by Louis Emery
Malcolm’s horse sneezed as a gust of wind blew. He turned to Orbist. “You and King Greenvale feel she’s the key to getting the Gathered involved. Why is it that she will convince them?”
“I’m not positive she will convince them, but she will assuredly sway their opinion. I’m a good persuader, and over the years, I’ve had occasion to correspond with some of the wizards up there. Yet, the old texts mention that a Seer with a connection to dragonfire has the potential for world-shifting capabilities. The priests and prophets who authored these words are not specific in describing the exact potential, but I believe she can change things for the good, and I think—and hope—the wizards of Dragon Mount will see that.”
Malcolm turned from Orbist and looked ahead. The road before them led to the township of Farmington, named after the lord whose castle stood at its center. The stone wall surrounding the entrance was paltry to that of Em Regis. Still, the Samson Duchy stood as one of the Backland’s stoutest strongholds in the east, merely several miles from the southernmost range of the Needle-Tip Mountains where it was said enemy invaders had the easiest path to cross.
It was difficult gaining access past the guards at the town gates, and even more at the castle entrance. Only when a captain was summoned and recognized the Mage-Council did he permit them to dismount and tie up their horses within the walls. Servants were sent for, who led Malcolm and Orbist into Lord Samson’s meeting hall, while the rest of the party was granted respite at dining room tables. The castle appeared vacant aside from the occasional liveried footman and servant girl busy at their tasks.
“A bit drab since the last time I was here,” Orbist said, blowing the dust off a sconce. The candles weren’t lit, the day’s light filtering through the room’s windows.
“When was that?”
“A few years back.” Orbist touched his head, recalling. “For the funeral of Lord Samson’s wife. The plague hit here as well. It was hard to see the lord in such grief. The king and I gave what condolences we could.”
Malcolm knew the loss brought with the plague. He’d returned from campaign in Feldsparta and the Southwoods, only to find the western half of the capitol ravaged with sickness.
His sister, the only true family he ever had, was taken from him. She was two years his junior, and he’d felt like he abandoned her, gone to war instead of nursing her back to health, or at the very least, easing her passing. He never got to properly say goodbye, her body being one of the many piled high in the death carts of the quarantined zones, only to be dumped in the mass grave dug in the city’s outskirts.
Malcolm’s melancholy was interrupted when a man entered the hall. Dressed in fine silks covering a laced tunic with a symbol of the Farmington dove embroidered on his chest, he bowed upon entering.
“Ser Malcolm, Mage-Council Orbist, I am Hiram Sussex, appointed to the Lord’s Board of Advisors. I’m sure you are wondering why our lord did not journey to Em Regis.”
“Is everything all right?” Orbist asked. “Has Lord Samson taken ill?”
“All is not well, I’m afraid. Lord Samson is dead.”
“Dead?” Orbist glanced over at Malcolm.
“Murdered.” Hiram stepped closer. “An assassin burst through his hall in the night, slew his three guards, and took the lord’s head.”
“Took … took his head?” Orbist’s eyes widened.
The Coterie, Malcolm thought. His hand no longer relaxed on the sword pommel at his side. His knuckles grew white.
Hiram looked at his feet a moment, then back up. “Funeral was two days ago. It’s been an awful month, to say the least. Farmington’s affairs are in disarray. Lord Samson’s sons, the rightful heirs, cannot rule. They’re both disabled mentally and need constant care. He has a cousin who is next in line to the duchy, but he’s off fighting at the Backland Front with our army. In the meantime, myself and two other advisors rule until a new lord is given title proper.”
Noticing the despair in the man’s eyes, Ser Malcolm said, “I’m sorry for your grievances. I shall send a message to King Greenvale, alerting him of this tragedy.”
The advisor gave a forlorn nod, and then met his eyes. “The captain of the guard notified me that you’re on a mission to Barrport. Which way do you plan to take?”
“The western Winglands.”
“That’s no good. The Ballardian forces have sacked the cities and villages there.”
“What?” Orbist was stunned. “When did you hear?”
“Only last week,” Hiram spread his arms out, illustrating the futility of the situation. “A caravan brought news from Middenheim City.”
“What other route is there for us?” Malcolm asked.
“The only other way is the Thornvine,” Hiram’s visage grew serious. “If you go east, you hit the Needle-Tips, and it’s unpassable there.”
“The Thornvine,” Malcolm repeated, grimacing. This was a setback. He did not expect to cross barbarian-infested wilderness.
“King Greenvale was a good friend to our lord,” Hiram said, “as were you Mage-Council Orbist. I know he had comfort in your visit on the death of his wife. I can persuade the other advisors to allow a contingent of home guards to accompany you through the Gulls’ land. We have a number who speak their language, and may be able to ease your passage, should you run into a friendlier tribe.”
Malcolm thought for a long moment and looked to Orbist, who had the same look of indecision. So be it. There’s no other choice. Finally, Malcolm said, “We appreciate whatever assistance your guards can provide. We shall take the Thornvine.”
“You what? Have you heard the stories about this place?”
Upon updating the party of the rerouting of their journey in Lord Samson’s dining hall, most objection came from Ser Balliol. The two small scars on his cheek appeared larger along with wrinkles that popped up with his aggravation.
“Surely, there are alternatives. The Gulls there will off our heads!”
“Please keep it down,” Malcolm said, glancing over at Ethlin who was quietly conversing with Orbist at the end of a log table. “There’s no other option unless you want to break through the enemy lines with four swords, a mage, and Seer.”
“What about the mountains? We could pass over—”
“Advisor Hiram says they’re nigh impassable.”
“We can smuggle our way through the western Winglands. Pay some merchant a hefty price. Disguise ourselves as caravan travelers—”
“Too risky,” Malcolm said, shaking his head. “If they get their hands on her,” he nodded to Ethlin, “then all his lost.”
“And if we get slaughtered like cattle in those woods? Would not all be lost then?” Balliol’s face grew ruddy, and Malcolm noticed the scar over his left eye turn a deeper hue. The knight leaned in closer. “There’s a reason no one lives in or enters the Thornvine, and it’s not just the Gulls. Witches practice black magic there because there’s no one to stop them. Curses, spells, and booby-traps probably riddle the paths, which is why few ever return after going in.”
Malcolm stared hard into Balliol’s eyes. “We’ll be accompanied by a contingent of Farmington guards, some of whom have traversed the Thornvine and know the Gulls’ language. They will see us through—they know the right paths to take. These people have lived near and have become accustomed to this wilderness for centuries.”
Ser Balliol rubbed his face and chuckled over at Ser Royce who was listening in. He turned back to Malcolm. “I’ve smuggled myself through Redwoodian outposts easily enough. All you’ve to do is look the part, dress as to fit in and not draw attention. Act as if you’re none of the enemy’s concern.”
“No,” Malcolm said. Ballardian spies were notorious for infiltrating other kingdoms. All it took was one who’d strode the halls of the Gray Keep to recognize Orbist or Ethlin, or even him or Artemis. The fastest and smartest route was to cut through the quiet trails of the Thornvine while under guard.
“Now, look here,” Balliol fought, “co
nsider—”
“You’ve had your say, sir,” Ser Royce addressed his comrade.
“You stay out of this,” he spat back loudly. “I’ve more years on the both of you.”
“More years don’t make you right,” Artemis said, chewing an apple and sitting relaxed at a nearby table.
Ser Balliol leveled a perturbed look at the man, whose face was a mask of calm. Before he could let his anger fly, Malcolm said, “He’s right. Besides, King Greenvale chose me to lead this party, and it’s my final say. This is not a battlefield, Ser Balliol, where elder generals hold the reins. This is the path we take.”
The knight of Prestonpan Fells squinted his eyes as if readying for further challenge. Instead, he sighed heavily, the sound echoing around the dining hall, and he walked back to the other side of the table. He sat down hard, his armor clanking. “King chose you, then that’s what we’ll do,” he muttered under his breath. “If only I had a silver coin for every time I’ve been dealt trouble following a king or lord’s wishes.”
“Dinner will be here shortly,” Ser Royce said, trying to brighten the mood. He stepped over to Malcolm, whispering, “He’ll be brooding for a few hours. Give him time. He’ll come around.”
Before dinner was served, Malcolm decided to escape Ser Balliol’s temper and get some fresh air. Lord Samson’s castle sat at the center of town and offered views of the thoroughfares, wilderness, and Needle-Tip Mountains beyond. Labyrinthine forests perched atop the rising elevation—the Thornvine. Some smaller towns and villages scattered about a few miles from the forests. Even hundreds of years before, the first settlers in that area knew not to build too close to the perilous woods.
The Needle-Tips to the east displayed precipitous slopes and pointed peaks. From this far back the view was more romantic, the darkening sky a canvas, and the mountains a scene from a painting. Malcolm had never been to the eastern ranges, but he’d heard the stories enough. Disastrous marches of the Backlanders and Phozanti alike. If it wasn’t the slips and falls that killed soldiers, it was rockslides or freezing nights. Or giant cave bears. Malcolm didn’t know which was worse—impalement by piercing rock or devouring by frenetic beast.
The wind blew along the ramparts, and a familiar perfume caught Malcolm’s scent. He turned and saw Ethlin approaching, bundled up in the faded brown robes Orbist had given her. It didn’t make sense to have her wear the eye-catching light blue robes of a Dragonmother apprentice.
“You shouldn’t be out here,” Malcolm called, the breeze swaying his cloak like the pennons hanging from the castle towers. “You’ll catch cold out here, and we don’t need you getting sick before we depart.”
“I’ve lived in plenty cooler,” Ethlin said, walking beside him. “We may live in the South, but you know as well as I do Em Regis in the winter. Well, maybe not. I expect the orphanage I’d lived in before the temple was a might better freezing than Kingsguard barracks.”
Malcolm gave her a brief, pitying look and turned back to the view. The two of them stood in silence, gazing at the land beyond.
“Mage Orbist says we’re taking a different route through rock canyon and forest,” Ethlin said, finally. “And I overheard some of your talk with Ser Balliol. Where we’re going is dangerous?”
“Any route we take is dangerous, Ethlin.”
“What exactly should we fear, taking this Thornvine?”
“You needn’t concern yourself with that.”
Ethlin turned to him. “I think I should. After all, it is my life that’s at stake, too.”
Malcolm sighed and gave her a sideways look. “You don’t think I bothered to consider that?”
She turned back to the overlook. “I’d just like to know about where we’re going. Mage Orbist won’t tell me much. He’s too concerned with me—worrying about my meditations, focusing on my visions, and rereading the history of Seers he’s lugging along. Ser Malcolm, if I knew the slightest of what we’re up against, maybe I can better combat it, should we ever run afoul—”
“The Thornvine is reputed to be haunted by witches and hostile tribes,” Malcolm blurted. “There, you happy? And don’t try to persuade that we smuggle you through Ballardian lines. Ser Balliol tried that, and I won’t have it.”
Ethlin nodded. “I wasn’t going to persuade you of anything. Just wanted to know, that’s all.” Her dark brown hair with golden streaks blew in the wind, and her pale face showed stark against the backdrop of the coming night.
“I heard you’ve had trouble sleeping,” Malcolm said.
“I’m used to it, though it’d be nice to have a normal dream every once in a while.” She gave a futile smile. “Maybe if I master my meditations. They do seem to help. Or maybe when this war’s all over. But it seems it’s just begun.”
“We’ll be far from battle once we reach Barrport and Dragon Mount. The Gatekeeper City has been well protected for centuries, and the wizards are bound to help us.”
Ethlin gave him a worried look. “How do we know they’ll want to help me? Help us?”
“I believe they’ve no choice. With the other wizard faction on Varick’s side and the destruction he’s causing for naught, they’d have to take action. And Mage Orbist has faith in your influence.”
“I know that.” Ethlin looked down. “But I don’t know if I have faith in myself.”
Malcolm raised her chin with his large hand. “Do.”
She gave him a weary look. “I’m trying.”
31
Farmington food was fitting for a lord’s hall. Malcolm thought it a shame the cooks no longer had a lord to serve. Perhaps Lord Samson’s cousin would soon return from the front to claim his title and remind his people that the duchy would be properly looked after and protected, before heading back to lead his troops.
King Greenvale would’ve been on the front lines, too, if he could. His age and an old battle wound on his leg made him vulnerable on the field, so he was now forced to conduct strategy within the Gray Keep. In his stead, his son—the sword-skilled and ever willing—Prince Barnabas rode with reinforcements to the front lines. The prince would be protected by Kingsguard on the field, as would his father in the castle.
Malcolm fervently wished he could be protecting his king, and a different knight lead this expedition. Yes, Lord Samson didn’t have the protection King Greenvale had. But still, Malcolm wasn’t sure of the Coterie’s full potential.
He washed down these thoughts with a second mug of ale. Advisor Hiram, along with his other two colleagues, Advisors Brixton and Jakoby, joined them for dinner, illustrating that despite the death of their lord, Farmington hospitality wasn’t lacking. Before the advisors left for the evening, they made sure the servants knew to lead Malcolm and his companions to their guest quarters. Malcolm handed Hiram the letter he’d addressed to King Greenvale and signed with his secret signature. The advisor would see the message delivered so the king could be updated on the tragic events of Samson Duchy.
Taking the letter, Hiram said, “If you all wait here, I’ll have Captain Halarn pay you a visit. He’s the one who notified me of your arrival. I’m afraid you’ve already seen he’s of a dour disposition at the front gate, but I assure you he’s the best man to lead you through.”
Malcolm and company waited for the captain, as servants brought sweetened bread and fruit for dessert. With the Farmington army deployed, the castle had fewer guards to feed. Undoubtedly, the kitchen staff had ample foodstuffs to spare. Malcolm’s belly already stretched from dinner and drink, but as soon as the moist bread hit his lips, he forgot his body had limits. This would be the last good eating for quite a while.
Before long, he saw a man he assumed was the captain approach. Garbed in chainmail and surcoat bearing the dove sigil, Captain Halarn looked the part of a man leading the castle guard. Malcolm had noticed the man’s brusqueness in passing, as the captain made a brief appearance at the gate before consulting with Hiram and the other advisors as to whether he should permit entry. At a studious
glance, the captain was of middling age with short, cropped hair and a neatly trimmed goatee beginning to turn gray.
“Ser Malcolm.” The man extended his hand. “I’m to lead you through the Thornvine with two of my sergeants and twenty guards.”
“We’re very much obliged.” Malcolm met the man’s piercing eyes.
“Looks as though you’ve dined well tonight,” Captain Halarn said, peering over the guests at the table. “That’s good. It’ll be the last meal of variety for a while. I’m afraid bread, salt beef, apples, and dried dates are the fare through the ’Vine.’”
“I know that diet well. Was on campaign a few weeks back. Had to trek through the Southwoods, as well. We’ve brought our own victuals, so’s not to deplete yours.”
The captain shook his head. “No need to fret about that. From what Hiram told me, you’re on King Greenvale’s orders. We’re Backlanders too, and we support the king however we can—particularly a sanctioned mission such as this.”
“So you know we’re to Dragon Mount?”
“Aye, and it’s a good thing, too,” Halarn rubbed his goatee, leaning closer. “If that Lord Varick’s got dragons fighting for him, we’ll need all the help we can get. I hear tell he’s used the beasts to take Eelandra and burn through Xochwrit Bank’s vaults, and he’s using the gold to hire the armies of the Wingland kingdoms he’s conquered.”
“That son of a bitch is turning to mercenaries?” Malcolm asked through clenched teeth. He didn’t want Ethlin to hear back at the table, but it was difficult controlling his volume in the hall.
“Taking after his Crowley allies. I suspect he’ll want his mercenaries to hold the east—the reason being he can launch an assault at the heart of the Backlands, aiming for Em Regis.”
“That’s what I fear.” Malcolm crossed his arms. “With the dragons and his increasing numbers he may be able to break through our center.”
“Not if you can cripple his dragons with your own dragonriders. Hiram explained your journey’s urgency, but he didn’t need to. Samson Duchy is more vulnerable now with our lord gone, his sons unfit to rule, and the successor on the front lines. Rest easy in knowing the significance of your trek is not lost on me.”