EXILED: Lord of Cragsclaw

by Bill Fawcett

  Part of the contest, therefore, was to determine who threw first. The first thrower had the clear advantage.

  “Do you understand the game?” Challro asked the newcomer.

  “Yes.”

  “And do you understand that if Crethok wounds the bird he will get the credit, no matter how small the wound?”

  “Yes, I know that too.” The beige mrem showed no hint of surprise, emotion, or fear.

  “Then why do you offer to throw last?” The question was Crethok’s, not Challro’s.

  The older mrem sighed. “In each knifing contest I’ve seen, the contest to see who throws first is more intense than the knifing itself. I get bored with all the preliminaries,” the stranger explained.

  Challro smiled. Crethok looked puzzled.

  “We have an interesting twist to the game here,” the clansmrem said. “Disputes over who downed the bird are settled by a true knife-duel.”

  The other nodded. “So I’ve heard.” He paused, then asked, “Do you allow a dance-duel?” The inn murmured.

  Crethok sneered. “Some might,” he muttered. “I don’t.”

  “I see,” came the reply. “Shall we start?” He started toward the knifing room.

  “Wait!” Crethok shouted. “What about the stakes?”

  The other stopped and turned around. “If you win, I give you everything I’m carrying. If I win, you give me everything you’re carrying. That should take care of it.” He turned again.

  The clansmrem barked, “How do I know you have anything in your pockets? All I see is a knife, a sword, and some rat-eaten clothes.”

  Again the newcomer stopped, but this time he did not turn.

  “Some here believe you have nothing, Crethok,” and he walked into the knifing room. Crethok spat on the floor, then followed behind. The rest of the inn fell into place.

  Crethok killed the first two birds with ease, then claimed the third on a wound. He claimed the fourth, too, but his claim here was weak. The bird had certainly been wounded, but every spectator clearly saw Crethok’s knife miss by a tiny margin. The fourth bird went to the beige mrem, and he took the fifth as well. When they came to the sixth, the game had grown intense.

  It was small, this bird, and it could well be the last. If both missed three times the game ended and it was set free. The rules of the game demanded that neither player know in advance how many birds would be loosed, and contests ranged from three to sixteen. Much depended on what birds had been captured, of course, since each succeeding bird had to be smaller than the previous one. In a small inn like this, four birds was a common total, while ten was very unlikely.

  Blue and small, about the size of an adult mrem’s palm, the bird beat its wings into the air. Its pattern was chaotic, and it almost hit the walls with each burst of speed. Crethok watched it for a few seconds, then steadied himself and took aim.

  He threw. His knife sliced through the air, leading the bird by what seemed exactly the right amount. But at the last second the bird dodged upwards, and Crethok’s knife hit the wall on the far side of the room. He had missed, this time without any doubt.

  The newcomer planted his feet and prepared to throw. He drew his knife behind his ear, waited until every spectator was ready to scream, then snapped his wrist. The knife met the bird perfectly, and its head fell cleanly away from its body.

  “Next bird!” Crethok shouted hoarsely. “Loose the next bird!”

  “No!” the beige mrem shouted. “Wait for a moment.” He strode into the center of the room and picked up his last kill.

  “I declare the game over,” he said. “Crethok has cheated.”

  Crethok screamed and charged toward his opponent. Four mrem jumped from the sidelines and tackled him. He wrestled, but he could not break loose.

  “He has the right,” Challro said, walking into the center of the room. “All he has to do is prove it. If he doesn’t, he loses automatically.”

  The newcomer held the bird high. “This bird has a breast wound,” he said. “And we all saw the flight of the two knives. Crethok’s missed, and mine cut off its head.” He paused. “It couldn’t possibly have a breast wound, unless...” Again he stopped, and he looked toward the innkeeper. “Unless that mrem is under Crethok’s pay.”

  Challro took the bird from the beige mrem and examined it.

  “He’s right,” the crimson-colored mrem announced to the spectators. “The bird has been tampered with.”

  “How many more have you done this way?” the newcomer demanded of the innkeeper. The innkeeper shook his head violently, muttering something about Crethok, denying any involvement whatsoever.

  “I will loose the seventh bird,” said Challro. “Both of you will inspect it first.” He kicked the innkeeper out of his way and took the cage. Reaching inside, he grasped the bird and showed it to the throwers.

  “It’s fine,” said the newcomer, and Crethok only grunted.

  Crethok’s first throw missed by inches, the beige mrem’s by less. On his second throw, Crethok stumbled, his knife hitting the floor in front of him. He wavered now, cursing in his drunkenness at his inability to stay steady. The other missed again, and with his third throw Crethok vomited. The newcomer reached over, took Crethok’s knife, and hit the bird square in the heart. Crethok fell to the floor.

  “Get some water,” the newcomer said to Challro. The crimson mrem did so, throwing it over the prone clansmrem. When he sputtered back to his senses, the newcomer crouched down near him.

  “My payment, Crethok,” he said, a broad smile on his face.

  “In a moment,” mumbled the clansmrem. He shook his head and stood up, reaching into his pockets.

  Suddenly from his hand a small knife flashed. The clansmrem snapped his wrist, and the knife buried itself into the newcomer’s stomach. Crethok darted from the room before anyone moved, and was out of the tavern and into the woods within seconds.

  Challro raced after him, tackling him against an old, gnarled songomore. Dragging the clansmrem back to the inn, he carried him upstairs and laid him on a bed, tying his hands and his feet with ropes. Ordering a guard to stand watch over him, the crimson mrem ran downstairs and out the door.

  •

  “Leave him.” Crethok heard the voice outside the room.

  “I am under orders,” the guard replied.

  “Yes,” said the lower voice. “And now you are under mine.” A short silence, and then a clink of coins. “Now, leave him. I will take care of him.”

  Crethok listened to the guard’s voice say, “As you wish, my lord,” and the door to his room opened.

  The mrem was light-colored, his fur the color of sand, and he wore a deep green robe over worn leather trousers. He was young, and his eyes blazed through Crethok’s throbbing head. As Crethok watched, the younger mrem sat on the bed beside him, unsmilingly staring deep into his eyes.

  “You are stupid, Crethok,” he said. “What purpose would killing a traveler possibly serve?”

  “He insulted me,” the clansmrem said angrily. “He said I cheated.”

  “Didn’t you?” the other cut in.

  “Do you accuse me, too?” Crethok rasped. He raised himself on his elbows.

  Pushing him back down, the light-colored mrem stared hard into his face. “Lie there, and be silent,” he ordered. “I have no patience with stupidity. You killed that mrem because you had lost a bet you could not fulfill. That is all.”

  Crethok closed his eyes, trying to escape the other’s fierce stare. “Yes,” he said at last.

  The other released him. “I have paid him your debts,” he said. “He has gone his way.”

  Crethok started. “But he was dead,” he stammered. “I saw it with my own—”

  “Your own what?” came the question. “You didn’t stay around long enough to see anything. He lived, and now he is gone.
The one called Challro is gone with him.” He paused, then added, “You owe me more than you can possibly pay.”

  Crethok sat up. “I don’t even know you,” he muttered. “Why did you do this for me?”

  “Because I want you to work for me.” The younger mrem’s tone was sharp and assuming.

  Crethok snorted. “I work for no mrem, my friend, only for myself.”

  “Not anymore,” came the matter-of-fact response. “As of now, Crethok, brother of Arklier, you work only for me.” And his eyes pierced Crethok’s brain once more.

  “This is insane!” Crethok spat. “Why would I work for you?”

  “Because you want power, and so do I. Apart, we can do nothing. Together, we might do much. That is as much explanation as I will give.

  “I have paid all your stupid gambling debts. I can give you much more. I can give you enough money to raise your own army, so you will have all your brother’s power. And I can give you even more, enough to maintain a retinue and buy your own followers.” He paused, holding up a full purse. It clinked of gold. “Need I add more?”

  Crethok’s eyes brightened, but then they squinted. “Yes,” he replied, “I need that money. But what would you have me do in return?”

  “Serve the Eastern Lords.”

  Crethok felt a blow to his heart. All his life he had feared the Eastern Lords, much more than he had feared Arklier, Ar, or even the Na-mrem from the south. But that was as a child, a myth from tales old when his grandfather heard them. It was more likely this mrem was from some city, wishing to gain the strength of a highland clan for its petty feuds.

  Here was a chance to do what he wanted, a chance to defeat his brother and become the ClanMrem, leading his armies wherever he would. He distrusted this light-furred young mrem, but if he did only half of what he promised Crethok would be set for life.

  It took him but seconds to make up his mind.

  “I will serve them,” he said, “even though you will have to teach me how.”

  In the next room the scullery maid moved her ear from the door. Minutes later she was in the wine cellar, seemingly asleep.

  •

  How long is this going to last? Mithmid thought with wilted whiskers. He let himself slide further down the wall. Its rough finish scratched pleasantly beneath his matted fur. He’d been there forever, it seemed, ever since the dawn so many hours before. If something was going to happen, surely it would have happened by now.

  But then, he had no idea what exactly was supposed to happen. He had been sent here, somewhere on the third floor of the palace, to keep watch over someone he’d never seen before.

  The female had fur of a dark cream color, and even though she was quite old he found her still beautiful to behold. The only thing was that all she did was sleep.

  Well, not sleep, actually. According to Berrilund, what she was doing was magically listening to the thoughts of other magicians throughout the world. Apparently, it was something only the very skilled could do, and Mithmid wondered as he watched whether his own skills would ever be that great. But he wondered, too, if in fact this female had any skills at all. She had done nothing all day but lie on her bed with her eyes closed, and to Mithmid that seemed an awful lot like sleep.

  Earlier in the day, he had even wondered why he, rather than anyone else, had been asked to perform guard duty. With two Council meetings under his belt, he was beginning to consider himself quite a clever young mrem, and guard duty seemed well beneath his capabilities. But then he reasoned that, as junior Council-member, he was the obvious choice for the job, and for a time he was satisfied. Now he was no longer insulted. What he was, instead, was bored.

  Suddenly the female sat up. Her cream-colored face was contorted, her teeth showing as she opened her mouth. Her eyes stared straight ahead for a moment, and she seemed to be having trouble breathing. Mithmid stepped toward her, then hesitated. He had been told to let her alone, and he did not know what to do.

  But when he saw her arm rise and her hand reach out, and when he saw her claws extend to their full length from her fingers, he knew he must wait no longer. Leaping toward the bed, he grabbed her arm and held it motionless. Then he shook her, and her head dropped to her chest.

  When she raised it, she looked exhausted. She searched Mithmid’s eyes for a moment, as if she did not recognize him, and then she swung her legs over the side of the bed and struggled to her feet.

  “The Lords,” she muttered. “I have heard them talk of the Lords.”

  She took a halting step toward the door, then leaned on Mithmid to make it the rest of the way.

  “Where are you going?” he asked quietly. “Tell me, and I will take you.”

  “Eronucu,” her voice trembled. “I am weak, Mithmid, and I must get to him quickly. Something is very wrong.”

  Mithmid nodded. “He will be in the kitchen,” he assured her. “Berrilund told me he would.”

  She managed a weak smile. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I spent too long listening. Much longer and I might not have come back. Thank you.” And she fell unconscious into his arms.

  He carried her to a basket and then mumbled an apology as he covered her with a cloth. The basket was heavy, but he could manage it. Who would notice someone carrying a basket into a kitchen, or care if they did?

  •

  “She is your teacher,” Eronucu said to him. “From her you will learn what you must.”

  The cream-colored female lay on a soft fur rug on the table in the Council-room, and Eronucu looked at her with concern. She was weak, that was certain, and she hadn’t awakened since she had last spoken to Mithmid. The young mrem saw in Eronucu’s eyes a very deep love, and he wished he could will the female to rise.

  “I do not even know her name,” Mithmid said at last.

  “She is called Flanrial,” said the older mrem. “What her real name is nobody knows. Not even I.”

  “Then I will call her as she wishes to be called,” Mithmid replied respectfully.

  Eronucu shook his head. “You’ll do nothing of the kind. When she wakes up, you will call her ‘Teacher’ or ‘Mentor.’ Nothing more, nothing less. She deserves at least that much.”

  “I meant no wrong,” Mithmid apologized.

  The older mrem smiled. “I know. And forgive me for being short. I am worried. But she is your teacher, Mithmid, the best teacher any wizard has ever had. She chose you.”

  “Chose me? I didn’t know.”

  “There was no way you could have known.” Eronucu touched Mithmid’s shoulder. “She had heard of you, and she listened to your thoughts. She has that power, although she rarely uses it. What she heard she will not say, but she wants your teaching all for herself. That, Mithmid, is an enormous honor.”

  Mithmid smiled broadly, but when he saw her face his smile faded. “Will she live?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Eronucu said. “But she will be weak for a long time.”

  Flanrial stirred.

  Laying his hand on her forehead, Eronucu closed his eyes and whispered. Mithmid could not hear him, and he doubted he would understand even if he could.

  She awakened. Her eyes were a deep blue, the blue of a deep, clear sea. Mithmid had never seen eyes so beautiful, for in Ar blue eyes are rarely seen. She looked at Eronucu and smiled, and then she held out her hand to him. When they touched, her eyes turned green once more.

  “The Lords,” she whispered, the smile dropping from her face. “I heard them speak of the Lords.”

  “What about the Lords?” Eronucu asked, his fur bristling.

  “The Eastern Lords are preparing to march,” she said weakly. “They have already started to form.”

  Eronucu nodded, his face grimacing as if in pain. “Is it time?” he asked her.

  “Yes,” she nodded. “The Three must be seen again.”

  Eronucu turned to
the young mrem. “Spread word, Mithmid, that the Three are abroad in Ar. Spread it slowly, so as not to arouse suspicion, but make sure everyone of importance knows it. And find Sorilia, and send her here. She is the best at illusions, and the mysterious Three must truly be seen.” He turned back to Flanrial, whose eyes were now closed.

  “I have told your student far too much,” Eronucu admitted, “but he must know the danger and the importance.” When she did not reply, he said, “I will explain what I can when he returns.”

  He touched her cheek with the back of his hand, then turned to face Mithmid with tears in his eyes. “Go now,” he commanded, and Mithmid ran from the room.

  “SHE HAS COME! The Dancer has arrived!”

  The shouts rang through the village. Talwe heard them, not with the excitement of the children, nor with the awe of the villagers, but rather with apprehension, worry, and guilt. The Dancer’s arrival, after all, meant not only the yearly feast in her honor, but also her judgment of those the village would have judged.

  This year, Talwe was the only one.

  Three times he had wronged the village, or so the accusations went. He had used magic in the Hunt, he had lost two herd beasts, and he had disappeared from the village with no reason. He would not admit he had gone to try to find the gold-eyed mrem. As he stood now among the others, staring toward the afternoon sky in the west, he realized one very disturbing fact. All the accusations, no matter how unfair, were nothing less than the truth.

  Any one of them could lead to his banishment; three together could lead to his death.

  Still, he had a couple of things in his favor. Torwen liked him, and so did Dalriatar. And Arigain still favored him, so far as he could tell. But Orrintar seemed more and more to be against him, and Forun was gaining support, spurred on by Arigain’s attentions. When Morian had refused to be Forun’s woman, Forun had sent a screech to the heavens to call down the gods to bring doom on her and on Talwe.