AS ALRIC STOICALLY WINGED arrows toward a target on a cord-tied bale, Rígán, his own bow in hand, paced back and forth and seethed.
Off to one side Catlin and Driu sat at a yard table, and snapped green beans from a large tub at hand, using the common labor to keep their minds off the events in Sjøen, whatever they might be.
As the dark-haired lad loosed another shaft, “We should be there, Alric,” declared Rígán. “At least, I should be. I mean, after all, I am the one who brings this danger down upon everyone. I should be in the forefront rather than cowering back here at the farm.”
“Not so,” said Alric, stepping forward to recover his arrows. “At least not until you are declared.”
Rígán groaned in frustration, and Driu said, “Alric is right, Reyer. We would like you to reach the throne, more apt to happen if you don’t mix in the thick of it.”
The tall, nearly fourteen-year-old Rígán stopped his pacing and glared at the Seer and angrily countered, “Then what good is it to be trained in combat if I don’t use any of it? It’s my fight, too!”
Driu opened her mouth to reply, but a distant, high-pitched shout interrupted her: “Alric! Alric!”
A horse came hammering out from the trees and across the far field, and on its back—
Alric slipped the last arrow into his quiver and turned even as came another piercing cry of “Alric!”
“That’s Mór Dearg,” said Alric, moving swiftly back to the table.
“Mór Dearg? The tiarna’s horse?” blurted Catlin, as she and Driu leapt to their feet.
Again the girl cried out for Alric.
Rígán frowned. “Caleen?”
“It is Caleen,” said Alric.
On she came, her dark tresses flying out behind. Her legs were too short for her feet to reach the stirrups, yet the girl managed to hang on to Mór Dearg.
“Arrows!” barked Rígán, and he and Alric nocked shafts and searched the tree line for following foes.
In moments the gelding reached the sward. The girl haled back on the reins, and Conal’s horse slid to a stop, squatting on its haunches. Caleen lost her seat and flew over the pommel and tumbled to the grass. As Alric scrambled to the girl, Rígán managed to grab the reins of Mór Dearg, the gelding wild-eyed and snorting.
Cuán came running from the stables, and Gretta stepped out from the house, and when Gretta saw Conal’s horse, she cried, “Oh, no!” and the strength went out from her legs and she slumped to the porch.
“Steady, Big Red, steady,” soothed Rígán, calling the gelding by its common name as he tried to calm the horse, yet it sidled and snorted and stamped and pulled back, clearly on the verge of bolting.
Alric got Caleen to her feet and away from the tramping hooves of Mór Dearg. And the girl clung to Alric and wept, her dress torn, a smear of blood across her face.
Cuán reached the mount and took the reins from Rígán, and spoke to the animal, his cooing words in old Kellian, and in but moments Big Red settled somewhat.
“They killed her, Alric,” wailed Caleen. “They killed her. And they wanted to kill me, too.”
“Someone tried to kill you?” blurted Alric.
“Who are the enemy? And is there fighting?” asked Rígán. “I knew we should have been there!”
“Who did they kill?” asked Alric.
“What of the tiarna?” demanded Catlin. “And the men?”
“And the Dylvana?” added Rígán.
“Stand back,” commanded Driu, and she shushed them all and knelt at Caleen’s side and motioned for the boy to sit her down.
Cuán led Big Red away toward the stables, and Rígán turned and saw that Gretta, her legs folded to one side, was crumpled down in the middle of the porch, stricken, weeping. He rushed to her. “Mother Gretta?”
She looked up at him. “He’s gone, Rígán. He’s gone.”
Rígán knelt. “We don’t know that, Mother Gretta.”
“But the horse—”
“All we know is that Caleen rode him here.” He stood and held out his hand. “Come, let us hear what Caleen has to say.”
“I haven’t the strength to listen,” said Gretta, yet she took Rígán’s grip and stood, and he fetched her to the table, where she sat.
“—villagers,” wailed Caleen.
“The people of Sjøen? They killed your aunt?” asked Driu.
“Why?” asked Alric.
“The birds. Aunt Britta had birds.”
“I don’t understand,” said Alric, looking at Driu.
Driu took Caleen’s hands in her own and said a
Alric shook his head. “An agent of—?”
“Never mind that,” blurted Rígán. “What of the battle? What of the foe? And what of our men?”
“It’s over, it’s over. The killing is over,” said Caleen. “They came in two ships, and—”
“Two?” demanded Driu. “Two ships?”
“Jutlander Dragonships?” asked Catlin.
“No, they were—”
“There should have been three,” exclaimed Driu.
From the sty there came a loud squealing, which abruptly chopped to silence.
“Molly,” said Rígán, and he turned to see dark men in dark clothes—seven with tulwars, five with crossbows—come running, spread wide.
Even as he raised his bow and stepped in front of the women, “Driu, Catlin, into the house!” snapped Rígán. “Alric, the ones with the crossbows first!” And he loosed at an onrushing man at one end of the line. Beside him, and yet kneeling, Alric took up his own bow and let fly at another.
Two arrows; two men down. Yet ten more continued to charge.
Driu grabbed Caleen, and she and the girl and Gretta bolted for the house, but Catlin snatched up a large knife from beside the bean pan and stood her ground with the boys.
Rígán kicked over the table, shouting, “Alric. Shield!”
“My beans!” snarled Catlin, even as the tub went clanging to the ground and Alric and Rígán stepped to the table to use it as cover.
Cuán, Big Red in hand, had just reached the barn, and he turned and gasped at the unfolding scene. Then he vaulted to Big Red’s back and charged empty-handed.
Two more arrows; two more men down.
Crossbowmen stopped and took aim, yet coming at an angle, Cuán on Big Red ran over them even as the quarrels were loosed—two to thunk into the table, two to fly wide, and one to bring down one of their own men—and the remaining men were scattered, one to die under the hooves of Big Red.
Alric and Rígán brought down two more of the disarrayed attackers.
Two of the men came on, shouting, “Nihna Issukut Khayâlîn!” Tulwars raised, they had nearly reached the table, yet neither man survived the next two arrows.
Even as those arrows were loosed, Catlin, screaming some prolonged and unrecognizable cry, leapt toward one of the men who had been knocked down by Big Red, and as that foe floundered, trying to regain his feet, she slashed her blade through his throat. Blood spurting, he fell back slain.
A man behind her swung his sword, but Alric’s white-fletched arrow took him in the neck, and the blow never landed.
Cuán on Big Red swung the horse about to make another charge, yet all the attackers were down, and he looked at Rígán for what next to do.
“Stay sharp,” said Rígán. “We know not whether these are the last,” and he motioned for Cuán to circle about and see if the threat was through.
Rígán, Alric, and Catlin waited long moments, and Cuán on Big Red went wide ’round the house and the outbuildings, seeking enemy, yet no more foe appeared. Cuán returned to the foreyard, and, finally, Rígán said, “This battle is over.”
Cuán nodded and headed Big Red for the stables
, but one by one Catlin stepped to each of the fallen men and cut their throats just to make bloody certain they were well and truly dead. At the man pierced by the crossbow bolt she called out, “This one is yet breathing.”
“Save him for—” began Rígán, even as Catlin slashed the knife across the man’s neck.
“Ah, well,” said Alric, “so much for capturing a prisoner.” Then he turned to see Driu and Gretta and Caleen peering out the doorway, and said, “’Twas good we remained here instead of riding to battle in Sjøen, else the women might now be slain.”
Rígán looked at Catlin, just then striding back from the farthest dead assassin, blood dripping from her kitchen knife, a satisfied savage grin on her face, and he said, “Then again, perhaps not.”
Both he and Alric broke into gales of laughter, relief, not humor, pouring out of them—the aftermath of the slaughter.
25
Revelations
For the most part, heroes are commonplace people who manage to rise to the occasion when they are caught up in extraordinary circumstances. They do exceptional things to meet the crucial needs of the moment. Typically, they themselves do not consider what they have done to be heroic, but rather it was simply what had to be done, and, without much forethought, they did it.
Cowards, on the other hand, flee from these moments, or shrink in hiding or commit some heinous acts to keep themselves safe from harm, be it physical or mental or otherwise.
It is said that the seeds of heroism and cowardice exist in the everyman, and a hero one day might be a coward the next, as well as vice versa—spineless Alos, a simple sailor and drunkard, is an example of this latter, for, in spite of his cravenness in perilous circumstances, he became a linchpin in the Quest of the Dragonstone.
That is not to say that all heroes and cowards are commonplace people. Many throughout the history of Mithgar are in fact quite far from being run-of-the-mill. Elgo of Jord was certainly the opposite of an everyday person, as was his sister, Elyn, and her eventual companion, Thork.
But when one considers Tipperton Thistledown—an ordinary miller who was called upon to deliver a coin—who could be more normal than that? A Warrow he was, yes, one living among Humans, but otherwise he was completely indistinguishable from any other ordinary villager. Yet had he not taken up the cause at the onset of the Great War of the Ban . . . well, who knows what the outcome might have been?
And so, heroes come in all stripes, be they ones of special abilities or ones without, be they unsung or not. What sets them apart is their steadfastness in the face of peril, their acts of courage or nobility or purpose, and their ability to rise to meet the occasions. And even though they do not see themselves as heroes, it is in the eyes of others that they become such. . . .
. . . and on a farm in a forest in Kell . . .
• • •
“ALRIC!” Caleen broke free from Driu’s grasp and came running toward the lad. She clasped him in her embrace and said, “Oh, Alric, you were so very brave. Even more so than when you saved us all from that tinkerman.”
“Um . . . er,” mumbled Alric. Then he managed to say, “Rígán and Catlin and Cuán on Big Red—”
“Yes, yes, they must have helped you,” interrupted Caleen, “but Alric, you were so brave.”
Driu smiled, but Gretta frowned and sighed in exasperation, both women now out on the sward. And Gretta said, “Here, now,” and reached for the girl. But in that moment and from the barnyard, Catlin loosed an anguished howl.
“Wha—?” barked Rígán, nocking another arrow even as he turned and ran toward the pigsty.
Alric broke away from Caleen, and ran after, an arrow set to string as well.
“They killed her,” wailed Catlin. “They killed my Molly.”
Rígán arrived at the pen to see Catlin sitting in the mud, with the sow’s head in her lap. Two quarrels jutted out from Molly’s side. A pair of abandoned crossbows lay nearby.
Catlin, tears streaming, looked up at Rígán and said, “Oh, Reyer, they killed her to keep her quiet, to keep her from sounding a warning. But she called out the alert in spite of them.”
“Oh, Catlin, I—” began Rígán, but at that moment Molly gave a grunt and opened her eyes and struggled to get free of Catlin, but squealed in pain and flopped back down.
“I’ll get Cuán,” said Alric. “He’ll know what to do.”
• • •
WHEN THE MEN and the Dylvana came riding back on the land of the farm, they found Driu and Gretta and Catlin and Cuán kneeling in the mud of the sty and treating the wounded pig, with Alric and Rígán and Caleen sitting on the top fence rail and watching.
Working out from the midst of the band and riding a black horse, Conal said, “Men dead in the fore yard, women down in the sty, what passes, Rígán?”
“Conal!” shrieked Gretta, “You live!” Yet, while Cuán cat-gut-stitched up the other wound, Gretta kept the pressure against the dressing on this one and did not leave her place at Molly’s side.
“Of course, I live, woman,” said Conal. “Did not Caleen tell you so?”
• • •
DYLVANA CAME RIDING BACK onto the farm, and one, a lithe female named Ris, leapt down from her horse and touched hands with Halon, her consort. Like all the Dylvana, her shoulder-length hair—hers chestnut colored—was held back from her face by a rune-marked headband.
“Dara,” he said.
“Alor,” she replied. Then she turned to Conal and said, “We followed their tracks back to the shore.” Ris glanced at Driu and shook her head and said, “The third raider was not moored there. But we espied crimson sails dwindling in the distance, just then going o’er the rim of the w’rld, sails like on the other two ships.”
Conal growled. “The raid on the town was a ruse.”
At Conal’s words, Halon nodded and added, “To get us away from Rígán so the assassins could reach the farm unimpeded. We cannot let this happen again.”
As Conal nodded his agreement, Caleen frowned and leaned over to Alric and whispered, “Why would they want to harm Rígán?”
Alric looked at her, but said nothing.
“I mean, you are the one who slew the tinkerman,” murmured Caleen, “not Rígán.”
Alric merely shrugged.
Conal glanced at Caleen and away and said, “Well, it did reveal Arkov’s agent in Sjøen, or so I believe.”
“Aye,” said Halon. Then the Dylvana shook his head and said, “Yet only because she released that bird.” Halon looked at his beloved.
“I thought it a messenger back to Kistan,” said Ris, fingering her bow. “That’s why I brought it down.”
Rígán looked at Conal. “Why think you it was headed to Arkov instead?”
“The message, though coded, was in a script I recognized,” said Conal. “One I came across when I was a kingsguard. Garian, it was, with those backward letters sprinkled here and there. Then again, though it was written in Garian runes, she might have been another’s agent, mayhap someone in Kistan.”
“Have you the message still?” asked Driu.
Without comment, Conal handed the tissue-thin strip over to the Seer.
Driu said a
“Then she did not know about the third ship,” said Conal.
“No, she did not,” said Driu.
“Too bad she did not live long enough to be questioned,” said Ris.
Conal sighed and said, “I let slip that she was Arkov’s spy, and that’s when the women of Sjøen tore her apart.” He looked at Caleen and said, “They would have killed you too, lass, but I stopped them.”
“Thank you for putting me on your horse, Tiarna,” said Caleen.
“I knew he’d run right here,”
said Conal, “where I thought you would be safe. Little did I know . . .” He shook his head and stared out across the field at the pyre where the twelve assassins’ corpses now burned.
“Even so,” said Gretta, glaring at the girl, “the child needs to be questioned. She might be an agent as well.”
Driu shook her head. “She is not. I looked into her past when I held her this day. Instead she is an innocent, used by her so-called aunt as a ploy to garner sympathy.”
“So-called? So-called aunt?” said Rígán. “You mean Britta is, er rather, was not really Caleen’s kindred?”
“Nay, she was not,” said Driu.
“She wasn’t?” asked Caleen, her eyes wide in shock.
“Nay, child,” said Driu.
“But she said—”
“’Twas a lie,” said Driu.
“Oh, Alric,” said Caleen, stricken and looking at the lad, tears streaming down her face, “she was a spy. My aunt was a spy. Or rather the person I thought was my aunt.”
Alric reached out and took Caleen’s hand, and Gretta gritted her teeth to see such a thing.
“What about these raiders?” asked Rígán. “They don’t, or rather, didn’t look like Garians. And what does ‘Nihna Issukut Khayâlîn!’ mean?”
“Nihna Issukut Khayâlîn?” asked Driu.
“That’s what one of the men shouted as he came running toward us,” said Alric.
“It was a boast,” said the Seer, “a battle cry. It means ‘We are the Silent Shadows.’”
“They certainly are silent now,” said Ris, a grim smile on her face, a glint of satisfaction in her grey eyes. Then she inclined her head toward Rígán and Alric and Catlin and said, “Nicely done.”
“Don’t forget Cuán and Big Red,” said Alric. “Without them we would be the ones on the pyre instead of the Silent Shadows.”
“Oh, my,” said Caleen. Then she added, “No, Alric, you wouldn’t be on the pyre; you would have found a way to save us all.”
“Silent Shadows,” said Conal. “I’ve heard of them. They are from Nizari, the Red City of Assassins. And with this attack upon Reyer—Rígán—it means that they are in league with Arkov.”
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