Fire And Ice (Book 1)

by Wayne Krabbenhoft III

  His horse crested the last hill and he looked across the wide valley formed by the Greenriver. Summerhall, the City of the Sun, was situated on an island in the middle of the river. Roads ran out from bridges to split off in many directions to be lost in the distance. It was like the many legs of an insect running out from the body. The morning sun gleamed off the white stone buildings to dazzle the eye. The walls that guarded the island’s shores were high and thick, and towers soared above them against the backdrop of a deep blue sky. Blue banners bearing a golden sun decorated battlements and tower tops. It was a fabulous sight to behold. One he had longed to see for some time now.

  Coran followed the road to a stone bridge that arched gracefully over the sparkling water and ran up against the city’s east gate where men in the blue and gold of Summerhall stood watch.

  One of the men, older with a scar on his cheek, noticed the silver hawk on his chest and remained silent as Coran passed by into a street teemed with people from throughout the West.

  Grendins, Taragosans and Westlanders rubbed elbows with stern-faced Holdonese, haughty Voltians and people from across the Sun Plain. There were a surprising number of dark skinned Karands, and even a Northman or two. The towering Northerners had bushy beards and wore wicked looking axes on their belts. By the way they scanned the surrounding crowd and followed a richly dressed man Coran guessed them to be hired guards. Everyone gave those warriors of the North a wide berth. The rich man was Ithanian. Most likely a merchant flaunting how successful he was in his profession. Ithanians could be a lot like Voltians in that respect, but at least you could trust a man from Ithan to keep his word, most of the time.

  As he rode down the wide boulevard he was assaulted by familiar sounds and smells. The cries of hawkers when he passed through one of the market areas and the smells of food brought from afar were the sensations of home. Everything was almost identical to the day he had left this place behind. It was as if he had never left at all.

  He passed by a single story, stone building with a small square tower at the front where a bell was housed. A man in robes of pure white emerged from the doorway. A priest of the Light, and the building was their temple. The priests performed the rights over the dead, and presided over marriages. And generally found ways to make a nuisance of themselves when no one died or got married. He chuckled to himself. That was what they used to say as children when they had to listen to some of them preach about the purity of the Light and man’s responsibilities in bringing the Light to the world. The problem was that there were as many theories on how to do that as there were cities full of people to hear them. When one is trained to fight it is difficult to hear about living peaceably with one’s neighbors, or that violence is evil. Just as difficult was listening to the idea of spreading the Light by the sword, since as warriors the idea was to bring about peace and defend it.

  Before he knew it his horse stopped before another high wall and strong iron gates that separated the palace from the rest of the city. A grimacing guard in a rumpled uniform approached. That did not say much for the guard since most of those who served the king took more pride in their appearance. Before he could speak, another, younger guard hurried to his side and whispered in the man’s ear. The second man’s uniform was nearly spotless. The first guard took a second look at Coran, then waved him past, perhaps a touch disappointed he was not able to turn him away. The second guard just shook his head at the first.

  Coran passed through the gate. From one of the buildings that lined each side of the spacious courtyard came the rhythmic ringing of hammer on steel, a boy emerged from another wearing blue livery, with a small sun sewn on the left breast and took the reins of his horse. The livery was too large for him and hung loosely from the shoulders. Coran swung to the ground, grabbed his bags from behind the saddle, including the wrapped bundle, and walked towards the welcoming doors of the palace. He took the steps before the open doorway two at a time and entered a high vaulted entry hall. White columns lined each side of the hall; doors to other parts of the palace were set between them. A skinny, sharp-nosed and gray-haired man was walking across the hall when he stopped cold at the sight of Coran.

  “Coran?” the aged Herrith asked. He was the man who saw to the day to day business of running the kingdom, much like Kirsire in Tyelin. He would receive the reports of expenses and income, legal disputes and anything else that was necessary to know. They would handle the mundane matters, only reporting to their Lords on what course they took. Otherwise, they brought forward only important matters. Coran knew that without Kirsire’s efficient skills at organization and prioritizing he would have been at a loss. To do such a job himself would have left him with time for nothing else. “It is you,” Herrith said as he came closer. “It is good to see you again. I know the palace has not been the same without you.”

  “It is good to be back,” Coran agreed truthfully. “Do you happen to know where my father is?”

  The old man nodded. “He is with the King in his Majesty’s study.”

  “And the others?”

  Herrith smiled. “If you mean their Highnesses, the King’s daughters, they could still be in their rooms, or they might be out in the garden, since it is such a nice day.”

  “Thank you, Master Herrith.”

  He left Herrith and continued down the hall. He wanted to see the girls, but it would be more proper to see his father first. He went up a flight of stairs and rounded a stone corner. About halfway down the hall a guard stood at attention beside a dark wooden door. Coran slowed from his eager pace and approached the guard.

  “Coran Tyelin to see my father,” he announced himself.

  The guard stuck his head in the door and spoke briefly with someone inside before motioning Coran to enter. Stemis sat behind his cluttered oak desk in a red shirt and open coat. Oran stood off to one side, his back straight and his chin high as always.

  “Coran!” the King exclaimed. “I am glad you are here. Oran here was going to send a message to you tomorrow.”

  Coran raised one eyebrow at his father.

  “You were requested to attend her Highness’s birthday celebration,” Oran reported evenly. Then a thin smile spread on his lips. “But I missed you too.”

  “We all did,” Stemis added. “I am glad you came here first, but we can talk about things later. If my daughters found out that I kept you from them I wouldn’t hear the end of it. So you had better go and find them. That is, unless you saw them already?”

  “I came to see my father first.”

  “Of course, I should have known with your sense of duty. It was inherited from your father.” Stemis looked fondly at his oldest friend. “Now you should go.” He waved his hand towards the door.

  “Father?” Coran asked respectfully for permission to leave.

  “Go on,” Oran told him. “If you think those girls would be any easier on me you are wrong.”

  He needed no further urging and left the study glad that they understood. He also caught the words of Stemis. The King had said they had things to talk about, not to catch up on. Maybe he had really meant to say the latter. It was a worry for later if a worry at all. Probably nothing important.

  Coran went to the wing of the palace that contained the rooms of the royal family only to find that they were not there. A woman with dark hair mixed with gray was coming out of the rooms that had been Katelyn’s when he left. She carried an empty pitcher for water and some towels.

  “Carlinya,” he greeted the First Maid.

  “Coran? I did not know you were here,” she replied warmly.

  “I just arrived and was looking for Margery and Katelyn.”

  “They might be in the garden, or with their father.”

  “They are not with his Majesty. I just came from there.”

  “The garden then,” she told him.

  “Thank you.”

  He took Carlinya and Herrith’s suggestion and tried the gardens at the rear of the palace next. As he walked
the stone path between meticulously trimmed hedges he noticed that the various types of trees were filling out nicely. He came to an open area at the center of the garden where marble benches sat on a carpet of green grass around a circular, man-made pool. At the opposite end of the clearing he spotted the backs of two well-dressed women. The blond girl in a yellow dress stood a few inches taller than her companion, a girl in blue whose black hair, bound by a blue scarf and nearly reaching her waist, swung from side to side as she walked. He was surprised to see that it was the same scarf he had given her on the day he had left for Tyelin. Coran came up behind them quietly and followed a few feet back.

  “Are you excited about your birthday?” Margery asked. “It is a special time when you turn sixteen. I know I was excited when it was mine.”

  “Of course,” Katelyn responded in a voice that was fuller and surer than the one Coran remembered. “I had a new dress made especially for the occasion.”

  “Keeping secrets from your sister?” the older princess teased. “Well, I cannot wait to see it.”

  “Neither can I,” Coran agreed calmly, as if he had been a part of the conversation from the beginning. If he hadn’t been ready he would have run right into the two startled women. They stopped dead in their tracks and slowly turned to face him. Once they were sure it was him they both threw their arms around him. He almost dropped his packs, including the one containing the wrapped bundle.

  “I cannot believe you are here,” Katelyn looked up into his face.

  Coran was startled himself by the changes he saw in her. She was no longer the awkward girl he once knew, but a beautiful young woman. Margery gave him another hug before stepping back. Her sister held on for a moment longer then did the same.

  “Not that I am not happy, I am, but why are you here?” Margery questioned.

  “I wanted to see my two favorite people in the world,” he answered with a wide smile of his own.

  “Seriously,” Margery told him in a no nonsense tone.

  “I mean it,” he protested, then continued in a genuine voice. “I really did miss you. Both of you.” They beamed at him.

  “You have to tell us what you have been up to,” the older sister stated.

  “Yes,” Katelyn added. “Tell us everything.”

  He wasn’t going to tell them everything, not now when he just got back, but he walked between them and started telling them about Tyelin and the people there. He didn’t go into too much detail so it did not take long for him to finish. “So what have I missed around here?”

  “As I am sure you noticed, my sister has gotten over her aversions, and has become a proper lady at last,” Margery informed him, “at least most of the time.”

  Coran looked the dark haired princess over. “I can see that, but tell me you have not given up your sword work.”

  “Of course not,” she told him raising her chin. “I could give you a challenge.”

  “We will have to test that sometime,” he said fighting the smile that threatened to show on his face. It was not for her boasting, but for the way she stared at him so defiantly. She hadn’t changed that much. He reached out to touch the scarf that bound her hair. “You still have it.”

  For some reason her cheeks reddened. “Of course I still have it. It was a gift after all.”

  “She wears it quite often,” Margery informed him. She was doing nothing to stop her wide grin.

  He could tell that Katelyn was uncomfortable about something, and Margery knew what, so decided not to pursue the subject. “I am glad you liked it so much.” He did not think it was much of a gift at the time, but he had little time in which to find something.

  “Do you have a room to stay in yet?” the younger woman asked, changing the subject.

  “No. I just arrived.”

  She looked at the bags he still carried on his arm. “I think the room you used after finishing your training is still yours if you want it.”

  “That would be fine,” he told her and they started for the door to the palace. He wanted to get rid of his luggage.

  “What is that?” Katelyn asked him pointing to the long wrapped bundle in his left hand.

  “Nothing important,” he said carefully, maybe too carefully because she glanced at him suspiciously.

  Her suspicion quickly disappeared and was replaced by a wide smile. “Is it for me?”

  He couldn’t help laughing at the way her eyes lit up when she asked. “You got me. But you have to wait for your birthday.”

  “But that is two weeks away,” she protested.

  “Patience. You can wait.”

  “All right,” she sighed, then her face brightened. “You are here and that is present enough for now.”

  He caught a knowing look pass from older to younger sister. He thought things seemed the same. That might be true on the surface, but Katelyn’s transformation, and not knowing what the look was for was not the way he remembered. He wished he knew what it meant, and wondered what other things might have changed since he had been away.

  Coran tossed the bags down on the bed in the rooms he had used while staying here from the time he had first arrived from Tyelin, to when he left last year. The only exception being the year he had to live in the barracks with the other novices in the final stages of training. When the training was done the test for knighthood was given. Almost all who made it that far passed to become knights of Midia. Depending on the kingdom, knighthood was restricted to nobles. On the Sun Plain it was not. Anyone who could afford the training could try and become a knight. There were some nobles who resented such an idea, but not too loudly. It was Soros himself who first opened the training to all.

  Coran unpacked a few of his things. He hung his cloak in the wardrobe and placed his chain mail shirt and padded undershirt in the bottom of the closet. He had only a couple of extra shirts and hung them up as well. He put the packs in the bottom, including the wrapped bundle and the small bag that had contained Janin’s bread which he had consumed early on in the journey.

  He took off his dirty clothes, worn since leaving Tyelin, and took advantage of the clean water in the bowl on the washstand. Using a towel to dry off he took out a change of clothes and dressed. He wore the white, long sleeved shirt that laced in the front and a pair of black pants. He buckled on his sword and then grabbed the black coat with a silver hawk on the breast and put that on as well.

  Feeling refreshed he left the bedroom for the small ante-room outside. There were two chairs flanking a low, round table that faced the center of the room. A narrow bookcase stood beside the bedroom door. It was barely half filled with leather bound volumes; most of them were of history. One he knew quite well; ‘The Last Stand of Mon Vusaar’. It was about the battle for survival of the last standing stronghold of that Kingdom, the battle of Tyelin. He ran a finger across the leather, remembering the hours he spent sitting in a chair reading about the desperate defense of his home. How the people of the time had to face the loss of their King and capitol and yet still found a way to defy their enemy. It was inspiring, especially to a boy in the process of becoming a knight. He learned what it meant to die for something more important than himself from this book. He also learned to make sure of what he was dying for before committing himself. Important lessons to be learned.

  Leaving the books, he opened the door to the hall and was surprised to find Katelyn waiting for him outside. At least he thought she was waiting since she seemed to be walking back and forth in front of his door. Waiting or not the door opening appeared to startle her.

  “Did you want something?” he asked her, wondering why she hadn’t knocked.

  “I thought you might like to see the city. It has been a while,” she said a bit nervously.

  “Why not? We can get Margery on the way.”

  “My sister is busy,” she told him in a rush, “but I would be happy to go with you.”

  He watched her for a moment. Is she really nervous about something or am I imagining it? Could it b
e me? She showed no signs of it before. “Then it will just be the two of us,” he told her and held out his arm for her to take. If she had been nervous it disappeared instantly as she wrapped a hand around his arm.

  Chapter 3

  Enemies

  Their boots kicked up little swirls of dust as they danced about each other in the midday sun. The crack of their practice blades meeting echoed off the stone walls of the yard. After a desperate defense the shorter of the two young men darted back out of reach of the other’s slashing attack. They stopped and stared at each other from a few feet away. Their upper torsos were bear and sweaty.

  The shorter one was Devon of Anders. He brushed strands of blond hair off his forehead as he wiped away beads of sweat. He was breathing heavily. Coran was not. His eyes were steady as he waited patiently for his friend to move first.

  Devon attacked, aiming a tight swing at his opponents head. The response was instantaneous. The attack was knocked aside and in the blur of strokes that followed the attacker became the attacked. Coran initiated a series of moves that drove his opponent back step by step. He changed the aim of his blow in mid swing, the wooden sword thumped into the blonde's middle, doubling him over. A final flick of the wrist sent Devon’s blade spinning to the dirt of the yard.

  “Well done,” a familiar voice boomed. The man who came to stand over them was a big man. It was not the bigness of height, but rather of bone and muscle. He had thick, curly, dark hair and a burly mustache. His name was Hormil; he was arms master of Summerhall and the man who had trained both of them as novitiates. “You’re still overextending, Devon.”

  The blond man struggled to stand upright; he held a hand to his stomach. “I don't know why I spar against you,” he told his friend.

  “It teaches humility,” Coran replied wryly.

  “It doesn’t seem to take,” Hormil laughed. The big man walked away chuckling. The two sparrers walked over to a row of benches set against one wall of the practice yard. They returned their wooden blades to racks that sat next to the benches. They each picked up a towel and began wiping the sweat from themselves before donning their shirts.