The Cren raised their war cry to a howl as they hit the troopers in the centre of their ranks. Other Kel’madden—clearly not the elite—turned to see what had happened. Most lowered their weapons and ran. Those who remained didn’t last long.
CHAPTER 24
Future’s Past
Gialyn became aware of another presence in his dream. He was standing outside the Hungry Fisherman. A moment earlier, he had been speaking to Ban and Lyduk. Now, he was looking across from the inn, at a man standing on the raised running boards in front of the tailor’s store. The man had a tray hanging from his neck.
The man was short, bald, and wore tanned leather tunic and light brown breeches. His face was flat, squashed, and he had eyes that reminded Gialyn of a mouse.
“Apples, mister?” the man said. “Early apples, sweet and ripe, good for eating or cooking. Best price in Bailryn.”
Gialyn had no idea if the man was supposed to be there—what he knew of Arenthenia wouldn’t fill one side of parchment—but he did know enough to be cautious. Strange things happened here and, in their way, they were as tangible as the real world.
“What are you doing here?” he asked the man.
“Why, I live here, of course, over by the Paupers’ gate,” the man said, waving his hand south towards the palace.
Gialyn looked along the Blue Mile. As he did so, Bailryn expanded from the misty dream into a vision as real as the waking world. Here and there, people began to appear on the road; a pretty woman smiled at him, a blacksmith led a horse and cart, another hawker stood shouting about his “Fine tableware.” It all looked… normal.
“Apples?” Gialyn said. “It’s Tomeadan. Who harvests apples in Tomeadan?”
“Oh, they’re quite ripe, young sir. Here, I’ll prove it.”
The man cut a slice from a red apple and ate it. He cut another and offered it to him.
Gialyn shook his head. Spirit Realm or not, he wasn’t about to take food from a stranger. Especially from a man who, for some reason, made him nervous.
A small girl looked up at him, and then at the apple man. The man gave her the rest of the apple. She ran off, laughing.
The man chuckled as he waved goodbye to the child. He turned back to Gialyn. “Do I know you?” he asked. “You look familiar. Are you one of the Penarch’s men? I’ve never seen boots like that. Where did you say you come from?”
“Penarch?” Gialyn whispered. Who was this Penarch?
“Who’s that with you?” the apple man asked, pointing over Gialyn’s shoulder. “We don’t usually allow Mo’duien in this part of the city.”
Gialyn looked over his shoulder. Arfael was standing behind him, but a much younger Arfael. He appeared in his half-beast form, the same as he was the first time Gialyn had seen him—nearly eight feet tall, huge shoulders, a wide nose spread over a flat, broad face. Arfael was dressed in rags, though, and looked like he hadn't eaten in a week.
Gialyn heard whispers from the other people on the street. When he looked, folk were nudging each other and pointing at Arfael. Some ran off, looking over their shoulder at him. Others stared, shaking their heads in what looked like disgust. A few had hands on the hilts of their swords.
“Speak your allegiance!” the apple man shouted to Arfael.
The bystanders did not wait for an answer; they began to shout for guards, and more than a few started throwing stones. They shouted “Mo’duien out,” and “The King’s men first.” An old woman protested about how they didn’t want “his kind” in the city. The onlookers were getting louder; it would not be long before they went beyond throwing stones.
Gialyn ran to a nearby alley. He waved Arfael over. The big man looked confused but followed. Together, they ran towards Westgate.
“Why are they throwing things at you?” Gialyn asked when they stopped beside a covered outhouse.
Arfael shrugged. “I don’t even remember coming here. Who are you?” His voice was calm, but he was clearly confused.
“I’m—”
Gialyn cut himself off. Whoever this man was, he was not the Arfael he knew.
A thought occurred to him.
“Who is king?” he asked Arfael.
The big man looked puzzled. “Eidred, I think. Why, do you have business at the palace?”
Eldred…? Eldred Vierdan was crowned King of Aleras’moya almost one hundred and thirty years ago, before the battles of Barrais’coi and Blai’nuin. Could this really be a younger version of Arfael, from a time before the big man had met Olam? Gialyn was not sure if this sort of thing happened in Arenthenia—travelling through time. But then again, what did he know?
“I think you should go back to Barais’gin, my friend,” Gialyn said. “Work as a blacksmith, and wait. You shouldn’t be here.”
“Blacksmith? How did you—” Arfael took a step back. “How did you know I was thinking of going to Barais’gin, and that I would try my hand as a smithy? Have you been following me?”
Gialyn stepped back, too. Was this real? Had he been sent there to somehow guide Arfael back to Barais’gin?
He let the big man walk on a few paces before speaking. “I – I just thought you looked like a smithy. And Barais’gin is much safer than Bailryn.”
Arfael nodded slowly. “Yes, it would be safer.”
They continued to walk towards the Westgate.
“What made you think of coming here?” Gialyn asked.
Again, Arfael shrugged. “The Penarch had declared for the King, I thought the fighting might have ended.”
Penarch…? King…? Gialyn had no idea what the big man was talking about. As far as he knew, Eidred had defeated the last Juno Penarch. He remembered what Kirin’thar had said about “rewriting history.” Maybe Eidred had concocted that story, too.
Gialyn glanced sideways at Arfael as they both continued along the alley. As he recalled—mostly from his talks with Olam—this Arfael had recently lost his memory. In a few years, Olam would find Arfael working just outside of Barais, and the two would begin their journey together, the journey to discover Arfael’s roots. What would happen if Gialyn simply told him the truth, told him about the witch, and that he was the Cinnè’arth? Would Arfael go home? Would Gialyn still meet the big man on that bridge outside Albergeddy?
Before he could give it any more thought, Gialyn felt the now familiar tugging in his gut. The world around him blurred as he was pulled away.
He found himself surrounded by trees. It was dark and raining heavily. His first thought was that he had been brought back to the present—unless he’d been taken back to a different storm. Looking around, he saw the shadowy form of a large… something or other… crouching behind a tree. He took a step forward and squinted into the darkness. The “something” was Arfael. This time, what looked like silver scales covered Arfael’s face and arms, probably the rest of him, too.
Arfael lunged forward.
Gialyn flinched when the big man took the head off a nearby trooper. He watched as Arfael dragged the body behind a tree. Arfael crouched back down. He seemed to be watching another group of men who had passed through a moment earlier. Holding back the threat of vomit, Gialyn wondered why Arfael had killed the man. Was this the present, or was he watching history unfold? He followed, as Arfael ran across a field and hid behind a line of thicket. Dragons idled in a field to their left, and Gialyn wondered if the camp stretching out in front of them was Vila’slae’s.
Carefully, Gialyn reached out with the Voice.
“I know you’re there, Gialyn. What do you want?”
Arfael spoke aloud without turning towards him. The big man’s voice sounded terse, as though he was annoyed at Gialyn’s presence.
“Is this… now?” Gialyn asked, again, in his normal voice. “Are they the Kel’madden?”
“Of course they are. Who else would they be?”
“I – I don’t know. A moment ago, I was in Bailryn, talking to you. It must have been decades ago, back when the… uh… Penarch yielded to
King Eidred.”
That did make Arfael turn and look at him. “And what were you doing there?”
“I think you sent me,” Gialyn said. “I don’t know why, but this is the second time I’ve been pulled to where you are. What are you doing here? Are you really trying to kill her on your own?”
“Are you here to stop me?”
“No, I’m asleep back in Bailryn. I have no idea why I’m here.”
“That’s just as well. I’ll not be turned from this path. Either Vila dies tonight, or I do.”
Gialyn took a step forward. “Maybe I can—”
“No!” Arfael shouted, and then looked to see if anyone had heard him. “No, this is my duty, not yours.” His voice was a harsh whisper.
“What difference does it make if she ends up dead? Let me help.”
“Ha! Spoken like a true Surabhan. You people are all the same: no honour.”
Gialyn felt a wave of cold panic wash over him. This wasn’t Arfael—at least not the man he knew. Something was wrong. Looking down, Gialyn could see a dull aura, blacker than night, emanating from Arfael’s body.
“Olam is well, Arfael.”
As soon as he spoke the words, he knew it was a mistake.
“He’s dead, you fool. How could he be well?”
“I’m sorry. I meant he is where he had chosen to be; with Bausamon, guarding Arenthenia. I could speak to him… if you want.”
“What are you telling me? That he chose to leave without saying goodbye? That he wanted to die with a coward’s dagger through his heart! If there were anything to say, I would talk to Olam. I don’t need your help.”
“But you could—”
“No!” Arfael shouted. And then quieter: “You should go back to your father. They will need your help. I don’t. Leave, and do not come here again. You could ruin everything. Vila is mine!”
The beast that was Arfael waved his hand and, once again, Gialyn found himself tugged away. He fought the urge; he had to try to save Arfael. But he didn’t know what to do to stop himself moving. Trying made his head hurt, and his stomach twisted up like washing in a mangle.
Gialyn opened his eyes and was surprised to see his father leaning over him.
“Are you all right, son? You were shaking,” Daric said.
“Uh… yes, I think so. Why are you here? Has the battle ended?”
Daric sat on the chair beside the bed. His face was drawn and sombre. “It’s Mikelmoor; he’s dead. Assassins killed him down in common room. They called me back to run the battle, but I wanted to check on you first. I thought… well, I thought the assassins might be targeting you, too.”
Gialyn shook his head. “They don’t know where I am. They still think I’m in the palace.”
Daric scratched his chin. “And how do you know that?”
“Whispers,” Gialyn said. “They’re not always clear, but I’m sure I heard someone say that I was in the palace.”
Daric’s eyes widened. He jumped up from the chair and made for the door.
“What is it?” Gialyn asked.
“They won’t leave just because you’re not there. I have to warn the Princess.”
Gialyn swallowed hard. How could he have been so stupid? “Gods no. Hurry! They could be there already!” he shouted. But Daric was already on his way down the stairs.
* * *
Farnok howled, and Mott glanced to his right. It sounded like the big wolf was laughing.
“What is it? What’s happened?” Mott asked.
“Look,” Farnok said, nodding to the southwest. “It would appear the cavalry have arrived. And not before time.”
Behind them, Mott could see Rarshman’s cavalry riding up from the riverbank, with the captain leading.
“So, you decided to join us?” Farnok asked.
Rarshman ignored the wolf’s taunt. He saluted Caylib. “Have you softened them up for us?” he asked the Cren.
Caylib laughed quietly from horseback. “I’ve had reports of reinforcements. Two more regiments of troopers are heading east, and another is marching in this direction. I’m afraid their ‘softening up’ might be a little premature.”
Mott hid a pang of fear. More troopers! And two regiments heading east. He knew the eastern flank was their weakest point. Did the Kel’madden general know it, too? Mott listened, as Farnok told one of the wildlings to inform Ker of the new development. At least those back in Bailryn would know what is coming their way. Whether or not they had the manpower to do anything about it was another matter.
Rarshman acknowledged Caylib’s report with a sharp nod and then raised his sword. A cavalryman by his side raised a banner. “No point standing around waiting for them to get here,” Rarshman shouted.
They charged across the field into the darkness.
“Turns up late, and now he wants all the glory. Typical Surabhan,” Farnok said.
“I don’t care about his motives,” Mott said. “Come on. Are we just going to sit here? Forward!” Mott shouted down the line of Rukin, then led them after Rarshman at a steady trot.
Arrows began to fly in their direction.
“Where do they keep getting those archers from?” Caylib shouted. “Rarshman is riding straight into it.”
Mott had wondered the same thing. Three times, they have broken up a line of Kel’madden archers, and three times they had reformed before the Surabhan forces could advance more than a few hundred paces.
“Hold!” Caylib shouted when the enemy lines came into view. “Give Rarshman time to clear his line. We don’t want to box him in.”
The Cavalry pulled back. They had been quite successful; the enemy archers were once again scurrying back towards their main camp. Caylib took the opportunity to order another volley from his Cren.
“Faster,” Farnok growled. “Make up the ground before they reform again or we’ll be here all night.”
Mott pushed forward, pulling the rest of the Rukin behind. The Darkin were already ahead of them, and the Cren let their horses keep up behind the huge wolves. Rarshman had circled round and was now coming up on the leaders.
“Another charge?” the captain asked.
“Wait until they are together,” Caylib replied. “There’s not much to gain chasing stragglers.”
Rarshman nodded and signalled for his men to form up behind them.
Now the cavalry had fully engaged, they should be able to make good progress, Mott thought. Archers, cavalry, and then the wolves to tidy up; it seemed a good plan. It was about time they all viewed themselves as one army, instead of picking holes in the Kel’madden lines and running back to safety. Farnok looked like he was thinking the same thing; for once, the big wolf wasn’t scowling.
Mott was about to ask what their next move was when a loud shout from the Kel’madden lines interrupted him. “WE HAVE DESTROYED YOUR EASTERN FLANK,” the voice said. “EVEN NOW, THEY LAY DYING. YOU WILL BE NEXT!”
Rarshman looked across at Farnok. “Is that true?” he asked.
“No!” Farnok replied. “Nothing has changed west of the bog. Our forces are holding.”
“Still, if they have a—”
“They don’t,” Farnok growled. “Stop listening to their stories. The eastern flank is the same now as it was an hour ago. Nothing has changed.”
“DO YOU NOT CARE FOR YOUR DEAD?” the voice shouted. “ARE YOU ALL ANIMALS?”
Mott hadn’t heard anything from the east in some time. He didn’t know how Farnok could be so sure. Looking round, he found Nacole and trotted over to her.
“Have you heard anything about this?” he asked.
Nacole shook her head. “As far as I know, Qiel has not reported for an hour, but that doesn’t mean anything; maybe the Darkin don’t chatter unless there’s something to say.”
That wasn’t the first time Mott had heard someone say that. Why couldn’t the Darkin make regular reports? It made sense to keep in contact. If nothing else, it would be good to know Grady and the others were—
> “MOVE!” Nacole shouted.
Mott ducked, then leaped to his left. A second later, a rock the size of his head landed on the ground where he had been standing.
More rocks began to fall all over. Horses reared, and men fell from their saddles. Wolves darted about, left and right, desperately trying to avoid the missiles. Cren dismounted, allowing their mounts to run back towards the river.
“Is it dragons?” Rarshman asked Caylib. “Are they dropping rocks on us?”
“No,” the Cren replied. “Not unless they are throwing them. They’re coming from that hill.” Caylib nodded to the northeast.
Now he knew where to look, Mott could see the small Trebuchets lined up on top of the hill. They weren’t very large, and wouldn’t have a long range.
“This is why those archers kept scattering,” Caylib said. “They’ve been drawing us in.” The Cren turned to Mott and Farnok. “Either we go forward and attack the hill, or we go back. We can’t stay here.”
“Forward,” Farnok said. “Now! No discussion, just charge at them.”
Mott had to agree; going back could prove disastrous for the rest of their forces. It would take all the pressure off the western flank, and allow the Kel’madden to concentrate on the push to Bailryn.
“Rarshman!” Caylib shouted. “Take your cavalry back to the river. Your horses can’t charge uphill, and they’ll be slaughtered if you stay here.”
Rarshman didn’t argue. He had his bannerman signal the retreat.
“I’ll lead the charge with my archers,” Caylib said. “You two stay on our left flank. And keep your eyes open.”
“YOU ARE ALL COWARDS, LEAVING YOUR CONTRYMEN TO DIE,” the voice shouted from the east.
Caylib cursed. “And when we’ve taken this hill, I’m going to find that man and shut him up for good.”
Mott took a deep breath and turned to Nacole. “Can you please go back to the river with Rarshman? They’ll be plenty of time to fight. Dying by chance is just a waste.”
The Dragon Oracles: Omnibus Edition (The Eastern Kingdom Omnibus Book 1) Page 136