Blood of Mystery

by Mark Anthony

  Periodically over those next weeks, Kel and some of his men would creep down from the mountains and watch the dark knights who inhabited the fortress, trying to determine their purposes. Kel particularly seemed to relish describing the various surprise raids and midnight sorties he and his people launched against the knights. They caught mice and let them loose in the granary, poured salt in the well, or banged their swords together just out of arrow shot and shouted insults. The wildmen would steal among the horses and tie their tails together. And once they used makeshift catapults to launch flaming, liquor-soaked heaps of horse dung over the walls of the keep.

  Their actions infuriated the knights, but by the time they rode forth on their horses, swords drawn, Kel and his people had vanished once more into the maze of the mountains. No matter how the knights searched, they could never find the hiding place of their enemies.

  “Did you ever learn anything?” Grace asked, when Kel paused in his telling. “Did you ever find out what they wanted?”

  The merriment drained from Kel’s visage. He looked serious, and menacing. “That we did. From time to time, when they rode out from the keep, my wildmen would hide in the bushes and catch some of their words. For one thing we learned they come from the far west, from a place called—”

  “Eversea,” she murmured.

  Kel raised a bushy eyebrow. “How did you know that, lass?”

  “A lucky guess,” she said, gritting her teeth.

  Beltan set down his empty cup. “Do you have any idea why they’ve come to the Dominions?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” Kel said. “Their general—they call him Gorandon—wants to restore the kingdom of Malachor.”

  Falken let out an oath, then recovered his composure. “I suppose in a way it makes sense. If they’re truly from Eversea, then they’re descended from people of Malachor. They might see it as their right—even their destiny—to restore the kingdom. And Kelcior was once part of Malachor.”

  Vani’s eyes shone in the firelight. “But what of the other Dominions? If what I have learned is true, they were never part of this Malachor, but instead came after. So why do the Onyx Knights seek to conquer them?”

  Beltan grunted. “That’s easy. There’s nothing left of Malachor but ruins and rubble. Even the better part of Kelcior has fallen down. That doesn’t leave much to build a kingdom out of. But in a way the Dominions are descended from Malachor. At least, most people can trace at least one branch of their lineages back to the kingdom. So the knights will just take over the Dominions, raise their standard over all seven of them, and call it Malachor reborn.”

  “Except the standard they carry isn’t the standard of Malachor,” Falken said. “With that tower, I suppose it must be the flag of Eversea. Although I suppose the crown tells us something: This Gorandon means to rule.”

  Vani shook her head. “But that makes little sense. If these knights truly wish to restore Malachor, then why is it they seek to slay the last remaining heir?” She glanced at Grace.

  King Kel let out a low whistle. “So that’s why they want your hide, lass. I thought Sir Beltan was just being a gentleman when he said you were a queen. So you truly are the heir to the throne of Malachor?”

  Grace reached up and touched her necklace, a bitter smile on her lips. “That’s what they tell me.”

  Kel continued his tale, his voice gruff. “It was about five days ago that we saw one of them come pounding hard to Kelcior. His horse was ragged, and my guess was he had been riding long leagues without a rest. Well, almost at once a band of eight knights rode out from the keep, spurring their chargers at a gallop. From what we overheard, they were supposed to meet four knights waiting for them on the banks of the River Fellgrim, and then be off on some important mission. I figured this was a good chance to get closer and learn what they were about, so I took a band of my folk, and we hurried to get ahead of them.”

  Beltan frowned. “They were on chargers. How could you get ahead of them?”

  “Good question, lad,” Kel said with a grin. “We knew the knights would have to ride north around the tip of the mountains. So we went through.”

  “That’s impossible,” Falken said. “There isn’t a pass through the Fal Erenn. Folk have looked for centuries, but they’ve never found any. Because there isn’t one.”

  “Actually, there is,” Kel said. “We learned about it from the Maugrim.”

  Falken was openly incredulous. “The Goblin People? I’m sorry, Kel, but I haven’t drunk nearly enough to believe that. The Maugrim vanished a thousand years ago, when the Old Gods and the Little People retreated into the Twilight Realm.”

  The king shrugged monumental shoulders. “I don’t care one mouse turd whether or not you believe me, Falken. We’ve never seen the Maugrim, but we know they’re still there in the deepest reaches of the mountains. Sometimes we leave food for them, and it’s always gone when we go back. And we know it’s not animals that take the food, as the Maugrim leave things they’ve fashioned in its place.”

  From beneath his tunic, Kel drew out a stone knife hanging from a leather cord. The knife was crudely made from a piece of flint. One edge had been left rough to provide a handhold, and the other appeared to have been shaped by using another stone to knock off large flakes. Grace had seen arrowheads in museums that were far more delicately made.

  “So we called out to them,” Kel said, “and let them know what we needed, and before long we started seeing the signs— a knotted branch here, or a pile of pinecones there, and we followed them, all through the mountains to the headwaters of the Fellgrim.”

  Falken still looked skeptical, but he didn’t disagree.

  “What happened then?” Grace said, entranced.

  “We built a raft and floated down the Fellgrim,” Kel said. “We were nearly to Omberfell when we spied the four knights who were waiting for their brothers from the keep. We waited until they took their armor off to clean it. Without that armor, it was easy enough to jump them, stick swords in them, and dump them in the river. Then I picked my three best men, and we put on their armor while I told the rest of my folk to head in this direction and find a good hiding spot.”

  “One of the knights was truly as large as you?” Vani said, openly incredulous.

  “Close but not quite, lass.” Kel snorted. “Lucky for me. But still...It was a bit of a tight squeeze. I’m not sure I’ll be siring any more whelps in the near future, if you know what I mean.” He adjusted his breeches with a grimace, and Vani studiously looked away.

  Beltan rolled his empty wooden cup in his hands. “So when did the other knights, the ones from Kelcior, finally show up at the meeting place?”

  “Only this morning,” Kel said. “They were in a great hurry, so it was easy enough to trick them into thinking we were their brothers, and that I was the leader of the band. We learned quick enough what they were up to. It seems there was this woman they were bent on finding and killing at any cost, and they had reason to believe she might have washed ashore not far from there. If she wasn’t already dead, they wanted to finish the job.”

  Vani nodded. “It was a week ago their ship spied us. They might have guessed that we sank, but there was no way they could land to see if you survived, Grace.”

  “So they landed in Omberfell and sent a runner to Kelcior for reinforcements to help search for Grace,” Beltan said.

  Falken rubbed his chin. “But there were at least a hundred knights on that ship. Why not just dispatch a band of them to go after us?”

  Vani shrugged. “Perhaps the ship and its men were needed elsewhere right away.”

  It was possible, but Grace knew there was some part of the story they were missing. If the Onyx Knights really wanted her so badly, why not send all the men on the ship after her?

  The question would have to wait for later. The horizon was turning to gray, and Grace felt her head drooping.

  Falken let out a breath. “Regardless of why the knights acted as they did, we owe y
ou our lives as well as our thanks, King Kel.”

  The big man grinned, clearly pleased to hear these words. “And I won’t let you forget your debt. I should have known you’d be tangled up in all of this somehow. Darkness follows you like a cloud follows lightning, Falken Blackhand.” He scratched at the thicket of his beard. “Although your hand is black no more. Or never was, I suppose.”

  Falken flexed his silver fingers. His hand was undamaged despite the sword he had deflected with it.

  “No, it isn’t.” The bard sighed and looked up. “So what are you going to do now, Kel?”

  The king scowled. “I hadn’t thought that far. Wait!” He snapped his fingers. “I know—I’ll ask my witch.”

  Falken’s eyes went wide, but before the bard could sputter anything, Kel stood up and bellowed. “Where is Grisla? Somebody bring me my witch!”

  A scraggly-looking bush gave itself a shake, and only after a moment did Grace realize it wasn’t a bush at all, but a woman clad in drab tatters.

  “I’m right here, Your Obstreperousness,” the witch said in a complaining croak. She looked ancient beyond years. Her back was a gnarled hump, her gray hair lank as wet cobwebs, and her one bulbous eye looked ready to pop right out of her skull.

  Falken groaned. “Not you again. What are you doing here?”

  The witch hobbled forward and made a mocking bow. “I’m just like a rash, Lord Catastrophe.”

  “How so?”

  “I’m everywhere you don’t want me to be.”

  Falken muttered angry words under his breath, and the crone clucked her tongue.

  “Such language, Lord Expletive. You are unkind to an old witch. And after one of my own sisters made that pretty silver hand for you.”

  Falken glared at her. “The witch who made this for me was kind and beautiful.”

  The crone brushed her withered face. “The young grow old, kind hearts harden, beauty withers. How do you know I’m not she? Perhaps I am.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  The bard crossed his arms and turned his back. However, Grace could only stare. The crone reminded her strongly of Vayla, the old wisewoman she had met in the village beneath Calavere, and whom she had last seen a year before in the castle’s council chamber. But it was impossible this was the same woman. Calavere was far away. And Vayla had never been quite so...impertinent as this. Besides, Kel had called her Grisla, and it seemed the crone had served the petty king for some time. After all, Falken recognized her. The resemblance had to be a coincidence.

  “And what are you staring at, Lady Broken Sword?”

  “Nothing,” Grace blurted out of shock. “I was just...that is I...”

  The witch snorted and glanced at Falken. “If you don’t mind my saying, she’s a bit dim for a queen. Then again, I suppose wits never were a prerequisite for royalty.” She cast her one eye in a pointed look at Kel.

  The king seemed not to notice. “Read your bones for me, witch.”

  Grisla squatted and drew a handful of thin, yellowed objects from a leather bag. Grace supposed they were metacarpals— finger bones. Each one was incised with an angular symbol. The crone held the bones between her hands and mumbled some words, then threw them on the ground.

  She blew out a breath, lips flapping.

  Kel bent close, expression curious. “What is it?”

  “A great mess.”

  Kel’s visage darkened. “Well, cast them again if the magic’s gone afoul.”

  “It’s your brain that’s gone foul, like a joint of meat in the summer sun.” The witch fluttered crooked fingers over the bones. “A mess is what you’ve gotten yourself into. If you go back to Kelcior, you’ll be in terrible danger, and you’ll almost certainly die in a horrible and embarrassing manner.”

  The king crossed his arms. “Well, that doesn’t sound promising. What if I stay here in Embarr?”

  “Even worse.”

  Kel ran a hand through his hair. “Well if I can’t go back, and I can’t stay here, then I suppose I’ll have to go somewhere else.”

  The witch rolled her eye. “What a brilliant conclusion, Your Utter Obviousness.”

  “Do your bones say where I should go?”

  Grisla let out a disgusted snort. “I’m a witch, not a holiday planner. You’ll have to decide for yourself.” She gathered up her bones.

  As the others spoke with the king, Grace moved closer to the witch. “They’re runes, aren’t they? The symbols on your bones. You gave one to Travis once, the rune of hope.”

  “And does he still have it?”

  “The rune, you mean?”

  “No, hope.”

  Grace thought about that. “I suppose I have hope for him.”

  “As do we all,” Grisla muttered, stuffing the bones back in their bag. “As do we all.”

  “I never knew it was possible.” Grace gestured to the bag. “I didn’t know witches could use runes. I thought that women can’t wield them.”

  Grisla gave her a piercing look. “Can’t wield them? Or aren’t allowed to wield them?”

  It was a good point. How many professions had women on Earth been kept from pursuing over the centuries, not because they were incapable of doing them, but simply because men refused to allow them to? Maybe the Runespeakers simply wished to keep their order exclusively male. But what about the reverse?

  “It’s true I’ve never seen a woman runespeaker,” she said. “But I’ve never seen a male witch, either.”

  Grisla displayed a haphazard collection of teeth in a grin. “Haven’t you, lass? I think you have, though it’s true he couldn’t see you. Not with mortal eyes, at least.”

  Grace shivered. “You mean Daynen, don’t you?” She knew the blind boy they had found in the village of Falanor had seen a vision of his own death, a vision that had later come true.

  “Another one, you’ll see,” Grisla said, her voice softer now, and again Grace was reminded of the old wisewoman Vayla. “Not a boy this time, but a man freshly made. His talent is strong—as strong as your own. But then, a hammer must be every bit as strong as the anvil it strikes against, no?”

  Grace wasn’t sure what that meant. She hugged her knees to her chest, wondering if it could all really be true. “So men can be witches,” she murmured. “And witches can wield runes. But I don’t understand it. They seem so different. Rune magic and the Weirding, I mean.”

  Grisla shrugged knobby shoulders. “Sometimes two things that seem different turn out to be the very same thing.”

  Grace couldn’t think of a case where that could be true. Or could she? She stared at the witch. “Vayla?” she whispered.

  The old crone laughed softly. “Farewell, daughter.” Then she turned and hobbled away, disappearing into the gray light of dawn.

  40.

  It was late morning of the following day when they reached the port city of Omberfell. They brought their four stolen black chargers to a halt on a scrub-covered ridge south of the city. Below them stretched a colorless patchwork of fields that ended in the rough line of the shore. Beyond that was only ocean, dull and flat as a sheet of crudely forged iron.

  The wildman who had guided them grunted and pointed toward the city. Then, without a word, he gathered his mangy furs around himself, dropped to all fours, and scurried away into the underbrush.

  “Talkative fellow, wasn’t he?” Beltan said, gazing at the bushes where the wildman had vanished. “I think the only thing he said in the last day was his name. Ghromm.”

  Falken glanced at the knight. “Are you sure that was really his name? I thought he was just clearing the feathers out of his throat after swallowing that sparrow in one bite.”

  “Good point,” Beltan conceded.

  Vani turned her golden eyes on the knight. “Reticence is an admirable quality others would do well to emulate.”

  Beltan started to sputter some hot reply, but Grace nudged the flanks of her charger and managed to interpose the beast between the knight and the T’gol.
“I wish we could have given Ghromm something,” she said to Falken. “As a reward for leading us here.”

  The bard shook beads of dew from his blue cloak. “Gold doesn’t mean anything to one like him. King Kel will know how to reward him.”

  No doubt with scraps of meat, Grace imagined. The day before, when they took their leave of the petty king, Kel had thrown bits of rancid venison to the wildman and had instructed him to guide them to Omberfell by unseen ways.

  “There could be more of these dark knights around,” Kel said in his gruff voice. “And there are other dangers that lurk about these moors.”

  Grace thought of the feydrim they had encountered in Seawatch, and she didn’t doubt the king.

  “What are you going to do now, Your Majesty?” she asked Kel, as they were about to depart.

  The king scratched his bushy red beard. “My witch says I can’t stay here, and that I can’t go back to Kelcior, either. So I suppose I’ll just have to go somewhere else.”

  “And where will that be?” Falken asked.

  Kel let out a booming laugh and slapped him on the back. “You think I’d tell you, my good Grim Bard? Trouble follows you as closely as dingleberries follow a bull.”

  Falken winced at the analogy, but Grace found herself smiling. She liked the big, boisterous king, and she hoped she would see him again someday. And not just him. However, even though she looked around as they mounted the black chargers, she saw no sign of the hag Grisla anywhere.

  Kel’s wildman had shunned roads, instead leading them along winding game paths and directly over heath and down, avoiding all signs of habitation as they went. Grace didn’t know if it was due to the wildman’s skill or to luck, but they encountered no people as they went, and no creatures larger than the few birds the wildman occasionally caught and killed with his bare hands and ate raw.

  Now the wildman had left to hurry after King Kel. And Grace knew there was only one direction she and the others could go. To the city, and north across the sea.