Stolen Crown

by Dennis L McKiernan

  • • •

  “LOOK AT THEM RUN. Like fawns they are, young roebucks.” Conal laughed, his arm about Gretta as they watched Alric and Rígán—switches in hand—chase after piglets across the grassy field, yet glistening from the rain.

  Gretta leaned her head into Conal’s shoulder. “Has it truly been four years since we came?”

  “Aye, my love. It has, though it seems just yester I first laid my eyes upon your splendid loveliness.”

  Gretta smiled but said naught.

  They watched long moments more, secure in the comfort of one another. “Whoops,” said Conal as Rígán took a tumble.

  Gretta drew in a sharp breath and started to go, but Conal did not release her. “Watch,” he said.

  Alric stopped and ran back and helped Rígán to his feet, and they took up the chase again.

  “Like brothers, they are, helping one another,” said Conal. Then he laughed and added, “Though with my own brothers, I think they would have pushed me back into the mud.”

  In that moment, from behind, “Da!” came a cry from the stables.

  Conal turned. Durgan ran out from the barn. “Da, she’s down. Uasal Donn is down. I think it’s time, I do.” Then Durgan wheeled about and bolted back into the stables.

  “Driu was right,” said Conal, releasing his wife of two years. “Her runes foretold this would be the day.”

  “I’ll bring tea,” said Gretta. “You tend Brown Lady. I’ll be there anon.”

  As Conal rushed toward the stables, Gretta called for Alric and Rígán to come. After all, Alric was a Jordian, a Harlingar, a Vanadurin, a child of horsemen, and what better time than now to learn of his heritage by witnessing the birth of a steed? Especially this foal, offspring of the two fastest horses on Kell—Brown Lady and Iron Bobbie. And although Rígán had not the same blood as Alric, still he would learn as well.

  As the two lads came running, Gretta turned toward the interior of the house. Someday she would tell Conal just who Alric’s father was, and then she would tell the boys. After all, if Rígán were to become High King, he also would need to know.

  She entered the kitchen and said to Catlin the cook—an older woman of perhaps sixty or so—“We’ll need tea. Brown Lady is ready to foal.”

  Smiling at the news, Catlin stirred up the fire and filled the kettle and swung it on irons above the blaze, and then fetched the tea service.

  Huffing and puffing, the two boys came tumbling in like awkward young dogs not quite out of their puppyhood. But when they saw the teapot and cups, both of their faces fell.

  Gretta laughed and said, “No, no, we are not going to have more lessons in court etiquette, though they will come, for you both have the need. Instead, Uasal Donn is about to give birth to Iarann Rob’s child. And I want you to watch and learn.”

  “Oh, oh,” cried Alric, “Lady Brown and Iron Bobbie. This is better than studying old, um, old pro— . . . um . . . pro—”

  “Protocol,” piped up six-year-old Rígán, adding, “Protocol and etiquette,” shaping the words carefully.

  “Birthing a horse is better than numbers and writing?” asked Gretta.

  “Yes!” shouted Rígán and Alric together.

  “Better than what the Elves teach?”

  Rígán and Alric both looked at one another, seeking an answer but finding only doubt, for though they both loved most of what the Dylvana taught, neither had ever seen a horse give birth, though they had watched piglets and calves and puppies being born. And they did enjoy what the Elves called “beginner lessons”—sneaking through woods, making safe fire, fletching arrows, shaping bows, and the like; why, they even had their own bows and arrows fitted to their statures and draws, and they were becoming proficient in their use. Those things they were learning along with becoming more and more fluent in Sylva, for the Elves spoke to them only in that tongue. And though only six summers old, they were not only conversant in Sylva, but also in three other languages: in Pellarian, known as Common; in Jordian, Gretta’s natural tongue, and she taught them both for she would have Alric know his native speech, and Rígán would be better off for it; and in Kellian, for that was Conal’s innate vernacular, as well as that of most of his farmhands, and they naturally spoke it during work. Often the boys used an argot of intermingled words from the four tongues, and seemed not at all confused by their linguistic gymnastics, though at times the adults about them were. Additionally, the Elves and Gretta were teaching them to read and write, and to count and to become facile in numbers. Regardless, be it woodcraft or language or reading or numbers, it seemed that anything at all was better than learning court etiquette and protocol, including seeing a horse give birth.

  Gretta, laughing, watched as Catlin took the kettle from the irons and poured the steaming water into the teapot and added leaves. “As soon as the brew is ready,” said Gretta, “we’ll go and watch Brown Lady bear her first offspring.”

  “Is it a boy?” asked Rígán.

  “A colt, you mean,” said Gretta.

  Alric turned to Rígán and said, “Boys are colts and girls are fillies and new horses are called foals. Everyone knows that.”

  “I didn’t know,” said Rígán.

  Gretta smiled and said, “Well, now you do. Yet as to whether it’s a colt or filly, I cannot say, though Driu knows. But she said she’d rather it be a surprise for us.”

  “I’ll wager it’s a filly,” said Catlin as she slipped a cozy onto the teapot.

  Gretta took up the service and said, “Thank you, Catlin,” and then said, “Come, my boys. To the stables we go.”

  • • •

  TO THE DELIGHT OF both Rígán and Alric, Brown Lady gave birth to a grey, perhaps a shade lighter than the color of its sire. As those things sometimes go, the labor was quick, in spite of this being Brown Lady’s first foal. Durgan alone tended the delivery, while the others merely watched, for Conal had turned that responsibility over to his son; after all, Durgan had ridden Brown Lady to two victories over Iron Bobbie, though in each case it was by a nose.

  And this foal was to be Durgan’s own.

  Conal said, “Well, boyo, ’tis a colt. What name would you give him?”

  “Cruach,” said Durgan. He turned to the boys, but he spoke to all: “In Kellian it means ‘Steel.’ I name him Steel, after Iron Bobbie. And with the blood of both Uasal Donn and Iarann Rob, Steel should be better than iron.”

  Even as Durgan named the colt, Catlin came rushing into the stables. “Oh, Tiarna Conal, something is wrong with Seeress Driu. She’s sitting at the table something hardlike and gritting her teeth and mumblin’ strange words.”

  “Oh, my,” said Gretta, and she turned and rushed out and away, Catlin on her heels.

  “Care for the colt,” called Conal to his son. “The lads, too.” He turned to Rígán and Alric. “You boys stay here under Durgan’s eye.” Then Conal hurried out after the two women. Rígán and Alric watched him go, anxiety in their gazes, upset because the adults seemed to be.

  Conal burst into the kitchen. Driu sat at the table with her eyes closed and her fists clenched to white knuckles. And she muttered arcane phrases, sweat pouring off her brow. Her bag of runes lay before her, three stones of which had been withdrawn: one faceup, its mark clear; two facedown, their runes hidden.

  Gretta looked at Conal in trepidation, while Catlin wrung her own hands in dread.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?” asked Conal.

  Gretta simply shook her head, and Catlin whimpered, “Tiarna, I don’t know.”

  Conal sat down and whispered to Driu, “What passes?”

  Driu opened her eyes and managed to say, the words jerking out from her mouth, “Someone . . . something dreadful . . . searching for Reyer—Rígán. It’s all I can do to shield him. All I can . . . all I . . .”

  But then Driu’s eyes rolled
up until naught was showing but whites, and Conal caught her as she fell sideways in a swoon.

  12

  Seer

  The paths are many among Magekind, among those who can see the aethyr. ’Tis the manipulation of that ephemeral substance itself that permits the casting of . As has been said by various Sages, such castings are like unto an avalanche, where the Mage merely tosses a single pebble that starts the subsequent slide. Only in this case, the first pebble is of the aethyr, and the slide itself is predetermined by the shape of the pebble pitched. Some pebbles lead to flaming bolts of fire, while others cause images to form. Some heal, while others harm. Some pebbles control animals, and some foster or wither plants. In fact, the kinds of pebbles are nearly beyond count, and can lead to all manner of castings.

  Most Mages have an inborn bent for certain classes of , while other classes simply seem beyond their ken. And so, “schools” of Magekind are aimed at given aptitudes. Some schools deal with the five elements, while others deal with the mind and thought and ideas, and yet other schools deal with the living: plants and animals and fish and birds and such . . . oh, and small crawly things, as well as entities too tiny to see with the naked eye. Some schools deal with the unseen, the invisible, the hidden, and perhaps even souls. And then there are the schools shunned by most, schools that deal in specters and demons and darkness and other such dreads.

  Yet in all these schools, it is the manipulation of the aethyr—the shaping of pebbles—that permits the castings.

  And among Magekind, there are those rare few whose shaping abilities cross between schools, permitting castings in more than one area. In some, the ability is limited to part of one school and part of another. In others, the limits are widened, and the broader the ability, the greater the Mage.

  One such Mage is Modru.

  Yet for nearly the past two thousand years, Modru has been hiding away in the frozen Barrens, waiting, it seems, for . . . for something yet to come. . . .

  . . . But in Challerain Keep . . .

  • • •

  “’TIS AN ILLUSION,” gasped Captain Ewan, drawing away from the form.

  “He’s not here?” quavered Mayor Hein, his back against the locked door where he had scrambled in an effort to flee.

  “Nay, I am not,” said the image of Dalavar, his words yet seeming to come from afar, “though I am near.”

  “How do we know it’s him?” said Hein, cowering down. And as the others glanced his way, the mayor added, “I mean, it could be anyone—any Mage—even Modru or some other terrible one, sent by High King Arkov.”

  “Usurper Arkov is not High King!” snapped Lord Cavin. “He is a traitor, and an ally of enemies of old, with Fists of Rakka and worshippers of Gyphon in his court. He even allows Chabbains to occupy the soil of Pellar. So tell me not that Arkov is High King; call him Betrayer instead.”

  A murmur of agreement swept around the table, and Hein held up his hands as if in surrender.

  Lord Cavin turned back to the image of Dalavar. “If not here, Wolfmage, then where?”

  “I am atop a foothill, waiting for you to alert the ward that I am coming, and that I am not alone.”

  “Alert the ward?”

  “I would not have someone try to feather one of my companions.”

  Enlightenment filled Cavin’s face. “Your ’Wolves.”

  “Wolves?” quavered Hein.

  “Not ordinary Wolves, but Draega,” said Cavin, “creatures of Adonar. Those are Dalavar’s ’Wolves.”

  “The Draega are not mine, Lord Cavin; I own them not; they travel with me by choice.”

  “Ah,” said Captain Ewan. “The paw prints. Silver Wolves. You and your band shadowed me and my squad. You are the one who ambushed the ambushers.”

  The image smiled and turned up a hand in acknowledgment.

  “I will alert the guard,” said Ewan, and he spun on his heel to leave the chamber.

  “Wait, Captain,” said Dalavar. “I would have you personally escort the pack to the castle.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Captain Ewan. “As they safely escorted me and my squad, so shall I escort them. Where will I find these ’Wolves?”

  “Just ride to the first gate and out a ways, and they will come to you.”

  Ewan nodded, and Dalavar’s image vanished.

  As Captain Ewan hurried from the chamber, in a babble of voices the council members regained their seats, all but the mayor, who remained by the far door.

  • • •

  ON A FRESH HORSE, away from the rugged grey citadel proper, fared Captain Ewan. And as he rode he glanced down some nine hundred feet or so at the low rolling foothills and the prairie beyond. The rough flanks of the mount itself shouldered up broadly out of those plains and hills. And he crossed the gentle slopes and wide grounds at the top and through the twisting passage within the uppermost massive defensive wall beringing the mountain entire.

  And down he went.

  Past the wall embracing the Kingsgrounds, on which the castle sat, began the city proper: tier upon tier of buildings of stone, brick, and wood, of many shapes and sizes and colors, all ajumble in terraced rings descending down the slopes. Running among the homes, shops, storehouses, stables, and other structures were three more massive defensive walls, stepped evenly down the side of Mont Challerain, the bottommost one nearly at the level of the plain. And as were all the walls, this first and longest bulwark circled completely ’round the lone mountain.

  Only a few permanent structures lay outside the first wall.

  Down through all and beyond rode the captain, to at last reach the open, and there beside the Post Road waited seven Silver Wolves; some were flopped upon the ground, some were sitting, and one, a bit darker than the others, stood alone on ward. Large as ponies they were, with amber eyes and red tongues lolling over sharp white teeth. Their coarse top coat of overlaying fur sheened silvery white, and softer white fur lay ’neath. Their legs below their powerful haunches were long and slender, but their chests were deep, all as if built for running without rest.

  At the captain’s approach, those who had been sitting or lying at ease stood.

  Somewhat awed and a bit on edge at the sight of these huge ’Wolves, Ewan reined to a stop, yet his horse seemed not at all skittish, as if the steed sensed these savage creatures were not a threat, and Ewan relaxed a bit.

  He looked about for Dalavar, but saw him not.

  “Where is your, um, companion?” he asked, though he expected no answer.

  The darker ’Wolf trotted to the byway and past the captain and on toward the craggy tor, then stopped and looked back over its shoulder.

  The remaining six Draega stepped to the road and waited.

  Ewan yet scanned the terrain for sign of Dalavar.

  A deep Whuff caught his attention, and he looked at the large ’Wolf standing at the fore of the six. Then Ewan turned and gazed at the darker one. It looked back at him and trotted a bit farther toward the mount. Then it stopped once again and looked hindward at the captain.

  “Oh, all right,” said Ewan, and he wheeled his horse and started back the way he had come. And the ’Wolves swiftly took station about the horse: two to the fore, two on each flank, and one bringing up the rear. And this is the way they entered the town of Challerain Keep.

  Among the sparse buildings outside the first defensive wall they went, to come to the high barrier. Its portcullis was up, and fur- and fleece-clad, iron-helmed soldiers in red-and-gold tabards stood atop the barbican and they all leaned forward to see these creatures of legend, ringing ’round the captain, pass into the corridor under.

  Through the zigzagging cobblestone passage within the thick granite they went, passing below machicolations high above through which hot oil or missiles could be rained down upon an enemy. At the other end of the barway another portcullis stood raised
, and beyond that the Silver Wolves fared into the lower levels of the city proper and into the broad open market of Rian at Challerain Keep.

  The square was teeming with people, and the babble of the throng dropped to whispers as all stood in awe as the Draega moved among them, some people shying back as the great beasts drew close.

  Through the crowd passed the ’Wolves, silent as ghosts, and it seemed the only sound in the square was that of the hooves of Captain Ewan’s horse clattering upon the pave. And the Draega ears were pricked and their noses took in scents and their amber gazes swept to and fro, as if seeking threat.

  They passed out of the market square and moved between the shops of crafters: a cobbler’s, a goldsmithery, mills, lumberyards and carpentries, inns and hostelries, blacksmitheries and ironworks and armories, kilns, masonries, and more. And above many of the shops and businesses were the dwellings of the owners and workers. And the cobbled Post Road wended through this industry, spiraling up and around the mont, climbing toward the crest. Narrow alleyways shot off between hued buildings, and steep streets slashed across the road. And yet the Draega seemed alert and to note the way, as if storing the scents and sights for a quick exit from the city should there be need, though more likely they would plunge directly down the slope, as if the walls of the barriers were of no moment whatsoever to them. But for now they followed the well-marked Post Road and padded through clusters of shops and warehouses and work yards.

  Again they came to a massive wall and followed the road as it curved alongside the bulwark. At last they reached a gate, and it, too, was guarded but open. Through it and up they went, now among colorful row houses with unexpected corners and stairs mounting up, and balconies and turrets, too, and all with colorful tiled roofs now covered with snow. And everywhere people stopped in the streets or leaned out of doorways and windows to watch the legendary Draega pass by.

  Once more they trotted through a barway under a great rampart—the third wall—and again they fared among houses, now larger and statelier than those below, yet still close set.