War of the Misread Augury: Book One of the Black Griffin Rising Trilogy

by D. S. Halyard

  “Yes. You should know that story, being Entreddi. The legends say that you were the messengers of Marten in days gone by.”

  “So the legends say.” She replied cryptically.

  “Just so. We did not surmise the origin of the black sword when we found it. We knew only that it was evil, and that its evil was of eldritch and possibly demonic origin. It was at this time that I remembered and pulled from the shelf my remembrance of a land where the magic was dead. If I could find a way to kill the magic in the sword, I reckoned, I could put an end to the plague of misery that it was causing. And so, fifteen years ago, Rashad and I came here, to this land. We came with mercenaries, and by various means we learned of the Fist of Marten and discovered its whereabouts. To tell a long story briefly, we put the sword there, in the same ancient tomb wherein lies the fist. The power of the fist was such that it dimmed the evil of the sword to nothing. And so we thought our mission accomplished.”

  Jecha smiled grimly. “Well, you certainly accomplished something.”

  “We did not know, madam Jecha. It was not until later that I learned the lore of artifacts and their powers.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The High Mage of the School of Runes explained it to me. The world is woven of dreams and desires, he told me, and some dreams are stronger than others. Thus it was that the dreamer was able to make the world like it is in the first place, for his were the strongest dreams of all. The sorcerer-king Marten was a man with a great will to alter the dreamwork world, and so was Sunu-Jinsit and Hazrax the Black, too. They have all died, but they left behind their marks on the world; their deep and indelible footprints. In various places diverse runes have power, and in some places they do not. Runes mean next to nothing here, in Mortentia, and even less in the northern lands nigh unto where the fist is entombed. For Marten’s legacy was one of negation. His power was to destroy magic, and thus he was able to defeat his enemies, who were spirits of magic with blood of fire, ‘tis said.

  “But in other places other powers rule. There are places in the Sea of Rhum where the water heals wounds, and this is a legacy of a great priest who once altered the world with his dreams there. There are places in the Black Mountains of eastern Araquesh where it is perilous to walk for fear of ghouls, for that was Hazrax’ abode, and he cheated the laws of death. What we did was to impose one great will against another, to pit strength against its opposite strength. We, Rashad and I, and yes, your Tuchek, too, we inadvertently bent the laws of the dreamwork world and changed it fundamentally.”

  “You broke the magic.”

  “Believe me, we did not mean to. And now we must put it right. We need your Tuchek for this task.”

  “Because he is Marten’s heir.” Rashad said sleepily from his place beside Derbas. How long he’d been listening Jecha did not know.

  “Because he is Marten himself.” Jecha replied. “At least in the blood, where it matters.

  “Impossible.” Derbas said before he could stop himself.

  “Oh, and you are the expert on what is possible and what is not, cousin?” Harrumphed Rashad. “Explain what you mean, Madam Jecha.”

  “The blood.” Jecha said patiently. “It is the study of the Entreddi. The study of the curses in the blood. All men have some trace of cursed blood, it is inevitable, but not Eskeriel, who calls himself Tuchek now. The old blood is like a river, it flows in many directions, but sometimes, either by accident or design, the old blood flows back together again, as pure as if fresh born. That is the blood of Eskeriel.”

  “Explain what you mean with ‘by accident or design’ Jecha.” Rashad asked, and Jecha regretted using the words. She looked at him for a long time before she spoke.

  “Eskeriel’s father is a seer. His visions are true, but his interpretations are often very wrong, especially lately. He’s been a disaster for the Cthochi. At any rate, before Eskeriel was conceived his father, Allein-a-Briech, had a vision about whom he must wed to create Eskeriel. The match was not sought by her father, and in fact was opposed strongly. Even then Allein’s influence was very strong, and he convinced his war chief to take her from her people by force. Many hundreds of warriors were slain in this taking, but he got his way, and he got a child on her. That child, and Eskeriel was not the name he was born with, grew up among the Cthochi, but as an outsider, and when Allein was sure he was healthy, he killed the mother as well.”

  “Why?” Said a baffled Derbas. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “To ensure that no other such child could be born, I suppose.” Jecha replied. “He was conceived by design to be what he is, and to be the only one of his kind. He is the man with no curses in his blood. There is nothing by which the gods can take hold of him. He is the master of his own fate. This is why you need him, is it not?”

  Derbas shook his head with a smile. “No. He was the only one of us who could pass the wards that guard the Fist of Marten. That’s the only reason we need him. We had no knowledge of the rest of it. But there is haste needed. All kinds of havoc may be caused by the proximity of these two artifacts.”

  “Haste is needed certainly.” Jecha responded. “If we don’t get north soon there may be no north to go to.”

  “How do you reach that conclusion?” Derbas asked her.

  “You are thinking like a scholar, and of course you are one.” She answered, but not unkindly. “You are thinking about how to clean up a mess you made.”

  Rashad chimed in. “There’s a proverb among the savages that live east of us, Madam Jecha. When you are cleaning the tent, make sure you don’t defecate on the floor. It means that you should take care not to make a bigger mess when trying to manage a smaller one. I fear that Derbas and I have done so.”

  “Perhaps.” Jecha replied. “But I am thinking more specifically. When the ancient sorcerer-king created the artifact you call the Fist of Marten, he did it specifically to bind a powerful evil that threatened his empire. I fear that what you have done will have loosed that binding. There may be terrors abroad now that have not been seen for thousands of years.” This is what she said, but Rashad’s pungent proverb put her in mind of goat shit on the floor of a tent, and suddenly she knew something else. Something that made her journey north even more urgent.

  Moving at five leagues an hour the black caisson hurtled into the night, and the roads were mostly good, for there had been a warm spell, and most of the snow had melted from them. In the cold of night the occasional pool or puddle in the road took on a layer of ice, and the iron-shod wheels made a cheerful crackling sound as they broke the ice, following in the footsteps of the heavy draft horses. Around midnight they passed through the town of Root’s Bridge, and an hour later they rattled over a covered wooden bridge on a creek they did not know the name of. In Kundrell the night lamps were still burning, and at dawn they purchased a new team of draft horses at a great stable in the town of Morin, the wagon dragging in out of the night behind the exhausted drays, which still fetched a decent price.

  They ate breakfast in the wagon once the traces were changed over to the new team, and Derry had to roust four sleepy-eyed teamsters from their beds to help with the task. Shadows lay on the western horizon, untouched by the bright morning sun, boding a rising storm, but it did not had not broken by the third morning hour, when they crossed into the Duchy of Dunwater. Twice they were delayed on the king’s road there, for they were forced to pull aside to let the coaches of the gentry pass them.

  In the first hour after noon they reached the town of Meming on the Dunwater River Road, and dispatch riders from Elderest came flying behind them on the road, and they watched them with curious eyes while they ate their noontime meal and Derry and Yeg procured the next team of draft horses. This was done surreptitiously, for in Dunwater the gold could not be shown openly lest some lower nobleman come and confiscate it.

  By the time they reached the city of Dunwater itself, all of the bells were ringing before them, a mournful doling that told of dark news, for word
of the death of Maldiver D’Cadmouth and his queen rode before them. Jecha took the news with a sort of optimistic aplomb, for it did not lessen her need of haste. Yeg and Derry opined that the confusion would make it easier for them to pass through the city unnoticed, while Derbas was of the opinion that they should go around the city altogether, using the circuit of roads that inevitably ran from town to town around such a large hub of commerce.

  His advice was sound, and the wagon rolled on, coming into the town of Riverdun at dusk. Derry found a hostler who was willing to sell them horses, but the man cautioned them against riding on in the night.

  “You’re on the edge of the rebellion now.” He was a solid-looking man in his mid-fifties, and his hands were calloused and strong. “You travel at night into Silba, you take your chances. You might be challenged by anyone, rebel or royal, and they’ll search your wagon certain.” But Jecha had traveled already farther and faster than any wagon she’d heard of, and she was willing to press their luck. They pressed on.

  In the city of Silba a bribe secured them ferry passage, and they were fortunate that Yeg happened to know just the man to approach, for he had been down this road before. He knocked on the man’s door well after dark, but a whispered conversation and an exchange of gold saw the ferry men rousted from their beds in the whispering silence.

  “I could have bought three wagons for what it cost us to cross the Dunwater.” Derbas was heard to later complain. “I’ve money enough, but this is the most expensive journey I’ve ever been on.”

  “And the fastest.” Rashad rejoined.

  “Let us hope we are fast enough. When we pass through Halanvolle our danger really begins.”

  But Halanvolle was leagues away, and they did not reach it until dawn. Beyond it lay the Whitewood Forest, and the long road to Walcox.

  Chapter 99: The City-State of Nevermind and Points South and West

  The O’Daniss family proved to be a combination of farmers and hunters, a clan that Levin was certain included at least twenty adults, forty children and ten or twenty multicolored hunting hounds, all of which were of some mongrel breed with heavy jaws and deep and disconcerting voices. The dogs met them on the road long before any people did, providing them with a loud and rowdy escort as they made their way to the farmstead. The place was much larger than any farm Levin had seen back in Root’s Bridge. Five cottages stood around a circular central cartpath, and half a dozen wagons and carts stood around it.

  They were greeted by an ancient but still hale farmer named simply Pap with a sharp eye and a blunt stare, although his words were pleasant enough. “So it’s boarders you be, is it?” He declared, after they had introduced themselves. His rough woolen tunic might once have been white. “Let me have a look at your skin.”

  What followed was a rather personal and somewhat awkward inspection by the old farmer, but he made nothing more of it than he would have inspecting a cow or a horse, Levin supposed. “Aye, well. These are all old scars, true enow. I reckon you’ve been all through it, then. My boy Ettin had this thing, too. It took him last month, but he was the only one of us to die of it. Come of a chance meeting in the road, I reckon, and Mam too late learning of it to put the cure on him. Since then we’ve been keerful to take a good look at any boarders, mind.”

  “I understand.” Levin replied. “We’ve seen what it can do.”

  “An’ I reckon you know better than me, Mr. Askelyne.” The farmer’s voice was gentle, using the name Levin was travelling under. “Tis a nasty business, this pox, and I’m sorry to say what it’s done to yer is too late for any remedying.”

  “Well, we survived it.” Fyella said. “There were those with us that didn’t. But you said put the cure on it? Have you found a way to treat it?”

  “Wouldn’t say found, madam Fyella.” The farmer replied. “Tis an old thing, found long ago, and only the memory of it kept in the family, you might say. Mam was sure it would take, but the rest of us were doubtful, which goes to show how the wisdom of a woman is surer.”

  “Did you hear that, Levin? Means you should listen to me.” Fyella interjected.

  “Well, there’s them who doesn’t listen to their wives, lad, but there’s no happiness in that. Right or wrong, the woman won’t be still ‘til the man goes along. That’s a saying among us, and true enow I suppose. Sure seems that way among my get.” By then they were no longer alone, and a collection of farm folk had gathered around. Levin permitted them to assume Fyella was his wife.

  Levin noticed that the men all shared the same stooped shoulders and long, heavy jawed faces, resembling the old man, who must be the patriarch. “I hope we aren’t putting anyone out.” He said.

  “Nonsense. Putting up boarders has been a business of ours for a long time. We’ve a house set aside for guests. Not cheap or inexpensive, mind, but better than what you find in town, and breakfast included. Mam’s got a ham curing in the shed, and if you don’t care for ham there’s eggs a’plenty. Only thing we’re short on is peaches.”

  “Peaches?” Fyella said, surprised. “It’s the dead of winter. I can’t imagine you’d have any peaches at all.”

  Pap O’Daniss smiled. “Aye, you’re from up Northcraven way, I reckon. Emerald Peninsula folk, right? Your accent gives you away, an’ I guess you don’t know about Walcox peaches. They’ve an orchard there gives peaches all the year round. Our people come from there, and Mama Brookhouse sends us some special whenever she gets the chance. But Mam’s used ‘em all up making the cure, so there’s none to be had fresh.”

  “So long as there’s a bed.” Kuljin said, but Levin knew the half-man mainly wanted to be indoors in their own room so that he could remove the tiresome bandages from his eyes. He’d been wearing them underneath a broad brimmed hat to conceal his eyes whenever there was a chance of meeting anyone else on the road, and Levin was sure they irritated him.

  In the end they had been given an entire small cottage for their use, for although normally the O’Daniss family rented out the place to as many as a dozen people at once, it was winter and there was no other custom at the farm. Levin decided that those who knew about the O’Daniss farm were not likely to be among the many refugees that they had seen on the roads.

  In the morning they found that their horses had been brushed and their manes curried and combed, and all of their tack was hanging where it could be easily put back on the horses. The little pack pony they had cared for themselves, for it was heavily laden with gold. There was a limit to the amount of trust they could put in strangers, no matter how kindly they seemed. As they were leaving Levin gave the farmer some parting advice.

  “Don’t stay too long here, goodman O’Daniss. The Sparli are abroad, and they may come this way soon. Were I you, I would be well and gone before the spring rains come.”

  “Been on this farm for going on five hundred years, my family.” O’Daniss replied. “We never run from the Thimenians when they come to call, we never run from the Tolrissans, neither. I’ve strong lads and strong places to hide them, should it be needful. Don’t worry none about us.

  “You might look ahead, though. There’s trouble in the south lands. Arker’s taken for queen Eleinel and Nevermind’s still sworn for King Maldiver. Tis D’Cadmouth against D’Cadmouth, and family fights is the nastiest, they say. No surprise Dunwater’s with the king and Arker an’t, but it makes for a dangerous time to be on the road, I’m thinking. You three be keerful.”

  Levin paid the man twice what he’d wanted to rent the cottage for the evening, forcing him to take the money over his protests. “You’ve shown us kindness, goodman O’Daniss, taking us in when we’ve had the pox, and me looking like I do. It’s appreciated.”

  When they came again to the place in the road from which they could see the walls of the little city of Nevermind, they turned into the Whitewood, for here it was easy to traverse, with a level floor lightly covered with snow and broad and open spaces between the trees. They took a circuitous route through the forest, avoi
ding the sight of both the city and the road so that the watchmen could not see that they had disobeyed the order to go back north.

  “There are eyes on us.” Kuljin said, after they had gone perhaps half a mile into the woods.”

  “Bandits, you think?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe refugees. No way to tell, but I’ve seen them lurking in the shadows of trees where they think I can’t see them.”

  “Well, I can’t see them.” Levin observed, looking all about. “I’m glad we brought along a blind man who can.” Kuljin’s eyes were deep in shadow beneath the brim of his hat, an item they had found in a deserted house south of Holdberg.

  “If they’re bandits we run.” Fyella declared fiercely. “I know what happens to women if they catch us, and I won’t go back to that.”

  “If they’re bandits, they can likely smell the gold on us.” Kuljin said.

  “And the steel.” Levin replied, pointing to the armor and weapons both of the men were wearing. “If they think we’ve gold, they also know they’ll have to pay for it in blood.”

  “Likely they have bows.”

  “Aye, and we’ve bows also. And horses, which they don’t have.”

  “You two are making me nervous.” Fyella complained.

  “Don’t worry.” Levin said. “Thieves take from the weak, not the strong.”

  “Aye, and the crafty take from the strong, to complete the saying. Still, I don’t fear your Mortentian bandits, Levin.”

  Nevertheless after that the three of them stopped talking and listened, and Levin strung his bow and rode with an arrow nocked until they reached the southern border of the forest, and saw the western side of the city to their left in the distance over farmer Felder’s fields, if they’d known it.

  Levin saw that the farms here in eastern Arker were different from the smaller plots that surrounded Root’s Bridge. Here the farms were vast, and each field lay under the sun with the lines of many furrows carved into it, and still unmelted snow down in between the rows. Each one of these farms must have needed a hundred men to plant it, weed it and reap it, he figured, and the farmhouses they saw in the distance were very large, as were the barns.