Stolen Crown

by Dennis L McKiernan

  And now they turned east, away from the Post Road, to follow instead the Old Rell Way. And they traveled on this route for five more days. On the fifth day of that journey, in midafternoon amid a thunderous ovation, they rode into a broad encampment of a large army flying many of the flags of the nations of the Northern Alliance.

  They had reached the upper end of Gûnar Slot.

  45

  Red Flags and Bale Fires

  The pace of war creeps at times, while at other times rushes headlong. Yet, even though a war itself might crawl, for those involved in the readying, responsibilities engulf the ones engaged. They know some wars are lost at the outset if preparations are not thorough . . . in particular if provisions are lacking and measures are not taken to support the warriors both before the battles and after. Food, drink, medicines, transportation, mustering points, intelligence, and the like: all must go in the advance planning and execution, whether or no a nation has warning ere the fight begins or are victims of surprise.

  Even so, resilience, brilliance in battle, or luck oft determines the outcome, no matter the preparation.

  For the Northern Alliance the arrangements had been in the making for the years it took for Reyer to come of age to be recognized as High King. For Arkov, his network of spies had excelled at keeping him abreast of the Alliance measures, but his own plans were largely in the hands of the Chabbains, for they would form the bulk of his army. And for the Vanadurin, they were a nation of warriors, with plans ever on standby, even in very long times of peace. And though it might take days or a week or three for the Harlingar to be ready, ne’er would it take months or years.

  • • •

  EARLY THE MORNING OF the day after Durgan arrived at Jordkeep, bale fires blazed atop pinnacles and spires and towers across the grassy steppes of Jord with the call to war. Riders hammered over the plains, red flags flying, summoning. And, bearing messages, birds flew from Jordkeep to the four Hrosmarshals—the four Dukes—of the four Reichs, telling them where the assembly would occur:

  “In Jallor Pass,” said Ulrik to Durgan, pointing at the map.

  “My lord, how far?” asked Durgan.

  “From here, some two hundred leagues,” said Valder.

  “And to the land of Ellor?” asked Durgan.

  “You are certain the Alliance plans on meeting Arkov’s forces in Ellor?” asked Ulrik.

  “So I was told,” said Durgan.

  “Where in Ellor?” asked Valder.

  “Last I heard,” said Durgan, “they plan on going through Gûnarring Gap, but as to where any battles might take place, I know not.”

  “Aye,” said Ulrik. “It depends upon Arkov, though, if we can, we’ll choose the battleground.”

  “Regardless,” said Valder, “let me see.” He unrolled another map and made quick measurements. “Hmm . . . from Jallor to the Gap: that would be some three hundred to three hundred fifty leagues, depending on which way we go from this crossing—Landover Road Ford.” Valder stabbed a finger to the map at the place where the east–west way crossed the River Argon.

  “What are our choices?” said Durgan.

  Valder’s finger traced the routes: “We can go down the Argon alongside Darda Erynian, or over Crestan Pass. The longer way is through Darda Erynian, but crossing the Rissanin River here”—his finger stopped its trace, then moved on—“and then making our way down the Great Escarpment and finally crossing the Argon into Ellor will not be easily done, and the journey will be a day or two longer, I ween. The shorter way is up and over Crestan Pass, where we then follow the Old Rell Way southward to the Gûnar Slot, and thence on to the Gap . . . but Crestan Pass poses the danger of landslides, and, should one occur, we could lose the entire army.”

  Ulrik nodded and said, “Yet, Crestan Pass, though hazardous, will get us there the quickest.”

  Durgan sighed and said, “Ah, me. A total of five hundred leagues, fifteen hundred miles. Yet no matter which route we take, I think even Steel cannot keep up the pace needed to arrive in a timely manner. Even the champion as he is, Steel is weary.”

  “Lad, we are not going to gallop all the way,” said Ulrik. “Your iron horse will last.”

  Durgan looked at Ulrik. “How so?”

  The king smiled and said, “We will all ride remounts ’tween here and Jallor Pass. If you decide to take him with us, Steel will be unladen and trailing behind. And so, he should be fit for the long-ride when we go beyond.”

  “As will each of our mounts,” said Valder, “for all of us will leave the remounts behind and ride fresh horses provided by the Hrosmarshals of the South and West Reichs.”

  “And all—horses and men alike—will be eating the Dukes’ provender as well,” said Ulrik, smiling.

  “Won’t that drain their larders and ricks?”

  “Aye, it will, but even now the North and East Reichs are sending resupplies, yet they are wain-borne and slow, while we ride in haste.”

  “Well, then, given that Steel will make the journey to Jallor unladen,” said Durgan, “he will go with me, for he is battle trained, and I would have him as my mount in combat. When do we leave?”

  “On the morrow,” said Valder.

  • • •

  IN THE DAWNLIGHT, Durgan and Ulrik and Valder, along with several hundred Vanadurin, set out from Jordkeep for Jallor Pass, each with a string of remounts in tow. And on Durgan’s tethers ran Steel, the grey unladen; he would remain so until the muster was complete and the ride from the Pass to the Gap began.

  And over the days as they rode, Durgan told Valder of Alric:

  “Though he has his mother’s eyes,” said Durgan, “I would say that now he looks much like you, sire.”

  “A handsome devil, eh?”

  “If you insist,” said Durgan, and Valder roared with laughter.

  When he got control of himself, “But what is he like?” asked Valder.

  “Steadfast, brave, a bit smaller than Reyer, but quite a bit more adventurous than the High King.”

  “Adventurous?”

  “Daring, perhaps, I mean,” said Durgan.

  “If he’s like his sire, then I say you mean foolhardy,” said Ulrik.

  “Who, me? Foolhardy?” said Valder.

  “You heard,” said Ulrik.

  “Alric is not foolhardy,” said Durgan. “But likely to take some chances.”

  “Well,” said Valder, “we Vanadurin have a saying.”

  Durgan cocked an eye at the prince and said, “And that would be . . . ?”

  Valder looked at Ulrik and said, “Lady Fortune favors the bold.”

  “Indeed,” said Ulrik, “indeed.”

  “That might describe Alric,” said Durgan. “Still, at times it seems his heart rules his head.”

  “Impetuous, then?” said Valder.

  Durgan shrugged a shoulder. “Perhaps.”

  They rode without speaking for a while, but then Durgan said, “He saved Reyer’s life, you know.”

  “What? Saved Reyer’s life?”

  “Aye. Arkov sent spies into Kell, and one of these was an assassin disguised as a tinkerman.”

  “Go on,” said Valder.

  “The tinker was all set to cut Reyer’s throat, but Alric spitted him in the eye with an arrow.”

  “Sleeth’s teeth, boy, when was this?” asked Ulrik.

  “Let me see. I think it was when they were eleven summers old.”

  “Eleven?” Valder turned to Ulrik. “By Elgo, Ulrik, Alric was just eleven when he became blooded.”

  As they changed over to one of the remounts, Durgan told of the attack by the assassins from the Red City—the Issukut Khayâlîn—the Silent Shadows. “Reyer and Alric slew most of them, with a bit of help from Cuán on Big Red and from Catlin.”

  “Catlin? Big Red? Cuán? Tell more, Durgan.”

/>   They mounted up and continued onward, and Durgan said, “We were in Sjøen, Aoden and I and some of our hands, along with the axe-wielding men of Sjøen, battling two boatloads of these Silent Shadows, when a third boat landed elsewhere, and . . .”

  • • •

  ON THE FOLLOWING DAY, Durgan told of the ambush in the Battle Downs: “Alric was on point in the vanguard when they heard men battling Spawn, and without hesitation, he and the Dylvana charged into the fray. It turns out that the men had been jumped by the Foul Folk, before the men themselves could spring their own trap on Reyer. Well, we killed all the Spawn, and rescued a few men, but they were poisoned by Ruch arrows and we had no gwynthyme and they died. But their leader had escaped any blade or arrow smeared with that bane, and so he survived. Yet that night he made an attempt upon Reyer, but the Waerlings slew him in the act.”

  “Waldfolc?” blurted Ulrik. “You have Waldfolc in your band?”

  “Aye. Seven. Thornwalkers all, from the Boskydells. Still, it’s just seven.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Ulrik, “but seven Waldfolc are as good as seventy men. Would there were more.”

  Valder nodded and then said, “And Dylvana? Forest Elves? They are in your band as well?”

  “Aye, them too. Riessa their leader, and she is”—Durgan took a deep breath—“wonderful.”

  “Methinks his heart has been Elfshot,” said Ulrik.

  “Aye,” said Valder, emitting an exaggerated sigh, adding mournfully, “he is like to die of love.” He and Ulrik laughed, while Durgan reddened. But then Valder said, “So Alric led the charge into battle?”

  “He did,” said Durgan.

  “Foolhardy, I told you,” said Ulrik.

  “Daring,” countered Valder.

  “Adventurous,” said Durgan.

  Then all three laughed, and Valder sobered and clenched a fist and declared, “My boy, my only son, is a true Vanadurin.”

  • • •

  IN BUT EIGHT DAYS they reached the palisaded town of Jallorby, lying not far from the northern extent of Jallor Pass, and there assembled were half the men they expected, for many had farther to come, and the supplies for the long-ride ahead were yet to arrive.

  And so they waited.

  Altogether it was another eleven days ere the muster of horses and packhorses and supplies and ten thousand men was complete.

  “Tomorrow we ride,” said Ulrik.

  “At last,” said Durgan and Valder together.

  Then Durgan’s gaze strayed toward the Grimwall and into the shadowed depths of Jallor Pass, and a cold shiver ran up his spine.

  46

  Complication

  Always in war it seems the best-laid plans are disrupted by unexpected events. Generally, it is a scramble to deal with whatever the disturbance is ere the unbalance unhinges all: a surprise attack, a slain commander, a debilitating disease, food rot, bad water, or other such calamities. Disasters both great and small can upset even the most careful of plans. In fact, one of the tactics of war is to create such ills for the enemy.

  There are times, though, when the actions of an unaccounted-for participant threaten to cause ruin, such as a random and unexpected bystander who somehow interferes with the execution of a plan.

  Such things happen in war. . . .

  . . . And in a dark fortress high in the Grimwalls east of Jallor Pass . . .

  • • •

  “MY MASTER,” said Radok; the apprentice stood in the door of the laboratory.

  Nunde, unclothed and with his face twisted in a rictus grin, hovered over his latest victim. Without looking up from vivisecting the Drik, he said, “What is it, Radok? Can you not see I am in the middle of an augury?”

  “Indeed, my master, yet I bear news of import.”

  Nunde paused, neither lifting his knife nor his avid gaze from the steaming entrails. “Well.”

  “A scout reports the Jordians are assembling at the north end of Jallor Pass.”

  Now Nunde looked up.

  “Assembling?”

  “A great many of them,” said Radok.

  “Ghah!” snarled Nunde, and he hacked and slashed the blade through the bowels before him, feces and other matter flying wide. With the knife yet clutched in his grume-slathered hand, he whirled upon Radok.

  The apprentice shrank back, cringing.

  “Summon Kothar!” shouted Nunde, hurling the knife aside and reaching for his cloak. “They threaten to ruin all.”

  Within moments and throughout the hidden bastion, the walls resounded with the clangor of a great brass gong.

  47

  Jallor

  There are a number of ways in and out of Jord. By water there is the Boreal Sea, which runs the full length of the northern border of Jord and beyond. In the east one can travel overland and cross the River Judra to go to and from Kath or Naud, though they are both enemies of old of Jord. But to the south lies the formidable Grimwall, and on the west there upjut the Gronfangs, and passage through these two mountain ranges is limited.

  Beyond the western range lies the fearful realm of Gron, peopled by Spawn and ruled by the dread Black Mage, Modru, though at the time of this writing, the master himself is absent, having fled to the Barrens after his defeat in the Great War of the Ban; since then he has not stirred from his bolt-hole—some say he is brooding, while others speculate he is waiting for something to occur, yet what that might be, who knows? Regardless, through the Gronfangs an unnamed passage cleaves, to debouch on the opposite side somewhere near where a dreadful sprawl, the Gwasp, oozes and belches and heaves. And to the north of that grasping mire lies Claw Moor, where, at its far extent, Modru’s Iron Tower squats like a malevolent spider lying in wait. It was there in that nameless pass Agron’s Army met its doom at the hands of Modru. It was there that Tipperton Thistledown nearly died. It was there that Beau Darby and the Wolfmage and his pack found Tipperton, and Beau saved him from certain death. Yet there are other passes through that range, all secret, some underground, known only by the Spawn.

  As to the ways through the Grimwalls, that range is also peopled by Spawn, and so the paths through are at times hazardous. Nevertheless, across that chain there are two main routes in and out of Jord:

  In the southeast corner of the Harlingar realm, Kaagor Pass runs through the range, and faring southward through the cleft will bear one into the Silverwood, beyond which Aven lies. Yet, if one is of a mind, upon debouching the pass a turn westward will take one through the woodland to the Dwarven realm of Kachar, there where the Vanadurin and the Châkka fought each other in deadly combat . . . until, that is, the dread Dragon Black Kalgalath came and assailed both sides.

  And in the southwest corner of Jord lies Jallor Pass, a fissure through the Grimwalls, leading southward into the realm of Riamon. Spawn dwell on both sides of the hazardous rift, and not very far from there and up among the crags a hidden sanctum houses a terrible Necromancer, Nunde.

  Jallor Pass is rugged and some thirty miles in length, and through much of it the walls rise sheer and close.

  And as the quickest way for the Jordians to join the High King’s army, it was through this pass that King Ulrik had decided to lead his men, his Harlingar, his Vanadurin—ten thousand strong. . . .

  . . . and Durgan.

  • • •

  IN THE WEE HOURS ERE DAWN, Aksel, lantern in hand, wakened Durgan.

  “We go, now,” said the tall rangy redhead.

  “It’s not light,” said Durgan, glancing at the window, stars glimmering in the sky.

  “The fördömlig maskfolk will be fleeing for caves with the coming of the sun, and so, even as they abandon the walls for safe haven, we enter the pass.”

  “Fördömlig maskfolk?”

  Aksel searched his memory for the meaning in Common. He finally settled on “damnable maggot-folk.”

&nb
sp; “Ah, the damanta crimuh-daoine.”

  Now it was Aksel who frowned in puzzlement.

  “The Spawn,” said Durgan.

  Aksel grinned. “Yes. The Wrg. —Now hurry.”

  Swiftly, Durgan donned his garb and took up his gear and, leaving behind the warm comfort of the White Horse Inn, he headed for the Jallorby stables.

  Though large, the stables could not possibly hold all of the mounts and packhorses, who in the main were tethered or kept in rope pens beyond the palisades at the north end of town. Yet Steel had a stall, for Durgan had ridden in with the royal party.

  The whole of the force was astir, and a flurry of activity filled the lantern-lit stables.

  Swiftly, Durgan had Steel fed and watered and saddled, with Durgan’s bedroll behind the cantle and his bow in its saddle scabbard. The Vanadurin had offered Durgan a lance, yet the young man had declined, saying that his weapons of choice were the saber and bow. Besides, with his slight frame, he doubted his effectiveness with a horse-borne spear.

  Hrosmarshal Röedr, leading a gelded bay, passed by Durgan and Steel. “You know where you ride?”

  Durgan, inspecting one of Steel’s hooves, looked up to see a tall, yellow-haired man in his midfifties, with sapphire-blue eyes matching those of his daughter Gretta. “Aye, Hrosmarshal, with the Sixth Brigade, following the pack train and the Fifth.”

  “I would rather you ride at the front, with the First or Second Brigades, or even with the pack train. It should be safer there, and your Mother Gretta would have it so.”

  Durgan nodded. “Aye, she would, yet I think I ride where I can do the most good.”

  The Hrosmarshal nodded. “As you will.” He glanced at Aksel, one of Röedr’s own men, and received a bare nod in return, then led his mount away.

  Durgan watched as the Iron Duke, King Ulrik’s war commander, walked onward. And though Durgan was the Hrosmarshal’s step-grandson by marriage, the duke had let Durgan ride where the lad wished, with King Ulrik and Prince Valder and Captain Hann, in the midst of several thousand Vanadurin.