"Sir," he said, uncertain what decision he would make. For there was some uncertainty in his heart and Donovan recognized that the unknown certainly held as much potential for misery as it did for glory. "I will not deny your offer as it was given with sincerity. But neither will I commit to you, not yet."
"Promise me this, boy," said the man, leaning down from his horse. "Promise me you'll not sign on with those sailors without letting me see what you're signing."
"Master Gunnar," said the boy, thoughtful. The older man was only person in the Isles that Donovan truly trusted, he felt the man's words were wise. "I will do as you ask."
Gunnar nodded in satisfaction, reached down and slapped the boy on the shoulder, and thundered off toward the city. Donovan watched him go atop the small but hardy horse. For a moment he imagined himself working for the Militia, walking a patrol along the top of the wooden palisade that surrounded the city, and saw his hopes for a bright future fading with the dust of the horses hooves. He shook his head, no matter what the old man said Donovan just could not see any way he would be dissuaded.
And as he turned away from the city gates and made his way toward the monastery, the "castle" some monks called it, Donovan promised himself that today would be the last day that he ever returned to this dreadful place. How could he when fortune and fame awaited?
CHAPTER TWO
Donovan walked the silent halls of the monastery's main floor, torches flickered on wall sconces in the drafty and dank castle. Castle was a word that the monks brought with them from the mainland, a strange word describing strange architecture that none on the Isles really understood. Why anyone would build such an ugly monstrosity was beyond him.
The arrival of the priests was a recent event in the history of the Blight, they had only been among Isle people for a few decades. The priests of the new god had arrived on the Isles with goodwill, innovative ways to grow crops in the harsh environment of the Blight, and a seemingly genuine concern for the eternal souls of the Kjavik and the other tribes of the Blight. While the monks and priests were welcomed with the hospitality that all Kjavik prided themselves on, their message had not been well received at first.
Though the monks always taught him that the demonic powers of the false gods the Kjavik worshiped caused such resistance to the new ways, Donovan always suspected his people just didn't trust strangers. When the small mission grew with the arrival of monks from other countries on the mainland, some of the people of the Blight began to convert. Truly, Donovan believed, the monks did bring a good message. It was just that they were not very good at delivering it.
The monks and priests of the god they simply called, "God," said that theirs was a god higher than all others. They preached that God was in fact the creator of all in the natural world, and to the dismay of the Kjavik, this god had created the Hulderheym as well. While the Kjavik did indeed accept the existence of the underworld where the dark minions of the Hulderhulk lived, they had always thought the dark spirits were on equal footing with the good spirits that dwelt upon the vast plains of Eternal Valhulden where Woden ruled. That there was one powerful being above everything, and that his benevolent spirits battled the dark forces for supremacy, was as foreign a concept as the odd men who preached it.
The monks from this new order of Pater believed nearly half the Isle of Blight, the capital, had converted.
Donovan nodded in respect as one of the silent monks who had taken vows that prohibited all forms of communication, passed him by. The monk did not acknowledge him in any way, so enraptured as he was in he prayer. Donovan continued on down the cold hallway, his feet echoing loudly, and he longed for the warmth of the thatch-roofed longhouses where the ordinary people of the Blight lived.
At the end of the hallway he reached a wooden door, several of its planks had been replaced but others still needed attention. The monks were stubborn, and tended to feel that they always knew what was best, even when they didn't. He opened the door and a blast of warm air carried with it the smells of hot food and the hubbub of subdued conversations. He was in the feast-hall and a fire was roaring in the hearth at the far end. It wasn't a huge hall, it could perhaps seat three dozen at once, and had to operate throughout the day to supply all of the monks and the boys' meals. Donovan always wondered why Sunday wasn't the busiest day for the kitchen staff, but he suspected that many monks, and his fellow orphans, probably just wanted to escape the monotony and ate somewhere in town.
He stepped up to the window and a grim-faced brother slid him a tray. The monk mumbled the ritual prayer but "...thanks and praise..." was all Donovan had been able to comprehend. The boy bowed his head and replied, "We give thanks and praise to our Lord." But when he looked up the monk had moved on, muttering his prayers half-heartedly and ignoring everyone. Donovan sensed a strange mood in the monastery of the Order of Pater, everyone seemed unusually dour and grim; even the happy-go-lucky Brother Dugan walked about as though he just been told his mother had died.
Donovan sat down at table as three older boys stood to leave. The older boys said nothing to him, and Donovan made no effort at conversation either. They knew enough of the boy's uncanny strength to deter them from picking on him, but they also seemed determined not to engage him in any fashion at all. Donovan stared at his food for a moment, forgetting to say the next ritual prayer until a gentle tap on the shoulder reminded him.
"Brother Dugan," he began. "Forgive me, I-"
"Should leave this monastery very quickly, and very quietly," the red haired monk interrupted in hushed tones.
"But, -"
"Shh," he whispered. "Put your head down and look at your food."
Donovan obeyed and eyed the rest of the room warily. No one seemed to be paying him any attention, so far. Donovan had never seen Brother Dugan so serious before. He felt compelled to do as the kindly man asked of him.
"An arrest warrant has been issued for you by Lord Steigsen." Donovan felt himself going cold inside all of sudden. He had done nothing wrong, had never harmed anyone without cause. And yet, more than once, the boy had been accused of wrongdoing simply because he was strong enough to have done whatever crime he had been accused of. It was no coincidence, not to the boy, that these things often coincided with the Lights. And the Bvar shaman had been saying that an unusual occurrence of the Summer Lights would be happening soon. "They say you have troll blood. I beg you not to fight them, do not harm them. Just go, my son."
"Troll blood," he whispered numbly. That was an accusation that could bring a fate worse than death; it was enough even to give this strapping young man pause. Donovan respected the brother too much not to pay him heed. But the accusation had his mind reeling. Troll blood? He wanted to scoff at the notion. It was something that mothers often accused their miscreant children of. It was something that people said about those whom they hated. It was in fact a crime to be a Troll within the borders of the Kjavik lands, as was merely having Trollish blood.
But was it even possible for trolls to mix with humans? Few even believed that Trolls existed. And though it had been so long since any had been seen in the Isles, an official peace treaty had been signed by the Troll King and the Kjavik Lord centuries ago. How could it be that he had Troll blood if there were no trolls? Perhaps that was why he was so strong, Trolls were infamously strong and infamously wicked. It was no secret that he was not liked by the Kjavik people and it seemed more likely the preposterous allegation had been contrived to simply get rid of him.
"I will do as you ask," he said in hushed tones, but he could not help his lip curling into a sneer. "No one would know I'm gone anyway. No one knows I am here, now."
"Donovan, everyone knows you're here."
"What?" he asked. No one liked him enough to remain silent when such inaction would surely bring the ire of the Lord upon them. "Why would anyone care?"
"Hush! There is no time. The others will protect you as far they can, but they will not harm another to do so," Donovan nodded, though he w
as far from understanding what was happening. The thought that anyone liked him enough to protect him was mind-boggling. "Go to the door that Vilfred just left through. He will be-"
But brother Dugan could say no more. Donovan watched, stunned, as the man's eyes rolled up in his head and a rivulet of blood escaped from his nose. Then he slumped onto the table, an arrow protruding from the base of his skull. Donovan whirled around and hopped to his feet, holding a steel tray near his head. An arrow thunked into the tray, penetrating halfway down its shaft. He dropped below the tables and heard the maniacal laughter of the Island's Lumathor, Svan Skaldsen. The brothers and children in the dining hall scurried to get away from the Isle's lawman and his henchmen.
"So sorry, young man!" said the man with no sincerity. "That arrow was meant for you!"
Donovan looked across the room from his vantage point beneath the tables and saw there were four men, each wearing armor and carrying weapons. At least one of them had a crossbow. Donovan felt mildly disappointed that the man he had come to trust had just been killed, but his emotion fell short of grief. He wondered if he were capable of feeling grief. He was tempted to fight, but the dying request of the monk who had been his mentor lingered in his mind.
THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!
Three more arrows planted into the table he was hiding under. The men who fired, fanned out through the room. They were going to flank him and cut off any avenue of escape that he might try. He could not let that happen.
"How many more must die, Donovan?" asked the sing-song voice of the Lumathor. "But I forget, Donovan does not care if we kill his friends. Does he? No, he doesn't because Donovan has no friends."
As the chilling words of the vicious man carried past the terrified monks and orphans, a strange feeling overcame Donovan. He didn't know precisely what that feeling was, but it fueled a desire to protect the weaker people in the room. And so, Donovan Stormson slowly stood and faced the crossbows pointed at him by the Lumathor and his men.
"I will go peacefully," he said with a rueful glance at Brother Dugan's inert form. "Harm no one else." He saw the looks in the eyes of the others, looks of fear and gratitude. But was there also concern for himself? As he ambled toward the armed men, he wondered if that strange sensation he felt was in fact fear. Could a person actually fear for others?
"So it can feel, eh?" growled Svan derisively. The Lumathor's men grabbed him roughly and placed manacles on his wrists. He smiled at them, thinking how easy it would be for him to break the chains that bound him and snap their puny necks. Svan glared at him, his beady eyes glittering wickedly in the flickering light of the room. "Hobble its feet too, we can't have this Troll breaking free and slaughtering our innocent priests, can we?"
As the lawmen escorted him from the monastery grounds Donovan had to decide what to do next. He was nearly sixteen and the thought of being imprisoned the day before his freedom was enough to again stir that strange emotion he felt earlier. Was it fear again? Or was a sensation of loss?
He thought of old Gunnar and wondered if the elder man would stand for him. He doubted it. Gunnar's own militia often bristled over the Lumathor's authority over them, Svan would hear nothing the old man had to say. Donovan knew he could easily break free from these men, but in all likelihood at least one arrow would strike him. And if he did escape, would Svan take his revenge upon the innocent monks and orphans? Did he truly care if the Lumathor did just that?
Donovan thought about it as they left the confines of the monastery and walked across the drawbridge high above the icy waters of the Firth of Hopfall. On the other side of the drawbridge, Gunnar sat atop his horse and a squad of his men stood behind him.
"Hae, Lumathor," growled Gunnar as the lawman unhitched his tall dark mainland horse from a post beside the drawbridge.
"Hae, Commander," replied the man over his shoulder as he tightened the girth strap. Gunnar bristled at the insult, it was disrespectful among the Kjavik not to face someone when returning a greeting. But Gunnar held his tongue, the Lumathor outranked him after all.
"Where are you going with one of my men?"
"Your man?" growled the Lumathor, the silver buckles of his black coat gleaming in the harsh sun. "I see neither uniform nor insignia of rank upon him."
"I drafted him."
"When?" scoffed the Lumathor with a look of disdain. His men muttered to each other, expecting a fight. They were outnumbered by the Militia, but their leader did not appear concerned. He instructed his men to chain Donovan to his horse's saddle.
"Just this morning."
"I received no notice of a drafted Militiaman. Where are the orders?"
Gunnar tossed a scrollcase to the other man, but the unsettled look in his eyes told Donovan the older man had no real plan. The smile on the face of the Lumathor confirmed his suspicions.
"Master Gunnar, I'm afraid the Lord of the Dominion's name is not affixed to this order. The draft is invalid." Svan crumpled the parchment and threw it to the ground with the scrollcase. Then one of the Lumthor's men stepped on it. "My order of arrest, however, does have the Lord of the Dominion's signature upon it. Therefore you are interfering with a lawful arrest of a wicked troll. Please remove yourself from my presence."
Svan was not a fool. And knowing he was badly outnumbered he did not risk confrontation though Donovan knew the Lumathor was bristling for a fight. Instead the Lumathor turned his horse smartly away from Gunnar and the other militiamen and spurred his horse to a trot. Donovan was orced to run as the chains tightened and he cast a sidelong glance at the old man as he went. The look of resignation in the man's eyes was not lost on Donovan, Gunnar could do nothing more.
As Donovan trotted down the main road people began to emerge from their homes. The usual stoic Kjavik people did not hurl rocks or insults or rotten food, their silence and disapproving glares were insult enough. He stopped looking them and anger began broil within him. What did they know of him? Who were they to judge? Was he not entitled to a hearing before the Lord of the Dominion?
He turned his thoughts away from these people. They did not love him and he did not love them. He owed them nothing. The procession stopped along the waterfront where the cold jail was, and brisk wind rushed in from the great bay. The hour was late, nearly Tenth Past Noon, and the sun was beginning to set on the distant horizon. The sky was red and purple and streaked with arrow shaped clouds.
Donovan stared out to sea, to freedom, as the Lumathor removed the chain from his saddle. And as the lawman began to drag his prize to the steps that led to the prison, Donovan saw something on the horizon.
An Imperial warship!
And the young man felt another strange new emotion.
Hope.
CHAPTER THREE
The cell door closed with a loud boom that echoed loudly in the dark cellar prison. Donovan examined the door as best he could in the dank cell, noting that it was made of wood planks fastened with steel bands. The planks had been treated with resin, not unlike those used on the ships of the Kjavik people, to preserve and strengthen the wood. The planks, he knew, would also be secured together in a tongue-in-groove fashion; even with his legendary strength it would be a tall order to break down that stout door.
"It's no use," rasped a voice from a dark corner of the cell. A small barred window that could be closed with a shutter from the outside let in a few rays of light from the darkening and cloudy sky. The wind had shifted and the chill breeze blowing in had the subtle scent of coming snow.
"I know," he said simply, turning to stare out the window. His eyes searched the horizon until he found what he sought, the ever growing silhouette of the imperial warship. He took his eyes from the ship and looked at his companion. He was surprised to see that the man was not of Kjavik descent. It was unusual for a foreigner to visit the far-off islands, let alone do something stupid enough to be arrested. "Who are you?"
"A fool," answered the man dejectedly, remaining huddled in the corner. "A fool far from home with lit
tle chance to escape the fury of your Lumathor."
Donovan nodded and returned to his scrutiny of the warship. He wondered if this were the ship everyone talked of, the one that surveyed the distant reaches of the empire to serve in far-off wars. Would they take someone accused of having troll blood? Donovan doubted the imperials even believed in trolls. But, he also doubted that Svan would willingly allow the boy to go free to join the Imperial Navy. He knew that he could not hold out hope for charity from that foul man, and so he began to think of an escape plan.
"What are you staring at, boy?" croaked the huddled wretch.
"A ship."
"A ship?" asked his fellow prisoner, his voice taking on a bit more emotion. "A ship you say?"
"Not so uncommon an occurrence on the sea, I think," answered Donovan distractedly, looking at what was immediately outside the window for something to aid in his escape. The window was narrow, even if he could remove the bars he would not be able to fit through them.
The man climbed slowly to his feet and stood next to Donovan at the window. The man's odor was strong, clearly he had been in the cell for some time; Donovan was just glad for the breeze. "The appearance of that ship, I think, is a rather uncommon occurrence, young man."
Donovan looked over at his companion, the man's face bore a mixture of apprehension and hope. He wondered what it was about the sight of an imperial warship that could provoke such opposing emotions in a man. "What sort of fool are you?" asked Donovan, annoyed. The man gave him a sidelong glance and a smirk, then nodded as he returned to his corner.
"You first, this is my cell after all," the man said with a smile.
"I'm too strong," he said simply, staring out the window again.
"So, you're the one they say has Trollish blood, eh? I never heard of Trolls before I came to this blasted island."
The Dragon Writers Collection Page 41