Stolen Crown

by Dennis L McKiernan

  And silence fell, and men and women and children bowed as Reyer passed, and someone began a cheer. In but moments the whole of the square burst into loud acclaim.

  “Get used to it,” said Alric, but Reyer did not hear him above the roar.

  Through the crowd rode Dylvana and Humans and trotted Silver Wolves, but then someone espied the buccen on ponyback, and like unto Elven children they appeared, yet most folk there realized just who they were—the Wee Folk of legend with their jewellike eyes and mayhap distant kindred of Tipperton Thistledown himself. And another cheer broke out, this time calling out “Warrow!”

  At last the column rode out from the market square, leaving the people behind, but for a few young lads running after. Just beyond the square were the shops of crafters: cobblers, a goldsmithery, mills, lumberyards and carpentries, inns and hostelries, blacksmitheries and ironworks and armories, kilns, masonries, and the like. And above many of the shops and businesses were the dwellings of the owners and workers, and these folks, too, came out to see what the hubbub was all about. And they looked on in wonder, and bowed when the High King passed.

  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 way, making the whole of the city rather like a maze. Yet they stuck to the Post Road, ’round and up.

  Again they came to a massive wall and followed the route as it curved alongside the bulwark. At last they came to a gate, and it, too, was guarded but open, and horns sounded and soldiers slapped fists to hearts.

  Through this gate and on they rode, now ascending among colorful row houses with unexpected corners and stairs mounting up, and balconies and turrets, too, and all with colorful tiled roofs to harvest the frequent summer rains and winter snowmelts and channel them into catchments. People stopped in the streets or leaned out of windows to watch the procession ride by.

  Once more and following a flourish of horns they passed through a barway under a great rampart—the third wall—and again they wended among houses, now larger and more stately than those below, yet still close-set.

  At last they arrived at the fourth wall, the one encircling the Kingsgrounds. The two leaves of a massive iron gate laid back against the great barrier, and even as they approached, the portcullis clanked upward, and once more the horns sounded, for the King was passing through.

  The column rode into the passage under the wall and waited until the second portcullis was raised, too, and at last rode out into the Kingsgrounds

  Now the fortress in all of its massive strength could be seen: it was grey and ponderous, with great blocky granite buildings with high windows and square towers. Crenels and merlons crowned the battlements; massive groins supported great bastions outjutting from the walls. Stone curtains protected hidden banquettes where would stand defenders in the face of attack.

  Along the cobbles of the Post Road they clattered, at times riding up and across the faces of craggy looms, drawing ever closer to the Keep.

  They came to a fifth and final wall, the last loom ere the castle itself, and the massive main gate ground open with yet another fanfare of horns. Through a last jinking passage they rode and into the forecourt. As they emerged, Silverleaf fell back to ride alongside Reyer, Digby pulling his pony aside to let the Lian Elf do so. And into the courtyard they rode.

  There awaiting them, with the flags of many nations unfurled, stood the members of the Northern Council.

  The military escort split in twain and formed a corridor, through which the King’s warband rode and stopped before the awaiting council. The Draega, however, moved off to one side and gathered in the shadows along a massive abutment, and there among them now stood Dalavar.

  And ere anyone dismounted, Silverleaf called out, “My lords, I present to ye Valen’s heir, High King Reyer, Lord of all of Mithgar.”

  And the Council members knelt, all but one, an ambassador from Jute—Baron Hoffstra.

  Lord Raden looked up at him and muttered, “Down, man. The High King is before you.”

  Hoffstra glanced at the kneeling lord and then up at Reyer and said, “My own liege, King Viktor of Jute, bids me to see the griffin claw before acknowledging you as the rightful heir.”

  “Just like the Mad King to do so,” muttered Alric.

  Gretta started to protest, but with a word Driu silenced her.

  “Take care, my lord,” said Silverleaf, though it was uncertain who he addressed: Hoffstra or Reyer.

  “Keep your seats,” called out Reyer, and only he dismounted. And the crimson stone bearing its Golden Griffin on the ring he wore cast back a glitter of scarlet rays from the sun. And as Reyer strode toward the assembled lords, both Digby and Perry quietly nocked arrows and stealthily eased their ponies to places for clear shots.

  Reyer stopped before Baron Hoffstra and gritted, “This is the only time you, my lord, will see the mark of my birthright.”

  Then he said to the others: “Rise.”

  As Reyer peeled out of his vest and jerkin and tossed them to Hoffstra, as if the baron were naught more than a lackey, the members of the Northern Alliance got to their feet: Raden glaring at Hoffstra, Mayor Hein trembling and eyeing the Wolfmage and his Draega across the yard and in shadows, dark-haired Aarnson with a sardonic grin on his face, and all the others looking at Reyer with respect in their gazes, for the lad had of certain put the Jutlander in his place.

  And in the bright sunlight, the griffin claw shone starkly on the front quarter of Reyer’s right shoulder, matching the one on the flag and the ring. And one by one Reyer stepped before each member of the council so that each in his turn could see the mark. And each in his turn nodded his approval.

  Finally, Reyer circled back to Hoffstra, and, glaring, he looked the baron in the eye, but said naught.

  Quickly, and taking care to not let Reyer’s vest and jerkin touch the ground, the baron knelt and said, “My lord.” And, head bowed, he held up the clothes for Reyer to take.

  “Well, now, that’s the end of that,” muttered Alric, smiling. Then he looked down at Perry and over at Digby and noted for the first time that they had been ready to slay Hoffstra.

  Then he ruefully grinned and said to himself, “May I never make an enemy of a Warrow.”

  40

  Muster

  There is little need for an army to gather but at the site of battle, arriving early enough to get there first and take whatever tactical advantage might be yielded by the terrain. Of course, that seldom happens, for armies are usually mustered at distant places and at inconvenient times.

  Too, mustering an army from widespread points is no small feat, especially when travel is by foot and horse and wain and boat.

  There is this as well, for the old saying is that an army travels on its stomach, hence, unless they are living off the land, food and supplies need be readily at hand. Yet feeding a host through many days—to say naught of months—of a campaign is no small task. Hence, foodstuffs must be gathered, laded, made ready for travel, and even perhaps staged along the army’s route . . . food not only for the men of the army but also for the animals with them. Nothing perishable, of course, hence waybread—most likely crue—and grain and beans and well-cured meat and feed are the fare of the campaign. And, oh yes, forget not the tea. Some animals for slaughter—cattle, for example—are gathered and driven ahead before the army begins its march, since livestock are usually the slowest of the slow. And sources for water must be carefully considered, plotting out which rivers, lakes, streams, and springs lie upon the proposed route, and what water must be hauled or carried by the army itself.

  Both the Northern Alliance and Arkov’s forces must take care and plan well, for lack of good forethought will in all likelihood lead to defeat.

  Each side in this oncoming conflict had had more than a decade t
o prepare for such: one side waiting for the rightful heir to the kingdom to lead them; the other side harassed by local revolts, and by the frustrating delays in the gathering of the southern allies needed to assure victory.

  And on the day after Reyer arrived at the northern capital and had told his tale of the journey from Kell, birds bearing messages winged south and west and east and north, bearing the news. . . .

  • • •

  IN A DARK TOWER deep in the Grimwalls a Necromancer chortled with glee, and yet somehow simultaneously fumed with rage:

  “Good! The boy is safe, yet those fools I sent to thwart the ambush stupidly attacked him. He might have been killed. Radok, I would have you root out the surviving Chun and bring them to me. It will give me much pleasure to . . . well, you will see.”

  “Yes, master Nunde.”

  “And send this message to Fadal. It is time to let the full of the Chabbain forces cross the Avagon Sea.”

  Radok accepted the capsule and bowed his way from the chamber and headed for the birds high above. How clever Nunde’s plan and devious . . . and should it come to pass, then it would tip the balance and Gyphon would have to be released and the Ban rescinded and Nunde would be elevated, taking Radok up with him.

  • • •

  ARKOV WAS ENRAGED. Not only were some nations of the Northern Alliance already on the march, but Foul Folk had ruined his carefully planned ambush. Where had they come from and why then and there? Arkov did not know. It was almost as if the boy were charmed, or that Arkov himself were snakebitten.

  • • •

  BENIR MIN ALIK, the new ambassador from Chabba, requested an audience with Arkov. Benir had replaced Kaleem bin Aziz, who had died unexpectedly of a stomach ailment shortly after the Dark Master had learned of Arkov’s planned ambush. Benir believed that Kaleem had been deposed because he had not discovered the plan soon enough to suit the Dark Master. Benir resolved to never make a like error.

  The new Chabbanian ambassador was escorted into Arkov’s chambers by Counselor Baloff.

  “What is it, Alik?” asked Arkov. Once again the nuance of the Kabla tongue evaded Arkov, for he mistook Benir’s birthplace for the ambassador’s given name.

  “The full fleet is under way, my lord,” said Benir, smirking to himself at this king’s willful ignorance. “The entire army will be on your shores ere the full of the moon.”

  “At last!” shouted Arkov, clenching a fist and hammering it against the arm of the throne.

  The Chabbainian ambassador merely smiled in return.

  • • •

  “IN GÛNAR?” asked Reyer.

  “Aye, my lord,” said Steward Cavin.

  “Actually, just outside Gûnar at Gûnar Slot,” said Lord Aarnson, stabbing a finger down at the map, the Slot at the south end of Rell, “here along the Grimwall, not far from the west entrance into the Black Hole.”

  Perry frowned. “Black Hole?”

  “Drimmen-deeve,” said Silverleaf.

  “Kraggen-cor,” said Dalavar.

  “Yes,” said Aarnson, “Gûnar Slot is a few leagues south of that Dwarvenholt.”

  “I see,” said Perry.

  “Why there?” asked Alric. “Why at the Slot?”

  “Should we get enough of a march upon Arkov, then we think we’ll meet his army somewhere either in Gûnar or in the abandoned land of Ellor,” said Raden. “Hence, the Slot is the best place to assemble. And in the event Arkov is first on the march, the Gap is a bottleneck where we can best use our forces.”

  “Barring that,” said Lord Cavin, “should we be enough ahead of Arkov, next we will try to use Gûnarring Gap as a choke point.”

  “And if not there, then along the Red Hills in Ellor,” said Raden, pointing at the place named.

  “And how many troops will we have?” asked Conal.

  Cavin moved a hand across the map, noting each nation as he replied, “Ten thousand each from Gothon, Jute, Rian, and Thol. Five thousand each from Gelen, Dalara, Wellen, and Harth, which includes the Wilderland. And a smattering of others from Trellinath and Basq.”

  “Some sixty thousand, then,” said Reyer.

  “What of Jord?” asked Alric.

  Raden growled and glanced across at Silverleaf and Riessa. “Like the Elves and Dwarves”—his glance flicked to Captain Windlow and Digby and Perry—“and others, the Jordians have decided to remain neutral.”

  “Adon, tell me this is not so,” said Alric.

  “Sorry, lad,” said Cavin, “but it is all too true.”

  Alric gritted his teeth and said, “Well, this Harlingar isn’t going to sit this one out.”

  Reyer looked at Alric and smiled. Then he turned to Cavin. “What of the foe? —Arkov’s forces.”

  Cavin again pointed at the map as he spoke. “In addition to his joint Garian Albaner army, he is allied with Hurn and Sarain, and—”

  “The Fists of Rakka!” blurted Digby. “He is allied with the Fists of Rakka?”

  “Huh?” said Perry.

  “Oh, Perry, don’t you remember the tale of Arin and Egil One-Eye?”

  “Sort of,” said Perry. “But what’s that got to do with this?”

  “When Arin Flameseer was searching for the Dragonstone, one of those who would aid her was the ‘Cursed Keeper of Faith in the Maze.’ She found him in Sarain, but also in that land were the Fists of Rakka, dreadful people.”

  Perry shook his head. “So . . . ?”

  “Rakka is another name for Gyphon,” said Riessa.

  Enlightenment dawned, and Perry said, “You mean Arkov is in league with Gyphon’s faithful? Enemies of old?”

  Cavin sighed and nodded. “It is so.”

  “But that is not all,” said Lord Raden. “Arkov also has a small contingent of Chabbains on Pellarian soil.”

  “Askars,” said Riessa. “They and the Fists of Rakka sided with Modru during the Great War of the Ban.”

  “This history is all well and good,” said Conal, “but Reyer’s question is yet to be answered. What of Arkov’s forces? What are their numbers?”

  “We should be evenly matched,” said Aarnson, “for though his total is considerable, much of his Garian army is tied up in policing Jugo and Hoven and especially Riamon and Aven, putting out fires, putting down local revolts.”

  “When we face off against Arkov,” said Alric, “are these locals likely to rise up and aid us?”

  “Perhaps,” said Aarnson, “yet they are disorganized; their aid will result in ineffective harassment of Arkov at best.”

  “Even so,” said Alric, “every little bit will assist.”

  A silence fell around the table, and finally Reyer said, “When do we march?”

  “Even now, the nations are on the move,” said Lord Cavin. “Farthest to come are those in the west: Basq, Gothon, Gelen, Jute, Thol. They began their march even before you set out from Kell. The livestock and food wains were under way long before then.”

  “That far ahead?” asked Reyer.

  “This plan has been in the making for thirteen years,” said Lord Raden. “And we began its execution months back.”

  “Huh,” said Digby.

  “Huh, what?” asked Perry.

  “No armies came through the Bosky,” said Digby. “And if they were marching from Wellen and beyond they should have.”

  “Nay,” said Riessa. “As planned, those coming from the west followed the Crossland Road through much of Wellen, then angled south through Trellinath and headed east from there toward Gûnar Slot. It’s shorter than traveling through the Bosky.”

  “Ah,” said Digby, nodding, then he turned to Lord Cavin. “I say, what if—Adon forbid—what if something had happened to Reyer? What of your plans then?”

  Lord Cavin smiled and glanced across at Silverleaf and Riessa and Driu and Dala
var. “I had every reason to believe that King Reyer would arrive safely.”

  “Besides,” said Perry, as if explaining all, “from the Bosky onward he had Warrows in his band.”

  Amid a roar of laughter, “Ah, right,” said Digby, grinning.

  When the humor faded to chuckles, Reyer said, “What I am asking, Lord Cavin, is when do we here in this room set out for the rendezvous?”

  “As soon as we have had a proper crowning ceremony,” said Cavin.

  Reyer sighed and shook his head. “There is no time for pomp, my lord. But if we must have pageantry, we will do so when I take the throne at Caer Pendwyr.”

  “Then a simple ceremony must suffice,” said Cavin, “for we of the Northern Alliance would have our crowning.”

  Again Reyer sighed, then said, “If you must.”

  “On the morrow, then, the city bells will ring,” said Cavin. Then he covered up the map and said to an aide, “Summon Mayor Hein.”

  • • •

  “NEUTRAL? The Harlingar remain neutral?”

  “Yes, Mother,” said Alric.

  “Then you can’t go,” said Gretta.

  “You will not stop me, Mother,” said Alric. “I shall be at Reyer’s side, for he is now my king.”

  “King Ulrik of Jord is your rightful king, and if Jord is neutral, then so must be you.”

  “Mother, I am going, whether you say yea or nay. And were King Ulrik himself to forbid me, still I would go. I might be the only Harlingar in Reyer’s march, yet I will be in his host.”

  Gretta broke into tears.

  • • •

  LATER IN THE DAY, Gretta spoke long and passionately with Lord Cavin, who finally said, “I will send a bird to Ander. Perhaps we can have a Dragonship waiting.”

  • • •

  THAT NIGHT AND BY CANDLELIGHT, Gretta sat at a small escritoire and penned a long note. She read it over several times, and finally sealed it with a dollop of red wax embossed with the sigil from the ring on a chain ’round her neck, a ring given to her by her sire on a day long ago when she set out from Jord to serve as a companion to Queen Mairen in King Valen’s court.