EXILED: Lord of Cragsclaw

by Bill Fawcett

  “The king is occupied,” he said. “Pacing will not help.”

  She protested. “But I was scheduled....”

  “Many are scheduled,” the wizard interrupted. “You are fortunate I could help. Most do not get even this far.”

  “Does not the name of the Dancer of the Wilds mean something to him?”

  Again he smiled, but kindly. “Yes,” he answered. “But so do many others. He must deal with all of them, and not all, believe it or not, are as patient as you are. You would have been seen instantly if you had told him your real name.”

  She nodded. “Yes,” she muttered. “But I didn’t want the whole city to know I was here.”

  “Exactly,” came the response. “So be patient once more.” She sat and tried at least to look patient. But she didn’t enjoy it. She waited another full hour, until finally old Oormet opened the door and motioned for them to follow him. The old mrem’s eyes opened wide when he saw her, but she knew he wasn’t certain that he believed his own sight. It pained her to have to deceive the old chamberlain. He had always been kind to her.

  When she and Berrilund entered the throne room, the king did not look up. A dozen tired-looking courtiers sat or slouched off to one side. The rear wall, as always, was lined with guards. Studying some documents, Andelemarian bent his head down toward the papers and breathed an audible sigh. Then with his tongue he licked his hand, slowly and methodically washing his face, until at last he shook his head hard and turned to face his new visitors.

  “Berrilund,” he said. “Welcome once more.” He glanced at his daughter. “You have brought, I am told, a female of great importance to the people of Ar and the world.” The phrase was pure formality. It was nonetheless nicely done.

  “I have, your majesty,” came Berrilund’s response. “Behold a White Dancer, the Dancer of the Wilds, who comes before you on a mission of great urgency.”

  “Since it is so urgent,” the king nodded, “I apologize for the delay in seeing you. Another urgent matter required my attentions.” When he looked at the Dancer, his brows suddenly knitted. There was an instant of recognition, but he said nothing, waiting instead for her to speak.

  “I’ll be as brief as I can,” Sruss began. “Perhaps all you need is the main point.” She paused, then announced, “Cragsclaw is in danger. It is about to be attacked, if it has not already been taken.”

  The king leaned forward, a frown on his face. “How do you know this?” he asked slowly.

  So she told him of Talwe, and of Morian, and of Cwinyd the magician and Crethok the raider from the highlands. Her tale was not long, because her speech was brief, but at many points he stopped her to ask her questions, so that in the end she spoke until near the approach of midnight. When she finished, she was exhausted. The king, however, was not.

  “Why did you come to me?” he asked.

  “Because Ar must send forces,” she replied, her voice now slightly hoarse.

  He rubbed his face with the back of his hand. “Lord Sleisher has always fared well by himself,” he mused. “I seem to be getting warned a lot by Dancers lately. How do I know the threat is as great as you say?”

  She stopped, then sighed. He had, of course, no reason to believe her. “You have heard all I know,” she said quietly. “I have nothing else to offer except my word that all this is true.”

  “Nothing else,” he replied, staring at the tips of his whiskers, “but perhaps, from someone very special, that is enough. Come closer, that I may embrace you to show a king’s thanks for a warning brought through many hazards.” A few of the courtiers looked up bored, finding nothing special here. A few watched this Dancer in case she appeared in the court again. Befriending those favored by Andelemarian was a beneficial practice.

  Sruss looked into her father’s eyes. They danced in the light from the lamps, and she watched as a smile brightened his old, kind face. Suddenly she felt her feelings overflow, and with the sweetness of their coming she let the tears wash from her eyes. And he descended from the throne and took her in his arms. Smiling, he stopped a pace away and shook his head. “This is no disguise, daughter,” he muttered, reaching out and pulling her to him. He stroked the darkened fur on her neck. “It might fool some, but hardly your father.” Then he pulled her toward an alcove on the side of the throne, gesturing for Berrilund to follow. The alcove was small, barely large enough for all three to stand in. A thick tapestry featuring Bralittar in battle with a demon covered its front. Once inside, they were shielded from the court and the king allowed his happiness to show.

  “I am glad to see you, daughter.”

  “And I you,” Sruss agreed.

  “That was quite a tale,” the king wondered.

  “And all true,” his daughter assured him. “My message was true. It has taken me many weeks to journey here, but even when I left things were urgent.”

  “Then I am doubly grateful, for both the warning and a chance to see you are well.” He embraced her once more and continued to hold her, obviously reluctant to let her go. “I should be concerned that you came here. There was great risk in it. Still, your disguise seems to be effective. The robes are better, and your aloofness best of all, but all fared poorly the minute you began to speak.” He looked at Berrilund. “Did you not instruct her,” he asked the wizard, “how she should change her voice?”

  Berrilund smiled. “She never meant to deceive you,” he said, “only the others. But she knew the importance of not being recognized. She did not want to spoil your plans. Nor, of course, did anyone else. Now,” he added, “I will leave you to become reacquainted.”

  “No,” Sruss said. “There is no time. And that, too, would arouse suspicion.”

  The king nodded reluctantly. “She’s right,” he agreed. “You must leave here as you came. Together.” He looked at Sruss. “Who is this Talwe you have spoken of?”

  She told him, speaking quickly. She told him, too, of his strangeness since his meeting with Morian. Intently, the king listened, only his whiskers showing any sign of acknowledgement.

  “Will he go to Cragsclaw alone?” he asked at last.

  “He said he would,” she replied.

  “Then he will be caught, like Sleisher, in a siege—” He thought a moment. “—if the attackers are foolish enough to besiege during the winter. It is cold in the mountains, and supplies are scarce.”

  Sruss studied her father’s face. “Then you will send an army?” she asked carefully.

  “It is cold for campaigning as well,” the king replied. “And Ar itself is in some danger. So I have been warned by another Dancer.” At this she started, but he put his hand on her shoulder.

  “Danger from where?” she asked.

  “From the east,” was her father’s only answer.

  She waited for him to continue, but he did not. “Will you send an army?” she asked again.

  At last he nodded his head. “Yes,” he said, “I will send an army. But I cannot send a large one, and I cannot lead it myself. Nor can my brother, for he will be needed here. And would not leave if I ordered him to. I wish, now,” he mused, “that I had not sent Reswen away.”

  “Where is Reswen?” Sruss asked. “I have not seen him since he left me with the Dancer.”

  “He is at Cragsclaw,” the king answered. “With Sleisher, he guards the fortress against the east. But now, if what you say is true, he must guard it from the west as well.”

  For a full minute there was silence. Then Sruss spoke.

  “I will lead the army,” she said. She expected laughter, but her father only shook his head.

  “No,” he said, “you, too, will be needed here.”

  She frowned. “I have no place here,” she said. “I can’t just sit here while Talwe....” Suddenly she stopped.

  Andelemarian nodded slowly. “The darkfur has impressed you deeply,” he said. “Would
you allow Morian to stay here? She also has business with Talwe.”

  She knew why he said this, but hearing it still angered her. She had been too quick to speak of Talwe, too quick to forget about Morian. There was no point now trying to convince her father that her interest in Talwe was not what he thought. Denial, after a point, was useless.

  “I will go to Cragsclaw,” she said at last. “And Morian will come with me.”

  The king nodded. “Is that your wish?” he asked.

  “It is.”

  “Then I will not stop you.” He added, “Still, you will not lead the army. Berrilund, who is the most faithful of the nobles? Now that Draldren is gone.”

  “Sarkarien is Gerianan’s second,” he suggested.

  The king mused. “Yes,” he said. “The reports on Sarkarien are good. If Gerianan will spare him, he will lead the force. I will send four hundred of my personal guard, nearly half. That is all I can afford.” He released Sruss and lifted a heavy gold chain off a table at the back of the alcove. “Now, take this trinket; go and sleep,” he offered holding it out. “They will expect I took you back here to give you a reward. You will be called in the morning. The army will leave Ar, in pomp and in ceremony, three mornings hence. You and Morian will be among those who travel with it, in the disguise of the Dancer and her helper.” He reached for her and embraced her once more. “We will not speak again as father and daughter, not until you return. I fear, though....” he began, but pulling away from her he did not finish.

  With a wave of his hand, he motioned them from the room.

  •

  “I have received a calling,” Lorleen said softly. “It comes from the east, but I do not know from whom.”

  She lay on the bed in her palace room, her eyes closed and her eyebrows drawn tightly. At her sides her arms were stiff, and the fur on her clenched hands bristled. Borlin watched her uneasy breathing, wondering why she had summoned him here.

  “I need your help. Time is short and you were the closest,” she said at last. “You must lend me your strength, that I may answer the calling.” Neither a command nor a request, Borlin felt she left him with no choice.

  “Of course,” he said, and she nodded slowly.

  “Take my hands, I need to first find Mithmid,” she ordered. Then, when he did she seemed to ignore him, withdrawing into herself. So they sat for many minutes, Borlin occasionally feeling a chill as she drew from inside him something almost substantial to supplement her own strength.

  “Mithmid,” a voice shrieked in his head. The young wizard had been resting, exhausted from a day helping to repair and strengthen Cragsclaw’s walls. There had seemed little use for his magic and Reswen, now appointed a captain in Lord Sleisher’s guard, was busy leading an effort to gather food to build up the castle’s stocks. Left at loose ends, he had volunteered to do what he could. Since the wizard’s magic was suspect here, this left him only two skills. He could serve as a scribe or a laborer. Keth Sleisher had pointed out that at this moment walls were much more important than books. Disoriented, the young magician sat up and glanced around the sparsely furnished room he had been assigned.

  “Mithmid.” The tone was more urgent now. He thought he might recognize the voice.

  “Lorleen?”

  “Good,” thoughts came in a rush. “Join with me. There is a summoning from the east.”

  Instantly awake, his heart pounding and his tail twitching, Mithmid obeyed. Leaning back into the bed, he strengthened the bond between their thoughts.

  “Now clear your mind, and give it to me.” Lorleen ordered.

  He shook his head, his whiskers brushing the furs. “How?” he asked, but she did not answer.

  Suddenly, he felt his strength draining from him. Frightened and in awe, he quickly forced away whatever thoughts remained to him and concentrated solely on the waning of his power. As it left he felt fatigued, then weary, then at last unbearably tired, and he knew his eyes were beginning to close.

  “Stay awake!” her voice commanded. The voice was inside him, controlling him, forcing him to do as she bid. For a moment he tried to draw himself back, afraid of losing his very being, but then her voice sang to him, soothing him and reassuring him that she would, in the end, let him go free. The song, too, was magical. It worked not on his weakness but added to what strength of his remained. When it was finished, he surrendered his mind completely.

  Mithmid traveled with her across the world, seeking through the wilds for the voice that had called. The land rushed by, the closest a blur and only the farther mountains standing still. Valleys rushed past below them and were lost before he could recognize more than a green blur. A mountain rushed at them, looming large ahead. Instinctively Mithmid shied away and felt them both slow.

  “Don’t fight me,” Lorleen admonished.

  He relaxed, trusting in her skill. There was an instant of complete darkness, and then it was behind them. Over the wide grasslands they flew, past village after village blackened by fire. Together they watched the forming of the bundor runs, and the bow-shaped flight of the aegels toward the south. Finally they reached the river, and beyond the river the mountains, and at last they heard the calling once more.

  Slightly from the north it came. Turning in that direction, the minds of Lorleen and Mithmid raced along the mountaintops. To the left lay the foothills and the forest, on the right there was only the bleakness of desert. There lay the end of the world, Mithmid had been taught as a child, and its sight made his soul shudder.

  But then he saw, far off in the east, an enormous patch of blackness. Almost like a storm cloud it seemed, yet it clung to the ground, not to the sky. Mithmid turned Lorleen’s mind to meet it as well, and when she saw it he felt his own mind wrench with sudden pain. Then he felt himself drawn eastward.

  He fought, for he knew if he surrendered he would never return. The pull was fierce, and he knew he could not counter it alone. Lorleen’s strength added to his own, as together they tried to pull free.

  They succeeded, but not without cost. As Mithmid felt the drawing drop away from him, there fell away too the voice that had called them. He felt Lorleen tear his mind forward, in a desperate attempt to find it again. But it faded into nothingness, and all they could hear was the wail of the cold wind through the rocks. Discouraged, Lorleen led them back toward the familiar valleys of Ar.

  “You have seen,” he heard her voice, “what few other mrem have ever seen. And may Bralittar help us if what I fear is true.”

  “What do you fear?” his mind asked.

  He stiffened with fright at the tremble in her voice. “The armies of the east lay beneath that darkness; so it was in our grandfather’s time,” she whispered sadly. “They march toward Cragsclaw. In the time of Andelemarian, they will say came the terror of the liskash from over the desert.”

  Liskash! From birth he had heard of them, but he never truly believed. Over the mountains was the end of the world. That was what he had been taught. Liskash! Every instinct called for him to extend his claws, but the wizard remembered that here he had no body.

  Then a voice called out to them. This time it was clearer, closer, almost from below. Looking down, Mithmid saw a large fortress guarding a pass in the mountains. On the walls stood one figure only, kneeling with his hands pressed to his head. Beside him lay an empty vial. Mithmid had seen one like it in the Council’s room.

  “I have come,” Lorleen said. “What is it, Reswen?”

  Reswen did not move. “We are under attack from the west,” he said. “Crethok of the highlands marches his army against us. With that army marches magic of a kind we cannot understand. Mithmid lies as if dead. Without help, we are lost.”

  “You were wise to use the calling,” she said. “The Council will meet immediately. Do not fear for Mithmid. The king shall be informed.”

  She did not mention the liskash. Mithmid unde
rstood. Whoever Crethok was, he was, after all, only a mrem. What terror he would know if he learned of the threat from the east as well. And then there came a bolt, fierce, hard, and powerful, flying beyond reason from the east down toward Ar. Mithmid’s mind reeled at its force, and he felt Lorleen’s voice build to a deafening scream. She rose up to meet it, and for a second she halted it. But then she fell away, and with that fall Mithmid was alone.

  He staggered, in a way nobody could ever know. He flitted, or rather bounced, danced and gyrated, his mind in deep pain and wholly out of control. Frantically he worked to stop himself, to make himself stand still, but for a long time he could not. Suddenly he knew he must drive Lorleen out, and as he did so he began the long return.

  When at last he arrived, he sank into his body and collapsed. But then he remembered the bolt, and he forced himself to stand. Shaking and without strength, he looked at the bed. He understood now that Lorleen was dead.

  He lay down to sleep, but his eyes would not close. Over and over he felt in his mind the power of the bolt that shot through the skies. A shimmering, a murmuring, a soft halo of sound worked its way back and forth across the room, and Mithmid’s head would not stop spinning. Reluctantly, he forced himself to stand.

  He was no longer in Cragsclaw. He found instead he was in his old room at the edge of the palace. Confused, he staggered out into the hall. Perhaps, he hoped more than believed, it had all been some strange dream. But as his strength returned he knew it was not.

  When he left the palace, the guards backed away. Out onto the streets of Ar he stepped, where there, too, anyone who saw him stared for a second then quickly leaped away. He held his hands to his face to see if he had changed. As far as he could see, he hadn’t.

  Toward him ran a figure out of the dark. Jremm, he saw when it approached. Like the others, the younger mrem stopped when he saw the wizard, but Jremm did not run off. He didn’t seem surprised at his former employer’s presence in Ar. Instead, he walked up to Mithmid and spoke authoritatively.