Cal opened it and led the travellers into a circular courtyard. Roughly twenty well-ordered, immaculate huts lay in a full circle around its circumference. Doors and shutters were closed against the night, even though it wasn’t especially cold. Maybe it was to keep thieving animals from raiding the kitchens. In the middle of the court, a single aorand tree grew. Every branch was heavy with the peculiar, bitter fruit.
The eastern horizon had only just begun to lighten. It was an hour yet until dawn and three hours until a sensible breakfast time. Most in the village were still in bed.
On the other side of the court, across from the aorand, a light flickered in the one open window. The window belonged to the largest house—or hut. Indeed, this one did look more like a house, despite it being on stilts. The travellers had just passed the tree when the front door opened. A tall, thin man stepped quietly out onto his porch. Kirin’thar had a stately look, even with his rustic clothing. His thick black hair was greying at the temples. Despite his obvious age, his greyish-blue eyes looked young and alert. His face, like Cal and Mateaf, was carved and angular. Gialyn wondered if any of these folk were overweight or ugly.
If the travellers were expecting a big welcome, they would be disappointed. Kirin’thar clearly didn’t want a fuss and certainly didn’t want to waken anybody else. He gingerly took the few steps to the ground, gave a quick nod to Cal, and then gestured kindly for everyone to follow him into the house.
* * *
Arfael had begun to notice a tightening in his stomach, even before he entered the village. Now, a curious sensation had come over him. A scent of something familiar and foreboding clouded his mind to the exclusion of all else. He couldn’t hear Kirin’thar’s welcome or the stream behind him or the early chirping of the imminent dawn chorus. His eyes were set; something was down there, down behind the huts, farther along the path. The smell drove him to fits. He dropped the waterskin where he stood and knelt down with nose to the dry dirt. Whatever it was smelled stronger here, carried in the tracks spread all around the court. He got back up and staggered towards the eastern gate.
Kirin’thar was on the steps of his house, smiling at Daric and Gialyn who were just then climbing the steps to his porch. He heard Arfael’s low moaning and turned quickly to see the big man lurching his way towards the gate. As if knowing the reason, he quickly placed himself between Arfael and the gate. “You should no—” Arfael swept Kirin’thar to the side like a wayward branch.
Olam stepped forward. “What is it, friend?” he asked. He, too, tried to coax Arfael away, only to have his grip wrenched from the big man’s arm. Kirin’thar raised his hands; he looked nervous. Olam shrugged. “What is going on?”
Arfael carried on, mindless of his friend’s remark. He sniffed at the air and began to breathe heavily. Sweat rolled from his brow. The growl became more constant with each breath. His eyes grew bright as they pierced though the darkness along the track that lay beyond the fence. He started to lunge forward. Olam grabbed his arm again, but he spun free of it. The big man jumped the gate in a single bound and ran up the path to the east of the village.
With the others close on his heels, Arfael entered a clearing and began to scrape at the ground where Tor, the dragon, had lain. An almost frantic, uncontrolled shudder came over him as he ripped at the grass and snatched at the nearby branches.
“Oh no, gods, not now!” Olam mumbled loud enough for all to hear. “We must calm him!”
Kirin’thar ran to the fore. “Cinnè’arth!” he bellowed. “Iffrae lient eddret noist, Arlyn!”
It had an immediate effect. Arfael turned his attentions to Kirin’thar. “What have you been doing? Where is it?” he growled. His tone was menacing, with no reverence for his host, just anger. The shaking continued; his fists began to clench.
“No good can come of this, Arlyn Gan’ifael. He has left. Been gone for hours now,” Kirin said.
Elspeth was pacing back and forth, dry-washing her hands, nervously tsking at Daric, who had barred her from getting any closer. Suddenly, she ran forward and put her hand on Arfael’s face. She pulled his face towards her and smiled. “It is me, Arfael, your little one. Come back to us. Don’t do this, please.” She calmly stroked his cheeks and hugged his waist-thick arm.
Arfael looked down at her face and saw fear in her eyes. The sight of it cut deep at his heart. With a determined effort, he slowed his breathing. The panting and growling slowed down to a steady, deep breath. He closed his eyes and calmed his mind. There was no enemy to fight. If he changed now, likely as not, one of his friends would be the victim of his anger. She wouldn’t forgive him that.
“Come sit, sit down a minute.” Elspeth led him to what looked like a picnic area. Arfael sat down on one of the log benches. He dipped his head between his knees and curled his huge hands around his neck. He continued his steady, slow breaths—and waited, like a man waiting for a sickness to pass.
Elspeth turned to Kirin’thar, her eyes stark and angry.
Kirin’thar sighed at the sight of him. “How, by Ein’laig, am I going to get him to Braylair now?” he whispered.
* * *
It took the better part of an hour for Kirin’thar to get the travellers into his home. Dawn had broken while they were in the clearing, and still they sat, waiting. Arfael seemed reluctant to go anywhere but stay by Elspeth’s side. It wasn’t until she agreed to go that he rose from his seat and followed. Even then, it wasn’t without a fiery stare for the Old Cren leader.
Kirin’s “hut” was quite the ornate picture: beautifully carved mantels and coving decorated the walls and ceiling on every edge; intricate trellises of lightly shaded hardwood separated the rooms; in the centre, a large table stood in front of a wide, round fireplace. Of all things, carpets lay all about the floor. They must at least do some trading with the north; the pattern looked Kalidhain, and not the cheap ones at that. Maybe they were a gift. What could the Cren have to trade with Surabhan?
Kirin’s wife, Loreanna, had prepared food. The table was set for eight. She was almost as tall as her husband—seven feet if she was an inch. If that weren’t enough, her long yellow hair, tied in a bun at the top of her head, added another hand to her height.
“Goodness, where have you all been?” she said. Kirin’thar gave her a look that she—and she alone—knew the meaning of. “Oh… never mind.” She turned and picked up a bowl of fruit. “Anybody hungry?” she said with a smile.
Daric bowed. “Ma’am, I think I speak for all when I say yes.” He turned to Kirin. “But we are also very tired. Can we talk while we eat?”
“Of course,” Kirin said. “Please, take a seat. Maybe you at the end there, Arlyn… sorry, Arfael.” Kirin looked to Arfael and pointed to a large chair at the end of the table. Arfael stared at the Cren, showing no indication he had heard a word of what was said.
Elspeth took Arfael by the arm and led him to the chair.
Kirin shrugged off Arfael’s affront with a quiet sigh to himself. “And you, Toban. I hope you do not mind. We have a cushion here for you.” Kirin pointed to a wide crate with a large red cushion placed on top. Next to it, a water bowl sat on another crate. “If we had known you were coming, we would have done better. My apologies.” Kirin’thar bowed respectfully and didn’t raise his eyes until Toban answered.
“Not at all, sir. This is fine. Thank you,” Toban said.
Kirin’thar waited for everyone to find a place and then gestured towards the table. Slowly, the travellers began serving themselves from the wide array of foods on offer, most of which looked freshly picked. Only the meats were cooked; the rest were green, yellow, or red vegetables of one sort or another. Gialyn picked up a long red one that looked like a small cucumber but tasted like a tomato.
Once they were settled and eating, Kirin’thar began. “First of all, I’d like to welcome you all to Brae’vis. Before we get to the point, I think a brief history lesson is in order—for those of you who were not around at the time, or maybe have
heard different versions of history.” He cleared his throat and made an eye at Daric in particular.
“Before the time of the Eiras’moya, any man who found himself stood on a few miles of free earth would call himself king. Fighting was rife amongst the many tribes as they tried to protect their little kingdoms. Much was lost to pointless feuds amongst the clan’s wasteful battle over lines in the sand.” He paused to look around the table. Maybe to make sure everyone was listening. “The threat of Eiras changed all that. Old enemies united from both north and south. Kindred spirits rose under the same banner and battled long and hard against the armies of Toi’ildrieg and the Kel’madden. Many died, including nearly all of the Great Southern Dragons.
A hush descended on the room. The travellers looked to each other with expressions of bewilderment. Daric, as usual, found the one obvious question. “What do you mean nearly all?”
For a moment, Kirin’thar looked like a man hanging out his smallclothes for all to see. He drummed his fingers on the table and bit his lip, all the while giving Daric a “you would bring that up, wouldn’t you” stare. After a sigh, he continued. “There are about a dozen Gan Dragons remaining. They live to the northeast in a secluded valley. For a hundred years and more, they have stayed silent, waiting for the time to be right.
“And what time would that be?” Olam asked.
“Please let me continue,” Kirin said, drumming his fingers again. “We will get to your questions, I promise.” He waited a moment for acknowledgement and carried on. “As I was saying, many died. Eventually, the Eiras were defeated. It seemed that even Vila’slae herself was dead.”
“What do you mean seemed?” Daric asked.
Kirin’thar tsked and his shoulders dropped. “Please! We’ll never finish at this rate.”
Olam laughed. “You’ll have to excuse my friend. He is very quick-witted.”
Kirin bowed, conceding to the Surabhan’s apparent wit, and continued, again. “Anyway, once Eiras and the Madden where defeated, the victors split north and south. Although some, like the Rukin and Cren, decided to stay independent. The others joined together either side of the Speerlag/Aldrieg border: the Surabhans to the south and the Salrians to the north.”
Kirin shuffled in his seat. “And then the inevitable happened. With unity came power, and with power came ambition, and with ambition came war. And instead of taking advantage of a once-in-a-millennia opportunity for peace, the two sides fought over another… longer line in the sand.”
Daric grumbled at Kirin’s version of events. Like most royal guardsmen, he was of the firm belief that the recent wars with the Salrians were entirely the northerners’ fault. Hang anyone who said any different—literally, in some cases. He settled quietly, for the moment at least, and let Kirin’thar continue.
“So, as the Surabhan and Salrians turned in anger towards one another, both sides slowly lost sight of the Eastern Isles. Unfortunately, our mutual enemies have used their time more wisely. Vila’slae, or someone very like her, has quietly rebuilt her armies and is even now in Northeastern An'aird Barath, preparing to attack.”
Kirin halted his speech. Again, he drummed his fingers on the table as he looked to each of his guests in turn. Nothing but stunned silence greeted his stare.
As usual, Daric spoke first. True to form, he had thought of a tangent to the point “So… Si’eth was telling the truth!”
Kirin scratched his head and shot a puzzled gaze in Daric’s direction. “Who is this Si’eth character?”
“The Salrian prisoner we—” Daric waved off the how, when, and why he knew Si’eth. “It is a long story. We discovered he was smuggling a map of the Tunnels of Aldregair to someone unknown, at the behest of a greedy Salrian general.”
Kirin thumped the desk and stood quickly. “Oh no, no, NO, NO!” Turning, he kicked the ash bucket in front of the hearth and began pacing back and forth. “That’s what we’d feared. Damn it!” Kirin stood still with his head in his hands. He mumbled to himself for a few minutes and then turned. “You must go back, and quickly. Have a few hours’ sleep, then go back and destroy that map!” Kirin’thar dry-washed his face and began pacing again. “By the gods, I wish Tor’gan was still here, Cinnè’arth or no Cinnè’arth. He could have been there within the hour and burnt the damn thing. Gods, the Tunnels of Aldregair, I never thought… A hundred years ago, we were all but defeated. That foul place was all that stood between us and oblivion. I never thought she would risk that again. But, of course, with a map…”
“Why? What is in the tunnels?” Elspeth asked.
Kirin’thar stopped tapping his foot. He folded his arms and leaned back against the hearth. He was about to speak, but Toban answered first. “The Karakin.”
Olam and Daric shuffled in their seats. Nobody wanted to hear that name, never mind speaking of them.
“Who are the Karakin?” Gialyn asked.
Toban looked at Olam and Kirin’thar before answering; maybe he would rather they took up the story from there, but no one answered. “The Karakin are the lost clan of Alphas, wolves that were snared and bound to serve Ash’mael and his followers. Yes, I know your next question, Gialyn. Ash’mael was an Oracle, one of the original six. The other five are his followers, or at least he is first amongst equals. Together they serve Diobael. They are as close to true evil as this world has ever seen. Yet they stay within Aldregair. Nobody knows why. Most think they are guarding something, but what, that is anybody’s guess. The Karakin are evil beasts, neither alive nor dead, so they say. Just pray the gods they do not choose to leave.”
Kirin’thar clapped his hands on the table. “Let us not concern ourselves with things that will not happen. Let us deal with what is in front of us.” He filled his goblet with wine and handed the bottle along to Daric. “It was only last night, in that very clearing, the dragon Tor and I were discussing the Madden. The one answer we couldn’t reach: From where will they attack? Without that knowledge, we cannot plan a counter. The map must be destroyed. If they find a means to travel safely through the tunnels…” Kirin looked to the heavens in despair. “We will only have three weeks, maybe a month, before they fall on Bailryn—and the palace. Whether we know their plan or not, there is no time to counter an attack through Aldregair. They would be on us too soon.” Kirin looked at each in turn. “There will be no getting them out. The whole east coast, from the Isles to the Raithby Delta, will be under their control.”
Daric stared into his cup. “It may not be all bad,” he said.
“What do you mean?” Kirin’thar asked.
“We are on this trek of ours because of the guard recruitment. We think it is a ruse to get as many young able-bodied men as possible to the capital. The royal messenger delivered the invitations, along with travel warrants and written proofs. Never has a simple recruitment been handled in such a way. In three weeks, Bailryn will be full of thousands of eager would-be soldiers.”
Kirin pouted, tilted his head, and shrugged his shoulders. “Sneaky, but…” He sat back down. “Anyway, you must still travel to the keep at Cul’taris. Whether they know or not, I doubt they will be aware of the army in Northern Barath, or their plans to use the tunnels.”
“Indeed not!” Daric said. “Do you have horses?”
“Yes. However, they will not travel through the Morrdin, and that map is still your priority. I will send horses to the northern point of Crenach. At least your journey will be swift from there. It’s only a day-long ride to the hold.”
“Agreed.” Daric nodded.
Kirin settled and turned his attention to Elspeth. “And you, young lady, you must go back to the Geddy and get that father of yours to convince the magistrate in Beugeddy to send aid, as soon as possible.”
Elspeth sat up, stumbling for words. “Err… My father is only the manager of Rundair. I do not think he has even met the magistrate.”
“No matter, I’ll send scrolls with the seal of Crenach’coi, one for your father and one for the magistrate. T
hey will believe that!”
Elspeth raised her hands in bewildered submission. “All right, then.” She would have complained, but her sense of duty—as much as it was—bade her to shut up.
Kirin looked to Arfael. “And now, sir, to you.” He sighed. By the look on his face, it appeared that dealing with the Cinnè’arth was more of a task than winning a war. “The dragons of Aldriegan are in dire need of your assistance. You must travel to Braylair in the Bren’alor valley as soon as you are able.”
Olam’s head spun from Kirin to Arfael and back. “Are you kidding, friend? Did you not see what just happened out there?”
“I understand that, sir, but he is the Cinnè’arth!” Kirin said. “You should first visit on a girl called Brea. She lives in the Braylair, and she will be expecting you. The girl is a Dragon Soul Guardian and is very powerful, though she hardly knows it yet. She will be able to help.” Kirin’thar cupped his hands as though praying. “Please, make no judgement on that which has come to pass today, or in any day until now. It is vital that you attend. The entire campaign could very well hinge on your action, Arfael.”
Arfael looked vacantly at Kirin. He blinked and bowed his head. “Is this my destiny, old man?”
Kirin was surprised at his response. “Your destiny was written one hundred and twenty-three years ago, my friend. This is just another chapter and one you alone can read. Do you not know who you are?”
Olam looked to Toban, who shrugged and nodded. “Destiny?” he said. “Are you saying he is the elder? That he is, indeed, Arlyn. Nothing we have heard has made us certain of that, whether you chose to call him by that name or not.”
“Yes, of course he is. How could you not know this?”
Toban spoke. “We knew he was one of the three brothers, but…”
“Well, he is the Cinnè’arth! Arlyn Gan’ifael: the saviour of Barais’coi and destroyer of Eiras’moya.”
The Call of the Crown (Book 1) Page 35