“The king was filled with sorrow and admiration for this man and took up the fallen warrior’s sword, and asked of him his name. Then, before his assembled knights, soldiers and lords, King Guillaume knighted him Sir Ibhraign Dragonheart.
“Knowing at last his duty was done, Sir Ibhraign took his final breath on this mortal world, and answered the beckons of the Grey Lady. It is said that as he passed through the Veil there was thunder but no lightning and a great moving of the earth, for not in recent memory had such a warrior been welcomed home to Irdik’s Hold. And though his body perished, his honor and his spirit live on even today in the hearts of those he loved. In the king’s heart, in the realm’s heart, and in our hearts!”
The crowd let loose a rousing cheer. Oona blinked away tears, and Calvraign reached for his mother’s hand, squeezing it gently. The village remembered its warrior hero. Oona dwelled on the love of her life, her husband, and father to her son. Even after these many years, he saw the long lines in her face, the hurt, the loneliness.
Calvraign closed his eyes. He remembered a sly wink from an all-too-serious brow; laughter, the scent of smoke and sheepskin and winter ale; strong arms throwing him into the Spring-kissed air and catching him without fail. All bright, brief flashes from the very edges of his recollection. And yet, for all that, Calvraign could not recall Ibhraign’s face. A hero’s face, a husband’s face, his father’s face – it was an empty hole in his memory that filled his heart.
“Care to dance with the vanquished?”
Calvraign looked up to find Callagh holding out her hand, the orange glow of the hearth reflected like suns-rise in her wide eyes, her mouth upended in her quirky smile. Old Pek’s son Dendwr had begun playing a jig, and the townsfolk all about him were taking to their feet as Brohan played the spoons.
“Go on with you,” Oona said, placing his hand in Callagh’s. “Leave an old woman to herself and dance a leg off, for me.”
Callagh led him to an open space on the floor, and Calvraign slipped his free hand around her waist as they danced. This time, he did not shrink away from her. Whether it was the song, or the drink, or the rawness in his heart, he held her close. He smelled the rose oil in her hair, and when she kissed him, he tasted the salt on her lips and the wine on her tongue and whirled her about merrily.
For the rest of that night there were music and dancing aplenty in the tavern of Craignuuwn. Gone were worries of the winter. Gone were concerns for the herds or the crops or the trading prospects of the morrow. This night, they celebrated. They knew it would be the last such night for a long, long while.
With dawn came more snow. It seemed apparent to Brohan that winter would show no respite this year. He stretched again, the last of his weariness dissolving quickly in the brisk wind from the west. The soft murmur of sheep drifted to his ears from their pen-yards. Soon, even these hardy creatures would need to be sheltered from this onslaught or risk being buried in it. He walked over to their enclosure and leaned against the low stone wall that kept the animals from wandering aimlessly about the village.
The largest of the ewes trudged over to him through the gathering snow and stared at him with wide brown eyes devoid of worry. He reached out a hand to stroke its chin, but the ewe insisted on sniffing his palm. On discovering it empty, the sheep gave a disappointed snort and turned its back to rejoin the huddled flock. Brohan chuckled softly. Though royalty and ancient houses might be happily satisfied with his company, to some he was evidently just another man without a carrot.
The bard looked up into the bruised clouds above him with more than a small amount of worry. If he was to reach the capital in time for the Winter Festival he must leave soon. He harbored little hope now that the unseasonably early snows would abate to ease his journey. If anything, he had dallied here too long. He tended to enjoy his time with Calvraign a little too much, he reflected.
But he holds such promise.
“Master Madrharigal?”
Brohan turned quickly at the sound of Oona’s voice and fixed her with a frown of mock annoyance. “Oona, how long have I pleaded with you to address me as Brohan and not Master Madrharigal? I have little liking for pretense and certainly no need of it here. This is the last time I’ll tell you, henceforth I am Brohan, or I’m deaf and dumb!”
Oona shuffled her feet in the snow. No one had yet stirred in the village, leaving them undisturbed. She pulled her thick woolen coat tighter around her neck and took a step closer.
“Brohan,” she began again, but allowed the wind to eat her words.
“Oona, what is it?” He leaned in close, examining the creases of worry in her forehead. Her eyes flickered from one spot to the next, but never settled on his. “It’s just me, after all,” he prodded.
“I know, but I feel so foolish.”
“Oona,” Brohan pleaded. “Out with your words or you’ll choke on them!”
“Yes, yes, you’re right, of course.” She took a deep breath and swallowed hard, then continued, “It’s just that, I’ve, well, I’ve had a dream, Brohan. More of a nightmare it was, truth be told, and it’s shaken me to me bones.”
“A nightmare?” said the bard, not naïve enough to discount a powerful vision outright. “What about?”
“That’s just it, Brohan, I don’t rightly understand it. There was a man – I’d never seen him before – a dark man, but pale, cold as death and laughing.” She shivered, her eyes pleading with Brohan for comfort. “There was blood all over him, covering him, dripping from his sword – and that sword, Brohan, it was, well, it wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t steel, or bronze. No, more like polished bone, it was. And, and…. Oh, Brohan, it was Cal’s blood, I know it was, he’d killed me Cal! He’d killed him!”
Brohan reached out and folded the sobbing woman into his arms. “Now, Oona, it was just a dream. An awful dream. You know I would never let anything like that happen to Cal.”
Oona pulled herself away from Brohan and grabbed his shoulders, her eyes wide. “But when you go, Brohan, who’ll protect my boy then? We have no warriors of note here, and those we did are away in service to the king. What am I to do?”
Brohan gently stroked her cheek. “Oona, it was only a dream. You’re a worried mother, not a seer. You mustn’t take such things seriously.” He hoped she was more convinced in hearing his words than he had been in speaking them, but her expression did nothing to show it.
“When my father died, I dreamt of it. When my husband died, I dreamt of it. Is the same fate to befall my only son? No! I’ll not have it! You must stay here with us, Brohan, stay and protect my Cal. If ever you loved him as you claim you do, you must do this thing!”
Brohan stood in silence. Her words rang true. In his heart, he felt an echo of the dread she carried. By itself, the description she gave troubled him enough, giving life to ancient text and verse that would best have stayed just that. The fact that she had experienced other premonitions, accurate ones, only made matters worse. But if what he suspected were true, this village would not be safe with himself and the whole of the King’s Guard standing watch. But to tell Oona of this…
No, not now; but he had to do something.
“Listen to me, Oona. If what you say is true, then Cal could indeed be in grave danger. But I cannot stay here, and nor can he for that matter. We must be away to the capital in all haste. I will take him with me to Dwynleigsh, and there he will be safe, with many powerful and watchful eyes to look after him. If your dream was a vision, it only shows you what might be, not what will be. For whatever reason, the gods have given you warning, and we must take advantage of their courtesy, so rarely does it guide us.”
“Yes, of course,” said Oona, though more to herself than to Brohan. “Dwynleigsh. Guillaume will protect him. He owes us that much.”
“Everything will be fine, Oona, you have my word. Whatever this mysterious man wants with your son, he’ll have to hack his way through all the knights in Providayne to get it. And then he’ll have
to deal with me!”
“Aye.”
Oona at last seemed comforted by the casual bravado of his words. Apparently she didn’t notice the troubled flicker in his eyes, or his fingers fidgeting where he normally slung his longsword. That, at least, he was thankful for.
“I’ll wake Cal. We have things to discuss before we go. You can prepare his pack in the meantime. We should be off before highsuns today.”
Calvraign fell back with a clang of steel on steel and caught his balance just in time to parry low. Brohan pressed into him tirelessly, pinning his sword to the ground and driving his shoulder into Cal’s chest. Calvraign tumbled down the slight incline, plowing a trail through the wet clinging snow. Brohan stomped down toward him with an uncharacteristic lack of grace, holding both swords.
“I believe in our initial fencing lessons I told you that the first rule of swordplay was don’t lose your sword. Without it you’re just another target.” He threw the sword at Calvraign’s feet. “That’s three times you’ve died in ten clicks. Try not to make it four.”
Calvraign snatched up the weapon and scrambled to his feet. Though such words often left Brohan’s lips, he’d never heard this tone before: deadly earnest, almost bitter or angry. He wasn’t sure what he had done to earn Brohan’s ire, but he regretted it, whatever it was.
“On your guard!”
Within a moment of Brohan’s warning, Calvraign found himself on the defensive yet again, attempting to stave off the swift and furious attack of the glowering bard. His arms ached from the repeated jarring impact of blade on blade, and he wondered exactly how long Brohan intended to keep this up. He needed to catch his breath and clear his mind. He scanned his surroundings quickly and found what he needed only a few feet away. He sidestepped to his left and put a leaf-bare tree between himself and Brohan.
They circled, exchanging feints and thrusts, until Calvraign, sensing his moment, locked swords with Brohan and pivoted out and away from the tree. Before their swords untangled, he stepped back in close enough to wrap a leg around one of Brohan’s, hoping to take him off balance.
“Good,” grunted Brohan. “I see you’re finally taking this seriously.”
“Not that you’re giving me much choice,” he retorted breathlessly, trying to force Brohan’s leg out from under him. “I don’t understand.”
Brohan released his sword without warning, and Cal found himself falling forward as the momentum of his sword arm suddenly met with no resistance. For one moment he was off balance, and in that time Brohan pushed off from the tree and used Cal’s leg lock against him, knocking him to the ground. Brohan landed squarely on top of him.
“Of course you don’t,” said the bard, his knee pinning Calvraign’s sword arm uselessly to the ground, “but if you’re going to Dwynleigsh with me, you’d best be able to defend yourself in case we meet with trouble.”
“Dwynleigsh? What are you talking about?”
“Your mother and I have decided it’s time you saw some of the world. The king always mentioned he would someday like to see the result of all the time I’ve spent with you, not to mention his gold, so we’re going to King’s Keep and showing him. You’ve heard of his Winter Festival, of course?”
“The king?” Calvraign hoped his voice didn’t sound as much like a squeal as he thought. “But I don’t understand.”
Finally, Brohan’s grin returned. “So much you’ve said, already. Now let’s get ready to go. Your mother should have us both packed by now, I suppose.”
“Now?” Calvraign was fairly certain that sounded like a squeal.
Brohan stood and extended a hand for him. “We’d best hurry before your mother changes her mind. I had a hard enough time convincing her to let you go.”
Cal sprang from the ground with renewed vigor, sheathing his father’s sword. Calvraign frowned as Brohan recovered his own. “What about the first rule of swordplay?” he said. “Never losing your sword, and all that?”
“Ah, Calvraign!” Brohan laughed as he headed up the slope back toward the village and Cal’s waiting mother. “Always know when to break the rules!”
CHAPTER FOUR
HOMECOMING
CASTLE Vae had watched over the foothills of the High Ridge for centuries, standing in bleak defiance of the terrain and its less-than-friendly inhabitants since humans dared settle these lands. First constructed as a border fortress by the legendary general Kiev Vae of the long vanished Dacadian Empire, the castle’s original structure had expanded greatly through the years.
The outer curtain walls were merely seventy-five years old, reaching fifty feet into the sky with the same triple crenellations commonly found in recent Providaynian architecture. Around this wall was a moat twenty feet in width and fifteen in depth, its bottom covered with spikes of rusty iron. Although drained during the winter months, it still served as an effective first line of defense. Through the drawbridge was the lower bailey, an open courtyard covered in plush grazing grass and compost heaps. Livestock were forbidden here save in the instance of siege, and so it served now as a practice range for a dozen archers.
The secondary wall was built on the crest of a sharp incline in the hill’s slope, its parapets graceful and decorative as well as defensible. The well-wrought carvings and intricate designs of the crenellations dated this portion of the fortress at near three hundred years in age. Beyond this was the upper bailey and the dateless central keep, a monolith of granite that had borne the brunt of both war and nature for centuries on end.
Within the twenty-foot thickness of the keep’s walls lay a man not far from the gates of death. Wrapped in bandages and covered by a quilt, Osrith Turlun rested on a thick down mattress next to a subdued peat fire. A scattering of torches lit the small room in a dim but sufficient fashion, revealing it to be bare of decoration. The sole, tightly shuttered window trapped the thick aromatic smoke from the hearth inside the room.
The heavy oaken door creaked outward, and a brighter stream of light shone into the room from the hallway beyond. A shadow fell across Osrith’s sleeping form, stemming from a monstrous silhouette that nearly encompassed the entire doorway. The figure was close to seven feet tall, with elongated, muscular arms and an oddly oval head. It made little noise as it approached Osrith, and as its frame bent down toward him, he was engulfed completely by its girth.
Osrith’s eyes flicked open in shock, and with all his will he urged his sore body upward. One scaly, three-fingered hand held him down easily as a reptilian snout, hellishly lit by the red flames of the fire, leered down at him.
“Lie still,” chided a throaty voice that hinted of restrained thunder. “You’ve done yourself enough harm already. Don’t be in such a rush to undue my work.”
Osrith stared in disbelief at the huge creature before him. Dark green scales ran from the thickly corded neck up the back of its oblong head, lightening to a softer emerald down the snout, with small brown mottling speckling the flattened space between its eyes. The eyes themselves were an opalescent blue-green, set toward the sides of the head, and stared from beneath a bony, protective brow. Its huge torso was covered in a sleeveless purple garment belted at the waist by a thick corded rope, its legs bare save for the sandals on its feet.
“You,” sputtered the mercenary.
“Yes,” replied the lizard. “Obviously the lessons of time have not improved your eloquence.”
Osrith relaxed, the pain returning quickly without the comforting numb panic of adrenaline. His gut burned from within, his left leg and right shoulder throbbed mercilessly, and he found it impossible to breathe normally through his swollen nose. “Yours was never a face I enjoyed waking up to, Kassakan, but this once I’ll make an exception.”
With a grunt bordering on growl, Kassakan knelt down by the wounded man’s bedside. “Practice your wit as you may, Osrith my dear, but your wounds have troubled both of us most grievously. You have tested my talents this time.”
Osrith snorted and turned his head to stare i
n the opposite direction.
“Had it not been for the hze-te poison slowing your heart and the cold thickening your blood,” continued Kassakan in what was unmistakably a tone of irritation, “you would now be staring contemptuously from the wrong side of a burial mound.”
“I’ve been through worse,” Osrith grumbled back.
“Indeed. When you were a ten-year younger.” Kassakan’s voice trailed off into a hissing snicker.
Osrith whipped his head around to face his old friend, an action he immediately regretted, and spat defensively. “I’m strong as an ox!”
“Aye, yet no longer spry as a fox,” quipped Kassakan.
Osrith simmered quietly as Kassakan moved in and out of the chamber, bringing in fresh bandages, a small chest, and a covered iron pot that nestled cozily into the glowing embers of the fire. Watching the imposing figure of his old companion moving about before him awakened images in his memory faded from disuse. The reckless adventures of his youth, and those who shared it with him, flashed before his eyes. Remnants of past glory fluttered like pennants in his mind for a moment, then ripped and tore like ragged pieces of sackcloth in the unforgiving wind of his own inner shadows.
Osrith forced himself into the present, concentrating on the pain. Ignoring all but the pain. That was how he lived, now. That was his instrument of day-to-day survival. It didn’t bring respect, or glory, or friendship, but it was effective. He watched as Kassakan stirred the concoction in the pot, wondering what chance had brought them both to remote Castle Vae. He knew as much about the hosskan as any human, perhaps more than most. After all, he had considered Kassakan Vril his closest friend for years, even after they had parted ways. Inexplicable as their friendship was, he still felt the immediacy of their bond. Deeper than blood or nationality, it had become a part of their very beings. Yet he understood little of Kassakan’s motivations.
In Siege of Daylight Page 5