Lughor ventured a wary question. “And what did you find there?” He dreaded to hear tell of the men, chopped up and still crawling. He shuddered.
“Not much,” Glenward pulled a face. “Place is overgrown, fallen into wrack and ruin, like lots of places in this land. No respect for the past, you see.”
“So you saw no one?”
“No one to see.” Glenward helped himself to another plateful from the pot. “Good broth is this. Bet my daughter had nothing to do with it.”
“Dad!” Gonda blushed, embarrassed.
“Didn’t get her mother’s talents in the kitchen - did you, love? But I will say this for her: she’s got a natural way with her with the geese. You’ve got to see it to believe it, I’m telling you. It’s like she’s one of them.”
“You’re the goose!” Gonda cried.
Lughor had no interest in listening to a family squabble. He decided to steer the conversation toward something that might be of benefit to him. “You know of that place, its past?”
“Some,” said the gooseherd. “All that was over before my time, of course. I’m not as old as I look, eh?” He laughed with drops of broth glistening on his bushy, grey moustache. He wiped them on the back of his hand, and Gonda was mortified.
“I’d be keen to hear,” Lughor offered the gooseherd a flask of something Gonda guessed was not lemonade. She watched her father take a hefty swig and hold onto the flask for himself. So embarrassing!
“All right then,” said Glenward, settling closer to the campfire. “Nothing better than a fireside tale afore bedtime, is there?”
Making sure Tiggy was where she could see him, Gonda too drew closer, ready to intervene if her father said anything that might humiliate her again.
***
Long ago, before the Principality was established, the land was a bone of contention between three kingdoms. King Ordiff to the South claimed the area by dint of historical precedence. His people had always lived there, he said, the locals speak our language, eat our delicacies. The discovery of a thin vein of goldinium on the area’s northern shore brought Ordiff’s claim into dispute. Old maps were brought to summit talks. These charts, claimed King Argolef of the Eastern Realm, showed ancient boundaries that the Ordiffians had erased - illegally, of course! Argolef declared himself a reasonable man - as long as the old boundaries were restored, he would say no more about it. No, King Ordiff thumped the conference table, I’m not having it. It is my people who found the goldinium, who carried out the hard toil of bringing it to the surface; the mine belongs to us.
Walgrid of the Western Land offered to draw up a deal: the Ordiffians would pay a lease for the mine and a percentage of what they dug up would be surrendered to both the East and the West.
Hang about, Argolef held up a finger. Why should the West get anything? What was it to do with them?
Walgrid said he pledged his armies to the East in order to help Ordiff to come to a reasonable agreement. Ordiff said he didn’t need Walgrid and Argolef ganging up on him. The old maps were no longer valid; the current boundaries stood and, as far as he could see, they were both trespassing on his land and had until nightfall to clear off out of it, or they would learn the real meaning of trouble.
The country became host to a long and bitter war that raged on for decades after the original three kings were long dead. Their descendants kept it going, each party striving to control the land and its goldinium. New weapons were invented, new ways to destroy armies and the ground they stood on.
And then, Argolef the Fourth brought a wizard to the fray.
“I need something the others do not have,” he told the wizened figure who seemed to be more cloak than man. “We have copied their trebuchets and improved the design. We have developed a deadlier fireball to launch from those trebuchets - the admixture clings to the skin and so burns you alive. It is gruesome but effective. But whatever we do, they do better. My spies tell me the Ordiffians are working on a crossbow that can fire a dozen bolts at one pull of the trigger, and Walgridsson the Bold is chaining cannonballs together to slice through infantrymen like a wire through cheese.”
Deep in its cowl, the wizard’s head nodded. “You wish to kill people more effectively.”
“Well, yes - but also no. I want an end to hostilities. This has gone on for far too long. My coffers are empty.”
“So, surrender,” the wizard’s shoulders shrugged. “Give up your claim. Live in peace.”
Argolef the Fourth was aghast. “That we may never do. If we capitulate, what kind of message is that sending to our adversaries? That we will just lie down and roll over, exposing our soft underbelly?”
“A century of slaughter is hardly capitulation,” observed the wizard.
“I am not paying for your commentary,” snapped the king. “What can you do for me to help me win?”
“But little, sire. My art is not for conflict yet there is one thing that may be done to bring an end to this interminable war.”
“Then do it!” said Argolef the Fourth, rashly. “Do it and you shall be richly rewarded. Name it and it shall be yours.”
And so the wizard was given free rein to stop the fighting. Three nights later, he sought audience with the king.
“It is done, sire,” he bowed low. “No more lives shall be lost in the pursuit of goldinium.”
“That is good,” Argolef the Fourth did not sound convinced. “What did you do?”
“I have destroyed the goldinium,” said the wizard. “I have transmuted it into base metal, commonplace and useless. No one will dispute the territory now.”
Argolef the Fourth sprang from his throne, barely able to contain his anger. “You have done what?”
“A feat of alchemy, sire. Irrevocable and entire. The country no longer holds anything worth fighting for.”
Argolef the Fourth went pale. He staggered back to his throne and lowered himself onto the cushions. “Then I suppose it really is all over.”
He called a summit meeting. Each side sent inspectors to the site to confirm the goldinium was gone.
“We have been fools,” said Ulver Walgridsson. “Our ancestors must be mocking us with their laughter.”
“There is no honour in continuing hostilities,” agreed Carlonzo, a descendant of Ordiff.
It was agreed that such strife should never divide their kingdoms again. To that end, the region around the former mine was declared neutral territory, to be governed by a family formed from the union of East and West. And so the Principality of Glaur was established.
And wizards were thrown into disrepute. No longer employed by the great and the good, they became outcasts, little better than vagabonds, unable to access the resources that would make them a threat. Few of them remain, their lore mostly forgotten, but for a hundred years, the Principality of Glaur and the surrounding kingdoms have known peace and prosperity.
***
“And goldinium?” Gonda asked, sleepy from attending her father’s long history lesson.
“There is still some around,” Glenward shrugged. “Bits and pieces that were mined and shipped away from the wizard’s influence.”
Lughor pressed his hand to his shirt as though to reassure himself the little sword pendant was still there. Was it made of the miraculous metal? It would certainly explain his good fortune as a swordsman.
That and my inordinate skill, of course, he reminded himself.
“How do you know all this, gooseherd?”
The firelight glinted in Glenward’s eyes. “The history of the land is passed on between generations. My father got it from his father.”
“You never told me any of this!” Gonda pointed out.
“I just did,” said Glenward. “And when the time comes, you will pass it on to your kiddies. Who knows, they might be able to read it for
themselves. Imagine that! Education! It’s coming.”
“Huh,” said Gonda, hugging her knees. “As if I’ll have children!”
“But-” Lughor nodded to the heap of blankets curled by the fire.
“He’s not mine!” Gonda was scandalised. “How could you think he was mine?”
Glenward stood. “You mean to tell me you still have that child?”
“Of course! What else was I to do with him?”
“Oh, you stupid girl. People are hunting for you, you know? People who want you dead.”
“I’ve met them,” said Lughor. “Over at that old fortress.”
“Tullen Spee?” said Glenward. “You’ve been to Tullen Spee?”
“Yes,” said Gonda. “It’s no big deal. It’s where weeds go to die.”
“But - but - a malgrim should never go to Tullen Spee!” Glenward clawed at his own hair, his eyes wide and wild.
Lughor sent the girl a look as if to say, “Told you he was a malgrim.”
“Why, Dad? Why not?”
Glenward threw back his head and looked helplessly at the moon. He ran a hand over his eyes and sat down again, grabbing a stick with which to poke the embers. “There is more to our history than I have told you. There is a chapter most people do not know.”
“But you do?” said Lughor. “You are well-informed, old man. For a gooseherd.”
“I have particular knowledge of that place,” Glenward stared into the flames. “Born of personal experience when I was a child.”
Gonda sat up and rubbed her eyes. It was turning out to be quite the night for storytelling.
“Go on then,” said Lughor. “There must be at least an hour before sunrise. Tell us your tale.”
Glenward swigged from a canteen of water. “I was just a boy, learning my father’s trade, and I got myself lost in the forest, following a stray goose...”
Ten
Young Glenward was nearly eight and his father had entrusted him with the minding of the geese the night before the trek to market. “You may walk with us,” the gooseherd told his beaming boy, “and bring up the rear. The birds will lead the way.”
There was an implication there that Glenward had no more brains than a bird but the boy did not pick up on it. He was determined to do well and make his father proud. One day it would fall to him to lead the geese to market alone, to make the deals, to bring home a bag bulging with coins... He would learn how to pinion the wings so they did not fly away. He would learn their calls and - most importantly - he would not fear them. He had heard, he couldn’t remember from whom, that a goose could break your arm with a flap of its wings. This undisputed fact made him wary of the birds; he just hoped his father couldn’t see it.
It was an hour before sundown and all the geese were gathered in the pen. Glenward counted their heads, having to start over a few times because even in the close confines of the enclosure, they kept moving around. All present and accounted for. When his father came out to keep watch for foxes, he would be pleased with the boy and would ruffle his hair and be proud to call him son.
Glenward grinned in anticipation of praise to come.
“Honk!”
“Honk yourself,” Glenward told the goose at his feet. His smile dropped. “What are you doing out?” He glanced at the pen; he was sure he had locked the gate. He checked it again. Yes...
The stray goose honked again and waddled across the yard.
“No, wait, come back!” The boy chased after it. His cries made the fowl move faster, honking in alarm. Glenward looked anxiously at the house; surely his father would hear the commotion.
The goose extended its wings and flapped. It couldn’t take off but the action served to keep the boy at bay. He didn’t want his arm broken, thank you.
To Glenward’s dismay the goose sped across the yard and out into the lane. It might get run down by a cart or jumped on by a cat or a dog or -
Instead of imagining disastrous scenarios, Glenward followed the fowl. My, that thing could move! It ran along the hedgerow, honking as it went. Glenward took off his overshirt. If I can throw it over the stupid bird’s stupid head, I’ll be able to pick it up and take it back. And Dad will never know...
The stupid bird had other stupid ideas in its stupid head. It left the track and crossed the neighbour’s cornfield. Glenward had no choice but to follow. He couldn’t afford to have Old Man Crowlick complaining to his father: your birds have been in my corn again. Can’t your son do anything right?
“Hey!” he called. “Come back here!”
The goose sped up. It occurred to Glenward that instead of yelling words, he could try calling to the bird in its own language. He essayed a couple of experimental honks. Rubbish. I sound more like a squeaky wheel than a runaway goose.
At least the bird didn’t stop to eat Old Man Crowlick’s crop. It cut across the corner of the cornfield and ducked - or should that be goosed? - under a gap in the perimeter hedge. Beyond stood the murky woods. Young Glenward knew better than to go in there alone.
But... the loss of a goose meant one less coin in the moneybag, meant one less meal on the table, meant one more frown on his father’s forehead. And, besides, I’m nearly eight - I’m practically a grown-up. Anything in the wood is going to be more scared of me than I am of it.
This last sentence failed to convince him but the thought of his father’s displeasure spurred him on. He would catch that fool of a goose and take it back home. There was still time before sunset. He would make it. He would.
He scrabbled through the hedge on all fours; when he stood up straight, he was in the woods and moving farther from the comforting signs of civilisation with every step. The goose, a flash of white up ahead, was not stopping or slowing down. It really wants its freedom, Glenward thought, but I really want my father’s approval so that stupid bird is out of luck.
Around him, the trees were standing closer and closer together, their canopies blocking out the late afternoon sky. Pools of shadows spread all around; Glenward stepped from patch of dappled light to patch of dappled light, like helpful stones in a brook, keeping his eye on the bright feathers of the goose up ahead.
It was chilly in the shadows - a preview of the night to come. Already, Glenward was thinking of being back at home, warming himself at the hearth while his father went out to guard a full complement of geese...
An owl hooted. A tiny creature screamed. Glenward shivered. Tireless, the goose kept going.
“Oh, you stupid bird...” Glenward muttered. Even out here, far from his mother’s earshot, he did not risk using one of the stronger words he heard his father mutter - usually in reference to Old Man Crowlick.
And then, a sea of grass ahead, painted orange and purple by the setting sun. A building, gasped the boy! Out here!
The place was overgrown and most of it had tumbled down. Trees had sprung up, reclaiming the land. In its day, Glenward marvelled, this must have been quite impressive. He imagined invading armies being repelled from the ramparts, long ladders falling backwards, men screaming as boiling oil rained down...
He stopped short. Were there ghosts here? Ghosts of the men who had lost their lives fighting for some forgotten cause. Hundreds of them - no, thousands!
He turned around on the spot, seeing the towers complete again and alive with battling battalions, combating cohorts, legions at loggerheads... He ran out of words. His heart was pounding with the thrill of the place. He had stumbled upon a secret, hidden from the rest of the world, for surely no one had been there for a long time...
“Boy!” said a voice.
Someone was there!
“Boy!” the voice repeated. Glenward shook his head. It was the goose honking - that was all. He spun around; the bird was nowhere to be seen. His heart sank. Oh, great.
Then who...?
“That’s my dad’s!” Glenward cried indignantly. “You give it back!”
The old man grinned. He was as bald as an egg save for unruly eyebrows that clung to his brow like downy feathers from the nest. “And what will you give me in exchange?”
“Nothing!” said the boy. “That goose is not yours to give.”
“Oh, really? And I suppose,” the old man produced a jewelled dagger, “it is not mine to do this with either.”
He slit the goose’s throat and cast the body to the mossy flagstones. Glenward gasped in horror to see the bird twitch, its legs paddling in the air, its lifeblood spurting onto the ground.
“You’ll pay for that!”
“Oh, really? You must have patience, boy. And see...”
The man gestured over the dead bird. Glenward wiped tears from his eyes and blinked. The bird revived and got to its feet. It rasped and stretched its wings.
“Come here, boy, and I shall do the same for you,” the old man beckoned. “Think on it: to live forever you only have to die.”
“Get stuffed!” Glenward cried. He hurled his overshirt over the old man’s head, then he snatched up the goose and tore out of there. The bird struggled in his grasp but Glenward kept his arm tightly hooked around it, averting his face from the pecking, prodding beak.
He ran all the way home. Darkness seemed to follow as the sun set at his back. He ignored the cries of Old Man Crowlick as he trespassed across his cornfield, the goose honking and hissing in fury. With a stitch in his side, Glenward hobbled to the enclosure and dumped the goose over the fence, just as his father emerged, yawning and stretching, from the house.
“All present and correct?” he tousled the boy’s hair.
Glenward, with no breath left, nodded.
Navarin, Thunder and Shade Page 13