Beneath the Forsaken City

by C. E. Laureano

  “You are warriors, aye?”

  Conor nodded his head once.

  “But you do not make war.”

  “Not unless the war comes to us.”

  “Who would be foolish enough to bring war against men who do nothing but learn to fight and use magic?”

  “Men who fight with darker magic.”

  Haldor’s eyes burned suddenly bright. “Tell me about this magic.”

  Conor considered. The northerner could be trying to learn about the one thing the Fíréin feared, but Haldor’s tension, his intense interest, told Conor it was much more personal. But where to begin?

  At the beginning, he supposed. “Balians believe in one God above all, who created both men and the beings we call the Companions. At the beginning of time, one of the Companions named Arkiel rebelled against Comdiu. He lost and was cast out of heaven with those who stood with him. Arkiel and the fallen, those our people call the sidhe, are allowed to influence the earth. Yet when Balus came to die for mankind, He gave the gifts of magic to help counteract the sidhe’s influence. To bind their power. Many of our brothers possess these gifts.”

  Haldor nodded thoughtfully, and Conor could see him fitting together all the pieces Conor had given him in the last several weeks. “It is the sidhe that your brotherhood fights against.”

  “In a sense. There are druids, like priests, who serve the Adversary and commune with the sidhe. Even if we don’t understand the full extent of their powers, what might they do if the gifts of Balus did not hold them back?”

  Haldor just stared through him, unseeing.

  A possibility surfaced in Conor’s mind. “Haldor, why did your people leave your homeland?”

  The Sofarende leader turned to him, and Conor knew. These incidents were not just limited to Seare. Perhaps the situation was different, but there was none of the surprise or disbelief he had expected to see in Haldor’s face. He had seen such things himself.

  “You may go now, Conor.”

  On the way back to his prison, Conor realized it was the first time Haldor had ever used his given name.

  That night, Conor tossed and turned on his mat, the glare of the moon through the gaps in the hut’s mortared walls interrupting his sleep. As if he could have slept anyway. Haldor understood the oppression of which Conor spoke; he was sure of it. Was that why he was meant to be here? To show Haldor the weapon—belief in the one true God—that could combat the evil that had overrun his northern home as it now swept over Seare?

  Shouts rang out in the compound outside the hut. Conor jerked straight up on his mat. Talfryn crouched beside him, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. “Are you ready?”

  The sounds of horses, men’s shouts, and clashes of steel grew louder, shuddering through Conor with sickening familiarity. The village was under attack. Talfryn crept to the door, but rather than try to open it, he threw his shoulder against a cracked section of the wall again and again. The plaster crumbled, the wicker frame splintering under the impact. Finally, with one last thrust, a section of the wall collapsed completely, spilling torchlight and moonlight inside.

  At once, the prisoners rushed for the hole, stumbling over each other in their haste. Talfryn and Conor pressed back out of the way, waiting. A cry pierced the air as one of the prisoners was taken by the guard, followed by a Norin curse as the other men fell upon him. Talfryn tapped Conor’s arm and gestured toward the now-quieter exterior of the hut.

  Men on powerful stallions rampaged through the village with swords and spears, killing all in their path. Across the planked thoroughfare, Conor glimpsed Haldor in his elaborately decorated helmet, ivory-hilted sword in hand. He cut down one of the horses and fell upon its rider before turning to face another warrior.

  “Go!” Talfryn shouted. “What are you waiting for?”

  Conor’s feet remained rooted in place.

  “Your freedom awaits you! Run!”

  Stay.

  Conor’s blood thrummed in his ears, dulling the sound of battle. This could be his one and only chance for escape. After this attack, vigilance would be doubled. He would never get another opportunity.

  Stay.

  In front of him, a Norin warrior fought a man on foot, their swords clashing for a second. Conor realized in shock that it was Ulaf. The other man, whom Conor assumed to be Gwynn, fought with a smaller, lighter sword than the Sofarende’s heavy broad weapon, and he wielded it with a facility that most Fíréin would envy. One quick feint, which Ulaf was slow to parry, and the sword slid into the northerner’s middle.

  Ulaf collapsed. Conor rushed to the warrior’s side and pressed his hands to the gushing wound.

  “Go,” Conor gritted out to Talfryn. His insides twisted at the thought of what he was giving up. “Escape while you can.”

  “Conor, don’t be stupid! He’s the enemy. You can’t save him.”

  Conor looked at the blood seeping through his fingers and knew the words to be true. But something, that quiet hand on his spirit, would not let him stand up and walk away.

  “It’s Comdiu’s will that I stay. Now go, quickly, before your chance is lost too.”

  Talfryn looked stricken, but he turned and ran, taking up a sword from a fallen Gwynn warrior as he went.

  Ulaf choked on a breath, blood bubbling from his lips and splattering his bleached beard. Conor cast around desperately until his eyes fell on a woman, brandishing a club as fearlessly as the men.

  “You! Here! Your apron!”

  The woman gawked at Conor, and he realized he had shouted in his own language. He repeated the command in Norin, and after a hesitation, she came to his side, pulling her apron from the front of her dress.

  “Press here,” he told her, bunching up the linen to staunch the wound. Almost immediately, it turned crimson. “More pressure.”

  “He’s already dead.”

  He looked at the warrior’s face. Ulaf’s eyes stared sightlessly to the sky. Conor sat back in the dirt, unable to understand the sudden flood of despair. This man was his enemy. He had spewed the vilest imaginings, detailed terrible acts, yet Conor was struck by a pang of grief at the knowledge that Ulaf’s spirit was gone.

  He sent the Lord of heaven as sacrifice, so that none need be lost.

  Conor bowed his head beneath the weight of sudden understanding. He had said it himself only hours ago: Comdiu saw men as equals. Not as enemies fighting over land and resources, but as sinners who were lost. To Him, Ulaf was no different than Conor except that Conor had accepted the sacrifice made for him.

  “You’re still here.”

  Conor looked up. Haldor stood over him, holding a dripping battle-ax, his face, hands, and clothing spattered with blood. He looked like a Norin god, bent on vengeance.

  “I made an oath before Comdiu to you. I will not go back on it.”

  Haldor stared at him while the fighting dwindled around them. He looked at Ulaf and then the blood on Conor’s hands and arms. He shook his head. “I do not know you, stranger. Leave this place.”

  He said it in the common tongue.

  Conor watched him walk away, almost too shocked to react. The woman looked between him and Haldor, just as surprised. Conor reached down and eased Ulaf’s broadsword from his limp fingers, cast one last look at Haldor’s departing back, and melted effortlessly into the darkness.

  Conor escaped the settlement without difficulty, staying close to the walls and concealing himself in the shadows. The front gate lay open, splintered, evidence of the battering ram used to break in. This was no hasty raid, but it wasn’t a full-scale assault either. Only a few of the Gwynn horsemen remained, fighting their way out, not in. Surely that meant they had accomplished their goal. Had they come to rescue Talfryn? Who was he to justify an attack on the Sofarende settlement?

  Conor kept his eyes peeled for any signs of him, but the man had disappeared as quickly and quietly as Conor. Did the Gwynn have powers of concealment beyond changing his appearance, ones that Conor’s perception coul
dn’t penetrate?

  The man—and the horsemen who had created the diversion—were surely his greatest chance for safety. The full moon illuminated the churned earth, scarred from the horse’s hooves. He followed the tracks northeast around the village and up a nearby rise, still concentrating on remaining unseen. He propped the flat of the heavy Norin blade against his shoulder. His arms, shoulders, and back ached as they had his first days at Ard Dhaimhin, and as his breathing became increasingly labored, pain stabbed through his ribs. He gave a mental prayer of thanks when he reached the top and slumped forward to catch his breath.

  Warning prickled the back of his neck. He barely managed to raise the sword in time to block the oncoming strike.

  “Halt! I’m a friend!” Conor circled to meet a second blow from the cloaked figure.

  “Enough.”

  A voice, laden with authority, cut through the fight, and his attacker disengaged. Conor glanced up to where several dozen horsemen waited. A man cloaked in a fur mantle moved toward him. Talfryn.

  Conor didn’t lower his sword until the other warrior sheathed his weapon. Talfryn nodded to the man, who gave a deep bow before backing away. “My lord.”

  Talfryn’s entire demeanor had changed. No longer was he the cringing, unassuming man pretending to be a house slave. He stood now with an air of command, armed with a sword that even in the dim light, Conor could see was inlaid with gold and precious gems.

  “You escaped after all,” Talfryn said. “What changed your mind?”

  “My lord,” one of the warriors called. “Forgive me, but we must be away to Cwmmaen before the Norin decide to give pursuit.”

  Cwmmaen? Conor sifted the half-forgotten details of Gwynn genealogy in his mind. King Llewellyn had three sons, the second of which was—

  “Prince Talfryn?”

  A smile stretched Talfryn’s face. “Indeed, I am. I’m impressed, Seareann. Where does a common warrior learn the details of foreign succession? Unless you are not as common as you pretend. Didn’t King Galbraith have a son named Conor who was killed tragically young?”

  Conor grinned. “Aye, he did. But you shouldn’t believe every report you hear.”

  “Then, Conor with no clan name, let us be away. You ride?”

  Conor followed Talfryn to where two riderless mounts waited. A man offered him the reins. “This was planned? I don’t understand.”

  “I will explain. But not now.”

  Conor looked down at the leather saddle with its hanging loops. Apparently Gwynn did not ride bareback like Seareanns. He thrust his foot into the loop and swung his leg over the gelding’s back. Convenient. This was a custom he wouldn’t mind bringing back to Seare.

  He settled the reins in one hand and rested the sword against his shoulder once more.

  “Can you use that thing?”

  Conor glanced at Talfryn. “Aye. Though I’m better with a short sword.”

  “Good. Because as soon as my wife learns you’re the reason for my captivity, she’ll likely try to separate your head from your shoulders.”

  “I’m the reason for your captivity? You were there before I was!”

  “Comdiu sent me to wait for you.” Talfryn grinned at Conor. “I suppose it could be worse. Hyledd will forgive me since the mission was successful. If I came back without you, I would never hear the end of it.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The men remained vigilant as they rode north from the Sofarende encampment, but best they could tell, they had not been pursued. Perhaps Haldor had decided it wasn’t worth risking his men to recover a pair of slaves.

  After a few minutes, their escort split into several detachments and took off in different directions, leaving only a handful of warriors behind to accompany them. Conor took that to mean they were nearing Cwmmaen, but the sky had begun to lighten to a steely gray before they descended into a low valley.

  Talfryn gestured for Conor to ride up beside him. “I take it you do not wish anyone to know your real identity?”

  “It doesn’t serve me to be known as a Mac Nir,” he said. “Not considering all that has been done in Seare.”

  “You don’t wish any mention of the Fíréin either?”

  Conor shook his head. Men typically took that bit of information as a threat or a challenge. The last thing he needed was the scrutiny of the warriors in the prince’s household. As it was, anyone who knew Talfryn’s true reason for being in the enemy camp would have a reason to dislike him.

  They descended into the valley and then back up the next rise, where a sprawling fortress came into view. Its inner walls, earth and stone, protected a structure more elegant than most palaces he’d seen in Seare. Circular walls rose to meet a peaked timber roof, the carved eaves displaying elaborately entwined mythological creatures. Several outbuildings, their slanted tops barely visible over the high walls, flanked the main keep. Two of their party rode ahead, and the great gates cranked open on their approach.

  Conor hung back with the other men while Talfryn rode up front. A host of servants appeared before them to take the horses’ reins. He dismounted, suddenly conscious of his appearance. Even without a mirror, he knew his hair was matted, his skin and clothing filthy. It was a small comfort that the prince looked and smelled no better than he.

  The massive carved wooden doors opened, and a beautiful woman in an embroidered dress came out. Intricate braids bound her blonde hair atop her head, and gold and jewels covered her throat and hands. She strode straight for Talfryn, gripping handfuls of her skirt before her, and then drew back her hand and slapped him soundly across the cheek.

  Conor held his breath, muscles tensed while he waited for Talfryn’s response. But the prince just rubbed his cheek ruefully. “Could you be less predictable, darling?” Then he yanked her to him and kissed her. The men around them laughed.

  “Ugh. You reek.” She struggled away from him, though the press of her lips suggested she was not as irritated as she pretended. She turned to a tall, thin man beside her. “My lord husband will bathe in the barracks. Our guest as well.”

  Her gaze had slid so quickly over Conor that he’d thought she hadn’t noticed his presence. Talfryn nudged him with his elbow as she spun on her heel and went back inside. “This is to be my punishment, I see. Is your wife so demanding?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” The ache crept into Conor’s chest again. “We were separated only a few days after we were married.”

  Talfryn sobered. “I’m sorry—”

  “Think nothing of it, my lord.”

  “Oh, not you as well.” Talfryn shook his head and clapped a hand on Conor’s shoulder. “No ‘my lord this’ or ‘my lord that.’ Men who have been in captivity together have no use for such formality.”

  “If you say so, my l—Talfryn.”

  The steward stepped between them. “My lord, your bath awaits you.”

  Talfryn chuckled and shrugged, then gestured for Conor to follow him.

  The barracks were as well appointed as Conor’s rooms at Glenmallaig. Talfryn and Conor were shown to separate bathing rooms with stone tubs set into the ground and drains in the bottom. Conor gaped openly at the hot water flooding from piping into the bath.

  “Ciraen design, sir. This fortress was left behind when the armies withdrew almost a century ago. We benefit from their ingenuity. Hot springs, you see.”

  Conor nodded, though he really didn’t see. The bathhouse at Ard Dhaimhin made use of the hot springs beneath, but those were just natural pools around which a structure had been erected. This was a marvel of engineering, water routed through piping that could be turned on and off at will.

  “Do you need assistance, sir?”

  “No, thank you. I can manage on my own.”

  “Very well, sir. I’ll be back with clean clothes.”

  Conor nodded. Once he was alone, he stripped off his stinking, filthy garments. Thank Comdiu the Gwynn were as fanatical as Seareanns about bathing. His tutor had told him that on the contin
ent, bathing was thought to cause the plague and other diseases. He shuddered at the thought of what a hall full of continental courtiers must smell like. At least the smell in the slaves’ quarters had been an honest stink, not layered with perfume and incense.

  When Conor had scrubbed every inch of his body with strong lye soap and the bath water had turned an alarming shade of gray, he climbed out and wrapped the clean cloth around his waist. The steward had placed a comb, a single-edged blade meant for shaving, and a hand mirror on a tray atop a low table. Conor attempted to draw the comb through the ends of his matted hair for only a moment before he set it down in exasperation and eyed the razor.

  What did it matter? His long hair was just another bit of vanity—the symbol of a warrior from a homeland that had fallen and a brotherhood he had abandoned. He hesitated for a moment before he raised the razor to the nape of his neck and sawed through his braid.

  When the steward returned minutes later, he looked twice at Conor before nodding approvingly. He handed a folded stack of clothing to him. “Your meal awaits you in the hall, sir. Prince Talfryn has ordered—requested—that you dine with him and his family.”

  Conor fingered the garments, finely woven silk and linen heavy with embroidery. They looked to be straight from the prince’s own wardrobe. Why was a Gwynn prince, a stranger, taking such an interest in him? He had said Comdiu sent him. Surely he just meant he saw a greater purpose in his captivity. He couldn’t mean it literally.

  Then again, stranger things had happened. And Talfryn had the resources and the contacts to make inquiries about Aine. Even the fiercely independent Highland clans wouldn’t ignore a missive from a prince of Gwydden.

  Conor brightened at the thought and dressed quickly, his stomach rumbling. It had been weeks—no, months—since he’d had the benefit of a proper meal. He combed his newly shorn hair away from his face in an attempt to make himself presentable, straightened his silk tunic, and stepped outside to find the prince waiting for him.

  “Ready to face the wolves?” Talfryn asked with a cheery smile.