Halon nodded and queried, “And as such . . . ?”
“And as such,” blurted Alric, “to wield a warbar is almost impossible for someone of lesser strength than a Troll.”
“Aye,” said Halon in approval. “Were someone to strike another with a Troll warbar, ’twould be no love tap.”
Rígán nodded and said, “More likely would break every bone in his body.”
Halon laughed and said, “Not quite, but close.”
“So, with a sword striking someone armored in leather, chain, scale, or plate, and not cutting through, that would be somewhat akin to hitting him with a cudgel.”
“Favored by the Rûcks,” said Alric. “—Cudgels, I mean.”
“Perhaps a bit sharper than a cudgel blow,” said Halon, “yet that is the idea.” Then he turned to Alric and said, “Now about thy complaint as to these being no better than training swords, though we tried to make the wood hew as close to the action of the steel as we could, still there were differences. And with your first metal swords, they were fitted for young children, and had not the heft of these. But now ye have swords fit for youth of thine ages, and as such your training changes once again.” The armsmaster took his own sword in hand and gestured for Rígán and Alric to follow suit, as he stepped the boys through various learned moves to illustrate his words, saying, “Heed the distinction in balance, the difference in heft, the alteration in the way the wrist feels in merely holding it or when starting a strike, the shift in the forearm adjustment during the swing, the divergence in shoulder action during a thrust, the variance in the way of the parry and . . .”
• • •
EVEN AS RÍGÁN AND ALRIC with their new swords followed Halon’s slicing strokes, quick lunges, stabbing thrusts, and rapid parries, Gretta and Catlin with knives in hand sat at a yard table and scraped and chopped the freshly plucked and washed parsnips, preparing them for the noon meal soup. At a distant whistle, they both looked westward in the late-morning sun and peered toward the far end of the clearing, where, just emerging from the forest, Conal came riding.
“’Tis the tiarna,” said Catlin. Then she glanced at Gretta and added, “Your man.”
“Aye, it is,” replied Gretta, worry now knitting her brow.
“He’s riding slow,” said Catlin. “No need for concern.”
“Still,” said Gretta, “what with all these doings . . .”
“Shameful and wicked,” said Catlin, and she took up another pale root to prepare.
Driu stepped onto the porch and walked down into the yard and took a seat next to Gretta.
Conal rode to the barn and dismounted and gave over his horse to the stable hand, Cuán. Moments later he came to the women and stood, a distracted frown on his face as if pondering what next to do. He took a deep breath and looked at Driu and said, “You were right, Seer. Another boy dead up north in Glasbaile last week. They caught the one who did the deed, just as he was about to slit a second child’s throat.”
Gretta’s eyes welled with tears. “Arkov’s man?” she asked.
“Aye. He confessed even as they gutted him.”
“Wicked!” spat Catlin. “Wicked.”
“Is there naught we can do?” asked Gretta.
“Not without exposing Rígán and Alric to concentrated peril,” said Driu. “The whole of Kell is now on alert against these killers. It remains up to the families to be on watch against any stranger who comes into their midst.”
Conal nodded and said, “Just as we now send armed escort with Rígán and Alric whenever they go into Sjøen, so, too, must all others do the same with their children.”
“Armed escort or no, I would rather they not leave here at all,” said Gretta.
Conal moved around the table and sat beside his wife and put an arm about her. “Ah, love, we can’t keep them prisoner. And surely once Reyer is announced, his life will be at hazard no matter where he is.” Then Conal grinned and said, “Besides, I’d rather they go with an escort than to sneak off on their own to see that dark-haired girl—what is her name?”
“Caleen,” said Catlin. “And a pretty little thing she is, too. They’re both after her, you know.”
“Rígán and Alric?” asked Gretta.
“Aye, but Caleen seems to have eyes only for Alric,” said Catlin. “Or so it is Tessa tells me.”
“Tessa of the tea room?” asked Gretta.
“The very same,” said Catlin. “Tells me that Caleen thinks Alric is the finest warrior who ever strode this green, green isle, what with him doing in that vile tinkerman, who would have killed them all, or so Caleen says.”
“And she’s after my Alric and not Rígán?” asked Gretta.
“Aye. Oh, she thinks Rígán is a fine lad, but Alric fills her heart.”
“But she won’t be able to marry my Alric, just as she wouldn’t be able to marry Reyer.”
Catlin shot Gretta a puzzled frown, but Gretta said no more. On the other hand, Driu smiled knowingly, yet kept her knowledge to herself.
“Are the men in Sjøen ready?” asked Driu.
“What?” said Conal, who hadn’t been listening, but instead had fallen into a deep thoughtful state.
“I asked if the men in Sjøen are ready.”
“They are,” replied Conal, nodding.
“And the Dylvana?”
“Them, too.”
They remained in silence for long moments, but for the scrape and slice of knife against parsnip. Finally Conal asked, “Do you know when it might occur?”
“Not yet,” said Driu.
“Peril from the sea,” said Catlin. “Jutlanders, I would imagine.”
“It is not clear,” said Driu.
“And you think they are coming after Rígán?”
“I do.”
“But why?” asked Gretta. “Aren’t the Jutlanders part of the Northern Alliance? If so, why would they be after Rígán?”
Catlin turned her head aside and spat on the ground, growling, “Jutlanders. Who knows what their mad king will do? Mayhap he’s made a pact with Arkov.”
• • •
OVER THE NEXT WEEK OR SO, in the clearing where they trained, steel rang against steel, as Rígán and Alric took turns sparring with Halon. Occasionally, the Dylvana faced them both, and yet they could not get through his guard, even though they split wide and came at him from both sides.
And when left to themselves, Rígán and Alric took up blade against one another, and in this they were evenly matched: each fairly skillful for thirteen-year-old lads, yet clumsy on occasion, though hardly at one and the same time.
And though they would rather stay with the swords, Halon made them practice with bow and arrow, with long-knife and dagger, and with spear and lance.
And he spoke of other weapons: curved swords—cutlasses, scimitars, shamsheers, and the like—instead of the straight blades they now wielded. “Suitable for slicing cuts,” said Halon, “for the curve keeps the blade in contact with the foe throughout the sweep of thine arm, throughout the arc of the stroke.” He looked at Alric and said, “Your folk—the Vanadurin—wield a somewhat curved and heavy blade from the back of a horse. Very effective, these Harlingar, when atop a steed, be it with a lance or saber.
“Now the Fjordlanders favor the axe, and the East-Isle Gelenders the falchion, but as to the men of Gothon, they take up the . . .”
And so the drilling went on, and Alric could not wait to get on the back of a horse with a lance or a saber in hand, whereas Rígán favored the bow and arrow as well as the light and swift rapier.
• • •
NO SOONER HAD DRIU looked up from the runes and said, “This is the day,” than a rider arace came shouting the alarm: “Red-sailed ships, Tiarna. Red-sailed ships have landed, and slaughter fills the streets.”
An Elven horn rang throughout
Darda Coill, and Dylvana girded weapons and took to horse, and rode to the distant sound of battle.
“Rígán, Alric, stay here,” ordered Conal, as he and Durgan and the men of the stead mounted up to follow. As Rígán and Alric protested, Conal snapped, “I command you to stay: do not disobey me. Here you will be safe.”
Even as the riders galloped away and into the forest to the west, a red-sailed ship landed down the coast. Twelve dark-clothed, dark-skinned men, who named themselves Sukut Khayâlîn—Silent Shadows—disembarked and soundlessly slipped into the woodland, heading for a nearby cow-and-pig farm.
23
Astral
There are many ways to travel across the lands of Mithgar: walking being the slowest common means and perhaps the most used, for not all folk have animals to ride or to draw carriages or waggons—animals such as horses and ponies and oxen and donkeys and mules . . . or camels. . . or even the great tusked animals of Bharaq, there in the land south of the great Jangdi Mountains. Then again, in Ryodo and Jinga and other lands of the East, oft travelers are borne through the streets of the cities by jinricksha and palanquin and sedan chair, the bearers of which are little better than draft animals. And in the far north, journeys are often made by sleds drawn by dogs and reindeer. And in Darda Erynian, Pysks ride Foxes.
As to travel by water, one can swim or be borne by boat or canoe or raft or some such, or by ship, of which there are many types—from scows to the swift Eroean, though that fabled Elvenship has not been seen since the days immediately after the sinking of Rwn.
So, travel by land and water is common in Mithgar, yet travel by air is rare indeed. It is said that the Phael—a type of winged Hidden Ones—are able to fly . . . as are Dragons. Too, there are legends of other Hidden Folk—Sprites, Pixies, and such—as having wings—just as it has been said that the Pysks, being small, not only travel by Foxes but have traveled by bird as well, eagle being the rumor. Hearth tales speak of sighting Witches and Warlocks in flight, yet those are difficult to believe, for they would number among Magekind, and Mages deny their existence. And speaking of Magekind, only few can master the castings needed for such transportation, yet we do know that some Seers and Mystics dreamwalk or use the astral plane to fly across the ’scape, and, uncommonly, a handful of Necromancers have been known to travel via this occult domain—Andrak was known to be among these latter, ere he was slain by a token of power hurled by a Warrior Maiden to save her beloved.
It is not startling that Seers and Mystics use dreams and the astral realm to journey thither and yon, but that a Necromancer might do so comes as a surprise. For Necromancers fear betrayal by the folk they grind under heel—Rûcks, Hlôks, Ghûls, Ogrus, and the like—as well as their very own apprentices. And to travel by the mysterious sphere means separating the essence of being from the body, leaving it completely defenseless. On the other hand, to slip the soul out from the physical being is rather much like death, and death, of course, is the province of the Necromancer indeed.
And in a tall tower hidden deep within the Grimwall, one of these Necromancers became impatient to see for himself whether or not his plans moved forward. . . .
. . . It was time to make ready for a flight. . . .
• • •
“RADOK,” said Nunde, wiping his hands on the blood-smeared apron.
“Yes, master,” replied the tall, thin, bald apprentice.
Nunde gestured at the massive corpse on the table. “I would have you raise this Ogh, and march him up to the battlements. Leave him standing until sunrise.”
“But, Master, that will mean—”
“I know what it means, you fool,” snapped Nunde.
Flinching, Radok said, “Yes, Master. I meant no offense. I am merely mystified.”
Somewhat placated by Radok’s cringing, Nunde said, “I would have you study his frame, and what better way to do so than to have Adon’s own cursed light reave the flesh from these bones.”
“Ah, I see,” said Radok. “And as the rabble say—”
Nunde interrupted: “Yes, yes, Troll bones and Dragonhide: both escape destruction by the sun. Still, the Ogh bones will fall apart from one another, for the tendons and cartilage will vanish along with the flesh in the light. Nevertheless, I would have you reassemble them as part of your study.”
“As you will, master,” said Radok, inclining his head in obeisance.
Nunde turned to go, but Radok said, “Yet, master, for me to raise this Ogh, I will need to slay a number of—”
“Of course, of course. It will take
“Yes, master. Will you observe?”
“No, Radok, I plan on retiring.”
Radok frowned in puzzlement, for the nighttide was yet young; still he said naught.
Now certain that his apprentice would be occupied the rest of the dark—The pusillanimous fool trying to get the slain Ogh up to the battlements using the
The potion finished, Nunde poured the resulting dark liquid into a vial. Even as he stepped from the chamber, a deep thud, one that Nunde felt through the very stone of the tower, sounded from the hallway behind.
Mayhap the Ogh has fallen from the—
A second thud followed, and then a third, and another.
Nunde raised an eyebrow in surprise, for the slain Ogh was afoot. Yet on down the dark corridor Nunde went, and into his quarters.
He bolted the massive bronze door, with latches and turn-locks and the heavy slide-bar. And he cast a shutting upon it as well. Then he took to his wide bed, and, ignoring the corpse at his side, Nunde drank the fresh-brewed acrid concoction. In but moments he fell back as if dead, and his aethyrial self flew free, his body completely helpless.
He soared overland, and to his astral sight all shades and colors were reversed: dark was light; light, dark; crimson shone viridian; sapphire shone ocherous; amethyst, amber; ebon, alabaster; and the reverse. The night skies were bright and speckled with dark stars; the moon, black, reminiscent of Neddra. Faster than any eagle he soared, swifter than even a shooting star. And when he reached his destination, dawn was yet some long candlemarks away.
He was nigh the isle of Kell, yet not too close, for he would not have that cursed Seer somewhere near discover even his astral form. Still, from his height he could see the isle afar.
And he searched the bright pallid orange sea below.
Long he spent scanning the luminescent black-topped waves, and yet he did not espy what he was—
Yet wait! There they are!
Far below fared three lateen-rigged ships, their sails pale green, their hulls grey-lavender to his aethyrial sight.
Yet one was on a diverging path.
Nunde frowned, for he knew not why they—
He sighted their near-distant destinations—a seaside village was the goal of two, but the third was headed for a shingle somewhat south.
Mosaam bin Abu, you fool! This is not my plan!
Enraged and cursing, Nunde railed at this ruse, for it might actually succeed. Yet in aethyrial form he had no power to stop it. And he could not wait to see the outcome, for dawn would arrive ere then, and even though he traveled the astral plane, Nunde did not dare to defy Adon’s Ban.
Back across the sea he sped, back toward his Grimwall sanctum.
Even as he near
ed and flew in among the bright mountains, the skies were beginning to darken with the approach of dawn. And fleeing the oncoming day, Nunde raced to the battlements and down and in and to his body lying supine in his bed, his corrupt soul slipping back into place.
And he started up and cursed, for not only had Mosaam bin Abu stupidly deviated from the design, but up there on the wall and awaiting the rending of the sun stood the corpse of the slain Ogh.
In spite of having the
Nunde would have to take care indeed.
24
Gambit
Among the terrible things about war, battle, combat, are the unintended consequences, the side effects, the collateral damage, not only to persons, places, animals, and things, but also to the mind, to the spirit, to the heart, for the wounds are seen and unseen as well. And the veiled injuries are perhaps the most damaging of all, for they are driven by fear and rage and loss, and they leave hidden scars behind in the ones so hurt. Some never recover, and the festering hate, unremitting grief, everlasting dread, and the like, profoundly affect their very existence, and at times lead them to take excessive measures. Others rebound swiftly, though the harm is not forgotten. Most who survive war and battle and combat fall somewhere in between these two extremities, for life goes on. Yet, waking or sleeping, on occasion remembrance engulfs them again, and the violence and harm sweep through their presence once more.
And as to outcomes of battle: at least the dead are dead and escape the follow-on torment.
Whether they served in the midst of the conflict, or on the fringes, or at a place far away, those who live on are the ones who suffer the unintended consequences, the aftereffects, the collateral damage; they are the casualties who pay the irreversible price, be it everlasting or fleetingly swift or lying somewhere in between. . . .
. . . And upon a farm in Darda Coill, several survivors fretted and stewed even as another one came flying toward them. . . .
• • •
Stolen Crown Page 14