EXILED: Lord of Cragsclaw

by Bill Fawcett

  Shaking with pain, she rose to her feet. She stumbled, step by step, toward the opening of the tent. Outside, she called for help, pointing toward the tent as the soldiers came. Then she fell to the ground, and as her eyes went dark she felt the bile rise from her stomach. For a long time, she knew nothing more.

  •

  When Sruss woke, the sun was high in the cold sky, and the noise from outside pierced almost through her. Shaking against the frigid air, squinting to calm the throb in her head, she stood and walked to the flap of the tent. When she opened it, she could hardly believe what she saw.

  Not ten paces from the door, an officer stood shouting at a small group of warriors. With his hands he pointed to where he wanted them to go, and with their hands they tried to argue with him. Louder and louder the voices grew, until at last all the mrem were simply shouting at one another. Sruss stepped outside and around to the back of the tent, where she stood and watched a similar exchange among three of Sarkarien’s officers. Far to her right, a band of warriors waited restively, while to her left over forty milled about, waiting (it seemed) to be told what to do.

  Never once had she thought of Sarkarien as a good leader. Now, she wasn’t so certain. Without him, Andelemarian’s army was completely without direction. Obviously, Sarkarien had never appointed a successor. Had he died in battle, the army would certainly have been destroyed. Maybe, she thought, maybe he understood that.

  She shivered again. It was cold, this air, even though they were not yet near the mountains. To the east she saw a gathering of clouds high over the peaks, while to the west the grasslands stretched toward Ar. She thought for a moment of her father, and then she wondered about young Mithmid. And then her mind turned to the memory of the night gone by.

  Morian. Where was she?

  Sruss limped toward the officers. When they saw her they stopped arguing, turning to her and waiting for her to talk. The way they stared at her, the way they expected her to say something they must listen to, forced her to realize how desperate these mrem truly were. With that realization came another, and the words she spoke surprised her far more than they surprised them.

  “Bring me Morian,” she said to the tallest of the three. Then, to the shortest, she announced quietly, “I will take charge. Go tell the officers to meet outside Sarkarien’s tent. Tell the warriors to sit and wait.”

  “You?” said the third. “Surely this is a joke!”

  Sruss stared into his eyes. “It is no joke,” she replied sternly. “I will take charge of the army, for I am its rightful commander.”

  The mrem snorted. “Rightful commander?” he raised his voice. “There is only one rightful commander, woman. The king of Ar.”

  “Yes,” she answered. “Or, in his absence, another of the royal family.”

  With a puzzled look the officer said, “Gerianan is not here.”

  She nodded slowly. “That is true,” she said. “But he is not the worthiest of the royal family of Ar. There is another.”

  “There was one,” he replied, “but she is dead.”

  Sruss smiled. “No,” she said. “The daughter of the king is still alive. She was hidden, but now can enjoy that luxury no longer.” She pointed with her arm and ordered, “Go tell the warriors that Sruss, now a Daughter of Ar and White Dancer of the Wilds, walks alive among them. And tell them also that she will lead them in Sarkarien’s place.”

  She stood tall as she spoke, and the officer’s eyes opened wide. But when she stopped she shrank again, and her fur darkened once more, and she saw in the officer a look of doubt as sad as any look she’d ever seen.

  “I am Sruss,” she said softly. “But I have no proof, other than my story and this dye which must wear off. Come with me and hear it.” She paused. “Then you may speak your mind.”

  As she turned and walked away, she put her hands to her head. She had failed to convince them. They probably thought her a traitor. The pain in her legs throbbed, and she wondered why the officer didn’t bury a knife in her back.

  •

  Berrilund sat with his hands folded in front of him, the folds of his pale gold robe cascading over the floor beside his chair. Slouched down in his seat, his back curved up to where his neck bent sharply forward. His chin rested on his chest, and his eyes were closed.

  Beside him, Sthon licked his hands and ran them through his beard. His eyes were open, and his eyebrows met sharply at a furrow in the middle of his brow. Occasionally he inhaled deeply, then sighed with the exhale and began to grind his teeth. Whenever anyone spoke, he acknowledged it with a slight tilt of his head.

  On Borlin’s crimson robes, the aegel brooch gleamed brilliantly in the soft torchlight. His eyes were closed, and his head nodded in time to an unsung song.

  The others, Jremm knew, were equally tired, equally concerned, and equally frustrated. Since the deaths of Eronucu and Lorleen, the Council had managed to do nothing. What it clearly needed, was a new leader. But in both of the Council sessions he had been permitted to attend, none of the Council members had even mentioned the leadership. He assumed there was something holding them back, but as their newest and least skilled member he was hesitant to comment.

  “We can’t just sit here,” Sorilia protested for the third time. Her light gray eyes matched her robe perfectly, and Jremm could scarcely look at her without feeling his heart stir. Not that he had forgotten Rennilan—who could forget Rennilan?—but lately he had met women who had begun to threaten her place. First there was Morian. Then the beautiful Sruss. And now Sorilia. He hadn’t met Felior. But Mithmid had told him she was even more lovely. How, he wondered, did the Council-mrem get anything done at all?

  For one thing, they were old. For another, the males and females numbered equally. For a third, they seemed to despise each other.

  He had noticed that during his first meeting. Berrilund had arranged for him to replace the departed Mithmid, and when he walked through the door to the chamber he had been greeted by stares of both disapproval and open hatred. He was not welcome, that was clear enough, but if that was so he wondered why they had allowed him to attend. Probably, he reasoned now, nobody had the power to refuse Berrilund’s request. Right now, in perhaps its time of greatest need, the Council had no leaders.

  But still they refused to discuss that issue. They sat around the scratched table in the half-filled storeroom and watched the oil lamp flicker. When some evil force manifested in Ar itself, they defended the city. But no more. And that often after hours of heated debate. Lately the intrusions had come more often.

  “What would you have us do, Sorilia?” Gaelor’s harsh voice demanded. Jremm feared her, but he did not dislike her. Despite her gruffness, he suspected she possessed great perceptiveness.

  Sorilia stood. “Look around you!” she almost shouted. “Ar is threatened, perhaps by a force we can’t even begin to understand. Did you hear Mithmid’s tale—and Jremm’s (she nodded toward him)—of the passing of Eronucu and Lorleen? There is power gathering in the east, and it’s on its way here. I repeat, we can’t just sit here.”

  “Nor,” Borlin cut in, “can we walk out of the palace and bow toward the east and make it go away.” He motioned for Sorilia to sit, and she assented. “What we need, Sorilia, is a focus. We need some way to channel our powers. Together. Because if Eronucu and Lorleen fell so easily, we will as well.”

  She stood again. “Not necessarily,” she argued. “Eronucu was alone, and Lorleen was far below her normal strength. She wasn’t even fighting while inside her body.” Looking around, she placed her palms on the table and leaned forward. “We have to decide now,” she resumed, “how we will combat this force that threatens Ar. We have to pool our strength, not sit here and argue about it.”

  Gaelor’s rough voice filled the room. “You don’t understand what you’re saying,” she said. “What do you suggest we do? Put our foreheads together and chant som
e spell of joining? Don’t you think we’ve thought of all this already? Don’t you think we would combine our abilities if we knew the best way to do so?”

  She stared at Sorilia, then at Jremm, and then at Sorilia again. “Look at us, mrem,” she insisted. “Look around you at the faces in this room.” She waited while Sorilia did so. “Now tell me you see no concern, no fear, no striving to know what must be done. What do you think we do during these meetings? Wait for our leaders to order us around?” She almost spat as she leaned back in her chair.

  “There are no leaders,” Jremm interjected impetuously.

  At this, Berrilund’s eyes opened. Even Borlin managed a short grunt. Lanalia leaned toward the young mrem and put her hand on his shoulder.

  “The leadership is not to be spoken of,” she said softly. “Not for a year.” Her voice became a whisper. “Not until we are certain that the leaders are gone.”

  Jremm shook his head and sighed. “Isn’t that a bit hopeless?” he asked. “Eronucu’s dead, and so is Lorleen. I saw Eronucu die, and Mithmid saw them both die. What more certainty do you need?”

  Lanalia smiled. “Seeing death does not make it certain,” she replied. “There are seeming deaths. Perhaps the deaths we speak of were simply those.”

  His frustration growing, Jremm argued back. “But that doesn’t change the fact that we need....”

  “Silence!” It was Sthon’s voice, and it shocked the young mrem. “You do not understand, Jremm. Berrilund should not have insisted you come here. It is hard enough to understand in times of peace and prosperity. Understanding is impossible in times of crisis.”

  “Maybe that’s our problem,” Sorilia broke in. “Maybe we’re trying too hard to understand, and not trying hard enough to do anything. Besides, what is there to understand? Jremm’s right. We need leaders.”

  He didn’t remember actually saying that.

  “We cannot elect new leaders,” Lanalia insisted.

  “We have to!” Sorilia countered.

  Berrilund cleared his throat. “There are traditions, Jremm. And Sorilia. Traditions that come from Ar’s distant past. From the Council of the Three’s beginnings. We can’t just ignore those traditions now. Ar has been threatened before.”

  Jremm interrupted again. “But has it ever been threatened when the Council was without leaders?”

  Gaelor’s eyes shot toward him. “He’s right,” she announced. “That’s what we’ve been missing.” She paused to think, then said, “No matter what the danger, the Council of Wizards has always had leadership. The Council has lost leaders before, but never during a crisis.” She smiled.

  “Perhaps,” Berrilund spoke. “But that was then. And obeying the tradition, we have no leaders, despite the crisis.”

  “Then we will elect some,” Gaelor announced. “This very day.”

  Lanalia shot to her feet. “We can’t!” she snapped.

  “We have to, damn it!” Sorilia shot back. “Can’t you see that? Or is your love for your husband overriding your concern for the city?”

  Eronucu’s widow moved toward her, but Jremm held her back. Of course. He had forgotten that Lanalia had been the co-leader’s wife. Still, he wondered if that had made any difference.

  “Unfair,” Sthon replied slowly. “And completely uncalled for. I suggest you owe her an apology, Sorilia.”

  Sorilia nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said hesitantly. “My words were badly chosen. But I still insist that we need leadership.”

  “And what of tradition?” Lanalia asked bitterly.

  Borlin sat up in his chair. “If we don’t act now, Lanalia,” he said gently, “there will be no further tradition. I don’t like spurning tradition any more than you do, but I can see no other choice. There is too much at stake.”

  “I suppose,” Lanalia conceded, “this would be as the co-leaders would have wished.” Her voice was quiet now, and Jremm thought he saw her quiver.

  “I doubt it,” Gaelor disagreed. “Both were tied strongly to the past. But what they would want isn’t important now, Lanalia. All that matters is Ar’s safety. We can’t wait any longer.”

  Jremm saw an opportunity to speak up. “If I might suggest something,” he spoke softly, almost afraid to be noticed. When Berrilund and Sorilia nodded, he continued, “Since the time for choosing co-leaders has not yet come, and yet since we need leaders desperately (he detected a smile on Berlin’s face at his use of ‘we’), why not elect interim leaders? These will have all the respect—and all the responsibility—afforded the regular co-leaders, but they will agree to relinquish the leadership should one or both of the former leaders reappear. That way, we satisfy both tradition and crisis.” He sat back, pleased with the sophistication and the rhetorical strength of his short speech.

  But nobody smiled. Oh, fish offal, Jremm thought. Had he just blown the whole thing? The next seconds of silence lasted at least ten years.

  “He speaks well,” said Lanalia at last. “I would cast my vote to accept this method.”

  “As would I,” nodded Sthon. “His suggestion has both logos and pathos on its side, to say nothing of a healthy dose of ethos. As a pedagogue, I see great value in such things. As a wizard, I see even greater value.”

  Sorilia leaned forward. “Are we agreed?” she asked. When all nodded their assent, she said, “I request that we consider Lanalia as female co-leader. By electing her, we cherish Eronucu’s leadership even further.”

  “And I nominate Sthon as male co-leader,” said Jremm. He thought this was a nice conclusion to the admiration the old mrem had shown him.

  Sthon cleared his throat. “And I as hastily decline,” he said. Turning to Jremm, he rubbed his hand across his cheek and said, “As a rhetorician you show promise.” He paused. “But as a politician you have much to learn. I am neither fit nor eager to lead. And you are not yet qualified to cast nominations or votes.”

  Jremm sank back in his chair, his tail fluffed with embarrassment.

  “That leaves either me or Berrilund,” said Borlin. “And I don’t want the leadership. I cast my nomination toward Berrilund. And I approve Sorilia’s motion.”

  Berrilund stood up. “I will accept the leadership, even by a rather hasty acclamation. But we have not considered one of the women.” He turned to Gaelor. “You have been slighted,” he said, “and yet you have said nothing. Do you accept Sorilia’s request so easily?”

  Gaelor breathed deeply. “As you know, Berrilund, I did not like Lorleen. But I have nothing against Eronucu’s widow, and indeed I held Eronucu himself in the deepest respect. I am older than she, and I am no longer spry. Still, I wish to suggest a further qualification.” She waited, then continued, “Neither Sorilia nor Felior has been considered, and neither has Mithmid. The latter has not been a Council member long enough, perhaps, but the young women have. Sorilia has requested Lanalia, but that does not disqualify her, nor does it suggest that she is not interested. And Felior isn’t even here.”

  “My request was sincere,” Sorilia interrupted. “I would have Lanalia and Berrilund lead us.”

  “And Felior?” Gaelor asked.

  “I don’t know,” the young woman replied. “But she isn’t here, and we must choose now. I don’t think we have a choice.”

  Gaelor nodded. “You’re right. But I hope we aren’t making a mistake.”

  The ceremony was short, and Jremm found it strangely unsatisfying. Yet when it was over, the Council of Wizards had new co-leaders. And even though their first act of office was to invite Jremm into the Council as a full member, still he couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone badly wrong. Perhaps it was true, as the old folk tales said, that haste was the greatest danger of all. In the end, the Council resolved to prepare for Ar’s defense, and to monitor closely the workings of Felior and Mithmid. Jremm was assigned to watch the movements of Gerianan, and he sighed as h
e left the chamber at last. Somehow he had thought that the Council would free him from spying, but instead it had voted unanimously in support of his talents. As destinies went, he thought as he stepped into the streets, being a spy wasn’t a particularly pleasant one, but it seemed to be his.

  •

  Mithmid lay on his cot in the dark, working his mind outward from Cragsclaw. Ever since the magical flight with Lorleen, he had longed to repeat it, but so far he had found himself with neither the strength nor the courage. Yet, since his talks with Lord Sleisher he realized that he would have to do something, and he reasoned that tonight was a good time to start.

  Start what, though? That was the problem.

  Oh, there was no doubt that Cragsclaw was in danger, but exactly what kind of danger Sleisher refused to make clear. He had been frightened enough to not question how Mithmid had gotten to Ar and returned in the time it takes to make the trip to Ar alone. Mithmid knew of the problems to the west; he could sense Sleisher’s concern for his son’s battles with the highland raiders, and he understood well the danger of siege. But he felt, too, that something else bothered the Lord of Cragsclaw—something even worse than the hazards facing his son. If he hadn’t known the old noble better, he would have said the mrem was terrified.

  Terrified of Cragsclaw itself.

  This didn’t make sense, of course. There was no reason for Cragsclaw’s lord to be afraid of his own fortress. But Mithmid saw that fear in his eyes, saw it every time he mentioned the dangers outside, saw it when those eyes scanned the ground at his feet, as they almost constantly did. It was a fear, he suspected, of something not understood, a thing that could not be seen. He suspected this because such fear was the worst fear possible.

  Now, he let his mind go free.

  At first it held tightly to his body. Mithmid had to fight waves of fear as the incorporeal feeling brought back painful memories. Then he forced away the fear. Calming himself by an act of will, his awareness floated up from his body and out of his room, gaining speed as he circled around the perimeters of the fortress. It flew into dwellings, watching the mrem in their fitful sleep, and it flew through the house of healing, where mrem with seeping wounds babbled incoherently to the mrem and the females who cared for them. Some dreamed of their tortures, but others spoke of fear. Fear of attack, fear of defeat, fear of starving in the cold of the winter. But mostly their fears were the fears of their youth. The deep fears shared by all the race.