A Balance Broken (Dragonsoul Saga)

by Hartke, J. T.

  Jaerd wrinkled his brow. “I did not know that.”

  “Few do.” Vahn clucked his tongue. “How quickly the past is forgotten by the men of your kingdom.”

  Magus Britt turned his shaggy brows upon the Free City General. “Aren’t most humans in the Free Cities descended from the same settlers who returned with the Navigator?”

  Vahn spluttered. “Well, I suppose…”

  The Battlemage nodded, turning his gaze forward.

  Silence consumed the van of the detachment. Jaerd watched the Dragonscales drifting by, their tops capped in eternal white.

  On the third morning after crossing the babbling Gallond, the last pinnacle in the continent-spanning range rose before them. Highspur stood out, taller than the last few peaks, and connected to them by a long ridge of sheer rock. A cone of white capped its gray cliffs, and its southern shoulder rose in a flawless, flat wall of stone.

  Jaerd shifted in his saddle, following the sharp ridge with his gaze. “It looks like tools have worked that face.”

  Magus Britt gestured toward the cliff. “It is even steeper on its northern side.”

  Earl Boris glanced over his shoulder. “Three centuries of lonely garrison assignments create a need to keep busy. They have changed the shape of the entire mountain. Just wait until you see how they’ve carved the inside.”

  Lord Marshal Magdon lifted his thin finger toward the peak. His gray eyes fixed upon the snowy bluff. “You will see it any moment.”

  A flutter of motion appeared over a snowy hump – a long strand bouncing in the wind. After a few more strides of Jaerd’s horse, it resolved into a long, sable banner, lifting from the conical point of a remote tower.

  “Farseer’s Spire,” the marshal said.

  Jaerd leaned in his saddle, his heart quickening at the sight. “I’ve seen the tapestry in the citadel at Gavanor. The tower is totally separate from the fortress, correct?”

  “Accessible only by a narrow chimney of rock.” Snorting in amusement, Magus Britt lifted a canteen to his lips. “They have a lift for Earl Brandon.”

  Shifting the reins in his hand, Jaerd stared at the twisting banner. The black pennant drew in the light of day. Where it hung from the top of the tower, a golden comet flared across its canton.

  Lieutenant Kent Varlan piped in from behind Jaerd. “My father’s bannerman, Baron Maylon Farseer of the Ironfort, is Earl Brandon Farseer’s nephew. The Earl of Highspur has been a Farseer since Earl Brandon’s grandfather took the name.” The man’s voice broke off, and Jaerd heard him shift his armor. “And I’m certain you all know this quite well. My apologies.”

  A pair of riders approached over a crest of rocky earth. One wore the green-trimmed blue cloak of a ranger; the other wore a Fadecloak that shifted in pattern as it flew out behind him. Captain Silios wanted to be known, or he’d have his Fadecloak on too.

  Both Earl Boris and Magus Britt perked up in their saddles. Brawny the hound charged out to greet them.

  “Silios returns.” The earl leaned forward, shading his face with a gauntleted hand. “And I believe that would be Lord Gael.”

  The two arrivals cantered their horses up to walk alongside the command officers. Upon closer inspection, Jaerd saw that white hair topped a youngish face, but the pointed ears peeking out over his cowl told him for an elf. However, only one of his eyes glittered with the bright violet common among his race. A black eyepatch covered the other.

  Earl Boris and the mage both nudged their steeds over to greet him.

  “Gael!” Boris clasped the elf’s outstretched wrist. Magus Britt nodded a friendly greeting.

  “Boris. Joslyn.” The elf bowed his head toward them both. “It is good to see you again so soon. Your last stay with us was far too brief.” He cast his good eye over the line of cavalry behind them. “It looks as if you will remain a bit longer this time.”

  Nodding his head, Earl Boris released the elf’s arm. “We will indeed. Possibly indefinitely.”

  Gael’s white eyebrows dipped, bringing the band of the eye patch down with it. “You are not needed in your capital?”

  Earl Boris waved a hand in dismissal. “I am not wanted in the capital – for now. However, I am needed here.” He gazed toward the top of the mountain. “The north stirs more than we feared.”

  The frown remained upon the elf’s brow. “Indeed. Your captain of rangers has informed us of the basics. Attacks within Gannon – a dragon raid upon the Rock…” He shook his head in disbelief.

  The look of concern on Boris’ face softened. “We have also brought a number of very Talented healers, if you would care to have one visit you.”

  His hand lifting half way toward the patch, Gael instead ran it through his close-cropped white hair. “I have almost gotten used to it. Likely, the wound is too old for them be able to accomplish anything.”

  Boris pushed his stallion into a trot. “Nevertheless, they will try. I know you see better than any human even with only one eye, but I have a feeling we will need both of them.”

  The elf spread his hands and shrugged. “Spirits of Air willing. Otherwise, I have two hundred more elf rangers whose sight is almost as sharp as mine ever was.”

  Their path dipped behind a heavy root of stone stretching out from Highspur Mountain. Around a tool-shorn corner of rock, a narrow gorge ran between two tall shoulders of granite, like the leftover cleft of a huge axe. Where the defile narrowed, the fortress of legend crawled up the side of Highspur. Jaerd held his breath at the sight.

  Two thick towers stood upon the shoulders of the mountain. A stout wall of stone ran between them, meeting in the middle at a bulky gatehouse. Behind the wall, the slope of the mountainside steepened, and the carved out gorge narrowed even further. At its end a second wall rose, higher and of older stonework. Four lofty towers stabbed up from the wall, two at the center around the gate and two where the wall met the sheer cliffs of the mountainside. Beyond the inner wall the edge of the mountain climbed swiftly, bored with several entrances. Upon the last shoulder of the mountain he saw a square bastion keep, and from it six banners flew. Beyond there, the mountain peaked in white, with only Farseer’s Spire near its pinnacle.

  Magus Britt looked at Jaerd and chuckled.

  Noticing that his chin almost touched his chest, Jaerd clicked his jaw shut.

  “The fortress of Highspur looks quite impressive upon first sight.” Earl Boris smiled behind his mustache. “I would imagine at least a thousand of the men behind us are reacting in the same manner right now.”

  Gathered upon the walls of the mighty fortress, several thousand soldiers in cloaks of blue, gray, green, and a dozen other colors raised swords, spears, and a mighty cheer to greet the new arrivals. The clangor rolled down the defile, bouncing between the mountain and its spurs. Two heavy thumps sounded above it all, and Jaerd cast his eyes skyward. Two arcs of flame passed far over their heads and into the northern foothills.

  “Quickfire!” Magus Britt grumbled. “They need not waste it.”

  Earl Boris leaned on his saddle horn and turned to face the mage. “You do remember how much of it they have stored here? That’s why we brought all that naphthous sulfite you wanted.”

  The mage picked at the double row of silver buttons on his tunic. “Exactly. We may need it, when this spot is swarming with orcs and trolls and the Fires know what else. I’ll be kind enough then to not to say I told you so.”

  Boris laughed. “That’ll be the day.”

  The fore gate stood open. Dozens of dwarves scrambled over the towers, hoisting the portcullis and swinging the doors with hidden mechanics.

  Earl Boris turned to Jaerd. “You commanded men upon the walls of Gavanor for years. Did you learn the inner workings of their defensive engines?”

  Jaerd nodded to his commanding officer. “Yes, sir. I actually found a way to twist our ropes to add more
tension without snapping them.”

  “Good. Just the thinking we need.” Boris turned to his giant master sergeant. “Hall, have the men dismount in the outer courtyard and fold into the garrison. Bring the wagons inside after us.”

  Sergeant Hall snapped his salute and pulled a thick cigar from his pocket. “Magus Britt – would you be so kind?”

  The Battlemage snapped his fingers, and a small flash sparked at the edge of the cigar. Sergeant Hall puffed away, and a bright red cherry began to glow.

  “Thank you, sir. Much obliged.” He turned to look down the parade of cavalry entering the outer courtyard. His wolfhound barked in unison, as if to emphasize his master’s orders. “All right you maggots! Get those horses lined against the wall! Move it or I’ll toss you and your beast over there with my own hands!”

  The Earl of Mourne watched his sergeant march away, shouting orders even at the officers, who followed without question. “I’ve never seen him so happy.”

  Gael spurred his sorrel mare forward. “The captains of Highspur wait within.” He gestured for them to follow. “What hospitality we have to offer is yours.”

  The inner gate hung over them, twice as tall and imposing as the outer. It also looked twice as old to Jaerd’s journeyman eye.

  They passed between the pair of hulking, steel inner doors and into a pristinely manicured courtyard of cut grass and white stone paths. Jaerd dismounted, handing his reins off to an almond-skinned Hadoner carrying a scimitar. A sharp-featured elf took the reins of Boris’ stallion, and the two led the steeds into the lowest entry of the mountain. Carved horses reared in battle along its mouth.

  “The stable is on the lowest level.” Boris pointed up the mountainside at the series of carved entryways. A switchback stone staircase climbed upward along the mountainside to connect each level. “The second entrance is enlisted barracks and their mess hall, while the third leads to the infirmary, the armory and general quartermaster, along with a full forge.” He lifted his finger to a door carved with watchful lions. “Fourth level is officers’ barracks and mess.”

  Jaerd nodded. “I’ll be bunking there.”

  “No, Captain.” Boris pointed to the stone keep built upon the upper shoulder. “You will be joining us within the bastion. You are a command officer now.”

  They reached the top of the first flight of steps, a platform carved with figures of hunting wolves. Three men stood there, one dressed in blue with red fringe, one in black, and one in the loose, flowing clothes and lacquered armor of the Empire of Hadon.

  Lord Marshal Magdon bowed his head to the elder man in a sable cape. “My Lord Earl, thank you for your welcome to Highspur. My men and I are greatly honored.”

  Earl Brandon Farseer returned the bow with a sour frown, his wispy white hair hanging down about his shoulders, and scraggly silver eyebrows covering parts of his face. “Why have you come here yourself, Lord Marshal? Is Earl Boris insufficient to supplant me?”

  The marshal blinked. He folded his arms and scowled back at Farseer. “I am here at King Arathan’s command. He is still your liege, Earl Brandon, regardless of your remote location.”

  Earl Boris stepped forward, patting the air in placation. “Please, my lords. We are here to supplant no one. Rather, we are here to support you.”

  Earl Brandon pursed his pale lips. “Very well. I will take my place within my tower. My eyes will gaze unceasingly into the north. This…” He waved at the fortress about him. “…is yours to command. I am old enough to read the subtle messages of court.” The earl turned away and hobbled into the mountain entrance, his two black clad men-at-arms joining him.

  Stepping into the awkward silence, the Hadoner bowed, his crimson and white lacquered armor glinting in the sunlight. “My lords. I am Khalem Shadar, quartermaster of Highspur and captain of the Emperor’s expedition of Sunguard here. If there is anything you need, for yourselves or for your men, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  The man spoke with the fairness of court, but Jaerd recognized the lithe movement of a warrior. The handle of the decorated scimitar at his hip showed the wear of regular practice, and his brown hands the calluses of its use.

  “Yes, Captain Shadar.” Pretending not to notice Earl Brandon stalking away, Boris returned the nod of greeting. “We met briefly when Joslyn and I were here in the spring.” The Bluecloak earl turned to the third man. “And Magus Eldester – we brought a squad of your compatriots as well.”

  The Battlemage with two stars upon his collar nodded to Joslyn Britt. “I am glad you have come, Magus-General. We are far too few as it is.”

  Magus Britt returned the nod. “We have other surprises as well.”

  Turning back to the Hadonese quartermaster, Earl Boris gestured toward his men. “Most have never served at Highspur before. They will need instruction.”

  The Hadoner bowed his head. A fine beard circled his honest smile. “I have already detailed Gannonite men to get them situated. A hot meal is currently being served in the mess hall.” He gestured for them to follow him up the stairs. “The forge is fired, should any of your equipment need repair, and farriers stand ready in the stables to care for your mounts.”

  Khalem Shadar led them to the staircase, and they began to climb upward. “We have many excellent eyes here at Highspur. We have known of your approach for some time.”

  “My scouts watched you wet your toes in the Gallond,” Gael added. “We knew the hour you would arrive.”

  Boris looked back to the quartermaster. “How are the stores?”

  “Very full. And growing.”

  Earl Boris rubbed his black mustache. “Keep at it, Khalem. I want the deep stores bursting if anything comes down on us.”

  Once he set foot upon the third level, its walls carved with campfires and the vine-entangled hand of healing, Jaerd smelled bacon and roasted peppers, mingled with the yeasty aroma of fresh bread. His stomach gurgled, reminding him that he had not eaten since breakfast.

  Boris smiled at him over his shoulder. “Not long now, Captain.”

  A blocky, soot covered form waddled out from the entrance. Jaerd focused on a dwarf, almost as wide as he was tall. His black beard was streaked with gray, though Jaerd could not be certain if it came from age or ash. Grime smudged every visible patch of the dwarf’s skin. Upon his head he wore a helmet – the kind the dwarves wore for mining, not for battle. A white crystal was strapped to it.

  The thing probably glows in the darkness below.

  Earl Boris clasped hands heartily with the dwarf, heedless of the black soot rubbing onto his glove. “Tarrak! Good to see you again, my friend.”

  The dwarf laughed a sonorous bellow from his thick chest. “Good to see you again, lad. I was in the mines when you visited us last – found one heck of a vein – and never got word of your visit until you were already gone.”

  Earl Boris patted the dwarf on the shoulder and raised a puff of dust in the process. “Understood, my old friend. I only wish I had been able to stay long enough to visit you down there myself. This time, however, I will be here for a while longer.” He waved his hand at Jaerd. “Captain Jaerd Westar, I want to introduce you to the chief dwarf here at Highspur, Maester Tarrak Goldmar.”

  Jaerd shook the dwarf’s hand, ignoring the soot as politely as the earl had.

  “Jaerd served on the walls of Gavanor for many years,” Boris said. “He has a particular knowledge of siege weapons. The two of you will have a lot of ideas to share over the next several months.” He waved at the walls. “I want this place bristling.”

  “Good to meet you, lad.” The dwarf rubbed his blackened hands together. “I can’t wait to pick your brain for any of your Human secrets.” He cackled, eyes glittering.

  Jaerd looked at his commanding officer, uncertainty on his face.

  “It’s alright. Don’t mind him.” Boris laughed. “Tell him everything
you know, with my permission.”

  Jaerd saluted, noticing the odd grin on Tarrak’s face. “Yes, my lord.” I think this old codger and I might just get along.

  Boris turned to the elf ranger. “Can you have two dozen of your best ready to leave tomorrow?”

  Squinting his eye, Gael nodded. “Aye. You wish to head out that quickly?”

  The earl nodded. “Captain Silios will go with us too. We need not leave early – the men can rest tonight. We will discuss in council who I will take and what provisions we will need, but I will leave with at least a thousand cavalry tomorrow. We will scout deep into the Northlands.” He cast his gaze over Highuspur’s shoulders. “I intend on drawing them out. They’ve had enough time in control of the game board.”

  Magus Britt sighed, stretching his back. “And my ass was just beginning to enjoy being out of the saddle.”

  Earl Boris drew down his brows. “Nay, Joz. We’ve discussed this. You must stay here. You are the only one who can enhance the Quickfire.”

  The Battlemage set his hands on his hips. He opened his mouth to argue, but Boris forestalled him with an upthrust finger.

  “Very well,” he said at last, his eyes narrowing at Earl Boris. “But you are taking Gaeric and two of his best lieutenants with you.”

  Jaerd gazed at the wide stretch of desolation. I’m glad I’m staying here.

  The Doctor’s College in Daynon dates back to King Arathan I, son of the Navigator. The Talent for healing hid within certain folk of the People of Gan, even during the Exile. Arathan I set the cornerstone of King’s Hall, a building still used to this day. He commissioned the college not only to find those with Talent and make Doctors out of them, but also to teach the basics of herbology and medicine to anyone with the aptitude to learn.

  — “Second History of Gannon, Vol. III” by Elyn Bravano

  Maddi leaned forward in the squeaky wooden chair, hunching over the desk with an inkwell and quill holder. The handsome man she had seen upon the dais in the High Hall just a week ago stood glaring down at her and the dozen students in the class. Lord Doctor Tymin Marten was the most Talented doctor in the city, and his place upon the High Council stemmed from his position as headmaster at the college.