for a great pyre, and the King, sword yet in hand, sagged against the bier on which rested the oiled timber. The monarch was pierced through by an arrow up to its feathers, the long shaft entering just below his rib cage and angling down to thrust out from his back. Streaming blood steadily flowed along the outjutting length to fall from the wicked steel point.
Boom!—the bronze door juddered and mortar dust fell.
“Quickly,” whispered the King, gesturing upward toward the Queen in her deathly repose.
The lad set his lantern to the floor and scrambled up and gently lay the bundle in the arms of the slain Lady, and then he jumped back down.
“My lord, I don’t think I can—” began the boy, but the King interrupted him and said, “I will do it. Light the torch.”
Boom! . . . Boom!
The page took up the stave from the pedestal and set the oil-wrap-cloth ablaze, and then handed the fiery brand to the sovereign.
“Now run, boy, run!” commanded the King.
But the lad fell to his knees in grief.
Boom! . . .
. . . And a block of lintel stone crashed down.
The King hobbled about the bier, thrusting the flame into the pyre.
The blaze hungrily leapt upward, the tinder-dry, resinous wood eagerly clutching the fire unto itself.
Boom! One of the mighty hinges gave way.
Shouts of victory sounded.
Boom! The other hinge gave way, and . . .
. . . with a thunderous Blang! the door fell inward and onto the stone of the throne chamber.
Arrows flew, and the first to die was the boy.
Next were slain the remnants of the King’s guard.
The King raised his gore-slathered sword to meet the onrushing foe, but before they reached him the King fell dead, as the through-piercing arrow took its final toll.
Yawling bloodthirsty cries, the Garian soldiers hurtled within and raced throughout the castle, and none of the servants survived.
Moments later, the new High King of Mithgar strode into the fiery chamber, where the dethroned King lay dead and his slain Queen and her bundle burned.
While far down in the catacombs within the tall spire of Caer Pendwyr, Jamie and Ramo tapped the lead back in place to seal the sarcophagus once more.
And even farther below in the night, a small boat put out to sea, its own cargo precious beyond compare.
2
Ocean and Seas
The High King’s realm is bordered by water on three sides: to the south lie the warm, indigo waters of the deep blue Avagon Sea. From the Islands of Stone in the northeast to the tangle of the Isle of Kistan in the southwest it spans. Rich farming and grazing lands lie upon the Avagon’s northern coast, and wealthy but desert lands upon its southern shores.
This wide sea debouches through the rover-infested, perilous Straits of Kistan, beyond which lies the vast Weston Ocean. The Weston itself is hazardous, too, but not because of pirates. The ocean has a measure of rovers as well as storms, but they are not the primary danger; rather the immensity of this vastness requires navigators of considerable skill, and so most of the commerce hugs the shores.
The High King’s realm is bordered on the west not only by this great water, but also by the storm-driven Northern Sea, whose cold and violent black waters are perilous enough to discourage all but the most daring or desperate.
The Boreal Sea lies on the north of the High King’s lands, and its waters are frigid beyond imagining. It is from these waters that the Fjordlanders come in their Dragonships to raid and plunder their enemies of old. But among the principal dangers of the Boreal are the Great Maelstrom there at the end of the Gronfang Mountains and the Krakens living therein, as well as the Dragons who roost above this deadly vortex.
These four waters that embrace the High King’s domain on three sides are perilous . . . but each for a different reason. Yet the High King has his residence along the shores of one. . . .
. . . And in that residence . . .
• • •
HIGH ABOVE, on the tall stone spire atop which sat Caer Pendwyr, the new High King and his Garian soldiers celebrated the demise of the old. At the behest of their sire, the revelers cut off the former King’s head and mounted it on a pike outjutting from the battlements, so that it looked down at its arrow-pierced headless corpse dangling by grume-slathered ropes just above the gate, with its elbows splayed outward as of a broken scarecrow waiting for the dawn when the ravens would come for their due.
And in the high-vaulted Chamber of State the victorious soldiers cavorted about the smoldering remains of the funeral pyre containing the ashes of Queen and child. The new High King himself lolled upon the seized throne and drank bloodred wine and smiled at the antics of his men. He was filled with glorious power and exultant satisfaction, for he was certain the former King’s misbegotten bloodline had been extinguished entirely, thus avenging an old and festering injustice at last.
But far below and as silent as a midnight shadow, the small craft with its precious cargo glided southeasterly out upon the starlit waters of the deep blue Avagon Sea, the ocean now gone ebon in the moonless night, but for the glitter from above. With her dark sails set to make the most of the breeze, southeasterly she fled, and at the hands of her master she deftly slipped past the Albaner carrack on patrol.
The ship sailed a sea-league or so before turning west-southwesterly, and in the spangled night a whispering zephyr filled her silken sails to gently carry her across the calm waters. And she was another seven sea leagues along this course ere the waning moon, naught but a thin crescent, rose in the east.
Soon the sun would follow.
As the silvery glimmer of dawn light delicately painted the oncoming morning skies, the boat was some eight leagues away, well beyond the lax attention of carousing Albaner lookouts abaft. And even were they to spot her, most likely it was naught but a small fishing craft out for the early catch.
Vanidar Silverleaf at the tiller gazed at the last visible gleamings above and bade the stars farewell, even though, as it is with all Elves, he knew where they stood no matter the mark of day or season. Given his immortal breed, Silverleaf appeared to be no more than a lean-limbed youth, though his actual age could have been one millennium or ten or more. He had golden hair cropped at the shoulder and tied back with a simple leather headband, as was the fashion among many of Elvenkind. Under his dark cloak he was clad in grey-green and wore a golden belt that held a long-knife. His feet were shod in soft leather and he stood perhaps five foot nine or ten. At his side lay a silver-handled horn-limbed bow and a quiver of arrows fletched green. And as he sat in the dawning, he made a small change to the tiller, and adjusted the sheets to make the most of the quickening wind, now blowing out from the land of Pellar to strike the starboard beam.
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