King's Warrior (The Minstrel's Song Book 1)

by Jenelle Leanne Schmidt

  Leila pretended to pout. “I have plenty of common sense.”

  “Oh, sure!” Dylanna retorted sarcastically. “As I recall, locking ourselves in the basement of the palace was full of common sense! I do believe it was your idea to play ‘prisoners’ that day. I also recall a large stone door that blocked the sound of our voices from getting through when we called for help. I seem to remember two days of hating you for that while we waited to be missed and found. That idea was definitely brimming with common sense.”

  Leila grinned. “But it makes a great story, doesn’t it?”

  Dylanna groaned. “You will never grow up, will you?”

  Leila’s grin grew even wider. “I’m working on it.”

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  As the three travelers continued to journey east, the forest grew thicker and the going became much more difficult. Often they had to chop their way through the tangled branches. Oraeyn tried to do as little damage as possible with his sword as he cleared the path in front of them. He tried to cut only the dead branches, of which there were plenty, for he could not help but remember the childlike wood nymph, and he did not wish to destroy anyone’s home with a careless stroke of his sword. Oraeyn casually mentioned this to Brant and Kamarie as they journeyed along. Brant gave a thoughtful nod, and both he and Kamarie grew more careful with their swords as well.

  “We are drawing near to the Harshlands,” Brant said when they stopped to catch their breath after a particularly difficult stretch.

  “How do you know?” Kamarie asked between gasps for air as she drew out her canteen and drank, forcing herself to sip slowly.

  “The forest grows thickest right before you get to the Harshlands. This thick, tangled wood borders most of the desert; but in the Harshlands themselves there are scarcely any growing things to be found. It is nothing but a great, flat, windblown desert of barren rock that puts a strangle-hold on all life and fights against it with a malice.”

  “It can’t possibly be as bad as it has been portrayed in the stories and tales of the knights,” Oraeyn spoke up. Since visiting the Pearl Cove, he had lost all faith in the tall tales that he had grown up hearing in the squires’ rooms back at the palace.

  Brant nodded slowly. “You are right,” he said, “it is worse.”

  Oraeyn stared at him, disbelief written plainly across his face. But there was something in Brant’s eyes that told him the man was serious; Kamarie’s eyes widened at Brant’s words. She had only heard some of the stories about the Harshlands, but they had been bad enough. Not so bad that she was in any way deterred from wanting to journey there someday but terrifying enough to give her a healthy respect for the place. Brant nodded and then stood to continue their battle through the thick forest. He began chopping through the dead branches, but Kamarie’s concerned voice made him halt.

  Kamarie surprised herself, saying something that she never thought she would say, but she was loath to continue on without reassurance. “But is it safe to go there then? Even if we could find Aunt Leila’s house without Dylanna’s help, can we hope to make it there alive? I mean, if the place is truly as bad as you say it is.”

  Brant turned towards her, his patience running thin. “No, it isn’t safe. But with the threat of Llycaelon’s attack on Aom-igh growing greater every day, is anything truly safe?”

  Kamarie shook her head and stood up, feeling a little more like her old self. “You’re right,” she said.

  Oraeyn also stood. “Llycaelon?” he asked. “What is that?”

  Kamarie’s brow wrinkled. “It sounds familiar... where have I heard of it before?”

  Brant stared at them, and Oraeyn thought he caught a glimpse of surprise deep in Brant’s dark eyes, but when he looked closer, it was gone. Brant’s voice was calm.

  “Llycaelon is the name of the Dark Country. The people of Llycaelon do not call themselves ‘Dark Warriors’ either, they are known as aethalons. The name is two-fold: it means one who was born in Llycaelon, and it is also the term for ‘warrior.’ All aethalons train to some extent in the art of combat, and so the term is appropriate.”

  The information was delivered without expression or change in tone. Both Kamarie and Oraeyn wanted to ask Brant how he knew this; however, there was something about the look in his eyes, or perhaps his too careful tone of voice, that warned them to keep their questions silent.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Although the pace of Silver, the old gray donkey, was quite a bit slower than traveling with Brant, Yole was glad of the sturdy little animal that pulled Kiernan’s cart. The little donkey and the ridiculously painted cart seemed like a king’s chariot and a brace of prancing chargers to the young boy who had been traveling by foot through the tangled forests for what seemed like forever. The wooden wheels of the cart bumped along as they traveled ever closer to the Harshlands. Kiernan insisted that the path was a short-cut to the Harshlands, and so their slower pace did not bother Yole as much as it might have.

  When he was not asking Yole about his own story, Kiernan talked incessantly about his adventures. Yole told Kiernan as much as he thought was safe, but soon found that it was quite simple to distract the young minstrel and evade the questions altogether. The best way to divert Kiernan’s questions about Yole’s story was for Yole to ask questions of his own. The only problem with this ploy, however, was that once Kiernan began talking about himself, it was next to impossible to get him to stop. Yole found the size of the minstrel’s ego to be both highly amusing as well as quite irritating. As they rolled along, Yole sighed. Kiernan was right in the middle of a long-winded tale about how he had once performed for the King and Queen of Quenmoire. The tale seemed to be a mixture of a ballad lauding Kiernan’s skill at minstrelsy and a story about his own prowess at defeating a dragon in fair combat for the hand of some princess. Whatever the story was about, Yole believed that the whole thing was just a lot of hot air and rot. He was growing tired of these endless stories that probably had next to no basis in reality. Besides, the minstrel kept using big words that Yole did not understand, and talking about places and people that Yole had never heard of.

  “How soon will we get to the Harshlands, Kiernan?” Yole asked, breaking into Kiernan’s monologue and hoping to cause the minstrel to forget about his story.

  Kiernan stopped his flow of words abruptly. “Ah, that is a good question Y... ian,” he said, “we should reach the castle of the witch-queen tomorrow. Silver may not be the fastest mule in Aom-igh, but this is the most expedient road to take if one wishes to peregrinate to the Harshlands.”

  Yole nodded, glad to know that they only had one more day of travel left. He did not even bother to ask what “expedient” or “peregrinate” meant. Whenever he asked the minstrel those kinds of questions, Kiernan would launch into a lengthy definition of the word and usually ended up using a variation of the word itself in his definition. On the whole, Yole had found that it was better, and less confusing, not to ask. He still found it difficult to hold back a smile when Kiernan called him “Y... ian” but he managed to keep a straight face this time.

  “Now, where was I in my story?” Kiernan asked.

  “I think you had just finished,” Yole lied, yawning.

  “I did?” Kiernan looked amazed. “Well of course; I must have. Did I ever tell you of the time that I sang the Ballad of the Dragon King to the King of the dragons, Graldon himself?”

  Hoping to spare himself from having to listen to any more stories, Yole nodded.

  “Yes, you did. Great story, Kiernan; shouldn’t we stop and set up camp? The Dragon’s Eye has long since set.”

  “Why I even…” Kiernan was launching himself into yet another tale, but he stopped when Yole spoke. He glanced up at the sky and smiled. “I do believe that you are right. Jolly good observation old chap, jolly good. We will set up camp now and approach the ice palace in the morning!”

  The next morning was chilly and wet. It had rained in the night and a great mist h
ung over the ground like a wet shawl. Yole and Kiernan found that there was no way to get dry, for the wetness of the fog clung heavily to them. The air itself was dense with water and the clouds hung low, threatening more rain. Yole helped Kiernan pack up the cart again, and then they climbed aboard. Yole was miserable. He did not like being wet or cold, but Kiernan seemed to relish it.

  The minstrel grabbed the reins and began talking to his mule in a soothing voice, “Steady Silver, there’s a good mule.” He glanced over at Yole and then reached under the cart seat and produced a thick blanket. He handed it to the boy. “Don’t be frightened of this mist, Yian, it’s only eerie and spooky and bound to be full of ghosts and creepy, clammy things slithering out from the sides of the road with the intent of catching us and pulling us off the cart and eating us for dinner, right, my boy?”

  Kiernan’s tone was quite cheery, and Yole found it to be comforting and heartening. He pulled the blanket around his shoulders, basking in its softness and the faint smell of alfalfa that clung to it. He nodded enthusiastically in response to Kiernan’s words, until he realized what the minstrel had actually said. Yole furrowed his brow in confusion and looked at Kiernan with an expression of alarm. The problem was that in the fog it was impossible to make out Kiernan’s face. The mist hung so thick that Kiernan appeared only to be a ghostly shadow, even though he was no more than a foot away from Yole.

  Kiernan let out a great laugh. “I’m only kidding, don’t worry, lad! I’ve traveled this road a thousand times and no harm has come to me yet.”

  Yole would never have admitted it, but he breathed a sigh of relief to hear that the minstrel had not been serious. The mist gave everything a hollow, spooky feeling, and it deadened all of Yole’s senses. Believing that there were dangerous creatures with sharp teeth and long claws hiding in the mist was not difficult at all. Yole was allowing his imagination to take over, and he thought he saw two large hands reaching out of the fog to grab a hold of him and drag him back into the forest where he would never be found. He jumped and turned back towards where Kiernan was sitting. The mist seemed to be letting up a little bit, or perhaps it was just that the day was growing lighter; Yole could now at least see Kiernan’s face.

  “Will we still get to the Harshlands today?” Yole asked, to take his mind off the possibility of ghosts.

  “Yes, we will. I told you we would reach the palace of the witch-queen, and we will, if I have anything to say about it.”

  Yole spoke up defensively, “I don’t know why you keep calling her names if you haven’t even met her yet. She doesn’t sound all that bad to me. In fact, I even know two of her sis…uh, stories, and they are wondrous tales about her saving people from death.”

  Kiernan laughed out loud, not seeming to notice Yole’s slip. “Ah, I must hear those stories sometime, perhaps it would improve upon my impression of the Wizardess of the Harshlands.”

  “If you think she is so bad, why are you traveling to her house?” Yole asked. “And if you have never met her, then how can you say that you have traveled this road a thousand times? I thought you said that this was the most ex… uh… expi... that big word that you said.”

  Kiernan let out a great laugh. “My stories are not matching up, are they? Ah well, that is perhaps why I get rotten fruits and vegetables thrown at me more often than not.” He sighed, “The truth, my lad, is that I actually have met the wizardess before, several times. We know each other quite well; as a matter of fact, I sort of stretched the truth a little when I told you that I had only heard of her. And I call her names because I feel that it is my right. Name-calling is my only way to get back at her.”

  Yole was surprised. “Get back at her for what?”

  Kiernan sighed again dramatically and pressed his right hand to his chest. “For breaking my heart.”

  There was a moment of silence, and Yole was brimming with new questions, but he remained quiet, hoping that Kiernan would explain things. He sensed a story that he might actually be interested in, and Kiernan did not disappoint him.

  He spoke slowly and drew the story out as though he were spinning cloth on a loom, “You see, Y... ian, I have known Leila the wizardess for quite some time, at least ten years or so. We have become very good friends over the years. If you must know, I think she is the most beautiful woman who ever lived and I love her dearly. However, she has refused all of my requests to marry her. Do you know what she claims? She claims that she is too young to get married. Too young! As if the girl weren’t a hundred and seventy already! I don’t know how long she expects me to wait, she’s not going to live forever you know.” Kiernan’s tone, normally so light, darkened a bit as he said those words.

  Yole shook his head wordlessly. Kiernan continued on as though he had once again forgotten that Yole was traveling with him. He gave a piteous sigh and spoke in a tone of quiet fondness, as if to himself. “But that’s just it, the lass knows I would wait forever if she asked it of me. And I would too.”

  “Why?” Yole asked.

  “Why?” Kiernan nearly shouted, sounding aghast.

  He leapt up and stood on the bench of the cart and flung his arms wide. Then he dropped them back to his sides and moaned, pressing his hands to his chest just above his heart. He staggered around upon the bench and Yole feared that the man would topple over at any moment, but he could not help laughing at the minstrel’s antics. Then Kiernan flipped into a handstand and smiled. The mule flicked an ear but continued his steady plodding with a bored air that seemed to say he had seen it all before.

  Kiernan continued to speak, a look of anguish on his face, but in a confidently cheerful voice, “Because she has not only broken my heart, but she has stolen it too! And she won’t give it back, how very rude of her. So you see my boy, all the tales about the wicked witch are true, except the ones that you heard about her saving lives, those were obviously shameless lies. The wizardess of the Harshlands is no human, she is carved from ice, and her heart is stone. But now you know, she has stolen something from me and that is why I must keep going back… ahhh,” the minstrel sighed and flipped off his hands to sit next to Yole once more, “but such is the nature of love.”

  Yole would have been aghast at Kiernan’s words, if it had not been for his merry tone and the look of absolute adoration for the wizardess that shone in his bright blue eyes. It was obvious that the minstrel thought quite highly of his “dastardly witch-queen.” Yole also suspected that if anyone else tried calling her names, Kiernan would be swift to become her most ardent defender.

  ❖ ❖ ❖

  Kamarie and Oraeyn stood in shock, staring out across the rocky desert. They had come upon the Harshlands all of a sudden, with a swiftness that had been breath-taking. One moment they had been fighting their way through the thick, tangled forest, chopping away dead branches and wondering if the trees would ever end, and the next instant they emerged from the trees and stood standing with the great forest at their backs, gazing out across a vast sea of wind-swept rock with loose sand whirling around in miniature tornadoes. The Harshlands were all that Brant had promised: forbidding, filled with a relentless wind and devoid of any and all growing things. A barren, lifeless wasteland of rough and rocky terrain stretched out before them. Sharp, jagged peaks jutted up harshly into the air. Perilous crags and fissures lined the landscape with valleys and rifts. Rough, red rock expanded to fill the horizon as far as the eye could see. A dark and overcast sky and a gray, sand-blasted air were the predominant features of the Harshlands. And yet, despite the sharp contrast between the lush, green, living forest that they had just exited, and the lifeless reds, browns, and oranges of the terrain that now faced them, there was something innately beautiful about the Harshlands. Perhaps it was the way the air was filled with the smell of spices. Perhaps it was the intense dry heat after days in the damp forest. Perhaps it was the way that the rocky desert floor seemed to sparkle whenever the clouds parted, albeit briefly, and allowed the Dragon’s Eye to peek throug
h. Or perhaps it was something about the way that the shadows fell across the rocks. Something about the way that the wind whipped through the loose grains of sand and made them dance glittering through the air. Or maybe it was a combination of all these things, creating a view that was magical and awe-inspiring in a dangerous sort of way.

  “It’s ... beautiful,” Kamarie breathed in tones of wonder.

  “Until it kills you, yes.” Brant pulled some long cloths out of his pack and handed them to Kamarie and Oraeyn. “Bind these around your faces, make sure you cover up your neck, mouth and nose. Pull your hoods down as well, you want to cover up as much of your face as possible.”

  “Why?” Kamarie asked, as she obeyed Brant’s instructions.

  “Once we get out onto the open plains of the Harshlands, the wind whips at you like a hurricane. As you can see from here, there is a loose layer of sand covering the ground, and when the wind picks up it drives the sand before it with ruthless force. If you do not cover up your skin as much as possible, the blowing sand will sting any exposed flesh like a thousand tiny needles. Anything that gets hit will burn like fire the next morning. The sand can strip your skin completely off if you don’t take the necessary precautions.”

  Kamarie grimaced and double-checked her knots, making sure that her face was completely covered. When they had pulled the hoods of their cloaks up and were ready to face the Harshlands, Brant nodded and began striding forward. Within moments of leaving the protection of the forest the three travelers were plunged into a windstorm. They struggled on, pressing through the wind and holding their hands up to shield their eyes. The wind tore at them, tugging their cloaks. Oraeyn could feel the tiny grains of sand whipping at him and penetrating his layers of clothing through minuscule openings in the fabric.

  Oraeyn had pulled his sleeves down over his wrists and was holding the ends of them bunched up over his hands in an attempt to protect them from the biting sand. He wondered if the others had done the same thing, but he did not have any spare energy to waste wondering about that. It was taking every last bit of willpower he had just to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He trudged along, his head down, looking up every so often just to make sure that Brant and Kamarie were still within sight. Together, the three of them trudged, heads down, fighting the wind at every step.