by J. W. Webb
“Little is known,” replied Silon, shaking his head slowly before continuing. “It was believed that in the end only seven of them endured, and like the Urgolais they departed far from these lands to regions unknown.
“They are a strange, alien people. Before he left, Arollas informed Kell of the prophecy warning of a time of great peril, a dark time when the Crystal Crown would be broken and the Urgolais would return to avenge their defeat.
“‘Guard your crown well and it will protect your people,’” Arollas told the King. “‘Remember, if the Tekara is lost, the kingdom will founder. Only the rightful heir to the throne must be allowed to place the Tekara upon his head!’
“And so tradition remained for many generations—until idiot Prince Tarin tried shoving the crown on his own unworthy head, plunging our realm into ruin. Now everything has changed. Kelsalion the Third is murdered and we have no successor. As everyone knows, Halfdan’s baby son was lost at sea years ago.”
Silon scowled and looked into the depths of his wine glass. The succession was always going to be a problem with the true heir long dead, but Tarin’s inane actions had brought things to a bitter head. “It’s all a bit of a mess, quite frankly,” Silon added.
“So both the remains of the Tekara and the fate of the King’s son lie in the hands of our enemies,” growled Barin. “What a disaster. I think”
“What’s Caswallon hoping to achieve?” cut in Corin before his big friend could continue. “Surely the old tosser wielded enough power as King’s high councilor. It’s well known Caswallon was the real strength behind the throne. Why change the status quo and open the doors for our enemies?”
“Caswallon is clever,” answered Silon. “His influence stretches to every corner of the Four Kingdoms, and his spies are everywhere. Ambitious and hungry for domination, he’s not content ruling Kelthaine alone, Corin. Caswallon means to rule throughout the civilized world. Who can stop him now that the crown is shattered and the High King dead?
“But that’s not all, gentlemen. Caswallon is steeped in sorcery. He wields a dark power, learned from an ancient source.” Silon rolled his glass deftly between his brown fingers; he stared hard at its liquid contents before continuing.
“I have watched the cunning games of the High King’s councilor for some time, and I fear he is under the sway of an Urgolais warlock—perhaps the Dog Lord himself. It explains why there’s a malevolence loose again in our land.
“Captain Barin tells us that the Barbarians of Leeth have united under King Haal and are planning to invade Morwella and eastern Kelthaine. Why now? These things take months of preparation.
“In the south the Permians continue to plot against us, and over the mountains our allies speak of sightings of mysterious warriors on the Ptarni steppes. Finally, closer to home, the Assassin of Crenna will surely aid Caswallon to bring an end to the Four Kingdoms and in its place set up a single brutal oligarchy with the usurper at helm and Rael his trusted lieutenant. Freedom, honor, and truth have never been in greater peril.”
“Where do I fit in all of this?” asked Corin, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair.
“I was coming to that, Corin an Fol. Thank you for your patience and discretion,” said the merchant with a sardonic curl of his lip. “There is a place across the border,” he added. “A deserted inn that lies at an old crossroads in a wild part of Kelthaine. I believe it known to you, my young friend.”
“The Inn at Waysmeet.” Corin nodded with a frown. “I know it well enough to avoid it. An unpleasant place.”
“Therefore unlikely to be watched by Caswallon’s spies.” Silon helped himself to the last of the wine whilst Barin shouted for another. “I need you to ride out there, Corin, wait for some important friends of mine to arrive.” Silon pursed his lips, gauging Corin’s reaction.
“Friends? I didn’t think you had any,” Corin answered, making Barin laugh beside him. Silon smiled, but Corin’s steel gaze pinned the merchant to his seat. “What friends?” he demanded.
“Queen Ariane of Kelwyn, together with two of her warriors and a trusted aid. One of the warriors is none other than the renowned Roman Parrantios, champion of Kelwyn.” Silon stared hard at Corin before continuing in a softer voice. “Queen Ariane seeks the Oracle of Elanion.”
“But that lies deep within The Forest of Dreams!” Corin hollered. “Is she mad?” The thought of meeting a royal certainly appealed to Corin, but the Forest of Dreams was a very peculiar place. Some said it was haunted, and although he had been there once before, he had no desire to repeat the experience.
“Queen Ariane has dreamt of the Oracle,” continued Silon, ignoring Corin’s protestations. “She believes Elanion’s help will guide us in the oncoming struggle against Caswallon and his allies. Her Highness has formed a secret council of which I am honored to be a member. With us are Halfdan of Point Keep, General Belmarius, and Captain Barin, here. And some others that you do not know.
“The Queen chose to journey to the forest with three companions only. More would have drawn the attention of unwelcome eyes. The remaining two are Tamersane, a young nobleman and Ariane’s cousin, and Galed of Wynais, her trusted chief scribe and notary.” Silon placed his hands on the table.
“Her trusted scribe?” Barin and Corin exchanged glances.
“I know. But Ariane, though young, is no fool, I assure you. You must await Queen Ariane’s arrival at Waysmeet, Corin,” Silon said.
“Must I?”
“Yes, if you care at all about the future of these lands of ours. They will arrive the day after tomorrow, and you will know them dressed in green robes like priests of Elanion.”
“Why have you chosen me for this quest, Silon?” Corin was still unsure of the merchant’s motives. “I’m hardly suited to mix with such refined company.”
“Because despite your obstinate ways, I trust you, Corin an Fol,” replied Silon. “You underestimate your abilities, my friend.”
The merchant let his gaze drift across the cabin toward the round window. It was quite dark outside, and the harbor lanterns could be seen flickering in the distance, casting shadows over the fishing boats that bobbed up and down in the night breeze.
“Go to Waysmeet, Corin,” Silon urged. “Lead Queen Ariane to the Oracle in the forest, then make your way to Kashorn on the coast. Barin will await you in the harbor with his ship. I will not be there for I’ve other matters to attend. Go carefully; Caswallon’s spies will be watching all roads.”
Corin reached for another glass of wine from the new bottle. He felt tired and overwhelmed and was still unsure of his part in this business.
After a moment’s reflection he answered. “My head warns me against this venture. I sense more perils lie ahead than you speak of. But my heart is with you.” Corin was feeling awkward. “In some strange way I know I’m already involved, despite having no wish to be.” Their looks were quizzical.
“Things happened yesterday,” Corin continued awkwardly. “Things I don’t understand. Things I’m not sure I want to understand.” Silon shook his head and tapped the table whilst Barin refilled Corin’s glass.
Reluctantly, Corin told them of his journey to Finnehalle the day before. He recalled the fight with the brigands and his encounter with the old Wanderer on the ridge, finally adding the weird creature in the gloom of the courtyard last night and the Wild Hunt riding above.
Corin chose not to mention the strange girl at Polin’s Smithy. Part of him denied seeing her at all. There was only so much weirdness one could take, and Corin didn’t want his associates to consider him bewitched or worse, an idiot. When he had finished, both his companions were aghast.
“So the Hunt rides forth again, and Oroonin the Old is abroad,” gasped Barin. The Huntsman had many names throughout the wide realms, and this is what they called him up in Valkador. “This is grim news you give!”
Silon placed his hand on Corin’s arm. “The enemy clearly sees you as a danger, my friend. I must confess
I find that deeply puzzling. Best be on your guard, Corin an Fol!”
Silon stretched, yawned, and rubbed his tanned hands together. “Time is of the essence, my friends. There are forces at work here I cannot comprehend. It could be that we are only pawns in some greater game.”
“What do you know of this Huntsman?” asked Corin.
Silon shook his head. “Only that he is the Lord of the Wild Hunt and a master of riddles. He’s sometimes called the Sky Wanderer. The wise say he is one of the great old gods. Oroonin is his true name.
“He was once guardian of Ansu but fell afoul of the Weaver, for he gave heed to Old Night, causing war in the heavens. They say Oroonin was banished from Ansu, that Aralais magic held him at bay.
“His reappearance is grave news. The Tekara’s influence held him and others in check, but of course that’s all changed now. But why he intervened to save you last night, I cannot hazard a guess. Doubtless Oroonin has reasons he will reveal to none. Be wary of him, longswordsman. He is a fickle spirit!”
Corin nodded and turned to Barin. “Have we finished the wine again?”
“I’ll shout cook for another bottle.”
They settled down to more talk, and Corin asked who Silon suspected it was that had stalked him last night.
“One of the Urgolais for certain,” replied the merchant. “Perhaps Morak himself. We can speculate. What worries and puzzles me is why such a one would come here, of all places.”
Silon spoke no more on the subject, and the others didn’t press the matter. For the remainder of the night, their talk was more casual. Corin enquired whether Ariane of Kelwyn was as stunning as rumor told.
“You will have to wait and see,” responded Silon with a wry laugh. “Two days from now, the Queen and her party will have arrived at Waysmeet. They will be expecting you, and there will be a full moon on that night, so you should have no problem locating them.”
“Neither will anyone else,” said Barin. Silon ignored that.
“I wish you well with your venture, Corin. Keep your wits about you.”
“I can usually find them if I look hard enough.”
The others laughed at that, and Silon (more relaxed) reached across the table and lifted the half-drained bottle. “Come now, my friends, let us finish the rest of this excellent wine!”
Talk switched to politics and plots. Corin learned a lot more about the scheming Caswallon and his plans for conquest. It was very late when he finally bade them both goodnight. Barin yelled Fassof row him ashore.
Slowly, thoughtfully, Corin wound his way back to the inn. Finnehalle lay shrouded in silence. Even the waves gently lapping seemed like a dream. He heard a whisper behind a wall and a shadow crossed his path.
Ahead, two figures emerged from the gloom. Corin turned quickly to see the third man approaching fast from behind. They were not sodden with drink this time; instead, they looked very sober and dangerous in the half-light.
Turning slowly with infinite care, Corin reached down. He freed the hidden dagger from its sheath inside his right boot. With a shout he hurled it at the closest Morwellan, speeding at him from behind. One-eye gave a surprised grunt and slunk to the ground, the knife protruding from his throat.
The other two cursed and rushed in for the kill.
Clouter was quicker.
Cobra swift, Corin swung the longsword low, slicing through both legs of the quiet one. That left one man.
Big Ugly swiped two-handed at Corin’s midriff.
Corin leapt aside and swung again—this time higher. Big Ugly’s head travelled a full ten feet before landing hard against the wall, bouncing down and then rolling two more feet before finally coming to rest in a gutter.
It’s where you belong.
Corin dispatched the legless man and strolled across to where One-eye lay twitching. He knelt, retrieved the dagger, wiped it clean on One Eye’s cloak, then shoved it back in his boot and stood up.
After cleaning Clouter in like fashion, Corin shrugged, shouldered his heavy blade, and trudged back weary to his room at the inn. Some idiots just couldn’t take a hint. Doubtless there would be more talk in Finnehalle tomorrow.
Chapter 9: Alone Again
Corin an Fol rose at dawn and washed briefly before consuming two helpings of Burmon’s fried breakfast. His head felt worse than it had the morning before, and he swore he would never touch wine again. Silon’s fault entirely.
Corin muttered incoherent thanks to the baffled landlord and shambled out into the heavy drizzle, which did little to lift his spirits. Iron-grey clouds squatted on him dismally as he mooched up the lane, muttering and questioning his sanity.
And now for the long tromp back to Polin’s Smithy.
It was soon raining steadily, and the distant fields and woods above Finnehalle were veiled in mist. Corin wrapped his woolen cloak about his shoulders—allowing room for Clouter’s hilt to poke free at the top—to keep out the damp, and he grumbled to any god that might be listening. He trudged through the sleeping village, back up the hill toward the gatehouse. All was still this morning and very damp.
Corin’s mind was everywhere. He wondered if anyone had discovered the dead Morwellans yet. Corin suspected they had. He’d thought about mentioning it to Burmon, but Corin was in no mood for conversation. Those tossers would not be missed by anyone in Finnehalle. They had got what they deserved.
The landlord’s face had been full of questions at his sudden departure, but he’d been too polite to ask.
I’ll get this job done, then go back to see Holly.
It wasn’t just about gold. He was curious about this Ariane. He’d heard she was feisty and a looker. But then she’d most likes turn her royal nose up at him. After all, if he were a Queen, the last person he’d want to be seen with was him.
So actually, it was just the gold—a good enough reason for tromping off in the rain.
Or was it?
Just keep walking.
The dreary weather hung over Corin like a blanket of gloom as he hastened up toward the shelter of the woods. Yet again, Corin brooded on the events of the last two days. He wondered what further pleasant surprises waited for him on the journey ahead. Was he bewitched—or something?
One thing was sure; he couldn’t stay in Finnehalle. It seemed his lot to leave a trail of corpses wherever he went. Corin was too restless to settle down anyway. Even Holly would tire of him when she realized that. He’d return later and suggest she accompany him someplace where he could ply his trade, though he knew she probably wouldn’t.
Things were for the best, really. He might as well go meet this Queen. If she favored Corin (though highly unlikely) he wouldn’t need the likes of Silon of Raleen anymore. Corin pictured himself as an earl or something and chuckled. They would never accept his rough manners in court. Wolves were never allowed in court, especially disgraced ex-Wolves.
But you never know…
The rain grew heavier, and Corin shivered. He yanked his woolen cloak down over his shoulders and stared bleakly at the forest looming out at him through the murk. His stolen boots were already caked with mud and had once again begun to leak. Expensive but useless, those boots.
Corin cursed his decision to leave Thunderhoof at the smithy, limp or no limp. The horse had probably had a better time of it than he had.
He strode despondent beneath the dripping trees, stoically attempting to avoid thoughts of the two nights past. Instead, Corin recalled the old stories he’d heard about the deserted inn at Waysmeet.
It was situated at an ancient crossroads, perilously close to that peculiar forest where he was to take the Queen, bless her royal arse. Waysmeet was rumored a place of unquiet spirits. The faerie people, by some called Faen, were believed to frequent it, and honest folk avoided going anywhere near. Stories told of an old curse, and travelers spoke in whispers of weird sightings but when questioned further would go quiet and talk no more on the matter. So the stories grew as the centuries passed. The inn at Waysmeet
became a place of fear.
Can’t wait to get there.
Corin turned, peered back through the trees at the rain-washed village far below. The stone harbor was shrouded in mist, and there was no sign of Barin’s ship.
Corin shrugged, commenced following the muddy track up to the high ridge from which he had seen the old Wanderer. He turned a final time to stare back down past the swaying trees toward the distant village. The harbor lanterns glinted faintly as the morning mist began to lift, revealing patches of the stark coastline until land faded from view into the west. Corin held the sea in his gaze for a time then turned away. Enough brooding. Time to press on.
Corin left the woods behind. Ahead, bleak moors stretched eastward as far as his eyes could see into the gloom. Some miles away stood a line of stunted trees marking the edge of the old road that ran from Cape Fol to the border of Kelthaine and beyond.
Corin was thoroughly sodden by the time he reached Polin’s Smithy to reclaim Thunderhoof. Tommo greeted him nonplussed at the door, but then Kyssa emerged from the kitchens and shoved a honey cake in his fist. Corin winked at her and munched happily.
After a few more excellent cakes and a bit of a natter about the awful weather, Corin followed Tommo into the hastily repaired stables, where Thunderhoof waited with the other beasts, stomping and snorting.
“He’s been restless since you left, but he’s well rested and that leg is better. Oh, you left this behind. Surprised you didn’t miss it.” Tommo awarded him a knowing smile and thrust the now-very-shiny coat of mended mail into Corin’s chest, and the longswordsman grinned.
“My old mail coat. I hardly recognize it. You’re a magician, Master Tommo!” Corin slung the weighty coat across his shoulders with a grunt. “I’m indebted to you, mate.”
“It is we who are indebted,” replied Tommo without returning the smile. Outside in the yard, Ulf’s bulk still swayed and creaked from the leaf-bare ash. The ex-brigand looked the worse for wear, what with eyes crow-eaten and face black and bloated. Corin looking out, smiled cheerfully at the hanging corpse.